My God, My God, Whose Performance Am I Watching? How Many People Am I? Who Am I? What Is This Space Between

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it would be fun if an angel and a vampire were friends i think

official elon musk hate post reblog to hate like to hate reply to hate

Black movies that are not about trauma, slavery, or being accepted by white people >>>>>>

Confession: I have a friend who likes to text me at like 4am when he’s had nightmares or he can’t sleep or he just needs a friend. He thinks I’m always awake at 4am but really I go to bed around 12am and I change his text-tone to the loudest one I have just so it wakes me up when he needs me.

I wake up every day to an equation I wrote 15 years ago from which there's only one conclusion, I'm damned for what I do.

Tim, abruptly standing up in shock: Wait, I just realised that Damian will graduate highschool in 2032

Damian, rasing a brow: Yes, ofcourse? As I am currently in fourth grad-

Jason, spitting out water: What the fuck? 2032?

Steph, pointing accusingly: That's not a real graduation year you made that up!

Dick: I think I just threw up in my mouth a little

Duke, with his head in his hands: Does anyone else feel both their feet in the grave? I graduated this year!

Dick: Feet? More like my entire body, I finished high school years ago!

Cass: Guys I think Bruce is crying

Take us back to the beginning, if you will, of this story of butchery.

List of “they’re fake dating but are crossing way too many lines to be considered fake anymore” prompts

Character A’s arm around Character B’s waist, subconsciously keeping them close; glaring at people who try to get close to Character B. 

Heart twisting uncomfortably in Character A’s chest when they see Character B’s eyes lighting up when they’re talking to someone else, so much so Character A has to tear their eyes away to calm themselves down. The reminder of fake, fake, fake repeats in Character A’s head. 

Seeking for Character B’s hand subconsciously, intertwining their fingers, palm pressed against palm; snug and warm, the feeling of never wanting to let go almost overwhelming. But this is fake be damned — for now, it’s all about the comfort. (It becomes a habit.) 

Drunken kisses. God, the drunken kisses, with Character B’s fingers in Character A’s hair and Character B perched in their lap, kissing them with no restraint; things getting heated, Character A’s hands slipping under Character B’s shirt and earning a slight shiver from them. All the while, Character A could only wish Character B would kiss them like this when they’re sober. Character A lets that thought linger until they both fall asleep in each other’s arms after kissing way too many times to count because they can’t seem to get enough of each other. 

Late night phone calls or endless text messages at two in the morning, never wanting the conversation to end. It makes Character A wonder, but they stop themselves before these thoughts spiral out of their control. 

The thoughts of wanting Character B in a way they can’t have them becomes more frequent. They know it’s only going to break them by thinking like this, but they continue to entertain the idea of it; of how it would be like to call Character B theirs, for real. (It’s unhealthy, so fucking unhealthy, but they can’t help it.) 

Kisses becoming longer; more desperate, more passionate, with no need for alcohol. It burns to have Character B kiss them like they mean it; like there’s supposed to be something there, but they push it down because this is fake. It’s fake. This is all an act. (Character A convince themselves, at least for a little while more.)

Gazing at each other like they’re in love with each other, even though the both of them know they’re not in love with each other (or maybe denial is more blissful than they realise?). 

Fighting with each other hurts more than it should; it dissolves into tears, slamming doors shut and heart aches that wouldn’t have happened if they didn’t agree to this stupid fake dating thing. 

And then it all comes to a head one day, tearful and angry confessions on the tips of their tongues. (And by God, are they so dramatic about it, too.) 

B: “Why are you doing this to us? We— we were doing so good—” 

A: “Because this is supposed to be fake, but I’m falling for you and I’m fucking terrified I’m never going to be able to catch myself. Because I’m falling for you and you don’t feel the same and everything in me screams for me to run away, but I can’t because it’s you.” 

B: “…And who the fuck says I don’t feel the same?” 

dead poets society // heartstopper