miguel o'hara x reader - little thing abt migs w/ a baby boy instead of a baby girl. takes him a bit to get used to it.
(warning: ref to you giving birth + the word "bosom" but nothing more than that, bad scenery)
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Miguel is having trouble with his… son.
It still feels strange to say it—a son, his son. Born covered in hair and slightly purple with a screeching cry that could’ve shattered even opera house windows. You, in the sterile white bed, not decorated in memories of pink but of blue. And him, by your side, not unhappy but surprised, because of all the things he knew and expected, it wasn’t this.
In all the universes where he’s happy, he sees himself with a daughter. Beautiful, smiley Gabriella, with curls he’s able to tie up in braids, a passion for soccer he helps hone, a connection deeper than blood and DNA itself. He has yet to find a version of himself with both you by his side and a son in his life.
“Pa.”
His baby babbles, strapped safely into the jumper you put him in for Miguel to watch while he works, plump legs hanging from the soft cotton that keeps him upright, chubby hands batting against the fake rainbow buttons that kept him entertained until now.
“Son."
“Pa,” he gurgles again, little pout on his baby plump lips as he gazes, brown eyed, up at his father, “pa.”
"Gabriel," he says, and he can imagine your voice. The half-critique you’d pester him with about taking your son seriously, celebrating his feats of speaking with adult words to help him understand more, more, more… then he can imagine you nagging him for also being too formal. “What is it, mijo?”
The acknowledgement doesn't work, and instead, the boy begins to cry: his sandy hair (that’s already beginning to darken and curl at its ends) flopping over his forehead with frustration when his feet start kicking but do not hit any ground.
Miguel thinks about calling you. Gabri’s always preferred your bosom to his, softening into your chest like dough the second you lift him into your arms, and smiling as though he it's where he belongs. It's almost as if all the other universes Miguel visited before he was born had laid claim on him first, a stain of sorts that only a baby could detect in trying to bond with someone who was already imprinted on.
(He’s never been able to admit his jealously, barely even to himself; is this the life he’s supposed to be living? Did he just want these things because he assumed he was supposed to have them? Is his son a punishment for the expectations he was never supposed to have? Miguel tries not to ponder it too hard.)
“Papa!” Gabri continues to wail, little fists knocking against plastic so hard that Miguel is finally forced to turn away from his many screens and face the sight of... his boy reaching his little arms up, up, up in asking to be held.
And that’s all it takes for him to melt.
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you know now that i’ve finished gomens s2 i could probably write an essay on my mixed feelings. what about when a work is - especially so in some parts - very fucking good. thematically interesting and consistent, characterisation that is so painfully human and told in a fascinating manner. but due to a lack of conclusion - inherent because of the format (tv series) - it feels an inherently different sort of narrative to the original. i do not think good omens season two is bad - not at all, but what i do think is it is now a very fundamentally different type of story than that of the book. not because the events of the show don’t happen in the book but because the style of storytelling is altogether different. it’s inherently going to be the case when one of the original creators has sadly passed on, and it doesn’t necessarily make it bad - however it does make it not what personally made me love the book of good omens in the first place. maybe it’s because i came in with certain expectations given that i have read a lot of sir terry pratchett’s other work and basically none of neil gaiman’s, but it’s just a different format of story. like the difference between an epic poem and a serialised story.
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