#especially when he's younger

[nickie78]

This scene,broke me in so many ways.But I loved it.

DARK 3·07 for Anonymous

[doctorsiren]

the doodles I did while flying back home today

[peachyvillian]

ok so can you guys tell terry is my fav kiddad. Yea err. tugs at my collar. anyway scary and terry’s relationship make me so sad and . Insane generally because of their parallels

[arthursfuckinghat]

Guys, you know that "Dutch Van Der Linde was a manipulator who mainly caused the downfall of the gang" and "Dutch Van Der Linde saved people by giving them a place in the gang and teaching them life skills" CAN coexist right

[manchesterau]

dan shaking his ass for phil over the years

[bamsara]

being an adult means we can buy or make as much self-indulgent shit (as we can afford) and unironically have trinkets of our fave things cause our teen years was bullied for liking things and hiding/denying we were ever neurodivergent to the point of suicide. sucks for anyone that thinks its weird cringe but I'm going to try and allow myself to love myself in little ways now

[nuclearbleu]

do you even remember the last time the Light of your God touched your skin?

[stevesbipanic]

Steve injures his ankle in ninth grade and is forced to sit on the bleachers at P.E for 6 weeks. Here he meets Eddie "Sick Note for Life" Munson and the two of them become little gossipers about everyone in their grades.

[kacievvbbbb]

I’m just very obsessed with the idea that mihawk is useless in a weapon less fight like he cannot throw a punch or get out of a pin to save his life like one he can’t kick he’s done out for the count, and this is why Shanks ends most of their duels this way. Because he’s a filthy cheater and Mihawk is even worse off because it’s Shanks pining him and he has eaten a lot of dirt.

Shanks decides to teach him the art of fighting dirty cause he’s nice that way but also let’s just say that Shanks likes being in a pin a little too much

[lbhslefttiddie]

the qiong ding peak disciples 100% have petty beef with lbh for stealing their favourite didi lmao

they're not gonna Actually beat him up (without Reason) but they're very emphatic about how thoroughly they WILL if lbh messes with sy. it's like a shovel talk that never ends

sy isn't actually completely oblivious to whats going on but he doesn't get why they're like this and he thinks theyre being fucking stupid (and he trusts them to not actually bully binghe) so he's elected to ignore their antics entirely

[aroaceleovaldez]

HoO is so funny to me when you actually think about the ages of all the characters. Octavian is 18. Percy and Annabeth are 16, almost 17. Reyna is presumably 16. Frank just turned 16, Jason’s about to turn 16. Leo and Piper are like 15. Hazel’s like 14 and a half, and Nico is 13.

The Death Sibs are both the youngest and oldest on the Argo II. Octavian is a college freshman getting into petty drama with a bunch of high schoolers. He gets told to shut up at one point by a random 8th grader. Everyone is scared of the 8th grader. We Sent A 13 Year Old To Superhell and he came back weirder, Just Like Middle School. TLH was just three high school sophomores being sent to do a task and it going Exactly Like You’d Expect. Percy’s the only demigod on the ship who can legally drive (though Reyna gets her drivers license at some point before TOA). What Is Happening.

[swirlzberry]

THE OUTSIDERS HEADCANNONS

Im pretty sure Darry cuts his brothers hair cannonly.

SOOO

I like to imagine that Darry always had the likes of cutting hair and would do it from time to time when their father allowed. He’d also cut the rest of the gangs hair sometimes. Johnny typically had long curly hair when he was a younger and it would rarely get cut cause his parents are neglectful. So he’d cut it himself which led it to grow strangely. Mrs Curtis found this out from Sodapop and immediately had her husband cut Johnny’s hair from time to time.

Darry tended to cut Johnnys hair more than his father since he was around johnny more. But once dally began to hang around the gang more and soon become apart. Johnny refused to cut his bangs cause dally had his hang just above his eyes and Johnny wanted to be just like him. AND DARRY 1000% JUDGED JOHNNY FOR THAT. He’d be like:

The 17 year old Darry, stared across the kitchen table at the young Johnny. A look of disbelief glowed in his stare. It wasnt really his thing to jduge and johnny was a teenage discovering himself. But Darry was quite judgy, just as his brother Ponyboy. It wasnt jusgemnt over big things typically tho, just small dumb things. He was better at hiding it though.

The length of his bangs bothered him. They were nearly almost like curtains for his eyes. And Darry knew exactly why Johnny wore them like that

“Come on” Darry leaned on the chair, “lemme cut an inch off, at least”

Johnny looked up from the comic strip he was reading. His face grew an annoyance to it.

“Ain’t touching a piece of it” he flashed a soft smile, “i already told ya”

Johnny flipped his head up attempting to move the hair blocking his eyes, to get back to his comic strip.

Darry mumbles something, walking away in defeat.

[navree]

refusing to be undone.

Atia Balba, niece to Julius Caesar, died only a year after his assassination, and was survived by her two children, Octavia the Younger and Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus, who she had named Gaius Octavius at birth. Both her son and daughter would outlive her by several years.

[nugatorysheep]

> "This isn't a game."

I promise I'll eventually post something other than this edgy mf but man is he fun to draw

[rush-the-stars]

CIELO GOD GOD GOD GOD

happy new year vic <33333

gender neutral reader x war god morax/zhongli

cw: blood. biting? the reader is a captive of war. um maybe out of character morax....but im picturing him younger in his long life. a lil more hot blooded. you know.

***

the sun is a bloody dash in the sky. an open wound from the heavens that turns the world crimson and russet.

it's fitting, for a day like this, with so much fighting, so much bloodshed.

the blood of gods gleams gold. it covers you. you are stained in it and in those last, burning rays of the sun, you shine and shimmer.

some of it is your own. most of it is not.

you sit primly despite it, with your knees tucked beneath you and your back straight. you sit serenely with your head poised in a graceful upward tilt— a refusal to surrender the last thing you have now; your pride. your knowledge.

you know something he doesn’t.

and, at the end, you have the pride and knowledge that you almost bested morax the dragon. morax, the god currently winning the archon war. morax, who has finally captured you.

your hands are bound with stone he'd (painstakingly) created. you feel the heat of their power, humming, burning into your skin. it is an attempt at subduing your own divine abilities.

when he appears before you now, he is dressed in black armor. his hair is bound up in a high ponytail, which reveals the chiseled lines of his face. the dragon scales along his temples gleam like precious stones. dark horns curl atop his head proudly, the dragon of this land, with his eyes like the center of the molten earth.

"tell me where you've hidden it."

his demand is met with silence.

you hold his gaze.

more silence.

it stretches long and thick between you.

you let it grow.

he lets out a heavy sigh eventually. and then he moves closer, only to stand over you.

you fall into his great shadow.

"you've lost. you're lucky i didn't kill you." he says and his voice is surprisingly gentle, low and smoky, a rumbling that settles somewhere deep inside you. "and now you can help me win this war and end it."

you turn your face away from him and he is met with your profile. more silence.

"stubborn little god, aren't you?" he hums and it is just shy of wry.

you tilt your head up, gaze focused away from him still, on the camp ahead. his camp of allied gods and mortals and adepti. you focus on the world beyond, as if you might see the hills of heather further on, or the sea itself.

"you'll save lives if you tell me where it is."

you want to look at him and ask why he thinks you'd help him—why his mortals should mean anything to you? why should you want him to win and end the war? but you force yourself to continue to gaze away, to bite back any words threatening to break free from the cage of your mouth.

and then there is a touch at your jaw, careful, almost delicate, as his fingers curl themselves around your face.

he forces you to look towards him, eye level for a moment with muscled thighs beneath onyx armor. and then he pulls your gaze up to find his own, smoldering gold in the evening sun. like the blood you're covered in. like the blood he has washed from himself.

"since you don't feel like talking, then listen to me well."

his thumb caresses your jaw the way a lover might. a careful pass over your skin.

"we can do this peacefully or with great difficulty. i am prepared to offer you freedom if you agree to join me and help me end this war; which is far kinder than i've been to many other gods that have been in your position now. or i will banish you to the dark sea and find what i need on my own.”

“how magnanimous of you.” you finally sneer.

calmly, he says;

“i thought so, too.”

you lurch forward like you might try to strike him, but the binds around your wrists constrict sharply, burning into your skin.

you cry out.

he steadies you.

“easy,” he murmurs, crouching finally to be on your level, face to face. “it hurts, doesn’t it?”

you feel heat in your face; humiliation or frustration. deep, horrible anger. and pain. searing pain that slips up the sinews of muscle in your arms. it tangles in your shoulders, sends pulses of anguish over your back, all over.

you don’t answer.

“i made them especially for you.” he admits. “i made them months ago—long before i caught you.”

“what makes you think i’d help you?” you bite out.

“your desire to be free?” he asks, “the promise of my protection and aid?”

"i don't need your protection—"

"no?" he asks lightly, "you were bested. you are captured."

you jerk your head away from his touch. his hand falls away and he stands again. he gazes down at you.

you snarl, "you are the only one who has done that. before you, i had not been—"

"then consider it protection from me. if you work with me, i will not harm you."

you inhale sharply. your anger constricts around your rib cage like a massive snake. your body aches with it. how dare he—

you force back another rash attempt at striking him.

instead, you gaze beyond him again, as if you could see the future now alongside those heather hills or swirling sea. you wrestle your anger until it will allow you to speak clearly.

you lift your voice and the breeze carries it, laced with venom;

"when i am archon, you'll beg to serve me loyally.

but i will curse you to live beneath the earth and you'll wander in an endless, dark maze. every time you believe you near what you search for, it will change before your eyes, and again you will wander. you'll search for eternity, never to find it.

once in a millennia, i will visit you, and i'll tell you this maze is your protection from me."

you turn to find his eyes. a fissure of heat—the air is charged and sharp with the tang of divinity. a bristling. you think his eyes darken, pupils narrowing to the slits of a reptile.

when he calls out, voice rising to that of a general, you catch the flash of sharpened teeth, "prepare the prisoner for transportation."

immediately, soldiers surge upon you.

"are we preparing them for the dark sea?" one asks.

morax stares hard at you.

"no," he says and when they pull you to your feet, you think about running. you think about shoving them off of you. you wonder how far you'd get or if stone binds would seize and paralyze you.

you wonder how well he had to know you to create them.

"where to then?" another soldier asks.

"to my quarters at the other camp. i will join you." he says.

momentarily, you are stunned.

"sir, are you sure—"

"make haste." he says simply, and then he steps to you, towers over you, even at your full height while standing now. and when he speaks again, it is softly and could be his own curse to you;

"the god isn't to leave my sights. i'll see to all of their needs from now on."

"i'll make your life hell." you promise.

his smile is almost amused, but his eyes are smoldering embers.

he lifts his hand to brush a stray piece of hair from your face. his voice is even;

"just as you'll be archon?"

this time, when you lash out, you turn and sink your teeth into his hand. you bite to break skin. his blood floods your mouth.

(you have already gotten a taste, now you want it all—)

he wrenches his hand away, examining it, lifting it to his face to gain a closer look. it burns gold with his blood which slides down his wrist, over the slope of his forearm. he flexes his hand, the muscles jumping, strong and proud. your ring of teeth marks is like a halo along the meat of his hand.

"when i make you a muzzle, should i call it protection for me or for you?"

"i hope my bite scars you." you hiss.

he lifts his hand higher to the scarlet sun, bathes it in light. you catch a flash of fang from the corner of his wry smile.

"i hope it does, too."