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lis-likes-fics · 3 months

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Pancakes, Bottle Tops, and Jell-O on the Side

Pairings: Spencer Reid x bau!adhd!Reader Word Count: 3.5k words Warnings: Character with ADHD, fluff :) A/N: This was supposed to be a drabble....so... I am going to go ahead and continue the bau!adhd!reader stuff because I think it's a lot of fun! ANyway, thank you and enjoy. Special thanks to my beta reader @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen

“Spence.”

His lazy hum rumbles under you as you lay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as you both lay wrapped in the covers. It's late, a glance at the clock says nearly one in the morning.

You cross your arms over his chest, leaning up to look at his face. He looks peaceful, not sleeping but closed-eyed and slow-breathed. “I'm hungry.”

He smiles, but his eyes stay closed. “It's too late to eat.”

You shrug lazily, drawing circles on his chest. “But I want pancakes.”

He opens his eyes. “You know,” Spencer sits up, laying back against the headboard, “late night snacking is bad for digestion.”

You hum. “Is it?”

He nods. “Your metabolism slows while you sleep, so it's harder for your stomach acids to break down the food.” He presses his lips to your forehead. “Eating late at night can lead to weight gain and interrupted sleep.”

“Really?”

His hand rubs your arm. “If you need to eat close to bedtime, it's best to choose small, healthy snacks so you sleep better.”

You sit up, crossing your legs as you look at him. You set a hand on his hand, looking him straight in the eyes as you say it. “But I want pancakes.”

He laughs lightly. “Sweetheart–”

“What if we put chocolate chips in them?”

You know you’ve piqued his attention. He glances at you, his brows raised to his hairline. “Chocolate chips?” he mutters.

You almost feel bad for tricking him, but he’s too cute for that. Your smile grows as your second hand envelopes his own until you’re holding it like you’re keeping it warm. “Yeah,” you nod. “We can even eat it with Jell-O. Not, like, Jell-O on it. But, like, Jell-O on the side.” You clear your throat. “But we can also have Jell-O.”

He gives you an almost pained expression, like you’re gonna pull his arm off. “You know I love Jell-O.”

You smile your best smile. “I know, that’s why I said it.” Then you give your best pout, scooting closer to him with his hand in your hands. “Pancakes and Jell-O? Please?”

There’s a short pause as he lays his head back, sighing as he shakes his head. “You’re impossible to say no to, you know that?”

“Yay!” You erupt in smiles, pumping your fist in the air as you stumble out of the bed (and you quite literally stumble because your foot gets caught in the covers, and you fall to the floor with a thud). Spencer almost feels guilty for laughing as he asks if you’re okay, but you almost seem like you’ve hardly noticed when you get to your feet and rush to the kitchen. He takes his time following after you, but he’s becoming more and more excited about eating chocolate chip pancakes and strawberry Jell-O with you with each step he takes.

You’ve already beaten him to starting a CD, something from Mozart’s collection playing in the background as you try to reach the pancake mix from the top shelf. You’re almost certain he puts things there on purpose, especially when he comes up behind you with a hand on your hip as he easily reaches for the box and sets it next to you on the counter.

You turn to look at him, nearly swooning at the sight of him so close to you, his stupid pretty eyes and his stupid pretty face just waiting to be covered in your kisses. You settle for a peck on his chin, teasing him, before stepping around him to grab the box. He snatches it before you can, and you would pout if you didn’t know that’s what he wanted. Taking your chin between two gentle fingers, he places a very loving kiss on the very tip of your nose before he’s walking away to grab the pan. You settle for everything else, grabbing the milk and the water and the butter and the chips and whatever else is needed for your late-night snack.

As Spencer replaces the butter on the butter dish, he watches you out of the corner of his eye. He watches you pour the milk into a measuring cup half full of water, your other hand busy with tapping the counter three times. When you set the milk back down, you don’t move on until you’ve grabbed the handle with the opposite hand and let the other tap the counter three more times. You rub the condensation into your hands.

“They need to be equal, or it feels weird,” you’d said. He thinks you’re really cool.

When he’s flipping the pancakes, you’re gliding on your feet through the kitchen like you’re a ballerina. It’s as simple as you trying to stand on the very tips of your toes, and then him grabbing your waist to help you. He laughs every time you step on his feet, which makes you feel better about stepping on his feet so much.

And then when the pancakes are done, you’re waltzing with him between bites. He’s weirdly good at it, given the fact that he’s not a good dancer (neither of you are that great on your feet, but it doesn’t matter when it’s just slow dancing in the kitchen). You laugh every time he steps on your feet, which makes him feel better about stepping on your feet so much.

“Should we like…” you trail off, leaning over your plate next to Spencer’s, “...do some jumping jacks after?” You take a bite, speaking as you chew on it. “It’ll burn some of the calories, and then it won’t be so bad.”

Spencer’s smile is one of those ones that makes you feel that stereotypical “warm and tingly” feeling that settles in your stomach somewhere. It’s fond and sweet, and his eyes glitter with it. He chuckles lightly. “Maybe.” To the jumping jacks. He doesn’t much like jumping jacks.

“And then we’ll also be tired, and we can just go to sleep.”

He hums. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t need jumping jacks to make me sleepy.”

You sift through the last couple of bites left of your pancakes, turning your nose up. He can already tell that you’ve suddenly grown sick of it. There’s no way you’re eating the last two pieces. You set your fork down, gesturing to your head. “My mind is fast right now, so I may need a few.” You glance away, “On the other hand, that might make it worse…” Then you look at him. “I’m keeping you up late, I’m sorry.”

It’s almost two in the morning, and you both still have work in a few hours.

But he just smiles, loving as usual. “Sweetheart, we’re usually up late anyway on cases. You don’t have to apologize.”

You reach over, nudging his fingers with yours on the counter. “I feel like I do.” You tap your untouched fingers with his untouched fingers. They need to be even, otherwise it feels weird.

Spencer reaches over and locks your fingers together. “I promise you, I would’ve been awake anyway.” Meaning he was not going to sleep until he knew you were asleep to make sure you actually got some sleep.

“That doesn’t make me feel better.” You raise a hand to his cheek, your fingertips brushing over them and adoring the way they turn the slightest pink. “You need rest.”

“So do you,” he mumbles. “We’re staying awake together.”

There are nights where he pretends to be asleep to get you to rest. Tonight was one of those nights but when you say his name so sweetly, he has no choice but to reply.

And also, you’re a profiler. You know when he is or isn’t sleeping, you just pretend you don’t.

“Do you wanna do jumping jacks?” he suggests, gathering your plates while you’re distracted with the strands of hair misbehaving on his forehead, out of place from the rest.

“Maybe a few,” you hum.

He straightens his posture, stuffing his last bite in his mouth. “I’m going to make you some chamomile.” He already has the kettle in his hands, filling it with water to set to boil. “We can do some jumping jacks while we wait for the water to boil.”

You smile sweetly. He takes such good care of you, especially when he reaches his hand out and cups your chin so gently. “Thank you, honey,” you say as you slowly slip the plates into your hands. “I’ll get the dishes.”

He reaches for them, but you pull them closer to you, like a dragon hoarding its treasures—which is a strange simile, considering you’re talking about dirty dishes covered in his DNA. “I can do them,” he tries.

“I know you can,” you have to dance around him to get past him and to the sink. He turns the heat all the way up and leaves it, holding his hands out for the plates. You slap his hand away lightly, a teasing little swipe as you shake your head. “But I want to.”

He tilts his head, his confusion contaminated by his amused grin. “You hate doing the dishes.”

More than anything. “Yeah,” you agree, “but you’re being so nice.” You set the dishes by the sink and turn to look up at him. He’s freakishly tall, so you have to crane your neck up to see him because he stands so close. He has no sense of personal space with you, but you don’t mind it because you love him and you also don’t give him any personal space in return. “So either I fight you or you let me do the dishes.”

He sighs. “Okay, you wash and I’ll dry and put away.”

You stick your hand out to make it official. “Deal.”

“Great.” He takes your hand, surprising you when he twirls you in a clumsy circle and pulls you into his chest as you both giggle. It’s sappy and gross, like those scenes in rom-coms where they’re doing this exact thing: dancing around the kitchen late at night while they giggle like school kids because they’re so in love. You’ve always wanted this for yourself, and you’re beyond happy that you’ve found it with your Spencer.

“Thank you,” you say as you duck under his arm, taking your place at the sink as you start the water. Neither of you talk much as you scrub all the dirty dishes clean, your face scrunched in your focus, un-scrunching only when the water rinses away the suds you’ve built up on your dish. He takes it with eager hands, wiping the dish clean and retreating to put it away.

“You know,” you mutter, frowning at the way the pancake batter mixes with the water and sinks down the drain, “the jumping jacks before bed will be really good because, when we sleep after, our muscles will recover and get really strong.”

He nods, wiping at your elbow when it brushes the edge of the sink and you squirm away from the cold metal. It’s thoughtful, though it’s such a subconscious movement. “That’s correct.”

You shrug a shoulder, teasing easily. “I’m often correct.”

He laughs. It’s a big one that ruins your stoic expression. “That is also correct.” He’s proving your point, and he doesn’t mind doing it.

When the dishes are clean and put away, the kettle is whistling in perfect time as he removes it from the heat. You’re already scurrying to the cabinet to pick which mug you want to use (he already knows you’re going to pick the blue round Christmas Snoopy mug that curves in at the lip). It’s one of your favorites, like a mug-bowl hybrid that you love to cradle in your hands, especially when it’s warm.

He takes special care in making your tea while you sit on the counter next to him and watch. Your feet dangle over the edge, and you find yourself watching his face more than what he’s actually doing. He’s got eyebags. You can tell how tired he is, though he insists that he’s just always had them.

It’s partially true, anyway. When you first met him, he had those same dark circles around his eyes that gave a warning to how irregular these hours would be.

Other than his eyebags, he’s got a loving look on his face. It’s not forlorn and lost in sweet little smiles, but it’s thoughtful and content and at peace. He’s happy to stand there and make your tea, stirring the contents together with the little spoon because he knows you hate using the big ones. He’s happy to fish a single ice cube from the freezer to plop into your scalding tea so that you can actually drink it and not burn your tongue. He’s happy to hand over your mug and watch you take a tiny sip, closing your eyes and humming and giving him your softest thank you as you practically melt. He preens under your praise.

After a couple more sips, you’re pushing yourself off the counter and onto the floor, doing ridiculous stretches as you beam at him. “Okay, ready?”

Spencer lets out a huge sigh, bending down to set his hands on his knees. “Give me a second to catch up,” he says, already out of breath.

You furrow your brow and laugh. “We haven’t even started.”

“I mean mentally.”

“Spence!”

“Okay,” he straightens his posture, moving you both to a more open space as he stops in front of you. “I’m ready.”

You smile wide, “We’re going to fifty.”

“Fifty?!” he exclaims, but you’ve already started. He has to do the first five jumping jacks really fast just to catch up to you. But he’s in love with you, so he’s dedicated to these curséd things.

It’s somewhere before twenty when he speaks, already out of breath and lagging behind as his hands struggle to come as far up. You know he’s partially exaggerating, but you’re also getting tired already. “You know…” he gasps like he desperately needs water, “I hate…” another gasp, “doing these.”

You roll your eyes, tired but not as dramatic as him (currently). “I watched you chase an unsub down three blocks before and then proceed to tackle him, and you can’t do a few jumping jacks?” You don’t know where you are in the count. You forgot as soon as you started speaking, but you think you’re somewhere near thirty.

“Okay, that’s different…” He stops huffing and puffing, but he is genuinely getting tired as he breathes between words. “I was running on adrenaline…” a breath, “and I couldn’t stand straight for…” another breath, “for ten minutes after.”

It’s true. You had to hold his hand because he kept complaining that he was going to pass out, when really he was just trying to make you feel better because you had been so worried he would get hurt in pursuit. You’d been all over him worried sick, loving hands to his face and soft kisses to his forehead.

“I was so proud of you though.” You would shrug if you weren’t already busy. “Derek was impressed. Also, I don’t know where we are.”

He could have lied and said you were on 49, but he decides against it purely because you genuinely look like you’re enjoying yourself. Plus, you’re smiling. How is he possibly supposed to think straight if you’re smiling?

“38.”

You grumble but you stick it out together. And when the last counts come out (“47, 48, 49, 50!”), you are the one to huff and puff and say, “Oh, thank god.”

Spencer leans forward on the counter, gripping the edge of it as he bends all the way down to catch his breath. You skip that altogether, climbing on top of it and laying on it like a couch. You drape an arm over your face, completely limp and entirely unwilling to stand. “I hate jumping jacks,” you complain on a heavy breath.

He nods lazily. “I’m glad we agree.”

You both stay there for a while, two pathetic FBI agents who are far more capable of even more physical exertion than this has offered. Derek would tsk if he was here.

Spencer recovers first, but only because you allow him to (you don’t want to move yet, and if you act long enough then he might actually carry you to bed). He runs a hand through his hair, “I’ll put your shark in the microwave.”

This makes you forget that you’re pretending to be completely incapacitated. The shark in question is a small heatable stuffed animal named Nadia that smells like lavender. During your month-long hyperfixation on sharks, Spencer bought it for you as a gift because he thought you’d like it. He was right, as Nadia sleeps in bed with the two of you now on most nights.

You sit up, raising a slow hand in his direction as you fawn over him. “Thank you, honey.” He lets you take his hand, pulling him in to kiss him gently.

You and Spencer have been together for a while, and you’ve been saying “I love you”s for a good amount of time, but Spencer has yet to (and will likely never) master the art of casualty when it comes to telling you he loves you. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to give you a brief call over his shoulder, or a passing kiss on the forehead as he mumbles it into the side of your head.

He says it in an in-your-face kind of way that you adore. He stands so close, kissing your forehead and your lips, and really any part of your face that suits him as he grins. “I love you.” He takes care in whispering it against your lips, your mouths touching with each consonant.

You hum. “Love you, too.” His hands rub your palms, and he kisses your lips again before reluctantly pulling away to go retrieve your shark. You smile as you watch him leave, grabbing your mug and cradling it in your hands as you take small sips. You do feel tired, so at least everything is working.

Spencer is holding Nadia in his hands like a baby before he sets it in the microwave, the both of you standing side to side, bodies touching, as you watch it spin around and around and around in very slow circles. You rest your head on his shoulder while you watch. He’s afraid to move and scare you away (like he could ever scare you away).

Before the microwave can beep, you open the door. He grabs the shark from where it sat, handing it to you like sacred text. “Good?” he asks, waiting as you take the weighted stuffed animal in your hands and feel its warmth. It’s very nice.

“Perfect.”

That makes him happy.

With an arm around your shoulder, he takes you both to bed, turning off the lights as he goes. Taking one last generous sip from your tea, you snuggle in the bed next to him, and as grabby as you are, he's the one holding you like he's going to make sure you never leave.

You hold your warmed plush to your chest, letting out a long breath as you rest against Spencer. “What do you wanna hear?” he asks, already flipping through his mind palace to unlock all the stuff he knows just to lull you to sleep.

You've always insisted hearing the sound of his voice helps you sleep (in a good way, not in the “listening to you speak is a snooze fest” kind of way). He knows there's a study on it, it's scientific, but there's always going to be the tiniest part of him that doesn't believe you (though he'll entertain the idea because he loves you).

“Um…” you wonder, your mind suddenly going blank as you try to find something for him to talk about. “Give me the history of…” you shake your head, “bottle tops.”

He furrows his brow, though his grin betrays him (as per usual). “Bottle tops?”

“Yeah?”

“Why bottle tops?”

You shrug, closing your eyes and letting your finger rub into his shirt. “I don't know.”

He shakes his head like he's sick of you, though he could never be sick of you. He's surely sick with you with how dizzy you make him every time he sees you. “Okay then…” he mumbles, wondering where to start. He keeps his voice soft, but he can't seem to keep it slow.

“The crown bottle cap was invented in 1892 by William Painter–”

“Why do you know about this?”

It was partially a challenge, choosing bottle tops. Sometimes you name random things just to see if he actually knows these things, and he surprises you every time with information he's a total nerd for knowing.

He tilts his head, glancing at you. “Why do you know so much about sharks?”

You hum, laying back down. “Touché.”

He smiles. You feel his thumb stroke your shoulder, a slow and steady thing that easily makes you putty in his arms. “As I was saying,” he says, all sass but also too much of a dork to work, “the name ‘crown’ was chosen because the cap resembled the crown of the British queen…”

It doesn't take long to drift off as he speaks, his loving hands and loving voice and loving lips the perfect remedy for your overactive mind. You could listen to him talk all day.

Criminal Minds taglist: @queermaxwooo @mdanon027 @lilianhallee @hpstuff244444 @thegr8estpuff @niktwazny303 @bubbles2300 @hiireadstuff @chloelmao67 @feyresqueen @hbwrelic Tag yourself here...

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #reader insert #female reader #adhd!reader #spencer reid x reader fluff

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moonsbypadfoot · 3 months

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weird goofy mattheo riddle headcanons

no warnings, this is just something to giggle at,

and I'm bored, kinda weird

hates muggles but sings the fifty nifty united states

Is convinced that every muggle he thinks are talented are wizards or witches

Always looks annoyed

Certified yapper

Horrible sleep schedule

Likes animals but not bugs

5'11 but always says he's 6'1 tall

A big classic music fan but hates Mozart because he thinks Mozart is too basic

Convinced that the Beatles are all magic

Chronic procasinator

Shirt stealer (picks up any shirt that's on the floor and most of them are dracos shirt or Blaise's shirt)

doesn't say bless you when someone sneeze, but he just stares into their soul

Somehow is always the first to notice when someone's zipper is open

says 'oh my days' as a joke, but then he can't stop saying it

Always scared that he's balding (he keeps asking Draco to look at a certain patch of his hair say 'am I balding? ')

Babysits first years (the first years hate him, so they just stay silent and do anything at all and the parents, also the teachers are thrilled)

'Babysits' = gives a pack of boys chocolate frog so they would shut up (works)

When he's offended he just stays silent and frowns

Takes things to heart

Bonus : his favorite brainrot thingie must be the talking nugget or meow meow meow meow

I'm so sorry I'm just bored 💞🩷🪼🪷🫦

#mattheo riddle #mattheo #mattheo fluff #mattheo headcanons #harry potter fandom #benjamin wadsworth #ben Wadsworth #harry potter universe #slytheein #slytherin #slytherin boy headcanons #headcanons #mattheo headcanon #the brainrot is real #im going insane

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lost-soul-in-time · 1 year

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👦 do you have many friends, Oliver?

“No many, no. My father introduces me to lots of people when they visit the house, but I’m not sure if they could be my friends. Besides, they’re all very old. If they were my friends, I think I’d have to eat oatmeal for dinner and caramel candies as snacks, and not the good kind.”

Oliver doesn’t seem bothered by this fact, absentmindedly pulling back the sling and letting it gently snap back into place. “I’m alright with not having other friends, my mother is my best friend! I love her very much, she brings me back sweets from when she returns from parties with my father. I especially like when she brings chocolate cake. I love chocolate cake.”

#mozart (answered asks)#play something for me? (ask memes)#anonymous #perfectly unaware (young oliver)#((someone get this boy some chocolate cake))

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yanderepuck · 8 months

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We are thanking @aquagirl1978 for this.

At the Bronx zoo, they are letting you name a cockroach after someone and you get a little certificate for doing so.

So let's imagine MC doing this for the guys. She prints out the little certificate and gives it to them all cute like.

Napoleon

"You...did what?" Looking at the certificate wondering if he's reading it wrong.

"I named a cockroach after you"

He just looks at you. Very confused. Not sure if it's meant to be endearing or semi threatening.

"...You still love me, right?"

"of course!"

Mozart

"....."

"Do you like it~"

"That..is.. DISGUSTING!"

You laugh as he throws a small tantrum.

"COCKROACHES ARE DISGUSTING. WHY WOULD YOU NAME ONE AFTER ME?"

"Because cockroaches are forever like our love~"

"....."

"I got the matching socks too"

"get those away from me"

Leonardo

"..a cockroach?"

"a hissing cockroach!"

Leonardo is just looking at the certificate. "I've been called worse things" shrugs and hangs it up in his wall

Vincent

"aww. Thanks" he smiles at it and you even got him the cockroach plushie to go with it. You knew he would like it. He's going to go paint the two of you as cockroaches now, and going on a date

Theo

Mildly offended. "Why a cockroach?"

"Why not. It hisses and so do you. It seems fitting"

Still offended and is convinced you could have chosen a different animal/insect but decided on the cockroach for who knows what reason

Arthur

You know he goes all out for Valentine's Day as it is. So when you just hand him the certificate he's a little confused.

"I named a cockroach after you!"

"..is...is that a normal thing in your country?"

"nope!"

He's wondering if this is a warning.

"I got us matching roach socks too!"

Isaac

Boy probably shrieked a little when seeing a cockroach on the paper. "WHY???"

"I thought it was cute"

"WHATS CUTE ABOUT A COCKROACH?"

"They hiss!"

He screams again. But then you made him sit through the virtual encounter and he screams a little when it hisses

Jean

Handles it better than you expected honestly. For a split second you thought he would be confused "so this is how people celebrate Valentine's Day? They name bugs after each other"

"not exactly. I thought it would be a funny gift."

You got him the plush and he's holding it like a baby and he carries it around all day and tells people it's name is also Jean

Dazai

"Aww. I got you the same thing"

You were SHOOK

Dazai also handed you a certificate. Needless to say he enjoyed being named after a cockroach. You're the one a little upset by it

Shakespeare

He's telling you about how he is taking you to this nice restaurant. He even got you a new dress to go out in. And then you hand him a box with the certificate and the plush inside.

"a... cockroach? You named a cockroach after me.."

He's wondering if he's done anything wrong and you did this because you're mad at him.

Comte

He has no clue how to react. He bought you fancy chocolates and nice wine. Probably a new gold necklace. And he got matching roach socks and a certificate. He's probably a little concerned on how you were able to do this and why you wanted to. But he's putting on the socks right now

Sebastian

Probably sees the humor in it and thinks it's funny. He's oddly excited about the virtual encounter. Meanwhile he probably found a site where you can name a worm after your loved one because of the meme "would you still love me if I was a worm"

Vlad

He thought you would pick something more elegant than a cockroach. Maybe something fluffy. Not a cockroach.

"Roaches are forever, like our love, and you"

Vlad now thinking roaches are immortal and is curious about them. This isn't what you planned. But he is very touched by this

Faust

"....you got me a cockroach?"

"no..I named one after you"

"why would you-" so very confused. He definitely hangs it up in his lab. It keeps his ego down tbh. You start calling him your little cockroach since he calls you a guinea pig

Charles

Slightly disturbed at first but is definitely here for the matching socks.

"didn't have to be a cockroach? I think I'm cuter than a cockroach"

"you're the cutest cockroach"

But then you watch the virtual encounter and he screams a little when it hisses. He wasn't expecting that

Drake

"aww you got me a gift?" Sees the certificate. "...a roach."

"because our love will never die~"

This is his first Valentine's with you and you named him after a roach.

"Is this a modern thing people do?"

"not really. Just a funny thing"

He's thinking you are trying to offend him but he's actually enthusiastic about it

Galileo

Didn't even want to do anything for Valentine's but you hand him an envelope and he sees the certificate and he gets very confused.

"happy valentine's day~"

"... I think I'm a little above a roach"

"you both seem to hiss when touched so I see no difference"

That shot his ego down

#ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp napoleon #ikevamp mozart #ikevamp leonardo #ikevamp vincent #ikevamp theo #ikevamp arthur #ikevamp isaac #ikevamp jean #ikevamp dazai #ikevamp shakespeare #ikevamp comte #ikevamp sebastian #ikevamp vlad #ikevamp faust #ikevamp charles #ikevamp drake #ikevamp galileo

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phaticserpent · 8 months

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I wonder if you have any headcanons or dribbles of Ultron with a pregnant reader?

👀 the way I'd be pregnant for this man (I'm terrified of pregnancy and childbirth)

Warning: mentions of pregnancy (?) Child labor

He is the absolute best at everything.....i mean,it's Ultron

He makes sure he does research in every single area for pregnancy; he needs to make sure he stays informed with everything

Handles you gently and carefully; he is at your side whenever you need him

Either will be understanding of your pregnancy cravings and bring them to you, OR makes a healthier alternative option for you. No in-between

"I want chocolate...."

"Chocolate isn't good for you or the baby"

"I want chocolate."

"Okay, I'll get you chocolate" He gets everything in chocolate; chocolate ice cream, chocolate milkshake, chocolate anything for the entire day until you want another craving

Makes sure all the sharp edges in the house/apartment are child proofed, he doesn't want you bumping into them and getting into an accident

Carries you around with no complaint or struggles; heck, you wouldn't even need to get out of bed with him around

Will be putting on Mozart or Beethoven for the fetus to listen to

"It's good for them, they'll be smart like you."

You don't have to worry about any chores: the house? Clean within a blink and no traces of dust. The garbage? Taken care of, you don't even need to ask

Makes sure you're okay and comfortable; whenever you express hints of pain, he'll definitely panic and get into doctor-mode

"I have some great names picked out, if you haven't thought of any yet."

"Babe, I'm only on my second term."

"Can't be too prepared."

Cute dates with him like movie nights but the couch is just as comfortable as a bed; he has soft blankets and pillow all around

When it comes to later in the pregnancy, he's super anxious; he makes double the portion size that he would usually make

Will accompany you to the bathroom in the middle of the night, it doesn't matter, he will start fussing if you don't wake him up

"I don't want to bother you...."

"Nonsense. Bother me, your safety is not a hindrance for me. My system shut down is more insignificant"

"Babe, please."

Obviously he won't go inside and respects your privacy, but he will stand outside the door just in case

If you have work and your boss is being an incompetent fool, I know for sure that Ultron would fight with him via email

Ultron would grumble, ".....pathetic, what kind of nincompoop wouldn't give maternity leave? I hope his business burns and he goes bankrupt....."

You'd snicker at his use of vocabulary

And then the time arrives,

"....Ultron....."

"Hm?"

"I think it's happening....."

Immediate panic; he obviously handles everything, he calls his sentries and all that is needed to start the procedure

He doesn't really trust human doctors, plus he wants to be there next to you for the moment. He would be the most attentive doctor/medical personnel - the procedure and labor would be a major success!

He would also treat you to whatever you wanted after. To him, the first priority is your well-being after something so energy inducing/exhausting, then the attention would go to the baby (of course, he would place the baby in your arms before giving you attention you need)

He would definitely take care of the child so you could get the rest you need and deserve

At first, he would be too terrified to handle the baby....even if he knows how and the proper care for it - he's terrified of the idea of rejection from the baby, he doesn't want it to be afraid of him

However, the baby did not care at all. It babbled incoherently and reached out for Ultron, placing its tiny hands on his cheek to feel the coolness of the metal

"......this baby, I would kill for it." Ultron smiled. I only had them for a day and a half, but if anything happened, I would kill everyone and then myself type

He's good with kids, to an extent

#ultron #ultron x reader #x reader #marvel #ultron/reader #marvel ultron #mcu ultron #mcu #headcanon #marvel headcanons #ultron headcanons #pregnancy trope #avengers age of ultron #ultron is hot

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octopiys · 4 months

Text

Cw: blood/murder, body horror, mentions of catholic guilt

Witch!Johnny who has no idea of what he's doing.

His nights since "Simon" has returned have been restless, dreamless, and he's always woken up feeling.... unfinished. There was was always unease in his chest, buried deep, like the feeling of forgetting something. His days don't go by much easier.

His work is mostly on the computer, and there are sometimes where he must go into the offices, bring Gary some leftovers from the night before, fill out some files, and head on home.

Today, though, is different. He spends his time searching through every record their office had, trying to find any semblance of what he's seen.

Witch!Johnny, who's beginning to think the lack of sleep has made him go insane. Maybe he's making it up. He feels more comfortable gaslighting himself into believing that a storm pushed over the tree in his backyard, than-

NCO!Gary who finds Johnny asleep at his usually empty desk. There were numerous tabs pulled up on his computer, of age old chat forums and supernatural sightings from years ago, blogs that had gone cold. He smirks, shaking his head with the roll of his eyes as he pats Johnny on the back, trying to wake him up.

NCO!Johnny who wakes with a jolt. Gary looks slightly concerned, he must've fallen asleep again. He apologizes, and shuts down his computer. He's just felt so tired recently.

Witch!Johnny, who comes home to Ms. Riley, pacing anxiously on his front step, who's eyes light up when she sees him. She looks tired too.

"Oh, John, thank goodness- Mozzie's run away, and Tommy's coming in tonight, I was gonna ask if you can keep an eye out for him!" She pleads and he agrees, equally worried for Mozzie, short for Mozart, which is short for Mozzarella, who's been the Riley dog as long as he can remember. How the little rat dog escaped bequeaths him, but he promises to double check his wildlife traps tomorrow when he takes the cart around to collect them.

NCO!Johnny who ensured that his traps were practically harmless to the environment, not a doubt in the world that Mozzie had gotten into one of his raccoon cages.

Witch!Johnny who locks his doors twice tonight.

Fae!Simon, who thinks it's rather hot. The weather, that is.

It's a peculiar thought to have when some humans flesh and blood lies mangled beneath him. There was a soft inkling of recognition in the base of his skull, a little tendril that beckoned him to destroy it, and so he did. The heated metal bits that were fired at him had little effect. They could not hurt him now.

They could not hurt him anymore.

What used to be the wriggling mass under him had called him something odd, whispered it like a True Name, and it was. It hit a notch in the tendrils of his heart, and he sprung. This man had wronged him before, and used his true name to do so. Yet, when he said it, it didn't entirely feel like his.

Like something else shared it.

So it must've not been his after all.

He turns, the earth warm beneath his feet as the sun rose high in the sky.

What is a Simon, anyhow?

Witch!Johnny, who dreams tonight. He's a kid again, pouring over his nan's old books while she bakes too salty cookies in the kitchen. He never complained, and she gave him a handful of chocolate chips to munch on while the cookies were in the oven. Simon would be coming over later, and he too, would not complain about the cookies. Johnny would give him a chocolate chip for his bravery.

His Nan bumbles up to him, her chest puffing proudly that the boy is following in her footsteps. "Did ah ev'r tell ya 'boot my lil' Jackie?"

"Yes, Nan," He'd always say in response.

"Aye, but y' dinnae ever listen!" Something sharp lurks beneath her words, like sharp rocks that you take notice of when you finally take the training wheels off of your bike. "When ah was a wee lass, my lil broder, Jackie, was too curious for his own good. Born with caul, too, if ye can believe. Mam would call us in fer dinner, and she'd send me ou' ta find him. He loved the woods, that boy, and the life inside o' it. Real sweet lil' thing, too. Broke his heart anytime Mam squished a bug, and God forbid he stepped on one o' em on his own! I found him, one night, sittin' just inside o' the trees. There were mushrooms all 'round him, like somethin' had died just up under th' roots. An' ah knew then, I think. But ah ran inside and got me Mam, cus he would nae answer when ah called 'im. She came out with th' shears-" She pokes him in the side with a wooden spoon for extra measure, and he giggles, despite the tragedy of the story. "An' cuts up all o' the mushrooms, an' he sits up, and walks back inside."

"What then, nan?" He asks, always too eager for his own good.

"Thought ye said ye heard o' this one?" She teases him, before turning away and continuing. "He was so quiet after tha'. Made me sad, cus he would nae talk aboot anythin'. Like a switch had been triggered. He stepped on a bug he found that night. And another one, after that. His eyes were so cold." She trailed off, sounding almost sad, which seemed impossible to Johnny, because his Nan was never upset. "Me Mam turned him out the next week. Told him that she wanted her boy back. She warded the creature off with those shears up there, an I never saw 'im again." She hums, like this was an everyday occurrence as she gestures to the old sheers hanging in the window.

Witch!Johnny asks, no longer a child. "What was it, Nan?"

His Nan just smiles, before looking down at the book. "Seems like ye found one o' yer own, have ye nae?"

Witch!Johnny who looks down at the old book, where written in ancient ink across the top was the header: Changeling.

Witch!Johnny, who sits up in a cold sweat. His clock read 3:13. Unlucky. Somewhere in his former catholic brain, an alarm bell rang.

The curses of the law lifted by becoming the curse.

Did he still have that book?

He'd found one of his own. He spills out of his bed, racing to his bookshelf.

He blows dust off the cover and flips through it until he's satisfied, eyes settling on the thinning paper. Changelings. Was he right?

Deep-seated unease settles inside of him as he read, mentally ticking off boxes.

For it is written.

Pointed teeth. Cold eyes. Personality change. Precious, precious, precious. Did he play any instruments? No. Not Simon. He barely talked anymore. Barely ate, that he knew of.

Changeling, changeling, changeling.

The man that lives down the street, who came back rugged from war. The man who was not the person he grew up with. The Simon who came back. He should've known. Oh, his grandma must be turning in her grave right now, or laughing at his stupidity. He drops the book, hands shaking.

The Ghost that replaced Simon Riley was a Changeling.

Cursed is everyone who hangs in the trees.

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Inspired by Meet Me In The Woods by Lord Huron

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