she wants to be good, better, the best. She's never stopped to question whether or not it's possible: she knows it is. She just has to make it happen.
ZAIDA. I love that this description could apply to DV but for the pronouns, and I love that because of the pronouns, what she's fighting to make happen takes on a different dimension and just, as I said, repetition with difference.
"Hey, sweetheart," her father says, a little softly. He's always been soft with them. "How was the match?"
oh David. I love how you make that short description - he's always been soft with them - tell us about father and daughter. like, she kind of resents it, he can't act any other way, and just. my problem is you've already said so much so elegantly about both of them I feel like my comments can only fail to capture the complexity of it. but this, like all your dialogue, is just so marvelous and telling.
Her father has three league titles, a Champions' League medal, European Championship and World Cup trophies, but he still talks like that, like the world won't give him anything he doesn't force it to. Zaida doesn't understand why: he's got a chip on his shoulder, but nothing to fight. He got everything, in the end. He's David Villa.
THIS IS SO GREAT. and also META. like, she doesn't really understand where DV came from or who he was, or how his journey has changed him (much like, say, parts of fandom XD) because she just sees David Villa, motherfucking superstar. and of course that would bother her since, compared to her, he must just seem like he was so privileged, that it was always assured. I love it. this might be my favorite set of lines in the fic.
she decided if they wanted a story, they could have one. So she put Villa on her shirt -- it was her name, too, and just because someone else had it first didn't make it their leftovers or something. But she kept her number.
I love how you make Zaida kind of adolescent (in the BEST WAY POSSIBLE) but also just so sympathetic and human and djdflkjglkjf amazing. as much as I've prattled on about DV, she comes to life so sharply here. plus your writing is so great; her voice is so distinct and proud. god I love this fic SO MUCH.
She's been the youngest more than once, but no one's ever called her kid.
JUST LIKE. THIS LINE. you don't need to say anything else - this kind of defiant refusal to play under anyone else's terms (literally even) is so brief and eloquent.
She'd learned, by then, that it was easier to be angry than to cry.
OH COULD THIS BE ONE OF MY BULLET PROOF CHARACTERIZATION KINKS IDK MAYBE. wait I said no capslock. nevermind.
(Her mother sighed, often, and didn't indulge her tantrums at all; her father, Zaida realized much later, avoided her, because he couldn't turn down the move and he couldn't see her unhappy.)
David Villa, you softie. and this is where you really can see DV fighting not to be his dad, but not fighting, more like, he is fundamentally different and better and just ksdjflkjdfg such a loving father ok I cannot deal. and the costs of playing professional football here. jesus.
with the sort of half-belligerent pride that always makes her want to slide under the table, because she doesn't know what to do
this is so marvelous. I love how uncomfortable she is with her dad being proud of her. the more I think about this fic, the more I appreciate how multilayered it is, how much you aren't saying. she's not desperate for her father's approval or his love since she must know she has it unconditionally. but unconditional pride is so different from actual pride in her and what she's done. you hint a little bit at this later but - I don't think she ever wishes she were a boy, but I think she often wonders if her father does. no wonder she pushes so hard, how can you accept praise if you're never really sure it's anything more than a default, if you're always, deep down, expecting some sigh of disappointment to come?
"So," Olaya says, interrupting, "everyone who isn't us."
no subject
ZAIDA. I love that this description could apply to DV but for the pronouns, and I love that because of the pronouns, what she's fighting to make happen takes on a different dimension and just, as I said, repetition with difference.
"Hey, sweetheart," her father says, a little softly. He's always been soft with them. "How was the match?"
oh David. I love how you make that short description - he's always been soft with them - tell us about father and daughter. like, she kind of resents it, he can't act any other way, and just. my problem is you've already said so much so elegantly about both of them I feel like my comments can only fail to capture the complexity of it. but this, like all your dialogue, is just so marvelous and telling.
Her father has three league titles, a Champions' League medal, European Championship and World Cup trophies, but he still talks like that, like the world won't give him anything he doesn't force it to. Zaida doesn't understand why: he's got a chip on his shoulder, but nothing to fight. He got everything, in the end. He's David Villa.
THIS IS SO GREAT. and also META. like, she doesn't really understand where DV came from or who he was, or how his journey has changed him (much like, say, parts of fandom XD) because she just sees David Villa, motherfucking superstar. and of course that would bother her since, compared to her, he must just seem like he was so privileged, that it was always assured. I love it. this might be my favorite set of lines in the fic.
she decided if they wanted a story, they could have one. So she put Villa on her shirt -- it was her name, too, and just because someone else had it first didn't make it their leftovers or something. But she kept her number.
I love how you make Zaida kind of adolescent (in the BEST WAY POSSIBLE) but also just so sympathetic and human and djdflkjglkjf amazing. as much as I've prattled on about DV, she comes to life so sharply here. plus your writing is so great; her voice is so distinct and proud. god I love this fic SO MUCH.
She's been the youngest more than once, but no one's ever called her kid.
JUST LIKE. THIS LINE. you don't need to say anything else - this kind of defiant refusal to play under anyone else's terms (literally even) is so brief and eloquent.
She'd learned, by then, that it was easier to be angry than to cry.
OH COULD THIS BE ONE OF MY BULLET PROOF CHARACTERIZATION KINKS IDK MAYBE. wait I said no capslock. nevermind.
(Her mother sighed, often, and didn't indulge her tantrums at all; her father, Zaida realized much later, avoided her, because he couldn't turn down the move and he couldn't see her unhappy.)
David Villa, you softie. and this is where you really can see DV fighting not to be his dad, but not fighting, more like, he is fundamentally different and better and just ksdjflkjdfg such a loving father ok I cannot deal. and the costs of playing professional football here. jesus.
with the sort of half-belligerent pride that always makes her want to slide under the table, because she doesn't know what to do
this is so marvelous. I love how uncomfortable she is with her dad being proud of her. the more I think about this fic, the more I appreciate how multilayered it is, how much you aren't saying. she's not desperate for her father's approval or his love since she must know she has it unconditionally. but unconditional pride is so different from actual pride in her and what she's done. you hint a little bit at this later but - I don't think she ever wishes she were a boy, but I think she often wonders if her father does. no wonder she pushes so hard, how can you accept praise if you're never really sure it's anything more than a default, if you're always, deep down, expecting some sigh of disappointment to come?
"So," Olaya says, interrupting, "everyone who isn't us."
Zaida grins at her. "Right."
I LOVE THEM OK. SISTERS. SISTERS ARE THE SHIT.