DSMP OneShots

Quackity as a 1950s House Wife

...Hey, at least I posted something??? Sure, it's a short crack shot.... but fuck you, I do what I want!
**JAZZ HANDS** I'M UNPREDICTABLE!!!

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Third Person POV
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Quackity woke up at the ass crack of dawn, before the sun was even over the horizon, and got out of bed, allowing himself to show his true emotions for the few hours he could. His face was stuck in a scowl as he went down to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of wine as he started to clean each counter three times over as the sun began to rise, so he started working on breakfast, cracking three eggs in one pan and six pieces of bacon in another, putting his wine and wine glass away so no one knows about all the alchohol that couldn't even make him tipsy.
He heard the blaring sounds of several alarm clocks going off, his eye twitching on beat with them as he set the table, passing out everyone's food. He filled one glass with apple juice and another with coffee before going upstairs to pound on his son's door... and his lovely, lovely husband. He went back downstairs to sit at the table and drink his "coffee", bouncing his leg as he listened to the radio.
Soon, he heard footsteps rushing down the stairs, "Mom! Why didn't you wake me up sooner! I'm gonna be late for the bus!" Tubbo rushed to find his backpack while Schlatt marched down, trying to put his tie together, "I told you to fucking tie this before I woke up! How am I supposed to be taken seriously with an untied tie!" He huffed, going over to the table to take a few bites of food, "It's cold now, why do you always do this!" He huffed.
Quackity just sipped his coffee, "Your backpacks are by the door. Hurry up, cause mommy can't drive you, and daddy's gonna be late." Tubbo looked back by the door and hooped his bag around his back, "Thanks, Mom!" He ran over to kiss his cheek and bolted out the door.
"And I was busy making your lunch." He got up to put his tie together. "I made your favorite with Irish coffee." 
Schlatt perked up and smirked, "Thank you, pumpkin, what would I do without you in the kitchen?" He grinned, kissing his forehead before leaving with his briefcase. 
"...I used to make fucking airplanes-" He lowly hissed, grabbing his wine bottle to drink straight from, he exhaled, and went to clean up breakfast that no one fucking touched... so he packed it up and put it away, perking up as he heard the door bell ring, he looked at the clock and smirked, brushing himself off for the milk man.
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-Word Count: 454-

What was this? Fuck you, that's what it was.