#˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ꒰꒰ ♠️ ┊“𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐎” ꒱꒱

[angel-selfshipper]

💠 now I've got to know what doll thinks of miles👀

@starryskyships

DOLL'S FEELINGS TWORDS MILES . . .

Miles Morales is... fascinating.

No, fascinating is too small, too breakable of a word. Miles Morales is a symphony of colors and warmth, stitched together with trembling hands and feverish desperation.I have a tendency to watch him move through the world, to watch the way the dark red thread binding him to his brother tangles, chokes, and weaves like a living thing—and my soul aches. Not from sadness, no—I do not understand sadness the way mortals do. Instead, I ache from wonder.

There is something terribly beautiful about the way Miles clings to Michelangelo, and how Michelangelo clings back, like shipwrecked sailors too stubborn to admit their going to die on their sinking ship.

It’s mesmerizing. Their bond is not clean or pure or sweet—it is wrong in a way my being finds comforting. It reminds me of a dirtied porcelain doll cradled too tightly by small, trembling hands. It reminds me of whispered prayers to silent gods, of devotion so deep it drips from the corners of your soul when you look at them.

"Codependent," the mortals say, "Toxic," they hiss behind trembling hands. But I can see it for what it truly is—holy.

In Miles Morales, I see something raw and unfinished, like wet clay still waiting for the right hands to mold it. In Michelangelo however, I see the frantic artist, desperate to leave his fingerprints on every inch of that clay before the world can take it away. Their endless, spiraling loyalty is a masterpiece—one that sings in the secret language only creatures like me can hear.

Miles is everything soft and sharp all at once. I find my platonic gaze constantly drawn to him without understanding why. Maybe it is because Miles’ heart hums at a frequency that resonates inside my hollow chest. Maybe it is because I—a being who was never meant to be mortal—feel an uncanny kinship with things that love too hard, too wrong, too much.

I wish to cup Miles Morales in my gloved hands and simply watch him—watch him until I understand the very essence of his being, watch how he and his brother bruise each other and call it love, watch how he stands so small against a multiverse that demands too much of a child—and still smiles like he’s the one holding all the strings.

I don't exactly love Miles, not in the way I love Hobie. No, no, no... my regard is something colder, something deeper. I want to etch his name into the soft meat of my non-existent heart, to place him in a crystal casket alongside all the other sacred things I enjoy watching.

Miles Morales is one of my favorite offering, other than Hobie of course—the one I watch with a cracked, trembling smile, the one I cradle in thought when the hollow place inside my bones grows too loud. The one I adore for being beautiful in the way rotting roses are beautiful—decay and devotion, intertwined.

And the way Miles loves his brother? The way Michelangelo would burn the entire world for him? It is sacred. It is divine. It is perfect.

TAGGING: @starryskyships

[angel-selfshipper]

What if Michelangelo had given Miles a card from his "starter" tarot deck when they were younger (Around 10 and 14)?

What if, after carefully considering each card, Michelangelo decided that the only one that truly fit both him and his baby brother was "The Lovers"?

What if Miles had kept that card with him all these years, tucking it away somewhere safe for only his eyes alone to look at and remember the sentiment of his big brother.

What if Michelangelo—scatterbrained as ever—had long since forgotten? But Miles never did. Because, in truth, he was just as obsessed as Michelangelo was.

What if, one day, Michelangelo was flipping through one of Miles’ recent sketchbooks, idly admiring the strokes and details, when something slipped from between the pages?

What if it was a singular, well worn tarot card, falling from the spine like it had been waiting to be found.

What if Michelangelo picked it up, running his fingers over the familiar design, his touch lingering as memories flooded back?

And what if, in a voice barely above a whisper, he traced the curve of the card and in the most absaloutly awestruck voice Miles had even heard come from his big brother he mumbled "You... kept it?"

[angel-selfshipper]

“𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐖𝐄𝐁”

CONTENT WARNINGS — Age gap, drinking, dubious consent, grooming, heavy flirting, implied sexual // romantic tension, jealousy, manipulation, possessiveness, power imbalance, sibling incest, slight aggression, toxic relationships, underage

The party was a blur of too bright lights and base you could feel deep within in your bones. Bodies swayed sensually, grinding together in sinful desire.

Michelangelo Morales, just like at all the parties he dragged his poor little brother to, was at the center of it all—his charismatic personality making people swoon over him left and right.

His body was propped up against the incredibly overcrowded bar as though being surrounded by all these people was second nature. His lanky form was draped in a cropped black and red Spider Man hoodie that barely covered his stomach along with a pair of ripped jeans that hugged his thighs just right.

A lopsided smirk tugged at the corner of his lips—a warning, a promise. As for the poor bastard Michelangelo had chosen to be his toy for tonight? He was already eating out of the palm of his hand.

Not that any of that really mattered in the long run.

Michelangelo wasn’t flirting because he “cared” or happened to find this random guy attractive… He didn’t give a single fuck about him, honestly. This act was all for someone else—someone who was watching him from the other side of the bar like a hunter stalking its prey: fists clenched, jaw tight, and looking like he was one second away from snapping.

Miles Gonzalo Morales...

His baby brother. His absolute sweetheart. His whole fucking world.

Michelangelo took an excruciatingly slow sip of his drink, letting a bit of his fruity cocktail spill past the corners of his lips before licking them—deliberate, teasing. He made sure Miles saw every flick of his tongue, every shallow breath, every calculated shift of his body. He knew his little brother like the back of his hand—he knew exactly which buttons to push without going too far.

“You’ve got real pretty lips~,” he purred, dragging his heavy gaze over the guy’s mouth with exaggerated interest. The poor thing—a college kid, someone much closer to Michelangelo’s age than Miles—turned bright red, stammering out something unintelligible that kind of sounded like a thank you. Michelangelo didn’t even bother catching his name.

Poor bastard would never amount to anything close to what Miles was in his eyes. He was just an extra toy to make his baby brother jealous.

And judging by the way those dark eyes narrowed in on his every move, it was working.

Michelangelo flicked his gaze toward Miles. Oh, was the poor boy absolutely pissed. Not just annoyed—no, this was full-blown, murderous rage simmering just beneath the surface of his dark brown skin.

Good.

“Y’know, I’d just looove to see what else you’ve got going on, babe!” Michelangelo continued with his bratty little act, his voice practically dripping with false interest. He leaned in, tilting his head to the side in such a way that let his dark hair fall against his shoulder... The poor college kid never stood a chance.

Michelangelo barely had time to savor the moment of flustered embarrassment before the small amount of space between him and the college boy disappeared in a rush of movement.

Miles was there.

The guy didn’t have any time to react before he was shoved aside like the background character he probably was. Michelangelo had one singular second to think he'd won before a rough grip closed around his wrist—so tight he swore it was going to bruise (wouldn’t be the first mark he’d gotten from Miles, but still).

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Miles hissed, his voice much lower than usual and so deliciously threatening that it sent a shiver up Michelangelo’s spine.

Michelangelo grinned, that lopsided, lazy smile he always wore when teasing his baby brother. “Flirting.”

Miles’ eyes narrowed with barely contained rage. “With who?”

Michelangelo teasingly walked his index and middle fingers up Miles’ arm, relishing the way his baby brother melted ever so slightly despite himself. “No one important.”

“That right?” Miles’ voice dropped an octave, dangerously quiet against the pounding music of the bar. “Didn’t look like ‘no one’ to me.”

Michelangelo exhaled a soft laugh, letting his hot breath ghost against Miles’ cheek. “Oh, hermanito,” he teased, “Don’t tell me you’re jealous~”

Miles’ grip tightened around the older boy’s wrist.

DING DING DING! Michelangelo just hit the jackpot of flustered little brothers~

Michelangelo leaned in, the tips of their distinctively similar noses practically touching. “That dumbass college kid? Didn’t give a single fuck about him.”

Miles let out a soft growl low in his throat, his free hand coming up to tug on the collar of Michelangelo's hoodie, pulling them down to his level and forcing them to make direct eye contact. “Then why on earth would you do it?”

"You really wanna know why I did it?" Michelangelo teased, his voice thick with something dark and wicked. His lips curled into a full smirk as he whispered, "Because I love watching you lose your mind over me."

Something in Miles SNAPPED.

One second, Michelangelo was basking in what he assumed was his own triumph—the next, he was being dragged through the club, past drunken bodies and blinding neon lights. Miles’ grip never loosened, his pulse pounding like a drum against Michelangelo’s skin.

Michelangelo barely had time to catch his breath before he was slammed against the brick wall of the alleyway, Miles’ forearm pressing tightly against his chest and pinning him in place.

“You think this shit is funny?” Miles seethed, his breath hot against Michelangelo’s face.

Michelangelo grinned, the pointedness of his sharp canines flashing in the dim light of the alleyway. “I do, actually—thank you for asking.”

Miles’ hands curled into the fabric of Michelangelo’s cropped hoodie, holding onto it like he was absolutely terrified to let go.

“You drive me fucking insane,” Miles muttered, looking up to meet Michelangelo’s eyes.

The older of the two boys leaned down, a cocky smirk on his face, his voice dropping into a soft whisper. “And you love it.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

Miles crahsed their mouths together in a kiss that was all passion and heat, completely desperate in a way neither of them would ever be able to say aloud.

Michelangelo melted!!!

His baby brother’s lips were soft, his touch warm against his skin, his unconditional love completely undeniable. He smirked against Miles’ plump lips, fingers threading into the tight curls at the back of his brother’s head, pulling him closer... closer... closer...

Possessive. Consuming. Needy.

Exactly how Michelangelo had conditioned him to be.

And Miles? He wouldn’t give it up for anything in the multiverse.