The Three Sweet Commanders

amami’s real talent is actually the shsl tearista 

This is just like Robin over and over again.
Not the part ‘my-friend-in-danger-let’s-sacrifice-myself-to-protect-them’ but the part when they think (or in this case, say) that Sunny (or Merry) is their home. This is more touching for me, since they are all actually didn’t have a real home (Nami’s orphan, Zoro is wanderer, Usopp is alone, Sanji is unwanted child, Robin’s home already destroyed, Chopper is discarded by his herd, Franky lost his mentor, and Brook is left alone). They are trying to make a new home for themself, but in the end, Luffy is the one that find them and make a real home for them.

I guess it’s safe to say that for Straw Hat Pirates, their real home is actually Luffy.

Well hello @mizjoely!😉 I love this, thanks! And I even did a bit of research. (Sherlock would be proud lol) And just FYI this is setup as non-established sherlolly. 

“But I always try to get the 800 thread count,” Molly argued weakly. “Doesn’t that mean it’s good?”

“Oh, Molly,” Sherlock drawled with a low chuckle. “Come with me.”

He spoke authoritatively as they walked down his hallway. “Thread count alone is hardly an indicator of quality. The fiber content, weave, and even where it’s made are just as important, if not more so. Personally, I only buy 800 thread count, sateen weave, organic pima cotton sheets from Italy. That is quality.” He stopped at his bed and gestured to it. “Go on, try it.”

“What…now?” She frowned, looking back and forth between him and the bed.

“You won’t regret it,” he stated confidently.

Hesitantly at first, Molly climbed under the blankets and lay back against the pillow which, not surprisingly to him, produced a sigh from her lips.

“My God,” she breathed and looked at him wide eyed. “Is this made of pima cotton or melted butter?!”

Sherlock stood by and grinned as she continued to make herself comfortable. Oh yes, he thought to himself, bringing up the subject of how to choose quality bedding was definitely a good idea. 

anonymous asked:

Hun, do what you want. Not what you think will please your fans. I'm pretty sure people will love what you bring either way. "Sim-stories" are stories. Good stories take you on emotional rides.

I’ve been thinking about what I’m going to do after Finding Marley is over for a while now!! Partially because I already have most of it planned out now, but also a little because I’m itching to work on something a bit different :’) so, this is very encouraging, thank you nonny!! 😊

This is not a goodbye, my darling, this is a thank you. Thank you for coming into my life and giving me joy, thank you for loving me and receiving my love in return. Thank you for the memories I will cherish forever. But most of all, thank you for showing me that there will come a time when I can eventually let you go.
I love you, T.
—  Message In A Bottle by Nicholas Sparks
Zephyr Chapter 1: Fancy meeting you here

A/N: the promised multichapter!  I’m posting the full first chapter on here but from now on I’ll only do a little excerpt and then link to FF and Ao3 like usual?  If anyone has an issue reading it on either of those sites, let me know :)

Disclaimer: I don’t own stuff and I’m not Irish (well I am but not in the ways that matter right now) so I’m very sorry Seamus ha.

Also available on FF and Ao3!

Please let me know what you think!  Expect weekly updates :)

Silvery moonlight winks across the frothy waves that lick around her ankles, gauzy uneven skirts darkening with wet as tendrils of briny water slither back down her calves in unpredictable rivulets.

Water.  It would be the key.  It always had been.

The roar of the crowd reaches decibels higher than she’d previously thought possible as Ginny and her fellow chasers take a victory lap before game play resets after their most recent score.  The trio of women exchanges quick code phrases as they decide on their next strategy when a few surprised shouts sound from across the stadium.

Still, they can’t lose focus even if it likely means missing whoever gets the snitch, so they face off against the other team and her eyes zero in on the quaffle as it moves from hand to hand.  There’s always a chance that they won’t get it, or that the last 10 points gained by quick thinking could secure a win despite losing the 150.

Years of Quidditch – both at school, home, and professionally – had ingrained this single mindedness into Ginny so thoroughly that it was almost like breathing. They’re nearing the goals now, swooping to and fro – around each other and the opposing players – as Ginny is body-slammed by a frantic opposing chaser such that she nearly loses her grip on the quaffle.  

Desperately, she grasps the ball with the tips of her fingers before delivering it into her fellow chaser’s waiting hands, which immediately sink the final goal of the game before cheers and the only slightly louder final whistle signal the end of the game.

The Harpies had been tens of points ahead last Ginny had gathered from the tinny voice that sometimes broke through the noise of screaming fans, but she’d quickly forgotten the number and plowed ahead as vigilantly as if they were coming up from behind.

She still doesn’t know the end result until Gwenog’s barely there smile ticks up one corner of her tight pressed lips before the tall woman gives the sweaty team a curt nod, the late afternoon sun licking across her rich skin as she leads the way toward the eager press corps. 

Nearly two hours later Ginny finds herself pushing through the throng of revelers at a local hole in the wall tavern that promises hearty meals, no press, and steadily flowing butterbeer, firewhisky, and the like.

Freshly showered, and ready to collapse in one of the wobbly chairs that surrounds the table her teammates have claimed, Ginny jolts when a broad hand claps on her shoulder.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite chaser.”

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