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txtdiaries · 3 years

Text

Momentum - Chapter Three

SUMMARY | After a month of static noise and not seeing Choi Soobin, he finally turns up at your door. However, something he doesn’t expect when he finally sees you is a fight and a new man making his way into your life.

PAIRING | Soobin X Reader

CATEGORY | college au, crush, slow burn, fight, angst, etc.

WORD COUNT | 1.9k

WARNINGS | swearing, ANGST, bitterness lol.

SONG REC |

PLAYLIST | momentum playlist

Preview / Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four

A/N: Very short chapter, I’ll be posting another chapter later in the week. Also ya gurl didn’t proofread, bc I’m too out of it for that, lmao. Enjoy!

A month.

It has been an entire month since you have heard anything from Choi Soobin, and you’d be worried if you weren’t so absolutely pissed off.

His last text has gone from comforting to annoying, and now whenever you glance at it during the odd hours of the morning (you dwell in his messages at 3 am, reading but never replying), it makes you feel sick.

I’ve been studying, working, and going off campus a ton lately. I’ll get back to you when I can. I’m sorry.

But apparently, he wasn’t that sorry. Not sorry enough to respond within the entire month of December, and now campus is coated in a thick layer of snow. The weeks flew by. No word from Soobin, whatsoever. Now that you think about it, pissed off might be the understatement of the year.

This is why, during a Friday night study session cooped up in your dorm room, the last person you expect to see is the one and only Choi Soobin; standing outside your door, looking guilty as all hell.

You didn’t have enough raspberry iced tea in your system to be able to handle it.

“Hi.” He says, voice hopeful for an entire second before he’s back to frowning.

You look him up and down before meeting his eyes again. You don’t reply.

“Can I come in?” He speaks again, looking over your shoulder, presumably at the clutter of study materials on your desk and bed. You’re still wordless, debating on whether or not you should actually let Soobin in. Realistically and metaphorically.

The longer you look up at him, the more on edge he gets. He’s starting to shift his weight and bite at the skin of his lips before you finally step aside. He’s just crossed the threshold between the hallway and your room before he’s talking again.

“I’m just gonna say it - and I just want you to listen - I’m gone a lot.”

You close the door and brush past him, deciding in the moment to not look at him anymore. He knows. Okay. So, you’d prefer to stare at the white walls than into his eyes now. Because he knows, and he’s known the whole time. It doesn’t make it sting any less.

“I don’t reply to your messages and we don’t go on dates anymore like we used to. I know that, Y/N.”

He continues, “I just… I study. I have a job, I see my roommates and my friends. I have honor’s society, and clubs, and all the other stuff that I deal with on a daily basis, and it makes it really really hard to breathe, let alone have free time sometimes.”

“You’re gone a lot.” You confirm, knowing that both you and Soobin know he never has free time, “That much is clear.”

“No that’s not-” Soobin backtracks, suddenly running his hands over his face before he takes a deep breath. You can practically feel him gathering his thoughts.

“Everything else aside, I have you in my life now.”

You finally meet his eyes and you feel yourself deflate. You notice the bags under his, the dark skin showing how close he is to finally shutting down. You notice the unkept strands of his hair you failed to notice before. The way his hoodie strings are pulled unevenly, and how one of his shoes isn’t even tied all the way. It all falls into place.

“I have you and you matter to me.”

It’s silent for a few moments, and you don’t know if it’s your turn to speak.

“I like you and you scare the fuck out of me, Y/N. I don’t do this, and especially with someone like you I- It’s terrifying. It’s terrifying because I have all these things I always have to upkeep, and I have no real prior knowledge on relationships at all, and I already know I fucked up.”

You let him continue.

“I fucked up so bad and the longer it got, the worse it felt to even try to justify what I did. You can’t even guess how many times I paced outside your door at midnight trying to build up the courage to just knock.”

“Is this your way of apologizing, or just feeding me with excuses?”

Your words slice through the air and they make Soobin fall quiet. You expect to feel worse after saying them, but you don’t. A fucking month. You sigh internally.

“I’m not-”

“It doesn’t take over a month to text someone again, Soobin. I don’t expect all your time - hell, I barely have time, but it’s not hard to send someone a single text back!”

For a flash, you feel like you could be going overboard

“I didn’t come here to argue with you, Y/N.”

“Just came expecting me to accept your apology right off the bat, then?”

This shuts Soobin up, and you suddenly realize how heavy you’re breathing.

“Get out.”

You don’t know if it’s the best idea you’ve ever had, but looking at him is only fueling your anger. You can feel your pulse racing under your skin.

“W-what?” He asks incredulously, “You aren’t even letting me explain-”

“You had a fucking month to explain. You had hours and days and weeks, to explain, Soobin. You’re too late.”

Soobin opens his mouth to try explaining again, to try and convince you his reasoning behind ignoring you for so long, but the words never leave his lips.

Without another word, he lets his head hang low in acceptance. Soobin turns, takes a few long strides to your door, and exits.

Once he’s gone, you finally allow yourself to break down.

He didn’t even hesitate.

It is nearly past the month of January when you finally feel yourself start to get into the groove of things again. You took a week to reset, did some self care, and even bought a new outfit. As far as anyone was concerned, you were flushing Soobin out of your system. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

It is a Thursday afternoon when you see Soobin again. You signed up for an art class to fill a gen-ed elective, and even though the drop date was just around the corner, you hadn’t expected any new students to enroll this far into the month.

Cue the headache.

Soobin takes his seat across the room from you, and you aren’t even sure he sees you in the first place because of how he keeps his eyes down. If he does, you’re none the wiser.

“We’re working in pairs today on your watercolor pieces. Please get your canvases and paints from the back and try to keep the noise to a minimum.” Your instructor informs the class. You were genuinely excited for this class when you signed up, and art was something you enjoyed occasionally. You decide to just ignore Soobin. If he doesn’t care, you don’t have to either.

“Do you want me to get your canvas for you?” A voice suddenly asks to your left. You perk up at the sound and meet eyes with a boy you’ve never met before.

His hair is dark and parted down the middle, and his features are pretty. You’re surprised for a few seconds before you finally speak.

“Oh- it’s okay, I can get it.”

The boy shakes his head, his bangs fluffing around a bit, “It’s no trouble really, I can carry two.”

“What about the paint?” You ask nicely.

The boy hums for a second before grinning, “Okay, new plan. I get the canvases, you get the paint.”

This makes you giggle. Before you can overthink it, you’re nodding and standing with him, stepping around other students to make your way to the back of the room where all the supplies lie.

“By the way-” He says, leaning his head down a bit so you can hear him better in the already loud room, “-I’m Heeseung. Lee Heeseung.”

You extend your hand and watch as Heeseung chuckles a bit. He shakes your hand politely.

“Y/N. Nice to meet you, Heeseung.”

The next hour of class is spent mixing paints and trying to complete your project as Heeseung sneakily tries to smear paint on your skin. Only near the end of class do you two actually chat without painting simultaneously, brushes already put away.

“So what’s your major?” Heeseung asks you softly, chin propped in the palm of his hand as he looks at you kindly.

“Visual Communication with an emphasis in Design.”

“That’s really cool!” He says, eyes wide. Heeseung is kind, this you’ve learned over the past hour. Friendly and kind. You really feel like he’s a good guy.

“Thank you,” You grin at him, “What about you?”

“Music Production and Dance.” He says easily. It’s your turn to be surprised. Of course, he had the physique for it, but you were still really impressed. You wouldn’t have guessed music or dance.

“Okay that’s way cooler than mine! Do you do dance club or anything too?”

Heeseung suddenly turns bashful, nodding a bit, “Something like that, yeah.”

Your attention is suddenly pulled away from him as the professor speaks up again, announcing that class is dismissed for the day. You’re about to take your canvas to the back to dry, but Heeseung has already gathered it in his hand carefully, along with his own in the other.

He smiles at you again before turning and walking toward the drying rack, leaving you alone. You take this opportunity to finally let your eyes wander the room, meeting eyes with the last person you’d expect to be watching you.

Soobin’s face is stoic, but his eyes are ablaze. You know that he just saw the entire ordeal with Heeseung, and it wouldn’t surprise you if he had seen it the entire class. It’s awkward to say the least, and you don’t know how long you can hold his gaze as he blinks back at you.

“Everything okay?” Heeseung asks innocently when he gets back, moving to put his backpack over his shoulders. You can only imagine how stressed out you look.

“Yeah, everything’s good.” You shake off the feeling and look back up at him, nodding.

Heeseung smiles and then tilts his head a bit, “I was wondering if you wanted to do something sometime. Do you like coffee?”

You weren’t used to boys asking you out so easily, and it takes you aback for a moment. You know Heeseung means well, but you can’t help but feel a twinge of pain in your heart. The last person who asked you out like this was Soobin, and the irony that he is watching this all go down from across the room is not lost on you.

“I… I like coffee.” You reply, smiling at Heeseung. He looks relieved after hearing your words.

“How does Saturday sound?” He asks, pulling out his phone. You nod and type your number into the device before passing it back to him, “Saturday’s great.”

“Great,” He nods, smiling fully now. You notice how nice his teeth are momentarily, before meeting his eyes again. They are half crescents, adorably endearing as he beams down at you. You take a deep breath.

“It was nice to meet you, Y/N. I’ll see you on Saturday.” And then he’s turning on his heel and walking out of the class, leaving you smiling still.

It’s less than thirty seconds before your phone vibrates in your back pocket, and you’re positive it’s Heeseung. Instead of reaching for your phone, though, you stand there, eyes staring at the now vacant chair across the room.

The room is fully empty now, and you’re left completely alone.

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helahades · 3 years

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the sexiest wip list

alright! reminder that this is a dark fic blog. dark fics are not just noncon, but uncomfortable subject matter and questionable thought processes and unreliable povs. control your media experience and read warnings carefully! they’ll be updated when the actual story releases, but these are wips, and i don’t know them all bc I simply have not finished these stories!

some darker warnings on this list include: threats of sexual violence, obsession, death, and previously mentioned unreliable povs from obsessive characters who justify themselves.

final reminder to read warnings! some of these are intense.

1) Jealous Thor (Untitled)

warnings: cheating, mean!reader, angst

You’re falling for Steve right under his nose. Each day, Thor feels you pull farther away. Each night, he squeezes his eyes shut as you lie asleep next to him, and tries to forget the way you lookat Steve these days with hunger and adoration that you once gave to him.

“He is earthly. For all his body’s and mind’s possession of unnatural experimental growth, he is earthly and limited, so Thor can’t understand why you’re drawing away from him, and telling Steve the jokes, giving Steve all the looks that had him hooked. The lingering eyes and touches… they ride the line of decency.”

—

2) Heimdall Angst (Untitled)

warnings: major character death, grief, existentialism, out of body experiences

Connected by incredible wisdom and duty to fate, you and The Gatekeeper of Asgard are pulled together by the unique pairing of your mutual seeing abilities—made for greatness, and destined for tragedy.

This story stretches from the moment that catalyzes your meeting, across the years of loving him, to the moment you lose him.

“A fateful tragedy. He sees an arrow through a dove.

He wonders how he missed your encounter with him in the whispers of the cosmos.

“—They’re star deaths,” you say abruptly, “the ones that move and change color. They speed up when you watch them—show their whole life to come...I read about them. Most can’t ever see them life this”.

Turning to where you stand beside him, his eyes swirl with the magic of knowing you, of your destinies combined. He sees you stare at his stars like they’re new.

“Only us.”

—

3) Away from the Party - Steve Smut

warnings: smut, dubcon, roughness, manipulation, unintentional exhibition

Steve hates these parties. After a mission, the work has just begun, and he fumes at the impossible way that Tony covers all problems in diamonds and pearls. Some things aren’t meant to be pretty.

You are. You’re soft, and kind, and you coax him gently away from the party—the source of his frustrations, with promises of leaving early, of calming down. Oh. He’ll calm down. And you’re just the toy to help. In a closet a corner away from the government’s finest, America’s golden boy has a hand on your throat and one demand.

“Keep quiet.”

“Of course, you both ended up at the party anyway, but with you swirling cool fingertips at his aching temples and rubbing softly over the stretch marks on his chest, he couldn’t find anything in heart to disagree with you then.

Even now with his erection pressed to you through barriers of clothing, with scarcely retrained and monstrous lust, he is steadily calmed by your presence. This rush, the secrecy—it excites him. And you pull him through the haze of it.”

—

4) Monster Thor Headcanons

warnings: wound and gore descriptions, some sadness

The fantasy of it all. Aesthetic, Lifestyle, Behavior. Some talking points include: hair, horns, hints about how he was influenced by a soft and charming lover many years ago, general horniness. Also spoiler that I’ve decided that He is 8ft tall

“Thor is...ancient. he is a being of war and folklore and raw energy and he’s earthy and elemental and connected. and form follows function. (and also whatever horny thoughts we want )”

—

5) The Call

warnings: voyeurism, death threats, obsession, implied sexual assault threats

When Frank comes to visit you, you beam like a sunflower. You’ve rearranged your room, and you’re excited about it. He would like to revel in the moment with you...but he’s caught up in one detail. Your bed is pushed against the window...and he can’t convince you to let him move it.

After a night of sin and wild lovemaking, you lie asleep bathed in moonlight, and Frank wakes to a call. Billy. He’s set up on a rooftop miles away, and he’s got things to say about Frank’s girl and what he’d like to do to her. A red dot on his chest means he can only listen. To your gentle snoring, and to the twisted fantasy of a brother unhinged.

“Black silk pajamas. Hair wrapped up in satin. Yellow light almost like sun stretches to the ceiling, but not quite over the rolling hills of your silhouette turned away from him in quiet sleep.

Frank’s hardly got the time to wonder why he’s awake, because his phone buzzes slow again. Pulls the moment he realizes he will have to break this magic peace to molasses and he half fills his lungs before huffing it out and flipping the phone open and tucked between his ear and shoulder.

“What.”

“She’s a reaaaaal pretty one, Frankie boy. You sure know how to pick em.”

—

6) Loki Longing (Untitled)

warnings: pregnant!fem reader, angst

On the Eve of the birth of Asgard’s heir, Thor is away. In a bath of flowers and magic to ease your pain, maidens worry over you, and Loki rescues you away, letting you rest in bed, and dreaming of the days when you were his lover instead.

“I’d like to rest…in my bed now, please.”

The ladies look to each other. It hasn’t been long enough for the herbs to take effect.

“My Queen,” the eldest starts—

“She is certainly your queen,” a silky silver timbre interrupts, “I’ve learned it’s best to mind her.”

His eyes fall to your form, and some blocked conflict—some guarded affection rests there. Some longing tucked in a pocket like an impossible secret.

—

7) With Child - Obsessive Steve

warnings: pregnant!fem reader, obsessive Steve

Watching you content, and very pregnant, as you gaze adoringly at your husband Thor from where you rest, half in his lap, Steve can’t help but fantasize. He thinks about impregnating you, the mechanics of sex with a pregnant woman, and being the god who does it all.

“Do you have to lie on your side? Is Thor just behind you, spooning you, fucking with desperate thrusts because you drive him so crazy this way? Steve has heard—and he doesn’t know where—that women get wetter when with child. Steve can’t help but wonder...does Thor need to hold one leg up for you—to save your back that’s so often heavy with the weight of supporting his legacy?”

—

8) Dean’s Girl

warnings: unreliable pov (john), voyeurism, masturbation + voyeurism

John notices the way you avoid him. You always seem to leave a room just as he’s coming into it. He’s living in the bunker now, and having to realize a lot of things that have changed for the both of his sons.

For example, his oldest, the last he’d ever think would fall in love, has got a pretty girl that dismisses her practical father in law with pointed boredom. She’s protective—how can he blame her after all that he’d put Dean through?

She’s pretty, and John is only a man, and can’t stop himself from just...looking. It starts with a convenient bend as she unloads the dishwasher...then he..can’t help that the door was open and she happened to be changing right there. He also can’t help it the next time when he’s just a little too obvious, pleasuring himself to the smell of her pretty lace panties.

—

9) Operator, Operator - Steve Smut

warnings: smut, financial troubles?, mentions of creepiness against and danger to sex workers, exhibitionism via phone call

Underpaid and overworked, you along with your roommate/secret crush/ best friend Steve have trouble making ends meet on minimum wage + his art commissions. When you start picking up calls on a phone sex line, he’s able to reason. It’s quick cash, and Steve is mature enough to keep his thoughts appropriate...at first.

One day, he wakes to the sound of breathy moans and a faked orgasms. He wonders how you would sound if only you were high on real pleasure...and there’s no time like the present. Don’t hang up. This call has only just started.

“By the time this year—junior year—swung around, Steve realized he was only catching glimpses of you. He would hear the shake of your keys when you tossed them on the counter, your backpack when it thudded to the floor, and most recently—your moans.

You must not know he’s home. Ever since you started online sex work, specifically being a phone sex operator, you seemed to also make the silent choice that more graphic calls would be saved for when he’s not around.

He gets it. You both split the rent, and Steve has done jobs he’d rather not mention in desperate times, when commissions came short. Still, sometimes you can’t tell when he’s here, and despite his best efforts to push down his arousal, to tell himself you’re his best friend...he’s an artist, and he can’t help but listen, and certainly not the wandering of his imagination.”

—

10) Professor Steve Medfet - (Untitled)

In an alternate timeline, a washed up Steve Rogers starts a new life in a run down city as an art / anatomy teacher. A class of hungry college students is filled to the brim each year, expecting the unspoken promise of their favorite hands on lab. You.

You keep his class sated, in turn giving the professor job security for funding his simple life out of the public eye. Each year when he calls, you come. Each year the students find a new way to tear you embarrass and degrade, much to the pleasure of the professor.

“Same speech. Same meaningless words. Focusing on the stillness of your skin and how it feels to be alone, you can almost drown out the way his tone edges toward excitement, the way the chairs shift and squeak—the anticipation.

Pretending your heart doesn’t send heat and cold flashes through you and run your breathing shallow, you look at the nicks in the door and try to guess their stories.

But then the metal frame clicks, the door unlatches. Professor Rogers wears a gentle smirk. It doesn’t ease your mind one bit.”

—

11) Swelter - Forest God Thor

warnings: sexual scenes, time limited conflict, religious themes

With a sickness overtaking nearby villages, yours is next, and has decided to sacrifice you to the cause of foraging for preventative herbs. You venture into the ancient woods after a rare vine of flowers, but leave with much more after encountering Thor.

After disturbing him where he lies cooling in the bank of a stream, you vow to prove the true intention of your soul—that you aren’t a hunter, or witch after his form or faculty, but a pious girl, also needing to escape the heat.

“You’re in the old woods now, and aside from the trees and the mossy nature tangled around them, there is only Him. Thor.

God of the harvest, bringer of land’s wealth, fertility, and vitality. You know of the sacrifices, of the woods where He is rumored to live in an unseen form, of livid white fire in the sky if He is severely displeased.

His name must not be spoken outside of prayer or ritual, and even now, you stutter to think it, and wonder if you are alone in your thoughts.”

[...]

“The frustration and the fear in your dilemma disturb the air, disquieting the otherwise enduring peace of the old woods, which rouses a large form in the cool muddy bank of the stream. It is only leaves shifting at first. Faded pumpkin and dried oak scatter—and suddenly the air smells like rain and your mouth sets around the tastes of copper and sage. Then, the leaves tumble off of a beast of a mass that rises slowly, and you note that it felt like the atmosphere changed to accommodate its awakening.”

—

12) Halloween Party - Thor Smut (Untitled)

warnings: smut, heartbreak, depressed!reader

An exclusive and mysterious Halloween party is still on this year—and you’re invited. It’s meant to be so extravagant and flashy an Avenger will one day attend, and all attendees decorate themselves in costumes inspired by the heroes, hoping to be noticed.

Fresh after a breakup with your boyfriend Brock, you take one half of the preordered couples costume and dress up as a goddess, determined to have a good night with your friends, find some excitement, and most importantly, a new god to match.

“Standing solemn, floor to ceiling windows allow in a few milky rays reflected by the moon, but they’re all the gems of your bodice need to gleam to a suitor's eye. Tonight, while you plan to rid your soul of another, you are welcomed with open arms and careful consideration as the final offering at an altar. You are seen by a god.”

—

13) Grief

warnings: dead!reader, guilt, grief, scary science, how do i say this... smut that is borderline necroph—there’s a replica of you, dark!steve, tony lives, pepper dies

Steve’s world is upside down. He’s lost the light of his life, and is completely in the dark. Luckily for him, Tony is back in the business of reality rejecting technology, and has found a way for him to be with you again.

At an abandoned cottage, Steve brings an armful of your scents to give the Tony’s invention sensory data, and faces the strange reality of what’s always been his worst stage...his worst trait. Denial.

“Dozens of test bottles full of manufactured scents, the kind of thing you smell borrowing a sweater, or with your face in the crook of someone’s neck. Essentially, the sort of organic thing that cannot be recaptured.

Steve’s got an armful of perfume and body wash. Of conditioner and deodorant, of all the elements he can think that make you smell the way you would—the way you do.

He wills the thoughts to be present tense. If he pretends you are alive, maybe it will look like it is you only sleeping. He wonders how well Tony knows the texture of your hair suddenly, because if it isn’t right, the experience will fall to shambles. It currently walks a plank over shambles. One wrong interpretation or surprise, and Steve will find himself spinning and burning with the fall into a new and uncharted taboo.”

14) Night Drive - Dean Smut

warnings: road head

On a long overnight drive, your back pressed into the seat of the impala makes you miss lying in bed with your lover, makes you miss his gentle caress right next to you...so you remind him how good it is to be close.

“You think about it when he hums a little tune. When he hums the song he wishes would play and thinks will come up next, it is eerily soft, and eerily similar to the soft contentment he sighs when you kiss on his neck.

When he reaches for your hand to hold, it makes you consider the shortness of the distance between you, and you think of pulling his cock out right here, giving him head that melts him here on this endless road.

Looking at him, he senses your interest—he turns his head to meet your eyes, throws up a grin of boyish charm. He’s happy to be here with you. These night drives are fine. He’s never minded them. But they’re even lovelier when in your company.”

—

15) Shadow - The Bucky Mystery

warnings: stalking, injury, sexual assault, canon typical hydra torture, mentions of bucky being forced to assault people, traumatized reader

On the run from Hydra, there aren’t many things that Bucky can remember. Inside his mind, there aren’t many feelings that make sense. Mostly, he feels guilt. Horror.

Following you to the gym where you practice ballet alone in the nights is all that makes sense, and for reasons he can’t explain, he feels drawn to you.

As time goes on, Bucky feels more enticed by his desire, you start to feel eyes staring from the walls, motivations and traumas are revealed, and in a horrible symphony, you both remember your connection.

“He’s a matte shadow against the noir shine of metal walls—an observer in the unlit quiet on his side of the room.

And he feels his unimportance. It’s humbling. Holds up the room like chunky beams and high rafters, dressed in the same layered neutrals. Framing the same cotton candy dancer, silent as the pad of her slippers when she turns her weight onto a straight leg, other coming up with her ankle pointed to the bend of her knee.

She spins, she spins and she whips her head around with each one, but it’s Bucky who gets dizzy.”

send an ask with any questions, or for more details about a particular story!

#which wip #follower poll #future fic hints #update

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this-is-freeridge · 5 years

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The Air Between Us

Chapter Ten: Mari spends some time with Trey.

Warning: this fic deals with dark themes, including but not limited to teen pregnancy, rape, drug abuse, murder, abortion, underage drinking and underage sex. Read at your own risk.

Find all chapters here

Note: Hey guys! I know it’s been a while and this is a short update, but I have actually revised this entire story over here on Wattpad! I put a lot of work into editing it in a short time so I just needed a break to rejuvenate my inspiration and motivation. It’d mean a lot if you could all go have a read on Wattpad! :)

Geny cried as she watched Mario drive away. The whole time they were loading boxes into Mario’s car she had been holding back tears but it wasn’t until he was driving away and halfway down the street that the tears had really started. Ruben wasn’t crying, though he looked like he was about to. He was holding Geny tight, grounding her and reminding her that everything would be okay. Reminding the both of them that Mario wasn’t gone forever.

Mari smiled when she looked at them. She had never seen two people so in love and she wanted to have that one day more than anything. Someone who made her feel loved and safe and wanted, something her mother never let her feel. Maybe it was stupid to be so young and want something so permanent, but she didn’t mind being a little stupid. If only she could stop convincing herself she could have that with the one person she wanted.

The twins had hugged Mario’s legs and Mari noticed that’s what almost broke Mario’s carefree facade as his eyes brimmed with tears. He blinked them back, squeezing his eyes shut tight, and then crouched to their level to hug them each one-by-one. He then told them to “scamper, brats,” and they did, but not before they gifted him with a tissue full of their snot. A sweet gesture, Mario thought, but that didn’t stop him gagging and chucking it the moment they were out of sight.

Ruby had just said “later, bro,” and then called Jamal to come and check out his new room before heading to orientation.

Abuelita, never much for unnecessary words, only gave him a hug. At least, that’s all the Martinez family saw. According to a text that Mario had sent Mari later that day, Abuelita had also asked that he bring her back “some of that good weed,”.

Mari didn’t cry. She felt guilty because she was sad he was leaving, and, had he treated her from the start how he did yesterday, she may have been devastated right now. She loved Mario and they seemed to get along well; he could’ve been her best friend and closest confidant had he not decided to speak to her only a day before he left. Maybe she could’ve felt better by now, had less in her mind to deal with, had someone to talk out this Spooky shit with. That was no fault to Mario, by any means - Mari understood his feelings toward her and she was just happy they moved past them. Still, it kinda sucked that the person she had felt most comfortable with, in this entire family, was now gone.

Once Mario was out of sight they went back into the house. Mari made work on the dishes from breakfast so Geny didn’t have to, Jamal arrived with a wave and a “hey, Mari,” before proceeding to Ruby’s room (where they both squealed like little girls and were not subtle about jumping on the bed) and Ruben said he needed to get to work. But then, he stopped in his tracks and he cried.

Mari set the dishes aside, wiped her hands on a small towel and brought him into her arms without a second thought. Her smaller frame and spindly arms probably didn’t provide much comfort but it was everything she had to offer, and she would give it to him. More than once she had seen Ruben staying strong when he looked like he would crumble. Now that he was, Mari wanted him to know that it was okay, that he had support even if it was in the form of an eighteen-year-old girl.

With a sniffle, he smiled down at her and kissed the top of her head.

“Thank you, mija,” he said and then stepped out of the embrace with a shaky exhale, “I am going to be late for work if I don’t leave now. Be good today, I love you,”

The statement made Mari’s chest warm every time she heard it. Her mother never told her she was loved - in fact, had told her the opposite to the point that Mari was sure it was true.

Mari had just finished up the dishes and started to get herself ready to head to the store when the front door opened and a dark-skinned girl with unruly brown curls walked in as though the house was her own. Mari froze and awkwardly glanced around the room for someone who might be able to tell her just who the hell this girl is. Was she an intruder? Did she know the Martinezes?

The girl answered for her when she shot Mari a crooked but welcoming smile.

“Hey,” she greeted, stepping to Mari with a happy bound in her step, “you must be Ruby’s sister, Mari, right? I’m Monse,”

The girl, Monse, offered her hand and Mari took it without hesitation. It felt weird to be shaking hands with a fourteen-year-old girl, but she supposed it was more comfortable than a hug - a thought that Mari expected would be changed in no time. Ruby’s friends were great; so kind and welcoming that it made her feel as though she had always been there. Even Cesar, though he wasn’t on speaking terms with the rest of the squad. Mari already knew Ruby enough not to mention that.

“Yeah,” Mari replied with a smile, “I’ve heard a lot about you from Ruby and Jamal. It’s nice to finally meet you. How was writing camp?”

“It was okay,” Monse said, but the huge smile on her face gave away her nonchalance. “I missed the guys though, it’s good to be back. I feel like I’ve missed everything,”

Mari blushed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear; she was the everything that Monse had missed. While Mari knew the other girl didn’t mean anything by it, she still hated knowing that, to someone, she was still news.

Monse’s smile dropped and she stammered to apologize.

“Oh, I didn’t mean-”

With a gesture of her hand, Mari waved the apology away.

“It’s cool,” she said and offered Monse a genuine smile, “I was pretty unexpected. I’m sure Ruby will fill you in. The boys are just in Ruby’s room,”

And then, as if on cue, Ruby’s voice piped up.

“Check me out, bitches!” He exclaimed, “I got my own room! My own room,”

The two girls giggled between themselves at Ruby’s excitement.

“I better go,” Monse gestured to Ruby’s new own-room, “let them know I’m back. It was nice to meet you. It might be good to have another girl around,”

“If you ever need anything, you can probably find me at the store,” Mari glanced at the clock on the wall behind Monse and added, “at work, where I’m meant to be now. Shit; I’m late, I gotta run,”

“Go,” Monse flashed an easy smile, one that made Mari feel as though they’d been friends for years, “I’ll make sure Ruby gets to orientation alive,”

Mari was out the door with a grateful “thank you”.

Her first day as someone’s manager and already she was late. Not a very good first impression, though she supposed it wasn’t exactly the first impression. Trey had been adorably smitten upon meeting her, and Mari doubted tardiness was about to change that.

Kicking a dented Coca-Cola can back and forth between his feet and leaning most of his weight casually against the door, Trey was waiting for her to arrive. The bumbling, high-energy boy Mari had once met was gone, and in his place was someone looking weary beyond his years. His skin was tinted red from the sun and his otherwise soft-looking blond locks were matted with sweat, sticking out at odd angles. With a pang of guilt, Mari wondered how long he had been waiting out here in the heat.

“Hey,” Mari dipped her words in sugar, in the hopes that he wouldn’t be mad as she offered her apology. “I’m sorry I’m late; family stuff,”

It wasn’t exactly a lie: Mario leaving, Ruben crying and then Monse turning up. It’d been a busy morning. The excuse was vague and didn’t justify her being almost fifteen minutes late, Mari was banking on Trey’s infatuation to get her off the hook this once. It seemed to work as he looked up at her with a bright smile.

“It’s no biggie,” he shrugged, “I’m sorry I look like I have no sense of personal hygiene. I showered! I swear; I put on body spray and everything! I just, uh, I’m not used to this heat,”

Mari let herself laugh at his reaction. It was cute, she supposed, in a sort of childish way.

“I was exactly the same when I moved here. Come on, let’s get you out of the heat,” she offered her understanding, unlocking the store and heading straight for the standing-fan that acted as air-con.

Once inside, Trey set his backpack down behind the counter and expected her to get right to it: deactivate any security alarms, turn on the lights, set up the register, prepare for the day. Already behind schedule, there was no time to waste. What he didn’t expect was for her to turn around and lock the door once more.

“What are you doing?” He asked, glancing around the store, suddenly nervous and questioning his safety.

“Relax,” she said with a casual smile and a roll of her eyes, “follow me,”

Mari led him behind the counter, through a door labelled STAFF ONLY, past the ‘office’ and the bathroom and through to the stock room. It was small and crowded and filled with boxes - all but two of which were blanketed in dust. Trey figured this was where Mari spent her breaks; alone in the dark, perched atop a cardboard box. He was happily going to change that.

It took most of her strength, but Mari managed to move two of the smaller but heavier boxes aside to reveal a metal sliding door. Grabbing the handle with both hands, she used all her strength to pull the door aside. Trey’s face split into a grin and he looked at her like she *hung the stars*.

“Welcome to the Crystal Fortress,” Mari revealed the cool-room with a flourish of her hands, as though she were one of those game-show girls. “Come on in,”

Trey huffed a laugh but obeyed nonetheless.

“Are we even allowed to be in here?” He asked, though there was another large box in here with a curve in the top that told him this wasn’t the first time Mari hid back here.

She shrugged and closed the door behind them as the younger boy took a seat. “This place...is an anomaly. It makes just enough money to pay us and keep running, but the boss makes nothing. It’s been on the market for years, isn’t it worth anything though. Boss doesn’t really care what we do with it. In fact, I think he’d be pretty pleased if it burned down in the middle of the night. At least he’d get an insurance payout,”

Trey shook his head and leaned back against a wall, closing his eyes and relishing in the cool that immediately flooded his too-hot veins. “Something tells me Freeridge isn’t gonna be the simple town mom had in mind when we moved for a fresh start,”

Tell me about it, Mari thought.

“Why’d you move?”

“Uh,” the blond boy avoided her eyes, his own darkening as he looked anywhere but at her.

Too soon. Got it.

Mari tried again, “where are you from?”

“Brentwood,” he responded with a small smile, one that told her everything she needed to know; if it were up to him, he never would’ve left.

Suddenly, Mari felt as though she were intruding on something personal; intruding on his life. Dusting off her skirt, she cleared her throat and opened the door of the cool-room. Sharing time was over, it was time to leave the fortress and rejoin the real world.

“We better get to work,”

Tag list: @kseniainneverland @lostgirl219 @ravengreystone @robinsdolan @weediskindabad @moistdollerbills @javoqetal @kenzie44469 @goddessate @blackdepressoexpresso @classyputa @babygirl-htx @wonderlandlovelove @cacapoodlepoo @agent-femmefatale @elliesshitofablog @daydreamer0307 @lucyfuh @harduy @elizabeth-santana-98 @lonelyyblues @gangstanappah

#Oscar Diaz #oscar spooky diaz #Oscar Diaz imagine #oscar diaz imagines #spooky diaz #spooky #spooky imagines #on my block #omb #omg netfllix #on my block imagines

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jungnoir · 6 years

Note

You saw me reading the same book you are and now we are arguing about the motives of the antagonist w/ Wonwoo? this is so him

morning routine;

jeon wonwoo | “You saw me reading the same book you are and now we are arguing about the motives of the antagonist.” | 2k words. | humor, fluff.

Wonwoo’s days often went like this: He would get on the subway at 8, read a book, arrive to the city by 8:30, then go to work at the bookstore that he’d been working at since his high school graduation at 9:15. Sometimes he would get on earlier in hopes that he could spend more time reading, but on those days he couldn’t be assed to deny himself that last half hour of sleep, he would stick to the 8 o’clock schedule without fault.

Your days often went like this: You would get on the subway at 8, arrive to the city by 8:30, then wander aimlessly around the city while collecting inspiration for your writing blog. You were a bit of an amateur writer, posting small snippets and prompts to the internet for the world to see. Any ideas that came to your mind ended up there, and you had received quite some praise for your innovative ideas. You enjoyed the love, but you were always striving for more. That meant that if you were going to finally write that breakout novel you always wanted, you were going to have to get started while you still had as much free time as you did. Being a professional book editor was fun and all, but you often dreamed of the day you would be asking someone to do the same for you.

Despite the fact that your schedules matched up perfectly, you had never met.

Whether standing at opposite sides of the subway car or one standing and the other sitting, you two had never crossed paths. Call it the universe’s uncanny timing that the one day you actually do cross paths, he’s holding a book you know all too well. After all, you edited it.

Your eyes sparkle a bit in pride as you examine the boy from head to toe: russet brown hair that curls at the ends around his brows, pronounced nose, rosy tinted lips that pucker, twist, and get gnawed on while he reads. His choice of outfit is a heavily hanging black sweater bunched up at the elbows and jeans that are identically colored. The legs of his pants disappear into a pair of classic black converse with white laces, and you can tell one is double-knotted and the other is not. His full backpack pushes him further away from the back of his seat and, from what you can see poking the fabric at a sharp angle, the contents are even more books. You start to like this mystery boy without even knowing a thing.

The car makes a stop some four minutes later and the old man who was sitting next to the stranger gets up to leave, an empty spot just begging for someone to take it. You make it to the seat before someone else your age can take it, happily trading the handle you were clinging onto for dear life in favor of the seat. The boy doesn’t even flinch.

You watch him read for a few moments before the excitement gets the best of you, “I love that book.”

The boy flinches, evidence clear in his expression that he hadn’t even noticed his last partner getting up and leaving or you swiftly taking his place. You gazes at you in a daze before smiling shortly, “Ah, really? It’s one of my favorites. No matter how many times I’ve read it, when I start it again I just can’t put it down.”

Your grin widens, and while you know you should just leave him to get back to peacefully reading (who knows? maybe this was the only time he got to even settle down during his day), you’re itching to ask him about it. There were seldom chances like these where you saw people reading books you edited, and even less so chances for you to converse with them about it. “I was like that too when I first read it. Who are your favorite characters?”

He blinks, a little surprised you’re still talking to him even after he’s clearly turned away in favor of finishing his book. Regardless, he entertains you, “Ritch and Stenciler.”

“Me too! Though, I have a soft spot for Carolina,” in your head you can picture him saying I don’t care, but if he’s thinking it, it doesn’t show, “people get on her for being selfish sometimes, but I love how realistically the author portrays her. She’s neither totally perfect nor totally evil. She just is.”

The boy seems to light up all of a sudden, and for the first time since you started talking, he actually looks less interested in the book. He gently sets it on his leg and turns to you, “God, you don’t know how happy I am to finally talk to someone who doesn’t completely hate her guts. It gets really annoying hearing the same old criticisms for her character. It’s like everyone got together and just agreed on that one thing to say about her forever.”

It’s probably silly how quickly you begin to warm up to the stranger, but you feel an almost kindred spirit in him. “I’m (Y/N).” You introduce yourself and hold out a hand, that of which he shakes with a soft grip and even softer smile.

“I’m Wonwoo, nice to meet you,” his eyes turn into little slits before he suddenly thinks of something, shifting his body a little more toward you, “You know, everyone always asks about favorite characters, but I never really hear people talk about their least favorite characters. Who are yours?”

Your eyes widen in surprise as you begin to think, the thought having never really occurred to you before. After a few moments of silence between the two of you, you finally think of one, “Probably Dr. Heinsel. That dude is super repulsive.”

Wonwoo’s once energetic smile melts quickly like ice over a candle flame, your heart beating faster as you start to wonder what you’d done wrong. Uh-oh, was it something I said?

“…interesting. Any explanation as to why?” His voice sounds just as welcoming as it had when you first started talking to him and you begin to run over all the logical ways the conversation could have gone this wrong so quickly. He was no longer relaxed, and once the smile left his face, he looked a bit intimidating. It was nothing like his reading face. Not by a long shot.

Clearing your throat, you straighten up too, “Well, for starters, his reasons for wanting to kill the telekinetic twins is bullshit.” “And what exactly are those reasons?”

His clipped tone rubs you the wrong way as you narrow your eyes in response, “Isn’t it obvious? He wasn’t there to save his wife and child from getting killed on that school bus all those years ago, and so of course when he finds out that there were telekinetic twins on that same bus who could’ve, in his mind, been able to stop the bus from crashing, he takes it out on them. He wants to catch them for not stopping the bus crash, but it’s not the twins’ fault for not having honed their powers yet.”

“Uh, no,” Wonwoo doesn’t even wait for you to finish, setting his book beside him as he begins to argue, “that’s not it at all. There’s clear signs throughout the book that indicate that while he was surprised to find out about them all those years after the crash, he didn’t hate them. He was curious! He only got pissed when he tried to get in touch with them about the accident and they tried to swipe his money off him. I mean, how would you feel knowing the only survivors of a deadly crash that took the lives of your family away were telekinetic? They saved their own lives and he just wanted to know how. He had nothing against them until he realized they were using their powers for wrong.”

“They were orphans!” Your voice raises some but Wonwoo doesn’t even flinch, though his nostrils flare a bit, “I’m sorry, “wrong”? They stole food and to live, stole jewelry to sell so that they could keep a warm roof over their heads.”

Wonwoo scoffs, “Oh, so you call chapter five, where the brother steals a purse off an old lady, justified?”

“It’s moral conflict!”

“It’s delinquent behavior!”

“So you’re telling me if you were telekinetic, starving, kicked out from every orphanage you were in because you were constantly being hassled by the media and insane theorists who wanted to know why you managed to survive a heavily fatal bus crash, and had a twin sister you had to take care of because your parents were killed in that same bus crash, you wouldn’t steal from anyone you could to keep the both of you alive?”

“Uh, yeah!”

“What would you do then?”

“I’m freaking telekinetic! I could be a magician, a professional weight-lifter, a surfer- I don’t know!”

“Oh-ho-ho, that’s rich.”

“Do you think the people they stole from didn’t have people to protect and provide for too? Honestly, I’m pretty sure half the people they stole from were only slightly better off than them, and not by much.”

“So that justifies a guy wanting to capture and experiment on them for “the betterment of mankind”, then?”

“No! I just- look, all I’m saying is he wasn’t after them for being literal children and not preventing a bus crash that they too lost family in. He was after them because he felt they were only going to escalate in behavior, which was a very bad call on his part. He was far too aggressive, far too obsessed with picking apart their powers and finding out how they did what they did and in the end it turned him into the antagonist. The guy freaking sucks and I don’t hate the twins for what they had to do, but you have to admit that there was more to his reasoning than just that.”

A ding sounds through the car and you finally tear your heated gaze from Wonwoo’s to look around. With delayed recognition, you notice that you had since arrived at your stop.

You feel a tug in your chest when you realize that this meant you wouldn’t even be able to finish the conversation, wouldn’t be able to discuss the inner workings of the mind the antagonist had in further detail. You wouldn’t even be able to tell him that you had edited that book, that you had spent countless hours considering the motives with the author herself and had drawn that conclusion in the end… granted, on your own.

However, that tug ceases when he stands, face morphing from the irritated expression he’d displayed while arguing with you to a pretty neutral (almost… regretful?) look. He grabs hold of the bar next to your seat and bites his lip, “This is my stop…”

“It’s mine too.”

You stand and grab the same bar, the two of you unable to break eye contact for some time. Then comes his rushed question as the doors nearby open to spill the people riding out of the car, “Where ya headed?”

“Nowhere,” you say breathlessly, and when he begins to back out of the car, you follow mindlessly, “and you?”

“I’m due for work at the Pledis bookstore in the city in,” he glances at the watch on his wrist before looking back at you, “37 minutes. There’s a coffee place inside it, if you wanna head there with me and finish our discussion… that is, if you don’t seriously detest me after that rant of mine.”

You follow him out onto the platform like a moth to a flame, that once building sorrow about possibly losing this enticing stranger forever dissipating with the promise of coffee and maybe more. His blushing cheeks look rather adorable even under the ugly fluorescent lights of the subway station, a feat you have to applaud him for. “You kidding me?” You shoot him a tiny smirk, walking up to his side, “your rant was cute at best. You’ll be crying by the time I get enough coffee and rage built up inside of me to tear you a new one.”

Wonwoo’s eyebrows raise with the challenge and almost like a light bulb goes off in your head, you feel like you might just have a muse for that breakout novel of yours.

#write-svt #wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo drabble #jeon wonwoo #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen drabbles #seventeen #majwrites #sbmusings #this fake argument was so funny to write

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ingridgovaninsights · 7 years

Text

The Charlotte Chapters- Part 10

When Elliott and I left the hospital, it was one in the morning. The town was quiet; I didn’t even know which town we’d ended up in. But Elliott knew his way around. We started driving back home. It was a quiet night on the highway.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what was Victoria saying to you on the phone?” I asked after we had driven in silence for a good ten or fifteen minutes.

It wasn’t a comfortable silence, it was an awkward silence. I was perfectly fine with comfortable silence, but our silences recently weren’t so comfy. There was an unspoken tension in the air between us.

“Oh, she was getting all pissed off because I took you to the crisis unit,” he mumbled. “But hey, what else is new, right?”

“Elliott, what is her problem?” I asked. “She seems to really have something against me.”

“Yep, it’s because of our history,” he said. “Victoria is a very… jealous person. But she has her reasons, so I’m not going to go and talk shit about her.”

“She has her reasons? You’re trying to justify it,” I said, getting quite heated about it. “She can be jealous all she wants, but you haven’t given her a reason to be so rude to you. The way she’s been talking to you is just… ridiculous. Do you not see that?”

Elliott shrugged. “I mean, sometimes I think maybe she’s a little out of line, but hey… she’s got quite a few mental issues, okay?”

“Why are you making excuses for her? You’ve told me so many times you’re the one who cuts through the bullshit. So why do you lie when it’s about her?”

Elliott sighed. He started tapping his fingers against the steering wheel; was he anxious?

“I… I don’t know. I’m afraid she’s all I’ve got. If I lose her, I lose my chance at love, at a family, at an actual life…”

“Is it true love if you have to cover things up all the time?” I asked boldly.

It was something I should have asked myself a long time ago. Elliott had no answer.

***

Elliott and I didn’t really talk again between that night and Friday night- my date night with Oliver. I was too nervous, anyways, to be dealing with the Elliott and Victoria drama. I was probably just as nervous as I was excited. Is that a bad thing?

We were supposed to be meeting downtown in a couple of hours. I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, completely naked, and really looked hard at my reflection. I hated what I saw. I looked so plain, so boring. And my figure was far from the ideal- after so much stress and anxiety, I probably gained about ten pounds. I had extra weight to go around, for sure; I could pinch my side and grab a handful of fat.

Fat- that’s how I felt.

I stood awkwardly, my hair a mess and my eyes looked tired. I didn’t feel very ladylike. Why did I have such muscular legs, and such small breasts? I wanted to feel like a woman, and a powerful one at that. I couldn’t, so long as I felt this way about myself.

So I would have to mask the insecurity. I stepped into the shower and let the hot water cascade over my body. I squeezed a ton of body wash into the palm of my hand, and started scrubbing almost desperately. I wanted to wash away all of the filth that was my life; but sadly, no amount of scrubbing could do that.

When I was finally done showering, I towel dried my hair as best as I could and slipped into my favorite outfit- bright red skinny jeans and a plain grey v-neck. It was simple, but I felt most comfortable in it, and my red pants gave everything a pop. I felt slightly less insecure hiding under my clothes.

I wasn’t one for makeup, but I applied a thin layer to try and give myself a boost of confidence. I told myself I didn’t look half bad. It would be okay.

Before I knew it, it was time to head out. I grabbed my purse and dipped out into the brisk evening. I only had to walk a few blocks to get to downtown- it wasn’t far, yet people still felt uncomfortable about women walking alone at night. What was the big deal? Men could get kidnapped or attacked, too.

The pub looked extremely busy- every table including the tables on the patio were full. Lovely. Unfortunately, I spotted Oliver already at a table in the far corner… looks like I’d have to endure the noise level.

Oliver looked incredibly handsome, even in the poor pub lighting. His Jesus hair was tied back into a ponytail, and he wore a nicely fitted black t-shirt with faded blue ripped jeans. Even something so casual looked so fine on him… but I had to stop ogling. I was too caught up in his appearances; I didn’t even know the man yet. I composed myself and walked over to meet him.

He turned around, noticed me and smiled. “Well, look who it is.”

I couldn’t help but smile back. He had such a great energy about him, it was so hard not to feel like you were being hugged by the positivity, too. When I took a seat across from him, he watched me curiously, as if he were trying to read me. I fidgeted, feeling quite awkward about it. I never knew what to do when people looked at me for extended periods of time.

Luckily, the waitress came over and broke the awkwardness. “Hi! Can I get you something to drink?”

She was smiling over at me. I looked at Oliver’s half-full glass of beer. “I’ll have whatever he’s having. Thanks.”

With another smile and a nod she disappeared to fetch me my drink. So there we were again, in awkwardness. Damn it, why couldn’t she have stayed a little longer to avoid this situation? My heart was pounding. I felt overwhelmingly anxious.

“So, Charlotte. Tell me a bit about yourself.” I was thankful that Oliver started the conversation for us.

“Well, what would you like to know?” Apparently I couldn’t think clearly enough to come up with something to say on my own.

“Well… I know you work at the restaurant. You moved back here not too long ago. What happened there, if you don’t mind me asking?”

I hesitated. It was a bit of a personal question to be asking right away on a first date. But I wasn’t going to lie or pass on the question. My story should be heard.

“I left to move back here because I broke up with my boyfriend at the time. Not sure if I told you that or not. Anyways, it was a bit rough. He was quite… controlling. Jealous. Manipulative. Yeah, those are good words. He turned something that happened into something it wasn’t, and it caused lots of fighting between us. Things eventually had to come to an end, so I decided enough was enough.”

I tried to go for a more vague answer, since I wasn’t interested in scaring Oliver away; I just wanted to give him the gist of the story. Oliver was nodding slowly, as if he could understand. Did he, though?

“Right, right. Charlotte, I’m so sorry. That’s really awful. Do you stay in touch with him?”

“No,” I answered quickly, “not at all. He cut all contact with me, and to be honest I think I’d rather it stay that way. I don’t need to associate with people like that.”

The waitress came by and plopped the beer down on the wooden pub table. It had taken a while, no doubt- they were incredibly busy, and just next to us there was a big party table of maybe fifteen college students. They were all sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing loudly and drinking endless amounts of beer. They split some nachos- which looked really tasty- and a big plate of calamari. How could they possibly have a meaningful conversation with so many people begging for their input to be heard? That’s why I didn’t like big social groups- it was difficult to go deeper than chatting about movies and sports without getting lost and overwhelmed.

The party table made me pretty anxious. Surely they’d had several pitchers of beer, and they were getting quite rowdy. They were laughing about something on the TV- but I didn’t understand what was so funny. For them, it was probably the buzz talking. Blah. I took a long drink of my beer; hopefully it would soon take the edge off. I didn’t drink alcohol as much these days- after the “three month crisis” (as Elliott and I like to call the break in the relationship for Ross and I where all I did was drink and act impulsively), I was a lot more cautious about my drinking habits. So with that knowledge, I didn’t need to drink too much to get a bit of a buzz.

“Okay. So you had a bad breakup with an asshole of a guy, and you’re not in touch with him anymore.” Oliver was thoughtful. “Okay, that gives me a lot of background and helps me know where you’re at. Thanks for sharing.”

“What about you?” I asked. “What was your last relationship like?”

“Ah,” he said, taking the final gulp of his beer, “good question. I was with my ex for two years. It was really, really good for the most part. We knew each other in high school, but weren’t part of the same social circle so we never talked. But we reconnected, randomly, on Facebook years later. Social media is pretty amazing that way. Anyways, yeah, we had a good run, but ultimately we had to go our separate ways because she decided to go backpacking in Europe for a year, which was great for her, but not my plan. We just wanted different things.”

“Wow,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a break up as… mutual as that. As cleanly cut.”

Oliver shrugged. “Sometimes there’s no choice but for it to be messy. It sounds like you didn’t have much of a say, Charlotte. So don’t think about it too much. Can’t be pals with all of your exes.”

“You could,” I said. “But would you want to, is the question.”

“Aha,” Oliver said.

We just sat for a moment, and surprisingly it wasn’t awkward. We both quietly watched the group of college students as they all started singing some random show tune through bursts of laughter. Wow, I sometimes wish I could be that free spirited. Maybe if I had more friends. Maybe if I wasn’t so anxious all the time…

“So do you wanna get out of here?” Oliver asked me with a sly grin. “We can take a walk or something, go get ice cream.”

“That sounds great.”

***

Oliver and I hung out for maybe four hours, which was considered wild for most first dates. But I wouldn’t consider myself normal- the longer the better, if it meant getting to know the other person more.

We walked along the water, and found a bench to sit at with a nice view. We had ice cream- Moose Tracks for me, plain old vanilla for him. I don’t understand how people can choose such a basic flavor when there are so many exotic flavors to try.

“So tell me what it is you like to do for fun,” Oliver said, paying special attention to his ice cream. He was flattening it out with his plastic spoon- somehow it tasted better if you manually made it soft serve. Maybe it just went down easier.

“Um…” It was a question I had to think about. Everyone seemed to have their “thing”- for instance, Elliott was a car guy; my sister was a painter, Ross had always been the video game guy. What did I do?

“I’ll go first then. I would definitely call myself an outdoorsy kind of guy. I love to hike. Last summer I went up north, no plan in mind, with a sleeping bag and a few cans of beans. I found a really cool spot in the middle of nowhere and I just camped out. On my own. It was quite peaceful- I had a fire and just sat in the quiet with a book. What a great time that was.”

Wow. I honestly couldn’t compete with that- but then again, who said it was a competition? I tried to think about what I’d been up to for the past several months, and I realized I never tried to work on myself. I worked for money- slaving away at the restaurant- and I worked to please other people, but I failed myself big time.

“Um… well, I like to hang out with friends,” I said. “Uh… is work a hobby?” I joked, laughing nervously. He was going to lose interest so fast…

Oliver chuckled. “Oh, I could probably say the same. I work a ton, too. So let’s say it’s a Wednesday night, and you have the entire night off to yourself. What do you choose to do?”

Why was Oliver asking me all of these questions? I felt like I was being interrogated, and though I didn’t do anything wrong, I felt guilty. My palms were sweaty; I shifted in my seat.

“Well… I used to write,” I mumbled. “I don’t do much of that anymore. Maybe I would have a nice bath, listen to some music… but then again, I’m not really a bath person…”

“Used to write, eh?” Oliver raised his eyebrows. “What happened with that?”

“It wasn’t anything fancy. I mean, I’m no bestselling author,” I laughed. “I used to write short stories for fun. I never showed anyone, though. I wrote tons of stuff in those 100-page journals you can get at the dollar store… I have them kept away in a giant tote somewhere.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Oliver said.

I shrugged. “Well… Ross happened. That’s my ex. And then… I think I got so involved in the idea of being a ‘we’, I forgot the whole concept of being a ‘me’.”

Oliver was nodding heavily, like he could really speak to that. “Yeah, yeah. I hear you. But Charlotte, now’s the time to rediscover that concept. You’re still young, you have lots of time to figure out what you want to do and who you are. The love you are looking for will be here when you get back, and you want to know something? If you take the time to do some soul searching, that love will be stronger than ever, and it will be so worth it.”

“You sound so wise,” I said. “It’s as if you’re speaking from experience.”

“I am thirty years old,” he said. “It’s not older by much- you’re what, twenty-three?- but old enough to have a little more knowledge on that topic. You’ll get there. And then you can pass that along to others.”

“You’re thirty,” I repeated. “Aren’t you looking to maybe settle down soon?”

Oliver shrugged. “I gave up on rushing myself, it was just stressing me out too much. Look, if I can wait this long, you can wait a little longer to better yourself and just focus on enjoying life.”

“But what if I’m always going to be alone?”

“That’s a foolish notion,” he said. “Work on yourself first.”

#mental health #mental illness #anxiety #depression #anxiety disorder #mental health advocate #writing blog #creative writing #novel #the charlotte chapters #writer #end the stigma #lets talk #arts #expressive

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eternlmisery · 7 years

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Different

Read also on ao3

“Did you ever think that we would get to live something like this?” Sara suddenly asked; taking Leonard in surprise. Lost in his own thoughts he turned to face the woman and a small smile appeared on his face.

“No… I didn’t.” He answered sincerely; fingers lacing with hers as Sara decided that her husband’s chest was a much better place to rest than the couch. “Not in a million years.”

She looked up at him; eyes filled with so much love that it made his chest tighten and that ethereal glow she had these past months, and she pressed a chaste kiss on his lips that felt just like it did the first time they had kissed. They were still soft and back then; it was the only soft thing Sara found on Captain Cold. But she soon came to realize that under that façade there was truly a remarkable man; and a man she felt hopelessly in love with.

“I love you, Len.” She told him and her hand touched the man’s cheek; not even noticing the few new lines that had appeared on his face. She never did anyway; age didn’t matter, just as gender didn’t either, and when it came to her husband… she always found him the most handsome person against any competition.

“And I love you, pretty bird.” Leonard’s hand tangled with Sara’s blonde locks; shorter now but still soft and silky and leaned down for another kiss which grew a little more heated. But just as Leonard’s hand traveled inside Sara’s top, almost-

“Daddy, Mommy what are you doing? We’re gonna be late!” The little blonde complained as she walked inside the room and towards the couple who was trying to look presentable.

“Sorry baby, daddy and I were just very very excited.” Sara tried to explain as she pulled her daughter between her and Leonard. The little girl was giving both of them the side eye; courtesy of Leonard and her bright blue eyes; also courtesy of Leonard, slanted from her mother to her father. “Are you ready to go?”

“I made my bag, I got the sandwich daddy made me-.” She explained and then Sara smacked Leonard’s arm much to the little girl’s shock. “Mommy, why are you hitting daddy?”

“Because daddy didn’t give you the sandwich I made you and thought it would be a better idea to make another one without telling me.” She complained with a fake pout; even though her annoyance at her husband was very much real.

“Hey, hey I wouldn’t want my snowflake to get food poisoning on her first day at school.” Leonard tried to justify himself; which apparently made Sara a lot more upset. “I’m sorry, babe but your toast reminded me a little too much of a burnt shoe to let Dinah eat it.”

The little blonde was watching her parents intently; waiting for them to stop bickering so she could finally go to school. Her mother had fixed her hair in two French braids and Dinah herself chose to wear leggings and a shirt instead of a dress; much to Sara’s joy.

And now these two weren’t planning on stopping their arguing any time soon. She knew that they didn’t mean it; mommy was trying not to smile and daddy was talking with that fake-upset voice, which reminded her of how he talks to Uncle Ray and Uncle Nate.

“Mommy, Daddy if you don’t stop I will call Uncle Laurel and Uncle Mick, and tell them to get me to school.” She suddenly announced; jumping off of the couch and getting her small backpack.

Sara looked at Leonard who smiled and pulled her in for a kiss. The nervousness over Dinah’s first day at school was really affecting them even if they didn’t notice at first. They could even bicker about the doormat or what kind of breakfast Dinah would have just to avoid thinking that their little girl was growing up.

“You will be a very evil little girl if you drag your uncle and aunt back from their honeymoon just to drive you to school, you know that miss?” Sara said and lifted Dinah up in her arms as she went to grab her phone and keys.

“Sorry mommy, I didn’t really mean it.” She said and Sara smirked at her daughter mischievously.

“I know you did baby.” Sara pressed a kiss in Dinah’s nose and the little girl squealed and tried to pull away.

“I’ll take her; you don’t need to carry a lot of weight.” Leonard said and took Dinah off of her mother’s firm hold. The little girl welcomed the change as Leonard’s strong arms held her with ease and she rested her head on his shoulder.

“I’m four months pregnant Len, not incapacitated.” Sara said and gestured to the swell of her stomach that was accentuated by the fitting form of her top. “Plus your daughter here has the weight of a feather.” She tickled Dinah’s sides and the girl wrinkled her nose.

“Let’s go!” Dinah cried out and Leonard laughed.

“Okay, okay.” He agreed and steadied his grip in the little girl. “It seems like the bossiness is the genes.”

“Don’t think that I didn’t hear this.” Sara called out from the driveway and Leonard just winked at Dinah.

They watched as the petite blonde walked inside the big building; the other kids looking like giants next to her. Dinah had gotten her mother’s frame, much to Sara’s disappointment. Perhaps her height and frame made Sara and Leonard think a lot more that she was still a baby. And now… seeing their baby with her school backpack; talking with little Lyla Queen who was hanging by her every word… it was a reality check.

“I feel like it was yesterday that I was holding her in my arms for the first time.” Sara whispered and Leonard; who had pulled his wife close the moment Dinah ran off, pressed a kiss on the crown of Sara’s head.

“Time goes by fast.” He agreed and smiled when he saw that Sara was rubbing her bump. “Now for round two.”

“Yeah, but this one is going to grow up too.” She said with a pout and Leonard actually chuckled.

“Am I sensing a pattern here?” He lifted his eyebrow dramatically and looked at the blonde. “Are you planning on having a new kid every time one goes to school?” Sara thought for a moment before answering.

“Mhmm… Tempting… Our kids will look really cute, but… I really don’t want to buy a mini-van.” She said and both she and Leonard erupted in laughter.

“What’s so funny anyway?” A male voice questioned and Sara smirked immediately.

“Hey Ollie.” She said and pulled the broad-shouldered man in for a quick hug. “And hi Felicity and Robbie.” The toddler that was practically glued to Felicity smiled at Sara and she lifted him up.

“Sara-.” Leonard tried to protest, but as his wife glared at him he realized that he was gonna lost the argument.

“What is happening; are we interrupting something? Are we, I mean we can go!” Felicity started to say; mixing up her words and stopping as soon as Oliver placed his hand protectively on her shoulder.

“Leonard here thinks that because I’m pregnant I can’t lift a toddler.” She said; lifting her eyebrow pointedly at her husband. “He forgot that I am a League trained-.”

“Honey, the kid…” Leonard reminded and Sara stopped; not wanting the small boy to go on and on about a League trained assassin.

“Right; sorry.” She apologized and checked to see if Robbie had actually heard anything. The toddler seemed too distracted by the swaying she had been doing unconsciously and he was actually watching his sister and Dinah talking.

“Funny right; how life used to be something else entirely and we didn’t think we could ever be happy… and how our lives are now.” Oliver observed and Sara smiled softly.

“Yeah; I guess this is true. I’m glad our lives changed; the blood was too much after all that time and now this kind of living… is…” She glanced at Leonard and Dinah and finally her small bump. “different.”

“But different is good.” The man said and got his now-sleeping son from Sara’s arms and let him rest in his.

Sara took Leonard’s hand in his and her fingers grazed the simply wedding band.

She heard her daughter’s laughter in the distance.

“Yeah. Different is good.”

#sara lance #leonard snart #white canary #captain cold #dc's legends of tomorrow #captain canary #olicity #felicity smoak #oliver queen #laurel lance #mick rory #green arrow #overwatch #black canary #heatwave #canaryfire #the crook to my assasin fic #cc fic

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fashiontrendin-blog · 6 years

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We asked three daughters to pen open letters to their mothers - and they'll give you all the feels

http://fashion-trendin.com/we-asked-three-daughters-to-pen-open-letters-to-their-mothers-and-theyll-give-you-all-the-feels/

We asked three daughters to pen open letters to their mothers - and they'll give you all the feels

As we celebrate the leading ladies in our life on Mother’s Day, we asked three women to pen open letters to their mums. Whether they’re thanking them for supporting them through an illness or raising them to be strong, independent women, they’re sure to pull on your heartstrings.

Laura Hunter pens a heartfelt letter to her mum, who has been there every step of the way since her shock cancer diagnosis

Dear Mumkin,

The moment I heard the words ‘You have breast cancer’ was the moment I started to depend on you more than ever before. We collapsed into each other’s arms and you cried ‘I wish it was me’. But I was thankful it wasn’t.

I sometimes feel selfish about how much you have had to involuntarily endure, because of the very fact that you are my mum, but I know that you would tell me off for thinking like that. Your attitude to coping and supporting me is admirable and words won’t ever justify just how grateful I am.

People tell me that I am an ‘inspiration’ and I often get irritated hearing that, because I don’t have a choice but to face my cancer diagnosis. But you do – and you choose to face it and you choose to help me through it, so really you are the inspiration. You are my inspiration. The memories of my cancer treatment aren’t pleasant, but your presence within them is always comforting. My cancer diagnosis has not only changed my life, but your life, too, and you have held my hand every step of the way.

When I felt as though I could no longer go on with the debilitating pain during treatment, you held me in your arms until I fell asleep. You sacrificed comfortable nights’ sleep, instead snoozing on the sofa and listening out for me if I fell unwell in the night.

When I was crippled with nausea and could barely dress myself, you helped clothe me.

When I was losing my hair and needed help cutting out the matted pieces, you held the scissors.

When I was at my limit of exhaustion and struggled to speak, you were my voice.

When I was admitted to hospital on numerous occasions with neutropenic sepsis, with a 160 minute round trip to visit me, your presence was a constant.

Confronted with the fear of losing your daughter, you faced the unthinkable with a strength that continues to inspire me. You have been there for me every day.

You have given up so much of your time to look after me and you still continue to attend every single medical appointment and scan with me, all while juggling your job as a Paediatric Nurse and helping to care for your disabled mother.

A mother’s role is challenging enough, let alone with the added weight of their child receiving a cancer diagnosis, and all that comes with it. You have been my support and strength for the past 27 years of my life and I hold so much gratitude and love for you, not only as my mother, but as my best friend. And for that reason, amongst so many others, is why you are one incredible superhuman in my eyes, and why I am more than proud to have you as my mother.

All my love and heartfelt thanks,

Laura.

(With thanks to Macmillan cancer care).

Jessica Rach’s letter to her single-parent mother

People say there’s nothing stronger than a bond between a mother and her child.

I disagree. I believe a bond between a single mother and her daughter is among the strongest.

From the moment you sent my father packing back to his tropical island when you were pregnant with me, a special connection began.

Never one to conform, you were a free-spirited hippy feminist, but also a strong, independent career woman. You had emigrated from Germany, so there were no family to help out with child-care, making us closer than ever.

While other parents were doing things the traditional way, you took me on my first backpacking adventure as a baby, travelling with me to Bali to meet my father.

From then on I was joined to your hip – an extension of your adventure-packed life, even taking three weeks out of school to go on a pilgrimage through the Himalayas.

Camping under the stars, experiencing different cultures and food, and being around such a mixed bag of people, taught me life lessons a few weeks in school couldn’t compare to.

Later in life this would be invaluable for me to be accepted by different cultural friendship groups, and eventually jump from HR to TV presenting to journalism. It gave me the ability to adapt, be a chameleon and read people in a way many my age couldn’t.

Your working hours at the BBC included nightshifts and Christmases, which instilled a strong worth ethic in me from a young age. Seeing you so respected by your male peers inspired me to become a tomboy, before growing into a passionate feminist.

You never married, focusing on me and your career, and this was echoed in my attitude growing up, telling peers that ‘marriage was nothing but a piece of paper’, much to their parents’ horror.

You taught me to question everything – not standing up for yourself made you a wimp and the ‘put up and shut up’ attitude was for wallflowers. This got me in trouble at school, but also won me respect from teachers and later at a work compensation case.

You always taught me not to be objectified or judged by looks, but by brains – the same way men are. However, when I got into hair, make-up and racy outfits, our first differences emerged.

But despite our difference in opinion, you always gave me confidence in my appearance. When I wished I was blonde and blue-eyed, you would make me feel special about my unusual mixed heritage appearance. You taught me to embrace my uniqueness, instead of being ashamed of looking different to my peers.

One of your first presents to me was a penknife, then later a toolbox. I knew how to check the fusebox as a pre-teen, but also how to cook and do my own laundry from a young age, getting home from school while you were still at work.

At times it was lonely. Having only a mum while those around me had fathers and large families often make me abnormally scared something would happen to you.

There were awkward moments in class on Father’s Day, but not once did I feel I missed out. I felt lucky I had you all to myself. You were my mum and my dad.

Being just the two of us made our relationship intense when I hit my rebellious teens, and I apologise for the years I pushed you away.

However, your strength and success inspired me to start saving for my own property aged 16, working alongside studying and becoming the first among my peers to buy a flat in London, aged 26.

And you still manage to surprise me. Since hitting my thirties, you’re keen for me to focus on my personal life, and not follow in your footsteps as a single mum.

I wouldn’t change my upbringing for the world, but my attitude has also changed, and while I still harbour many of my 10-year-old beliefs, I’m keen to do things the more traditional way.

From writing you letters on leaves in the playground, to spending my last £1 on you during school trips, to you helping me kick ass when I got made redundant aged 27, and being there when I called you at 2am aged 30 when a long-term relationship broke down, you are – and always will be – my everything, and I would be nowhere near the woman I am today without you.

Laura Osborne, 35, from Lavendon, pens a letter to her business partner and mother, Philippa Symes, 63

Dear mummy,

You have always instilled in me how important it is to have a goal in life, something to focus on and strive for. This was most poignant when we lost your sister, Mel, and then her son was struck by a brain haemorrhage.

I pushed past the tears, and focused on staying strong, like you’d taught me. It was a mournful wake up call. What are we doing with our lives? How can something so precious be gone in a blink? Are we making the most of every moment?

This was the final push we needed. Time was too short and precious.

I loved how we started planning day trips out together, doing things and just living our lives. Why the hell not? We went on a gin tasting course, and that was the start of another incredible journey together. We hatched the idea of creating our own gin, inspired by everything we had been through over all these many years, inspiring others, creating a brand that would reach out and connect with people, creating something powerful.

Everyone else raised eyebrows and thought, ‘Pigs will fly’. We weren’t taken seriously. So we banged our drum louder, we stepped up. We drew strength from the negativity and strived to prove to ourselves – and others – that absolutely anything is possible. Every now and then I would have a reality check, being more practical and down to earth, but every time I met with you or spoke to you, you would pick me up again on that cloud of dreams, driving us forward.

However, it wasn’t a doddle creating our own gin like we thought. It was hard and it was stressful, but it was also so much fun and with our bond being as strong as it is and your never-ending drive to see things through, we did it. For my children, this is a message that you can’t learn from books. They are seeing two strong women running their own business. Two women standing strong, banging that drum and being seen and heard.

When my nine-year-old daughter turned around to me the other day and said, “Mummy I am so excited. Did you know that if you think negatively about something, you will feel sad, and you won’t get a good result. But if you are really positive, and think really good things, then you will do really well and be able to do what you want.” And that, to me, means everything. I believe this comes from the incredible bond I have with you, from her seeing us work as we do together on something so out there and seemingly impossible, but making it possible. This is worth more than anything.

I don’t think I will ever be as courageous as you, as brilliant as you are, as charismatic. I know I have my own qualities that I am proud of, but, my word, I am so unbelievably proud to be your daughter. I am so incredibly grateful to have you in my life, for all you have done, for all you have shown and taught me. You really are one in a million, and I would be lost without you and our incredible adventures together.

“My mother’s accident forced me to be brave”

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3one3 · 7 years

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The Sequel - 812

The Grand Tour

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB 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

“Waaaaiiiit. Can I have a kiss?”

“Did you watch the match at all or did you just drink for two hours?”

“I had a couple of cocktails at Daphne’s with Nat, two glasses of wine with dinner when we got here, and one at halftime. I saw every second of the match, including all 47 times Eden was rudely hacked down, and your boy getting sent off, which, by the way, I predicted the second he got the first yellow card. And then I had another glass of vino while I was waiting for you to finish visiting with him and freezing your limbs or getting massaged or whatever it is you do after playing. Kiss.”

“I don’t want anyone to see.”

“Who is going to see us behind the car door?”

One tipsy equestrian held onto the side pockets of one FA Cup semi-finalist’s Chelsea track jacket and tried to prevent him from moving away from the little space behind the open door of his Audi and next to the backseat. She wanted a proper hello kiss and he wanted to make sure no one else in the underground Stamford Bridge parking garage would see him doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. Christina thought the door she was leaning on was cover enough. Juan didn’t. He tilted his head sympathetically while letting her try to tug him closer by his jacket. Sober Christina wouldn’t lean the wrong way on a car door. It’s bad for the hardware. Slightly inebriated and very happy Christina thought nothing of it. She was so happy to be back in London, to have a long and estrogen-ridden happy hour with her best girlfriend, to be at Stamford Bridge, to see Chelsea knock 10-man Manchester United and the mildly hostile Jose Mourinho out of the FA Cup, and to be back in kissing distance of the Blue about whom she got anticipatory tummy flutters from the beginning of warm-ups.

That last sensation was a bit weird, even when she considered the amount of alcohol potentially involved. She felt the kind of quick rush of excitement she got the first time she ever went to Chelsea’s ground, or when she saw her favorite club play in the US and caught her first glimpses of her favorite players trotting out to stretch. It was like the one she got before trying a new horse when she was younger, or the first few times she qualified for a big final. That flutter of anticipation signaled that her body knew how excited she was for whatever was happening, how much it meant to her, and how badly she wanted to experience it. It was the acknowledgement of the things that most delighted her, and it was actually sort of rare. The rider decided it was Juan giving her flutters. It hadn’t been long at all since she was last at a game in West London. Watching Eden run around didn’t do it for her. Watching the man who would play on the other wing did. The match was a big occasion and the atmosphere was huge, but it wasn’t as if there was a league title on the line, or a place in another round of the Champions League. No one really expected Mourinho’s team to win. Christina experienced a strong kind of relief in being back to “normal” and away from the new and stressful life she was trying to carve for herself and her family in Germany, but that wasn’t the kind of thing that had ever turned into excited tummy flutters before. And then she watched the Spaniard play and there was no question. Everything she felt was for him. She lived every touch with him and kept an eye on him the way she did during every game André played in that happened when she wasn’t riding for the previous 8 or so years. The only real influence of the “Espressomisú” Havana Club Especial and ristretto coffee cocktails and the boring Malbec in hospitality was on Christina’s guilt reflex. They retarded it to the point of inactivity.

“Not here, cariña,” Juan said both apologetically and with amusement. His acknowledgement that some elements of their relationship were not okay to display in public was an unwelcomed catalyst to get that guilt reflex working again. Even though she was within her rights to kiss him in terms of the people that mattered most, that wasn’t okay to everyone else, and could cause terrible headaches for her, André, and Juan. Having to hide one of her most meaningful and valuable relationships was frustrating and even demoralizing, and Christina’s sympathy for people in other types of unconventional, taboo, or unaccepted relationships grew. It was difficult for her to imagine being able to get on for long in a same-sex couple with disapproving parents, for example. Pretending her connection to Juan was something different than what she actually felt for him was hard enough.

“Hug, at least?” Christina made all of her features sad and compelling, and when the Spanish player fell into her trap and stepped closer to put his arms around her, she used the height afforded by her high heeled booties to try to kiss his neck, under his left ear.

“Wait until home,” he sighed, stepping away. Other than his wariness about her desire for PDA, Juan was in a great mood. He played well, his team won, some of his best friends were available for visits in the visitors’ dressing room, and his girl was back to see him. His face was all smiles and his demeanor was all laughter from the moment he emerged with his things to go home. His girl didn’t like the sound of irritation muddling the good vibes, so she gave up and sulked around to the other side of the car to get in the front seat.

They spent the short drive over the Thames talking about Ander Herrera’s lingering incredulity over being sent off for repeatedly kicking Eden, and about the visible evidence on Eden of his former manager’s strategy for shutting him down: telling his players to stop him from playing, by any means necessary. The red card put an end to that for the most part, but the dazzling Chelsea talisman had already suffered 30-some minutes of violence before that. They also discussed the next round. Chelsea would play Tottenham, the only team to defeat them since they began their assault on the league title. The player was confident his side could do better. He pointed out that they would be more “up for it” because the tie had more significance, and that they were a bit tired when they played at White Hart Lane, and that they went in knowing they could afford to drop points. The rider wasn’t so assured. She was wary.

They each had a backpack to carry upstairs with them after parking the car, and Juan had a wash bag with him too. He still had a hand free to hold Christina’s on the elevator. The nonchalance with which he stepped over closer and gently slipped his fingers between hers, mid-conversation about how warm and toasty her wool varsity jacked was, made the new Dortmund resident smile inside. She thought it was sweet. It was a little thing, and little things were big with her.

“Did you have enough to eat or would you like something from the snack bar?” he asked after letting her into the dark apartment Christina thought about every single day in Germany, one way or another.

“What snacks are available?” I’m hungry for more sweetness, she thought while folding her jacket over a chair. I’m hungry for the way he smells after showering, and the quicksand sensation of sinking in his featherbed.

“Fresh fruit, dried fruit, pita chips, popcorn, nuts...sourdough pretzels, Sauvignon Blanc.”

“Yes, those two.”

“Help yourself. I’m going to change.”

“K but instead of changing from one pair of sweatpants into another, why not just skip to no sweatpants? Can we hang out in bed? I’ve had pants and a bra on for 17 hours already today.” And except for when I was on the plane, shoes. That’s the worst part. I hate shoes, the rider grumbled, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Bending down to unzip her little boots was going to be a lot of work, and she wanted to give her friend the maximum opportunity to see how good her butt looked in faded Balmain denim with the help of the lift.

“You want to eat sourdough pretzels in my bed? You’re like a crumb machine.”

“I’ll forego the pretzels to qualify for bed admittance.”

“Then you’ll complain in 10 minutes that you’re starving.” The Spaniard decked out in Blue and Carabao rolled his eyes and said she could still have the big pretzels with the big salt. They were her favorite but she tried not to eat them often because of the calorie count and because she figured it wasn’t good to chew anything that hard that often. Sometimes she sat on the couch and ate hard pretzels from the box with Aidan for an entire TV program, and her jaw began to hurt towards the end. It could even get hard to speak because of dry-mouth. Christina had already forgotten about the kiss she wanted. Juan hadn’t. “Oh, one more thing,” he added after stepping away from the counter on which he put her snack so she could open the box and put a few in a dish and thus prevent herself from eating too many. He turned around and leaned a long way forward to kiss his ex-girlfriend on her baby-pink pout. “Welcome home,” he told her after leaving his lips pressed against her for a 5-count.

I don’t want pretzels, the brunette decided as she watched him walk away. I want to go snuggle, and kiss him. I’ve missed my teddy bear. I’ve missed...knowing that I’m going to get the feeling of complete relaxation and chill and restoration from being near the other person in the house. I don’t get that advance reassurance with Schü anymore. It’s like... Christina searched for a more coherent way to explain her thoughts to herself, perhaps to help justify having them. When you work all day and you’re really tired or stressed out, you get a certain sense of comfort and certainty and reassurance knowing that soon you’ll be able to park on the couch and do nothing, maybe even you know you get to sleep in the next day. The best is knowing there’s a person who is going to park next to you and make your down time even more chill, and more repairing, and just...better. You know everything is going to be better later because you know you’re going to lay with him. It’s almost like how you know you’re getting the best, most fun experience in life when you get the excited tummy flutter during pre-match warm-ups. I don’t get that sort of satisfaction in knowing how good the thing that’s coming is anymore with Schü. Some days I’m like, “I can’t wait for him to get home because I’m bored and lonely and the horses are already sick of my face today”. I’m never like, “I can’t wait for him to get home so I can lay on him and be in my happy relaxation place”. It just isn’t like that anymore. All I thought about from when I got up this morning ‘til Nat picked me up this afternoon is that I can’t wait to be in my happy relaxation place with Juanin, like I’ve been away on a work trip all this time and I’m so relieved to be home finally.

She filled two glasses with water and took her bag to Juan’s room to get out of all the clothing she found so oppressive. There was a footballer in there walking around in his underpants. It was evident that he’d done another round of extensive leg hair removal. Christina noticed that earlier. He always did his warm-ups with his match socks pushed down around his ankles, which she didn’t really understand. Doing that, she presumed, made them more likely to want to keep falling down during the game, and he was always having to pull them up. Regardless, even from the family suite in the corner of Stamford Bridge, she could see how grotesquely white his legs were without any hair on them. In the softer light of his bedroom, they were less white but still kind of funny to look at. His “adorable little legs” appeared even smaller than usual. Size and skin tone mattered little to the rider who was thinking about how convenient it was for her when there was no hair in certain places that held particular relevance to her interests. Something André was always right to point out was her inherent need for sex. She really did grow unpleasant when she went without it for long spells, and she really did maintain a certain carefree happiness when she had it very regularly, not to mention the effect of sex hormones on the brightness of her skin. And she was basically on rations. Everything made her think of sex.

“Did I tell you I won the angel?” Juan asked when he noticed his personal angel pinch-massaging the back of her right ankle once freed of her shoes.

“No. Congratulations,” she chuckled back. “How much did she end up costing?”

“Too much.” He rolled his eyes and bent down to move her boots under the bench at the foot of his bed on his way toward the windows. She rifled through her bag on the bench while he pulled the curtains closed, signaling that he too was ready to get settled in for the night. Playing two-thirds of the game against 10 men was actually more exhausting than battling the full accompaniment probably would have been. The Manchester side worked extra hard to make up for their personnel shortage. SOP after a match like that, with the nighttime kickoff, was home, bed, TV, and sleep.

“Where is she?”

“I had her shipped to the house. I think she fits in better there. You can help me choose a place for her next time you come down.”

“That’s a good idea. Nothing about this place says 100-year-old marble angel,” Christina sniggered. “But seriously, how much? You should just tell me because I can probably look it up. Ever since you sent me the link to the catalogue for the auction I periodically go look at the Sotheby’s site to see if anything good is coming up. There is a “modern and contemporary” sale in Milan in May that I want to go to. Rafa said he’ll put it on his calendar if we’re both free.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“How much was sheeeeeee?”

“My new angel was £85,000. All things considered, she is probably more affordable than my original angel. So I have made the sensible choice, really.”

“I didn’t know it was a one angel or the other situation,” the rider sassed as she unbuttoned her jeans. “I didn’t know it was a choice.” She pushed her pants down carefully and made delicate work of getting out of them, which wasn’t so easy. The skinny parts at the bottom never wanted to fit over her feet.

“I found out that there is a copy of my new angel,” the Spaniard told her, ignoring her insinuation that he made some sort of choice against her, and ignoring that she was trying to be sexy or alluring. His primary focus after the curtains was getting comfortable on his cranberry-clad bed. Nothing is more appealing than a shockingly handsome man who has just done his hair after his post-game shower specifically because he was going to see me, in a sparkling white t-shirt, against monotone sheets in my favorite color, Christina thought. Plus black undies. Boys should only be allowed to wear black undies, frankly. Otherwise you can see outline of soft penis, and nobody wants to see that. “What?” Juan asked when her absorption of that appeal turned into staring. Christina was standing at the end of the bed, also in black underwear and a white top, and looking into his face like she wanted to say something.

“A copy?” She snapped out of her “Juanin is so handsome” trance and folded her jeans. “Besides the creepy one Damien Hirst did with a third of her skin missing and her bones and organs sticking out? Yeuch.”

“Several copies. Boucher made different versions of her. Some are in bronze, and she sits on different things besides the rock. Mine is one of two marble versions, and the only one with wings. She’s not an angel in the other.”

“Are they worth more or less than your angel?”

“Less. Mine is the original.” Juan’s delighted and mildly smug smile made Christina smile too. It wasn’t hard to make him happy, or get him to smile at something, or to laugh. To inject his happiness, his smile, and his laughter directly into his eyeballs required a bit more significance, and produced one of the rider’s favorite things in the whole world. If he was handsome with nice hair and the right color palette, he was simply gorgeous with all that in his eyes. Her chest hurt with want- and not for sex, or kisses, or anything like that. I want him to be mine, she complained to herself. I want this exceptional human to be my human the way Dirk has wanted me to be his human from the minute we met. It’s not fair. Why is this happening? Why is his face so...his face?

“What’s wrong?” he laughed. “I’m talking about the sculpture! I’m not trying to make metaphors or something to-“

“No, I know,” she sighed, dropping her folded pants on the bench with her bag. She climbed over it and crawled over the wine-colored comforter. She set herself down next to the midfielder, folded her legs up, and commandeered his left arm to hug. “I’m very unhappy without you.” Another sigh accompanied the gentle thunk with which her temple landed on his shoulder. “You smile a certain way and it’s like, “Why isn’t he my person? He’s the one I want to be my person.” But I have another person.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to smile less.”

“Shut up.”

“You have to give it a chance to see if you really feel that way or if the transition to your new situation is just very difficult and confusing,” Juan advised, turning serious. Christina was making a serious statement of evolving intent, and it warranted a serious response. “I would definitely like to be your person, cariña, but I want you to be sure it’s what you want.”

“I know. And I’m trying to get used to it. I thought not having the move on the horizon, and being settled, would help the riding. Now instead of having that to stress about, I’m carrying around a new thing to be preoccupied with...missing you and missing here. Being here alone, and having to go back and forth all the time, and knowing everything was going to change- that stuff was supposed to be the bad thing that I couldn’t wait to get past. Now I miss it!” she groaned, lifting her head from Juan’s shoulder so that she could speak to his beautiful blues. They always offered her the understanding she sought. “Now it’s like well damn, if I had known that was going to be the good thing and that moving would be worse...”

“You said the horses are doing well though,” he argued. He also reached out to pet her arm. Her ribbed knit cotton military sweater seemed to intrigue him. He wanted to inspect the texture of the material.

“They are. They’re fine. I’m not. I keep watching our Einaudi video and wondering why I don’t feel like that, ever. I had to check out so far from reality those days to get those shots. I was miserable, remember? I had to leave real life and go somewhere else to get what I wanted in the video, and I’ve concluded that the only reason I was able to do that was like...self defense. I was so upset that day that I had to shut out real life to protect myself. Now I want to leave my real life in Germany and be in a different one. That’s what I’m going to try, to fix what I’m doing with the horses. I have to.”

“You can’t have a separate life here. One there and one here is no way to be happy.”

“That’s not what I mean. The horses leave for Omaha in a week and a half, and instead of coming back after the World Cup I’m going to stay in North America with them for two extra weeks. We’re going to Mexico City and Miami for Tour events. I have a three-week break when I get back, and then 10 shows in 11 weeks. They announce the Olympic team after that.”

“You’re going to be off...4 weeks in...4 months?” the footballer questioned with surprise. “How does André feel about that?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t told him. Why should he care? He’s gonna be all over the continent for Euros.” His ex-girlfriend’s tone was borderline spiteful. “If you don’t get in the squad, you should come on the road with me and Lukas.”

This competition plan of hers came together on Sunday evening, after a whole day with her husband and her son- a whole day of highlighting how divergent their interests had become. She and André had absolutely nothing to talk about. Neither wanted to discuss their sports. Neither wanted to discuss Lukas because doing so just showed that he was mostly with just one of them at a time. It made them both sad to have to tell each other about things they learned about him or did with him because it proved they never did anything as a family. It was like comparing notes on two independent research projects or science experiments. André didn’t want to hear about Juan, and the Spaniard’s life happenings were all Christina had to offer in terms of friend drama and gossip to debate or muse about. She didn’t want to hear about Marco being injured again and Mario’s health problems either, because it was a reminder than even in their absence, André still wasn’t playing regularly. That was like a kick in the teeth. She felt like they overhauled their entire lives for no good reason, and that even if André couldn’t find a regular spot in Conte’s team either, at least he’d be sitting on the bench knowing he was getting a Premier League medal at the end of the season, which can be a pretty nice consolation prize.

There was a lot of awkward and uncomfortable silence at brunch and on their walk and at the playground, and the reason for the silence was only half as disappointing as their inability to at least fill it with silly nonsense. They didn’t have to have deep conversations all day long. Christina would have been fine with taking up the time joking around or talking about things that didn’t matter. There was simply no chemistry between them. There was no anything. And when André cozied up to her on the couch at the end of the day and acted like he was entitled to some fooling around for playing the part of Good Sunday Husband, his wife just wanted to pinch his nose and ask if he was stupid. It wasn’t like the night before, when they had a long, real talk and by default forged a connection to one another through honesty and shared grievances. Christina wanted to be with him that night. She felt closer to him, and he seemed so in need. But there was nothing to compel her on Sunday, and that upset him. He complained. He raised his voice when the excuse she gave for showing no interest in his advances was “I don’t feel like it”. He accused her of “saving it” for Juan. She accused him of being a jackass. He left to play video games in the other room for a while, and when he came back there was a halfhearted apology for shouting, and a vow that they could work on their issues when he got back from the Cup game, perhaps not that night but the next morning, and after that. Christina reminded him that he was only going to be home for a day and a half again because Dortmund played in the league on Friday. There was more shouting. André couldn’t believe the girl who only saw fit to visit him for a few days at a time every other week for half a year was giving him grief for work travel. While he resumed killing people with his game controller to relieve some tension, she imported multiple competition calendars into her personal one, and started a group chat with Tom and Isandro to see how they felt about taking turns working on the road.

Revenge and spite weren’t her only motivations. There was the idea that removing herself from reality was the only way to find peace with her animals. Leaving her reality and making a new one on the circuit seemed like a wonderful way to get back in touch with her passion and her ability, prepare for the Olympics, and get relief from the home life situation that was leaving her frustrated, lonely, and sad. It wasn’t the same as hiding out with Juan, so it sounded more reasonable. The only problem was that disappearing for 4 months was the opposite of giving her new life a chance.

“Honestly, baby girl, that sounds like a disaster you’re asking for.” Juan shook his head but Christina couldn’t see it because she was trying to get out of her very un-stretchy sweater. She replied to his point, and her words didn’t make it out of the garment. “Are you stuck or something? Do you need help?” It took a few more seconds to wrestle the thing off, and she took a deep breath after managing it and before crawling back to the bench to get the t-shirt from her bag, and no doubt giving her friend a really nice view of her backside.

“I just want to go ride. I want to go be with my friends and my colleagues and my horses, and focus on what matters to me.”

“Your partner doesn’t matter to you?”

“I’m tired of putting him first in front of the other things that do, or the other things I need. I do it every time, and the biggest thing he’s ever done to put my stuff first is go on vacation. That’s hardly a difficult sacrifice. I gave up the United States Equestrian Team to go on vacation with him. I gave up my right to feel destroyed by not making the Olympic team so that he wouldn’t have to worry about anything but football during a tournament. I gave up a relationship and a life plan with you so that he could get a do-over. I gave up my home and my happy life so that he can play 8 minutes per game in a third-place team. The home life I want right now is with you, but when I had that, my riding life was still not so great. I want the riding life. I will slit my wrists if I go to the Games and ride stupidly because I have too much shit in my head. So I need to get away from the source of the shit and just do my own thing.” Christina finished her explanation by tugging her bra out of the black tee and defiantly throwing it on the floor on her way back to the pillows.

“Where are you inviting me, exactly?” the Spanish footballer inquired with a smirk. “Anywhere nice? Sunny?”

“Cannes, Monaco, Paris, Cascais, Sweden, and Aachen,” she smiled back while rearranging the pillows. I want to put my legs across his lap so he might massage them, but I need some support for my back too, she reasoned, completely untroubled by his warning about the fate of her grander plan. I need a pillow pile to recline on. Yes.

“The same as you went to last year.”

“Cascais is new. That wasn’t on the Tour schedule last year. Cannes and Monaco are still a week apart, and I still own an enormous sailboat.” Christina wiggled her eyebrows and got settled in her desired spot. Juan appeared confused at first about why there was a pair of legs suddenly atop his, but he wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity to touch her. Unfortunately for her ouchy ankle, he began at her thighs.

“Where are you on the 11th of June?”

“I don’t know the dates off the top of my head, and I’m not getting up to get my phone. What’s on the 11th?”

“Einaudi in Locarno.”

“As much as I want to go to that, especially with you, I would rather make some Einaudi magic in the ring,” the defending World Cup champion chuckled. “Buuuuut if I happen to be free...”

“I respect that you want to do everything necessary to get back in a good way with what you love, but I think it’s going to make big, big problems with the person you love,” he warned. Honest counsel was something for which she relied upon him. He spoke the truth to her no matter what, and when she didn’t want to hear it, and he did it in a way that she could perceive as constructive and instructive instead of combative and provocative. It was so easy to talk with him. It was relaxing, and she still felt good as she sunk deeper into her selected pillows and deeper into the feeling of security and comfort imparted by his left palm idly rubbing her right thigh. “I can’t see you just deciding that you don’t care how upset he will be the whole time, and how much you’ll miss him.”

“I already miss him. I miss the old him when I’m with the new him,” Christina conceded. “I miss the him that I actually like spending time with. I was with him all day yesterday and it was like being on a bad first date, and then we got in a fight, and he slept in another room.”

“Cariña, forgive me for this if it’s wrong, but this sounds like you want to leave him and you want to make things worse so that you don’t have to feel guilty for it, or like you didn’t try. This sounds like you don’t want to give it a chance at all.”

“It’s not that I want to leave him,” she countered, her voice wispy and her eyes evasive. “The current state of things is no worse than what I dealt with for half of last year. It’s that I want to be with you. And I want to be with Dirk. Dirk has been my partner a lot longer than either of you. We’re a team. I want to go get gold medals with him, and then worry about everything else. Look at my situation. Look at the perspective,” she urged, hands up as if to hold a chart for the player to take in. “If I’m with Schü, I can’t be with you, so that’s no good. If I’m with you, I can’t be with Dirk, because tearing my marriage apart right now will necessarily be a monumental distraction full of guilt and shame and heartache and probably buyer’s remorse and it’ll be impossible to focus on riding so that’s out right now too. So to be with Dirk, and to be good with Dirk, I have to be with only Dirk. See?”

“Yes, I see, but you were with only Dirk for years without the kind of success you earned when you had other relationships. And you aren’t going to be able to be with only him. You’ll still be with André, technically, and he’s going to be upset, and it’s going to make you upset.” Juan yawned and scratched his cheek and rubbed his nose in a sequence of distracting ticks that had his friend’s eye going everywhere but near his, and that was welcome, because she knew he was right.

“I tell you I want to be with you and you ignore it to prove me wrong.”

“I’m not ignoring it. It’s just not new information. I know for a long time that you want to be with me. But as I’ve said a few times now, you have to give Germany and André a chance or you’ll always second-guess, and I don’t want that. I don’t want to be with you if you aren’t sure, and you can’t be sure unless you try first. This plan of yours is putting off trying, and sabotaging it.”

“Okay fine, but if I were to really do the best possible job of “trying”, then I’d probably have to stop talking to you so much, and never visit,” Christina argued, disappointed that her not-easy-to-make declaration was not received with more regard, and annoyed that “I want to be with you” seemingly wasn’t good enough unless it came after some designated amount of trying and failing to be happy with someone else first.

“I don’t know about never, but I expected this to be your only visit for a while, and we can always talk. If you can’t be happy with him while still talking to your best friend, you can’t be happy with him, period. I think you should see how things are in a few weeks before you go making plans to show every weekend for the summer though. And that you should come over here. Why am I sitting with your feet?” the Chelsea man asked, pretending to be put out. “Can I sit with the rest of you? Or the better parts, at least?”

“You don’t like my feet?” She tried to poke him in the nose with one of her big toes.

“Not as much as I like your ass in a thong, or in anything, or nothing.”

Christina did a sit up and asked which part of her he’d like where, embracing an opportunity to escape the conversation. It did strike her as strange that she longed for a real conversation like that with André but was prepared to skirt it with Juan. She quickly assured herself maybe the topic had just run its course, and there was no real way to conclude it. Also, her time in London was finite. If her friend wanted to spend it being closer, she was fine with it. He wanted her butt where he could touch it, and her face a whole lot nearer to his, so she recommended that he scoot down some so that she could lay on top of him, on her elbows. Each of her small but perfectly sculpted butt cheeks got the thorough massage for which she hoped for her ankle. Talk turned to more frivolous things, like whether she looked prettier or sexier with soft, blended black liner for her eyes or a sharp, clean one, and whether either one looked best on a “naked” lid or with other color or colors for a background, and how light lipstick shades made her look young, reds made her look young enough to be innocent, and very dark, saturated colors made her look older but not too old. That exercise in vanity was just Juan’s way of demonstrating his obsession with her, and they both knew that was one of the reasons she needed to go back to London to see him. Christina was very much the center of life in her new home. She just didn’t feel very important to her husband anymore, despite some of his comments. Joking around and laughing about herself with the Spaniard was like filling up on her love supply. As he pointed out to her not long before, feeling loved was better than being told that she was loved. His actions made her feel loved, and as if he absorbed the love she returned to him. Sometimes André seemed like an impenetrable wall. Nothing she did was enough to make him understand what she was thinking or show him that he didn’t need to fight with her.

“Aren’t you glad I skipped the pretzels?” Christina smiled when she realized having dry pretzel breath would have been unpleasant for the midfielder who was receptive to her efforts to connect, and who was close enough to her mouth to be put off by anything less pleasant than perhaps lingering notes of the wine she drank at Stamford Bridge. She’d gone from leaning on her upper arms and elbows on his chest to leaning on her elbows and forearms on it, where she could play with the hair under his chin with her fingers, and where a tiny stretch of her neck, perhaps even just therapeutically to relieve any ache from being in that position too long, would bring her lips into contact with his. Juan’s face was, in some light, as much fine art to her as his newly acquired sculpture, and duly deserved close range study. Being all up in it made it very difficult for him to try to slide any untruths by her, too.

“I’m glad there are no crumbs in the bed.”

“I’ve been having sex dreams about you. That sentence has the same number of letters in it as the one you just said.”

“That’s a new trick. How did you learn to do that?”

“I told you how bored I’ve been.”

“What kind of sex dreams?”

“Romantic, passionate ones, with Einaudi music.”

“Are you dreaming about that music because you keep watching the video we made, or are you watching the video because of the dreams?”

“That’s a good question. I had the first dream maybe two days before I started watching the video a bunch of times.”

“Which songs are in the dreams?”

“Very old ones. Can I put some on for you?”

“Are you going to be romantic and passionate?”

Christina nodded earnestly, her expression plain, and then did stretch her neck to offer a kiss to seal the accord, whether Juan wanted her to say yes or not. She wanted him to be interested in romance and passion, because she couldn’t lay on him for so long and feel his hands all over her backside and her back and not want more of his love and more of his attention. In addition, the athlete with the less physically demanding job knew he had to be tired from playing, and that meant he was unlikely to be interested in some raucous sex party, and thus she could be the one to dictate proceedings. She wanted to be on top. She wanted to choose when there would be kissing and when there would be nuzzling. She wanted to set the pace. She wanted to use her body to make him feel good.

First she had to get up to bring two pillar candles to his nightstand from the footstool between the chairs by the window, find the matches in the drawer in the other nightstand, use Juan’s phone to select her music, kill the lights, wipe off what remained of her makeup, and take her shirt off. The FA Cup quarterfinal winner was most definitely asleep by the time she returned to his bed.

“Juanin,” she whispered, hovering above his face so she could kiss his forehead. He’s adorable when he’s sleeping, but I want to be with him, she thought, unwilling to give up easily. I have less than 12 hours left here. I want to spend all of them with him and it doesn’t count if he’s sleeping. Wake uhhhhhp, she willed as she began getting back into the same position as before. The player woke up when her weight settled on his stomach, and blinked sleepily in the candlelight. He’d inched up taller while she was away, so she had to stretch her neck more to smooch him again. “Would you rather sleep?” she asked after, to be considerate.

“No, angel.” His hands were already exploring her upper body, and they were warm and perfectly weighted to make her feel appreciated and respected. They moved on the right pace to get where they needed to be to help him hug her close right at the conclusion of the unique crescendo in the song that played in the room and not just in her head. They’d had whole conversations about that build, and the surprisingly sedate string of notes that came after it.

“Can I kiss you all night?”

“You can try, and when I inevitably fall asleep, then you sleep too and keep kissing me in your dreams, yes?” The Spaniard’s casual smiles hurt her insides again, only with the wrong kind of pain. What do you do when the literal man of your dreams isn’t your husband anymore? And what does it mean for your relationship when you’re with another boy and the thing you’re worried about most is that he’s fallen asleep before you were ready to give him up for the night and is depriving you of time with him before you have to leave him again?

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