moralesmilesanhourlibrary

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

mad props! 04

summary: in the week leading up to the show, your grades begin to slip. whatever will you do... word count: 1820 a/n: hiii i rlly enjoyed writing this chapter bc some of the stuff in here has definitely happened to me lmao. if you feel up to it, reblog and tell me what your favorite song from any musical is in the tags! songs mentioned: 'Chip On My Shoulder' - Legally Blonde the Musical (Original Broadway Cast Recording) prev next

“Max, you’re a little flat, hun.”

The choir director pulled her shawl tightly around her as Max–the chosen casting for Emmett Forrest–ran through some of his sung lines for ‘Chip On My Shoulder’. 

The brown-skinned, dark-haired boy was an excellent actor; he breathed life into the words on the script and delivered them with all the earnestness and humor required to play Emmett. Hell, he even improvised his own jokes.

But he couldn’t hold a note to save his life. 

For some lines, Max could get away with half-singing, half-talking, but he was practically tone-deaf once the song got more involved. The choir director–Ms. Johnson–had to be called in to help get him somewhere that was at least within the ballpark of the correct pitch. His high notes remained painful to all present in the room, no matter what she did.

You huffed from your spot on the fake park bench, resisting the urge to scratch your scalp beneath the itchy wig. Everyone had heard the exact melody on the piano by now. Hear it, sing it. Like Spanish vocabulary, you couldn’t comprehend how people got that sort of thing wrong.

Harmonizing with Max went about as expected; you lost your place several times because of the distracting dissonance between your voice and his, like hearing a parrot and an eagle squawk at the same time.

Regardless, it was too late to recast Max now. He had a leading role with too many songs and lines to memorize. 

“Alright, take five!” the director yelled with a clap of her hands. 

A collective sigh could be heard as students dispersed for their well-earned water and bathroom breaks, the tension in the air dissipating. You stepped carefully off of the stage, when you heard a snicker in your direction.

Miles was in the middle of painting a cardboard sorority building in an obnoxious shade of hot pink, shaded with strokes of fuchsia and cyan that managed to work together somehow. You frowned at the fact that you couldn’t say anything bad about it.

The boy struggled to hold back a laugh, looking up as you stood over him with crossed arms.

“Something funny?”

Miles stood to meet your eyes, carelessly wiping bits of paint onto his pants.

“That frumpy-ass 613 wig you got on, for one,” he replied with a teasing grin. “Are you gonna wear that for the actual show?”

You rolled your eyes.

“No, for your information, I’m not. This is a placeholder wig,” you ripped it off of your head for emphasis. “Why are you even here, anyway? Don’t you got posters to make?”

In actuality, you knew about the art club lending some of its members to paint sets for the show. But you wanted to make sure Miles knew he was unwelcome.

“Just doin’ what I do best,” he shrugged. “You should be grateful for my sacrifice.”

You snorted, “What ‘sacrifice’?”

Miles jabbed his thumb behind him towards the left side of the stage, where Max was going over his lines. “I gotta listen to that nigga sing for over an hour. I’m sacrificing my time and my ears.”

Despite yourself, you laughed brightly at the comment, causing a more genuine smile to spread across Miles’ face. You looked pretty when you laughed.

“Oh my god, he sucks, right? Spent the whole damn song looking for the note.”

“Too late to replace him now, though. Show’s in two weeks.”

You nodded.

There was a brief pause before Miles asked, “So what made you sign up for theater? I was kinda surprised to see you on a stage.”

You gave him a wary look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he raised both hands in defense, “You just seemed like more of the quiet type, that’s all.”

I signed up to avoid you, you thought, but didn’t say aloud; That would’ve given him the satisfaction of knowing that you thought about him that much.

Instead, you answered, “I used to do theater at my old school. Got the lead part most of the time, if you can believe it.”

There was an arrogance in your voice as you said that last bit that soured Miles’ expression. 

“I believe you, no need to convince me,” he said flatly. “Legally Blonde’s an interesting choice, though.”

You shrugged, “The part really lets me show my voice off, so...”

“Showin’ off,” Miles muttered beneath his breath, “Sounds like you.”

“Excuse me?”

Before you could start to argue, his eyes went wide, like he’d just heard a noise that no one else could hear.

“It was really nice talking to you, Y/N, but I gotta go,” he said, spinning on his heel and bolting towards the auditorium door. “Watch my stuff for me!”

Your jaw dropped in offense. Was he allowed to just bail on a club activity like that? And with the gall to ask you to watch his things for him. You totally did, though.

Once you got home, your feet throbbed and your muscles ached from all of the choreography. You were just barely out of your school uniform when you decided to lie down for a quick nap. Or what you thought was a ‘quick nap’.

The blaring of your alarm made your heart jump as your eyes flew open, half of your face damp with drool. The early morning washed over your room in a pale blue shade, and the sight would’ve relaxed you if not for the sudden realization that you weren’t in your pajamas.

You shot up, wiping the side of your face with your sleeve. Your Spanish and AP Physics notebooks were still strewn across your bed, along with several worksheets that had remained blank. Unfinished.

…Oh no.

Your heart was practically in your throat when you explained to Mr. Sanchez why you didn’t have any homework for him to collect. 

The man noticed your glassy eyes, and held up a reassuring hand in the middle of your frantic explanation.

“That’s fine, it happens,” he said gently, “Just bring in the missing work tomorrow, and it’ll only be ten points off. Don’t make it a habit.”

He adjusted his glasses, and returned to grading the pile of worksheets on his desk as you trudged back to your desk, a pit forming in your stomach over those precious ten points.

“You good?” Miles asked as you sat down, concern coloring his features. He ran a finger over a small band-aid on his right temple. “You look like you’re about to cry.”

You buried your face in your arms on the desk.

“Nunya.”

He sighed, “I dunno why I even asked.”

Unfortunately for both you and Mr. Sanchez, missing assignments did, in fact, become a habit. 

You began to spend more time lingering in the auditorium after everyone had left, practicing your line delivery. Adding little details, like extra hair flips or twirls. The spirit of Elle Woods had practically taken over your body.

You got home later and later into the evening, sometimes flopping down onto your bed and falling asleep before your head could even hit the pillow. This new ‘habit’ had you scribbling down vocab words and formulas in a frenzy, balancing your notebook on your lap on the bumpy bus ride to school. The flashcards that you had made for Mr. Sanchez’s class were now sitting untouched at the bottom of your bag.

By Friday, it landed you in front of his desk for office hours after you received your very first ‘F’. 

“As you’ve probably noticed, Y/N, your grades have fallen a significant amount in a very short period of time, and I’m a little concerned,” Sanchez slid your weekly grade report towards you and placed his finger on your Spanish grade. “What’s going on? This is very unusual for a student like you.”

Your sweaty fingers clutched the sides of your seat as you stared down at the report. How did you let it get this bad? Elle Woods would never.

“I-I just…”

You shook your head. “I’ve just been busy with extracurriculars and stuff, so assignments slip my mind sometimes.”

“You’re having trouble balancing them with your schoolwork?”

“Yeah, basically,” you leaned forward, looking desperate. “Can I still re-take that quiz? I didn’t really get to study, and–”

“Oh! That’s actually what I called you in for, one second.”

Sanchez rose from his seat, and made his way over to the door.

“You know about our Study Buddy system, yes?”

You nodded slowly, skeptically. “Am I getting a ‘Study Buddy’?”

“Pre-cisely. Come in!”

He opened the door, and you almost groaned audibly at the lanky figure that appeared at the entrance.

Miles entered with a friendly smile on his face that dropped the second his eyes landed on you.

“Oh. You.”

The Spanish teacher sat back down and gestured towards him.

“Miles here is both a native speaker and beyond proficient in this class. He was so kind as to sign up for the program, so I thought it might be nice to pair him up with someone in the same period.”

Shocked into silence, you were unable to say anything other than a quiet “Okay” as you stared blankly in front of you.

Study buddies. With the guy who didn’t even study. This had to be some kind of sick joke.

“He’ll be giving up a bit of his lunch time to tutor you in my classroom. I’d also highly recommend you two study with each other after school as well, if you can make the time. Sound good?”

“Yes,” you both said in miserable unison. 

“Well, that’s all,” Sanchez waved his hand. “You’re both dismissed. Have a lovely weekend!”

“You too!” you smiled tightly as you got up and made a beeline for the door, nearly bumping into Miles as you did so. 

Your weekend would be anything but ‘lovely’.

You fixed Miles with a glare as soon as you got out into the hallway.

“I’m not giving up my lunch period for you,” you yell-whispered. “I hope you know that.”

He took a step towards you and fired back, “Neither of us have a choice, your highness. If we’re not both up here during lunch, I get in trouble, and you gotta take the L and fail this class.”

“I’d rather fail, then. I don’t give a fuck.”

“Oh?” he laughed mirthlessly. “You were in tears over a damn ‘89’. Makes no difference to me, but I think you do give a fuck.”

You opened your mouth to shoot back a rebuttal, then closed it. Miles raised an eyebrow.

“I’m lying?”

“...No.”

Miles leaned forward until he was only inches away from your face. “Then cooperate. Or we both lose.”

You sighed in defeat, “Fine.”

He nodded curtly, then left to go grab his things from his locker.

In a forced attempt at courtesy, you called out towards his back, “See you next week–”

“Whatever!”

taglist (comment to be added!): @vhstown @alaoraangelix @shuna-boin

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

mad props! 03

summary: you're now officially part of the theater club's latest production! just one small problem... wc: 1282 a/n: Can't believe I was able to type this out within the same week. But I diiiid! The songs being performed are: 'Popular' - Wicked 'Ohmigod You guys' - Legally Blonde: The Musical (Original Cast Recording) | Have fun reading ! Feel free to tell me what you thought in the comments <3 (only warning is that the process of putting a theatre production together is probably not super realistic here lmao) 02 03 04

“One five, four five, three five, two five, one five, four five, three-two-one,”

You clutched the white binder containing your sheet music to your chest as you went through every vocal exercise from middle school that you could remember.

From the diaphragm, you reminded yourself, taking another deep breath.

“One five,

Four five,

Three five,

Two five,

One five,

Four five,

Three-two-one–”

“Y/N L/N?” the casting director’s voice called out to you.

Your stomach lurched as you rose from your seat and approached the stage. You handed the sheet music over to the pianist. The blinding stage lights made you sweat beneath your uniform, but part of you was grateful that it hid the faces of your four-person audience. 

The first chord was your cue.

“Whenever I see someone less fortunate than I…”

You sang the lines through your nose, making your delivery as cartoonish as possible. It even earned a few laughs from the dark void in front of you that bolstered your confidence. 

Now, when playing a character such as Galinda, one may be tempted to keep the squeaky ‘princess voice’ the whole way through. But you knew better. 

You added depth to your voice for some lines, maybe a growl here, a cry there; your performance needed to show that you could do more than just play the pretty soprano lead.

You belted the final note, arms spread wide as if you weren’t just about to vomit from nerves, and curtsied.

There was disembodied applause, and then: “Thank you, we’ll be sure to send out an email on Friday to let you know if you got the part.”

“Thanks,” you exhaled as you stepped down from the stage. 

All that there was left to do was wait.

You were jumpy all Friday afternoon. Even Miles noticed your knee making your desks tremble with the way it bounced up and down in the middle of English class.

“Yo, you good?” he whispered.

You shot him a glare while tapping your pencil frantically. “None of your business.”

“It actually is my business,” he shot back, teeth clenched, “ ‘cuz you’re shaking the damn desk.”

“Is there a problem back there?” the English professor peered over his glasses at the two of you.

“Nope,” Miles sighed. “Not at all.”

Your leg stopped bouncing, and you rested your chin on top of folded hands.

“If you must know,” you muttered, “I had an audition the other day, and callbacks are supposed to be this evening.”

He furrowed his brows. “Oh…kay…?”

“What do you mean ‘okay’? I’m super nervous about it–”

“I mean, why are you telling me this?”

Your eyes widened. Why were you telling him this?

“I…well, you’re sitting next to me, and you asked–” 

“I didn’t ask for allat.”

You kissed your teeth, and went back to taking notes in silence.

-

“Oh, the principal’s gonna love that.”

Joshua Baptiste–current president of Visions’ art club–grinned as he watched Miles add his signature to the wide sheet of paper.

Miles replaced the cap on one of his paint markers with a click, assessing his work.

It was a poster for an upcoming pep rally, advertised in bold, sleek letters that curled in and around each other and ended in sharp arrows. Satisfied, he rose to his feet.

“You think?”

“Hell yeah. Better than anything I could’ve put together,” Joshua ran a hand through loose, sandy curls. “I’m more of a portraits kinda guy.”

The boy’s smile was contagious, showing off two rows of light blue braces. Miles remembered how he used to circle back around to his lunch table just to see them when he laughed with his friends, silver earrings tinkling as he threw his head back. 

He’d done crazier things just to see a crush.

Miles returned the compliment, “Your paintings go crazy, though. You could get into art school if you put a portfolio together.”

Joshua shrugged. “Doubt my parents would ever let me go.”

The other hummed in agreement.

“Anywho, I came over here to ask you a favor. Theater club needs an extra pair of hands working on the set, and I already said one of our guys would help out. You in?”

Miles raised an eyebrow at the sudden new project being dumped on him, but he relented. Not like he had anything better to do today.

“Sure. Where to?”

Joshua’s face lit up, and he gestured for Miles to follow him.

“They’re down in the auditorium. You’re a life-saver, man.”

The auditorium was already bustling with students when the two boys entered. There was one group on the far right busy customizing piles of hot-pink costumes with bows and sequins. On the left side, a bunch of kids clutched wrinkled scripts in their hands, practicing until it was time to run through the first few songs. Miles looked up, and taking center stage was a group of no more than ten girls practicing what looked like stage choreography. 

Regardless of what each group was working on, there was an urgency bordering on panic to their movements and voices. Miles thanked his past self for not signing up to be a part of it.

“Oh, thank god!”

A tall, stocky-looking girl wearing pink glasses scurried up to them, carrying a clipboard.

Joshua gestured towards Miles. “Here’s your guy! He’s got an eye for color, you’re in good hands.”

He gave a quick salute before turning to exit through the double doors.

The girl stuck out her hand. “I’m Sarah Park, junior, and student production manager for, uh, all of this!”

Miles accepted the handshake and nodded. “Cool. What’s your vision for the set?”

“Well, it’s…”

Before Sarah could finish, the lights dimmed, and a voice announced: “We’re gonna rehearse the opening, everyone in ‘Ohmigod You Guys’, please take your places!”

She grabbed Miles’ wrist and led him to a seat in the front row and whispered, “You should probably just see it.”

Suddenly, music boomed from the speakers as the stage lights illuminated the same girls from before, now all standing in a straight line across the stage with wide smiles.

They sang a number he didn’t recognize, but there was plenty of squealing as they passed down a blank sheet of paper as a prop. He deduced from the few lyrics he caught that they were playing sorority girls, but that was about it.

As the “Ohmigods” crescendoed, Miles noticed that there was someone entering from backstage that then stood behind the girls. He wondered what for, until the group parted and stepped to the side.

Nothing could’ve prepared him for who stood in the middle of the stage. In a blonde wig.

“It’s almost there, but…”

Miles’ jaw dropped as you recited your lines fully in-character. 

It hadn’t occurred to him that you could smile without malice, but people were full of surprises: Here was the girl who rarely spoke more than a sentence in class until last week, belting her heart out while twirling across the stage. He would have pinned you as more of the debater type.

The song ended on one final “Oh my god!” in unison before the lights were turned back up.

“Great job, everyone, especially for a first run-through. Everybody take five!”

You sighed in relief, wiping away the sweat collecting around your hairline from being beneath a hot wig and an even hotter spotlight. Wig in hand, you carefully descended down the steps with the rest of the cast and made your way back to your seats.

Sarah brushed past you in between aisles, along with a familiar red hoodie.

You paused and spun around on your heel, confirming your fears. 

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

mad props! 02

summary: Miles catches onto your antics. wc: ~800 a/n: some advanced haterism going on here. this has gotten increasingly fun to write as the plot ramps up! pls don't be scared 2 leave any reactions or thoughts in the comments + tags :) 01 02 03

From then on, you made it a point to ignore Miles during partner work and punctuate it with an eye roll. He tucked his head back in surprise the first time you did it, and you felt like you’d just won a prize.

…That is, until he ignored you back. 

Eventually, Miles just turned to the person in the next column to ask for a pen instead, seeming perfectly content with working on his own.

It should've been a relief.

Today, Mr. Sanchez handed out worksheets to write a short composition on, and you struggled to recall the correct word for ‘kitchen’. All of your attempts to remember the pictures at the back of your flashcards came to nothing, finally forcing you to turn around and ask with a heavy sigh.

"Um, hey," you began, wincing at the softness of your voice. "What’s ‘kitchen’ in Spanish? You remember?"

Miles looked at you with only his eyes. " ‘Cocina’."

No puns, no off-hand comment. Not even an offer to help further. He just quietly returned to his work. 

Your plan was already falling apart now that he no longer initiated conversations for you to brush off, so you went with the next best thing: competing with him.

“Who was able to solve for the trajectory of–oh!”

The AP Physics instructor pushed back a strand of red hair as she glanced between you and Miles, whose hands had shot up at the same time.

“Let’s go with someone who hasn’t spoken yet. Ms. L/N?”

You smiled as you answered, “24.7 meters per second.”

“Excellent job, Y/N, and thank you for participating today. Now, would anyone else…”

As the woman called on other students, a strategy began to take shape. 

It wasn’t hard to tell when Miles was about to raise his hand. His eyes would go wide, with a tiny smile that said he was certain that no one else could get this question right but him. His hand went up so fast that you had to answer before the teacher could even finish their question, but it worked. And it got you a few extra points for participation.

“Now, who can tell me what makes the film ‘Romeo + Juliet’ so unique?” asked the English professor.

Miles raised his hand. “It takes the original play and reinterprets aspects of the original plot for modern audiences.”

As soon as he answered, his eyes flickered towards you almost as if on cue. Sure enough, your hand flew up.

“Y/N, what a surprise! Care to add on?”

“Of course. The director, Baz Luhrmann,” you met Miles’ gaze as you specified the name, “used his over-the-top cinematic style of directing to bring the drama of the original play to life in a contemporary context. He replaced the swords with guns and balls for parties, but kept the dialogue the same so that audiences could better understand Shakespeare without needing to grapple with the work of translating Shakespearean English into modern English. He found a way to make the play accessible without compromising on the text.”

Miles narrowed his eyes at you while the stocky teacher made a noise of approval.

“Very succinct explanations, you two. I’m very impressed with you especially, Miss L/N. I hope to hear your voice more often in class.”

You noticed Miles still glaring, and rested your chin in the palm of your hand.

In a sickly-sweet tone, you whispered, “What?” 

He shook his head and turned away.

-

“Alright, make sure you go home and memorize those formulas! See you Wednesday!”

You neatly stacked your papers and slid them carefully into one of your labeled folders as the bell rang, marking the end of your last class.

The hallway bustled with students rushing like bees to their lockers. On the way to your own, a pop of color catches your eye. 

It’s a bulletin board filled with sign-ups for a number of clubs, from cheerleading to student government to debate. Remembering your college counselor’s comment about your extracurriculars “looking a bit empty”, you drew closer. Might as well, right?

You didn’t have the stamina for cheerleading, but speech and debate looked promising. Just as you took out a pen to sign your name, though, you stopped short and frowned.

At the very bottom of the list read the name ‘Miles Morales’ written with a neon highlighter. 

Then again on the art club’s flier. And anime club. And music engineering. 

‘Miles Morales’.

‘Miles Morales’.

‘Miles Morales’.

Guess you weren’t the only one who needed to beef up their transcript.

“Show-off,” you muttered to yourself. 

Just as you were about to lose hope, there was one other club that Miles hadn’t signed up for, hanging precariously off of the edge of the board from a single thumbtack:

Theater. 

And auditions were the very next day.

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

mad props!

summary: your one-sided beef with Miles morphs into a full-on rivalry until unforseen circumstances force you to call a truce. wc: 789 a/n: drabbles when left to cook in the brain for too long turn into mini-series. watch out ! also yes i am doing another enemies-to-lovers thingy don't look at me 01 02

Snap!

You sucked your teeth in the middle row of Mr. Sanchez’s classroom when the tip of your pencil broke in the middle of your rapid note-taking. 

It broke just as you were forming the tilde that was meant to float above the letter ‘n’, creating an odd downward stroke instead that looked like lightning striking a tree. 

You zipped open your pencil case and took out a tiny metal sharpener, the shavings bound to make a mess of your desk.

“Yikes. That’s why I use the mechanical ones,” remarked the boy sitting beside you. 

A friendly grin spread across his freckled, golden-brown face with round eyes that seemed to ask if you thought his comment was funny. 

You shot him a hard glance to let him know that no, it was not funny that your pencil broke whilst you were in the middle of getting down key grammatical rules. 

The boy’s face fell at the implied rejection. Somehow, the wounded look in his eyes irritated you more than the grin. It made him look like a lost deer.

“Morales, silencio, por favor,” Sanchez said, peering over his glasses at your shoulder partner. “Unless you’d like to explain how direct object pronouns work instead.”

“No, estoy bien.”

There was no sign of panic or apology on Morales’ face as he replied, despite Mr. Sanchez being known to seek out inattentive students to cold-call later. He smiled awkwardly at the bearded man, and again when he was caught a bit later doodling in his notebook.

“Miles Morales, can you translate this sentence for us please?”

“Fui a Madrid el verano pasado,” Miles answered, without missing a beat.

The man shook his head, then moved on.

“Correct. Now, who would like to take the next sentence…”

You would soon learn over the coming weeks since your transfer to Visions that this was a daily routine for Miles: he’d come in late, or get caught scribbling away in the margins of his worksheet. Then he’d get that panicked “help me” smile on his face before making a pun or quip that made you cringe so hard that your back hurt. 

Still, Miles’ answers were never wrong after the fact.

He blended into the crowd otherwise, but the second-hand embarrassment made him hard to forget. 

“Quiz grades were surprisingly low,” Mr. Sanchez announced one Wednesday morning as he walked around, handing out one-page sheets face down. “I would highly suggest going over this unit at home over the long weekend.”

Almost immediately, kids began passing each other’s quizzes back and forth, giggling at how their results all seemed to be floating just under fifty percent. Part of the ease in their laughter came from the assumption that Sanchez would “just curve it anyway.” 

Not that it would make a difference to you. 

You frowned at the eighty-five circled in red at the top of your quiz. Just a couple of points away from a nice, even ninety that would’ve finally bumped your grade up to an ‘A’ instead of an ‘A-’.

Even worse, some of the circled questions were points lost just because you were missing an accent on a letter or two, and a couple of vocab words had slipped your mind. You should’ve answered the bonus questions…

“Wow, you’re the only one without a forty so far,” a familiar voice complimented you. “Good job.”

Miles was offering you another friendly grin, with those same expectant eyes. Please like me, they seemed to plead. 

No thanks.

You replied flatly, “I actually studied.”

It felt like an insult for anyone to be impressed with you in a class full of failing grades.

His grin faded. You expected it to be replaced with disappointment, but he just shrugged and pressed his lips into a thin line before turning away. 

Sanchez returned to where you were sitting to hand Miles’ test back.

He spoke solemnly, “You and L/N were the only passing grades in this class.”

You caught a glance at the number marked atop the page once Miles flipped it over:

‘100%’. With five points as extra credit. 

He looked down at it and hummed quietly in approval before flipping it back over, and suddenly that ‘A-’ felt like a ‘C’. 

It was only logical that the guy who never got an answer wrong would perform similarly on a quiz. But he didn’t deserve it; he didn’t even care. 

“How many hours did you study for that?” you scoffed quietly, like an accusation. 

Miles gave you a sidelong glance, and you could’ve sworn there was mockery in his eyes. 

“I don’t study.”

If you could go back and pinpoint the exact moment where irritation boiled over into disdain, it would be this one.

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

baby's breath and burnout. 01

summary: a flowerbyte florist x tattoo artist au. wc: 1,800

Margo had been working at Jessica Drew’s flower shop for four years now.

The tall, dark-skinned black woman’s face was smooth and shiny in the way that soon-to-be mothers’ faces tended to be when the younger entered her shop for the first time. One hand rested just below her stomach, while the other adjusted and re-adjusted the arrangement of hydrangeas sitting in a green vase by the cash register. 

Margo had her hair freshly slicked back with what must’ve been a pound of gel, ending in one big puff at the back of her head. Her eyeliner was winged sharply at the edges of her eyes, the only sharp thing on her face with her rounded cheeks and gently-sloped nose. 

“Margo, right?”

A tooth-gapped smile spread across her face when Margo’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Your friend told me you were coming.”

“I gotta warn you, I don’t know much about flowers, but I can work a register.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure you learn a thing or two about flower arrangements,” Jess waved her hand dismissively. “I’ll have you shadow me for a little bit, then you’re on your own.”

“Sounds intense.”

She shrugged.

“If you can cut flowers and put ‘em in the right order, you’ll be fine. Most people just get roses anyway.”

Margo laughed, revealing a smile that mirrored the other woman’s.

a new customer.

The bell above the door rang to welcome a new customer. Margo was in the middle of getting the last hydrangea settled into the middle of the vase, her back to the entrance.

“Welcome to Jess’ Flowers, how can I–”

“Hey, you!”

She stopped dead in her tracks when she recognized the man who had tattooed her two weeks ago. He wore a white graphic t-shirt instead of a hoodie, the sleeve just short enough that Margo noticed unintelligible lines of dark ink peeking out from beneath it.

She couldn’t remember what had been written on his name tag (something starting with an ‘M’), but he seemed to remember hers.

“Margo?” 

“Yup,” Margo replied as she abandoned her vase to get behind the counter. “I remember you had an ‘M’ name too, right?”

She hummed the ‘m’ sound, waiting for him to complete it. “Miles,” he said with an easy grin. “My last name’s Morales, so I’ve actually got two of ‘em.” 

Margo had her sleeves rolled up, so the new ink on her forearm was visible once he approached the counter.

Miles pointed to it, “Can I see?”

“Sure.”

She held her arm out, not expecting him to gently take it as he had at the tattoo parlor to examine his work with a furrowed brow. He ran his thumb across her wrist as Margo watched his face for any sign of error. It looked perfect to her, but you never know, right? 

She was frozen in place until Miles let go and nodded approvingly.

“It healed up really nicely, you did a good job.”

“That’s a relief. The way you were lookin’ at it, I thought I might have to get it removed,” she laughed.

“Nah, it’s just that I’ve had clients come back with all types of infections,”

He began counting on his fingers as he rattled off bits of advice, clearly no longer focused on Margo.

“I tell everybody ‘keep it clean and dry’, ‘don’t scratch it’, but then they don’t, and come back asking me to re-do it–”

Miles stopped himself before he went on a tangent about proper tattoo aftercare. He lowered his hands.

“...Thank you for following directions, is what I’m saying.”

“No problem! It’s one of my many talents,” Margo said. 

She stood there, hands primly folded behind her back as she smiled like a doofus.

A silence took over for a few seconds before she suddenly remembered her job.

“Uh, right. Did you want anything?”

Miles blinked twice before it came back to him.

“Y-Yeah, yeah, sorry. I had just walked past and saw y’all had roses?”

 “We do,” Margo said carefully, her smile faltering.

“Who’s…the lucky lady?”

“They're, uh, for my mom,” he corrected, scratching the back of his neck. “I'm visiting my folks’ house for the first time in a while.”

“Oh,” Margo nodded slowly as her face heated up with embarrassment.

“Well, that’s real sweet of you. The flowers are in the back, just–um–gimme a second!”

She rushed out from behind the register and to the back of the shop, where a pile of un-trimmed roses lay waiting. She was supposed to get that done half an hour ago, at any rate.

If you worked there long enough, putting a bouquet together became as mundane as taking orders at a drive-thru: Cut the dead leaves, snip a couple inches off of the stems at a 45-degree angle, just so. Rinse and repeat.

After doing this, Margo wrapped the blooms tightly with pink paper.

Had she not been so frazzled by Miles’ sudden appearance, she would’ve told him that there were other flowers that moms liked. Men always came in with only roses in mind, for any and every occasion. Yet another thing Jess had been right about.

Margo wrapped the bouquet neatly in a bright red ribbon, after adding bits of baby’s breath in between the roses as filler. Creative liberties.

“Here you are,” she held it up proudly like a newborn. “Hope your mom enjoys these.”

“Me too,” He joked as he cradled it just as gently in his arms. He was careful to not wrinkle the paper too much or ruin the flowers. A hopeful look crept onto his face.

“See you around?”

Margo reclaimed her spot behind the register and waved. “Maybe.”

She would bury her face in her hands for saying this as soon as he left, but it made Miles laugh.

the day in question.

Margo fiddled with her sleeves as she entered the tattoo parlor a couple blocks from her workplace. It was sandwiched between a pet shop and a boutique, and the slightly uneven entrance gave you the impression that it was being crushed between two invisible hands. 

A brown-skinned Indian man with a full head of wavy, mahogany locks stood behind the front desk. He had it cut into choppy bangs in the front, with slightly longer bits peeking out from the nape of his neck. The bangs were held up by a bright blue headband, which stood out against his orange hawaiian shirt. He smiled at her, though it didn’t reach his wide eyes. The slight bags beneath them made him look happier than he was regardless. 

“Here for an appointment?”

“Yup, tattoo.”

“Do you have a sketch or a picture of the design with you?”

Margo reached into her tote bag and pulled out the sheet of paper that Gwen drew on. 

“Cool. He’ll be here in a second.”

The cracked and peeling leather of the waiting bench squeaked beneath Margo’s weight as she bounced her leg up and down, her nerves mounting by the second. The designs crowding the wall across from her were all flaming skulls that gnashed and snarled, or stoic samurai surrounded by dragons that curled tentatively around them, all shaded with dark hatched lines. She had all but forgotten Gwen’s advice to check at least one of the artists’ social media before going; she had just up and left the house with the feverish excitement of doing something drastic. 

Margo tried to imagine what her tattoo artist would look like, but couldn’t conjure up anything more creative than a pale hipster wearing a black beanie and a t-shirt with the name of a band she had never heard of written on it. The thought dissipated when a man’s soft voice caught her attention.

“Margo? Margo…Kess?”

Margo had to crane her neck to get a good look at the lean black man standing by the front desk. 

She got the beanie part right. Pale, not so much. 

He wore a bright red hoodie with the sleeves rolled up to reveal an expanse of deep russet-brown, completely devoid of any ink whatsoever. This would’ve invited the possibility that he was there to take her to the room where her assigned artist actually was, if he wasn’t in the middle of removing white gloves stained with ink at the fingertips. 

The man looked around the room for a good minute before locking eyes with Margo, and it was then that she remembered to answer.

“Oh, that’s me, sorry!”

She shot up from her seat with an awkward grin plastered across her face. This made him burst into short, breathy laughter.

“Then why you ain’t say nothing? Had me looking around an empty room like a dumbass.”

The light, easy tone of the man’s voice softened his crass language. His smile dazzled her when he held out a now-gloveless hand for her to shake.

“I’m Miles.”

“Margo–ooh, wait, you know that already. My bad.”

This made Miles snort and laugh even harder.

“I think we’re gonna be good friends, Margo. Follow me.”

Margo held her breath, trying to remain stock-still as Miles pressed the cold stencil to her forearm. She didn’t so much as speak until he was finished applying it.

“Sorry for not bringing that in beforehand. I kinda did this on impulse, y’know?”

“That’s alright, it’s just a flash,” he rose to his feet from the stool he was sitting on. “It’s cute.”

He held her gaze with warm brown eyes that seemed to sparkle with mischief when they caught the light. She averted her eyes to look at one of the drawings on the wall behind him.

“Thanks.”

The hum of the machine had made Margo nervous at first.

“How much will it hurt?” she asked with a false air of humor. “Scale of one to ten.”

“Don’t tell me you’re backing out now,” he looked up briefly with a grin. “It’s on your arm, and the needle’s not that big, so…I’d say about a two.”

“How do you know?”

The question gave voice to the thought she’d been holding onto since she walked in.

Miles chuckled softly. “I got ink, just not where you can see it. You ready?”

With this new-found assurance, Margo relaxed into the big leather armchair as Miles went to work. He was right; she only felt a tingling, bordering-on-itchy sensation as the needle traveled across her skin. Gwen hadn’t colored in the sketch she brought in, which meant that there was no shading or coloring to be done. Margo had a monarch butterfly on her arm before she knew it.

“You like it?”

Miles flashed another smile at her as he spread a cool gel over the tattoo. He already knew what she would say.

“Are you kidding?” Margo lifted her arm and held it up to the light. “I love it.”

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

mad props! 05

summary: you learn a couple new things about Miles as you fall into your new study routine. wc: 1.1k start from the beginning prev next a/n: probs won't update regularly if i'm being transparent but i gotta wrap the story up! so expect more in the coming weeks probably. and before you ask no this does not mean i'm returning to writing reader insert i am just finishing what i started bc i feel like i owe it to my audience ! much love <3

The auditorium was empty during lunchtime, which meant that no one was there to spectate as the sound of your voice echoed through the rows of unoccupied seats. You were working on one of the numbers from the second act.

“It’s not up to me…Just let me be…Legally–”

“I knew I’d find you here.”

You sighed, not needing to look up to know who it was.

“Have you come to take me away?” you asked dryly as you descended down the steps and trudged over to where Miles stood in the middle of the aisle with a smug look on his face.

“You can finish your song, if you want.”

You brushed right past him towards the double doors.

“Stop pretending to be nice.”

Essentially being a teacher’s assistant, Miles had elevator privileges that removed the hassle of climbing up five flights of stairs to reach Mr. Sanchez’s classroom, making it the most (and perhaps the only) pleasant part of the experience.

Sanchez was digging into a bowl of salad when the two of you arrived.

“Ah! Buenas tardes,” he greeted hastily through a mouthful of lettuce. “Thank you for being on time.”

You shoved past Miles and rushed over to the professor’s desk.

“I just have to make up for last week’s missing homework and a couple quizzes, right?”

“Well, yes, but there’s also–”

“Can I just do that at home, then? All due respect, but I really don’t need a partner to–”

“Hold on,” he held up a hand to stop you. “You also have some gaps in understanding when it comes to grammatical concepts such as presente and futuro, missing assignments notwithstanding. You’ll go over those with Miles first before making up last Friday’s quiz independently. Comprende?”

You visibly deflated where you stood. To tell the truth, the different tenses were never your strong suit, but you were able to get away with that with flawless vocabulary memorization and verb conjugation (in the present tense, of course). Now? Not so much.

“Comprende,” you groaned before turning away to grab a seat.

Miles had already taken a chair and pulled it up to one of the desks in the front, and was sitting on it backwards with his notebook in front of him.

“Ready, partner?” he said with a wide, mocking grin. He knew you couldn’t tell him to shut up in front of Sanchez.

You rolled your eyes and sat down with a slump.

“Let’s get it over with.”

He opened his notebook and flipped through a few messy pages before landing on a blank sheet. Sloppily ripping it free from its binding, he took out a Sharpie (which he uncapped with his teeth) and began to draw a line down the middle. 

“What are you doing?”

He began writing a series of words down either side of the line.

“Helping you.”

Miles slid the piece of paper towards you.

It was a verb conjugation chart, labeled ‘Past Tense’ in his strange handwriting that made no distinction between upper and lower-case letters.

“I’m gonna give you a sentence, and you repeat it back to me in the past tense. Then we’re gonna do the same thing in futuro.”

You sulked, “How come you don’t have to memorize anything? You said you don’t even study.”

He gave you a blank, ‘are-you-stupid’ look.

“I speak Spanish.”

“No duh, I mean in every other class. You know the whole periodic table front-to-back.”

“Huh? Oh, photographic memory. I only need to read something once,” he tapped his forehead, “then it’s locked in.”

Stunned, you could do nothing but lean back in your chair and slowly shake your head.

“Absolutely ridiculous.”

The rest of that week had you repeating the same song and dance of trudging into Sanchez’s classroom and running drills with Miles and his impromptu conjugation charts. For every wrong answer, Miles made an incredibly irritating sound that was meant to imitate a game show buzzer, which forced you to pay more attention to minimize how often you had to hear it.

You hated to admit it, but at some point you began to retain the tenses with more ease than before and noticed a steady increase in your quiz grades as a result. 

Thursday after school saw you arrive at an empty auditorium, thirty minutes before rehearsal. Any normal student would spend this extra time studying or doing homework, but you had seen enough flashcards and charts to last you a lifetime. Instead, you pulled out your highlighted copy of the sheet music for ‘Chip on My Shoulder’ and began rehearsing as a one-man ensemble.

Your singing today felt more difficult than usual; the lyrics suddenly felt heavy on your tongue, the notes coming out strained and forced. In the middle of a line, the double doors swung open just as your voice cracked.

“Damn, were you lip-syncing this whole time? You sound rough.”

You rolled your eyes. Of course it had to be him.

Miles sounded nearly out-of-breath as he strolled past you, his uniform rumpled shirt and un-tucked, as if he’d just put it on. The band-aid on his forehead was joined by another, more colorful one on his cheek. 

“As if you could do better,” you scoffed as you watched him toss his bag onto an empty chair two seats away from where you sat.

He looked up with a mischievous grin.

“I could.”

“Oh?” You smirked and shoved the sheet music into his face. “Try it, then.”

Miles squinted at it before pushing it away.

“Pfft, this song is lightwork. I don’t need that.”

“Alright, then recite your lines. I’ll start,” you inhaled deeply and held up the lyrics. “ ‘You came out here–’”

“‘To follow a man? Harvard Law was part of that plan? Man, what rich, romantic planet are you from?’”

Startled by his near-perfect pitch, you stuttered, lowering the sheet of paper a bit to give Miles an odd look. 

He continued, “ ‘Instead of lying outside by the pool, you stalk some guy to an Ivy League School’...et cetera.”

You blinked in utter disbelief. Miles’ voice had a tone as clear as a bell, and flawless diction to match. If he had auditioned, he would’ve been a shoe-in.

“...Huh. You sing? Like, actually?”

He shrugged, “I used to lead the choir at church, but not anymore.”

Just as he finished his sentence, Sarah followed by a handful of tech kids began trickling into the auditorium.

“Oh, sweet, you guys are early!” Sarah nodded, making two check marks on her clipboard as her bag hung off of one shoulder. “Miles, d’you wanna help figure out the lighting situation for the show? Josh said you were good with color.”

“Sure, not a problem.”

“You’re amazing, dude. I don’t know how we would’ve gotten those sets done without you.”

“All in a day’s work!”

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

idk if this has been done before but Margo braiding Miles' hair? it seems basic but I feel like it would be super cute

thank you <333

Thanks for requesting! <3

No warnings except miles being a #gamer and the fact that I did not proofread this

"Come on, I could finish it in like, thirty minutes!"

"Yeah, after ripping all my hair out in the process."

Miles didn't take his eyes off of his monitor as Margo stood eagerly in the door frame, a clear makeup bag of hair supplies in her arms. The room was dim, the blinds having been shut to avoid any glare on the screen.

Miles wouldn't budge the first five times, but she'd get him today.

He sat with his knees pulled up to his chin in an old but sturdy leather swivel chair. Certainly not a traditional 'gaming chair', but he called it that.

"I'm real gentle, I promise!"

"I've seen you do your own braids,"

Miles executed a winning combo on his controller.

"and I told you I want no parts. Pun intended."

Margo pursed her lips, and thought for a moment.

"You still looking for a copy of 'Dandadan'?"

The boy paused the game, and gave her a sideways look.

"How did you know that?"

She shrugged, "Context clues. But that's not important. I can let you borrow mine--"

Miles lit up. "Really--?"

"--If you let me do your hair. Capiche?"

He paused, glancing at the sharp rat tail comb sitting in Margo's bag. Miles had blown most of his allowance for this week at Game Stop, so any new manga purchases would have to wait until Monday. Unless...

He sighed deeply, running a hand over his face.

"Fine."

Miles came to regret this decision as he sat in front of the living room couch between Margo's knees, wincing at every tug and pull.

"Is this the last section--ow!"

"Stop moving," Margo waved her wide-toothed comb around threateningly like a weapon. "You almost done, anyway. See?"

She put down the comb and grabbed a small mirror for him to look into. Save for a small tuft of un-braided hair, his entire head had been neatly cornrowed and shone with grease. There were about four total, and it had only been twenty-ish minutes or so.

After ten minutes more of pain and accusations of 'tender-headed-ness', Margo was finally done.

"You look so cute!" she chirped, clapping her hands together. "I'mma go wash my hands."

Miles rolled his shoulders and reached for the mirror to assess Margo's work. The braids tugged at his scalp as he turned his head at different angles, trying to get used to the look. His brows furrowed.

Miles' hair had stayed in more or less an afro since he could walk, with the exception of his mother's only attempt to sit him down and braid it when he was six.

...It did not go well.

The mass of hair became almost a part of his face. The cornrows made it feel like half of it was now missing. Weird stuff.

"D'you like it?" Margo asked, having emerged from the bathroom.

"It'll have to grow on me. I only did this for the free manga, remember?"

Margo's eyes widened, as if she just remembered something.

Very matter-of-factly, she said, "Oh, I lied about that."

"...What?"

Miles' face fell immediately as she knelt down and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"But you'll forgive me, right? I made you look cooler!"

Margo pulled him into a tight bear hug. He rolled his eyes.

"You might be right, but I'm gonna get you back for that. Better keep a close eye on...what's her name? Kimi?"

"Kuromi, dumbass," she picked up the comb from before and gently smacked him with it. "And don't touch my figurines. You won't walk outta my room alive."

"Count your days, man."

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

if you believe in me - 04.2

summary: a very brief intermission. between aaron and his father, miles wonders who he takes after more. wc: 1.5k a/n: this chapter is me trying to get back into the swing of things before the next major plot point (!!!) so this might feel a little slower and more introspective. thanks for reading! (reblog with ur favorite comic or manga if u want idk) taglist: @shuna-boin @aloraangelix @vhstown @sillykirb @proudgojofucker @weirdducky17 @milesandcorysupermacy prev. next

BOOM!

Miles hits the ground shoulder-first with a dull thud, the storage building bursting into flames behind him.

I’m gonna feel that one later, he thinks as he rolls to his feet and back into a sprint. But Oscorp’s gonna feel it, too.

With a leap and a shot of his grappling hook, it’s not long before he’s back on the sidewalk, with Aaron waiting around the corner. The older man has completely retired the Prowler suit now.

“Not bad for your first solo run,” he nods. “Could still be a lil’ quicker, but you’ll pick it up.”

Miles twists the joints of his metal claws. The steel is still shiny and new, save for a bit of soot from the explosion. The purple glow disappears as they power down with a quiet whir and detach to reveal the human flesh underneath. They work like a charm so far.

It’s been two weeks, but he hasn’t gotten to use them - Aaron has yet to send him on a mission where he’d have to. He wants to ask his uncle about it, ask why he let him do all that welding and tinkering if the claws were just for show. But Miles knows that if he does, the man’s brows would furrow and he’d get a stern speech about not getting too eager about that sort of thing. And he’d be right. 

So, like every other night, Miles says nothing but “thanks”.

“And what’s this one about?” 

You pointed at a comic sitting on the far side of Miles’ bed. On the cover stood a man wearing what looked like some imagined version of an “African” headdress. He was shirtless and dressed in nothing but shorts and brightly-colored boots, like the costume of a wrestler. The upper half of his face was obscured by a mask with white eyes tied around his head. The flat colors and dark lines make it look old, likely from the 80s or early 90s. Above the man on the cover was the title in bold graphic font: Anansi.

“You don’t know ‘Anansi’?” Miles asked with wide eyes before shaking his head. “Nah, we gotta fix that.”

He threw what he was reading aside, hovering his hand over the pile of comics until he located the very first issue. 

“So Anansi is like, this spider that gets turned into a human who has the abilities of a spider. Y’know, climbing up walls and shit.”

“Does he shoot webs out of his ass?”

“That’s not how that works, and no. Anyway, he’s got spider powers and he beats the bad guys by being a trickster instead of just brute force.”

You took the comic from him and began leafing through the worn pages, frankly more interested in the art than the plot. The sharp lines and crosshatching remind you of Miles’ sketches. You turned to Miles and held it up once you were finished looking at it.

“Can I borrow it?” 

There’s a shadow of uncertainty that crosses his face for a moment as you await his answer. 

“Mmm…I dunno. I’ve had that thing since I was ten. You gonna be careful with it?”

You place a hand over your heart. 

“Promise.”

He snorts, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I’ll let you have it for a week, sound good?”

“Good.”

Miles remembers that he’s supposed to ask for his comic back on the way home, the two metal claws tucked safely into his backpack.

He sneaks a glance at his uncle, and tries to copy his stride when he walks. It looks easy, but there’s a rhythm to it. Miles keeps his gaze low, but his steps lively. The key is not to show the sweat, as they say. All of one’s effort goes into making it look like there’s no effort at all. 

Aaron looks over at his nephew, and chuckles.

“Remind me of your old man when you walk like that,” he says. 

Miles grins good-naturedly. Guess the sweat shows. But it’s fine, for now.

“What’s that mean?”

“When we was young, we used to watch the older kids walk out the corner store and try to copy ‘em. The way your pops did it…”

The man’s shoulders shook with laughter at the memory.

“He kinda looked like, like he was marching almost. Just stomping down that sidewalk!”

Aaron began to demonstrate, making his steps quicker and heavier.

“I look like that?” 

Miles wrinkled his nose and began to tone down his swaying.

“Exactly like that. Shit’s kinda amazing, really. Genetics.”

“I don’t think that’s how genetics work.”

“Oh yeah?” Aaron raised an eyebrow. “Then how come I got you stealing like my pops and me, and in my colors?”

Miles laughed, “But this is good stealing!”

“You got a point there.”

Aaron lifted his gaze upward towards the skyline. The moon was out in full tonight.

“Did y’all make good money, at least?”

“Sure did. Sometimes it was the only money that came in, that’s why we ain’t stop.”

There’s a beat of silence. Miles pats his left pocket to make sure the wad of cash is still there, and wonders if his uncle had to do the same thing, or if he kept it in a fanny pack or briefcase.

“So what made you finally give it up?”

“Oh, that one’s easy. Jeff did it for your mom. Hard to keep secrets with a baby on the way.”

Miles tried to picture a younger version of his father – less facial hair, no eye bags, better eyesight, probably – looking a pregnant Rio in the eye as she broke the news. He looks into her gentle face and…yes, there. Right there is when he decides it’s over. 

Even without the whole parenting thing, it probably killed him inside to have to lie to her every night about where he’s been. Miles gets it.

“What about you?”

Aaron shrugged.

“Couldn’t leave my nephew hanging.”

He had knocked on Miles’ door after a few weeks of radio silence and found the kid lying in bed, surrounded by dirty clothes and snack wrappers. The room smelt of stale sweat, the clothes piled up on the floor impossible to get through, so Aaron elected to stand just outside.

Miles looked up, and suddenly the man understood what had Rio so frantic on the phone. 

The boy’s gaze was…vacant. Like he was looking through him, at something far off in the distance. There were no words comforting enough to turn the lights back on behind those eyes. So Aaron had done the next best thing:

“Go wash up, we goin’ out.”

Miles doesn’t remember it that way. He hardly remembers anything from that period of time between the funeral and his uncle barging into his room. Just a long stretch of gray, and then the door cracks open, then he’s in the shower realizing how long his hair’s gotten, and soon he’s dodging the punching bag in Aaron’s apartment, carrying crates back and forth and maybe blowing some up on occasion. 

He knows in his head that he’s doing this to hurt the pockets of invisible men hiding in their glass skyscrapers and high-rise offices, and he’s as angry at them for sucking the life out of his neighborhood as he’s always been. 

But it had started with the door, cracked open just enough for his uncle’s face to poke through. Otherwise, Miles might’ve been content to lie there and become one with his mattress as he missed another week of school.

He wonders if his father went on those runs because he, too, looked into his future and hadn’t the slightest idea as to what he was looking at. 

Miles’ thoughts are interrupted when his phone buzzes in his pocket. You have his Anansi issue.

“So this is all you do in your free time, then? Comics and robots?”

Miles has his nose in another shounen manga.

“Is that a bad thing?”

You remember the helmet, and the parts set in neat little rows. And the tarp in Uncle Aaron’s car.

“Not for the most part. More interesting than what I do.”

Miles finally looks up, and squints. “What do you do in your free time?”

“I braid hair,” you reply with a bit of pride. “Pretty good at it, too.”

“Mm-hm, that’s what they all say before they fuck yo’ shit up,” he jokes, earning an issue of Jujutsu Kaisen to the face.

“Ow!”

“Shut up, with them fuzzy ass braids.”

Miles gasped dramatically. “You said they looked nice!”

“Looked. Past-tense.”

“Chill on me, my mom didn’t have time to re-do ‘em this week.”

Seeing an opportunity, your eyes lit up.

“Ooh, let me–”

“No.”

Miles narrowed his eyes at you.

“Aw, come on! You have so much hair, it could be fun! And you said you’d let me.”

You reached out to touch one of Miles’ overgrown braids but ended up swiping the air as he dodged your hand.

“I said ‘maybe’, and now the answer is no. You’re gonna ‘have fun’ in my hair? Like you ‘had fun’ with my t-shirt? I know you stole it, by the way.”

“I up-cycled it.”

“Cutting a shirt in half is not up-cycling, and you’re not touching my head.”

“You're so mean.”

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

what you're searching for.

summary: Margo goes to a shitty poetry slam and gets more out of it than she expects. wc: 4.9k warnings: alcohol consumption, and it's like very VERY lightly implied that they had an Adult Sleepover if you get my meaning. Nothing really too suggestive in here I promise. One singular reference to a tiktok. a/n: this took me a whole ass week but I'm very proud of where my writing style is going! somewhat inspired by the film 'Love Jones'. If you enjoyed this pls feel free to leave your thoughts or your favorite line if you have one! EDIT: OH MY GOD I FORGOT TO ADD: the first poem is actually taken from the Junior novel 'Miles Morales: Suspended' by Jason Reynolds! The poem at the end is mine though lmao I'm not the best poet

Margo can’t stand poetry.

Someone gets up in front of you with a piece of paper clutched in their hands, and recites what is simultaneously the most vague and the most painfully obvious string of fragmented sentences you’ve ever heard as if they’d just touched your soul.

It’s not rapping, not preaching, but the ugly middle child standing between them. Some odd bastardization of music for people who thought they were too smart for either of the first two, but weren't brave enough to just give speeches.

Speeches, at least, are coherent, specific, and can be scrutinized.

So far, sitting in the front row of the bar that her classmate Zoe had invited her to for poetry night, no one has changed her mind. 

Tonight’s performances consisted of an assembly line of men (and a couple of women) in vintage sweaters ranting about their exes to the rhythm of bongo drums, or some mildly relevant social issue that none had the lexicon to really say anything in stanzas that hasn’t already been said. She had heard nothing yet that sounded much more profound than an Instagram post.

Although, one girl had come up and recited a short poem about her late mother that Margo thought was quite sweet, and the least tortuous to sit through.

The crowd erupted in snaps again for a poet with long braided dreads and an ankh tattoo whose words she had tuned out. The host took the mic and announced the final (thank god) participant:

“Now this next one I had to practically drag over here to get him to share his beautiful poetry with us tonight. Everyone, please give a warm welcome to one of my close friends and colleagues, Miles Morales!”

A lanky young man–Margo suspects about six feet even, given the way he’s towering over the host–awkwardly shuffles over to the center of the stage, offering the crowd a tight-lipped smile. 

He’s in a plain green sweater with the sleeves hastily rolled up to his elbows and a bomber jacket tied around his waist. As soon as he’s handed the microphone, it seems to dawn on him that there’s no turning back, and his body visibly tenses. 

He clearly just got here, and for once Margo doesn’t know what to expect.

Squinting beneath the bright spotlight, he clears his throat and speaks into the mic. 

“Um, hi.”

A few scattered ‘hi’s from the crowd.

There’s something bright and sweet in the tone of his voice that makes him sound a little boyish, and she wonders what he could possibly have under his sleeve that warranted him getting dragged up here last minute.

He takes a deep breath.

“It’s said

That nobody

Is ever more

Than ten feet

From a spider.”

Miles began the poem carefully, like he was confessing something. 

“They be everywhere you and me are.”

A few members of the crowd laugh, others shudder at the thought and frown. 

“And even though

We see them only

When they big enough to see, or when

They move,

Like a cursor

Across the blank white

Page of a wall…”

His voice loses some of its airiness in exchange for confidence as he recites the rest of the poem, and Margo realizes that he isn’t reading off of anything. 

Either he’s improvising, or he has it entirely memorized.

“Or when we trip

The web-like wire

Of a booby trap

Or when they

Fang our flesh

We should probably

Assume most

Just be right there…”

Miles paused and looked somewhere far beyond the crowd, lifting his arm to point to the back of the room. Then he repeated:

“Right there,

Right here,”

He gestures toward the front row, where his eyes land directly on Margo. It’s not so close to the stage that she can tell for sure, but she thinks she sees a hint of a smile cross his lips.

“Looking at us,

Looking over them.”

Silence. 

His arm falls limply to his side as his eyes frantically scan the audience, searching for some kind of response. 

Then, someone begins to clap. Then another. Then another. WIthin moments, the entire room erupts in applause, causing a shy smile to spread across the young man’s face.

“Uh, thank you!” he says, surprised at the positive reception, before shrinking into himself again and leaving the stage the same way he came.

The host returns and takes the mic from him.

“Miles Morales, everybody!”

-

After the poetry slam, Margo insisted that Zoe take her to the sushi place across the street. It had a bar sitting off to the side, one with significantly less poets. The decorative lights hung directly above the shelf filled with glass bottles and shrouded them in cherry red.

Zoe takes a sip of her sherry and leans in.

“Sooo, how was it?”

“It was a’ight.”

The light-skinned girl’s lips pull into a pout. “Seriously?”

“Hey, I told you poetry wasn’t my thing,” Margo pauses, then amends, “I liked the last guy, though. Breath of fuckin’ fresh air.”

“Right? His style really caught my attention, subtle.”

“Glad you liked it.”

Zoe’s eyes widened as she glanced just beyond Margo’s shoulder.

When Margo turned towards the familiar voice and froze. 

The poet in question was standing just inches away, a friendly smile gracing his features. His jacket is no longer around his waist, neatly folded over his arm like an expensive coat. He is with the excitable darker-skinned man who’d just hosted the event, and a man the shade of sandalwood standing just behind him.

They’re both wearing the same type of muted cardigan as Miles, but they’ve got actual coats.

“Y’all were in the front, right?” Miles asks the both of them, though he’s only looking at Margo.

She nods wordlessly. Zoe picks up the slack.

“M-hm, you were great up there! You’ve really never shown anyone your work ‘till tonight?”

Miles snorts at the wording of the phrase. ‘His work’.

“I wrote that poem in high school,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Wasn’t supposed to be anything serious, but my roommate…” 

He gives the dark-skinned man a dirty look. 

“...swiped my journal and found it. Told me I should read it out loud somewhere.”

Margo examines Miles’ face and imagines him as a baby-faced high-schooler, sitting in the back of the classroom with a protective arm around the beat-up red composition notebook he’s writing in. He stuffs it in his bag as soon as he’s done, because he has just poured his heart out onto that page, and his crush’s name is in there. Maybe there are tiny doodles of her in the margins.

“Yo,” the sandalwood-colored man claps Miles on the shoulder. “We about to hit up Tiff’s place, you coming?”

“Yeah, in a minute,” Miles nods dismissively. “I’ll catch up with y’all.”

The two other men give each other a knowing look before brushing past him.

“Alright man, catch you later then.”

Once she finally regains the ability to speak, Margo remarks, “You were the only performance I really liked, if I’m being honest.”

“Is that so?” 

“Oh yeah, this one hates poetry,” Zoe places a hand on Margo’s shoulder and laughs. “Tried to change her mind by bringing her over here, but no dice.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “What made mine so different?”

“Hm, I dunno…” Margo’s eyes float over his form before making their way back up to his face. “Your delivery, I guess.”

Safe to say, he looks amusedly unconvinced.

“My…delivery.”

She catches herself and quickly adds, “I-I mean, it also kinda felt like everyone else was trying too hard. So.”

He tilts his head at the remark.

“Are you just saying that to flatter me?”

.“I don’t flatter people. Too close to lying.”

“That sounds like half a poem already. Maybe you should go up there next week.”

She gives him a lopsided smile.

“Only if you’re there. I need something to actually look forward to.”

His tongue darts out and passes over his lips.

“What’s your name?”

“Margo.”

Miles hums, softly repeating the name before inching his way over to the counter where he leans his hip on it.

“Pretty. Can I buy you a drink, Margo?”

She doesn’t think her name is all that pretty, but he makes it sound that way.

“Knock yourself out.”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Zoe teases as she rises from her seat. “I’m gonna go order us some sushi.”

Miles takes the stool to Margo’s left as he waits on their drinks, his long legs never needing to leave the ground to do so.

He has a funny way of sitting, hands folded neatly in front of him with his back just a few degrees off from being perfectly straight. As if you needed to look distinguished at a sushi bar.

Church boy, Margo guessed. That, or his daddy’s a military man.

It’s adorable either way.

“You in school?” she asked.

“Yup. Princeton.”

Her eyes lit up.

“Oh shit, me too! I’ve never seen you on campus, though. What’s your major?”

“Physics. You?”

“Comp Sci. Been coding since I was in middle school, so…”

Margo remembers the echoing ‘click-clack’ of her keyboard as she sat in an empty computer lab for hours on end after school because she preferred it to her parents’ house.

The bartender hands Miles two glasses of white wine, and he sets the second glass in front of Margo, his warm eyes still focused on her. 

She’s intrigued by how clear they are - no trace of suspicion or calculation behind them. Just the warmth.

“So, where you from? My folks are over in Brooklyn.”

“Georgia.”

Miles’ brows jump to his hairline.

“Damn. What brought you all the way up here?”

To get as far away as possible. 

“Well, it’s Princeton,” she says beneath a forced laugh.

“Yeah, but you got, like, eight different HBCUs over there. How’d Princeton win you over?”

Margo breaks eye contact to stare into her drink.

“Needed a change of pace.”

When she looks up to gauge Miles’ reaction, skepticism is written all over his face. But he doesn’t push it further.

“That’s fair. Princeton’s got a cutting-edge quantum physics program that I’m aiming for. Had to beg my parents to come here,” he grins proudly, “but here I am.”

Margo is silent for a moment.

“Can I tell you something?” she asks suddenly, beckoning Miles to lean in.

“Yeah?”

Grinning, she half-whispers, “I’m actually here on a scholarship.”

He gives her an odd look. 

“Why’d you say it like that? Nothin’ wrong with getting a full ride. The opposite, actually.”

“Some people might feel otherwise. You’re like, the second person I’ve told other than my parents.”

“And why me?” Miles chuckles. “My poetry was just that good?”

“I just…Hm.”

Margo leans back and takes a contemplative sip of her wine, watching him over the rim of her glass. 

Why did she just tell him that?

“I guess I just sorta felt like telling you.”

Margo cautiously sets the wine back down. She figures if she’s not careful, he’ll have her full government name and social security number by the end of the night.

“Y’know, I actually get that a lot,” Miles laughs. “One time, I had this lady I was standing in line with at Target turn around and just start telling me stories about her dead son and how much she misses him. And it’s like, I’m sorry for your loss, but we’re in Target right now and I literally do not know you.”

“Wait, people just go up to you and…tell you shit?”

“Yup. There was this other time at church, too. Just as service ends and I’m about to get up and leave, this short old dude–Dominican, I think–stops me and starts telling me about his entire life. I’m talking start to finish! Apparently I reminded him of his nephew that died in the military or something.”

“Jesus.”

A crease forms between Margo’s brows. She wishes she could say she didn’t understand the old man at church or the lady at Target, but she does. No, it’s not the poetry. It’s got nothing to do with words. 

It’s the way that Miles looks at people. 

Like he already knows all of your secrets, but you’re not worried because they’re safe with him, so might as well tell them. It’s a merciful sort of gaze; you get the impression that he won’t judge you. You might even tell him more after his friendly ‘boy-next-door’ voice coaxes them out of you. The thought unsettles her because she had done just that.

“You ever had a girlfriend before?” She asks, all of a sudden.

Miles shrugs, “Yeah, in tenth grade, then again freshman year. Didn’t really work out.”

“Why not?”

His brows furrow gently for just a second, as if he’s still trying to figure out the answer to that.

“I…don’t know, actually. It goes well the first few months and then…”

“It fizzles out?”

“I get ghosted. Something about how they’re ‘not ready’. Understandable, I guess, but you don’t have to ghost me, y’know?”

He awkwardly examines his fingers, then his glass. 

Margo feels a bit guilty for suddenly bringing up his exes when they’d just met. Would they end up the same way? She saw herself there too, being in a relationship for six months before his weird pastor’s eyes get to be a bit too much and she takes off.

“Yikes, sorry I asked.”

“It’s no problem,” a smile starts to return to his face. “Onto better things, right?”

“Right.”

“And you?”

“Huh?”

“You ever been in a relationship before?”

Margo smiles awkwardly and messes with one of her fingernails.

“Well…not exactly.”

Miles’ eyes widen.

“Never?”

“I mean, guys offer, and then we talk for a little bit, but then…”

“They flake out on you.”

“Pretty much.”

“Damn shame,” he says with a bit of sharpness to his voice. “Not even a first date?”

“Nope, just ‘Read at 4:15’.”

“You know what I think it is?”

Just as he asks this, his knee brushes against her thigh. Margo isn’t sure if it’s an accident, but it distracts her nonetheless.

“What?”

“You’re too smart for them, I can tell. It scares ‘em.” But it doesn’t scare me, is the suggestion.

He smiles then, the kind that shows the whiteness of his teeth on every vowel. It’s wide enough that a dimple comes out of hiding on his left cheek, and she suddenly wants to tell him everything again. She takes another sip of wine.

“So! What’d I miss?”

Zoe finally returns from ordering their sushi at the front with an expectant grin. Miles still hasn’t taken his eyes off of her friend, while she is staring at him like a string of code, which, if you know Margo, is better than nothing.

“You didn’t miss much,” says Margo. “We were just talkin’ about our majors. School stuff.”

Miles checks his phone and lets out a low whistle.

“Well, it was lovely meeting y’all, but I gotta bounce. After getting dragged onstage, I get to be dragged over to a house party, too.”

Just as he rises from his seat, he stops and points at her.

“Before I go, though, d’you mind giving me your digits? I’d love to talk about, uh…computer science…over lunch.”

She snorts, “Who still says ‘digits’?” but hands him her phone anyway. 

It couldn’t hurt to try. 

“Sure.”

His eyes light up as if he wasn’t expecting her to say yes as he saves his number as ‘poetry slam guy’ in her phone, then hands it back.

“Cool,” Miles begins his walk towards the entrance backwards, holding eye contact for just a little longer before turning around. “G’night!”

“Goodnight!” the two women call out in unison as he leaves.

Margo looks to her left at the now-empty bar stool. The glass of wine Miles left on the counter is full, completely untouched.

It’s still on her mind as she's sitting in her single dorm room, re-writing her lecture notes on cyber security in a meticulous neat print that could almost pass for a font.

Every few minutes her pen stops because she’s distracted by the sound of clinking glass in boxes downstairs, or because she pauses to stare at the white wall in front of her that brings to mind one of the lines of Miles’ poem. 

There might be a spider that I can’t see sitting ten feet away from me right this second, she muses to herself. The thought gives her an idea, and the perfect excuse to call him without seeming too desperate.

Margo unlocks her phone and scrolls through her contacts. She smiles to herself at the contact name Miles chose. Did he think she’d forget his name that easily? 

His voice soon filters through the speaker.

“Hey, you didn’t throw out my number!”

“Yup, lucky you.” she replies. “I wanted to ask you a question? About your poem the other night.”

“What about it?”

“See, I was thinking about that first line. Are we really never more than ten feet away from a spider? Like, at any given moment?”

There’s a moment of silence from Miles before he asks:

“You…called me just to ask me that?”

“What? It’s a very pressing issue! There’s probably one in the corner  of my room as we speak!”

“Alright, I’ll humor you,” Miles laughs. “That’s actually a myth from the 90s. Your distance from the nearest spider really depends on where you’re at, so if you’re in a spot with hella bugs, you’re more likely to see one. You’re probably fine.”

“Now wait just a minute!” Margo gasps dramatically. “So you lied to all those poor folks in there?”

“Sure did. Played ‘em all like a fiddle.”

“Terrible.”

“So, why’d you really call? You don’t sound as concerned about spiders as you say you are, if I’m being honest.”

So much for an excuse.

“Don’t nothing get past you, huh?”

This earns a burst of laughter from Miles’ end.

“You’re a worse liar than me, I wouldn’t recommend making it a habit.”

“Ugh, fine,” Margo admits,  “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“You could hear my voice in real life, you know. Offer’s still on the table, and I’m free today.”

Their second conversation, and already a lunch date? But as she’s reminded of what his voice sounds like, she quickly realizes that just the voice is not enough. 

Still, she tries to sound casual and makes a non-committal noise.

“Better than being cooped up in my room all day.”

“Great! Where you wanna go?”

Margo shrugs as if he can see her on the other end.

“Wherever you wanna go.”

“Ah, the ‘wherever you wanna go’ paradox,” he chuckles. “Okay, well–lemme ask you this then. Do you like eating with or without music?”

There’s a beat of silence as she considers.

“Hm…is the music good?”

“I’d never subject anyone to a place that plays shit music. Promise.”

“Music, then.”

“Cool, what time works for you?”

“How does two sound? I’ll catch you in front of the Engineering Library.”

“Bet. See you in an hour, then!”

-

The place Miles chose had a live band playing at the front.

A bass player, a keyboard pianist, a saxophonist, and a few background vocalists on occasion. All are propelled forward by the rapid-fire snare of the drummer. It’s jazz - the easy, conversational kind you hear in the background of 90s romantic comedies where the love interest wears nothing but dark lip liner and filled-in brows with a bit of smokey eyeshadow in the crease.

This is the look that Margo has decided to go for as she sits across from Miles at a mahogany table positioned ideally by the window.

It was all she could do other than frantically adjust the braided 'fro-hawk sitting atop her head and spin around in a mist of ‘Champagne Toast’ before bolting out the door.

She doubts he can even smell it right now through the curry and garlic.

“Figured out what you want yet?” Miles asks as he looks over his menu at Margo.

“Eh, I dunno,” she replies, running her index finger down her own menu. “I’m tryin’ not to blow half my paycheck on pasta right now.”

Miles gives her a strange look, then it clicks.

“Oh! Lunch is on me,” he laughs. “Your bank account’s safe for now.”

Her head snaps up.

“You should’ve mentioned that! I thought we were going half and half this whole time, I had my whole budget for the week planned out.”

Margo has to hold back an ugly cackle at the look of horror on Miles’ face right after she says this.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that.”

With this new information in mind, she orders a bowl of chicken alfredo with a glass of lemonade that she sips on as the band seamlessly transitions into a cover of Solange’s ‘Cranes in the Sky’.

“So, Margo,” Miles rests his chin on his knuckles and squints his eyes comically. 

“If that is your real name.”

Margo giggles, and plays along.

“It’s not, it’s my alter-ego for when I go on top-secret missions.”

“Is it short for something? Or just Margo?”

“Hm,” she puts on an affected, ‘action movie’ voice, “If I tell you, I might have to kill you.”

“It’s worse ways to die out there.”

Margo looks around her as if to make sure no one’s listening, then leans in.

“It’s short for Marguerite.”

Miles snaps his fingers.

“I knew it!”

“What? You think I look like a Marguerite? Seriously?”

“No, but you got a lil’ country twang in your voice. Ain’t no way in hell Margo wasn’t short for something.”

“Man, alright,” she laughed. 

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” he winked, “I like ‘em country.”

“Boy, don’t give me that! You look like you’d pass out at the sight of a jar of pig’s feet.”

“Hey now, I got family in South Carolina. I used to go down there and see about ten of those every summer.”

“Fine, but you were still raised a Northerner. I could hear the Brooklyn from a mile away.”

Miles removed his hand from under his chin to clutch his chest.

“Ugh, I feel like I’m caught between two worlds!”

The reference to one of the more choice lines from the poetry slam makes Margo snort and let out a loud guffaw, which she quickly muffles with the palm of her hand.

“Why would you remind me of that!”

Miles is soon infected by the fit of laughter and has to put all his strength into not doubling over at the table and drawing attention.

“This nigga said,” he wheezed, “ ‘I keep doing the Achy Breaky to Suavemente!’ “

“I thought I was the only one who thought that shit sucked,” Margo sighed as she wiped a tear from her eye. “But I didn’t wanna be mean ‘cuz I’m not like, half Puerto Rican, or anything like that.”

“Well I am, and that whole poem felt like a microaggression. And I knew that guy!” He starts gesturing wildly with his hands at the outrage, which Margo finds hilarious. 

“He's like, one-eighth Boricua. His last name is fuckin’ Schwartz!” Miles scoffs, “He don’t know shit about no damn ‘Suavemente’. Bet he looked it up.”

“You should write your own poem, then. ‘Take up space’, as they say.”

“Hell no,” he said. “I left that behind in high school. The other night was an exception, remember?”

“Look, I’m not one to encourage more people to become poets, but you never know. Something might inspire you.”

Miles calms down and gives her a meaningful look.

“Maybe.”

The rest of the conversation saw Miles slyly gathering intel through bites of roasted chicken. He’d quickly learned from their meeting at the bar that his line of questioning with Margo ought to be less direct.

He even hit her with the ‘what’s your sign’ question, though Biggie would’ve advised against it (Margo was a Libra, he was a Leo). He didn’t actually care for astrology, but Margo wasted no time in proclaiming that she couldn’t stand Scorpios because they were ‘too nosy’. 

Miles’ only error was asking if she’d ever dated–correction–spoken to one, and her eyes hardened with suspicion again. He quickly elected to change the subject.

“Okay, totally random question, but humor me. How do you like your eggs?”

Margo blinks twice.

“What?”

“You heard me. You can tell a lot about a person by what kinda eggs they like, true shit.”

“Alright, fine. I like ‘em fried, with the crispy edges. What that say about me?”

“I dunno, but when I find out it’ll all make sense.”

Margo laughs.

“Okay, well, how do you like your eggs?”

“Scrambled, fluffy,” A childish grin spread across Miles’ lips. “And seasoned with Adobo to make ‘em all orange.”

“Never had ‘em like that before.”

“Maybe I could make some for you sometime, if you’d let me.”

“Maybe.”

She remembers his promise a month later when she wakes up to the aroma of the seasoning and hears the pop of frying oil, letting out a sigh of relief at the realization that Miles is still there.

His back is facing her when she enters the kitchen, the morning light illuminating a tattoo she had never seen before. 

It’s a spider with sprawling legs that cascade all the way down the expanse of skin, the movement of his shoulder blades bringing them partially to life. She hadn’t noticed it in the dark, and he was not one to walk around in anything revealing enough for it to have ever seen daylight. It’s faded, which means he’s likely had it for years.

He’s only twenty-one, she thinks. Did he get it in high school?

Amusement creeps onto Margo’s face at the image of Miles sneaking around the house, darting in and out of the bathroom to clean it without his hawk-eyed mother or straight-edged father taking notice. Picturing this, it’s suddenly much easier to believe that their son would have to beg and plead for them to send him a measly forty-six miles away for school, even for an Ivy League. 

Miles doesn’t turn around yet, but Margo catches the way he stops, tilting his head playfully and placing a hand on his hip.

“Man, I can’t believe I’mma have to eat this whole thing of scrambled eggs all by myself, with the ones I just fried! How sad.” “You’re not very funny,” Margo says with a smile, pulling out a chair from beneath the dining table.

He switches the stove off, then does a dramatic spin to face her with fake surprise on his face.

“Oh! Where’d you come from? I didn’t see you there.”

He turns back around to grab two plates–ceramic ones, not the stack of styrofoam ones–from one of the cupboards to serve the eggs in, starting with fried.

Margo watches him silently. The tiny, squint-or-you-might-miss-it gold chain around his neck catches the light as he moves, and she remembers feeling the cold metal brush across her lips.

“The fried ones, are they–”

“Crispy at the edges?” he finishes, with a smile in his voice. “Yes ma’am!”

“You could really be a detective, can’t get nothing past you.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“See?”

The two burst into laughter, and the ink on Miles’ back does also. His poem was accurate, in a way. For the past five weeks, Margo has been no more than ten feet away from a spider.

They have a brief and quiet breakfast, wherein Margo finally asks to try the scrambled eggs and is delighted by the burst of flavor added by the Adobo. They aren’t too dry or too soggy the way they tend to be in restaurants - just fluffy, as promised. She thinks it might be time to finally start taking Miles at his word as she watches his back again while he’s washing dishes.

Once he is fully dressed and about to leave, Miles stops suddenly, as if he’s forgotten something. He reaches into the left pocket of his jacket and pulls out a neatly-folded sheet of paper, nervously running his other hand through the short dreads sitting atop his head.

“Before I leave, I, uh…I took your advice and wrote a lil’ something.”

He hands it to Margo, who takes it gingerly. 

“Well, good for you.”

“It’s been a while, so it’s kinda rough, but hopefully the sentiment is there.”

Miles plants a quick kiss on her cheek, and she smiles easily for once as opposed to the usual raised eyebrow.

“I’ll be sure to let you know if it is.”

Some time after he leaves, she finally sits down to read it while sipping on a cup of tea, because coffee wreaks havoc on her nerves. His handwriting is strange, overly graphic as if it’s the title card of a cartoon, but she reads it.

I know you don't like poetry 

but you said you liked mine,

and the way you sip your wine

has set my pen to paper,

so I hope 

you'll make another exception. 

You've already claimed

half of my sketchbook 

because I just can't get your eyes right.

I always make ‘em too soft,

or too round.

They don't pierce through me,

like they did when

you stared at me over your glass,

eyes narrowed.

When you search my face

and pick me apart,

I'd like to know what it is 

you're always searching for.

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

If you're still doing reqs, do you possibly have any general headcanons for Margo Kess? I'm finally back to my atsv obsession-

Sure!

more margo headcanons!!

Peak early 2000s and 2010s fashion. She dresses like a sitcom character because she can

Collects scented lip glosses just to smell them

Need an app jail-broken? She's your girl

Always has on extremely sharp eyeliner. And nothing else

Wants to dye her hair a bunch of bright colors but her parents said no </3

Has hacked people's Twitter accounts multiple times

Drinks coffee at HQ just for the aesthetic of it. Does not actually enjoy coffee

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

Margo dating headcanons? Or just more of anything with her :D

Sure! ♡

She does not know how to flirt other than going "You're so pretty 🫶🏾 💗 "

Video game hangouts (Margo always wins)

Tech issues? Your computer not working efficiently? Call her up she is ur personal tech support

Sends pics of her new hair every time she gets it done

Bad at socializing irl but will type paragraphs over text

Several hour-long phone calls

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

flowerbyte drabble

summary: just a thingy I came up with while brainstorming! vaguely inspired by an interaction between Janine and Greg from 'Abbot Elementary' iykyk wc: <500

Margo winced at her station as she rolled her neck, freshly-done braids tugging at her scalp (her real scalp; she’d nearly put both of her arms out of commission doing them last weekend). Medium-sized box braids with strands of bright pink woven into them swung behind her as she zipped back and forth between LED screens. None of the spider-people that passed by seemed to notice, having gotten used to her blue avatar suddenly changing hairdos in the middle of the day. 

The Go-Home Machine whirred rapidly as the second Vulture of the day was sent home in a beam of artificial light, and Margo yawned. Anomalies had actually been making themselves scarce today: only three Vultures, two Prowlers, and…

…one Miles Morales.

“Hey Margo!” 

The black nylon figure waved a long arm, the bright red lines running down his armpits on full display as he jogged past a Peter Parker. Someone should really tell him that the suit’d be better off without those.

The boy stopped in front of Margo’s work space and slipped off his mask, his russet-brown face glistening with sweat from catching the Vulture variant in question. The shallow dimples in his cheeks made her hope that he wouldn’t have to put the mask back on. Miles raised an eyebrow at the lack of response.

“Margo? You good?”

The girl snapped out of her trance and fixed her eyes back onto the screen, schooling her expression as to appear focused on a non-existent task.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Margo replied casually. “How’d the mission go?”

“Same as usual. These ni–”

Miles’s eyes widened for a second before he corrected himself, “These…guys get kinda predictable after a while.”

Margo snorted. “That’s good.”

He stood silently, nibbling on his bottom lip until he suddenly found another topic of conversation.

“I like the braids. That you, or the avatar?”

The girl’s head snapped up with a proud grin. “Thanks, all me. Did ‘em myself, too.”

“Damn. Ion think I could sit in one place for that long,” Miles laughed. “The ‘fro is enough for me.”

“Braids would suit you, though,” Margo remarked, relaxing her speech a bit as Miles had. He shrugged.

“So I’ve heard.”

“Miles, we gotta go! Talk to your girlfriend later!”

Pavitr swung past Miles, easily distinguished by the shiny hair whipping behind him. Miles rolled his eyes at the remark. 

“Well, I’m out,” he pulled his mask back on and began jogging backwards. “See ya!”

Margo held her chin up with the palm of her hand as she watched the boy leap into action and join his partner. “See ya.”

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

my neighbor's a punk

summary: you move into a new apartment with a noisy neighbor. inspired by this prompt list! wc: 922 A/N: just wrote this for some practice. I'm getting better at writing longer drabbles, I think! As always feel free to reblog and leave your reactions in the tags or comments. As of the date this is being posted, my requests are also open! (pls check my pinned beforehand)

You had never seen a garden so beautiful.

Vibrant blossoms of yellow and orange greeted you as you hauled two medium-sized boxes carrying the last of your things through the entrance of your new apartment. Their fragrance wafted through the humid summer air, delighting you and confirming that they were, in fact, real. But for the past couple of days that you had been in the process of moving in, you’d never once spotted a gardener or seen the sprinklers turn on. Curious.

The modest apartment had only a couch to occupy the living room, which was currently still dotted with cardboard boxes. A freshly-ironed shirt and work pants lay neatly folded on top of one. You stepped over a few to get to the kitchen, where various unopened appliances were strewn about the counter. Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, you made a note to finally put everything away in the cupboards tomorrow evening after work.

No TV meant your only sources of entertainment for the time being were your phone and your laptop. It was now evening, and you were slouched on your sofa in the midst of a harrowing ‘Game of Thrones’ episode when a violent guitar riff ripped through the air and made you jump.

These thin-ass walls…

Whoever was playing (very well, you might add) seemed to be next door, so it didn’t take long to follow the sound to the correct number. You knocked impatiently and rang the doorbell too, for good measure. It took a minute for the music to come to a halt before the sound of heavy footsteps approached the door and you heard it unlock.

Once the door creaked open, you weren’t sure where to look first.

Your eyes darted back and forth between the array of piercings on your neighbor’s face and dangling from his ears, the wicks styled to shoot out from his head like an explosion, and his bright red plaid pants before landing on a pair of large eyes set deeply within a dark, angular face.

Judging by the way his pierced brow quirked up in amusement, you weren’t the first to give him a weird look, and wouldn’t be the last.

You remembered how to speak.

“Oh, um- hey,” you began, “I live next door, and I heard you playing–”

The young man’s face lights up and he interrupts, “Oh, d’you like it? It’s a song I’ve been workin’ on for the past few weeks. Finally got the bridge down.”

You blinked. 

“I mean…it’s not bad. It’s great, even, but–”

“Say, I haven’t seen you around before,” he pointed. “You new here?”

The man spoke with a strong Cockney accent, you noticed, with a tinge of something else that made a couple of vowels run together.

“...Yes, I moved in two days ago,” you sighed. “Now that that’s out of the way, I was about to ask if you could maybe play a lil’ quieter? You’re very loud.”

The realization seemed to dawn on him that you weren’t here to applaud his sick guitar riffs, and he winced. You almost felt bad for disappointing him, but you had a show to binge.

“Ah shit, my fault. Got too used to playing on full volume after the last neighbor moved out,” With a hand placed over his chest, he promised, “Won’t happen again.”

You nodded with a tight smile. 

“Thanks. Goodnight,” you said as you turned to leave.

The next few days were quieter, though you could still hear the neighbor’s guitar through the walls at a much more manageable volume. Sometimes you would hear the man humming to himself in his baritone voice. Eventually, you were so used to it that you found yourself falling asleep to the sound.

One Saturday morning, though, you awoke to the peculiar sound of silence. Normally by now you’d be hearing the first few chords of…whatever the guy was working on, then he’d reach the end by mid-afternoon. Part of you wanted to check up on him, but reason held you back; you’d only spoken to him once. Maybe he was just taking an off day.

Unable to return to sleep, you decided to shower and take a walk outside while the air was still comfortably cool.

As soon as the early morning sun hit your face, a familiar head of hair came into view.

There stood your neighbor–band t-shirt and all–in the garden in front of the apartment. Watering the flowers.

Mystery solved.

“So you’re the reason the plants haven’t died yet,” you laughed, causing his head to snap up.

He grinned, and lifted his watering can proudly. “Sure am. Bring some color into the place.”

“I thought it was awful quiet around here,” you remarked. You toyed with the hem of your t-shirt. “How’s the, uh…song going?”

Something between delight and surprise graced his features and made him look boyish. 

He smiled, revealing a crooked front tooth as he replied, “Almost done with it, actually.”

There was silence for a beat, and the both of you shifted awkwardly where you stood. 

Suddenly, a lightbulb went off. 

“Mind playing it for me when you’re done?”

The tall man seemed about ready to run laps around the block at the suggestion.

Quickly setting his watering can down, he replied, “Thought you’d never ask, mate!”

He jogged his way around the perimeter of the garden and over to you. “Can I get your name while we’re at it?”

“Y/N.” You stuck out your hand, and he shook it.

“Hobie.”

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

Garden

Summary: In his spare time, Hobie's gotten a nice garden going for him. Genre: general wc: 300+ A/N: I did an embarrassing amount of plant research for this. Also native plant gardens r cool and punk <3

The thing about plants is that they always find a way.

They peek through the cracks of rigid sidewalks despite getting their heads stepped on. They curl and slink around old office buildings, castles, statues – all of our little monuments – and quietly outlive them. Even while being consumed by flame, some species of trees drop pine cones containing seeds that will survive and flourish long after the flames tire themselves out. Little stowaways.

Hobie grinned at the persistent sprout pushing through the dirt in his backyard as he sat on his haunches, delighted by the pop of green it added to his flat full of browns and beiges.

There was a point in time where he’d only gotten to see shades of green that weren’t artificial in textbooks, which he had stolen from run-down library buildings that wouldn’t be in use any time soon. He learned that people used to eat what they grew, not just what they could scrounge for while shuffling through a sterile grocery aisle. That, and the joys of perennial gardening.

All of this is to say: growing parsnips and tomatoes beats digging through the trash for leftover fast food by a longshot.

If you ever stood in front of Hobie’s front yard you’d think it was abandoned, overrun by weeds. Such a thought would earn you a stern lecture from the boy on seeing the beauty in fuzzy buttonbush or muted pink milkweed plants that did not always boast bright colors or elegant shapes. With perfectly symmetrical piercings on either side of his face and hair that shot out like wild bergamot, Hobie knew a thing or two about beauty. What it was, or what it could be.

Hobie got up with a grunt, pocketing a small shovel in his overalls as he carefully removed his gloves. Just as he did so, a bleach-blonde head of hair poked out from around the corner. The girl raised a pierced eyebrow.

“Gwendy, what’s happening?” Hobie turned and greeted the younger with a salute.

“Nothin’ much.” She tilted her chin up at the row of sprouts. “Backyard, too?”

“Yup.” The boy looked fondly at the tomato vines creeping up the white stakes he’d planted in the dirt, and asked, “Feel like makin’ some soup?”

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

"I was briefly a runway model."

Summary: uhhh you go to a small concert and bump into the artist after you know how it goes 🔥🔥

genre: first meeting. again. [CROWD BOOS]

wc: ~600-700

A/N: I wanted this to be longer but eh maybe next time. You get another drabble instead 👍🏾enjoy!

The odor of sweat and cigarette smoke choked the air as your friend gripped your hand amongst the swaying cluster of bodies.

You didn’t recognize the band she had taken you to see, a rare instance now that you visited the small venue every Friday night. There’s a young white girl with half-shaved blonde hair and peachy ends playing her heart out on the drums, a big pink sweater tied around her waist.

The main guitarist and frontman managed to be an even more colorful sight; he wore plaid slacks with patches woven into them, held up by a shiny spike-studded black belt. His bright red knee-high boots should’ve clashed with his attire, but the way he propped it up on a stage speaker to play a nasty riff made them go together. He was tall and lean, but there was a bounce in his walk that told you that he was likely closer to your age.

These guys must be new, you think to yourself.

He said something crude on his electric guitar, the sound coming out jagged and crunchy. Large wicks radiated from his head, blocking out the overhead stage lights as he made his way to your section. You could hardly make out his face as he stood directly above you with the light shining in between the gaps in his wicks, resembling something like an angel.

After the concert, your friend would swear up and down that he was staring directly at you as you left the venue.

The dim lights of the pub reflected off of the wooden interior. It gave everything a golden glow, including the mahogany skin of the young man sitting next to you. 

The wicks and pants instantly gave him away as the night's frontman. The improved lighting situation allowed you to stare in awe at his sharp cheekbones and deep-set, somber eyes. You also recognized him from somewhere. Before you could gather up the courage to ask first, he addresses you with a sidelong glance.

"I got something on my face?"

You jump, and this makes him burst into breathy laughter.

"Sorry," you smile timidly, "I just thought I'd seen you somewhere before." The man’s pierced brow quirks up. 

"Lots of places where you could've seen me. You're gonna have to narrow it down."

"It was a magazine. Editorial, or something. Have you ever modeled?"

"I have, believe it or not. For a time."

"You've certainly got the face for it," you said quietly. The man heard it anyway, judging by the smirk spreading across his lips, so you quickly change the subject.

"Where you from?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, hm?"

You shrugged. "I just figured, lotta models are African."

"I think we're all African," he stuck a finger up in the air comically like a professor, making you snort.

"But...Haitian, if you've got to be specific about it."

Your eyes lit up.

“Oh shit, sak pase!”

Hobie chuckled. It was deep, and warm-sounding. Like an old friend.

“Nap boule. Can't speak much more than that, though.”

You leaned forward over the counter and started twirling the ends of your braids around your finger absentmindedly. 

“So, how’d you end up here? Having a pretty face must pay well.”

The man’s expression darkened for a moment. His tongue darted out to mess with the ring on his lip before his smile returned with less force than before. 

“Wasn’t for me,” he shrugged. “Didn’t pay too well, either. Had me scurryin’ around trying to catch a cab on an empty stomach at seventeen.”

You winced. “Yikes, sorry I asked.”

"It's all good," Hobie said. He watched you toy with your hair with a grin. 

"My face still comes in handy, though, for playing gigs."

"How so?"

"I get to meet pretty people like you."

-

Second hobie fic let's give it up for my second hobie fic whoooo

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

pretty

hobie x reader

summary: you wake up with a nasty hangover. you know the rest.

wc: ~500

A/N: if I'm using UK slang wrong pls beat my ass about it I tried 💀

Edit: made minor edits bc I did, in fact, use UK slang wrong 👍🏾

The light from the morning sun bounces off of the peeling white paint on the surrounding walls of the tiny apartment, forcing you to open your eyes. You squint as they adjust; It feels like someone is currently inside your head and repeatedly taking a sledgehammer to your skull.

The familiar cracked corners of the ceiling tell you that you're at Hobie's place. You grunt as you lift yourself into a sitting position, which doesn't help the headache.

What does, though, is the smell of cinnamon and cornmeal wafting beneath your nose from the kitchen. The sudden rumbling in your stomach makes you curious enough to swing your legs off of the couch and rise to your feet.

Bad idea.

Hobie enters the room just as you stumble backwards onto the couch, and barely holds back a loud cackle so that he doesn't drop the two bowls of porridge he'd just made.

You don't see it, of course, because the ceiling is currently spinning.

"Not so fun dealing with those fourteen shots the morning after, eh?"

Hobie's diamond-shaped face came into view, his wicks sticking out from every direction like the halos in those medieval paintings he liked to make fun of. He'd replaced his vest and usual get-up with a white tank top.

You groan, "How long was I out?"

" 'Bout twelve hours,"

Hobie set the two bowls down on the coffee table in front of you. "Had to call a cab just to get you here all in one piece."

You finally look down once you feel the couch sink next to you. He smells of hard soap and nutmeg.

"You cook?"

He shrugs, picking up his bowl and shoveling the contents into his mouth. He nods, deeming his work satisfactory.

"From time to time," he glances at you from the corner of his eye. "You don't get over a hangover on an empty stomach, yeah?"

He chuckles when you immediately grab your bowl without a word, and soon begin to absolutely destroy it.

Just as Hobie said, the hammering has begun to subside by the time you scrape the last bit of golden liquid from the bowl. He still has yet to finish his own meal, so you watch him.

You silently admire the way his lashes almost brush his cheek when his eyes are downcast. The sunrise reflected off of mahogany-smooth skin, and you envy how he did almost nothing to it to get it that way.

"You're pretty," you think out loud, and Hobie nearly chokes on his porridge before his head snaps to face you.

"S-sorry, who?"

Your brows shoot up on surprise momentarily, unaware that he'd actually heard you. There was no one else you could have possibly been referring to, giving you no choice but to double down.

You laugh nervously, “Well, you are.”

His full lips quirked up at the corners, as if he was trying to figure out if this was a bit or not. But you kept staring at him, no joke in your expression.

“Yeah, I think you’re still hammered, man.”

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

first day

summary: you bump into pavitr in the hallway on the first day of school, and make a new friend.

genre: meet-cute, sorta? first meeting.

wc: ~300-400

A/N: this is my first pavitr fic! a bit of a freewrite, just to get a feel for how I want to write his character and how he interacts with people. this was the easiest way to do that lol

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