#complete and utter fluff

[wulvercazz]

Day 31 — The Day of the Dead✨

What if,,, in his past life (or one of them) Grimmjow was Mexican??? and remembered a couple things from the celebration?

Translation for the second page for whoever needs it:

“Look what you make me say!”

“Stop fucking around already!”

[snidgetsafan]

Ketchup to You

Rating: T (for swearing)

Summary: Emma is on a terrible date, but a ketchup-related incident will prove to save her night – and give her so much more. It wasn't exactly love at first sauce, but it was pretty close, though. (AO3)

Notes: Happy birthday @shireness-says, the best beta there is and an amazing friend! You told us about this little anecdote that happened between your parents, and I decided to give it my own twist. It’s been super hard hiding this from you, as I usually talk over all my ideas with you, but @thejollyroger-writer​ has been kind enough to look it over for me. Thanks, Megan! You also get my first picset, as shabby as it is.

Wordcount: 2.4k for 24 years 

“And you see, that’s why I think bounty hunting shouldn’t be legal. It’s way too dangerous, especially for women. It should be left to professionals, people who are qualified for catching criminals.”

Strike 1 . Emma grinds her teeth as she smiles tightly while her date, Walsh, continues to lecture her about her own job. The guy doesn’t even understand that “bounty hunting” and “bailsbond work” are completely different things, but he is an expert . They’re waiting for their meals, have been at Granny’s for a mere half an hour, and Emma already wants to bolt.

Seriously, what had Mary Margaret been thinking, setting her up with this guy? She has barely spoken two sentences in the last ten minutes, her date more interested in the sound of his own voice than anything else. 

Ruby bringing their meals provides very short relief, the two women sharing a look as Walsh stops talking about the auction he went to the other day to ask for a refill on his glass of water. Emma can’t help but notice that he’s taken one of the cheapest dishes on the menu, and no soda. She had also noticed his little moue of displeasure when she had taken her usual grilled cheese and onion rings. She pointedly didn’t look at him when she’d ordered her Coke.

Before her friend leaves, Emma asks for ketchup; if she’s going to have to endure Walsh for the next hour, then she needs ketchup.

“And please hurry, we’d like them before our plates get cold.”

Emma and Ruby freeze, first looking at each other, then at Walsh’s salad. Emma’s date seems oblivious, busy as he is tapping on his phone.

Ruby purses her lips, walking away in annoyed silence, making Emma wince. Ruby’s pissed . She’s tempted to get her own phone out and text Mary Margaret to ask her what she had done to deserve such a punishment as a date with Walsh Ozman, but she’s afraid her sister-in-law will either worry and call Emma, or that she’ll text the idiot across from her.

The table behind her erupts in laughter. At least someone’s having fun, she thinks sullenly.

Two simultaneous plonks bring Emma back to reality, Ruby having briskly put down the new glass of water and the bottle of ketchup on the table before leaving without a word.

“The service here is terrible,” Walsh huffs as Emma grabs the ketchup and uncaps it. “I don’t know why you wanted to come here.”

“I’ve been coming here for years,” Emma answers sharply, shaking the bottle over her plate, waiting for condiment to fall, “and the service has always been more than adequate.”

Nothing is coming out of the bottle.

“Well, I guess your standards are pretty low then.”

Strike 2 . Emma bites back the retort that they aren’t low enough to consider him adequate, choosing instead to channel her rising annoyance into shaking the ketchup bottle vigorously. She’s pretty sure this is the “special bottle” Ruby reserves for annoying customers – the one with ketchup thick enough to stay at the bottom of the bottle – and that she’s given it to her to express her disapproval in dating partners. Which she didn’t choose , she wants to shout to her friend.

A particularly energetic shake of the bottle finally has an effect, but not the one she’s expecting. A shouted “bloody hell” from behind her, and the scrape of a chair being pushed back make her freeze before slowly turning around, dread in her stomach at what she’s about to see.

The view that greets her makes her eyes widen before her face heats up in embarrassment. The man who is sitting behind her is wiping off his nape, which is covered in ketchup. The condiment is also dripping all along the back of his leather jacket, leaving a growing streak of red on black.

“Oh my god I’m so sorry,” Emma gasps, looking down at the bottle in her hand to understand what happened. She forgot to put the cap back on , she realizes with horror, before hurriedly putting it on the table, as if that will absolve her of her idiocy. Completely forgetting about her date, she turns fully towards the other man, blindly grabbing for her napkin to help clean the worst of the damage. It’s as she’s trying to wipe off the condiment before it permanently stains the leather that her victim turns around.

Oh , Emma thinks as she looks at the bluest eyes she’s ever seen. The rest of the face is nothing to sneeze at either; expressive black eyebrows, scruff that she wouldn’t mind feeling against her skin, and a smile that is slowly stretching luscious lips, causing a dimple to form on his cheek as he looks at her.

Emma blinks, the rest of the world coming back into focus. Hot damn is this man handsome.

“That’s bad form, lass, attacking a man from behind,” he tells her, smiling teasingly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t notice the bottle was already open,” Emma apologizes once again, dropping her eyes to his jacket to continue cleaning it. “I’ve taken off the most of it, but you should clean it with soapy water as soon as possible,” she says, looking up once more.

The man is not looking at his jacket, however; he doesn’t seem concerned about it, preferring to continue looking at her. He’s still smiling, which surprises Emma; if she were the one to have been sprayed with ketchup, she’d be quite annoyed, and would make that annoyance known.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells her, “but I think that now you owe me, don’t you think?” the man asks, his smile turning into a smirk as he raises his eyebrows.

Wait, what?

“That’s what the sorry was for,” Emma retorts. Of course it was too good to be true, he had to be a jackass. If he asks for a kiss, Emma promises herself, she’ll dump the rest of the bottle on his head.

“Aye, but I think that as the offended party, I have the right to know my attacker’s name,” he tells her, his eyes twinkling. “I’m Killian, by the way,” he introduces himself, stretching a hand out for her to shake.

“Her name’s Emma, and she’s taken, now go away,” comes from behind her before she has a chance to shake Killian’s hand.

Walsh . Dammit, she had forgotten about him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Emma asks, turning towards her date . Who does he think he is, being so rude? And did he really dare doing what she think he did, claiming her like you claim a seat at the theater? When they hadn’t even gone on one full date (not that they would go on a second one)?

“What’s wrong with me is that my date is ogling another man instead of paying attention to me,” Walsh says, his eyes flashing, “so I’d like you to turn back, eat your meal and pay attention to me.”

And then he snaps his fingers.

Strike 3 .

Emma doesn’t even feel angry, even as she hears the table behind her collectively gasp, Walsh’s loud tone having carried over to them. Instead, she feels a great calmness come over her.

She looks at Walsh, and in a very composed tone, tells him, “Ok, I’m done.”

“I… what?” the man sputters, clearly not expecting her to answer that.

“Since the beginning of the evening, you have been nothing but a rude, conceited asshole, so enamored with the sound of your own voice that you didn’t even take the time to understand what my job actually was. The only reason I’ve endured your presence is out of courtesy for Mary Margaret, but now you’ve crossed the line. I’m done with you,” she concludes, fixing Walsh with a cold stare as he gapes at her.

His astonishment doesn’t last long, as he closes his mouth before angrily standing up, his chair falling down with a loud clang . “No, I’m done with you ,” and with those parting words, Walsh storms off dramatically, the bell over the door jingling loudly in the dead silence that has fallen over the diner. Good riddance .

“Are you all right, love?” comes from behind her.

Turning her head, she sees Killian and the other two occupants of the table, a woman and a man, standing up, seemingly ready to come to her help.

“I – yes, thank you, I’m fine,” she says, smiling uncomfortably, ill at ease with all the stares she can feel on her.

“That one sounded like a catch, lass,” the man behind Killian pipes up, earning himself a slap on the arm from his companion, along with a furiously whispered “Liam!”

Killian rolls his eyes, much to Emma’s amusement.

“Well, I guess that means the end of the night for me,” she says, seeing Ruby approach, a scowl on her face, from the corner of her eye

“And that tosser left you with the bill, too,” Killian mutters, frowning.

“Where did you find that loser?” Ruby asks bluntly, her eyes focused on Emma and her hands on her hips.

“I didn’t, Mary Margaret did,” Emma answers with her own roll of the eyes, grabbing her jacket. “You can be sure it’s the last time she guilts me into accepting one of her set ups, though,” she concludes, ready to go, with a longing glance towards her plate as she searches her pockets for her wallet. She wants that grilled cheese, dammit. She deserves it, after the last half hour.

“Oh no, please let me, you shouldn’t pay for that arse’s meal,” Killian interjects, trying to stop her.

“Don’t worry about it, Blue Eyes, it’s on the house,” Ruby tells him.

“That’s very nice of you, but I can’t let the owner take it out of your pay, lass.”

Ruby snorts at that, throwing a look Emma’s way, one that’s both amused and speculative. She’s not sure she likes that look. “The owner’s my grandmother, I’m an associate, my salary’s safe, but thanks for worrying about it.”

“It would be bad form to let you assume that idiot’s stinginess,” Killian insists.

Emma looks at Killian. He seems genuine; she always knows when people lie to her, but she doesn’t see any deception coming from him. He is just sincerely… nice.

“Well, it would be bad form to let that delicious grilled cheese go to waste,” the other man says, having come nearer. “Why don’t you come eat your meal with us, lass? I’d love to hear more about what job you do that actually enables you to throw ketchup on unsuspecting victims so effectively,” he concludes, gesturing towards the empty seat at their table.

His offer is nice, and would allow her to eat her onion rings, but she doesn’t know these people. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” Emma says, taking a small step back.

“You wouldn’t be, we’re inviting you. I’m Liam, by the way, and this is my wife Elsa. And this, here, is my little brother Killian,” the tall man says, tapping his brother on the shoulder and ignoring his muttered “younger” with what seems like honed practice. Now that they’re close together, she can see the likeness between the two men; Liam is taller, and has light brown hair where his brother’s is dark, but they share the same eyes and they have the same smile.

Before Emma has a chance to respond, Ruby takes the decision out of her hands, taking her plate and glass and putting them on the other table with a definitive thud . She’s about to say something, but she makes the mistake of looking at Killian at that moment. If the hopeful look on his face isn’t enough to make her cave, him scratching nervously behind his ear finishes to convince her. After all, what does she have to lose? They can’t be worse than Walsh, they seem quite nice; and even if Liam’s wife hasn’t said a single word to her yet, it appears to be more out of shyness than anything else, her encouraging smile as she removes her bag from what is becoming Emma’s chair showing her agreement with her husband.

What the hell, Emma thinks, internally shrugging.

“Well, if you’re sure…” she hedges.

It’s Killian who answers. “We are,” he tells her softly, “it would be our pleasure.”

Emma smiles at him, and the smile doesn’t leave her face all evening as she gets to know Killian and his family. She learns that Liam teases his brother mercilessly, but loves him fiercely. She learns that Elsa is probably one of the kindest people she’s ever met, but that she can match her husband’s wit barb for barb.

As for Killian? She learns that he’s funny, a gentleman, that he’s a retired Royal Navy officer who’s started in Boston PD a month ago, and that this meal was to celebrate him finally finding a flat and “getting out of his brother’s hair.”

She also learns that she likes him, and would like to get to know him better, preferably without his family and Ruby watching them like hawks. So when he offers to walk her to her car at the end of the evening, she gladly accepts, and is actually the one to ask for his number as they reach her yellow bug.

Both of them lean towards the other, however, and just before their lips meet in one of the softest kisses of Emma’s life, she can’t help but think that maybe, in a roundabout way, she should thank Mary Margaret for this evening. Nah , she thinks, as she tangles her hands in Killian’s soft hair.

She does end up never allowing Mary Margaret to set her up on another date, but it has nothing to do with her terrible taste in potential partners for Emma. It has more to do with the fact that Emma starts dating Killian, and doesn’t stop, until dating turns into a solid relationship, which turns into cohabitation, which then turns into talking about marriage and children.

Although Emma will never let Killian live down the fact he thought that putting the engagement ring at the bottom of a ketchup bottle would be a romantic way to propose.

Okay, maybe it is , she thinks as she watches her dork of a boyfriend down on one knee in the middle of Granny’s, his fingers sticky with hastily wiped off sauce and a huge smile on his face. Maybe it is .

[veridium]

A report from one of Leliana’s people, sent from Crestwood to Skyhold—

Sister Nightingale,

I cannot confirm at this time whether your suspicions are correct. As it stands, the Inquisitor and Seeker are preoccupied with their duties most every waking hour. They hardly let the veneer of professional organization slip. I have, however, consulted with the other accompanying allies on what they have seen and heard of them over the course of their respective stations here throughout the weeks. The following are directly transcribed quotes as we have gathered them:

“They fight like cats and dogs and then they fight other people like cats and dogs. The only thing they agree upon is how to kill enemies and even then, Cassandra will say something critical and the Inquisitor will threaten to singe her eyebrows off. Heh, I’d pay to see that. Uh, don’t write that part down.” - Varric Tethras

“Like oil and water, though both are ingredients to a proper vinaigrette. Say, that’s what was missing from my salad last night. Maker, who do I have to kill and raise as the undead to get proper fixings for my legumes? Oh is this not on topic? Good, that was my intention.” - Lord Dorian Pavus

“The Seeker’s got a great sword up her ass and the Inquisitor has so much plucky sunshine coming out of hers. It’s no wonder they got it for each other. You ask me, there’s some steam needing to be blown off. Though, I doubt the Seeker would enjoy the kind of steam the Boss would have in mind. Mages, you know, they take that shit pretty literally.” - The Iron Bull

“Why do you care to know? You doing that gross thing where you get all in it for two girls who got it in for each other? Sod off, I ain’t telling you nothin.’” - Sera. Should be noted she accompanied this with a threat to unleash a jar of fire ants on our cots if she caught us being “filthy.”

“Our dear Inquisitor is smart but she is impressionable, and anyone looking to stake a claim for themselves must first contend with those among her who have already done so, though Cassandra fumbles with the potential of her prowess every which way she can, apparently. I must say it is rather intriguing the way she’s so careful of the Herald, as if she’s a glutton for punishment. I would hardly be surprised if that were the case.” - Madame de Fer

“They’re both strong, principled women. Pity that has turned into a grudge match between them. Once, however, they did something strange while we were out in the field. They shared an apple, cut up by the Inquisitor like she already knew which pieces the Seeker would like best. She even carved off the skin. The Seeker took her share quietly as if they were simply handling a chore or everyday habit. If you ask me, they’re friendly. They just hate admitting it.” - Warden Blackwall

“It is not my place nor my interest to partake in the musings of the Inquisitor’s personal life. However, with her insistence upon friendship, I have to admit she has confided in me. To the extent of which, I will not say. As it stands my report with the Seeker is one of strenuous respect, one I do not wish to tamper with unnecessarily.” - Solas the Apostate

These are all the testimonies and insights I have for you, my Lady. I will send along any further details at your request.

- Agent H.

[biaswreckmepls]

in your eyes (it’s where i wanna be)

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6602608

Author: bonnia

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Relationships: Min Yoongi/Park Jimin

Status: Completed

Chapters: 1/1 (5562 words)

Tags: Coffee Shop AU

Summary: 

Jimin pauses with his marker inches away from the cup, because — is he really going to do this? Isn’t it a bit old-fashioned to write something flirty on a coffee cup? But no matter what his churning gut says about danger and what the hell are you doing do you want to die, this guy is — with no better way to put it — totally Jimin’s Type with a capital T.

(Or: Jimin accidentally starts a nickname war with the cute blonde who likes his coffee way too bitter.)

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6602608

[raspberrytummytickles]

Relaxation

Title: Relaxation Fandom: Supernatural Characters: Lucifer, Michael, Gabriel Summary: Ticklish!Michael; Lucifer and Gabe just wanted their big brother to relax for once. For: @heavenly-raspberries

Original Prompt: I had an idea for a fanfic. How about Lucifer and Gabriel ganging up on Michael and tickling him until he agrees to relax more. Set before Lucifer fell. By the way, I love your writing!

It was a well known fact that Michael was a very serious angel. As the first son created, he took his job very seriously to watch over everyone else. He stressed himself out to know end, trying to keep heaven in order and dealing with all his millions of brothers. It was a lot of responsibility for one angel.

That’s why, Lucifer and Gabriel liked messing around with him. It gave Michael a chance to have a bit of fun since he never seemed to do so himself. He just needed a little push. Lucifer and Gabriel were the best to do so for him. They were the Pranksters of Heaven, Lucifer teaching his young protégé everything he knew.

That included getting Michael to relax.

It wasn't actually a hard task to do, though getting him off guard was tricky. So, they devised a plan to get their mission into action. Gabriel, still being a sorta small fledgling was gonna distract Michael while Lucifer came from behind. Michael’s and Lucifer’s grace were similar but since Michael was the oldest, his was stronger so they needed to get him properly off guard.

Gabriel walked over to were Michael was watching the warriors spar and tugged on Michael’s white toga. His caramel eyes were watery and a very realistic bruise was on his arm.

“Gabriel, what did you do?” Michael scolded softly, concern in his stern voice as he held the ‘hurt’ arm.

“I-I was playing in th-the garden and fell from the tree tryin’ t-to fly,” Gabriel sniffled, trying to get into Michael’s arms.

The oldest angel sighed and scooped up his younger brother, not knowing he was giving a thumbs up to Lucifer who was sneaking behind them.

“You know you’re not allowed to play in the garden, I've told you that a hundred times. That is for father’s newest creations.”

“But i like the gardens.”

“Still, you are not to go-ACK!” Michael yelped loudly as they tumbled forward, a heavy force, knocking them down.

Gabriel quickly squirmed out of Michael’s arms as Lucifer straddled his brother.

“Hiya, Mikey!”

“Lucifer,” Michael growled, eyes flickering to a slightly guilty, slight excited looking Gabriel, the bruise magically gone. “I should of known.”

“Shoulda but you didn't, meaning I still have my skill,” Lucifer preened, smirking down at him. “Anyway, you ready?”

“For what, featherbrain?”

“Relaxation!” Lucifer smirked wider as Michael’s eyes bulged, all too familiar to Lucifer’s relaxation methods.

“No No, I’m good. Don‘t you dare make he have to throw you off!”

“Are you threatening me?!” Lucifer mock gasped. “Oh that’s it! Get his feet!”

“NOOO!”

Michael’s shout was drowned out by loud hysterical laughter as his two younger brothers went to his worst spot, both of their grace combined to keep him in place. He couldn't escape.

“STAHAHAP LUHUHUCIFER! GAHAHABE PLEHEHEASE!”

“No way! This is so fun!” Lucifer chuckled, spidering over the sensitive soles.

“EEK! NAHAHA DOHOHONT!”

“Toes toes toes!” Gabriel hummed, dragging one of his golden brown feathers between Michael’s wiggling toes.

“AHAHAHAHA GAHAHABRIEHEHEL STAHAHAP AHAHAT OHOHONCE!”

“I don't wanna!”

“PLEHEHEHASE AHAHA THAHAHAT TIHIHICKLES!” The oldest archangel squealed, a soft blush finally appearing on his cheeks with a helpless smile.

Lucifer and Gabe slowed the tickles to a stop, chuckling at their panting brother.

“I hahate you both.”

“Are you relaxed now?” Lucifer grinned, not taking the words to heart.

“No.”

“Liar~” Lucifer wiggled a finger against Michael’s ribs, making the angels giggle and bat his hands away.

“Wanna know what would relax me?” Michael growled. “Revenge.”

“EVERY ANGEL FOR THEMSELF!” Lucifer shouted, taking off in a flutter of wings.

“Luci!” Gabriel squealed, flapping all six of his baby wings to catch up, Michael right at his heels.

Damn, he really loved his brothers.

[squirenonny]

Urithiru Races

Words: 1381 Fandom: Stormlight Archive Spoilers: slight Words of Radiance spoilers Trigger Warnings: N/A Summary: Because why would Radiants walk when they have Surges?

Notes: Inspired by this scene from Rise of the Guardians (feat. Kaladin as Jack and Lift as Jamie)

[Read on AO3]

A shriek split the silence of Urithiru, startling ardents and scribes. A minor lighteyed officer swore and flattened himself against the wall as two glowing figures careened past, chased by a streak of white light and a sparkle of…something. Something half-seen, crystalline, a dark shadow keeping time with the light.

“Sorry!” Kaladin shouted, with a slight upward Lashing to avoid a collision with a cluster of soldiers in Sebarial’s colors. His shoulder skimmed the ceiling and he swore, veering down, close enough to knock a writing board out of a scribe’s hands.

He winced, flipped around, and landed hard against the wall below him—a split second before Lift arrived, sliding on Slicked knees at an impossible speed. She could have put her hands down, pulled some of the “awesomeness” out of her legs to slow down.

Instead, she slid on, hurtling toward a wall and a broken neck. She stared him in the eyes, unflinching, grinning a challenge.

At the last second, Kaladin Lashed himself back the way he’d come. He grabbed her under the arms and pulled her up, her momentum spinning him in a circle in midair. Kaladin slowed them, then set Lift on her feet, uncomfortably aware of the dozens of eyes watching. Those looks ranged from shock to curiosity to outright indignation, and the last thing Kaladin wanted was to turn the whole of lighteyed society against Urithiru’s newest Radiant.

(It was too late to salvage her opinion of them, of course. She’d hated them from day one, and Kaladin had liked her from the moment she turned up in Bridge Four’s quarters with pockets full of stolen pastries.)

Lift’s head lolled back as Kaladin set her down, and she let out a groan to rival a chasmfiend. “Why do you hafta be such a starvin’ stick-in-the-mud, Kaladin?”

“A stick-in-the-mud,” he said, crossing his arms. “Because I didn’t let you brain yourself on the wall.”

“Hey. I’m awesome. I’da healed.”

Kaladin rubbed his forehead. “That’s not a good reason to go slamming into walls, Lift.”

“It most certainly is not.” Wyndle arrived, puffing, Syl laughing and spinning loops over him. The crystalline vines that comprised Lift’s spren twined up Kaladin’s leg and settled on his shoulder. “Perhaps you should listen to him, Mistress.”

“Oh, boo.” Syl snuck a glance at Lift, then mimicked the girl’s dramatic groan. “You boys are so stuffy.”

Lift nodded once, matter-of-factly. “Hey. Voidbringer.”

Wyndle sighed. “Why do you insist on calling me that?”

“Cause that’s what you are.”

Kaladin arched an eyebrow at her. “You know, I’ve seen Voidbringers. Trust me when I say Wyndle is definitely not one.”

“Thank you.”

Lift sighed again, louder this time, and Syl joined in after a curious glance. Kaladin scowled at her, which only made her giggle, zip back, and hide herself in Lift’s long hair.

“Anyway,” Lift said, jabbing her finger into a cluster of crystalline leaves—also, coincidentally, into Kaladin’s arm, with enough force to bruise. “Voidbringer. You need to hang out with Syl more. She could teach you a few things.”

“Like what, how to pull pranks and cause trouble?”

“Yeah, exactly!”

Wyndle sighed, creeping higher on Kaladin’s shoulder. “You see what I have to put up with?”

Kaladin fought down a smile. “I’m starting to get an idea.”

“Actually, I’ve been thinking—hear me out on this, now. What do you say to letting Syl and Mistress Lift be…” He paused, grunting. “Letting them have their fun. I could be your spren instead.”

Syl appeared atop Lift’s head, scowling. “Kaladin, don’t you dare.”

“Now hold on, Voidbringer.” Lift crossed her arms, rising up on her toes to peer at Wyndle. “You aren’t really thinkin’ of ditching me, are you?”

“So you do care. I was beginning to wonder.”

Crystals like rockbuds sprouted from Wyndle’s vines, a show of pleasure so overt that Lift rocked back, blushing. “Course I don’t. Starvin’ Voidbringer.” She bit her lip, bouncing on restless feet, then turned and took off running. “This is boring. Try and catch me, stormcloud!”

She took in Stormlight and, three paces later, dropped to her knees. Whooping, Syl chased after her.

“Stormcloud…?” Kaladin muttered, staring after the pair of them. “Is she serious?”

"Rarely,” said Wyndle. “Though I’ve heard rumors that she is capable of acting like a proper Radiant.”

Kaladin raised an eyebrow, but started walking in the direction Lift and Syl had gone, if only to outpace the stares of lighteyes who had stopped to see the show. “What do you do when she gets like this?”

There was a pause as Wyndle slithered down Kaladin’s leg and reattached himself to solid ground. “What else is there to do but follow her, and try to keep her out of the worst danger?”

Kaladin’s steps slowed. Stormfather. What had he gotten himself into?

The corner came up fast—too fast, and not fast enough. She grabbed a hold of the nearest person, some man in a froofy, frilly jacket with greasy hair, and used him to swing through a turn. The swears that chased her brought a grin to her face. Syl kept pace beside her, a white streak bubbling with laughter.

A shadow flashed past overhead, and Kaladin landed on the wall ahead of her. Lift bit back a scream. Starving grown ups!

“Get outta here, stormcloud,” she called as he started to fall toward her, hand outstretched. “I can take care of my—huh?”

As Kaladin passed, he tapped her on the shoulder, but instead of slowing, she drifted around the corner. Lift spun herself around and gaped at Kaladin as he came flying up beside her, scowling like she’d forced him to go around collecting all the chull dung in Urithiru.

“Lashing is really not made for close quarters like this,” he grumbled, running a few steps on the ceiling, then reaching down to correct her course.

“So why’re you doing it?”

“Because.” Kaladin’s eyes went wide, and he Lashed her to the side. A cluster of spearmen flashed past, staring after them with disbelieving smiles. “Wyndle made an excellent point about the amount of damage you’d cause if left to your own devices.”

Smoky vines raced along beneath Kaladin, grumbling. “I did nothing of the sort, Mistress.”

Lift grinned. “So what I’m getting is, you two felt left out.”

Kaladin grunted.

“No need to look so angry about it, stormcloud.”

He flashed her an irritated look, but soon had to focus on the hallway ahead, and steering Lift away from any nasty collisions. She spun herself back around, checked to make sure she was still good and slicked, and settled in for the ride.

“Faster,” she ordered.

“What?”

“Faster! I know you can do it, stormcloud.”

Kaladin dropped down beside her, flying on his back so he could glower at her. “That’s not going to happen.”

She shrugged, putting down her fingers to weave in and out of a group of startled scribes who scattered in her wake. “Well, if you’re scared…”

“You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that, kid.”

“’Kay, then imagine the look on the lightlords’—”

“Brightlords.”

“Brightlords’ faces when we come screamin’ into their fancy meeting like a coupla starvin’ highstorms.”

That startled a laugh out of the grumpy guardsman, and Lift grinned.

“Is that a yes?”

In answer, Kaladin Lashed her toward a staircase and onto the outer wall so they chased each other up in a screaming corkscrew that left Lift’s head spinning. They burst out onto the upper floor, startling a pair of spearmen, and Kaladin threw open the door before Lift could turn herself into a sticky-awesome smear on the fake wood.

Brightlord Dalinar stood on the other side. He spun at their loud and sudden entrance, eyes going wide, and caught Lift before she knocked him off his feet. (She was only a little disappointed his reflexes were so starvin’ fast.)

Kaladin dropped to the ground, laughing. A few quick steps brought him to a stop, the lighteyes all staring at him like he was the Voidbringer. "Storms!" he said, steadying himself on the table. "That was actually fun!"

Lift wriggled out of Dalinar’s hold and punched Kaladin’s arm. “Not bad, stormcloud. Looks like I might have to keep you around after all.”

[squirenonny]

ladyknightradiant Have some fluff to make a blah day a little bit better

Parker never stopped stealing things.

She feels guilty about that, sometimes, now that she’s a good guy. (The leader of the good guys, technically, the Best guy. Or she should be.)

It’s not the stealing she feels guilty about. That’s what they do, that’s their thing. They’re Robin Hoods and alternative justice and something good and right and maybe just a little illegal. Parker’s never cared about that last one, and she doesn’t start now.

She does the right thing, for the most part, and that usually involves stealing from bad guys, and sometimes borrowing from not-so-bad guys. (But she always gives those things back, if she can.)

But she’s started stealing more than wallets and jewelry and priceless artifacts.

She steals kisses from Hardison when he’s deep in The Code (her fallback term for all the computer stuff she doesn’t understand), because his surprise is adorable and his smile makes her warm inside and when she asks what he’s doing she gets to hear his voice at its most vibrant talking about what he loves to who he loves. She can’t resist taking those moments when he least expect them.

She steals food from Eliot, because it’s fantastic and she really doesn’t need another reason. But also because he still never blames her and so she gets to see her boys argue over nothing, gets to watch anger turn into teasing turn into compliments torn backwards out of their stubbornness and launched like insults they both pretend are really meant to insult.

She steals moments in the morning when she’s the first awake, watching them sleep. Watching Eliot wake up and smile before he remembers he’s supposed to be a grump. Watching Hardison’s momentary panic as he reaches out and finds the rest of the bed empty and cold.

She steals these things and hoards them, unmarked, nonsequential, pulling up a memory from yesterday and a memory from three Christmases before because none of them feel so very far away.

She feels guilty, claiming them as her own, but then again it’s only fair. They stole her heart a long time ago.

[castillon02]

Pre-flight jitters

Summary: Q experiences some flying anxiety and Bond offers him a (chemical) solution. Fluff. (Also on AO3) 

“It's a new experience, that's all,” Q reminded himself, and leaned his head against Bond's right shoulder. “Nothing to get worked up about.” Even Bond's muscle-hard shoulder was more comfortable than the steel-and-black-pleather airport seats, which were too short to have head rests anyway. If by doing said leaning he was also obscuring his view of the gleaming white Boeing 777-200 on the tarmac, well, it just couldn't be helped. Really.

Bond’s body quivered with restrained mirth beneath Q's cheek. “And here I thought I couldn't introduce you to anything new,” he said, low and habitually sultry.

“I suppose it's about time you pulled out a trick or two,” Q replied, his mind mostly on the design specs he had memorized, and he almost jumped when he felt Bond's warm palm land on his knee. He braced himself. The hand would undoubtedly move higher, he'd have to mutter “Public place” as a reminder of their negotiated rules about PDAs, and Bond would probably laugh again, entertained as usual by the novelty of Q's lack of exhibitionist tendencies.

Instead Bond petted Q's knee once and after that his hand stayed still and steady. Not his usual M.O. “Do you want a sedative?” Bond asked.

“No,” Q said. He couldn't take everything in if he were half-conscious; he'd miss the full plane passenger experience, which would provide important firsthand experiential data to round out his observations of secondary sources like films and engine diagrams. Also, if something went terribly wrong, then he would need to make his last communications sensible instead of sleep-stupid. Imagine if he said something hideously inane, like “What’s going on?”, instead of remote-activating the relevant failsafe codes and telling Bond “I love you”!

“All right then,” Bond said. His hand stayed on Q's knee. The fact that he had offered a sedative meant that he had one, that he'd snuck one from Medical just in case Q wanted or needed it. Probably more than one, knowing as he did that Q liked to have options.

“Ridiculous old man,” Q said. He took Bond's hand in his and gave it a grateful squeeze.

Bond squeezed back. He kept holding Q’s hand, without self-consciousness, until it was time to board.