Northling ⋆♱ @the-northling - Tumblr Blog

⋆˚࿔ 𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭.

𝘏𝘪, 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘵 ⟶ 𝘴𝘩𝘦/𝘩𝘦𝘳, 20’𝘴, 𝘔𝘋𝘕𝘐

⋆˚࿔ 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬.

ᯇ 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘳!𝘉𝘢𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

⋆˚࿔ 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬:

ᯇ English is not my native language, so I’m learning as we go. Constructive criticism is welcome :) ᯇ This blog is for everything, although I'll mainly be using it for writing fanfic and other fandom jargon. ᯇ Currently working on: Getting my degree.

#navigation #my post

nyra-42

Seeing an edit on TikTok of a “character”.

*Sighs*

Opens Tumblr and looks up “character” x reader.

allthingswhumpyandangsty

the-northling

No worries I’ll finish it, life is just so busy.

valaena

Bertie Carvel as Baelor Breakspear Targaryen in A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

azaablue

the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.

madamejadex

Please remember that Pride is important because someone tonight still believes they’re better off dead than being themselves.

grant-reilly

leshermes

June 1st is TOMORROW. It means that GAY PEOPLE will exist, but only for ONE MONTH. Do not forget to buy your tickets to see them NOW, or else you will have to wait AN ENTIRE YEAR to be able to meet them AGAIN.

the-northling

Happy pride everyone!

crayonbug

a non-exhaustive record of the meeps, merps and morps of adam dalgliesh, season 1 episode 4

emmaxrosa

RHAENYRA TARGARYEN & DAEMON TARGARYEN House of the Dragon: Season 3

#they’re so back

harubonchari

HANDS WORTH NOTICING — ADAM DALGLIESH

Summary: You keep staring at Adam Dalgliesh’s hands. Unfortunately for you, he notices every single time.

The first time, you didn’t realize you were staring until he stopped turning the page.

Silence settled over the sitting room of the vicarage, warm from the low fire and the rain tapping softly against the windows. Adam Dalgliesh sat opposite you with a book balanced in one hand, glasses low on his nose, thumb brushing absently along the edge of the paper.

His hands were unfair, frustratingly unfair.

Long fingers. Clean nails. Veins shifting beneath pale skin every time he turned a page. Strong enough to look dangerous, careful enough to hold old books like relics.

You looked too long.

Without lifting his eyes from the page, he said mildly, “If there’s something you’d like to say, you may say it.”

Heat climbed straight into your face. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

“I was thinking.”

“Mm.” Another page turned. “About my hands.”

Your mouth fell open.

That finally made him glance up. Calm. Dry. Amused in the faintest possible way.

“You looked at them,” he said, “like they’d personally offended you.”

The second time happened in the car.

One hand rested loosely on the steering wheel while the other tapped once against the gear shift at a red light. You caught yourself watching the movement again, the flex of tendons beneath rolled sleeves, the silver glint of his watch, the way his fingers curled with effortless control.

“You’re doing it again,” he said. You snapped your gaze toward the window immediately. “Doing what?” “Looking at me.”

“I literally am not.”

“Mm.” That soft, knowing hum made your stomach flip in annoyance.

Adam stopped at a red light and finally looked over.“You like my hands,” he said simply.

You stared at him in horror.

He looked devastatingly composed about it.

“You cannot just say things like that.” “And yet,” he murmured, eyes flicking back to the road as the light turned green, “I did.”

You crossed your arms stubbornly and looked out the window toward the passing London traffic.

“You’re very smug for a detective.”

“I’m observant for a detective.”

When you gave no response, he triumphed in silent victory. Adam didn’t look away from the road, but satisfaction ghosted briefly across his mouth.

“I hate when you do that,” you muttered.

“No, you don’t.”

Worse part was, he was right.

The third time was worse because other people were there.

The team had gathered in the conference room, papers scattered across the table, tension running taut after twelve straight hours on the case. Adam stood beside the board, sleeves rolled past his forearms while he pinned photographs into place.

You should have been listening.

Instead, your eyes tracked the precise movement of his fingers smoothing paper flat against the corkboard.

Strong hands. Steady hands.

Hands that had carried coffins. Written poetry. Held murder evidence. Held you.

God help you.

“You’ve gone quiet,” one of the detectives remarked. You straightened instantly. “I’m listening.”

Adam turned at the sound of your voice, and immediately caught you looking. One slow glance downward toward his hands before his eyes lifted back to yours.

A tiny lift of one eyebrow.

That was all.

The corner of his mouth twitched just enough to tell you he knew exactly what he was doing when he deliberately rolled his sleeves higher.

You wanted to die.

The fourth time, he did something about it.

You were sitting beside him on the sofa after midnight, exhaustion heavy in your bones while rain murmured outside. Adam was reading through case notes, glasses perched low again, one hand supporting his chin.

And you stared.

Again.

This time, you didn’t even try to hide it.

His fingers tapped once against the file before he closed it entirely.

“Come here.”

Your breath caught slightly. “I am here.”

“You know what I mean.”

Slowly, suspiciously, you shifted closer.

Adam reached for your hand first—warm, broad palm folding around yours effortlessly. He turned your hand over carefully, studying your fingers with the same attention you’d spent weeks giving him.

“You look at my hands,” he murmured, thumb brushing lightly across your wrist, “as though you’re trying to solve something.”

“I’m not.”

“No?”

“No.” You swallowed. “I just like them.”

Then he lifted your hand and pressed a kiss against your knuckles, slow enough to make your heart ache.

For a moment he said nothing. Afterward, he threaded his fingers through yours deliberately.

“There,” he said softly, returning to his papers without letting go. “Now you can stare properly.”

Final term of uni is really getting to me, it’s been so busy with exams and deadlines. Hope to write more soon, but not to worry Prof!Bealor is still on my mind.