#catalan: reflections

[guillemelgat]

I'm only a month late but here's the yearly review! These goals were actually quite reasonable, and though I didn't hit most of them, they were good guides to have.

For Catalan, I did manage to find a Catalan speaker in this city (WILD story but we don't have time for that), who confirmed my suspicions that there just are no Catalans here by the fact that they know exactly two other Catalans. But I also might have an in on two professors who might be Catalan, and could also talk to, which would be exciting. Meanwhile my Catalan is quickly atrophying, but I did at least find people, which I'm very happy about. In terms of reading, I had a feeling I would read way less than 30 books, and I was right about that: I read 7 (I would have read way more if I was capable of finishing a book; alas, that skill is escaping me at this moment). But I still think that the challenge was absolutely worth it, and I'd like to do it next year, too. I'll write up a longer post about that, though.

In terms of Welsh and Basque, I wouldn't say that I followed these goals at all. But for both of them, I think I did put in a lot more effort and kind of got a reality check on how I should go about studying them. For Welsh, I started listening to a whole bunch more music. For Basque, I got to go to the Basque Country for a weekend and stay with a friend and speak in Basque the whole time, which was a huge challenge, but also really made me understand what I need to work on (comprehension/vocabulary/more advanced grammar). I didn't end up watching much Rownd a Rownd or Eskamak kentzen, but I think that I've had a lot of problems with attention span (and also realistic expectations) this year, and I'm slowly starting to figure out how to create a language routine that works with what I've got.

For Malayalam, I did start taking classes, and this is one of the few goals that has really worked out. Malayalam has gone from being something really frustrating and emotionally taxing for me to a language I feel like I'm starting to have a grasp on. The class has been very intensive (we learned the alphabet and all the noun cases in the first semester, and were reading simple texts by the end), but it's been good for pushing my limits. Unfortunately the time is a little rough, especially with a full class load and TAship, but it's so rewarding that I think I'm going to stick through this semester as well.

Alas, I didn't get to try Russian immersion. I still think this would be really funny, though.

As for Anki, I tried pretty hard at the beginning of last year to get into it, but unfortunately it takes so much time to make your own cards (if you're silly like me - I could probably put them together in a less complicated way) and eventually I just decided to stick with Memrise for now. We'll see, though. Maybe I can simplify my template or something - I just need a quicker way to set up large amounts of cards.

This year was a long and very heavy year for me personally, but also a very meaningful year in some ways, and I think it taught me to think much more about what matters to me, and to clear away what doesn't. I've been studying all four of these languages for a significant amount of time now, and I want them to continue be a part of my life and my world. Hopefully 2025 will be yet another year in which I continue to grow into them, and them into me.

Language Goals 2024

Another year, another set of goals! This year, in the actual spirit of my very reasonable 2022 language goals, here are my plans for language study.

Catalan

First and foremost, my goal is to find Catalan friends in my new hometown, because I really need to speak Catalan with people at minimum once a week or I get very sad, and currently I’m not speaking it with anyone at all. This goal is pretty chill though—I just have to actually sit down and put in the time to find people.

My main goal is to read 30 books in Catalan. I’ll make a proper post about it with a list of books that I’m thinking of and how the challenge itself is going to work, but overall I’m trying to pick a mix of styles and genres, so expect anything from medieval literature to YA novels to academic texts. I have a lot of books that I’ve been meaning to read for a while, so hopefully this will give me a chance to chip into some of them. 30 books is less than other versions of this challenge that I’ve seen, but it’s also many more books than I’ve read in Catalan possibly ever and I think it’s more reasonable in conjunction with a full class load. Hopefully it ends up being just the right amount!

Welsh & Basque

This year I really want to work hard to actually get these two to an upper intermediate level, because I’m so close if I put in the work. For both of them, I have two main goals: (1) go through the textbooks/workbooks that I started going through casually last semester (Basic Welsh: A Grammar and Workbook by Gareth King and Standard Basque: A Progressive Grammar by Rudolf P.G. de Rijk) so that I can continue to review and learn new grammatical structures, and (2) watch one episode of a TV series each week in each language. For the TV series, I’m going to be watching Rownd a Rownd on S4C (which is available outside Wales/the UK! Huge win!) and Eskamak kentzen on EITB. If I have time, I’ll try to go through episodes more thoroughly and note down new vocabulary and such, but the main goal is to make a routine of it and watch consistently so I’m trying to keep it simple. I’d also like to use both languages with other people more often if I can, but I think finding a consistent language partner will perhaps be a goal for another year.

Malayalam

I’m planning to focus the first half of the year on Welsh and Basque, and then next fall, I’m hoping to be able to take the Malayalam classes offered by my university and to get into studying my home dialect (or rather, my extended family’s home dialect, since I didn’t speak it at home) as well. Since this will be later and also classroom learning rather than self-study, I’m not going to go into details, but overall, after my trip to Kerala (which I have stuff about, it’s on the docket!), I’m generally feeling much less alienated and much more motivated to study the language. I’m also looking forward to being able to take real classes, which I think will help keep me focused and on track.

Russian

This is a minor goal, but at my friend’s house over the summer, her mom was joking that if they just spoke to me in Russian while I stayed at their house, I’d probably be able to understand it by the end. That led us to concoct a plan where I study a bit of Russian vocab, then go there and do intensive Russian immersion for a weekend or so. This is more of a silly goal, but I’d like to try it because I think it could be fun.

Anki

This isn’t a language goal per se, but rather a general resolution to spend this year learning to use (and tweaking and configuring) Anki. Anki has a notoriously high barrier to entry, and from everything I’ve seen it should be treated as a long-term, intensive project—I’ll hopefully reap the rewards later if I take my time and set up everything right in the early stages. With that in mind, I’m hoping that by the end of the year I’ve figure out a set up for my decks and cards that really works for getting me to remember and be able to use vocab and grammar. I’ll focus on the languages here for the start, but I’m hoping that with habit and time, if I get a good system going I can use it with other languages too.

And that’s it! It’s been a bit since I was systematic about studying languages, but I’ve found that I really miss it and want to go back. I feel like I’m at a really good place with all of these, and I’d like to continue to make progress, so I’m really trying to focus on consistency and hitting the sweet spot of just challenging enough to get myself out of my comfort zone while not burning out. Hopefully I’ve set this up in a way to build habits and make me excited to keep immersing myself with these languages in the coming years, which is really the key to learning any language in the long term—I've realized that I speak Catalan so well because it's fully integrated into my life, and I'd like all these others to be as well. Here’s to a good 2024, and I wish all of you luck with your own goals as well!

[huariqueje]

Reflections in the Swimming Pool - Bea Sarrias , 2023.

Catalan, b. 1978  -

Acrylic on linen,  50 x 65 cm.

[p0orbaby]

Hi ,

May i request a cute short blurb of alexia putellas x reader where the reader is pregnant but she doesn't like anyone to hover and alexia is trying to hover quietly so that the reader doesnt notice or else the reader will bite her head off

-

“You’re breathing on me.”

You don’t look up. Your hand stays suspended an inch above the polished quartz island you had imported from Valencia last spring, poised carefully over the final, meticulous flick of buttercream on the Victoria sponge you didn’t even want to bake but decided on after a week-long craving that you blamed squarely on homesickness, the hormonal kind. Somewhere between your third and fourth trip to El Corte Inglés in one afternoon, you realised nostalgia tastes faintly of strawberry jam and bitter disappointment.

“I’m not,” Alexia says. She is, obviously. You can feel it—the faintest mist of her breath, close enough that if you turned, your reading glasses would fig up with a single exhale.

You straighten slowly, with the exact measured indifference of a Michelin inspector dissecting an amuse-bouche. You catch her reflection in the brushed steel of the Miele coffee machine she insisted on buying after a two-hour row in a Sant Cugat appliance showroom. She’s standing exactly 1.3 metres away—you’ve measured it with your eyes because you’re the sort of person who knows the circumference of a football (68–70cm), the exact sugar content of a Mercadona tarta de queso (approximately 32%), and the London to Barcelona flight time down to the minute (2 hours 5 minutes).

Alexia is pretending to check her phone.

It’s upside down.

The screen is blank.

The effort is almost insulting.

“You’re hovering,” you inform her, conversationally, like announcing the weather.

“No I’m not,” she replies, voice high, too fast, guilty.

You glance at her sideways. “You’re hovering like a fucking Guardia Urbana drone.”

She flushes.

You return to the cake, smoothing the top with the flat of your palette knife—a heavy Sabatier you brought over from England because Spanish knives, in your experience, are either dangerously blunt or designed exclusively for stabbing jamón. You’ve developed a twitch lately: an overwhelming need for everything to be perfectly symmetrical. The chaos of pregnancy—skin stretching, organs rearranging, blood pumping like a dodgy plumbing system—has made you obsessed with control over the insignificant.

Matching mugs. Alphabetised spice rack. Towels folded exactly to hotel standards: tri-fold, not half.

Alexia’s presence thrums in the background like tinnitus.

You can feel her trying not to fuss. Trying and failing.

“I’m blending,” she says, without conviction.

“You’re about as subtle as Sagrada Família,” you mutter.

She shifts awkwardly, the rubber soles of her Nike P-6000’s squeaking faintly on the hand-tiled floor you both spent a month arguing over—Catalan mosaic or modern minimalism. Modern minimalism won. You told yourself it was because of practicality but secretly it was because you could imagine this child, this squalling hypothetical mass, vomiting spectacularly over terrazzo.

Alexia folds her arms, a little too tightly. She’s wearing the navy Barça hoodie she stole from the kit room last season, the one with the crest embroidered so neatly you sometimes stare at it just to feel calmer.

“I just…” she starts, then trails off.

You wipe the knife clean on a damp tea towel—Liberty print, an import because Spanish ones are too short, too thin, too prone to shrivelling like old men in the sun.

“You just… what?” you prompt, tone sharp enough to draw blood.

She shrugs, helpless. “I’m being nearby.”

“Congratulations,” you deadpan. “Shall I fetch you a medal?”

Alexia pouts, an expression that would probably have got her punched if she weren’t spectacularly, unfairly beautiful.

There’s a bottle of Solán de Cabras water on the island, the blue one you’ve been craving like it’s holy water, and you take a slow, careful sip, just for something to do. You can see Alexia itching to offer you something—toast, fruit, the moon on a plate—and you brace yourself for the inevitable.

“Are you hungry?” she blurts, like a sneeze.

You don’t answer immediately. You let the silence unfurl between you like a long, slow exhale. Barcelona silence: interrupted only by the distant yapping of a terrier somewhere on Carrer d’Aragó, the low hum of a Vespa struggling uphill.

“I’m fine,” you say eventually, with the kind of icy politeness that would make Buckingham Palace staff nod in approval.

Alexia shifts her weight from one foot to the other, chewing her bottom lip like it’s rationed. You notice she’s wearing her fitness tracker again—a WHOOP with a Tundra Superknit bisep band—obsessively monitoring her sleep, her steps, her heart rate. You imagine it buzzing quietly under her hoodie, flashing an alert: STRESS DETECTED. BREATHE, IDIOT.

You almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

“Do you want to feel it kick?” you offer, with all the grace of a trapdoor opening.

Her face lights up like Plaça de Catalunya at Christmas.

She’s across the room in two strides, hands out, reverent, like you’re a relic.

She places her palm gently over the slight swell of your stomach—warm, steady, the faint scent of her vanilla hand cream ghosting up to you. You remember buying it with her in a cramped Gràcia pharmacy two months ago. She spent fifteen minutes comparing brands while you sat on a plastic stool and calculated, clinically, whether divorce paperwork could be filed in Catalan.

You both wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The baby remains stubbornly, impressively still.

“I swear,” Alexia says, whispering like the baby might overhear and feel insulted, “it moved earlier.”

You nod slowly, gravely. “Maybe it’s allergic to hovering.”

[barcapix]

Pedri proposal fic i beg

✮ Barcelovena - Pedri González

pedri gonzalez x fem!reader

sy: the day pedri finally decides to propose to you and he couldn’t be more nervous.

a/n: as soon as a broaden my ability to write, irrelevant plans get in the way like..? but anyways! #ilovepedri

warnings: none i can think of.

your relationship with pedri is what most people would call: friends to lovers.

as of now, it was your second year anniversary of being together. the 28th of feb. the same exact day you met his brother, fer, for the first time and he tried (and failed) to keep you both undercover from their parents.

whether you slept round, whether he snuck out—fer was always gleeful in attempt to help you both keep your relationship a secret.

you’d been through so much together.

his tough footballing schedule, your own career goals, and the pressures of public life. yet somehow, your relationship only grew stronger.

but even despite all that, one look from his inviting hazel eyes, his comforting touch to soothe any pain or ache away—you felt at home.

and today, was an excuse to celebrate.

the catalan air was thick, honeyed with the afternoons array of nightlife, as the sun dipped below the skyline.

on your apartment balcony, you were both stood amongst the fading light after finishing a simplistic yet endearing dinner that pedri had insisted to cook himself.

not that you paid enough attention to speculate, but pedri had seemed awfully frightened tonight.

his eyes would dart around to you, then the food, then more so at the candle and so fourth. almost like he was waiting for something to happen.

the metallic table shook whenever his subtle knee bounces made contact; he kept fidgeting with his left suited pocket every so often.

“so you really made all that yourself huh?” you turn to him, swirling your glass of champagne.

his daze breaks as he twists his head around to you, blinking thrice. “of course i did,” he says, raising a brow. “wait—are you doubting me?”

you mockingly gasp. “i would never!”

pedri frowns, then again reaches into his left pocket. but you barely recognise it as you continue to ramble.

“it’s just that.. that empanada you made last week—”you raise a hand over your mouth and pretend to gag. “—was for sure a delight.”

“ouch,” he leans back, taking a shaky sip of his drink. “champagne makes you turn evil.”

you both laugh, but his seems somewhat fake.

and you notice that, immediately.

“hey,” you take his glass from him setting it down. “you seem really tense tonight. did something happen at work?”

“no, work was fine,” the canarian is swift to shut it down. but (un)luckily for him, you always possessed the ability to see straight through his lies.

“open up to me pepi,” you playfully punch his chest with a smile; he smiles back but when he directs his attention to the city below, it’s gone.

the faint golden hues of the sunset reflect in his eyes, the nervous conflict swaying within them.

“its nothing,” he lies, but you know better.

“pedri,” you sweep the fallen hair from his forehead. “you’ve been unfocused all night, don’t think i didn’t notice that you kept digging into your pocket like your hiding something.”

“what’s going on?”

he hesitates, his fingers ghosting over the fabric of his pocket again.

when he eventually gains the confidence, he exhales and rubs the back of his neck. his hands go to smooth down onto his trousers like he’s trying to discard any sweat.

your heart begins to beat a little faster when his shoulders rise and fall with a meaningful purpose.

“alright, if you really want to know,” he finally says. he turns to face you fully, reaching and lacing his fingers with yours.

albeit they’re a little clammy, shaky, but familiar.

“i’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” he confesses, his thumbs absentmindedly brushing past your knuckles. “well, its all i ever think about nowadays.”

your lips part to question him, but with a swallow he continues. “about us. about everything we’ve been through and everything we’ve build together. and every time i do, i realise there’s nobody else i want to go through life with.”

your breath catches in your throat, and his words are enough to send goosebumps prickling along your skin.

pedri nervously chuckles, chewing on his lip. “i had a whole speech planed but now i’m actually here, i’ve forgotten everything i wanted to say.”

“just say what you feel amor,” you encourage, gently you squeeze his hands. your heart swells at the thought, and he smiles at that—the kind that crinkles in his eyes.

“i feel like… i don’t ever want to wake up without you next to me,” his voice almost breaks. “everytime i come home after a game, no matter how tired or fatigued i am—the second i see you, everything’s okay again.”

you shakily laugh, as your eyes begin to well.

“and i feel like you’d make the me luckiest guy in the world if you let me love you for the rest of my life,” he finishes, dropping to one knee as he finally, finally pulls the mini velvet box from his pocket.

as he reveals the silver rhinestone ring, your hands fly to your mouth.

“will you marry me?”

nothing around you matters now, only the man infront of you, your pedri, and the boy you fell in love with, does.

tears slip down your cheeks, before you frantically nod with breathless laughter bubbling up. “yes! yes, a million times yes.”

pedri barely has time to glide the ring onto your finger as you launch yourself into him, nearly knocking him over as you wrap your arms around his neck. he laughs into your shoulder, catching and spinning you around with ease.

“holy shit,” he breathes, clutching onto you so tight. “you’re actually saying yes?”

”of course i am idiot!” you grin is so wide that your cheeks ache. “i’ve been waiting for those four words ever since ferran—“

pedri pauses. “what did ferran say?”

your face momentarily drops as the words slip out, but your quick to dismiss it when you pull him into a kiss that makes him melt against you.

his hands are still shaky when they roam at your waist, but when he pulls back his eyes shine with tears; he tenderly wipes at the foreign water stains on your cheeks.

“mrs gonzalez has a nice ring to it huh?” he smirks, as you both glance down at the dazzling pearl on your finger.

you ruffle up his hair that gets blown by the wind, but you can’t stop smiling. maybe this grin is seriously permanent. “i guess i can get used to it.”

“well your stuck with me forever now,” pedri declares. “no takebacksies.”

you laugh joyfully when he brings your ring finger up to his lips and presses a light dozen kisses there.

“just shut up and kiss me again mr gonzalez.” you tease, with a tange of seriousness. pedri doesn’t hesitate, promptly crashing his lips onto yours.

its all salty from the tears, sweet from the joy, and full of every bit of love you’d ever felt for him.

but the one thing your certain about? this is the man you want to spend the rest of your life with.

[pitchsidestories]

lovers II Keira Walsh x Williamson!Reader

masterlist I word count: 2468

a/n: Hi, we realized that it's our 100th oneshot which sounds absolutely wild, so enjoy. For the readers who wait for the Emily Fox fanfic it will come out next. <3

You were in love with Ibiza.

In love with the beaches and the sunshine, the palm trees and the blue of the ocean.

You were in love with the clubs and bars, your sister and her friends took you to.

But above all, you were in love with your sister’s best friend.

The afternoon sun painted the hotel room in soft golden light as you slipped into a short dress. You could still feel the salty air and the sun from earlier that day on your skin as you began applying mascara to your eyelashes. Except for a bit of hunger, you felt fully content.

“Ready for dinner? You look gorgeous by the way.“, Keiras voice said from behind you.

You hadn’t noticed her coming in.

You flinched, almost stabbing yourself in the eye with the mascara wand.

Keira smiled apologetically at your reflection in the mirror.

You watched as her gaze started to travel down your body, taking in every curve in your tight-fitting dress.

With a smile you turned towards her and bridged the gap between the two of you.

“Are you kidding? Look at you… Your curls are so pretty and soft.“, you whispered, gently running her fingers through her reddish brown hair.

You loved the way the salt water had restored Keiras natural hair texture.

“My curls? I just didn’t straighten my hair.“, she laughed.

Her cheeks flushed slightly, barely visible through the light sunburn on her skin.

Completely enamoured, you beamed at her: “I love it.“

You were about to lean forward to kiss her when someone cleared their throat behind you.

Your heart stopped while you pulled apart. You ran through possible explanations for this situation in your head, just in case you would turn around to face your sister.

Instead, Alex Scott watched the two of you with a knowing grin.

“You do? Oh hi, Alex.“, Keira greeted the former football player.

“Little Williamson is right though. She could have done something with fashion but…“, Alex said without finishing her thought.

You rolled your eyes, she had always tried to convince you to work in the fashion industry but you wouldn’t trade your job as an English teacher in Barcelona for anything in the world.

“She chose to teach people English in Spain and honestly, it was the best decision ever.“, you finished for Alex.

Keira laughed: “I agree with that.“

Leah appeared next to Alex in the doorway. Subconsciously, you tried to put more distance between yourself and Keira.

“Of course, you do, Kei. Because that way you can talk to someone in your mother tongue almost every day. How did the Catalan interview go again?“, your sister teased.

Her best friend released a tired groan: “Don’t remind me.“

Alex changed the subject, pointing with her thumb over her shoulder: “Now that everyone’s dressed up, let’s get some dinner in before we go clubbing.“

“Sounds like a good idea.”, you agreed in a good mood, the sea air made you hungry.

At the restaurant Keira studied the menu thoroughly before looking at you with an innocent smile on her lips.

“Everything here sounds so good, do you want to share?”, she asked.

“Sure.”, you replied happily. Above your heads the fairy lights were switched on and you could hear the waves crashing on to the shore in the background.

The romantic atmosphere was quickly disturbed by your older sister.

“Excuse me? I thought you’d share with me!”, she pouted, sending glances at the Barca player which could kill.

“What about your girlfriend? Doesn’t she want to share with you?”, Keira asked in return, cheeks flushed.

“Yes, Lee, no need to be that dramatic about it.”, Alex Greenwood intervened laughing.

“I’m not dramatic.”, Leah countered smirking.

“That’s just how she’s.”, you explained cheekily.

“Why don’t we order food for the table so we can all share?”, your girlfriend suggested hoping this would calm the Blonde Arsenal defender down.

“Yes, that’s perfect. I’m in.”, the two Alex’s declared grinning.

“Same, you too, Leah?”, you turned around to investigate your sister’s face, waiting for her reaction.

“Sure.”, she nodded, sounding much calmer already.

 “What about a first round of cocktails?”, Jess wanted to know.

“Please.”, Leah answered.

A few minutes later the drinks arrived at your table, beaming you toasted with her. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”, she responded grinning.  

The sweetness and the alcohol sparked the desire in you to touch your lover’s curly hair again.

“Stop it.”, Keira demanded giggling.

“I’m not doing anything.”, you remarked in a not guilty tone.

“Yes, you’re. Stop it.”, she bit her lip nervously.

“Fine.”, you sighed defeated, quickly finishing your cocktail.

After the last sip you stood up smiling delighted at the other girls. “Girls, are we ready for the club now?”

“Let’s go.”, Alex Greenwood chirmed.

The sun was long gone now, the moon and the stars shown brightly as you and your sister former and current teammates joined the Ibizan night life.

Something your sister and you both shared was the passion for music. While Leah preferred to sing you would take every chance you could get to dance. Before Keira your first love has been rhythm and beats.

“Come on, Kei.”, Alex nudged the red-haired woman who admired you from the distance.

“I don’t dance. I’m here for the drinks.”, she waved the sports journalist off.

“But I do. Come on, Alex.”, Leah remarked cheerfully.

“Coming.“, Alex laughed and let the defender pull her into the direction of the dance floor.

The other Alex jumped up as well, following closely behind: “Hey, wait for me.“

You caught Keiras eye from across the room and danced your way over to her. You were not ready to stop yet but you also didn’t want to leave her alone.

Keira reached for your wrist with a laugh: “Stop twirling around, y/n.“

“Why?“, you asked, spinning out of her grasp.

“Just because.“

You stopped for a moment, studying her face. There was something serious and pleading in her eyes that you didn’t understand. You only wanted to continue dancing with your friends. “Keira…“

You interrupted yourself, taking in a sharp breath in surprise as two hands laid on your hips and spun you around.

A man in his mid-thirties and clearly drunk grinned at you. His gaze traveled down to your neckline while he asked you something that your brain didn’t seem to comprehend. Apparently he wanted you to dance with him but everything about him made clear that he had other things in mind than just dancing.

You froze in place, not sure if you felt disgusted or disgusting.

Just when you were about to say something, your sister squeezed between him and you and pushed him back: “Sorry, no. That’s my sister!“

“And she’s already taken.“, Keira added. You hadn’t noticed that Keira had gotten up from her seat as well.

Leahs head whipped towards her best friend: “What?“

“Uhm…“, you mumbled as you watched the man retreat with his hands raised in surrender.

You desperately tried to find a good reason to change the subject but you just couldn’t come up with one.

“Who is it, y/n? One of your colleagues or one of the Barca girlies?“, Leah asked, her voice tinted with anger.

“It’s…uhm…“, you started and forced yourself not to look at Keira. Lying would be so easy right now. But did you actually want to keep hiding?

Your sister got impatient: “Just tell me.“

“Keira.“, was all you could get out and prayed that you made the right choice.

The two best friends looked at each other. Keira nodded slowly: “It’s me.“

“Wait, you?! When? How? She’s my little sister!“ Leahs eyebrows furrowed in anger.

Keira shrugged, trying to keep her voice calm: “In Barcelona… it just happened.“

Your sister turned towards you with her jaw set: “We’ll talk about this tomorrow morning!“

She stormed off without waiting for an answer and you quietly wondered where she would go.

Keira and you ended the night there and went back to your hotel room.

You walked out on the balcony overlooking the ocean, Keira followed right behind you.

“She’s really mad.“, you said nervously into the night sky.

The midfielder wrapped her arms around you and rolled her eyes: “She can’t be mad about this.“

You knew she had a point.

“No, Lee is more upset about the fact that we didn’t tell her.“

“Still. I can talk with her if you want me to.”, Keira offered while you kept watching the waves come and go which was scarily similar to your older sister’s temper. Deep down you knew she would eventually calm down.

“No, I’ll do it, it’s fine.”, you assured the Barcelona player before kissing her temple softly.

For a moment she closed her eyes under your touch. “She’ll be fine.”, the midfielder whispered in a convinced tone as her lips touched yours in a heartfelt kiss.

“What was the kiss for?”, you raised an eyebrow at her curiously.

“For good luck.”, Keira replied smirking.

“But she said tomorrow so maybe we could just go inside and..”, you begun rambling.

“You think that’s a good idea?”, your girlfriend interrupted you with a doubtful look on her face.

“No, I’ll do it now.”, you sighed, knowing fully well that some things shouldn’t be put on hold. Although you’d miss the comforting hug of the midfielder who pretended to hate them but always made an exception for you.

Cautiously you stood at the entry of the hotel room your sister and her girlfriend were staying in. “Lee, can we chat outside?”

Without a word the older blonde got up and put on her shoes, signalling that she was ready to talk to you outside.

For a while the two of you walked silently on the sand which felt still warm under your naked feet.

“So, you and Keira, huh?”, Leah broke the silence, sounding more curious than mad this time.

“Yeah.”, you answered timidly.

“Since when?” the defender continued asking.

“We got closer when she came to Barcelona.”, you confessed.

“That was forever ago.”, she noted slightly hurt by your reply.

“Yes, but we just started dating a few months ago.”, you added quickly. This much was true. Undoubtedly, you always had a soft spot for your sister’s best friend. The more time you two spend together, the more it became obvious that there was more than just friendship.

“And you didn’t tell me.”, Leah swallowed hard through that realization.

“You didn’t ask me.”, you reminded her.

“If you’re dating my best friend? How was I supposed to know.”, she retorted.

“No, in general, it’s mostly about you when you call me.”, you countered.

“I didn’t realize that. I’m sorry. But I thought you’d tell me such things.”, the defender apologized, her skin despite the tan turned pale.

“It’s okay. I guess we weren’t great sisters for each other recently.”, you admitted guiltily.

Leah nodded in reluctant agreement: “I guess we weren’t.“

There was a moment of silence between the two of you, not uncomfortable but thoughtful.

“But we could do better now.“, you said determinedly,

Your sister stopped walking. You only realized that wasn’t on your side anymore after a few more steps.

You turned towards her and caught her staring at you.

“Y/n?“, she asked.

“Yes?“

“Are you happy?“

You smiled at her: “Very.“

“With Kei?“

“Yes.“, you confirmed again.

Leah studied your face for a moment, searching for any indication of a lie before she finally nodded once: “Okay.“

“Okay?“, you echoed with hopefulness in your voice. You didn’t want to fight with your sister. You wanted her and Keira in your life.

Leah kicked up some sand with her shoe: “Yes, okay. I think I can live with that.“

“Good.“, you beamed and slowly continued your walk, waiting for your sister to take her place by your side again.

You thought your talk was over when your sister suddenly spoke up again: “Y/n?“

You looked at her, signalling her to continue.

“Just because you live a life outside of the public eye doesn’t mean I’m not interested in your life or I’m not proud of you.“

Her words caught you by surprise. You frowned at her in confusion. “Wait, you’re proud of me?“

“Why do you sound so surprised? Obviously I’m proud of you.“

You stared down at the fine sand under your feet: “Sorry.“

Another break in your conversation arose. Apparently, struggling to express your emotions properly ran in your family.

“Not everyone has the bravery to go abroad for work… I would not.“, Leah continued.

You looked back up at her: “Really?“

She nodded slowly: “You know how much I love home. And Arsenal. I just couldn’t.“

Hearing this filled you with pride but at the same time, you had to suppress a smile because you really couldn’t imagine your sister anywhere else.

“True, you’re such a homebody.“, you laughed.

Your sister smirked and gave you a small shrug: “See, we’re just very different.“

“Yes, but that’s okay.“, you assured her. You could feel the tension dissolve slowly.

Leah raised an eyebrow: “I will still have to talk to Keira though.“

You let out a groan: “Oh no, not the big sister talk.“

“Oh yes, even for my best friend.“

“Fine, but try and be nice, okay?“, you asked innocently.

“Of course.“

“Thank you.“

She reached over and ruffled through your blonde hair: “Anything for my little sister.“

You tried to get revenge. You two were laughing like children while you chased her down the beach.

You never heard anything about their talk. Both Keira and Leah refused to tell you anything and stubbornly maintained their silence. You didn’t care anyway. They seemed closer than ever and that was all that mattered to you.

The next days were spend at the beach, enjoying the sun and the refreshing coolness of the sea.

“No. I’m not going into the water.“ Keira shook her head determinedly. She had spend the morning straightening her hair but to you, that was not a reason to miss out on swimming.

“Come on.“ You impatiently pulled at her arm.

Leah appeared on Keiras other side, pushing her forward. “You better go now.“

Together you barrelled towards the sea, falling over each as soon as you reached the water. The rest of your friend group burst out laughing,

Keira pushed her now wet hair back. It started to curl at the ends already.

“I hate you Williamsons!“, she laughed.

You kissed her cheek: “No, you don’t.“

“Not really, no.“, Keira admitted and pulled you towards her by your waist to kiss you.

Leah grimaced in disgust: “Okay, but you don’t have to kiss in front of me.“

“Stop complaining.“, you rolled your eyes.

Keira grinned at her: “You better get used to it, Lee.“

[hrtwayne]

Hasta Los Dientes || Alexia Putellas [Part Four]

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Lionesses!Reader

Summary: One of Arsenal's top players receives an offer to play for Barcelona after recovering from a cruciate ligament injury in her leg. Following a recent fallout with the Gunners' captain, the athlete decides that the best course of action is to accept the offer and escape the tension in the locker room.

Note: English is not my first language!

Warning: None!

Previous Chapter | Women's Football Masterlist

It was a Monday morning when Y/n stretched in bed, her eyes still heavy with sleep and her hair a mess. The midfielder had woken up just over ten minutes ago, with the sun not even showing signs of rising yet. The comforting silence was proof that her sister was still asleep and that likely a good portion of the Catalan population was still in bed as well.

She grabbed her phone, which was charging on the nightstand, and saw a few messages. There were texts from Rachel, with reminders about the day’s schedule and some updates on the preparations for the press conference happening later in the week. Y/n quickly replied, confirming that everything was under control. Next, she saw a message from Haley, who was still in London.

Y/n smiled as she read the message. Haley had always been her biggest supporter, even from afar.

After replying to the messages, Y/n stretched again and got out of bed. She had already laid out her training clothes the night before. As she packed her clothes into her bag, her eyes landed on her Adidas cleats, faithful companions in so many matches, and the personalized shin guards her niece had designed. An involuntary smile spread across her face as she remembered little Emma, just two years old, handing her the shin guards as a good luck gift. "Aunt Y/n, you’re going to be the best in the world!" the little girl had said, with the innocence of a child.

Y/n carefully packed everything into her bag, as if preparing a kit for an important mission. She knew the first training session was crucial. Not just to showcase her skills, but also to integrate into the group and earn the coach’s trust.

After carefully organizing her bag, Y/n headed to the bathroom. As she brushed her teeth, she looked at herself in the mirror, analyzing her reflection. Her hair was a bit messy, but she decided to leave it down for now. There was a determination in her eyes, a mix of nervousness and excitement.

After leaving the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, she thought about breakfast. She didn’t want anything heavy, but she knew she needed energy for the training session. She decided on avocado toast, scrambled eggs, and a cup of coffee. As she ate, she mentally reviewed the day’s routine: morning training, lunch at the club, and then a few meetings with the technical team. In the evening, she planned to explore the city with Aliyah.

Before leaving, Y/n wrote a quick note for her sister and stuck it on the fridge.

"Ally, I’ve gone to training. I’ll be back by the end of the day. Call me if you need anything."

She grabbed her sports bag, took one last look around the apartment, and left. The morning sun was already shining in Barcelona, and the fresh air greeted her with a gentle breeze. Y/n walked to the garage where her car had been delivered, tossed her bag onto the passenger seat, and started the car.

The British defender had her back to the door as she rummaged through her bag to pull out her clothes and gear for training. Y/n was so focused that she didn’t hear the loud voices entering the locker room. She was already in the Catalan team’s training kit, holding her cleats, when the voices suddenly fell silent.

Aitana was the first to recognize Y/n, from the last Euros.

"Y/n?", Aitana said, causing the midfielder to turn toward her with a friendly smile." When the news broke that you were coming, I thought it was just rumors."

"Well, you know. It’s hard to be welcomed on a team when you’ve had a fight with the captain," Y/n replied in perfect Catalan, making the other players raise their eyebrows. "And you don’t need to speak English with me; I speak Spanish and Catalan."

"Well, this is Alexia and Vicky," Aitana introduced them, and Y/n quickly shook hands with both.

"It’s a pleasure to meet you," Y/n smiled, noticing Alexia sizing her up.

"Excuse me, Y/n, your fitness coach has arrived and is calling for you on the field," One of the staff members said, and Y/n nodded as she grabbed her cleats.

Y/n quickly said her goodbyes and walked through the training center corridors with the dark-haired girl. She sighed, knowing she would likely get along well with the players.

"Damn it, Hen. I swore you wouldn’t come," Y/n complained, pushing the blond guy.

"I wouldn’t throw you to the wolves like that, Y/n," Henry replied, gently shaking Y/n’s hand." Have you met the girls yet?"

"Hmm, yes," She confirmed, walking alongside the blond through the corridors. "I talked to the captain, Aitana, and Vicky."

"I thought Keira would be the one to introduce you," Henry uncrossed his arms as Y/n finished putting on her cleats. "The coach asked to test your fitness with the starting team. I may have sent him your last training session at Arsenal. He was impressed."

Y/n shrugged, adjusting her cleats before testing the quality of the field. Her eyes met those of one of the players. It was the first time Alexia and Y/n would play together, and they both knew the clash of egos could be a big problem.

"I hope you’re not too old for a few hours of training," Keira appeared beside Y/n, making the midfielder jump in surprise.

"Damn it, Keira," Y/n muttered, placing a hand on her chest.

"I should be the one mad at you. Ten years of friendship, and you don’t even tell me you’re coming here?" Keira said, still with a fake tone of anger.

"It was a surprise to me too," Y/n replied, making it clear it hadn’t entirely been her choice.

"Does this have something to do with your almost-relationship with Leah?" Keira asked.

"Apparently, yes. And you know how the girls sometimes treat Leah’s word as gospel," Y/n shrugged, following the player. "But it’s fine; I needed a fresh start."

The two walked together to the center of the field, where the coach was already gathering the group to start the training session. As the coach explained the day’s exercises, Y/n felt the curious gazes of some of the players. She knew she was the new girl, the foreigner who had arrived with a reputation to prove. But at the same time, she felt welcomed by the smiles and nods from some of them.

The training began with warm-up exercises and short passes. Y/n quickly adapted to the pace, showing the refined technique that had brought her here. Keira, by her side, didn’t miss the chance to crack jokes and keep her relaxed.

"Remember that training session with the under-17 national team, when you fell flat on your face?" Keira said, laughing quietly as they passed the ball to each other.

"Please, don’t bring that up now," Y/n replied, laughing too."I need to maintain my professional image, you know?"

"Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me," Keira teased, sending a precise pass back to Y/n.

As the training progressed, Y/n began to feel more comfortable with her new teammates. The on-field connection with Keira was natural, as it always had been, but she also started building chemistry with other players. Coordinated attacks, precise passes, and communication that flowed better and better. Y/n felt like she was fitting in.

At the end of the session, the coach called the group for a quick talk. He praised the overall performance and gave some individual feedback. When it was Y/n’s turn, he made a brief comment:

"Y/n, you came here with a strong reputation, and today we saw why. Keep working hard and integrating into the team’s style. You have great potential here."

Y/n nodded, feeling a wave of pride and relief. She knew there was still a lot of work ahead, but the first step had been taken.

As the players dispersed toward the locker room, Keira slung an arm around Y/n’s shoulders.

"See? I told you you’d do just fine."

"It’s only the first day," Y/n replied, but with a smile on her face. "But yeah, it was good. Really good."

[useless-catalanfacts]

A group of weeders standing in a rice field in Amposta (Terres de l'Ebre, Catalonia). I couldn't find the date but it's most likely from the 1920s-1940s. Photo from Museu de les Terres de l'Ebre.

This photo is interesting because it shows the traditional clothes that women from the Ebro Delta wore until the 20th century. It's very different from the image most people think of when we imagine "traditional women's clothes". The truth is that many countries (including ours when it comes to the pubilla and hereu outfit) fixed their "national costume" in the early 1900s, taking the upper class formal clothes as "the traditional clothes". However, that is not representative of the country in general, particularly of the working classes, nor of the many local variations that are always found around a country.

These weeders are wearing saragüells, which are a kind of tight-fitting trousers made of a light material that can dry easily. On top of this trousers, they wore a skirt that they rolled up to their waist. The reason behind this being the usual work clothes for women in the Ebro Delta area is because it's an area where, since 1860, most people worked in the agriculture of rice. Rice is grown in water, so they worked with their feet and lower part of legs in the water. (Ah, and by the way, yes, of course most women historically worked outside of the home, too.)

Now, here's why I find this interesting: the various dictatorships of Spain who called themselves "traditionalist" (Primo de Rivera's and Franco's) and their followers for many years forbid women from wearing trousers in many ambits or raged against women in trousers for being immoral. How is it possible that "traditionalists" said that, when there are traditional/historical clothes for women that include trousers? Don't "traditionalists" stand for keeping traditions? Well, let's hear the words of one of the movement's founders:

“For the authentic revolutionary conservative, what really counts is to be faithful not to past forms and institutions, but rather to principles of which such forms and institutions have been particular expressions, adequate for a specific period of time and in a specific geographical area.” Julius Evola, Men Among the Ruins: Post-War Reflections of a Radical Traditionalist.

This was said by Julius Evola (1898-1974), one of the ideologues of traditionalism. What he's saying here is that the point of traditionalism is not to be faithful to what the past or the tradition really was like; the point of traditionalism is to have some a priori beliefs and then look back in history and cherry-pick some places where that was the case. History is long and includes millennia of different cultures, you're bound to find pretty much everything at some point, and easily those ideas that have been the status quo in the immediate previous years (which is what they defend). This is why traditionalists defend that European powers are the heirs of Imperial Rome and have claims on other countries as such, but consider things that were completely normal in Ancient Roman culture (homosexuality, multi-racial cities, racial mixing) are not part of what they defend. It was never about following a real tradition or history, that was just an excuse.

These so-called "traditionalist" governments also pick one singular culture from the whole area instead of allowing each area to continue their traditional way of life. In the case of the Spanish dictatorships, exterminating the traditional customs, languages and cultural elements of the nations whose land Spain occupies (Catalans, Basques, Galicians, Aranese...) was a priority. They banned the languages, holidays, songs, and more. At the same time, they imposed one singular language (Spanish), religion (Catholicism), and the holidays, traditions (like bull-fighting), music, etc. of the Spanish with an emphasis on folklore from Andalusia (Southern Spain).

As a historian, it saddens me when people believe that what traditionalists say is really what the past was like, and nowhere do I see more lies than in what the "tradwife" movement have been led to believe. The real past was so much more interesting.

And speaking of trousers... Did you know that France had an 18th-century law that forbid women from wearing trousers which wasn't repealed until 2013? In 1972, the French politician Michèle Alliot-Marie was banned from entering the French Parliament because she was committing the crime of wearing trousers!

[seasoflife]

In Mallorca's La Llotja hall are two monumental, floating heads - crafted from intricate wire and suspended in the gothic space by artist, Jaume Plensa. Titled "Mirall" (meaning "mirror" in Catalan), this installation captures Plensa's lifelong fascination with perception, inviting viewers to pause and reflect.

Jaume Plensa's work often dives deep into themes of identity and connection. Each figure feels like a mirror, encouraging us to look beyond the surface and find pieces of ourselves in others.

The sculpture, 'Invisible Laura', are anonymous figures that invite viewers to project their own stories onto these silent faces. Plensa's installation creates a contemplative space, a reminder that the lines between "self" and "other" are more fragile than we might think.

seasoflife

[salvadorbonaparte]

Language Playlists

Disclaimer: These playlists predominantly reflect my taste in and knowledge of music. I apologise in advance. Some playlists include songs in other languages including English if deemed appropriate for the playlist. All playlists are works in progress. Playlists in bold are really long.

Multilingual and Continental Playlists

African Music (this used to be a South African playlist and then just mutated)

Foreign Covers

Germanic Music (excluding German and Low German)

Middle Eastern and North African Music

Multilingual Mixtape (contains most of the playlists in this post and a lot more)

North American Music (classic and contemporary indigenous artists)

South Asian Music (mostly but not exclusively Hindi film soundtracks ngl)

Single Language Playlists

Cambodian

Catalan

Chinese

Czech

Finnish

French

Galician

German

Greek

Hawaiian

Hebrew

Hungarian

Irish (Gaeilge)

Italian

Japanese

Korean

Low German and Northern German

te reo Māori

Portuguese

Scottish (Gaelic)

Spanish

Thai

Turkish

Vietnamese

Welsh

Yiddish

Hidden Agenda: Please recommend me music in Romanian and Croatian 🥺 (I also accept other recommendations)

[littlebeluu]

Hi! Hope you're day is going well :)

If it's okay I'd like to request smth for marc, if not just ignore this haha. I actually have a few ideas but just pick the one you like the most :)

1. It's kinda similar to the one you already wrote I guess but reader being insecure cos shes not as conventionally attractive as other wags, like she's not ugly but she's not a model either yk? Maybe also like people online hating on her body and/or weight and she doesn't wanna make a big deal out of it but marc notices and like reassures her and stuff (also in my head, reader is like a really private person who doesnt like a lot of attention, has her social media accounts on private and doesn't post anything except a handful of stories every now and then but that's obvi just me, doesn't have to be like that)

2. Marc reaching reader catalan (in my mind reader can already speak Spanish but that's not a must obvi)

3. Marc teaching reader football and she's just really bad at it haha idk I think it could be cute

4. Height difference (I'm 5'3 haha so this is really a self insert) like maybe reader wearing his clothes for the first time and they're so adorably oversized on her or like just anything about height difference really :)

You can obviously change stuff about the requests if there's anything you don't feel comfortable with or don't like, I don't mind. Sorry if it's too much stuff at once btw, I'm not really good at writing this kinda stuff.

Thanks so much in advance already, I hope you have an amazing day (or night, depending when you're reading this haha)

I'll do other ones too 🫶🏻

I might have some trouble to do the second one cause I also don't speak catalán but I'll try anyway.

"Insecure"

marc guiu x female reader

warnings: none

The car engine hummed softly as Marc and I settled into our seats after training. Our eyes met in the rearview mirror, and I felt a flutter in my chest. Despite the hours apart, his presence still had that effect on me.

"Hey," Marc greeted, his voice warm but tinged with concern.

"Hey," I responded, trying to muster enthusiasm.

Marc's brow furrowed as he studied my reflection. "Are you okay?"

I nodded, forcing a smile. "Yes."

His eyes narrowed, unconvinced. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.

Marc sighed, reaching for the radio. As music filled the car, we drove in silence, the tension palpable. Every few minutes, I caught him glancing at me, worry etched on his face.

"I'm fine," I assured him, though the words felt hollow.

"You're lying," he said softly, his voice a mixture of hurt and frustration.

I hesitated, torn between protecting him from my insecurities and the need to be honest. "It's just..."

"Tell me," he encouraged, his tone gentler now.

"Why do you think I'm upset?" I deflected, buying time.

Marc's eyes softened as he looked at me. "I don't know, but I've noticed you haven't really smiled today. Not your genuine smile, anyway."

"Of course I did," I protested weakly.

"No," he shook his head. "I know you better than anyone else. I can tell when you're feeling down, even if you don't say anything."

His words hung in the air as I struggled to find my voice.

"What's wrong, babe?" Marc pressed, his concern evident. "You're going to tell me, or..." He trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

I took a deep breath, feeling tears prick at my eyes. "I'm sorry. It's nothing important."

"It must be something if your smile hasn't been genuine in the past 24 hours."

"Yeah, well..."

"Just say whatever it is," he urged, his voice a mixture of frustration and worry.

"Honestly? People have been saying horrible things about me lately," I admitted, my voice cracking.

Marc's expression darkened. "What? Who?"

"It's okay," I tried to reassure him, wiping away a stray tear. "Really. Just forget about it."

"No," Marc insisted, pulling the car over to the side of the road. He turned to face me fully. "What happened?"

I hesitated, feeling foolish. "It's stupid."

"Just tell me," he pleaded, taking my hand in his.

"Your teammates' girlfriends posted photos with me yesterday," I began, my voice barely audible.

"And?"

"Everyone's saying horrible stuff. Like... like I'm the ugliest and fattest girlfriend."

Marc's face contorted with anger and disbelief. "What? Who's saying this?"

"People online," I mumbled, ashamed of how much it affected me.

"So nobody real?" he asked, his tone softening.

"Well, they could actually exist somewhere," I argued weakly.

"Don't even joke around," Marc frowned. "They don't deserve any importance. You shouldn't read comments under their posts anyway."

I sighed, looking out the window. "I know I shouldn't, but sometimes I can't help it. It's like picking at a scab - you know it's bad for you, but you do it anyway."

Marc's expression softened with understanding. "I get it, but those comments are toxic. They're not worth your time or energy."

"You're right," I admitted, turning back to face him. "I just wish I could stop caring what others think."

Marc reached over and squeezed my hand. "It's not easy, but we'll work on it together. Your worth isn't determined by strangers on the internet."

I took a deep breath, feeling vulnerable. "I guess sometimes those words hurt more than others. Like... maybe I wish I had more confidence. Being known is so overwhelming, and I wish I knew how to get over myself. I guess... I envy the confidence of other girls I meet."

Marc's eyes filled with understanding and love. "You're not ugly nor fat, Y/n. You're beautiful, inside and out."

"I didn't say I was, people said it," I protested weakly.

"But you think it," he said softly, his thumb tracing circles on my hand.

"No," I lied, unable to meet his gaze.

Marc cupped my face gently, forcing me to look at him. "Tell me something, Y/n. When was the last time you read something nice?"

I felt a rush of guilt for worrying him. "Well today, you told me something nice this morning. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like such a baby."

"Stop apologizing," he said firmly. "You're beautiful, and I'm so lucky to be your boyfriend. But more than that, you're kind, intelligent, and strong. Those people online? They don't know you. They don't see how you light up a room, how you make everyone around you feel special."

Tears spilled down my cheeks as Marc's words washed over me. He pulled me into a tight embrace, and I buried my face in his shoulder.

"I love you," he whispered into my hair. "Every part of you. And I promise, we'll work on building your confidence together. You don't have to face this alone”

As we sat there, wrapped in each other's arms, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. The cruel words of strangers seemed to fade away, replaced by the warmth of Marc's love and support.

"Thank you," I murmured, pulling back to meet his gaze. This time, my smile was genuine.

Marc leaned in, his lips meeting mine in a soft, tender kiss. It was gentle and reassuring, conveying all the love and support he had for me. As we parted, he rested his forehead against mine, our breaths mingling.

I reached up, running my fingers through his hair before pulling him in for another kiss, this one deeper and more passionate. When we finally broke apart, we were both slightly breathless.

Marc started the car again, but before pulling back onto the road, he turned to me with a mischievous grin. "Now, how about we go get some ice cream and plot our revenge on those haters"

I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in days. "Ice cream, yes. Revenge... maybe we'll save that for another day."

As we drove off, hand in hand, I realized that while I couldn't control what others said about me, I could choose to surround myself with love and positivity. And with Marc by my side, I felt ready to face whatever challenges came our way.

Before we reached the ice cream shop, Marc pulled over once more. He cupped my face gently and gave me one last, lingering kiss. "You're beautiful," he murmured against my lips. "Inside and out. Don't ever forget that."

I smiled into the kiss, feeling truly loved and cherished. With Marc's support and these tender moments, I knew I could overcome any insecurity. We drove on, looking forward to our ice cream date, our hands intertwined and hearts full of love.

[honeyvettel]

43. fake dating | pecco/alex; crack treated seriously, bisexual disaster pecco bagnaia, set in 2025.; [3/3] (part two here)

the restaurant is all polished glass and dim golden lighting. pecco stands outside for a full minute, staring at his reflection in the window—shirt collar slightly rumpled from the jacket, hair doing that unfortunate curl it gets when he’s nervous. a car door suddenly slams behind his shoulder, and pecco turns, hastily. alex is striding toward him, dressed in a black button-down slightly wrinkled; his hair’s a little damp and he is adjusting his watch on the wrist. “you’re late,” pecco says flatly, because he needs something that isn’t you look annoyingly good right now. alex barely glances at the time. “fashionably late,” he bites back with a grin. pecco rolls his eyes so hard that he’s pretty sure they’re stuck at the back of his head now. he shifts his weight, glancing at the glowing entrance to the restaurant. through the glass, he can already see his old classmates laughing and hugging each other. “listen, we need to go over the story,” he says, a little urgently. “they’ll ask. hell, alessandro will probably ask. i tried to make a timeline that makes sense but i—” alex cuts him off by placing a hand on his shoulder. it’s casual, but warm, reassuring. “relax,” he breathes. “don’t need to overthink it. if you do, they’ll know something’s off.” pecco exhales, tries to keep at bay the stubborn beatings of his heart. “okay. but be convincing. and for the love of god, don’t start a debate about anything. please.” alex half-laughs, reaching to straighten his shirt collar. “no catalan pride speeches. claro.”

as soon as they step inside, a few heads turn. alessandro, naturally, is the first to stand to greet them. “so this is him, uh?” he says, not even bothering with pleasantries, dragging his eyes up and down alex’s form. alex immediately extends a hand, all smooth charm and mock-courtesy. “hi. alex. pleasure to meet you,” he cheers, with that spanish tilt to his vowels just thick enough to sound foreign and deliberate. there’s a brief pause where pecco watches as alessandro size alex up, like he’s waiting for the punchline to come. hus breath catches somewhere between his chest and his throat, until alessandro finally shakes alex’s hand. “didn’t know you had a thing for spaniards, bagnaia,” he smirks. pecco opens his mouth to say something, brows knitting, but alex beats him to it. “yeah, well,” he chuckles, flashing a look at pecco that’s just the right amount of playful and possessive, “turns out he’s got excellent taste.” 

they sit at the far end of the table, across from laura, who hugs pecco tight like it hasn’t been ten years since graduation, kisses his cheek, and tells him he looks “just the same, only more tired.” she introduces her boyfriend, a bulky guy with a handshake like a hydraulic press, and pecco nods politely, his brain too buzzed to actually register the name. alex slides in beside him a beat later, knocking his knuckles lightly against his thigh as he sits. it’s not long before the first course arrives; tiny plates with unnecessarily elegant arrangements of what looks like citrus-marinated sea bass. pecco stares down at the fish like it might judge him back. his fork clinks against the porcelain as he tries to focus on the plate, but his eyes keep flickering sideways to the brush of alex’s arm against his on the table, the not-quite-accidental press of a sneaker nudging his leather shoe. “so,” laura leans in, chin cradled in her hand. “what do you do, alex?” alex sips his wine, unhurried, then drapes an arm lazily along the back of pecco’s chair. “i’m a mechanic,” he says, smooth and effortless. “in pecco’s garage.” there’s a long stretch of silence where pecco almost chokes around his food. from the other side of the table, martina’s eyebrows shoot up, claps her hands together. “oh my god. that’s so hot. like, pit crew romance? are you kidding me?” pecco coughs. “he mostly handles the rear setup,” he mutters into his glass, fish stubbornly sticking against his palate. alex flashes him a grin that’s all teeth and zero innocence. “only when he lets me. very particular, your guy.” pecco actually kicks him under the table at that, but no one notices and alex just shifts a little closer, like he likes being within striking distance. for one long, unbearable second pecco is convinced alex is about to kiss him, right here, in front of everyone. “okay, but who did the first move?” laura breaks the spell, now suddenly intrigued. pecco’s ears burn before the heat even reaches his cheeks. he sets his fork down, neat and careful. “i did,” he says, voice strangely steady. “i, uh… crashed. nothing serious. stupid, really. but it messed with my head. i stayed overnight in the garage, trying to figure out what went wrong.” suddenly, his mind floods with scratched memories, things he thought he couldn’t even remember; him and alex, sixteen, pacing the paddock after hours, the sky velvet-black above them. he swallows. “he was still there,” pecco adds, glancing briefly at alex. “fixing the bike. not fixing, because you can’t, whatever, but— checking. i didn’t know what to say, but i was tired, and he looked like he hadn’t slept either, so i made coffee. thought i’d offer him some.” he remembers inviting alex back to his motorhome without really thinking about it, sitting side by side on the small couch, playing his old game boy and downing lukewarm red bulls. “and well…” he shrugs, cutting his fish into clean little bites just to keep his hands moving, “he took it.” a ripple of laughter goes around the table—warm and genuine. laura clasps her hands under her chin. “god, that’s actually kind of sweet.” “yeah,” pecco manages. he wants to say it’s not. that it’s not even real. that all he knows about alex marquez is that he is shitty at playing pokemon and he loves his brother more than anything holy on this planet. and that’s it.  but then alex’s hand slides over his knuckles, squeezes just enough to feel like something true. “he didn’t say it was awful,” he adds lightly, eyes still on his wine glass. “a little burnt. no sugar. but i appreciated the effort, you know.” that gets a louder laugh, echoing off the walls. pecco swallows, and doesn’t say anything at all.

he stands on the curb with his hands buried deep in his coat pockets; the distant traffic hums low beneath the rustle of leaves, streetlights twinkling between the branches. pecco has missed this—the hum of his city, his language in the mouths of strangers. alex stands beside him, absorbed in his phone. “that went surprisingly well,” he murmurs after a beat. “honestly, i thought we were going to mess it up halfway through.” alex smirks. “honestly, i didn’t think we could pull it off. me and you? ah.” he makes a little explosion gesture with his hand. “i expected at least one wine-fueled disaster or emotional breakdown. maybe two.” pecco hums, a dry little noise of agreement. he glances at alex, the sharp slope of his nose, the tousled hair curling slightly from the humidity. he looked perfect all night, like he actually belonged there. “last week,” he says suddenly, almost before he’s decided to. “you said i don’t like you.” alex looks up from his phone at that. his expression doesn’t shift much—just a slow blink, a slight tip of his head. “that’s not true,” pecco says, shifting on his feet. his hands flex inside his coat like they’re looking for something to hold. “you are—fun to be around.” alex lets out a short, soft laugh. “well, thanks for the heads-up,” he says, teasing. “i’ll remember that next time we crash into each other.” “alex,” pecco cuts in, firmer now. “you know i don’t mean half the things i say to the press. they twist it. i don’t—” “you don’t what?” pecco looks at him; the way the light from the streetlamp shadows the edges of his cheekbones. the small scar just under his eye. the soft lift of his mouth even when he’s pretending not to smile. “i don’t hate you,” he says, plainly, and something gives out in his chest. alex steps in, close enough that pecco can feel the body heat radiating off him. their shoes nearly touch. “you’re fine,” he says softly. “it was a joke. and you’re not so bad yourself.” he shrugs, like he’s not even sure why he’s saying this. “everyone would be lucky to be your real boyfriend.” pecco just stares down at the pavement, can feel the heat creeping up on his neck. he wants to believe it—even if it’s coming from someone he barely knows. maybe especially because of that. “thanks. for the pretend,” pecco adds. “and for not… making it harder than it already is.” alex studies him a moment, then flashes a smile—smaller than usual, more careful.  “anytime,” he says. “but next time, maybe something less exhausting. i don’t know. bowling? a funeral?” pecco laughs, the sound slipping out before he can stop it. the wind stirs around them, tugging at his coat. “come on,” alex says, nodding toward the street. “let’s get out of here before you start saying more nice things. i’m not built for that much sincerity in one night.” pecco rolls his eyes, but he follows, diligently. when alex’s hand brushes against his in the dark—knuckles, nothing more—he lets it happen.

[annadiplosis]

A question

Every year around April-May I release a doodle compilation with my favorite sketchbook work from the past twelve months. I'm getting started on the scanning-and-cleaning process for this year, and I've been finding a lot of collage-y/junk journal-y type of pages, along with some more personal entries that combine drawing and writing, which I'm not sure if I want to add to the mix.

On the one hand, they're a genuine reflection of the way my notebooks look, and they would add some texture and variety to the zine. On the other hand, I call this collection Just Doodling for a reason, and I do most of my writing in Catalan, so lots of you would be completely lost there anyway.

Keeping in mind that I'll take this as a guide and not a definitive answer, please tell me:

Collage / Junk Journal example:

Personal entry example:

[huariqueje]

Water , Piscina - Joaquín Ureña , 2017.

Catalan, b. 1946 -

Watercolour on paper , 65 x 65 cm.

[p0orbaby]

Oh so exciting about the currently working on!! Is there any chance you could do another like seperate universe where ale is a provider of some sort like that I love the way you write that dynamic - like she’s sort of mean but also whipped af

context: so they’re together romantically but ale gives reader like a monthly allowance

also @wosospacegirl wrote a similar trope here so go check it out!

-

You don’t ask for the money this time.

That’s what makes it worse, apparently.

“You’re getting clever,” she says, not looking up. She’s reapplying lip balm with the precision of a sniper. Her eyes are flat and reflective, like polished stone, like there’s something buried behind them—something untraceable, long dead and vacuum-sealed. “Which is dangerous. For you.”

She transfers it anyway.

You hear the low, satisfied thrum of the Monzo notification against the marble kitchen counter. Your phone doesn’t unlock—Face ID can’t identify you under the sulphur clay mask you put on half an hour ago, the one that smells faintly of wet pennies and promises a brighter complexion in twelve uses. You got it free in a PR package you never posted. The other items still sealed under your bed, probably expired. You liked the name of the brand—RUIN, all caps—and their slogan: deconstruct your skin. Thought it was funny.

You pick up the phone with a slow sort of reverence, like you’re checking exam results you already know are excellent. “Three days early,” you say, not bothering to keep the smile out of your voice. “You feeling generous, or just reckless?”

Alexia doesn’t reply. She lifts her glass of Verdejo—chilled exactly to ten degrees, the way she insists, the way you now recognise by tongue alone—and takes a measured sip, like it owes her rent. Her expression is dry and remote. Old-money disdain tempered by post-sex warmth. She’s wearing a floor-length robe in ivory silk, Valentino, vintage. The hem nearly touches the floor but never quite does—like even the fabric’s been trained not to presume.

The neckline is low enough that you catch the edge of a missed tan line, a delicate crescent just under her collarbone. A soft curve of pale skin that makes her look human, briefly. Unfinished.

You wonder, not for the first time, who left the mark. Herself, or someone else.

She sits. She always sits like it’s a statement. Like the air parts for her. The robe falls open just slightly at the thigh, enough to derail your thoughts mid-sentence. It’s not a mistake. Alexia doesn’t do those.

“You think this is a game,” she says, calmly. “It’s not Monopoly, guapa. You don’t get to collect two hundred euros for passing go.”

You tilt your head. “No, but I do get to stay in the hotel suite and wear the jewellery and get absolutely railed against floor-to-ceiling windows. That’s kind of the same thing.”

She sighs. It’s not exasperated. It’s theatrical. Composed. Like an aria just before someone is stabbed. Her toenails are painted a lurid, almost hostile shade of coral. New. You stare at them. You know her taste well enough to know she’s trying something different. A softness she hasn’t earned, or maybe a protest in disguise.

She once told you—after two negronis and a very slow orgasm—that she didn’t wear warm tones because they made her look “Mediterranean in a vulgar way.”

You’d blinked at that. “You are Mediterranean.”

“I’m Catalan,” she’d corrected. “There’s a difference.”

You’d let it slide. You’re used to her taxonomy of the self.

“You’re intolerable,” she murmurs now, almost affectionately. She’s swirling the wine with idle menace, not drinking it. “A charming parasite. Like toxoplasmosis. Very bad for pregnant women.”

You grin at her, wide and deliberate. She hates when you do that. It makes her want to ruin you. “Still keeping me around, though.”

“I don’t keep you,” she says, sharper now. Like a shard of glass wedged under skin. “You’re not a pet.”

You stand. Take the wine glass from her hand like it’s legally yours. She doesn’t stop you. Never does. She watches as you drink, watches the lipstick smear on the rim—Hermès, shade Rose Boisé, which she bought you last month in a silence that felt like penance.

“I’m not a pet,” you say, easing yourself onto her lap like you’re made of something softer than you are. She’s all tension and cheekbones and proprietary rage, but she smells like cedarwood and powdered sugar and some French brand that doesn’t even have a website. “But you do pay me. And feed me. And fuck me. So, if it quacks…”

She kisses you before you can finish. It’s brutal. Less affection, more obedience training. It makes your teeth knock a little. You like that. She doesn’t.

After, she touches your cheekbone with her mouth. It’s almost tender. Almost.

“You’re very lucky I like you,” she says, like it hurts her.

You hum into her collarbone. “Like me? Or love me?”

She doesn’t respond. But you feel her reach for her phone. She scrolls with surgical detachment, then taps something. The coat arrives two days later. The one you sent her a screenshot of at 2am, with the caption I want this like I want God to apologise.

You told her you’d forgotten about it.

She didn’t.

You don’t say thank you. You just press your mouth to her jaw, just where it starts to go sharp. You whisper, “You’re such a melt.”

Alexia exhales like she’s surrendering. “I really am.”

[unrealcities]

The levels of content are, quite frankly, off the charts. Content-wise, Arsenal have come to Lisbon, eaten and left no crumbs. Katie McCabe sliding on her belly along the dressing room floor through a pool of champagne. Alex Scott and Jess Glynne in their retro tops. Managing to drop the F-bomb on live teatime television, not once but twice. McCabe recreating the moment she threw a ball at Chloe Kelly’s head during a Women’s Super League game, only this time with the Champions League trophy. And then, in their more reflective moments, thoughts turn to the past. To where they came from. To the journey, those who came, and those who couldn’t make it all the way. Laia Codina wraps herself in the Catalan flag. Leah Williamson and her father share an embrace. Beth Mead thinks about her late mother. Kelly reminisces about her academy days, getting the train from Finsbury Park to Potters Bar with Lotte Wubben-Moy. Because nobody ever gets themselves to a Champions League final. You are delivered, like stones in a river, by the forces and influences that shaped you. In retrospect it all makes perfect narrative sense, perhaps even feels preordained. But in truth there is still a certain element of shock to be processed, at how the dominant team in women’s football, coming into the final on the back of 18 goals in their four knockout games, were stifled so comprehensively on the biggest stage. Really only a handful of people saw Arsenal’s 1-0 win over Barcelona coming, and pretty much all of them were employees of Arsenal Football Club.

[pitchsidestories]

together II Ewa Pajor x Lewandowski!Reader

masterlist I word count: 2924

a/n: dear readers, this is an angstier oneshot, so only read it when you're in the right headspace for a heavier story, take care. Little reminder that your feedback is always appreciated. 🫶🏻 🫶🏻

warnings: swearing, hints to an abusive relationship in reader's past

“Y/n? Is the dinner done? I don’t smell anything. Y/n?! You useless piece of shit.”

His curses and insults echoed around your flat in Warsaw. In a city that had to be almost completely rebuilt after the end of the Second World War, including the historic city centre, his world collapsed. 

Your husband was horrified to discover that all your things were gone except for your wedding ring and a farewell letter, including the divorce papers, which you had left for him on the dining table.

With hands shaking with anger, he read what you had written.

Like your hometown, you would put your heart, which had shattered into many fragmented pieces, back together again and hopefully become happier than you were now. You had enough of him, his unruliness and his violence, the man who convinced you that you weren't good enough, even though you had always been enough.

It was just a lie to keep you down, but that was over now.

It almost felt unreal for you to sit many kilometres away from your former husband in the guestroom of your brother’s grand house in Barcelona in front of a huge mirror.

In the reflection you could see said sibling stomp impatiently his feet. “Can you hurry up now?! I don’t have all night.”

“Just a second.”, you chuckled, applying your lipstick only fuelling the older man’s impatience.

“Ugh.”, Robert rolled his eyes.

“Now we can go, idiot.”, you told him smirking.

“Excuse me? You wouldn’t even be going without this impatient idiot.”, he protested, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Yes, and you wouldn’t even have a female plus one at your side because all your girls are sick.”, you reminded him, playfully hitting his upper arm with your purse.

“I’d rather not have that plus one be my own sister.”, the striker teased, rubbing the place you had hit before softly, pretending it hurt.

“Rude. I can stay here if you prefer that.”, you offered.

“No.”, the dark-haired man stated firmly.

“Let’s get it over with, shall we?”, you linked arms with your brother.

“Please.”, Robert sighed.

At the event which the Catalan club has initiated you were stunned by the amount of people attended it. Especially when your sibling had claimed that this was only the men and women’s football team.

“Wow, there are a lot of people here.”, you observed.

“Surprise?”, Robert smiled amusedly.

 “Well, it’s a bit intimidating.”, you admitted nervously.

“Don’t pee yourself.”, he joked.

“Shut it. My husband is scarier than this.”, you replied, a cold shiver ran down your spine at the thought of him.

“Don’t bring him up right now.”, the striker begged. He planned the evening to be a distraction for you.

Catching the sight of something you changed the topic quickly. “Come on, time to see what the buffet has to offer.”  

You dragged your bother along with you towards the food. While you studied all the different dishes, you completely missed that someone had approached your brother in the meantime.

“Oh hi.“, you heard a female voice say which caused you to look up immediately.

“Hi Ewa, great to see you again. Anything that caught your eye?”, your brother asked politely.

You frowned as you silently followed the conversation.

“The paella looks nice but oh man do I miss homemade pierogi.“, the woman smiled.

You might have been wrong but you were sure there was a slight sadness in her smile.

“Oh me too. But luckily my sister is here.“, Robert laughed, pointing towards you.

Your eyes widened, surprised that he pulled you into this conversation when all you wanted to do was grab some food.

“That gorgeous woman next to you is your sister?”, the woman that Robert introduced as Ewa exclaimed. She immediately blushed, seemingly shocked that the words had actually left her mouth.

Robert grimaced: “Yes?”

“Wow.“

You chuckled. It wasn’t everyday that people reacted that way upon meeting you. “Just to clarify, I can do more than cook pierogi and look pretty.“

“That’s impressive.“, Ewa laughed.

Robert interrupted the two of you: “Please, you’re quite impressive yourself, Ewa. I heard you’re already making a name for yourself at Barca femeni.“

She shyly tucked a lose strand of hair behind her ear: “Well, I did score a few goals.“

“You did? That’s amazing.“, you commented, suddenly intrigued.

“Uhm yes.“

“Did you find it easy to settle in Barcelona?”, you asked.

Another smile flashed across her face: “Actually yes. With the help of my team mates.“

“Sounds like a perfect start.“

“It was.“

“My sister is new here too, you know.“, Robert said suddenly and you could tell from the look on his face that he was planning something.

Ewas face turned to him with curiosity: “She isn’t just here to visit?”

“No, she’ll stay here for a while actually.“, he confirmed, clearly suppressing a smirk.

“Oh great. I could show you some coffee shops. That’s what my teammates did too when I moved here.“, she suggested.

You tilted your head at her, studying her face: “You would?”

She nodded: “Sure, if you’re interested.“

“Yes, I love coffee.“

“Me too.“

There was a second of silence, just the two of you smiling at each other. Robert and the food faded into the background.

“Maybe we should exchange numbers so you can text me when you’re free?”, you suggested once your brain was no longer preoccupied with staring at her.

“Sure.“ She quickly pulled her phone from her pocket and offered it to you to type in your number. Right in time because she was quickly surrounded by her own teammates while your brother pulled you along to introduce you to too many people.

You had already forgotten their names when you got into the cab taking you back to your brothers house.

“Ewa and you…“, Robert said into the silence of the car.

You blinked at him innocently, playing dumb: “What about us?”

“You got a along well.”, he noted.

“Ewa’s very nice.”, you tried to brush his observation off.

“Nice?”, your brother raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah?”, you replied, trying to hide your blushed cheek with one hand, so Robert couldn’t see it. For your sibling you always have been an open book. Even in your darkest time when you tried to conceal how you really felt he saw right through your emotionless façade.

“I see.”, the striker smirked knowingly.

“You see what?”, you wanted to know in a curious tone.

“Oh nothing.”, your brother waved it off.

“Robert.”

“No.” After a pause the football player added smiling. “But she’s nice.”

“Yes, and she called me gorgeous.”, you remembered fondly.

“Of course you liked that.”, Robert said.

“I haven’t been called that for a while so yes it felt nice.”, you admitted. Unpleasant pictures you wish you could erase from your memory came back to the surface.

“You know what I think about your husband.”, your sibling hissed, his jaw tightened while he parked the car in front of the unlit house.

 “I left him this time.. I’m not going back.”, you assured him. With a heavy heart you revealed the fading bruise around your neck to him.

When you closed your eyes, it brought you straight to the moment he did it, the second you thought you wouldn’t make it out here alive, luckily, he had to leave for his job and a good friend of yours helped you out of this situation. Bitterly you thought to yourself that not everyone had as much luck as you.

“He did it again?”, Robert asked, feeling the hot anger rise in him whilst he spoke.  

“Yes.”, you confirmed quietly. Suddenly you were very tired from the day you experienced.

“And of course you’re not going back. I warned him the first time.”, he went on.

Once you stood in front of the guestroom door you turned your head around to face your brother. “Good night, Robbie.”

“Try to get some sleep.”, the footballer answered gently.

“You should too.”, you wore a sad smile on your lips before entering the generous bedroom where the scent of freshly washed linen filled up your nose and immediately calmed you down for the night.

A childish hope in you sparked that this might keep the bad nightmares at bay. Although you knew better than that.

You escaped the danger in person of your former husband and yet it would take some time to release the fear which has crept into your everyday life. Like your nieces when they were younger you would take baby steps to get your old confident self-back.

The nightstand lamp was on as you replayed the conversation with Ewa in your mind. You loved the way her catlike eyes lit up with excitement as she talked about the club, her teammates, the city and her love for the polish dish. It was the last thing you saw behind your eyes before you fell asleep.

Ewa was about to leave the Barcelona training grounds the next day, freshly showered and in clothes that took her hours to pick out.

With her bag in one hand, she waved goodbye to her teammates: “Sorry girls, I got to go. I’m meeting up with someone.“

Kika stopped walking next to her with a frown: “What? With who?”

“With a beautiful woman.“, Ewa admitted quietly, blushing slightly. Her skin prickled as if she had said something forbidden.

Ellie smiled at her with genuine happiness: “A date?”

“Uhm… well, I don’t know… Lewy might kill me if I’d ask her on a date.“

“Lewy?”, Kika echoed.

“Lewy as in Robert Lewandowski. He’s her brother.“, Ewa explained.

A quiet “Oh…“ escaped Kikas lips.

Ewa nodded in agreement to whatever was going through Kikas head: “Yes, exactly.“

“I think it’s worth a try.“, Ellie shrugged.

“You think so? Oh shit, I really got to go now. Otherwise I will be late.“, Ewa realized with a look at the clock on her phone screen. She hadn’t noticed how long they were standing in front of the gate talking.

She waved one last time and left.

“Have fun!”, Ellie called after her.

You were already waiting in front of the small café when Ewa arrived. She was three minutes late but smiling brightly as she caught sight of you.

“Ewa, hi.“, you greeted her and pulled her in for a quick hug.

“Hi.“

“Great to see you again.“, you said as you took her in. She looked cute in her jeans and a little cardigan. Her hair was still lightly wet and smelled like roses.

“Good to see you too.“

With all pleasantries exchanged, you walked inside the coffeeshop and straight towards the counter. Turning towards Ewa, you asked: “What coffee can I get for you?”

“A cappuccino please.“, she replied politely, appearing positively surprised by the fact that you wanted to order for her.

“Okay.“ You gave her a nod and turned back to the barista while she took a seat at a table close to the window.

You took the spot across from her, with two coffees in hand and slid one over to her: “Here you go.“

“Thank you.“, she smiled at you gratefully and took a sip.

“You’re welcome.“

You both sat there in silence for a moment, just enjoying your coffee and a little unsure about what to do next.

“So? How’s Barcelona?”, Ewa asked suddenly.

“I love it so far.“, you answered truthfully. Even though your brother was always busy, he had taken some time out of his day to show you around and you immediately understood why he never wanted to leave again.

Ewa nodded understandingly: “It’s pretty nice, right?”

“Yes, the weather is perfect.”, you replied.

“Yeah, I like that the most too.”, the forward admitted with a huge smile on her lips.

“Besides the football I guess.”, you mused.

“That’s pretty nice too.”, she admitted, one hand placed to her heated cheek.

“Maybe I should see you play at some point.”, you thought out loud, realizing her blush only intensified under your gaze.  

“You’re always welcome at our games.”, Ewa remarked happily.

“That’s sweet of you.”, you muttered immensely grateful for her kindness and open-mindedness.

“I mean it. We’re always glad to have some spectators.”, she added beaming.

“I’ll be coming. Promise.”, you assured her.

“But you don’t have to.”, the striker ran nervously a hand through her now fully dried hair.

“I want to go though.”, you stated.

“Okay, of course.”, she cleared her throat.

“Of course? You still sound surprised.”, you lifted an eyebrow.

“No, I uhm… I just can’t wait for you to come and watch us.”, Ewa confessed.

“When’s your next home game?”, you asked.

“Saturday. I can get you a ticket if you’d like.”, the football player offered.

“Yes, please.”, you affirmed delighted.

“I’m taking care of it.”, she hummed.

“Thank you.”

 “No, thank you for wanting to come.”, the Polish women’s national team captain waved it off.

Agreeing to this almost felt forbidden, the glances you had exchanged with her during the coffee shop felt unholy.

Back in your home country you rarely saw this intimacy between two women, even if it was only in their eyes.

Here in Barcelona, you noticed that female couples were holding hands as they walked by like they weren’t afraid of other people seeing that. You admired their bravery.

Maybe Ewa was a bit shy, still the striker made clear that she very much wanted to see you again.

 On Saturday the banter was on a high in the team’s changing room.

“So, she’s coming to our game today?”, Kika wiggled her dark eyebrows.

“She’s.”, Ewa confirmed.

“And you both like each other.”, Ellie observed smirking.

“Maybe we do.” A nervous laughter came from the Polish striker’s mouth.

You had seen enough football games in your lifetime to recognize that Ewa was a fantastic player. Amazed, you watched the woman and her team play.

After the match was officially over, she immediately went to find you in the stands, still a little out of breath she turned up in front of you.

“Ewa, fantastic came.”, you congratulated her.

“Thank you.”, Ewa grinned.

“I loved watching it.”, you couldn’t contain your excitement.

The football players eyes softened slightly: “You did?”

“Yes… also on your free day I’ve my brothers home to myself so you could come over to try my pierogi.“, you suggested, trying to sound as casual as possible and not like you persuaded your brother to help with your plan.

“You will make us pierogi?”, Ewa asked excitedly.

“Jep.“, you confirmed with a single nod which caused the football player to beam at you.

You could get used to that face.

A few days later, you welcomed Ewa into your brothers luxurious house. With your clothes already covered in flour, you led her to the unnecessarily huge kitchen where you had already started preparing the polish dumplings.

Once the first serving was done, you turned to Ewa who watched with careful eyes as you filled and closed the edges of the dough: “Do you want to try them?”

She nodded: “Yes please.“

You plated a few with melted butter and a dab of sour cream on the side and pushed the plate towards Ewa.

She took a bite, chewing with her eyes closed.

“And? What do you think of them?”, you asked curiously.

“Wow. They’re so good. They almost taste like the ones at home.“, the football player confirmed.

You blushed slightly. You knew everyone made theirs a bit differently so to hear they tasted like home was one of the biggest compliments you could get.

“They’re amazing.“

“Just like you.“ You paused, horrified. You didn’t know why you had said that. “Shit, I mean…“

“You mean?”, Ewa repeated, trying to coax you into explaining.

“Please forget it… I never said that to a woman. Maybe I only thought it back in Poland.“

An icy shiver ran down your spine, thinking about the situation back at home where even the thought felt forbidden.

You suddenly felt Ewas hand on yours, her thumb gently rubbing over the back of your hand: “Hey, you can say that here. I feel the same way about you.“

“But you don’t know me… not fully yet. My hus-… ex-husband, the thought I was worthless.“

Your eyes met across the table. Neither of you pulled her hand back.

“I don’t have to know what he thought about you. I only care about what I know about you.“, Ewa said, her voice was soft and quiet but she sounded sure about it.

“And what do you know?”

The corners of her mouth quirked up slightly: “That you’re very sweet and I like you lot.“

Biting your lip, you admitted: “I think the same about you to be honest…“

“See, we want the same thing.“

“Looks like we do.“

“Would it be okay if I…?”

“Yes.“, you replied before she even finished her question but from the way her gaze lowered towards your lips, you knew what she was about to ask.

“Yes?”

“Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt you.“

She frowned: “You didn’t even know what I wanted to say.”

“Please, go on.“

“Would it be okay if I kissed you right now?”, Ewa finally finished her question.

You nodded with a smile: “Very okay.“

She leaned over the counter to you and kissed you. It was gentle, warm and comforting like the pierogi that lay forgotten in front of you. It had been a long time since anything had felt so right.