Hardy Drabble

Words: 473

There are just some things in your relationship that go unspoken. Tom being the big spoon, is one of these unspoken things. He takes pride in the role of protecting your body from the cold. He loved how your fingers interlaced with his against the softness of your belly, or sometimes against your lips. He loved how you would roll over in the middle of the night, your nose brushing against his jaw before moving to his rest against his skin. There were many moments where he found himself struggling to be quote on quote “masculine,” but he felt like he came close to it when he was curled up behind you.

But it was nights like this when he thankfully relinquished the role.

Keep reading

Hurry Baby - Fraser x Reader (Black Sea)

Pt. 4/4 Quit Breaking Up With Me / Keep The Girl / Makin’ Waves

Picture credit: X Author’s Note: So, there’s notes for this kicking around since May last year… If anyone wonders how long it sometimes takes to complete something…

But Fraser’s 4 part Retcon is done! Volia-! (As Mr.Sorrento would say) Here’s the last part!

All credit for the pulse stimming idea goes to @mandy23b 🙏💜

Hurry Baby - Rascal Flatts

Disclaimer: Black Sea Characters not mine / still as credited / lyrics not mine

Premise: All Fraser has ever wanted to do is Dive, you’re not one for letting him back - until an opportunity that you can’t pass up is presented to you. You’ll have to deal with Agora first, sure, but your goal is set. You’re about to give Fraser all his wildest dreams…

Words: 14,538

Warnings: Swearing / Fighting / Sexual Connotations / a little bit of family history angst

Keep reading

8 notes View Post

a-writer-shade-of-pale

4 years ago

Favourite Dr. Kester Gill quotes →

2K notes View Post

a-writer-shade-of-pale

1 year ago

Aidan As Phil Hendricks In Thorne: Sleepyhead

Aidan as Phil Hendricks in Thorne: Sleepyhead

34 notes View Post

a-writer-shade-of-pale

1 year ago

Thank you to @beautyofthend! Without her this would never have been finished.

27 notes View Post

a-writer-shade-of-pale

6 months ago

2 notes View Post

a-writer-shade-of-pale

4 years ago

Thank You Muppets, No More Questions! - Ralph Anderson x Reader (The Outsider)

@happyskywhale @wltz-bby #MendoTagSquad.

GIF CREDIT: X

Sure Be Cool If You Did / Bienvenue From Hell, Mon Amour / Made in the USA / Cold Night / I Could Not Ask For More / Under The Weather

Author’s Note: I watched Wreck-It Ralph and The Muppets Most Wanted with @mandy23b and this happened. That’s all I wish to say! 100% inspired by the baking scene (and then I stole the song-!) Please enjoy a soft, adoptive father and his little girl 🙏💙

Interrogation Song - The Muppets

Disclaimer: The Outsider characters not mine (Book setting rather than show setting)

Premise: With you out on call this weekend you leave it to your workaholic partner to entertain your daughter…

Words: 2890

Warnings: N/A (Insulin warning?)

Keep reading

28 notes View Post

a-writer-shade-of-pale

6 months ago

12 notes View Post

a-writer-shade-of-pale

5 years ago

The Gospel of Alfie Solomons

Written by Steven Knight, Performed by Tom Hardy

PART I - LISTEN HERE

You see, the idea I fuckin’ hate the most, right, is that everything starts off perfect, yeah, and then it gets worse. That is demonstrably not fuckin’ true. Some things are just born bad. Some people are born with no intention to do anything good on this Earth and they carry out their plan to deceive and cheat and rob and desanctify all that is Holy, just because that is the way that they were born. That’s how they are. That’s what they do, is relentless, relentlessly.

Their creed runs thus: If I can, I will rob you; if I must, I will kill you; if you let me, I will fuck you; when I’ve fucked you, I will leave you. My father, Alfred Solomons, said it was such a man, with such a creed, who was a dispenser. A dispenser of semen to the gullible and the bewildered. A make of bastards on a scale unseen since Ghengis fuckin’ Khan. A barbarian, for whom every empty womb was Rome. He planted the seeds but he did not tend the gardens, he stayed only long enough to piss on the compost. And he had the roses to sell in Summerstown in the market there. With his stolen roses in his pockets, he would leap the garden gate, leaving behind only the scent of rum. Miles he passed. Tobacco and Portugal, water, which he did. He sold out of his suitcase, right, at six pence a bottle. At least that is what I’ve been told.

Yeah, so I’m fucking told because all I ever saw of him was his fuckin’ hat. It was hangin’ on a wall, on a nail, above the sink where my mother washed other people’s laundry. That hat was a holy relic, size 8 ½, made in Luton where the hatmakers go insane on the fumes of their trade, and leave little messages sewn under the hat bands. The message in my father’s hat was this: “This hat is a kettle, in which to boil up your wicked dreams and make a soup of your soul.” It is a hat that actually I wear to this day It still smells of Portugal water, and when I wear it, the schemes and proposals come out of the darkness as if seeping out of the felt and the leather that is stained with his erotic sweat.

My mother washed bedsheets, my father was a fucking hat. No kisses, no bedtime stories, just parcels of sheets to deliver to the hotels, and the brothels, Camden Town for nothing more than flat bread, and a pinch from the priest who would then open up his robes when I passed, and from that I drew my dark and accurate conclusions on religion.

So! Alfie Solomons Jr. grew untended and wild, a stem with hardly a root sticking up like a skinny cock out of the gutter so every nasty little Christian kid walking by their nasty little Christian school with their gropey old Christian masters could kick it down, and stomp on it and shout, “it was you lot who killed Jesus, so have that in your belly, and have that in your face, and see it as charity. We’re not nailing you up like you did our Lord.” But every time I got stopped down, I fuckin’ stomped back off again, mate. I survived out of spite. And instead of learning how to fight, I learned how to put right the wrongs done unto me tenfold, a hundredfold, a thousandfold, yae, unto the fuckin stars, right, by using the bit of my body that God had cleverly put inside a strong-boned box, so the kicks and the digs could not reach it.

The bit of me that is my brain.

With the help of the alchemy of my Portugal water hat and the strong-boned box I processed the schemes and solutions the mad hatters in Luton and my father had put there, my brain a factory producing schemes and solutions, dodges and speculations, ways around, ways to undermine, a trickle at night and a flood in the day when I unlock my bakery and smell the aroma of secrets and sin and begin the process of accumulation.

I am the chairman of Alfie Solomons’ Aerated Bread Company, Bonny Street, Camden Town, to be precise. My two vice chairmen are Mr. Threat and Mr. Violence in the form that I prefer but, but, the latter is necessary to support the former, because without violence there is no threat, and without threat there is no accumulation, and without accumulation, well there’s just no fucking point, mate. As a baker I occasionally sell bread. As a bookmaker I occasionally let the fastest horse win. As a landlord I occasionally have a roof fixed, but mostly I find it is quicker and it easier to deal with the complainer, right, than deal with the complaint.

From all of this you are drawing your conclusions - Alfie Solomons, begat from a bad man, and beguiled by a hat band, became a bad man, inspires bad men to do bad things in bad ways to good people with bad, bad luck, but is good enough to at least admit he is a fucking bad, bad man. [grunts]

But, consider this, right? In all my years, yeah, as a baker in Camden Town, I have overseen, I have organized or otherwise been responsible for the deaths, right, of 35 fucking men. All of whom, I’ll have you know, attend my dreams each night in various disguises in regular order, with no pattern or logic to it, but with the consequence that I wake up each morning in sheets that have to be wrung out from sweat, right, by my maid, Edna, yeah who, it should be noted, I have never had an evil thought about in fifteen years because when she washes my sweat from the sheets, she reminds me of my poor mother, now residing in Hell and washing the robes of Satan himself.

So, 35 men, 35 times I am a bad man. But here is where mathematics comes to my rescue. Logic rides in like an accountant on a penny farthing just in time to make proof of mitigation before moral bankruptcy is officially declared, yeah?

Here is, [clears throat], here is what logic puts forward, in my defense.

In France, right, Passendale, for example, take one day, one hour, one fucking second, I am standing, right, in the uncultivated mud, a stem with hardly a root in my hands, I have an artillery shell. It is the size and weight of a newborn baby. A little bastard made in Birmingham, sharp nosed, the color of the morning sky. And in that one second, right, one fucking second of one day, of one month, of four years - in that one second I feed that baby to the upturned mortar barrell ass-first, upturned, I put my fingers in my ears, and boom, I send my baby into the morning sky. To do the only job it was ever, ever intended to do. Two seconds later, another boom, and there in the mud, over there, lie 36 men.

Brown bread.

The 36 killed by the soldier, right, are just as dead, right, as the 35 killed by the baker, but the 36, they do not attend my dreams, and are not there in God’s ledger counting the good against the bad. I was given a medal for the 36, but I took a bullet by the Peaky Blinders for the 35, so.

Therefore, my beloved congregation, I will leave you with this conclusion, right. There is no good and there is no bad that is categorical in this world beyond the calculations of powerful men, right, who shift the definition according to their own selfish schemes of accumulation. The only things that are categorical are life and death and for arguments’ sake we say life is good, and death is bad - purely, purely for arguments’ sake.

Which means - which means my father was fucking right, mate. You dispense your semen, you piss on the compost, you deadhead the fuckin’ roses, leave the garden gate, take what you’ve stolen to market and you sell it at a reasonable price, leaving behind only your hat and the scent of your fucking wares, mate.

That is the creed of Alfie Solomons. A lame shepherd among nimble goats who nevertheless at the stable door shall be counted and accumulated as lambs to my gentle slaughter.

Because never forget this, right:

Alfie Solomons, he is always waiting.

234 notes View Post

a-writer-shade-of-pale

4 years ago

One of my favourite films ever!