Summary: Your cousin needs help with her adorable 2-year-old.
Paring: Steve x Reader
Warnings: Kids and loads and loads of fuffly
“Are you sure that you three are going to be okay?” You look into your cousins’ eyes and nod. You understand that she is worried about leaving her daughter with you and Steve for the whole afternoon, it’s the first time since her divorce that she is going out and she is looking for excuses not to “Of course, how many times have I watched Kate? Go have fun on your date.”
“It is not a date and are you sure that Steve is not gonna mind? He works so much and this is his free time…” You don’t let her finish “Of course it is a date, he asked you for coffee and cake, and in my book that is a date. About Steve, don’t worry he loves kids.”
You are not sure if this is true, you and Steve never talked about having kids or even kids in general in your eight-month relationship. But how bad can it be? In the worst case, he spends all day locked in the room while you play with a toddler.
For Sherlolly #92 - “You’re so clingy, I love it.”
I don’t even remember how many days it’s been since I received these requests but it’s time I actually get to them. So here’s uno.
One thing Molly absolutely did not expect from a
relationship with Sherlock was how cuddly
he could be. She’d assumed, at the beginning, that their arrangement would
amount to little more than shy touches and cheek kisses for the first month at
least, but once he realised she was serious about giving him the time of day, he
had thrown himself in with unexpected enthusiasm and had gone from zero to
sixty in the area of affection. It was a wonder they were able to keep it so
effectively under wraps when he had a habit of stopping her for a kiss on his
way into and out of the morgue or standing behind her chair with his arms
draped over her shoulders while she worked at the microscope in the lab.
Her favourite by far is when they lie on the sofa together,
because the moment he sees her lounging, he takes it as an invitation to crawl half
on top of her and cling to her like a cat. She’s never had a boyfriend so content
to use her boobs as a pillow with no motive other than to be close to her. And
of course, she is always happy to have the opportunity to play with his hair
while they watch whatever’s on TV at the time.
“Cuddly,” she says, smiling widely and scratching at the
curls of his nape.
“Not cuddly,” he says with a yawn. “I’m just here for the
“That’s what it’s all about. Honestly, Sherlock, you’re so
clingy. I love it.”
He raises his head and looks up at her curiously for a
moment before returning to his pillow.
Sorry but that anon had a point in highlighting how Meghan is the more accomplished between her and Kate yet you claimed to have found nothing to like about her. Of course you don't *have* to like Meghan but it is funny to see a Kate fan say such a thing about a woman who had an actual career. The way you guys prop up Kate while downplaying Meghan's accomplishments really feeds into the narrative that black women/WoC have to work twice as hard for half the credit or praise white women recieve.
I’m sorry, but having more props on a career doesn’t make a woman better than another. What about the stay at home mothers, the ones that have raised their children instead of building a career? Are we better because we went to Uni and have a degree? A woman’s worth is not measured by the accomplishments on your Curriculum Vitae. A woman’s worth is the same for every single woman, whether they are raising a family without anything more than middle school as academic accolade or if they went to become president of a country, with or without children. You cannot even believe you have the moral high ground to do so.
Have you ever made make fun of people like Máxima, Claire, Letizia, Stéphanie, Mary who had a career before their royal life? No, I don’t think so. But just because I don’t fucking like Meghan, then that makes me instantly a fucking racist when I say I don’t like her nor find her work life interesting. That’s just plain stupid.
And just for the record, I am a WoC, so I would fucking know, first hand, how hard it is to fucking achieve something in this world. I have never downplayed Meghan but y’all keep reading that in the people that don’t like her, when some of us don’t give single flying fuck. Maybe you should check yourself why you still read her as a low woman in everybody’s commentary.
So there’s this long Vanity Fair profile of Kate McKinnon, and it’s awful. Kate only says six things the entire time and the reporter goes on for pages and pages about how uncomfortable Kate was, and that she might run away at any moment.
Like a cat. Like, the reporter goes on about Kate being a cat, with “invisible whiskers!” “She starts to back away on soft, padded paws.” I swear this article is targeted at and attacking me personally.
“Leslie,” the article might say, “What have you done, Leslie? The scene where she licks the gun, Leslie.”
The photos don’t help. They are by Annie Leibovitz and they are Too Good. I said out loud, “She is my wife.” Caterine is looking at me funny. Caterine, don’t look at me like that.
You don’t need to be a Man of Iron, be bitten by a radioactive spider, inherit wealthy sums and dress up like a bat or have special powers to be a hero.
Sometimes, you just need to be there at the right time and say the right things.
I’m not 100% sure how to ‘win’ this certain scenario, but I have a few suggestions.
-Stand up to David in Episode 1 -Look through Kate’s room throughly, especially through bible passages and the photo of Kate with her sisters -Tell her to go to the police (unconfirmed) -Answer your phone when Kate calls you when you are with Chloe.
Eventually, Kate will be on the roof and attempt suicide. Max will use tax her powers to the point she cannot 'rewind’ anymore so she has to talk Kate down. -Be supportive. Say things like “I’m here for you.” and “Everyone will forget the video.” -Tell her that her sisters would be sad if she committed suicide. -Quote the bible quote you saw earlier, Matthew.
If it doesn’t work out, let me know. Still, props to Dontnod for tackling a difficult subject with the respect it deserves.
Ok real talk you guys how many of you have actually pressed your fingers against your throats while you swallowed a really big bite of food just because you wanted to know if you can feel it slide down??? I’m I insane???
A Game of Give and Take (Hawkeye Squared AOU Fix-It)
Summary: When Nathaniel Pietro is born, Clint and Kate receive a call from the current Hawkeye requesting them to come visit their grandson.
Notes: All countlessuntruths‘ fault. Contains reference to canonical sexual assault, and random cameos from the Young Avengers who do not owe their existence to Wanda Maximoff. If you don’t know that the title comes from “Can’t Hurry Love,” you break my heart.
The rain wakes him up.
He has a memory, increasingly distant, of what rain used to actually sound like. He remembers Iowa thunderstorms and the way the claps used to frighten him, until Barney took it upon himself to take Clint out to collect frogs in the middle of a thunderstorm.
“If you’re looking for frogs, you’ll forget about the storm,” Barney had said, and he’d been right, because hunched over the pond, two miles away from their house, all Clint had wanted to focus on was catching the frog before his brother did. There, at that pond, Clint was able to first ignore, and then relish, the roll of the thunder that was much more quiet than the roar at home.
But it’s been almost fifteen years since Barney’s death, and even longer since Clint’s been able to hear a storm announce its presence.
The rain still wakes him up, though.
It wakes him because their bedroom window is open. They both chill too easily these days for the damn air conditioner, but it’s too hot in early June to go without a little air at night.
(Too hot for him; Katie still sleeps with four blankets pulled around her, the top layer having been a gift from Ellie’s oldest daughter two Christmases ago.)
The smell of the rain hitting the rooftop garden that Simone still supervises on her more mobile days is what wakes him up. Once you’ve lived in Iowa and gone frog hunting, there are some terrible things you can’t shake, like the smell of wet dirt.
As terrible as wet dirt does smell - and the new fru fru organic shit the neighborhood garden is using smells even worse - it lets him wake up a fraction before Katie does.
The arthritis has to make it agonizing to sleep facing him - that busted knee from ‘91 hates the rain more than Clint’s busted hip hates the cold. But she’s curled up to face him, close enough to kiss, and he takes a moment to count the liver spots that have taken over for the freckles that used to be so noticeable when they were this close.
He’s still lying there, watching her breathe and thinking if the rain is going to interfere with their previous plans to stop by Barney’s grave before their regularly scheduled (more or less) Sunday catch-ups with the Alleyne-Altman brood when Katie wakes up. She looks exasperated when she wakes up, and that is Clint’s first clue that the phone is ringing.
It’s the cellphone she keeps by the bed, not the house phone that Clint will always insist on having, and she’s disconnecting the call by the time that Clint’s tired bones have allowed him to reach over and put his hearing aides in.
“Well, she finally had baby number three,” Katie tells him when he turns to her expectantly. “One too many if you ask me, but it’s not my uterus, I suppose.”
“Great. When are they coming to visit?” He means it. There’s literally no reason for the grandparents to travel half-way across the country, when the young and sprightly could do it just as well.
But Katie fixes him with a look. “I’ll book us a ticket,” she tells him. “You start packing.”
“I’m too old to have to go to Iowa, Katie,” he whines, a little petulantly, because if anything deserves it, it’s Iowa.
“We are going to visit our son’s son,” Kate informs him.
“Why? It’s not like it’s his first son. They already had one.”
“Because we flew to London last September, when Ellie had her fourth daughter,” Kate answers. “You’re just going to have to deal with it, Old Man.”
“Fine. What did they name him, anyway?”
“That’s the worst fucking name I’ve ever heard,” Clint complains. “The kid has been complaining about being named Clinton Francis Jr. for more than 40 years now, and he goes and names his son that?”
“I believe Laura had something to do with it, too,” Katie tells him.
Clint just sighs and goes to feed the dog who gives the kind of groan that can approximately be translated into “Ugh, Iowa.”
So I’ve been playing a lot of pathfinder recently (It’s a tabletop game like d&d) and I’m LOVING it so far. We’ve got a crazy party containing characters such as; The crazy human gunslinger raised by goblins, the half-orc sorceress who loses her memories every 5 minutes, and the hunky lesbian blood rager barbarian who talks in a Russian accent. I myself am a halfling bard who plays crazy lute solos and has CRAZY intelligence which is funny because she does dumb shit like stabbing a swarm of bees because I don’t know how the rules work.
Anyway, so yesterday our sorceress just learned the spell “enlarge person” so during the final battle we decided to enlarge the barbarian because why not? And then she SINGLEHANDEDLY beat the boss fight by climbing up a 60 foot tower, grabbing the goons from the windows and chucking them off the tower one by one, and then Sparta kicking the final boss off the roof. It was fucking awesome.
BUT THERE’S MORE
So somehow, I overheard a guy mention that there was a kink called macrophillia and the conversation went a little something like this:
Guy 1: “Oh, you mean like a kink for tall people?”
Guy 2: “No, I mean like 50 feet tall.”
Guy one: “holy shit”
Me, after a whole energy drink: “Oh my GOD that is ACTUALLY MY JAM”
2 Guys: …
Me: “You know, there’s a reason I chose a halfling…”
Guy 1: (laughing) YOOOOOO
Awesome barbarian chick, absolutely losing it: “Ohhhhhh my GOD YOU ARE MY NEW FAVORITE PERSON”