#marta pan

[abwwia]

Marta Pan in 1969 in front of the "Sculpture 110" temporarily installed in the garden of the villa of Saint-Rémy-lès-Chevreuse, current collection Ville de Paris

[elixir]

“Equilibre”, Marta Pan, 1957

[eco-diary-by-poli]

Marta Pan, Double Porte, 2006,

steel, 230 x 50 x 22 cm, 90.5 x 19.6 x 8.6 in., Courtesy Galerie Mitterrand,

© Fondation Marta Pan-André Wogenscky

[canniefish]

summer's end 1 (a throwback to this)

[b-plot-butch]

damnit i don’t think marta is coming on at all today is she

[clinicsharmartia]

Summer is incredibly boring rn but who gets to watch Queen Marta play? MEMEME!!!

[themagickingdomrp]

Tootles (Formerly Marta Darling) ▪ Late Teens/Early 20s ▪ Genderfluid ▪ All Pronouns ▪ Victoria Moroles ▪ Lost Boys ▪ Taken

Triggers: Gender Dysmorphia, Attempted Murder Sorta (The Whole Wendy Situation)

→ Past

Marta grew up hearing about her father’s adventures with Peter Pan. Though he’d grown up and become a judge, Marta’s father wasn’t afraid to tell his six daughters of his time as Tootles in Neverland. Of all his children, Marta was most fascinated by Peter and adored every single one of his stories. She was the second youngest and had a tiny crush on him as a child, one brought on by how highly her father spoke of him. Though she grew out of that, she never stopped dreaming of the adventure, as she missed everything due to inheriting her father’s poor timing and ruined the few interesting things that happened to her with her lack of coordination. Marta’s only real skill seemed to be in marksmanship, practicing with her slingshot and bow and arrow whenever she could. Unfortunately, the threat of adulthood slowly loomed nearer, meaning there would be no more time for the things she loved. Aiming rocks at windows was definitely not very ladylike, something that she was told to be her entire life. The truth was, Marta wasn’t even sure she felt completely like a girl. Sometimes she felt like neither a girl nor a boy, sometimes she felt like both, but those weren’t thoughts she could bring up to anyone. Marta was supposed to be a devoted daughter and that was what she had to pretend to be. She felt doomed to live a lie until Peter Pan appeared at her window, looking for her father. With her little sister not at home, Marta was the youngest in the house. So, he took her to become part of the Lost Boys.

→ Present

Tootles is always willing to stand up to Peter when they think he is doing something wrong. It’s not difficult, since they prefer a discussion to any form of physical violence. Despite the incident where they shot at Wendy, the two have become close. Tootles even apologized profusely for the entire incident. Aside from Peter, Wendy is probably their closest friend. They are deeply offended if anyone ever calls them a Lost Girl for many reasons, but mostly because they are a Lost Boy, thank you very much. Though they are genderfluid, it is a title all their friends have and therefore, they should have it too. He occasionally spends his time looking for marbles since he once remembered losing something that started with the word “mar”. One of the boys suggested marbles, so she started developing a collection of them, though she tends to misplace them. In reality, she was remembering the beginning of her name. It is the only symptom she has shown of the curse fading. Much like his original self, Tootles still enjoys stories. They often listen to Wendy, enraptured, just like the rest of the Lost Boys. When Tootles finds herself alone, she either practices her aim or tries to go on adventures of her own. They have even found a secret hideout that they plan on keeping all to themselves. It beats getting left behind. Again.

[mintakababe]

Gay ghost

[meazalykov]

d'or

salma paralluelo x reader requested

summary: her look at the ballon d'or ceremony sparked something inside of you

warnings: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI!!! r!switch, s!switch, dry intimacy? (s is clothed as r pleases??), swearing

you lean heavily against the mop, pausing to catch your breath as you stare at the spotless tiles beneath you. 

the faint throbbing in your right ankle grows more insistent, a reminder that you shouldn’t even be standing right now, much less deep-cleaning your entire apartment. you can’t sit still. not tonight. not with salma somewhere in paris, stealing the spotlight, while you’re stuck here, restless and alone. 

yes, you got fifth in the ballon d’or rankings. however, barcelona staff didn’t want your ankle injury to get even worse by the amount of walking you would’ve had to do in paris. you wished you were with your girlfriend right now.

“i’ll behave tomorrow,” you mutter to no one, shifting your weight onto your good leg as you move to rinse out the mop. not that your physical trainers would believe you. the thought of them catching you mid-scrub makes you roll your eyes, but then again, how could they possibly know? 

salma, though—she’d tease you mercilessly. her voice rings in your mind, laced with that teasing drawl she saves just for you.  

“you’re the worst patient ever, cariño.” 

you smile despite yourself, remembering the way her hands had lingered on your waist just before she left for paris. she’d stood in your doorway, grinning, suitcase by her side. 

“and you won’t even see my dress until the rest of the world does. believe that.”

you’d groaned, loud and dramatic, but she’d only laughed, that soft, melodic sound that always managed to unwind something tight inside of you. you can still see the mischievous sparkle in her eyes as she leaned in closer, whispering with her lips grazing your ear, “you’ll survive. probably.” 

and now here you are, surviving. just barely.  

the tv hums softly from the living room, still on the channel covering the ballon d’or ceremony, though you haven’t let yourself look yet. you know she’ll be there. walking that red carpet with aitana, alexia, marta, and caroline, looking unfairly good in whatever dress she chose—the one she refused to let you see.

your stomach twists as you wring out the mop one last time, limping slightly as you finally set it back in the closet meant for your cleaning supplies.  

the apartment is spotless now, though you barely remember doing half of it. you collapse onto the couch with a deep sigh, propping your injured ankle on a cushion. a sharp twinge shoots through it, and you wince, guilt prickling at the back of your mind. you’ll rest tomorrow. 

maybe.  

the announcer’s voice cuts through the quiet, pulling your attention to the tv. the ceremony has begun.  

you sit up straighter as the camera pans over the red carpet, your heart kicking up a little faster when you finally spot her. salma. she walks alongside aitana and caroline, the three of them with serious model faces, seemingly unaware of the cameras. how could they not be? the lights reflect off every inch of salma’s outfit—a sleek, understated black that clings to her in all the right ways. 

the material shifts with her movements, catching the glow of the spotlights and highlighting the graceful curve of her shoulders, the dip of her waist.  

her hair is styled perfectly, sleek with her braids freshly done, falling just past her mid-back. you’d told her once that you liked her hair like this, and now, seeing it paired with the simple elegance of her outfit, you’re not sure how to breathe. 

the camera cuts in closer as she leans in to whisper something to aitana, her lips pulling into that soft, secretive smile you’ve seen a hundred times before—but it still hits you like the first time.  

your fingers twitch against your thigh, the tension spreading through your chest like wildfire. it’s stupid, you think. you’ve seen her like this before—on the field, during post-match interviews, even lounging on your couch with her head in your lap. 

this feels different. she’s untouchable like this, framed by the glamour of the evening, and for some reason, it makes you ache.  

your phone buzzes on the coffee table, and you nearly jump at the distraction. at this point, the girls are not on the carpet anymore. the sow is gonna start in about ten minutes. 

you snatch the phone up quickly, already knowing who it is.  

salma: you’re watching, aren’t you?

you bite back a smile, your fingers hovering over the keyboard before you finally reply.  

you: against my better judgment. 

her response comes almost immediately.  

salma: and?  

you exhale slowly, your gaze flickering back to the screen where the camera catches her from another angle as she looks down at her phone that she is trying to hide. 

she’s walking with that effortless confidence she always carries, her chin tilted just slightly upward. you don’t want to admit how she’s making you feel right now, but she’d see through you anyway.  

you: you look ridiculous. 

you wait a beat before adding, 

you: too good. it’s annoying. 

there’s a longer pause this time, and you can almost picture her smirk as she types.  

salma: so you’re saying i look good? 

you groan, dragging a hand over your face as your cheeks burn. she does this on purpose—she always does.  

you: don’t get cocky.

you: but you’re sexy.  

salma: too late. 

the next message is a photo—a candid shot of her beside alexia, their arms linked. salma’s smile is wide and genuine, but it’s her eyes that do you in. the kind of look that’s effortless but leaves you feeling completely undone.  

you stare at the photo for a moment longer than you should before typing, 

you: you’re insufferable, go watch the ceremony that is about to start. 

her reply comes with almost infuriating speed.  

salma: and yet you’re still watching.

you shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips as you set the phone back down. she’s right, of course. you are still watching. you couldn’t look away if you tried.  

minutes bleed into one another as the ceremony drags on, the announcer rattling off names and speeches that you can’t bring yourself to focus on. your eyes keep drifting back to her, whether it’s the camera catching her clapping politely or the way she leans back in her chair, completely at ease in the spotlight.  

then, expectedly, your name pops up on the right side of the screen with sophia smith of the USA being on the left.  

you blink at the screen as the announcer lists you in fifth place. fifth. your chest tightens, and you sit up straighter, staring in disbelief as the camera briefly cuts to aitana, who grins and nudges salma’s shoulder. 

salma’s head whips toward the camera, her expression softening with unmistakable pride.  

she claps, her gaze lingering a beat too long on the camera—as if she’s looking for you through it.  

its after teh ceremony when salma gets a chance to text you back. 

salma: fifth place!! that’s my girl.

you don’t know what to type back. you’re still trying to process the year that you had. you remembering salma’s look on the screen which had so much affection it made your pulse stutter.  

finally, you type, “did you guys know too?”  

salma: of course we knew. everyone knew.  if you weren’t in the top ten that would’ve been disgusting 

you shake your head, a laugh escaping your lips. she makes it sound so simple, like you’re the only one who doesn’t see yourself the way everyone else does.  

you: you’re impossible.

salma: and you’re proud of me for third, right? 

your smile softens as you stare at the words, the weight of them settling somewhere deep in your chest.  

you: always. 

the screen flickers again, cutting to an interview backstage. salma stands beside aitana, answering questions with that calm, easy demeanor that always draws people in. 

there’s something in her gaze, a spark that wasn’t there before. she’s holding back a smile, and you just know she’s thinking of you.  

you lean back against the couch, your ankle finally beginning to relax as you let the sound of her voice wash over you. it’s ridiculous, you think, how just seeing her can make you feel this way. the tension is still there, low and simmering beneath your skin, but it’s mixed with something warmer now. something softer.  

the pool below your waist didn’t go unnoticed, but it would have to be ignored.

ignored until salma came home the next morning. 

salma walks into the apartment with her bag slung over her shoulder, the door creaking softly as it swings shut behind her. the early morning sunlight spills through the window, warming the cozy space you’ve both built together in the last few months. 

she looks exhausted but radiant, her eyes bright with the short flight she had before, and the corners of her lips lift into a soft, knowing smile the moment she sees you.

you’re curled up on the couch, a bowl of yogurt balanced in your lap, spoon halfway to your mouth when you look up. the sight of her standing there—braids tied up in a messy bun, travel-worn, but still somehow flawless—makes your heart stutter.

“you’re home,” you say softly, a warmth filling your chest.

salma drops her bag near the door and moves toward you, her footsteps quiet against the hardwood. “i’m home,” she echoes, her voice lower, smoother, like she’s been saving it just for you.  

yes, she was only gone for two days, but two days is lifetime for the both of you.

she doesn’t stop until she’s standing in front of you, her eyes sweeping over you with that familiar fondness. you set your bowl on the coffee table, shifting to sit upright as she leans down just slightly. her lips brush against yours—soft and warm—before she pulls back, and you can’t help but smile at her.  

“i’m so proud of you,” you tell her, your voice barely above a whisper. 

“top three again. you deserve it.”  

her smile spreads, wide and teasing, her dark eyes dancing with mischief. 

“light work, cariño.”  

you roll your eyes, huffing out a laugh. 

“please be so serious.”  

her hands find your waist then, sliding under the hem of your hoodie to rest against your skin. her touch is firm but gentle, familiar in a way that makes your pulse quicken. “serious?” she repeats, tilting her head with a mock-offended expression.

you glance up at her, biting back another smile. she’s so close now, the smell of her perfume still clinging faintly to her clothes. it’s almost unfair how easily she does this to you.  

“you looked good last night,” you say finally, voice softening again. 

“too good.”  

her brow lifts, a hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. 

“thank you.”  

your eyes narrow playfully as you lean in just a bit closer, your nose nearly brushing hers. 

“are you getting cocky again?”  

“maybe,” she murmurs, her voice dropping lower.  

there’s a beat of silence—just her hands on your waist and the faint rhythm of your breathing mingling in the space between you. her gaze flickers down to your lips, and you swear you feel your stomach flip. 

you’re not sure who moves first, but the space disappears in a breath.  

her lips meet yours in a kiss that starts slow and deliberate, her hands tightening on your waist as you melt into her. the tension coils tight and thick in the air, the kind you’ve both been dancing around for far too long. but this time, you take charge.  

your hands slide up to her face, fingers tangling gently as you deepen the kiss, pulling her closer—closer than she already is. a small, surprised noise escapes her, one you swallow as you tilt your head and press further into her. 

it’s rare for you to take the lead like this, but something about it makes her falter, her grip on you loosening just slightly as she lets you.  

you pull back only for a moment, your breathing uneven as you blink up at her. her lips are slightly parted, her cheeks flushed, and the sight of her like this makes your head spin.  

“go to the bedroom,” you murmur, voice lower than usual.  

her brows knit slightly, though there’s a flicker of excitement in her gaze. 

“why?”  

you smirk faintly, running your thumb over her bottom lip just to tease her. 

“go put on what you wore last night.”  

her lips quirk into a slow smile, the kind that makes your pulse pound in your ears. 

“you’re serious?”  

“dead serious,” you reply, letting your hands slip down to rest on her chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breaths.  

she studies you for a long moment, her eyes searching yours before she nods slowly. “okay,” she says, her voice soft but filled with something heavy.  

she steps back reluctantly, her hands sliding away from your waist as she turns toward the bedroom. you watch her go, her figure disappearing into the hallway, leaving you breathless on the couch with your heart pounding in your chest.  

you take a deep breath, already counting the seconds until she returns.  

44 seconds, you counted. 

eager.. you thought too. 

you’re laying down on the couch as the spanish woman crawls on top of you, enveloping your lips into a gentle and soft kiss. you moan in satisfaction as she moves around to the apples of your cheeks.. to your earlobe.. then down to that sweet spot on your collarbone. 

many moans were still coming from your mouth that you couldn't stop making as salma lifted your shirt, kissing your underboob before giving satisfaction to the rest of your chest. 

"you're so needy, moaning at every little touch." she mumbled against your warm body. at the same time, she took off your pajama shorts, tossing them somewhere in your living room as your eyes were shut in satisfaction. 

somehow, you forgot that you were the one that wanted to give salma a award for dressing so nicely at the ballon d’or ceremony. 

“sal..” you moaned. 

“si?” she smirked as her lips were just below your belly button. 

as much as you wanted her to continue, you wanted to be the one who took the lead. 

“you lay down.” you sat up, groaning as salma held your hips. 

“hm?” the taller woman teased. 

you rolled your eyes playfully as you flipped her over, so she was laying on the sectional couch. not caring about your ankle that should be currently resting.

the way her abs showed through her black outfit, the way it fitted all of the muscular curves on her body. you didn’t give salma the chance to catch a breath before you leaned down into her ear. 

“sal, you have no idea how much i’ve wanted to do this.” you mumbled as you gave a light kiss to her right temple. 

“since last night?” she smirked with her charm, looking down at her outfit before looking back into your eyes. 

“oh.. shut up.” you playfully rolled your eyes before connecting your lips with hers. 

a couple of seconds later your lips trailed down her neck. your warm lips against her glowy skin caused a beautiful groan to come out of your girlfriend’s mouth. 

your hands moved up her waist before going underneath her shirt, playing with her chest as your right knee pressed gently, yet perfectly, in between her legs. 

“joder!” the spanish moaned as she pressed herself against your knee harder. you smirked at the idea of getting her off while wearing the beautiful outfit, your knee could do the job perfectly (since salma’s knee has been perfect for you in the past).

heat rose to your cheeks as you continued to satisfy her entire body. your soft lips on her neck, your hands on her chest, and your knee/thigh against her core. 

accidentally moving your body so you were laid more comfortably on top of salma on the couch, sal threw her head back and moaned profanities. your knee reached a good angle through her pants. 

perfect. 

sal’s lower region tightened as you started to nibble on her chest, bringing her closer to her peak in between her legs. 

“i-i” salma lets out as her fingers clench onto your waist in a tight hold. 

“i know, i know.” you tease, smirking as you feel her thigh shake beside your knee. 

through your bare knee and thigh, laying in a missionary position, you can feel the warmth and moisture while sal released. you brought her down from that high, removing your knee from her center and giving a last kiss on her lips before pulling back. 

salma takes a deep breath, not processing that you got her off without needing to even take her clothes off. 

you smirk, proud of giving your girl what she (and you) wanted. 

“don’t get cocky.” salma breathes out, making you from earlier. 

“too late, my player of the year.” 

masterlist

[spookieloverslittlemind]

Their favourite movie…

includes: Michael Myers, Pinhead, Brahms Heelshire, Art the Clown, Sun and Moon (fnaf), Marta (Outlast 2)

spoilers: mentions of Saw and LOTR endings but tried to keep it vague just in case

Michael

I wouldn’t say he’s “happy” to watch anything, because Michael doesn’t really express “happiness” in any context, but he is content to sit completely still for hours on end, watching whatever you choose. He doesn’t form opinions on films so doesn’t have a favourite, but when you watch a gory horror film together, the SECOND the end credits are rolling he is up and grabbing his knife, heading for the door; Mike loves some inspo x

Pinhead

Fascinated by human media, having long forgotten that aspect of humanity. Pinhead enjoys films that he finds mentally stimulating, thrillers and mysteries mostly (gory films have him scoffing because he could easily make a far more gory scene in the blink of an eye). That said, Pinhead doesn’t like rewatching films because if they have a mystery and he’s solved it, he has no interest in seeing it again because “It is done; an experience that cannot be repeated”. His favourite film is Saw because he was completely blindsided by the plot twist at the end - obviously, a body on the floor of the entire film is nothing more than furniture to Pinhead, so when bro GOT UP?? Pinhead was losing it. Had to pause the film to pace for a few minutes. Couldn’t comprehend how he didn’t see it coming.

Brahms

Every Barbie movie from the early 2000’s, classic animated Disney princess films, and Peter Pan; Brahms thinks the princesses are very pretty (often comparing them to you regardless of your gender because he romanticises every fibre of your being) and believes himself to be the boy who never quite grew up, ironically. Doesn’t mind gory films, but doesn’t like complicated ones because he gets very frustrated; prefers to cuddle up with you and watch something wholesome. Will get pouty and is not above begging to start a movie over the second it’s finished.

Art

He’s pretty casual about the films he likes, he prefers classics that have decent remakes and his favourite is Carrie - a revenge plot with magical powers that cause a gory rampage? Count Art in. What he is passionate about, though, is the film he hates more than any other that fits the same criteria of a classic with a decent remake: It. And it’s literally because Art thinks he himself is the best scary clown. Sometimes you put it on (either the classic or new, the reaction is the same) just to piss him off and Art will come storming in, signing angry gibberish with flailing hands until he’s sulking on the couch beside you because he will insist on watching the entire thing again so that he can complain throughout.

Sun and Moon

Sun likes exciting films with happy endings, a very big fan of action movies. Contrary to this, his favourite movie isn’t just one, but the full Lord Of The Rings trilogy - Sun loved reading the books in between watching the films to digest every scrap of lore, but after watching the end of Return Of The King? Couldn’t bring himself to read the last book, because it was too sad. Sun is adamant he will never rewatch the trilogy because it upset him but objectively, that’s his favourite. He’s overjoyed to watch anything with you, because he loves spending time with you, but you have to tell him in advance it has a happy ending or he wont watch it, and if you lie? Moon pending.

Moon prefers quieter, calmer and darker films, with a particular love for gothic horrors based on the supernatural rather than slashers/gorefests. His favourite is An American Werewolf In London, the negative aspects of the transformation being very relatable to Moon.

Marta

Say hello to the biggest film critic of all time. Marta will insist that watching movies is a waste of good time that could be spent praising God or eradicating heretics, so will turn her nose up at almost every suggestion you make, but when you show her John Wick? Oh, Marta’s sense of justice is PREENING. She’s all about that. By the end, her internal monologue is begging God not to let her joy show on her face. As long as you tell her a film is like John Wick, she’ll give it a chance, but John Wick remains her favourite.

[abwwia]

Marta Pan in 1993 in front of Duna, granite sculpture installed in the garden of the Grenoble Museum of Fine Arts / Marta Pan Foundation Collection – André Wogenscky, current collection city of Grenoble

[chriscalledmesweetie]

The Case of the Missing Patty-Pan by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

When Mrs. Hudson invites Sherlock to a tea party, his own cleverness gets him into trouble. Fortunately, Dr. Watson is only too eager to come to his rescue.

A fluffy adaptation of my favorite Beatrix Potter tale, The Pie and the Patty-Pan, illustrated with the original lovely artwork, which is in the public domain, and with @chained-to-the-mirror's even lovelier artwork, which is a gift from this year's @fandomtrumpshate charity auction. I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I do!

I’m tagging some folks who might be interested. Please let me know if you’d like me to tag or untag you.

@mydogwatson @totallysilvergirl @bluebellofbakerstreet @sarahthecoat @helloliriels @daisyfairy1 @imnova @kittenmadnessandtea @missdeliadilisblog @marta-bee @whodwantmeasaflatmate @iwantthatbelstaffanditsoccupant @jobooksncoffee @peanitbear @bakingsherlycakes @kettykika78 @stellacartography @shelleysprometheus @iamjustreading @chinike @sgam76 @loves-to-read-fanfic @inevitably-johnlocked @johnlockismyreligion @riversong912 @calaisreno @7-percent @lijahlover @thegildedbee @naefelldaurk @221b-hound

[iceysnow]

saw someone writing Outlast sexuality headcanons so here's mine! Waylon Park: oddly enough I can't see Waylon as anything but hetero/ace despite shipping him x Eddie. Miles Upshur: Omni with no pref

Blake Langermann: Bi but he's had trouble with men after loutermilch

Lynn Langermann: shes also bi

Chris Walker: Aro/Ace Richard Trager: He's either bi or hetero (but he'll still kiss Jeremy good night)

val: Pan- I feel like I should discuss their gender but honestly I don't know either. maybe gender fluid or trans, Idk.

Marta: Ace lesbian (this is my 3rd ace, what does this say about me?)

Eddie Gluskin: Gynosexual HES LITERALLY THE DEF OF THIS ISWTG

Jeremy Blaire: Bi man with preference to women but he can only pull men😞

Leland Coyle: Omni- he doesn't care as long as your willing to get 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 with a phone charger

mother gooseberry: Pan icon!!!!

Pauline Glick: ANOTHER ARO/ACE???

Paul Marion: hetero

Dr. Wernicke: Looks at Trials Homo

Frank Manera: Foodsexu-

[hophopscotch]

Meet the staff!

Ana Pietra/Dollface

(looks like nothing like me irl but I don't wanna be bullied ;))

Name: Ana Pietra Amorim

Age: -

Nicknames: Ana, Pietra, Aninha, Pietrinha, Pi and Ghost

Family: Samara(mother), William(biological father), João Arthur(little brother), Maria Eduarda(little sister), Elson(ex-stepfather), Ana(grandmother), Marta(grand-aunt) and Valentina(kitten)

Nationality: Brazilian

Sexual Orientation: Pan

Relationship: -

Friends: Ayuda, Ann, Andy, Trevor, Derek, Kedamono, Ragatha, Pomni, Gangle, Chris(sometimes), Chef Hatchet, Popee(sometimes) and Kristal

Enemies: Chris(mostly), Popee(mostly) and Elson(despise)

Likes: Drawing, Watching TV, Sleeping and Goofing on phone

Dislikes: Be sociable, Have apparence insulted and Some certain episodes

[b-plot-butch]

MARTA’S SMILEEE 🥺🥺🥺

[sccpmccabe]

Happy Birthday, Marta!

Today, February 19, 2024, the Queen of Football turns 38 years old.

Marta Vieira da Silva started her career at the age of thirteen in 1999 at a time with very few references in women's football and, currently, has become the biggest name in the sport. It was only between 2004 and 2009 that the world finally woke up and "discovered" the talent of that player who defended the colors of Umeå IK and since then she has never been forgotten.

She is the holder of two silver medals at the Olympics (2004, Athens & 2008, Beijing), two gold medals at the Pan American Games and was runner-up at the 2007 World Cup with the Brazilian team. Furthermore, she was considered the best player in the world six times – five of them consecutively, breaking a record between men and women for this –. Marta is also the Brazilian team's top scorer – once again, among men and women – with 116 goals scored.

However, it is still difficult to measure Marta and her achievements in a simple text like this. She was and still is a great inspiration for many women around the world and will always be the biggest name in women's football. I lack words to express the admiration I have for her and the honor I feel in wearing the colors of my country and having a representative like her.

I was born and raised after the golden age of Brazilian football, but I am still fully capable of understanding the magnitude of her achievements and that of all football. Being young and/or from another country is no excuse for the lack of recognition of this incredible woman.