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forestshadow-wolf · 6 months

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One day soap (pre-relationship) starts pulling back because he thinks Ghost only sees a platonic or physical relationship with him and, "you give me an inch and I'll take the fucking world, when it comes to you."

He switches up his entire schedule just to avoid ghost because he's gotten too close, wants more that he can have. And it's lowkey breaking him inside, but whatever, right? Better this, than make Ghost uncomfortable right?

And God it hurts so much to not be able to interact with Ghost and his stupidy aggressive manc accent, and his dumb handsom face, and his godawful dry wit. But this is better for them, right? This is what's best for both of them, isn't it? He avoids making Ghost uncomfortable, and he'll just have to work on stuffing his feelings way way down. And then things can go back to normal, but until then he'll keep avoiding the man.

And Gaz sees and it breaks his heart. To have soap come to him late at night with unshed tears in his eyes because he refuses to cry, because it's not like he's dead or anything, right? And it breaks his heart to hold soap, while he trembles through unbidden sobs. And he just wants to make it right, but he can't. So he'll continue being his rock.

And when Ghost realizes that he hadn't seen soap all day he thinks maybe he just got extra busy so he leaves it. But by day two and not even a hair of the scot has been seen he worries that something is wrong. But maybe the Sergent just got slammed with a ton of extra work, Ghost isn't the only lieutenant on base and things happen all the time. And then on day three with no sightings he starts to ask around and he realizes that almost every one except for him has interacted, or talked to, or seen soap. Well that's off putting, soap almost alwas find him in his free time, but maybe it's just a coincidence. The fourth day is totally just happenstance that he hasn't seen soap, thay what he tells himself, even if it seems like everyone else on base has seen him.

But late at night when everyone is asleep soap will go sit outside ghost's door, splay legged, having to fight himself to not knock in his door and beg for forgiveness like he isn't the one pulling away.

It goes on for months of this same routine of soap avoiding Ghost during the day, and trying to crawl back to him at night. Soap's more or less stopped sleeping more than a few hours at night, he's working himself even harder. Ghost misses Soap. Soap misses Ghost.

Eventually Ghost stopped looking for him, instead, passing messages through Gaz. But soap never responds.

It's finally one night that Ghost wakes up to take a piss and grab a glass of water that he finds soap outside his door. He's scrunched up against the wall, sketchbook open, pencil in hand, but all He's doing is waving it between his fingers. And Soap looks up, and flinches when he sees Ghost, scrabbling to gather up his drawings and haul ass out of there.

But Ghost stops him, a light grip around the wrist, he's not even looking at soap, just staring at the spot he was sitting. Soap could pull out of his grasp easily, he could turn tail and leave, but he doesn't, he's frozen to the spot in the ground.

And then Ghost turns to face him, and he swallows. Ghost takes a step forward, he takes one back, keeping the distance between them. That makes Ghost stop, piss break and thirst forgotten.

"Why?" It's one word, and yet it makes soap's heart break, and then Ghost keeps talking, "I'm sorry."

I'm sorry he says, like it's his fault. I'm sorry he says, like he blames himself. I'm sorry he says, it isn't totally and irrevocably SOAP'S FUCKING FAULT. I'm sorry he says. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. And soap wants to punch him to shut him up. He doesn't. He swallows thickly.

"It's not..." soap has to swallow against the lump in his throat to keep speaking, "you didn't do anything." The words sound hollow and distant to his ears, he can't imagine how it sounds to Ghost's.

"Please." And soap can't bare to look at the pleading look anymore or all this will be ruined. "I'm sorry." Ghost says again, and if Soap's heart was broken before, not its shattered, dusted, broken into so mand teeny tiny pieces that there is surely no hope of ever repairing it.

"I- I-... you didn't do this." He says, tears in his eyes, and all he can do is glance up at Ghost for the briefest of seconds before he has to look away. "I fucked up. A-and I'm trying to fix it." He nearly wails, he wishes his chest would just burst open and bleed him dry from the source, insted of this, anything but this. His voice stays quiet, near silent, even.

"Please." Ghost is begging now, and soap can't stand it. "I'll be better, I promise." He whispers, like he's not hearing Soap. And soap makes a wounder sound, and God, does it hurt to hear those words.

"It's really, really isn't you." Soap pleads, Ghost needs to understand. "I- I just can't give you what you want."

"Why?" And Ghost sounds so broken, and it's sending Soap directly down into the firey pits of hell.

"Because I want more." A tear slips down his cheek, and he curses it, he has no right to cry. He did this, now it's time to reap the fruits of his labor, no matter how rotten it may be.

"But I want you. Johnny." It rasps out, and Ghost's voice sounds just as broken as soap feels.

"But I want too much.. Ghost" he can't stop the tears now, but he locks down in the wail that's clawing open his chest from the inside out. It hurts. It hurts so much. But this is his doing. This is his fault. He has to accept that. "I can't have just friends."

"Please. I miss you." Ghost pleads, and soap almost fucking sobs. God, soap is never gonna recover from this.

I miss you too. I'm sorry. I miss you so much. He wants to scream. "I know." He forces his voice to hollow. He does know. Gaz has told him all about it.

"Please. I can- I'll meet you half way"

Soap chances a look up then, almost hopeful, except for the fact that he would leave hope up for a gamble.

Ghost does look hopeful. And also broken. Broken. Soap did that. As of Ghost hasn't has enough hirt in life, and Soap basically just stabbed him in the back. He has to fix this. He- he did this. Why did he do this.

He nods, and the pencil falls out of his hand, followed by the thump of his book. "I'm sorry." The sobs tear out of his chest, and all he wants to do is crawl out of his own skin and die in a fucking hole. Why did he do this.

He drops his head, and lets the tears fall. And then there are arms wrapping themselves around him, and a head resting atop his, and he can't find the strength to pull away, nor does he want to. So he turns into the warm embrace, and wraps himself around Ghost.

"I'm sorry. I thought- " he's hiccuping so hard that he's sure he's not understandable. Ghost shushes him gently, rocking them side to side.

They do have to make moves though, when Ghost's need for a piss makes itself known again. Soap's only a little ashamed to say he'd literally latched onto the man, and made him carry him all the way into the bathroom.

#writing angst instead of doing the copious amounts of homework that's due tomorrow 🙃#hurt myself with this one... oops #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghostsoap #soapghost #call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #ghost x soap #soap x ghost #el rambles

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abubblingcandle · 9 months

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Jamie Tartt Accent Analysis

Um so yeah, after an anon ask to @withbadhair talking about how Phil is posh and Jamie is Manc, I relistened to Phil Dunster's episode on No Such Thing As A Fish again today and got sucked back into how much I love thinking about the intricacies of regional accents and how much I love thinking about Phil's accent work and how it is great!

So here you go -

A Yorkshire Lass' with an obsession with regional UK accents' take on Jamie Tartt's accent

Phil's Intentions with the accent

Phil has said that it was really his choice what sort of Manchester accent they went for (as Jamie wasn't written specifically to be Mancunian) but he was aiming for New Moston sort of area which is north eastern Manchester suburb (see yellow highlighted area on the image)

But he started by mimicking his agent who is apparently sassy and from Manchester but then listened to people like Aitch (who is from Moston which is probably where the idea for Jamie being from Moston/New Moston came from), Marcus Rashford (who is from Wythenshawe which is south Manchester out of the Outer Ring Road), Jesse Lingard (who is from Warrington which is a town between Manchester and Liverpool to the west) the Gallaghers (who are from Burnage which is south eastern - near Highfield Country Park on the map) which was more season 1 Jamie.

It was mentioned that Aitch was a bit inspiration with the attitude and the sort of swagger as well as the accent itself.

Features of a Mancunian Accent (some things to listen out for)

Research says that the Manchester accent can be characterised by a few distinct features:

The LettER vowel: if there is an ER at the end of a word it is pronounced more like UH. So for example "letter" becomes "let-uh"

The HappY vowel: what Jamie is known for. If there is a Y at the end of a word it is pronounced more like EH. For example "poopy" being "poopeh" or "city" being "cit-eh

H-dropping: this is typically northern but prevalent in Manchester. It is not pronouncing the H at the start of a word so instead of saying "head" pronouncing it "ed".

T-glotallisation: if there is a T in the middle of a word it is sort of dragged over. Like in "better" it can be "beh-uh".

-NG: typically if a word ends in -NG you do not say the G. For example "waiting" is "waitin"

All of these features are more easily noticed in words where more than one of them happens like "happy" becomes "appeh" with both H-dropping and the Y at the end

Analysis of Jamie Tartt's accent from a professional (not me)

Manchester Met have done a study of the different dialects within Greater Manchester and have split it into four categories. Lancashire, Mancs, Wigan, Posh. If Phil was aiming for Moston that would be more Manc but some Lancashire.

Dr Rob Drummond who was the lead on this research was sent clips of Jamie Tartt (edit - as a few people commented on this but he is a friend of No Such Thing As A Fish so was sent it in preparation for Phil being on the podcast but was apparently very complimentary so definitely a Phil Dunster win!) and managed to locate very precisely to just north of central Manchester in the Smedley sort of area which is the blue area on the map. If you compare that with Phil's aim of the red area ... that's damn impressive

So if you are looking for areas of Manchester to set your fics around or ways to make your dialogue feel more Tartt. Then we are looking for the Mancs accent and living somewhere in just north/north west of central Manchester based on his accent.

So yeah thanks for reading my thesis. I was going to go into words and sayings here too but it's after midnight and I have been talking to myself for the last hour just repeating the same words in Queens English, Leeds, and Manc 😂

Disclaimer - this is more based on S3 Jamie as S1 Jamie had a lot more subdued characteristics as Phil was finding his feet with the accent.

Side Plug as I have preordered it - Dr Rob Drummond's book called You're All Talk is coming out soon and it is all about this stuff and also social perceptions of linguistic diversity (which as someone who's accent massively chances based on the situation I am in I am super interested in)

#ted lasso #phil dunster #jamie tartt #accent work #tdlr Phil is a miracle worker with the accent and Jamie is so Manc

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3terna15unshin3 · 5 months

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Connected

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A/N: idea came from this ask, so thank u anon🥰🥰 it was so fun to think of how Matty and Este’s relationship was seen from the other side like what fans pick up on, and also establish how much they decide to share with fans vs keep to themselves. this concept is so interesting to me but i had a hard time writing from the pov of a fan hahaha so i just did it this way instead :))

This obvs is based heavily on TBSG lore so none of this makes sense if you haven’t read the main fic - go do that first!! and also check out the Instagram AUs, they add to the pizazz

—

“Love, look what I just saw on Twitter. This is hilarious.”

Este points her phone screen towards Matty as they sit in bed on a Sunday morning. He yawns, tired and still half asleep, then blinks his eyes a few times to read what she’s showing him. It’s a tweet from a fan that sits in her mentions from a couple of days ago when a clip from his Zane Lowe interview resurfaced.

megs ⎕ PL4YINGONMYM1ND

thinking about the fact that matty mentioned meeting e.manansala when she worked at a bookstore in manc to zane and in this 2018 interview he said his fav spot in the city is Greenhouse Books …….. what are the chances this is the same bookstore bc that would be so😭😭😭💔💔💔💔 https://manchesterwire.co.uk/?s=matty+healy+give-yourself-a-try/arts&culture/article

jaymie SAW UNDO LIVE trmanb1ackk

→ Replying to PL4YINGONMYM1ND

Hold on you might be onto something

megs ⎕ PL4YINGONMYM1ND

→ Replying to trmanb1ackk

right like okaayyy bookstore worker x customer to lovers notting hill pipeline????? 🤭 huge if true

She watches his eyes scan over the text and a fuzzy smile grow on his face. Matty loves talking about Este when he can—to bring some much deserved attention to her writing—and did so often, but does’t always mention many the details of their relationship. That was until strolling around the Northern Quarter with Zane brought a bit of it out of him.

Este is what brings him back to Manchester the most often, from visiting her family and Cate and Georgia to just needing a bit of a homey feeling from its familiar pubs and nostalgic shops. So, naturally, Matty talked about her in the interview done for the release of Being Funny—explaining how they’d met and how much the city means to them both.

“How they put two and two together is beyond me,” he says, scratching his head. “That Manchester Wire interview was five years ago now, you know. Did you ever read that?”

She chuckles. “Course I did! We had a few fans come in that summer with the sole intention of coming to a place you recommended, actually.”

“Why have you never told me that?” Matty asks, “You’re welcome for the business, by the way.”

“You never even told me about your little shout out, to be fair. I had to find out on my own,” Este teases. “Plus, we weren’t even a thing at that point—we’d met once! Quite creepy, in retrospect.”

“When you put it like that it’s honestly so cringe so please change the subject now.” Matty buries his head in the bunches of sheets that sit in her lap, embarrassed and frankly too sleepy to defend himself.

Este giggles, letting her hands settle into his curls. “Oh c’mon, you weren’t cringe. I’m just pulling your leg. It was sweet,” she reassures him.

“You’re just saying that because you feel bad,” he whines, then rubs his eyes to try and get the sleep out of them. “That’s so crazy that they dug that up, though. I’m not sure if many people know you’ve been around since then.”

“They probably looked at your life in 2019 and figured you were a rockstar with a new girl in every city but in reality you were calling me to get to sleep every night and doing origami in your free time because it reminded you of me.”

Matty’s jaw drops at her blunt comments. “I was about to get mad but I can’t even disagree.” He sits up, raking the hair out of his eyes. “Do people still use the word ‘simp’? Can that be applied to this situation? Was I a simp?”

She throws her head back, mouth wide, as she laughs at how ridiculous his question is.

“Please don’t say ‘simp’, love. You’re 34.” Este squeezes out between her giggles, “But no, people don’t use that word anymore. And yes it can be applied. And also yes, you were. And still are.”

“Proudly am,” he adds.

She leans into his side and he snakes his arm around her waist. They sit there, Matty only in a pair of pyjama pants and her an oversized tee, scrolling through the funny replies to the tweet and how big of a deal some fans were making it.

“You should respond. Tell Megs that she’s right.”

“Seriously?” Este asks, shocked that he’d want her to engage in something so meaningless and speculative.

But alas, he nods casually with a smile. “Yeah. They seem sweet, and just curious. And maybe being such a simp will give me some brownie points,” confirms Matty.

“God, enough of that word!”

Este e.manansala

→ Replying to PL4YINGONMYM1ND

Can confirm🤝

liv livmymistake_

→ Replying to PL4YINGONMYM1ND and e.manansala

MEGS OH MY GOD

Jude 🥾🌎 ittsjudesk

→ Replying to PL4YINGONMYM1ND and e.manansala

UMMMMMMMMMMM

megs ⎕ PL4YINGONMYM1ND

→ Replying to e.manansala

omg hi😭😭😭 are being fr i can’t cope

Este e.manansala

→ Replying to PL4YINGONMYM1ND

Greenhouse is the bookstore i worked at and is where matty and i met that year:)) and hi💌

megs ⎕ PL4YINGONMYM1ND

→ Replying to e.manansala

i think i’m psychic for guessing that🤭🤭🤭🤭

—

megs ⎕ PL4YINGONMYM1ND

k now i’m going crazy bc i had no clue him and este had been dating for that long💀 was genuinely convinced it had been 3 years max

Jude 🥾🌎 ittsjudesk

→ Replying to PL4YINGONMYM1ND

Literally they didn’t post each other until like 2020

sarah🧸 _102sar

→ Replying to PL4YINGONMYM1ND

I think she was at the 2018 Pryzm show too. Not sure but I was at the after party and remember seeing her there lol

megs ⎕ PL4YINGONMYM1ND

→ Replying to _102sar

WHAT…….. this lore being uncovered omg

“Someone recognises you from the Brief Inquiry album release show?!” exclaims Matty in disbelief. “There’s no way.”

They still sit in bed as Este types away, having fun interacting with the small group. He leans his head on her shoulder and watches her as she does it.

“They’ve known you longer than I have, you know. They know their stuff,” she responds.

“Even I don’t remember you being at the Pryzm show.”

Este’s mouth falls open in shock, thoroughly offended. “You prick.”

“I’m joking!” Matty defends through fits of laughter. “C’mon E, I’m joking.”

She knows he is, but enjoys the theatrics of it all; shoving his head off her shoulder and scooting away from his touch in protest.

“That was a special night for me! The first time I saw you play and met the guys! Don’t make fun!” Este pouts, crossing her arms playfully.

“Fine. I take it back, I take it back,” Matty begs, dragging her back over to him and bringing her legs over top of his. He grabs her hand and places a kiss on her palm. “I remember meeting Cate, and introducing you to Louis. And Ross making fun of my gallbladder surgery, and leaving Cate on the dance floor to get drinks, and screaming at each other over the music at the bar. You telling me about the anniversary party. I very much remember!”

“Okay, okay. Enough gushing. I forgive you.”

Matty pecks her palm once more and shuffles her even closer. “Open Twitter back up. This is fun.”

Jude 🥾🌎 ittsjudesk

→ Replying to PL4YINGONMYM1ND and _102sar

This is absolutely shocking bc how did his chronically online ass manage to hide a whole gf that long

megs ⎕ PL4YINGONMYM1ND

→ Replying to ittsjudesk

fr!!! like do we think she was on the abiior tour with them bc i swear jordan absolutely fed us with so much bts content it would be impossible to miss?? someone dig

sarah🧸 _102sar

→ Replying to PL4YINGONMYM1D and ittsjudesk

If u scroll back on her IG u can see Matty in her comments since then. And they’d repost each other on their stories and stuff🥲 So not that hidden if ur a stalker like me lmao

megs ⎕ PL4YINGONMYM1ND

→ Replying to _102sar

thoroughly upset that i missed so much bf matty content </3

Este e.manansala

→ Replying to PL4YINGONMYM1ND and _102sar

Ignore me stalking u🤭🤭 i was indeed at that Pryzm show lol but we weren’t dating yet. And during abiior tour I saw a few UK shows but otherwise i was just in Manc working/being a bad groupie x

Este e.manansala

→ Replying to PL4YINGONMYM1ND

Also matty is sitting beside me now and he is cool with me filling u in (it was his idea) and he says hi. and that u guys are cute

megs ⎕ PL4YINGONMYM1ND

→ Replying to e.manansala

ohhh yes u are a working woman how could i forget!! bookstore worker/groupie same difference. thank u for responding😭 u are the coolest❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 (also hi matty😳)

Jude 🥾🌎 ittsjudesk

→ Replying to e.manansala

Hi Matty sorry for calling u chronically online x

Este e.manansala

→ Replying to ittsjudesk

He forgives you (but it’s true imo)

liv livmymistake_

→ Replying to e.manansala

este wait i have to know …. since u are a former bookstore girlie turned writer are u the reason matty periodically spam posts a bunch of literature on his instagram stories???? did u convert him to bookstoregirlieism??

Este e.manansala

→ Replying to livmymistake_

I am obsessed with the idea that he was illiterate before meeting me so i’m gonna say yes. thank u for that

Este e.manansala

→ Replying to livmymistake_

Liv it’s me I stole the phone and don’t appreciate this sentiment tbh. You should know I’ve always been a wanker so all the literature spams are just me letting that out and este just enables me. hope that helps x Matty

#is this even good???? i’m spiralling #like why do i feel like it isn’t giving anything.#tbsg #meste blurb #blurb #matty healy #the 1975 #matty healy fanfiction #the 1975 fanfiction #matty healy x oc #matty healy fic #matty healy fluff #matty healy fanfic #fanfiction #fluff

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thenorthsource · 4 months

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The Wildling and the Lost Boy (for anon)

AGOT – Catelyn III

"Rickon needs you […] He's only three, he doesn't understand what's happening. He thinks everyone has deserted him”

AGOT – Bran VI

"What are you doing here?" [...]

"They are my gods too," Osha said. "Beyond the Wall, they are the only gods."

[…] “The cold winds are rising, and men go out from their fires and never come back … or if they do, they're not men no more, but only wights, with blue eyes and cold black hands. Why do you think I run south with Stiv and Hali and the rest of them fools? Mance thinks he'll fight, […] but what does he know? […] He's never tasted winter. I was born up there, child, like my mother and her mother before her and her mother before her, born of the Free Folk. We remember." Osha stood, her chains rattling together. "I tried to tell your lordling brother. […] But he looked through me […]. So be it. I'll wear my irons and hold my tongue. A man who won't listen can't hear."

AGOT – Bran VII

"I lived my life beyond the Wall, a hole in the ground won't fret me none, m'lords," she said.

[…] Ser Rodrik had ordered Osha's chain struck off, since she had served faithfully and well since she had been at Winterfell. She still wore the heavy iron shackles around her ankles—a sign that she was not yet wholly trusted—but they did not hinder her sure strides down the steps.

[…]

Rickon patted Shaggydog's muzzle, damp with blood. "I let him loose. He doesn't like chains." He licked at his fingers.

ACOK – Bran V

"Osha," Bran asked as they crossed the yard. "Do you know the way north? To the Wall and . . . and even past?"

ACOK – Theon IV

Osha would need to carry Rickon; his little legs wouldn't take him far on their own.

[…]

Theon Greyjoy knew he was beaten […] Osha had deceived them with some wildling trick.

ACOK – Bran VII

Bran heard fingers fumbling at leather, followed by the sound of steel on flint. Then again. A spark flew, caught. Osha blew softly. A long pale flame awoke, […] Osha's face floated above it. She touched the flame with the head of a torch. Bran had to squint as the pitch began to burn, filling the world with orange glare. The light woke Rickon, who sat up yawning. […]

There stood Osha holding the torch, […] and the double row of tall granite pillars and long dead lords behind them stretching away into darkness . . . but there was Winterfell as well, grey with drifting smoke, the massive oak-and-iron gates charred and askew, the drawbridge down in a tangle of broken chains and missing planks.

[...] "Are we going home?" Rickon asked excitedly.

[…] Osha carried her long oaken spear in one hand and the torch in the other. A naked sword hung down her back, one of the last to bear Mikken's mark.

[…]

"Take me home!" Rickon demanded. "I want to be home!" […] They stood huddled together with ruin and death all around them.

"We made noise enough to wake a dragon," Osha said, "but there's no one come. The castle's dead and burned, just as Bran dreamed,” […]

"Hodor must stay with Bran, to be his legs," the wildling woman said briskly. "I will take Rickon with me."

#valyrianscrolls #asoiafedit #direwolfdaily #valyriansource #asoiafwomensource #valyrianladies #housestarkedit #rickon stark #shaggydog the direwolf #osha the wildling #osha #asoiaf #the free folk #*edits #ours #by jacoby

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eruherdiriel · 4 months

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Something I've been thinking a lot about lately is how Jon knows what it's like to be burned. With his hand, he doesn't feel it in the moment but that's probably adrenaline more than anything else.

"You do not look well. How is your hand?" "Healing." Jon flexed his bandaged fingers to show him. He had burned himself more badly than he knew throwing the flaming drapes, and his right hand was swathed in silk halfway to the elbow. At the time he'd felt nothing; the agony had come after. His cracked red skin oozed fluid, and fearsome blood blisters rose between his fingers, big as roaches. "The maester says I'll have scars, but otherwise the hand should be as good as it was before." "A scarred hand is nothing. On the Wall, you'll be wearing gloves often as not." It was not the thought of scars that troubled Jon; it was the rest of it. Maester Aemon had given him milk of the poppy, yet even so, the pain had been hideous. At first it had felt as if his hand were still aflame, burning day and night. Only plunging it into basins of snow and shaved ice gave any relief at all. Jon thanked the gods that no one but Ghost saw him writhing on his bed, whimpering from the pain.

-AGOT, Jon VIII

And then there's the scene of his wound getting cauterized. Which, yeah, he's otherwise injured and just escaped the wildlings, experiencing a lot of physical pain and internal turmoil, etc., etc. Still:

Maester Aemon sniffed Jon's wound again. Then he put the bloody cloth back in the basin and said, "Donal, the hot knife, if you please. I shall need you to hold him still." I will not scream, Jon told himself when he saw the blade glowing red hot. But he broke that vow as well. Donal Noye held him down, while Clydas helped guide the maester's hand. Jon did not move, except to pound his fist against the table, again and again and again. The pain was so huge he felt small and weak and helpless inside it, a child whimpering in the dark. Ygritte, he thought, when the stench of burning flesh was in his nose and his own shriek echoing in her ears. Ygritte, I had to. For half a heartbeat the agony started to ebb. But then the iron touched him once again, and he fainted.

-ASOS, Jon VI

This doesn't even touch on how he feels about the R'hollor crew and stories of people intentionally being burned. Whether he's there when King's Landing burns or hears about it, he will be able to empathize with the people of the city. There will be survivors, some with burns like on his hand and some with way worse. There won't be enough milk of the poppy for everyone. There will be men, women, children, soldiers, civilians, and old people burned and screaming in pain. Before KL burns, Jon will have heard about the other places DT has been as well. They're not gonna be pals.

But there will be conflict in his interactions with DT. Jon fiddles with his hands when he's conflicted or distressed:

Jon's breath misted the air. If I lie to him, he'll know. He looked Mance Rayder in the eyes, opened and closed his burned hand. "I wear the cloak you gave me, Your Grace."

-ASOS, Jon II

Lots of examples from AGOT, when his hand is still freshly burned and in more pain:

"Grief and noise," Mormont grumbled. "That's all they're good for, ravens. Why I put up with that pestilential bird … if there was news of Lord Eddard, don't you think I would have sent for you? Bastard or no, you're still his blood. The message concerned Ser Barristan Selmy. It seems he's been removed from the Kingsguard. They gave his place to that black dog Clegane, and now Selmy's wanted for treason. The fools sent some watchmen to seize him, but he slew two of them and escaped." Mormont snorted, leaving no doubt of his view of men who'd send gold cloaks against a knight as renowed as Barristan the Bold. "We have white shadows in the woods and unquiet dead stalking our halls, and a boy sits the Iron Throne," he said in disgust. The raven laughed shrilly. "Boy, boy, boy, boy." Ser Barristan had been the Old Bear's best hope, Jon remembered; if he had fallen, what chance was there that Mormont's letter would be heeded? He curled his hand into a fist. Pain shot through his burned fingers. "What of my sisters?"

-AGOT, Jon VIII

When Jon had been Bran's age, he had dreamed of doing great deeds, as boys always did. The details of his feats changed with every dreaming, but quite often he imagined saving his father's life. Afterward Lord Eddard would declare that Jon had proved himself a true Stark, and place Ice in his hand. Even then he had known it was only a child's folly; no bastard could ever hope to wield a father's sword. Even the memory shamed him. What kind of man stole his own brother's birthright? I have no right to this, he thought, no more than to Ice. He twitched his burned fingers, feeling a throb of pain deep under the skin. "My lord, you honor me, but—"

-AGOT, Jon VIII

Jon raised the hood of his heavy cloak and gave the horse her head. Castle Black was silent and still as he rode out, with Ghost racing at his side. Men watched from the Wall behind him, he knew, but their eyes were turned north, not south. No one would see him go, no one but Sam Tarly, struggling back to his feet in the dust of the old stables. He hoped Sam hadn't hurt himself, falling like that. He was so heavy and so ungainly, it would be just like him to break a wrist or twist his ankle getting out of the way. "I warned him," Jon said aloud. "It was nothing to do with him, anyway." He flexed his burned hand as he rode, opening and closing the scarred fingers. They still pained him, but it felt good to have the wrappings off.

-AGOT, Jon IX

Not until he was well beyond the village did Jon slow again. By then both he and the mare were damp with sweat. He dismounted, shivering, his burned hand aching. A bank of melting snow lay under the trees, bright in the moonlight, water trickling off to form small shallow pools. Jon squatted and brought his hands together, cupping the runoff between his fingers. The snowmelt was icy cold. He drank, and splashed some on his face, until his cheeks tingled. His fingers were throbbing worse than they had in days, and his head was pounding too. I am doing the right thing, he told himself, so why do I feel so bad?

-AGOT, Jon IX

#jon snow #tw burns #idk how to trigger tag this #nor do i know what this is or what i'm doing

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enqmind · 22 days

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Picture this.

You’re over at your friend’s place, the one who dragged you out of work for a shotgun wedding at the Registry Office with the Scot floozy you kinda liked and kinda hated.

She wants you to help her new friend, John’s coworker’s new… Honestly? You weren’t sure. You couldn’t see a ring but she had a matching set of tattoos to his that looked concerningly fresh for a newly pregnant woman. Anyway, her pick out some knitting patterns for the baby.

Being a, the solid mate you were and b, a compassionate soul who was happy to befriend Simon’s fragile looking new belle and provide her the emotional support that you were fairly sure he wasn’t capable of giving (you did get the impression that he did at least try, which was a mark in his favour) you agreed and lugged over your collection of books and patterns.

One of them is a vintage book with knits for the whole family. You knitted a christening shawl for the McTavish bairn from it. (One that didn’t get used, but it was hard to be too mad. They had one from John’s family already.)

“There’s one thing in here I’m not actually sure about,” you hum, flipping through the baby section.

“Go on.”

You flip back to the offending knit. A housecoat with copious amounts of looped trimming.

You turned it to the other two, the front door opening and a couple of large bodies (and a wee ickle baby one) coming inside.

“I can’t decide if I think it’s kinda sexy or very silly.”

Your friend tilted her head in thought and your newer one scrunched up her nose.

“I don’t know either.”

“Yeah, I’m also a bit torn.”

You turn it back.

“I can’t tell if I think it might be sexy, or the model’s just sexy and it’s colouring my view.”

“Oh, she’s definitely sexy,” the expectant mother said firmly.

“Agreed. Oh, hi John!”

Your friend’s bright smile at someone behind you made the body moving behind you something to ignore.

Even the hand on your shoulder wasn’t a concern. (This was why you kinda hated him, to be honest. Very touchy feely.)

Your comfort evaporated when bristles touched your cheek and an unfamiliar voice hit your ear.

“Let me have a -”

Your brain ran the fight/flight/freeze/fawn roulette and landed on option one.

You moved shockingly fast, bringing the book up to the face over your shoulder as hard as your knitter’s arms could.

There was a pained grunt and a crunching noise as the body behind yours staggered back.

Now was the time you froze.

As your friend stared in horror and your new friend’s breathing broke into a nervous laugh, heavy steps came through the house at speed.

“Wha-" Simon's voice began harshly, before immediately breaking into confusion. "What?"

You turned slowly to watch the towering Manc try to work out why the (not quite as) large man next to him was clutching his nose like he’d just been punched by Mike Tyson.

John joined the confusion.

“Captain, what happened to your face?”

Oh god.

You just assaulted your friends’ partners’ boss.

#call of duty #john price #cod john price #price x reader

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author-morgan · 2 years

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Title: Cold Hands Pairing: Tormund Giantsbane x fem!Reader Rating: M Summary: After the Battle of Castle Black, Jon needs someone to ensure their wildling prisoner makes it through the night. Because Tormund's the type you just want to rage fuck and I've been looking for an excuse to write for him since like 2017. tagging @mrsragnarlodbrok suffer with me

THE STEWARDS’ QUARTERS are dimly light and crowded in the wake of the night’s battle with the wounded members of the Night’s Watch. You rise from looking over little Olly’s scrapes and bruises, passing the boy a cup of watered ale to help him sleep —forget the horrors of the fighting. Castle Black was no place for a woman, and every estranged look cast in your direction from one of the men reminded you of that. Frowning, you wipe your hands on a stained apron and step outside into the frozen air. Below, men are clearing out the dead, a mix of wildlings and their own brothers, and beginning to make repairs to fortify the defenses should there be another attack. Jon Snow approaches you and lowers his head in greeting. “I have someone I need you to tend to,” he utters.

Castle Black’s dungeon is not large, only a single line of iron-barred cells in a short corridor —unoccupied save for the hulking figure at the very back in chains and pocked with broken arrows and crossbow bolts. He wears the thick, mismatched furs of the wildlings, but the fire in his hair is unmistakable. Tormund Giantsbane. Jon unlocks the cell and steps back, letting you pass. “Hurt a hair on her head,” Jon Snow starts, ice in his voice, “and you’ll be joining your kin on the pyre.”

You give Jon Snow a final nod of assurance —you’ve dealt with worse men than Tormund Giantsbane— and the bastard retreats down the corridor as you set down a flagon of icy water and a satchel of herbs and vials. “Tormund,” you greet, unwilling to shy away from his burning bright-blue stare. His notoriety spans north and south of the Wall —the man who suckled a giantess’s teat and fucked she-bears. Someone who you wouldn’t have expected to find stuck like a pincushion and locked away.

“Heard them say you’re a witch,” he grunts, hiding a scowl as you prod the arrow in his shoulder. You lift a curious brow. The crows call you a wood’s witch. In truth, you’re only a skilled herbalist with knowledge acquired from patching up members of the Night’s Watch over the years. Maybe it is a good thing they call you a witch —the men of the Watch didn’t much care for spirits and magic. “Don’t look like a witch,” Tormund notes, his voice rough. “All the witches I’ve known had warts and crooked noses” —he glares when you pull the first arrow from him without warning, knowing they were only bodkin points — “lived in trees.”

You lay a damp cloth over the bleeding wound before sliding around to his back. The arrows needed to be removed before you could strip him of the heavy furs to properly tend him. “If I had a cock,” you start with a dry laugh, “they’d call me a maester and give me a heavy chain to wear ‘round my neck.” Pressing your hand next to a second arrow, you wiggle the broken shaft, ensuring the arrowhead would come free too when you finally pull. You see the muscles in his neck tense.

“No more crows to worry over?” Tormund asks, voice gruff. Weren’t no more than a hundred men defending Castle Black on the ground and from above —a few more warriors in his warband, and they could’ve taken the castle to let Mance Rayder walk through the gates to the south.

“None that require my skillset.” He looks back, lifting a bloody brow in question. “Plucking arrows from men” —you snatch the third and final arrow from his back and toss it aside, all that’s left is the crossbow bolt in his leg— “sewing them back up.” Sitting back in front of him, you reach for the ties and straps of his clothes. Grimacing, he helps you divest himself of the layers until your icy fingertips brush against his broken and heated flesh. The wildling is barrel-chested with broad shoulders and strong arms —a testament to hard living beyond the Wall. Tormund lets you work in silence —defeat still leaves a sour taste on his tongue

HE SHIFTS AT the sound of footfalls on the stone, too light to belong to any of the crows. Between the torchlight and the few burning braziers, Tormund can see it is his sweet healer come to visit or torment him. The shackles on his ankles clink together against the stone floor as he moves around, scooting forward as you grow closer. “Couldn’t stay away,” he muses as you stop in front of his cell, setting down your satchel and water flagon.

“Daily rounds to see all my wards,” you counter, pulling a wrought iron key from the inside of your sleeve. You’d convinced Jon you could handle the wildling chieftain —maybe it was foolish of you to think that.

“Best for last?” He asks, laughing.

You huff, rolling your eyes as you unlock the cell, stepping inside. “You must be feeling better,” you note, setting out all your supplies.

Tormund drops the last of his layers —a stained wool tunic— next to him as you kneel with a damp cloth and fresh salve. He seizes your hands, startling you, but does nothing more than hold them between his own —his fingertips are rough, palms warm, wholly engulfing yours. “You got cold hands,” Tormund mutters, seeing the question form in your eyes.

“Didn’t think wildlings minded the cold,” you note, holding his gaze. He doesn’t say anything, just grunts in response and keeps your hands held in his for a moment longer before letting you carry about changing his wounds’ dressings.

But curiosity gets the better of him. He’s not known the Night’s Watch to keep a woman on hand. “How does you staying here with all these crows work?” Tormund asks —the muscles in his back tense when a cool, damp cloth touches his skin.

“Didn’t stay with the crows,” you tell him, removing a day-old cataplasm from his shoulder, washing away flecks of ground herbs left behind. “Stayed in Mole’s Town.” It was a small unpleasant village, but it meant you were close to the Wall —the Lord Commander paid for your services as a healer with how few men were currently in the Night’s Watch and with Maester Aemon growing frailer by the day. “Or I did,” you pause, remembering the grey smoke rising from the south a few days ago, “before your lot put it to the torch.” He wears a curious look as though to ask how you escaped his warband. “Was already here tending to those who went out north of the Wall.”

“Fate then,” he decides —the Old Gods must have meant for your paths to cross.

OF ALL THE men currently under your care, Tormund is your favorite, though you won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that —it’d make him nigh unbearable. He’s no longer kept in the dark cells below ground, despite still being a prisoner, or perhaps hostage, depending on what Stannis Baratheon and Jon Snow have planned. They’ve moved him to an empty room in one of the decaying towers of the castle. You unlock the door, finding him pacing along the perimeter of the small room. “Come to enchant me?” He asks, still finding it amusing that the crows would call a woman like you a witch.

“Thought I already had,” you laugh, watching as he starts tugging at his outer furs without instruction, “and that’s why you’ve been such a good boy.” Tormund Giantsbane wasn’t even half as stubborn as some of the Rangers who’ve come into your care over the years —like Benjen Stark when he came back from north of the Wall with an arrow in his shoulder.

“Boy?” Tormund bristles. “A boy doesn’t have a cock–” his voice fades into a hiss when you press the vinegar-soaked rag to the worst of his wounds. He glares at you, but then his hard stare softens when you smile. Tormund’s mind wanders, unable to stop himself from thinking what’d it be like to lay with a woman from south of the Wall —and if you’d still have that sharp tongue with his cock buried inside your cunt. “Can show you I’m not a boy,” he says, lips twitching upward under his ginger beard. “Doubt you’ve ever had a real man.”

Your gaze flits up to meet his, undeterred by his advances. It’s not the first time you’ve suffered through them, and you doubt it’ll be the last if you continue working with men who’ve sworn to be celibates. “That all you can think about?” You ask —more so teasing than chiding— unwrapping the strip of linen from around his leg. The poultice has kept infection at bay, though this wound is healing slower than the others.

“When I’m looking at a pretty woman,” Tormund replies in all sincerity, leaning forward.

You can feel warmth rushing to your cheeks, but you won’t let yourself look away elsewise he’ll know you’re not immune to his charms. “Well” —you smile, thinking of the conversation you’d overhead between Jon and Stannis— “you’re soon to be looking at a pretty crow named Lord Commander Snow.”

TORMUND GIANTSBANE IS no longer a prisoner under Jon Snow. The Lord Commander means to take him and a score of men to Hardhome and let the wildlings settle in the Gift to escape the encroaching Long Night. Jon knows he’s the only person the others will listen to in the wake of Mance Rayder’s death. The air in the common hall is thick with something you cannot describe —the members of the Night’s Watch have not taken kindly to Stannis’s men or the red-haired wilding sitting below the high table.

Olly sits next to you and Edd with a white-knuckle grip on his spoon, the taste of betrayal sitting bitterly on his tongue. Your gaze flits between the boy, Jon, and finally to Tormund. The wildling’s cold stare is already on you. Edd raises a brow when he sees how quickly you look away, cheeks tinged with warmth.

After some time, you take leave of the common hall, turning to the tower with a small room where Ser Alliser Throne said you could reside, as there was nowhere left for you to go. Tormund trails after you —and before you can shut the door to your chamber for the night, he stops you from doing so. “Didn’t come tend my wounds last night,” he laments, pouting almost.

“You’re going to live,” you assure him, letting him come in anyways. Last you checked, none of his wounds were close to festering, and all were healing cleanly and quickly. Untying your apron and belt, you set them aside and turn back to Tormund, half-smiling. “It’d be a waste of herbs and linen.” Those herbs and flowers would be precious commodities with winter fast approaching. He watches as you empty your satchel on the table and replenish the supplies in quiet awe —his sweet healer with cold hands. “You gonna tell me why you’re really here?” But you’re almost certain you already know, and you’ve no objections, either.

Tormund doesn’t answer at first. Instead, he steps behind you and cranes his head down to the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent as his arm slides across your middle, pulling you back nigh flush against him. “You know,” he rasps at your ear. The tickle of his beard against your neck is all the warning you have before his lips brush over your skin. Sighing, you tilt your head to the side, melding into his warmth and wandering hands. He tugs impatiently at the laces on the front of your woolen dress, but you swat away his hands and make quick work of the ties and break from his hold to shimmy out of the heavy garment. It leaves you in a thin shift, scarcely protection from the frigid air of the North —though the fire in Tormund’s darkened stare does set your blood aflame.

You step to him, curling your fingers into the soft leather and fur on his chest, and he pounces like a wildman. His kiss is soft at first, a gentle caress of the lips, but it grows deeper when his tongue coaxes you into what becomes a series of leisurely kisses, though each one feels more urgent than the last. Tormund’s hands wander to the small of your back, then along the curve of your bum, bunching up the fabric of your shift until he can grip onto the bare meat of your thighs. He must think you weigh nothing by the way he lifts you, opening your legs until they’re wrapped around his waist, your arms around his shoulders, lips never straying far from his.

He places you on the edge of the bed, then begins with the ties of his clothes and boots —throwing the leathers and furs aside in great haste— until he’s left in only a pair of sealskin shorts with the outline of his hard cock clearly visible. Tormund slips to his knees in front of you, wedging himself between your knees. Surging forward, you kiss him again, intoxicated by the moment. He’s happy to give and reluctant to part. “Thought the Free Folk didn’t kneel,” you challenge, combing your fingers through his beard.

“Only to those we choose,” Tormund tells you, dragging his rough hands along the outsides of your thighs, over your hips, pushing your shift up until you pull the thin fabric overhead, dropping it to the stone floor. You whine when his rough fingers brush over your clavicles, up the column of your neck —there’s a gentleness to the wildling chieftain you would have never thought existed. Tormund’s hand grips your jaw, forcing you to keep his gaze —affirmation he’d chosen to kneel before you.

Without another word, he leans down and presses small kisses around your breast, looking up at you the whole time. The small pecks soon turn into sloppy, open-mouthed kisses as his eyes close in focus. You reach down, carding your hands through his fiery hair —encouragement. He continues to inch closer and closer until he latches onto your nipple and sucks hard, using his hand to play with your other one. He pulls back just for a moment to nip at it. “Tormund,” you breathe, burying your hands into his fiery locks.

Tormund moves his hands to the soft insides of your thighs, squeezes them, then leans down, placing a kiss below your navel. You jump at the tickle of his beard, and his low chuckle rattles through you both, sending a wave of warmth washing over you, pooling low in your belly as he moves farther down. He groans at the sight of your cunt —slick already and begging to be feasted upon, and feast he will. He laps at you, firm but gentle, the corners of his lips turning up in a smile when he reads the pleasure making your gaze go soft and unfocused.

Then you lose conscious thought the second he wraps his lips around your clit, hands holding you firmly in place as he laps and licks through your folds, methodical and slow with a long and low groan. Tormund’s fingers brush through your folds, gathering the slick there, and he eases one finger into your cunt, curling, and stroking, then adds a second. He’s doing something devastating —the gentle pressure with each flick of his tongue— your breath comes in short gasps, chest heaving until it all erupts with white sparks. “All southrons sweet as you?” He asks, scraping his beard along the inside of your thigh, fingers still working you down from the sudden high.

“I am from the North, Tormund,” you remind him, amused.

“South of the Wall, though,” he refutes, giving one final nip to the inside of your thigh before withdrawing his sopping fingers and sucking them clean —eyes never leaving yours. It sends a shiver down your spine. He rises from his knees, and you stand too, hands going to the ties of his underpants. Kicking aside the last of his clothing, he lets you push him back to the bed and climb atop him like you’ve won some great victory.

He’s splayed out beneath you, looking up at you with those clear-blue eyes, clouded with lust, like a challenge. He let you win. You know that — he knows that. But here you are, straddling him with your fingers intertwined in his, pinning his hands above his head. He can easily turn the tables —flip you over and hold you down, and make you beg for him until you can't take it anymore. He can do all of that, but he doesn’t. No, Tormund Giantsbane likes the feeling of your weight above him, pressing him into the mattress, and he wants to see where this will go.

You lean over him and press a kiss to his collarbone, then to the base of his neck and underside of his jaw —his beard brushes against your lips as they move further up until they’re ghosting over the corner of his mouth. He turns his head slightly, stretching up to capture your lips in a hungry kiss. You moan softly into his mouth as his tongue drags over your bottom lip, seeking entrance. He loves the taste of you everywhere —the sweetness of your tongue, the salt of your sweat, the tang of your cunt— Tormund loves it all. Perhaps you had enchanted him.

His hips press up off the bed when your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking him from base to tip, thumb following along one of the throbbing veins on the underside. You shuffle back, guiding the weeping head of his cock between your slick folds until it catches on the entrance of your aching cunt, and you press back further sinking onto him with a lurid moan —echoed by his own strangled groan and a string of curses.

You start to rock and twist your hips, building a pleasant rhythm, working yourself on top of him. Tormund’s lips are parted, breathing heavily as he watches how your cunt takes him in over and over again, a sight that drives him to oblivion, and paired with how you whimper and moan and the feel of your breasts under his hands, he thinks he could finish then and there.

Tormund digs his heels into the bed, aiding you as you bounce and twist atop him. “Tormund,” you whimper, knowing you need more than this —you need his touch. He’s quick to answer the soft pleading, hands squeezing against your hips, arms flexing to lift and drag you across his cock himself as his hips roll upwards, pressing deeper it feels than ever before. Leaning down, you press your lips to his —panting against his mouth as your chests move against one another, hips rolling and filling the room with the sound of flesh against flesh and a chorus of low moans and breathy praises.

It’s sudden when he twists around, putting you beneath him —his weight hovering over you, cock still buried deep in your cunt. “Fucking greedy,” he groans, continuing his slow pace. Something changes in his eyes, but you cannot decipher it. Instead, you draw his face down and kiss him again. You relax inch by inch, sliding your hands over his muscled back, the ridges of his shoulder blades, and down his arms, taking the time to fully appreciate the small nicks and scars you’ve seen a dozen times over now. Then he moves again and again. Each stroke quicker and deeper than the last.

His cheeks and chest are flushed in the low light, and his hair clings to his neck and forehead as his pace picks up. Long, calloused fingers bury into your hair, angling you to look at him. His other hand slides down to where your bodies are joined, rubbing your clit, knowing by the way your walls flutter, that you're close, as is he. The budding pressure grows, setting you on another precipice ready to fall. Your body begins shuddering against his, limbs limp but jerking, neck tilted back into the furs —shining with sweat. Seeing you like this is enough to push him over too. Tormund’s body tenses, his hip stuttering, cock twitching deep inside you with a spreading warmth. His groan is strangled when he thrusts into you again, lazily —just to feel his seed begin to seep from your ruined cunt.

You feel an old sort of contentment as he lowers his weight to rest on bent forearms at either side of your head —his hazy blue eyes staring down at you, the dark red of his hair and beard wilder than you’d ever seen. Tormund dips his head down, nuzzling against the crook in your neck.

On instinct, your arms wrap around him, fingertips following one of the curving scars on his back, relishing the feeling of warmth and safety. “You’re going to come back to me,” you tell him, mussing the strands of hair at the back of his neck. Jon Snow means to set off to Hardhome at first light, he’d said as such during the evening meal, and in the following days, Stannis and his men will depart to head south, first to Winterfell and then onward to King’s Landing. But you’ve no doubt Tormund Giantsbane will return.

“Aye,” Tormund agrees, rolling to the side. He’s quick to pull you along with him and tuck you into his side. “Then we’ll see if the crows can hear us all the way from atop the Wall,” he says, squeezing a handful of your bum. You laugh, pressing your face into his chest, and he laughs too, the sound coming from deep in his belly. Though it soon turns to a wistful sigh, should the Others take him, he’s certain his last thought will be of you —his sweet healer.

[taglist: @mrsragnarlodbrok @erzsebetrosztoczy ] if you want to be added to a Game of Thrones taglist or any of my other taglists, check out this form here.

#Tormund #Tormund Giantsbane #Tormund x Reader #Tormund Giantsbane x Reader #Tormund Fanfiction #Tormund Giantsbane Fanfiction #Game of Thones #Game of Thrones Fanfiction #ASOIAF #ASOIAF Fanfiction #my writing #i went overboard for this ginger fuck #slick as a baby seal he said #and then you go inside but slowly #tell me this man does not know how to fuck #this is your fault claire

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football-and-fanfics · 2 years

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Damn, I think I love you - Erling Haaland

Who: Erling Haaland Request: Where you guys have mutual friends and he likes you but he is scared to confess because he thinks you are out of his league pls. Requested by: anonymous Warnings: none A/N: this is my first time writing for Erling Haaland, so hope you'll like it.

He's seen you many times before at your mutual friend's parties or other social gatherings. Every time he sees you, Erling is once again smitten by how beautiful you are and how he is completely in love with everything about you. From your wavy long locks to your dashing smile, and right down to even the way your feet look in the sneakers you're wearing. He knows you have a promising career at the law firm you work at, but the Manc accent that is so pleasing to Erling's ears, is rarely heard in your place of work. But Erling never speaks his mind to you or acts on his feelings. Everything about you oozes class, so he is sure you aren't looking to date a footballer. And so he hides it. Swallowing back his feelings each time he sees you doesn't stop the desire, though. He often realizes that he sees you by his side whenever he thinks of his future. It's a dream, he convinces himself. A dream which might never come true.

--- Today, at you mutual friend's wedding, Erling knows you'll be there, too. His eyes roam over the people who've already arrived for the ceremony, and he easily spots you in a fancy baby blue dress, looking even more stunning than usual. The brief thought crosses his mind that you're wearing City's colors, and he smiles to himself. Suddenly Erling is determined to tell you of his real feelings. He's scoring goals all over Europe in front of thousands of people, so why is he so afraid of talking to the woman he fancies? Enough, Erling tells himself, after the ceremony he will find a chance to talk to you. --- "Is this seat taken?" Erling finds you sitting alone at a table after dinner. The music's started and most other people have ventured out onto the dancefloor, but not you. "No, go ahead." You smile that dashing smile that sends butterflies to Erling's stomach. "Why are you alone?" Erling asks. "Everyone went dancing," you shrug, "so it was either dancing alone, dancing in a trio, or staying here. Needless to say, I choose that last option." The cheeky wink that follows your remark is almost enough to floor Erling, and he momentarily loses control over himself. "Will you dance with me?" The words are out before he knows it. For the first time in a long while, you're lost for words. You know Erling, have seen and talked to him on several previous occasions, but he never seemed particularly interested in you. So this offer to a dance catches you off guard. "Sure," you recollect yourself. Just as the two of you step onto the dancefloor, the music switches to a slow, romantic song. Panic sets in as Erling realizes this won't be just any dance with you, it will be a slow-dance. It's almost an out of body experience when Erling takes one of your hands in his, rests his other hand on your waist, and the two of you slowly move over the dancefloor. It's everything Erling's dreamed about for months, and suddenly it's very real. He notes how perfect your hand fits in his and how comfortable it already feels. He looks deep into your blue eyes, accentuated by the baby blue color of your dress, and Erling decides to throw all caution to the wind. "I'm in love with you," he blurts out. You gasp softly at this confession even though you've had your suspicions. You feel Erling's hand tighten its grip around yours, and you know he's nervous for your answer. "I..." you hesitate, "I've suspected something for a while. But since you never said anything, I thought I was wrong about it." "You're not wrong." Erling finds his confidence returning to him a little. "I always thought you would be out of my league. That you wouldn't be into me." "Well," you smirk, "that's where you are wrong." It takes a few seconds for the meaning of those words to sink in with Erling. "Do you mean... we can maybe go on a date sometime?" You smile that dashing smile again. "I would love to." Erling grins happily. Suddenly this dance doesn't feel so scary anymore. On the contrary, he hopes it's the first of many more dances with you.

Tags: @evie-pr, @auawdo, @meteora-fc, @de-geas, @stonesyyyy, @drizzyreese, @hbstre, @liverpoolfanfiction, @sternennebel2001 PL tags: @ella33 Add me to the tags list, too! General masterlist

#erling haaland #erling haaland imagine #erling haaland blurb #erling haaland fanfic #erling haaland fanfiction #football imagine #football blurb #football fanfic #football fanfiction #footballer imagine #footballer blurb #footballer fanfic #footballer fanfiction #footballandfanficserlinghaaland

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player1064 · 2 months

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reverse of ur outed!gary fic: Jamie comes out early in his career (all aggressively "so fucking WHAT??!!" about it). Cue closeted gary (who still hates scousers) trying (and failing) to ask for tips on coming out whilst still playing.

Jamie doesn't realise Gary's gay until they're proper friends, YEARS after retirement

I've been thinking this one over trying to work out how I wanna do it and well anyway today I finally sat down to write it and uh at what point does a drabble stop being a drabble and start being just. a fic. bc this one comes in at 1.2k words so like. hi!

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“Is Neville staring at us again?”

“I mean –” Stevie quickly glances back over his shoulder, “—yeah, he is, but he’s always had that sort of –” he looks at Jamie and widens his eyes in an imitation of Neville’s default glare, “—y’know, he’s just stare-y. ‘s probably nowt to do w’you, don’t be so vain.”

Except, all day Jamie feels eyes burning into the back of his head, and every time he turns around Neville is there, pretending he’s not been looking straight at him.

It’s Jamie’s first England camp since coming out, and until now he’s been so safely wrapped up in the bubble of the Liverpool dressing room that he’d almost forgotten that the rest of the England squad, especially the Mancs, are fucking dicks. Always have been, and among the Mancs there is none more dickish than Mister Manc himself, Gary fucking Neville.

He’s always ignored the Liverpool players, has always shot glares at them from his little huddle of friends, but Jamie’s pretty sure it’s worse this time around. And only one thing has changed, so.

Homophobic little prick.

Neville may always be surrounded by his little gang but Jamie is too, he’s got Stevie and Mickey and Redders, so he doesn’t have to make any attempts at civil conversation and everyone can just go on ignoring each other, both on and off the pitch.

(And people wonder why it’s been so long since England won a trophy.)

But then Jamie sprains his ankle during five-a-side, and he’s fine, really, but he’s sent off the pitch to the treatment room.

The treatment room, where Neville – who’s done his calf or his hamstring or his who-gives-a-shit – is going through his physio exercises.

Neville stops when he walks in and, surprise surprise, he stares, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Carragher,” he bites out in greeting.

“Neville,” Jamie responds with a curt nod. “Don’t worry your ugly little head, I’ll just go back to my room. Can’t do much to me ankle ‘sides rest it, anyways.”

“No, you should – I mean, you can stay. Makes no difference to me, like.”

“Fine. Cheers, then.”

He limps over to the mini-freezer that holds the ice packs, then hops up onto a bench and rests his foot on a cushion.

Neville keeps staring at him, the whole time.

“’s not catching, y’know,” Jamie grumbles.

“Wassat?”

“Bein’ gay. So you can stop fuckin’ lookin’ at me like that, ‘s not like I’m gonna try anything. Not w’you, that’s for sure.”

Neville blinks a few times. “That’s not what –” he scowls. “—yer not special, y’know, just ‘cause you like suckin’ dick. Yer not special at all, are you, how many minutes’ve you played for England now?”

“Fuck off, you’re the one who won’t stop starin’ at me. ‘scuse me for not wantin’ to get beaten up by some skinny Manc.”

“I’ve not been starin’.”

“You fucking have. I’d ask if you ‘ave a crush but I think I’d rather take the beating, thanks.”

Neville scowls again, his cheeks flushed, and then he storms out of the room.

Jamie doesn’t speak to him again that international break.

“’ve I got somethin’ in me beard?”

Gary must not have realised he was staring, because he blinks and ducks his head, mumbles a “sorry, Carra,” just like Jamie knew he would.

Because Gary’s always staring, it’s just what he does. Jamie’s used to it by now, that intense focus of his. It’s almost nice, sometimes. Flattering.

They’ve finished shooting for the day and are sat in a pub near the Sky campus. Jamie’s just finishing his third pint, while Gary’s still nursing his second. Probably for the best, really, he can be such a lightweight.

Case in point: Gary suddenly turns all serious, frowning at Jamie and saying, “Carra,” with all the same gravity as if he’d used his full name.

“Yeah?” Jamie asks lightly, because who can be bothered with all that.

“Carra, why d’we never talk about it?”

“Talk about what, Gaz?”

“Me ‘n’ you.”

Jamie splutters into his drink. “You what?”

He must be going insane, is the thing, because he’s pretty sure Gary’s just asked –

“About me. ‘n’ you. And whatever that might’ve – meant. Back then, I mean, obviously not – obviously not now, ‘m not –”

“Gary, what the bloody ’ell are you talkin’ about?”

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the lighting, but Gary’s flushed a delightful shade of pink. He stares down at where his hands are resting on the table, fidgeting.

“Why’re you makin’ me say it, I were young, it – it’s embarrassing.”

Jamie waits, arms crossed.

“Ugh, fine,” Gary huffs eventually, “since you’re insistin’ on bein’ all obtuse, James, fine. We’ve been workin’ together for years now, I’d like to think we’re friends, and I were just wonderin’ why you’ve never mentioned the crush I used to have on you, in England days. I mean, I know you wouldn’t – like, I am aware, that I’m not – y’know? But you tease me about everythin’ else, I never understood why not that, too.”

It takes a second, to process.

You can’t blame Jamie for that, surely, because what the actual fuck. Like, what the fuck.

Gary’s staring at him again, expectant. Nervous, maybe.

What the fuck.

“You –” Jamie starts, because he worries if he doesn’t say something soon Gary might get all wobbly. “You – Gary, you what?”

Gary’s flush deepens.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I know it’s – I know I weren’t exactly your type, back then. Or now, I s’pose, though, ha, don’t think I’m really anyone’s type, am I? Y’don’t need to rub it in, I were just wonderin’ why y’never mentioned it.”

“You –” Jamie tries again, still unable to get past his first sticking point. “Since when d’you like men?” Since when did you like me, he wants to ask, but that seems like far too dangerous a territory for three beers deep on a Wednesday night.

“You what, Jamie? ‘ve you been hit in the head?”

“I could ask you the same! You’re straight!”

“D’you need me to call a doctor? Straight, Jesus. Me? ‘m fucking gayer’n you, I’ll tell you that for free.”

“I – we’ve been workin’ together nearly ten year, why’d you never tell me?”

“Why the fuck would I ‘ave to tell you, you’ve known since 2004!”

“What do you mean, I’ve known since 2004, d’you not think I’d know if there was another gay footballer in the prem, or ‘re you forgettin’ all the shit I went through just because I was the only one.”

They’d not even been friends in 2004. They’d been barely civil, even when they were teammates at England. When the fuck would Jamie have had the chance to –

“Oh my God. ‘re you telling me that whole fucking nightmare of an international break you spent glaring at me like I’d killed your nan was because you fucking liked me?”

“You didn’t know?” Gary screeches. “You’re the one who said it!”

“Oh my God,” Jamie repeats. “We could’ve been doing this for twenty fucking years.”

“What, arguin’? I think you’ll find we –”

Jamie kisses him, both as explanation and because sometimes he really needs to learn when to shut up.

#this was sooooo fun to write thank u for the prompt!!!!#carraville #drabbles

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actuallyalright · 2 days

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Touch

Jamie Carragher walks onto the Stick to Football set on Friday morning, with a grin he hasn’t been able to shake off since he stood in the yellow wall at the Champions League match between Dortmund and PSG. Stood isn’t really the right word for what Jamie got up to that night but that’s a tale for another day. He’s still flying high off the buzz, and he can’t wait to tell Gary what it was like. This feeling is definitely one best understood by those who breathe football like it is their oxygen.

He settles in, noting that the raspberry mini rolls are back for Roy, and helps himself to a cup of tea while he waits for the other lads. Within a few moments, Ian and Wrighty saunter in, and geez, when did they become such good mates, Jamie wonders? An odd pairing for sure, but one that Jamie is fond of.

“Jamie, my man, you look good, how are ya, I’ve missed you man, I saw you had a good time at the game last night,” Wrighty goes in for a hug and keeps talking while Roy mumbles an “Alright, Jamie?” and takes his seat across from him. Jamie is dying to tell them all about it, but he wants Gary to be there too, and where was that Manc bastard? Why was he late to his own show and why hadn’t he responded to any of Jamie’s texts over the last couple of days?

“Just us three then today?” Roy asks one of the production crew, who has come in with a fresh pot of tea and more snacks for the table. “I know Jill’s busy but where’s Gaz?” “I’m right here, Roy! Bloody hell, didn’t think you’d be the one to miss me the most!”, a distinctly Mancunian accent, getting progressively louder as the man behind it makes his way to the table. He pats Roy on the shoulder, gives Wrighty a hug, and rounds his way back to his spot at the table, setting up his question cards and iPad.

For the first time in 3 days, the grin on Jamie’s face falters.

This episode of the podcast is just the four of them. No special guest. They discuss the relegation battle at the bottom of the league, have another debate on if Arsenal have what it takes to dethrone Manchester City as champions, answer some fan questions, and Gary calls out “Riiight” to end the show.

“No super 6 today?” Wrighty looks surprised.

Before he can answer, Jamie turns to Gary, his smile now completely wiped off his face, and “We haven’t even touched on the Champions League!”

Gary chuckles and throws his arms up in the air. “I’m a busy man, I’ve got to go!”, he jokes, before looking at the camera and speaking to it, “Right! That’s it for this week’s episode of Stick to Football, thanks to Sky Bet, and see you on the next one!” He gets up from his seat and does his well-done handshake with Wrighty, Roy, and finally, Jamie.

Jamie holds onto his hand until Gary is forced to look at him straight in the eye. “What are you doing?!”, Gary squeaks, “I’ve got to run, mate!” Jamie drops his hand as if he’s been struck by lightning and Gary runs off, shouting his goodbyes to the crew.

Leaving Jamie to wonder what the actual fuck his problem was. *

#carraville #gary neville #jamie carragher #stick to football #roy keane #ian wright

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sayruq · 1 year

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I find it interesting that GRRM decided that two different times in history, both the Vale and Dorne were kept out of life changing events. First there was the Great spring sickness where only vale and Dorne were kept safe and quarantined while the other kingdoms suffered. And then during the war of five kings, vale and dorne remained neutral while everyone else was fighting someone. Is that meant to be a coincidence or is Martin wanting to make a connection between them?

It's probably done on purpose. The War of the Five Kings was written first, then GRRM went back and added in the Great Spring Sickness because GRRM loves his rule of 3. Either things come in threes or they come in twos with the third time diverging.

Aegon and his sisters, Dany's 3 dragons, 3 Baratheon Kings, 3 Martell siblings, 3 Lannister siblings, 3 Starks who died before and during Robert's Rebellion, etc but there's also

2 Martell-Targaryen marriages (1 successful, 1 disastrous, 1 more potential marriage between Aegon and Arianne that could go either way),

two Starks going south to join a civil war (Ned Stark joining Robert's Rebellion with his side winning, Robb fighting the Lannisters ending with his death, which means the Northern army is going to leave the North for a third and last time this time ending with a Northern victory. I don't think Cregan Stark really counts as Rhaenyra was dead while Ned and Robb went south as the war was ramping up),

and 2 plans by sacrifice a child with royal blood (Edric Storm who escapes, Mance's baby who is hidden and sent away, which means that when they decide to burn Shireen, they'll go through with it)

This tells me that if Dorne and the Vale were spared war and sickness, then the third time must be different. This is why Dorne and the Vale are going to be instrumental in 2 different concurrent wars: the War against the Others and the Dance of Dragons 2.0 between Aegon VI and Daenerys.

Both kingdoms have fresh armies eager for war. The Dornish army will join Aegon VI in TWOW and the Vale army will go to the North for Sansa Stark (who is Aegon's narrative twin. Seriously, go read ADWD and tell me Aegon doesn't follow the same narrative beats as Sansa's ASOS and AFFC chapters. The main difference is that Aegon was hidden as a baby, he has open supporters while Sansa's are still looking for her or waiting for an opportunity to step up -*ahem* Yohn Royce - and he is ahead of her rn because he's invading Westeros while Sansa is still in hiding).

#Anonymous #dorne #the vale #house martell #house arryn #asoiaf #asoiaf speculation #asoiaf meta #song of ice and fire #aegon vi targaryen #young griff #dance of dragons 2.0 #Sansa Stark

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nightswatchdisbandmentera · 1 year

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Gosh I just love how Jon and Mel are paralleled in how they choose to ignore truths in relation to visions and prophecy because it’s a very interesting collision of two separate arcs: Jon’s - the deconstructed hidden prince/chosen one - and Mel’s - the deconstructed prophetess/wizard.

Like both are given the same information (i.e., that Jon may be the reincarnation of a legendary fiery-sword wielding hero) and both choose to deny the truth in this information because of one reason or the other: Jon has the tendency to ignore all the magical aspects in his life, mostly because he doesn’t want to be a super special magic boy, and Mel has already decided that the hero in question is some balding, middle-aged weirdo. But there exists a commonality between them since neither one knows of Jon’s true parentage, and so both think he’s just some random guy.

It’s very funny because we learn that Mel has been seeing visions of Jon every time she looks into her flames.

The flames crackled softly, and in their crackling she heard the whispered name Jon Snow. His long face floated before her, limned in tongues of red and orange, appearing and disappearing again, a shadow half-seen behind a fluttering curtain. Now he was a man, now a wolf, now a man again.

And we know that it’s been happening quite frequently because she gets another vision of Jon (in her POV chapter) and goes “oh god not him again!”

“What do you see, my lady?” the boy asked, softly.

Skulls. A thousand skulls, and the bastard boy again. Jon Snow.

So poor Mel is a little frustrated because she’s not looking for Jon. She’s looking for Stannis because she believes that he is Azor Ahai.

Yet now she could not even seem to find her king. I pray for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, and R’hllor shows me only Snow.

So she looks for Azor Ahai and only sees Jon Snow, but she never once thinks “hmm it’s super frustrating to keep seeing this weird emo teen but maybe there’s something deeper to it. Like there has to be a reason why I see him in place of my king, right?” And then she talks to Jon in a later chapter and confirms that she is seeing him whenever she looks for Mance or Stannis, as per my previous post, and both of them come out of that conversation being the very definition of “no thoughts, head empty ”. They’re just not going to think about it; and both end up focusing on other aspects of the visions and not the larger theme.

And then there’s this conversation between Jon and Val (in Jon VIII, ADWD) that honestly encapsulates the sheer comedy of a powerful wizard who is sent by destiny to go find this magical prince and missing him, and how the magical prince in question gets really frustrated with the wizard because he thinks that the wizard’s visions are dumb and useless.

In this conversation, Val suggests that Mel may know about Jon switching Dalla’s and Gilly’s babies because of what she sees in her fires.

“And keep [Gilly’s baby] away from the red woman. She knows who he is. She sees things in her fires.”

Val is essentially suggesting that Mel is attuned to the truth because of her prophetic insight. But Jon doesn’t think so.

Arya, he thought, hoping it was so. “Ashes and cinders.”

He hopes Mel can see the truth of Arya’s whereabouts, but what he actually thinks is different. He dismisses Mel’s supposed truth as mere “ashes and cinders”. And it’s so funny because this is a huge miscommunication. Jon is no doubt thinking of Mel seeing “only snow” (we learn from a later chapter that this is the answer Mel always gives) but it seems so silly so he twists that into “ashes and cinders”.

But the problem starts with Mel, honestly. She isn’t able to understand that the king she finds in her fires is Jon Snow and so when she relays the information back to him, she does it in such a vague manner, so Jon thinks she means literal snow (like frozen water, that snow). Except Mel means Jon Snow. She sees Jon Snow in her fires but refuses to ponder further on why she should see him in place of Stannis.

There is such hilarity in a wizard going on a great quest to find a prophesied prince and failing because she at some point found this other guy and convinced herself that he was the prophesied hero all along, even though he didn’t fit at all. So when she is ultimately led to the prince she’s looking for, she mistakes him for some random guy even when her visions actually tell her, “No Mel, wait! This is your guy!! This is your king! Hello?!”

But then, even if she somehow got clued in on said random guy being the prophesied prince, it’s a little too late because he’s already mistrustful of her anyway and doesn’t take her seriously. So he ironically asks her, “have you seen the king in your fires?” And she says, “I’m seeing you when I search for the king”. And literally neither one of them goes, “hey wait a minute?!”

And you know what’s even more frustrating? Some completely unrelated person somehow manages to get to the truth of the matter! (Sort of…). Val somehow manages to understand that what Mel sees is true. In fact, Val is even more correct than she realizes because when Jon dismisses Mel’s visions as “ashes and cinders”, Val counters that with:

“Kings and dragons.”

Oh!

So, according to Val, not only can Mel see the truth, but she can also see the truth of who is a king and/or a dragon.

The king Mel sees is also a dragon, as he is one of the last surviving Targaryens in the world. Where Jon dismisses Mel’s visions, Val somehow takes the narrative’s voice here and goes “oh it’s not just Snow she sees, she also sees that he is a king and a dragon”.

As if this wasn’t comedic enough, Jon gets a vision towards the end of the book that literally connects the dots.

Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. “Snow,” an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall he sent them down to die again. He slew a greybeard and a beardless boy, a giant, a gaunt man with filed teeth, a girl with thick red hair. Too late he recognized Ygritte. She was gone as quick as she’d appeared.

- Jon XII, ADWD

He dreams of himself as the fire-sword wielding hero Mel has been so crazy about, and then he wakes up to his pet bird calling him “KING” basically affirming everything Mel has been seeing throughout the entire book. And he does the most Jon Snow thing imaginable. He completely ignores it! We get zero commentary to this, same as we got zero commentary from him then Mel said that she saw him every time she tried to look for Mance or Stannis.

Really, both the chosen one and the great wizard are failing quite miserably. They get information much in the same way (Jon gets a prophetic dream, and Mel gets her prophetic visions) but they both decide to ignore whatever they’re seeing. The chosen one is annoyed that the wizard’s visions are useless, the wizard is annoyed that the totally-normal-boy-who’s-definitely-not-the-chosen-one-not-like-Stannis-is-anyway isn’t listening to her, and poor Val is off to the side going “hey, doesn’t anyone else think its important that Mel really does see kings and dragons?!!”

And honestly, Mel’s inability to get it even when the answer is right in front of her becomes even funnier when we take this exchange into account:

[…] all of them seemed surprised to hear Maester Aemon murmur, “It is the war for the dawn you speak of, my lady. But where is the prince that was promised?”

“He stands before you,” Melisandre declared, “though you do not have the eyes to see. Stannis Baratheon is Azor Ahai come again, the warrior of fire. In him the prophecies are fulfilled. The red comet blazed across the sky to herald his coming, and he bears Lightbringer, the red sword of heroes.”

- Samwell IV, ASOS

I- 😭

Mel accuses Maester Aemon of being too blind to see the truth, not knowing that the narrative has damned her as well. Unlike Aemon, she has actually set her eyes on the promised prince but she’s the one who has been too blind to see.

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