#we don't have the obligation to speak french or spanish when you are the ones visiting | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

randombush3 · 8 months ago

Text

a sense of coming home

ona batlle x reader

summary: part two of this! ona and you are (frustratingly) still just friends

words: 6.5k (i have NO idea why i waffle so much but lets pls allow it)

warnings: there's like five secs of smut at the end

notes: this has been the most self-indulgent fic i've written because this is how i met my gf and so i am glad to show you a nice happy ending

again, the quote is from 'this side of paradise' (said gf's fav book - i don't recommend however because the protagonist is a twat)

also i didn't proofread bc i am exhausted and i am hungover and i am very ready to go to sleep (#globetrotting is not for the weak) x

There is something difficult about forcing oneself back to their toxic roots. Ona discovers as such as she presses her body into a temple of meaningless sex, but she does so because she is a driven person. Ona is determined to get over you, once and for all, except she’d quite like to stay friends (hence why she agreed when asked). She also thinks it would expose her to fall out because her feelings shouldn’t have existed anyway, so she technically shouldn’t be heartbroken?

Anyway, Ona rampages through Manchester! They appreciate her accent – some even ask her to speak to them in Spanish when she is three fingers deep inside of them, to which she obliges with little fanfare – and it isn’t like the city lacks queer women. It is a super solid way to keep her busy, to tear her attention from hungrily checking your Instagram whenever possible.

It’s also what lands her with coronavirus. She’s embarrassed to admit just how many people she has come into contact with when the club doctors ask her questions over the phone.

You send her a lovely message after hearing she is yet another fallen soldier.

Ona is at home, isolating, and you are apparently trapped in Spain, unable to get into Italy. You haven’t quite made it to your parents’ house since your flight was supposed to depart from Madrid. “How come you’re not on the phone to one of your ‘connections’?” Ona asks suspiciously, wondering why this call has lasted longer than ten minutes. “Surely someone knows someone else and they can get you back home.”

“I’m hardly out of my depth in my own country,” you remind her with a twinging sigh, pained that she has suppressed all memories of your childhood. “It’s not like I don’t speak Spanish.”

“Didn’t you get rid of it in your head to make space for Italian and English? Oh, and French too, right? That’s where the fashion weeks are.”

You laugh at her pride for knowing something about your job, but it is not to ridicule her. “I am speaking to you, aren’t I?”

“In Catalan,” she points out. “Forget Spanish, but don’t forget Catalan.”

“I can’t. It’s the language everyone uses to tell me about how fucked you’ve been lately.” You take in a deep breath, uncomfortable with Ona’s silence but knowing your piece needs to be said. “Are you aware of what happened a few months ago? Why I missed the wedding?” One of your friends met her dream man and he whisked her off to Menorca for a small ceremony. Only the people she loved the most were invited, which included your childhood friend group. “We were in New York, a whole bunch of us. It was late but the show had been a big deal so we went out to celebrate, and… these ‘friends’, these people, they aren’t the same as you and me. Most of them are English, you know, and they come from very fancy schools where addiction is normal. Two of them ended up in the hospital that night – the bag hadn’t even made it round to me by the time they’d dropped. I know it seems far-fetched, but all I’m trying to say is that addiction has consequences. Bad consequences.”

“So you’re not on my side?” Ona isn’t taking this too seriously. A few people have joked about her questionable new hobby, but no one has made it seem so dire that they have needed to get you involved. You who, of course, Ona will listen to.

“I am always on your side.”

That is her main take-away from the conversation, Ona chooses, when it ends an hour later. She swoons, meaning the last twenty women have been a waste of time, but she also tortures herself into ignoring the potential problem. Being a sex addict would be embarrassing, so she won’t be.

Though your subtle shaming for her abundance of quick-fix flings is hypocritical, Ona would also hate for you to see her that way. You can avoid commitment all you like, but she is determined to be different to prove to you that she is a viable candidate, should you wish to stop stringing her along. It’s probably toxic; it probably means that you are both clinging onto a friendship that should either end or be labelled something else. It probably is the push and pull that has kept you interested, Ona thinks, because she knows that you like the chase.

However, as much as she’d like to be freed of whatever game she is caught up in, she can’t seem to let you go like that.

…

The next time Ona and you have a proper conversation about something other than how your love lives have been stunted or how people back home are not as successful as the two of you is when most of the restrictions have been lifted.

You waited out the pandemic in Vilassar de Mar, much to your annoyance, but now that you can travel again, the first person on your mind to visit is your childhood best friend. You’re not as close as you used to be, having drifted further during even more years apart, but it does not dull your love for her, nor hers for you.

Ona has changed her mind about Manchester and is forcing herself to like it. It works enough for a visit from you to be the last thing on her mind, and so she slows her response time down until the next arranged date to see each other in person is all set for the summer before the Euros in England.

You’re not quite home but you are in the country, and, with the pre-Euros camp in two days, Ona is spending the final few hours of calm left before the storm in the comforting presence of her mum and dad.

And… you, apparently.

“You weren’t supposed to be here yet,” is Ona’s greeting when she opens the front door.

Your smile is wide and genuine, and you are holding a gift bag in one hand. There is a nice bottle of wine in the other. “Not even an ‘hola’?” When no reply comes, you swallow the emotions that have arisen; the ones that are maybe, just a little bit to do with how soft Ona looks with her hair down. And the slope of her jaw. And the ghosts of defined biceps that bulge even when she isn’t flexing her arms. “I’m dropping by to see your parents. I thought you were in Barcelona with your footballer friends.”

“You visit my parents?” asks Ona curiously.

“Of course.”

With that, you side-step her and call out to her mother, announcing both your arrival and your desire to hand them their gifts. Dinner is just about to be served, and Ona is soon tasked with setting another place at the table for you as though the last ten years had never happened and your friendship hadn’t lost its innocence.

Maybe it would be better for Ona to not know what it feels like to kiss you, to touch you, to – dare she think it – love you. It would certainly make things less painful, and would have saved her from catching at least one illness and spending a good amount of money on Ubers to escape from random apartments. It would make it easier to listen to you talk about your life in Milan, where you seem to exist in a bubble of incredibly attractive people who are desperate to hold hands and form a raft.

“Modelling can be brutal,” you agree, nodding at Ona’s father as you follow on from his concerns about your career. He voices them regularly; whenever you see him. Ona realises you have spent a lot of time with her parents without her. “It gets quite competitive between the girls so I’ve been somewhat avoiding them. They’ve brought in someone new, scouted from Germany, I think, and I’m a little worried that I’ll have to switch agencies if they start prioritising her.” You glance at Ona, wanting to know if she is listening, hoping she is. You wish that she were as good at suppressing her feelings as you are. You wish she didn’t look at you like you hung the moon, because you know that you have to tell her you have hung it for someone else. “I’d move tomorrow, to be honest, but I’ve started seeing this guy and he’s convincing me to stay in Milan.”

“The minute he is your boyfriend, you bring him here,” commands Ona’s mother in a tone she hasn’t yet used on her actual daughter (said daughter has never mentioned anyone before). “Show us a picture of him! Is he a model like you?”

He is, and if Ona holds her fork tighter after she sees the photo you pull up, that is her business. You secretly take in her clenched jaw and furrowed eyebrows, and this might be the worst thing you have ever had to do. To see her so defeated, so hopeless, is upsetting, especially since you are harbouring the same feelings. However, you are able to admit when it is time to throw the towel in, and you can no longer live like this.

Ona is too perfect for you. She is driven, hard-working, and funny. She likes to nutmeg little children on the street, and she likes to buy them an ice-cream if they slip a goal past her, slotting the flat footballs into imaginary nets and celebrating as though they have just won the Champions League. She knows a lot, more than she thinks she does. She cares about people, but sometimes it manifests in anger, in frustration.

Any aspect of her is an aspect that you could love, and that is reason enough not to. Because how can you allow yourself to taint such perfection?

But, in this unspoken rejection, the compliment is obscured from the recipient’s view. All Ona sees when you gush about how he buys you flowers and takes you out to dinner, is a burning, bright question. It flashes red and yellow, both as a warning and cry for attention. How can she compete if you don’t even recognise her as a competitor?

…

“--And then they proceeded to finish a film they were halfway through as if it were the most normal thing ever,” Ona rants the minute she hits the concrete of Las Rozas, walking into the facility with Aitana and the other girls who travelled with her from Barcelona. Only the midfielder has been gracious enough to listen to the entire monologue, but the others joke that that is because Ona’s emotional state has led her to spiral in her native language. It is forbidden for them to openly speak Catalan in the Spanish camp, according to Jorge Vilda, who loves to hurl a ‘we can send you back to where you came from in an instant’ their way if he so much as hears a ‘bon dia’. Naturally, Aitana doesn’t give a fuck about the rule, although Ona chooses to believe that she is listening because she cares.

“Are you done?” Aitana asks thoughtfully, sucking on her bottom lip as she tries to absorb her friend’s crisis and formulate a valid, sensible response. The two have known each other for a while now, and Aitana remembers a time when Ona was relentlessly teased by their older teammates for being in love with her best friend. It is clear to her that those feelings never ceased, though she has heard through the grapevine (Leila Ouahabi) that you are now a model and you live somewhere in Italy. You’re part Italian, is what Leila also claims, having professed your ethnicity to a small huddle of fellow gossipers one day in the gym at the Barça training facility.

“No! Nothing is ever done with her. It’s viscous and it continues in a horrid cycle that has me flapping around in circles like some idiot. I am one of her boys.” Ona groans dramatically, the sound perhaps a little too loud. A few of the girls in front of them turn around to see why a cat seems to have been strangled, but they quickly lose interest when they see it is just Ona and her disastrous situation. “Do you know how fucking humiliating it is to be one of her guys? I am a professional footballer! I play for Manchester United, one of the most historic clubs in the world, and I am about to represent my country in a major tournament. I am successful, Aita, and yet I am still not enough for her.”

“Maybe she only likes men.”

“A man has never made her scream like I have,” she bites back. Aitana blushes, but Ona is too far gone in her rage to hear her crudeness nor preserve her friend’s sanity. “She’s been like this since she decided she was gay! Isn’t that hilarious? ‘Ona, I think I’m gay’, she said. I know lesbian breakups can be hard, but there is no way my cousin fucked her up to this extent.”

“I can’t help you with this, Oni,” Aitana laments, sorry to have to confess this to her friend. “I think you need to talk to her about it. A proper conversation to fix long-term issues, not like the ones you obviously had when agreeing to stop having sex and things like that. Only she knows what she’s thinking.” It is definitely not the advice Ona wants to hear, but she cannot deny the midfielder’s wisdom. “But for now, we focus on winning.”

…

You are more than a little confused.

To start from the beginning, Ona’s cousin fucked you up. She broke your heart, and that first impression of dating girls was incredibly traumatising. With girls, you don’t just kiss and sleep with them, you get close – really close – and then when you break up, it is like you have lost both a girlfriend and a best friend.

Men are a lot simpler. Men like you and they aren’t shy about it. They can sometimes be just as cruel, but you have never felt invested enough to care too much.

Some nights, you don’t fall asleep, tossing and turning between your sexual identity, aware that you don’t need to label it but desperate to… discover yourself. If you don’t understand that part of you, how will someone else? How can you be loved? How do you even know who you want to love you?

For as much as Milan is great, it definitely doesn’t help you with your crisis. Girls in Milan like to do what they want. It is not uncommon for the models to kiss each other in clubs, in front of appreciative male gazes or not, and then reveal their engagement to their future husband the very next day. It’s easy to be drawn into such a bubble, but the minute you step out of it, you are hit with the real world.

It’s what makes the pandemic so distressing for you personally, because you are forced to live like normal people for some time. Your eyes are held open and the question is shoved down your throat, and it really doesn’t help that Ona’s cousin never moved out of Vilassar de Mar.

She sees you one day, saying hello from a suitable distance as you pick up milk as per your mother’s request. “I heard you’re modelling?” she asks with no agenda, no seductive glint in her eye. You notice the ring on her finger, and she feels the heaviness of your staring. “Oh, I got married a year ago. Did Ona not tell you?”

You realise that you and Ona try to avoid talking about anything other than the love interests you have. “No, she didn’t. Congratulations, though. She’s a lucky woman.”

“You don’t have to pretend you’re happy for me,” laughs the woman opposite you, amused and somewhat apologetic. “Look, I’m really sorry for how I acted when we were younger. I was definitely not the most mature person out there, and I know I hurt you.”

“I cried for months.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. You suck in a deep breath, trying to hold the memories of your pain at bay. “The first breakup is usually the worst but at least it gets better, as you probably know.”

She looks at you expectantly, awaiting your confirmation. It never comes.

“I haven’t dated another girl since,” you tell her, sounding rather detached from yourself.

Her eyebrows furrow and she is clearly frowning behind her facemask. “What about Ona? I thought you were together when you lived in Madrid. It takes more than a friendship to do what you did.”

You were originally going to go to university in England. It was your dream, and Ona wasn’t entirely aware of the situation because you hadn’t wanted to tell her you were leaving. Then she was sent out on a professional contract to Madrid, and it wasn’t like you were the only one leaving.

Ona’s cousin, years ago, had suggested that you go to Madrid if you wanted to get away from Vilassar de Mar. “You’ll be close enough to come home when you��d like, but not so close that you’ll feel as though nothing has changed,” she had said.

No one had known about your offers in England aside from your parents. And Ona’s cousin, who’d only found out because you had called her, drunk on celebratory champagne, because you had to tell someone.

“You gave up a dream for her because you didn’t want her to be alone.”

“I moved to Milan. In the end, she was alone.”

“You sound like you regret it,” she replies, nodding once at you to bid you farewell and then heading over to a woman who is standing with a puppy in her arms. You watch as she pulls down her mask and kisses her wife, her eyes shining with love and happiness, and your blood runs green with jealousy.

You hate Ona’s cousin for devastating you once more.

Do you regret it?

It’s unclear.

You try to make sense of it when you don’t hesitate to fly back to Italy the minute you can, going home to lick your wounds at Ona’s non-committal response to meeting you when you are in London the next month. It hurts that she is no longer at your beck-and-call, but you are somewhat happy for her. You know that lines have been crossed and that she has suffered for it. You know that you are probably the one at fault here.

This time in Milan, you don’t fight it as much. You kiss other girls and let them go home to their boyfriends; you submit to the thing you had convinced yourself you would never become.

As you drive yourself deeper and deeper into your stereotype, the thought of Ona gets pushed away and newer, more culturally-acceptable fantasies come to mind.

It takes a photoshoot for him to ask you out on a date.

It takes returning home and gaining the approval of Ona’s parents (who are far more open than your own) for you to agree to be official.

You don’t ask Ona what she thinks. She’s busy, you reason, because she is representing Spain at the Euros. She won’t care who you are dating and she certainly doesn’t need it rubbed in her face.

There are many reasons why you go out with him.

One is that you do like him; he’s nice, he’s funny, he treats you well. (He’s not Ona.) Another is that rent is going up and him sharing the load is helpful. (He’s not Ona.) There is also that he is very popular within the agency, and your chemistry on camera is enough to keep your jobs rolling in and casting directors satisfied.

He’s not Ona. You know that.

That's the whole point.

If he were Ona, you’d be deeply in love with him. If he were Ona, you would never leave the house, never leave his embrace, never leave the little bubble created when it is just the two of you and no one else. If he were Ona, you would be excited about the conversations he gently guides you into; marriage, children, where you are going to live one day. You’d miss him more when he isn’t here. You’d care.

But you just… don’t.

Another year passes, more Ona-less than the last, and then she is suddenly coming back home to Barcelona, a medal around her neck and word of a relationship floating above her head.

You could ask her about it if you wanted to because she is still one of your closest friends, but the truth is, you really, desperately don’t want to hear it. While Ona has been falling in love with someone else, you have been proving your stupid feelings to yourself.

The act (your current relationship) lowers enough for you to go home for Christmas. You leave Milan as though fleeing from a hurricane, and you refuse to control the damage until you have entered the new year. Your parents aren’t entirely sure they want you moping about the house, confused how someone so successful can revert to a moody teenager the minute they are back in safe territory, and they heavily encourage you to accept an invite that was extended out to you a few months ago.

Your friends are going skiing in Andorra, and they’d like for you to come with them.

“Ona won’t be there,” one of them regretfully informs you. “She said she doesn’t want to make things weird. She has a girlfriend – or, I don’t know, a talking stage. She wants you to have fun.”

“But Ona and I are friends,” you try to explain, feeling exposed by the look of pity she gives you; the same look someone receives when they find out their ex has gotten married or something similar. As a defensive mechanism, you hastily pull out your phone and dial her number. Everyone watches you, now uninterested in their food as you dine and plan your holiday.

Ona picks up on the third ring, escaping her dinner with Lucy and rushing into the cool, nighttime air of Barcelona.

“Hi?” she says – asks – with raised eyebrows, wondering if you’re in danger.

“You’re coming skiing with us, aren’t you?”

Your friends hide their laughs behind their hands, surprised by how firm your tone is. You do not need it for Ona, because she does anything you say regardless, but they enjoy seeing this side of you. This is someone who has had to fend for herself in a foreign country.

Removing the phone from her ear for a moment, Ona sighs, disappointed in herself.

“Yeah, of course. I’ve missed you, you know.”

…

Skiing is not something Ona is really allowed to do. As a footballer, her legs are what pay her wage. Career-destroying planks of metal are not the best way to spend the dying embers of the year. She knows that. She does, she swears, but she is so eager to go that Jonatan cannot crush her dreams. He tells her, “if you get injured your contract will be reviewed, Ona Batlle,” and she promises him that it won’t happen. Nothing bad is going to happen.

It will be the first time she has spent more than a day with her childhood friends, and she is unbelievably excited.

Lucy finds it adorable and makes it known, helping her pack for her trip, versed in what to bring because her sister skis or something like that (Ona can’t really focus on her almost-girlfriend's monologue). Lucy likes Ona a lot, and it makes her stomach flutter when she thinks about Ona and her friends talking about them. She’s sure her feelings are reciprocated, and she cannot wait for Ona to return to her in the new year, all smiles and lingering hangovers, and ask her to be her girlfriend. Officially.

Your friends convene in the centre of Vilassar de Mar with two cars between you. There are ten people coming.

Someone, most-likely trying to keep the peace, instructs Ona into one vehicle and you into the other. The drive isn’t too long, but you suppose that the tension is uncomfortable for those who aren’t accustomed to maintaining a friendship despite the weight of it.

It’s five days, and you are determined to have fun.

Ona is naturally good at this, although she claims it is her first time. You, living in Milan, are just as advanced.

By the third day, the both of you agree that going off together to do some of the harder runs will be harmless. Spending the day together won’t feel like a date or a romantic holiday. Watching Ona glide over the compacted snow won’t be attractive, watching her cocky smirk as she scales the bumps along the side of the piste won’t do anything.

It won’t. (It does.)

And it just has to be the third day that someone pulls out two bottles of tequila and a drinking game that is going to ensure every single one of you is off your face by midnight.

In rooms opposite one another, you and Ona call your respective partners and tell them about how great a time you are having, actively avoiding telling them about who you spent the day with as though it counts as cheating. It doesn’t, technically. Nothing has happened. But, still, it feels intimate and secret; forbidden.

Then, there is a shout that rings through the house. Everyone comes to the table; the party has begun.

Ona finds out that she is absolutely terrible at drinking games, and loses in every way possible.

You find out that she is still just as touchy when she is drunk.

Your friends try not to comment on it, all having agreed upon yet another passive role in such an irritating situation. Their non-interference almost ceases by the time Ona climbs onto your lap, head turning as she whispers something into your drunk ears, making you laugh privately. In fact, someone has to hold someone else back before they shout at the two of you to make out or break up.

But it’s not really necessary, their prompting, because it hits a certain hour and… nothing else matters anymore.

Ona has been touching you the whole night and you have finally reached your limit.

Boyfriend be damned, you lead her to your bedroom.

She asks you many times if you still want this, and you cannot think of anything to say other than ‘yes’.

You’re not as drunk as she is, and you both know that, but everything feels so perfect and right.

When you wake up the next morning, your anger is more at yourself than the sleeping woman beside you, but she is an outward target for such a boiling emotion and it just makes things easier.

“Ona.” You shake her awake, not caring for her hangover. “Ona, I can’t believe we’ve done this.” She rubs her eyes, dazed and confused for a moment but coming to her senses soon enough. “I have a boyfriend, Ona, and… I don’t like you like that.”

It’s not true.

It’s really, really, really not true, but the fact that you have said it is enough for Ona to leave your room with the intention of never seeing you again.

She gets the train back to Barcelona, turning up at Lucy’s flat in floods of tears, and barrels straight into those strong arms with the intention of never mentioning what she has done.

…

You break up with your boyfriend a month later. Or rather, he breaks up with you, tired of being messed around, tired of your hesitation to fully commit.

The break-up is not the most upsetting thing you’ve been through, but your ego is a little bruised.

You try to make it look like you are having a great time in Milan, even though the agency has once again discarded your file and overlooked you for shoots you used to book in an instant. You try to seem like things aren’t falling apart, but it’s of no use when your father calls you and tells you that your mother is ill.

It isn’t cancer but it’s similar, and you know that you need to come home.

You pack your bags and leave without a second thought, because maybe Madrid was far enough. Maybe there is a reason Ona signed for her home club again and most of your friends still live relatively close to their parents.

Maybe you are not meant to be separated from those you love, because running away is futile if you are always going to end up together again.

In Barcelona, a modelling agency eagerly draws up a contract with you. Although you are from there, your career being based in Milan previously creates an international allure about you (or so they say), and you are assured that work is going to rush towards you as though someone has just knocked down a dam.

Your job is secured, your mother begins treatment, but there is something you cannot shake off.

It hurts to think of Ona, to think of how you left things, but it helps, too. Seeing her face in your mind is comforting. You hear her voice as you drift off to sleep, and you let it soothe you in your dreams.

“Ona has a girlfriend,” her mother tells you when you next visit them. Her frown is unexpected because all she has ever wanted is for her children to be happy and loved. “It’s not right, it doesn’t feel right.” You begin to shrug your shoulders and crawl into your shell, but she interrupts your thought process; “I think you should go see her.”

“Why?”

The woman rolls her eyes. “Just do what I say.”

You nod because she is so scarily sure about it, and you… It’s hard to believe, but you call Ona.

She picks up.

“I was sorry to hear about your mum.”

“Don’t worry. She’s fine.”

“Are you back at home?”

“Yeah, I am.” You pause. “Well, not quite. I’m living in Barcelona.”

Something fizzes in the air; pops, crackles.

“Need me to show you around the city?”

And it’s Ona, so how could you say no?

…

Your visit goes very well.

She takes you out to dinner and shows you around her neighbourhood. She introduces you when she runs into people she knows, and she is insistent about dragging you to her football match on the weekend.

Everything is seemingly forgiven and Ona is intent on integrating you back into her life.

She wants you to feel at home, though she knows you should already, and she wants to lessen the stress of hospital appointments and death and, if not death, then a difficult recovery.

You are sitting in her apartment – now devoid of all signs of Lucy – on her comfortable sofa, watching something together after a day of walking around and sealing up the cracks that formed in Andorra.

Sitting leads into cuddling and then into wandering hands that eagerly roam underneath layers of fabric.

Ona’s breath hitches as you brush the hard lines of her abs, your hands particularly drawn to them and just how strong she has become. “You must have only felt them on men,” she offers as an explanation. “How many have you slept with in comparison to–?”

And your hands stop.

“Sorry,” Ona mumbles, seemingly upset at her outburst. “I’m just curious. I can’t work you out.” She can’t quite look you in the eye, mainly due to the logistics of your position, but she isn’t sure she wants to see the truth attached to her statement.

You question if that’s a good thing, the fact she needs to ask; the fact that she has no choice but to communicate. It was going to happen sooner or later. “A few,” is what you settle on. Ona leaves it at that, carefully pulling the hair tie from your plait, unravelling it with one hand as the other rests against your stomach in an embrace. You smile. “You’re not going to ask who?”

Her fingers stop for a moment. “No.” She speaks so quietly, her voice almost a whisper in your ear. “I don’t care about them.” You relax into her more, feeling her against your back, feeling the softness of the blanket against your feet as it hangs at the edge of the sofa.

“Who do you care about, then?”

“You.”

Carefully, both her hands hold your hips and she sits you up, smiling as she does. You tell her she’s showing off, she replies that you are always showing off. To that, you brush those hands from your sides and lean down to kiss her, more decidedly for once; more in control. It’s a surprising feeling for both of you, the forcefulness. Urgency. Not unfamiliar, but unexpected for this time on this day.

The last time you kissed Ona, you had a boyfriend.

Your mouth goes to her neck as soon as she decides that she wants her hands back on your hips, pushing you down into her lap. It’s now a competition, you think. She’s quickly coming completely undone by your kissing and biting, but you are not ignoring the feeling as she makes you grind down, makes you need that friction. “Fuck,” you moan in her ear. She grips you tighter.

You start to pull off her shirt having had enough of the grey between you, asking if it’s okay, if she’s sure she isn’t too tired. Her reply is, “take it off, god,” and then the removal of your clothes that get thrown just shy of the wine glasses set out on her coffee table. Leggings aren’t the most practical for impromptu sex, but she’s quick and smooth and someone who has definitely done that before.

With your bare chest on display and almost nothing between Ona and you, she lifts you up for a moment with the intention of flipping the two of you, getting you on your back. You pause for a moment, trying to decide if she’s doing it because she wants to or because she thinks that’s the only way to do it, but her hands are moving now, up your sides, round the front of your chest and you relax. She laughs quietly, amused, because the tension dissipates, dissolving like sweet, sweet sugar in hot coffee as soon as your legs wrap around her back.

Ona asks before she does it, picking you up and laying you back down without needing to part her lips from your own. You watch her as she sits up, body in between your thighs. “You’re going to just stay there?” She shakes her head. “I can top,” you tease, a stark contrast from how it was the last time you did this. Ona doesn’t like being told she can’t do something. However indirectly.

“Yeah?” You nod, biting the smirk out of your lips. “I don’t care.”

You are in the process of rolling your eyes when her cocky mouth is put to good use. Your underwear was taken off at some point earlier — you hadn’t realised. Ona’s head moves between your legs, up and down, your hand that isn’t holding onto the sofa in her hair, the soft waves lacing between your fingers.

She’s good at it; thorough, practised. Her tongue circles your clit for a moment before dipping into your entrance. Something about the cockiness of her movements, her tongue, her hand rubbing between her own legs, makes everything more surreal, more blissful. She moans softly, lips kissing their way up your body, hands no longer focused on herself. Instead, they take the place of her mouth, two fingers inside you as quickly as it takes for her to ask if you are okay to carry on. Your reply (“yes”) is cut off quickly by her mouth on yours, tongue swiping at your bottom lip in another question of permission. You can taste yourself on her.

At her command, you sit up, letting her pull you back onto her lap as she sucks at your neck. “Don’t leave any marks,” you warn as her teeth pull a whimper from your supposed stoicness. “I don’t want the makeup artists asking questions.” It comes out too late, because you feel her teeth graze your collarbone quickly, not painful, no, but something that feels so, so good. “Ona.” She sighs in disappointment and adjusts where you are in her lap, so your legs are either side of her thigh.

You find yourself rocking slowly, letting her savour your breasts between her hands and her mouth. She whispers that she wants to see you come, that you don’t need to hold back – not with her, not ever – so you start grinding down, harder, faster. Her hands drop back to your hips, guiding your movements, forcing you to slow down when she feels everything building up. Each time, you let out a “fuck” and attempt to go against her grip to get that friction. “Not just yet,” she mutters, no longer touching you anywhere other than where her hands meet your hips and her thigh presses between your legs.

“Fuck off, Ona,” you breathe, frustrated. “When, then?”

She slows the pace even more. “Can you last a little longer?” You look at her face, brushing away the strands of hair that have fallen over her eyes, ghosting your fingers along her cheek, running your thumb along her lips. She smiles again, eyes creasing slightly.

As her hands drop to cup your face, you say, “you’re beautiful.”

Ona blushes.

You look down at her exposed cleavage, nipples pebbled against the sports bra that is unusually low-cut. It might border on intense staring as you begin to grind against her with the intention of actually getting off now. She laughs, saying her eyes are higher up than that, but going back to her trail of kisses along your jaw nevertheless.

For what seems like longer than a few seconds, the build up finally stops, the tower toppling over in a rush of pleasure. Ona’s hands move your hips as your head drops to rest on her shoulder. She talks you through it, telling you that you look so pretty, telling you that she’s so turned on.

And that’s when she whispers it.

It has taken years to get to this moment, many of them filled with unnecessary suffering.

It has taken years but it does not matter.

Ona tells you that she loves you and that is when you have finally come home.

#woso x reader #woso #randombush3 #barca femeni #woso imagines #ona batlle x reader #ona batlle #ona batlle smut

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revolu · 2 months ago

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I'm dropping (a bit old) john laurens yap here. Please correct anything you must + provide the source.

and we know very limited about John but whatever !!

Laurens was described by Hamilton to have honey blonde hair when clean. His hair was generally said to be light brown/blonde. As seen on portraits, he had soft features, blue eyes, and a big nose. He was described to be very handsome, and IMO I agree!! We don't know exactly how tall he was, but he was most likely over 6 feet. One day before Laurens' 15th birthday, his father wrote to James Grant; ''my Little Jack, now as big as I am...'' (Jack being John's nickname). We don't know Henry Laurens' height, but if he was as tall as Henry at 15, he certainly grew to be taller. In 1778, Henry wrote to John ''A Taylor has cut off as much of your Scarlet as will make he says a Wascoat for 6 feet 3 inches...'' which suggests that John could have been 6'3. It's not clear what exactly Henry means in the letter but as said, John was probably over 6 feet. Laurens was one of the strongest abolitionists of the time despite coming from one of the bigger slave plantations and growing up where slavery was normal. John could speak English, French, Italian, Greek, Spanish and Latin. We know that he was fluent in English and French but we don't know about his fluency in the other languages.

Laurens got Martha Manning pregnant and ended up marrying her out of pity (supposedly to protect her reputation too and to keep illegitimacy of their child.) He wrote to his uncle ''...Pity has obliged me to marry...'', When Laurens left for war, he left his pregnant wife in another country. When John was chosen by congress to be a special minister to France and had him travel there, Martha traveled with their daughter to reconnect with him upon hearing about his arrival in France. But John supposedly made no effort whatsoever to visit them; he completed his mission and went back to America. Martha later died during the trip and their daughter, Frances, was sent to live with her aunt.

John Laurens is believed to have been gay... The man didn't seem to express any attraction towards women, though I think his sexist beliefs played a role in this, as well as his lack of effort to humble his wife. His letters to Alexander Hamilton, and Francis Kinloch also suggest he had an eye for men... ESPECIALLY Kinloch's and his correspondence.

Henry Laurens wrote ''Master Jack is too closely wedded to his studies to think about any of the Miss Nanny's''. But it's important to note that he was a teenager at that time and not every teen develops those feelings at the same time. But I would imagine that since he was as tall as his father at 15, he was early in puberty... Romantic/sexual feelings usually come with puberty, but what do we know? Anyways. John expressed a lot of sexist opinions, even towards his own sisters, which can be read in letters. Most men were sexist, but John seemed to be more ''strict'' on the subject... This definitely plays a part in his supposed ''homosexuality''.

John hid the fact that he had a wife and child from Hamilton for nearly two years. Why? The reason is unknown. It's only up to debate. My guess is that he just wanted to try to ''forget'' them in some way, seeing as he literally left them... Why would you bring up that you have a family that you abandoned? But maybe it was because he never found the right time to tell him, or was it to get a better chance with Hamilton? We will never know, sadly. But what we DO know, is that Laurens referred to his wife as ''dear girl'', and Hamilton, and supposedly ONLY Hamilton, as ''Dear boy''. We know for a fact that Hamilton was close to Laurens and was special to him, but why did he call his wife that? Out of pity? He didn't necessarily show any real attraction towards her... But whatever the reason is, it's kinda cute.

We know that Henry Laurens was emotionally manipulative of John, which is like read in letters... So there is no denying that, really. BUT John was close to his father, attachment issues tsk, tsk tsk... But jokes aside, when John told his father that he wasn't super interested in becoming a lawyer or merchant like his father wanted, Henry wrote this to his brother; ''if he enters upon the plan of Life which he Seemed to pant for when he wrote the 5th. July, I Shall give him up for lost & he will very Soon reproach himSelf for his want of Duty & affection towards me, for abandoning his Brothers & Sisters, for disregarding the Council of his Uncle, & for his deficiency of common understanding, in making Such a choice_ if these reflections prevail not over him, nothing will_ he must have his own way & I must be content with the remembrance, that I had a Son.'' Basically, Henry said he would disown John if he pursued his interests in medicine. So, John ended up becoming a lawyer/statesman to please his father. There are more examples of John trying to please his father, but let's not take that now... HOWEVER, after John had died, Henry wrote of him in response to John Adams' letter; ''Thank God I had a Son who dared to die in defence of his Country'' ... We get a lot of mixed signals from Henry... Though I do believe he loved him, at least somewhat.., even if he was controlling/manipulative. Henry wasn't too nice to his other children either, but since this is about John I'm not gonna talk about that.

John's brother James died at the age of 9-10 (1765-1775)

James, or Jemmy, was supposedly scaling the outside of their house and tried to jump to the landing outside of John’s window but fell. He received life threatening injuries and cracked his skull. The doctors had figured that the injuries were too severe to save him and John described it to his uncle four days later; "At some Intervals he had his senses, so far as to be able to answer single Questions, to beckon to me, and to form his Lips to kiss me, but for the most part he was delirious, and frequently unable to articulate. Puking, Convulsions never very violent, and latterly so gentle as scarcely to be perceived, or deserve the Name, ensued, and Nature yielded."

Since John was supposed to watch over James during this time, John felt guilty and as if it was his fault. James' death was very difficult for John, and it weighed heavily on him.

Henry did little to alleviate those feelings of guilt, which suggests that he either didn't care enough, or that a part of him also blamed John. (I am not saying he 100% did, but it would not be surprising if he so did, considering how he treated John.)

He could also have been in too much grief to console John... Which, as said, would not be too surprising considering his treatment of John. But nevertheless, he did not do much to help John and John's guilt.

TW: mentions of suicide.

It is highly speculated that John was suicidal. We have a couple of written exchanges where John discusses suicide with friends and family. In February 1774, John wrote to Henry Laurens about two men who had attempted suicide. We don't have the whole letter, but here is a part of Henry's response; ''...But, my Dear Son, I trust that your opinion on that Question is So firm, that you are armed with Such irrefragable proofs of the Impiety as well as Cowardice of Self Murther, as puts you out of danger of being made a Convert to Error...'' (Not gonna put all of it). Another time, when John was a prisoner of war and didn't handle imprisonment well, Hamilton wrote to John ''For your own sake, for my sake, for the public sake, I shall pray for the success of the attempt (of being exchanged) you mention; that you may have it in your power to act with us. But if you should be disappointed, bear it like a man; have recourse, neither to the dagger, nor to the poisoned bowl, nor to the rope.'' It is clear that Hamilton (and Henry, despite how he treated John) were worried about John's thoughts of suicide. John's last letter to Hamilton was probably one of the, if not the, most emotional. He wrote ''Adieu, my dear friend; while circumstances place so great distance between us, I entreat you not to withdraw the consolation of your letters. You know the unalterable sentiments of your affectionate Laurens.'' John died about a month later. On the day of his death, John and his men surprised a troop of British soldiers that outnumbered them. Instead of retreating, John chose to immediately attack. He did not really actively end his own life, though it seems as if it was planned or that he was trying. Which is just sad. Also, it's not sure that Hamilton's last letter to Laurens ever got to him before he died. (In that letter he tells John to quit his sword and come to congress with Hamilton)

I don't know what else to add actually but here you have it!! This is as accurate as I can get it, especially cause it's like mostly based on letters... Uhm. But yay!

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no-passaran · 2 years ago

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Are there any Catalan speakers who don't speak Spanish?

Yes, mostly in the parts of the Catalan Countries that are not under Spanish occupation. Those are: Northern Catalonia (under French rule, so they speak French), l'Alguer (they speak Italian) and Andorra (an independent country where most people learn both French and Spanish but not everyone will speak both equally well).

That's a map of the Catalan Countries. The parts I've highlighted in red are controlled by the state of Spain: Catalonia, la Franja de Ponent, the Valencian Country and the Balearic Islands. Here, everyone speaks Spanish, it's mandatory by law that we must speak Spanish. Nowadays, it's recognised we also have the right to speak Catalan, but nobody has the obligation to know it. A shitty imperialist law that puts Spanish above the language of the land, but it gives you an idea.

The smaller area I've highlighted in blue is Northern Catalonia, which was annexed by France in 1659. That's before Spanish was imposed in Catalonia, so Northern Catalonia has never spoken Spanish (except like, if someone learned it on their own in the same way you'd learn any other foreign language, but there has not been a state-led programme of Spanish imposition like in the south). Instead of having Spanish imposed on them, they had French.

And the purple part is l'Alguer, in the island of Sardinia (Italy). It's only one city.

In the areas under Spanish rule, there are some people with disabilities who only speak Catalan, and you could also still find a few (but very few) elderly people in rural areas who also only speak Catalan.

There's also foreign people who aren't from the Catalan Countries but who have chosen to learn Catalan. They have to be careful because they are often mistreated by the Spanish police. They have repeatedly reported being harassed by the Spanish police in airports when landing in Catalonia because the Spanish police doesn't believe someone would learn Catalan and not Spanish, so when they can't answer in Spanish they get angry and sometimes arrest them. Catalan people have been sentenced to pay a fine for speaking in Catalan to a Spanish policeman in the airport too (it's considered disrespect of authority to speak to them in Catalan, plus they'll add a bunch of made-up crimes to make you pay a fine for it, even a fine of 200,000€, or they take your passport to make you miss your flight, threaten you, or hit you while shouting anti-catalan slurs against you while waiting at the airport security), but with foreign-born people who don't speak Spanish they literally don't have a choice, they can't do that.

I remember a case from two years ago, there was a Flemish man who lived in a town in Catalonia, he spoke Catalan but not Spanish because everyone in the town spoke Catalan. The cops harassed him, humiliated him in front of everyone, made fun of the fact that he had to wear an ostomy pouching system as a result of a medical operation (basically it's when your digestive and excremental systems don't work correctly so you have a bag connected to your belly that collects the excrements) and the cops forced him to take off his trousers right there in the line to show the excrement bag. Then the cops arrested him and took him to a small room where they reported him for the crimes of perturbing public order. Then they made him get naked, supposedly to show the excrement bag, but then the cops decided they didn't want him to remove his trousers even though it's the only possible way to show it, so they made him take off his shirt for absolutely no reason. They kept him there shirtless and registered his suitcases and interrogated him (all of this, in Spanish which he had said he has a hard time understanding). At one point, the cops asked him the name of the town and wrote it down wrong, then he told them they had clicked the wrong one and repeated the correct one, but the cops got angry for being corrected and reported him for the crime of refusing to cooperate with the police. He was banned from flying and could not go back home. (x)

So yes, there are Catalan speakers who don't speak Spanish, but if you live in the Spanish-occupied part of the Catalan Countries (which is most of it) you have to learn it. If you're born and raised here, there's no way you'll grow up without knowing Spanish even if you don't speak it at home because it's everywhere: on the TV, cinemas, schools, etc.

#ask #anonymous #ppcc #💬

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beautiful-basque-country · 3 years ago

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Kaixo girls! You told us not to get you started on nafarroa... Could you please explain us why, what happens? But don't get mad at me!

Kaixo anon!

We won't, we promise ^_~. We'll use this ask to also answer @jumiila that wrote this:

Hasn’t there been any talks to integrate the Basque-speaking lands in Nafarroa into Euskadi, so that there is no linguistic conflict?

Nafarroa is divided into 3 different linguistic zones:

red: Basque-speaking areas. In these areas Basque speakers can address the administration in Basque, talk to a doctor in Basque or learn in Basque, have their Basque toponyms - only the Spanish one is included when the names are very different - and so on. In this area live the 47% of Basque speakers of Nafarroa, which represent almost 68% of the total population of the area. orange (both light and dark): mixed areas. These are considered transition areas, but mostly it means Basque speakers are a minority: another 47% of the Basque speakers of Nafarroa live here, but ah, they're only the 18% of the population of the area. Soooo, there were some rules - like the obligation of every communication from the administration or law system to be bilingual - that have been recently overruled: they can be in both languages, but to be in Basque is not mandatory anymore. There's a petition to give Basque the same value that a foreign language (any of them, this could be Chinese, Tagalog, or any language you can imagine that isn't actively spoken over here) in a public examination and not more, because, you know, there's the same chance a public worker faces a Vietnamese speaker that a Basque one. Basque speakers´rights are being reduced more and more in these areas and nobody seems to care. grey: non Basque-speaking areas: they're supposed to be almost no Basque speakers here. They're just the 6% of the total Basque speakers of Nafarroa, and also the 6% of the population of the area. So whatever, right? They want to have schools teaching in Basque - like there are English or French schools, for example - and they have to face demonstrations against it, Basque won't be imposed, Basque is nationalist, bla bla bla. The Basque and Navarrese Government even had to negotiate that the Basque tv can be tuned in in Nafarroa, ffs.

The funny thing is that these areas were decided based on "history".

But, as you can see, just from 1767 - when the areas were established by priests to romanize the territories next to the capital, Pamplona, with the blessing of the ultra-centralist Bourbon king - Basque speakers have been losing territories.

May we go even further back in time?

Where do we draw the line in time to claim historic reasons?

Let's not forget that Euskara was once called "Lingua Navarrorum", the language of the Navarrese people!!

Euskara is not being imposed. The only language imposed is Spanish, from the Spanish Constitution:

Castilian is the official Spanish language of the State. Every Spaniard has the obligation of knowing it and the right to use it.

We have absolutely no problem with Spanish and/or Spanish speakers, but we do have a problem when Basque speakers can't be granted the same right to use our language than the rest.

Sorry for this neverending post!

#euskadi #euskal herria #basque country #pais vasco #pays basque #euskara #euskaer #basque #language #nafarroa #anons #linguistic imperialism #imposition #politics #culture

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thecorteztwins · 5 years ago

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Did Doug Ramsey ever pop up in the Evo universe? If not, I'd say Doug. Also, the Hellions. (But don't feel obliged to do all of them if you don't feel like it/have time.)

Back in 2015 I DID THIS BIG EVO HELLIONS POST and I still like it! The lineup I made for Evo is a bit different than the 616 one though. Hope you enjoy it anyway!Doug does not show up in Evo canon, no! He and Kitty got to know each other in canon due to their shared interest in computers, and I’d like to keep that in Evo as a way to introduce Kitty’s computer prowess. She’s a computer WHIZ in the comics, and I wish she had been in Evo too. I don’t mind her being a ditzy Valley Girl, I think that’s cute actually, but I hated it when they had a scene in Evo of her being super comically bad with computers. I think it would have been so much cooler if she’d been a ditzy Valley Girl who was ALSO a computer genius, like kick those stereotypes in the balls, you know? So this would be my retcon of that, Evo Kitty is now a computer prodigy and she meets Doug in a really advanced computer class, and since they’re the only teens there (it’s like a course for college students/adults) of course they partner on everything, and then start hanging out as friends outside of class.Xavier informs Kitty that Cerebro has detected Doug is a mutant, and asks her to keep an eye on him, so they can determine his powers. Kitty doesn’t like the idea of not telling Doug, but she goes along with it. But she never sees anything to suggest he has mutant abilities. One day in class though, he instantly understands a brand new computer language that a classmate only just developed as a project. This should be impossible, so the classmate accuses him of cheating, of spying on his research. Doug is confused, claiming he doesn’t know how he understood it either. Kitty concludes that Doug must be a technopath or something similiar, and reports back to Xavier. Xavier approaches Doug under this same belief. However, none other than Emma Frost beats him to it!In the comics, Emma Frost visited Kitty and her family first, before Xavier, and this is how we first meet Emma. Obviously that’s not what happened in Kitty’s story in Evo, but I think it could be a good way to introduce Evo Emma via Doug’s story. Emma’s own mutant-detecting technology, Mutivac, has scanned Doug as X-gene positive too, and she mind-read Kitty to find out what his powers were. So, like Xavier, she believes Doug is a technopath. As with Kitty and Firestar in the comics, this ends up in a race between Xavier and Emma for Doug---one that she wins. But when Doug is introduced to the very cosmopolitan team of Hellions, his true mutation is revealed. He can speak Arabic with Jetstream, French with Monet, and Spanish with Jetstream. And while he’s good with computers, he clearly is only human in this regard.So when the X-Men arrive to “rescue” Doug, Emma hands him right over in disgust, claiming that his power is “useless” to her. Now that his real abilities are understood, Xavier gently offers Doug the option of NOT attending his school, saying that his “passive” abilities offer him the chance at a normal life. Doug, however, is insulted by Frost’s comment, and he wants to prove her wrong by defeating her Hellions in the future. Xavier’s offer stings him too, and he demands to be allowed to join the New Mutants. Kitty agrees with him, saying they should be a safe haven for ALL mutants, not “a snob like Frost!” and adding that if Sentinels show up, they won’t CARE how “passive” Doug’s power is.So from the start, Doug ends up with a chip on his shoulder about proving himself and showing the other kids, as well as Frost and Xavier, that he’s not “useless”. Though he’s for the most part a really nice kid, this is a huge sore spot with him; he gets angry if he’s asked to sit out of training exercises, or if one of his teammates tries to protect him in combat. This leads to tension with his teammates, and putting himself in danger during training and real fights alike when he tries to throw himself into the fray. His character arc will focus on him learning to accept and values his powers for what they are, and to find ways to use them creatively and usefully, both in combat (ex: reading opponent’s body language) and out of it, such as reading the body language of people to see if they’re lying. He should definitely end up saving the day like this at some point!Also he doesn’t die.

#evo versions #hellions #doug ramsey #cypher #sammysdewysensitiveeyes

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jimbartholomew · 4 years ago

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“Because the cops don't need you and man they expect the same” Bob Dylan, Just like Tom Thumb’s Blues

America, as continents go, was big, wide-open and sprawling when it was “discovered” by Europeans. It presented tremendous opportunities for anyone who would be willing to exploit the abundant resources contained in the Western Hemisphere. The English weren’t the first ones to figure this out, but once the Spanish, French and Dutch began to benefit from their American colonies, the English came on strong, pushing the limits of “Mercantilism” until full-blown Capitalism popped out.

Capitalism is a great system for exploiting resources to develop wealth. Unfortunately, along with wealth for some, comes poverty for others. The trick is to be one of the people that benefits rather than one of the resources. Capitalism has little to offer resources that no longer produce wealth. Those resources become expendable. One example of a played-out resource is the Appalachian Mountains. Once the coal was gone, that country was left to fend for itself; and that included the land and the miners. It is not good to become an expendable resource under American Capitalism.

It is an establish fact that America is tough on the people it does not need. I say this from the standpoint of an older member of the work force, as well as a student of American History. Luckily, although I no longer serve a purpose as a producer within the system, being recently retired, I still have value as a consumer, so I am safe for a while. I hope. When the day comes that I can no longer play a role within the system, I, too, will become expendable.

Two recent cultural “happenings” (for lack of a better word), the recent Covid Pandemic and the epidemic of videotaped killing of black Americans by the police, have torn away the curtain to reveal the truths regarding who in America today is considered essential and who is expendable. How else can anyone possibly explain the blatant indifference to the deaths in nursing homes and elderly facilities, and the murder of primarily young black men who were not convicted of Capital offenses? I don’t mean for this to be an anti-Republican screed (Democrats are not without fault here), but the current administration and the Senate have been particularly slow to react when faced with these issues. The virus victimized the elderly and the poor first and foremost; the police “happen” to kill black people. The greatest fear expressed by the President and the Majority Leader McConnell during the nation’s shutdown was that doing what the experts said would save lives, would hurt the economy, by which they mean mid-sized business owners and the Stock Market reliant class. The administration’s response to the epidemic of violence was to decry the “war against the police”. It is clear where they stand. It is equally clear who matters to them. There are people in America who are expendable.

None of this should come as a surprise to anyone with a little knowledge of American History. America has always been indifferent to the suffering and abuse of people that were not willing to give their all for America’s wealth, even when it came at the hands of government agents. The elimination of indigenous people because they were in the way of American expansion is the subtext behind every story of “Manifest Destiny”, and at the heart of official government policy, from the very beginning. Start with Columbus and the Taino, observe the Pilgrims with the Wampanoag Indians of eastern Massachusetts, follow the Trail of Tears, and end with the hunt for Chief Joseph; the course of American Empire is ineluctable. Native Americans were not acceptable as citizens, and would not be slaves, therefore they would be eliminated. Their land was needed, but they were expendable.

The willingness to accept and condone the murder of black citizens by Federal, State and local policing agencies is well-documented and beyond question. It is one more aspect of the same fact: black Americans have always been seen as expendable by the majority culture. If you are at all shocked at my saying this, take even a quick look at the historic record. Once slavery was ended in the South, except for a brief period of time during Reconstruction, the prevailing actions of the government were aimed at minimizing black participation in American life. Sharecropping, the Black Codes, the KKK all followed from a single stream of thought: black people in America were expendable.

Over the years, the black community has worked hard to been seen to serve a valuable purpose within American Capitalism, beyond the limited role of black consumer. The value of black workers, athletes, musicians and scholars has been recognized, and yet there are still far too many people who feel that contributions to our culture by black men and women were not really necessary. There has always been more money and energy expended keeping black people “in their place” than helping them take their rightful place as full members of society. The length of time it has taken for America to become outraged at the incarceration and killing of young black men specifically, speaks to the fact that the dominant culture in America sees black people as expendable.

The current administration’s war against primarily Spanish-speaking immigrants – both legal and illegal – shines a clear light on America’s willingness to punish and suppress populations that it sees as expendable. The cruelty of the measures used against people seeking asylum, often from economic and political situations that we have helped create, shows clearly that we simply don’t value their humanity. The most often presented argument from those in power to creating clearer paths to entering the country is purely economic: farmers, orchards and some industries need these workers. This simply attests to the fact that they are only wanted as long as they perform an economic function. By limiting legal immigration, and keeping Hispanic workers on the fringes of society, businesses can actually benefit by keeping wages low and benefits non-existent.

In recent years, America has identified an entirely new group of people that it doesn’t really need: young people. With older people retiring at a later age, there simply aren’t enough jobs for restless and ambitious youths. The solution has been to keep them in school a lot longer and tie them down with an incredible debt burden. Give them a Master’s Degree, $150,000 in (unforgiveable) debt obligation, and an entry level job somewhere and they will serve their purpose as consumers and will keep quiet. Provide them with drugs and the internet and maybe you won’t have to worry about why they’re still living in your basement. Of course, the social and economic elite doesn’t want this for their children; luckily they can afford the private schools that we see more and more as part of their educational agenda. The willingness of the authorities to forcefully suppress the youth movement known as Occupy Wall Street was a clear sign that the Majority Society was more than willing to marginalize and criminalize children who were not willing to accept their assigned role and stay quiet.

Between the social and economic (read: white) elite and the expendable masses, is a thin blue line of police officers, who toiled under a simple mandate: “Protect us and our property. Do whatever you need to do, as long as we don’t need to see it on the nightly news”. And the police fulfilled this mandate, as well as they could, for a long time. But as the need to maintain order and safety in a world in which the distance between the haves and have nots continued to grow became more and more difficult. It became harder and harder to use the once-tolerated methods of policing without causing local, and now national, outrage. Camera phones reveal the story of what happens to expendable people who step out of line in America. It is not a new problem. It is also not a problem of police training, or “bad apples”. It is a long standing part of the American justice system. It has been part of the deal for a long time; now we can see it acted out, in living color.

Where things go from here is anyone’s guess, but this situation will not be able to continue as it is. One possibility is outright fascism, which is historically the form of government that emerges when the middle class is threatened. Our only hope to avoid the anarchy and repression that looms, is to change this country at a fundamental level. The first step is to understand and face our History. America has always presented itself as a nation under Democratic rule – every man with an equal say in the way we will be governed. The reality has been vastly different. Bridging the gap between the promise and the reality will be necessary if we can ever hope to bridge the other gaps; the gap between white America and people of color, the gap between those who own America and those who built it and maintain it, the gap between those who think themselves to be irreplaceable and who have been treated as expendable.

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