This is a lil messy but I'm curious: do you guys have any pet peeves when it comes to fanfiction? And I don't mean actual reasonable reasons to dislike something like "glorifies abuse" or "literal racism" I'm talking dumbass shit 😭 (you can say it on anon if u want don't be too shady w it though!)
“reader’s race/physical features aren’t mentioned. hope you guys enjoy reading!”
also them: “you scrambled out of the shower at the sound of your dad honking the car horn from the driveway and rushed to get dressed for school. your hair was still soaking wet and you had no time to blow dry it, so with a peeved sigh you ran your fingers through your mess of blonde locks, haphazardly pulling it into a ponytail and smoothing down the stray strands.”
This is a lil messy but I'm curious: do you guys have any pet peeves when it comes to fanfiction? And I don't mean actual reasonable reasons to dislike something like "glorifies abuse" or "literal racism" I'm talking dumbass shit 😭 (you can say it on anon if u want don't be too shady w it though!)
it’s just so difficult to find black romance literature that isn’t written with one specific dynamic. they’re always very “urban” and atp it’s so saturated that it’s incredibly difficult to find something that ISN’T that. sometimes it’s even so exaggerated to the point it starts to give caricature when the only way conversations between the couple go is “fuck you n*gga!” “you fuckin w that ugly hoe?” “i’ll beat you and that bitch ass if she look at you again.” (this has nothing to do with the general use of aave, as i use it daily, i’m purely talking characterization here.) if you don’t understand what i’m talking ab, go to wattpad and try to find a black love story. in the tags of the ones that came up for me it said “#hoodlovestory #gangs #druglord #ghetto”. why is it nearly impossible to find a textbook, cookie cutter love story like “the notebook”, or a fantasy love story like Twlight but just with black people and some lingo??
but yea this is the entire reason i came from wattpad to tumblr bc wattpad has absolutely no diversity when it comes to this. they only portray one kind of black girl (or guy) who looks, speaks, and acts one way, as if we’re all the same. and the way these stories damn near romanticize domestic ab*se/toxic behavior and make it as if that’s all black love can be is really really odd (but i digress).
it’s honestly why i started writing bc i could never envision myself when reading. what we see in the media is not representative of everyone and this can also tie in to how hard it is growing up as a neurodivergent or even just a nerdy/alt/whatever black girl in a world/community that expects and thinks black people act as a monolith and—*mic cuts out*
summary: meeting miles g at a bakery, and other happenings.
wc: 3k+
warning: blood, grief (more at the periphery, not a major theme), and lightly implied mommy issues
a/n: ngl i was hungry asf when i wrote this. why can't i ever write normal fluff fics anymore. first fic of 2024!!
Brooklyn Middle is closed for winter break. The basketball court where the snow-covered hoop no longer has a net is empty, save for the blinking Christmas lights strung across the chain-link fence.
In a few years, the pizza place across the street where students would linger after school will be demolished, replaced by a shiny new Oscorp building that reflects the sun from all angles of its glass exterior. But for now, the place is just closed early for the holidays, a few blocks away from a bakery.
The tall, bear-like frame of a father dressed in a long black overcoat can be seen entering with a wiry young boy in a red hoodie and bomber jacket tailing close behind. He has an afro as opposed to his father’s closely-cropped hair. The boy keeps trying to straighten his posture - as if his spine would suddenly lengthen and his shoulders would broaden from the act alone. He wants to make himself look important today, because he is on a top-secret mission:
Operation: Get Mom a Cake.
“I think mom’ll like that one.”
The boy points at a slice of tres leches cake sitting behind a glass display. It’s not as flashy as the other decorative cakes drizzled with chocolate and strawberries or encased in pink frosting, but those wouldn’t melt on the tongue the way tres leches did.
His father raised an eyebrow at the plain slice, but the boy looked at him with a certainty that he’d never seen before, through eyes nearly identical to his mother’s. The man knew then that he was getting an expert opinion.
“Alright, if you say so,” he chuckled, adjusting his glasses. “We’ll take that one, Val.”
The boy smiled proudly at the older woman as she handed him the pink box containing the cake. Mission accomplished.
Now, he looks up and frowns at the Oscorp building blocking the view of where his old school used to be as he picks at a slice of cake with a plastic fork.
The ‘Employees Only’ door behind the counter swings open, and Valeria Cruz hobbles out, removing her apron.
“It’s almost your shift, Miles, hurry up and finish that cake.”
Miles takes one more bite before rising from his seat near the entrance and pushing the paper plate and half-eaten slice into a small trash can.
“You got it, Miss V.”
“Did you take out the trash?”
He pauses, and his eyes widen.
“I’mma get that done right now, Miss V!”
The woman sighs, running a hand through gray and white-streaked curls as the teen sprints out the door and back outside.
A forest green puffer jacket rushes past you on the sidewalk. It’s the same one you had seen shuffling out of the back entrance of Val’s bakery the other morning, lugging two black garbage bags with a purple hoodie obscuring the stranger’s face.
He probably works there, then, you think. Good. She could use the help.
The place had been packed the week before Officer Morales’ funeral, and for several weeks after. But over time, business began to slow down to a trickle. Hipster cafés and towering condos sprang up and choked out the little pizza shops and restaurants that took their owners’ last names, like when an invasive species of plant grows taller than the local varieties and smothers them, blocking out the sun.
You had been seeing Val’s face since you were in diapers. Families used to go there for birthdays, for elementary school graduations, middle school graduations - or sometimes just to grab something sweet to eat after church on Sundays. You continued the tradition–even if just to buy a tiny bag of cookies–in the hopes that the place might still be standing for your high school graduation.
The bell above the door rings to signal your entrance. The once baby pink wallpaper has begun to fade, but the late-afternoon sun makes it feel as vibrant as it did when you were twelve. Valeria is standing in front of the display of freshly-baked pastries with her apron folded neatly over her arm.
“Oh, were you about to close up shop?” You begin to take backward steps. “I can come back later–”
“No, no, sweetie, it’s fine!” The woman waves her hand, beckoning you to stay. “I was just about to go on my lunch break. I have someone about to take over for me.”
“It’s cool, I can wait. I saw somebody taking out the trash, that him?”
She sighs wearily, “That’s him, alright. He’s a good kid, but he’s always–”
“Sorry I’m late!”
In rushes Mr. Green Jacket through a chilly gust of wind, who turns to nod in greeting towards you before weaving past Val and behind the counter, where he disappears through the ‘Employees Only’ door.
“That boy, I swear. Never on time!”
He reappears sans the jacket, wearing a white apron identical to the one Val is holding. The name tag on it reads ‘Miles’.
Miles. Where have you heard that name before…?
The hood on his sweater is no longer pulled over his head, revealing two neat cornrows that cascade all the way down his neck. The surrounding hair has been shaved and faded at the nape of his neck and hairline. He’s the sort of brown-skinned that looks golden when the sunlight hits his face as he approaches the cash register.
“You gonna be alright for the next half hour?” asked Val with an eyebrow raised.
Miles drummed his fingers on the counter and grinned. “Yup, I got it.”
“Don’t destroy anything while I’m gone!”
“I won’t, promise.”
She pushes the door open with a skeptical look and leaves.
With this new stranger temporarily in charge, you carefully approach the counter. He looks up at you with curious brown eyes.
“Whatchu want?”
“Um…” you blink before remembering what you were here for. “Just sugar cookies, please.”
“How many?”
“Five.”
He turns to grab a paper bag, then bends to drop the desired amount of cookies into it with the pair of tongs that sit on the inside of the display.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what school you go to? I haven’t seen you around here before, feel like I’d remember you if I had.”
Miles pops his head over the counter and tilts his head with a cheeky grin.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
You avoid eye contact, shifting from one foot to the other. Suddenly it’s not so cold anymore.
“I-I don’t know. You just seem memorable.”
He laughs a raspy, breathy laugh and hands you the bag of cookies over the counter. His hand is much larger than yours with slender fingers at the end of it, but still manages to appear almost clumsy-looking. Big enough to be a man’s, but with only half the dexterity.
“I go to Visions.”
“Fancy. You like it over there?”
“It’s aight. Kinda uptight, but my dad always said it was a ‘good opportunity’, so I stayed.”
You hum in consideration.
“Can't do everything for your parents, though. They'll have you living their dreams before you know it.”
The smile fades a bit, and Miles averts his gaze.
“Well my dad passed, so I just figured I’d just do this one thing for him.”
You cover your mouth with your palm.
“I'm so sorry, I–”
“It's fine,” he snorts without any humor. “You might be the only one that doesn't know who my daddy is. Kind of a relief.”
Miles encloses the money you just gave him in the slot beneath the cash register with a loud snap.
“You need anything else?”
You chew on your bottom lip in embarrassment and clutch your bag of cookies.
“No. Thank you.”
He doesn’t look up from the register.
“Have a nice day.”
Your mother is leaning on the window sill, nibbling on a granola bar when you get back home. She’s silent, which means she is observing. You’ll need to tread carefully.
“I brought cookies.”
She gives you a sidelong glance.
“Val’s cookies?”
“Yup, same as always.”
“That lady still working there all by herself?”
“She hired somebody to help out, actually - I saw a boy working the register.”
She notices the upward inflection in your voice at the mention of a boy, which interests her more than the cookies.
“What’s he look like?”
“He’s got, um,” you make a gesture over your head. “Twin braids–cornrows–and a green jacket? Kinda tall, too.”
Your mother nods, thoughtful. The description rings a bell, but she needs to confirm.
“You catch his name?”
“Miles, I think.”
“Lord,” she gasps, fully turning to face you. “That’s that Morales boy! I used to work with his momma, bless her heart. Barely saw his face after the funeral.”
The image of Miles’ face at the mention of his dad makes you cringe at your comment earlier. How could you not recognize him? He practically stole his face from the mural that was plastered above the precinct. You had only heard the boy’s name uttered once by your mother over the phone at 2:00 A.M., whispered like a secret.
“I can’t imagine how it must be for Miles. Didn’t he just get into that nice school down there? Of course they’ll have to let him go home. He should be with his mother.”
“He was such a sweet little boy. Then I saw him the other day?”
She shook her head, “Look like a different person. He had them flashy studs in his ears, nose pierced and everything.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he had tattoos under that coat as well. Damn shame.”
“He seemed nice when I saw him,” you remark quietly in a weak attempt to defend his character, despite having known him for all of five minutes. “Sweet, like you said.”
Your mother’s face hardens, all of her attention now focused on you as she folds the wrapping of the granola bar.
“That’s why you’re not bringing no boys home ‘till you’re eighteen,” she sharply reminds you. “‘Seems nice’ - How you know if he’s really nice or not?”
Again, Miles’ face appears in your mind’s eye. He didn’t seem to want your pity - rejected it, even. And what of his apparent chronic lateness?
Still…
“You don’t know that, either,” you say despite yourself. “I spoke to him while I was there.”
Your mother’s eyes narrow.
“Girl, I know that look. I better not see you runnin’ around with that boy, understand me?”
She looks set on not changing her mind now, so you only nod in defeat.
“Yes, ma’am.”
In your head, you’re already making plans to hit up the bakery tomorrow - both to apologize and to see the sun kissing Miles’ face again. Maybe tomorrow he’d even have the piercings in.
But when you get there the next day under the guise of ‘a trip to the corner store’, Miles isn’t at the register.
The sky has turned a pale shade of gray, and it has begun to drizzle. Pulling your navy blue coat tightly around you, you consider turning back around when–
Boom!
The sound of something hitting a trash can from behind the establishment catches your attention. It could be him taking out the trash at the last minute again.
Your assumption is proven only halfway correct.
Stepping over discarded boxes and tin cans, you find Miles doubled over, clutching his side. “Are you okay?”
Startled, bloodshot eyes glance at you before focusing on the ground.
“Fucking fantastic,” he grunts painfully.
As you get closer, you can see a dark stain blooming from where his hand is. A sick feeling swirls in your stomach.
“Oh my God, do you need me to call somebody?”
“Nah, I’m…I’m straight,” Miles says through labored breaths. “I just gotta…patch myself up before I get home.”
You whip out your phone and frantically unlock it.
“I’m calling an ambulance.”
“Hell no–”
“You are bleeding!”
He tilts his head towards a duffle bag lying near his feet.
“I got First Aid in there…that’ll do me just fine.”
When he tries to reach for the bag, his knees give out, causing him to collapse right next to it.
-
Miles shivers as you gingerly wrap white bandages around his waist, the flat expanse of skin on his stomach partially exposed to the elements. He fades in and out of consciousness, between your face and black nothingness. When he’s awake, he stares up at you in disbelief.
“I didn’t call 9-1-1, if that’s what you’re wondering,” you tell him with a grin. “This should stop the bleeding, but I can’t help you beyond that.”
“Wusyaname?” he mumbles, head lolling towards you. He’s on the brink of passing out again.
“Call me (Y/N).”
“Wasn’t gon’ call you anything else.”
“Shut up, I just saved your life.”
“Mmmm-hm,” Miles hums with a lazy smile that makes you wonder if he’s becoming delirious.
His eyelids get heavy before he can finish the thought, and he finally blacks out again in your lap.
-
There’s a short line inside the bakery that weekend, and you wonder if Miles has anything to do with it.
Word seemed to get around mysteriously fast that the former teenaged recluse had come out of hiding after that conversation (if you could even call it that) with your mother. From where you’re sitting–by the window, nibbling on a sugar cookie, observing–Miles does not seem to enjoy the attention.
Or maybe you’re just imagining the strained smile on his face as the line of customers becomes a Greek chorus of gasps and squeals.
“You got so big!”
“What did you do to your hair?”
“Oh, you look just like Jeff.”
“How’s Rio?”
“Good to see you out and about again.”
The sparkling curiosity is nearly drained from his face by the time he joins you at the end of his shift with a slice of cake. He does not have the fabled nose piercing in, but two diamond studs sparkle when the light hits them every time he moves his head.
“So?”
“So…?”
“Are you alright after I found you the other day? I saw you limping back there.”
Miles rolls his eyes.
“I’m fine. My mom’s literally a nurse. She got me straight.”
“What’d you tell her? Looked like you broke a rib.”
“Far as she’s concerned, I fell off my bike.”
“I’ve never seen you on a bike.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t have one.”
You shrug. Touche.
“What did you have to say to me that was worth stalking me after my shift?”
“Stalking?”
“You buy the same thing every time, you think I ain’t notice?” Miles smirks, like a detective who’s just gotten a confession. “Who goes to a bakery and only gets cookies?”
“Lay off me, man, these are excellent,” you take another bite for emphasis. “Anyways, I actually came to apologize.”
His brows furrow in confusion. “For what?”
“For what I said the first time I saw you. I didn’t know you were that Miles.”
The corners of Miles’ lips pull downwards into a frown.
“That’s it?”
“Mm, well…”
You bite your lip by force of habit.
“I also wanted to talk to you again. Under better circumstances. That your favorite type of cake?”
Miles looks down at his plate when you point to it with your fork, as if he’s seeing it for the first time.
“Yeah, tres leches. What about it?”
“I dunno, I just always see you eating that and nothing else. Is there a reason?”
You expect to say something about the sweetness, or the texture, but instead he answers:
“It always tastes the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, like…” He puts down his fork and starts to construct an analogy in his head.
“It’s like when you see an ice cream truck. You run up to it before it drives off, and what do you ask for? First thing that pops into your head?”
“Vanilla?”
“Exactly. You could try one of the other ones, but what if it tastes like ass? Now you stuck eating something you don’t like–”
“And it’s a waste of money.”
“Exactly!” Miles laughs. “You get it. My mom makes fun of me because I’ve been eating the same thing since I was five. But it’s always good! And the same amount of good.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
You tap your nails on the table, thinking.
“But what if you find a new flavor that you really like?”
He shrugs, “Then lucky me, I guess. But that doesn’t tend to happen.”
“It could happen, though.”
He watches the strange way you eat. Slowly, teeth-first, as if you’re afraid to make a mess. It’s weirdly dainty, which makes him chuckle beneath his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Uh-uh, don’t do that. What’s so funny?”
Miles gives you that same head tilt again.
“It’s cute, the way you eat.”
Your hand freezes just as it’s about to lift another cookie to your mouth, and you stare at him blankly.
“That’s…”
He pauses too.
“...Weird, yeah. Sorry. I dunno why I said that.”
A beat of silence passes that’s so heavy with awkwardness, that the two of you can’t help but burst into poorly-stifled laughter.
You lean forward with your chin resting in your hand. “That’s fine. I kept coming here just to spy on you, so I guess I’m weird, too.”
“Ah, so you admit it!”
“Hey, if I wasn’t bein’ a total creep, you might’ve bled out next to the garbage dump. Val can’t lose a valuable employee, right?”
“If you put it that way.”
You can see the white of some of Miles’ teeth peeking out as he smiles. One of his canines is charmingly crooked, and sharper than the others. When the smile fades, he suddenly looks uncertain.
“Can I ask you a question this time?”
“Ask away.”
“Do you wanna make this,” he gestures between you, “like, a regular thing? Y’know, ‘meeting under better circumstances’.”
It’s your turn for a smile to spread across your face.
“We should. Whatever you did to end up bleeding out in the rain, I guess I’d be a witness now.”
“M-hm. Can’t have you yappin’ about that to my customers,” He plays along, then winks. “I’mma need your number too, just in case.”
Just before you reach for your phone in your pocket, you hear your mother’s voice in your head, casting a shadow over the whole thing and giving you pause.
All jokes aside, Miles had never explained what had landed him in that predicament behind the bakery in the first place. He’s always late. He lies to his mother. You’re about to lie to your mother.
But the sun is hitting his face again, and with the light bouncing off of his pupils, he looks like he couldn’t hurt a fly. The shadow remains at the corner of your eye. Just the corner.
you having written 42 miles in a way that would resemble his younger, more goofy self, before all the grief is so refreshing :,) he’s still in there, still his old self. still miles. <3
i hate when a writer says the reader’s physical features/race aren’t specified and then later in the fic they unconsciously hit you with the “he brushed away the strands of hair that were plastered to your tear-stained cheeks”
bitch my baby hairs ain’t that long wtf are you talkin about
miles 42 and sunshine reader who’s never left him alone from the start and he swore he hated her and found her annoying as shit but he’s lowkey getting that feeling in his chest that feels scarily unfamiliar to his usual disdain and he’s still trying to hide it
Just saw Spider-man: Across the Spider-verse (Ik im so late to this but long story short, theaters in my place didn't show them last year and I procrastinated till now.) AND HELLO? AWESOME ANIMATION AND CHARACTERS ASIDES (NO LITERALLY THE ANIMATION IS SO FUCKING GOOD YOU CAN PAUSE ANY TIME AND LITERALLY THERE'S YOUR BACKGROUND FOR THE DAY) but NO ONE SAID IT WAS A CLIFFHANGER??? HOW AM I GONNA SURVIVE UNTIL THE NEXT MOVIE
Hey fic writers can we stop referring to any part of Hobie as "thick" (besides his skull maybe) when bro is built like yield sign?? His "thick" arms are not wrapping around you when he hugs alright 😭 you're being restrained by wires.
Like yeah, he's spiderman, he'll be STRONG but I'm TIRED of buff descriptions being used for my stickbug !! Where's my fanfic where reader/mc whoever is scared of touching him in case he breaks something, hm?? Cause ik as a plus size girl I'd be mortified-
red is to spider-man as pink is to miles, in that pink is the color of: self-expression, confidence, compassion. if you side with miles, if you want to support his growth, you're going to be in pink
that being said...a pink robe can be removed, and pink hairdye can be washed out
