Pedro Pascal In ‘Kiss’

February 2019. I was a little late to the party but I intend to stick around!

Reblog this with the year you joined the Petyr x Sansa or Aidan Gillen fandom. Not in the tags though. I wanna see how long this gets and see how many new people we still have joining us! And how many we still have sticking around.

2014 (April)

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

Angry Prince 🔥 Clip from Echo 3, E1, Michiel with Luke Evans (sound on)

ECHO 3, CREATOR MARK BOAL, APPLETV

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.

“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 😬🥲

The priests for whom I would go to hell.

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

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.

Keep reading

Phil Hendricks x OFC

Based on Aidan Gillen’s portrayal of Phil Hendricks in Sky One’s adaptation of the Tom Thorne Novels by Mark Billingham. 

Summary: Pathologist Phil Hendricks faces up to the fact that his feelings for his closest female friend go much deeper than than he could ever have imagined.

Phil peered through the bedroom door and saw that she was sleeping. She had collapsed on his bed still fully clothed, but winter was drawing in and the nights were getting colder, so he crept in and gently laid a blanket over her. It wasn’t the first time she had slept in his bed, it was a fairly common occurrence after a particularly heavy night out. The difference was that normally, they would have been out together. Their relationship had built over the past ten years from something akin to sibling rivalry into … what? He had thought that they shared a deep friendship, but now he was no longer sure what it was that they shared. Not since his cousin’s wedding.

That bloody wedding. He thought back to the evening that he had been stewing over the invitation in the pub with her, he liked his cousin but had always hated going back home to see his family since they had made no secret of their disgust over his lifestyle. ‘Phil Hendricks plus one’ Yeah, right. Almost without thinking, he had slammed his bottle down on the table “What are you doing on the 24th November?”

He had never expected her to agree to go, it was Dublin after all, not exactly a short road trip. Of course, his parents had been thrilled to meet her, introducing them both to various friends and family. He was under no illusion why, their son arriving at a wedding with a woman was like a dream come true. This view was confirmed late on in the evening by his drunken father. He had come to stand next to him and the bar “Phil my boy! Your mother and I are so pleased to finally see you with a young lady. Perhaps now we can put this whole disgusting business behind us eh?” Before he had been able to answer, she had appeared in between them “I beg your pardon?” His father had appeared momentarily flustered “Well…..all this talk of being gay……disgusting nonsense……” Before he could finish, she had snapped “Yes, being attracted to someone of the same sex, how utterly disgusting” at which point, she had leaned over the bar, grabbed the girl who was serving and kissed her passionately. She then turned back to his father “Very nice to have met you” and walked away. He had followed her outside, it was a cold but beautiful evening. She had turned when she heard him behind her “I’m sorry, that was probably a very bad idea”. He had smiled “It was a fucking terrible idea, you didn’t even give the poor girl your number.” The music drifted to them from inside and, suddenly, he just wanted to dance with her. He had held out his hand which she had seemed to find amusing “Fuck off!”. But she had let him pull her towards him, laying her head on his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. When the music stopped, she had pulled away slightly and looked up at him “Phil…?” But before she could say anything else, he had pulled her back to him and kissed her. If it had ended there, perhaps things would have been ok. But it hadn’t ended there. It had ended in the hotel room. It had ended with them sleeping together. It had ended with him waking up in the morning and finding that she had already left.

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to force the memory away. What had they done? What did it mean? He leaned down and gently brushed her hair away from her face, she looked so peaceful – a million miles away from how she was when he found her less than an hour earlier. It certainly wasn’t the first time that she had pressed the self-destruct button, but this was different. This time, it was his fault.

He had been trying to call her all afternoon but she wasn’t answering. He tried to tell himself that she was busy, she was working on a difficult case, but he knew that was bullshit. It had been immensely awkward working together over the past week, she could barely look at him, and in fairness, he struggled to be around her. Though not because he didn’t want to be. He needed to talk to her, to figure everything out, but he had no idea where to start. He had gone to her flat after work, but there was no answer and her car wasn’t there. He was about to head home when his mobile beeped, it was from her, just three words. “I don’t understand”. He had immediately called her and this time, she answered. She sounded like she had been drinking for a while. He managed to get her to tell him where she was, and he went to find her. She was a mess and had been so angry, she looked at him like she hated him, and it had shocked him how much that had hurt him. He had insisted on taking her home, he couldn’t leave her alone in that state, so he had brought her back to his flat.

The instant they had got through the door, she had pushed him away and dropped to the floor, her head in her hands. He had tried to help her up, but she pushed him away again “Why? Why did you do it? I thought I was safe with you, that you understood! Just when I thought I couldn’t be fucked up anymore. You’re gay Phil! What the fuck?!” He had tried to explain, but he didn’t understand it himself. She had looked at him, the pain evident in her eyes “I can’t do this Phil”, and gone into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

As he watched her sleeping, his eyes watered. He had seen her in pain before but knowing that this time it was down to him was heart breaking. Why had it happened? He felt so guilty, he couldn’t think. He felt a tear running down his cheek. He thought he knew himself so well, he didn’t cry. He had seen horrific things, and however much each one had affected him, he had never cried. He bent down and kissed her softly on the forehead and knew at that moment exactly why it had happened. He loved her.