Gets out of bed in knee high socks or huge sweatshirt. Goes to the kitchen and eats a whole big mixing bowl of Cheerios with a gallon of sugar in the middle. Thus, creating a thick milk/sugar ratio. Crawls back into bed and continues to play video game.
Brings kindle into kitchen and makes ramen. However, they put it in a cup so that they can sip it as they read. Their cat watches and leans against their ankles.
Comes out in a comforter burrito. Goes to the fridge and brings out crazy foods including rice cakes. Goes back to binge watching something like Merlin, or Dr Who. Ends up bringing a whole liter or soda back to their room.
Comes out in underwear with their hair all crazy. They don't talk to anyone else but go into the pantry to look for biscuits. Ends up making a giant cup of tea with a piece of cake. Growls at the dog to make sure he understands that the food is not theirs. Then goes back to doing who knows what in their bedroom.
well now i’m on an aliens kick. also, i just went in my kitchen to get some ice water and walked in on a fucking roach orgy because no matter how much i clean this apartment is fucking ghetto so let’s talk about how aliens would react to human pest control methods.
“Why is Stacy cleaning the dishware? We have cleaning robots to do that for her,” asked Qwerty (his full name was much, much longer, but because it was written with every letter of one of the more commonly used human alphabets, and something about early digital communications, the humans on the I.S. Dastallria had given him the nickname).
Xorzit’ket shrugged as best as her anatomy could manage the borrowed gesture. “Why don’t you go ask her?”
No pun intended but I really feel like I gave birth to this one, lol. Anyhow, this is a bit different than what I usually do. I think best friend Harry is very underrated. Enjoy, and I’d love if you would let me know what you thought. I worked super hard on this one! x
You pad your way across the wood floors of your home, shuffling into the kitchen and towards the far right of the room. After a long, long day of meetings at work you’re more than happy to finally be home. You had hoped that a long, hot shower would be the cure all for the tension coursing through every muscle in your body, but apparently not. You bite your bottom lip as you reach the refrigerator and pull on the handle, the light from within illuminating your otherwise dark kitchen. Hoping to find a well past midnight snack, you squint into the fridge and bend down as far as you can to peer into it. The contents inside the fridge isn’t sparse in the slightest, but as your tired eyes look through it, nothing seems appetizing. While you’re debating between the plethora of flavors of fruit smoothies Harry had stocked your fridge with, you let out a sudden gasp. Your hand on the fridge curls tightly around the cold metal, while the other one flies on instinct to the middle of your tummy. Your brows furrow together as you stare down in shock at your ever growing stomach. The feeling was one you haven’t felt before through the course of your pregnancy and it makes you pause for a second. You’re so exhausted, you aren’t sure if it was painful or if the baby had just kicked.
“S’going on down there, little one?” You whisper softly, pushing the fabric of the long sleeved, oversized shirt you’re wearing up to snake your hand onto your bare skin. You rub it in soothing circles, and then the three rather annoying beeps of the refrigerator steal your attention. You shut the door of the fridge and settle for grabbing the near empty pack of Chips Ahoy cookies from the counter before making your way up the stairs and to your room.
Shortly after the overdose, Bob decided to tell Jack the story of why he really got put in the Stanley Cup as a baby. It was Bob’s way of thanking the cup.
“After I won my first cup,” he told Jack, “I realized I’d achieved my dream, and I had married this amazing woman, but something still felt like it was missing. I wanted to be a father.” He told Jack how he and Alicia had tried to have a baby, but it just wasn’t happening. As the months dragged on with more of the same, they started to get worried.
“And even when you were worrying you’d never truly be happy you managed to win the cup again, yeah? That’s the moral of the story?” Jack snapped. Bob shook his head, reached out to run a hand over Jack’s back, like he could smooth down his son’s frayed nerves.
“Non, non, non, that would be a terrible moral. Actually my stats were worse that year than when I was a rookie. But my team was incredible, and we made it to the cup again. And here’s where the story gets good, you see, because I’d heard all kinds of wild legends through the league about ‘cup magic’ and how sometimes it would grant wishes”
“Or turn you into a fucking penguin,” Jack scoffed.
“Well I was playing for the Canadiens at the time, so I suppose there wasn’t much risk involved, but there was a whole lot of desperate hope.So on my cup day, after everyone else left, I sat down and had a chat with it,” he gestures to the table they’re sitting at. “Right at this kitchen table.”
“Please tell me that’s the only part of this story that happened at this table,” Jack groaned. Bob laughed.
“This story, yes.”
“Papaaaa,” Jack picked up his bowl of cereal and pointedly continued eating without letting his food touch the table.
“Oh for God’s sake, Jack, this table has been cleaned many times since, put your food down for a bit, I’m trying to have a moment with you here.”
“Alright, alright, fine.” Jack obediently set the bowl aside and faced his father.
“As I was saying…” Bob cleared his throat. “I talked to the cup. I told it I didn’t care if I ever won it again. All I wanted was a son. If it would give me that, I promised, I wouldn’t ask to win so much as a faceoff for the rest of my life. And I promised that I would love my son - that I would love you - unconditionally, more than anything in the world.”
“And you won a fuckton more awards anyway.”
“But,” Bob countered, “I didn’t win the cup again until after you were born when I was with the Pens. And so when your mother brought you onto the ice to see me, I wanted us to put you in the cup, but it wasn’t supposed to pass along some kind of hockey magic and ensure the Zimmermann dynasty or whatever the fuck ESPN likes to say, alright? We did it as a thank you. We wanted the cup to see what a beautiful baby we had, and to feel how incredibly loved you were.” Bob ran a hand over Jack’s newly-cropped hair, feeling the strands against his palm, almost as soft as when he used to sit next to Bob in his high chair smashing banana all over the tray. “I kept my promise too,” Bob said. “I love you. Unconditionally. More than anything in the world. And your mother and I just want to help you be happy, whatever that looks like.” He smiled warmly at his son, letting all the pride he usually kept a lid on to keep from embarrassing Jack bubble up to the surface. Jack looked down at his hands.
“How can you not be disappointed? Look at me.” Jack’s shoulders hunched in, shrinking him down, and Bob pressed his hand between Jack’s shoulder blades, rubbing circles in the way that always used to put him right to sleep as a child.
“I will always be proud of you, hockey or no. Because you know what?” Jack chanced a glance up at his father’s face and was held by his earnest expression. “Winning the Stanley Cup isn’t even in my top hundred favorite memories anymore. All of my best memories are with you and your mother.” Jack didn’t say anything in response, and Bob was learning when to give him space to process, so he stood up, bending back down to kiss his son’s forehead as he snagged the now-soggy bowl of raisin bran from in front of him.
It took a few days for Bob to get a real response from Jack, and in the meantime he just left everything to percolate. And then one night, Bob just couldn’t seem to fall asleep. His knee wasn’t quite hurting, but it was on that edge where it just didn’t feel settled, and Alicia had been snoring, and at the back of his head he could feel some kind of humming, like he could feel the tense air in Jack’s room. He’d gotten himself all worked up mulling that last one over until he had to get out of bed. He stood in front of Jack’s bedroom door, looking at the light peeking out from below the doorjamb for minutes, listening to the sounds of floorboards creaking occasionally, pages rustling, a keyboard clacking. After he’d gotten enough of the sounds of Jack just existing on the other side of the door to calm his racing heart, he went to the living room.
He settled into the couch with a box of crackers and a nature documentary when he heard footsteps creaking on the stairs. At first, he was expecting Alicia coming to call him back to bed, but the footfalls were too loud for her. Bob tried not to look surprised when Jack rounded the corner, keeping his eyes carefully trained on Animal Planet. He held up the crackers in greeting.
“Joining your old man for a midnight snack, eh?”
“Oh. Um, sure.” Jack padded over to the couch and made himself comfortable next to Bob, pulling down the afghan from the back of the sofa. They stare at the TV in silence for a long while before Jack speaks up again, quietly. “Papa?”
“So…what exactly was better than winning the cup?”
Warnings: Swearing (guess it’s a little late for that though whoops I’ll just put that in the tags), food mention
A/N: Inspired by a debate between @botanistlester, @insanityplaysfics, and some anons on Phanfiction Catalogue about whether Dan or Phil would propose. I, um, might have been one of those anons btw (*cough* #TeamEliza *cough*). I hope this serves as an acceptable compromise.
Dan doesn’t bother to look away from the episode of Steven
Universe they’re watching, acknowledging his boyfriend only with a noncommittal
sound somewhere between a hum and a grunt. Phil’s using his ‘idea’ voice, and
as it’s barely past ten in the morning and Dan was up pacing the lounge until
nearly five, he has neither the energy nor the mental capacity to pay attention
to anything more complicated than cartoons right now. He pops another spoonful
of cereal into his mouth and hopes whatever Phil has to say is brief.
(He gets his wish).
“Marry me?” Phil says in the exact same tone he used last
week when he suggested that they go miniature golfing in the middle of a typical
I want the holts to be like where they just see a place and are like …yep that’s where I’m gonna be now. Like matt just climbs on top of the fridge and just chills with his laptop working on something and scares the crap out of someone getting a midnight snack. Matt goes to bed and is about to fall asleep when he here’s a quiet “goodnight matt” and is like “…pidge are you under my bed?” “ya” “mkay goodnight pidge”
With every fiber of my being I want Evil Morty to be assigned to Doofus Rick.
I want him to expect to be used, verbally abused, even physically abused the way other Ricks have done to him in the past (before he low key murdered them).
But Doofus Rick is different. He makes up a nice room for him and makes a wonderful Welcome Dinner. He dotes on Evil Morty. In the middle of the night he wakes Morty up, not to go on some insane Adventure, but to get a midnight snack of ice cream and no-bake brownies in the kitchen.
Evil Morty drags his feet when Doofus Rick tries to get him to do activities, like building model planes or camping in a tent in the backyard.
Doofus Rick can tell something isn’t right with his new Morty, but he doesn’t force it out of him. He tells him that he’s there if Morty ever needs someone to talk to.
At first Evil Morty is suspicious. Then he’s disgusted by how weak Doofus Rick seems. But eventually he decompresses, and he realizes that Doofus Rick is perfect. That’s when he goes full yandere, and goes to extreme limits to make sure that Doofus Rick belongs to him and only him, forever.
AU where Bruce doesn’t recover from his amnesia for a long while but the kids move back home. Daily life turns into “Dad can’t know we’re superheroes.”
Points for when he gets up for a midnight snack and Tim and Jason are walking past covered in bandages.
“What the hell happened?”
Bonus: “Why does my ten year old son have a katana?”
“Collector’s item, very rare.”
“It has blood on it.”
♡ What time is your bedtime?
♡ Do you like being tucked in or half covered?
♡ Big fluffy blankie or soft thin blankie?
♡ Bed time story or movie?
♡ Milky or juicy?
♡ Do you have strict bedtime rules?
♡ Are you fussy or easy to put to seep?
♡ Feet out or in?
♡ Footie pjs or onesie?
♡ Binkie or thumb?
♡ Cuddled up or sprawled out?
♡ Nightlight or no nightlight?
♡ Bath time or shower?
♡ Favorite stuffie?
♡ Heavy sleeper or light sleeper?
♡ Do you wake up for midnight snacks?
♡ Side sleeper? Back sleeper? Tummy sleeper?
♡ Do you have to be warm or cool to sleep well?