#headcanon time!

[endertheloosegoose]

I think Peter sends Tony silly memes and pictures he finds and the later into the night the weirder and more obscure they get and the more Tony gets worried for the kid

[rwby-confess]

Confession #1204

[negaprionb]

Bruce’s kids always say, “I’m not Batman” or “I will never be Batman” BUT, every single one of his kids make up a section of Batman. All together they make a team. Hear me out:

Jason: ruthlessness

Dick: compassion

Damian: stubborn

Tim: detective (smart asf)

Alfred: father figure

Steph: headstrong

Duke: hand to hand combat and leader

Cass: determined and martial artist

Whether they want it to happen or not

They all make up the bat

[kuebiko-kei]

Can you imagine criminals swearing at Nightwing and he freezes for a second when it’s that insult

Criminal: HEY, DICK!

Nightwing: ohgodhowdotheyknow

[kazorashi]

Okay but a Kaiju No. 8 headcanon… Narumi was present when Mina encountered Bakko and took Bakko in for her partner.

Narumi: It’s a KAIJU Mina: He’s a CAT

[izar-tarazed]

Just like her Elden Ring counterpart, Dark Souls Izar initially wakes with (almost) no memories of her past; she has not forgotten everything, but… most things. There is a big gap.

She wonders; she’s curious; but she isn’t desperate to find out who she was, or why she forgot. She seizes the chance to invent herself anew and from scratch. She becomes a wanderer, free and untethered, she experiments with whatever weapon falls into her hand, she’s curious about magic. There is nothing from her past to serve as an anchor, but she doesn’t mind. She has been like this for a long time when she ends up in the Undead Asylum, and escapes, and begins her journey as Chosen Undead, quietly scoffing at the thought: why would she, who doesn’t excel at anything, be chosen in any way. It doesn’t feel like a burden, though; she keeps travelling and exploring.

She learns magic. A storyteller at heart, she’s fascinated by miracles being tales of old, or fragments of tales; fascinated by magic unfolding through the power of remembering and reciting those tales. She learns to wield a lightning spear and welcomes the way this kind of magic sizzles and bites at her fingertips. She dabbles in pyromancy, fascinated by light and warmth. (Fire and lightning, she later realizes, are both opposed to water in their own way.)

She mostly stays clear of sorceries, though; a coincidence, she thinks.

And then there’s always those ruins: the dark ones beneath the Firelink Shrine; the flooded ones, silent and haunted.

They call to her before she knows their story. They feel like a place she should know, and Izar wonders whether she did, back when New Londo was an actual city. She probably learns about the city’s fate long before she first dares to venture into it, learning to fight off the ghosts. She probably hears of the darkwraiths before she first makes her way to that roof, and meets a solitary figure clad in the same crimson robes that she has taken to wearing, simply because she likes them, without any deeper feeling attached.

But then that figure—masked, unlike her—turns to greet her, and freezes, and says her name in an old voice. ‟You came back.”

And she blinks. Shakes her head, gives an apologizing smile. ‟You must mistake me for someone else, this isn’t really my robe,” and it’s his turn to shake his head and step closer, and she realizes that he has said her name. This is not about the robe she wears.

‟I’m Ingward. Do you not remember?” he says, and she falls quiet. She does not remember. But there is a sadness to his voice that can only come from truth.

‟Izar,” he says, cradling her name carefully as if it could be broken—as if this very moment could be broken, and he gestures to the dark waters. ‟You were one of us. When we flooded the city… when we sealed this place, sacrificing everything…”

And she shakes her head, but the motion does not seal his words from coming.

‟You helped,” he says. ‟Even though you had a friend among the Darkwraiths—you still helped when we drowned this place. Do you not remember?”

She does not, her mind as dark as the waters surrounding them.

‟No,” she mutters, turning away, ‟this couldn’t have been me,” but she knows. Even without remembering—she knows. She understands, too, why she forgot everything: they were not taken from her, those memories, not ripped out of her mind by some unknown tragedy. Izar herself, skilled sorceress that she was—a healer in crimson robe—had walked away and purged her memories. Flooded her mind with oblivion to drown the guilt much in the same way the city was flooded to contain the darkness, sacrificing everything else.

Fire and lightning and never sorcery, and it still leads her back to this place, to knowing without even remembering.

[f1nns-archival-survival]

(Hey buddy)

💌Finn was/is the only person Ed would genuinely smile at. Not a soft little polite smile you give to coworkers you don’t like so much or that one boss. No a full blown tight lipped smile that makes his nose crinkle and he squints his eyes.

Also waved a fork any/every time he saw Finn. The little kid wave.

Omg yes and mayhaps vice versa too. That’s how codependent they were chat