A/N: This is canon, and occurs shortly after MtG ends. Enjoy!
Niall had been insistent that Poppy come out for St. Patrick’s Day with him, despite her lamenting that he should go out and enjoy time with his friends. He whined and nibbled at her earlobe, pulling her off his desk and onto his lap in his tiny office. “C’mon puppy, ya gotta come out. All my friends wanna meet you.” Poppy groaned at the nip of his teeth against her skin and at the ridiculous pet name he’d started using more frequently.
“I didn’t think it was possible to make my name any more obnoxious, but you’ve done it Horan.”
Niall giggled softly into her skin and trailed his fingers across the perpetually tattered cuffs of her cozy sweatshirt. “You love it. Please come out with us. All my mates are flying in - even my idiot cousins that I haven’t seen since last Christmas.”
At the mention of Christmas, Poppy’s resolve crumbled. Three months earlier, Niall had cancelled his plans to fly home to Ireland for Christmas when he found out Poppy was spending it alone, holed up in her apartment. She had argued with him that he hadn’t been home in a year, but his insistence that no one should be alone on Christmas was steadfast. It had ended up being one of the best holidays she’d ever had. Poppy sighed and twisted her slender fingers with his thick ones. “Ok. I’ll come. I’ll meet you guys out though, I’ve got to finish some articles. How will I be able to find you?”
Niall grinned mischievously and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You won’t be able to miss us. Trust me.”
Looking at Infinity Figures in Toys R Us (because I’m a 28-year-old who still trolls around toy stores…sue me) and thinking goddamn do we need 2016 Ghostbuster figures like these. Can you imagine? Just sit with me for a minute. All four girls (and Kevin) suited up and in dynamic poses.
Holtz with her twin pistols, one raised to lick, the other front and center.
Abby with her proton fist or her gun raised across her chest, clutched in her hands, smirk in place.
Patty, with her multi-colored hair, standing proud and tall with her gun resting on her shoulder, big grin splitting her face
Erin looking fierce and focused in a ready stance with her proton gun drawn or standing contrapposto with her gun resting on her hip
Kevin with his jumpsuit around his hips looking proud of himself
Abby in her sweater outfit with a copy of “Ghost from Our Pasts” clutched against her chest, grinning widely.
Patty in her MTA uniform
Holtz wearing her green crop top and paint-spattered overalls, goggles on her head
Erin in her tweed Columbia outfit giving a faint, shy smile
Kevin scratching his eye through the lenses of his glasses
Real talk, if I had the ability to sculpt anything in Maya, I’d be 3D printing these babies and pimping them out on Etsy. Sony’s made it plain they won’t give us any more merch for these girls, so we gotta make it ourselves
A penniless dock worker inherits a title and his family’s destitute estate. In order to save the house and grounds, he puts an ad in the paper for a wealthy wife from the United States. The damaged Emma Swan is desperate for a new start anywhere but New York. Together, will they save Kentledge Hall?
@ofshipsandswans is the talented creature who created the cover art, and she also created 1, 2, 3 corresponding moodboards!
“And for bravery under heavy enemy fire,” the Prime Minister announced from his podium, “we award the Bronze Cross to The Most Honorable Marquess Killian Bertram Jones, Lord Matlock.”
There was a smattering of applause as a visibly nervous Killian stepped up before Lord Lloyd-George and bowed his head to accept the medal as it was placed around his neck. With a slight smile he stood and turned to face the crowd. Emma sat in the second row, dabbing lightly at the corner of her eye as she watched her husband accept the award from the highest levels of the English government.
Killian glanced at his wife, adorned in her sparkling tiara and a modest gown of cream-colored satin. She seemed to shine like the sun. Resisting the urge to wink, he carefully took his seat once more at the side of the church as the ceremony continued.
Following the pomp and circumstance, Emma moved to Killian’s side and slid her arm into his. “You were wonderful,” she cooed into his ear.
“Sweating like a hog,” he whispered back to her through clenched teeth as another fellow peer approached to make small talk.
“You’ll be just fine,” she smirked and rubbed at his wrist in an attempt to calm his nerves. She watched as her husband, a former working man, easily navigated his way through conversations with the highest of society. She was exceedingly proud of him. His transition had been amazing. She had watched him from the day he first fumbled to serve tea at their meeting, to parties where he had to bite his tongue, now to becoming a decorated member of the upper crust. Despite the change in his circumstances, Killian had retained a good heart and maintained the estate so that it thrived in the war-torn economical climate.
“Lovely pair, the two of you make,” the Duke smiled at the both of them, who gave blushing nods in return. “A fine example of the very best English breeding.”
The Duke wandered off after a brief conversation, and Emma took the chance to assist Killian in making an escape. They walked quickly in the direction of the exit, with Emma giggling under her breath. “Probably shouldn’t burst his bubble about ‘very best English breeding’.”
Okay so…. @diggo26 is the only person whose read this story or what I managed to write during the month of April during the camp that @green-arrows-of-karamel allowed me to take part in. She’s certain this is a great story and I’m still unsure. I’m posting the first chapter because again a certain friend desperately wants me to share…
Summary: Oliver Queen has been missing for two years. On the eve of his 2nd anniversary the local paper with the families consent has decided to run a memorial article since one was never done when he first went missing. Sara Lance was assigned the story at first but know the paper’s hotshot reporter Felicity Smoak has been assigned the story. Felicity must now put her personal feelings aside as she searches for the truth to Oliver Queen’s disappearance.
Red tapestries, faded hardwood and, broken glass surrounded his tall, angular form. He pushed his fingers along the white marble window sill; the dust fell over the beveled edge with ease as his cold blue eyes peered through the scratched up window panes.
The empty branches scratched along the battered, abandoned glass; the windows now were simply a broken reflection of a place that once felt like his true home. He shifted his gaze and, let the rhythmic pace of the wind along the glass ease the growing loneliness within his hardened heart. The clock along the stone mantel clanged, the windows rattled and, the shutters snapped along the home’s stone exterior.
His sharp inhale seemed silent when the wind once more howled, “Two years tomorrow,” he groaned to the creaking walls. “Two years and no one’s come…” he bemoaned as the lone flicker of light finally went out…
Chapter One: Changing Writers
The room around her was filled with the sounds of tapping fingers and thudding brains. Her brightly painted fingernails tapped along the faded black keys of her worn office keyboard. She tapped at the edge of the archaic machine and, let her furrowed brow fade into a frustrated one.
“Every life has a story, every journey has a reason and, every life has to find its ultimate purpose.”
Once she read the line aloud she immediately pressed her eager pinkie over the fairly worn backspace key. She watched with anticipated annoyance while each word slowly began to simply fade away.
She heard the sharp scowl of her thoroughly overworked officemate. “Please explain to me how that cow expects us to produce miracles from absolutely nothing!”
Felicity grumbled in sour agreement, “I take it you’ve been given the memorial story from hell?”
But Aunt Marge suddenly stopped speaking. For a moment, it looked as though words had failed her. She seemed to be swelling with inexpressible anger — but the swelling didn’t stop. Her great red face started to expand, her tiny eyes bulged, and her mouth stretched too tightly for speech — next second, several buttons had just burst from her tweed jacket and pinged off the walls — she was inflating like a monstrous balloon, her stomach bursting free of her tweed waistband, each of her fingers blowing up like a
“But Aunt Marge suddenly stopped speaking. For a moment, it looked as though words had failed her. She seemed to be swelling with inexpressible anger — but the swelling didn’t stop. Her great red face started to expand, her tiny eyes bulged, and her mouth stretched too tightly for speech — next second, several buttons had just burst from her tweed jacket and pinged off the walls — she was inflating like a monstrous balloon, her stomach bursting free of her tweed waistband, each of her fingers blowing up like a salami…”
Congrats, sweetness! May I have a Sherlolly story, please? All the hugs and all the kisses, Lil
Aww, thank you, hun! This is going to be an explicit fic in part 2, but as I said, I can’t brain writing much more than foreplay right now, so hopefully it will come Friday. This part is suggestive but not too much so I’m not tagging it not safe for work.
An Overabundance Of Cherries (½) - When Sherlock Holmes thinks of Molly, he associates her with cherry-printed clothing.
He would never admit to snooping. Not that he needed to; he was a consulting detective, he was sure most people assumed he did so anyway.
But most people never let him use their bedroom as a bolthole, either.
He’d noticed Molly would almost always tidy it up before she let him in if he showed up while there was some semblance of her being awake enough to do so. He did try, at times, to be courteous of the hour. And there were times, of course, when he was gracious enough to share the sofa with the cat if it was too late in the hour, and lay awake and think. And it worked well for a time, this arrangement, even after her engagement to Meat Dagger, though he doubted the man himself approved. Molly never breathed a word, though.
Though…she didn’t let him stay the night. If she wanted to spend the night with her fiancee, he came to his bolthole finding a tidy bedroom and an empty flat.
And then, he would snoop.
He had wondered what the attraction was, beyond the physical. Beyond the rather pale resemblance. Was he a kind man? Did he treat her well? Was he gracious to her friends and kind to what little family she had left, scattered to the wind as it was? Had he even met he sister in Berwick-upon-Tweed or heard stories of her nieces who she only really knew through photographs?
To be honest, he wondered why he knew of them. Why she had told him. Why he had listened and cataloged the information and the pictures of Grace and Tabitha and settled it firmly in her room in his mind palace where all the pertinent information about her went. He and Molly weren’t friends, not really. They could have been, possibly, if things had been different. If he had allowed it.
Perhaps he should have.
No use for it now.
It was in one of those times where he was alone in the flat where he found something out of place. Something…intimate…out of place. Oh, her bedroom was always tidy, so clean he’d expect she could probably perform surgery in it with a low chance of patient infection. But sticking out of the hamper was a brassiere.
A cherry patterned brassiere.
He flashed back to the first time he saw her, in Stamford’s office. Not officially on duty, just hired, probably having just been warned against angering him. Hair pulled back in a sleek bun, slightly off center at the nape of her neck, simple black skirt that ended just above the knees, white button down blouse with no frills, and the cherry print cardigan he would soon come to associate with her. Even then he had been struck by the thought she was soft, and he could bend her to his will.
He should have known differently.
He fingered the brassiere and thought absently about doing more. It was true, he had those thoughts from time to time. He did his best to ignore them, as they held no place in his life. Carnal thoughts would simply slow the scientific process, do nothing more than complicate things. Complicate everything.
And she wasn’t his to have.
She was someone else’s.
Greedy bastard he might be, he wouldn’t hurt her by putting her in a position to make her break a vow she’d made. She promised herself to someone else, and they could be friends. Nothing more.
The brassiere went in the hamper, the lid closed, and he tried to forget about it.
I feel Scully and Bedelia just merged, at least aesthetically, I don't mind though. Always wanted Mulder to see Scully dressed like Bedelia with the alcohol flowing. I guess Henry will do for now.
The first fundraiser they attended for the hospital was shortly after she started, a casino night for a new pediatric ER. The woman at the store suggested green but Scully had always avoided the cliché of it. She selected a strapless sheath of Harris tweed instead, her hair in in Veronica Lake waves and lipstick the color of arterial blood.
“Gambling is a tax on people who are bad at math,” she protested as Mulder steered her toward the roulette table.
“It’s for the kids, Doc.”
Scully sighed, downed the last of her cocktail and handed the glass to a passing waiter. She scanned the wheel, tapping her chin. “Six line,” she said.
Mulder shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “I always bet on red.”
Christy Turlington personifies luxury as she sits atop a Mini Cooper with her legion of shopping bags wearing a ruffle sleeved button down tweed blazer as part of her head-to-toe Chanel attire in the editorial ‘Rive Paris!’ shot by longtime friend of the model photography legend Steven Meisel for Vogue Italia February 1992.
Ok, a while back I saw someone asking for Holtzy on a museum first date headcanons? And I don’t remember who or when but its just the cutest thing so here, have some Holtzbert:
❤️Erin dressed like she’s giving a lecture aka tweed for days.
❤️ Holtzy being her usual self and driving them there in the Ecto-1
❤️ There’s one of those guided tours going on and they tag along
❤️ the guide is some undertrained teen who keeps mixing up up basic science facts until Holtz can’t take it anymore and hijacks the tour.
❤️ and Erin is all like -Jillian, no!-but she gives in and eventually gets in ~teacher mode~
❤️ Of course someone recognized them and the whole thing turns into an impromptu autograph signing
❤️ it’s all going pretty well until they get to an interactive exhibition,
- hey Gilbert, wanna see something cool?
- Always ;) but just what are you doing?
- it’s cool, I’m just cranking it up a few notches
❤️ next thing they know, they’re banned form the museum. Best. Date. Ever.