Jacksepticeye Imagine:Through the stomach- AKA Holiday Cookies with Jack!
Jack finished up his latest recording. The smell of your baking had started to fill the house an hour ago. It was driving him mad. Had he not been recording a longer playthrough video he would have joined you in the kitchen ages ago.
He walked down the hall toward the kitchen. Sugar. Vanilla. Cinnamon. Melted chocolate. Seeing as it was a few days before Christmas, he assumed you were stocking the house with holiday sweets. His stomach gurgled, and he rubbed at it.
Sometimes he swore you were trying to kill him. Because the first thing you said as he sized up the wire cooling racks of cookies he could see, was:
“Real food first.”
That was a thing with you, nowadays. A few months younger than him, you had recently experienced the downside of trying to make a meal out of sweet things. You didn’t want him to feel that sickly hideousness anytime soon. So real food. Then sweets.
Teasingly you ask:
“Do I need to get out the wooden spoon?”
You were deadly with wooden spoons and spatulas, as Mark could attest to. His knowledge came from a week spent in LA, where, over at his house for filming and you taking over the kitchen had led to an incident Jack had only heard from the couch.
Mark went into the kitchen, then there was a hurt-puppy yelp that could rival Chica. He came back out sucking on his fingers, the spot of a well-placed rubber spatula smack.
“Dude. What did you mess with?” asked Jack
“I just wanted some frosting…” Mark groused, his inner seven-year-old shining through in a pout.
“Don’t mess with __________ in the kitchen. I learned that a long time ago.”
You still spoiled them both with huge chunks of cake for dessert. You weren’t heartless.
You teased once more before giving in, putting a plate with cake before Jack.
When Mark looked at you as if to say ‘where’s mine?’, You folded your arms across your chest. Fixing him with a stern look, you stated:
“Frosting thieves don’t get any of the finished product.”
You headed back into the kitchen.
You filled a cup with coffee for Jack sweetening it to his liking. You grinned at Jack’s failed attempt to stop his laughter. You smoothed your features back into sternness and went back to the boys.
You kissed Jack on the cheek and put his coffee down.
Going back, you made your own, sweetening it with vanilla creamer.
Hiding a plate behind you, you walked back.
Looking at Mark you tsked. You slid the other plate in front of him.
“You are worse than Chica. Those puppy eyes. Jeez. ”
“Hey, the real food is light. Then all the cookies you can handle.”
Grilled cheese and Creamy tomato rice soup were dished out and eaten.
You put the dishes into the sink to soak.
Jack was bouncing in his seat like Tigger. Could you really blame him? A whole plate of homemade holiday goodness was about to be his.
You placed a plate in front of him. Getting up, you fixed coffee for him and poured milk for yourself.
He couldn’t quite decide what to eat first.
Sugar cookies, with thick frosting, Chocolate crinkle cookies. Peanut Butter blossoms Triple chocolate chip. Gingerbread and buttery shortbread. Others he couldn’t name.
You smiled as he chose one and took a bite, groaning softly.
That reaction is worth all the hard work.