antique writing desk

Bucky Barnes, the human equivalent of the 100 emoji.

“Well, whaddya think?” asked Bucky, injecting a little swagger into his step as he crossed the living room floor.

“Are you ever going to wear anything other than that shirt ever again?” Steve asked him, looking on from the sofa with quiet admiration.

“Nope,” replied Bucky, flopping down next to him. “It"s the nicest birthday gift anybody’s ever given me. Do you think I’ll get a special discount at restaurants?”

“Bucky, that’s… the shirt’s not even your real birthday gift,” Steve told him, through a heavy facepalm. “Did you not notice the antique writing desk with the big red bow on it in the studio?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to assume that was for me,” said Bucky with a shrug.

“Jerk,” said Steve, playfully elbowing him in the side.

Granted, in real people years, Bucky knew he was somewhere in his early thirties, probably - it was too difficult and too painful to figure it out for sure - but being a hundred meant something. He had, in his own way, weathered a century’s worth of experience, and emerged, if not unscathed, then at least recovering.

“So it’s a real antique, is it?” asked Bucky.

“It was quite the find,” Steve confirmed.

“Is it as old as we are?”

“Not… quite,” conceded Steve.

“So… how much would I fetch at auction?”

“You?” Steve thought it over, giving him careful examination. “You’re in near mint condition for someone your age. I’d go as far as to say you’re priceless.”

Bucky could tell he was blushing in spite of himself. “Shut up, you fucking sap,” he said, smiling against Steve’s lips. “Now when do I get my cake?”


(redbubble | society6)

in-an-ecotone  asked:

if the host looked into your mind, what would he see?

There would be this winding path through tall, green grass, and the path would lead to the foot of a humongous tree that’s all twisted and ancient with curling roots and little golden lights nestled in among the green leaves that ring like chimes when the wind blows. A little rope ladder leads up to a tree house covered in moss. Gossamer white curtains hang in the windows, and bookshelves full of books and plants and knick knacks line every wall. A little iron stove is located near the middle right next to an antique writing desk. Paper cranes and paper stars hang from the ceiling on fishing wire.

A little spiral staircase leads up, up, up, to the very top branches of the tree to where the sky displays millions of twinkling stars and a gleaming silver moon. You’ll find me in a hammock up there with my laptop most days, as long as it’s not raining. When it rains all the colors melt together into color soup, and you never want to go outside on those days.

The Honourable Miss Hooper.

I watched Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries on Netflix and though I wouldn’t say this is necessarily an AU of the show itself, it is heavily inspired by its tone. The basic premise is that it’s the 1920s, Molly Hooper is a private detective, Sherlock is a consulting detective, they compete/not so reluctantly work with each other over/on cases and they share a history which they both like to bring up in an attempt to make the other flustered. In an ideal world I’d do a series of this, but I’m me and I’ve got WIPs and yeah. Have this drabble anyway.

It was not often that Molly Hooper, private detective, found herself in an awkward social situation. At any party, she was the life of it. She kept conversation and champagne flowing in equal amounts, the jazz hot and her dancing impeccable, sure-footed with even the clumsiest of gentlemen. She never let a guest leave her parties without a smile on their face and a companion on their arms. (Though if a male guest happened to get a little hands-on in the duration of a party, then she always made sure to send him home with nothing more than a bottle of champagne and his driver.)

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