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i-drop-level-one-loot · 8 months

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Hey love, I got a question; are you down for goblins? Specifically a yandere horde of goblins? 😳

I'm not not down for it...

(I'm sorry, I'm sure I know what kind of goblin horde you meant, buuuut I started writing and couldn't stop 🥲)

CW: Entrapment, obsessive behavior, ecological polyandry/polygyny with a GN!reader, both male and female goblins, forced parental responsibilities, platonic yandere, not proofread

Madame Gilly burst into the backroom, nearly startling (Reader) into swallowing the pins they were holding in their lips. "(Reader)! Awful, amazing, terrible, fantastic news!"

(Reader) smiled nervously, sticking the pins in their cushion. "What is it, Madame?" Their boss was fabulously dramatic as always, fanning herself with a decorated envelope.

"Oh, nothing.. just a summons for one Mx. (Reader) from the Count's daughter."

"What for?"

"How should I know? I didn't read your letter!" She handed over the letter while sighing loudly. "Yet, it's so beautifully decorated.. such a shame! Another marriage proposal, ignored!" She pretended to become faint, placing her knuckles on her forehead.

(Reader) chuckled, opening the bright purple envelope with lavender tied in a ribbon. Their eyes widened, an excited gasp escaped as their legs failed them and they fell back onto their stool.

"What is it?!"

"It's.." a shocked blush dusted their cheeks, "it's a request for my services! She wants a dress for an upcoming party!"

Madame Gilly squealed, bouncing up and grabbing her protege. "Oh, that's even better than a proposal! I'm so proud of you!"

It would be roughly three days ride by carriage, packed with smaller fabrics for color swatches and texture explanation, multiple dresses (Reader) had already made with mannequins to display them, and (Reader's) portfolio of designs.

Marcus, a local man who often rode Madame Gilly around for a small fee, offered up his services, just as excited for (Reader) as the Madame. "So, this is your lucky break, huh?" He offered a hand to the young employee. "Finally gonna start considering opening your own shop."

(Reader) smiled, stepping into the carriage without Marcus' assistance. "I've never been interested in business, Marcus, you know this. I just want to make clothes."

"You should also seriously begin considering marriage.."

"My work is my legacy, Marcus." (Reader) spoke sharply with a tight smile, shutting down the conversation. They had received many marriage proposals from eligible bachelors and bachelorettes since they became of age, but didn't take an interest in any of them. Of course, (Reader) found people attractive in the past, but never felt emotionally invested in anyone to marry them, and they certainly didn't need to marry for money or connections. The thought of having children one day was also something (Reader) had seriously debated, because although the fantasy of having a child was wonderful, the process of having a baby was intimidating. Whether through being impregnated or impregnating someone else, the baby stage was much more terrifying than the raising of a child, for reasons they couldn't quite explain. The anxiety was just too much to handle.

But (Reader) didn't feel like life was passing them by, nor did they have regrets, if they ever got married then their future spouse would wait for them, no matter how many years it took to meet them.

Marcus closed the door, and (Reader) deflated, thankful that he took the hint and ended the conversation.

The change between the road and the dirt path could be felt and it made (Reader) almost wish that they had worn a dress instead of pants, just for the added cushion on their rear end.

The first day went smoothly, and boringly, (Reader) had nothing to do but think, and the night was uncomfortable, even cocooned in their blanket. But it was the next day that everything went wrong. (Reader) never saw what happened, but suddenly the carriage careened off the path and tumbled down a cliff, crashing through the woods of the mountain side.

(Reader's) entire body became airborne in the carriage, slamming their head into the ceiling, barely giving them enough time to protect their neck with their arms before being thrown like a ragdoll, not feeling any immediate pain due to the rush of adrenaline. It happened so quickly, their balled up body bouncing five times against the walls and roof before landing bottom up on the escarpment.

Out of the shattered window, (Reader) saw Marcus lying motionlessly in a tree a good distance from the carriage. They pulled their body right side up, slowly becoming aware of the stinging pain across their body. Especially their leg. Blood soaked through their right pant leg, and (Reader) couldn't bend it. It was only the second day of their journey, so it would take two days until the Duke realized something was wrong, that the journey was taking too long, and sent out a search party, which would take a day to get to the road they fell off of. Would they even notice the tire marks? And if they did, would they risk the people to search for them?

(Reader) sighed, closing their eyes. There was no point in dwelling on what ifs. (Reader) was resigned to their fate.

"I wonder what will happen first.. Starving to death, or being eaten by a wild animal." They chuckled humorlessly. With nothing to do but wait for the inevitable (Reader) fell asleep, but that was possibly a concussion.

"There's something in there."

"A dead something."

Little voices whispered outside the wreckage, rousing (Reader) from their brain injured slumber. Eyes watched them from the broken window of the door, hiding themselves from view.

"I won't bite." (Reader) offered a smile, hoping whoever was watching them wouldn't be frightened off.

A childish gasp escaped, as one of the spies scampered off. "I thought you said it was dead!" It hollered into the woods.

The child left shuffled their feet in the leaves, debating. "You promise you won't?"

"I promise."

A tiny little thing dressed in rags popped her chubby cheeked head into view, large pointy ears almost drooping under their own weight stuck out from black hair pulled back into a ponytail, her hair framed a green skinned face, making it obvious that the little girl was a goblin. She rung the front of her oversized shirt with her hands nervously.

"Hello." (Reader) cocked their head to the side in a mock bow, back and head in too much pain to attempt an actual greeting. The smile on their lips didn't leave.

"Hello.." The child mumbled in a timid way, copying (Reader's) head tilt.

"My name is (Reader). May I ask for your name?" (Reader) spoke in a low voice to appear as kind and non threatening as possible.

She took a small step forward, entering the little window without needing to duck. "My name is Vix Ix, but my brother calls me Beetle Hands."

"Why does he call you that?"

"Because I'm the best beetle catcher. At least, in my tribe." Vix Ix sat down cross legged just out of (Reader's) reach. Her large eyes wandered over (Reader's) form, mesmerized by their clothing. "What are you doing down here?"

"I had an accident. I was traveling to go meet with a potential client. I make clothes." (Reader) added that last part, seeing how the little girl's eyes sparkled while staring at the intricate needlework on their vest.

"Did you make that?" Vix Ix pointed a finger curiously at the top.

"Yes, I did. Would you like to see more of my work?" The tiny child nodded excitedly. The reaction was very human, and very adorable. "Everything may have.. scattered in the fall. But there should be a chest with a black lock, and a worn painting of a dove above it's latch. If you can find that", (Reader) fished through their pocket for a key and held it out to Vix Ix, "you can see a few of the dresses I brought for my client to look at."

Vix Ix grabbed the key, forgetting to be frightened. She ran back out of the wreckage, and (Reader) laughed, enjoying being able to bring wonder to a child in what (Reader) thought was their final moments.

They had heard so many rumors about goblins, so many stories, ranging from awful tales of mindless gnome sized trolls that murdered anything that breathed, to intelligent little creatures unfairly exterminated because of their annoying love of tricks and pranks. Sunlight glinted off of the broken shards of glass, reflecting into (Reader's) eye. How long had I been asleep? From their spot in the trees, they couldn't tell if it was midday or sunset.

Twigs snapped as the goblinette ran at full speed back to (Reader), out of breath and clutching a sparkly purple dress with butterflies embroidered at the hem line. "You made this?!"

"Hahaha! Yes I did. Do you like it?"

She was practically on the verge of tears. "It's beautiful! Is your client a princess?" Her voice was full of awe.

"The daughter of a Duke." The child waddled over, tripping on the bundle of dress in her arms, and sat much closer to (Reader) than she had earlier.

"It's so pretty!" Green fingers rubbed the fabric lovingly.

An idea came to (Reader) as they saw the joy in Vix Ix's face as she gripped the dress tightly. "You know.. I also had my sewing kit with me. If you can find that, I can trim up this dress for you."

Eyes wide with shock, her ears bounced like she had just been slapped, and asked in horror "You would cut up this dress?!"

Surprised, (Reader) felt their heart melt a little. "My leg is broken." Vix Ix looked down, and seemed startled by the blood. "I don't think there's any way the Duke's men are going to find me. So, I would have to cut off a lot of this dress to fit you, but I'd rather it be worn, then rot away in a trunk."

Tears began to drip down the little kid's cheeks, puffed up in an attempt to stop herself from crying. "I'll go find your sewing kit." She ran back out, sniffling loudly.

The moon rose high into the sky, and Hog Nose, a scrawny little boy who had an upturned button nose unlike any of the goblins in his tribe, held his ears as he was reprimanded by one of the tribe's strongest. Their tribe was small, and unusual. Decades ago their family began from a group of defectors, mostly women escaping their own tribes, wanting to create a community where they could flourish. Despite never attacking humans or causing mischief they suffered many casualties at the hands of adventurers, slaughtering them before they had the chance to explain themselves, forcing them to defend themselves. This left their family broken and impoverished. But they never gave in to "their nature" by stealing from travelers, an attempt to prove that goblins are not born evil.

"And you left Beetle Hands alone, possibly with a human?" Keegraul loudly asked incredulously.

Hog Nose whimpered, afraid of being punished and fearful for his sister. Keegraul grabbed a large dagger, almost a short sword in the young child's hands.

"She still isn't back yet, so lead the way."

The woods were dangerous at night, not only because of wild animals like mountain lions, but because of monsters that had slowly been migrating closer towards the goblins' home. Hog Nose shook as he led Keegraul through the trees, worried to find his sister hurt, or worse.

But what they found instead was that sound of laughter, emanating from a broken carriage connected to a dead horse with another corpse stuck in a tree nearby. Confused, Hog Nose ran to pile of broken wood, rushing past Keegraul who tried to stop him, knife ready for a fight.

"Beetle Hands!" He called out, not knowing what to expect, but surprised by what he found. His sister, wearing human clothing, with an injured human still fixing the bottom of the skirt.

"Hog Nose? What are you doing here?" She seemed genuinely confused, having had so much fun with her new human friend that she hadn't realized the time, standing in the dim light of (Reader's) lamp.

"I'm here to save you?"

Keegraul poked his head in after Hog Nose, curious as to the commotion. That's when the scarred man who had fought many battles with many adventurers, who never once met a human who treated him or his kin as equals, made eye contact with an exhausted person, pale from blood loss, fighting through their pain and fatigue, to make a dress for a little goblin girl. At least, that's what it looked like.

"What's going on here?" Keegraul meant to ask, but it came out as more of a demand.

Worried that they had offended him, (Reader) held up their hands. But Vix Ix beamed up at him, her large toothy grin radiating childish wonder. "(Reader's) making me a princess!"

"Oh, are they?" Keegraul released the tension he had been holding. The air smelled like blood, and at first he thought it was from the human's dead companions outside, but their broken leg was hard to miss. "It looks like they're dying."

Vix Ix ceased her bouncing, turning a terrified eye to (Reader). "Are you dying?"

(Reader) sent a quick glare to the adult goblin before shifting back to their comforting smile. "My leg just hurts, sweetheart. I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Not if you don't get that taken care of." The goblin retorted, stepping closer and bending down to get a better look. He let out a noise of frustration. "I can't see anything but blood with these pants on."

Rough hands with broken nails peeled (Reader's) pants off, pausing whenever they sucked on their teeth in pain. The bone right beneath their knee was protruding from from it's flesh.

"That's a nasty break all right."

"Can you fix it?" The little boy goblin asked, still shaking from earlier, but now cradling his blade like a doll.

Delirious from exhaustion, (Reader) turned their smile to him. "What's your name?"

"Craak, or Hog Nose."

They could feel themselves about to pass out. "Hognose? That's my favorite snake. Cutest little snake I've ever seen.." Keegraul tightened their torn pants around their thigh, waking them up with the shooting pain.

(Reader) hissed, incapable of audibly screaming. "We should take you back to the hole, so that we can get that leg fixed up."

Vix Ix stood tall, arms straight in the air, with a determined look on her face. "You can lean on me!"

Keegraul sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I'll find you a large stick for a crutch, and you can lean on my head for support." Vix Ix followed him, arguing about who got to support (Reader) on their journey, while Hog Nose stood shyly, still watching (Reader) with a small grin. "Did you mean that?"

(Reader) felt feverish, and couldn't focus their eyes. "Of course. You mean.. the snakes right? Never seen a cuter snake." Their breathing was labored, pausing between words awkwardly.

There was an odd blue tint forming on his baby cheeks, but it dissipated with the arrival of his little sister. "WE FOUND A STICK!"

The goblins all stared at the human receiving medical attention, gobsmacked. Everyone was incredibly interested in seeing who was special enough to be brought home by Keegraul. Especially the children, who were entranced by the dress (Reader) fixed up for Beetle Hands.

"Are you a princess?" A young girl asked, practically glowing.

"Haha no."

"Oh. Are you a prince?"

"Alright! Everyone go to bed!" Keegraul shooed the goblins back to the sleeping room. They all went back except a woman and Vix Ix. The lady seemed embarrassed, hiding herself by crossing her arms.

"You made this?"

"Yes. I have more dresses and fabric in the woods."

Her eyebrows were knit in what looked to be anger. "Why did you make a dress for Beetle Hands?"

"I just tailored it for her. Because she thought it was pretty."

"Yeah, but why?"

(Reader) smiled, understanding that the goblins must be suspicious of them. "Doesn't she look pretty?"

Vix Ix spun around, bumping into the other goblin. "I do!"

Her face softened. "You really think she's pretty?"

"Of course?" The goblin turned blue, like Hog Nose had earlier, and shuffled away.

(Reader) would later learn that her name was Reassa, and she warmed up to (Reader) quickly as they recuperated. In fact, all of the goblin tribe were incredibly welcoming to (Reader) to the family. They helped (Reader) between rooms, and generally fawned over them. As thanks for saving their life, (Reader) worked on reworking the dresses and fabrics the goblins found near the crash site into outfits for everyone. But as (Reader) got better, the goblins became more nervous.

"Are you thinking of leaving?" Keegraul wrung his hat in his hands, big sad eyes staring at (Reader) pleadingly.

"I'm sure my boss thinks I'm dead. It would be good to return home, and contact Marcus' family about his fate. But worry not, I won't tell anyone about you or the tribe." (Reader) smiled, practicing standing on their healing leg.

"That's not why I ask." (Reader) cocked their head, confused. "We trust you- I trust you. I know you wouldn't betray us. We- we'll just miss you."

Vix Ix popped out from behind a stack of boxes, knocking (Reader) to the ground, sobbing. "You're not leaving!"

Keegraul's heart broke. "Beetle -"

"No! Ti aim kahl, pen! (Reader's) not leaving!"

Reassa listened from outside the hole, along with three other women. They didn't understand. Didn't they make their love for (Reader) obvious enough? The flowers they would weave into crowns for them, the poems they world write for them..

One of the younger women started crying, head in her hands, choking on her sobs. Something dark grew in Reassa's chest, a feeling she often tried to force away, to prove to the world that they were wrong about goblins. A darkness, a possessiveness. "Maybe we should keep (Reader) here."

"We can't keep them against their will. They aren't a prisoner."

Reassa punched the entrance to their hollow, clenching her jaw tightly. "I love them."

"So do we.. but, what can we do?"

Hog Nose dropped a basket of vegetables. He had returned earlier than the other children. "Did you just say (Reader) is leaving?"

"Hog Nose! I'm so sorry, when did you get here?"

"I don't want them to leave!"

"I know, baby, but there's nothing-"

Hog Nose pulled out his dagger from it's sheath, rubbing his thumb across the beautiful golden vest (Reader) had made him as he did so. "(Reader) never learned our language."

"What?"

"What if the woods are too dangerous for them to go home? Because of the kahn piers?" The women all stopped, internally debating whether or not they could betray their fore mothers like this, lie to keep a human for themselves. But the decision was made for them, as Hog Nose slashed open his arm with the blade.

Inside the hole, (Reader) heard the women scream, and quickly wrestled Vix Ix to her feet so (Reader) could hobble to the opening. Reassa carried Hog Nose in her arms, a bloody mess, with a guilty expression on her face.

"What happened?" Keegraul demanded, watching as (Reader) pulled the little boy out of Reassa's arms to inspect the damage.

"He was attacked!" She collapsed, tearing at Keegraul's shirt.

"By what?!"

She swallowed hard, eyes flickering to (Reader), the motion only noticed by Keegraul and Vix Ix.

"Kahn piers."

Keegraul's eyes widened, realizing immediately what they had planned without discussing with him or the other men. "What kind of idiot-"

"What's a kahn pier?"

Vix Ix looked at her brother, witnessing him quickly shut the eye he was peaking out of. "Kahn piers are the most vile, evil creatures in these woods!" She cried out, grabbing onto her brother dramatically. "Hog Nose is lucky to be alive!"

Shame ripped through Keegraul's spirit, but seeing (Reader) shake with fear, imagining them doting on the children, caring for an the adults, watching them leave.

Wouldn't it be wonderful? Having (Reader) there to brighten their little home, loving the young ones as their own pen? Almost like a real spouse?

Even the way they clung onto Hog Nose's bloodied body, too broken up to notice that all his wounds were only surface deep.

Keegraul knew that everyone would play along, no one would tell (Reader) the truth. Everyone loved them so much, it was almost disturbing.

"Call everyone back home. The woods aren't safe."

#not proofread #so tired #I'm a little sick #so please forgive me #bad writing #platonic yandere #yandere family #yandere goblins #yandere monster #may come back later to proofread #i just wanted to get it out there lol

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babybells123 · 10 days

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Can you imagine Jon and Sansa reuniting (which actually feels more like meeting for the first time) and absolutely chaotic angsty tenderness unfolding.

Jon’s perception on Sansa…..initially mistaking Sansa as Ygritte and having to pinch himself several times as to how he cannottt be comparing his lover to his sister for gods sake!! What would Ned think ???? But omg when the light from the fire catches in Sansa’s hair….and when she sings in that soft voice of hers and tends him with gentle hands, brushes the hair from his brow (perhaps her lips ghost over it), holds her legs to her chest and just smiles at him with that easy Tully smile, and when she kneels next to Ghost and buries her face in his fur and Jon can’t help but think what a lovely sight it is but Lady is dead and Jon feels immense grief for Sansa because he knows what it feels like to not be able to sense your wolf and Sansa is kind and soothes him when he wakes from nightmares in the middle of the night and sometimes her face will get real close (and she’ll be all flustered) because she’s worried for him and Jon just thinks oh she smells so sweet.. like flowers and lemons , a warm summers day, ahhh the bliss of youth , and sometimes his eyes will flicker to her lips and just linger on her face but then he’ll start blushing like some green boy yet how does he lament this all to his half sister when he can’t even process his own feelings and they all just appear through this conundrum of fleeting moments? So then he visits the godswood and prays prays prays for reprieve oh father forgive me I have sinful wanton lust-filled thoughts I’m going to kms what is duty what is love , duty is death to desire, I have no nefarious intentions I just want to love her and be loved by her am I truly this depraved, and did I mention I want to love her? Spare me from this treachery 😔😔😔(I want to love her so bad)

#and then the parentage reveal happens and Jon experiences an insane identity crisis #need to write a Sansa perspective on this #please forgive me it’s 2:30 am #praying the antis won’t find this #it’s just for funsies 😭😭😭#I need Jon to be tormented by this so bad #love will win though #I have faith #jonsa #jon x sansa

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sideblogdotjpeg · 1 month

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not over it actually . that sol is a clone and what his response to that says about him as a character.

like okay. traditional clone angst shit is like "oh am i real/im not the original/im just a fake copy of someone else/etc etc etc" . and that route of a character arc might have even made sense w sols whole launchpad history - that he self-identifies as a sidekick. but also. maybe that rejection of being the main character is what allows sol to take a different route entirely. swag isnt just his prime clone, hes his "daddyself". sol doesnt really care about being the prime version of himself, he just wants family.

im so deeply fascinated by how the concept of clone-dom intersects w the concepts of family. what is a son but a version of you fated to go through all the same patterns of experience you have. what is a brother but a version of you whose choices has led him to a place you could never go. what is family if not enveloped in fear, love, idolisation and rejection. what is family if not a piece of your heart fragile and vulnerable and walking away from you.

anyway. so like. just compare how mothership sees clones (expendable identical bodies) vs how sol sees clones (brad & bron, youll always be a part of me you are me)

like. does that drive anyone else crazy.

and the original point of this post has completely flown away from me but in a feeble attempt to bring it back. my interpretation of sol is like. sol doesnt want to be a hero, he wants a purpose to fight for. he wants people to fight for. he wants to be part of this thing *bigger than he is* to dedicate himself to. and that used to be the mothership corporation, and has now taken the form of his friends and family. its only natural he would have adapted the spore network, as someone so clearly driven by his connections to other people. it makes so much sense he would see his clone identity this way because ultimately he sees himself in terms of his relationships to other people

(and if you want to be insane like i am, then you can think about sol as a child abandoned and alone in a derelict waterpark, so desperate for any kind of connection that it comes to form a defining character motivation for the rest of his life) 👍

#naddpod #ba2mia #ba2umia #solum bufo #everytime i write any kind of ''''analysis'''' im always afraid i forgot like #a huge detail/plot point that totally contradicts everything im saying #bcus my memory is Bad and i havent finished my c1 relisten so i cant start my c3 relisten yet #so um. all of this might just be made up and in my head LOL #forgive me if so. as i sad. i am insane in the head #i hope this made any kind of sesnse to anyone #ramble tag

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toxintouch · 24 days

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Love the thought of Mhin’s monster being terrifying; a true threat to your (the MC’s) safety, an insurmountable burden that has destroyed Mhin’s life and that’s why they are so desperate for a cure.

But also…

Thinking about Androcles removing the thorn from the lion’s paw…

The thought that maybe if the monster doesn’t successfully kill you the first time, it will recognize you the second.

That transformation looks like it hurts. Before, after, during.

The idea that it will be a slow process, a dangerous one, but if you can survive, if you can calm it down–

Preening broken feathers. A slow and methodical process, but your heart beats like you’re running for your life. You keep retreating, feather by feather, because you’re not sure how stable this moment of calm is, how long you have before it will try to kill you again.

You gain Mhin’s trust the same way. Slow and methodical. Showing your hands at all times. No sudden movements.

Mhin knows you ran into their Monster–knows that you know. They hate the thought of putting this much faith in another person but they hate the thought that the monster might get out and harm people even more. You could be an ally in this too, they suppose…

They hand over a key to their safe house, show you how to use the security measures they have in place for when they transform. They explain to you how to safely lock them inside–it can be done from either side effectively but Mhin never gives any thought to which side of the door you’d choose to be on…

You start asking Kuras for medical supplies, unable to give any information regarding why you need them. You see someone selling hunting birds and carrier pigeons in the market so you ply them for information, paying them back by shelling out a ridiculous amount of money on whatever care products look like they might be moderately useful.

More preening broken feathers. It seems to–they–seem to understand that you mean to help, now. The process becomes easier. You start carefully removing bits of broken glass you find embedded into them–you’re not sure how it got there, if the glass is something mystical or if they went on a little rampage before you were able to lead them into the safe house. Maybe they’re just like a regular bird and they ran into something by accident. Maybe it’s been there for years because no one’s been around (or able to) take it out.

Does it hurt Mhin, too?

You’re even more determined with that thought, though you have to be so-very-careful because if you startle or hurt them, they become agitated. You’re not sure if they would hurt you on purpose anymore, but they sure as hell could kill you by accident.

It burns your heart to leave some pieces in before Mhin changes back, but you know you have to. You can’t help if you don’t stay safe. And Mhin always makes you promise to look after yourself when they can't.

Mhin transforms back and realizes that it didn’t take so much from them this time, that the usual pain is a little lesser, that they still ache but it isn’t debilitating. They write it off at first but the thought sits at the back of their mind. Filling them with unrest. A thorn in their side that they cannot quite reach...

They go to their safe house to check how the locks are holding up and they notice some things. A large basin for water. Your supplies. A music box, of all things.

Needless to say, they’re horrified. They demand to know what you’re doing. Are you trying to get yourself killed?

“I knew you had no sense but–”

You assure them that you’re taking every precaution.

Besides, aren’t you doing the right thing? It’s totally logical that they (–it , Mhin insists) can get thirsty, of course Mhin is feeling better when they aren’t being locked in an empty room deprived of water half the time.

The monster looks so sad, now that they aren’t trying to hurt you. As they became more used to you, you began to see the parts where they and Mhin overlap. Shared habits. The way they settle down to sleep at night is the same…

Mhin hates the monster inside of them, but you don’t.

#i wrote this so fast i am omw out the door forgive me the are for sure mistakes this is the energy today that we are bringing #Something something loving the parts of someone that they think make them Bad And Terrible #but not in an ��i can fix you way’ but in an i’m here to support you even when you’re at your lowest’ kinda way #Soft Mhin Hours ft. The Bird Monster #mhin touchstarved #Touchstarved Fanfic #Touchstarved game #grammar edits made next day #the music box is so Atheris-coded btw u know they gotta play their bird some tunes even while their hands are occupied #toxintouch writing #touchstarved Wishlist: Mhin

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fauustic · 10 months

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something new, something that scares me

gender non-confirming reader (implied afab due to pregnancy) x miguel "spider-man 2099" o'hara

angst. comfort. with a secret hanging over the complicated relationship the both of you have, miguel is faced with his rot.

warnings: pregnant reader, discussion of sickness (throwing up, fatigue), discussion of loss of child, miscommunication, allusion to (reader's) past relationship trauma, heavy angst. not beta-read.

words: 5644

Your apartment echoed with your choked gags, the bathroom lit aflame with artificial light soon after the hurried stumbling of yours trailing from your bed. Sleep blurred your gaze, gross and sticky yet you couldn’t bring yourself to wipe the gunk. Your bones felt heavy as your pajama shirt slipped up your belly, exposing the soft flesh to the coldness of your home. The sensation made you suck a sharp breath through your teeth, as miserable and alone as ever.

This great big universe of yours was quaint and quiet, only ever needing to go out on your patrols at night. Sleep was gratefully given during the day, only ever interrupted by the gruff–staticy voices seeping into your apartment from the walkie-talkie that leaked codes and warnings of crime– you’ve never been the one to get sick. Not until this absolutely beautiful morning at the ripe time of 4:27AM.

The entire week leading up to today was filled with waves of nausea, interrupting the time you spent to yourself when months grew dull and delicate. Work was never really needed, graciously, as you lived off your success in the medical field. This allowed you to wallow in the comfort of your duvet, bedridden and hungry and moody. As another pitiful cough wracked your form and bile strayed on your tongue, the watch you kept hidden away in the bedside drawer began to illuminate the corner of your room in an orange hue. The warm sweat against your forehead almost stung painfully when the blood from your face drained in anxiety. The warm color and murmur of muffled words that would normally fill your lungs with a crash of adrenaline and mild irritation instead left your palms slipping off the toilet in panic.

You haven't been beckoned to join alongside a mission with another member of the Spider Society in a while. And you would accept one in a moment's notice if you weren't slumped against the cold tile floor of the bathroom.

There's never been a moment where you didn't answer Miguel's check-ins, whether he was asking for your presence for affection or actual help.

The relationship between you and Miguel, to say the very least, was complicated.

You were like the calm before the storm; the soft tide of an ocean meeting the shore with a gentle embrace. Your voice came out like raindrops meeting the morning dew of grass, yet when met with dire situations– it is as if someone brought forth a lighter to your skin and burnt you aflame. You knew how to hold your own, something others didn't expect of your quaint, observant temperament.

Miguel, was– an enigma within himself. He was a shadow of what he once was, you had learned through the stories he had told you during the nights where your watch felt too heavy on your wrist, drowned away in the bedsheets of your lover that held you as if you were going to leave at the mention of another universe– gone without any evidence that you even existed in the first place.

Ever since you learned, the insecurities that plagued his words in the darkness of the room you crashed in every now and then held greater weight. The white headband and blue wrapping bow resting upon the nightstand, gathering dust by each passing day, caught your eye more than it did not. As Miguel met your lips with his own in sleepy desperation, wrapping his arms around your waist to bring you even closer– the trauma haunting his gaze whenever he recollected his thoughts flashed behind your eyelids.

Your first mistake is that you grew to love the shadow of what he once was, grew too attached to a man that wasn't under your protection of a universe that was your own.

The babble of sentences seeping through the cracks of your bedside cabinet had your heart lurching, an all-too-familiar voice passing through the silence like a knife striking through air. His voice was tentative, an exhausted repeat of your name before he heaved another "voice-mail" (or whatever is equivalent to such a thing on a universe-hopping device) into the technological watch. You can already imagine the dark bags right underneath his eyes, framed by definition of his features and wrinkles conjured through stress and age. His hair would be swept back with his claws, you're sure of it. Around this time in your universe it was roughly the same to his, perhaps an hour or two before him. But time didn't matter to the man who put himself in charge of a society full of clones of the same guy, give or take an infinite amount of variations alongside said-same-guy.

As your chin pressed down on the toilet seat, skin damp with sweat from the constant cycle of insomnia and sickness– you allowed yourself the indulging selfishness of imagining Miguel comforting you. But you were afraid of how he'd react to the secret you've kept under the wraps for a couple weeks now, skillfully and hopefully subtly avoiding him. Now you've been homebound, and letting him see you in this state would surely encourage him to come through that apartment door himself.

The problem was, you and Miguel were not officially together. It was complicated, with him dancing into his life and hooking up with you– spending nights wrapped in your embrace as soft huffs of his breath would meet the shell of your ear. And then he'd disappear for a month and fade back onto nothing more than a coworker, a person you'd nod to in the offices because Miguel was not one to wave.

And to tell him you were most, no– definitely pregnant, you were unsure on how he'd respond.

Miguel has never bared his teeth towards you unless in bed, his fangs grazing the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder in the soft lull of a long day– but you knew he was not one necessarily subject to change. Something out of order. A situation abrupt and unexpected that would change the future and possibly everything that followed.

His past was never foreign, he'd let bits and pieces of himself slip past that guarded exterior of his in the safety of your blankets and pillows and kisses– but that's why fear shot up your spine and settled back down into the pit of your stomach. Miguel has tried more than once to create his own reality of what a family should be– and lost the only thing that has ever truly been important to him twice. Your baby would never be Gabriella, and you couldn't allow your future bundle of love to be put under that expectation.

And, and plus, you weren't even sure if you wanted to keep it. The idea of parenthood had you swallowing back spit like you'd just been dunked into freezing water, the circumstances unknown and dangerous. A father from a whole entire universe? That was stupid. Miguel would call you stupid, too. You knew it. Just like the one who treated you before.

Wetness blurred your vision before you even had a chance to get up, stumbling into the kitchen for a glass of water. You knew you looked like shit, eyes puffy and lips chapped as you pulled at your pajamas to get more comfortable. As you down half a water, a knock vibrates your apartment. It must be a neighbor, you thought. You were probably too loud with these fits you’ve been having, slumped over a toilet and being miserable.

Opening the door, your blood runs cold and the sweat that was finally beginning to stay away after wiping your face came back worse. It was the man that’s been haunting your every living moment, both in wake and in dreams. He looked absolutely wrecked beyond the facade he tried to put up– sunken eyes and unruly hair. “You’ve ignored another call of mine.” Was all he said, pointed and brooding.

“Miguel,” you began as you brought yourself inviting him in before you could even catch yourself. He had that stoic yet bothered look on his face, one that’s almost permanently etched within the few expressions he can muster.

"Why have you been avoiding me?" Miguel's voice, confused and raising ever so slightly as his muddled gaze scanned over your pacing form. No hellos, how are you doing, direct as always. When your nails met your teeth in a nervous habit, Miguel exhaled heavily as if he was trying to calm himself down. "No reason, no call– just pure radio silence! I came here because I thought something happened– Dios mío–" He sounded pained, accent growing ever thicker as he shuffled a long-sleeved, futuristic athletic shirt off. The top part of his suit met your eyes, and you had to rip your guilty stare off his form as you remembered who the both of you are; two lines on a graph, who should have simply stayed parallel to one another. Intersecting with a man who has flipped your world upside down and spawned so many opportunities just to disappear the next night– you couldn't take it anymore.

His sweatpant-clad ankles met your downcast attention as Miguel came closer, his touch contrasting that irritated voice of his. Index meeting the skin of your jaw just right to your chin, he guided your eyes to his own. A frown tugged at his features, winning the war when he so desperately tried to be stoic. Without a word, Miguel scanned the splotches on your face and dried wetness coating your cheeks. He knew you had been crying, he always does.

His touch is so inviting, so welcoming that you just want to surrender your entire being to him. To crawl right into the ribcage you were level with and to create a home, nestled as close to his heart that he tried to keep at bay.

People who aren't lovers shouldn't be holding one another like this, you thought as his thumb met the corner of your lip and his index rested upon your chin. Miguel's lips carved themselves into a deeper scowl as a choked sob erupted the silence following his question, his own hardness beyond that gaze of his shattering like an unlucky mirror.

Miguel has never had to put up with you in such an emotional atmosphere. You thought you were scaring him away, but he only took your hands in his and rubbed the flesh of your knuckles as you cried.

Guilt struck your lungs and constricted your breathing, "we shouldn't be doing this." You were full on crying now, you felt the tears rolling down the hot shame igniting your cheeks. You heard your voice crack under the pressure of avoiding him, of depriving your life of the one you loved the most. You snatched your hands away from his grasp, and the moment he let you, you regretted it.

"I shouldn't love you."

"You love me?"

The question tumbling from his agape lips was nothing less than sincere as you snapped your neck towards his shell-shocked expression. You didn't mean to say that– too caught up in emotions and memories and it just came out–

So instead you covered your mouth and shook your head rapidly, stepping away yet never turning away from him. Your sobs wracked your body for the millionth time that night, reminding you of the emptiness you felt on your knees, slumped against the toilet and fending off sickness. A flash of hurt made itself apparent in his gaze, but Miguel knew you were lying.

He stood there like a statue in the middle of your cozy living room, looking like he was sculpted to be here. To be at home, with you.

If you were two other people, the both of you would be snuggled on the couch that cost way too much at a furniture store going out of business, buttery fingers accidentally intertwining in a bowl of chile-lime seasoned popcorn– having pointless debates on whether or not the next character to die in a B-listed horror film would be the clueless jock or stereotypical book-nerd. Miguel would be complaining "Why are we watching this, anyways? Película de mierda, should have listened to my recommendations from the start."

"I do not want to be stuck at home on a Friday night watching documentaries with you."

And he'd give you a side-eye with a scowl he truly didn't mean, before hitting you in the forehead with a piece of seasoned popcorn.

But this was not another universe where the two of you were intertwined, birthed on the same Earth and time that had you sharing classes and awkward, immature conversations. You would never be granted the experience of that pining phase, dancing around one another under sweet circumstances that consisted of healthy households and loving parents. You were you, holding your stomach in anticipated nausea. And he was Miguel, clenching the claws into his palms with his grey streak hovering uncharacteristically over his eyebrow.

The couch was empty, the television was not on. It was cold.

"We can't continue doing this." You sighed, daring to keep your darting eyes from that rare, broken expression painting his features and daring him to look older. "I'm tired." You fumbled with your hands, bruised and battered from the anxious picking and nights you stayed glued to the toilet. Miguel's eyes met the marks lining the flesh, and he challenged the empty space between the both of you. You knew that he knew he preached to never interfere with what's bound to happen in one another's worlds, that everything is supposed to keep itself flowing without the interference of even one, single organism from another universe. Yet here he was, fighting to keep this situation in the palms of his shaky hands. To hold onto you and never let go. "I'm sorry l, I'm sorry." He whispered into your hair, ruffled from the rough evening you've had. "Perdóname, por favor."

The mention of cutting this, whatever this was, had him crumbling into your frame that hugged the wall that met your back. His hands snaked themselves around your waist before tiredly settling on the softness peeking from your rumpled pajama shirt. His forehead met your shoulder, hunching into the warmth you omitted like he was a freezing man starved from fire. Miguel shifted so his nose met the crook of your neck, dampness meeting the tendons there as he inhaled deeply. "I'm, I'm sorry." He chanted like a broken vinyl, voice breaking into barely above a whisper.

Miguel thought it was because of all those times he had left you hours after he kissed the bruises littering your skin, the marks he branded into your flesh like a possessive sigil. And he wasn't wrong, Miguel was absolutely terrible for that.

But the pain that tore open your heart and festered into the valves was the aching lit aflame from the nights ruined from sick, never soothed from the one who loved like he was starved and accepted affection like he was desperate, but never given the opportunity of you seeing the morning rays meet the stress dotting his relaxed forehead in the peacefulness of slumber. That was the breaking point.

"Miguel," a sigh escapes your lips before you could contain it. "Please leave." A desperate plea that you didn't fully believe in. All that you gained in response was his hold growing tighter, no words exchanged.

"No, no, no." He breathed into your being, mixing himself into you until you couldn't tell where you ended and he began. "I can't go, not until I know this is back to right again."

You shook your head, cheek grazing further into the curls that threatened to tickle you with each motion. "It can't be, Miguel. Just go back home."

"And why is that," Miguel says your name, fumbling slightly as he almost murmurs a pet name in the vulnerability of the moment. "This, what's happening– we can fix this as long as you tell me what's going on, angel. Just tell me and I'll fix this." It almost came out as a whine, the urge to keep everything in order oozing out from the ulterior of his words. "Nosotros podemos salvar esto. Please, please, please." He was at a loss, anxious and scared and trying his best to keep as calm as he possibly can– Miguel's native tongue always slipped into conversations at his most emotional, trying to convey his feelings as easily as possible.

Miguel's body pulled away only so he could grab your face gently, as if you were the most fragile thing in all the universes despite your life of busting noses and cleaning up the scum off every city, his suited palms met your skin and it was a bittersweet reminder of the lives you both had. The reason you two were never able to have that happy ending of yours.

"I can't bring myself to tell you," you mumbled, the furrow of his sharp eyebrows accompanied with the squint of disbelief had you wishing you could just scoop him up in your arms and tell him that this was just one big joke. He wouldn't talk to you for months, cold shoulder and all.

"You can tell me anything. Siempre." The last came out as hushed, a promise you've never heard from him before. Miguel has never truly given you more to work with other than physicality. It hurt knowing you could have had this all along.

Nightlife bled into your apartment, the vibrant lights fighting against the blinds you drew closed. A soft glare of yellow met a mole just below his lip and traced his nose before disappearing as if it was never there at all. A honk flooded the taut tension, almost making you jump in the light grasp he held onto you. You were wondering if he thought you were going to wash away the moment he let go of you, as if you were a sailor lost at sea and he was the broken anchor trying its best to keep you grounded.

Your teeth met your lip, rolling it around before metal met your tongue. The pain kept you in the moment, the soft echo of “tell him, tell him, tell him,” sounding throughout your head like an urgent emergency alarm. It was all too much. You couldn’t do it anymore.

One breath. Holding it, your confession came out a bit choked and ashamed. “I’m pregnant.” The second it left the confinement of your mind and left your tongue, you just wanted to go back into your room and dig a hole from your bed into the ground. The hold on your cheeks fell slack in shock, before Miguel’s claws that threatened to peak from his fingers trailed down the flesh of your collarbone and settled on your shoulders.

His habit of keeping eye-contact slipped, failing to keep up with your ever-changing gaze. Instead, he stared at you as if he was just something that defied both life and science itself, staring off into nothingness until finally knocking his forehead in the junction right above your heart– nose brushing your armpit. “¿Qué?” Was all he could bring himself to say, and you misconstrued his disbelief with disappointment.

You brought yourself to repeat what you had held back, tears falling from your puffy eyes. “I’m, I’m pregnant.”

“That’s–” A loss of words, must be trying to fabricate his anger into words. You had messed up, right? Maybe you deserved this–

“I’m sorry, Miguel. I’m sorry–” You cut him off, panic setting into your skin and wiring your brain to go into flight mode. “I was on the pill, and I made sure–”

You couldn’t bring yourself to say another word because the next thing you know is that Miguel’s surrounding you, hands wrapping around the back of your head in a messy tangle of curls wrapped around large fingers as your teeth clashed with his, lips intertwined with your own– your slightly chapped skin meeting his plush mouth. Spit and tears became one until you couldn’t tell anymore, and when the both of you separated a string of saliva was left in its wake. You were dazed from the abrupt need of touch, as Miguel huffed and stammered into your mouth over things he didn’t know how to express.

“No, stop. None of that, none of that matters.” He heaved, and you weren’t sure if the shine glazing his eyes were tears because the wetness clouding your gaze almost had you seeing double.

Confusion set in, replacing the prepared rambling you had of excuses. “You don’t?” You felt stupid for questioning him, but he only hissed an exhale through his teeth and shook his head as if the tension within him began deflating like a balloon.

“Never.” He assured, forehead meeting yours. “We’ve just never spoken about this before.” It almost came out sheepishly, a light shrug bumping your shoulders before his eyes drifted off. But they rested back on you within a blink.

Miguel breathed in deeply, as if he was having to take in oxygen and breathe out manually. His muscles within the constrictions of his suit rolled as he held himself hunched over you, trying his best not to be drafted away in thought. Something he found himself doing frequently whenever met with his computer panels.

A laugh couldn’t help but leave your throat as you bit back a sob. “Because you never wanted to.”

Nothing was said in response, and as you surveyed his darting gaze from your stomach to your lips, and finally your eyes– you felt as if you said something wrong. But he only sighed, nodding ever so slowly against your flesh.

“I was..” He fumbled with what he wanted to say, before finally screwing his eyes shut and hissing out; “scared.”

You stayed quiet for him to organize his thoughts, in which he slid his forearms around your back in gratitude and wrapped you in a hold that felt as safe as a weighted blanket.

“You, you are something else entirely. Me recuerdas al aire que respiro, algo sin lo que no puedo vivir. The rapture in my veins, the photo I find myself staring at often as if somehow you’ll jump right from the screen and engulf me with that warmth I cannot ever get enough of.” It was cheesy, but you knew he was trying his best in describing even a fraction of the amount he cared for you. “I just never knew how to go about it.”

“But you got me pregnant,” You teased weakly into his shoulder as you slid away from his forehead, the eye-contact he craved to contain grew overwhelming with the newfound emotion he had for you locked away.

“Christ,” he mumbled as he mirrored your actions, fangs finding their way to graze the skin just within the crook of your neck. “I heard you, you said you love me.”

“I shouldn’t.”

His movements still, embrace going rigid until you were the one to spill your feelings.

“We, we were never even supposed to meet. We’re from completely different worlds, the people are different and the places don’t add up–” You tripped over the thoughts you finally revealed as well, desperately trying to claw your worries out from the lump in your throat. “What about everything you said, are you willing to risk it all just for this? I don’t want you to stay awake at night when it comes to contemplating the idea that what had once happened before could happen again.”

Give yourself this, you wanted to say. You’ve worked so hard, just give yourself this.

Miguel stares at you, back and forth– each eye and giving it the same attention when his lip curls downward into a genuine wobble. He shakes his head, whether it be in incredulity over his final decision.

“I’m in love with you, too. Love you so much it hurts. Was just too afraid to let myself have you. Eres lo más preciado que tengo en el mundo, no matter where the Arachno Humanoid Poly Multiverse puts us.

“You are such a hidden nerd it hurts.” You find yourself joking with him, and you feel the smile against your skin.

“Only for you, I think.”

Silence enveloped the living room, an exhale of relief allowing itself to escape from your lips. A yawn followed, tiredness seeping into your muscles. “You’re stuck with me if you really do stay.”

The both of you get lost in the embrace of one another, Miguel hunched over into your form until your snores finally fill his ears and he scoops you up as gently as he’s ever handled you. “Te amo, mi lucero.”

“Te amo más,” you had mumbled sleepily as your arms found security around his neck.

And when you wake that morning, your face is met with his chest and your legs are tangled with his. His breath, stifling and hot, tickles the sleepy furrowed brow that creases your forehead. One of Miguel’s arms had found its way to become one with the pillow while the other presses you further into his chest on the small of your back. When he stirs, he blinks away sleep and takes your face into his calloused fingers, sweetly locking his lips with yours in a brief kiss. “Buenos días, mi cielo.” He whispered into the softness of your duvet. Your heart melts at the sight of it all.

He finally stayed.

You make him breakfast that morning and he makes sure your hair stays out of the way when you need to empty your stomach out of morning sickness.

He was a beautiful thing, you knew it from the first peek into his crying eyes. Auburn with a hint of crimson, Miguel's former genes trying its best to win a losing fight.

“Thank you,” you whispered into the delicate moment, watching your son wail softly in your tired embrace.

Miguel’s lips met your cheek bone, fluttering and sweet and different. His hand shakily cupped yours cradling your baby’s head. He was quiet for a long time, no huff of attitude that would meet your off-handed sweetness that secretly melted his heart ten-times over. You peered up at him, an exhausted yet bashful grin ebbing your features as each babble sounded throughout the hospital room. Miguel’s hair had gotten longer throughout the last eight months, curling at the end of his neck and almost brushing his shoulders. Glasses adorned the curvature of his nose, a twinkle that’s accompanied his crimson gaze ever since you cried out “I’m pregnant,” snot and tears and all. He hasn’t let go of himself perse, just more adamant to take care of himself for the sake of you and his family.

His family. If you had told him such a thing merely two years ago, he would have thrown a computer panel aiming straight for the nose and chased you around Nueva York like a rabid animal for such a cruel joke. Miguel almost winced, the baby fawn-like expression of his newborn son almost reminding him of the boy he did the exact thing he just described. After gaining a consciousness, he’s almost apologized in every possible way (not verbally, mainly by giving him an easier time) to that kid and his mom that almost beat his ass back on Earth-1610B.

As his gaze carved into his son’s own, it was like everything felt right. It was like every obstacle that got in the way of the both of you was worth the struggle.

“Gabri. Gabriel.” He breathed, nodding as if it made the most sense in the world.

Your laugh, airy and heavy but lighthearted all the same. “What?” Miguel couldn’t help himself when his hand moved on its own accord, swiping through your unruly and unwashed hair. You had been through it these past couple days, but to him you were nothing less than an angel. Had your hands not been occupied with the newfound bundle of joy the both of you had just welcomed into the world, you would have done the same to his curls. Down the same path, tugging on the grey streak that he stopped dying after months of your persistence.

The baby had Miguel’s eyes, but he had your lips. Your son had Miguel’s nose, but he had your chin. He coughed and snorted and did everything a baby would do, but with every little motion his hands could muster the energy for– had you forgetting every worry that had clouded your mind once before.

“Gabriel,” he repeated as he brought the tip of his index to tickle the palm of his, your son. “Gabri for short.”

“Miguel,” you sighed, with just as much weariness as you had when you asked him to leave your apartment that night. “You know it’s okay that you’re thinking about her–”

Miguel cut you off with a kiss, abrupt and short and sweet. It shut you up right away, a squeak coming out in surprise. His lashes were on full display as his gaze traced your lips before dipping back down to his baby in your loving hold. “Gabriel after my brother. I was going to name Gabriella after him had it been that way.” His brow furrowed faintly at the mention of his late daughter, yet a tiny turn of his mouth contrasted the subtle sorrow. “Namesake sort of thing, I think my mother would have liked it.” He confessed, a mellow fluster brushing his cheeks. Miguel was never one to talk about his parents, too much baggage that was locked away in the late nights of fluttering kisses and achingly tight holds. “Esto es importante para mí, por favor. Please, mi corazón.”

A little giggle of sorts interrupted the heartfelt communication, ripping your scanning, concerned gaze from your husband’s face. “Sé que es importante.” You murmured as a response, settling further into the near-uncomfortable fabric of the hospital bed. After complaining just a little to Miguel though, he had demanded you had the utmost care. He had brought you pillows from your own shared bed, alongside a new duvet from the hospital staff. You didn’t care to make another comment, knowing he’d break down the entire building in search of any aid to soothe your needs.

After a moment of contemplation and mainly just building suspense to get more of a reaction out of Miguel, you shook your head yes and grinned lazily. “Gabri. Lovely, baby.” You echoed your son’s name, hearing an intake of breath right next to your ear in a mixture of rare excitement and contentment that tickled the angle of your jaw and brushed hair upon your nose. Miguel must had seen the scrunch of your nose, as he had grazed where the hair had rested before.

Downright fatigue plagued your movements, wanting to celebrate this moment with Miguel but you had used all your energy in the process. So you leaned up only for him to usher you back down, using no words like he usually did. Quiet thing, he was– just a different atmosphere around his very soul nowadays.

“What can I do for you, my love?” He whispered into your hair, leaning down and getting on his knees to level himself with your exhausted expression. “Just say the word.”

“I need some sleep,” you huffed happily, wanting to trace the skin on his cheek as if he was the night sky and you were pointing out constellations. But you kept your fingers tucked safely around Gabriel until he reached out, allowing you to daintily place him in his own hold before another word between the both of you was uttered.

The dark hue of midnight black bled into the array of purple and pink, blessing the sunset with another hour of rest. It was fairly late already, judging by the amount of coffee cups Miguel had collected on the bedside desk like some kind of coffee connoisseur. When you had teased him about it earlier, he brushed you off with a faux frown and side-eye before laying his head back down on your thighs, giving into another nap before the baby was due.

“Get some rest then, cariño. Me and Gabri will be here, won’t we?” He practically cooed into the space of the newborn, where he was just met with a series of spit-filled babbles and prattle.

You couldn’t help but just nod, overtaken by the lull of sleep and comfort. Here Miguel was, sitting not even a foot away and practically spilling into the bed. He was a clingy thing whether he admitted or not, basking in the warmth your skin brought like a cat drawn to sunlight.

He was quiet as your breathing even out, watching his son like it was a dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

It wasn’t until you began snoring that he spoke to his son like an imagineer telling stories, light and fluttery yet raising in octaves to bring forth a squeal of tired excitement that Gabriel couldn’t grasp. And soon enough, Gabri was consumed with sleep in the embrace of his father who couldn’t stop shaking.

Was it nervousness? Disbelief? Fear? Miguel thought it was a scary concoction of all three filling his veins and causing his palms to grow clammy. But as a light gurgle escaped the small little thing in his hands and begged to be patted on the back, every insecurity that plagued his mind and consumed him washed away without a second thought.

A small, selfish part of him wished Gabriella was here to bask in the shared excitement between the both of you– but he knew she was gone. And you were here, and Gabri has come along too.

And that’s more than he ever thought he deserved.

#i had to write something before i exploded i missed writing so much .. please GIVE ME REQUESTS RAHH #ive been so busy and my sleep schedule SUCKS because i finally got a job #forgive me for no fics!! i feel so bad #into the spider verse #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara comfort #x gender neutral reader #spiderman 2099 #x comfort #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #comfort #x angst #angst #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara #miguel o'hara angst

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gooperts-gunk · 2 months

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im so crazy over the tragedy of everything q!bbh does being under a demon pretense even though he's a fallen angel.

do u think he just accepts the demon label because it's easier. do u think he believes it too, and catches himself in his thoughts with "oh, right. im not exactly that". and maybe he believes that he did this to himself? do u think what he did was to protect himself or someone? no matter the fall, he still has so much kindness to give and his brain just isn't wired the way a natural-born demon would be, he can't hold back instincts when time demands it, maybe that's why he fell in the first place.

and when he's finally bad, not good, it's treated like the end of the world, without empathy on why he would act out. do you think this keeps happening? the same scenario, multiple times, every timeline? he has to be used to it. so he has to take it in stride. he's good until he lashes out under extreme pressure, and suddenly he's called demon. and once again he's what heaven made him out to be. what he made himself to be, his brain would ruthlessly provide...

i don't think he wants to be that, though he hides secrets behind secrets of which neither identity is a home... but i don't think he wants to have to change, either. and i don't think that's wrong of him.

...you collapse atlantis ONE TIME and all of a sudden YOU'RE the bad guy and SURE it was FUN but REALLY now,--

#lots of expansion on this in tags beware #this is a draft from 2:40AM the day before i just felt something within me and i needed to write about fallen angel q!bbh angst NOW #this post is brought to you by q!bbh in purgatory and post-purgatory i will never forgive you purgatory 1 #no one can bear to have a healthy conversation about q!bbh's behaviors let alone TO q!bbh. BUT IF Q!BAGHERA WASN'T STUCK ON THE ISLAND...#i miss u bbh + baghera interactions let me see u soon pls #he isn't impossible to communicate with ur just not jiving with his autism right u can get through to him i swear BUT TOO LATE he DIED #now he doesn't remember!!! (unless that part of the library is recovered) u lost ur shot!!! (ur issues with him will rise again)#now every time bagi goes “'cause he's a demon” with bbh i go OH MAN SHE DOESN'T KNOW IT'S MORE... it hurts how flippant it is sometimes #because WE KNOW OH MAN WE KNOW IT'S MORE and this concept of him being fallen adds SO MUCH CONNOTATION to EVERYTHING he does #it isn't just DEMON THINGS it's GOD MADE ME THIS THINGS and i just can't wait to know WHY what did you DO!!!#your instincts are to be nice though cautiously detached when your life restarts so WHAT DID YOU DO IF YOU ARE NOT INHERENTLY BAD???#goopert talks qsmp #qsmp #qsmp badboyhalo

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spop-romanticizes-abuse · 2 months

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not spop-related but i can't post this on my main blog so.

i do find it funny how most of the fan depictions of belos were far more interesting and detailed than s3 belos. i've seen fanart and fanfics of him where he's a complex villain struggling with religious guilt and then the canon is just like.. lmao yeah he's pure evil. kill him.

#i feel like belos is the opposite of catra #a potentially sympathetic villain who is reduced to Evil Man Who Deserves Death™#don't get me wrong i'm not saying he should have been forgiven or anything #he didn't deserve forgiveness #and he didnt really need a redemption arc #but did they have to throw away all of his complexity just to appease the anti steven universe community?#that's what it felt like #fun fact: you can write a sympathetic/complex villain and not redeem them #it's perfectly doable #but oh well #toh critical #toh salt #toh criticism #anti toh #toh discourse #belos #emperor belos #philip wittebane #bad writing #i was so excited for his character at first #especially around hollow mind era because the layers were peeling back #and we were seeing a really interesting and intimidating villain in the making #sigh #my disappointment is immeasurable and my day is ruined

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roadara23 · 2 months

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Let me tell you something.

If Omega AND Crosshair end up being Force Sensitive....

We BETTER get some Force shenanigans with these 2, I swear to-

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novuit · 3 months

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Another I drew for my superpower relations exam this time. It's been years since I've drawn both Hungary and Russia; I think it's time I try to give the spotlight to other characters lol.

I listened to this song on loop for like 4 hours while studying the Hungarian Uprising so I drew this I also wanted to draw Ivan's sausage fingers

#im obviously horrendous at writing in cyrillic let alone russian so forgive me if its that bad lmao #hetalia #hws russia #hws hungary #aph russia #aph hungary #hetalia hungary #hetalia russia #historical hetalia #my art #this is starting to make me want to email historical hetalia art to my history teacher lol

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bonebrokebuddy · 2 years

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DP X DC PROMPT # 1

Bruce is a failed clone or the son of a failed clone of Danny. He can’t turn ghost, he doesn’t have any visible ghost abilities. But he is slightly liminal.

Bruce knows he’s adopted but does not care a single bit. He knows who his parents are, Martha and Thomas Wayne. Not his birth parents.

It’s essentially a Martha & Jonathan Kent situation where Martha and Thomas Wayne couldn’t have a kid and a child crashed into their backyard so they took him home and brought Bruce into their family.

He knows about his bio brother in Illinois that also is a vigilante and is several years older than him. During his first few years as a vigilante in Gotham, Bruce would occasionally ask Danny for help on a case if it fell out of his area of expertise.

Only traces of Bruce’s connection to Danny’s ghostly nature remain.

Bruce is just liminal enough to blend into the shadows a bit more than normal

His canines are just ever so slightly longer than an average human

When he jumps long distances it almost seems like he’s defying gravity just a slight amount

A goon thought his punch to Batman’s back would connect square on but it almost seems to go right through him as the dark knight turns around and clocks the guy out.

But also, slightly off seeming Bruce would be wonderful with interactions with the Justice League. Just them finding out little weird things about Bruce that just convince members of the JL more & more that Bats is a meta or inhuman but nope! Just very ectocontaminated! It takes a bit of convincing for them to accept that he’s actually human.

#dp x dc #danny phantom #batman #bruce wayne #superman #justice league #dc x dp #clark kent #prompt #dp x dc writing prompt #writing prompt #bones writes #this was written in 15 min and j didn’t read it over that much so my bad that it’s less robust than my normal shit #so forgive me on the punctuation and hasty writing #dpxdc

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crushedsweets · 9 months

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hiii im kinda finished with my little au thing :9 LOL this was mostly just for myself but i figured if i spent time on it, might as well share

#creeped #chatterbox #mmmmmm do i tag ? do i do it guys ? ok whatevs #creepypasta #ticci toby #jeff the killer #jane the killer #homicidal liu #clockwork #natalie ouellette #ben drowned #eyeless jack #literally i hate tagging creepyopasta w mrble hornets or slendeverse i feel so bad flooding their tags #i wont do it . im too embarrassed.#sally williams #im NOT AN AUTHOR im really bad at writing guys forgive me. i draw thats it #may do this with the fantsy au but prob not but maybe will bc i enjoy these

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fromtheseventhhell · 6 months

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Zutaras are really the original self-insert, "we understand the story soooooo much better than everybody else" girlies and they just never moved on

#anti zutara #no offense to anyone who ships it and follows me but I'm so over the shipping wars of this show that aired almost 20 years ago 😭#at some point you guys are gonna need to hang it up cause there's a sequel series and these people are married with children like...#we get it if you were Katara you would've chosen Zuko but guess what?! you aren't and need to stop projecting onto her #the pretending to care about Katara is what really gets me cause she's never even implied to have romantic feelings for him #or vice-versa + it ignores her anger towards him and how long it took her to forgive him + rightfully so #criticizing the writing for Kataang is one thing but turning around and shipping Zutara while doing so is crazy work #ship it if you want but please stop pretending it makes more sense when both Zuko and Katara have their own separate romances 😭#love how people have to age Aang down + infantilize him and erase Mai to make it work but sure it's the better option #stop erasing Katara's arc and development just to claim that Aang brings her down when she's been a bad-ass since season 1 #reducing her arc to that ONE moment with Zuko and ignoring all of her other development just to prop up a ship is nasty #Katara isn't a reward for Aang and she sure as hell isn't one for Zuko stop belittling her like that #if y'all didn't watch ATLA when you were 12 and think Zuko was cute this ship wouldn't even exist #thinking about that post that said the writers /pandered to dudebros/ like we all weren't children the delusion is crazy sdfssdfsdfsd #also seeing AANG of all characters getting whacked for a ship...please get a life and stay away from him #antizutara

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recitedemise · 5 months

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𝗠𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗚𝗮𝗹𝗲'𝘀 𝘃𝘂𝗹𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗽 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘂𝗺𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀, 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗠𝘆𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝗹𝗽𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿. This lengthy headcanon will refer to canon dialogue from mostly Gale, sometimes others. Reader's discretion is very much advised. There will be in depth explorations into grooming, emotional abuse, heavy manipulation, and suicide.

First, let it be said that Gale, a mortal man, will always be the powerless one in his dynamic with Mystra. Of course, nearing forty years of age, he remains entirely responsible for his own actions, his own foul blunders and every hurt he'll cause, but it's important to remember who formed much of who he is: his goddess, his deity, and egregiously, his lover.

Mystra is power. Mystra is possibility. She knows what sway she holds over her Ioyal, vulnerable, and entirely mortal followers. In all ways that matter, they are but lambs she can steer and herd as she sees fit. She knows they can't deny her, and knows they'll never want to. Gale's sheer servitude and complete devotion; to the very quick of his bones, she lapped them up.

Gale: I was just... practising an incantation. Player Character: No, there's more to it than that. I know devotion when I see it. Gale: What can I say? She's—she's Mystra. I can't describe it, the need I sometimes feel to see her - to draw the filaments of fantasy into existence... Mystra is all magic. And as far as I'm concerned, she is all creation. Player Character: I didn't realize the depth of your devotion. Gale: Magic is... my life. I've been touched with the Weave for as long as I can remember. There's nothing like it.

Gale, orb in his chest, doomed to be eaten by the very thing he loves the most, still speaks so reverently of the goddess, of his lover that has left him to die. He conjures images of her memory—and she is all the while forgetting about his.

Minsc: Gale reminds me of vremyonni of my homeland. The man-mages of Rasheman. While the girl-folk go on to rule as wychlaran, Weave-touched boys were hidden away. Trained to work their craft in silence and secrecy. It is an old custom, not well-observed. In truth, I thought it born of caution after some catastrophe of wizardly men-folk of old. Now, I wonder if it was not done to hide them from Mystra, and the snares she sets for young and prideful boys, hm?

Tales of Mystra's treachery spreads far, leaving those familiar waters surrounding Gale's tower in Waterdeep. They whisper her name, afraid to utter it one time too many, suspecting, perhaps, that she'll show in their mirror like some Faerûnian Bloody Mary.

Talent rouses Mystra. She can see who uses the gift of the Weave and feel them, sampling whatever delight sings their veins as they pull from her domain. Not unlike a spider, she'll follows every tremor that strikes her as just a sliver more profound; and Gale, a prodigy, plucked the Weave's web to so garner her focus. And like some black widow scurrying, she surged down that ripple to prey on a boy. There, Gale, so impressionable, was just a mite older than twelve whole summers. He sat so stunned, beholding Mystra as she lured him into the cradle of her Astral domain. Bathed in her magic, pleasantly coddled within that glittering cosmos, Gale felt blessed in a way he'll struggle always to recount, no word, no language, fit to describe it. He felt chosen. He felt seen. And potently, to a child, he felt loved. Now, imagine a child experiencing something like that. Imagine what they'd think, how brilliant they must be when stood beside the rest. She told him he was gifted, made his heart swell not unlike a child's appetite for praise. She knew what she was doing by offering these morsels, by preying on a child's most delicate mind, and Gale, child prodigy, was already so awash in the idea that his value was in magic. Unfortunately, Gale, susceptible, had no way of squirming out of his goddess' grasp.

Reality: She's laid down the seeds to creep into his heart. When he's just old enough—seventeen's sufficient, she thinks—she stakes her claim and makes him hers.

Gale: My virtuosic talent once caught the eye of the goddess of magic herself, Mystra, who named me her chosen and her lover.

Gale is stunned when she takes him to bed the first time. (Is this really happening?) Mystra claims his mouth in a kiss, taking everything she knows he offers so willingly. Mystra, of course, is not so stunned.

Dream Visitor: An elder brain... one of the cruelest and most powerful creatures in existence, enslaved by mere mortals. Gale, tasked with Mystra's missive to sacrifice himself: This is it... I must do as Mystra commands.

Gale has worryingly low self-esteem beyond his magic. As already explored, his entire worth as a man hinged on and was built entirely off his talent as a wizard. He fought tooth and nail for any crumb of affection Mystra would offer his way, something she only gave him at all seeing his gift as a child. He wants her forgiveness. He desires it genuinely. He believes so firmly that he has wronged his goddess, buying into the idea that sacrificing himself will right his wrong. She holds such dominion over him, making him reduce his confidence in himself into a mere, trifling pittance; after all, she wasn't just his lover, but the patron deity he prays to. And regardless, Gale is a people pleaser, his initial acceptance of her missive coming as no surprise.

After all, Gale, at times, goes to incredible lengths to appease his audience. This habit, compulsion, impulse, whatever you want to call it, is a quality that was relentlessly exacerbated in his relationship with his immortal paramour. He wanted to content her, felt all he did was never enough, for as a matter of principle, he was oceans, leagues, and entire galaxies beneath her. Gale figures: well, how can a short-lived dalliance satisfy a god? He had to make her happy. Indeed, he'd done everything she'd ask. He'd bedded her how she liked, kissed her how she wanted, and of course, even said those words she'd said tasted best. She was his lover, a lover that never tended to his own needs and pleasures, and he fooled himself into thinking that's enough. He won't bend backwards for everyone, mind you, but if you're of the ones he would, he would stop at nothing to make you happy. After all, people pleasing is a way to keep oneself safe, a trauma response to sidestep discomfort, and though it achieves only a direly tentative peace, when that is all you've been fed, you will pursue it.

Gale did not want to lose Mystra; he couldn't bare the sting of it. And so, when Elminster visited him, Mystra's call for his death offered oh so callously, Gale, heartbroken, felt that part of him kick up. He couldn't endure the guilt, was so hungry for a chance to let his weighty heart breathe, even if it meant dying in the process.

At least this way, he'll finally do something right. At least this way, Mystra will forgive him, and all his friends will survive.

Gale: After I was afflicted with my condition, I locked myself in my tower for an entire year. I was inconsolable, wallowing in my self-inflicted tragedy. I'd given up on myself.

As a byproduct of people pleasing, Gale, too, is all too quick to accept all guilt. He self-deprecates, gaslights himself to a venomous degree, and twists his reality in so cruel a way as to make him the villain Mystra'd led him to believe. He self-flagellates himself, the first one in the world who will throw Gale of Waterdeep a mental punishment. Mystra's a goddess, after all, seen as utterly faultless, and twined so tightly with a being so mighty in esteem, Gale slipped into the role of the guilty often. When tied with anyone with grandeur like this, so immeasurable in their own self worth, it's important to keep in mind this: you are nothing but a prop in which to fulfill their ego. Gale was not Mystra's, not by a long shot. Rather, Gale was a tool, simply her mortal extension.

And he took every blow meant for her... a common and terrible habit for many people in imbalanced, ego-fueled relationships.

Gale's life beyond her wasn't something that interested her. She took most of Gale's devotion, manipulated his life to be her sole mantle of attention, for Mystra is not a goddess that shares very happily.

Indeed, long before his self-imposed isolation, this jealous deity did well at keeping him isolated.

Player Character: Picture kissing him. With tenderness. Then, with passion. Gale: I... I didn't think— Narrator: You perceive quick-fire embarrassment, trepidation, and finally... elation.

And so, cheated out of love, so reduced in his value as a man and lover both, suffice to say, Gale's slow to believe he can ever be loved. That's what happens when you're with someone so cold, consistent only in their infinite lack of respect. Gale looks at fondness, and he feels—confounded, to be sure. He thinks, is this truly mine to have? He doesn't know what to do, is nearly forty in game, and despite having lived decades devoted to one relationship, he feels, at the same time, entirely out of depth. To be frank, he greets it with embarrassment, like he's been caught red handed with something not his at all. He's like a child caught rummaging with his hand in a cookie jar, all this isn't mine to enjoy, not mine to indulge in, but he thinks, startled, but god, do I want. He wars with disbelief, uncertainty, and need, and in so many ways feeling utterly starved, with just a glimmer of affection, he falls fast into love.

Scenario: (And if properly romanced, it changes his world.)

Gale: In her (Mystra's) likeness, I used to read a thousand stories. She was beauty, wisdom, elegance, power... she contained universes. But now... it is hard to see any redeeming qualities in a lover who condemned you to death. I'd much rather gaze into your eyes than hers. Yours are capable of tenderness and feeling... No god could ever compare.

He says it with sincerity. There is such wonder, such love, and such awe in his eyes. He makes the act of kissing him feel like you've just reached into the trenches to but pluck him soundly from his ruin and despair. You think, Gale Dekarios, how unloved have you been all this time?

Gale: To know you love me for the man I am, and not the magic I command… none have loved me so purely before.

The answer is: entirely.

For so long, Gale thought love was simply being chosen. He knew nothing of being favored for the quality of his character, to be cherished and accepted even in those ways he fumbles and lacks. Again, his needs were seldom met, often treated with utter indifference by Mystra herself, and to meet someone so eager to treasure him, dote on him in a way his heart, his body is somberly new to, raptures his spirit and captures his soul. He's seen for who he is. He's... loved, desired for his silly quips, his easy smiles, and his growing affections. He bares himself to them, and in turn, they cradle his heart like something entirely precious. Gale thinks this has to be dream. He says, at times, you are more than I deserve.

Scenario: (But sometimes, he hopes too strongly and loves too greatly. As it always does, then, like he's once more wanted too much, he watches something beautiful slip right through his fingers. Of course, Gale Dekarios. Of course it does.)

Player Character: I didn't know you felt so strongly, Gale. Gale: Perhaps I should have done more. Been more charming, more flattering, harder to reach... but I was only myself, and sometimes that isn't enough.

They don't love him anymore. It breaks his heart. He hurts so much, so profoundly and deeply, and he doesn't realize that he breaks their heart in turn.

Unable to ever voice his feelings with Mystra in any way that amounted to much, Gale's a tendency to wallow, expressions coming off as potentially 'guilt-tripping' and even, on occasion, passive aggressive. Firstly: Gale NEVER means to manipulate emotions, and he's no intention of twisting anyone's arm, either. Fact is, Gale, never taken seriously when he'd bared his vulnerabilities to the Mother of the Weave, can end up saying just a little too much. He feels very deeply, and for most his life, seldom had an outlet for these weeping sentiments. He sometimes lets slip raw words and oftentimes heart-wrenching expressions; all the same, it's not so pitiful as to shepherd an outcome, but rather, is a gesture taken by a man so desperate to be heard. It may feel like scheming, but the truth is far, far greyer: feeling as though he's no right to share the depth of his heart, Gale simply lets it geyser out in a way he can't cork up. In ways he doesn't realize, he's adapted to this ache, passively reacting so his feelings can at least be seen and recognized—no matter how pitifully unwhole. With someone who values so little his thoughts... well, when he slips into these moods, one can hardly feign shock.

Situation: (And if no one shows him trust and tenderness, any true care in his character or worth, Gale gets swallowed up by how wronged he was.

He thinks: Let me be a god. Let no one hurt like me anymore.)

Gale: They only want us to serve them, pray to them...and ultimately, to die for them. But what if we didn't need them? What if we wielded their power instead and helped ourselves in all the ways they refuse to? I could make that happen.

Gale is not above anger, and as stated, he is not above pettiness; however, more than that, he is not above righting himself whatever wound he was struck. Gale, if not offered much by ways of affection, understanding, is made to believe that one idea that's lived growing in his mind: Gale Dekarios is far from sufficient; he has to be more. He has to be better. Gale, in such an unkind ending for himself, sips too desperately—and perhaps greedily, too, but desperately serves as a far better word—at that idea that he needs power. And so, wresting the Crown of Karsus for himself, he spites Mystra in his own way, becoming a god he feels is leagues better than she will ever be. Damn her thoroughly. Damn her ego, her power, and her endless indifference. He will serve the people, protect them, and in ways Mystra never could, better the world.

Situation: But as a god, he loses all sense of his kindness. Humanity. All who loved him leave him, and even Tara spurns the image he's become. With power, he's gained the respect he thought he always wanted... but in turn, he lost in even greater measure all the love he's known.

Endnote: But healing, knowing to forgive himself and knowing he's deserving of care simply for being Gale Dekarios will remain, always, the best path for him.

#HEADCANON.#Oh... anyway. This. Was. A lot.#And it was a lot for me mentally and emotionally to write.#So much of this hit home.#Gale isn't perfect. He can be petty and immature—a byproduct of not being all too good at venting his frustrations when #it gets to a point. He has very bad self esteem. He is not forgiving of himself and is too forgiving of Mystra.#He endured FOR DECADES the cold indifference of a goddess he called his lover.#I know people dog on him because he's a grown man with these hurts and traumas and responses #but just because his trauma manifested in ways you don't find palatable or hot or sexy #doesn't mean they aren't scars left by trauma buddy!!!#And quite frankly that bit about God Gale sounding vindictive and angry #yeah! SOMETIMES people who have so cold and uncaring and belittling a partner #end up angry. You shoved someone into a corner and hounded them for SO LONG. Don't start crying when they rear back on you and bite #I have a deep connection with godhood Gale. But obviously a healed Gale that finds love and acceptance in himself is so much healthier.#I'm rooting for you Gale (always).#So much of this was typed up with a lot of first hand experience so... to say this was a Gale exploration #as much as a way to navigate my own trauma is an apt one.#No two tales of abuse are alike of course. Gale's experience isn't my experience. But I can sympathize a great deal.#TL;DR: This meta post means a lot to me. K. Thanks.

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