#joey g | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

live-laugh-loverpool · 2 years ago

Note

Okay so damn... I want to actually cry. I've never felt so betrayed as I'm feeling right now. I love the boys, but I'm so freaking disappointed!

I want a fic with lots of angst between them. Especially Alisson. It can even have they fighting between each other (no violence, just words).

Maybe a little bit of comfort in the end.

I'm almost crying.

Yes, I know 😬😬😭😭😭 It pained me to write this but here we go.

Tags: @millythegoat @moomin279 @alissonbecksfan234 @rubybecker-rb2

Warnings: depression, fighting, cursing (mostly in Portuguese)

Sgt. Klopp’s Broken Hearts—Part 1

Jesse Marsch had never seen Liverpool play so badly. It was like they were a completely different club, with a different manager and players, and a different spirit.

This couldn’t be the club that won the Champions’ League in 2019. This couldn’t be the Premier League winners, the domestic cup champions, the tenacious victory-hungry warriors he’d come to know. This wasn’t Liverpool.

Marsch quickly switched off the TV before they could show the final whistle, taking his phone from the charger. He turned off all his news notifications before opening up the Weird Managers’ Club Group Chat.

CatalanMagician: Ninety minutes and the curse of Regio Madrid strikes again

TheSpecialOne: If I speak I am in big trouble

SuperFrankieLampard: Where’s Jurgen?

TT: where do you think he is 😑

Marsch didn’t want to think about the possible answers to that question. Klopp could technically be anywhere—he’d retired two decades ago, but was still quite swift. Faster than the entirety of that defense tonight, anyways.

Jessethe🐐: With his boys, hopefully

TT: I hope not, he’d never live down what Milner and Elliott will say

CatalanMagician: Jurgen told me those two have net zero tact

SuperFrankieLampard: At the rate they played they could’ve lost 9-0

Marsch hated Lampard for making that remark. He also hated the fact that the remark was true.

TheSpecialOne: I thought he understood that riddle

TT: 😬 Jurgen’s gonna beat down on himself so much

Jurgen doesn’t beat upon himself, Marsch thought. He didn’t know the German as well as the other managers did, but from what he’d seen Klopp didn’t hold very high standards when it came to himself.

TheSpecialOne: deservedly so, which manager doesn’t make one change when you’ve blown a two goal lead

“Jose Mourinho, you freaking idiot,” Marsch muttered, furiously typing out a reply.

Jessethe🐐: JOSE not helping

TheSpecialOne: I am

TT: I’m going to go get Jurgen

SuperFrankieLampard: You sure he hasn’t turned off his phone yet?

TT: It’s not been long since the match, it’s probably still on

Jessethe🐐: jeez guys! Leave him alone and he’ll find this chat himself. He made it after all

Marsch didn’t even stick around to see what would happen. He set his phone to “emergency contact only” and threw it across the room, slumping onto the couch.

If Jesse Marsch hadn’t known what sympathy pains were before, he sure knew now. And God knows what the others are feeling now…

The locker room was in complete catatonia. Some had hoped for a win going into the match, some had prepared themselves for a loss, and others had thought a draw as the best outcome. It would take a psychotically pessimistic fool to think Liverpool would concede 5 unanswered goals at Anfield. Today, that psychotically pessimistic fool happened to be fate itself.

“Toda hora, Fabinho! ¡Cada maldita vez!” Jota grabbed Fabinho by the shoulders with a vice-like grip, glaring into his teammate’s panicked, guilt-stricken eyes. “Se não fosse a sua maldita incapacidade de manter a bola, talvez não tivéssemos sofrido 5 malditos gols!!!”

“Leave Flaco out of this!” Firmino shoved the irate striker away, standing between him and Fabinho. “If you’d used some pace on the right wing we could’ve at least scored another goal! But nooo, you’re as useless as you always are when it comes to big competitions.”

Jota glared at Firmino, trying to brush him aside. “And you think you’re so big, hot-shot? You shot that header right into their goalie’s hands! Droga, você não consegue fazer nada direito!”

“Watch your mouth, you three,” Elliott warned the Portuguese speakers. Rather ironically, considering what he said next. “I don’t have to understand your Portuguese to realize how much of a bunch of useless cowards you are.”

“Harvey Elliott! Leave them alone,” Milner boomed, grabbing the youngster and swinging him over his shoulder. The vice-captain’s eyes flashed with rage, far more than the usual spite he carried. “If you want to blame somebody for doing freaking nothing in this match, blame Joe for forgetting to exist.”

Gomez looked up from the bench, the guilt in his eyes quickly morphing into anger. “Me?! Ali forgot how to clear a ball and he’s a goalkeeper! They don’t have many things to memorize and he completely forgot that one!” he ranted, hurling a water bottle at Alisson’ locker.

Alisson hadn’t even moved once he’d come into the locker room, not even to change out of the matchday kit. Gomez's water bottle hitting him square across the thigh seemed to activate him, though, as he glared daggers at the English defender.

“What are you talking about, goalkeepers don’t have many things to memorize? Dammit, Joe, I have to memorize about a million things to keep a clean sheet with you guys around!”

“Which you still couldn’t do today. You conceded more goals today than you did in the past two weeks!”

“Sometimes I wonder why I put up with all of you!” Alisson stabbed a finger towards Van Dijk, who’d looked shocked from the moment Alisson started yelling. “I wonder why I put up with you, Virgil! Where were you to help Joey out, where’s the strong able Virgil from the World Cup?!”

The Dutchman stood from his seat. In one swift movement he was holding Alisson back from Gomez. “You’re seriously not going to bring that up, are you? You brought that problem upon yourself. Ali, your own compatriot kicked your butt!”

“NÃO me chame de Ali. NÃO chame Vini de meu compatriota. NÃO fale sobre esse maldito jogo!” Alisson broke free from Van Dijk, storming towards the showers. “And do not DARE lay a hand on Flaco or I’ll make you regret holding me back!”

“You know what?” Van Dijk glared at the keeper. In a move nobody in the locker room expected, he took up Gomez's water bottle and threw it at Alisson. “I might as well leave you alone, fracasso. You can’t even handle a defeat without acting like a child! I can only imagine how disappointed Klopp’s going to be with you.”

“And they say I put my foot in my mouth,” Elliott muttered, still over Milner’s shoulder.

Milner only tightened his hold on Elliott. “Careful or you’re going to end up over my knee.”

“And where did ‘the lilac part of my heart’ go?” Alisson shot back. It was clear to see, though, that the spite in his comments were now more fueled by hurt than rage. “Do you even support me around anymore, Virgil? Do you not see that if it wasn’t for some of those saves, we would’ve lost by ten goals?! Is that all I am to you now, a failure?”

Van Dijk didn’t flinch at that, continuing to glare at Alisson. “You can’t even accept when you made a mistake.”

“Ali, calm down!” Henderson finally stepped into the brouhaha, grabbing Alisson before he could lash back at Van Dijk’s latest comment. “If you say something, you’re going to regret it later.”

“I’m going to regret it later?! I’m sure not going to regret telling Virgil that he’s the one who can’t accept when he makes a mistake. When was the last time you saw him apologize for something he did wrong?!” Alisson pushed Henderson away from him, slamming the door behind him as he disappeared into the showers.

The whole room was quiet after that. Until Firmino ran towards Van Dijk and socked him in the elbow.

“Caramba, caramba! Ainda damos a mínima? Todo esse time está uma bagunça, e é por sua causa!”

There was no way that he could face his boys now. It was impossible.

Klopp hadn’t even said a word, besides the compulsory handshake with Anzilotti. He’d gone straight down the tunnel and disappeared inside the nearest closet—which just happened to be a broom closet.

If it was a case of the five stages of grief, then Klopp didn’t need a therapist to know that he was currently experiencing shock. But shock was only supposed to last a few minutes—he knew that from experience.

His phone buzzing disturbed him from his thoughts. He’d forgotten to turn it off at halftime, and now he had a boatload of notifications from the managerial group chat.

TT: Jurgen you still alive?

TheNormalOne: I’m not sure

CatalanMagician: You totally disappeared after the game

TheNormalOne: I wish

TheSpecialOne: Are you hiding in a broom closet

TheNormalOne: how did you know

TheSpecialOne: Just a lucky guess 🙄

CatalanMagician: The press will come after you

TheNormalOne: I’m NOT going to put my foot in my mouth and say we’ll come back from this 😩.

TT: 😧

Jessethe🐐: 😧

CatalanMagician: Come on, that’s not like you! Where’s the fighting spirit that’s kept me on my toes ☹

Klopp hesitated before typing out a response. Has it really gotten to this point where Pep in sky blue has to motivate me?

TheNormalOne: I’ve made too many promises I can’t keep

TheSpecialOne: That’s what I meant by my coded advice earlier

TheNormalOne: Don’t say anything about that damn code

TheSpecialOne: I told you to exude on the pitch what you have within yourself. Judging by that performance I’d say you have no love, passion or pride in you whatsoever

CatalanMagician: THIS IS WHY I HATE YOU YOU HAVE NO FILTER

TheNormalOne: …

TT: Great work Jose, you broke him

Klopp shut off his phone, muting everything. He threw it into a bin on the other side of the closet and leaned against a mop. After two minutes of unbearable silence, he reached for his phone, turned it on and went straight to Youtube. He clicked on a song he’d only listened to once, before the events of the next day had stained its meaning forever.

What about sunrise?

What about rain?

What about all the things

That you said we were to gain?

Did you ever stop to notice

All the blood we've shed before?

Did you ever stop to notice

This crying Earth, these weeping shores?

Unlike most of Michael Jackson’s songs, this one was slower, more reflective. It was actually about the Earth rather than Liverpool, but right now Klopp felt like he'd let down the entire Red section of the earth.

I used to dream

I used to glance beyond the stars

Now I don't know where we are

Although I know we've drifted far

The first stadium he’d visited as Liverpool manager had been Whitehart Lane, Spurs’ then-home. To dare is to dream, the wall had said, painted in dark blue and white. And to dream is to dare, Klopp had added upon seeing the motto.

All his life, Klopp had been a dreamer and a darer. He’d dreamt of managing, dared to try something different than the rough and tumble macho style of football he’d experienced as a player. He’d dared to come to England and dreamt of creating a deep connection. He’d dared to dream it would last forever, and in some far-off future he would walk away from Liverpool to the sounds of cheers and appreciation as he embraced his eventual retirement.

Now he only dared to hope that this had all been a bad dream.

What about the crying man?

(What about us?)

What about Abraham?

(What about us?)

What about death again?

(Ooh)

Do we give a damn?

10 notes · View notes

live-laugh-loverpool · 2 years ago

Note

Hey, me again!

So your fanfic about Alisson and Virg made me feel butterflies in my stomach with happiness.

Possibly you don't ship them. Me, however, when I think of fanfic, I usually disregard that they are married with kids, so yes, I confess, I ship them.

And I wanted to ask for a specific fanfic. I'm not going to ask for anything involving kisses on the mouth or anything wrong because that wouldn't make much sense.

However, I wish you could write a fanfic where they comfort each other, especially Alisson comforting Virgil since he feels bad about his wound. It could be something like forehead kisses or things that people who don't ship might see as platonic. I also wanted it to be a fic that focused on them. It could be anguish with a happy ending, if you will.

Kisses! Ruby loves you!

So glad that my fanfics make you feel that way!!! 💛💚💙 Here it is after days of work

Tags: @alissonbecksfan234, @moomin279, @rubybecker-rb2, @millythegoat, @rist-mlts

Nightmares and Sweet Dreams

Virgil Van Dijk was one of those people where you got exactly what it said on the tin. His particular tin happened to advertise an extremely promising and reliable product of hard work, public experience, and…well, you get it.

Works hard, plays hard. Quieter than most, but always ready to help. Reliable. Never crumbles, never breaks. Not affected by anything.

Calm as you like.

Even though Van Dijk loved his song, it was the “calm as you like” part that scared him the most. Because at this current point, he was laid up with an injury while his teammates were left to salvage what they could from their dumpster fire of a season.

He couldn’t deny, being injured brought back memories; but they weren’t exactly ones he wanted to revisit anytime soon. When the physios had told him that he would be out for a month, Van Dijk's mind had immediately flashed back to Pickford’s tackle.

You’re out, Virgil, he remembered the medics saying that day. You’ll be out for an entire year and you’ll probably miss the Euros. Pickford’s tackle blew your ACL and you’ll need to have surgery.

Sitting on the same treatment table, in front of the same doctor, in the same track pants hadn’t helped whatsoever. In fact, it made Van Dijk even more scared of the same thing happening as it did last time.

What if it got worse and worse? What if he couldn’t play for a whole year, again? What if Matip ended up on the treatment table, and then Konate, and then Phillips and then…

That’s why Van Dijk now navigated the world on crutches, even though he didn’t necessarily need them. Every time he watched the matches, he couldn’t help but think how he should’ve been there, helping his teammates. And he’d stopped staying at Kirkby, always finding a reason to drive home and spend the night there. Nobody needed to know that he still woke up from the same apocalyptic nightmares every night. Nobody needed to know that the nightmares had gotten so bad, he’d taken to sleeping with a special throw blanket.

Nobody whatsoever needed to know that the throw blanket happened to be Alisson's throw blanket.

The Liverpool players had gotten a rare day off, since their next game was on Sunday. For some, that meant a pool tournament in the cafeteria.

Alisson leaned his cue against the wall as he and Carvalho watched their teammates play pool. Fabinho was outscoring the others on the scoreboard, and Alisson was rock-bottom of the table. It was new to him, considering that he was almost never ranked the worst in anything, but he knew he wasn’t going to be the best of everything.

“A-ha!” Matip cheered, knocking his ball into one of the holes. “Second place! Take that, Joey.”

Gomez pouted, rolling his eyes in mock-annoyance. “You wouldn’t have won if you were playing against The Virg!”

Matip nodded, updating the scoreboard. “Yeah, if Virg was playing Fabi wouldn't be leading either. Ali might still be at the bottom of the table, though.”

“Where is Virg, by the way?” Alisson wondered aloud. “Did you see him, Joel?”

“I invited him to the pool tournament,” said the Cameroonian, deep in thought. “He said he’s got stuff to do at home.”

Carvalho frowned, taking up his cue. “He’s sure got a lot of stuff to do. Did he have a baby or something?”

Fabinho stared at Carvalho like he’d just walked in wearing an Everton shirt. “What makes you think that?”

The young Portuguese put his hands up in defense, stepping back. “He rarely spends time with us anymore! All he does is sleep or think…or isolate himself.”

Alisson didn’t waste another moment. He dropped his cue, heading in search of Van Dijk without any further explanation.

Van Dijk wasn’t known to hide. Alisson had the feeling that hiding was exactly what the Dutchman was doing, though—so he searched all the places that he would hide if he were Van Dijk.

The broom closets and the showers were empty. Alisson's inspection of the rec rooms turned out futile, as well, and his pace increased from a slow walk to a brisk jog through the halls of Kirkby.

This was more serious than Alisson had thought. Where was Van Dijk, and why couldn’t he find him anywhere? He wasn’t usually on this end of the situation; but if there was one Alisson was sure about, it was that he could usually find his teammates wherever they were hiding.

What if Virg left Kirkby? Alisson gulped at the thought, throwing aside the curtain to check. Luckily, Van Dijk's car was still in the parking lot. The goalkeeper let out a sigh of relief—Van Dijk was usually a good driver, but emotion could get the best of anyone.

Tell me next time you want to hide, Virg, and I’ll show you some good places.

A clattering noise shook Alisson out of his thoughts. He spun on his heel, glancing towards the source of the noise—the training pitch.

He pushed open the door with the most force he could ever remember, sprinting over the training pitch while calling for Van Dijk. The training pitch was large but very open, and soon Alisson found Van Dijk kicking balls into the net with his uninjured foot, holding onto the goalpost. His crutches had been tossed aside, landing haphazardly on a yellow plastic dummy.

“Finally, Virgil!” Alisson tried to sound as cheerful as possible despite Van Dijk's strange behavior. “What are you doing here?”

Van Dijk didn’t respond, slamming another ball into the net.

“Virg?” It was as if Alisson wasn’t even there. “Please, answer me!”

Van Dijk finally stopped booting balls into the net and faced Alisson. His normally tidy man bun had tendrils and puffs of hair sticking out of it, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Alisson then realized just how long it had been since he’d seen Van Dijk in person.

“You…forgot your crutches,” said Alisson, handing the walking aids back to Van Dijk. He wanted to comment on how tired Van Dijk looked, but Van Dijk was rather sensitive about his looks. “The pool tournament started half an hour ago. Didn’t Joel invite you?”

Van Dijk took the crutches and threw them as far as he could. They landed on the same yellow plastic dummy. “Joel’s better off without me.”

“Why would he be better off without you?” Now Alisson knew something was wrong. If there was one person who Van Dijk adored, it was Matip. While the two had their own opinions on certain matters, Matip cared for Van Dijk as much as Alisson did.

Van Dijk's hands clawed and scratched at his hair, further disheveling it. Alisson could only imagine how many scrapes and lacerations were left on the Dutchman’s skull, such was the force he was using.

“Virgil, you’re going to hurt yourself!” Alisson exclaimed once he couldn’t take it anymore. He gently but firmly grasped Van Dijk's wrists and pried them off his head, directing his arms to his sides. “Please tell me what’s wrong. You have eyebags and dark circles under your eyes, you look like you haven’t slept for days.”

“That’s because I haven’t,” Van Dijk confessed, wrestling his arms away from Alisson's grasp. “What am I going to do with myself? I can’t play and I can’t help the team. What if this injury lasts for more than o-one month? What if it lasts for a year, and then a year turns into two years, and then—”

“Acalmar.” Alisson sat next to Van Dijk, trying to appear calm while he was internally freaking out. Van Dijk wasn’t always calm, that was for sure, but Alisson had never been in a situation where he and a not-calm Van Dijk were alone. Simply put, Alisson had no idea what to do.

Unless he did the obvious.

“It’s not going to go that long. The medics won’t lie to you, right? They only want the best for us, Virgil.”

“But…” An excruciatingly long three seconds passed before Van Dijk spoke again. “I’m scared.”

“Scared? Oh…” Suddenly, the reason for all of Van Dijk's strange behavior dawned upon him. “You’re scared of missing a whole year. Just like the last time you got injured.”

Van Dijk nodded, leaning into Alisson's shoulder. The keeper had never seen Van Dijk this vulnerable before—even after losing major tournaments finals and making drastic errors. “I can’t do it again. It’s giving me nightmares…I’m so tired every day.”

Alisson had never been very good with words of comfort. So he settled on pulling Van Dijk into his arms, letting his teammate rest his head on his chest. “Sleep, then.”

Van Dijk yawned, eyes half closed. “I have a secret.”

“Yeah?” Alisson sighed with relief upon seeing that Van Dijk had calmed down from his previous hysterics.

“Don’t tell anyone…I have your throw blanket. The Selecao one,” Van Dijk elaborated. “I wrap myself in it like a cocoon and it’s the only way I can sleep. Yes, I know it’s weird, but…”

Alisson shut Van Dijk up by hugging him even tighter. “Then we can be weird together. I stole one of the boss’s jackets in 2019 and it was one of the only things that kept me from going insane during the lockdown.”

“But that’s you.” Van Dijk yawned again; he was slowly drifting in and out of consciousness. “I’m supposed to be as calm as you like for everyone.”

“Nobody can be as calm as you like all of the time,” Alisson reminded him. He fully untied Van Dijk's hair, gently untangling the various knots and clumps of grass. “Even o patrão freaks out in the moment.”

“What about everybody else?” Van Dijk mumbled sleepily.

“Shhh, acalmar. I’ll take care of that,” Alisson assured Van Dijk. He wasn’t exactly sure how he’d take care of that—he’d left his phone inside the training ground—but Van Dijk didn’t need to know that. What Van Dijk needed now was reassurance—and sleep.

A noise pulled Alisson from his thoughts. He froze, then smiled when he realized the noise was a light snore and that Van Dijk had fallen asleep.

He draped his scarf over his friend, gently stroking him on the forehead. “Doces sonhos, Virgil.”

11 notes · View notes