white whiter


Oh, look. It’s a mysterious light. Shining round a corner. Approximately ten feet away.


PLEASE SHARE THIS! So you adopt a Black male, then Snap a photo of him, post it online while calling him thuggish and I’m suppose to think that’s cute. While we have hundreds of black men even our little boys gunned down because white people like you are thinking of them as thugs and not people. No white person will be able to replace a black parental figure and that is the black ass bottom line. PLEASE SHARE! I came across this photo thanks to godgazi ! black-culture afrodesiacworldwide allthingsblackwomen whitepeoplesaidwhat whitegirlsaintshit whiteguiltconfessionals reverseracism thisiseverydayracism thoughtsofablackgirl takingbackourculture theangryblack yung-medusa youngblackandvegan uncle-tomfoolery officialprincessofzamounda susiethemoderator fuckyeahnaturalhair knowledgeequalsblackpower lookthroughmylookingglass naturalblkgirlsrock

Pink Hot Chocolate Milk - A Self-Love Potion

A potion for self love. Take as a ‘self love pick-me-up.


  • ½ c. Strawberry Nesquick or other strawberry milk flavour (add more to taste if desired.
    Strawberry represents love, sweetness, passion, softness, and warmth.
  • 1 c. white chocolate chips
    Chocolate represents sexual and non-sexual euphoria, communication, love, desire, and acceptance. White chocolate is a ‘whiter’ version of this.
  • ¾ c. instant dry milk
    Milk represents, peace, fertility, a healthy body, and having plenty.
  • ½ pkg instant white chocolate pudding (3.3 oz)


Grind up white chocolate chips. Freezing them first helps. Mix all ingredients together, using about three teaspoons per cup or water, milk, or coconut milk.

[Context: We’re playing Dusk City Outlaws, where the Judge plays the role of the GM]

Grifter: I’m going to wash the guard uniforms.

Judge: Okay, I think that just happens, you don’t need to roll–

Alchemist: Wait, I want to assist! Okay, as an alchemist, I’ve created a badass laundry detergent. It gets your whites whiter, your colors brighter, and it’s just the most kickass laundry detergent ever.

Boss: I get some of my goons and they just go to town on those dirty guard uniforms.

Grifter: And all this is happening like in a sports anime, just overdramatic shots and sprays of water and it looks amazing.

it took me 15 minutes to make this and i don’t regret a second of it

(insp. by some of ur weirder posts)

False: I only remember making one of these posts except I’m sure one day they’ll catch up to my blog

to all of my fellow white people out there following me, go and watch the 13th documentary on netflix. feel uncomfortable. squirm in your seat. think about history. especially recent history, history made as we have lived. remember the names of the black men, black women, and black children. it is not about us. it is about them. we have to stop making it about how we feel and start thinking about how we ally ourselves with the black lives matter movement, our brothers and sisters in humanity, but strangers in melanin. 

so yeah. watch the fucking documentary. 

C: My mixed friend asked me a question today: Why is it every-time a person who is mixed (black + other race) is famous black people are so quick to claim them? I said, “Because they’re black.” She argued that they’re not, they’re mixed. What makes someone black? Freaking Meghan Markle and Halsey are whiter than white with European features, but they’re half black. So the hair doesn’t always give it away either. Why do we call mixed people black? Why don’t we call them mixed?


He thinks about Kit, some kind of warped, ruined saint with all her broken morals and shades of grey, surrounded by all of her foolish righteous holier-than-thou comrades, whiter than white, and he swallows heavily, because finally he understands what she meant. He doesn’t understand you like I do though, does he? he thinks, but she turns her back before he gets the chance to say it out loud.


there will be time (requested)

I forget all my dreams
I forget everyones name I meet
I forget about time and space
But I can’t stop thinking about your face

Turning points are, someone says, a point at which a significant change occurs. Be it for better or for worse as it may, once it’s happened, there is no turning back.

At least that’s what you’ve been led to believe.

The day it all changed, the light was so very bright that you could barely keep your eyes open. The Sun kept hiding behind the clouds, demanding that Peter stopped talking to the Moon, with whom he had fought the day before; however, his violent rays shone through the thick layer of an upcoming storm.

Back then, it seemed like a normal day. You had woken up with Peter by your side (which had been surprising, but you hadn’t paid much attention to it), all mussed hair and sleepy eyes; you had smiled down at him, blinded by happiness, and he had smiled back, pulling you down into a slow, lazy kiss.

Once down for breakfast, the boys had greeted you, passing you your cup of herb infuse and patting Peter on the shoulder.

“Good night, Pan?”

You had glared at them, scoffing into your plate.

“You’re supposed to be children!” you had told them, making them snigger.

The laugh had quieted down soon, leaving an unnatural silence in the air. The light, as blinding as before, had kept shining.

A point at which a significant change occurs.

Looking back on it now, you think you know when the change occurred.

Later that day, Peter had completely disappeared. The boys couldn’t tell you where he had gone, nor they had seemed to notice that something was off. Even Felix, who was usually glued to Pan’s side, hadn’t known.

A point that turns.

Turns what?

Time. Space?

Life, perhaps?

Does it turn on itself? Does it turn you around?

You had found Peter in a cave. He had been sitting down on the ground, head between his arms, hiding his face from the world.

You remember kneeling in front of him, unsure if you could touch him.

“Peter,” you had whispered. “What’s wrong?”

He hadn’t moved from his position. However, he had started talking.

“I can’t stop this,” he had said, and he had sounded so wrecked, so utterly helpless that you had automatically wrapped your arms around his boy, only to find out that he’d been trembling.

“Can’t stop what?”

“It’s changing, (y/n). I don’t know how to stop this. I don’t k-know…”

Peter had cried, then, unable to say anything more.

“Peter,” you had said. “Peter, I need you to tell me. What is changing? What’s happening?”

Between hiccups, Peter had muttered: “The world is changing. I’m not- I tried to stop this, but there’s no way. I tried and I can’t and it’s happening, (y/n), it’s happening…”

“Okay,” you had said, inhaling shakily. “Okay, Peter. We can work this out, just… where is this happening? Where do we need to go?”

Peter had finally raised his head from the crook of his arm and had looked at you, slowly and painfully, staring into your eyes and petrifying you to the spot, draining you from every bravery you could have had moments before.

“It’s in my head. Everything is in my head.”

You don’t remember much more after that.

You remember his lips moving, saying words you couldn’t hear because suddenly everything went white, way whiter than the sunlight of that very morning, brighter than the sparkle in Peter’s eyes when he looked at you, stronger and more devastating than anything you’d ever seen.

And then there were none.


High school is, in the eyes of a teenager, the bane of one’s existence.

Too much people, all gathered in a single building, with god knows how many hormones circulating in their blood, walk through too small corridors, talking with each other. Screams, laughs, complains accompany the life of an average seventeen years old during a break from lessons.

You don’t have many friends.

You think you don’t need many people around yourself, if you have few loyal ones. That’s why your little gang is composed basically of three people: a girl named Selene, a guy that everyone calls Curly (even you don’t know his real name) and yourself.

You meet up at lunch, sharing a table in the cafeteria, far away from the popular ones, who always gather around the bigger tables in the middle of the room (do they need to show off like that? Is it required from their status?).

The popular ones (or the “bunch of dicks”, as Curly calls them) are loud, and usually snickering all the time. They appear to be unable to sit properly, instead choosing to sit on the table while they eat. Show-offs.

Among them, there is what most people call a “leader”, and what you and your friends call “the alpha”.

His name is Peter, but everyone calls him Pan, as an abbreviation of his surname (which is pretty stupid, considering that Pan was a respectable god, not at all similar to the Jerk).

He always sits in the middle of the group, like a priest with his loyal followers. A smirk graces his red lips at all times, and he never fails to wear something green in his outfit.

The popular ones are attracted to him in a pretty ridiculous way: it’s likely that all of them want to fuck him, or have done that already. They are enchanted by the way he speaks, by the way he moves and shines in a weird way, like he was once a star which had then fallen to Earth.

He’s always with a guy named Felix, all blond hair and American smiles. If girls don’t fall for Peter, they fall for Felix; sometimes they do both.

The others from the popular ones are only a blur around these two, like asteroids circulating around two bright stars.

You know them.                                                                                          

You’ve never spoken to them before (of course you haven’t, you’re normal) but you’re sure you know them.

Just like you were sure about Curly when you met him for the first time two months ago.

You remember meeting your friend vividly. He was sitting alone under a tree, reading a heavy book about wat techniques. You remember approaching him involuntarily, smiling down at him and peeking from above his head.

hppp“What are you reading, Curly?” you asked, the name running easily on your tongue, a strange feeling of memory and familiarity tinging in your heart.

He looked up at you with a wide smile, and then exclaimed happily: “Oh, (y/n)! Good morning!”

Then, you both frowned, because he wasn’t supposed to know your name, just like you weren’t supposed to know his.

“Uhm,” you remember asking, “have we met somewhere before?”

“I was about to ask you the same question” he replied, smiling once more, this time shyly.

This was where it all started.

You talked everyday, walked together to class, had lunch together. It was good, it felt right, like coming home after a long journey.

You also remember seeing Peter Pan for the first time. You were with Curly at the time, in the main hallway. Your lockers being close to each other allowed you to speak easily during classroom changes.

Peter was leaning against his locker, a few metres away from you.

You remember being in the middle of a sentence when your eyes caught sight of him, and you remember stopping abruptly, your breath cut off suddenly.

“(y/n),” Curly said, “are you alright?”

You remember shrugging, without glancing away.

It was strange, you thought, how you hadn’t seen him before. Ever.

Sure, the school was big, but his locker was relatively close to yours, and he was clearly one of the beautiful. And yet, you didn’t know he was in your school until that moment.

“It’s him,” you told Curly, involuntarily. You didn’t understand why you were so sure of who he was, and you didn’t understand why seeing him had shook you like that.

“What?” Curly asked, following your eyes and gazing at Peter’s figure. “Are we talking about the Jerk?”

Finally looking away, you stared at Curly.

“Jerk?” you repeated weakly.

“Peter the Jerk Pan, of course. The biggest dickhead of them all.”

“I’ve never seen him before,” you commented, feeling like you were lying. It felt wrong, because you knew the boy. You just didn’t know why.

“Strange. He’s a show-off. Literally. He bathes himself in attention and compliments. God, do I despise him!”

Curly had that way of talking sometimes, a bit like he came directly from another century.

You don’t remember much more about that conversation. However, what you do remember is looking at Peter once again, only to find him staring right back at you, eyes wide and smirk not in place, for once.

He mouthed something, frowning slightly right after. Then, he turned his back on you, and walked closer to a pretty girl with dark blonde locks and shiny blue eyes, approaching her from behind.

“I’m not sure I want to speak to you now, (y/n). Leave. Go back to the treehouse, and stay there. Actually, no, do whatever the fuck you want. I don’t care.”

“Are you going to stay with her all the time? That’s all I’m asking.”

“I’m going to stay with her for as long as she needs it. You’re being selfish.”

Peter turned his back on you, walking away fast and firm to Wendy’s house. You stayed silent, your eyes on the ground, holding back tears but refusing to cry.

“(y/n). (y/n)! What’s wrong? Are you okay?!”

Curly’s voice reached you, pulling you back from what looked to be like a memory, a sort of deja-vu.

“Yes,” you felt yourself saying. “Yes, I’m okay.”

“(y/n). You do realize you’re crying, right? Does it hurt anywhere?”

You touched your face, and found it wet with tears. You didn’t remember staring to cry.

“I’m not sure why I’m crying. I guess I just remembered something bad.”

So there it is, that’s your life.

Strangely, you feel like you’re living in moments and pieces, like your life is not complete except for the times you’re with Curly, or you see the popular ones. Like you don’t belong, and you don’t remember what you ate for dinner the day before.

Overall, it doesn’t feel like your life at all.


It’s during biology class, later on, that it happens again.

When you enter the classroom, he’s there. How haven’t you noticed him before?

He’s sitting in the first row, right in front of the teacher, which is weird, considering the overall stereotype of a “popular boy”. He’s supposed to be sitting in the back, doing noises and disturbing the whole lesson. But he isn’t. And the spot beside him is empty.

You slide into the desk next to him easily, like you’ve sat close to him a million times before, sharing secret smiles and meaningful glances.

But that did not happen. So why are you smiling?

A turning point is a point that turns the events unexpectedly. Apparently, it’s defective.

He looks at you, raising his eyebrows, but doesn’t comment on your choice of seating.

When the beautiful girl comes, he tells her to find another place, since obviously the one next to him is taken.

“It’s not my fault people have the will to decide where to sit, Wen. Christ.”

The girl (Wendy, your mind whispers) scowls at you, and storms off.

Peter, sighing deeply, turns to speak to you.

“Sorry about that,” he says sheepishly. “She’s so intolerable sometimes. It’s not about you, though. She’s probably angry at me because I didn’t save a spot for her. Though I’m not sure why I’m telling you all of this.”

He frowns (again), his eyes searching your whole face for something. You suspect you’re looking for the same thing.

“It’s fine,” you tell him, showing a little smile. “I should have known your girlfriend would want to sit with you. I’m sorry.”

Peter grimaces and turns to look straight ahead, facing the blackboard.

“Right. Like I said, it’s not your fault.”

He stays silent for a while, fumbling with his pencil and tapping it lightly on the desk.

Then, suddenly, he turns again, and stares right into your eyes.

His eyes are green, you notice; they’re full of blue wells, and green forests, with trees and clearings and silver streaks of stars.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“What’s your name?” the boy in green asked, kneeling before you to meet your gaze.

He looked trustworthy, you thought. He looked like he could protect you from the fires and bring you the stars.

His smile was gentle as he untangled you from the ropes. The pirates had long gone, leaving you behind on accident. The captain would be angry with them.

“I’m (y/n),” you tell him, biting your lip, the memory still vividly impressed on your mind.

“I’m (y/n),” you told him, voice shaking just a little.

You stood, finally free, and watched him warily.

“Who are you?” you asked.

“Do you know who I am?” he says next. He must have realized how that sounded, because he blushes the tiniest bit, looking away from your face.

Heart warmed with something that speaks of home and tranquillity, you answer: “The only thing I know about you is your name.”

“I’m Peter. You can call me that, or Pan if you prefer. I’m the king of this island, even though there are no kings here.”

You made a face.

“How can that be?”

He smiled mischievously, offering a hand for you to take.

“You’ll learn there are few impossible things here. Come with me.”

He’s about to say something more, but the professor enters the classroom, shouting about homework and today’s lesson.

However, you notice that a cute, genuine smile never leaves his face after that.

(“See you around, (y/n)” he says at the end of the class, hand in hand with the beautiful girl, but facing you totally, like he wants to get drunk on the sight of you. You smile, nodding and waving your hand to say goodbye.)


Senior prom is the most stupid thing the world has ever invented.

Curly thinks the same. What’s the point, he argues, in dressing up in rented uncomfortable dresses to spend a night full of hypocrisy in the company of people you will never speak to ever again in your life?

You can’t help but agree as you walk through hallways and posters of couples running for the titles of prom king and queen, their smiles shining vividly (and clearly photoshopped).

Peter’s girlfriend is also one of the candidates, even though she runs for it alone. You’re pretty sure you saw Peter tear off posters of his face on the first day.

You also remember giggling about it, and drawing his attention to you for a second. He rewarded you with a wink, as he tore off yet another paper and stormed off to another corridor.

You and Peter talk more these days.

He shares P.E. with you as well (and why does he seem to appear only now?), and Economics. The beautiful girl doesn’t; she stares at you in the hallway, though, with fires burning in her light eyes. You suspect she doesn’t like you much (“and you don’t have to like her, either” Curly says).

The memories keep coming to surface.

At first they’re just visions, and they last something like two or three seconds. They always happen when Peter is around, and they’re usually coming from the way he smiles, or the way he scratches his nose.

You see a boy identical to him, sometimes a bit younger, always dressed in leaves and wood, holding a knife, or a flower, or both.

You see a forest, a river, a lake with sirens. You see the sky and the clouds and the stars.

They’re gone before you can properly remember them, though.

The most vivid vision so far happened when Peter brushed his elbow against yours in Economics, when he stole Curly’s spot while your friend was at the loo.

“You know that’s taken, right?” you asked him.

He smirked, and took out his books and pens.

“Yeah, well, he didn’t leave anything here so technically it’s not.”

“Why are you sitting here, Peter?” you sighed. “You know your people are going to talk about it.”

“Let them,” he answered. “The place I sit being a subject of discussion is something I honestly find ridiculous.”

You laughed, and his eyes lit up as well. And gosh, it felt wonderful.

“Right, fair point.”

Curly came back, an uneasy expression on his face the moment he spotted Peter in his seat.

“Get lost, Pan,” he said, gesturing at the boy to stand and go sit somewhere else. “I was here first.”

“My, my, mate, are we salty. You know this is a free country, right? I have the right to sit here as much as you do.”

Sure,” Curly says, gritting his teeth. “But I. Was. Here. First.”

People stared. You leaned towards Peter to whisper something to your friend, and that’s when it happened again, only stronger than it ever had.

“Pan, I was sitting here first! She’s supposed to show me how to carve wood tonight!”

The boy in green looked at the curly one, unimpressed.

“She can show you another day, Curly. I want to sit here.”

The boy glared at Peter, and then looked at you. “Please tell him you promised me.”

In that moment, the sky rumbled, showing thunders between its clouds. You looked up for a moment, and then spoke to Curly: “I think we can do that another day, alright Curly? Tomorrow I’m all yours.”

Curly sighed, agreed and left.

When he was far enough, you turned around to stare at Peter.

“You are a piece of shit, you know?”

Peter smirked, raising his hands to defend himself.

“That might be true, but you like me.”

“Do I? I’m not so sure.”

“I know of a way to make you like me, darling.”

You smirked, nudging him with your shoulder.

“Oh, do you? Then go on. Show me.”

Curly backed off, probably reading something in your expression that said it was better to leave it be.

Looking at Peter, you found a similar feeling in his eyes: suspect, wonder, questioning.

He didn’t look at you for the rest of the week.

Three days before the infamous social event, which you swore to boycott along with Curly, Peter comes to Biology class on his own, and sits next to you without preambles.

“Are you coming to prom?” he asks, not bothering to greet you first.

“Hello to you, too, Peter,” you tell him.

He huffs, lifting his hair while he do so, and nudges your chair with his foot.

“Well, are you?”

You sigh, turning on your chair to sit towards him.
“I hate proms. And I think this prom in particular is even more useless and stupid than the other ones. So, no, basically I am not going to prom.”

Peter whines, and reaches to touch your hand, which is resting on the table.

The treehouse was silent, as the world outside. Nights on Neverland were usually quiet, only disturbed by the sound of the wind blowing through the trees.

Your hand laid on the covers of the mattress, intertwined with Peter’s. He had made the ceiling open, showing the night sky in full glory.

“Do you think they notice if we’re sad?” you asked.

“I don’t know. They can be pretty selfish sometimes.”

You stayed silent, squeezing his hand tighter. The stars, upon you two, shone bright.

“Are you sad here?” he asked quietly.

You turned your head to the right to look at Peter.

“I am the happiest I’ve ever been.”

He smiled, turning as well, and got closer to you until your noses touched.

He took a deep breath, and opened his mouth…

Peter retreats his hand, inhaling sharply and staring at you, eyes wild and shocked.

“Please tell me I’m not the only one who saw that” he whispers, clenching his hands into fists.

You shake your head imperceptibly, gulping. You saw that too. Of course you did.

Peter exhales shakily. The professor comes in, of course he does, and asks the class for silence.

“(y/n),” Peter says, tilting towards you. “Come to prom. Come and we can talk or something. I don’t… I don’t know what’s going on with me anymore.”

You simply nod.

“I don’t know what’s going on either.”

Curly will have to surrender to you, somehow, because you sure as hell aren’t going alone.


“You owe me your firstborn for this.”

“You’re being dramatic, Curly.”

“I am not.”

You and your friend walk down the path to the school, your heels loud on the asphalt, his suit uncomfortable.

“This thing itches” is the first thing he said to you when you opened the door. “And I despise you, (y/n).”

Music can be heard from inside the building, and a row of balloons mark the way to the gym where prom is happening.

“Why are we doing this? Why are we conforming to the mass?”

You huff, taking your friend’s hand and pulling him close.

“We’re here because it’s going to be… tolerable. Maybe you can dance with Selene and tell her about the huge crush you have on her.”

Curly blushes, and you’re sure he’s hoping it will get by unnoticed. No such luck.

“Stop blushing, you idiot. She’s madly in love with you.”

“What are you going to do if I dance with her all the time? Assuming that’ll happen, obviously.”

You shrug, taking a deep breath and entering the door.

“I’m gonna try to spike the punch, obviously.”

Curly snickers, and spots Selene almost immediately. She looks lovely, wearing a lilac long dress with compliment her light her so, so well.

“Go get her, tiger,” you whisper in Curly’s ear.

You watch the two of them as they greet and begin talking, the spark of affection clear in their eyes. As you turn around to approach the buffet, a glass of something appears in front of you, attached to the figure of a very handsome boy.

“How are you doing tonight, Ma’am?” he asks, smiling kindly.

Peter is wonderful. He wears a dark green smoking, complete with a black bowtie, and his hair are styled for once, every bang going in the right direction. His cheeks are slightly flushed and his eyes sparkle. He’s in his element, of course.

You take the glass, rewarding the boy with a smile, and take a sip.

“Is this alcohol?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

“No one shall know, my lady!” he answers, all giggles and teeth. He’s tipsy.

You indulge his behaviour, drinking again and then placing the glass on the nearest table.

“Are you ready to be prom king, sir?”

Peter sighs, hands in his pockets and glancing around furtively.

“I sure as hell am not. I wish Wen never entered that stupid competition. We fought all day and I’m pretty sure she broke up with me at some point. I just don’t care about being king of an idiot thing like this.”

Remembering the shattered memory from the first day you met him, you step closer.

“And what would you like to be the king of?”

He seems to ponder his answer, biting his lip softly.

“I’d like to have an island as my kingdom,” he admits, as he scans your whole figure.

“You look good tonight, (y/n).”

You feel yourself blushing as you scratch your neck, embarrassed.

“You don’t look bad yourself, Peter.”

He smiles. It’s so beautiful.

“Shall we have a look around? If you’re not with your friends, that is.”

You look back past your shoulder and find Curly and Selene close to each other, almost whispering as they never glance away from each other.

“I’m sure they’re pretty busy,” you comment ironically. Then, a thought passes through your mind, and you frown.

“Why would you want to be with me, of all people?”

Peter doesn’t seem to understand. Confused, he replies: “Why wouldn’t I want to? It’s not like I’m up for listening to my probably ex-girlfriend’s whines all night.”

“Yeah, but… Peter you have tons of friends. And girls who are watching you right now, hoping to dance with you tonight. Why did you ask me to come?”

Peter sighs, a hand coming through his perfect hair.

“Look, (y/n). I don’t— I’m not sure I can explain this to you. Don’t you feel like… like we orbit around each other? Because that’s what I feel. It’s what I’ve felt for weeks, and I kept wondering how I hadn’t known you before. I’m not—I just want to understand. Because I feel like this is far from normal. God, I’m ranting, aren’t I? Fuck. Sorry…”

You raise a hand, not daring to touch him yet.

“I know what you mean. I know. But I’m normal, and you’re amazing. Isn’t there, like, a school rule against us talking?”

Peter laughs. It’s an open, free laugh.

“I’m known for breaking rules all the time, (y/n). Try me!”

Peter is unbelievable. You’ve only ever known him as the Jerk, or the idiot alpha of an equally idiot group of minions, but he’s not. He’s more.

“You’re something, Peter.”

He looks at you, and it’s familiar, it’s home. He offers you his hand.

“Dance with me. Please.”

You take a deep breath. Then, you take his hand.

Once again, the night sky was glittering, heavy with the light of all the galaxies. Shining around you and Peter, though, were other lights, alive and burning. The fairies giggled as their figures lit up and flew around you, drawing bright patterns of light in the air.

Peter held your hand hesitantly, trembling just slightly. You smiled, getting closer to his body, and put your head on his shoulder, barely touching the bare skin above his collarbones.

Peter exhaled over your head and began moving, at first clumsily and then gaining confidence in his paces. His hand held your firmly now, guiding you to move to the sound of the stars, who were singing for your dance.

You danced around the lights slowly, but passionately, like there was nothing else that could stop or distract you from inhaling Peter’s scent and feeling his warm body against yours.

You raised your head and stared into his eyes. There, you found fondness, serenity, blinding happiness in the form of sparks.

“You’re too tall,” you told him, partially to distract yourself from the atmosphere, which was heavy with expectations and something that terribly resembled love.

Peter smirked at that, and held you even closer.

“Perhaps you’re just too short,” he said, eyebrows raised.

“Shut up, Peter” you whispered, your face close to his. You could count the shades of green in his eyes, and the freckles on his cheeks.

Make me, (y/n)” he replied smoothly. Therefore, of course, you complied, and lounged forward to kiss him on the mouth.

The stars sang louder, the fairies joined them, shining even brighter, surrounding you in light.

Peter’s mouth was exactly as you expected: sweet, soft and full of unsaid words.

He let out a little sigh of relief, releasing the tension he must have been holding inside before, and deepened the kiss, asking for entrance with his tongue.

You let him, curling one hand in his hair as he explored your mouth, stealing your breath and making your heart pound. You felt his smile in the kiss, the same smile of a little kid exploding with joy and pleasure.

As you pulled away, red-cheeked and out of breath, eyes sparkling as they reflected in Peter’s, you felt the same smile curving your lips, and forming a grin.

You don’t realize you closed your eyes until you open them again and find yourself close to Peter, closer than you’ve ever been, foreheads touching, bodies flushed close.

Peter is staring at you, with a gobsmacked expression, and eyes full of wonder and knowledge and tenderness.

“I know you,” he whispers, clutching your hand in his. “I know you better than anyone.”

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and your gaze falls on his lips, which are red and inviting and familiar. Peter’s lips feel like home.

You know this boy, just as he knows you. Memories come rushing down, slamming into your mind with the force of the ocean, and you remember. You pick up every piece and pierce it together, connecting the broken memories and gaining new ones, which complete the others.

You remember falling in love with Peter, you remember your jealousy when Wendy came stumbling out of nothing, you remember the days of happiness and the days of sorrow, the smiles and the pain and the tears. You remember the stars, and the dancing. You remember Peter and the boys, your treehouse, the camp, the forest, Neverland. You remember it all.

You immediately know he remembers too, because there’s awareness in his expression, and he’s breathing out love from every pore.

“I can’t believe we found each other,” he says, tilting back a little to breathe deeply. “I can’t believe I’m this much in love with you,” he adds, giggling.

“Yes,” you breathe, feeling the stares of everyone else on you. “I could say the same.”

Peter dares to look around, blushes bright red and challenges the crown with a proud glance.

“I am better than these people,” he comments. “All they can do is stare, apparently.”

You push him lightly, a laugh breaking the heavy atmosphere. You search the room for Curly, and you find him staring, as well. But what you see isn’t hate, or betrayal, or anger: what you see is knowledge, and a small smile that says I remember it, too.

“Don’t be a jerk, Peter.”

He grins, the smile taking up almost entirely his expression.

“But you love me,” he says, whining.

You sigh deeply, and guide him out of the room, away from the people who don’t know you.

As he closes the gym door behind himself, you turn around, and you tilt your head to the side.

“We should find the others.”

He nods. “Yes, we should.”

“Shall we go home afterwards?” you ask, a mischievous smile painting your lips.

He smirks, and nods again.

“Yes, we shall.”

emma’s corner: i know what you’re thinking. what is she doing, posting useless shit when we’re waiting for that damn ditmas chapter. I KNOW. but this is something to keep you occupied while i gather my shit together and actually star organizing my time. anyway, this was totally a self-indulgent fic, very american and all that, requested by THIS LITTLE FAIRY. i hope you enjoy it. and i hope i can actually get to the real deal soon and tell you about Felix. Until next time, friends!

anonymous asked:

Can I request a small fic where s/o is defending Keith for being Galra against the rest of the Voltron team? (Well, I think Allura and Pidge would be the most conflicted)

Keith’s fist were white, or at least, whiter than usual. 

“Where did you get the audacity to be like this, huh?”

Shiro let out a sigh and Keith grit his teeth harder. 

“Just calm down, it’s-” Allura started, wincing when your voice cut through hers.

“It’s not okay. God, he’s your teammate, not some sociopathic killer!” You hissed, hands crossed over your chest.

“We never said that!” Coran cried.

“Implicating it is just as bad, Coran!” You replied, glaring at the orange-haired man. 


You turned around, the rest of the paladins freezing where they stood.

“Stop fighting.”

“Keith, we-” Once again, Allura was cut off. 

“It doesn’t matter, I’ll be in the training room.”

You watched as Keith exited the room, shooting you a look. You would stand by him. Forever. 

I’m going to need people from the United States to understand something, that has been discussed countless of times throughout tumblr, so much so that it’s like beating a dead horse. Many people still don’t seem to understand that:

1) Latinos are not a race

2) Not all Latinos are people of color

3) Many Latinos are white. As white as native Europeans and sometimes even whiter than white Americans. This is especially true for people in the media in most Latin American countries. In countries like Mexico the movie industry is dominated by white European descendants, especially those from the elite. This is why Mexican men like:

Alejandro González Iñárritu (who is of Basque descent, with his Mexican wife who is of Spanish and German descent)

Emmanuel Lubezki (who is of Russian Jewish descant)

Alfonso Cuarón (who is of Spanish descent)

Guillermo del Toro (who is a Mexican Criollo)

Are white, despite being Mexican in nationality and ethnicity. They are in no way people of color.

Please take that into consideration when their wins are mentioned as triumphs for poc, because they are not. The reason these men won the awards they have, is greatly due to their whiteness.

With that said, their wins are without a doubt victories for Mexico and the Mexican people, and I’m not trying to take that away from them. My only concern are the people who try to detour conversations about the lack of poc representation in Hollywood by saying things like: well there’s this one Mexican nominated too; ignoring the fact that, that one Mexican happens to be no less whiter than the other white foreigners nominated. 

The reason this is extremely problematic is because it gives the illusion that poc are the champions of these victories, and it literally grants white people a space that is intended for poc. Meaning that, not only do they already dominate the media in their home countries, but now they’re also overshadowing a spot for those non-white Latin Americans who are largely invisible in the media of those countries.

On a side note, I’d also like to remind everyone that: Spain is in Europe and that the indigenous population of Spain is as white and as European as the indigenous populations of Britain, France, or Italy. A lot of you seem to think that Penélope Cruz, Pedro Almodóvar, and Javier Bardem are not only Latinos but also as non-white, which is mind-blowing considering they’re all native Europeans.