My liege, may I request domestic hcs for your fav synths + Ripley? I'm afraid I'm in desperate need of domestic fluff that only Alien hcs can satisfy
╰┈➤ A domestic life with your beloved(s) would include...
Headcanons below the cut
CW/TW for the following: none.
A domestic life with Ash would include being hugged from behind, whispered greetings as he asks you how you slept.
He tells you that he's got your favorite breakfast meal prepared for you in advance, stopping you from preparing anything yourself as he guides you back towards your warm bed. Helping you to sit upright, pillows helping to keep you propped upright as he brings in breakfast on a tray.
Ash (whispering): "Morning, sleepyhead… Did you rest well?"
You hum softly, leaning back into him.
You: "Mmm… better now that you’re here."
Ash: "Good. Because you’re not lifting a finger today."
He kisses your shoulder and gently steers you toward the bed.
You: "Ash, I can make breakfast—"
Ash (smiling): "Too late. It’s already done. Your favorite, exactly how you like it."
He sets the tray down and adjusts your pillows.
Ash: "Sit up for me, love. There you go. Perfect."
He settles the tray over your lap.
You (soft laugh): "You're spoiling me."
Ash (quietly, brushing your cheek): "That's the plan."
Like the proper Englishman that he is, he gives you tea to accompany your meal along with a forehead kiss to seal the deal.
Suddenly, you think to yourself, life doesn't seem all that scary - not with him by your side.
「 ✦ Christopher Samuels✦ 」
After long weeks away from one another, Chris decides to surprise you by staying home not for the day but for the next four weeks, to make up for lost time between the two of you.
He sees you dead asleep in bed and takes this opportunity to put his surprise in the works, he carefully slips inside with you after shedding his uniform for something more comfortable. Warm heavy arm wrapped around your midriff as he gently pulls you closer against his chest, your back pressed up comfortably against him like a missing puzzle piece.
When you awaken, groggy and confused over his presence asking if he shouldn't be at work, you hear him laugh behind you:
You (sleepy, muffled): "Chris...? You’re home? I thought you had another week out."
He laughs softly, his breath brushing your ear.
Chris: "Change of plans, sweetheart. I told them they'd have to survive without me for a while."
You: "You—wait, you’re actually off?"
Chris (pulling you closer): "Four weeks. Just us. No calls, no duty, no alarms."
You twist in his arms to face him, still half-asleep, smiling.
You: "You mean it?"
Chris (kissing your temple): "Yeah. Figured it was about time I came home to you properly."
A domestic life with Ellen means one of pure bliss; one in which involves you, your beautiful wife/girlfriend, and a spunky orange cat named Jonesy.
You've since added a new addition to your family, a three-legged foster-fail Golden Labrador dog named Tito. Together those two keep you endlessly entertained, and your house filled with laughs and hearts full of love.
The two of you sit on the porch, the sky streaked in pink and gold. Tito rests at your feet, Jonesy purrs in Ellen’s lap.
Ellen (softly): "Never thought life would feel this full."
You: "It's the little things. The fur everywhere, the muddy pawprints, the purring at 3 a.m…"
Ellen (laughs): "Don’t forget the snoring."
You (smiling): "Yours or Tito’s?"
Ellen: "Careful, mister."
You both laugh quietly, watching the pets doze.
You: "You, me, and this chaos—we did pretty good."
Ellen (gazing at you): "Yeah. We really did."
But if you were being honest with yourself, you knew you wouldn't trade this for anything. Home is where the heart is, and your heart? Well, it's with her.
Sometimes a home is your husband/boyfriend Walter, his 154 plants and his eccentric human partner. You adore him, more than life itself and far more than breathing. But you swear his obsession is getting a bit out of hand!
You: "Walter… please tell me that isn't another fern."
Walter (without looking up, voice calm): "Not a fern. Platycerium bifurcatum. Commonly known as a staghorn. It requires indirect light and moderate humidity."
You (crossing your arms): "Uh-huh. And where exactly is it going to live? Because the kitchen counter is already a rainforest."
Walter (pausing thoughtfully): "I've cleared a space adjacent to the coffee maker. The microclimate there is ideal."
You (mock horror): "So now I’ll be fighting for caffeine and sunlight?"
Walter (slight tilt of the head, faint hint of a smile): "An equitable arrangement. You receive your morning stimulant, and the staghorn its photons. Mutual benefit."
You (sighing, leaning into him): "You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?"
Walter (quietly, with measured sincerity): "Statistically, physical attractiveness has little borne on survival. But if my appearance pleases you, then I am… fortunate."
He rests a steady hand at your back, voice softening a fraction.
Walter: "Your approval matters more than chlorophyll."
God, you truly are smitten for him, huh? Guess you're one lucky girl/guy to have such a sweet nerd by your side.
While I'm not quite sure what a domestic life with Kirsh would look like, I am certain of one thing. He loves you. Sure, he may not say it aloud he'd rather die than admit it, but you'll never doubt your place in his heart.
You misplaced something? It magically reappeared. Tired? He's got chamomile tea at the ready. Need to de-stress? He knows just the thing.
You will always be his number one priority, especially since his freedom of Kavalier and the Progeny Corp., Kirsh owes this happy and serene existence all to you.
You: "You found it."
Kirsh (without looking up): "Didn't find it. You dropped it behind the couch."
You (smiling faintly): "So you did find it."
Kirsh: "Semantics."
He sets a steaming mug on the counter and gestures for you to sit.
Kirsh: "Drink this. You haven't stopped pacing since noon."
You (raising a brow): "You keeping tabs on me now?"
Kirsh (deadpan): "Someone has to. You'd forget to breathe if left unsupervised."
You take a sip, warmth spreading through your chest. He watches for a moment, expression unreadable, then turns away—too quickly.
You: "You do a lot for me, you know."
Kirsh: "Don't make it sound sentimental."
You: "You'd rather die than admit it, huh?"
Kirsh (quietly, after a pause): "Dying was easier."
The words hang there, heavier than intended. He clears his throat, voice softening just slightly.
Kirsh: "Just… don’t go losing things again."
You (smiling): "You mean don’t give you an excuse to come to the rescue?"
Kirsh (low mutter, half-turning away): "Something like that."
