y'all-are-brilliant

Proof That I Have The Best Followers Ever
cackledenmaine

 answered your 

question

Question: I see everyone changing their usernames…
spookytrigonometry

A good one, seeing as trigonometry is considerably more frightening.

ghostykissies

 answered your 

question

Question: I see everyone changing their usernames…
impossiblespookometry
impossiblezombies!!!
impossiblegeospook
IMPUMPKINIBLEGEOMETRY im sorry ill stop responding to your post now

SHH You never have to stop, these are all brilliant. Impumpkinible jf;adhdf;ds

serenityaur

 replied to your 

post

:

Question: I see everyone changing their usernames…
impossiblespookemetry ouo?

Alright, two votes for this, looking like a pretty viable option.
crypt-kicker

 answered your 

question

:

Question: I see everyone changing their usernames…
impossibleneedofcandy

This is also very viable option.

misadventuresofeldergoth

 answered your 

question

Question: I see everyone changing their usernames…
possessablejackolanty

I’m not gonna lie, I laughed out loud over this one. 

youtube

I will never get over this.

no but think about, scripps who writes for fun and for a living and has done all his life, but he still can’t find the right words to tell posner he loves him

so when they’re younger he tells him with the keys of a piano, and with rides round sheaf square on their bikes, and kicking puddles in the rain, and singing gracie fields to cheer him up when dakin ignores him again

as they get older that becomes something else, and he tells him by remembering quotes from his favourite poems and movies, and writing every tuesday and calling on the weekends, and getting the train over just to surprise him

as adults, when they live together in an awful one-bedroom house in a little village near doncaster, he tells him with cups of tea on mornings when things are bad again, in notes tucked into his books just to make him smile, in kisses to his forehead and fingers in his hair to calm him down

when he thinks posner isn’t paying attention, he tells him in scrambled poetry, in ripped up and clumsy songs, in prose so floral and floating he barely recognises it as his own hand

(when he knows posner is paying attention, he says it in faltering syllables and mumbling, afraid, for the first time in fifteen years)