I remember the days of self-hatred. I remember the moments where I told my mother how much I hated who I was. I remember the people who helped push me down. Little did they know that they pushed me down just for me to jump up twice as high. So thank you to my bullies. Thank you to those white twins from back in the day. That light skinned boy from elementary. Mr. Leblanc for telling me I wasn’t going to amount to anything in just the sixth grade. That girl from high school that asked me dumb questions about my skin as if I was an abnormal animal. My old teachers that always had something to say about my hair. And to modern society, for creating the root of self hatred for millions of little dark skinned black girls with kinky hair like mine. I am so grateful for you all. For if it wasn’t for your wall of hatred, I wouldn’t know how to break through walls today.
Summary: Dan’s an asshole and Phil tries to convince himself Dan isn’t one.
Genre: Angst, fluff, smut
Warnings: lil mention of homophobia if u squint, some sexy times too
Word count: 8k
A/N: i started this fic back in june and i can’t believe i finally got around to finishing it dsjfd this is the longest i’ve written and it’s nothing great but pls appreciate it all the same sobs ;; i also tried going for a laidback style of writing but i realized it wasn’t me so i had to start all over again lmao. ok bye enjoy i guess? <3
No, I’m not the girl that’s going to break your heart with my beauty. I’m not the type of person to go get hammered every night while partying with ‘friends’, because that’s not my idea of fun. I’m not going to make you crave my touch or be unable to breathe without our skin on each other. But I promise you I will always reply to your texts. I’ll pick you up from that party at 2 am because you care about me enough to ask for a ride rather than risk your life and drive. I’ll be in my sweats, glasses and messy bun on Sunday mornings, and you’re always welcome for chocolate chip pancakes. I’m not going to wear makeup to impress you, or short shorts to make your lungs race. I’m the type of girl who would rather watch movies than go out on fancy dates. I’ll be by your side from everything from your goldfish dying to missing your mom when you leave for college. My mind will always wander to you, and how you treat me. I hope you treat me right. I deserve that. I’ll write poems about you that I never show you, because they’re my most personal thoughts. Know you are always welcome to read them; they’re everything I think of you. So, I won’t be the girl that breaks your heart or stops your breath. But I promise I will love you with every bone in my body and every breath I breathe. I hope you promise, too. I’m worth that much.
the right one will love you anyway, no matter what (TRM)
The children would play “Superhero” every day. the had a supergirl, a superman, a bat man… and a dark-skinned boy from India as their Captain America. They played and smiled and nobody told him he couldn’t be his favourite super hero. It made me happy.
My eyes flew open as you gasped in breaths deeply. The floor I were sitting on shuddered. I tried to figure out where I was, but it was dark. I knew I was trapped and that the box I was in was rapidly moving upwards. The box jolted and stopped suddenly before I was blinded by a sudden light. I scrambled backwards, terror ripping through the pit of my stomach. My eyes adjusted to the brightness, noticing the a large group of boys standing around the opening of the box. A tall, blond boy dropped down, causing a whimper to release from my mouth.
“It’s a girl,” the blond boy said, speaking with an accent I couldn’t place. I scraped my mind to remember something, but nothing sprung up. Tears started their slow descent down my cheeks.
“Well, help her outta there Newt. We ain’t got all day to be standing around,” a dark skin boy from the outer area spoke. The Newt boy took quick steps toward me, hand outstreatched to help me up. Without meaning to, a loud scream tore out of my mouth and I pushed myself farther into the corner of the box. Newt stumbled back, his hands covering his ears from my piercing scream. By now I were in hysterics.
“Alby,” I heard Newt say, “maybe you should give it a try.”
“Everyone back to work, everyone but the Keepers.” It was the voice who told Newt to get me, presummably this Alby character. There was the sound of shuffling then a loud bang, shaking the box as another body joined the small area. “Alright missy, ain’t got all day to sit here in hysterics, c’mon,” Alby said. I could see him coming closer through the endless amount of tears, arms out stretched, ready to grab me. This added to my hysterics.
“NO!” My arms shot out, giving a hard shove to Alby’s chest, making him stumble into Newt. I pushed myself farther into the corner, trying to make myself as small as possible.
“C’mon Newt, get back to work. Give these shanks a go at gettin’ her out.”
Newt and Alby removed themselves from the box, only for it to shake again as someone replaced them. Different people came in and out of that box as I sat huddled in the corner, bawling like a baby. Every single one of them left with some sort of bruise from me hitting them when they got too close. There was only one of the boys left, the second to last boy wish him luck before stalking away. It was now midday, the sun beating down on you and the boy who stood in an imposing manner. My tears had slowed down enough that I could see him, and boy was he handsome. Handsome, yet scary. Like most of that had jumped into the box. His body had shifted and I closed my eyes and prepared for the jarring of his landing. Instead I heard a soft landing, then a large sigh. I peeked out. The imposing boy had sat across the box from me.
“I haven’t got a clue what’s got you scared klunkless,” he said gently, “but there ain’t a reason to be. Promise.” His voice was deep, and rough, but soft at the same time. I looked at him, sniffling slightly. “I know you’re gettin’ pretty uncomfy over there tucked in that corner. I can get you a bed to sleep on until tomorrow,” he paused, moving closer a few inches. “I can get you some food and then you can sleep the night away, but you have to get outta the box, sweetheart.”
He had moved closer again, halfway across the box, still sitting. I could feel eyes on me from above, but I didn’t bother with them, too focused on the boy sitting in front of me. His hand slowly moved out to me, close enough that I could touch it if I reached out as well, and I did. His hand was firm and rough grasping mine, hauling me up and bring me closer to him. I stumbled into him, forgetting to account that i had been cramped for hours. His arm wrapped around my waist.
“Easy sweetheart,” he murmured. I turned and saw everyone gaping at me. I whipped around and stepped closer to the boy in the box, grasping his shirt, effectively hiding my face from view. He gently shushed me before telling me was gong to pick me up to get us out of the box. Instead of having him carry me bridal style, I acted on impulse and place my hands on his broad shoulders and jumped, my legs wrapping around his waist. His hands were quick to make sure I didn’t fall. With my arms wrapped around him and my face buried in the crook of his neck, I mumbled a soft okay. The box boy, which I had decided to call him, held me tightly against him with one arm while the other reached up and grabbed someone’s hand, successfully pulling us out of the dreadful box.
“Why can’t I remember anything,” I whispered in his ear.
“It happened to all of us. You’ll get your name back soon, but otherwise, the Glade is sort of like a new beginning,” he explained. He went to go to set me down when he got his feet on solid ground, but I refused to let go, tightening my grip around his waist when he tried, getting him to emit a small chuckle.
“You promised me food, box boy,” you stated softly, not wanting to talk to anyone but him.
“That’s where we’re headed sweetheart, that’s where we’re headed.” He paused before speaking softly into my ear. “And my name is Gally.”
Gally, just like he promised, had gotten me food and found me a bed to sleep on until tomorrow morning. I had curled up and fallen fast asleep before he even left the room. I made it maybe five or six hours before I shot up in bed, terrified. A nightmare had woken me up. I sat there, tears streaming down my face. Not knowing what to do, I got up, and wandered outside, looking any sign of comfort. It was dark by now, nothing making a sound except a few people snoring. Lights lit up a building across the way. I stumbled slightly as I made my way towards the lights, tripping over things like small sticks which were hard to see due to the tears and the darkness. When I finally got to the door of the building, I could hear voices. I shoved the door open, looking around for the one person I trusted at the moment, Gally.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong,” Gally asked, moving towards me.
“I-i-i” I stumbled over my words, not knowing how to express the fear I felt. More tears continued down my face and Gally pulled me into a hug.
The girl from the box stormed into the Gathering, looking completely upset. Tears were streaming down her face as she looked around. I had managed to get her out of the box earlier today by taking a different approach than the rest of the Keepers. Everyone had jumped in like they normally would to get a greenie, or any shipment really. It was real funny watching that little spitfire hoot and holler at everyone, but I felt bad that she sat there scared outta her wits while these unknown boys jumped in and out of a big metal box. I just approached her like I would a scared animal. Thank goodness she came to me otherwise Alby and Newt would’ve probably knocked her out and drug her out of that box by her toes.
She was a mess, tears streaming down her face, clothes crinkled and hair a mess.
“Sweetheart,” I used the nickname I’d given her, trying to calm her down, “what’s wrong?”
“I-i-i” She stuttered, her tears continuing down her face. I shushed her gently, pulling her into a hug. I mumbled that I would be back soon to Minho who had been standing by the door before I picked up the girl bridal style and walked outside. I made my way to the Deadheads. I sat down and leaned against the tree, the girl had grabbed my shirt and didn’t seem like she was going to let go. She cried and cried, and I just sat there and held her. She had started to calm down, her grip didn’t loosen though.“What is it sweetheart, what’s wrong?” She hesitated.
“I’m sorry for crying on you,” she mumbled, playing with my shirt.
“It isn’t a problem.” I murmured. “What is a problem is that you’re crying. You can tell me what’s wrong sweetheart.”
“I was stuck in the box, an-and you weren’t there and everyone was laughing at me,” she fumbled words out as a tear trickled down her cheek. I wiped it away softly, then wrapped my arm back around her.
“It was just a dream baby, just a dream,” I hugged her closer and tucker her underneath my chin.
“Y/N,” she whispered, “My name is Y/N.”
a/n: this was longer than expected okay. here ya go :) love you bye.
@fuxkbaz and I were freaking out over Baz writing poetry about Simon, and then they asked me to write the scenario we came up with so-
I tried. It’s rushed and the endings a bit clumsy but here it is.
Simon can’t take it anymore. He absolutely cannot.
Not one more moment of not knowing where Baz has been these past few months, of what he’s doing, of how he’s doing –
No. Enough is enough.
Simon rolls over on his bed and glares at Baz’s, where it is folded and neat and empty. Completely offensive, in every way. Completely devoid of his arch nemesis.
Simon leaps to his feet and starts going through Baz’s drawers.
Really, he thinks to himself, this is all Baz’s fault. If he could just tell the truth for once, or turn up on time for the start of the school year, or stop avoiding Simon – well, -
Well. Simon wouldn’t have to resort to such desperate measures, would he?
I just want some bloody clues, thinks the curly-haired boy as he drops to his knees and starts rummaging with his hands under the bed. I just want some bloody answers.
Simon stands up, glances at the door nervously for a second, and then starts rummaging through the bedding. He finds a mint aero in the pillowcase – that bastard – but apart from that Baz has kept his living area as clean and impersonal as a hotel room.
A hotel room that smells like bergamot and cedar.
Simon must be more desperate than he thought – he’s frantic now, well worked up – Penny would be reciting breathing techniques authoritively right now if she could see him – because he goes so far as to flip over the mattress, scanning the frame desperately.
Then he freezes.
Breath catching in his throat, and feeling oddly giggly, Simon reaches one hand down and picks up the bound leather journal. It doesn’t look like Baz’s other things – the pages are obviously the victim of furious scrawling from the way they stick out from underneath the cover. Simon sets the mattress back down and sits on it, bouncing his knees as he opens it to the first page.
Property of Basilton Pitch
He turns to the next page, leaning in to read what it says. He’s not quite sure what he is expecting – plots for his demise? Study methods? The most efficient ways to vampire? But he frowns. And then his brows shoot right back up.
Basilton Pitch writes poetry.
Well. This is…an interesting development.
Baz would kill him if he found out, but since Simon is pretty sure Baz wants to kill him anyway, he’s not too worried. And besides, this is just too good.
The common theme seems to self-loathing, and melancholic expressions of cynicism. Simon hadn’t realised Baz felt that way. (The self-loathing bit, not the cynical bit.) (He’s not totally clueless, thank you very much.)
And although Simon is loath to admit it, Baz is good. Like, really good. Like, nose-touching-the-paper good.
His language, though somewhat pretentious and melodramatic, comes alive in the room, in the space between Simon and splattered ink, coiling its way around Simon’s over-active imagination. He swallows, eagerly flipping through abused pages.
And then he sees his name.
His heart literally stops. Like, genuinely refuses to pound for two whole seconds. His blood throbs behind his eyes.
Because along with his name, this one also includes phrases like “golden” and “salt water blue” and “drowning” and “skin” and –
Unable to think, Simon’s eyes scan over the rest of the page. It’s all about him. It’s all about him.
Set out in stanzas. Broken off into paragraphs. Dripping as prose, like water from an icicle, down the margins into clearly-hurried scrawls that barely resemble Baz’s usual elegant typography.
That barely resemble Baz’s usual anything.
There are more phrases too. Stuff like “eyelashes” and “roses” and “hunger” and “ache” and “moles”.
Is Simon’s heart breaking? Something is breaking. Something is clambering up the back of his throat. Maybe he should scream. Scream and shout.
The door bangs open and he almost does.
Baz looks up at Simon, one hand on the doorknob, and frowns, before his gaze flickers down to the book.
For two merciful moments, he is just frozen, all the colour drained from his face.
And then he loses his shit.
“THOSE WHO PLAY WITH FIRE GET THEIR FINGERS BURNT.” He literally screams, pointing at the journal with his wand, and it bursts into flames. Simon yelps, dropping the book, and then hastily wrapping it in the duvet trying to extinguish the pages. Because the pages are important. Because – holy hell-
“WHAT THE FUCK BAZ,” Simon screams back, patting down on the book and trying to block Baz’s access to it, as he is currently trying to reach it with the sort of desperation Simon hasn’t seen since the chimera incident, presumably to make another attempt at its life.
“GET THE FUCK OUT MY WAY SNOW.” He grabs Simon by the waist, pulling him back, and Simon twists in his grip to push at him, so that they both fall with a crash to the floor, Baz hitting his head and letting out a string of blush-worthy curses, and Snow landing on top of him.
They both take pause, freezing as they gazes meet, and then Baz’s face twists in distress and he shoves Simon off him.
“Wait!” Simon shouts, just as Baz is reaching for the now extinguished book. “I didn’t read anything – I didn’t read anything bad!”
Baz freezes again, and then turns his head, staring at a point past Simon.
“What?” he says.
“I- I didn’t read anything. Bad. I mean, I don’t know what was there but-”
“What did you read?”
Baz’s voice is drawn tighter than a violin string. He looks as if he’s about to fracture into a million pieces.
“I, um, just some stuff about, you know,” Simon gestures vaguely. “The futility of life and all that. How much you hate being…” He swallows, and look pointedly towards him. “You.”
His voice is still tight.
“Nothing else.” Simon confirms.
The tension in his back loosens ever so slightly, and without a word he stands up, brushes off his trousers, and reaches for the slightly crisp remains of his journal. And then he leaves, still not meeting the other boy’s eyes, and shuts the door behind him with a click.
A week later, Simon finds himself staring at the pale-skinned boy from across the gap between their beds. Shadows fall across them both.
The night after the poetry incident had occurred, Baz had returned at four in the morning, and hadn’t said a word. But it seems Simon’s carefully unaltered actions had convinced him of his maintained ignorance over the course of the next day, because they had returned back to their mutual insults and digs at each other as if nothing had happened.
But something had happened.
Simon clenches his fists and tries to calm his pulse. His mouth forms the name:
His entire torso is shaking. Is that healthy? It can’t be healthy.
“Fuck off, Snow.”
The room returns to silence, but Simon can’t bear it. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself. And then –
“Does my hair really shine like spun gold?”
Baz is sitting up in an instant, his expression the facial equivalent of a car crash. He chokes.
“You fucking bitch, I can’t believe you-” His voice all tangles up, and he lets out what sounds horribly like a strangled sob. He jumps to his feet – whether to murder Simon or launch himself out the window Simon will never know, because he rushes forward and pulls the dark-haired boy into him, and mushes his mouth against his own.
Ymir punches me in the arm hard enough to make me yelp. “Say hello.”
She steps to the side, glaring at me like she’s more of a predator than the naga itself. Oh, by the way, the naga is right in front of me. All thirty-plus feet of it.
Now that I’m close to it and not being chased by it, I can actually see what it looks like. Its human half looks like the torso of a teenage boy, its skin darkened from the sun, with freckles like Ymir’s splashed across its face and shoulders. Its hair is black, shaggy, and unkempt. I can’t really see the family resemblance between it and Ymir; Ymir’s got a pretty sharp face with hawkish features, while this face is more squared and even. The naga would look normal if it weren’t for its eyes. They’re dark brown with pupils that look more like blocks than circles, and there is absolutely no white anywhere. The brown fades into blackish blue around the corners, making the whole thing look dark and unnatural.
(…) The naga’s human back is hunched, its hands wringing nervously in front of its stomach. It’s shaking a little. It stares nervously at the ground, glancing at Ymir or up at me every few seconds. It opens its mouth, but nothing comes out except a hiss, and it swallows.
I’m leaning back as far as is humanly possible, staring with a mix of horrid fascination and disgust.