#my headcanon is not the best but...

[spicy-lemnade]

Casavir Headcanon in the nutshell

(Low res pic, I just want small pic, okay?)

How everyone headcanon (or written) him:

"My lady." guy

a sorely gentleman (stereotype)

"My lady"

white knight (stereotype)

"m'lady"🥺

dragonborn must be his true love or something like that

"I must maintain my vow😞, though I regret taking it"😢😩

Is actually (secretly) horny. uwu

"My lady?"

also deep bass boosted voice

By "taking a vow" very seriously, it means include he should care about his "celibacy"? Just because he's very religious guy??

cares about your boundaries (positive, actually)

my lady....

Praying the divines / Tyr all day

NO SWEARING IN MY TEMPLE OF THE DIVINES😡

"BISHOP!��😡 WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?🤬😤🔪🩸🩸"

"M'lady."

traits? what positive traits? (it's nothing of a value, according to them)

Also Casavir: "met many a fine lass on his travels, but none were sufficiently enticing to churn his core" (literally overused sentences in every fanfics they've written in every fandom)

Here's some verbatim for you all to understand: "he met many pretty women, but none of them are pleasurable enough for him like how dragonborn do." (not), it's very lazy writing.

my lady

my lady

m'lday

malady

m'lady

How I headcanon him:

"It's been 18 years, Bishop. You haven't pay for your crime...and your bills, you've been wasting their ale back from Neverwinter."

old ass

soft ass

sassy ass

goth ass BITCHES

was tired of Bishop's bullshit, but well.. not anymore...

"Knows what he was doing"

but if you ask, he ain't subtle. Well sometimes subtle about it, he'll speak like riddles, just like how you met one of the Stormcock soldier in Sovngarde

remind practical and observant...like how he observed Bishop's behavior and tendencies

Your tired granddad(dy) (ignore this)

is actually introvert nerd

"My lady, I guess..."

"Or my sire, perhaps?"

prefer not to label himself and you do as well respect that

definitely into deathcore

Unironically listening to "I am... All of Me." by Crush 40 from Shadow the Hedgehog ("Hey isn't this for-" SHUT THE FUCK UP)

sure, he doesn't like swearing but he will do it if he feels like it. He's not gonna freak out about it if he hears someone swearing, don't push your luck

he kinda looks like: "Cry all you want while I, as the new gen once called "the Chad", stay stoic as the paladin should do", when he doesn't make any expression that much (he will not say that tho)

His rivalry with Bishop is just as old and boring as your favorite game. Give him a fucking break, he just wants to move on ffs. I don't care about the canon, it's just a fucking game.

He's all in forgiveness, but "never forget for what they've done and hurt you"

He realized he doesn't know who they were fighting over, amnesia perhaps? Or just plain memory loss since he could recall it sometimes but he doesn't know who that is...

has depression, OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) and terrible anxiety (or generalised anxiety disorder due to his past)

In fact, he IS The Gentleman.

I can go all I wanted to say if I ever wanted to, he deserves better.

[ahfrickenfrick]

nightwing being hurt in the field, and over comms he can’t get out what was wrong, nearly in shock, and jason puts on his best batman™️ voice and says “robin, report.”

and it snaps dick out of it enough to say concussion, possible broken ribs, and a gash in his side.

no one talks about it, and then a year later, damian does the same thing to tim

[bereft-of-frogs]

There’s that post that’s like ‘everyone should get into a tiny niche fandom at least once’ fully agree, that was really fun -- but I would like to add that everyone should get into a fandom where their opinions run counter to major fanon because it really teaches you about sticking to your guns and trusting your interpretation of the text without having to rely on peer validation

because WHAT are people talking about sometimes

[novaneondream]

Anyways what kind of music do you think Eri listens to

[raticalshoez]

I miss Team BEST and their dysfunctional swag

[aroaceleovaldez]

Nico referring to his mom as "Mama" implies he most likely at least used to refer to Hades as "Papa" and i 100% headcanon he still does but mostly in the manner of him having the entire Underworld wrapped around his finger for being the baby of the family

[ohmygraves]

ghost who eloped with his spouse, who moved into a small house for about a month before he had to fly out on a missions outside of england. hell, the place was pretty bare and he couldn't even manage to put in some nice furniture before price told him to get his arse into a plane to russia for a five month long mission. didn't even get to enjoy some honeymoon before his job fucked him over.

safe to say, he hadn't established a routine at his new home yet ever since he moved out of his barracks room at the base. he was only at home for a little while, it only makes sense that he doesn't know where everything goes sometimes. and of course, he somehow misplaced himself.

at the end of the deployment, he was too tired to even care. his eyes were so heavy and tired that he made his way back to his old barracks room, kicking the door down and throwing his bags to the side (and scaring poor soap who was asleep on the bed, since of course he's the one who took ghost's old room back at the base).

his eyes met the scot, a little confused as to why he sees someone on his bed.

"whit the hell!? lt!? did the missus kick ye out?" soap groaned, scared shitless as he tries to calm his heart.

the question took him off guard, and he stood by the doorway quietly, just processing it.

"... i have a spouse."

"ye eedjit." soap shook his head, telling him to leave soon or else an angry spouse will buzz off his mohawk.

poor ghost, rushed out of the base in the middle of the night trying to get back home. he's got a lot of apologizing to do. hopefully his spouse was asleep and didn't realize that he practically drove twice over the speed limit and possibly ran over someone just to get to his spouse's arms.

[upon-the-snow]

early mornings after nightmares

[demigods-posts]

i need a scene in season two when percy and annabeth go to save grover. and before the fight commences. percy and annabeth pause to tell him that they genuinely think he looks so pretty in that dress. and grover thanks them and tells them to focus on keeping him alive or he'll wear this dress to his funeral.

[sweetimmoral]

the gentle shuffling beneath the sheets distracts tom from his reading. he turns to look at the bed. no, stare at the bed, as if his concentration is going to make your sleepy head visible to him like magic.

"tom?" he hears your tiny, sleepy voice call out.

"oh, i'm here" he calls out reassuringly, trying to sound a bit more reassured than how he feels himself. you hummed in response, a smile on your face evident in the tune.

it made his heart skip a beat.

he had never let anyone sleep over in his dingy apartment above burke's. it was more of a cupboard with creaky floors that smelt like old paper and a bit of earl grey. it smelled like tom. you liked that, you told him, and that he needn't be ashamed. the economy is in shambles after the great war, you said as you cupped his face. he could only manage half a smile to respond to that.

in the morning he'd expected you to disappear from his bed. to be gone. and never return.

as he held your face the night before, he was almost reciting his disappointment. ever since he'd met you he'd been waiting for you to leave him. waiting. anxiously. not hoping, no, never hoping. it's just that you're too good, to sweet for someone so cruel and unlovable.

in some twisted metaphor, he felt his cold, long fingers warm up as they soaked some of the warmth of your pretty face. he let himself feel it. the heat. the fact that you were so real, as real as the blood flowing through your body, as real as the part of you he kissed with his tip just moments before. he let his fingers wander down south to feel just how and where he had ruined you. caressing your swollen parts with his dexterous fingers, holding his breath a little when he found his cum there. actual. tangible. there you were. and it was all real.

his hand settled comfortably on your waist after its restless roaming. he didnt want to wake up and witness the guilt he'd feel for going against every principle of his. the giant wall he'd been making around himself had no entrance, then how did you manage to comfortably reside in the broken castle ruins it protected – his heart? at least he could be assured that you would never leave. never.

and he'd resent you for this cruel trespassing forever.

[ephie-om]

I hc that the Devildom night/day cycle is a bit different, kind of as another overarching hc that everything just takes more time down there. I can't even remember when I came up w this but I think their days are 24 hours and nights are 12. So when MC comes into the picture they're awake hours before anyone else but they have to have a mandatory afternoon nap. This eventually results in unofficial HoL quiet hours to not incur the wrath of the human.

I'm imagining Mammon and Levi get into an argument not realizing it's MC's naptime, demon forms out and everything. Levi is facing the door and freezes mid-sentence. He locks eyes with his player two who looks strikingly like Belphie right now, and his tail wraps around his leg protectively. Mammon, not realizing what's going on, takes the opportunity to lay into Levi until he feels a hand on his shoulder. He whips around to see MC glaring at him with an anger he's never seen and they say, nearly in a whisper, "Mammon. Levi." The demons brace themselves. "Shut. The. FUCK. UP." And they turn around and walk back to their room.

Ever since that day every resident and visitor to the house start to check the clock when they haven't seen their human in a while. Even Lucifer gets shushed a couple times when he gets too passionate in his lectures, and as much as he hates being told what to do, the house remains quiet.

[vita-divata]

I desperately need a comic or a novel about Noatak after he ran away from home :’( wanna know more about his early life

[disaster-magician]

Imagine this takes place at the end of step 2 so they're close enough to joke around with each other lol

(Fake screenshots! These are fan made based on incorrect quotes and not in the game)

[machveil]

Ohhh tiny reader with loser ghost is adorable and hot. Can we get some very sexy imagine when loser ghost finally makes it fit? Please please please

YES yes you can - original post

CW: Fem!Reader, size difference/kink

Loser!Simon Riley who’s been pussy drunk for over an hour. hot tears running down your cheeks and your hands clutching his short-cropped hair. he’s dripping with you, chin soaked and moaning against your cunt. he can’t keep his eyes open, brows knit as he desperately tries to send you over the edge again, thick fingers clumsily plunging in and out of you. an hour of Simon losing himself in you, neither of you sure how many times he’s tipped you over the edge

he can’t help himself when he ruts against the mattress, achingly hard and straining against his pants. and, oh, his hips stutter when you yank on his hair, thighs clamping around his head as you orgasm. stuck, locked between your thighs as you cry out - all he can do is helplessly suck on your clit, slick fingers slowing down before he pulls them out. as soon as he can come up he’s tugging his jeans and boxers down, too impatient to tug them down past his thighs. “C’mon love, wanna feel you.”, he mumbles out, hands already moving to prop your legs up so he can thrust between your plush thighs

Loser!Simon Riley whose heart skips a beat when you murmur, “In me— wanna— Simon, please?”. he freezes, eyes darting down to his cock - it hasn’t fit before, he doesn’t want to hurt you. but when Simon looks back at you, hair messy and a dopey smile on your lips, he figures trying again is okay. throat tight as lets go of your legs, breathing heavily when you spread them, he nervously brings his tip to your slit. “Gonna go slow, sweet’art.”, is all he can manage to say, sloppily dragging his head up and down your cunt for a moment

Loser!Simon Riley who has to pause when he bullies his tip into you, legs shaky as he tries not to come too quickly - but you feel so good already. it’s agonizing, the slow stretch of Simon filling you. your slurred out encouragements aren’t making it any easier for Simon, babbling about how full you feel even though he’s barely worked himself in. small, controlled thrusts leave him fucking his tip deeper into you, his eyes screwing shut when you clench around him. he’s lost in the feeling, time rolling past him as he focuses on how you feel, too tight, too warm

Loser!Simon Riley who doesn’t realize he’s pelvis to pelvis with you, eyebrows knit as his head dips down, panting against your neck. Simon only realizes he can’t push any further when you roll your hips against his, it has him moaning hoarsely into your ear. he pushes himself up, just enough to look at where you’re connected and freezes - heart in his throat when he sees your tummy. barely visible, something snaps in him with he sees the little bulge his tip leaves against you. sharp gasp leaving your lips, Simon can’t help but sporadically rut into you, eyes glued to where your tummy bulges ever so slightly. “Good— fuckin’ perfect, love—”, he rasps out, hips stuttering to a pause when you clench a little to tightly around him

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

Overindulgent father Astarion who tells his children they’re allergic to any kind of jewellery that isn’t made of the highest grade Dwarven crafted gold. 

It’s not even because Astarion might have a certain aversion to silver, no, he just raises his children to have standards, thank you very much. 

And it doesn’t end with shiny things, oh no… 

The Ancunín brood is known to be dressed in perfectly woven cotton, silk and soft leather clothes, no matter the occasion.

They’re seen playing with expensive toys, reading artfully illustrated books that certainly belong behind thick glass, not in children’s sticky hands. 

There’s even talk that one of the children is not as naturally inclined to music as his parents claim him to be, surely his lyre must be enchanted—the instrument certainly looks extravagant enough! 

And then there’s always this air of effortless haughtiness surrounding the Ancunín children whenever their nannies and servants are parading them through town as if they were perfect little dolls; objects to show off the wealth their parents acquired in quite the mysterious ways. 

So, it’s no secret that Astarion and Tav are pampering their children—some might say they’re even spoiling them rotten. 

And maybe they are, especially Astarion.

But he doesn’t see why he should raise them any other way, nor does he want to.  

When it comes to his children, Astarion has his own standards, and as long as Tav agrees with him nothing really matters. 

Because, these people, they don’t know anything about the Ancuníns. 

They don’t know that it’s not unusual for Astarion to wash out dirt and mud and strawberry stains from comically small finery, leaving behind only the memories of a day spent playing in the garden, chasing after ducks, picking flowers, lazing in the sun��

That any holes and tears the children’s clothes might suffer are quickly mended, making them look as good as new in no time. 

Nor do they know that Astarion doesn’t mind fashioning a brand new dress to match that of a favourite doll, either. Or to embroider a pretty vest with the likeness of that stray cat the children seem to adore, although their father would rather they don’t touch the mangy animal. 

No, those people know nothing at all...

“Not tired!” Astarion’s youngest cries; the vehement denial of her father’s earlier accusation is cut short by a telltale yawn.

The room still smells of fragrant lavender oil and peaches even when the bath water has already grown tepid, just one or two degrees above what Astarion would consider too cold to be enjoyable. 

Amused, he raises an eyebrow at the protesting toddler before he lifts her out of the copper bathtub with little effort. 

By now, he knows every step of this game.

“Tut-tut, my dear child, what did mama and I say?” Astarion kneels, quickly wrapping a soft towel around the child to keep her warm. “We only tell lies outside of this house.”

Unfazed by her father’s gentle scolding, the girl crosses her arms that haven’t yet lost their puppy fat across her chest, reminding Astarion a little too much of a very displeased Tav. 

Suppressing a sigh, he leans back to consider the pouting child, wondering what could possibly be upsetting her this time—the list is growing longer by the day, after all. 

“What’s the matter, dear?” Astarion asks gently, hoping it’s something easily fixable as it’s growing rather late. 

“Want apple!”

Decades ago, Astarion might’ve rolled his eyes—he knows exactly which stupid apple the child wants, it’s been haunting him all day—but once he started to treat his children’s problems as if they were his own, his life has grown somewhat easier. 

“Why, let’s get an apple on our way to bed, then. Would that be alright, Your Highness?” 

The girl promptly nods her head, allowing Astarion to pat her hair dry before dressing her in a clean night dress. 

She rests her cheek against her father’s shoulder as he carries her first to the kitchen to grab a fragrant apple and a knife, then to her bedroom where they settle on the cosy window seat, just like they do every night.

Soft moonlight is pouring through the windows; the child giggles at the way the knife’s blade is catching the silver light as Astarion peels and cuts the apple into even pieces.

“Here you go,” he finally says, giving the slice of apple one last examining look before surrendering it to the impatient little hands reaching for it. “A sweet treat for my little sweet. Doesn’t it taste so much better when we don’t eat it off the floor, darling?” And when it’s not crawling with ants…

The appeased toddler nibbles at the juicy fruit as Astarion carefully combs through her still-damp curls. 

Her hair’s getting long, he notices, knowing that taking care of it will become more time-consuming each day. 

Once, Astarion would’ve thought this task tedious, brushing out hair that’s not his own, oiling and braiding it for no other reason than knowing his children enjoy him doing it. 

But that’s why he loves doing it in the first place, he supposes.

Astarion can tell by his toddler’s heartbeat that sleep is about to claim her. 

The half-eaten slice of apple is still clutched in her little fist as he cradles the child to his chest, slowly rising from the window seat to put her to bed. 

He’s just about to lay the child down that the fruit drops to the floor, his daughter’s tiny hand clutching at his shirt instead.

“Thank you, papa,” she mumbles, more asleep than awake.

Astarion pauses.

He breathes in the clean, yet unique scent of the little girl that is forever engraved in his brain, the same way he knows under which exact constellation she was born. When she took her first steps, what her first word was. Soon, he will have to memorise her favourite colour, and what she likes to eat when dirty apples won’t be that appealing anymore. 

By now, Astarion knows this game by heart, knows that with every year that passes, he has something new to learn about his children.

And sometimes he wonders what it’s like to grow up with clean bed sheets and full bellies. Sleep filled with naught but warmth and happy memories. Ever open doors and tears that are dried by tender kisses. Living in a house where mistakes and anger are welcomed, safe. 

He wonders what it’s like for his children to know that their father’s love comes without conditions. Not now and not ever. 

Sitting down on the bed, Astarion holds his youngest a little closer to his chest, unwilling to let go of her, yet. 

He’s often accused of spoiling his children when most people can only just grasp the very surface of his love for them, the bare minimum of what he feels for his one and only, precious family. 

These baseless accusations are as unimportant to Astarion as the people voicing them.

He’s raising his children to have standards, wants them to take their father’s love for granted, to accept nothing less but pure devotion.

It’s the only way Astarion knows how to love them, the only way that comes most naturally to him. 

Astarion looks down at his little girl, now fast asleep, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. 

After all these years—all these children—he’s still in awe watching them sleep in his arms as if no harm in the world could ever befall them.

And it won’t—not if Astarion can help it. 

“No, thank you, my heart,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against the crown of the toddler’s head. 

When it comes to his children, Astarion holds himself to the highest standard.

[gothamite-rambler]

Always ask the other siblings for this type of advice

Damian: Richard, how do you get blo- regular rust off a knife?

Grayson: Um... I'm not sure... Um... Ask Tim.

Damian looked over at Tim, was was drinking coffee and had bags under his eyes from lack of sleep.

Damian: Nope, not doing that. Not with the context. 

Tim (shrugging): That's fair.

Damian walked to the library knowing Jason would be there and went over to him, pulling the small switch blade out of his pocket.

Damian: How do you get blood rust off a knife?

Jason (while reading a medical text book): Vinegar, baking soda or lemon juice. Here's a sponge. The fridge should have all those products. 

Jason passed the young boy a sponge he carried in his pocket for this specific emergency.

Damian: Thank you very much. Don't tell father I asked you this. The bully is fine and I gave him warnings. I gave him ample warnings.

Jason: We never had this conversation? Got it.

Damian left, humming happily.