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.
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???
i am very passionate about how well hermione could have fit into slytherin oh my gosh
so the typical surface view of the whole thing is that gryffindors are the good guys, ravenclaws are the nerds, hufflepuffs are too nice, and slytherins are the bad guys and all hate mudbloods etc etc
however (and this especially since pottermore came out and everyone got sorted and each house had a longwinded speech about what theyre like) theres a few traits that define each house
griffyndors big ones are bravery and chilvalry
ravenclaw wit and creativity
hufflepuff hardwork and loyalty
slytherin ambition and cunningness
however if we go deeper into what being a slytherin is, theyre also incredibly loyal - id even wager moreso than hufflepuffs - theyre just incredibly picky and choosy about who their loyaltys go towards. and they dig a lot of “tradtion” type stuff"
someone made a tumblr post a short while back that basically said that a gryffindor would die for their best friend whereas a slytherin would kill for their best friend. true. true. true.
SO heres my list of her slytherin-worthy achievements:
she lied to teachers to protect harry and ron after a quick decision that they were her homies. a decision that stayed with her for life
lit a teacher on fire at least once, possibly twice if i recall correctly
has read bits and bobs about dark magic just for funsies
punched draco malfoy in the face cause of what an a-hole he was being, my hero
wiped her parents memories and had them move to australia to protect them (i cry so much every time. the deaths dont even make me cry. that part does)
convinced the minitsry of magic to give her a time turner just cause she was smart, went on and used it to set a convicted “”“criminal”“” free. two if you count buckbeak as a convicted “”“criminal”“”.
kept rita skeeter in a jar for months because she didnt like her and the lady had hurt her homies (remember how i said slytherin’s loyalty is selective but INTENSE? yeah)
made polyjuice potion which is totes against the rules so they could spy on some other kids
stole ingredients for said polyjuice potion
“petrificus totalis"ed neville in their first year
and, my personal favourite: remember dumbledore’s army in their fifth year? how they had a list of names of members? how hermione enchanted it so that if somebody snitched, they’d get cursed. and didnt even tell harry and ron about that one. and remained damned proud of herself
My. Slytherin. Baby. Girl.
that said, hermione could theoretically fit into any house other than hufflepuff, but slytherins my fav for her. harry could be anything but ravenclaw. ginny could fit into slytherin too. luna could be anything but slytherin but im glad she was a ravenclaw
and i think from a narrative perspective itd be a lot more interesting for harry and/or hermione to have been a slytherin because one of the golden trio coming out of the house that so many write off as evil would be incredibly cool.
like ive heard some people say that the three represent the three other houses, with ron as a hufflepuff, harry slytherin, and hermione raveclaw, but to be quite honest, harry only really makes slytherin with the voldemort soul piece. without it hes too true a gryffindor i think. and honestly id say the same about ron. whereas hermione is far more versatile
OKAY so imagine harry and ron as gryffindors and hermione as a slytherin, but still iin so many of the same classes, and the troll thing still happens, and she still lies for them, and then they realise what it is to have a slytherin on your side
and then ginny going to hogwarts and ending up a slytherin because she has all that ambition too, and shes cunning, and being like rlly good buds with hermione because of it. worried a bit at first that her family will be disappointed, but they dont really mind, because thats what weasleys do. unconditional love for their family. i love the weaslys,
ginny still ends up besties with luna and stuff. and ginny luna and neville always end up quite good friends by the end of the series but this way theyd be three of the 4 houses instead of 2
how great could that be.
those talented, cunning, sharp-as-knives girls
giving slytherin more than one dimension. giving the story just a little more depth.
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.”
Ok have I ever told you guys about how much I absolutely love Kirby because I DON’T THINK I PROPERLY HAVE
Ever since I was little, I was OBSESSED with Kirby. I had the games, I watched the show, I drew pictures of Kirby on all my homework, I wrote stories about Kirby, my imaginary friend was a Kirby, my whole life was Kirby. The other kids in elementary school knew me as “that girl who loves Kirby.”
It’s never even been a vore thing I just freaking love that cute little pink orb who can pummel anyone in a fight. If you don’t believe my devotion, I recently constructed a homemade mascot costume of Cook Kirby and cosplay with it at local conventions. I have become one with Kirby. Poyo.
“My belly quakes under your weight, kneading tightly around your form, searching for every last delicious morsel of food from your clothes. The remainder of my last meal churns along with you, and the rhythmic pulses of my stomach hard at work rock you back and forth, almost like some sort of convoluted massage. With a deep, wet gurgle and a squeeze from the soft, gushy stomach walls, a belch erupts from above you, rumbling the chamber you are held captive in. A voice, my voice, echoes above you, muffled, yet loud to your tiny ears.