#today in depressing history | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

elodieunderglass · 4 months ago

Text

History of Black jockeys in the USA: tumblr starter pack

The gif above was created by animating the motion study of “Annie G,” plate 627 of Eadweard Muybridge’s 1887 work, “Animal Locomotion”. The horse is a mare named “Annie G.” The jockey, unknown, is a Black man. It is one of the earliest motion studies on record, and captures some of the first humans and first animals to be recorded this way. (The earlier 1878 Muybridge study of the mare Sallie Gardener is more famous but you can’t really see the jockey.)

The Black jockey is referenced (fictionally) as an ancestor n Jordan Peele’s film Nope (2022) which also looks at the relationship between Black men, horses, and the consumption for entertainment of both of their bodies.

Fold into that what we are learning about today’s acceptance of the jockey-as-consumable, of their body as an accessory, of their wellbeing as mostly irrelevant; but then remember that once upon a time, people cared a lot more about horse racing. This is a big, tricky topic in American horse racing. There was a time in American history when Black jockeys were enslaved and forced into a job that we know is dangerous and consuming. Later there was a time in American history when Black jockeys were incredibly influential and important, competing equally alongside white jockeys, and they were deliberately pushed out of a sport they had mastered.

“The Undefeated Asteroid,” Edward Troye, 1864. Enslaved horse trainer Ansel Williamson, right, holding saddle. Ed Brown, jockey on left adjusting his spurs, was the young enslaved jockey. The groom is unidentified.

Press Keep Reading for an essay/signposts to resources. It’s intended as a jumping-off point for curious people and historians to learn more. TW for racial discrimination and discussion of weight.

As we know by now, jockeys are considered consumable/disposable by their sport; they are athletes whose names are less memorable than their mounts and their working conditions are tough. The sacrifices that jockeys make today to remain strong and light are hard enough when the jockey is willing. They have hard weight limits on their profession. And one of the very dark horrors of this was that young enslaved Black men of small stature and riding ability were singled out and used as jockeys. Their sacrifices would not have been willing. While this essay is about the Black athletes who willingly entered the sport post-abolition, I think it’s important to be up-front about the history of enslaved jockeys in America. Jockeys like Ed Brown (above) were forced into the job very, very young.

Horse racing is a bonkers calling, but it’s also one that people willingly follow. Post-abolition, there were many Black American jockeys who were incredible athletes, their records and statistics still impressive today. In a surge of excellence around the 1890s, Black jockeys rose to remarkable influence and power in America, becoming household names above even the horses, travelling the world, greeted with admiration, true celebrities with their faces on merchandise. At the very first Kentucky Derby, raced in 1875, 13 of the 15 jockeys were Black men.

Between 1890 and 1899, African American jockeys won the Kentucky Derby six times. By the early 1900s, they were history. The key push to exclude Black jockeys came when White jockeys began violently attacking their African American counterparts by boxing them out during races, running them into the rail, and hitting them with riding crops. These attacks prevented Black jockeys from finishing in the money, and endangered fragile and valuable racehorses. Soon after the attacks began, African American jockeys found they could not get rides. Anxiety over job insecurity appears to have played an important role in White jockeys’ actions: there were only a limited number of riding slots. White jockeys would have benefitted in any circumstances from the exclusion of Black jockeys, but in the late 1890s the US was in a depression, and unease about finding rides was especially high. Combined with a growing anti-gambling crusade that reduced attendance at racetracks and eliminated some tracks entirely, jockeys found demand for their services contracting.(National Bureau of Economic Research)

Professor Pellom McDaniels, describing the impact of this on legendary Black American jockey Isaac Burns Murphy:

MCDANIELS: If black people are supposed to be inherently inferior, to have someone who demonstrates success in material terms unravels this idea and therefore those whites during this time period who believe themselves to be inherently superior, something's broken in their psyches. And Murphy represents that kind of attack on white supremacy.

Isaac Burns Murphy, one of the best American jockeys of history, had an unprecedented rate of wins (something like 44% which is almost impossible.) he was born into slavery, but his mother managed to escape with him as a toddler to a Union Army camp. He was inducted into the Jockey’s Hall of Fame in 1955 and Eddie Arcaro was quoted, “there is no chance that his record of winning will ever be surpassed.” (How could it?!)

Today, the American Racing Museum honours many Black jockeys of history in their Hall of Fame, telling some truly incredible stories that are worth browsing.

Like James Winkfield. Born in America 1882, died France 1974. won the Kentucky Derby twice. Left America due to this rising backlash against the growing prominence of Black jockeys, the KKK in particular explicitly objecting to his celebrity and earnings by sending him death threats. Winkfield therefore rode and trained in Europe, settled in Russia, FLED THE 1919 REVOLUTION WITH 200 HORSES?, married an exiled Russian aristocrat (????) and, lest he know peace for five minutes, defended his horses from the European Nazi invasion with a pitchfork(!!!!). Fleeing WW2 to America, where the new racial segregation was now being widely embraced, Winkfield found hotels that had once welcomed the celebrity athlete suddenly turning him away (never forget that segregation was artificial and deliberate.) I am still stuck on him sneaking 200 thoroughbreds out of Russia. Here’s his Britannica article and Hall of Fame bio.

The campaign of racism and terror was successful at driving Black athletes from the profession, and Winkfield was the last Black jockey to win the Kentucky Derby. Jim Crow swept through the USA, and white people in the South comforted themselves with “lawn jockeys,” racist caricature lawn ornaments of Black men in jockey silks.

It wasn’t until the 1970s that Black jockeys began winning high-stakes races in the USA again.

Hopefully this has spurred (ha!) your interest. Here are some links if you find yourself interested in more!

American racing museum: Jockey hall of fame

Kentucky Derby Museum’s Black Heritage in Racing collection

How and Why Black Riders Were Driven from American Racetracks (summary paper, National Bureau of Economic Research)

There is no competition: the legacy of black jockeys (1975 entry in Sepia magazine preserved here. Note that James Winkfield’s picture incorrectly identified as Isaac B Murphy.)

This 1975 photo is from the article above and describes Cheryl Smith, “first Black American female jockey to hold a license.” I haven’t been able to find out much about her, but I’m not a historian - let me know if she takes your interest as a topic!

It looks like there are some big interesting books on the subject, though I haven’t read them myself. If you’re interested in doing a research project, here they are!

The Great Black Jockeys: The Lives and Times of the Men who Dominated America's First National Sport, by Ed Hotaling, 1999

Isaac Murphy: The Rise and Fall of a Black Jockey, by Katharine C Mooney, 2003

The First Kentucky Derby: Thirteen Black Jockeys, One Shady Owner, and the Little Red Horse That Wasn't Supposed to Win, by Mark Schrager, 2023.

#jockeyposting 🏇#this is a topic where I’ve tried to signpost to lots of resources instead of doing all the talking being quite conscious that I’m #not really educated enough BUT ALSO if I am the only person posting 🏇 content on tumblr I can at least get other people started.

1K notes · View notes

clown-bimbo · 7 months ago

Text

Despite being transmigrated to a world of magic almost completely different to your own, with a rich history and culture you know nothing about, you are still expected to go to school.

And you can't even get any of your medications for it.

You're like halfway through the school year, and you are stressed. Maybe that's putting it nicely. You are stressed, pressed, and depressed, and studying for a history test of a world you were never a part of. And on top of all the typical school bullshit, there's also your social life, Grim, whatever bullshit Crowley throws your way. There's also the crushing dread you'll never get home again, and the depression that comes with your situation and oh yeah the depression that runs rampant in your brain without the proper chemicals to tell it to shut up.

You're fuckin S T R E S S E D.

And your buddies are starting to notice it.

Hi, and welcome to the first horny addition to Stuck In TWST Without Meds. Today we'll be taking a look at how Cater, Trey, Leona, Rook, Vil, Idia, and Malleus might fuck your brains out to distract you from the fucking everything in your life.

18+ content below the cut. minors, this one isn't for you

all characters (including you) are 18+. established relationships.

In hindsight I don't think this is at all "smutty" enough so I'm sorry!!! But I'm really proud of how each one ends. Might go back and make them smuttier or make a smuttier part two idk but I like how it is rn

🍀

Trey already typically stays up fairly late, what with vice housewarden duties and all, but he's surprised to find you have him beat. When he left you in his room, it was with your promise that you'd be done in a minute. Buy he was gone for a good half hour longer than 'a minute', and there you were, still at his desk, furiously scribbling away with bags under your eyes.

Cute.

You don't even notice when he comes up from behind you to place a small kiss on your cheek.

"I think it's about time for bed, prefect."

"Just a minute."

"That's what you said an hour ago."

That gets you to actually look at the time. You whimper at the hour gone (and little progress made), but brush him off.

"It'll only take a minute."

Trey sighs and shakes his head.

He considers for a second leaving you be, but this is the man who got Riddle away from studying for treats. He's got tricks up his sleeve. Though he is about to use some very different tricks for you.

It starts with his hands on your shoulders. Innocent little rubs to your shoulders. Another kiss to your cheek. A kiss to your jaw. A kiss to your neck... that sweet spot between your neck and shoulder. A nibble.

His hands are moving, too. From your shoulders, to your biceps. Soon he's taking your hand in his, holding it up to his lips.

"Trey--"

"Yes?"

"W-what," You suck in a breath as he leaves another love bite on your neck. "What are you doing?"

He simply hums.

His other hand gets to your thigh.

Your pen is abandoned.

💎

Cater whines your name from his spot on his bed.

"Just a second, Cater."

"But that's what you said an hour ago!"

He has that adorable look in his eyes, and if you'd only look at him!!! he KNOWS he'd have you in his hands.

But you won't, and he doesn't.

He flops back onto the bed with a sigh.

Until he gets an idea.

For a second, one foolish second, you think you have peace. Until you start hearing a quiet but telltale shlick shlick shlick.

His breathing starts to quicken. Then he's oanting. Soon you can hear quiet moans escape his lips.

And you can hear your name as well.

God damn it.

Cater grins as you finally get up from his desk.

🦁

Your stress is stressing Leona out.

He's lounging on his bed while you work on studying for Trein's test. Leona commented that you're taking freshman history, which is "baby stuff" to which you reminded him "I AM LITERALLY NOT FROM THIS WORLD, LEONA." And, to his credit, he did try to tutor you, but Leona is the kind of tutor that only works for certain individuals and you, bless your heart, are not that type.

So he gave up (lazy lion) while you continued to work. But he can basically hear your cogs turning from his spot and it's just not productive for either of you.

So, with a growl, Leona grabs you by the collar, only to start aggressively unbuttoning it.

"Leona-"

"Shut up."

"Leona, I-"

To which you are met with a 'shut up' kiss.

But you're pretty quick to forgive him once he has you on your knees under him.

"You're working too hard, Herbivore." He grunts from over you. "Give that little brain of yours a break and let me do all the work, alright?"

🏹

It's already difficult for you to continue studying when you have Rook whispering all sorts of French terms of endearment into your ear.

He's all over you, trying to coax you away from work and into bed with massages and the aforementioned French nothings.

Nothing.

He sighs, leaning back.

Until a wicked little idea brings a grin to his face.

"Mon amour," He whispers, to which you hum in reply. "I'm going to get a snack." Another hum.

A second later you feel a hand at your pants zipper. You look down to see none other than Rook, of course, hitting you with a closed eyed smile.

👑

Vil had been helping you with your homework. Bit even after he had stopped to get changed for bed, you had kept to it. And now you had vil worried about you. While he respected your gumption, you weren't going to get anything out of staying up all night and worrying yourself. You had used up your productive hours (quite productively, he would like to add) and now it is time for sleep.

He calls your name once.

...

Oh, this will not do.

He stalks over to you. He reaches out with one perfectly manicured hand and traces your jawline.

"Darling," He purrs. "It's time for bed."

"I cant." You reply. "I-"

"Uh, uh, uh, uh." He brings a slender finger to your lips. He takes your chin between his fingers and turns you to look at him.

"It's time for bed." He repeats. "Are you going to behave for me, or am I going to have to show a naughty little spud its place?"

💀

Let's be real, Idia's probably not going to sleep at a reasonable time, but he's also not staying up stewing over homework. If he's gonna have you staying up all night in his room with him it's gonna be—

W-w-w-wait, not like that!!! He was gonna say if you're gonna be staying up all night with him it would be cuz you're playing videos games! That's all!!

Oh, but now he's thinking about it... but you're working... ugh, but it's such beginner knowledge! But you're so focused... you... you wouldn't notice if he–

But you do notice. You do notice the 6 foot tall flaming haired nerd (affectionate) humping against you. It would be harder not to notice.

🐉

Malleus is concerned about his precious child of man. He can see how stressed you are. How hard you work. He wants nothing more than alleviate the troubles plaguing your mind.

And Lilia had a... curious suggestion.

Youre working away within your own dorm room when there's a knock at your door.

Malleus grins down at you.

"May I come in?"

And you say yes.

You worry about your work left upstairs, but you play the role of gracious host and prepare him a cup of tea. He takes a seat.

"You've been troubled recently." He notes.

You sigh. "I've just been stressed with all this work."

"I see." He's silent for a moment. "I dont like seeing you in so much distress." He confesses. "Might I offer my assistance?"

You blink. "Oh, sure. Yes, I'd love that. Thank you." You expect he's going to help you study.

You do not expect, however, for him to press you up against a wall and his lips against yours.

2K notes · View notes

greendomine · 2 years ago

Text

*adds Private Life by Oingo Boingo to the Lewis & Clark vibes playlist, mostly meaning it for lewis but being too lazy to separate them into two playlists and keeping it as one*

#feeling really emotional abt lewis today #i need to see his skeleton and i need to touch his skin and i need to feel his hair and i need to-#i miss him today methinks #ive also drank 10 oz of coffee within 30 minutes so im a little jittery and erratic #(just like lewis fr!)#anyway i think lewis AND clark had ptsd and anxiety but lewis got the short end of the stick by also having genetic depression and maybe bpd #rip lewis and clark i want to dissect your minds so i can diagnose you #lewis and clark #meriwether lewis #lewis and clark expedition #william clark #early 19th century #early 1800s #jeffersonian history #oingo boingo #private life by oingo boingo #(is that a tag?)#(whatever)

1 note · View note

sillyswriting · 5 months ago

Text

: ̗̀➛ husband john price - 04

cw : angst, drinking

ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤcollection - prev ⋆ next

time healed everything—that was the saying, right? you remembered it as you parked in front of john's house, ready to drop off your children for the weekend. looking in the rearview mirror, you watched as your two boys chatted excitedly about a new movie they were looking forward to—a movie their father had promised to take them to.

john’s disappearance and your miscarriage had changed your marriage a lot. you had tried to put it behind you for months, but you couldn’t. you weren’t angry anymore—you were just depressed. your body was on autopilot: wake up, make breakfast, get the boys ready for school, go to work, pick them up, make dinner, take a shower, cry yourself to sleep next to your husband. until it became too much.

the day you told john you needed a break from him, it broke your heart. you knew it was necessary—you were always on edge, getting frustrated and angry over every little thing he did. you thought you’d have time to cope alone when he went back into the field, but then he announced that he had finally accepted the desk job you had begged him to take. it was all just really bad timing.

so here you were, knocking on the little house he had to find in a hurry. ever the gentleman, he had let you keep the big house, insisting you had more history there than he did. it was a lie, of course, but you let it go.

what was supposed to be a temporary break turned into almost a year apart. you still spent your sons' birthdays together, as well as christmas, but other than that, you only saw john when you dropped off the kids and when you picked them up. it had been hard at first, but you were so used to being alone anyway that you fell back into your habits from when john would be on deployment. of course, you missed him, but it was different. something was broken.

neither of you had the courage to talk about divorce.

john's life had completely gone off the rails. what was supposed to be the best part of his life—a loving family and retirement from the battlefields—had turned into a nightmare. he had lost his teammates, his house, and his wife. he still saw his kids, but it was different. two days and three nights weren't enough. it was better than when he was away, but he was here now.

but he had wanted to give you the space you needed. he didn’t want to be the toxic husband forcing his wife into a relationship she didn’t want after such a traumatic event. but he had lost a child too; he had fought to come back home. so when you told him you wanted a break, a real one with separate houses and everything, john had given up. he wasn’t going to fight for a marriage you didn’t even believe in anymore.

the first months were the hardest. he had to get used to being so alone. he wasn’t used to it. when he was away, he had his team, and when he was home, he had you and the kids. now, he only had silence. and he hated it. so at first, he drank… a lot. it had always been a pet peeve of yours; every time he was particularly stressed, he'd drink a lot. he knew it. he had slowed it down for you, but now? why bother? he’d stop when his kids were home, not even bothering to hide the bottles; they were too little to understand anyway. and you never came inside.

the drinking had eased over the months. he had pulled himself together, and when he understood you weren’t coming back, he tried to make his new home more welcoming and cosier for his boys. they were still his, they’d always be his. everything they asked for, john would get it for them. he didn’t want them to say they grew up without a loving dad. so he spoiled them, like he always had.

but today, today was different. he had forgotten you were dropping the kids off on thursday, instead of friday. and it was his birthday, the first birthday he’d spent without you for over a decade. he had bought a special bottle and an expensive cigar—a little treat for himself. his week at work had been erratic, and it had slipped his mind that you said the kids wanted to spend their dad’s birthday with him. one drink after another, he was passed out drunk on his couch.

you’d been knocking for a few minutes now. you knew john was home, his truck was right in front of his house. maybe he was in the shower. you hesitated before using the spare key he had given you, "we never know what can happen, sweetheart." guess he’d been right.

you gently told your kids to wait for you in front of the house, not sure what you would find inside. when you entered, the smell of alcohol and tobacco hit your nose, almost making you vomit. you were glad you told your kids to wait outside. making your way blindly through the house, you didn’t know what was where, and stumbled into the living room, finding your husband on his couch, passed out. rushing to him, you made sure he was still breathing and pulled him onto his side, scared he might choke if he threw up.

tears welled up in your eyes, your heart breaking at the sight in front of you. he had gained some weight over the year, not that you minded, but it was obviously a sign of a poor diet. making your way to the kitchen, you noticed all the junk food delivery bags near his trash, you had been right. sitting down for a moment, you thought about what you’d say to your kids. they were so excited for their dad's birthday. how could he do that to them?

after a few minutes, you made your way back outside, where your kids were waiting on the curb. you told them grandma was coming over to pick them up because their father was sick, and you were going to take care of him tonight. if he felt better, you'd pick them up tomorrow so they could still spend time with john.

after your mother picked the kids up, you made your way back inside john's house. shaking him a little, he didn't move a muscle. you wanted him to wake up, you wanted to scream, you wanted to know why. why he would do that? but he didn't move.

you cleaned his house a bit and emptied all the alcohol you could find. you knew john like the back of your hand, and every time you'd dropped your kids, he had been sober. did he forget you were coming today? he must have; that was the only logical explanation.

you were taken out of your thoughts when you heard a groan from the other room. making your way to the noise, you could tell john was surprised to see you. but the look on his face was the look he had when he barely woke up, still uncertain of his surroundings. so you turned around, going straight for the bathroom upstairs and started a bath. at that very moment, you hated him, but something in you still wanted to take care of him.

john had seen you, he knew you were real. that sobered him up way quicker than anything else could. what were you doing here? he sat down, his head turning. looking back up, he saw you waiting at the door. he tried to explain, but no coherent words came out of his mouth. he remembered now. he had fucked up. you motioned for him to follow you, and, as the good boy he always had been with you, he did.

he would follow you through hell and back if you asked him.

you helped him undress, and for the first time with you, he was self-conscious about his own body. as you helped him into the bath, he prepared what he was going to say. however, in his drunken state, all he could manage was: " 'm sorry, sweetheart, forgot." it wasn't enough, you knew it, and he knew it. but it was all he could manage. the pet name only made it hurt more.

he prayed his boys didn't see him like this. he prayed you had lied to them. deep down, he knew you—he knew you'd never let your kids have a bad opinion of him, even if you did. he'd seen it in your eyes, the look of anger and disgust when he woke up.

now, you helped him into his bed, completely nude. he wanted to say so many things—how sorry he was, how much he knew he had fucked up, how much he missed you. but the look on your face, it broke his heart. he had thought you’d given up on him a long time ago, but he had been wrong. he saw it. at that very moment, lying in his bed, he saw how your mind had settled. it was then that you gave up.

up until then, he still had his chance. now, it was gone.

he had hoped you would stay with him through the night, but you got up and silently made your way out of his bedroom. tears made their way down his cheeks; he was so numb, he didn't even feel them. you were blurry when you appeared again in his room, making your way over to him.

you stopped just next to his bed, bending over to kissing his forehead.

"happy birthday, john," you said softly, as you dropped the divorce papers on his nightstand.

949 notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 2 months ago

Text

Bridget Read’s ‘Little Bosses Everywhere’

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in PITTSBURGH on May 15 at WHITE WHALE BOOKS, and in PDX on Jun 20 at BARNES AND NOBLE with BUNNIE HUANG. More tour dates (London, Manchester) here.

Pyramid schemes are as American as apple pie. If you doubt it, just read Little Bosses Everywhere, Bridget Read's deeply researched, horrifying, amazing investigative book on the subject, which is out today from Crown:

https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/715421/little-bosses-everywhere-by-bridget-read/

Read, an investigative journalist at Curbed, takes us through the history of the "industry," which evolved out of Depression-era snake oil salesmen, Tupperware parties, and magical thinking cults built around books like Think and Grow Rich. This fetid swamp gives rise to a group of self-mythologizing scam artists who found companies like Amway and Mary Kay, claiming outlandish – and easily debunked – origin stories that the credulous press repeats, alongside their equally nonsensical claims about the "opportunities" they are creating for their victims.

In Read's telling, there's only two kinds of MLM participants: suckers (who lose lots of and lots of money) and predators (who rake in that money). MLMs pretend that they're doing "direct sales," cutting out the middleman to peddle vitamins, household cleaners, cosmetics, tights or jewelry. But the actual sales volume of these products rounds to zero. The money in the system – tens of billions of dollars per year in the US alone – is almost entirely being spent by "salespeople" who are required to buy a certain amount of "product" every month, either as a condition of membership, or in order to attain some kind of bonus or status.

The "salespeople" in these systems are effectively in a cult, and the high-pressure techniques that Read describes will be instantly recognizable to anyone familiar with cultic dynamics, or even just a casual listener to the Conspirituality podcast:

https://www.conspirituality.net/episodes

And, as with other cults, MLM members are tormented endlessly by other cult members into trying to recruit their friends and family-members. Sometimes, they succeed, and the cult grows a little – but usually not for very long. Most people who get recruited into an MLM quickly figure out that it's impossible to make any money – indeed, it's impossible to avoid losing a lot of money – and bail.

The meat-and-potatoes of the MLM industry are the minority who don't see through the scam. They believe that they are deficient, because everyone else is reporting such incredible returns from "the program." They charge more product to their credit cards, insisting to their "uplines" that they are selling machines (and not that they are filling their garages and attics and living rooms and kitchen cupboards with unsold, unsellable junk). What they don't understand is that all the "successes" in the cult are either scammers who are getting rich off people like them, or they are people like them, going deep into debt and desperately trying to pretend that they're selling as well as those uplines.

The US government and various law enforcement agencies have taken various runs at these cults, but they cults have always won. That's down to enforcers buying into the cult leader/scammers' essential lie: that, at the end of the day, MLM is a system for selling things to people. That isn't true, has never been true, and never will be true. But by crafting rules and tests that attempt to sort the "legitimate" MLMs from the "scam" MLMs, enforcers fall into the scammers' trap. The scammers welcome rules that distinguish "good" MLMs from "bad" MLMs, because it's trivial to create the superficial appearance of adherence to these rules while flouting them. For example, if the rule says that "independent sales representatives" must sell to at least ten outside customers, they can simply make up the names of ten people and charge it to their card. This happens routinely, but there's no auditing, and besides, the MLM victims are all "independent business owners," so if there were any penalties for these violations, they would fall to the victims, not the cult.

Meanwhile, the scammers know it's a scam, and the failure of their victims to sell the useless "product" the cult is nominally organized around is a feature, not a bug. The hordes of indebted, cost-sunk, self-castigating failures are suckers for yet another scam: selling victims "training" to improve their sales technique. After all, if everyone around you is selling this crap without breaking a sweat, the failing must be your own. You need coaching, training, seminars, cassettes, books, retreats, all of it piling debt on debt.

The internal operations of these cults are shrouded in mystery, but Read lifts the veil and makes masterful sense of the horrors lurking beneath. In this, she is somewhat aided by MLM cult leaders' propensity for suing one another, as various sub-bosses build up massive followings of their own and seek to usurp the cult leader by founding their own parallel cults or sub-cults. These lawsuits sometimes drag the cults' dirty laundry out in public, and Read sorts through these court filings very carefully. Unfortunately, the cults' propensity for suing also helps suppress a lot of dirty laundry, because MLM leaders love to sue ex-cult members who participate in online forums where they document their expenses, and they use these cult victims' own money to pay for the court cases that silence them.

MLMs aren't just cults, they're religious cults. Since the very earliest days, pyramid scheme runners have declared themselves to be engaged in an extension of their Christian (mostly Calvinist) faith. The engine of a pyramid scheme needs social capital for fuel: to bring in new recruits, a cult member has to draw on the bonds of trust, fellowship and solidarity in order to convince their targets that this is a bona fide enterprise (and not a cult). Faith groups – especially fringe faith groups – have this kind of capital in spades. This goes double for faiths that demand large families (which is why we see such deep penetration of MLMs into Mormonism and orthodox Judiasm). If your faith demands that you produce a "quiverfull" of mouths to feed, then the chances are that you will not be able to survive without being enmeshed in a mutual support network with your co-religionists. MLMs convert this trust, generosity and mutual dependency into cash (at a ruinous exchange rate) and then funnel it "upline" the cult leaders, who reap billions.

Of course, those kinds of bonds are not solely forged on the basis of faith: racialized people, women, and other groups who face systemic discrimination depend on one another for mutual aid, which makes them vulnerable to another MLM pitch: "predatory inclusion":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/27/predatory-inclusion/#equal-opportunity-scammers

Predatory inclusion is when scam artists adopt the language of social justice to pitch their cons – think of all the crypto bros who sold their ripoff schemes as a way to "achieve independence for women" or "build Black wealth" (thanks, Spike Lee):

https://www.vice.com/en/article/spike-lee-made-an-ad-for-cryptocurrency-atms-and-its-bizarre/

Predatory inclusion is parasitic upon the bonds of solidarity forged in adversity, and this goes double for the MLM variety. As MLMs cut away the strands of the web of mutual support, the cult leaders replace them with rabid anti-Communism, the kind of far-right rhetoric that brought Christian conservatives into the Reagan coalition and ultimately led to Trump's fascist takeover.

Here's how that move works: "You are a small, independent businessperson, the backbone of America. You will realize the American dream through your own backbone and work ethic (and therefore your current failure is due to your own lack of both). People who want to shut down pyramid schemes say they want to protect you, but really they want the government to decide who can and can't own a business. They're Communists, and in coming for MLMs, they're coming for America itself."

Some of America's richest family dynasties owe their wealth to pyramid schemes. They are dynasties of fraud, and they funneled their criminal gains into far right political projects. The Heritage Foundation – the authors of Project 2025 and Trump's master strategists – got their start with money from Rich DeVos (father in law of Betsy DeVos, who served as Secretary of Education in the first Trump cabinet). The far-right dark money machine runs on MLM money.

In fact, there's a good case to be made that everything rotten in today's world is built on the tactics of MLMs. Take the "gig economy." Companies like Uber promise drivers a high hourly wage. A small number of drivers are randomly allocated extremely large payouts by the system, in order to convert them into Judas goats, who fill gig-work message boards with tales of their good fortune. As Veena Dubal documents in her seminal work on "algorithmic wage discrimination," this tactic is devastatingly effective, convincing other Uber drivers to put in extremely long hours for sub-starvation wages, and then blame themselves for "being bad at Uber" – just like the downlines at Mary Kay and Amway who think the problem is with them:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

Trump, of course, is the ultimate expression of the MLM grift – and not only because he licensed his name to two different pyramid schemes. Trump embodies the MLM ethic of lying about how rich you are so that marks send you their money to get in on the "opportunity" and then blame themselves when the promised riches never materialize.

Erik Baker once described MLMs as a kind of bizarro-world version of unions. In the world of labor organizing, success lies in finding the people with the most social capital, the ones who are trusted by their coworkers, and teaching them to have a structured organizing conversation. This is exactly what MLMs do – but the difference lies in the goal of that structured organizing conversation. For union organizers, the goal is build solidarity as a means to improving the lives of everyone in the community. For MLM organizers, the goal is to destroy solidarity, atomizing the community, shattering its bonds, leaving its members defenseless as they are fleeced by the cult's leaders and their henchmen:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/05/power-of-positive-thinking/#the-socialism-of-fools

Neoliberalism's war-cry is Thatcher's "There is no such thing as society." The past 40 years have been a long process of tearing us away from one another, teaching us to see one another as marks, to mistrust systems of mutual aid as Communism. Read's Little Bosses Everywhere is a brilliantly told, deeply researched history of the past and present of the ultimate business model for late-stage capitalism: destroying the lives of everyone around you while pretending to be a small businessperson.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/05/05/free-enterprise-system/#amway-or-the-highway

#pluralistic

505 notes · View notes

firelxdykatara · 5 months ago

Text

The thing that always hits me about season 5 is like... Buffy is just so fucking tired.

It comes on gradually, and of course season 6 is widely known for Buffy's depression arc, but the seeds are well and truly planted in the season before it because I think season 5 is when it truly starts to hit her that... she was never supposed to live this long.

Because throughout history, Slayers have been incredibly short-lived. They make it to adulthood if they're very lucky, and at the age of 23 Buffy is officially the longest-lived Slayer in history. At 20, she had already well surpassed the average, and she's really starting to feel it. It's no coincidence that this is the season when she starts giving up on the life of the normal girl she'd been so doggedly clinging to, refusing to give up just because she's the Slayer, since season 1. She drops out of college, her mom dies, Riley leaves (and she didn't even love him but he was something normal and good and she couldn't help but cling to him even when she knew she shouldn't and no thanks to Xander's terrible fucking advice but ANYWAY), she has nothing but being the Slayer and taking care of her sister--who isn't truly her sister but finding that out doesn't matter because she is in all the ways that count.

And she's tired. Because she's just one girl, one woman, with the weight of the world on her shoulders--and every other Slayer in history was eventually crushed by it, killed by the very darkness they were destined to fight (and die fighting), most of them never even making it this far. So she's standing there, hearing Dawn tell her that she has to let her go, to let her sacrifice herself to save the world because it's what she was created for, it's the only way- and she remembers.

Death is your gift.

And on the face of it, yeah, her death is the gift she gives to her sister to ensure she lives, and to her friends and the world to ensure they are not consumed. But also? Death is her gift. And it's not just realization dawning on her face in the rising sun--it's relief.

Because finally, finally, she can just let go.

She doesn't have to fight anymore. She doesn't have to suffer, or lose anyone else, or lose more pieces of herself. She can just stop. She can just rest.

Because the universe calls for one single champion, one teenage girl in all the world to fight all the powers of darkness and evil. And at the end of it all, the world offers her nothing in return except this--true and final peace. Death is her gift, and she rushes to meet it and she thinks finally, finally, she can just stop fighting. Stop everything. The world will be ok without her, there's always someone else to take up the mantle. She doesn't have to be the one everyone else is counting on. And she's so exhausted and so ready.

And then she wakes up in her own coffin. And all that suffering she thought she'd finally been allowed to escape crashes down on her a hundred fold, and of course she would stagger under its weight. But I think deep down some part of her blamed herself even for that. Because she'd been so ready to give up, stop fighting, end her own torment and then... her friends needed her back so badly that they ripped her from the only sliver of true peace she'd known since her Calling, and how could she say they were wrong for it when she feels so very wrong to her core for being so ready to let go in the first place?

Idk where I'm going with this, just feeling a lot of emotions about Buffy Fucking Summers today I guess.

#buffy summers #btvs #btvs s5 #buffy meta #long post

765 notes · View notes

pinkpurplesunrises · 10 days ago

Text

Tides of Tenderness (Holding What Remains)

6000 words – the long story – Alexia Putellas x Reader - Angst and Fluff - Happy ending - Mentions of infertility and depression - Please read with care.

Writer's note: I'm back from a small break. This is still a scheduled upload though. I hope this story makes sense. It was kinda chaotic writing it. Hope I could describe the emotions as good as possible. Was feeling depressed myself when I wrote this, writing about it actually healed me a bit. I put some photos in the header for a change.

The final whistle wasn’t supposed to sound like that.

Not like silence.

Not like an echoing void.

Alexia stood alone in the cavernous locker room of the stadium. The very place that had witnessed her rise. Her glory. Her heartbreaks and triumphs. Now, it felt like a mausoleum of memories. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Cold and indifferent. Casting harsh shadows on the empty benches.

Her cleats clicked softly against the tiled floor as she took a slow, measured step toward the bench. The sound was sharp in the stillness. The ticking of a clock counting down a lifetime she thought would last forever. Her fingers trembled as she untied the laces, the movements automatic, mechanical.

Her jersey clung to her. Soaked through with sweat and the dust of the pitch. The familiar blue and garnet colors faded by the evening’s battle. It hung from her shoulders, heavy like a shrud. She sat down, the weight of years settling deep into her bones. The aches. The pains. The endless training sessions. The sacrifices and the victories.

But there was no victory today.

No cheering crowds chanting her name. No teammates rushing to embrace her. No glorious final bow.

Just silence.

She glanced toward the locker where her daughter’s small Barça jersey rested. Folded neatly inside. A constant reminder of the life she had built beyond the pitch. Martina was only three. A little whirlwind of energy and laughter who had become Alexia’s anchor. Her reason to keep moving forward after all the battles on and off the field.

Her phone buzzed softly in her pocket. She pulled it out and a photo lit up the screen . Martina, fast asleep, her tiny frame curled up in the stands with her grandmother. The colors of the club wrapping her in a protective embrace.

Alexia smiled. The corners of her mouth twitching despite the heaviness in her chest.

“You’re all I’ve got, chiquita,” she whispered to herself. Her voice cracking like brittle glass.

Retirement was supposed to feel like freedom. Like relief. Like the end of a hard-fought chapter with a triumphant final page.

Instead, it felt like an empty room filled with ghosts.

Ghosts of matches won and lost. Of teammates who had become family. Of dreams realized and those quietly buried.

She ran a hand through her hair. Her fingers tangled in strands that no longer bounced with youthful vigor but instead carried the weight of years and worry.

She was thirty-five. A mother. A legend.

But most days... she felt just tired.

Tired of fighting. Tired of proving herself. Tired of waking up to a silence that wasn’t just the absence of noise but the absence of purpose.

And yet, deep inside, beneath the exhaustion... a tiny spark flickered.

Because she had to believe there was something more waiting.

Something beyond the stadium lights. Beyond the roar of the crowd. Beyond the expectations and the history.

Something new.

Something that could heal.

She took a deep breath and stood. The creak of her knees reminding her that this was real. That the game was truly over.

And as she walked out of the locker room... the cool night air embraced her like a long-lost friend.

The next chapter awaited.

You sat alone in your small, dimly lit flat. The shadows of the evening stretching long across the walls. The quiet felt suffocating. Thick with the remnants of a conversation you wished you could unhear.

“You should’ve told me sooner.”

The words echoed inside your head like a broken record. A painful refrain that had become all too familiar.

You had told her. On the second date. With trembling hands and a voice barely above a whisper. You had braced yourself for the fallout. The disappointment. The retreat.

But it was always the same.

“I want kids,” they said, “but I don’t want to carry them. I thought you could… adoption is no option.”

And you had no choice but to watch them leave.

It wasn’t just that you couldn’t have children... it was the way it happened. Like a door closing before you even had a chance to step inside. Like a silent verdict passed on your worth. As if the inability to carry life made you less deserving of love.

You didn’t blame them. Not really. You understood. They wanted something you couldn’t give. But the pain of it never dulled. It carved itself deeper with every goodbye.

You stared out the window. The city lights flickering like distant stars. The hum of life outside felt alien to you. A reminder that everyone else seemed to be moving forward while you stayed stuck in this moment.

Another failed relationship. Another patch of your heart stitched up with scar tissue.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, as if you could hold the pieces together.

Sometimes you wondered if maybe some people were just meant to be alone. Not in a tragic, soul-crushing way. But in a quiet, resigned way. Like a soft rain that never quite turns into a storm.

You had dreams once. Of a family. Of love that wouldn’t ask you to change. Of a future that wasn’t measured by what you could or couldn’t give.

Now, you just wanted peace.

The phone buzzed quietly on the table. A message from a friend checking in, maybe, or a meme to lighten your day. You didn’t have the energy to respond.

You took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The tightness in your chest easing just a little.

Maybe love wasn’t about fitting into someone else’s expectations.

Maybe it was about finding someone who could see all the broken pieces and still want to hold them.

You didn’t know if that person was out there.

But you still had hope.

Because even in the quiet. Even in the darkness. Hope was the thing that kept you breathing.

The world outside didn’t move any slower, but you did.

Sunday mornings had become your sanctuary. You’d wake up late. Wrap yourself in a hoodie that still smelled faintly of lavender detergent and wander through the sleepy rhythm of the neighborhood.

There was a park not far from your apartment. just enough green to make the city noise feel like background static instead of something pressing in on your chest.

You went there more often now.

There was a community event set up today. Some kind of wellness fair for local families. Yoga mats were laid out in crooked lines across the grass and bright handmade posters advertised things like Mindful Motherhood and Healing Through Play. A man in a t-shirt that read Free Hugs (Consent First!) was being avoided by everyone.

You didn’t belong there. Not really.

But you stayed. Sat on the edge of a bench with a takeaway coffee that had gone lukewarm. It was just something to do. A way to not feel the echo of your apartment so loudly in your bones.

And then...

A little girl ran past you. Small and fast. Her sneakers flashing like lightning bolts. She was laughing. That wild kind of toddler laugh that came from somewhere deeper than joy. She looked back over her shoulder. Curly hair bouncing and nearly tripped over her own feet.

“Martina!” a voice called out. Firm. Tired. Gentle.

You looked up.

She was walking quickly. Catching up to the girl with long, practiced strides. Blonde hair in a low braid. Sunglasses pushed up on her head. Dressed plainly. Faded jeans, a soft t-shirt, sneakers that had seen better days. Not glamorous. Not polished. Just… real.

She scooped the girl into her arms and crouched beside her. “Cuidado, mi amor. You almost became one with the pavement.”

The girl giggled and grabbed her mother’s face with sticky hands.

And something in your chest shifted. A softness.

You looked away quickly. You weren’t trying to stare.

But then she turned her head. Saw you watching. And smiled.

Not the kind of smile that demanded anything in return.

Just… recognition. A moment shared between two strangers sitting at the edge of a world neither of them fully belonged to.

“She always runs faster than I think she can,” she said, stepping toward the bench and sitting down on the far side of it. Balancing the child on her lap.

“She’s fast,” you replied. Glancing over with a polite smile. “I almost didn’t see her coming.”

“She likes it that way,” the woman replied, grinning now. “She’s three. The goal is chaos.”

You laughed. Genuinely. It startled you.

The little girl looked at you curiously. Then shyly turned her face into her mother’s shoulder.

“She’s a little suspicious of new people,” the woman added softly, brushing a curl back from the girl’s face.

“I don’t blame her,” you murmured, then sipped your coffee and realized too late how bitter that sounded.

But the woman didn’t flinch. She just nodded. Like she understood more than you meant to say.

“I’m Alexia,” she said after a pause, glancing over at you, then back down at her daughter. “And this is Martina.”

You hesitated. Then: “Nice to meet you both. I’m…” You gave your name, still uncertain why this conversation hadn’t already ended.

Alexia smiled again. Soft. Tired. Genuine.

And for the first time in what felt like months, you didn’t feel the need to run.

You didn’t know who she was. Not really.

And maybe that was a gift.

Because all you saw was a woman with quiet eyes and a sleeping kind of sadness in her smile. A woman who looked like she had been both whole and broken, and was still standing.

And maybe... just maybe... so were you.

The door clicked shut behind you with a sound far louder than it should have been.

You didn’t turn on the lights.

You didn’t take off your shoes.

You just stood there. In the dark hallway of your apartment. Staring at nothing. The silence pressed in immediately. Like it had been waiting all day for you to come home so it could wrap itself around your neck again.

The visit to the park had felt like something. A flicker. A moment where the world tilted just slightly out of routine. That woman... Alexia... and her daughter, their presence still clung to the corners of your mind like static on fabric.

But now?

Now, it was just you again.

You walked to the bedroom without thinking. Shedding your hoodie in the hallway like a skin you didn’t need anymore. The bed didn’t call to you. It absorbed you. You didn’t even pull the covers back. You just dropped face-first onto the mattress. Shoes still on. Your arms limp at your sides.

It wasn’t sadness. Not exactly.

It was… nothing.

That heavy, dragging nothing. The kind that coats your limbs and dulls your thoughts. Like you’re trapped under a wet blanket that no one else can see.

Your phone buzzed once.

You didn’t check it.

Probably someone asking something of you. Time. Energy. A reply. Anything.

You had nothing left to give.

Lying there... your thoughts slowed to a crawl. Not even dramatic. Just tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix.

The kind of tired that lived in your bones.

You stared at the ceiling. At the way the faint light from the street slanted in through the blinds. Painting pale. Shifting bars across the wall. You counted them without meaning to. Over and over. Just to keep your mind from slipping too far into the fog.

You thought about how people talked about loneliness like it was this sharp, aching thing.

But yours wasn’t sharp.

Yours was dull.

Quiet.

A steady hum beneath your skin that made everything feel too loud and too far away at the same time.

You couldn’t cry. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t think past the next breath.

And even that felt like effort.

This had become familiar. The laying still. The weight. The silence.

The way the world narrowed to a single square of mattress and the hope that maybe... eventually... your body would stop feeling so heavy.

You weren’t broken. Not exactly.

But you were tired of being left behind.

Tired of hope turning into silence.

Tired of showing people the soft, tender parts of you only for them to flinch and step away.

And yet…

In the stillness, one image floated back into your mind.

A little girl with curls and sneakers too bright for the grass.

A woman with kind eyes who didn’t ask anything from you except a name.

It wasn’t enough to move you. Not yet.

But it stayed.

A tiny point of light in the fog.

You closed your eyes.

Not to sleep.

Just to make everything go away for a little while.

The train ride to Elí’s felt longer than usual.

Not in distance. Just in weight.

Martina sat beside Alexia. Her little legs swinging wildly under the seat. Her fingers sticky with the remnants of some juice pouch that had long since been drained. She kept humming a tune with no melody. No rhythm. Just joy.

“Ya vamos a la yaya?” she asked for the third time. Eyes wide with anticipation.

“Sí, chiquita. Ya casi,” Alexia said, smoothing a hand over her daughter’s hair.

It still amazed her. How much love a body could hold for someone so small. How it could coexist with exhaustion. With grief. With a thousand quiet fears she never had the time to name.

When they finally reached the house, Martina bolted up the stone walkway with the excitement of a comet. Elí opened the door before Alexia even knocked. Some maternal sixth sense honed over years. Still sharp as ever.

“Mi niña,” Elí said, bending to catch Martina in her arms. “You’ve grown since yesterday!”

“No he crecido!” Martina giggled. Her voice muffled against her grandmother’s neck.

Alexia watched them with a smile she hadn’t worn all day. She crossed the threshold behind them. Feeling the old floorboards creak in that familiar way. Like they remembered her steps.

Everything smelled like rosemary, lemon, and fresh laundry.

Home.

Later, after dinner... pasta, of course and bread too buttery to be reasonable... Martina grew quiet. Her energy curling in on itself like a cat ready to sleep.

“Venimos a leer, mi amor?” Elí said. Rising from her chair and offering her hand.

Martina nodded solemnly. Her curls a sleepy halo and let herself be led upstairs. Alexia stayed in the kitchen. Elbows resting on the table. The warmth of her tea bleeding into her skin.

She could hear the soft murmur of bedtime from the hallway: a lullaby hummed under Elí’s breath, the rustle of blankets, a whispered goodnight. It made her heart ache. With what, she wasn’t sure.

Ten minutes later, Elí returned, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Out like a light,” she said gently.

Alexia smiled but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Her mother tilted her head. Watching her for a long moment. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“I’m always quiet these days.”

“Not like this,” Elí replied. Crossing her arms. “Your eyes are full.”

Alexia looked down at her tea.

“I met someone today,” she said softly. Surprising even herself with the confession.

Elí raised an eyebrow but didn’t say a word. She waited.

“In the park,” Alexia continued. “She was sitting on a bench. We talked. Only a little. She didn’t recognize me.”

A small, wry smile tugged at her lips. “Felt… nice, actually.”

Elí’s expression didn’t shift, but something in her eyes softened. “What was she like?”

Alexia paused, looking past her mother. Like the answer was written somewhere on the wall.

“Quiet. Sad, maybe. But kind. Real.” She swallowed. “There was something... familiar in her. I don’t know. We didn’t even talk long.”

“But she stayed in your mind,” Elí said. Voice warm, but laced with a knowing tone.

Alexia nodded once.

“Sometimes that’s all it takes,” her mother added, a little too casually.

Alexia groaned and leaned back in her chair. “Mamá, no.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You’re saying everything with your face.”

Elí laughed. Light and melodic. “I’m saying nothing. But I haven’t seen that look on you in a long time.”

Alexia rubbed her face with both hands. Like she could scrub the fatigue from her bones. “I’m tired, mamá.”

“I know,” her mother said. Her voice turning gentle again. “That’s why I won’t push.”

And she didn’t.

She just walked to the living room. Fluffed the cushions on the old sofa and turned down the lights. When she returned, she placed a soft blanket in Alexia’s lap without a word.

Alexia didn’t argue. She barely made it to the couch before sinking into it like it was the first good thing to happen to her in weeks. Her eyes closed almost immediately.

And as the warmth of the blanket covered her, and the sounds of the house wrapped around her like a lullaby, she thought... just before sleep took her... of a quiet woman on a park bench.

And wondered what she was doing now.

You weren’t planning to go back to the park.

But sometimes your legs moved before your mind made the decision, and before you knew it, you were walking the same path through the trees. Past the same benches and flyers and strollers and dogs that never quite listened to their owners.

You weren’t looking for anyone.

But some small part of you hoped.

And then...

There she was.

Alexia. Standing by the café cart just off the walking path. A hand on Martina’s shoulder while the little girl tried to climb the side of the cart like it was a jungle gym. Her hair was pulled back today. Gold catching in the late afternoon sun. She wore an oversized denim jacket and she looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

Still beautiful, though. In that worn, quiet way people sometimes are. Like an old song you hadn’t heard in years but still knew all the words to.

You slowed without meaning to. She glanced over and saw you.

A smile broke across her face... not big, not showy. Just real.

“Hey,” she said as you approached, voice soft, warm.

“Hey,” you echoed.

Martina looked up at you briefly. Gave a suspicious squint. Then returned to her climbing.

Alexia stepped slightly closer. Keeping one eye on her daughter. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Neither did I.” You hesitated. “But… I guess we’re both creatures of habit.”

That made her laugh. Low and short.

“I’ve only got ten minutes before she melts down from sugar and sunshine,” she said. Gesturing to Martina. “But I’m glad I ran into you.”

You nodded, unsure of what to say next.

Neither of you rushed to fill the silence.

That was something you appreciated about her already.

Finally, she glanced at her watch and sighed. “We’ve got to head out... nap window’s closing fast.”

“Understood,” you said with a small smile. “She seems like she runs the whole operation.”

“She does,” Alexia said. Deadpan. “I’m just the exhausted assistant.”

Another shared laugh. And then she nodded once. Grateful. Familiar. And turned to corral her daughter.

You watched them walk away until they disappeared past the hedge.

You didn’t think it would feel like anything.

But it did.

A quiet kind of empty.

You stopped by the café cart after. Needing something hot to hold. While waiting for your drink, you noticed something just under the edge of the cart bench.

A plush dinosaur.

Bright green. Worn at the edges. With one eye slightly off-center and a bow tied clumsily around its neck. You bent to pick it up.

On the tag, in faded pen:

“If found, please call or text: +34...”

You didn’t need to think twice.

You took a photo of the tag... just in case... and gently tucked the plush into your bag.

Back at your apartment, you stared at your phone for ten minutes before typing.

Then erasing.

Then typing again.

Finally, your message read:

Hi, I believe you left something at the café today. A green dino plush. Found it near the cart bench. If you're comfortable, I live nearby and you’re welcome to pick it up. No pressure at all. :)

You hovered over the send button.

Your thumb trembled just slightly.

And then... you sent it.

No typing bubbles. No immediate reply.

You placed the plush gently on the coffee table.

And waited.

Not with expectation.

But maybe with… possibility.

The day began like all the others.

Gray. Heavy. Like a thick fog had settled inside your chest and wouldn’t let go.

You’d woken up feeling the weight of it immediately. That familiar ache. The quiet ache that no one could see.

It started with your thoughts. Circling relentlessly.

Why am I infertile?

Why won't they love me for who I am?

Why can't a be a normal woman?

Infertility wasn’t just a word. It was a hollow place inside you. A secret grief you’d carried so long it felt like part of your bones.

You tried to push it away. Tried to do the things that were supposed to help. Breathing exercises. Journaling. Scrolling through old photos. But the sadness clung to you. Like wet clothes you couldn’t peel off.

Hours passed in a blur.

You hadn’t even looked at your phone all day.

Until...

A knock. Sharp. Insistent.

You sat frozen on your couch. The room dim except for the muted light sneaking through the blinds.

Knock knock.

Again.

Your heart jumped.

Who could it be?

You shuffled to the door. Fingers trembling as you opened it just a crack.

There she was.

Alexia.

Denim jacket, tired eyes, and a soft smile that didn’t quite reach the exhaustion beneath.

“I’m sorry to just show up,” she said quietly. “But Martina’s still upset… she keeps asking for her dinosaur.”

You blinked.

The plush.

You hadn’t even thought about it all day.

Your apartment behind you looked like a storm had passed. Clothes tossed on the floor. Books piled in odd stacks. Dishes half-cleared from last night.

Heat rose to your cheeks.

“I… I’m sorry,” you said, stepping aside. “It’s kind of a mess.”

She smiled, stepping in anyway.

“It’s okay,” she said gently. “We all have those days.”

You closed the door behind her.

The room was dark. The only light coming from the muted afternoon sun filtered through the curtains.

You gestured toward the couch. Feeling suddenly shy.

“Would you like some tea?” you asked.

She nodded.

You moved slowly. Still aware of the clutter and the weight in your chest. But somehow the presence of this woman felt like a small, fragile balm.

She settled onto the couch. The plush resting in her lap and for a moment the quiet wasn’t empty.

It was waiting.

For something to begin.

Elí's house smelled like oranges and lavender again. Fresh. Calming. Familiar.

Alexia stepped through the door with the plush dinosaur in hand. Still a little squashed from the bottom of your bag. She’d cleaned it as best she could but it still had that faint comforting smell of you. Like coffee and quiet.

"Dónde está mi monstruita?" she called softly.

Her mother appeared in the hallway with a finger to her lips.

“Shh,” Elí whispered. “She’s still napping. Barely went down twenty minutes ago.”

Alexia sighed, smiled. “Figures. I rushed the whole way.”

She handed the plush over and Elí took it with a knowing smile. “The prodigal dinosaur returns.”

Alexia chuckled, slipping off her jacket. “She wouldn't stop asking for it. She even cried during lunch.”

“She loves her little routines,” Elí said, placing the toy gently on the side table. “And she loves feeling safe. That toy’s been with her since she could walk.”

They settled into the kitchen like they always did. Tea already waiting, biscuits on a plate that neither of them would touch but always put out anyway.

Elí watched her daughter over the rim of her mug.

“You’re quieter than usual,” she said finally.

Alexia shrugged, sipping her tea.

“I stopped by the apartment of the woman I met in the park. She found the dinosaur.”

Elí’s eyebrows lifted, just a little. “And?”

“It was…” Alexia shook her head. “Her place was a mess. I could tell she was embarrassed, but... I don’t know. There was something real about it. About her. The room was dark but it didn’t feel... wrong. It felt like someone was just tired. Like someone who needed a little space to breathe.”

Elí leaned back in her chair, one hand cradling her tea.

“So? What’s stopping you?”

Alexia blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You keep talking about her. That’s something. You went to her place to return a plush, and you’re still thinking about the conversation.”

“I barely know her.”

Elí gave her a look. The kind only a mother could give. “You’ve known a lot of people and none of them made you sound like this. Not in a long time.”

Alexia looked away. Out the window. Past the rooftops.

“I’m tired, mamá.”

“I know,” Elí said gently. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t love. Or be loved.”

There was a silence then... soft, unpressured.

Elí placed her mug down, folded her hands over Alexia’s.

“Why don’t you ask her out?” she said softly. “For a coffee. A walk. Anything.”

Alexia opened her mouth, closed it again.

“You don’t have to fall in love today,” Elí added with a smile. “But you deserve to feel something again. And she looked like someone who needs that too.”

Alexia exhaled. Long. Slow.

“I don’t even know if she likes me.”

“Oh please,” Elí smirked. “Even I could feel the tension in your last text.”

They both laughed, quietly.

And then Elí leaned forward, conspiratorially.

“If you want, I can take Martina next weekend. A little abuela adventure.”

Alexia’s brows lifted. “Seriously?”

“She loves the train. We’ll visit that little beach town she liked last year.”

Alexia hesitated, then nodded slowly, a small smile blooming.

“Maybe,” she said.

“Just do it,” Elí whispered, squeezing her hand. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Alexia didn’t answer.

But she was already thinking of what she might say to you. What kind of message would feel natural. Light. Honest.

She didn’t know much yet.

But she knew she wanted to see you again.

It took her an hour to type six words.

Alexia sat on the edge of her bed after putting Martina down, the soft hum of the baby monitor crackling beside her. Her phone rested in her hand, the screen glowing in the dark. Her thumb hovered, retreating every time the words looked too forward. Too hesitant. Too unsure.

She wanted to say something casual. Light. Not like she’d spent the last twenty-four hours thinking about the shadow in your apartment or the way you’d looked at her like she wasn’t a footballer. Or a mother. Or anyone with a legacy to uphold.

Just a woman.

Just Alexia.

That had stuck with her. The quietness of it. The way you hadn’t tried to fill the silence. The way your eyes didn’t flinch at the mess. Not really.

She typed again.

Hey. I was wondering…

Delete.

If you’re free sometime…

Delete.

She dropped the phone on her lap and sighed.

Then, finally, she just wrote what was true.

Hey. Would you maybe like to get coffee sometime? Just us. No plush toys involved. 😊

She stared at it for a long time.

Then pressed send.

And placed the phone face down on the bed.

You were curled up on the couch, an old hoodie wrapped around your frame, a mug of cold tea sitting forgotten on the table beside you. The day had gotten away from you again. One of those quiet slips where time didn’t really move. It just dissolved.

When your phone buzzed, you ignored it at first.

Then you glanced.

And your heart gave the tiniest kick.

Hey. Would you maybe like to get coffee sometime? Just us. No plush toys involved. 😊

You stared.

Read it again.

And again.

Something in your chest shifted. Gently. Hesitantly. Like a flower beginning to bloom after too many cold seasons.

You didn’t rush to reply.

But you smiled. Really smiled.

Then you typed:

I’d like that. Just let me know when. :)

Simple.

But it meant more than anything you’d said in weeks.

You arrived five minutes early.

Then sat in your car for another ten. Trying to calm your heartbeat like it was something you could reason with.

It was just coffee.

She’d even said that. “Just us. No plush toys involved.”

Still, your palms were damp. Your stomach twisted itself into cautious knots.

You hadn’t done this in a while, not really. Not with someone who felt like they might matter.

When you walked into the little café she suggested, Alexia was already there. Sitting at a corner table by the window. No sunglasses. No protective shell. Just a woman with her hair in a loose braid and a ceramic mug in both hands.

She looked up as the bell chimed.

Her smile was small. Familiar.

“Hey,” she said, rising slightly from her seat.

“Hi,” you said, your voice too soft but steady.

You sat across from her.

“I hope this place was okay,” she said, nodding toward the counter. “They do actual tea here too, not just dishwater.”

You chuckled. “That’s already an upgrade.”

A silence settled. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just careful. Like neither of you wanted to move too fast.

You looked at her then. Really looked.

She looked... tired. But not in a fragile way. In a been-carrying-too-much-for-too-long way.

“How’s Martina?” you asked.

“She screamed when I told her the dinosaur was safe,” she said with a wry smile. “Then cried. Then fell asleep mid-tantrum.”

You laughed gently. “Sounds efficient.”

“She’s got my stubbornness,” Alexia said. Then added, “Unfortunately.”

You sipped your drink.

She did the same.

The conversation wandered slowly at first. You asked about her favorite books. She confessed she hadn’t read much lately but loved poetry once. She asked what you did for work. You shrugged and said it paid the bills, but maybe you weren’t sure who you wanted to be yet.

You both admitted you hated dating apps.

She confessed she once let Martina wear a tutu to the supermarket because she didn’t have the energy to argue.

You told her about the time you cried in public after a stranger asked if you had kids.

The air shifted then.

Just slightly.

She looked at you. Not with pity. Not with confusion.

With... understanding.

You looked down at your hands.

“Sorry,” you said. “That’s a weird thing to say on a first... not-a-date.”

“It’s not weird,” Alexia said quietly. “It’s honest.”

You met her eyes again.

There was something there.

Not spark or fireworks or a dramatic swell of music.

Something quieter.

Like safety. Like maybe you weren’t broken for good.

Like maybe someone could hold space for you... and not leave.

“I didn’t expect to like you this much,” she said, almost to herself.

You smiled, heart tripping a little over the words.

“I didn’t expect anyone to come back for a dinosaur.”

That made her laugh. Really laugh. And she leaned back in her chair, the tension in her shoulders loosening.

The rest of the conversation was easier after that.

By the time you left, the sun was dipping behind the rooftops and your heart felt… softer. Less guarded.

Alexia walked you to your car.

She didn’t hug you.

But she lingered.

“I’d like to do this again,” she said.

You nodded. “Me too.”

Then you both stood there. Not moving. Not rushing.

Just breathing in the quiet.

When you finally got in your car and pulled away, she was still standing there.

And for the first time in a long time…

You didn’t feel so alone.

The morning sunlight felt too bright, slicing through your curtains like a spotlight you didn’t want.

You paced your apartment. Heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst free from your chest.

Martina was still with Elí for the day, which meant Alexia had reached out again. This time to say she was free, maybe for a walk or lunch.

You’d agreed, but now the nerves were flooding in.

Because today wasn’t just another coffee.

Today, you planned to tell her the truth.

About the infertility.

About the scars no one saw.

About why your past relationships always ended before they began.

Your phone buzzed.

I’m outside. Ready when you are.

You swallowed hard.

You wanted to run, to hide, to pretend none of this mattered.

But you didn’t.

You opened the door.

Alexia was standing there, a soft smile that made your chest ache.

“Hey,” she said, voice low, warm.

“Hey,” you whispered back.

You walked to the park. The same one where you’d met.

Your steps were uneven, your breath shallow.

When you found a quiet bench, you sat, fingers twisting in your lap.

“I need to tell you something,” you said, voice trembling. “Something important.”

Alexia nodded, waiting without rushing you.

“I… I can’t have children,” you said, the words like a weight falling between you.

“It’s why most of my relationships ended,” you added, eyes fixed on the ground. “Because when I tell people, they leave. They say they want kids but don’t want to carry them. So… they leave me. And it’s lonely. And it hurts.”

You looked up, expecting pity or maybe quiet judgment.

Instead, Alexia reached out and gently covered your hand with hers.

“Thank you for trusting me,” she said softly.

Her eyes were steady. Honest.

“I’m sorry you’ve been so alone in that.”

You exhaled, relief and fear tangled in the same breath.

“I was scared you’d walk away too.”

She shook her head slowly.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Her own voice cracked just a little.

“I’m a mother. I know what it means to love fiercely and to be tired. And to hope, even when it’s hard.”

You squeezed her hand.

“I’m tired too,” she whispered.

“But I want to try.”

You looked at her.

Really looked.

And saw someone who wasn’t perfect.

But was brave.

And kind.

And maybe... just maybe... someone who could hold all your broken pieces without breaking.

You smiled, fragile but real.

“Maybe we can hold each other,” you said.

She smiled back.

And the sun warmed your face like a promise.

A year later, the apartment felt too quiet.

You lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Your thoughts tangled in a knot of fatigue and restlessness.

It had been an off day. One of those days when even the smallest things felt heavy.

You needed space, needed to breathe without pretending everything was okay.

The soft hum of the city outside was distant, like a world you didn’t quite belong to today.

Your phone buzzed a few times, but you didn’t answer.

Alexia was away with her mother and Martina for the weekend, a little getaway to the beach town Elí loved.

You had encouraged it. Knowing how important those moments were for them. But now, left alone in the quiet, you felt the familiar ache of solitude creep in.

Just as you were drifting into that dull, heavy fog of loneliness, the door swung open.

A burst of energy filled the room. Tiny footsteps pounding. Laughter spilling.

Martina.

She sprinted toward you with arms wide open, and before you could react, she was jumping into your arms, giggling.

“Missed you!” she chirped, her warmth washing over you like sunlight.

You hugged her tightly, the weight of her little body grounding you.

Then Alexia appeared in the doorway. Cheeks flushed from the trip. Eyes bright with relief at seeing you.

She walked over and slipped into bed beside you. Pulling you close.

“Had a good time?” you asked quietly.

Alexia nodded, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“Best. But I missed you.”

Just then, the door creaked open again, and Elí peeked in, a gentle smile spreading across her face.

“I couldn’t resist,” she said, stepping inside.

Without hesitation, she joined the embrace, wrapping her arms around the three of you.

The room felt full. Full of love. Full of belonging.

You closed your eyes and breathed it all in.

Here... in this moment... you were exactly where you needed to be.

Not broken. Not alone.

Whole.

Epilogue

The sun was gentle that afternoon. Casting long golden rays over the grassy field where Martina kcked a ball with unsteady determination.

You stood beside Alexia. Both of you holding hands. Watching your little girl chase her dreams in a tiny Barça jersey. The same one Alexia had worn years ago.

Martina’s laughter rang out. Pure and bright. As she stumbled, caught the ball, and beamed when Alexia cheered her on.

“You’re doing amazing, chiquita,” Alexia whispered, eyes shining with pride.

You squeezed her hand, your heart swelling with a love you hadn’t dared imagine before.

Later that evening, the apartment was quiet and warm, Martina asleep upstairs after a day full of new memories.

You and Alexia curled up on the couch. The soft glow of the lamp casting a peaceful light around you.

You pulled a small, worn book from the shelf. A hidden diary of sorts, pages filled with notes and dates. Marked with needles and hopeful scribbles.

Alexia’s eyes widened as you handed it to her.

“I’ve never shown this to anyone,” you said softly. “All the injections, the hopes, the heartbreaks…”

Her fingers traced the delicate pages. Her expression tender and awed.

“But,” you continued, voice steady despite the lump in your throat, “I have a family now. A real family. One I never dared to dream of.”

You looked at Alexia, love pouring from your eyes.

“And you’re my home.”

Tears welled in Alexia’s eyes, shining like stars in the soft lamplight.

She pulled you close, holding you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

In that quiet moment, past pain and fear dissolved.

All that remained was love. Fierce. Healing. And endless.

-------------------------------------------------------

Writer's note: how was it?

#woso community #woso writers #woso x reader #woso #fc barcelona femeni #woso fanfics #fc barcelona femeni x reader #woso imagine #my long story #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas x reader

286 notes · View notes