this is so old q q

Click for fullview please. Really old headcanon of mine that Goat boss monsters bump their heads together to make friends like what RL goats do. And yes, Asriel forced taught Chara this. Chara never did this until Frisk came and uses this more often to Frisk and/or vice versa to remind themselves that they’re not alone.

This is the 10th page of an abandoned comic I made from 6 months ago ahah. Just wanna share this headcanon cause I like it so much and I’m a sap.

Random headcanon (Arkham edition)

Joker is the reason for 99% of the new rules Arkham had to put in place after he was admitted there. Examples include: 

- No chairs with wheels


- No coffee or candy available for patients

- No unsupervised staircase railings

- No yelling at the top of your lungs of vintage Britney Spears songs at 3am

  • Friend: What are you thinking about?
  • Me: oh, nothing
  • Me in my head: YO!!!!!GARRY!!!! I'M COMIN' I'M COMIN. OH MY GOD IT'S GARRY COLEMAN! YES I AM! I'M GARRY COLEMAN FROM TV'S DIFF'RENT STROKES. I MADE A LOT OF MONEY THAT GOT STOLEN BY MY FOLKS. NOW I'M BROKE AND I'M THE BUTT OF EVERYONE'S JOKES. BUT NOW I'M HERE THE SUPERINTENDENT OF AVENUE Q!!!!! IT SUCKS TO BE YOOOOOU! YOU WIN! IT SUCKS TO BE YOOOOOU! I FEEL BETTER NOW! TRY HAVING PEOPLE STOPPING YOU TO ASK YOU "WHAT YOU TALKIN' 'BOUT, WILLIS?" It,,,, gets,,,,old,,,,,,,,

You touch your bruises to my bruises,
your broken bones to my bloody knees.
I pretend you are the same person you were a year ago
and you pretend I am the girl who was with you
only because she felt she had to be.

We don’t do it on purpose.
Our scars add up like stars that
make up our bodies like constellations.
You try to hold me but you are the sunlight
that blankets me when it is 2:30
in the afternoon and I am still in bed;
keeping you is not as easy as containing
lightning bugs in glass jars and I know
you try so goddamn hard to love me,
but I bought skin like asphalt
when it kept scraping.

Sometimes I sit across from you trembling
and you refuse to come near me because
I kiss with a mouthful of razor blades;
I step closer to you and you bleed Bacardi
and self-destruction. You run away
from me with tears running like
your legs down forbidden streets.

But I don’t want to smear kerosene on
the roughest parts of your existence.
I don’t want to change us.
I don’t want to change you.
I want to expose you like meaningless sex;
I want you to climb a latter inside of yourself
and then burn it so you always
think about who you are.

This is why we fight: because
you had never met someone who sees
through you like your skin is transparent
and I had never found someone with
the will to withstand such warzones,
so selfless that you can look at me
with your lungs chiseling out of your chest
and still try to make me happy.

I know first-hand that adrenaline kicks in
when you even imagine your bones breaking.
You become illogical, defensive and defenseless
as you run barefoot across the pavement,
putting slash wounds in your heart so love
can thrive in the crevices of barely beating.
A life without you always felt
like having lungs that cannot breathe.

And this is exactly why we fight: because
our minds were molded by prior experience,
but our love is like learning to speak.

—  This is why we fight
3

1- “My thoughts are like stars I can’t fathom into constellations.”

John Green, The fault in Our Stars

2. “Just remember that sometimes the way you think about a person isn’t the way they actually are.”

John Green, Paper Towns

3. “’Teenagers think they are invincible’ with that sly, stupid smile on their faces, they don’t know how right they are. We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken. We think that we are invincible because we are. We cannot be born, and we cannot die. Like all energy, we can only change shapes and manifestations. They forget that when they get old. They get scared of losing and failing. But that part of us greater than the sum of our parts cannot begin and cannot end, and so it cannot fail.”

John Green, Looking for Alaska

When I was younger,
instead of catching fireflies,
I captured hope in glass jars,
making sure to carve a hole in the lid
so the hope I had found
could breathe in the world.

When I met you,
I started gathering jokes in sandwich bags
that I’d suffocate myself with
just to see your mouth curve upwards.

I want to wander to a place you cannot reach,
but your palms rest in the soft creases
in back of my kneecaps, tugging at the skin
discovered delicately behind bone.
I want to rest that spot on train station seats
and listen to the comforting roar of airplanes,
but my callused skin has found a home
inside of your hands.

I want to write about the dark tunnel
with the light at the end and the way aging
forces your body to transform into your mind,
but the half circles under my eyes are from seeing
your semblance ghost into car doors at parties
and my spine curves upwards because
you are taller than me. Its marrow
tries to count the pores on your face like
glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling,
but you are like the Milky Way:
I cannot distinguish each one individually,
for you are made entirely of stardust.

Every poem I have ever written
has tasted like the galaxies you’ve
placed on my tongue with your lips,
stapled sentiments to the stories
you have hidden on the roof of my mouth.
And you are the poem
I will always try to write
even when I cannot find the words.

—  This wasn’t supposed to be a love poem
Before It’s Too Late

James pressed his back against a wall. He glanced behind the corner to see how many of the mobsters were still standing and firing. The number was five. He was running out of ammunition, and they had submachine guns.

007 has fought his way out of far worse situations, undoubtedly. But one could never know what might happen in an old hovel in Iraq that has been currently occupied by him and some very angry drug cartel associates, so he as well might say it.

“Are you free on Tuesday evening, Q?” he asked the man on the other side of the comms and fired two rounds. Both hit their target, if not exactly the bull’s-eye.

“Why would that be any of your concern, 007?” Q answered; bitter, sceptical, concerned. “Turn left. Try to get them to narrower corridors and eliminate them one by one.”

“Perhaps I’d like you to join me for dinner,” he replied as he availed himself of the cover of the thick wall again. Bullets flew through the air, and one has missed his shoulder by a hair. “If I come back from here in one piece.”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over the fire, 007, come again?”

Of course the moment was bloody ruined. However, James fired twice more. He was out of cartridge now, counting on his hand-on-hand combat skills only. He turned left as Q instructed him to. He did not even throw away his empty pistol, that serious he has been about the proposal.

“If I survive this, will you go out on a date with me, on Tuesday?”

“Tuesday’s Valentine’s Day.”

“Yes.”

Is that another one of your bad jokes?”

James ran down the stairs. “I am all but joking, Q. I want to have dinner with you. Do you?”

Pause. The Quartermaster was silent, and James was more worried than he has been about the gunmen. And then Q just said “Yes.”

James’ heart pounded once, twice. Brand new motivation ran through his veins. He had one hell of a reason not to give up the mission now. Even when a bullet scraped his shoulder and another one nearly hit his left side.