#domestic slice of life

[chaosclimber]

Hi, I'd love to see something from the domaystic doc!

“I’m not doing it.” Hob stared at Dream, brow furrowed. “Dream…come on, you know you’re more qualified than me for this. Besides, do you really want an ADHD-er to try to teach another ADHD-er to drive?” “I don’t want to be in any vehicle either of our sons are operating. I would prefer they not drive at all, but I know that’s a foolish wish.” Dream swept passed, not bothering to take the pile of clothes he'd been folding. Hob stood and watched for a moment, dumbfounded. The reaction was bigger than he'd expected–he honestly thought the argument was all in fun. It wouldn't be the first playful disagreement they'd had over the kids as teenager-dom posed new challenges for them. 

from Day 1: Driver

@chaosfrisur (....so...adding the domaystic doc was a way of kickstarting me to actually write some of it. I had like. three sentences this morning. So thank you for calling the bluff I guess?)

[sun-snatcher]

Hey!! Just wondering if you do headcanons? If so can we get some hcs from We Lucky Few about Deadpool and the Gang™ being a domestic happy family 🥲🥲

#WELUCKYFEW | Headcanons galore !

i. —— THE FIRST DAY IN A NEW UNIVERSE means Wade has to break it to Blind Al that there’s gonna be 3 more strays that’ll be staying over at the apartment for a while (in tragic addition to Mary Puppin’s and Logan).

The old lady agrees (very vehemently disagreed, actually, but she knows Wade already made up his mind) only because she’d hoped he meant stray cats this time, to which she’d been disappointed with: “Say hello to Logan’s hispanic feral cat-daughter, your local homeless war veteran with a PhD and a dash of PTSD, and Amateur David Blaine—! But if he was born in the South.”

Regardless. It’s only, like, for 2 weeks! As long as they don’t touch her cocaine. Anywho, Vanessa’s already pulling strings to get you and Remy an apartment; Laura’s first instinct was to seek out the Professor and Logan’s… a drifter. Vagrancy is nothing new to him. He’ll figure his things out one way or another.

ii. —— GROCERIES COST TENFOLD during the time everyone was still crammed in that little house. Dogpool is in the trolley seat having a good time. Wade and Laura stock up on junk food and Logan’s dumped an armful of canned goods that “will actually last for the fuckin’ week.”; Meanwhile Gambit’s been banished to trolley-pushing ever since he’d admitted to stealing Skittles, M&M’s and small tidbits from the candy aisle without anyone noticing.

And you— well, you were on breakfast duty, which means bread, jams, cereals; but it’s all just a tad bit overwhelming. I mean, why is there a need for this many flavours? You can’t remember the last time you had much of a choice when it came to food since the war.

(It’s Wade who finds you. He gets it; 10 years serving Canadian military/the JTF2 means he’s seen just about every other middle-eastern country that’s a battleground— And then suddenly he’s discharged and thrown into civilian life with zero assimilation and the expectation of exercising autonomy after living his whole life under orders and the threat of damn a bullet in his head. So. Yeah, he gets why you kinda just… Blank out.)

“You can roulette it,” Wade advices. “Or pick one with your favourite colour. That’s how I did it my first few years out. Just don’t even fucking think of picking Special K or I’ll prune your ass back to the Void mys—”

iii. —— MOVIE NIGHTS ARE ON FRIDAYS. That means Gambit’s on permanent popcorn duty ever since Laura accidentally destroyed the microwave (she insists it’s Logan but the 2 holes say otherwise). And by popcorn duty I mean: having Remy shake the bag and generate enough kinetic energy to heat and pop the kernels. “Mais, if it works, it works, mes amis.”

iv. —— EVERYONE ROTATES TAKING Dogpool out on a walk. Remy uses the opportunity to have you tag along and tell him about New York when really he just likes spending time with you.

Logan has to be convinced to walk her; though he usually relents because it puts his mind to work and it helps that he can map out the city again. Sometimes Laura joins him, too. If she’s lucky, she’ll hear an X-Men story or two when Logan’s feeling particularly nostalgic. (Half of them are him shitting on Scott, but hey, she’ll take what she can get.)

v. —— LOGAN DOESN’T SLEEP. Can’t is a better way to put it, and neither can you and Remy at times; you figure maybe it’s because everything feels a little too.. fine.

Almost perfect. Too good to be true. Logan always loses all that’s close to him and as much as he hates to admit it: all of you are beginning to matter. Family, dare he even think. And it terrifies the absolute shit out of him.

Meanwhile, you get night terrors, and you’ve already alarmed everybody approximately five times now (Closing your eyes now means facing an apocalyptic warzone and the weight of life and death. You don’t talk about it. Everybody knows not to ask) so sleep is just an option to you if you could help it.

Remy stays up just out of pure habit. They used to alternate shifts back in the Void (which was why he sometimes caught Laura wide awake in the kitchen at weird hours of the night, too) because the Hideout became too vulnerable with their dwindling numbers. Losing Daredevil had been the catalyst.

Fortunately, sleep still does happen: You’re curled in the loveseat with Gambit’s coat over you as a makeshift blanket— you must’ve lighted out first. Remy and Logan are dead asleep on the ratty, squeaky couch; Laura half-melted beside them, legs hanging off the pleated sofa arms with Dogpool asleep in her arms. Love Island drones from the outdated home TV.

vi. —— WADE TAKES A SELFIE when he catches the scene.

He’s used it as the icon of the groupchat he created (lovingly titled: LIMBO LOSERS CLUB!) once he made sure everyone got some means of communication for when they moved out.

Not that Logan will ever use it.

Or Blind Al— “I mean, she doesn’t even text Wade, why is she in the chat?”

[caelanglang]

when they started to fall, it never stopped : skk

[late-nightfalls]

Think about Bruce Wayne trying to do his little girl's hair before she goes to school.

The girl wanted a pretty braid or she wouldn't go to school, no way!

Bruce has no idea how to do this. He's in trouble!

Alfred is not participating! He can't!

Alfred can only watch from afar as Batman faces one of his biggest challenges: Brushing his daughter's hair.

"Boss Bruce, maybe you should ask for help"

"Negative"

He asked for help shortly afterwards.

[hitlikehammers]

safe under you

rating: t ♥️ cw: criminal-levels of softness ♥️ tags: established relationship, rockstar husbands, writing vows, soul-deep love, slice of life, softness

for @steddielovemonth day nineteen: Love is the comfort of quiet moments  (@tboygareth)

the rockstar husbands are back on their soft-sleepy-romantic bullshit idk ♥️ maybe I'll get around to writing the ACTUAL VOWS next time

“You’re so quiet.”

Which meant Eddie should have heard his husband approaching but: as it stands he really, really didn’t, and he jumps hard when Steve whispers from behind his shoulder over the back of the couch.

Steve laughs at the glare Eddie shoots him—a half-hearted one at best but there—as he reaches to start rubbing at the crook of his neck, up and down on either side and the glaring goes away instantly because: Steve Harrington?

Has magical hands.

“Whatcha doing?” he murmurs close to Eddie’s ear and Eddie hums a little as he gathers himself from going immediately-boneless under Steve’s touch, the kneading of his palm against Eddie’s strained muscles because he’s been down here…not too long, he doesn’t think. They’d gone to bed together at normal time, and he’d fallen asleep, too; he’d just been restless when he woke up, and knew it was the kind of thing he wouldn’t get more rest out of unless he did something about it, so he’d kissed Steve’s head and rolled out of bed, regretful for it but hopeful, too, that if he gave in to the nagging at the back of his head, he’d quiet it enough to be able to slip back in next to his beloved, and lean against the mattress just so, so that Steve’s arms could curl around him as they always did: soft and sweet and waiting to hold him.

Eddie just hasn’t…managed to get there, yet.

“Writing,” Eddie sighs, and then whines a little as Steve’s hands leave their place on his shoulders, and he turns to look because where’s Steve going, Steve shouldn’t go anywhere, Steve should stay right—

Here.

And look at that: Steve’s plopping himself down on the sofa next to Eddie, a little too far but then he’s scooting further, and Eddie opens his mouth to protest but then Steve’s dropping down, draping his body over Eddie’s lap and laying against him, looking up at him with still-half-sleepy eyes and just…

He’s just so fucking beautiful, y’know?

“You’re never quiet when you’re writing,” Steve says, head tilted up, eyes closed as he leans back against the armrest where Eddie’s got his notebook, his face so soft. His mouth so soft—

“Campaign, you mumble to yourself,” Steve continues on, his voice syrupy, still only half-committed to waking; “lyrics, you hum if you don’t have a guitar,” and then he reaches down toward Eddie’s knee and taps rhythmic there:

“And you drum your fingers,” and Steve smiles as his fingers dance for a few languid moments before he eases his lashes open and meets Eddie’s gaze, because Eddie’s gaze has been on his since he settled in his lap.

Because: duh.

“Looks like it’s hard, too,” Steve sucks his lower lip between his teeth, face still soft but mouth quirked just a little downward, still a little dream-soaked and Eddie love that part, but: never the downturn of that mouth.

“Hmm?” Eddie rumbles low so Steve’ll maybe feel it a little where he’s pressed; the little hazy giggle Steve lets out as he nuzzles into Eddie’s middle just that tiny bit: he felt.

Eddie likes to think he’s never been so in love, but he doesn’t…he doesn’t believe he’s ever not loved Steve with all of his everything.

He’s just wholly convinced that his everything grows with ever moment beside this man, every heartbeat lived together: it stretches him wider, broader every day for the singular purpose of holding the all of his love ever-bigger.

“Whatever you’re working on,” Steve murmurs, just short of sleep-slurred; “you’ve got this,” and he reaches, bats a little around Eddie’s face before he lands between his eyebrows and smooths the skin there which, okay, fine, had been all wrinkled-up.

“Means you’re concentrating too hard,” Steve comments sagely, patting Eddie’s cheek a little blind as he settles wholly back in Eddie’s lap.

“This happens to be very important,” Eddie counters with a tiny flick to Steve’s ear, which is met with a little squeak that warms his insides so delicate, so thorough and full.

“Doubtful,” Steve manages to scoff, like he’s tipping closer to wakefulness but not there yet; “not important enough to make you,” and Steve’s the one flicking now, light at Eddie’s forearm in emphasis:

“Quiet and frowny.”

He’s so…he’s fucking edible he’s so adorable, that’s what he is—Jesus.

“Not frowny,” Eddie lets a little at Steve’s hair, all tousled from the bed; “invested.”

Steve purses his lips and tries—fails, but tries—to peek at the notebook on level with his temple.

“What’s got you so invested, then?” he finally gives up trying to turn and read where Eddie’s hasn’t even bothered trying to hide, not least because there is nothing there, and just asks. And Eddie could dodge it. Steve would respect it if he did.

But he…he doesn’t. Generally speaking he doesn’t hide anything from Steve. Big or small. Their life is a shared thing from top to bottom and Eddie loves that about them so fucking fierce, so. He just sighs and admit it.

“My vows.”

Because that’s what’s been keeping him up, that’s what drove him out of the soft joy of their bed, that’s what amounted to scribbles and cross-outs alone on the page in front of him and it should be this hard, Eddie’s a decent enough lyricist, not to mention most of his songs all this time are for, or inspired by, or just about, generally, all-encompassingly: Steve. It’s always Steve.

Which makes it that much more unbearable that he can’t seem to fucking write his goddamn vows.

Then, though, just then; the most unexpected thing happens. Or starts.

Steve starts shaking against him and there a half-second he’s worried—does it hurt his sweetheart, that he can’t get the words down, does it make him sad, is he cryi—

No.

No: it only takes half-a-second for the anxiety to fade and the sound to register alongside the trembling: Beautiful. Radiant. Still wholly unexpected.

Steve’s laughing.

“That’s silly,” Steve finally tells him, looking up at him with genuine north in his eyes and yes, he’s still a little sleepy-drunk, but the feeling is wholly present and…

Eddie isn’t sure what to do with it—wants to just wrap himself inside it and savor but: his vows…laughable?

Silly?

“What?”

“You’ve already made your vows,” Steve grins up at him, all brightness; “like, three times,” and, okay.

Okay, that’s not exactly wrong, though he could probably try to argue that it was more three proposals’ worth of vows, and are those actually vows, if it’s just a proposal—

“Proposals fucking count,” Steve waves his wrist definitively and…Eddie isn’t sure if he said any of that out loud?

Then: probably wouldn’t make a difference either way. They know each other.

“The first one was legitimately with the twisty-tie from a loaf of Home Pride,” Eddie points out because: because that…that’s probably not as important—

“Mmhmm,” Steve hums, and lifts his left hand: there’s a simple ring on his left hand, pricey for their budget when they’d gathered their family and committed to always in front of them under a temperate Indiana summer’s sky, bonfire and barbecue lively in the background: but that ring wasn’t smooth; it had a long-worn-bare stick of metal wrapped around it and soldered, one that used to be covered in bright paper to stick out against a plastic bread bag:

“I remember well,” and Steve sounds so soft, so blissfully taken in by the memory of that first time Eddie had proposed and, fuck.

Fuck, the butterflies never go away, do they? That effervescent joy stays fresh and vivacious forever.

Thank fuck; he wants no less of this; for them. The love they have deserves no less.

“Still want to melt down the Ring Pop,” Steve says as he plays with his ring; “make it match,” and that’d been the second time: Steve had bought Eddie a ring at a ren faire, and Eddie’d been beside himself to reciprocate, immediately, because Steve deserved no less, and that was how the bum-end of a long-licked Ring Pop came to live eternally on Steve’s keys.

To be eyed for melting into a full-hoop shape for years, now, but Eddie kinda thinks it’s loved and treasured plenty, just as it already is.

“I love you so fucking much,” Steve tells him, apropos of nothing, and that’s…that’s kind of exactly how they work, yeah. They just love.

So fucking much.

Eddie’s pulse kinda skips with it, bounces like pigtails hopscotching along, all unbridled glee. He draws Steve hand to his lips, kisses his knuckles.

“Aren’t you,” Eddie swallows as he lifts his blank notebook and shakes it around a little: “aren’t you stressing over them?”

Because it doesn’t sound like he is, and that’s…sure, they’ve done this before, if not with a license in hand like they will this time. But Steve’s always been more prone to worry over stuff like this. So while Eddie doesn’t want the man he loves to be anxious, he is…kinda wondering, is all.

“Not writing any,” Steve shrugs and lets the motion turn him a little against Eddie’s lap, to look up more straight-on.

“You know I’m not great with words,” Steve tells him simply; “like, planning them out, I’ll fuck it up in the moment and then I’ll just be more flustered.”

And, yeah: okay. That’s a fair point.

Then there’s a hand slipping up his jaw, and crawling his cheek, and turning him down to look at Steve closer:

“Figured I can just look at you, and I’ll,” Steve’s pupils get bigger as he exhales, as he takes in Eddie’s face and beams at him, strokes his cheekbone with his thumb.

“The most important things are always right there,” Steve breathes warm: “so I’ll just say what’s already waiting.”

And shit. The man says he’s bad at words.

“You’re the light of life, Steve Harrington,” Eddie whispers, contorting himself to lean and Steve sees, arches up to press their lips as Eddie mouths against him: “the song in my soul,” and fuck: he means it so many times over he could never count it, could never pin a number to it. It’s too vast.

“See, look at you,” Steve taps his cheek playfully, but so soaked up with love; “you’ve already got all your words, so,” and then he lets his hand slide off Eddie’ face, and he sits up just to grab at Eddie’s legs, swing them up onto the couch and settles himself between them, tugging Eddie from the calves further down until he’s propping himself up by his palms.

“C’mon,” Steve coaxes, and uses his back to ease Eddie down and: oh. Oh, he wants them laid out on the cushions.

And well: Eddie could, would, will only ever oblige, if the question is do you want to lay down with your husband thrice-almost-four-times-over?

Because again: duh. If they were really in the market for silly ideas.

Steve sighs so happily, so airy and bright even as Eddie reaches to flick the light off, and wraps his arms to rest around Steve, sure and close where he holds him to his chest, folds him in where he already nuzzles deeper and:

It’s how safe my heart feels under the weight of your head.

Well, fuck him.

Maybe he does know his vows already.

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson

♥️

divider credit here

[amalasdraws]

“Good Morning, Sleepyhead”

[pennumbra]

[call-me-strega]

Dc x Dp Prompt #5: Way of the House Husband AU

I was struck with inspiration: Way of the House Husband but make it Dead on Main (or any other ship you feel like you can make work). One partner is a highly dangerous and powerful figure and the other is just some guy and they’re in love and living a beautiful domestic life even if past annoyances pop up to bother them. The best part is it works both ways for these two. Like imagine Jason’s at the grocery store and runs into a rouge or a gang member or someone from the BatFam but just ignores them. Or Danny wakes up to find one of his rouges at his doorstep for whatever reason and just closes his door and sends them packing. Their both uninterested in returning to a life of crime/crime fighting and just want to live as a happy, peaceful, “normal” couple.

[wangxianficrecs]

A Glimpse of Past Glory by masked

🔒 A Glimpse of Past Glory

by masked (@hamburgergod)

T, 1k, Wangxian

Summary: The condition is that they can’t use their cultivation since the ghost was a non-cultivator and wants a normal sword duel. This was all fine and well until they realized that none of them could win against him, lasting no more than few blows before having their swords and dignity flung out of their hands. “It’d be easier to just eliminate him,” Lan Jingyi mutters. “Otherwise we’ll be here forever.” “Jingyi,” Lan Sizhui scolds. Lan Jingyi is right, of course, but the whole point of elimination is that it’s the absolute last resort. Although it’s not within their own ability to liberate this ghost, there’s… Lan Sizhui glances at Wei Wuxian, standing idly by while he picks at under his fingernails. - A glimpse of Wei Wuxian and the Gusu Lan disciples on a night-hunt. Kay's comments: Short and sweet, the juniors are getting a glimpse at Wei Wuxian's amazing swordfighting-skills and of course, Wangxian are working dilligently towards Wei Wuxian growing a new golden core. Excerpt: Finally, Lan Jingyi’s voice projects over all of them, asking the one big question on their combined minds. “Why did you ever stop using your sword?” he questions. “Demonic cultivation might be useful and convenient, but—but you’re so good! You’re obviously skilled with the sword! Not cultivating with it is such a waste!” Wei Wuxian raises his eyebrows. He opens his mouth, and everyone quietens to hear his response better. What was the real reason for Wei Wuxian to abandon the way of the sword and start the era of Yiling Laozu’s demonic cultivation when he was already so powerful? “I,” Wei Wuxian answers, “hate sweating.”

pov alternating, post-canon, established relationship, bamf wei wuxian, swordfighting, short & sweet, fluff, domestic fluff, slice of life

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[gaishnik]

mentally I'm here

[todorokis-girl]

A cozy afternoon for a busy hero - Hawks

@chantelleyy The fanfic you wanted, I hope it's a little sweet and comforting. You didn't really specify what you wanted, so I made it simple

masterlist

The city buzzed as the sun set, casting warm hues across the skyline. Y/n stood by the large window in her high-rise apartment, nestled in a quiet corner of the bustling metropolis. Her eyes traced the city lights flickering to life, and she couldn't help but smile as she thought of Keigo Takami, known to the world as Hawks. To her, he was just Keigo, the man who made her laugh and filled her days with unexpected joy.

The familiar rustle of feathers broke her reverie, and she turned just in time to see Keigo swoop in through the open balcony door, his wings folding neatly behind him. His amber eyes locked onto hers, a grin spreading across his face.

"Hey," he greeted, crossing the room with his usual confident strides. He pulled her into a warm embrace, and Y/n breathed in the comforting scent of him—a mix of his cologne and the crisp air.

"Hey, yourself," she replied, her voice muffled against his chest. Pulling back slightly, she looked up at him with a fond smile. "Rough day?"

Keigo sighed, his expression softening. "Yeah, but being here with you makes it all better."

They stood like that for a moment, wrapped in each other's arms, savoring the rare peace. Keigo gently brushed a strand of hair from Y/n's face, his touch a silent promise of love and reassurance.

"I'm starving," he declared suddenly, breaking the quiet. "How about we cook something together?"

Y/n's face lit up. "Sounds perfect. What do you have in mind?"

Keigo shrugged, a playful smirk on his face. "Whatever we can find in the kitchen. Let's get creative."

They moved to the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge and pantry. Y/n grabbed some vegetables while Keigo found pasta and a few other ingredients. They laughed and chatted as they cooked, Keigo occasionally stealing kisses and making funny faces to keep Y/n entertained.

"You're not helping," she giggled as he snuck a piece of carrot from the chopping board.

"I'm moral support," he retorted, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Once their impromptu meal was ready, they set the table and sat down to eat. The aroma of the homemade pasta filled the room, and they savored each bite, enjoying the simple pleasure of a meal shared together.

"This is really good," Keigo said between bites, looking genuinely impressed.

"Not bad for a couple of amateurs," Y/n replied with a grin. "Maybe we missed our calling as chefs."

Keigo chuckled. "Who knows? We might have a future in it."

After dinner, they cleaned up the kitchen together, their movements synchronized in the comfortable routine they had established. With the dishes done, they settled on the couch, a cozy blanket draped over their legs.

Keigo grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, flipping through channels until they found a movie they both liked. As the film played, Y/n snuggled closer to him, resting her head on his chest. He wrapped an arm around her, his fingers absentmindedly playing with her hair.

"I love these moments," Y/n whispered, her voice soft and content.

"Me too," Keigo replied, his voice equally gentle. "It's nice to just be together, without any of the craziness."

They watched the movie in comfortable silence, the warmth of their shared presence making the small apartment feel like the coziest place in the world. When the credits rolled, Keigo glanced down at Y/n, her eyes heavy with sleep.

"Ready for bed?" he asked softly.

She nodded, yawning. "Yeah, I am."

They got up and made their way to the bedroom. Y/n changed into her pajamas while Keigo quickly checked his phone for any urgent messages. Once they were both ready, they climbed into bed, the familiar comfort of the sheets and each other easing them into a state of relaxation.

Keigo pulled Y/n close, his wings draping over them like a protective canopy. "Goodnight, Y/n," he whispered, kissing her forehead.

"Goodnight, Keigo," she murmured back, her eyes already closing.

As they drifted off to sleep, the sounds of the city outside faded into the background, leaving only the steady rhythm of their breathing and the quiet assurance of their love. In the simplicity of their home, a feathered hero and his beloved found solace in each other's arms, their hearts forever entwined.

[g0nefischin]

Trouble at the coffee shop :o

response to THIS post

Cursed coffee shop AU is by @hashileio

[callioope]

The fire crackles in the hearth, just feet away from Essek and yet distant in his mind as he scans the papers splayed out across the coffee table. Somewhere in that background land, a spoon clinks against ceramic. The familiar scent of hot cocoa wafts in the air around him. Footsteps, both human and feline, pad across wooden floorboards and braided rugs. 

Essek shuffles the papers, brow furrowing and finger tapping his chin. “We’re missing something,” he murmurs. 

A mug settles before him in a small patch of bare coffee table, thudding softly against the wood, and the scent of chocolate wafts closer. He doesn’t reach for it yet, but the motion draws his attention towards the nearest papers and he pulls them closer, skimming once more the notes of the smartest mind he’s ever known besides his own. 

“Take a break,” Caleb says, near his ear. Essek wrinkles his nose as the breath tickles his ear, jingling his earrings. 

“We are this close—” Essek protests.

Caleb reaches for the quill from Essek’s fingers. “You haven’t written anything in twenty-seven minutes. Take a break.”

With a huff, Essek pulls his hand away before Caleb can steal the quill. “I am about to,” he protests, putting the quill to the last paper he’d been looking at. A small dot bleeds into a larger spot as he places the quill but doesn’t move it further. His mind stalls at Caleb’s proximity — yes, that’s the reason. Certainly not that he is stumped. No.

“Come, dear, before the cocoa is cold.”

Essek tuts. “Hardly a concern in this household.”

Caleb merely hums, and Essek hears him sip his own hot cocoa. “Mmm,” he adds, to which Essek snorts in response.

But five minutes later, the pages hold no answers — just endless runes, numbers, and letters, rambling musings that circle around the problem but don’t strike at the heart of it. Essek twitches his fingers in the start of somatics, but they fizzle without intent and without the finishing gestures. 

“It is practically easier than a cantrip,” he says, dropping his fist heavily against the table, which rattles the mug. One of the cats glares up at him from her spot by the fire place, her green eye resentful for the disturbance. 

“For you, maybe. We all have our special tricks.” He takes out a polished stone and sets it down on a pile of papers, just as the unnerved cat leaps up from her place on the floor and darts past, rustling the papers before Essek. “I can’t say I could distill this into a spell that any wizard could replicate. And other transmuters know this trick. The same cannot be said for yours.”

“Precisely the problem,” Essek says, resting his elbow on the coffee table and settling his chin into his palm. Entirely uncouth behavior, he thinks idly. Nothing he ever could have done in the parlor growing up. In fact he never used to noodle over problems like this — or use the word ‘noodle’. No, in the before times, the century plus that stretched out before he met the Nein, he properly pondered problems in his meticulous, organized lab. Oh great, now he was alliterating in his own internal monologue.

With a sigh, he sets down his quill and fingers the amber stone dangling from his right ear. “I invented the ability in the first place. I should know how to make it a spell.”

He stands suddenly enough that Caleb jerks in surprise. “Where are you going?” 

“To organize spell components,” he says, maybe a bit haughtily, gathering up the papers to take them to their shared office. He tuts as he enters it, for the first time noting how small the space is compared to the office in his towers, and this new one is shared by two. He knew some lower staff at the Bastion shared office space like this, but he never had. 

He putters around their filing drawers for components, reorganizes his desk while harboring restraint at the urge to organize Caleb’s, and debates the merits of a new cataloging system for the bookshelf.

He has no idea how much time has passed before Caleb tugs him back down to the ground from his float to reach the top shelf, where he was sure he’d stowed his original developmental notes on defying gravity. 

“Liebling,” Caleb pleads, again nuzzling Essek’s ear so that it twitches in response. “Your cocoa is getting cold.”

With a sigh, Essek relents, allowing Caleb to pull him back into the living room. This space is small, too, but that’s not usually the word he thinks when he settles into the threadbare sofa and drapes the quilt over his legs. Cozy is the right word, he reminds himself. And whenever the shared office feels claustrophobic, he must remember that the other mind that uses it frequently expands the ideas of his own. 

He rubs his face, only now noticing the ache in his eyes from reading too many words without blinking. Caleb settles in next to him on the sofa and elbows him to hand him the cocoa, reheated with a signature fire cantrip. 

Essek takes a sip, savors the richness of the cocoa, the steam that fills his head and spreads out to the tips of his ears, and the burn at the back of his throat.

“Oh!” he exclaims, the taste of the whiskey bringing him back to an entirely different time.

“Surprise,” Caleb says.

“This will not help me think,” Essek says, wrinkling his nose but then taking another sip. It reminds him of trust, and friendship, and reunions in a lonely, cold place. But also it reminds him of great feats of magic.

“We altered the fabric of time to rejuvenate our resources,” he says, practically whining. Compeletely unacceptable back home.  “Why can we not create a simple first level spell?”

“Do you ever find writing a one page essay more challenging than a ten page term paper?” Caleb asks, as if posing a philosophical question to his class. Essek huffs. “Well, my students complain of it often.”

“I am not so young and inexperienced as them,” Essek says. 

“And you do not have the deadlines they have, either,” Caleb retorts. “The problem will be there in the morning.”

Essek leans his head against the back of the sofa and stares up at the wooden rafters. “We are on the cusp of breakthrough,” he says. “Is that not what you said to me last week? Hmm?”

Caleb turns and rests his elbow on the back of the sofa, leaning sideways to look at Essek straight on, although Essek does not turn to meet his gaze. “I believe a wise old man talked some sense into me at the time.”

“Impertinent youth.”

With a chuckle, Caleb nudges Essek’s shoulder. “How is the cocoa?”

“Delicious, of course. Did you use Caduceus’ blend? It tastes like—Oh!”

The memories of Aeor jolt something in Essek’s brain, discoveries they had made in the depths there. He reaches for the quill, and his spellbook, and spare parchment, this time sweeping the quill across the paper in flurried strokes as his other hand flips through pages to find his notes from their travels. 

Caleb leans over to read his writing and point out a discrepancy in an equation jotted down too quickly. “I think, though, that you are on to something…” 

He stands and disappears into the office, bringing back several tomes brought back from the ruins. Essek quickly finishes the cocoa as they flip through pages and refine their notes until they coalesce more or less into something resembling a spell.

When several papers spill out onto the floor, Caleb says, “You know, next time I will just summon the tower, we’d have more space, maybe a chalkboard—”

“No,” Essek says, writing the last line of runes and setting down his quill. He stares at it for a moment, the piles of paper sprawled out across the coffee table, the cats curled up in front of the hearth, the mismatched furniture taking up most of the space in the room so that Essek and Caleb have to squeeze into narrow space between the couch and table. He breathes in the smell of cocoa and the hearth. He looks to the dark window where snow accumulates atop the green bean planters. He looks at Caleb’s shining blue eyes, the excitement of crafting a new spell bright with them. 

Essek reaches out to touch Caleb’s forearm. “I would love nothing more than to be here with you.”

With a wide grin, Caleb takes Essek’s face in his hands, and kisses him.

[purpleenma]

Made this sketch for my dear @spongynova that I love so much 💜

Please click for better quality because Tumblr is murdering the poor sketch.

*Some background info under the cut.

If you have ever read the official Star Trek cookbook, there's a recipe that's called "Captain Kirk's plomeek soup" and I've always hc that Jim worked on that recipe to adapt it better specifically to Spock's taste.

So I drew the triumvirate here about to try out Jim's version of the recipe, helping out with the chores. Jim is confident in his recipe but Bones likes to jokingly tease him even if the doctor knows full well he'd eat whatever Jim prepares regardless, but he's also thrilled this idea will make Jim eat more vegetables xD Spock is a bit nervous about the changes but deep inside he's also expectant and honoured that Jim took the time to make something thinking of him.

And yes, Jim wears a novelty apron, he has several, some with more femcoded bodies. He chooses which one to wear based on vibes.

I really had a lot of fun sketching this, I might shade it in the future or maybe add some fast colouring, but it will have to wait because I have to keep taking things off my pile of To Dos xD

[secretidentie]

I JUST NEED EARLY 30's CLARK AND BRUCE LIVING THEIR BEST LIFE IN A CONDO TOGETHER 😭😭😭IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR????

[wigglebox]

Suptober [Extended] - Day 20 || Domestic