Chapters: 1/? Fandom: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Clint Barton/Steve Rogers Characters: Clint Barton, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Tony Stark, Loki (Marvel), Thor (Marvel), James “Bucky” Barnes, Stephen Strange, Bruce Banner Additional Tags: Age Play, Non-Sexual Age Play, Diapers, Bottle-Feeding, Team as Family, mentions of spanking, single swat spanking, Storytime, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Footie Pajamas, Pacifiers, Chocolate milk is the only good milk, Tony is a smol, Clint is also a tiny, and Nat, And Bruce, and thor, Mama Loki, Papa Strange, Bucky’s a good hel’ber, Deaf Clint Barton, Clint’s robot ears Summary:
Bedtimes are tough, even if you’re an Avenger. Especially if you’re an Avenger.
“You know, you could’a been little, too,” Greg said, licking a smear of yellow frosting off the side of his hand.
John shook his head. “Nah, it’s his day…I like being Daddy on his day.” He picked up and placed another tiny fondant bee on top of one cupcake, and delicately pressed it into the icing without disturbing the shape.
“How did we get roped into this task, by the way?”
“Hm?”
“I’ve never even cracked an egg into a bowl before, and here I am piping icing for two dozen cupcakes.”
“Because the baby asked for cupcakes, and you love the baby.” John stepped back to stretch the crick out of his neck after being hunched over, and looked down at the rows of tiny, pastel-yellow cakes that lines the counter. “And not a bad effort. Where’d the bees come from?”
“Mycroft.”
“Mycroft made them?”
“Yeah. Was up until 2 this morning and made loads.”
“Where’d he learn how to do that?”
“He found Pinterest.”
“Seriously? Not bad.” John picked up one of the cupcakes nearest him and held it up. “Like, professional level. Maybe he should do this for a living.”
“GOD, no. He was a demon. You should see the ones he threw away because they didn’t turn out right.”
“Jesus.”
“It was a black and yellow massacre.”
“They are cute, though. Almost a shame that they’re gonna be eat–oh, shit.”
“What?”
“Sherlock won’t eat them.”
“What? But that’s what he asked for–”
“The bees. They have faces. He won’t eat them. He’d feel too bad.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope.”
Greg stared at him for a moment before looking down at the rows of cupcakes. “Oh, shit.”
Sadie: I can’t really picture Mycroft as a Little myself personally, but this prompt actually gave me an idea…so maybe this can qualify?
¯_(ツ)_/¯
Hope you like it, anon!
“Yes, and what is it that
you
want?”
“Mycroft.”
Mycroft ignored his name and the tone of voice it was used in, and continued to stare down at his feet with a not-even-remotely-veiled sneer curling his lip. “Well, why is he looking at me like that?”
Sadie: Aw, you’re too kind! Here it is, Nonny, I hope you like it!
(P.S. I was right near the end of typing this up, when my finger hit the touchpad, and the page changed…lost everything. I typed it up again really quickly, and I’m afraid it’s not as good as it originally was; I’m so sorry about that. 😦 )
Jawn sat on the floor, the full sippy-cup in his hands and the animated show playing on the telly behind him both going largely ignored, and frowned at the couch.
Well, he was frowning about what was on the couch, rather than the couch itself. The couch had done nothing wrong. Da’ was just laying on it.
Not that Da’ had done anything wrong, either! No, Da’ was sick. He hadn’t told Jawn he was sick, but Jawn could tell anyway, because Da’s cheeks were red…the kind of red they always get when Jawn says something sweet about him, but Jawn hadn’t said anything like that today, because Da’ was asleep, and had asked Jawn to play quietly while he napped.
And Da’ never napped. Not when he felt well.
So, Jawn knew he didn’t feel well.
Jawn’s brows knitted together, concerned…he didn’t like it when Da’ didn’t feel well. He put his cup aside and slowly crawled over to the couch, careful not to make a sound. He sat up on his knees and leaned over Sherlock, listening to him breathe.
Jawn was relieved when Sherlock’s breathing sounded like it should and not rough or bumpy, like something in his chest was broken. Jawn knew that was good. But Da’s cheeks were still red, and when Jawn softly pressed his hand to one, it was hot and damp feeling.
Jawn knew that was not good.
He sat back on his heels, and frowned again. Da’ was sick. Jawn wanted to make him not sick. Jawn was a doctor; he should know how to help him.
Jawn chewed on his finger, and thought. What could make Da’ feel better.
…Tea.
Tea makes people feel better.
Jawn knows how to make tea. He’ll make Da’ some tea, and then Da’ will feel better.
Jawn climbed to his knees and toddled into the kitchen, where the electric kettle sat on the counter. There was already water in it, so Jawn turned it on the way he knew to do, and dragged a chair over…all he needed now was Sherlock’s favorite cup, and the tea.
In the sitting room, Sherlock stirred and cracked open a sleep-laden eye…he knew that sound.
Meanwhile, Jawn had retrieved Da’s favorite mug, and with the handle safely clasped in his mouth (he needed both hands to get the box of tea), he plopped his padded bottom on top of the counter next to the kettle and waited for it to get hot.
Jawn opened the box of tea and took a deep breath. Hmm…if one tea bag was good, two bags would be better. Da’ might feel better faster. And three bags would be even faster, still. And he really wanted his Da’ to wake up and feel better as fast as possible.
Jawn wiggled happily at his brilliant idea, and grabbed a handful of tea bags to put in Da’s cup. Then he sat back and watched as the water in the kettle began to boil and bubble up, until it finally cut off. Jawn knew that’s what it does when it’s ready. He reached for the kettle with both hands, getting ready to pour, and…
“Jawn.”
Jawn jumped, startled, and began to tip right off the counter where he would have landed headfirst…if his Da’ hadn’t been across the room in one giant step and caught him ‘round the waist. Sherlock sat Jawn back on the counter, upright, and pushed the kettle well out of the way. “What did you think you were doing?” he asked, sounding winded.
Jawn was still a little spooked after his near-disastrous tumble. He chewed on his finger and peeked up at Sherlock through his eyelashes; “I, I was just…I wan’ned m-make, I…” he stammered in a near whisper, as his eyes began to well up. “Wan’ned you’a feel b-better.”
Sherlock sighed…he just couldn’t muster up the energy to scold the little guy, not after a scare like that (for both of them). “Just…Jawn is not allowed to touch that kettle again, not without Da’ watching, is that understood? That could have been an awful, awful accident, and I don’t want anything to happen to my Jawn.”
Jawn nodded shakily, and grasped Sherlock in a tight hug, burying his face in his chest.
Sherlock wrapped his arms around Jawn and rested a feverish cheek on top of his little boy’s head. They’d talk more about it later, when he could actually formulate a coherent sentence and make sense of Jawn’s babbling. Though, honestly, it was a little funny that even while regressed, Jawn was a tea-hungry little–
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