"Why Do You Like Them? Their Old And, Well Old. You Should Like Guys Your Own Age, Like Normal People.

Winter Night - Malcolm Bench x Reader (Vertical Limit)

Holiday Fic 2! ⛄⛄

@wltz-bby​ @happyskywhale​

Author’s Note: @mandy23b​ I know you still have to get to the end of this week to finish your finals. But Congratulations on your graduation! 🎉

I’m so proud of you - And I know I keep telling you that, but I’m just going to keep telling you!

Thank you for requesting - here’s some Malcolm for you, as a treat 😉😘

Disclaimer: Vertical Limit Not Mine / Basically a massive excuse to have 4000 words of banter / you better believe I got Tom McLaren in here / gifs and lyrics not mine

Premise: Malcolm Bench is back from K2 for winter break. You love snow, having to work in it 24/7 he does not - today you’re determined to change his mind…

Words: 4133

Warnings: swearing / sexual connotations

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“And what is the occasion for such a gift?” Bard asked you looking over the bow. “I know I didn’t miss a birthday or an anniversary.” He chuckled.

“No occasion, just thought I would surprise you with a gift.” You smiled, happy to see he liked his gift.

“Well it’s beautiful, the craftsmanship is great.” He replied looking at you. “Though I don’t think I deserve it.” He admitted.

“Of course you do. Plus since yours broke I thought it best for you to have a new one.” You told him.

He placed the bow down on the table and pulled you into a hug wrapping one arm around your shoulder and placing the other to caress the back of your head. He gently placed a kiss on your temple before moving his head to rest on your shoulder.

“What did I do to deserve to be married to an amazing person like you?” He asked  rhetorically and in disbelief.

“Let’s see you saved my life, love me unconditionally, support me as I support you.” You listed as you smiled though you knew he didn’t need you too.

“And yet I should be the one giving you gifts for no reason.” He replied as he broke the hug.

“You give me gifts all the time...” you said causing him to look at you confused, “okay so sometimes they’re more of surprise unexpected things like that cat you found and I didn’t know till it jumped on the table or when you got sick and decided to share it with me.” You chuckled but realized he didn’t find it as funny still. “But still you surprise me with flowers and other things like that which I love so much.” You told him seriously.

“Sometimes I wish I could give you a lot much more (y/n).” He said with sadness in his eyes.

“Bard I love you so much, more than any kind of gifts or trinkets. I would change anything.” You replied with a small smile on your face that he mirrored.

“I love you too (y/n). More than anything, besides my three troublemakers.” He chuckled.

“Oh yes can never forget the troublemakers. Though I think they’ve had a troublesome influence.” You smiled.

———

Wow that turned more fluffy and sappy than I planned 😬🥲

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?)

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Cold Night - Ralph Anderson x Reader (The Outsider)

GIF Credit: X

Sure Be Cool If You Did / Bienvenue From Hell, Mon Amour / Made in the USA / Under The Weather

Author’s Note: So, we’re still using book Ralph’s personality. Because that’s where I’d like to keep him! 

I just got this idea whilst thinking for a little too long about the show… And also this song, as ever, popped up on shuffle and went “You know what would be good…!”

And thus, you all get your 5th installment of Ralph Anderson

*Note, the DA is back to his book name, Samuels, for part consistency. 

Disclaimer: Characters and plot lines from The Outsider are all Stephen Kings / Thanks YM@S for once again providing some great lyrics from this album / Gif not mine - credit as appropriate.

Premise: As detectives and partners, it’s good from time to time to discuss cases… But sometimes you need something a little more than just discussion to help you through them… 

Words: 2063

Warnings:  All Fluff  - I just needed me some Sweet-Soft!Ralph.

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So true!!!

good omens is accurate to real life because crowley and aziraphale knew for 6000 years that the apocalypse was coming and they had to stop it, but they waited until the day it was due to pull off 90% of the job

Charles x Reader

Short AU one shot where Charles and Erik do not have powers. Charles is a psychiatrist and is trying to get the reader (Erik's sister and a police woman) to open up to him about a traumatic event in her past.

Charles reaches out and touches your hand across the table, you look up at him and he holds your gaze "Just talk to me Y/N, it's my job, I can help. I want to help." You wipe a tear from your eye and look away. "Charles, please stop. I appreciate that you are trying to help, really I do, but you can't. No one can." You get up from the table and go to refill your glass from the large, but almost empty, bottle of gin on the counter.

Charles isn't about to give up that easily. He knows about your past of course, Erik had told him years ago of your Mother's suicide and that you had been the one to find her body when you were only 15, but you never spoke of it. On the face of it, you had overcome the tragedy well. You appeared strong, confident, self assured and, above all, happy. You laughed, joked and seemed, not unfeeling, but unphased by the horrors you encountered at work. You shrugged off the pressure and stresses of your job as though they were a coat that you could simply put on and take off as you pleased. Most would never guess that you had ever experienced such sadness, perhaps maybe even Charles wouldn't have realised had he not already been aware. But he had seen it. Every once in a while, beneath the smiles and the happiness, he could see the pain. These moments were short lived and you would quickly recover your composure in time to deflect his questions. You were infuriatingly good at it in fact. He had never known anyone so skilled in avoidance. But this time was different. This wasn't a fleeting glance at the pain that simmered below the surface. This was raw and unchecked emotion.

"Y/N, I can help you. But you have to talk to me."

Still with your back turned, you slam the glass back down on the counter. "Why can't you understand?! I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to be helped... I don't deserve it... I..." your words falter.

"You don't deserve help? Why would you think that?"

Your shoulders sag and you suddenly seem to Charles so small and vulnerable. You let out an almost imperceptible sob and say quietly "Because I didn't stop her."

This admission strikes him like a hammer to the chest. He realises that you blame yourself. He feels tears pricking in his own eyes. He knows how that feels, the torture of believing that you are responsible for the death of another. "What happened to your Mother, what she did, it isn't your fault. You were a child Y/N, and there was no warning, no reason. How could you possibly have prevented it?"

You turn to face him, tears streaming down your cheeks "I didn't find her after she had killed herself Charles, I saw her. I knew what she was going to do..... I didn't stop her....."

.....

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.

The priests for whom I would go to hell.