peanut crinkles

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?”


+flashback+

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.

anonymous asked:

"I made this for you..." Whamilton?

Alex opened the oven and got a burst of hot air in his face. He waved his hand and sputtered as he collected himself. He bent back down, oven mitts covering his hands, and pulled the tray from the oven. He closed the door with a coordinated combination of his foot and hip and set the cookie tray down to admire his handiwork. He sighed. The cookies were all burnt and too thing, spread out and running into each other.

He turned to look at Eliza - sitting at the breakfast bar, sipping a steaming mug of tea - and asked, “why am I doing this again?”

Eliza giggled. She set the mug down and leaned further over the counter and sad, “because you’re not allowed to go to work today and you decided to give the house-husband thing a try since you don’t know what the word relax means.”

Alex gestured his arm in the direction of the crock pot sitting on the corner of the counter. “At least I have dinner,” he said. 

“Anyone can throw a bunch of stuff into a crock pot and call it a meal.” Eliza looked back down at her mug. “Baking is the true test,” she said.

He put his hands on his hips, and spun around the kitchen, thinking. “Alright,” he started. “So, cookies are a bust. There’s other things Brownies? Cake? Tarts?”

Eliza snorted. “If you think I’m letting you anywhere near a tart recipe when you can’t even make chocolate chip cookies, you’re wrong.”

“We can’t all be champion bakers, Betsey!” Alex went to look at the still open cookbook, covered in a thin layer of flour, bits of egg and butter dripped around. “Alright, so no tarts. Sugar cookies? George likes sugar cookies.” He turned to the index in the back of the book and looked at the different names. “Gingerbread?” he muttered. “Oatmeal? Crinkle? Peanut butter? Thumbprint? What even are some of these.”

Alex heard the sound of a chair scraping on the floor, and soon Eliza was standing at his side. She took the book out of his hands and set it on a clean area of the counter. “Alex,” she said. “George is going to be amused and touched by the sentiment more than anything else.”

“But-”

“No buts,” Eliza said, shaking her head. “Besides, cookies are for christmas. A proper housewife - or husband - greets their spouse with a cocktail. My mom used to tell me how when she was little, right before her dad came home, she would spritz on some chanel number 5, make two martinis, and greet him at the door with a kiss.”

He snorted. “I think your grandfather might have been an alcoholic.”

“That might be so.” Eliza patted his shoulder. “But you’re trying to set a scene. You might not have chanel, but go clean yourself up. George’ll drink an old-fashioned, right?”

Alex nodded.

“Good,” Eliza said. She pushed him in the direction of the bedroom. “Go make yourself pretty, I’ll take care of the kitchen.”

He rinsed off his face, brushed his hair, and changed into a nice pair of jeans and a shirt that George always liked him in. Alex turned around and examined himself in the mirror one more time, making sure the cut of the denim flattered him the way he wanted and that his hair was in place. Much butter. He nodded to himself and went into the kitchen.

What had been a disaster now looked like it belonged in a magazine. There was no sign of his failed attempts at baking, and the kitchen smelled like a home cooked meal - something George had mentioned missing with how busy they both were. Alex turned to Eliza and said. “Thank you.”

She shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.” She smiled up at him. “You clean up nice.” 

Alex snorted. “That’s not new.”

“Oh dear,” she said. Eliza grabbed his elbow and dragged him closer. “Now, let’s make your man a drink, and I’ll get out of your hair before he comes home.” Alex looked over at the clock - George was due home soon. Perfect timing. 

Eliza left with a kiss to his cheek, and soon Alex was stuck pacing the kitchen. 

It wasn’t too long before he heard the sound of a key in the lock, and Alex was overcome with a sudden anxiety. There was no reason to be nervous, he had known George for years, at the very worst George would laugh it off. At the best, well, Alex might find himself making this a habit.

The door opened, and Alex rushed to reach for the glass, and let the automatic smile cross his face when George turned the corner. 

George’s eyes widened when he took the scene in, but he walked toward Alex, his face brightening with each step. “What’s this?” he asked.

“Uh–” Alex shoved the glass into George’s hand– “I made this for you.”

“Really?” George raised a brow and took a sip before setting the glass down. “Thank you, but might I ask what’s the occasion?” 

“I made dinner?” Alex said. “I tried to make cookies, but that didn’t work out so well.”

George took a step closer and placed his hands on Alex’s hips, and bent his head down to press a kiss to Alex’s forehead. “You made dinner?” he asked. “Why?”

Alex looked up at George. “I felt like it.”

George’s smile widened before he bent down to press a kiss to Alex’s lips. “You’re great, you know,” he said. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“But I wanted to,” Alex said. “It was kind of nice, you know.”

“Nice enough to become a full-time house husband?”

Alex laughed and shook his head. “Oh god no,” he said. “Maybe once in a while though.”

George chuckled and hugged him tight. “That’s what I thought,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of Alex’s head. “I love you.”

// writing prompts for days // ko-fi