motion pantry

anonymous asked:

I'm really curious how you would work out #33. With Hope and Light.

“Something about you makes me want to commit extreme violence.” (I’m a sucker for height-difference fluff.)


Lightning didn’t mind that Hope seemed to spend more time at her place than at his own. Her studio apartment was big enough for the two of them, and she enjoyed his company. What she didn’t enjoy, though, was him moving things that weren’t supposed to be moved.

“Hope,” she said through gritted teeth. “Where did you put the coffee jar?”

Hope looked up from his laptop. “What?”

“The coffee jar.” She motioned at the open pantry behind her. “Where is it?”

“Oh, right.” He stood up from the couch and approached the kitchenette. “I must have put it on the top shelf. That’s where I keep mine at home.”

She took a step away from the pantry and looked up. Yes, there it was. On the top shelf. Of course. She clenched her jaw. No, she definitely didn’t enjoy this.

“It’s supposed to be on the middle shelf,” she said, trying her best to keep her voice level. She stood on her tiptoes and reached for the jar. Her fingertips grazed it, but as she’d suspected, it was an inch or two from being within her reach. Boiling with anger, she stomped to the table and grabbed a chair. This was why she never used that shelf, and, most importantly, why Hope wasn’t supposed to move things.

“Right,” Hope said from behind her back. “I didn’t think of that. Sorry.”

When she turned back around, Hope was holding the coffee jar. Lightning’s brain short-circuited for a moment. Hope was not supposed to reach things she couldn’t reach. It didn’t matter that she on some level knew about the three or for extra inches he had on her—in her head, he still shouldn’t be able to do this. It was angering and frustrating and wrong.

“I just thought I’d get it for you.” Judging by the uncertainty in Hope’s voice, her silent glare had to be even more intimidating than usual.

She took a deep breath in an attempt to push away the urge to break something. “Right now, there’s something about you that makes me want to commit extreme violence.”  

He tilted his head to the side, looking at her, then at the coffee jar, then back at her. “Do you… Do you want me to put it back up there?”

Lightning put the chair down on the floor and marched out of the apartment.

very-nearly-almost  asked:

That one time when it was Hawke's birthday and everyone brought cake, did Hawke actually eat them? Did he at least try them all?

(She is referring to this: http://kaerwrites.tumblr.com/post/124492192533/cake-lots-and-lots-of-cake)

The Amell estate was a wreck. It looked, without a doubt, as if a war had happened within its walls. Furniture toppled, booze spilt on the carpets, food smeared on the walls.

The Kirkwall crew had found a good use for all the cakes, once they were drunk enough to really think outside of the box. What Fenris could remember of the epic food fight was…harrowing.

Fenris had woken up in Hawke’s bathtub with Flower, Hawke’s mabari, contentedly licking cake off his cheek. His head was pounding and he felt as if he either desperately needed some real food, or needed to never eat again. He wasn’t sure which.

After evicting the dog, Fenris helped himself to the bathing facilities, then pulled one of Hawke’s big flannels on over his leggings and, with hair still damp, went in search of the others. Flower trotted happily at his heels.

The house was still and quiet. Fenris chose his steps carefully, wary of feeling the squish of cake between his toes.

He found Merrill curled up on top of the piano in the formal sitting room. Isabela was under the piano with her feet propped up on the bench and a great deal of frosting in her hair.

Aveline had been sensible enough to leave before things got crazy, but Fenris caught her letting herself in the front door, along with Donnic and a small army of guardsmen armed with buckets, brooms, and sponges.

His feet took him to the library, where Anders was curled in an arm chair like an oversized cat. He was directly in a sunbeam and someone had, at some point, thrown a blanket over him.

Fenris moved on.

The smell of food brought him to the kitchen, where he found Varric perched on a stool and frying up a very large quantity of eggs.

“About time someone woke up,” he greeted, much too loudly. Varric could hold his liquor. His chest hair was still matted with cake, but if he felt hungover, he didn’t show it.

Fenris lifted both hands to his head as the dwarf began to whistle. “Please. Don’t.”

“Coffee’s almost ready.”

“Hawke?”

Varric glanced at him, then motioned to the pantry. Fenris shuffled blearily forward. As he passed the open back door, he spotted Sebastian sprawled on a bench in the back yard. Shy little birds surrounded him, the more daring ones darting forward to peck at his shiny belt buckle of attempt to nip a strand of hair. As Fenris passed, the archer reached up to bat one away – then rolled over and went back to sleep.

As Fenris drew closer to the pantry, he could make out the sounds of moaning.

Hawke was in the gray, baggy, hideous underpants Fenris hated, his beard and chest hair matted with cake. Propped up against a big bag of rice, he blinked blearily when Fenris opened the door.

It took several seconds of staring before Fenris’s hungover mind could even begin to piece together what he was seeing.

“How much cake did you eat?” he asked at last. A groan was his only answer. Hawke began to struggle, trying to get up, and Fenris moved forward to help him before he thought better of it.

“This’ll be done soon, if you can get him cleaned up,” Varric suggested. Fenris only grunted.

“I think I need to be sick,” Hawke admitted when they reached the stairs.

“Try it and I’m leaving you.”

“…love you too.”

“…happy birthday, Hawke.”

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