#but you know a story has to make you want to suspend your disbelief and maybe that glaring plot hole is bad actually.

[death-rebirth-senshi]

So many posts I see that are anti-pedantic nitpicking often devolve into championing shallow storytelling and treating all critique or plot analysis as inherently toxic.

[threebea]

I was thinking about how the Padawans being part of the war effort DOES suck and kind of bother me, but for some reason I don't really see it as an in universe moral failing of the Jedi.

First I was like: well Star Wars is aimed at kids . A pov character that is a kid makes sense. Especially in the early seasons of TCW and Rebels. This was added in the cartoon and it became part of movie canon after the fact that Padawans held military rank. Suspension of disbelief etc etc.

Then I was like... Wait. Padme was fourteen when she became elected queen, and although it was supposed to be a peaceful rule it got to the point where other fourteen-year-olds became her body doubles in case of assassinations. She also goes and leads an army to take back her planet. At no point was anyone like: you know what you're fourteen you should probably stay at base camp while we do this. We don't actually need you for the storming the palace part.

The GFFA in universe does not place moral significance on it. It isn't weird. If it did there is no way Shmi would have said: yes my nine year old son will do the death race when he doesn't have to even though he has never won or finished before. The plot must allow the gffa to be okay with child endangerment with the good guys still being good guys. No one says Shmi is a terrible mom when she agrees to let Anakin do it. She wasn't being coerced she's just convinced that the only way to help people is to put a nine year old in a death race. In real life if she did that we'd be horrified. And remember Padme isn't bothered because of Anakin's age she's bothered that they're staking everything on a random kid.

So Padawan Commanders makes sense in the GFFA.

Although yeah it makes sense to feel bad about Padawan Commanders in the real world, it also doesn't really say anything about the Jedi and their morality. They're pretty in step with the rules of morality of the universe.

The GFFA has similarities, but it isn't our galaxy.

Would I want children in real life to be trained as Jedi? No. I wouldn't want an eight year old to be trained as crimefighting hero Robin either. It's only when we're looking back at these things through an adult lens and ground fantasy in reality that it becomes a problem.

If you don't want to suspend your disbelief that's fine. But can you make moral judgements on the Jedi without looking at anyone else in the galaxy about this one particular fact? I don't think you can.

I don't know, funny to think about. Especially with the newer media which is aimed at for adults with nostalgia. Then the story does try to seem grounded in reality, but also trying to justify the past where our belief was suspended.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

thinking of mermaids AGAIN sooooooooooooooo

Merman!Ghost x Mermaid!Reader (for Mermay 2024)

cw: dubcon elements, rough sex, SELF-INDULGENT and therefore weird mermaid biology, (suspend disbelief idk and idc about mermaid biology, i just wanted to write ghost fucking a mermaid.), forced?-ish breeding (both parties were aware of the risks)

Merman!Ghost who's actually a selkie... of sorts.

Merman!Ghost who took the coat of a GREAT Greenland shark over three centuries ago and has lived as a shark ever since...

Merman!Ghost who's a deep dweller and has become quite the hunter, using the darkness of the depths to attract dumb prey so he can kill them.

Merman!Ghost who's not above mauling humans, in fact he despises them, especially when he finds them hurting animals. Sure, he kills them, but he's an animal himself.

Merman!Ghost who when he's bored causes issues on purpose, including scaring fish and other underwater life, and finds great humour in it.

Merman!Ghost who constantly gives trouble to fishing boats by trying to sink them, slamming his tail on the side of them to send them rocking side to side... and by ripping their nets with his teeth...

Merman!Ghost who has had horror stories and cautionary tales told of him by many navigators, pirate captains, sailor crews... who has become somewhat of a legend, a myth, and gets referred to as "The Creature".

Merman!Ghost who's not immune to mermaid song, surprisingly enough, but who can resist it plenty well.

Merman!Ghost who hears the lilting of your voice through the dark water but doesn't seek you out.

Merman!Ghost who succeeds in resisting... for days, weeks, months...

Merman!Ghost who awakes to the endless sound of your singing bubbling into his ears, and gets lulled to sleep by it as well.

Merman!Ghost who finds himself going insane by your voice, that follows him like a backdrop for every waking moment of his life, and cannot tune it out.

Merman!Ghost who eventually bites the bait and allows himself to rise from his domain.

Merman!Ghost follows your voice as it carries for miles upon miles.

Merman!Ghost who comes across a natural cave by the beach. Way too close to the beach. Close enough for him to know he'll end up washing up and getting stuck.

Merman!Ghost who checks both sides, making sure the beach is empty before he tentatively strips off his coat for the first time in years.

Merman!Ghost who stashes his coat between the rocks, covering it with algae before he dares venture into the cave.

Merman!Ghost who can't see as easily without the shark eyes, who can't swim as well without the shark fins, who can barely walk because all his human muscles are atrophied.

Merman!Ghost who wades in waist deep water into the darkness of the cave, looking around for you, his burly, calloused hands using the rocks as crutches to seek you out.

Merman!Ghost who only notices you when it's too late... when your song suddenly stops and the water splashes as you dive back in.

Merman!Ghost who watches you zoom past him in the water, a slippery fishtail propelling you in a zigzag amidst the rocks before you emerge out of the cave.

Merman!Ghost who watches you grab his shark coat and try to make off with it...

Merman!Ghost who takes his sweet time returning back to the mouth of the cave, watching you bob on the water with a mischievous smirk on your lips.

Merman!Ghost who demands "Give it back."

Merman!Ghost who scowls when you tell him "No." and "If you want it back, you have to marry me."

Merman!Ghost who crosses his arms and glares at you, shaking his head and refusing.

Merman!Ghost who scowls even more when you tell him "Then I guess it's bye bye to your skin.".

Merman!Ghost who despises being a human more than he despises the prank you're pulling on him.

Merman!Ghost who tries to negotiate and offers you something in exchange for his coat.

Merman!Ghost who pushes you against the rocks at the entrance of the cave as the cold water and seafoam wash over you both while he kisses you, pressing his tongue, the only warm part of his body, into your mouth, toying with yours.

Merman!Ghost who licks at the salty sea water glistening on your skin and the scales adorning your pretty neck, an arm wrapped around the small of your back.

Merman!Ghost whose human fingers, pale and wrinkled from the salt water, wrap around your exposed breast, softly tugging on the pert nipple while his mouth kisses and sucks at the patches of skin amidst your scales.

Merman!Ghost who tsk's at you for having been singing for so long to attract him, and scolds you for getting him so riled up for weeks on end with your song.

Merman!Ghost whose hands push you up onto the rocks so he can dip his head down your chest, wrapping his lips around one of your nipples, sucking it slowly and watching you mewl and cry so beautifully.

Merman!Ghost who gets a reminder of the one positive side of being a human, as his human cock rises up suddenly and stiffly, large and thick, already oozing precum against your tail scales.

Merman!Ghost who carefully grinds his leaking cock against your slick cunt, right before the spot your thighs meet and blend into a tail.

Merman!Ghost who turns you over, bending you over the rocks, one hand on the back of your neck, the other steadying you around the bones of your hip...

Merman!Ghost who plunges his hooded cock deep into your cunt, causing you both to cry out in delight, eyes rolling and jaws going slack as he bottoms out.

Merman!Ghost who bullies his cock deep into your cunny, feeling how your warm, gummy walls contract and squeeze around him while he groans loudly.

Merman!Ghost who pounds away at you again and again, hearing your voice go high-pitched and squeaky with each snap of his hips, finally shattering the mind-numbing and intoxicating mermaid song he's had stuck in his head for weeks.

Merman!Ghost who watches you squirm and whine as you cum around his thick cock, nearly choking it with how tight you get, before he slams his hips against the back of your tail a few more times, and shoots his cum deep inside you.

Merman!Ghost who watches smugly how blissful, quiet and calm you are after he's done, breathing heavily and your body buzzing.

Merman!Ghost who snatches his shark coat from your hands as you're too fucked out to remember you're meant to keep it out of his reach.

Merman!Ghost who puts his shark coat back on and morphs back to the shape he's comfortable in, then wraps his maw around your tired body, beginning to drag you underwater with him.

Merman!Ghost whose body rumbles with a laugh when you try to get free and loosen his grip on you, demanding he let you go.

Merman!Ghost who tells you "I thought you wanted me to be your husband? Well, I made you my broodmare too... Now I have to take care of you."

[sister-lucifer]

Love After Life

Claude Theroux (Ghost OC) x Male Reader

Genre: Smut 

Summary: When the ghostly groom mistakes you for his lost bride on a dark Halloween night, you can’t stop yourself from giving into him. 

Content/Warnings: AMAB Reader, unprotected anal sex, cumming inside, Reader crossdressing as a bride for Halloween, a little dubcon but not really only at first, mentions of death + fire, pet names (my love, my darling, various French pet names, etc), Claude refers to Reader with feminine terms because he has weird ghost brain stuff going on and doesn’t realize he’s not his wife, pregnancy/breeding, does this count as force fem?

A/N: Happy (slightly late) Halloween, everyone! ʚ♡ɞ

THIS IS NOT FULLY PROOFREAD! PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU SEE ANY TYPOS!

Believing in ghost stories is a feat that has always hovered just outside your field of reality, what you know to be true. Sure, you can suspend your disbelief to humor a friend now and again, but nothing beyond that. Of course, curiosity has a nasty habit of overpowering basic logic; when your phone pinged with a video from a friend about the supposedly haunted manor on White Oak Hill, you couldn’t resist giving it a watch. 

You rolled your eyes at the cheesy music that immediately started up upon hitting play, snuggling into bed with your free hand in a bag of snacks. You didn’t expect much at all, really. From the look of the video, it seemed like just another ploy for views from a subpar channel profiting off of kids who are still scared of monsters under the bed. You were far too intelligent for that. 

“The haunted house on White Oak Hill has been circulating once again, now that Halloween is coming around,” the narrator spoke, putting on an obviously forced voice while stock b-roll of a graveyard panned across the screen, “but what really happened to make it so haunted? Stay tuned to find out, but first, we want to tell you about our new merch drop—“

You groaned aloud, immediately skipping ahead. You could not be less interested in whatever they were peddling.  

“…and it was then, in July of 1945, that tragedy struck.” 

Ah. That’s more like it.

“Newlywed French aristocrats, Suzanne and Claude Theroux, had just arrived at White Oak Manor, where they intended to spend their honeymoon…”

Ugh, how cliché. You skipped forward a few more seconds, running out of patience fast. 

“…The couple moved downstairs, still dressed in their reception clothes, and completely oblivious to the fire blooming up in the master bedroom. Somehow, a recently lit candelabra had knocked over, causing the charred wick to burn one of the curtains, and the flames were growing rapidly. In their panic, Suzanne managed to escape, but Claude was not so lucky…” 

The music faded out, as did the visuals. As much as you’d hate to admit it, they had reeled you in. You didn’t even realize how close you’d gotten to the screen throughout that monologue, at least not until—

“…but first, a word from our sponsors.” 

Oh, fuck this! 

The shrill text tone jolts you out of an embarrassingly deep sleep. You wipe the drool from your chin as you scramble to sit up, phone sliding off of your chest. Looks like you fell asleep watching that video. So much for scary—you slept like a baby. 

You pick up your phone and look at the notification. You can’t help but roll your eyes as you type out your reply. 

Unfortunately, you actually had to consider that. 

You’re not exactly strapped for cash or struggling to scrape by, but it sure as hell would make you a lot more secure and comfortable to know you at least have that extra hundred put away in case of an emergency.

…Ugh. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter, stumbling through the doorway of the old house, “this is stupid. This is so stupid…” 

Somehow, you’ve gotten this far without putting all of this to a stop.  Maybe it was the hundred dollars floating just out of reach like a carrot on a stick, maybe it was morbid curiosity, or maybe it was just plain idiocy, but you really let this happen. Wow. 

Each step makes the wooden floors creak underfoot, the boards hissing in protest to your weight. You struggle to keep your balance in the tacky heels you were forced into, which are as uncomfortable as they are humiliating. To add insult to…well, another insult, you aren’t even wearing regular clothes under the dress as promised; they made it nearly impossible to get the damn thing on, and it was just too uncomfortable. You were allowed to keep your briefs, at least. Not that that makes you feel any better. Your dignity is strained, to put it lightly. 

You scratch at your arm rather aggressively, the itchy fabric of the tulle sleeves irritating the skin there. The entire dress is painfully cheap, and promises an unforgiving rash tomorrow morning. You instinctively reach to where your pocket would normally be to grab your phone, only to be utterly disappointed as the words of your friend echo in your head: 

“No modern technology! If he sees you tapping at your weird light box, he’ll freak out! All you have to do is go in, sweep the house, and report back to me.” 

Of course, your immediate response was to question why the ghost hunter wasn’t going in; surely the ‘expert’ isn’t scared? 

The only answer you got was a rather unceremonious shove towards the house. 

You’re in this alone. Great. 

You just hope the house doesn’t decide to collapse in on itself tonight. You don’t believe in ghosts, but the decrepit 20th century architecture and the harsh wind whistling through the broken windows are very real. It seems like the entire manor is trying to chase you out, like it’s angry that you’re here, loudly creaking and moaning with every shift or shake to talk you out of taking another step. No wonder this place has sparked so many ghost stories, it’s scary as shit! 

You stop in the middle of the foyer, taking a moment to drink in the scenery. 

The effects of the fire are obvious, even after all the years of atrophy; the core of the charred blackness lies upstairs, but its countless arms sprawl outwards, clawing at the walls in a desperate attempt to get free. From what you can see, it did not succeed, as the front most part of the house seems to be relatively untouched. 

Most of the house was gutted in an estate sale—what could be salvaged, anyways— but a couple of throne chairs and a matching ottoman still remain, now thoroughly gnawed through by all manner of creepy-crawlies. The entire downstairs is covered in a sticky blanket of spiderwebs, as if you needed more evidence of an infestation. Most of the curtains have been left untouched, except by time, though they do little to keep the house warm without any in tact windows. All of glass has been nearly completely shattered by either nature or vandals. You noticed a few graffiti tags and discarded beer cans outside, but the inside looks like it hasn’t had many people in it since the fire. The legends must keep them out. 

You look around as you try to discern where to go next. Directly in front of you is a large staircase leading to the upper level of the house, and behind it are a few doors that probably lead to a kitchen, a guest room and the like. On either side are long hallways that curl around, preventing you from seeing where they lead. The living area on your left, with the only remaining pieces of furniture, is enclosed on either side by grand bookcases that once held countless manuscripts and novels. The floor is still discolored from where the rug once laid. The grand chandelier of Damocles above your head sways a bit in the wind, and that makes you swallow nervously; you make the smart decision to move a few steps to the side just in case the diamond daggers come down. 

The question is: where do you start?

You could quite easily get turned around in here, especially in the endless hallways of the ground floor. You were given a brief glance at the floor plans, and there was no basement, only the two levels above and below the stairs. The best place to start would be upstairs, you decide— that way you can work your way back to the front door. 

Upon closer inspection, though, you realize that physically going up the stairs might be easier said than done, especially in these tacky pumps. Your eyes follow the steps from the bottom up, and each stair is only more burnt and broken than the last. You’ll have to navigate this with utmost caution. 

Your first step is shaky, but the wood doesn’t feel too unsteady. You’re careful not to stumble or let the heels of your shoes slip off the back of the stairs as you ascend, holding tightly to the rail. You only lift your hand at about halfway up, when you feel the gradually blackening wood starting to flake off and stick to your palm. The higher you climb, the darker it gets, all of the color of the upstairs completely consumed and overtaken by the fire. It’s like walking into Hell, the last vestiges of light fleeing from the sight as you finally reach the last step. 

You linger there for a moment, mouth hanging open just slightly as the reality of the tragedy sets in. Sure, you’d seen pictures, unable to push down the curiosity in the time before your little adventure, but this was…haunting. 

Someone actually died here. Holy shit. You’re staring into someone’s grave. 

You shudder as another breeze passes through, feeling much colder than before. You can only stare into the pitch black hallway for a moment before an irritated creak from the stairs urges you to quickly move off of them. 

Black dust swarms around your ankles as you step onto the upper floor. It seems even more untouched than the lower part of the house. The wind doesn’t come through as loudly here, and suddenly you realize how deathly quiet it got as you came up the stairs. You listen for a moment to see if you can pick up any sound from the outside, but there’s nothing. Not a sound, not a rustle, not a honk from the highway. You don’t even think the rats come up here. Spooky. 

You look to your left, down the hallway. Darkness. Complete darkness. The frail gleam of the moon is practically swallowed by the suffocating black. 

You look to your right, and see the same thing. You catch a brief glimpse of the dim light reflecting on something. 

You look back to the— 

Wait. 

You double take.  The fuck was that? 

You turn back to the right, now much more on guard. You squint into the shadows, sure that you saw something against the wall that barely hovered where you could see it. 

Nothing moves. 

Nothing is there. 

You sigh, rolling your eyes at your own stupidity. You’re letting those dumb stories get to you. You just need to get out of here before you catch a disease or fall through the floor and break an ankle. 

You decide to keep true, headed straight for the center hall and the master bedroom where it all began. You walk slowly, keeping an arm in front of you to feel for spiderwebs in the windowless hallway, but you encounter none. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen any signs of pests since the stairs. Nothing worth eating up here, you guess. 

You can barely see the slight glint of the bedroom doorknob. It shifts and wavers just a bit as you bob with each step, eventually coming close enough to reach out and grab it. You prepare for the spikes of cold metal against your skin, but the sensation you feel is much different. 

The doorknob is warm. 

Not unbearably hot, no, but warm. Warmer than it has any right to be, enough to make you pull your hand back for a moment. 

You swallow hard. 

It must be because the wind doesn’t come through here, you rationalize; this hall has no windows, there’s rooms on both sides—it’s not as drafty as the rest of the house. That must be it. 

You grasp the knob again, turning it slowly…so as to not break it, of course. 

The door creaks open loud enough to make you wince, like you’re worried someone will hear and come bustling in to scold you for being up past your bedtime. The room looks rather well preserved, and it doesn’t start to sink in how odd  that is until you’ve already stepped inside, and then the door shuts behind you on its own. That startles you enough to crash your train of thought. 

You quickly spin around to look at the door, staring for a few moments to see if it’ll move. It stays still, the ornate wooden carvings looking back at you like sharp eyes, waiting to see if you, too, will make a move. 

The room is, for lack of a better term, dead. Any sound that tries to make its way in dies outside the walls, and even the particles floating in the air seem frozen, cursed to forever hover in the beams of moonlight. A ghostly glow is cast over everything, an ethereal blanket that makes the air feel heavy. You take a step further into the room, and it feels like walking on the ocean floor. You’re numb, yet you can feel your skin clinging to your bones. 

You really shouldn’t be here. 

Then, a flickering light in the corner of your eye catches your attention. It startles you, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, enough to make you jump as you turn to it. The glimmering brilliance blinds you for a moment, and you don’t realize what you’re looking at until your eyes focus again. 

On the bedside table, its illuminating aura casting quivering shadows on the walls, is a sterling silver candelabra holding tightly to three lit candlesticks. The engraved vines snake their way up its arms and around its base, almost as if trying to hold it still. It looks like a priceless antique, but it shines like it’s brand new. A moment ago the room was completely dark, and now it’s aglow with the white-blue candlelight. The flames swirl in your pupils, hypnotizing you with their unnatural hue as they dance like skilled ballerinas, flicking up into a perfect arabesque before relaxing into a soft adagio, beckoning you closer without you even realizing. 

You don’t see how close you’ve gotten until you’re nearly upon it. Your fingers twitch, nearly aching to reach out and hover over the fire. Without a conscious decision, your hand starts to lift, like moving through water. It floats just above the candles, and you feel no heat, nor do you see any smoke. It’s like a projection onto the air itself. 

You barely stop yourself from dipping a finger into the flames. You know logically that you’ll be burned—or at least, you should be—but the fire calls to you nonetheless. For just a moment, everything is different; you aren’t yourself. There’s a dark cloud forming in your mind, and then suddenly it dissipates at the startling sound of a voice behind you. 

You whip your head around so fast your neck nearly snaps. You squint into the darkness, still as a statue, expecting to see your friend standing there or perhaps even a fellow explorer whose curiosity got the better of them. You’re not even sure what the voice said, but it was certainly human…or, at least, something that’s quite good at sounding human. 

You see no one.

You’re just as alone as you were. 

You turn to face the room fully, but you move too fast. Your hand bumps the bedside table, knocking the candelabra off of it. You panic as you scramble to catch the candleholder, not even thinking about the possibility of burning your hands. You manage to reach out at the last second and get your palm beneath it, and you expect to feel the weight of the cool silver against your skin, but you never do. 

You watch with your own eyes as the candelabra phases right through your flesh. 

You think for a split second that perhaps you just missed, but there’s no clatter against the wood floor either. The candelabra disappears with as much ceremony as it first materialized, leaving only a few sapphire embers that jump from the wicks before fading away as well. The moon’s beams on your back is the only surviving light. 

You can feel the freezing of your blood as it crystallizes into solid ice, the unbearable sensation blooming in your stomach before snaking its way down your limbs. You want to scream, but you can only muster a gasp as you stumble backwards in shock. You trip over your own feet, falling back onto the bed. 

Your vision starts to fill with black spots as your mind struggles to wrap around what it just witnessed. You keep seeing that split second in time when you watched it go through you, that single moment where it was halfway through your solid form before it was gone. Unsure what else to do, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying desperately to calm yourself. 

You lay there for a few moments, unable to make yourself get up or move at all. All at once your mind is racing, yet you’re unable to think at all. You try to force yourself to calm down, to will your heart to quiet, but you can’t push the thought of the candelabra out of your mind. 

You’re not sure why, but you cover your face. Your entire body tenses for a brief moment before you finally break your barrier of panic. Slowly, but surely, you relax again. Your chest is still heaving, but you can finally form a semi-coherent thought. 

…What the hell just happened? 

You don’t have an answer for that. At least, not right now. 

That’s okay, you sure yourself. You’re fine. You need to just get out of here. You can lie and say you saw a shadowy figure or something. 

You pull your hands away from your face, blinking a few times as your eyes focus and adjust to the bright light. 

Hold on. 

The what? 

No, you’re really seeing that…?! 

Just above you is a hovering form, glowing in the darkness of the bedroom. For a second it only looks like a luminous cloud, but then the finer features become clear, coming into form like a time lapse of a painting. 

You notice the eyes first. They’re a brilliant blue, even more so than the rest of the body, like heavy gems being cradled by translucent clouds. You notice the hair next, long, silky and wavy, looking like it may have once been blond despite the blue tint, and floating as though in zero gravity. The nose is slender and straight, and the lips are devoid of warmth and slightly parted as if pleasantly surprised. The rest of the body is wrapped in a dark suit, accented with a light blue tie and a matching lily boutonnière with drooping petals. 

You put it together in an instant; the attire, the house, the fire… 

…The groom. 

Your throat goes dry as sandpaper. 

He’s smiling down at you a terrifying amount of genuine affection. He tilts his head just slightly, observing you as your mouth gapes and eyes widen in shock. You struggle for words, but only manage to choke out one thing: 

“Claude...?!”

His grin only widens when he hears his name from your lips. 

“Ohh, my love,” he sighs, his thickly accented voice echoing in the back of your head as if speaking directly into your mind, “I was wondering where you went…”

He reaches out to stroke your cheek, and it feels like cold fog on your skin. He’s trembling as much as you are. 

“You’ve returned, you’ve returned…” he mumbles like a chant. He leans in with both hands on the sides of your face, gently bumping his forehead against yours. The contact makes your entire body shiver, and you have to stop your teeth from chattering. You know you should say something, stop him, move away…but what can be done? 

You’re frozen. 

His hands on your face are starting to make your skin tingle, like pins and needles in your cheek. The sensation lingers when he finally pulls away, and you can’t stop yourself from rubbing the feeling away on your shoulder. 

There’s a beat of silence between you for a moment. He looks down at you, gentle smile never wavering despite the terror that’s surely on your face. He doesn’t seem to realize at all that you’re not happy to see him. Something in his eyes makes you feel like he’s looking through you, or perhaps not truly seeing you at all. 

You bristle when he moves lower, hollow hands grasping at your ankles before sliding upward, lifting the cheap layered skirt of the bride costume. The cold feeling creeping up your leg makes you yelp, and you instinctively kick at him. Your tacky heel slips off and falls to the floor with your foot still floating inside his abdomen. Oh god, it feels like stepping in refrigerated jello. 

Claude pauses. For a moment you’re worried you’ve angered him, that now you’ve invoked

the wrath of a restless spirit, but then he laughs. He laughs as though you’d simply told him something funny, and then his hands continue working their way up your legs. 

“Always so spirited,” Claude chuckles, hands now firmly on your thighs, “I always did love that about you, ma femme…” 

He leans over you, and you want to sink into the mattress as far as possible. Your legs tremble uselessly as they dangle over the edge of the bed, unable to make you run. 

“W-Wait, hold on—“ you stammer, but you choke on your words when he dips down to kiss your neck. Each little press of his lips is like a shock to your system. Normally, you wouldn’t be so sensitive, but the feeling is so foreign and overwhelming you can’t help but arch your back. His hands slide up and down your waist, skirt now bunched around your hips, and you can barely feel the cold through the costume. 

He either doesn’t hear you or doesn’t acknowledge your words. He keeps working his way down your neck, hands moving around to your back and fumbling with the zipper down the bodice of your dress. You don’t realize what’s happening before suddenly the costume is being pulled off your shoulders. 

“Wait, wait—!” you say again, with a bit more volume this time. This makes him stop, pulling away and looking at you with confusion, and maybe even a bit of hurt. 

“Darling, what’s the matter?” he asks, stroking your hair, “Are you nervous? Don’t be…” 

“N-No, you don’t understand…!” you insist, but the longer you look in his eyes, the less you want to fight him. 

“Can’t you tell? I-I’m not…you know…” 

You trail off, gesturing vaguely to yourself. Surely he can tell you’re not his Suzanne…? 

His eyebrows furrow. He’s clearly not understanding what you’re getting at, but then his eyes light up with a realization. 

“…Oh…I see…” he mumbles, looking away from you in thought. You finally relax, breathing a sigh of relief. Looks like you managed to get through to—

“Oh, darling, I don’t care if you’re not a virgin!” 

…What? 

You open your mouth to correct him, but no sound comes out. He kisses you, you think, but it’s so fast you only feel the slight coolness on your lips. 

“It doesn’t matter to me,” he continues, “you’re still my beautiful wife. No more delay, let me show you how much I love you.”

Before you can blink the costume has been pulled off of you. You’re left in only your boxers and one shoe, head spinning as you struggle to make any sense of the situation. 

How does he not see? You think, you don’t look anything like Suzanne, gender disparity aside…! 

No, wait…what was it they said in that old ghost movie? 

“Ghosts see what they want to see.” 

The sudden understanding barely breaks through as Claude dives into your neck again, the other side this time, mumbling and sighing against your skin in slurred French. 

There’s no reasoning with him, you realize, he wants you to be his wife. He needs you to be her. He’s been waiting here so long for her to return, he doesn’t even know he’s dead. 

Oh, god… 

His hands run up and down your bare chest, and the freezing touch makes your nipples harden. They trail lower, like cold water running down your body, pausing at the waistband of your boxers. He floats downward to nuzzle into your thigh, and the sight of him looking up at you with those big, blue eyes makes your stomach flip. 

“Oh, mon amour, won’t you let me…?” he asks, tugging at your boxers, “I simply can’t rest until I’ve had you…”

Can’t rest, he says…

Is that what he’s been waiting for all these years? 

They say ghosts only stick around if they have unfinished business, right? Is this…is this what he needs? 

You suck in a deep breath, unable to look away from his eyes. 

Well…if it might work, it’s worth a shot, right? You’re doing this for him, after all. 

At least that’s what you’ll tell yourself tomorrow morning. 

Fuck it. 

“Yes.”

The way his expression quite literally lights up makes your face go hot. 

He wastes no time, pulling off your boxers with utmost enthusiasm. The fall to the floor, immediately forgotten once he’s dropped them. You resist the urge to suck in a harsh breath as your half hard cock is exposed to the air. You’re already bracing yourself for the inevitable feeling of his cold touch. 

For the first time, you really see him pause. He’s staring down at your length, gears turning in his head but not working quite right, like he’s on the verge of snapping out of a trance. You gulp. If he’s found you out, you might be screwed. 

The silence stretches on for an almost awkward amount of time. 

Then, without warning, the love returns to his eyes, and a split second later his tongue comes out to lick a long stripe up your shaft. You nearly scream, barely managing to cover your mouth in time. Fuck, that’s cold! 

It’s clear that he’s not all that knowledgeable about what to do with a dick, but he’s giving it a hell of a try. He makes sure his tongue doesn’t neglect a single spot on your length, and he doesn’t miss the little squeal he gets when he flicks gently at the tip. He tries to take it in his mouth, but forcing your cock down his throat is clearly uncomfortable for him, even if he can’t choke on it. Nonetheless, he tries, rubbing at whatever he can’t fit in his mouth with his hand. He’s not afraid of moaning, either, and the vibrations it sends through you can never be replicated by any toy. 

You do your best to lay back and enjoy it despite the bizarre situation. You manage to clear your mind for only a moment before you feel two of his fingers brushing against your hole. You gasp, tensing on instinct. You can feel him smirk around your cock before he pulls off of it for a moment. 

“Ahh, there it is…” he says lowly before promptly busying his mouth once more. 

You bite down hard on your bottom lip as two of his fingers slip in, the cold instantly penetrating your core. This seems to be a skill he’s much more adept at; he’s far less hesitant, and far more graceful. He stretches you in just the right ways, exploring your waiting hole with a confidence that easily surpasses any of your past partners. His fingers slip in and move around so easily, without any struggle or pain. You’re almost upset you’ll never feel this again. 

Try as you might to be quiet, you can’t bite back the moan that crawls out of your throat when the pads of his fingers press against your prostate. He chuckles as best he can with your dick down his throat. He presses again, gentler this time, clearly enjoying the drawn out while it gets from you. 

It’s getting harder and harder to keep quiet as he hits all the right spots over and over again. He’s evidently a quick learner, too, as he’s already picked up on the best ways to use his tongue around your length. You can feel yourself twitching in his mouth. 

He slips in a third finger, and as it pushes in you nearly see stars. Tingly static crawls up your body like dye soaking into fabric, invading the deepest crevices of your nervous system. God, that’s good. 

You’re not sure how long it’s been when he finally pulls away, leaving you suddenly empty and far too warm for comfort. You’re too dizzy to question what’s going on when he flips you onto your stomach, but you don’t have to ask questions. You shudder as he leans over you, his chest against your back, engulfing your body with an icy sensation. 

“Oh, ma belle femme, how lucky I am to have you,” he whispers in your ear, voice choked and shaky, “I can feel you trembling underneath me. Just sit still, my darling…” 

You can hear him rustling with his clothes behind you, but don’t bother to look back. Your cock is practically begging for more of his touch. 

After a moment he leans over you again, this time laying his hands over yours. He feels nearly weightless, like a cloud resting on top of you. 

“Je peux enfin t’emmener…”

You don’t have a second to process his words before suddenly he’s pushing into you. You don’t bother trying to hide your voice, and neither does he, droning on and whispering sweet nothings you can barely understand as your mind is completely melted by the feeling of the penetration. 

You nearly collapse against the mattress, but he manages to catch your hips just in time. You claw at the sheets as he fills you to the base, and the blankets do little to muffle your cries. For a brief moment you wonder if anyone outside could hear you, but that worry is quickly pushed aside when you feel him pulling back. You dig your nails into your palm so hard you’re sure it’ll leave marks as you prepare for what’s about to come. 

The first thrust feels like it might break your mind. The head of his pale cock butts hard against your prostate, making you shriek like you never thought you could. You nearly tear a hole in the bedsheets with your desperate attempt

to find some sort of relief, and yet you don’t want any at all. Your body might be shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, but against all logic, your mind is screaming more, more, more!

“C-Claude—!” you yelp as he slams into you once more. 

“Suzanne!” he echoes in turn, ecstasy dripping from his voice, “Suzanne, my love, how I’ve waited for this…!”

He returns to kissing your neck, though much messier than before. He just needs to taste you, sucking and nipping and licking any spare bit of skin he can get to. If he feels so cold, you must feel so warm. 

He’s trying to be gentle, to go easy on you, but he’s struggling. You can feel him forcing himself to go slower. You need to encourage him. 

“Oh, Claude,” you moan, putting on the girliest voice you can muster, “faster! Faster, my love, please, give me more!” 

He’s more than happy to comply, and after a brief adjustment of his hold on you his pace increases tenfold. He’s grunting and huffing like an animal—and you’re underneath him, moaning and whimpering like a girl. 

“Suzanne, my darling, we’re going to do it,” he says suddenly, and you have no idea what he means. He pulls you in closer, pressing you against his chest more firmly. 

“We’re going to do it,” he repeats, “we’re going to have our family…I want to— no, I need to give you my child.” 

The sound that comes out of you is humiliating. 

You’ve never wanted anything more than for him to cum inside of you in this moment. 

“Yes,” you reply without thinking, “yes, yes!” 

He only thrusts into you faster, fueled completely by your mutual desire. Both of his hands are on your hips now, holding tightly and pulling you back against him as he pushes in. The bed is rocking so hard it feels like it might collapse underneath you. Even if it did, neither of you would even consider stopping, not for a second. 

He’s starting to lose his rhythm, you realize. He’s just as sensitive as you are. He wants this just as much, if not more. You can’t even string together a coherent sentence to beg for it, all you can do is let the string of pleasured noises fall from your lips, only occasionally managing to say his name. He chants back ‘Suzanne’ like it’s the only word he knows; it’s the only one that matters to him, at least. 

You jump when he wraps a hand around your cock, pumping it quickly with little to no consistent pattern. He’s practically milking it, rubbing fast and hard and doing everything in his power to push you to your peak. 

“Cum for me, my love,” he huffs, “let me feel you cum around my cock…won’t you give me the privilege?” 

“Of course, my darling,” you reply. How could you say no? 

Your orgasm starts to build faster than you’re ready for. You can barely choke out an understandable warning before your cock twitches and spills its load, spurting into his hand and certainly dirtying the bedding underneath you. He buries his face in your neck as your hole squeezes him deliciously, making him cry out at the feeling. 

“Yes, my love— Oh god, yes!” he almost sobs. He’s completely lost his rhythm now, just rutting into you like a feral dog in heat as he chases his own high. 

He gives one last cry of his bride’s name before suddenly he stills, and his cock spills into you. You’re not sure what it feels like—you don’t think any human experience could ever compare—but it’s certainly not unpleasant. It’s not the warm, sticky feeling dripping down your thighs, at least. 

You nearly black out for a moment, your head spinning like a top with no relief in sight. Darkness is quickly clouding your vision as you come down from your intense high, and you barely register the gentle kiss Claude presses to your cheek before the cold feeling against your back is gone. You close your eyes then, unable to keep them open any longer. 

You’re not sure how long it’s been when you awake again. Logically, it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but you feel like you’ve been asleep for years. You slowly move to sit up, and instantly you’re made painfully aware of the soreness in your legs and lower back. You groan, forcing yourself to move to sit on the edge of the bed. 

You’re still very naked, that’s for sure. You look down between your legs, and grimace at the sight of the luminescent ectoplasm glowing in the dim light as it drips from your thighs and ass. 

The thing that really stands out, though, is the state of the room. Whatever you saw before must’ve been some sort of ghostly illusion; now you’re surrounded by nothing but charred black, sticking to your legs and palms and floating about in the air in flaky little bits. 

Yuck. 

You sigh as you will yourself to get up, not enjoying the feeling of your one bare foot on the dusty wood floor. You can barely walk far enough to retrieve the costume dress, let alone bend down and pick it up, but by some divine intelligence you manage. 

After redressing to the best of your ability, you limp back downstairs—talk about a walk of shame. Although, despite your embarrassment, you do note that the house feels…emptier. Lighter. It’s nice. 

You don’t have an excuse for why you’re so disheveled, or why you’re walking so weirdly, or why you’re so sweaty. You don’t care. You’re going to walk out that door, get your last half of the payment, and go home and get a good night’s sleep knowing that, in some impossibly strange way, you did a good thing. 

The one thing you will never admit, though, is that you were very wrong: 

Ghosts are real. 

And you have the wet dream to prove it. 

If you liked this fic, please reblog! it’s free, takes two seconds, and really helps me out. 

Feedback is encouraged and appreciated.

[ratgirlexe]

To wrap up my thoughts on HDG as horror, now that I’m no longer in severe pain and writing my thoughts at 3 am:

I think the best summary of it all is that it’s hard for me to go into any given story and feel truly horrified, because I know on a meta textual level that everything is going to work out in the end, and the characters will likely be happier than when they started. I don’t know how to suspend my disbelief in the idea that ultimately things will work out, so even if the main character goes through any number of acts which are horrifying in *theory*. I almost empathize more with the affini putting them through that experience, more so than the character who’s point of view I’m seeing things from.

Are you a rebel feralist being put through awake surgery for your haustoric implant? It might be the scariest experience of your life, but that just means you get to be a floret now! You’ll have someone to care for and love you forever, and you’ll never have to be alone. Give it a week and you’ll be thanking them for doing so.

How about if you’re a terminally ill patient at end-of-life, or in excruciating pain that even the affini can't somehow solve? That's okay! We'll get you on a nice tasty regimen of class-O's, and you'll never hurt or be afraid again. There will be nothing but unending bliss, and you won't even realize that you're hurting. Not all suffering can be prevented, and eventually it all has to end, but heaven is real, and we've placed it inside you. Even in that last situation, which is the most personally scary to me, there's a certain level of bitter sweetness to it all. Maybe it's just the pain I've been in, but there aren't quite as many ways to end someones life that are as kind as bliss never-ending.

Ultimately I think it's just the fact that I know the affini are benevolent within the story, which makes even the most harrowing or scary events take on a more lighthearted tone for me. Yes, getting to where you want to be, where you *need* to be can be really scary. I'm autistic. Change is terrifying, change is death, and some changes can feel too monumental to ever surmount on your own. But to me HDG is a true escapist fantasy that says "Even if this change is scary, even if you can't choose to change for the better, even if the process hurts or makes you feel like you're dying, I'll be here with you to hold your hand and guide you through it. You don't have to go through it alone, and by the end you'll be able to blossom into who I know you can be."

And to me that's just not scary or horrifying. That's something that I yearn for each and every day.

[annebd]

winter warmers, day 8: holiday baking. ~700 words

The truth is, Max can’t stand coffee. He hates most hot drinks, in fact. But every morning at around 11 o’clock, without fail, he wanders down to Enchanté Cafe and orders a small Americano, extra extra milk and extra extra sugar, which he hopes will one day drown out the flavor of the coffee itself- though it never works- and whatever the pastry of the day is.

Max will take his coffee and pastry and sit at the little corner table by the large bay window, back turned to the rest of the coffee shop, so that he can people-watch. At least, if anyone ever asks, that’s the excuse that he’s ready to offer. But in truth, the only people-watching he’s doing is of the pretty boy behind the counter. He’s tried all of the different tables over the past month that he’s been coming to Enchanté, and this particular seat gives him the best view in the entire cafe.

It took him over a week of coming to the cafe to muster up the courage to ask Daniel his name. (He knew Max’s name right away, of course, since he’d need to call it out when his order was ready. Over the weeks, he’s come up with all sorts of nicknames, so Max is used to picking up orders for “Maximus Decimus” or “Maximiliano” or, on one memorable occasion, “Maximum Overdrive.”) When Max was finally feeling brave enough to ask for his name, Daniel laughed at him, not unkindly, and pointed at the name tag hanging slightly crooked on his apron that read, in gold script, Daniel R. “I’m Jeff,” he said with a wink, and then gave Max a free pastry.

Sometimes, when he’s been sitting at his people-watching table for long enough, Daniel will take his lunch break a little early and come sit with Max and entertain him with tales of the various characters that frequent the bakery. Max isn’t sure he believes all of the stories are true, but Daniel tells them with such enthusiasm that he’s willing to suspend disbelief for a bit. Those days are Max’s favorite.

Today is looking to be one of those days. The clock has just barely ticked past noon. Max’s coffee, only half drunk, is sitting cold and forgotten on the table in front of him, and the pain au chocolat he’d ordered on Daniel’s recommendation is nothing more than a couple of lost crumbs. He watches as Daniel makes his way out from behind the counter, hands laden with two different mugs and a small plate balanced on top of one.

He plops the plate down on the table and places one of the mugs in front of Max. It’s hot chocolate, with a candy cane nestled into the cup, poking a hole in the froth of whipped cream. Daniel’s cup looks to be a plain black coffee.

“On the house,” Daniel tells him, when Max raises an eyebrow at the goodies. He nudges the plate towards Max. “Go on, tell me what you think. I’m trying a new recipe. Christmas themed, you know?”

The small plate holds a cupcake, a pile of green frosting on top swirled up in the shape of a Christmas tree, decorated with brightly colored sprinkles and a little sugar star on top. It’s cute, and Daniel is obviously proud of it, if the way he’s nodding encouragingly at Max and bouncing his knee is any indication. Max peels back the paper to take a bite. It’s good. Sweet, and moist, and delicious. “It’s very lovely, Daniel. You’ll sell lots of them, I think.”

“Thanks, mate,” Daniel says, and then reaches over and swipes his thumb across Max’s bottom lip. He brings his thumb, which has a little green frosting on it, to his own mouth and licks it off. “You’re right. Delicious.”

Max can feel his cheeks flush pink. It feels like now or never. “Do you think, maybe, if you want, you can give me your number? And then maybe we can have a drink sometime?”

“I’d love to,” Daniel replies, and gestures for Max’s phone so that he can program his number in.

“And hey,” he says, as he starts typing. “Maybe if I take you out for a drink, I can find out what you actually like, so that you don’t have to suffer through those Americanos every morning.”

[raconabhorrent]

been fascinated with Finding Frankie today and while I definitely think there's a lot to praise about the game and the story and the characters,, i'm also hella confused as to WHY (not what) things in the story were happening...

not saying it needs like HELLA lore like Poppy Playtime or an ARG like Amanda the Adventurer or smth but even if u think about the story of the game as completely self-contained (as in, it has no effect on the universe it resides within),, some of the things that happen happen for no reason other than they were written that way??? which, again,, isn't a bad thing,, but i'd def like to see some of the plot threads introduced in the game developed more if they do end up making sequels...

!!! SPOILERS AHEAD !!!

things like,, why are there two frankies??? why is one evil (capitalism) and the other one just tries to stomp on you?? why are the mascots sentient or whatever??? were they built like that??? do they have human something inside them (human organs, human soul, etc.) or are they just inanimate objects that have their own consciousnesses of some kind????

who started the game show? who's running it? who created the mascots? who are the people watching the streams? does the government know or is this like squid games? how have they not gone bankrupt previously? how have the police not been notified BEFORE of hundreds of people dying before you arrive?

what is the player's motivation for being a contestant? it seems like your character tried really hard to get that vhs tape... why does frankie get mad at you for "ruining his fucking gameshow" and then turn around when you somehow survive falling into the incinerator (which,, what??? did you use the grindrails?? is that even the player???) and be like "omg let's be business partners buddy"???

how parkour physics work?? (i can suspend my disbelief on this one the most, honestly),, HOW IS THIS FACILITY RUNNING??? IS FRANKIE RUNNING THE WHOLE THING??? are there humans behind the whole operation that you're not seeing?? who called the polices???? why do they never bring that up again??? WHAT IS A NOOB NOOB?!?!??!1 why do they explode why do they do a little dance when ur chasing them why do they have blood inside them i'm assuming its blood cus all the supposed blood in this game is black is it dried?? is it old blood??? is it stylized?? is it ichor of some kind??? what??

maybe my tendency to overthink is getting carried away here,, probably,, but i def want to understand more about this setting bc there's so much that can be done with it, even if it's explained away with silly cartoon logic or something.

[raquellemonsta]

Hi girl! Me again!

Still can’t stop thinking abt that amazing tobio fic that u did which I requested, I NEEDD a part two or like a timeskip where they’re datinggg. I’m dying to know what their dating life is like when their pre-dating time is already as hot and fiery as u wrote it!! <3 along w the media n stuff like they’re obv they’re gn be so slay n espesh u write it so i alr know I’m gn love it sm!! So looking forward to it <33

golden (timeskip!kageyama x model!reader)

here it is! I love these two so much. I'm sorry this took so long, oops. disclaimer: you'll have to suspend your disbelief, I know in the manga he technically was 19 when he went to the Olympics but he's aged up here so that both of your career paths make sense. I am very sorry if that takes you out of the story at all </3 I hope you love it anyway!

wc: 2015 words

(part 1)

your relationship with kageyama tobio is nothing short of a dream. everyone can tell just how in love with him you are, and he's just as whipped for you. the two of you are meant for each other.

it's what all the tabloids, your closest friends, and even your parents say to you every-time you see them.

you can't agree more; he's the perfect man for you. tobio is able to understand the weight of being in the spotlight, millions of eyes on you, and he keeps you grounded. he's been your date to every social event, awards show, concert, sporting event, you name it. at the same time, you both are always there for one another, even with no cameras around. tobio's your safe space away from all of the pressures of being famous (and just being human, too). he's anything but a pr relationship, that's for sure.

which is why you're so excited, today of all days especially.

your boyfriend is competing in the 2016 summer olympic games, one of the most impressive feats an athlete can accomplish.

even if tobio can be quiet, not bothering to talk about what it is he's thinking about most of the time, you know that this has been a dream of his since he was a little boy. it's quite literally the farthest he can go in the sport he's loved forever, and he gets to do it with his close friends by his side, too.

your heart swells with pride just thinking about it. you're so happy he has this opportunity.

the unfortunate consequence of it, though, is that you haven't seen him in two weeks. well, that's slightly dramatic. he's able to text you occasionally, but nothings the same as waking up in his arms. other than games, of course, he's restricted to practice and the olympic village.

the only times you've really seen him in-person are watching his games, where you have a limited time afterwards to hug him before he's whisked away from you to start the same cycle over again.

it's been very lonely without him. your friend even sent you a twitter post someone had made about how sad you looked and how 'no one ever sees [you] without [your] boyfriend usually'. you kind of laughed at that, both at the ridiculous picture taken of you and at the fact that the caption might be true.

you miss him so much.

that's why you're both excited and nervous that today is the very last possible match: olympic finals.

entering the (at this point) familiar arena, you make your way to the side designated for japan. your seat is pretty close to the front, but still high enough so that you can see all of the court. that part is important, since your tobio rarely stays in one spot when he's out there.

you pull out your phone, shooting a text to your friend and then one to tobio, despite the fact that he definitely won't see it until after the game. you're pulled out of your focus by a man with a microphone held to your face.

"miss japan! miss (l/n), are you excited to be here today?" he looks at you excitedly, camera aimed at your face.

you can never seem to escape the 'reporters' from random news sites, especially here. it's not too surprising that they want to know your reaction to your boyfriend being in the finals. you don't want to seem rude, though, so once you recover from the shock of being interrupted, you respond calmly.

"of course i am. i'm lucky to have someone i know and love playing, too." you smile at the camera, waving to anyone who will end up watching this (which is always more people than you think). you can practically hear gushiken-san talking about what a great client he has. 'so humble!'

"yes, kageyama tobio. his performance has been amazing these past few games." he looks at you, expectantly.

"i think his performance is always amazing, but i'm also biased," you joke.

the man smiles at you, the two of you going back and forth for a few more questions, mainly about you and your most recent projects (shouldn't they be focused on the event you're at?), along with digging for any possible hints on where you'll be modeling next.

finally, he thanks you for your time and you're left alone. your attention then shifts to the court, where brazil has gone out to warm up.

your heartbeat picks up its pace, nervous and excited simultaneously.

it's almost time.

when the japanese team walks out, your eyes immediately fall onto number 20. even his warmup is flawless. you barely register the time passing, gaze locked on tobio like he's the only man on earth.

the whistle, signifying the end of warmups and for the teams to lineup, brings you back to reality. this is really happening. this is what he's worked so hard for.

this is his destiny.

————

finals. olympic finals. a game away from total victory, or bitter defeat.

his heart has been pounding for the entirety of the last set. tobio has always been able to keep his cool during matches, but something about the pressure of the biggest match in the entire world has managed to creep into his head. it even cost the team a point earlier. a foot fault has rarely ever happened to him before, yet here of all games it would. tobio knows he has to put that behind him, though, especially with the score now.

28-27. match point. and he's up to serve.

slowly moving back behind the line, a chill goes down his spine. the arena feels dead silent, despite the sheer number of spectators. he closes his eyes, pushing out a final exhale as his ears barely register the whistle.

this is it.

his entire life has led up to this exact moment. his serve undoubtedly making or breaking the game, and his reputation. it feels as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders, crushing him and depriving his lungs of air. like sinking deep underwater, he's nearly swallowed whole.

a saving grace is waiting for him, in the form of you. he pictures your beautiful face, smiling up at him like he's the only man in the entire world. like he's invincible.

tobio knows you're watching him right now. what are you thinking? about that missed serve earlier, and how lame he is? no. that thought is quickly swiped away. he thinks of how you'll run up to him as soon as the game is over, win or lose, take him in your arms and kiss him like no one is watching. he can't wait.

with complete precision, he tosses the ball up, going through his footwork as if in slow motion. he's done this a million times before, and yet this is different.

at the apex of his jump, he meets the ball. he swears he can see you now, hands over your mouth, gripping tightly in anticipation. he's sure he's never slammed the ball harder.

the ball drills into the back left corner, shanked by brazil's opposite.

the arena immediately becomes deafening, shouts and cheers erupting from every single side of kageyama as he barely registers that he ended the olympics on an ace. his teammates are crowding him, excited (especially bokuto), and yet all he can think of is you.

the next several minutes are spent awarding the medals, kageyama standing with his team on the first place podium. despite this being one of the greatest moments of his life, his face lacks a visible smile. he's glancing around the arena, searching throughout the crowd.

a tap on his shoulder finally pulls him out of it, though he turns around to be met with the girl he was looking for, you.

his eyes widen for a split second before you basically throw yourself onto him, hugging him so tightly that you can feel the cold medal through your shirt. tobio's arms quickly wrap around you, and even despite the sweat you move closer to him.

"i'm so proud of you." you smile brightly, amazed by this man that you're lucky enough to call your boyfriend. your hands have found their way to his cheeks, thumbs at the edge of his lips.

kageyama's never been big on pda, but he just won an olympic gold medal and has the prettiest girl in the world by his side. he can let a kiss with you slide, especially when you're looking at him like that.

you drown out the cheers and ignore the flashing of several cameras, lost in your love for tobio. it's only you and your lover, locked in a kiss full of emotion and yet simply enough to convey your feelings.

when the two of you pull away, it's like you suddenly remember just where you are, and you feel slightly shy (which is shocking, for you). tobio, on the other hand, is smiling down at you. really smiling, the smile that he told you people always thought was 'creepy', but you loved because you know it's genuine.

unfortunately, the two of you are pulled out of your moment together.

"kageyama, that was absolutely amazing! how are you feeling after such an amazing moment?!" a reporter rapidly speaks, trying to be heard over the loud environment. unlike the one interviewing you earlier, this woman appears to be from a more official american news station, trying to get an interview from the man who won japan the game.

tobio looks between her and the camera, confused, before he leans into the microphone.

"i love my girlfriend," comes his very choppy english. you can't stop yourself from smiling brightly, the camera turning to focus on you behind him.

he pulls you away after that, and you shoot the reporter and cameraman an apologetic look before following after him eagerly.

"thank you, hon." you joke, commenting on his earlier answer to the woman.

he looks to you. "it's true."

you lean up to kiss him again, hands tenderly holding his shoulders.

"i know. you're so sweet to me… can i wear your medal for a sec?" you eye the big circle of gold.

kageyama can only roll his eyes at your quick shift, though he still ends up taking the medal off and over his head, placing it on you like you've just created all of the stars in the sky.

—————

"tobio, what flavor should we get? i'm stuck between strawberry shortcake and fudge brownie." you stare through the glass case at the grocery store, pondering about the endless assortment of ice cream.

in the reflection, you can see your boyfriend aimlessly looking around the aisle, before his eyes catch onto your figure. you catch his lips turn up so subtly that you'd have never noticed it if he wasn't the love of your life.

he ponders your statement for a second, before coming up next to you and opening the case, grabbing both of the cartons you listed. you look up at him, confused.

"why not both?" he turns back to you, small smile still present.

you smile brightly at him, entranced. he's so perfect.

"i love you, tobio."

"i love you, (y/n)."

you let yourself fall into his side (the arm where he's not holding the ice cream, of course), wrapping your arm around his back as he does the same to you.

on your way to the self-checkout, you snatch one of the magazines on the edge of an aisle, plastered with a photo of you and tobio after his medal was awarded. you skim the bubble in the bottom right corner, one questioning any talk of marriage between the two of you.

you jokingly point to the bubble, showing it to your boyfriend.

"what do you have to say to this, hm?"

tobio eyes it, quickly reading before he smiles at you and kisses your head. he turns away to pay for the ice cream, ignoring your question.

"hey!"

"patience…"

[itsabouttimex2]

Tbh, I honestly really like the fact that MK's age is unspecified, because like you said in one of your posts, it can the individual viewer identify with him better. I personally like it because I think it's very fan-creation friendly, as in you can make him whatever age you want within a reasonable range and not have to make it an AU or future/past fic. Especially good for the Canon compliant folks!

(To start my silly little rant- obv this is not for people who genuinely can’t see MK as anything but an adult- that’s valid!! Just for people who try to invalidate the headcanons of others. If you see MK as a 100% 18+ and have no way to change your own mind, that’s fine! There’s a big difference between “I won’t ever stop feeling this way” and “No one else is allowed to have their own opinions/headcanons outside of mine.”)

Yes absolutely this is exactly my point! LEGO is honest to god a company built around creativity! The literal intent of LEGO is to provide a fun and stakes-free scenario to exercise creativity for anybody of any age and Lego Monkie Kid sincerely and honestly reflects that with its incredible handling of MK’s age, by leaving it intentionally ambiguous and throwing hints in every which direction to obfuscate any “true” answer.

If you want him to be a kid or a teen or a young adult or hell, even a man in his thirties or whatever, you absolutely can! It’s a wonderful scenario where the age ambiguity is believable and fits into the core theme of what LEGO is fundamentally about- generation spanning creativity.

I like Teen!MK and I like Adult!MK, and I’m willing to die on that hill! I like writing him as a as a kiddo, as a teen, and as a grown man! One of the reasons I made the “Let’s Start Over” AU is because I wanted to write more “unambiguous adult” MK!

Like, I love using real world stuff to inspire headcanons. For example: some species of monkeys (including macaques, like Bonnet Macaques) have cheek pouches! Because of this, I like to think that the FFM Mountain Monkeys, as well as SWK and SEM all have cheek pouches they can use!

And though I know it’s not canon, I can’t help but hope that we’ll see a monkey using their pouch in the show!

But when fans take one of these real world things (in this case, a law) and have, at large, decided… to throw their asses down and spread misinformation in order to further their headcanons as “true” it’s just… weird, I guess?

LEGO is meant for EVERYONE. From kids with poor motor skills barely capable of clicking pieces together to adults with hundreds of dollars to drop on sets, LEGO is a company built on and for creativity.

So when I see people say things like “MK HAS to be an adult! He can drive! He works a full-time job! You can’t think of him as a teen!”

If you watch a show made from a franchise built on imagination and creativity and boundless potential with an specific emphasis on unique artistic style and decided “I arbitrarily cannot suspend my disbelief about a fictional character’s age enough to allow other people to have their harmless headcanons” then…

Well, how?

How can you turn your brain off for mystic monkeys and dragon girls and demon swine chefs? How can you turn your brain off for gods and celestial emperors and spider people with transformative venom? How can you keep mum on ALL of that and then swivel sharply into “actually the story doesn’t make sense if one or two characters are under eighteen but don’t go to school. The magic was fine but that’s too much for me. I can tolerate the demon monkeys but not underage driving or truancy.”

I just… I don’t get it??? At all???

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hey, same anon that talked about the school magic barrier. So you think the magical barrier sucks? Because in the comments someone mentioned that, for example, Chenya broke in multiple times

[Referencing this post!]

I wouldn’t say so? The students talk about the magical barrier as though it is strong and reliable (here’s an example from the beginning of book 6; Vil is surprised that there has been a breach):

It wouldn’t make sense for the barrier to be weak or sucky when NRC is such a prestigious school that houses many important people. (Why bother erecting a barrier at all if it can’t protect the people it’s supposed to??) I think there must be some alternate explanation, either with Chenya or with how the barrier operates 🤔 (since we don’t have a lot of canon on either).

For the Chenya thing, it could really be a case of us not fully understanding his UM or his strength. Maybe he just knows a weak spot in the barrier he uses to sneak in (he isn’t exactly a stranger to this kind of thing; he also took advantage of Mrs. Rosehearts’ blind spot and snuck Riddle out of his lessons). If we want to run with the “Crowley is orchestrating everything” theory, then those hypothetical weak spots could be intentionally created by him to let Chenya in to trigger Riddle’s OB? Or Maybe Chenya is way more powerful of a mage than we think he is. It could also be that his UM works in such a way that it allows him to bypass barriers. (Like, if his UM makes him intangible and the barrier somehow doesn’t keep out intangible things.) We don’t have anything to prove that’s how his UM works, but we also don’t have anything to disprove it. This could also be the case for the ghosts that show up at NRC for Ghost Marriage, who also lack physical bodies and could breach the barrier just fine.

I saw a comment on the original post suggesting that the barrier was ineffective because it couldn’t even keep out trespassers on Halloween. I think the barrier works slightly differently in that case?? Like, if there are already people allowed in (for the Halloween festivities on-campus) the barrier isn’t capable of booting them out—ie a door can keep a wild animal out, but once the wild animal is already inside your home, the door is useless at protecting you. It’s also possible that whoever regulates the barrier magic (probably Crowley?) didn’t bother to recast the barrier after lowering it for Halloween guests because “it’s too much trouble” and the activities will be lasting a few days anyway; they might be waiting until post-Halloween to slap up the barrier again. (I’d imagine this takes a lot of effort, and they’d probably be worn out just from overseeing the Halloween events anyway.) This may also be the case for the Tsums, who drop out of a hole over the sky of Ramshackle. The portal is immediately bypassing the barrier and opening up overhead, inside of the barrier already.

… Ooooor it could just be as simple as “the lore is inconsistent, please suspend your disbelief for these details” since some of these stories would not play out at all if the barrier actually worked as intended all the time. We wouldn’t have Ghost Marriage, Chenya visiting, the Tsums (which Crowley confirms were able to bypass the barrier despite him reinforcing it) or Halloween shenanigans if the barrier didn’t conveniently not work 😂 You could call the magical barrier a plot device, honestly.

[thesoftboiledegg]

"Mort: Ragnarick" was pure fun, but a different kind of fun than "Rickfending Your Mort" and "Rise of the Numbericons: The Movie."

"Rickfending Your Mort" was a laid-back clip show that gave the viewer a break after the insanity of "Unmortricken"--a smart decision but not one with a lot of substance. "Rise of the Numbericons: The Movie" has been controversial. I thought it was entertaining, but it would've worked better as a YouTube short.

If "Unmortricken" represented lore episodes at their best, "Mort: Ragnarick" was the best of classic Rick and Morty adventures: a wildly imaginative plot, goofy satire, fantasy science and Rick and Morty working together as a duo, reminding us how much they need each other.

Rick's the driving force behind these adventures, but without Morty, he's just a miserable old man trying to distract himself. Morty's the heart and voice of reason. He also gives Rick something to live for. Without him, Beth, Jerry or Summer, why do anything?

Rick pretends to live for science, but "science" just caused decades of grief and isolation. His family isn't a concept; it's an entity that loves him back.

Bigfoot, an evil pope, Pokeballs, Valhalla, clone bodies, infinite energy sources, zombie Summer, Rick screaming "PO-O-O-O-OPE!": only Rick and Morty could combine all those concepts into one cohesive episode. I never thought "Wow, that took me out of the story." The Pokeball came close, but the end credits scene tied it all together.

Jerry's scene was a standout, too. Chris Parnell's reading of "Nana!" was genuinely sweet. It seems like Jerry's becoming a (mostly) willing participant in Rick's schemes instead of a helpless guinea pig. Is Rick learning that releasing his iron grip on his family makes them more attached to him, not less?

I also loved it when the Vikings called Rick a witch. He loves crystals, plays with magic, has two crows as familiars: damn right, he is!

You have to suspend your disbelief a couple of times, mainly when Bigfoot attacks Rick in the kitchen (he crushed Rick earlier like it was nothing, but now Rick walks away with a few scratches?) Still, the little character moments overshadow these flaws.

Judging by old posts that I've seen floating around, I think Rick and Morty's relationship is finally becoming what fans wanted it to be in seasons 1-3. Rick's still mean, but he's less dominant and more of Morty's mischievous co-conspirator. An alien mobster freaking out in "The Jerrick Trap" because of Rick's "touch my grandson and die" policy is straight out of fanon.

Rick's more physically gentle, and Morty responds in kind. He grabs and supports him when Bigfoot attacks him at home and touches his arm during their weird, overdramatic Bigfoot send-off. His pained cry of "Rick!" when Bigfoot nearly crushes him is heart-wrenching. Operation Phoenix is back online, but Morty's tired of watching him die!

Season five is when Rick started showing emotions on his face besides that cold, pissed-off glare--we all know the one--and in season seven, it's accelerated to Rick crying in front of others. He matches Morty's feelings instead of pretending that he's above human emotions.

Needless to say, dudebros have been flooding Adult Swim's Instagram comments and Twitter replies with "Rick and Morty is shit now!" "Rick's too nice!" "Rick and Morty has gone woke!" Justin Roiland's firing gave them more fuel, but they started even while he was still on the payroll.

Their favorite line is "Rick isn't Rick anymore!" And they're right. Rick's not the asshole from seasons 1-2 who had a couple of redeeming qualities. He's not the monster that he was in season three and parts of season four. He's not the defeated man in season five who started to realize that he's hurting people but still wanted Morty to look after him like a child.

Season six is when he started to grow up--not a lot, but enough that he began taking on adult responsibilities instead of thinking he's a teenage boy who sees another teenager as his peer. I wish we saw more therapy appointments, but while they're mostly off-screen, we're definitely seeing the effects.

This doesn't make Rick a great person or atone for what he's done. Some of his crimes are beyond atonement, and not just the obvious ones like blowing up planets. This is a universe where everyone has a body count and events that should've destroyed Earth have no effect on civilization. Death and destruction don't mean that much.

His worst crimes are the personal ones: destroying Morty's psyche in "The Vat of Acid Episode," treating his family like garbage for most of season three. You can't atone for that. You can't apologize for that.

However, I don't only judge characters by their past. I judge them by their capacity to change.

Walter White is a brilliant character, but he's not a personal favorite because his arc is a slow descent into hell. Rick's slowly climbing out of his crater, and while it doesn't erase the past, it's still happening. For me, that's more satisfying than watching a monster become a bigger monster.

Of course, he's still not above cosplaying as Odin while wearing a golden crown that literally says "GOD." But the former "no girls allowed" alpha male has become a dedicated therapy patient who's also a thirst object that would make bros cry about double standards. Sure, Rick, you're a god, now put on that weird half-shirt and prance around a little.

[comicgeekery]

Sherlock and Shoscombe

So, after the deep dive I did with Sherlock & Co and the issues with the Case of Identity storyline, I thought it was only fair that I talk about their take on The Adventure at Shoscombe Old Place.

*Ahem*.....This was a lot of fun! I just looked up a summary of the original story because I didn't remember it well, and no wonder! It was the very last Sherlock Holmes story Doyle published, later collected into The Casebook, and thus...one of the boring ones. I'm sorry. I really don't like The Casebook stories. It's also the last batch of stories that the Doyle estate was clutching onto before Sherlock went fully into the public domain, which makes the story feel doubly tedious to me.

But! These episodes were a blast! Practically a survey of all the best parts of Sherlock & Co! There's fun banter! Heaps of character background! A really clever update to the original set-up! BRILLIANT acting and foley work! A cheeky cameo! And a truly exciting, satisfying end! I think this is the most direct information we've gotten about John's past since, well ever, but certainly since we learned about his memories of his dad. Now we know that he grew up in a very class-divided town that once felt so much bigger. And he was deeply in love once, with a woman he lost partially because of classism. (Which is such a great mirror for Beatrice and her husband's situation!) He also lost his friends because they had privileges he didn't. (Did John join the military partly as a way to get away from his roots? Out of a desperate need to be praised as a hero?)

No wonder John has so much resentment for the wealthy when it's so deeply personal. I think it's going to be comically awkward and VERY interesting when he finds out that Sherlock is mega super rich. Holmes is often theorized to be the son of a lord in canon. I figure he's at least from a wealthy family that was able to pay for him to go to tons of fancy schools. And then personal tutors. And a full-time staff that always took care of cleaning and stocking up the groceries. (For all his observation skills, I do think Sherlock grew up never considering who made his household run.) I think part of why Sherlock has been so touchy about John's anger at rich people is because Sherlock is SUPER nervous it would ruin their friendship. I am also so pumped to see what the podcast does with Mycroft! I wonder if his autism might be more limiting than Sherlock's. Like he's got the genius skills, he's got the deceptively powerful government job, but he can't handle going out into the world. Going to Baker Street would be an ordeal. Might have a full meltdown if he's not at home, work, or whatever the Diogenes Club is updated to. But.....It's hard to tell how much Sherlock & Co wants us to suspend our disbelief about some things. John and Sherlock have very clearly committed a LOT of crimes on their publicly available podcast. Maybe that will never be addressed or MAYBE Sherlock, Mycroft, or other Holmes allies have been bribing and intervening to keep them from getting arrested. Imagine the drama! "You hate the rich, but you owe all your success to MY money and power, 'Dr.' John Watson!" *Blinks rapidly*

Where was I? Oh yeah, Shoscombe. That. God. Damn. Chase. Scene! So bold for a podcast to have a climax with a car chase at the center. The foley work was top-notch for the driving and the terrain and then the crash and sinking in the lake. Whoever plays John Watson, you did an incredible job! The reckless car chase where, OF COURSE, he still narrates everything, the diving for Robert (and the clever layer of the recorder fritzing), and that CPR! It was all so engaging and believable! I love when John does doctor stuff generally, but this was my favorite example since the gunshot wound at the wedding with The Solitary Cyclist. Not sure I buy Robert's at-home crematorium as being 100% good, but I can believe John thinks so. Might help that John's a bit more desensitized to cutting into corpses than most folks. Finally, I'm sure folks are quite excited that a certain James made a cameo. (Maybe he's interested in why Sherlock and John keep getting away with all their crimes.) I knew he was going to show up at some point, and making Moriarty a listener shout-out is delightful. I just hope it's a while longer before he's ON the show. It always frustrates me when Moriarty winds up becoming basically Lex Luthor. Then again, we've already had similar cameos for Irene Adler and Baskerville Hall (and probably some I've missed) without them showing up yet. We'll see how it goes!

Good job, Sherlock & Co! I'm excited to see what you do next!

[gavisuntiedboot]

Just Pretend (Gavi x reader)

Part 6

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Epilogue

Warnings: Some subtle smut!! Dubious consent!!! Please don't read if you're uncomfortable with unclear consent. Crying during intimacy. Profanity!! Swearing!! Ferran and Martin!!!!!!!!!! ESP MARTIN!!! I'm sorry

Word Count: 11.0K

A/N: please be nice about this one. Is it fantastic? I personally don't think so. But the story needs to progress somehow. God I want to be asleep.

Also, I just want to say that I have taken some, ehem, artistic liberties with time and space in this story. Did you guys know that Real Sociedad is like 5 hours from Barcelona? I didn't. So I don't want to hear any "This is unrealistic because-" shhhh. I know there was a WC this year - I'm pretending there wasn't. I know the Ballon D'or ceremony is in October - surprise, now it's at the end of July. I know it doesn't make any sense for Martin to live next to Gavi because his club is based on the other side of Spain, but for this story, they're neighbors because I said so. Just live in imagination now and suspend your disbelief. Please and thank you <3

"You should start sleeping here."

You looked over your shoulder in confusion, still in the process of tying your shoes.

"What?"

You had never expected Martin to proposition you like this. For the first couple months of you relationship, he had been distant, kind of aloof, just happy to be there, but never exerting much effort into you. The relationship was, for lack of better terms, convenient. But something in him changed when you told him that you had been taking Gavi home. Suddenly, he was ready to become a doting boyfriend. He offered to drive you to work, to bring you lunch, to pick you up from games. If you declined these offers, then he was messaging you, sending you pictures, and he always, without fail, called you on your drive home. You had on multiple times asked him to stop this embarrassing behavior, but it had fallen on deaf ears. He would call you to tell you how much he missed you, how much he wanted to hold you, begging you to come over, all while Gavi squirmed uncomfortably in the passenger seat. Whenever you dropped Gavi off, you would get suggestive text messages, detailing all the things Martin wanted to do to you. Whenever you replied that you weren't in the mood, that you would rather just cuddle and go to bed, you always got the same response:

[Martin]: maybe u should just go home then. come over when ur not tired.

You had now driven Gavi home for 15 days, and Martin was getting stranger and stranger with each passing day. And now, he had gone from seeing you maybe once a week to wanting you to spend the night? You knew jealousy when you saw it, and it was getting on your nerves.

"You drive little Gavi home every day, and then you have to go all the way back to your place. I care about you so much, and I don't want you driving that late at night. So when you leave late, like on match days, you should just spend the night here."

You stood up, moving to grab your coat. You liked Martin, you liked spending time with him, but the idea of spending the night at his place weekly made your stomach uneasy, and you were hit with a wave of nausea.

"I don't know Martin. It's a really sweet offer, but I have a lot of things at my house. It would be a hassle to store scrubs and toiletries and makeup here, and-"

He held his hands up in an 'I surrender' motion, cutting you off.

"Listen, Barca has a game at home this week, don't they? Spend the night here after - try it out. If you don't like it, you can stop." He said, looking at you expectantly. A knot formed in your throat. You wanted to protest, but didn't know how. Martin liked you and put up with you. He was nice to you and was now offering to take your relationship to the next level. So how could you tell him that the idea made you want to throw up?

"Um, yeah, sure. I can do that. I... I need to go now. I'll see you in a few days?"

"Drive safe, baby. I'll text you when I get back from Madrid." He stood from his seat, walking over to you and pulling you into him, placing a deep kiss onto your lips. You returned the sentiment, trying as much as possible to rekindle the spark you felt for Martin when you first met. It was now a dying ember, but one you were desperately trying to keep alive. As weird as he made you feel at times, anything was better than the days when you were alone, sleeping in a cold bed with only the company of the TV and your house plants.

You closed Martin's front door, walking to your car quickly to avoid the bitter winter chill. As soon as you shut the driver door, you pulled up your contacts, looking for Angelika. If you were honest, Martin's overbearing nature had been causing you extreme bouts of anxiety, preventing you from sleeping, causing you to bite your nails bloody whenever the thought of him saying the L word ever crossed your mind. Would you say it back?

You called Angelika, the dial tone ringing throughout your car as you started to drive. After about 4 rings, the line connected.

"Hey, what's up?" She asked, rushed and out of breath, a hint of irritation in her tone.

"Nothing much," you replied, thrown off by the harsh answer. "Are you okay? You sound annoyed."

"I am annoyed. Our model casting director is so fucking incompetent that he thought he could book models for fucking fashion week the week before. So now, all the girls we usually work with and have the measurements for are booked. Taken by Balenciaga and fucking Paco Rabbane."

"I didn't know Balenciaga still showed at Barcelona fashion week." You replied, deciding to park your car on a side street. You slumped back in your seat.

"They don't. Our equally as incompetent head designer failed to mention we had been invited to show in Paris. So now we have no models, no measurements, and we are showing at Paris Fashion Week. I've been sleeping on the couch in the studio all week remaking and altering garments."

"But it's only November. You don't show in Paris until the end of February."

"You think any of the idiots that work above me are going to work from December 15th until January 15th? I need to get everything approved to be part of the collection before they go on vacation or I'm fucked."

"I'm so sorry Ang," you said softly, frowning slightly at your phone. You resonated with her pain - it was soul-crushing to put your best efforts forward and have it hindered by others more powerful than you. You knew how hard she had worked, and how much of a dream PFW had been - now it was becoming a borderline nightmare.

"It's fine, I'll get through it. Did you call for something? Or just a check-in?" She asked, her voice muffled slightly by the whir of the sewing machine. You brought your nails back to your lips, biting down on the surrounding skin.

"Just checking in," you lied, swallowing back your own frustrations, "I hadn't heard from you in a while, so I wanted to make sure you're okay. We should catch up when everything cools down, yeah?" You spoke softly, scared that if you raised your voice any higher you would cry. You felt like you were drowning, overwhelmed by everything going on in your life, crushed by the thousand feelings going on at once, but that was your burden - not Angelika's. You would deal with it by yourself like you usually did.

You exchanged goodbyes with your friend, hanging up the line and then slamming your head into the steering wheel, not caring about the potential bruise that could be forming as a result. The tears were flowing freely now. Your breath was ragged, coming out in short sobs and hiccups as you let out your frustration. The more you thought about the last two weeks, the more it felt like your throat was closing up. Your vision was completely blurry, your knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Your memories went back to that God forsaken meeting. The one that followed the last home game at Camp Nou, after Ferran had proclaimed rather loudly that you were creating an uncomfortable situation in the locker room. You had arrived at work at 7:15 that day, unable to sleep the night before, spending over an hour in the shower trying to was Martin's grabby touch off your skin, and staring at the ceiling in fear of your reprimanding. You had looked perfect - hair pulled back, uniform scrubs and shoes immaculately clean. You were expecting to be called into Dr. Gonzalez's office some time around 10am, after the players had already began morning training. Rather, you received a sharp knock on your office door at 7:45. Dr. Gonzalez stood there, stoic as usual, and uttered the most terrifying sentence you had heard in recent memory.

"Mister Xavi wants to see you in his office."

You walked behind him like your legs were made of lead. Several of the players greeted you as they passed, but you returned none of it. Your head was swimming in fear - how bad was it that you needed to be in Xavi's office before morning training. As you knocked on the office door, your mouth had gone dry, and you were shaking like a leaf.

"Enter."

Gavi watched your face pale as you entered the room escorted by Dr. G, and he felt a pit form at the base of his stomach. He knew it wasn't necessarily a positive thing for Ferran to have complained about you, but he never thought that the repercussions would be this severe. A meeting in Xavi's office before morning training often meant a firing. He was frozen in place, unmoving long after the office door had shut, the shove from Pedri being the only thing to make his feet move forward.

You and Dr. Gonzalez were instructed to sit in front of Xavi, one of the assistant coaches leaning on the wall behind him. The crossed hands and deep silence sent a chill through you that you couldn't shake from your bones. You had never been in a position like this before: you were the good kid. The kid who never went to speak to the principal unless it was to receive an award. You had been the perfect teacher's pet, who got along with every authority figure you ever encountered. But now, the face of deep disappointment staring at you was one that you had never encountered before.

"Ms. L/N, I believe you understand why you are in here, but I will explain it plainly. I heard that yesterday before the game, there was a situation in which you were escorted from the locker room because o the complaints of a player. I have spoken with this player, and he has informed me that this is not the first time you have made him uncomfortable. In fact, he attributes his worsening performance to discomfort that you have caused."

Your face was pale. You were holding back tears and vomit. You tried to slow your breathing and heart rate, because the last thing you needed was to have an anxiety attack.

"Obviously, this is not a good look. You are a new hire, and we cannot have the auxiliary staff impacting the players. The assistance coaches, Dr. Gonzalez and I all had an extensive conversation about terminating your program contract."

Your heart beat was in your ears, the bile rising in your throat, suffocating you slowly. This was your dream job, in your hands, and it was quickly slipping through your finger tips because one of the players couldn't stand you refusing to sleep with him. The tears were flowing at this point - it was beyond your control. Everything you had every worked for was disappearing before your very eyes.

"However, Dr. Gonzalez and assistant coach Marco here advised me against it. They instructed me to speak to several players, all who had nothing but glowing praise to say about you. Balde said that he would refuse to play if anything were to happen to your job. So, we have decided to keep you here with us. However, we wanted to take this as an opportunity to remind you: players are the priority. You'll be out of the locker room until further notice. If we get any further complaints about you calling issues, we'll have to consider other people. And your pre-work sessions with Gavi? Those will have to stop. Favoritism doesn't contribute to a positive work environment."

You nodded, tears burning your skin as you tried to maintain some semblance of composure in front of the man keeping your job safe. Dr. Gonzalez stood to leave, and you followed him silently. Xavi called to you before you left his office.

"It's your good work that kept you here. But it won't be enough to keep you here."

You slammed your head against the steering wheel again. What else could you do besides be a had worker? The fact that you could no longer meet with Gavi early in the morning also burned a hole in your very being. Though it would never be admitted out loud, it was the only time you felt like you were genuinely needed. A throbbing pain radiated around your head, blurring your vision further and making it even more difficult to see. Your sobs were loud and desperate, the only way air was entering your lungs.

A sudden knock on your window startled you, causing you to turn in fear towards your left. Through teas, you stared at the figure of a man knocking on the window, saying something to you, but the sound was drowned out.

"Get away from me! Leave me alone! Help!"

You screamed at the top of your lungs. You were fully panicked, as the door began to open, you screamed even louder, kicking at the door and the person on the other side.

"What the fuck, Doctora! Stop screaming and stop kicking me!"

The familiar voice made you stop your movements. The blur from your eyes was rubbed away, and Gavi stood before you, a trash bag in one hand and his phone in the other, speaking inaudibly. The sight of a person had never brought you this much intense relief. Instantly, you were more calm, breathing slowing enough for you to hear what he was saying.

"-not safe out here at this time. Are you even listening to me?"

The glow of street lamp light made Gavi look like an angel. His brown locks were shrouded in a golden haze, light eyes piercing into you. Jaw hanging slack, you just stared back at him, face still burning from the salt water on your cheeks. You bit your lip, staring up with still watery eyes, body shivering from all the energy exerted. The fatigue was settling deep in your bones, and you were sure that you looked like a frightened child. Gavi instructed you to stay put, running to throw his trash away before returning to you.

"Doctora, you should come inside."

It wasn't a question. Gavi was leaning over you, turning off your car and taking the keys. A hand reached out before you, gently and waiting for you to accept the invitation and follow him inwards. You looked up at him, the look of concern foreign on his face. Gavi had never seemed this seriously worried or scared before. You gathered your strength, placing your delicate hand in Pablo's. He gripped you firmly, tugging gently to escort you out of the car. Once it was locked, he turned to you again. There was a tension between the two of you that no one could pinpoint. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, so loud you were sure Gavi could feel the thrum through the skin of your palm. Maybe you should have stayed at Martin's. But something in you whispered that you were so, so happy to be standing here with Gavi.

Moving on their own accord, you pulled your hand away, and your arms wrapped around Gavi, embracing him tightly. The boy tensed, not expecting the sudden display of affection. He stood there for a moment as you clung to him, arms shaking, breath slowing down as he held you. As you calmed, Gavi's heart rate increased steadily. As your friendship continued to grow, the two of you had become more comfortable with things such as fist bumps. But this was entirely new. He brought his arms up and pulled you into him, biceps enveloping you, and chest providing you comfort. As your head rested against the soft fabric of his sweatshirt, you took a deep breath, smelling in the scent of Gavi, showered and faintly fragranced after practice.

You had scared Pablo half to death. All he wanted to do was sit and relax. He had seen you before you went into Xavi's office, face looking like you had seen a ghost. He had worried about you all practice. Normally you were glowing: smiling at everyone in the early morning as you sipped your coffee and finished the notes. Sometimes you even danced through Camp Nou, playlist keeping yo hyped despite the early hours. But recently, it felt like Pablo was watching you wither away. You smiled less, you came in with darker circles, and you looked like you were consistently on the verge of tears. He wanted to blame Martin, but he knew that working with the team played a big part of it.

After Ferran's complaint, he had run to the assistant coaches, trying to figure out what the repercussions could be. He was frazzled in practice, wondering if he and the boys had done enough to prevent you losing your position. Gavi became more aggressive. He starting losing his footing more, slipping and falling more frequently, and pushing the boundaries with his teammates. So what if he broke Ferran's kneecap? It's not like he would be debilitating a phenomenal contributor to the team. Lewy spoke to him multiple times, telling him to take it easy, because the aggression did nothing but make him look bad. Pedri told him that hurting Ferran would not erase his complaint against you. But it didn't matter. Gavi still pushed.

This was the first time he had seen you since you walked into Xavi's office. You had sent him a text telling him to find other arrangements for getting home for the next couple of days. This led to some embarrassing shots of him leaving Camp Nou in a taxi, and Pedri took pity on him, driving him home the following day. All his check-up texts had gotten curt responses, and he felt an ache in his chest that he didn't understand. Ever since his little self-love session, he had slowly but surely come to the realization that he wanted to be more than just friends with you. He had tried to keep this information to himself. Gavi knew what his friends would say: he was just being horny and 18, falling for the first girl that had given him a little attention. But he knew that wasn't the case.

Gavi had been around girls. Growing up, his sister's friends talked to him like a little pet. They let him hang around, allowing him to get closer to a lot of the prettiest girls in the town. The older he got, the easier it was to get girls. I'm in La Masia, I'm on the Barca B team, I play with Pedri. Now it was easier than ever. Models, actresses, singers, and other pretty girls threw themselves at his feet, in person and through DMs. There were hundreds of women willing to give him attention. But you? Oh. You were someone he wanted to chase. Someone who made him excited to wake up in the morning, someone that made electricity dance across his skin every time you touched him. You were ambitious and confident and determined. He didn't just like you. He respected you. He desired you. He craved you.

It had been no easy thing confessing this to Pedri. Gavi looked at his loosened laces the entire time, avoiding Pedri's smirk. He had known for literal months that Pablo wanted you. It was obvious to anyone who had seen the two of you interact. He told Pablo as much, making the younger boy blush and cross his arms over his chest. After the teasing had died down, the serious talk began.

"You can't do anything until she doesn't have a boyfriend anymore."

Gavi had texted you that night about meeting him for an early morning session, inventing a new slew of muscle discomforts.

[Doctora]: Can't do before work meetings anymore. Xavi's orders. Come in at 8am exactly if you're in pain.

To say he was crushed was an understatement. Over the past two weeks that you had been driving him, he had gotten closer to you. He learned about your favorite things to cook, about your relationship with your parents, and about what high school was like for you. He has learned that you frequently stopped at the drive-thru to get a post-practice hot tea and a muffin. He found out that you had given up drinking for good. Over two weeks he had watched the string connecting the two of you grow brighter. Now it was being snipped before his very eyes. It felt like he was losing you.

"Let me know if our little nurse likes fucking in the front or back seat more, Pablito. So I know whether to pick her up from Martin's in the two-seater or the SUV. He said he'd be willing to share with me when she finally gives it up. He'd probably let you get a slice of that ass as well."

Ferran couldn't react before he was slammed up against the locker. The sound reverberated around the room, alerting the two or three other boys who were also slow to change after training. Gavi's forearm was pressed into Ferran's throat, making the older boy go pink in the face and claw at his arm for air.

"If you say one more nasty thing about her, as God is my witness, I will dislocate both of your hips from their sockets regardless of who is watching. I will kick you in the teeth so fucking hard your grandchildren will need extensive dental work. Now shut the fuck up, get changed, and go home and jerk off to your own Instagram selfies."

Now he was standing under the street lamp beside his house holding you in his arms. The string was stronger and brighter than ever, wrapped around the two of you. Seeing you slam your head against the steering wheel concerned him, and having you kick and scream at him made you think you were at the end of your rope, terrifying him. Now he brought you closer to his heart, clutching your shaking frame, breathing in your shampoo and the relief that you were okay. He didn't know if he was capable of letting you go. He swallowed the large knot forming in his throat.

"Did... did you come here to see me?"

You looked up at Gavi, arms still around him, albeit shaking.

"I..." You weren't sure what to say. "I just left Martin's house. I was feeling overwhelmed and I just ... started driving. Guess it was muscle memory that brought me here."

You watched an unknown emotion fill Gavi's eyes. Was he annoyed that you came to his street? The closeness of your bodies registered in your brain, and you took a step back, looking awkwardly at your feet. No matter how comfortable he made you feel, there was a line you shouldn't cross. Not only were you two coworkers, but you had a boyfriend who you knew would not be happy if he ever found out about this "under the street light" 40's movie embrace.

"I should probably go home. Um, sorry to bother you."

"No wait-" Gavi said, grasping your arm once more. He stopped you in your tracks, keeping a firm hold on you. He couldn't let you leave. Not now. Not while you were like this.

"You're obviously distressed. I don't want you to drive home right now."

You shook your head, but made no effort to remove his hand from you.

"No no, I'm fine. I should really-"

Gavi shook his head viscously.

"No I'm serious. You were having a panic attack in your car. At least... At least come inside and eat something. Maybe have some tea? Anything. I just... want to make sure that you're okay before you leave me."

With wide eyes, you looked up at Gavi after this statement. His cheeks burned, realizing he had slipped up.

"Leave my house. Just come inside."

His hand traveled from your bicep to your hand, holding it and tugging you behind him towards the house. You followed him silently, allowing yourself to be pulled into Gavi's orbit. The dim lighting of the house and the sounds from the TV made you feel more at peace. Despite it being a bachelor pad, you felt like you were walking into a home.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything." You said softly as you moved to slip off your shoes, stopping mid way. Gavi turned around, raining an eyebrow at you bent over in contemplation as he kicked off his Nikes. Your eyes widened in awe.

"You take your shoes off inside?"

"Yeah? Why wouldn't I?"

"Martin told me I was weird for taking off my shoes indoors. He said it's not a thing in Spain."

Gavi barked out a dry laugh, walking to his kitchen and switching on the lights.

"So it's a Spanish thing to track mud and dirt into the house? Take off your shoes, Doctora. Make yourself at home."

You smiled to yourself, brushing your hair behind your ear and unlacing your shoes. You watch Gavi pick up a shaker bottle, hopping onto the counter and and taking a sip. It was your turned to be confused.

"A protein shake? At this hour?"

"Yeah. It's my dinner. Want one?"

"Pablo!" The disbelief was evident on your face and in your voice. You had been working with the nutritionists recently to revise the daily calorie intake for all the players. Gavi needed about 4000 a day. There was no way he was drinking all of them in shakes.

"You need to have a proper dinner! No wonder you're always blowing your muscles out. Where is the dietary fiber? Where are the fats? Do you even have food in the fridge?"

He takes another swig of his protein shake, hopping off the counter. You open the fridge, scanning the shelves. He stands behind you, His chest mere inches from your back.

"Yeah, someone drops groceries off every couple of weeks, but I'm a shit cook. But if you want something for dinner, I can try. Wouldn't want you to go hungry."

You turn to face gave, your faces close enough to feel each others' breath. It was ironic that at this time, a thought crossed your mind: Martin, despite bragging about his cooking skills extensively, had never even fried you an egg.

"I'm a pretty good cook. Want to eat something other than protein powder this evening?"

Gavi looked into your eyes, noticing the redness that lingered from crying. He nodded his head slowly, then looked at your forehead. There was a red spot that had formed with a slight bump from where you hit the wheel. He brought one hand up, caressing the spot with his thumb. It sent a shock through your system. Why was Gavi's touch having such an effect on you?

You spent the next half and hour cooking, with Gavi sitting on the counter, making idle conversation. He loved watching the way you moved, the way that your eyes narrowed in concentration. When you were finished, you picked up both the plates and moved in front of the TV. He followed you like a puppy, watching as you sat on the couch with your feet beneath you. You rubbed your arms together, trying to create some sort of warmth. The exhaustion of working and cooking (with a breakdown in the middle) had set in, causing a chill to wash over you. As he moved to take a bite of the arroz con pollo that you had cooked up, he looked over at you, watching you shiver slightly.

Your eyes followed Gavi as he put the plate down, running to his bedroom, re-emerging with a black hoodie.

"Here, put this on. I don't want you freezing in my home."

You took the garment from him and looked at it. The material was soft in your hands, the smell of Gavi making its way to you. You slipped it over your head, feeling warmth instantly, both internally and externally. It wasn't much - just a hoodie. Any decent friend would have given you one in the cold. But it was more than that. It was that Gavi wanted you to be safe and fed and warm. It was that he was always looking over at you, noticing things without you asking. Maybe this was close friendship, something you were lacking at the present moment. But something felt different. None of your other friends made you feel this way. You never felt a longing to see them like you did with Gavi. You never felt a hold in your chest and an emptiness in your life when they weren't around. So what was it about Gavi.

The two of you ate in silence, watching the show that Gavi had playing on the TV. It was an old Spanish telenovela, something from the early 90s, where a girl from the farmlands moves to the city, and she is caught in a love triangle between her childhood friend and the CEO of a major company in the city.

"Is this show not a little... feminine for you?"

Gavi rolled his eyes at your teasing. "It's the only thing on when I'm home. It's so predictable that it doesn't matter if I miss an episode, because I already basically know the whole show plot."

"Oh really mister psychic? What's going to happen in the show then?"

You placed your plate on the coffee table, leaning back onto the couch, pulling Gavi's hoodie tighter around you. He grabbed a blanket from beside him, draping it over the two of you.

"She thinks that she's not good enough for Xavier, the CEO, so she's going to go back to farm boy Matthias and be with him. But she's going to realize that she's not happy with Matthias because he wants her to be this woman that she's not. So she's going to run from the farm back into Xavier's arms and kiss him, telling him that he accepts her for who she really is."

Your jaw dropped slightly, looking at Gavi in awe. You had never seen a teenage boy so invested in a TV romance. He looked over at you, suddenly shy under your gaze.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because... how do you know that's what's going to happen?"

"Besides the fact that this telenovela has been out for like 20 years and it's cliche as fuck? Because it's obvious. Matthias keeps making all these little comments and asking Dorinda to change all these things about herself. A relationship can never survive if they don't like you for you, ya know?"

You muttered out a slight 'mhm' before pulling the blanket higher up and turning back to the TV. Gavi sat back as well, and the two of you fell into a comfortable silence, you curled up in a ball, him with his arms draped over the back of the couch, distance just big enough between the two of you to be respectful. As you waited for the next episode to begin, Gavi shifted to look at you.

"So... are we going to talk about the breakdown you had in your car? Or we can pretend it never happened. That also works."

You looked at Gavi, who stared at you with genuine concern and sympathy. His features were soft, eyes scanning you with concern.

"I don't want to burden you with my woes, Pablo. I was just having a moment. I'll get over it eventually."

"You could never be a burden, doctora. Now that we're friends, we get to talk to each other about stuff besides my tight hamstrings. What's going on? You've been... different lately. Ever since your meeting with Xavi."

Gavi watched you bite your lip, fiddling with your fingers in your lap. You took a deep breath before recounting what occurred during the meeting. You watched Gavi grow more and more angry, the heat radiating from his body.

"I just..." The tightness in your chest was so overwhelming. You were done holding back everything you had been feeling. You look up at Gavi, eyes wide and desperate and watery.

"I have been told my whole life that I had to work hard and I would get what I wanted. Just study hard in school and do well in university and do your job well and you'll get everything you dreamed of. But it's not true. I worked my ass off in school and university, and still they only wanted me to intern with the women's teams. I kill myself at this job every day, balancing this with my schoolwork to get my license, and do I get any recognition? No. I get mocked and harassed. I get called a nurse. And my boyfriend..."

You trailed off, and Gavi waited for you to continue. He didn't want any of this to weigh on you any longer. With a sigh you kept going.

"My boyfriend is telling me I'm delusional for being upset. On the rare occasions that he lets me complain to him, he tells me it's my fault. My scrubs are too tight, so Ferran has every right to grab my ass."

"Wait, he's been touching you? I'm going to kill him."

Gavi made a move to get up, but you leaned over, crossing your arm across his chest and keeping him seated.

"You don't have to protect me Gavi. I can handle it."

"How? How can you handle it? One word from fucking Ferran almost got you fired! How are you supposed to get him to stop groping you. And more importantly, why is that your job? You have a man in your life who is supposed to protect you and make sure no harm comes to you. But your sorry sack of shit boyfriend is too busy sucking Ferran's microdick to take care of his girl." He said, face red as he leaned back on the couch with his arms crossed over his chest.

"It's okay, Pablo. I can take care of myself." A tear finally rolled down your cheek.

"I know you can, Doctora. I know you could take on the world if you wanted to. But you shouldn't have to. You deserve to be loved and spoiled. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

You couldn't say anything. No one had ever spoken to you the way Pablo did. No one - not your family, not your friends, not your boyfriend - had ever taken the time to remind you that you were worth of love. The warmth in your chest you had felt all night started spreading through your veins, making its way through your whole body. You felt safe. You didn't trust yourself to speak, so you got up from your seat on the couch and walked to Pablo, leaning over and hugging him. This time he reacted much quicker, welcoming the embrace, rubbing your back softly. You separated and sat next to him again, this time much closer. Close enough for him to pull you into his side if he wanted. His left arm erupted in goosebumps as he resisted the urge.

The silence remained comfortable as you two watched the telenovela, four or five inches all that separated Gavi from your touch. As the night dragged on, your eyelids felt heavier, and your blinks got longer as sleep overtook you. You didn't even feel it when you dozed off, your body slumping sideways. But Gavi felt it as you fell onto his shoulder, breathing deeply. He spoke your name quietly, gaging your consciousness. When you didn't respond, he made a move to look at you, but your soft groan made him sit back. You were asleep on his shoulder.

The weight on his shoulder felt like nothing as he watched you sleep. The TV light was illuminating your features, bathing you in a soft ethereal light. Your hair fell in front of your face, and he moved it gently out of your way to make sure you weren't bothered in your sleep. You snuggled deeper into him, and in doing so, resting your head by his neck. Gavi tried to breathe softly, his whole body tense as to not disturb your sleep.

He tried to convince himself all week that you were just hot. You were just good looking and he wanted you physically - nothing more. But he couldn't because when the thought of you, it was rarely in a sexual manner. He was always imagining situations like this: you cooking with him, cuddling with him on the couch while watching TV, taking naps with him. He was imagining the domestic bliss that all his teammates gushed about. He was imagining waking up to you in the morning and kissing the sleep from your eyes. He dreamed of brushing his teeth beside you as you both messed around before bed. He wanted to look by the stands and point to you, letting you and the whole world know that everything, all of it, it was all for you.

An hour later, when he was sure you were asleep, Gavi tried to shift you slightly. His shoulder began to ache, and he wanted you to get a decent night's sleep. He lifted your head gently, but you stirred in your sleep.

"Pablo... are you leaving?" You mutter, eyes still closed.

His heart felt like it could burst. You looked so small and innocent, so helpless, that Gavi wanted to pick you up in his arms and protect you from the entire world. He never wanted to let anything or anyone, not Ferran or Martin or even Xavi, come near you again.

"Of course not, doctora. I'll always be here for you."

You groaned again before laying down, this time draping yourself across Gavi's lap and cuddling into his thigh. Gavi surrendered, understanding that he would be sleeping on the couch with you on his lap, because in all honesty, it was the only place on Earth that he wanted to be. He set an alarm for 5:30am, and then laid back, one hand rubbing your back as he prepared to dream about you.

You woke to the sound of a phone alarm. The warmth all around you was inviting you to stay asleep, but you opened your eyes nonetheless, coming face to face with a pair of Barca shorts. You shot straight up, looking at Gavi, who was rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Good morning."

You opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water. You had fallen asleep in Gavi's house. In Gavi's clothes. On Gavi's lap.

"I have to go. I'll see you at work."

You grabbed your phone and keys and ran for the door, not even waiting for his response. You drove to your house, going to jump in the shower to reset before work. This had happened before. You had slept next to Martin, coming home the next day and scrubbing your skin off in the shower, wanting to rid yourself of the night before. But as you looked down to strip, you saw Gavi's black hoodie, which you had been too rushed to give back, and you didn't want to take it off. It felt like warmth and safety and something else that you couldn't name. But you removed the garment carefully, folding it on your bed, and treating your skin gently, like a thing to be preserved.

~~~

You wore Gavi's hoodie for the rest of the week. You put it on before you left the house, and left it in your car before walking into work. You put it on once again when you got back to the car. Gavi mocked you for it on the first day, teasing about how you couldn't live without him. You just looked away in embarrassment, unable to admit that, now that your morning sessions were gone, wearing his hoodie on your drives made you feel connected to him in a different way. It secretly made Gavi swell with pride. It scratched the possessive part of his brain, the one that wanted you to just be his. You always made sure to hide it before driving over to Martin's. You had been bickering more recently, and you didn't want to do anything else to set him off, because you knew he would never even attempt to understand that you wearing Gavi's clothes wasn't a romantic gesture.

It was match day at Camp Nou, which usually brought you excitement, but not today. No, today was the fated day that you would have to choose between your team and your boyfriend: It was Barca vs Real Sociedad day. You had been anxious since the previous evening, wondering how it would be for Martin and Gavi to be on the field together after their falling out many weeks ago. The nerves had shaken you so much that your (Gavi's) black player hoodie remained on. You ran around all morning, doing muscle and flexibility tests, and setting up your station on the side of the field. As the players lined up in the tunnel, you walked through, making sure that everyone was taken care of. You approached the front where Gavi stood, but before you could say anything to him, a voice called out to you.

"Baby! What're you doing in the tunnel? Shouldn't you be in a clinic somewhere?"

Despite him trying to put on a cute tone, you couldn't help but be offended by Martin's words. He was essentially calling you a nurse once again, this time in front of two major La Liga teams. The snickers were not lost to you. You turned around and smiled softly at Martin, greeting him. He tried to pull you in for a kiss, but you flinched away.

"Martin, not here, carino. I'm at work." You tried to leave, but he grabs your wrist, stopping you. His fingers dug into your wrist, causing pain to shoot through your arm. You turned to look at him, unable to tug your arm away.

"Not going to wish me good luck, sexy? Maybe after watching them practice you don't think I need it."

"He who talks shit first, eats shit first." Gavi's voice said behind you. You leaned into Martin, giving him a kiss on the cheek, and wishing him good luck. He pulls on your hoodie, which you had forgotten you were wearing until it's between his fingers.

"What's this? Isn't this for players? Why are you wearing this?" He asked, eyes dark with anger. He looked at the pocket and noticed the '6' embroidered into the fabric.

"Oh, they had a few made for the staff as well. I need to go and set up by the field." You scurried away from Martin, trying to avoid the stares of everyone around you. You needed to focus on doing your job, not on your relationship drama.

Despite your exit, drama was still bubbling in the tunnel. Martin and Ferran stood next to each other, talking rather loudly to Gavi's dismay. They recapped their boring and alcohol-fueled lives, and Gavi tried to tune them out, getting in the headspace for the game, until they mentioned you.

"You hit yet? Come on, hermano. She sleeps next to you all the time. What are you waiting for?"

"I'm trying. I think I'm going to seal it tonight - no matter what I have to do. She doesn't do booze anymore, so it's been harder than usual. If we win tonight, it's going to be the icing on the cake."

Gavi felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to face Pedri, who looked at him disapprovingly.

"Whatever you do, don't get a fucking red. We play Madrid soon."

The game began, and it was rough from the first whistle. Sociedad was playing extremely rough, getting 17 fouls in the first half alone. They were not being merciful in the slightest. Martin and Gavi were on each other on the front left wing, slamming into each other at every opportunity. You rushed on the field for a few head collisions, but otherwise, you spent the game on the sidelines. In the 78th minute, the score was 1-0 to Barca, and they were about to take a corner kick. Martin was on Gavi, with Ferran occupying close space in the box.

"Get out of the way Pablito, the big boys are playing." Martin taunted in his ear. Gavi shrugged off the comment, tracking the movements of Frenkie, who was about to take the kick. That was until he felt himself be shoved in the neck. He turned to Martin, who was staring at him smugly, before shoving him back. Hard. Sociedad and Barca players start to crowd around the two, who are up in each other's faces, inches away from blows. The teams are trying to hold their star players back.

"What the fuck is your problem, cabron? Can't score a fucking goal, so now you want to wrestle?"

Martin breaks free from his teammates, grabbing Gavi by the neck. Ferran watches the two, not interfering as the referee ran towards them, blowing his whistle like crazy. You watch from the sideline, biting your nails to the beds.

"I want you to fuck off and stop eye-fucking my girlfriend. She won't touch your baby dick, Pablito."

The ref is the one to pull Martin off Gavi's neck, presenting him with a red card and sending him off.

"I'm never going to hit you on the field Zubimendi. So you better avoid me when we're not on grass, because I'll knock your fucking teeth out."

Gavi turned to Ferran, who was still watching the interaction. "You've got no fucking loyalty, Torres. And it will bite you in the ass one day. Soon."

~~~

Your drive home with Martin was silent. You didn't know what to say to him. You were terrified to utter Gavi's name, because you knew it would open up the topic of the hoodie again, and you weren't ready to be yelled at. At the end of the game, you kissed Martin on the cheek. You looked past him and saw Gavi, celebrating with the rest of the boys with faint bruises on his neck. You wanted to run over and apologize, but you couldn't, because the man you should be caring about was dragging you off the field.

You unpack your things from your car as Martin walks into the house, not bothering to wait for you. He is eager to get in the shower and wash away the humiliating 3-0 loss he just suffered at the hands of his 'enemy' Gavi no less. You entered the house, staring at the cold, eggshell walls with posters of Martin hanging on them, and a chill ran down your spine. There was something hostile and uninviting about the house. You always wanted to run away, like it was haunted by the spirit of something pushing you out. You changed your clothes, sitting in bed and waiting for Martin to join you. Scrolling through Instagram, you liked all the victory posts on your feed, wanting to support your team, even if you were sleeping with the enemy.

[Gavi]: Hey

[Gavi]: I saw u leave w martin ... hope ur ok

[Gavi]: sorry about fighting on the field

You smiled as you opened the messages from Gavi. Despite their fight, he was still putting aside his hatred of the man to make sure you were okay. Before you could answer, the bathroom door opened, causing you to hastily lock your phone and throw it to the bedside table.

[Doctora]: Read - 11:07pm

Martin approached you in just his towel, still slightly damp. He opened the drawer next to you, pulling out a travel shot of Fireball and throwing it back quickly. He then got on the bed, moving to straddle you, trapping you under his body weight.

"Bonita... you know we've been dating for months now and you still haven't asked me to fuck you?" He said, voice low and sultry. You bit your lip, unsure how to respond. You looked up at him through long lashes.

"I have to ask for you to fuck me? I thought you would be the one to ask if you wanted to do it."

"You don't want to baby?"

You were unsure how to reply. You had never looked at Martin and had the carnal urge to strip him down and have him take you, but sex was supposed to be a normal part of relationships. Maybe you had been unfairly denying Martin of essentially his right.

"I'm... too shy to ask for something like that."

Martin grinned from ear to ear. He licked his lips, bending down and capturing yours in a wet kiss. He was rough and fast, not wanting to waste any time. He tore off the blankets that surrounded you, slowly unbuttoning your shirt. This was the farthest the two of you had gone. He allowed his towel to drop, leaning back to let you admire his already hard cock. You looked at it for a moment before remembering that you should be impressed. You widened your eyes and parted your lips, making a comment about how big it was, and you watched him throb. He stripped you out of the rest of your clothes, kissing your skin roughly. You reciprocated, closing your eyes and sucking on his neck. He moved away, grabbing your chin.

"No markings, baby. You know better."

Gavi sat on his couch at home, TV playing in the background as he stared at the dent beside him. Your imprint was there, although faint. He thought back to that night - the closeness he felt to you, both physically and emotionally. He knew he should have kissed you, confessed his feelings, told you to forget Martin ever existed and be happy with a Barca boyfriend. But he couldn't. He couldn't form the words to tell you that you were the very light that brightened his days, and the cool breeze that soothed him to sleep. He couldn't tell you that every moment he wasn't focused on a ball, he was thinking about you. About the way you laughed and spoke and moved. About the curve of your lips he was desperate to trace with the tip of his tongue. About the way your hair felt beneath his fingertips as he played with it while you slept. He couldn't do it. So he stared at your spot on the couch, glancing over at his phone regularly, waiting for the 'Read' to turn into three typing dots that turned into a little gray bubble filled with your words to him. Just for him.

You lay before Martin completely naked, eyes glued shut. You tried to focus on the feeling more than the person. You let our little moans when he kissed your breasts, trying to encourage him as much as possible so that he would go faster and be done quicker. You heard the sound of a wrapper ripping, and he rolled it on while speaking to you.

"Ready baby?" "Yeah, I think so."

He slipped inside you quickly, groaning into your neck about how warm and tight you were. You kept your eyes shut. You had flashbacks to the couch in the basement. The tears started to prick and burn at your eyes, and you let one fall. He licked it off of you, laughing in satisfaction.

"Is this cock too much for you baby? You crying cause I'm too big? Fuck that's so hot." He said, as he continued thrusting in with no pace or rhythm. You brought your legs up around him, pushing him closer to you, hoping to make him bust quick so that you could go to bed. With eyes still shut, you saw someone else. You saw hazel eyes shining in artificial yellow light, and you clenched around your boyfriend.

"Ugh yeah baby just like that."

The eyes were now replaced by lips, soft and pink, separating into the most captivating smile.

"I'm close baby, so close."

You wished Martin was one of those men who was silent in bed. You wanted to shush him, tell him that the sexy lips in your imagination were about to speak, but you just continued rocking your hips to the makeshift rhythm. The lips parted, a tongue poking out to wet them, before they spoke to you.

"Doctora."

You clenched hard around your boyfriend, pressing him deep inside you, and that was it. He let out a high pitched groan as he came into the condom. He collapsed on top of you, and you allowed your eyes to open, another tear falling, which was quickly wiped away by Martin.

"That was great, baby. Totally worth the wait. Never knew it could be so hot watching you cry."

He rolled off of you and went to sleep, but you were wide awake.

[Doctora]: sorry for the late response

[Doctora]: phone died :(

[Doctora]: yeah im fine

[Doctora]: hope martin didnt hurt u too bad... Sweet dreams Pablo

[Gavi]: Same to u doctora <3

You didn't sleep that night. You watched the clock tick on until 5am, getting in your car and driving to your place. You stripped, throwing everything martin had touched in the hamper. If they weren't your work clothes, they would be in a donation bin. You stepping into the shower and began your hour long scrub. As you moved closer to your upper thighs, tears began welling up again. You didn't regret having sex with Martin, because that's what couples do. But you cried anyways. You cried because you had felt light a fleshlight the way he pumped and dumped in 2 minutes. You cried because he couldn't even ask 'Did you cum?' like some sleazy frat boy who rubbed your left lip vigorously for 15 seconds. You cried because you had sex with your committed boyfriend, and the only way to enjoy it was to close your eyes and think of the boy at your job. You scrubbed your skin raw, pinpricks of blood appearing on your upper thighs.

~~~

Over the next two weeks, you had sex with Martin three more times. Every time, it was the same result. He entered you, you teared up, you closed your eyes and pictured Gavi, and Martin came in under 3 minutes. It had made interacting with Gavi awkward to say the least. When driving him home, you did you best to focus only on the road, trying not to look at his hands or his thighs or his God forsaken lips. After the last game you attended, you were determined not to look at him at all while he was in the car, until he discovered that was your last game before the break.

"You're not coming to our game against Sevilla? Why not? It's the last one before the Christmas and international break."

You had to look at him at this point, but you wished you hadn't. He looked so adorable and pouty, eyes wide with longing. Gavi wouldn't get to see you after this if you weren't at the next game, seeing as he would be going directly from Barca training to Spain National team training.

"My last exam conflicts with it. I'll be able to catch the second half on TV, but there's no way for me to actually go."

"So this is it then? Until January?" He asked, voice low and sad-sounding. He didn't want to let you go. He didn't want to spend the next month away from you. He didn't want to think about the fact that you would be in Martin's arms for the entirety of that break.

"Try not to miss me too much, Pablo. I'll be back before you know it. Kick ass on Tuesday."

He leaned over the dash, hugging you tightly to his chest. You closed your eyes, making sure that you racing heart could not be felt by the boy hugging you tight. Gavi hoped that you would not notice how shaky he was. He didn't want you to know how nervous he was to be initiating a hug with you.

"Oh, before I forget, here you go." You said, reaching into the back and handing him his hoodie. Gavi felt his heart break. For a month you had worn his hoodie almost daily. Why would you return it now? Every time he felt he was getting closer to you, something was snapping the string between you and pulling you away. Did you not want to associate with him anymore?

"I feel bad, keeping your hoodie when it was never given to me. So I wanted to return it to its owner."

Gavi looked at you and smiled. You were so fucking cute. He took the hoodie from you, then reached into his bag, pulling out his body spray. He drenched the hoodie, then folded it back up and held it in front of you.

"I am officially giving you this hoodie. I hope it brings you comfort and warmth. And makes you think of me." He ends with a wink, and you giggle. He leaves your car, sparing you once last glance before waving you off. You left Gavi with butterflies in your stomach.

This is how you found yourself sitting at home, in underwear, tube socks, and Gavi's hoodie, watching the Barca match. You got out of your exam 15 minutes early, giving you enough time to get home and change. You loved watching the games on TV - the announcers made it much more entertaining. You weren't sure if you were hyper-focused on him or the camera just loved Gavi today, but he seemed to be the subject of every zoom-in. He looked so much better from this angle: thick arms wrapped in the tight sleeves of his shirt, sweat dripping from his forehead, hair slicked back and showing off his sculpted face. You pulled up his sweater, breathing in the smell deeply, and subconsciously bringing your thighs together.

The longer you watched the match, the more turned on you became. You started scrolling through Instagram during the game, looking at the fan accounts who posted pictures of Gavi. You stopped on one post in particular. It was a looping video, which showed Gavi on his knees on the field. He lifts his shirt to wipe his face, exposing his V-line. You thought that was the end, almost scrolling before you see it. Gavi runs his tongue across the inside of his mouth, and then proceeds to spit on the field. it was not uncommon for players to spit on the grass, but this was different. The fat glob of Gavi's saliva created a trail from his lips.

You watched the video again. And again. And again and again. You couldn't stop. Your hand traveled down your torso, toying with your nipples, until you reached the hem of your panties. As the video started again, you dipped your fingers past the waistband, feeling instantly how slick you were. Your cheeks burned with guilt - Gavi was your friend. He was someone you worked he. He was several years younger than you. And yet, you moved your fingers against your clit watching him spit on the grass. Your eyes fluttered shut, as you remembered the feel of hugging Pablo, the feel of him against your chest. The beat of his heart. The sound of his voice calling out your name. His raspy 'Good morning'. Would he sound like that when he was struggling to remain in control? You moved faster, soft moans leaving your lips as you worked yourself into a frenzy. You were getting closer, hearing Gavi in your head, until..

Incoming Call: Gavi

You wretched your hand away, embarrassed with yourself for getting off to the thought of your friend, while you had a boyfriend nonetheless. You took a deep breath, wiping your face with your clean hand, and picked up the call.

"Hello?"

"Doctora!! did you see the game? Are you home? How was the exam?"

"Uh... what do I answer first?"

"Actually, you can tell me when you see me. You need to come to Camp Nou."

This made you sit up straight. "I need to what?"

"I need some... emergency care. You need to get here as soon as possible."

You arrived to the stadium frantic, in Gavi's hoodie, some sneakers, and some sweats. You burst into Dr. Gonzalez's office, seeing three doctors all crowded around Gavi. When they parted, you gasped. He had a black eye, dried blood in a streak beneath his eye.

"What the fuck did you do?" You asked, putting on gloves so that you could get cleaning.

"I took a header that was, uhm... kind of low."

You started cleaning with an alcohol wipe, eliciting a hiss from Gavi.

"How low? The grass?"

Gavi went silent, and you groaned and rolled your eyes. You turned to look at the other doctors present.

"Did you guys call me in on my day off to clean up some dried blood and apply a bandage?"

Turns out, you were the only person on staff that could make sure he didn't have any orbital or internal bleeding in his skull. You allowed the rest of the medical staff to take off as you ran tests on Gavi and his swollen eye.

"So, doctora, any plans for the break?"

"I'm probably going to spend it with Martin, since he will be free for all of it."

Gavi scoffed at this. "Right, because he didn't get called for the national team. He gets a month long vacation now."

"He plays the same position as you, Gavi. I knew he would never get chosen over you. You're Spain's golden boy."

Gavi crossed his arms over his chest in satisfaction.

"Damn straight."

~~~

You drove Gavi home, blasting some of your favorite music from college through your car's speakers. You wanted to roll the windows down, but Gavi reminded you that December in Barcelona was not the best time for that.

"LISTEN BABY THIS A LAMBOURGHINI NOT A BENZ, I DON'T EVEN GET THE TIME TO FUCK YOU ON THE WEEKEND-"

"Alright I'm going inside my house I can't stand the yelling," Gavi laughs out as he exits your car. You lower the volume and exit the car as well. You walk over to Gavi, giving him a tight hug. Neither of you wanted to let go.

"Good luck, Pablo. You're going to do amazing. When do you go to Switzerland?" You asked, looking at the pavement rather than into his eyes. You were still embarrassed from your earlier activities regarding picturing Gavi's face.

"We leave in three days, so you don't need to start missing me until Friday night. Until then, you know where I live if you start going through Gavi withdrawals." You both laughed lightly, an awkward silence settling between you two. He was the first to move, lifting a hand to wave and he began walking towards the door. You got back in your car, trying to call Martin. He didn't respond, but you had his location. He was at home according to Find my Friends. You decided to go to his place and surprise him, starting the break together with him. Maybe the two of you could go out and celebrate - him the halfway mark of the season, and you the end of exams.

Gavi sighed when he cam back into his house, slumping onto his couch. He looked once again at the spot where you slept. There was that fucking ache again. He felt a gnawing at his soul when you weren't around - something akin to guilt. It's like the universe was asking him 'why'. Why didn't you tell her that her boyfriend is hot garbage and you could be everything that she needed? Why didn't you kiss her the thousand times you had a chance? He felt a pang from his eye - the ibuprofen must be wearing off. He reached into his bag to find the bottle and pop another, when he feels an envelope. He was instantly curious - when did someone have access to his bag to slip this in?

To Pablo, From Dr &lt;3

He ripped open the top, and out came a letter and a printed photo. It was a picture that someone from the media team had taken when you first started working there, right after the summer international break. Gavi was stretched on the table, with you behind him, helping him stretch out. You both wore deep scowls, your distain for each other evident then. The note was short, and read:

To Pablo G,

Happy Holidays and Happy Break! My salary can't buy you a better gift than you can buy yourself, so here is a picture from the beginning days of our dynamic friendship duo. Maybe we should go back to hating each other - we both look really hot when we frown.

Love, your favorite Physio &lt;3

Gavi, the teenager that he still was, hugged the photo and letter to his chest, his smile so wide it hurt his face. You were thinking about him. You thought about him enough to find a gift, get it for him, and slip it into his bag during his eye exam. Fuck, what should he get you?

His train of thought was cut off by screaming and banging on his door.

"Pablo! Let me in! Get the fuck away from me!"

It was your voice. You were screaming at the top of your lungs, your voice hoarse - like you had been sobbing. Gavi leaped off his couch, running to the door and flinging it open. He felt the wait of you fall into his chest, your body wracked with sobs. Your legs weren't strong enough to keep you standing, so he held up your weight. He clutched you tightly, wanting to keep you safe. He looked up, and he saw who it was you were running screaming from: Martin.

~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Hey y'all!! Hope you enjoy part 6!! Maybe I shouldn't say this because I made y'all wait for so long, but I don't think this part is as good as the last one. Part 7 gonna be a Banger tho. Anyways, please let me know your comments, thoughts, feedback, and theories in the replies or in my ask box!!! I love reading everything you guys think about this series!! Also, I love when people find little details/ easter eggs in the writing, so do w that info what you will. Next part won't take nearly as long. Have a great night y'all see u soooooon <<<<33333

Also please comment if you want to be added to the taglist ok bye

*~*Taglist*~*

@l0verl4ne @vibinwkay @anastasia-nova @mxgvmiii @mads-grace4 @bubblebeep69 @katluckybear @scuderiabarca @alwaysclassyeagle @simpingmyassoff @grlwithprblms @lqvesoph @pink-manz @graziemille @xxenia14 @nngkay @icedlattewithextracaramel @gyusrose @vip-access @julianalvarez9 @lavie3nrose @ge0rg1ewaa @i8yul @lovefordilfs271 @remuslupinluver @thattaylorswiftobsessedbitch @chaotic-taco-collector-blog @kaismybabe @notanenthucutlet @fullsun9890 @venomwh0re @renaissancewhxre @gaviandgrizisgirl

[palomahasenteredthechat]

My thoughts on AQPDO

So, did this image appear in the actual film? Yeah, that's what I thought...

I loved it, and I was disappointed by it. This is long, so buckle in. Major Spoilers discussed below.

First, the outstanding: the performances. Holy hell. Lupita. Just...her talent is breathtaking. To sustain that level of intensity without overdoing it, I am simply in awe. Well done. I hope some attention is paid to her performance when award season rolls around. Ditto Alex Wolff. He did a LOT with so little screentime. Djimon too; they all were so, so moving.

Joe was so heartbreaking, and yet Joe's character is one of the things I am disappointed about, because I needed more. Not because I love Joe, but because the story needed it. I know there was a backstory that was cut, and to be honest I don't think that was necessarily a poor decision, but the issue is it was cut late in the creative process, versus in the writing, and that is where the problem is. More on that in a bit, but Joe delivered a sensitive and moving performance, and really understated as well. Not a bit of the cheeky Joe we have come to love so much that also I think pops out in Eddie and Michael occasionally. He was wholly immersed in Eric's reality and his energy complimented Lupita's so well; you can see how much they worked off each other. Dare I say she elevated his game. Another marathon performance and I can imagine how exhausting it must be to sustain that.

Second, Michael Sarnoski, hats off to you sir. The pacing, the way you put the story together visually, your heartbreaking script, just so well done. I hope they release the shooting script because I would love to read it and see the words (or lack of) that Joe and Lupita interpreted so movingly. I wonder if Michael has processed the death of a parent recently, because I felt so much emotion from this story. This film is about accepting the inevitability of death, while going through the five stages of grief, yet seeking to live fully regardless. Trigger warning: DO NOT see this movie if you are going through a rough time with someone who is terminally ill. It will wreck you. But this film is tragically, beautifully human. To deliver that story in a Hollywood big budget action film is a hat trick. Every actor in Hollywood who wants to grow creatively should be calling their agents asking to work with Michael Sarnoski right now.

Also, shout out to the production design people. They completely suspended my disbelief that the characters weren't in New York. Set design, lighting, like I could SMELL New York. Virtual production is getting so fucking good - we're well past the Unreal Wall vistas of the Mandalorian. If you ask yourself how A24 could shoot an Iraq war movie in the pastoral hills of England this is your answer.

Now, the not so good.

Go back and watch the first and second trailers and tell me how many of those moments were in the movie. Answer: barely any.

Map claw hand? We have to get out of the city? Gay couple? Old man turning off engine? Nada.

So, was this all misdirection in the marketing, making the audience think they were coming to see a summer action movie? That's legit, trying to get butts in seats, but I have a strong feeling Michael delivered a very different movie that was hacked up in the testing process. All of those scenes probably made the movie feel 'too long', and they had to cut them back to balance the action sequences with the emotional sequences.

The helicopters overhead spelling out THEY CAN'T SWIM probably came from focus group comments where someone was like 'why didn't the aliens just cross the river and start eating people in New Jersey?' (good point). But I'll bet you they wanted to give Alex Wolff's character a more significant death in regard to Samira's emotional journey, so they reshot the scene with the old man turning off the engine and had Alex do it instead.

Also, I get the strong feeling Eric showed up in the story much earlier in the original cut of the film, and the scene with Map Claw Hand illustrates that. The big question regarding Eric is why this random sad British dude gloms on to Samira and I'm not sure they answer that question in the final cut. Joe absolutely sells it, but it doesn't make sense and I suspect it's because it wasn't written that way.

Also, and call me crazy, but I think Joe is wearing a wig in some parts of this movie and not in other parts. It would make sense if there were significant reshoots based on early testing of the film. I wonder if the Alien Lava Tiki Bar (what...was that actually) scene was added later. Like, I get why Eric went up there- actually I don't, I think Eric would have been focused on getting the medicine back to her and wouldn't have taken a detour up scaffolding to follow I cat at all, but that's just me.

Finally, let's talk about the cat. Both Schnitzel and Nico are exquisite and enjoyable to watch, though how no one got scratched or bitten by a disgruntled feline is a mystery. We had a long debate about whether The Cat Represents Samira's Life, or The Cat is An Angel, or Fate, but ultimately we just went with KITTY and that made the story more enjoyable.

Samira is on a quest, to die on her terms, and once she accepts her fate, she sheds the things that no longer matter to her, and in the process gives Eric a purpose. The scene in the jazz bar was so moving. The final shot is also incredibly moving, and I hope the city was filled with the sound of music one last time, a beautiful elegy accompanying her soul to heaven.

Bravo.

[thrawns-backrest]

Prompted by this post and the related interview, reason 15467352 why I think Dave Felony isn’t up to the task of writing live action Star Wars.

I was going to harp about how this proves Filoni hasn’t read the books but this interview is from before the canon trilogies were out so touché on that. And yet this just proves to me why Filoni isn’t the guy for the job of writing Thrawn. Or any live action imperials for that matter.

I’ll start by saying that one thing I will concede is that the notion of the Imperial military being plagued by incompetent officers is not entirely unrealistic. Given that it’s a stratocracy, you can expect to find people who used politics to climb the ranks rather than actual military competence - it’s a kind of French Revolution situation kind of thing. Historically it’s been known to happen in our world.

Combine that with the fact that the Empire is racist, elitist and (kind of) sexist as all hell and you have a limited pool of people to pick from when filling its ranks, pushing some genuine talent to the fringes or excluding it altogether.

The thing I’m entirely tired of seeing though is the implication that it’s the majority of Imperial leadership that’s like this and by this I mean incompetent. The overwhelming majority at that. But more on the Empire’s moronicity later, let’s talk about Thrawn.

“He’s not ambitious in the way where he needs to see himself promoted, or a governor one day. He purely wants to dissect them; that’s what he enjoys!” This. This grinds my gears so much. For starters it proves that Filoni sees Thrawn as this ‘quirky baddie’ where Zahn treats him as an actual person. There’s something almost condescending in taking a neurodivergent coded character and being like ‘aww, look at them, they’re so happy doing their little thing they don’t have any other goals and ambitions whatsoever :)’.

To get things straight, Thrawn has always been annoyed by the limitations placed on him by an inferior rank. You could argue it’s for the simple reason that a higher rank gives him more freedom to act and pursue his goals but that’s just what that is, a simplification.

And that’s where Filoni’s problem lies:

Filoni is good at writing cartoons. And before people raise their pitchforks, I don’t mean this in a negative way. Writing cartoons forces you to squish complex ideas into a digestible format, the genre needs simplification and caricature to work and doing that well is a talent all by itself.

You’re meant to put in some extra effort to suspend your disbelief in order to enjoy the deeper complexities of the story. Where that stops working though is when you step out of the genre and move into live action and our good buddy Dave doesn’t seem to realize that.

It may admittedly sound like I’m being unnecessarily harsh on him and I probably am but I do realize the guy is just doing what he does best. I doubt he has any real beef with neurodivergents or has no actual clue that militaries need a base level of competence in order to function and thrive.

Neither is he the only one guilty of implying the Empire’s competent staff can be counted on the fingers of one hand. “It’s just so different for them to have a bad guy that’s, you know, actually smart with how he uses the Imperial war machine!” Okay, Dave. Sure Dave. “[…] with the exception of Tarkin – Tarkin’s strategically intelligent” Oh so there’s two of them! (okay okay, I’ll stop here)

My point is, you can’t get away with making the antagonists so stupid in a realistic setting. I recently saw someone compare Kenobi and Andor in terms of portraying your antagonists correctly and I have to agree that Andor is the only star wars live action media in recent memory that gets it right. (Though even Andor is guilty of injecting some stupid into its plot in order to enable implausible events to happen. I’m looking at you, Maarva’s speech.)

Because the thing is, the more bumbling and idiotic you make your antagonists, the more it detracts from the efforts and skills of your protagonists when defeating them. The Empire is sprawling and all powerful, so much so that it takes several force users pulling deus ex machinas out of their ass to bring it down. In conjunction with the extreme dedicated efforts of the Rebellion mind you.

It took a timely coincidence of hubris, political corruption and flawed strategy working together to allow it to happen. Give me media that explores why the Empire endured for so long, the mechanisms in place that made ordinary people turn into cogs of the machine, the selective process behind constructing an absolutely ruthless, dangerous leadership, media that looks at how these same conditions can come about in our world rather than the unrealistic explanation of ‘people bad because bad’.

Zahn, Gilroy, Luceno and many others are examples of writers that do this justice. Pass the baton on to Filoni and you end up with an antagonist who’s smart as an exception because ‘he’s just so quirky’ while still bearing all the hallmarks of a cartoon villain, the ominous gloating speeches and sadistic behaviour and whatnot.

I’d be hella remiss to say it hasn’t left its mark on the fandom either. The amount of times I’ve seen characters like Tarkin, Krennic, Palpatine, etc. be moronified (while Thrawn inevitably gets his victim treatment) while completely ignoring the fact that defeating them was no small feat and their having weaknesses to exploit isn’t something that detracts from just how dangerous and scary these motherfuckers were.

The Clone Wars was a good show. Rebels was a good show. But by god is Filoni bad at transferring his skills to live action and no one can convince me that Thrawn isn’t the best example of that.

[tippenfunkaport]

How hard is it to rewrite your fanfic to publish as original? Is there a difference to how you write it?

Anon, I sat on this one a few days trying to think of how to answer this. Because there're a lot of little differences between writing for fanfic and writing original work that I could list but I think it's all really covered by the one biggest thing which is: you need to realize that, in fanfic, readers and canon are doing a lot of the work for you.

In other words, even in the AU-est AU, you're still starting with the basic characterization and world-building of canon. A fanfic reader comes in with a base of knowledge that comes from the source material that you, the writer, can take for granted. They're helping you out by doing a lot of the heavy lifting while reading in a way that a reader coming to something 100% original isn't.

Which is, obviously, a lot of the fun of fanfic! You can just riff on a single scene or do a character study that's light on plot or write missing scenes that make no sense without the context of canon and it's all part of how we play in the fandom space. But when you make the switch to writing for publication, you need to remember that your readers aren't coming in with any of that context and aren't as willing to suspend disbelief upfront.

Think about it. Fanfic can be light on description because you already know what the characters and setting looks like. Fanfic can tread the same beats as canon even when it's narratively unearned because the reader has the background of canon to fill in the blanks. Fanfic can cover the in-between moments or things an editor would consider "pointless" because the readers are already invested in the characters and know how the rest of the story ends. 

I think we've all had that moment when someone raves to you about a fic, how it's amazing, life-changing, better than any published book, and you read it and it's... not good. At all. Not the writing, not the plot... BUT you can absolutely see why your friend loved it so much. It centered their favorite character or ship and they were so overcome with blorbo-love that they were willing to overlook all the writing issues. Which can happen with published books too if they get enough hype (just look at some of the recent BookTok darlings), but is far more likely to happen with fanfic because we're all coming into the work high on love for our favorite show/characters/pairing.

(It's been fascinating as an author to witness this first hand bc my fandom friends and I have a book club and it's been so eye opening to watch people nitpick a published book for minuscule issues and then the exact same people turn around a praise a fanfic as the pinnacle of literature that has all the issues they hated in the published book and FAR MORE. The author of the published book has to work harder to not only make you care about their original characters and world, but also sell you on their story while fanfic knows you're already sold on those elements and just here to play. And also people hold something they paid for to a far higher standard to something they are reading for free and allocate praise accordingly.)

Which shows that, in most cases, it's not enough to just file the serial numbers off your fanfic if you want to publish. Because the exact same people who raved about your fanfic would call it derivative/shallow/etc once the names are changed from their favs and they aren't looking at it through blorbo-colored glasses anymore. It's just human nature, absolutely no shade here, but it really sums up the majority of issues you need to consider when making the leap out of fandom and into a more commercial writing space.

It all comes down to: if you've been predominantly writing fanfic, you may not realize that you're used to the combo of the reader and canon itself doing a lot of the heavy lifting for you. And now you need to learn how to pick up that slack yourself.

A reader coming to an original work about new characters they don't know yet is far less charitable when they crack open your book that they paid their hard earned dollars for than a reader who clicked on your free story about characters they already love. A paying reader is less tolerant of narrative downtime, has a higher expectation of quality writing (ie no typos, grammar issues, consistent tense, pacing, tension etc) and needs the author to make them care about the characters and world because they aren't coming in pre-loaded with love for their favorite media.

So certainly not impossible, but re-writing fanfic into something original involves a mental shift, significant expansion and retooling of what's written, and is by no means as simple as just replace all-ing the names as seems to be the popular misconception.

(And this is not going into the legal issues at all because, frankly, if you are really doing the work to flesh your fanfic out as an original work then it's probably so far removed from canon at that point it's unrecognizable. But obviously be smart and don't publish something with someone else's copyrighted characters or world unless you want your ass sued. Disclaimer that I am just a writer, not a lawyer.)