#I HAVE SO MANY HEADCANONS ABOUT GOBLIN HIMSELF but i will save that 4 another day

[marxtheimpish]

Do u have any octogoblin headcanons you’d like to share 🧍🧍🧍

FRANTICALLY SIFTS THROUGH MY DOCUMENTS yes i do ::3 i should note just for context sake or whatever that i write norman as having DID !! so goblin is an alter who has been there since norman was very young, not just an experiment-caused dude. alright

Norman is generally a bit of a snob (he worked hard for wealth so he doesnt want to waste it) but otto is one of the few people he doesnt feel the need to be fancy around. at first he still does, showing up to basically every date in a suit, but over time he gets more comfortable and is ok being seen in a more casual light

the actuators LOVE norman, just as much as otto does. it took each of them a bit to warm up to him, (flo the longest, moe the shortest) but now they all agree that norman is a good influence

goblin will sometimes pretend to be norman to be treated the way he is without having to ask. otto is always able to tell the difference but he plays along

goblin LOVES sugar, but norman is trying to be a Healthy 55 year old man thank you very much, so they can bicker about it. otto Will occasionally give goblin treats, but theyre just regular sized (as opposed to the piles of sugar he wants to eat) so he can keep both norman and goblin happy

otto can be self conscious about his body (both the natural parts and the actuators) but norman reassures him frequently, even when hes not asked to. similarly, norman often thinks all the scars he has from goblin doing goblin things make him look ugly, but otto is always there for him

they met in college! they were both pining super hard but never ended up getting together, and once they left norman ghosted otto for years because he was scared of hurting him

norman thought and said he was bi for years because he found it a kind of "softer blow" compared to simply being gay, even though he never had any romantic interest in women. otto helped him realize this (and he Is bi btw) apologies for the long post and this isnt nearly all of them but i am laying my headcanons gently onto the ground for all fellow octogoblin enjoyers to browse

[gerbiloftriumph]

Captive Crown

(also on ao3)

Someone wanted the newly crowned King of Daventry and all his friends dead. Someone got close, once.

(warnings for the whole thing: kidnapping, bruising, starvation, nightmares, healthy dosage of angsty musing, sicfic, story-coherent vehicle for all my favorite ch2 headcanons)

~*~*~

4/7

(1: to steal)(2: to hide)(3: to seek)(4: to find)(5: to break)(6: to mend)(7: to heal, and to end)

~*~*~

It started with a dry cough early in the morning. Hardly more than a tickle. Graham sipped water from the rose fountains and cleared his throat, but it wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t normally raise much thought, but he was sneaking around in places he wasn’t supposed to be sneaking. He held his cloak against his mouth to try and stifle the sounds while he was deep in the back tunnels, not sure who might be listening. Annoying, but manageable.

He scrambled through pipeworks and scraped through narrow gaps, hunting for anything that could help them escape. And he found bolt cutters. Half sunken in moldering porridge oozing from a broken pipe, but…bolt cutters. It was almost too perfect. He paused before fishing them out. This didn’t feel like a trap. It felt like a trap that had already been sprung.

He was being paranoid. He was being silly. But, as Graham looked at the broken pipe, at the bolt cutters, at the chair someone short had clearly stood on to reach the pipe’s suspension chains, something prickled the hair on the back of his neck.

Someone had intentionally stopped the food. To starve him and his friends. Kill him. That someone hadn’t expected the goblins to get bored and let Graham out, or else they would have taken this tool, this key to freedom, with them. They were careless in their certainty of victory.

And, with a sick twist in his empty stomach, Graham’s suspicions became just a little clearer.  

Distracted, he didn’t notice his cough becoming more frequent as he stumbled back into familiar prison paths with the bolt cutters hidden in the folds of his cloak. Didn’t notice the cough starting to sound wet as he freed Bramble and Wente. Didn’t notice the ache cutting into his throat as he and Bramble stumbled out into the city to find help, alarm bells chasing them down the tunnels.

But now he sank against the wall of some goblin house in some hidden side street, trying to breathe as another coughing attack consumed him. It could no longer be ignored. Something was wrong with him, and it was getting worse.

Bramble glanced at him. “Majesty, that really doesn’t sound good. We should stop and rest.”

“No, no,” he said, waving a hand, staring fixedly at the uneven stones beneath his boots rather than at her, sure she would see guilt on his face if he looked up, his fear that they were going to be caught because his coughing was too loud, unstoppable. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” His voice was tight against yet another outbreak. “It’ll clear. We’ll get hot tea. Once we’re home.”

“Some soup wouldn’t go amiss right now either.” Bramble pressed a hand to her belly.

He nodded blearily. His knees sort of gave out a little bit, and then a little bit more, and then a little bit more again. He sank down the wall slowly, cloak bunching around his ears, until he was almost sitting on the ground.

Bramble leaned against the wall above him and said cheerfully, “That’s it, that’s what we needed. You breathe easy for a minute, Majesty.”

“N-no, wait, I said we didn’t need to stop.” He started to struggle up.

She pressed on his shoulder. “I think the rest of you ignored that. May as well listen to the majority.” She frowned into the darkness. “The majority of me wants Wente, but I know he’s helping the others as best he can, the dear.”

“Bramble, I—”

“No, you stay put,” she said, pushing down harder. “I might be your subject, speaking technically, but I’m still older than you, and a Mother-To-Be, and that has to count for something. I can at least make orders when I can see matters of health and heart, and both are telling us to pause. We won’t be long.” She sighed and closed her eyes, smile a touch strained when she thought he couldn’t see.

Graham wrapped his arms around his knees and listened to the city. To the low murmurs and clatters of stone against stone. The clank of metal. The steady, faraway wash of the underground river splashing against the weird little underground dock where the mattress raft had been tethered. How many days ago had that been? No way to be sure, not yet.

Little glowing dust motes danced between the buildings. A kaleidoscope of colored fungi illuminated street corners and windows. He searched the skyline (caveline?), hunting for a glimpse of that tall structure he’d seen from the prison tower. Their destination.

They had to get to the goblin castle. They had to see the goblin king. That was the only way they could get all the villagers out safely, could make it back to the surface without pursuit or loss. He had to convince the king to free them, but how? Going in swords blazing wouldn’t be the right move, even if he had a sword or the strength to swing it. It would have to be words.

Yeah, right. Like that could ever work.

This wasn’t the first time they’d ducked into some forgotten side alley. They often hid behind buildings and stairs and in shallow dark spaces while they waited out goblins. The little stone-shielded citizens of this place tended to amble carelessly, meandering along the roads in packs. Some of them wore ragged fairy tale costumes. Tattered wolf ear headbands, or scraps of elaborate princess dresses, with battered wooden weapons more suited for make believe than actual combat strapped to their sides. But then again, the real, sharp spears were just as abundant.

Bramble had saved them half a dozen times by now. She somehow sensed goblins half a street over, well before Graham ever noticed. When he asked how she heard them from so far away, she told him that the sounds of their masks scratching against their armor sounded almost like that singing crackle bread gets when it starts to cool down after the oven. “It’s easy to hear since it’s one of my favorite sounds,” she had said. “Or it was a favorite sound. Now I rather like hearing Wente singing when he’s mixing something good.” She smiled shyly, ears going pink beneath her cap.

Now, Graham looked up at her. “Bramble?”

“If you’re about to tell me you’re sorry you dragged me here instead of Amaya again, I’m going to be very cross.”

“No, I, uh. Wanted to thank you. For being here. I couldn’t have gotten this far without you.”

“Don’t make me blush again, either.” She grinned, and he could see the determination in her shoulders, in her eyes. She wasn’t in great shape after the imprisonment, but she was still carrying herself in an undeniably Bramble sort of way. A mother (To-Be) scorned and ready to take someone to task with stern words and an open heart. Even after all this, she still didn’t seem to bear hatred in her, though it would have been well within her rights.

Maybe that’s what these story-loving goblins needed? Maybe some compassionate, determined angle with the goblin king was the best route to freedom. Maybe words could win. He would have laughed at the ideas starting to build up in his head, but it burbled into another cough instead.

He swallowed again, cursing that cough and praying that his gradually creeping dizziness was just the result of stress.

~*~*~

As it happened, it worked. He never would have believed it, and yet, it worked.

Words won the day. Compassionate words, hidden in the phrasing of a story. A story that Graham found he knew how to tell very well—a story about himself, and his fears and uncertainties, and the friends he made, and the support he needed. The goblin king bowed to him and his story, ever so slightly, and that—somehow, in this dark place ruled by fantasies—was enough.

~*~*~

The adrenaline of facing the goblin king sparked through Graham’s spine and made him stand straight again, but once the king had agreed to let all of the Daventry citizens go, Graham felt all the excitement ebbing out of him to be replaced with a strange ache that he was sure hadn’t been there before. From his shoulders to his back to his legs, he felt dizzy and distant.

To be fair, by his count he’d been shaken down for contraband at least six times by now. The ache in his legs wasn’t exactly surprising, considering the goblins’ method of shakedown was to literally turn him upside down while gripping his legs, and, well, shake.

“What should we do?” everyone asked. Graham answered as best he could, but his mouth was running on its own, with very little input from him. His hands trembled; he grabbed the hem of his cloak so no one would notice. Just another side effect of stress. Nothing to be concerned about.

He stood listening to them all argue about routes and directions and glare at their reticent goblin guides, and all the while he thought, “Huh. My hair hurts. That’s new.”

Finally, impatiently, the Merchant stepped forward. He was easily in the best shape of them all, and overjoyed to have a freed caravan and two unicorns back (The Other One had been captured, too, though no one had shown much interest in the poor thing and had let it wander uselessly). He barked commands and directed their steps and threw his generous gut around. Graham was more than content to let him at it, following at a lagging pace until they broke out of the tighter tunnels and were able to climb aboard the rattling wagon. They crammed into narrow spaces between empty boxes and expired and crumbling miraculous ingredients. Exhausted but too nervy to doze in case their guides turned back into jailers, the group anxiously watched rocks roll past for an eternity until they broke into the overcast, rainy, late afternoon of Daventry. The first breath of fresh, free air came with a gentle sigh of relief.

*~*~*

The shout came from across the river, and the merchant slowed the cart ever so slightly from its careening gallop to listen. The cry was thus: “Ho there! Good wandering merchant!”

“What did you just call me?”

Whoever it was across the river hesitated for a long moment. “Good...merchant?”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s better.” The merchant leaned back and punched Graham in the shoulder. “’Ho there’—ha, what kinda medieval establishment you runnin’ here?”

Graham had his hands pressed over his mouth, but not from coughing this time. After a second he breathlessly managed to mumble, “Did you have to take that turn like that?” His adventurer’s cap, found in the tunnels near the goblin castle, had slipped down over one eye, and he looked positively green.

“Oh, so sorry. I’d think that pregnant lady’d be the one with morning sickness, not a strappin’ young lad like yourself, but hey, whatever. Also, what do you expect when I’ve got a soggy lump of bread for a wheel and one sick goa—uh, unicorn—and no thanks to you. It ain’t no flyin’ carpet ride: you gotta anticipate a bounce or two.” He turned back to face the river, and shouted, “Whaddya want?”

“Have you seen our king anywhere? Or...er...anyone, I guess?”

Graham shuddered, swallowed, and drew a deep breath to answer the guard, but the merchant had a thoughtful look on his face. Before Graham could speak, the merchant leaned back and whispered, “Hey, your magistrate. Scaly lumps of eel guts fried in peanut oil and pickle juice.” Graham blinked, then clapped his hands back over his mouth, making horrible strangled noises. “Hey! You over there!” the merchant shouted, while Graham retched. “There’s a finder’s fee for getting your king and his merry band of villagers back to you, right?”

“A what now? Er. I mean. We don’t really have...yes, yes of course! Did you have an amount in mind? Do you accept frogs as payment? Maybe installments over the course of…er…several years?”

“Oh, shining stars,” Graham groaned through his fingers and pulled himself to his feet. “We’re all here! Here!” His voice cracked and couldn’t carry far. He waved, but he lost his balance and fell back among the boxes.

“King Graham? Is that you?” the guard craned his neck. “Gods, is it really you? Where have you been? We wrote your mother. Have you seen the others? We’ve been so worried. Poor Olfie’s been wandering for days looking! Even Acorn offered to go out. Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you okay? I hope I’m not overwhelming you again. I’m sorry. I am, aren’t I? Maybe we should write an addendum about this or something. I’m glad you’re back. That was you, wasn’t it? I’m pretty sure it was you. Hard to see in this rain. The water gets in the helmet dreadfully.”

The merchant sighed and glanced at Graham. “Well. I’m still gonna ask if I can get a small finder’s fee. Think of all the merch that went to waste. All the missed business opportunities! I deserve a little recompense, eh?” He paused. Graham frowned, clearly about to argue, and the merchant added cheerfully, “Leftover shrimp twice baked in orange yogurt sauce drizzled with chocolate.”