#ona judge

[little-desi-historian]

Black Historical Figures I think are cool af! (2025 edition)

Happy Black History Month! Below the cut, you'll find a list of 10 black historical figures I think are super cool (and often overlooked in favour of their white/non-black counterparts) all of the figures are inspirational to me in some way and I think anyone can learn from their examples, regardless of race.

Toussaint Louvetre  - a self educated slave who beat the 'the world's greatest general' Napoleon Bonaparte and ensured Bonaparte did not annex Haiti for France or reinstate Caribbean slavery in the new free nation of Haiti.

James Baldwin  - black bisexual activist and writer of fiction and nonfiction, and decolonial philosopher.

Ona Judge  - never caught by George Washington or his hypocritical descendants and I think that is badass as hell, a shame we don't know more about her and women like her.

Audre Lorde  - black lesbian feminist poet, thinker, and professor a proponent of intersectional feminism.

Bessie Smith  - black bisexual "Empress of the Blues," also a successful businesswoman and winner of multiple Grammy awards.

Tori Cooper  - black trans woman and HIV/AIDS activist.

Marie-Claire Heureuse Félicite - The first Empress of Haiti.

Alexander Pétion  - first president of the free Republic of Haiti.

Boukman Dutty - Vodou priest who helped lead the Haitian revolution.

Thomas Alexandre Dumas - father of the eventual author Alexandre Dumas and actual greatest European general of all time.

[whitesinhistory]

President George Washington Offers Reward for Capture of Black Woman Fleeing Enslavement

On May 23, 1796, a newspaper ad was placed seeking the return of Ona “Oney” Judge, an enslaved Black woman who had “absconded from the household of the President of the United States,” George Washington. Ms. Judge had successfully escaped enslavement two days earlier, fleeing Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and settling in freedom in New Hampshire.

Known to the Washingtons as “Oney,” Ms. Judge was "given" to Martha Washington by her father and had been held enslaved as part of the Washington estate since she was 10 years old. As George Washington gained political clout, Ms. Judge traveled with the family to states with varying laws regarding slavery—including lengthy residence in Pennsylvania. Pennsylvania’s Gradual Abolition Act of 1780 declared that Black people enslaved by non-residents of the state were legally freed after living in Pennsylvania for six continuous months. To avoid enforcement of the law and prevent the men and women they enslaved from being legally freed, the Washingtons regularly sent Ms. Judge and others in the household out of state for brief periods, to restart the six-month residency requirement.

When her eldest granddaughter, Eliza Custis, married, Martha Washington promised to leave Ms. Judge to the new couple as a "gift" in her will. Distressed that she would be doomed to enslavement even after Martha Washington died, Ms. Judge resolved to run in 1796. On the night of May 21, while the Washingtons were packing to return to Mount Vernon, Ms. Judge made her escape from Philadelphia on a ship destined for Portsmouth, New Hampshire. She had befriended many enslaved people in Philadelphia and they helped her to send her belongings to New Hampshire before her escape.

The Washingtons tried several times to apprehend Ms. Judge, hiring head-hunters and issuing runaway advertisements like the one submitted on May 23. In the ad, she is described as “a light mulatto girl, much freckled, with very Black eyes and bushy Black hair. She is of middle stature, slender, and delicately formed, about 20 years of age.” The Washingtons offered a $10 reward for Ms. Judge's return to bondage—but she evaded capture, married, had several children, and lived for more than 50 years as a free woman in New Hampshire. She died there, still free, on February 25, 1848.

[fictionz]

When Ona Staines was asked to reflect upon her escape, her interviewer put forth a question that could be asked of any successful fugitive who lived a life in the shadows. The interviewer wrote, "When asked if she is not sorry she left Washington, as she has labored so much harder since, than before, her reply is 'No, I am free, and I have, I trust, been made a child of God by the means.' "

[pythiaswine]

old news, but not to some people. it is our moral duty to bring these things to attention, not ignoring that someone was a slaveowner just because they were otherwise important figures whom our society wants so badly to revere.

Washington’s slaves

okay, look. i thought the idea of Washington as a “good” slaveowner had been debunked so thoroughly that i would have nothing further to contribute. but the other day i saw a post cross my dash that made me realize that there are a lot of bad, poorly-supported arguments out there. i can’t replicate the post, since OP has deleted it, and i’m not interested in responding to OP in particular, but rather to all the misconceptions i saw. hopefully this will be useful in correcting those! many thanks are due to @herowndeliverance for editing help :)

here are some misconceptions re: George Washington and slavery + debunkation:

“he was actually nice to his slaves!”

completely and utterly false. first of all, the simple act of enslaving someone is NOT NICE. the notion that there can be a “benign slaveowner” is utterly absurd. slaves’ entire lives were stolen from them. their labor made Washington’s fortune and gave him his social position. the ~300 slaves at Mount Vernon did often backbreaking work six days a week under extreme coercion, were kept purposefully uneducated and illiterate, and had no legal recourse if they were treated cruelly–which they were. we have direct, textual evidence that Washington encouraged his overseers to beat and whip slaves who he deemed were misbehaving, defiant, or shirking work.

worst of all, if Washington had a slave whom he considered particularly problematic, he would sell them to the West Indies. Mount Vernon’s website is a great source of info on most of this, but here all they say is that this was a way of “ensuring that the person would never see their family or friends at Mount Vernon again.” this is an almost comical understatement. anyone who’s read the Chernow biography of Hamilton knows what a hellscape the West Indian sugar plantations were; life expectancy was about eight years once a slave started work. since Washington visited the sugar islands as a young man, he wasn’t ignorant of conditions there. but if a slave inconvenienced him too much, he sent them anyway.

was Washington an especially cruel master by the standards of his day? probably not. was he nice? the whole concept of “nice” can’t apply to this situation, but even if it could, Washington wouldn’t be it.

“freeing slaves would have been cruel… for the slaves”

slaves tried to escape Mount Vernon fairly frequently. one very famous case is that of Ona Judge, one of Martha Washington’s slaves, who escaped Philadelphia just before the end of Washington’s second term as President. even though the Washingtons contacted her and asked/ berated/ threatened in attempts to bring her back, Ona refused point blank to return. she spent her whole life as a fugitive in the woods in New Hampshire rather than go back to life as a slave. and it’s worth noting that she was Martha Washington’s favorite– she had the relatively fortunate position of working in the house. another slave who escaped the Washingtons, Hercules, was a very skilled chef, and also had a relatively “soft” job.

A short time after the cook’s escape, a visitor to Mount Vernon asked one of Hercules’s young daughters if she was upset that she would never see her father again. Her answer surprised him: “Oh! Sir, I am very glad, because he is free now.”  (citation)

i should note that nobody was able to find out what happened to Hercules. he could have been killed on the journey north, kidnapped and sold back into slavery (more on this later) or he could have gotten away. being an escaped slave was dangerous business. yet Ona Judge and other escaped slaves preferred a lifetime of poverty and marginalization to even the least physically taxing slavery, and Ona Judge affirmed her preference for freedom in multiple newspaper interviews at the end of her life.

furthermore, southerners lived in constant fear of slave rebellions. the possibility of a slave rebellion was one of the reasons South Carolina couldn’t muster an adequate militia during the Revolution. slaves actively resisted being slaves and many risked their lives for the possibility of freedom.

so let’s put it this way: if emancipating slaves would truly have been so cruel to them… why did they have to be brutally coerced into staying slaves? why did so many try to escape or rebel in spite of that? the actions that slaves took really speak for themselves to debunk the argument that freedom would have been somehow cruel to them.

“slavery was normal at the time, so Washington didn’t know any better”

first of all, not all people who were raised when slavery was normal continued to hold those ideas throughout their lives. this included people whom Washington knew and liked. John Laurens, son of a man who made his fortune off of slavery, is one obvious example. another is Ben Franklin, who accepted slavery unquestioningly as a younger man, in fact owning slaves, but completely changed his mind later in life, directly petitioning Congress to abolish slavery. the Quakers, with a strong presence in the national capital of Philadelphia, also lobbied for an end to slavery. it was far from a universally-accepted practice in Washington’s day.

okay, so clearly SOME people realized slavery was wrong. but that didn’t mean a world without slavery was something a person of average intellectual/ moral vision could conceive of, right? (notice how little credit Washington apologists have to give him here? he was just a victim of his times! he could see a way to free America from Britain but by golly, freeing his own slaves was just too much of a stretch for his poor conventional brain to make) except the idea that slavery was normal everywhere is, again, totally wrong.

during the Washington administration the American seat of government was in Philadelphia. Pennsylvania had passed an Act for the Gradual Abolition of Slavery in 1780– during the Revolution, way before Washington assumed the Presidency in 1789. the law stated that any slave who stayed in Philadelphia for six continuous months would be freed. this meant that the Washingtons had to set up a rotation system, taking their slaves back to Virginia or just across the river to New Jersey (everything is legal in New Jersey) to restart the clock. the slaves were perfectly aware this was going on. we don’t have record of what they thought about it– but let’s be real, it must have been the most agonizing, infuriating process in the world. technically Washington wasn’t breaking the law, but he was certainly using a loophole to within an inch of its life.

Philadelphia also had the nation’s largest free black community as a result of this law– there were several thousand free blacks in the city and only a few hundred slaves. the Washingtons were the exception to the rule the whole time they were there.

furthermore, Washington probably violated the tissue-thin protections granted fugitive slaves in his own Fugitive Slave Act of 1793 when he tried to bring Ona Judge back. the law required the slaveowner or his agent to bring a fugitive slave before a court, affirm it was really them, and get the judge’s okay before bringing them back to a life of slavery. Washington twice attempted to end run around this process– Ona refused to play ball.

citation for most of the previous two paragraphs: Never Caught, by Erica Armstrong Dunbar, and this podcast where she talks extensively about the book and the research she did for it. [note the podcast seems to be aimed at old white dudes, so they do spend time on some arguments that are pretty damn obvious to anyone who’s taken a race/ gender studies class. but it still has lots of good information.]

also, there’s a Drunk History on Ona Judge that is quite good

“he couldn’t legally emancipate his slaves”

okay, that’s partially true. about 2/3 of the Mount Vernon slaves, and Ona Judge, were Martha’s. “Martha’s” slaves were actually Custis estate “dower slaves” left over from her first marriage, and held in reserve for her grandchildren. it was all legally very tied up. but the fact remains that Martha did emancipate a lot of George’s slaves (not her own) after George’s death– not out of the goodness of her heart, mind you, but because he’d stipulated they’d be freed after she died, and she didn’t want to give them all incentive to kill her. so, George and Martha did have the legal power to free at least George’s slaves, around 100 people. the circumstances under which Martha freed them are not to her moral credit. i want to keep this focused on George because it’s already so long, but Martha benefited just as much or more from slavery as him, and respecting her as someone with her own moral agency requires we acknowledge her failings as her own. 

all of this debate about treatment of individual slaves really misses the point, however. arguing about how Washington personally treated his own slaves ignores his political actions. Washington signed into law the Fugitive Slave Act of 1793 while he was President.

what’s that?

here’s some things the Fugitive Slave Act of 1793 (full original text here) did:

made it so that slaves escaping from slave states into free states were still legally considered slaves

made it legal for masters or their representatives to arrest suspected fugitive slaves in free states, take them before a judge, and, upon proving their identity “by oral testimony or affidavit,” (a.k.a. “yes, this is my slave, pinky swear”– needless to say, this clause meant slave-staters could basically legally kidnap and enslave any free black person, even from a free state) return them to slavery

fined people who knowingly helped fugitive slaves

furthermore, slavery was inherited based on the mother’s legal status– so, if a woman escaped slavery, went to a free state, and had children, her children were legally speaking slaves to her old master. this is what happened to Ona Judge. this is why she and her children were still in hiding in the woods in New Hampshire in the 1850s– Martha’s granddaughter was still alive. legally, she owned them all.

as President, Washington’s power to do harm to slaves was far greater than as a private individual. he used that power to legally entrench slavery, extending the power of slave states to enforce slave laws even in free states.

some argue that Washington’s priority was preserving the Union/ keeping southern states happy, and that doing so required a soft stance on slavery. people who are better-qualified historians than i am can debate that point. however, even IF a conciliatory approach to the south on a policy level was necessary for Washington to get his political priorities accomplished, that still says something about what his priorities were (e.g. certainly not with helping slaves). AND, we also have to think about the example that Washington’s prominent use of slave labor as President set for the rest of the country. his personal conduct and decisions about his own household weren’t subject to the same considerations as his political actions. and yet, Washington’s choice to use slaves not only in Mount Vernon but also in New York and Philadelphia was a powerful (if implicit) pro-slavery signal.

Americans idolized Washington– his personal conduct was seen as exemplary for the whole nation. what kind of message did it send to the nation that the Washingtons brought slaves to Philadelphia– a free city– during their administration? it sent the message that slavery was not just normal, but morally okay. it sent the message that slavers subverting the laws of free states was not just normal, but morally okay.

Washington’s life was enormously consequential for this country. he was a complicated person–like we all are!– and he did make some choices that were really, really good for America, like trying to stay above political parties, and dealing effectively with the crises of his administration, and setting the precedent of retiring after two terms. his terrible treatment of slaves and his work to reinforce and normalize slavery don’t erase the good he did. but nor does the good he did excuse the bad. we simply cannot pretend that what Washington did– towards his slaves personally, and regarding slavery politically– is just an artifact of his upbringing. he chose to act the way he did, and if we’re going to understand the USA and the depth of the historical injury done to America’s black community by slavery, Washington’s moral failings are a critical part of the story.

[blackdiasporanews]

On This Day - May 23, 1796

President George Washington Offers Reward for Capture of Black Woman Fleeing Enslavement

[ro-is-futile]

see this is why how we talk about history is so important. im listening to hamilton w/ my mommy (long car ride sowry). and there’s a line where it’s said GW should “go back to planting tobacco in Mt Vernon.” GW was “planting tobacco in Mt Vernon” in the sense that he owned a plantation operated by people trafficked into slavery, or descandants of people trafficked into slavery— a slave class. But “human trafficking” dosnt roll off the tongue like “planting tobacco” lol.

[onabatlle-2]

travel day part 2/2, via fcb femeni's ig story, 13/1/24

[groove-on-boogie-down]

Adding context, Ona Judge was an enslaved woman Martha Washington (and George Washington) owned. She was born into slavery and began officially working at 10 under her mother, Betty who became Martha’s after Martha’s first husband died.

I am listening to a book about Ona Judge, and I just had a thought about the Acolyte and, while different, I feel there is a parallel here in the Jedi coming into this established community, and separating a Black Child from her Black Mother.

Not to mention the tragic mass murder.

Now, being a jedi is not slavery, so I’m not making that connection to diminish what our ancestors experienced nor to compare the jedi to slave masters. But children separated from their families is the parallel I noticed which feels particularly pertinent given Mother Aniseya, Osha and Mae being black and the show’s focus on autonomy and choice.

[little-desi-historian]

Thinking about Ona(y) Judge again on this fine Tuesday afternoon and… *anguished screams that turns to angry sobbing*.

[melpomeneprose]

( Honestly? I’m indifferent to most every historical fiction George Washington save for @historiavn’s and I will loudly criticize real historical! Washington.

I cannot overlook the Ona Judge thing.

Was Washington a charismatic leader and good choice for first president? Yeah! But most of the Americans success following Valley Forge is on Washington’s aides to camp/secretaries (people like Benjamin Tallmadge & John Laurens), Baron Von Steuben and Nathanael Greene.

Was he a good person or even above average in his times? Absolutely not! )

Power, Coercion, and Seduction

One of the most bizarre popular interpretations of The Patriot for me is the idea that Colonel Tavington forces Benjamin Martin to become involved in the Patriot war effort when he targets his family. This reading presents Martin's violence as merely a reaction to Tavington's choices. What it overlooks is not only that Martin has agency, but he has more than anyone else in the story. That agency should come with some responsibility; instead, all responsibility for Martin's violence within the narrative falls on the shoulders of a man who has to ask his general for permission to terrorize civilians in the film's third act. For all the pearl-clutching over Tavington killing surrendering soldiers first, he is also the only officer in the film to take prisoners, which only happens because General Cornwallis ordered him to give quarter. Do we not think he would have been torturing civilians for information about The Ghost before the militia was even trained if Cornwallis had allowed it?

People often use Tavington's desire for power to contrast him unfavorably with Martin, but Martin has no lack of power to produce a craving. Colonel Harry Burwell gives him orders when he puts him in charge of the militia, but he follows or does not follow them based on his whims. He allows his men to murder surrendering soldiers until his son and subordinate calls out his hypocrisy. His orders are to target supply trains, but he uses his force to rescue his own children and attempts to do the same for his friend, John Billings' family. When they fail, he gives his men a week's furlough and marries off his son, all while the Continental Army is planning a major engagement with the enemy. Either Martin has extremely poor communication with the Army, which the film never addresses, or he is simply a law unto himself. While Tavington languishes in impotence because his general will not allow him the brutal tactics that ultimately prove so effective, Martin is riding around doing exactly as he pleases, the Ron Swanson of the American Revolution.

He even makes plans to leave on the eve of battle after Gabriel's death, and all Burwell can do is plead with him in the words of his late wife to "stay the course," that his men need him and . . .

That's desertion, Harold. If one of your Regular officers tried that, you'd court martial him. Clearly, no one can make Martin do anything he does not want to do, least of all Tavington.

Since Tavington actually is subject to the authority of his superior officers, he is reliant on seduction and manipulation to get what he wants. In the case of Cornwallis, he offers the general glory free from consequence, a tall order that he definitely cannot fill . He gets what he wants from Captain Wilkins, who is under his orders, not by threatening him but by appealing to his desire to save face. Wilkins said those who stood against England deserved to die traitors' deaths; Tavington frames himself as giving him the opportunity to prove it, and it works. Burning the Patriot civilians in Pembroke Church is Wilkins' choice like granting Tavington carte blanche is Cornwallis's choice.

Coercion compels a person to do something against their desires; seduction gives a person permission to act on desires already present. When Tavington murders Thomas, he does not transform Martin from a pacifist to a man for whom violence is the only option in that moment. Martin already has a stockpile of weapons in waiting. He knows exactly where to find his French and Indian War buddies, and he has better battle plans than any of the Continental generals. When it comes to violence, Benjamin Martin stays ready.

I would argue that killing Martin's sons is an act of seduction as well as an incitement to violence, but as is the case with the other two men, these acts have only as much power as Martin gives them. The face-off in which Martin tells Tavington "Before the war is over I am going to kill you" and Tavington replies "why wait?" represents another attempt on Tavington's part to seduce Martin into violence, but this time he fails. In a later scene, cut from the theatrical release, he tries and fails to seduce Cornwallis into assuring his reward, and the two scenes share striking visual similarities. Both feature over the shoulder shots that position the two men far closer than they need to be for the purpose of conversation. The scene with Cornwallis is more on the nose. Tavington's shirt is open, his hair is loose, the orderly leaves without bidding as the two draw closer, almost as though similar scenes have played out between them recently that had very different endings to this one. But there is no lack of heat between Martin and Tavington at the gate of Fort Carolina, particularly compared to the single seduction scene that actually precipitates sex, between Ben and Charlotte. Yikes.

Neither Martin nor Cornwallis gives in to Tavington's seduction in these scenes, which should reinforce that they are in charge of their own behavior and thus culpable for their choices. And to the extent that blame for the British defeat falls on anyone but Tavington, it falls on Cornwallis. That seems fair enough; he is the general of the British Army in the southern colonies. But when the blame for Martin's poor choices somehow also falls on Tavington . . . the story loses me. But I suppose that is part of the fantasy for the film's intended audience. Martin gets the benefit of both ultimate authority over his actions and complete immunity to their consequences. Perhaps he should have run against George Washington given that these are the very qualities some Americans seem to look for in a president.

[cupofteatoyou2]

What if she chose me pt4

You wake before the sun.

Not from a alarm, not from a dream—just… awake. Like your body knew before your mind could catch up. Like something in your blood whispered, Today matters. And now here you are, staring at the ceiling in the half-dark, chest already tight.

The world is still. Silent. But inside your skin, everything buzzes.

You lie there a while, barely breathing, letting your eyes adjust to the slow gold of dawn leaking through the curtains. The room is the same as it was last night—clothes folded on the chair, shoes lined up by the door, borrowed hoodie slung across the back of the couch. Familiar.

But nothing feels familiar today.

You shift under the covers, muscles tense from too little sleep and too many rehearsed mistakes. You’ve been cycling through every possible scenario for hours—missed tackles, overhit passes, misplaced touches, Alexia’s voice ringing sharp in your ears like she never stopped speaking.

You turn over, press your face into the pillow, and try not to scream.

Your phone buzzes.

You fumble for it, blinking against the brightness of the screen.

Mapi: If you trip walking out of the tunnel today, I’ll fake a hamstring tear in solidarity. You’re welcome.

You stare at it for a second. Then snort. Then another message appears.

Mapi: Also, wear the bra that gives you defender energy. Not the one that says "I’m nice, please pass to me."

You chuckle this time—actual, reluctant laughter, just loud enough to fill the quiet around you. Your chest eases, just a little.

You reply with one hand tucked under the covers.

Y/N: What does defender energy even look like?

Mapi: “I will shoulder-check your soul into orbit.” That’s the energy. Find it.

You smile. It’s small, but it sticks. Your thumb lingers over her message for a second longer than necessary.

Find it.

You stare at the ceiling again, heart still quick, thoughts still racing—but something about the absurdity of her support—of her—lets you breathe a little deeper. She’s chaos wrapped in glitter, but somehow she’s also the calm before your storm.

You throw the covers off, feet hitting the floor like an oath. Let’s Game day begin.

You move through the morning like a half-formed version of yourself.

Shower. Dry off. Pull on your clothes layer by layer like armor. Re-tie your laces three times before accepting they’ll never sit perfectly. You eat half a banana before your stomach decides that’s a declaration of war.

You pull your hair back into a tight braid. The kind that says I’m here to fight.

But even then, you can feel it. The nerves. The weight of the start. It presses behind your eyes and crawls along your spine. Not fear exactly—but something cousin-close. Like adrenaline with a grudge.

You sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, staring at the floor like it’s got the answers you haven’t found yet.

You’re not scared to play. You’re scared to be seen.

And not in the usual way. Not in the "are they watching?" sense. But in the way that some of them will be watching just to see you fail.

You don’t need to name names.

The silence between you and Jana lately is practically a character of its own. It hovers. It lingers. It judges.

And Alexia? Sometimes you wonder if she’d prefer you gone. If part of her is still waiting for you to crack. If she’ll ever admit that the anger on the pitch that day wasn’t just about mistake you made but rather that she’s taking Jana’s side in whatever beff she has with you.

Your thoughts spiral fast, then faster. And then-Another knock. Three quiet taps.

You expect salma—she’s always composed, never too early, never too late.

But when you open the door, it’s Ona. Hoodie zipped to her chin, hair still damp like she just stepped out of the shower, and a bag in one hand.

She raises it. “Aitana made these terrifying protein pancake things and delivered them to me last night. I didn’t want to eat alone.”

You blink. “Are they edible?”

“Barely,” she says. “But they’ll get you through kickoff.”

She steps inside without waiting for an invitation. You don’t mind.

You sit back on the edge of the bed, and she leans against the wall like she’s done it a hundred times.

You tear off a piece of the pancake, chew, and grimace. “It’s like chewing ambition.”

She grins. “Better than nerves.”

You nod. “Barely.”

Ona doesn’t say anything for a while. She just lets you eat in peace.

Then, quietly “You okay?”

You shrug. “I will be.”

She nods once. “That’s enough.”

You look up at her—really look—and see the understanding in her eyes. Not pity. Not even sympathy. Just recognition. She’s felt it too.

The pressure. The scrutiny. The weight of having to prove yourself, not just as a player, but as someone who belongs.

You finish the last bite, toss the wrapper into the bin, and run a hand down your thigh like it’ll ground you.

“Thanks,” you say.

She tilts her head. “For the pancake?”

“For showing up.”

Ona smiles, small and real. “Bus leaves soon. I’ll save you a seat.” And just like that, she slips out the door.

You sit there a second longer, heart steadier now. Not weightless—but ready.

The bus ride is quiet. Not tense—just… focused. Everyone’s got their headphones in, their game faces on. The kind of silence that crackles with intention.

You sit next to Ona, just like she promised. Her knee bounces gently against yours, keeping time with the soft beat leaking from her earbuds. She doesn't speak, but her presence is steady. Like a metronome. Like something you can anchor to.

You press your forehead to the window and let the city pass you by—streets melting into each other, sky shifting from dusty pink to something clearer, cleaner. It's a matchday sky. You’ve seen it before. But today it feels like it’s watching you.

When the bus pulls into the stadium’s lower lot, you feel it—the shift. The tightening of laces. The sharpening of focus. Game day lives in the bones. And now, it’s awake.

The locker room buzzes with movement.

Cleats thud against tile. Zippers open. Tape stretches and snaps. Coaches murmur. The playlist pulses low from a speaker tucked behind the trainers' bench. The air smells like menthol, citrus, and tension.

You move through it all without speaking.

Jana doesn’t look at you when you pass her bench. She’s taping her wrist, jaw tight.

Alexia is across the room, leaned against a locker, arms crossed as she listens to Jonatan go over set-piece responsibilities with Patri. She doesn’t acknowledge you, but you know she’s clocked your arrival. You feel it like static.

You sit. Pull on your socks. Lace your boots. Every movement slow, deliberate, rehearsed a hundred times in your head before you ever touched the gear.

Mapi walks by and tugs lightly on your braid. “Lookin’ scary, Noruega. I like it.”

You smirk. “Defender energy?”

“Hell yeah,” she grins. “Now go scare someone.”

You stand with the rest of the squad when Jonatan calls everyone into the center. His speech is brief. Clear.

You’ve trained for this. You’ve earned this. Trust your instinct. Play your football.

He reads the lineup aloud. Your name is in the XI.

Even though you’ve known it for days—heard it from his own mouth, seen it on the board—it still hits different when the whole room hears it too.

There’s a pause.

A few cheers. A quick pat on the back from Mapi. A nod from Vicky.

But no reaction from Jana. None from Alexia either. Their silence scrapes a little. But it doesn’t stop you.

The tunnel is colder than you expect. Concrete underfoot. The roar of the crowd already building above.

Your heartbeat finds a rhythm as the announcer calls the lineups. You walk out shoulder-to-shoulder with legends, lights flashing, the pitch unfolding ahead like something sacred.

Your first start for barcelona.

Your name echoing across the stadium. You blink up at the sky—blue, endless—and whisper to yourself, You’re here.

And then the whistle blows.

The game starts fast. Faster than you’re ready for. Your first touch is too heavy. Your second pass is too soft. You recover quickly, but the sting of your mistakes lingers like a slap. You can feel it—eyes on you. Coaches. Teammates. Alexia.

You try to find your footing, get sharper, but everything feels just half a beat off.

“Move!” Alexia shouts from midfield. “You’re late!”

You grind your teeth and sprint harder.

You intercept a pass near the sideline, win your first tackle. The crowd claps. Mapi yells something supportive that you barely hear.

Then—

Your side gets overloaded on a switch. You step forward, late again, and the winger blows past you.

Ingrid slides in to cover, saving the play. The ball goes out for a throw.

“Track that earlier,” she says, not unkindly. “You saw it coming.”

You nod, frustrated with yourself.

“Don’t get stuck in your head,” she adds before jogging back into position.

You try to take her advice.You really do. But the pitch feels tilted. The weight of expectation like a hand on your throat.

Fifteen minutes in, you see your moment.

A misstep in their midfield opens a line. You pounce, intercept, and launch a perfect ball into the run of Aitana. She doesn’t hesitate—curls it around the keeper.

Goal.

The stadium erupts.

You’re weightless for a second. Dizzy with relief. Aitana runs past you, grinning. “Perfect ball!”

Mapi slaps your back so hard your legs almost give. “NORUEGAAA!”

Ingrid turns as she jogs back and gives you the briefest, proudest nod.

But when your eyes flick to the sideline— Jana. Arms crossed. Staring like you just committed a crime by playing well. And Alexia— She doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t smile. Just turns and jogs back into position, jaw tight. Your chest sinks a little.

The next ten minutes are sharper. You push harder. Try to prove it wasn’t luck. You win another duel. Force a foul. And then— You're hit.

A crunching shoulder to the ribs, no attempt at the ball. You collapse on impact, the turf biting at your elbows as the air knocks from your lungs.

No whistle.

You roll to your side, coughing, trying to breathe. Boots scuff near your head.

“Ingrid,” you croak.

“I’m here,” she says, kneeling beside you.

You keep your face down. You don’t want her to see it. The pain. The tears threatening behind your eyes.

“You good?” she asks, voice steady, quiet.

You nod. Lie. “Fine.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I said I’m fine.” You push up, stagger to your feet before the med staff can even blink.

Ingrid doesn’t stop you. But she watches you longer than anyone else does. You don’t meet her eyes.

You try to shake it off. But the pain is still there. Ribs throbbing. Head spinning. The next ball you chase burns like fire in your lungs.

You pass it off too early. And Alexia’s already turning. “Stop playing scared!”

You flinch. “I’m not—”

“You are. Play forward. If you’re not reading the press, you’re just getting in the way.”

You want to scream. Or cry. Or just stop moving for one second. But you can’t. Because that’s weakness. Because that’s what they’re waiting to see.

Thirty-nine minutes in. You misread a rotation. You step when you should’ve dropped. The space you leave is enough for a through ball that nearly costs you a goal. Cata makes the save. Barely.

And then—Alexia is on you. “What was that?!”

“I thought—”

“You thought?”

“I had the read—”

“You didn’t.”

You turn your back on her before you say something you’ll regret.

She’s right behind you.

“You want to be here?” she hisses. “Then act like it.”

You clench your jaw so tight it hurts.

Halftime.

You’re walking into the tunnel like a ghost. Ribs aching. Head down.

Mapi jogs up behind you. “Hey,” she whispers. “Shake it off.”

You want to. You really do. But everything is a blur.

Inside the locker room, noise buzzes. Water bottles slam. Coaches speak in quick bursts. Someone’s unwrapping tape. Someone else is shouting about second-half press triggers.

You don’t hear most of it. Until—

“Do you want to lose this for us?!” You freeze.

The room goes silent. Alexia. She’s standing by the whiteboard now. Braids damp with sweat. Arms tensed at her sides.

All eyes swing to you.

“What?” you ask, already knowing.

“You’re dragging us down,” she snaps. “You’re late on rotations. You’re second-guessing every decision.”

“I’m doing my best.”

“Well, your best isn’t good enough right now.”

“Alexia,” Ingrid warns, standing slowly.

Alexia ignores her.

“We don’t need passengers,” she continues, voice hard. “So either lock in—or get off the field.”

You open your mouth. But nothing comes out. Because what do you say? What can you say when you’re bruised and breathless and still not enough? You nod. Just once. Then sit down. Towel around your neck. Staring at the floor.

The rest of the room moves around you. Coaches talk. Arrows on the tactics board. Sub plans. Adjustments.

But you hear none of it. Just her voice.

Lock in. Or get off the field.

And for the first time all day— You’re not sure which option hurts more.

The second half is sharper. Not easier. Not lighter. Just sharper.

You stop thinking. There’s no room for it anymore. Every touch is muscle memory. Every sprint is obligation. You don’t feel the pain in your ribs anymore—you’ve locked it out. You don’t feel anything except the scream in your lungs and the burn behind your eyes.

You’re not trying to shine. You’re trying to survive. Alexia says nothing to you after halftime. Not a look. Not a word. But somehow, the silence weighs more than all her shouting.

She directs the press. Calls switches. Points to space. She speaks to others. Just not to you.

At one point, the ball comes across the field—a loose rebound, fifty-fifty. You lunge for it without thinking, and the collision knocks the wind from you again.

You bounce back up. You don’t show it. You don’t dare show it.

Mapi helps you up. Doesn’t say anything. Just nods once like she knows exactly where you are, emotionally and physically. Like she’s been there herself. Like maybe she still is.

The game ends 2–1.

You hold the lead. You help hold the line. And yet When the final whistle blows, you don’t feel victory.

You feel empty. No one says anything to you on the pitch.

You give a couple of high-fives. Offer a nod to Jonatan. Ingrid claps your shoulder once and mutters “Good recovery second half.” But it’s brief. Controlled. Like everyone’s choosing not to pick at the bruise still throbbing between you and the captain.

Alexia speaks to the ref. To the staff. To Aitana. Not to you. You don’t expect her to. Not after what she said.

The locker room is weirdly quiet after the match.

Not quite tense, not celebratory either. Just… still. You sit on the bench, peeling your socks off in silence. Your body is one giant ache.

Your ribs scream every time you bend forward. There’s dried blood on your shin you hadn’t noticed until now. Your hands shake a little when you finally untie your boots.

No one’s looking at you. But you can feel the weight of it anyway. Like everyone knows what happened at halftime, but no one wants to be the one to touch the wound.

You grab your bag and leave quickly—head down, towel slung over your shoulder. You tell yourself it’s just fatigue. Just pain. Not shame. Not disappointment. You’re almost convinced. Almost.

The bus ride home is darker than it should be.

You take a seat by the window in the very back, headphones in but no music playing. You stare out at the blur of city lights and try not to spiral.

Alexia sits near the front. Her head is down. She’s speaking quietly to Vicky, the occasional nod, the flick of a wrist to emphasize a point. She hasn’t looked back once.

You should be proud.You started. You held your own. You played hurt. You did the job. But it doesn’t feel like enough. Not with her silence still ringing louder than any stadium crowd.

A soft nudge hits your shoulder.You blink, turn. It’s Ona.

She’s standing next to your seat, hoodie up, one hand clutching a can of something vaguely citrus-flavored and probably disgustingly unhealthy.

She doesn’t say anything. Just hands it to you. You take it.

Your fingers brush hers. You don’t mean to flinch, but the contact feels too much right now. She notices. Doesn’t comment.

Then she sits beside you without asking.

You open the drink. Sip. Swallow. Still silence.

But it’s not like Alexia’s silence. This one is safe. Gentle. Intentional.

Eventually, she says, “You played well.” You don’t respond. She waits. Then “And you got hit. Hard.”

“I’m fine,” you say. It comes out too fast.

She gives you a look. The kind that says she knows you’re lying. The kind that says she’s not going to call you out on it—but she’ll still sit here anyway.

“You shouldn’t let her get in your head,” Ona says softly, voice low so no one else can hear. “Alexia.”

You stare straight ahead.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You exhale. Slow. Shaky. “She’s the captain.”

“She’s not always right.”

“She’s Alexia Putellas.”

“She’s human,” Ona replies.

You don’t know how to argue with that. So you don’t.

You just sip your drink, grateful for the space she’s holding beside you, even when it hurts to be seen this clearly.

You whisper, “Thank you.”

She nudges your shoulder. “Always.”

And just like that, you exhale—really exhale—for the first time since the whistle blew.

You still ache. You’re still angry. You’re still bruised, outside and in. But for the first time all day— You don’t feel alone.

You lose track of how many matches it’s been.Three? Four? You stopped counting after the second time your name showed up on the lineup board and no one questioned it.

Not Mapi, who always shouts “NORUEGA!” when the names are read.

Not Aitana, who throws an arm around your shoulder like you’ve been glued to her side since pre-season.

Not Patri, who passes you the ball in tight spaces now without hesitation, like she knows you’ll handle it.

The team didn’t need convincing. They were warm from the beginning—open, ridiculous, protective. You didn’t have to earn their affection. Just their rhythm. And now, you’re in it. You’re part of them. Except—Not her And not alexia.

Alexia plays with you like a soldier plays beside someone they didn’t choose—precise, efficient, silent. She no longer corrects you mid-game in front of everyone. But the glances are still there. The clipped tone.

The way her voice softens around everyone else but hardens when it reaches you, like she’s building a wall and doesn’t care if it cracks your ribs in the process.

You do everything right and still feel like you’re failing her. You stop expecting warmth. You just want neutral.

Jana remains distant. Cold in a quiet way. She doesn’t glare. She doesn’t talk shit. She just... withholds.

No eye contact. No celebration overlap. No reaction when you make a clean tackle or deliver a decent cross. The silence from her is a kind of noise all its own.

You stopped trying to interpret it. Mostly. But even with their silence, you survive. You hold your place. You make your runs, your tackles, your recoveries. You do the job.

And in the middle of it all—your team surrounds you with so much energy it almost fills the spaces left by the ones who won’t meet your eyes.

One Friday afternoon, after a solid win, you’re icing your ankle on the bench when Ona taps your shoulder with the end of a water bottle.

“Drinks at mine,” she says, casual. “You in?”

You blink. “Like… a party?”

“No. Just chaos. And hydration. And maybe tequila.”

Mapi perks up from the corner like a demon summoned by a forbidden word. “Did someone say tequila?”

Ona sighs. “Unfortunately.”

“I’ll bring the speakers,” Aitana grins. “And the bad decisions.”

“Make sure you bring your charger too,” Vicky mutters. “Last time you played Bad Bunny for six hours and then ghosted.”

“I have taste. You’re welcome.”

Ona looks at you, expectant, already smiling.

You smile back. “Yeah. I’m in.”

That night, you show up at her place just after nine—hoodie on, hands stuffed in your pockets, unsure if you should’ve brought anything.

But inside, the vibe is perfect.

Shoes by the door. Music pulsing low. Half the team already curled into couches, sprawled across the floor, or raiding Ona’s kitchen.

Mapi has a shot glass in one hand and a cucumber slice in the other.

“Balance,” she says when she sees you. “It’s called nutrition.”

“You’re drunk,” Ingrid says calmly from where she’s mixing juice and gin.

“I’m hydrated.”

“You tried to FaceTime Messi ten minutes ago.”

“I wanted to say hi!”

Ona’s curled up in the armchair, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, nursing a soda and watching the chaos unfold like she’s streaming a sitcom she’s seen a hundred times and still loves.

She catches your eye and smirks. “Welcome to the circus.”

And for the first time in a while, you feel your body relax. You don’t feel like a starter. You don’t feel like a disappointment. You just feel like one of them.

Someone turned the lights down. Someone else added disco lights. There’s glitter on the dog. You’re not sure whose dog this is.

You’re also not sure how you ended up on the kitchen floor with Aitana, both of you laughing so hard you can’t breathe while Mapi tries to convince Patri to let her freestyle rap over Beyoncé.

“Absolutely not,” Patri says, deadpan.

“It’s a remix,” Mapi insists.

“It’s a war crime,” Ingrid mutters.

From the living room, Vicky shouts, “Who just broke my charger?”

“It was already broken!” Mapi yells back.

“It was in my purse!”

You end up in the living room again, head spinning, cheeks sore from laughing. Someone shoved a pillow under your arm and told you it was emotional support. It might’ve been Ona. She hasn’t moved from her chair in an hour but somehow has complete control over the night like a benevolent goblin queen.

“I’m letting chaos unfold naturally,” she says as she watches Mapi attempt a somersault over a beanbag and land flat on her back.

“Did it look cool?” Mapi groans.

“You looked like an injured seal,” Aitana offers.

“I felt cool,” Mapi says, still face-down.

Ingrid, curled up with a glass of wine and absolutely judging everyone, leans over to you. “It’s getting dangerous.”

“Emotionally or physically?”

“Yes.”

Someone yells “karaoke” again.

Everyone groans, but someone already has the mic.

Aitana and Marta do Bailando. Mapi and Patri butcher Shallow but sing it like it’s the Champions League anthem. Pina and Vicky team up to sing Toxic, surprisingly well, to everyone's shock and slight fear.

“Have you practiced this?” you ask.

“I’m a woman of range,” pina says, sipping her drink.

You’re two songs deep into a group rendition of I Want It That Way when you try to hit a high note and end up choking on your drink instead.

You cough. Loud.

Violently.

So loud, in fact, that the room goes quiet.

Then Mapi, from the couch: “Is she dying?”

Aitana rushes over, dramatically grabbing your shoulders.

“Live! LIVE, damn you!”

You’re laughing through the cough now, tears in your eyes.

And somewhere near the doorway, Jana laughs. Not a loud cackle. Not an exaggerated one. Just a quick, genuine little laugh. Shoulders shaking once. A soft exhale. She catches herself fast. Looks down into her drink.

But not before Ona, Ingrid, and Mapi catch it. M They glance at each other—no teasing, no comment. Just quiet surprise. Because it’s the first time in weeks.

Back on the floor, you recover. You wipe your eyes and raise your drink. “Cheers to making it through vocal cord trauma.”

“To death by karaoke!” Mapi adds, throwing an arm around you.

Patri sighs and downs the rest of her drink. Alexia, still seated in the corner, hasn’t moved much. She’s half-listening to the chaos, one foot tucked under her knee, swirling a drink she’s barely touched. She doesn’t talk much. But she doesn’t leave either. She watches everything. Everyone.

Her gaze lingers when you laugh too hard. When Mapi leans into your side. When Ingrid ruffles your hair and calls you “idiota” after you miss a charade clue so badly that everyone thinks you’re miming childbirth. You were trying to act out “bicycle.”

It’s sometime past midnight when the dares escalate.

“Drink roulette!” Aitana declares, setting shot glasses in a circle and filling them with different mystery liquids.

“What the hell is that one?” you ask, pointing to a glowing blue thing.

“Lemonade and… something Mapi brought from Norway.”

“It’s called Surprise Juice,” Mapi says proudly.

“It smells like nail polish remover.”

“Surprise!”

Patri loses a round and has to do a dramatic monologue from a telenovela. She delivers it flawlessly. Marta films it and immediately texts it to the group chat with the caption oscar-worthy.

Later, you’re lying flat on the floor next to Ingrid and Vicky.

“I can’t feel my legs,” you mumble.

“Good,” Vicky says. “You’ve ascended.”

“You’re in stage three,” Ingrid adds. “Stage four is existential dread.”

“Do I get a badge?”

“You get a hangover.”

You glance across the room. Alexia’s still in the corner. Still watching. Still unreadable. But she hasn’t left.

And when you trip getting up and Mapi yells “Man down!”, you could swear—just for a second—you see the corner of Alexia’s mouth twitch. Not a smile.But close.

Eventually, people start curling up under blankets. Aitana is asleep with her head in Patri’s lap. Mapi is singing softly to someone’s shoe. Ingrid has claimed the couch. Vicky is trying to convince Irene to let her organize the fridge “for serotonin.”

You lean back against the armrest, drink in hand, fuzzy and floating.

Ona sits next to you “You good?” she asks.

You nod. “I think this is the happiest I’ve been since I got here.”

She tilts her head, studying you for a second. Then she bumps her shoulder against yours. “You belong here, you know.” You blink. “Even if some of them don’t know it yet,” she adds.

You glance toward the corner. Alexia isn’t watching you anymore. She’s looking at the floor. But she’s still there.

So is Jana— who is now sitting beside alexia. Observing drink in her hand as if it’s some rare diamond.

It’s too quiet now. The kind of quiet where the chaos has died down, but your thoughts haven’t. The floor is crowded with sleeping teammates in various states of blanket burrito. The lights are off except for the one faint glow from under the bathroom door.

You try to be quiet as you step over Patri’s legs, then a half-eaten bag of chips, then what might be Aitana’s slipper. You don’t know why you’re even up. Just needed a moment. A breath. Maybe cold water.

You reach for the bathroom handle. Then freeze. Voices. Low. Muffled. Inside. You pause. It’s Alexia. And Jana.

You step back, heartbeat loud now. You know you should leave.

“You know,” Jana says, voice low, “I used to think all I had to do was work harder. Stay later. Watch more film. Push more in training. That it would be enough to keep me here.”

“You’ve earned your place,” Alexia says.

“That’s the problem,” Jana replies, bitter at the edges. “I didn’t think I’d ever have to keep earning it. I thought they would choose me after hearing about onas injury”

Silence. Not judgmental. Just still.

Jana continues. “Then she arrived. And it was like… like the bar moved.”

You can’t see her, but you know her face right now. The tight jaw. The way her fingers probably twist into her sleeve when she’s trying to talk herself down from a spiral.

“She doesn’t play scared,” Jana adds. “She plays like she’s already part of the story. Like the pitch is hers. You know how rare that is”

Alexia says nothing.

Jana laughs softly, but there’s no joy in it.

“I hate how much I notice her. How much I compare myself. I’ll do something solid in training—one-touch pass, good angle, decent recovery—and think, ‘Maybe today someone saw it.’ But then she does something ordinary, and people light up like it’s gold.”

“She’s new,” Alexia says. “That shine won’t last forever.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jana says. “Because she’s good. She’s not just shiny—she’s solid. And the team’s already folding around her like she’s a permanent part of it. And me?” Her voice cracks. “I’m still waiting to feel like I’m not temporary. Last choice.”

Alexia sighs. You hear it. Deep, steadying.

“She’s not a threat, Jana.”

“No,” Jana agrees. “But she is a reminder.”

Alexia’s voice is quiet now. “Of what?”

“That maybe I was never as good as I thought I had to be.”

That one cuts. Even from the hallway, even when it’s not yours.

You feel it in your throat. That quiet, dangerous line we all walk Am I enough, or just filling space until someone better comes along?

Jana sniffles, but it’s fast. Swallowed. Buried.

“I gave up so much to stay here. To belong here. I wasn’t the next big thing. But I clawed my way into this squad. I stayed when others didn’t. And suddenly I feel like I’m on the edge of the frame again.”

Alexia doesn’t speak for a moment. Then “You think she’s pushing you out.”

“I think I never had a place that was really mine to begin with.”

That silence that follows is brutal. Too long. Too honest.

Then Alexia says, softer than anything else you’ve heard her say, “I remember feeling that. First time I walked back into the locker room after the injury.”

Jana doesn’t reply.

“You think the space you left behind has forgotten your shape. You think everyone adjusted. Moved on. You watch girls play like they were born here and wonder if you were just an extra.”

A beat. “I looked around and thought, ‘They don’t need me anymore.’ Even after all I gave.”

Now you want to cry. Because they don’t know it, but they’re not just talking about themselves.

They’re talking about every player who’s ever stood at the edge of the pitch, wondering if they were already fading before the whistle even blew.

“I’m tired, Ale,” Jana whispers. “And I’m not even old. But I’m tired.”

“That’s because you’ve been carrying your place like a burden instead of wearing it like it’s yours.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“Then maybe it’s time someone shows you.”

Alexia’s voice is different now. Not coach. Not captain. Just teammate. Friend.

“You belong here, Jana. With or without the perfect stats or the big minutes or the highlight reels. You belong because you make people around you better.”

Jana lets out a shaky breath.

“You think she doesn’t notice your game?”

There’s a pause. Hesitation.

“She probably watches you more than you watch her.”

You inhale sharply.

Because you hadn’t realized how true that might be.

“She’s not your replacement,” Alexia continues. “She’s your teammate. You don’t have to compete with her to prove something.”

“She’s so—”

“So are you.”

Silence again. Longer this time.

And then Jana says, quiet like a confession, “I wanted to hate her.”

Alexia hums. “Did it work?”

“No,” she breathes. “It just made me feel small.”

“You’re not small.”

Another pause.

Then Jana asks, voice barely audible, “Do you think she knows?”

“That you’ve been scared of her?” Alexia says. “Maybe not.”

“That I admire her,” Jana says. Your heart stumbles.

Alexia is quiet. Then “Tell her.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“She might stop trying.”

Alexia laughs softly. “She won’t. People like her? They’re always fighting invisible battles. Just like you.”

You step back from the door then. Not because it’s over. But because you've heard enough.

And maybe… So have they.

The kitchen’s warm with lazy late-morning light, the sound of someone opening cereal in the background, and half the team moving in a daze like hungover ghosts. There’s glitter in the sink. There’s a sock stuck to the fridge. Aitana is loudly brushing her teeth while singing Rosalía down the hall.

You’re sitting on the edge of one of the barstools at Ona’s kitchen island, toast half-eaten in front of you. You haven’t blinked in two minutes. Your heart rate is somewhere near cardio level.

Because Jana’s leaning on the opposite counter. And she just tucked her hair behind her ear. While drinking from her water bottle. And somehow… she made it look cinematic.

It was slow. Casual. Effortless. And now you’re spiraling.

Beside you, Mapi has been watching you watch her for the past twenty minutes.

Quietly. Calculating. Like a chaos mathematician with too much free time and a god complex.

She sips her smoothie. Loudly. “So when’s the wedding?”

You flinch. “Mapi—”

“She’s got the ‘I’d ruin my career for you, but only if you asked twice’ vibe today.”

“She’s not even—”

“She’s glowing. And I’m not talking ‘hydrated athlete’ glowing. I mean ‘I just had an emotionally complicated dream and now I’m looking at the person I can’t stop dreaming about’ glowing.”

You press your palms to your eyes. “You’re insane.”

“You’re in heat.”

You choke on air.

Mapi pats your back. “It’s okay. Happens to the best of us. It’s not your fault she looked at you like she’s reading your search history.”

“She didn’t look at me like anything.”

“She looked at you like she just remembered what your voice sounds like when you’re about to orgazm .”

You turn to her slowly. Whisper “What the actual hell is wrong with you?”

“She made eye contact,” Mapi hisses back. “It wasn’t just a glance. It was slow. It was ‘I’m trying to unbutton you with my brain’ levels of direct.”

“She was checking to see if the cereal was behind me.”

“She looked at you like she’d eat cereal off your collarbone.”

You gasp. “Jesus Christ.”

“She blinked like she felt you looking.”

You can’t deny that. Because you did. You did look. And she did blink.

And your whole body betrayed you with a wave of heat so fast and ridiculous you genuinely considered walking straight into the pantry and staying there forever.

Mapi leans closer, whispering directly into your ear now. “Tell me the truth. You’d let her ruin your life, wouldn’t you?”

You stare at your mug. Then whisper, “Maybe just a little.” Mapi lets out the most evil giggle you’ve ever heard.

“I knew it.” She smacks your arm. “I’ve seen less chemistry in actual relationships. This is like watching unresolved fanfiction in real time.”

“Mapi,” you plead. “She’s right there.”

“She has no idea we’re talking about her. That’s the best part. She’s over there thinking about formations or hydration or something.”

You risk another glance. Jana’s reading the back of a cereal box. You should be safe. But then— She looks up. Right at you. It’s instant. No buildup. Just—boom. Contact.

Your breath catches. Her gaze doesn’t waver.Not playful. Not aggressive.Just steady. Measured. Like she’s not looking at you. Like she’s looking through you. Like she’s reading your temperature and judging whether or not to start a fire.

You blink. She doesn’t.

Mapi lets out a long, slow whistle. “Oh my God.”

You feel the heat crawl up your neck. Your ears. Your spine. And then— Jana smirks. Tiny.Barely there. But real. Real enough that you nearly pass out. She looks away. Goes back to pouring cereal like she didn’t just end your entire bloodline.

Mapi drops her forehead to the counter.

“I’m lightheaded,” she whispers. “That was filth.”

“I think I just died.”

“You should’ve. She looked at you like you were dessert and she skipped dinner.”

“I’m gonna scream.”

Mapi lifts her head, eyes wide and serious. “No. Because if you scream, she’ll hear you. And then she’ll know. And we’ll lose the sacred tension.”

“There is no sacred tension.”

“There is a slow burn religious undertone to that stare-down you just had. I felt like I was watching the eye-contact version of Fleabag.”

You drop your head onto your arms.

“Hey,” Mapi says softly. “At least now we know.”

“Know what?”

“That she definitely wants to lick the inside of your mind.”

You slap her leg. She giggles again. And across the room, Jana—completely unaware—starts scrolling her phone with that neutral, unreadable face.

Except… You know she smirked. Mapi saw it too. And now you can’t unsee it. You glance up. Just once. Just long enough to catch her eyes already on you again. She doesn’t smirk this time. She just stares. Cool. Curious. And devastating.

Mapi grabs your toast. Takes a bite. Mutters, “You’re so screwed.”

You don’t answer. Because she’s right. And the worst part? You might like it.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Between Deuces Relaxing Wear and Leona's Camp Vargas Outfit.....which do you prefer 🤣

*GROANS*

I GUESS I’ll pick L*ona 🤢 N-Not because I like him or anything, but because the orange jacket is less of an eyesore to me than the hot pink Deuce is wearing… Also I enjoy ponytail!Leona any day of the week—

P.S. The heck are those slippers (yes, I censored the toes; don’t judge me 😤)?? Who designs hot pink slippers with leopard print and slaps on a chick and an egg on top of that??? I’m not even a fashionista and I’M gagging (neg) at these OTL

P.P.S. Deuce says in a voice line that his MOM picked out the pajamas for him????? And that he likes the "boldness" of it??? I GUESS BAD TASTE RUNS IN THE FAMILY THEN...

[marzipanandminutiae]

said I think Ona Judge Staines (1773-1848), an enslaved dressmaker who escaped from the Washington family, is more interesting than George Washington and got asked "do you really think he's less interesting than a woman making a dress?"

yep! sure do! thanks for asking!

(obviously there's nuance and interest is subjective. but like. yes, I personally do think Staines is more interesting)

[bellawoso]

say yes to heaven.

aitana bonmati x fem!reader

desc: gfs documentary made me cry so i had to write some fluff to make me feel better!!

you and aitana had been friends ever since you joined barcelona just a year ago. although the midfielder befriended and stuck with every newbie on the team until they found their closest friends, you and her instantly clicked and became best friends in no time.

what you werent expecting was for your platonic feelings for the brunette to blossom into a crush, which although you deemed would go away soon, never did and only became stronger.

you never acted on your feelings though, always too scared that she would never feel the same way, i mean you didnt even know if aitana was into girls or not, let alone whether she liked you back as well.

you had more or less successfully managed to suppress your feelings though. the multiple shots that mapi encouraged you to take at the club you and the team were at, seemed to make you temporarily forget about your tragically unrequited love for your best friend.

unfortunately, aitana wasnt the only one known in the team for not dating. and honestly, if anyone knew why you were laying off dating, they would not be able to blame you. however, as aitana wasnt one for teasing and pranking her teammates, they chose to not tease her for her inability to settle with anyone. opposite to aitana, you loved joining prank wars with vicky, jana, bruna, salma, pina and patri. which left you on the receiving end of relentless bullying about your lack of love life.

this night out in london was no exception, except this time, the group had decided to instead try help you find someone, and had now made it a contest of who could find someone for you first.

the rest of the team including aitana, who were much more mature than your group, had decided to come up to your table and sit with you all, making sure you wouldnt get into trouble. they had soon caught onto what your group was trying to do, and seeing the permanent pout on your face made it even funnier.

one person who was not amused though, was aitana herself, with her heart racing with fear every time someone pointed a random person out for you, and a scowl each time you winced when patri elbowed your ribs for saying no.

eventually it became too much for the midfielder to handle, as she told the group to grow up and stop being so immature and childish, before pulling you onto her lap.

your eyes widened in surprise and your cheeks flushed red as aitana then decided to loop her arms around your waist, her fingertips just dipping under the waistband of your skirt to rub small circles into your skin. your spine involuntarily shivered at the prospect of having aitana this close, and you blushed once again as she lent towards your ear to whisper something to you.

was this best friend behaviour in spain? honestly you werent too sure, but judging by the smirk that lucy sent your way, you were guessing that what you and aitana were doing was leaning more to the couple side of things.

most other people on the team who were sat around the table also seemed surprised and also amused at aitanas sudden behaviour. until vicky burst out laughing, interrupting everyones conversations as she said “i think i know someone whos perfect for y/n!” as she sent a very obvious wink at aitana, making you throw a cup coaster from the table at her head.

however it seemed that aitana hadnt found what vicky said amusing, as you felt her tense up behind you and her hands unravelled themselves from around your waist, before lightly shoving you off her lap onto the seat next to you, claiming she needed to use the bathroom.

you didnt see aitana for the rest of the night, she clung very closely to keira and ona much to your dismay. so to distract yourself from your crushes unusual and confusing behaviour, you decided to fully let loose. and what better way to do that than let pina and patri almost control your whole night, the duo were infamously known for their wild partying antics. so this came to a shock to everyone when you teamed up with them for the night, as you were know for your love to have a peaceful night in by yourself.

one of pina and patris dares was for you to somehow you and them free drinks, they waited at the end of the bar for you, incase they noticed you feeling uncomfortable and to also collect their drinks after. aitana and almost all of the rest of the team who had gone out that night were sat back down at the booth, all in their own little conversations.

you however had managed to find a spanish girl who looked to be in her late thirties, who you were almost certain looked easy enough to convince to get you free drinks. although your slightly tipsy state had you misunderstanding the dare, thinking they meant to get drinks for the entire table, which in theory it was almost impossible to get someone to buy that many drinks for a stranger. but you were a woman on a mission, and you didnt want to fail this dare at all, and you were determined to have a better night than aitana, who seemed to be completely ignoring you.

after talking and flirting with the woman for a bit, she offered to buy you a drink, to which you responded you were supposed to be getting your whole table drinks now. but as soon as you saw her pull a sleek black card out of her wallet, you knew you would be winning this dare. you managed to remember most peoples drinks, and glanced over to pina and patri who had looks of shock and disbelief on their faces at the number of drinks being made for you.

it was even better when she offered to take the two trays over to your booth after you claimed your arms were aching, pina and patri quickly trailed behind, curious at how exactly you had pulled that off.

as soon as she placed the trays of drinks down, her phone began to ring, as she spoke some fast, accented words in spanish to you, which your very tipsy brain couldnt comprehend, you quickly said adios to her followed with a drunken wave.

as pina and patri told the table the dare and how you had gotten it wrong, alexia, sandra, marta and irene shook their heads and lectured you for your actions, claiming that it was a stupid idea. whereas lucy clapped her hand on your back shouting “thanks mate” in your ear.

until ona spoke, drawing all the attention over to a very confused you “i cant believe she said that to you y/n”

you honestly had no idea what her words were, only comprehending the word “noche” making you guess she wished you a good night. “what do you mean ona? i didnt really understand it”

this made patri laugh “oh amiga, she said she wished she could have expanded her night with you, and said ‘preferably to get you in his bed’ you must have really been flirting with her”

upon hearing your newfound knowledge of what the woman said, aitana muttered under her breath of how she was tired and was going home, as she threw a glare your way, your stance visibly deflated and a deep frown settled on your face. you hated arguing with aitana, and it was so much worse that you had absolutely no idea what you have done.

you also excused yourself and began to follow aitana out, stumbling a few times as an effect of your ridiculously high heels and the large amount of alcohol youve had. you managed to catch up to her just as she was getting in her car, aitana hadnt had too much to drink tonight, so planned on driving herself home, even though she knew she would not be able to sleep with thoughts of you clouding her mind.

if you were sober, there was no way you would just rag open aitanas car door and fall straight on to the seat, but the drinks you had gave you the confidence and desperation you needed to to ask and find out what you did wrong.

“dios mio y/n! you terrified me, you cant just do that!” aitana shouted, your abrupt entrance had terrified the brunette, but you brushed her temporary shock to the side, a burning question on the tip of your tongue. “aitana have i upset you? why have you been ignoring me?” you asked with a frown on your face, completely averting your eyes from aitana. you were a sad drunk, often getting way too emotional, and the last thing you wanted to do was drunk cry in front of your crush.

“no, no- y/n, you havent! i- i just, im confused, okay? thats all, im not mad at you” aitana reassured, she avoided you tonight solely due to her confusion of her anger towards the people that your teammates had been picking out for you at the bar. if she knew how upset and anxious it had made you, then she would have stayed with you all night if it meant you were okay.

“do- do you want to come back to mine? or you can go to yours! thats fine too- honestly! i-” aitana noticed her rambling and cut herself of as she felt her cheeks heat up. “aita, i want to go back to yours please” you said softly to the midfielder. “vale cari, lets go” she responded.

as aitana navigated the streets of barcelona towards her apartment, you could help but laugh at her soft angered mutters of the irritating barcelona traffic and the dozens of traffic lights she had to stop at that she insisted were “unnecessary and a waste of time and money” as you approached a 24 hour food place on the side of the road, aitana moved her hand over to your thigh making your breath hitch. her question of whether you were hungry or not went unanswered, as you were too busy overthinking the hand on your thigh. as aitana pulled into a parking space she asked again however she was now met with your extremely flustered face.

this told aitana all she needed to know on whether her feelings for you were reciprocated or not, and the newfound knowledge that they were supplied her with enough confidence to lean over the centre console. aitana then grabbed your jawline softly, she noticed you glancing at her lips which gave her the confirmation she needed to press her lips onto yours.

the kiss started off slow, aitana not wanting you to feel uncomfortable and like you were rushing things. until you decided you wanted more and tangled your hands in her hair pulling her impossibly closer which prompted her to slip her tongue into your mouth, the kiss becoming rougher and more desperate. the kiss only ended when you were near to a point of gasping for air, and as you were still trying to catch your breath, aitana decided it would be a good time to ask “go on a date with me”. you couldnt tell if she had meant to demand you to go out with her, or whether she just forgot to form a question when translating what she wanted to say. either way, you didnt hesitate when responding “vale” with a small laugh at her way of asking you, as she turned to you with a smile at hearing the spanish fall from your lips.

———

yourinstagram

caption: shes not a very good driver 😇😇

liked by: alexiaputellas, lucybronze and 54,324 others.

comment:

lucybronze: i think we all know who that is..

-> yourinstagram: i think we all know who you left with last night (your not as subtle as you think you are)

fbcfemeni: is that caption really true?

-> yourinstagram: aitana get off barcelonas account 😭

-> fbcfemeni: its not aitana!!

-> yourinstagram: mentirosa 😬😬

user1: omg its a for aitana!!!

user2: has everyone seen barcas comments 😭

user3: not aita on the teams account 😭

[melodtreads]

What are you stressed about? ~ PICK A PILE

Welcome to my once in a decade tarot pile reading. Choose a pile

PILE 1

There is a change, an opportunity coming into your life that you are stressing about. For some of you, this change includes having to move abroad, or the moving is the change itself. The stress level comes from the fact that this is something that you deeply want. You have wished and waited for this opportunity for so long. You have worked and invested in this moment, knowing that is something that you are meant to do. Despite everything, you worry about not being good enough for it. You made this situation seem so grand and so out of reach, that now, when it is finally here, it feels unbelievable. It is here in your hands, at your level and you still question yourself. Stop questioning and go for it. It is here for you because you deserve it. It is here because you have worked and waited for it. You are allowed to let good things happen to you. Embrace the change, move forward, take what you know, and be ready to learn the uknown.

PILE 2

You are stressed about the friendship environment that surrounds you. You have been around these people for years now. You have done everything to fit in or be good enough for them. But no matter what they do, they don’t accept the real you. They may accept a fake personality that you put on, but it drains you out, and the mask can’t stay forever on. You are judged again every time it slips. On the same side, they never take you seriously, your words don’t mean anything to them. If you are questioning about what you should do, this is an easy leave. These are not the only people in the world. There are so many people out there ready to love you for who you are. Don’t be afraid to make the first step towards them. There is nothing but familiarity that is keeping you with your current friends. However, there is a better type of comfort than familiarity. It is called security and understanding. Don’t be afraid of puting yourself first.

For some people choosing this pile, it may not be that deep. You are probably working ona group project where it feels like you do all the work and it is draining you out. You are already dreaming about all the new things you can do after you finish this project, or going back to working with your usual partners. Keep it up just a little, this thing will soon finish and you can go back to your usual routine.

PILE 3

You are stressed about whether you should keep up what you are doing. This is something you have really put your effort into, consequently you expect to get result for all the work you have done. However, you keep waiting and the rewards are still not coming You go and put even more effort, and still, no results. It is to a point where you think that it is unfair towards you. But this is the thing for you, this situation of yours is not one where you can work smarter rather than harder; you can’t go and take the easy route just because it is available. If you really want the rewards that you think you deserve, you need to do everything step by step. You have to show that you are eager to work for want you want. You have to prove that this is not some superficial thing for you. Of course you can give up any day. It is you making the decision after all. But know, that if you really want it and you think you deserve it, you need to prove it.

PILE 4

You are stressed by a sudden and unexpected change in your life. This is a thing that really stresses the shit out of you, considering your stable personality. You are someone who likes to have things under control and be aware about everything that is happening around, so this situation really took a toll on you. And I don’t think it is the usual stressed for you, it seems liked your world has been turned upside down and everything is ruining around you. I am here to tell you that it is okay. Breathe. This is the universe telling you that you are part of nature and there is nothing predictable when it comes to nature. All those mountains that you are stressed about are just hills if you learn how to let go of control. I would advise having someone to look up to and give you guidance during this period. Trust their advice and trust yourself.

PILE 5

You are stressed about growing up, either physically or as a person. You have so much potential in you, you can become greater and greater, but you are scared of it. You have your little habits, your usual place, and all the people you know that you are used to. You are scared to leave them all behind. You are scared of venturing into the uknown. It looks like this big thing that you don’t believe you can handle. But a little tip, nobody actually knows what they are getting into when they grow up. Of course your routines and people are comfortable and secure, but you will be stuck in a place of what you are with only dreams of what you could be. You can make those dreams reality. Yes, you will have to give up some of the things that are comfortable, but if you don’t do it, you will never get to experience the better things that will come instead of them.

PILE 6

You are stressed about losing something or someone. This person/thing is really special to you. It is either family relates or really close to be considered family. It seems that you have lost it and there is no way for them to come back. It is the most painful that there is nothing you can do about it. You can only stay and watch it go. Sadly, this is a part of the human world. There is always a dark side to all the beautiful things that we have.

[mapiforpresident]

Game Night

patri x reader x pina

Your shared apartment was unusually lively tonight. The living room, usually a calm space where you and your girlfriends could cuddle after long training sessions, had been transformed into game night central. The coffee table was cleared of its usual magazines and candles, replaced with board games, card decks, and snacks. Patri, had insisted on organizing the evening.

You were currently arranging the last of the snacks when you felt a pair of hands slide around your waist. “You’ve been working too hard, amor,” Patri murmured, her warm breath brushing against your ear. “Come sit. Everything is ready.”

You turned your head slightly, catching the soft smile on her face and couldn't help but lean in to kiss her. “Just finishing up. Someone has to keep this night running smoothly.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. You glanced toward the door, but Claudia was already sprinting past you. “I got it!”

A flurry of greetings filled the room as Ona and Lucy walked in, followed closely by Mapi and Ingrid, and then the youngsters. Aitana and Alexia trailed in last and you thought you saw a hickey peaking out from Aitana's shirt and Alexia seemed happier than usual but you weren't going to question it.

“Are we ready to crush each other?” Mapi announced, setting a bottle of wine onto the table with a smirk.

“Relax, Mapi,” Ingrid said, rolling her eyes fondly. “It’s just game night.”

“There’s no such thing as ‘just game night,’” Patri muttered under her breath, earning a laugh from you.

~~~

You had barely explained the rules of Pictionary before things descended into chaos. Teams were chosen—Patri, Lucy, and Ona against you, Claudia, and Mapi. Ingrid had volunteered as the judge, sitting back with a wine glass in hand, clearly enjoying the show. The rest of the girls lounged around ready to watch the game

“Alright, first word!” Ingrid said, flipping the timer over.

Patri grabbed the marker and began sketching furiously on the whiteboard. Lucy and Ona leaned in, shouting guesses almost immediately.

“Boat! Sailboat! Canoe!”

“No, no, no!” Patri huffed, erasing part of her drawing and adding something new.

“Paddleboard?” Ona guessed, tilting her head.

“Time’s up!” Ingrid declared, stifling a laugh as Patri groaned.

“It was a submarine! How did you not see it?” Patri gestured dramatically to her admittedly questionable drawing.

Lucy squinted at the board. “That’s a banana with windows.”

The room erupted in laughter, and you found yourself leaning into Claudia’s side as she grinned. “Patri’s competitive streak is showing,” she whispered, her tone teasing.

Your turn came next, and you took the marker with an air of confidence. The word was “elephant,” and you began sketching quickly.

“Tree? No, wait, a flower?!” Mapi shouted before you had even drew a full line.

“It’s obviously a horse,” Claudia added.

“Are you two serious?” you groaned, adding the trunk to your drawing.

“An anteater!”

“A giraffe?”

“Time’s up!” Ingrid announced again, and you turned to your teammates in mock disbelief.

“It was an elephant!” you exclaimed.

Mapi threw her hands up. “Well, your drawing could’ve fooled me.”

Claudia nudged you playfully. “Maybe we’re just bad guessers, amor.”

~~~

Pictionary was abandoned after Mapi and Lucy started bickering over the rules, and someone suggested Uno as a less contentious alternative. It was, in hindsight, a terrible idea.

“Draw 2!” Claudia said gleefully, slapping down her card.

“Why me?” Mapi groaned as she picked the cards up.

“Because you deserve it,” Claudia teased, sticking her tongue out.

You laughed at the playful banter, but your attention was drawn to Patri, who had been suspiciously quiet. She glanced at her hand, then at the stack, her lips curling into a mischievous smile.

“I’m sorry, mi amor,” she said sweetly, before slamming a wild +4 card onto the pile.

Your jaw dropped. “Patri!”

“What? It’s part of the game,” she said innocently, though the gleam in her eye betrayed her.

“I thought you loved me!” you exclaimed dramatically, drawing your cards as the rest of the team burst into laughter.

Ona, meanwhile, had been plotting her own move as she skipped Lucy's turn.

The room erupted in chaos, with Mapi accusing Ona of stacking the deck after she used 4 skips in a row and Lucy attempting to challenge the legality of her skips. Amid the noise, you leaned back into your chair, Patri’s arm slipping around your shoulder.

“Chaos,” you murmured, though you couldn’t help but smile.

“Fun chaos,” Patri corrected, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

~~~

By the end of the night, the team had mellowed out, the earlier drama replaced by laughter and a few too many bottles of wine. Patri had pulled you onto the couch, her arms wrapped securely around you, while Claudia leaned against your other side.

“This was a good idea,” you said softly, glancing at the remnants of the evening scattered across the room.

Patri hummed in agreement. “Even if Mapi and Lucy nearly killed each other?”

“Especially because of that,” Claudia said, grinning. “What’s game night without a little drama?”

You laughed, feeling a wave of contentment wash over you. These moments, surrounded by your team and snuggled up with your girlfriends, were what made all the hard work worth it.

“Same time next month?” Ona called from across the room.