posh for polish

you know what I wanna know? what’s the story behind harry & popped collars? it’s been a thing for so long now, no matter if he’s going for posh and polished or wild and unruly, the collar’s always up and about? sometimes he uses a scarf to keep it up when the collar is fur-trimmed? is it a cool thing? is it a harry styles thing? we will never know

She feeds the crows an old language. They fly to the moon and bring her nesting stones

She collects the remaining sunrise

from pine needles and

pours it in her morning tea. 

Do not let her small talk fool you.

The martyrdom of music

fades during the evening. Her day

disappears for a glimpse

of a living ghost.

This is posh and polish to old news.

She collects her drooping 

fingers from the floor 

to gather thoughts from

the ink of a blue jay. 

Can we have a third encounter of Frank with the Frasers in Modern Glasgow? Maybe one with the wee bairns so he’ll see what a happy family they all are!

Modern Glasgow AU

Claire set down the hairbrush and clipped the shiny barrette into Faith’s dark curls.

“There! All done.”

Ten-year-old Faith Fraser turned her head in the mirror, admiring her Mama’s handiwork. And smiled.

“It’s beautiful! Do you think any of the other girls there will have one, too?”

Claire smoothed the shoulders of Faith’s sundress, picking off a few pieces of lint. “Certainly not one like this - Suzette bought it at a special shop in France, remember?”

Faith nodded enthusiastically. “Aye - I ken that. Only…”

Claire sat on the bench in front of her vanity, watching her daughter’s face in the mirror. Patient - as she was with all of her children. From birth she had instilled in all of them the simple fact that Mama and Da would *always* be there, would *always* listen, and *always* love them deeply, no matter what. Simple - and yet, she knew that so many other parents never even hinted as much with their own children.

“Only what, love?”

Faith pursed her lips. “Only - ye ken I dinna much like it when I have to play wi’ children I don’t know, aye?”

Claire smiled and opened her arms. Faith sank into them gladly, settling her face against her Mama’s shoulder.

“I know - and I also know you’re old enough now to understand that sometimes we must do things that make us uncomfortable. Because it’s important to somebody else.”

She sighed, holding her eldest daughter close, relishing their time alone.

“Can I tell you a secret, Faith?”

Faith stood up, straightening her shoulders - proud that Mama was telling her such grown-up things.

“Do you think *I* really want to go to this picnic today? It’s for Da’s job, and I don’t much feel like talking with other ladies that I don’t know. So - you and I are in the same boat, aye?”

Faith nodded, smiling. Good.

“Aye. I understand. I’ll mind Bree and William and Julia, Mama - I dinna want ye to worry.”

Claire’s heart swelled with love for Faith - her miracle child, who had had a rough start in life but who had grown to prove that her heart was more loving and compassionate - and responsible - than any other girl she’d ever known.

“I’ll take care of Julia - but if you could keep an eye on Bree and William, Da and I would be very grateful.” Softly she thumbed her daughter’s cheek, pushing one of Faith’s curls - so much like her own - behind her ear.

“Now - can you help me get everyone else ready?”


Jamie settled a sleepy Julia - clad in a bright blue baby dress - against his shoulder, adjusted her hat to protect her from the afternoon sun, and took a draught from his tumbler of whisky with his other hand, clearly absorbed in conversation with one of his favorite clients.

“And what’s this newest story about then, Ned?”

The elderly man squinted in the sunshine as he looked up at Jamie, cheeks flushed with champagne.

“Ah! Well - you know how my last novel was about an Englishwoman who was captured by Scotland Yard on suspicion of being a spy, even though she said she wasn’t - but she was actually a double agent for the Americans? Well - ”

Claire squeezed Jamie’s shoulder and stepped away, letting the men talk. Jamie and Ned had developed such a lovely relationship over the years - Jamie had always been patient and kind with the brilliant yet scatterbrained retired lawyer turned writer, and in turn Ned had been very loyal to Jamie, insisting he accompany him on his small book tours throughout the UK. Even as Jamie had advanced up the ranks at the publishing company - he was now third in command, and Rupert’s right-hand man - and no longer interacted as much with the authors, there were a few he still insisted on seeing to personally.

The publishing house hosted this summer garden party every year - inviting the employees and their families to attend a lovely afternoon of food, drink, and games for the children. All the authors and their families were also invited to informally mingle with the staff - keeping it casual, but also forging new business relationships.

It was fun to see some of the other spouses - Rupert’s wife Scarlett and their tribe of wee MacKenzies, Willie and Mary - who had scaled back her hours at the hospital once she gave birth to their son Jack - Angus and his latest girlfriend (or at least Claire hoped she was a girlfriend, and not one of those escorts he’d brought to the event last year).

But as it was even at her own work events, it was tiring to make nice and socialize all afternoon, knowing she couldn’t speak as freely as she wanted - mindful of her position as Jamie’s wife, and the need for him to maintain his rock-solid reputation at the company. Which is why she insisted her wee Frasers be on their best behavior - she didn’t want them making a scene, as wee Hamish MacKenzie had last year when he’d pulled down the skirt of one of the author’s wives…

Her eyes scanned the crowd - ah, there was Brianna’s red head, swaying back and forth on the swingset beside Faith and Morag MacKenzie, one of Rupert’s daughters. William was nearby, deep in conversation with one of Morag’s brothers, Jerry.

And to think that Scarlett was pregnant again…quickly she counted up in her head the number of small MacKenzies she’d seen running around this afternoon. Five? Six?

She turned back to the refreshments table - ah. Sangria - perfect.

Claire helped herself and then scanned the table for a napkin -


She almost dropped her glass. That voice - she hadn’t heard it in years, but recognized it instantly.

She swallowed, and turned.

“Hello Frank.”

Her right hand clutched the glass - her left dropped to her side, thumb furiously tracing her wedding ring.

He was dressed informally - a button-down shirt open at the neck, jeans, sunglasses hanging from his shirt pocket. Posh. Polished. Smart.

Memory flashed - Frank had always neatly pressed his shirts before folding them and stacking them in his bureau, usually while dictating ideas into a tape recorder.

And then another flash - Jamie desperately rummaging through his closet this afternoon for a suitable shirt after Julia had spit up all over the one he’d picked out.

“I - I didn’t expect to see you here. I know your - husband - is still employed by the publishing house, but as I don’t have any direct dealings with him…”

She pasted on a thin-lipped smile. “We’re here every year - Jamie co-runs the operations side of the business now, with Rupert MacKenzie. Though he still has a small group of writers he’s worked with for a very long time.”

Frank glanced down at his glass of whine - white, his favorite - and shuffled his feet.

Silence bloomed - and Claire groped around in her mind for something to say.

“I understand you’ve become quite the accomplished author yourself - written a series about the ‘45 and such. Jamie tells me it’s been a popular hit.”

Frank nodded absently. “Yes, well. I’m still teaching at Oxford, and I’ve even been on a few television programmes.”

Claire sipped her sangria. “Yes, I know. My son enjoys watching them - he loves his history. Especially Scottish history.”

Frank blinked. “So you’ve a son, then? I knew you had a daughter or two - ”

Claire straightened. “Two sons, actually - the history buff is eight, and we adopted another boy from France. He’s at uni - studying journalism.”

She watched him nod, taking in the news. “Did you ever see yourself with so many children, Claire? It was never something you brought up when we were together.”

“I never really thought about it - but once I met Jamie, I realized that it’s what I want. A family. A big family.”

“Even with your work? Are you still at that hospital?”

She shifted in her sandals, feeling the tops of her feet burning in the bright summer sun. “I am - but I’m not in the ER anymore. I’m a thoracic surgeon.”

Frank sipped his wine. “Impressive.”

Claire smiled, digging in her purse for her sunglasses. “Indeed. Especially since I have four small children at home.”

“Ah! Darling - there you are.”

Claire turned - and watched a slight blonde woman in a long, flowy dress approach Frank and kiss him on the cheek.

Frank backed away from her a bit and gestured toward Claire. “Cara - this is -”

“Dr. Claire Fraser. Pleasure.” She extended her hand. Cara took it - limply.

“Ah! Are you a professor as well?” Cara slung an arm over Frank’s shoulders.

“No, darling - she’s a medical doctor. A surgeon.”

Cara squinted at Claire in the sunshine. “Oh, how interesting! I’m working on my PhD, actually - French history. Frank’s been such a great help over the past few years.”

“I’m sure,” Claire replied drily - biting her tongue.


Two small forms seized her knees. Her heart immediately lifted.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, hiking up her dress so she could crouch down to be at eye level with Faith and William. “Have you been having fun?”

Faith rolled her eyes - but William nodded enthusiastically.

Claire rested a gentle hand on their shoulders and stood. “Frank - Cara - these are two of my children, Faith and William Fraser.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Faith said softly, wondering who these strange people were - and why Mama’s hand was so tense on her shoulder.

Frank nodded - suddenly stiff. It dawned on Claire that he hadn’t mentioned any children of his own.

“The two of you look just like your mother,” he said, voice tight.

“No’ all of us do!” William exclaimed. “My brother Fergus - well he’s French, so he doesna look like Mama or Da, but -”


Faith called to her sister, who was eyeing the dessert table. She glanced up, and happily scampered over to her mother and siblings.

“And this is my daughter Brianna.” Claire lifted her hand from William to draw Bree close - watching her remove her hat and lift her damp red hair, brilliant in the sunshine, from the nape of her neck.

“Hello,” Brianna said politely. “Who are you?”

“This is Professor Randall and - ”

“My friend Cara,” Frank interrupted. “I write history books.”

William gasped. “I’ve seen you on the TV! Murtagh and I watch all of yer programs!”

Frank smiled politely. “Yes - I’ve done a few programs over the years.”

“I loved the one where ye visited Fort William! My da took me and my brother there last year - I kent all about the history already!”

“Indeed. It’s an interesting place.”

He spoke to William as he would to an adult - rather than to an eight-year-old. And then it became quite clear to Claire that Frank never had - and likely never would - spend much time around children.

“Claire’s husband is an - executive - at Leoch Publishing,” Frank belatedly explained to Cara. “And a bit of a history buff, if I understand correctly.”

And then all the tension in Claire’s body slackened with one touch to her side.

“I am. It’s good to see you again, Professor Randall.”

Jamie extended his left hand to shake Frank’s, as Julia was dead asleep against his right shoulder. The wide silver band of his wedding ring glinted in the bright afternoon sunshine.

Frank took the proffered hand and shook it gracefully. “This is Cara - she’s one of my PhD students.”

Jamie nodded politely, then settled his free hand possessively around Claire’s waist. Her right hand snaked around his back, sinking her fingers into the back pocket of his jeans.

Frank’s gaze turned to the sleeping baby. “And this is - ”

“Ah - Julia. Our youngest, just six months old this week.”

Jamie kissed his tiny daughter’s wee forehead. Claire curled her fingers into his pocket - digging into his arse. Faith, Bree, and William stood - bored, yet patient - before them.

Frank coughed.

“Well then. I won’t take up any more of your time - I’m sure you still have a lot of business to attend to.”

Jamie nodded, politely.

“So nice to meet you and your family,” Cara said softly, eyes already scanning the crowd for the next conversation partner.

“Good to see you, Frank.” Claire smiled, drawing strength from her wee ragtag family.

“And you, Claire. You look happy. It becomes you.”

And with that, he nodded and led Cara away.

Claire waited for twenty seconds - then curled into Jamie’s chest, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

Her mind desperately rooted for something - anything - to anchor her.

Jamie’s solidity. Julia’s softness. Jamie’s scent - and the small patch of hair at the open neck of his shirt.

And his eyes this morning - smiling, half-asleep, and intent on hers as he buried his face between her legs.

“I’m here,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s done now. Do ye want to go home?”

The older children wordlessly hugged their Mama’s middle and knees - not understading, but knowing that she needed support.

She breathed deep, and shook her head. “No. I’m quite alright, actually.” Then she looked up at him, squinting down at her in the sunshine.

“Because I have you. All of you. I’ll always be alright.”

His smile flashed - and then his mouth met hers. Not caring that they were surrounded by so many people.

The wee Frasers, accustomed to the sight, groaned in unison.

Breaking DI Lestrade

Prompt: Stag night with Lestrade. Who bails them out this time? (*hinthint* Mycroft.)

Greg woke up in with a groan, to find himself slumped on the floor of a dreary, grey prison cell. On the blue plastic bed above him, Sherlock Holmes was snoring and at the other end of the tiny room, John Watson lay spread-eagled on the floor.

His head pounded with a hangover so powerful it felt as if his entire body was being turned inside out. Blinking into the harsh white light, it took Greg several foggy minutes to realise his trousers were missing. He was sat in only his underwear and a black shirt, his bare legs on show for the entire police force to see.

At that moment came a sharp knock at the door and John scrambled to his feet, shouting a bleary, ‘’oo is it?’

Greg remained where he was, hoping to God the ground would swallow him whole.

The door swung open, revealing not, as he had feared, a smug colleague, but someone far worse. Mycroft Holmes. The man peered in with evident disgust, his umbrella planted firmly on the tiled floor as if it were the only thing keeping him standing. Posh and polished in his three piece suit, he rolled his eyes at the sight of a bedraggled Sherlock kipping on the bed. 

Keep reading

For kingsmanhartwin When Harry proposes to Eggsy, he sees the flicker of doubt in his lover’s eyes. Fortunately, he knows Eggsy well enough to know the source of his insecurity - Eggsy confessed to him, once, early in their relationship, in the safety of Harry’s bed and the dark of night, that he felt bad, binding Harry to him; “’S just, you deserve better, innit? Someone posh, polished ‘n gorgeous, like a fuckin’ diamond.” - And well enough to have anticipated this. As he opens the ringbox, he sees the insecurity melt out of Eggsy’s features, to be replaced with bright, warm amusement, and happiness, as he shakes his head, grinning widely. “You fuckin’ soppy wanker, 'Arry.” “Only for you, my dear”, murmurs Harry, as he frees the ring from its box, holding it up towards Eggsy. “Will you do me the honour?” Eggsy stick out his hand, fingers splayed, even as he uses his other hand to scrub away happy tears welling up in his eyes. “Y’ even have to ask? Of course, bruv. Of fuckin’ course.” As Harry slides the ring onto Eggsy’s finger, he knows the reference hasn’t been lost on him. The raw diamond on the thick silver band may not be cut or polished, but it’s still beautiful. More importantly, it’s perfect. Just like it’s wearer.

femharel  asked:

Saoirse/Cullen -- stripper AU (you know you want it)

you’re right damnit i do

No girl went my dream is to one day strip at the sleaziest strip club in the poorest section of the city and get paid peanuts for men to ogle my goodies but when it did happen there was nothing to do but make the best of a bad situation—which included buying herself the nicest bikini top (she was the surfer girl of the club so her outfits were thankfully less leather and whips and more short shorts and spanky bikinis) she could find and dancing to old 70s rock ‘n roll as she peeled herself out of it.

Saoirse had a suspicion the club was intentionally kept rough-looking. She was pretty sure she’d shaken her booty at the mayor of their fine city a week ago, and there were a number of slick-suited men she was certain she’d seen lobbying on the television once or twice—worried about constituents by day, shoving dollar bills into Saoirse’s lacy thong by night!

Maybe she should write a book.

She didn’t normally pay a lot of intentions to the goings on in the club, though. She did her routine, collected her tips, and jogged the rest of the way home. But for some reason, tonight, her eyes kept drifting over to a cluster of men, more interested in their conversation than the half-dressed women on stage. That was a nice change of pace, except Saoirse was the one closest to their table which meant she wasn’t getting any tips.

There was a stoic looking guy, standing, by the edge of the table, golden hair flashing with the changing colors from her stage. It was tussled in a way that made her think he had a habit of dragging his fingers through it, and her profile view of him showed a strong jaw and a serious mouth. Face-wise he fit in with his dour-looking friends, but where they were all posh and polish, gym-fit, he looked like a man who’d spent a large chunk of his life outside and had been honed by nature.

Damn. She had a weakness for the earthy-types—especially since it had been one of the slick types that had left her high and dry.

The rhinestone stubbed strings of her top slapped against her waist as she sidled over to them, one, long sensual slide of legs that would have impressed her family back home—they’d always said she was a klutz.

She now garnered some attention, and thankfully from the golden-haired Adonis. His warm gaze went up over her knee, over her spandex-encased hips, and further up to where she was wiggling out of her top. Was he blushing? Adorable!

Someone laughed and gave him a solid nudge. She thought she heard a “she likes you, Cullen!” below the beat of music and—duh I like anyone with a handful of cash—but her attention drifted. She’d always had a talent for picking danger out of a crowd. She, of course, tended to run headlong to it—hence the sleazy strip club in the worst part of town—but this time she only stared like a deer caught in headlights.

There were three—no four—men and she saw the strobe lights gleam over the slick black of a handgun.

“Oh, boy,” she said, and the blonde jerked his head to where her gaze was fixated. She heard him curse and there was a scramble from his friends, hands flying everything, reaching for—well, she didn’t look but she could guess more guns.

One of the other dancers screamed behind her. Good idea, Saoirse thought, twisting on her heel, her natural clumsiness making her teeter on her stilettos, to duck for cover. Strong hands closed around her waist, lifted her. The world went topsy-turvy and it took her a minute to realize she was dangling over the side of the blonde’s shoulders.

Her ears rung with loud popping, lights flashed and died. Oh, she realized, gunfire. She sunk her fingers into a strong back, holding on for dear life, and decided there was nothing left to do but go along for the ride.

My mother regarding Tom Hiddleston
  • Me: It really bothers me when people insult the way my celebrity crushes look or are. I get it all the time too. It's like insulting my taste in men.
  • Mom: Well I don't think that Tom Hiddleston is like the conventional definition of attractive, but when you put that voice with him, whoo!! It's like the full package. He has such a posh, polished, high class, Westminster accent...
  • Me:
  • Mom:
  • Me:
  • Mom: what? I just like his voice.