#✧ — ⋆ isms ; headcanons .

[hostradio]

FIVE  SONGS  FOR  YOUR  MUSE

RULE  #21  MOMENTO  MORI.  my  suit  stayed  the  same.  can't  remember  my  own  name.  inside  a  timeless  cage  —  i  never  wanted  to  sleep. MELODIC  MASSACRE.  the  predator  prays  as  prey  hunts  and  plays.  tell  me,  are  you  scared  now?  locked  in  a  cage,  left  to  the  wolf's  rage  —  quiet,  don't  make  a  sound!  it's  a  killer's  stage,  the  show  of  an  age.  why  don't  you  take  your  bow? FOURTH  OF  JULY.  the  evil,  it  spread  like  a  fever  ahead.  it  was  night  when  you  died,  my  firefly.  what  could  i  have  said  to  raise  you  from  the  dead?  oh,  could  i  be  the  sky  on  the  fourth  of  july? THE  DISTORTIONIST.  stuck  in  a  spotlight  brighter  than  the  smile  no  one  ever  saw.  bending  light  in  a  way  that  shows  the  truth  that  left  our  friends  in  awe.  whimsical,  dear,  your  lies  are  clear.  now,  who  the  hell  would've  ever  guessed?  play  my  games  and  abide  my  ways;  there's  no  way  you  can  compensate. DEBT  COLLECTOR.  here  comes  the  debt  collector  —  and  you  owe  him  again!  kind  words  and  lies  won't  save  your  head  this  time  around!

FIVE  QUOTES  FOR  YOUR  MUSE

but  now,  the  woods  are  dark  and  cold.  clogged  with  nettles  and  roots.  there  is  a  monster.  and  i  am  a  monster. i  fall  asleep  whispering  “i  am  safer  alone,  i  am  safer  alone,  i  am  safer  alone.” the  moral  if  the  story  is  i  will  gut  you  if  i  need  to.  i  will  carve  my  way  out  with  only  my  teeth. i  may  think  of  you  softly  from  time  to  time.  but  i'll  cut  off  my  hand  before  i  ever  reach  for  you  again. i'm  not  a  whole  person  and  i  don't  think  i  ever  will  be.  parts  of  me  died  in  the  house  i  grew  up  in  and  i  visit  them  in  dreams.

tagged  by: @rradiio ( thank you!! ) tagging: @hellsgreatestperformance @shortpride @aceparagon @truearchangel

[krikidilly]

Realized I never posted my Kamanue doodles!!! My favorite demon who exists for all of two seconds <3

[gethellbcnt-m]

benjamin tags !

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[sweatforged]

[ SILAS LEVEL 05 PATH — PATH OF THE INDOMITABLE FORCE ]

the  son  of  kratos  had  answered  the  call,  he'd  drunk  the  ambrosia,  he'd  left  an  offering  to  his  father,  he's  prayed  to  him  in  times  of  great  need.  since  that  day,  weeks  ago,  divinity  has  been  coursing  through  his  veins.  every  day  it  threatens  to  swallow  him  whole  or  to  grant  him  an  opportunity  of  a  life  that  few  others  could  ever  walk.

silas  finds  himself  in  a  peaceful  slumber,  tucked  away  in  his  cabin  or  perhaps  another  place  that  he  finds  comfort.  the  last  few  weeks  have  been  long  and  arduous.  near  death  experiences  have  been  more  common  than  laughter  on  some  days  and  the  attack  on  camp  still  lingers  within  him,  the  shock  and  despair  of  it  all.  the  loss  of  companions  and  the  danger  that  they  all  seem  to  put  themselves  in  still  weighs  heavy  on  his  mind. it  begins  as  a  soft  hum,  a  gentle  baseline  that  reverberates  through  his  being,  travelling  through  his  bloodstream  with  each  passing  note.  at  the  edge  of  his  consciousness  he  can  pick  up  each  soft  note;  a  familiar  tune.  it  strums  and  tugs  at  his  heart,  the  lullaby  slowly  growing  louder  and  louder;  a  siren  song  that  gets  clearer  through  the  haze  of  his  slumber.  the  song  reaches  out  for  silas,  desperate  to  put  him  in  a  choke  hold,  to  be  seen,  heard,  felt.  it's  like  a  punch  to  the  chest,  nearly  knocking  the  wind  from  him,  dragging  him  down,  down,  down. the  tempo  crescendos,  the  speed  of  the  song  becoming  nothing  more  than  a  flurry  of  cacophonous  sounds  that  bang  discordantly  within  him.  it's  a  battle,  a  force  of  will,  two  pieces  of  the  same  person  wanting  to  be  heard.  when  he  tries  to  wake  up,  he  can't.  the  song  only  grows  louder  and  louder  and  louder. divinity  calls  upon  silas  once  more  and  he  must  answer.  an  overwhelming  feeling,  like  that  of  the  repeated  punches  to  a  vital  organ  causes  him  to  wake  with  a  start.  his  eyes  flash  open,  his  chest  rises  and  falls  as  he  tries  to  get  air  into  his  too  tight  lungs.  he  gasps  for  air  and,  when  he's  able  to  finally  choke  down  a  panicked  breath,  he  can  see  a  little  more  clearly. it's  then  that  a  realization  hits  him.  he's  no  longer  back  where  he  remembers  falling  asleep.  was  any  of  it  real?  had  all  this  been  a  dream? WHEN  SILAS  FOCUSES,  WHAT  DOES  HE  SEE?  WHERE  IS  HE?  IS  IT  FAMILIAR?  PLEASE  DESCRIBE  WHERE  HE  IS  IN  DETAIL.

ever  since  the  invasion  on  camp,  sleep  had  not  been  a  friend.  it  had  been  a  necessary  companion  -  at  best,  though  SILAS  had  found  ways  &  means  to  get  the  rest  he  needed  regardless  of  that.  his  dreams  weren't  always  pleasant,  some  were  the  opposite  -  but  they  all  had  one  thing  in  common.  he  failed.  no  matter  how  hard  he  tried,  he  failed.  most  often,  he'd  find  himself  on  rooftops,  trailing  the  edge  without  any  memory  or  reasoning  as  to  why,  though  since  he'd  met  the  titan  on  mount  atlas,  he  found  himself  atop  the  mountain  once  more.

  though  this  time  he  was  alone.  no  fake  audience,  no  test  -  no  nothing.  it  was  just  ….  him  &  the  endless  sky.  though  no  matter  what  he  did,  he  usually  ended  up  falling  regardless.  this  time  was  no  exception,  except  for  …  except  for  that  when  he  woke  -  he  wasn't  in  his  bed,  drenched  in  sweat  &  leaping  out  of  bed  to  feel  the  ground  beneath  his  feet.  this  time  he  was  in  a  place  he  …  hadn't  been  in  …in  a  while.

  it's  his  old  gym,  *his  forever  home  *-  the  only  place  he  ever  truly  felt  at  ease  at.  it  wasn't  pretty,  it  was  pretty  run-down  actually,  but  it  had  heart.  it  was  the  place  he  learned  to  fight  at  properly;  how  to  use  the  anger  &  channel  it  into  his  fists  -  or  kicks  -  or  into  not  giving  up,  which…  had  made  up  the  first  two  years  of  his  training  for  sure.  this  is  the  place  he  was  found  at.  the  gym  is  …  not  too  brightly  lit,  it's  about  the  size  of  a  small  grocery  store  with  a  large  boxing  ring  in  the  center  of  it.  punching  bags  on  both  sides  of  it,  speed  ropes,  dumbbells  …  it  was  the  best  &  most  wonderful  place  he  knew  at  the  time.

  it’s  early  morning,  the  sun  barely  up  -his  favorite  time  of  the  day.  SILAS  stands  on  the  side  of  the  ring;  the  gym's  cat  -  nobody  knew  its  actual  name,  but  it  practically  lived  there,  was  balancing  over  one  of  the  ropes  from  the  ring.

a  familiar  sense  of  belonging  creeps  into  silas'  chest  as  his  forever  home  comes  into  view.  the  color  of  the  ropes  around  the  ring,  the  music  that  would  play  whenever  he  would  train,  the  familiar  creek  of  his  footsteps  against  the  floorboards,  even  how  the  light  trailedin  through  windows.  all  of  it  was  the  same  as  he  remembered  when  he  was  last  here. this  is  a  place  he  found  himself,  this  is  a  place  where  home  meant  something. the  cat,  balancing  on  the  ropes,  seems  to  watch  him  with  a  curious  gaze  before  dropping  down  and  walking  toward  wherever  it  would  rest. that's  when  the  sound  of  a  punch  or  a  kick  lands  against  a  punching  bag.  early  morning  was  his  time,  his  favorite  time.  did  people  used  to  be  here  when  he  was?  was  this  sacred  space  already  occupied? when,  or  if,  silas  looks  toward  the  sound,  he  sees  a  figure  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  bag,  striking,  striking,  striking  it. WHAT  DOES  HE  DO?

he  spent  most  of  his  mornings  at  the  gym  alone,  up  before  the  birds  were,  up  before  most  even  had  their  first  coffee  of  the  day.  seldom  was  company  -  other  than  the  cat.  once  upon  a  time  he  named  it  floof,  but  the  name  never  actually  left  his  lips  because  he  felt  silly  the  second  he  did  name  it.  he  watched  it  leave,  fully  expecting  it  to  rest  on  one  of  the  sports  bags  in  the  locker  room.  or  a  discarded  towel.  he  didn't  check,  curious  who  decided  to  be  up  as  early  as  he  was.

  there  were  a  few  people  he  could  think  of  who  shared  the  gym  with  him  with  a  schedule  almost  as  crazy  as  his  own,  but  …  nobody  shared  this  space  with  him  this  early  usually.  nobody  was  as  driven  as  him.  frowning  a  little,  he  tilted  his  head  to  the  side  as  he  observed  the  punching  bag  as  it  moved.  hmm.

  he  edges  closer,  though  he  doesn't  go  straight  for  it,  but  instead  circles  it  to  try  &  get  a  look  at  the  other  person.

with  cautious  steps,  an  ingrained  habit  since  maybe  his  training,  silas  moves.  his  footsteps  are  light,  like  a  trained  fighter,  and  he  circles,  looking  for  an  opening—not  for  a  weakness,  per  say,  but  for  information,  to  see  who  could  be  here. as  he  does,  he  sees  it,  at  first  it  looks  like  nothing  but  a  blur,  a  figment  of  his  imagination,  but  as  he  steps  around  the  punching  bag,  the  figure  takes  shape,  his  eyes  almost  adjusting  as  if  seeing  them  for  the  first  time,  or  maybe  seeing  them  again  after  far  too  long. WHO  OR  WHAT  DOES  SILAS  SEE  AT  THE  PUNCHING  BAG?  DESCRIBE  WHAT  THEY  LOOK  LIKE.  ARE  THEY  FAMILIAR  TO  HIM?

he  should've  known  before  he  even  saw,  should've  known  that  only  one  person  in  this  godforsaken  town  would  even  bother  getting  up  this  early.  he  should've  heard  it,  too  -  the  pattern  in  the  strikes;  the  little  dip  in  timing  before  the  second  punch  hit  -  a  little  later  than  it  should,  an  issue  SILAS  had  spent  years  on  fixing.

  it  took  him  a  moment  until  he  could  make  out  just  who  he  was  watching  -  who'd  disturbed  the  peace  at  his  favorite  place.  was  it,  though?  the  kratos  gym  was  ..phenomenal.  if  it  held  less  of  an  emotional  connection  for  the  time  being.

  seeing  the  figure  though,  he  remembered.  the  mornings  after  bad  fights  had  always  been  …  rough.  all  defeats  were.  body  in  pain,  bruises  manifesting  overnight  &  tainting  pale  skin,  ego…  undone  for  the  time  being.  all  the  little  voices  in  his  head  chiming  louder  than  ever.

  but  it  never  lasted.

  SILAS  saw  himself,  younger  -  fitter  &  yet  …not,  because  back  then  he  didn't  know  yet  what  he  had  in  him.  but  it  was  definitely  him,  face  bruised,  split  lip,  dark  circles  under  his  eyes.  he  hadn't  slept  yet.  defeat  …never  sat  well  with  him,  so  when  he  did  fall,  he  made  sure  to  rise  again.  like  a  phoenix.  get  up  early,  train  longer,  train  harder.  overcome  defeat  no  matter  the  cost.

as  soon  as  the  figure—this  younger  version  of  himself—notices  silas,  he  swings  harder.  the  hit  rocks  the  punching  bag,  making  it  sway  like  a  twig  in  a  breeze.  perhaps  there  had  been  power  in  him  all  along,  he  just  never  noticed  it. maybe  there  was  a  strange  strength  in  him  back  then,  too.  maybe  the  defeats  were  meant  to  teach  him  something.  he  can't  be  too  certain. as  the  bag  swings  back  toward  him,  he  holds  up  a  hand  to  stop  it.  the  momentum  of  it  halts  in  its  tracks  and  he  turns  his  head  to  look  at  silas.  his  lip  is  split,  his  eyes  bruised.  he  nearly  looks  like  he  stepped  out  of  the  match  moments  ago  and  yet,  there's  a  fierce  determination  in  him,  a  need  to  continue,  a  need  to  rise. "the  fuck  you  lookin'  at?"  he  spits  out,  words  tainted  with  bitterness,  callousness,  self  loathing.  at  first,  the  words  seem  a  little  jumbled,  almost  hard  for  silas  to  hear.  like  his  heartbeat  is  beating  too  loudly  in  his  ears,  like  the  rhythm  of  hands  against  flesh  or  hands  against  a  bag  is  drowning  out  each  syllable.  if  silas  focuses,  he  can  start  to  hear  the  voice.  it  repeats.  "what  the  fuck  are  you  lookin'  at?" this  time,  he  hears  the  voice  loud  and  clear. WHAT  VOICE  DOES  HE  HEAR?  IS  IT  HIS  OWN?  IS  IT  SOMEONE  ELSE'S?  WHAT  DOES  HEARING  THIS  VOICE  MAKE  SILAS  FEEL?

oh  yeah.  he  remembered  all  too  well  what  these  mornings  were  like.  he'd  like  to  claim  he  didn't  miss  them,  for  the  longest  time  he  was  free,  but  ever  since  becoming  a  godling  he'd  …  felt  that  way  again  more  often  than  he'd  like.

  it  was  sad  to  admit  he  still  coped  the  same  way  he  did  back  then.  so  he  didn't.

  hm.  he  couldn't  pinpoint  down  just  which  fight  this  was  after.  he'd  lost  too  many  back  in  the  day,  back  when  he  was  far  from  a  fighter  &  more  ..of  a  wild  dog  barking  &  snapping  at  everything  he  saw.

  it's  his  own  voice  he  hears  &  yet  not.  it's  deterred  in  a  way,  it's  missing  something  he  can't  quite  describe.  something  he  found  in  camp  for  sure.  a  lightness  he'd  not  known  of  himself  before.  no,  this  version  of  him  was  ..different  still.  if  only  he  could  tell  him  it  was  going  to  get  better.  had  he  really  changed  or  was  he  imagining  that?  was  this  even  real?  was  any  of  it  real?

  he  knows  it's  hard  to  keeping  going  when  everything  within  said  to  stop,  to  give  up  because  it  was  to  no  avail  to  try,  but  ..  he  never  gave  in.  he  hears  it  in  that  voice  snapping  at  him  like  he  tends  to  snap  at  others,  that  underlying  doubt  &  overwhelming  fear  of  defeat.  hearing  it  …  it's  …comfort  &  yet  it  worries  him,  because  he  knows  how  easy  it  is  to  fall  back  into  old  habits.  hell,  most  of them he's  never  stopped.

the  younger  image  of  him  rests  with  a  hand  on  the  bag  and  two  bruised  eyes  that  stare  at  him  as  if  he's  waiting  for  a  throwdown.  perhaps  this  was  the  defense  mechanism  he  always  had—train  and  train  and  train  and  any  time  someone  looked  at  him,  fight. the  hand  moves  from  the  bag  and  he  steps  forward,  nearly  toe  to  toe  with  silas. "i  asked  you  a  fuckin'  question."  he  grunts  out,  the  lightness  he'd  had  in  his  voice,  one  that  he  grew  used  to  now,  gone.  it's  all  bite,  all  bark,  all  feral  and  angry  and  broken.  even  shorter  than  himself  now,  there's  an  imposing  force,  a  presence,  a  strength  that  this  version  of  him  had. had  it  always  been  there?  was  that  what  made  other's  notice  him? "you  gonna  answer  or  we  gotta  settle  this  in  the  ring?"

it's  like  he's  looking  in  a  mirror,  but  one  of  those  that  showed  the  world  upside  down.  seeing  himself  move,  the  way  he  held  himself.  was  it  the  ribs?  had  to  be  the  ribs.  in  this  moment  it's  all  gone,  he  knows  this.  every  win  he's  had,  every  success  he'd  experienced  in  his  life  gone  for  the  moment,  because  failure  overwrites  everything.

  had  he  always  been  like  this?  snapping  at  strangers  for  no  reason?  does  he  not  …recognize  himself?  sure,  he  looks  older  now,  but  the  features  …  were  still  the  same.  maybe.  he  comes  closer,  but  SILAS  stands  strong,  not  because  he  wants  to  prove  anything  -  he  doesn't  need  to,  does  he?  nah.  "'relax,  i  heard  ya  the  first  time,  kid."  he  knows  how  much  he  hated  being  called  that  &  it  makes  him  hide  a  smile.  some  called  it  good  genes,  he  called  it  a  curse  to  look  barely  twenty  in  his  late  thirties.

  "been  curious  is  all."  hands  up  in  the  air,  he's  not  a  threat,  not  yet  at  least.  SILAS  was  never  one  to  avoid  a  fight  -  least  of  all  one  presented  to  him  like  this  -  only  improvement  would've  been  a  bow  wrapped  around  it.  but  fighting  him  when  he  was  like  this?  don't  kick  a  man  when  he's  down,  there's  no  honor  in  that.  honor  &  rules  …  had  always  been  important  to  him.  "that  bag's  gonna  need  a  break  soon.  as  do  ya."

"what  the  fuck  do  ya  know  about  what  i  need?" the  words  are  out  before  silas  even  gets  his  sentenced  finished,  as  if  this  conversation  has  happened  before,  as  if  he's  anticipating  it. loss  is  a  noose  around  his  neck,  an  anchor  tied  to  his  ankles. loss  is  a  gut  punch,  splintered  knuckles,  cracked  lips. but  loss  is  all  he  knows,  loss  is  all  that  silas  knew,  too,  once  upon  a  time. is  that  loss  still  lingering?  is  it  a  festered  wound?  is  it  split  knuckles,  scabbed  over  and  bleeding  with  each  punch  to  the  bag? "you  don't  know  shit  about  me.  you  don't  know  shit  about  you." he  twists  and  kicks  the  bag,  splitting  it  in  two,  the  sand  within  spilling  out  onto  the  floor  around  their  feet.  the  younger  version  of  him  pants,  chest  heaving,  anger  radiating  off  him  in  waves. he's  all  power,  no  refinement. he's  all  rage  with  no  outlet. "you  don't  know  shit."

sigh.

same  old,  same  old.  as  a  little  boy,  in-between  private  lessons  to  help  him  keep  up  in  school,  the  numerous  clubs  his  parents  demanded  he  become  proficient  in  &  hobbies  he  actually  enjoyed,  he'd  find  a  few  moments  of  peace  out  in  the  yard.  he'd  just  lay  down,  watch  the  sky  &  on  the  really,  really  bad  days  he'd  pray  to  a  god  he  didn't  believe  in  to  let  him  become  a  bird  so  he  could  fly  away.  he  took  him  a  good  ten  years  to  realize  he  could  pray,  beg  &  plead  all  he  wanted  -  it  would  never  happen.

he  feels  the  same  anger  inside  him  still.  it's  locked  up;  he's  found  a  way  to  keep  it  -  or  at  least  a  big  part  of  it  locked  away  &  he  wants  to  think  it's  what  helped  him  find  friends  among  the  other  godlings.  this  silas,  the  one  who  only  knew  the  dark  side  of  the  world,  oh  -  he  wouldn't  have  made  it  this  far.

"rude."  he  says  with  a  little  smile  &  a  pout  crossing  his  lips.  he  knows  it's  …  not  wise  to  talk  to  himself  when  he's  in  that  state.  there's  nothing  anybody  could've  said  on  mornings  like  these  -  or  the  days  after,  that  would  make  him  feel  better.  he'd  spend  the  day  hearing  his  parents,  he'd  feel  their  scrutinizing  eyes  on  him  during  training.

seeing  him  makes  him  wonder.  does  locking  the  anger  away  …make  him  weaker?  does  it  hide  who  he  truly  is?  what  if  there's  more  to  his  father's  gift  than…this?  "i  know  you  fucked  up  an'  i  know  you're  beatin'  yourself  up  about  it.  i  know  you  think  you're  too  slow  and  too  weak  cause  some  dipshit  knocked  you  out.  yeah,  i  know  it  sucks  an'  i  know  you  think  workin'  out  till  you  drop  makes  you  feel  better  about  it."  he  did  more  times  than  he  could  count.  punched  his  hands  bloody  for  hours  until  he  blacked  out  &  coach  would  find  &  scold  him  -  like  a  little  boy.  though  come  next  KO,  he'd  do  the  same  thing  again.

"what  now?  you  gonna  punch  me?  i  know  your  left's  slower.  it's  the  shoulder."

his  younger  self  bristles.  each  call  out  of  his  weakness  makes  him  grit  his  teeth,  makes  his  hands  curl  to  fists,  makes  blood  drip  from  crackled  knuckles  onto  the  floor.every  word  makes  the  other  tense,  makes  his  shoulders  rise,  makes  the  anger  coil.  "don't  fuckin'  talk  about  my  left."  he  snaps,  barring  his  teeth,  split  lips  twisting  around  them  like  a  vicious  smile.  "the  fuck  you  know  about  it  anyway?  some  has  been  has  some  notes  for  me?"

yeah,  that's  his  buttons  alright.  it's  so  easy  to  make  him  snap.  it  still  is,  he  knows.  he's  not  even  sure  why  he  does  it,  maybe  it's  amusing  to  be  on  the  other  side  of  this  for  once.  because  usually  he's  the  one  getting  teased  or  poked. 

at  the  end  of  the  day  he's  just…  him.  that  boy  who's  afraid  of  the  world  for  it's  only  ever  beat  him  down.  he's  older  now,  he  knows  that  it's  different  now.  he'd  seen  so  much  since,  even  before  camp.  he's  seen  there's  more  &  sure  he's  lost  it  all  again,  but  that  only  means  he's  got  to  try  again,  right?  always  keep  trying. 

"i  know  enough.  i  know  your  stepsister  kicked  you  down  the  stairs  in  the  mansion  an'  then  she  popped  your  shoulder  back  in  cause  she  was  sure  she'd  be  a  doctor  one  day.  she  is  now.  but  nah,  no  notes.  it's  fine,  your  secret's  safe  with  me." 

he  can  see  his  chest  rise  &  sink  faster,  faster  &  it  makes  his  own  heart  race  just  a  little.  it's  that  urge  he  feels,  it's  the  same  one  his  younger  self  must  feel,  but  …  so,  so  much  more  intensely.  it's  almost  blinding,  though  by  now  SILAS  would  like  to  think  he's  got.  adecent  grip  on  it. 

"you  really  wanna  punch  me  right  now,  don't  ya?  guess  i  kinda  earned  it,  but  it  won't  change  the  truth."

he's  like  a  bomb,  ticking  and  ticking.  the  wrong  combination  put  in  that  could  send  him  nuclear.  it's  strange  to  remember  himself  this  way,  to  remember  the  anger  and  the  fear,  to  remember  the  way  he  was  and  to  know  who  he  is  now. they  are  two  sides  of  a  coin,  they  are  one  in  the  same. "you  some  kinda  fuckin'  stalker  or  some  shit?  i  could  beat  your  ass."  could  he?  who  knows.  but  he'd  sure  as  hell  give  it  everything  he  had. even  if  the  loss  still  stings,  even  if  it  still  pushes  him  to  his  limits  and  then  over  that  edge. "punchin'  you  wouldn't  do  anything.  you're  old  as  fuck.  i'd  break  you."  he  huffs,  a  cocky  laugh,  a  bruised-mouthed  smirk.  "i'm  just  so  fuckin'  sick  of  this  shit.  i  can't  fuckin'  win.  i  can't  fuckin'  do  it.  throwin'  the  towel  in's  not  an  option.  i  ain't  a  bitch.  i  ain't  a  quitter.  but  fuck."  he  goes  to  turn  around  to  punch  the  bag  once  more,  but  it's  already  been  broken. he  sinks  down  into  the  spilled  sand,  onto  his  knees,  and  stares  down  at  the  ground. "how  much  is  too  much?  when  does  it stop?" when  does  the  weight  get  easier  to  carry?

it's  fascinating.  does  he  still  have  this  …  whatever  it  is,  in  him?  is  he,  too,  just  waiting  to  explode?  was  he  on  a  timer  other  than  his  age?  he's  aware  he's  older  than  the  other  demigods  in  camp,  he  knows  he's  most  likely  got  less  time  left  than  all  of  them,  but  that's  okay.  he  …still  aged,  right?  fuck,  he  didn't  know.

  "do  i  look  like  some  nutjob  stalker?"  they  look  one  &  the  same,  except  for  the  fact  age  &  a  lifetime  of  strain  withered  him  down.  it's  the  same  type  of  clothing,  because  SILAS  never  saw  reason  to  change,  though  the  hair's  longer.  no  more  almost  buzzcut,  no  more  edgy  patterns  shaved  into  the  short  hair  on  the  sides  of  his  head.  god,  he  was  such  a  silly  sight.  "you  could  try,  but  you  wouldn't  like  what  comes  next."  or  maybe  he  will,  knowing  himself.

  "i  know."  gods,  he  knows.  his  heart  throbs  hearing  these  words,  he  still  sometimes  feels  this  way.  he  can't  take  away  the  pain,  it's  not  that  easy,  he  knows  that.  the  person  who  could  have  never  bothered  to  try.  *what  good  could  a  boy  aspire  to  knowing  his  father  wasn't  proud  of  him?  &  with  a  mother  who  didn't  see  him,  not  really.  *  of  course  he's  broken,  of  course  he's  a  mess,  of  course  he  hates  people.  he's  only  ever  had  himself.  he's  …  quiet  now,  lets  him  speak,  because  what  else  can  he  possibly  do?  he's  not  his  father,  he's  not…  anybody.  he's  not  special.  how  could  he  possibly  help?

  but  he  knows  the  pain,  he  knows  the  fear  that  it's  never  going  to  get  better.  he  knows  what  it's  like  to  get  crushed  under  the  pressure  of  trying  to  prove  everybody  wrong,  including  yourself.  so…  he  steps  forward,  closer  &  closer  until  he  hovers  his  younger  self,  eyes  on  his  back.  it's  …  not  a  sight  he  ever  thought  he'd  see.  a  calm  hand  reaches  out,  though  it  does  so  with  a  light  tremble  to  it.  he  hovers.  but  eventually,  he  brushes  fingers  through  short  hair,  before  the  same  hand  lodges  somewhat  firmly  into  that  little  crevice  between  his  shoulder  blades.

as  the  hand  touches  his  shoulder,  as  eyes  bare  down  on  his  back,  silas  feels  it  too. the  slump.  the  breath  that  was  held  being  let  out  through  clenched  teeth,  the  feeling  of  tension  between  shoulder  breathes�� seeping  out  of  him  like  air  in  a  balloon.  he  deflates. the  bravado,  the  anger,  the  facade. all  of  it  fades. his  younger  self  simply  sits  there,  within  the  sand,  stained  by  his  own  blood  and  tears  as  they  fall  from  his  cheeks. "i  know  i  can  take  it.  hell,  i've  been  gettin'  beat  all  my  life.  but  when  is  enough,  enough?  when  the  fuck  do  i  get  my  break?" he  looks  up  at  silas  now,  eyes  locking.  the  question  nearly  reshaping  itself  in  silas'  mind. when  did  you  get  your  break?  when  did  you  save  yourself?  who  saved  you?  why  are  you  still  fighting?

"nobody's  gonna  come  save  you.  nobody.  you're  savin'  yourself.  all  this?  it's  fate.  you're  gonna  keep  fightin'  an'…  you're  gonna  hate  it.  all  of  it.  but  it's  gonna  make  you  …"  he…  can't  help  smile  at  that,  because  this  is  exactly  what  atticus  tells  him  when  he  finds  the  son  of  kratos  struggling.  "you're  gonna  be  indomitable."  it's..  such  a  strong  word,  such  a  good  word.

  "it  ain't  gonna  be  what  you  think,  it  ain't  gonna  ..  be  like  you  dream  of  it,  but  it's  gonna  be  great  anyway.  you're  gonna  find  people  who  got  your  back.  yeah,  sounds  wrong,  i  know,  but  you  are."  he  never  thought  he  would  feel  ready  to  trust  another  person  with  his  life  again,  but  now?  he  had  several  in  camp  who  he  know  he  could  rely  on.  jesse,  atticus,  harley,  alejandro.

  "you  just…  gotta  hold  on.  endure.  believe  in…  yourself.  i  know  you  can't,  i  know  it  ain't  easy,  it's  fuckin'  hard  an'  some  days  you're  gonna  fail,  you're  gonna  make  mistakes,  but  that's  okay.  you  get  back  up  on  your  feet  an'  you  keep  goin',  cause  you…  you're  indomitable.  you're  gonna  stand  back  up  no  matter  how  hard  they  try  to  knock  you  down.  an'  fuck,  maybe  one  day  you're  gonna  fly  high  an'  show  'em  all  what  you're  truly  made  of.  but  if  you  give  up  an'  hide  your  head  in  the  sand,  you  ain't  ever  gonna  find  out  what  you  can  do  an'  they'd  win."  he's  still  waiting  for  that  moment  -  his  very  own  moment  to  shine.  that  one….  special  moment  that  makes  it  all  click  into  place  for  him.  he  knows  it's  coming.  it  has  to  be.

the  pain  is  his  and  it  isn't.  it's  a  dam  breaking  only  to  met  by  a  force  greater  than  the  held  back  water. silas  is  a  force  to  be  reckoned  with,  he  knows  this.  he's  endured,  he's  survived.  he's  become  indominitable,  or  has  he?  is  there  still  room  to  grow?  is  there  still  pieces  missing?  maybe  there  always  will  be.  maybe  the  puzzle  just  keeps  getting  larger.  maybe  more  fights  only  equate  to  more  pain  and  strength  and  growing. pressed  against  his  chest,  he  feels  something  inside  of  him  expand,  like  his  lungs  are  finally  taking  in  air  for  the  first  time  after  holding  his  breath  for  what  felt  like  forever.  there's  a  force  inside  of  him,  a  strength  that  he's  cultivated  after  years  and  years  of  being  beaten  down,  nearly  broken. maybe  now  is  his  time  to  soar.  maybe  now  is  his  time  to  finally  win,  to  finally  succeed,  to  finally  stand  up  from  a  loss  and  not  beat  himself  bloody  and  bruised. as  he's  holding  onto  himself,  as  he's  saying  those  words  and  they  ring  in  his  ears,  reside  in  his  chest,  he  feels  a  weight  being  lifted.  maybe  all  that  strength  he  found  isn't  supernatural  afterall,  maybe  that  strength  was  never  a  blessing  from  a  divine  birthright  but  forged  in  this  gym,  with  his  bare  hands,  with  practice  and  relentless  endurance. arms  wrap  around  silas  now,  a  hug  returned.  a  squeeze  to  his  middle.  "indomitable."  his  younger  self  says  one  last  time,  right  before  — silas  wakes  up. he's  back  in  his  own  bed,  he  thinks.  or  maybe  he's  elsewhere.  but  whatever  had  happened,  woke  him  with  sweat  staining  his  brow  and  his  fingers  curled  into  fists,  his  arms  nearly  hugging  himself.  defeat  has  been  a  constant  companion,  grief  has  lodged  itself  into  his  chest,  anger  has  been  the  only  love  he's  maybe  truly  known. but  there's  a  force  within  silas  rivera.  a  strength  unmatched  that  few  could  stand  up  against.  he  feels  it  now,  alive  and  inside  him,  a  writhing  thing,  something  his,  made  of  him,  made  by  him. eventually,  silas  falls  back  asleep.  dreamless,  painless,  and  powerful. when  he  wakes  up,  he's  not  the  same  man  he  was  the  day  before,  the  week  before,  the  years  before.  no,  he's  changed.  he's  grown.  he's  growing  still. he's  become  indomitable.

PATH COMPLETE !

(note: in my brain there's a pair of pitch black wings curling around them as silas hugs his lil him.)

[starryoak]

The funniest possible DC Villain friendship occurred to me when I saw a panel from a comic about Killer Croc that featured him muzzled and chained up;

(Joker’s Asylum: Killer Croc #1)

I mean, it definitely makes sense considering he’s literally a crocodile man and thus has significantly enhanced bite strength, but what that lead me to was remembering that there’s actually another Batman villain that canonically is muzzled when taken into custody;

(DC Pride 2022)

The Music Meister is, obviously, also a metahuman who has to be muzzled when taken into custody, and most likely when in Arkham as well; his powers are activated by singing, so they can’t exactly let him just hypnotize whoever he wants by letting him speak whenever he wants.

I don’t know, I just find it inherently amusing to imagine that Waylon and Darius could like, be muzzle buddies, lmao. It’s pretty dark thing to bond over, but honestly, anything involving forced incarceration in Arkham is going to be pretty dark by necessity, y’know? But there’s just a level of comedy to imagining one of Batman’s campiest villains bonding with one of the more dark and broody ones, and think it’s fun to imagine them being… well, I don’t know if they would necessarily be best friends or anything (though that could be pretty great), but certainly comrades, able to commiserate on their shared humiliation from a world that fears what they were born with, although for different reasons and in different ways.

There’s also some level of me that’s always invested in how Arkham works and deals with their inmates, obviously the answer is terribly, but in what ways they’re terrible, how do they deal with metahumans, etc? How do you deal with an inmate that’s a human crocodile stronger than ten men? How to deal with a man who could crush your bones in his jaws if given the chance? How to deal with an inmate who’s got the power to control you with his voice? How to feed an inmate like that without giving him the chance to control you? That kind of thing must be hard, and I’ve got questions!

[moltenfire]

𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦?

candle smoke

key words: self-assured, courageous, intuitive. you are an expert at overcoming your demons and should be proud of how brave you have consistently shown yourself to be. others are amazed by your perseverance, strong personality, and unapologetic uniqueness. compatible with: coffee, freshly baked bread.

tagged by: @oneireth & @deathsmaidens tagging: @fortifice, @dupliciti, @destdevel, @soulhound, @zhushi, @finalism & you!

[hauntsect]

"H̷u̷g̷h̷i̷e̷ ̷C̷a̷m̷p̷b̷e̷l̷l̷... will you marry me?"

— Shifter Hyles being deranged on main.

[revclver-jesus]

{{ What I love about strega au verses with most is the thought that Takaya is in charge not because he's necessarily the strongest-- though he is strong and uniquely weird for being able to face his shadow and survive-- but he's sincerely just the eldest and most responsible for them all lmao

like I feel like takaya isn't just intimidating he's also the eldest who had to make the mundane but awkward phone calls for these extremely insular, traumatized kids, and to find a living source of income, and find a hideout, all while trying to manage a life threatening disease

like he was born with insane social confidence and a gift for public speaking, tell me he is not in charge because he's the one who most often spoke up when the other kids stood behind him whenever somebody tried to talk to the group lmao }}

[endsupes]

Signs of affection

Physical: William is never far away in proximity and touch mostly comprises of either gentle leading with a hand guiding lightly/supportive or even aggressively gripping. He may also shield by blocking the view with his body. Mostly just any point of connection that's not exceedingly violent.

Words: rare, but he has the capacity to give compliments and speak about things that bother him or aspects of his life that haunt him.

Silent respect: this typically entails allowing handing leadership to someone whether its a small aspect ( his aunt taking care of terror) or something with great meaning ( asking hughie to say sorry to the boys )

Sexuality

over the years, Williams’ romantic and sexual life has been almost non-existent. this is the product of several things - the fact he is constantly working, that he’s often out on the field fighting for his life and the lives of others and too busy trying not to die as well a lack of confidence when it comes to romance, a growing disinterest in anything sexual, and the inability to understand or read flirtation and attraction from potential lovers without taking it unseriously ( obliviousness and an effect of his mental health issues both ).  often, any interest shown in him regarding sexuality and romance will not be picked up on and dismissed as casual conversation ( I.e he may flirt back but its hollow, empty words ) - it requires bluntness to get the point across to him - and usually it will be rejected because he has ‘better’ things to do which is usually work. it has been a long, long time since he’s been on a date and whilst everything William does tends to stem from love in a manner of speaking, he rarely sets time aside for romance. 

William is a very, very closeted bisexual and carries a lot of internalized homophobia - not regarding anyone but himself, he could care less about the sexualities of others, but is uncomfortable in admitting he is anything but the white macho man people assume him to be. he has always been uncomfortable regarding his own sexuality, but over the years it has grown worse. this is from the lack of physical intimacy ( despite not having it, he does miss it - William is a sexual person, enjoys sex, but has gone without for so long he now has several self-confidence issues regarding it ) and the fact that for him, it has always been a subject meant to be kept private - between himself and his partner ( he doesn’t really want to hear about what his friends/soldiers/team have been up to in bed, and doesn’t want to talk about his experiences or lack of either ). combined with his physical and health issues, it’s something he tends to avoid.

in his youth, he had a string of girlfriends - all of them were brief flings, no emotional attachment on either end, but not as many as he’d boast about ( the ego of a hormonal twenty-something boy in the prime of his life, with a gun and a military record doesn’t want to be seen as someone who gets rejected by pretty girls ). experimentation sexually was brief and short, uncomfortable with the idea - he’d been touchy-feely with men before, but eventually backed out, nervous and drunk, doing it for attention rather than anything else. he was never the best lover, but what he lacked in talent he made up for in enthusiasm.

Rebecca had only really been the most consistent sexual relationship he had for the obvious fact that they were married and really the only person he had ever felt particularly close to. Since her disappearance, he had spiraled mentally, only really seeing sex acts as a way to manipulate or extort information. But even then it was never something he relied on, more so, dangling a carrot on a string in order to get what he wants.

getting him to talk about it is an unlikely event, too. the only time you’ll hear of Williams’ romantic and sexual activities is if you’re the one he’s doing it with - he’s a private person in many aspects, despite the big heart, and likes to keep things to himself ( too stubborn to realise maybe talking about his issues could help get rid of them ). if you manage to break through to that though, he’s extremely appreciative in the moment, touches like he’s worshipping a marble statue with adoration. Gropping whatever, wherever, he's willing. however, it’s all emotional for him nowadays, and the idea of no-strings-attached sex is something he can’t get into - it has to mean something to him, and it always does, whether he admits it or not.

[h-a-unted]

Jack and Joe having similar quirks part 3.

Doesn't happen all the time, but frequent enough for it to be categorized as a habit the two boys share.

[oozeyboozey]

CH. STUDY. receiving a wide variety of combat training is common practice with subjects within project legacy. meant to be the perfect killing weapon , they are taught to not hold back at all , until their handler tells them to stop. anya had killed more than 5 agents in combat training before she was 12 years old. being found to respond well to genetic alteration that resulted in her aggression being increased considerably. by age 10 , she was only able to work with hand selected agents who could handle her.

[foundcr]

✘ what was charlie’s relationship with her mother like?

›    MY   MUSE   HAS   TO   SAY   NOTHING   BUT   THE   TRUTH   FOR   10   ASKS.

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃.    her   mother   loved   her   unconditionally   when   she   was   younger,   less   able   to   think   of   herself   at   the   time,   but   as   she   grew   older   and   figured   out   she   wanted   to   be   a   girl,   lilith   grew   more   distant   as   a   mother.    charlie   knew   she   had   screwed   up   by   even   considering   it   before   telling   her   parents,   but   even   if   they   were   compliant,   and   even   if   she   was   able   to   transition   before   the   public   could   even   think   about   it,   she…   never   got   over   that   roadblock   with   her   mother.

her   and   lilith   don't   talk   much   anymore,   but   they   never   did   much   anyway.    as   a   baby,   she   was   the   angel;   but   as   she   got   older,   they   just   grew   more   distant   and   distant   until   charlie   eventually   resorted   to   trying   to   contact   her   without   certainty   she'd   even   call   back.

lilith   believed   in   everyone;   so   she   has   a   feeling   that   maybe   she   believes   in   her,   too.    if   she   even   still   is   her   daughter   by   association.    she's   thankful   her   father   accepted   her   for   who   she   was   sure   she   was,   but   her   mother   and   her   never   really   got   to   connect   further   once   she   finally   told   her.    they   split   off   from   each   other,   one-sided   love,   a   split   in   the   family   because   of   her.

now,   she   doesn't   even   get   to   see   her   mother   anymore.    it   sucks,   to   put   it   nicely.

[ncrthernl1ghts]

fuck it. TAG DUMP: STANFORD PINES

[gethellbcnt-m]

kitty tags !

◜kitty: inbox / replies.◞ ◜kitty: behavior.◞ ◜kitty: headcanon.◞ ◜kitty: in character.◞ ◜kitty: mirror / faceclaim.◞ ◜kitty: isms.◞ ◜kitty: playlist.◞ ◜kitty: aesthetics.◞ ◜kitty: desires / shipping.◞ ◜kitty: attire.◞ ◜kitty: abilities / skills.◞

◜kitty / v. main.◞ 🇧​🇴​🇩​🇮​🇪​🇸​ 🇵​🇦​🇨​🇰​🇪​🇩​ 🇫​🇷​🇴​🇳​🇹​ 🇹​🇴​ 🇧​🇦​🇨​🇰​ ﹗ ◜kitty / v. twin.◞ 🇵​🇷​🇪​🇵​🇦​🇷​🇪​ 🇫​🇴​🇷​ 🇹​🇷​🇴​🇺​🇧​🇱​🇪​ ; 🇲​🇦​🇰​🇪​ 🇮​🇹​ 🇩​🇴​🇺​🇧​🇱​🇪​ ﹗

[giggly-squiggily]

i loved the matchablossom drabble you wrote! i have a headcanon for joe and reki (if the event is still open, i'm not sure how timezones work 😅)

i think they would bond because langa and cherry are both geniuses (skating and carla) while reki and joe are both people who had to work hard for their respective dreams so whenever reki has a down phase and doesn't feel good enough joe does his best to cheer him up because he knows what it's like

Headcanons To Dabbles: Officially CLOSED!

Oo, this is so soft! I love writing Joe- he's a great big brother/dad figure to the boys! I've gotcha covered, anon!

“Hey kid.” Joe kneeled before Reki, giving his knee a squeeze. “Come on. We’re going out.”

Reki looked at him wearily, his already downer expression souring more. “Why?”

“Because.” Joe shrugged, as if that was the only answer he needed. Maybe it was.

Reki stared at him before sighing, knowing Joe was only gonna keep pestering him until he agreed. “Where to, then?”

~~~ They found themselves on the beach, parked by the water with slushies in hand and a convenient store bag full of small snacks and candies between them. The treats didn’t seem to change Reki’s mood much, but the water certainly did. He seemed less down as he took in the sights.

“When I was your age, I used to come down here whenever I got upset.” Joe hummed around a twizzler, chewing it slowly as he reminisced. “Fights with precious, failed tests, bad days- something about sitting here with the sand between my toes and the smell of saltwater around me always calmed me down.”

“It’s nice…” Reki agreed quietly, knees pulled up to his chest. It really was nice, but he still didn’t understand why Joe brought him here. “Can I be blunt?”

“Never stopped you before, kid.”

“Why are we here?” Reki looked at him, brows furrowing. “I don’t mind it, but…”

“Ah. My ulterior motives.” Joe smirked, still looking out at the ocean. “In time, Reki. First, enjoy the breeze.”

Reki did as he said, turning back to the ocean. Watching the waves made him think of skating, the ups and downs, the way they moved. He wondered what surfing would be like.

Then he thought about Langa and how his eyes matched the color of the ocean.

And then he remembered how the other skated and all his temporary calm soured into self loathing.

“There it is.” Joe pointed his now shortened twizzler at him, waving it like a wand at Reki’s gloomy face. “You’re feeling pretty pathetic right now, huh?”

“Harsh?” Reki glared at him.

“Truth.” Joe nodded, tossing the remainder of his candy in the bag. “You’re comparing yourself to Langa again. You’re convinced he’s this untouchable god of skating and you’re only his shadow.”

“That’s not…” It was true.

“Don’t deny it kid. Believe me- following behind someone like Precious and his Carla bot can make a guy feel pretty small at one point or another.” Joe didn’t sound bitter though, if anything- he sounded amused. “Then I realized the problem wasn’t Cherry, or my skating. It was me. I told myself I was nothing because I couldn’t do what they did.” Reki didn’t ask who was “they”. 

“And you know what? All this time later, I still can’t do what they do. But I don’t need to.” Joe nodded. “Neither do you. You don’t need to match Langa and be his equal to be great at skating. You just need more confidence in yourself that you’ll get there.” Joe reached out, grabbing Reki’s collar and pulling him into a side hug. “You’re gonna have days like today where it feels like there’s a road block, and you’re gonna have days where it’s clear skies. That’s just part of figuring out what your path of skating’s gonna be. So don’t be bummed out about this. I promise you, it’ll pass. You’re a great skater, Reki. Don’t forget that.”

Reki didn’t speak- his throat was too clogged with tears. He instead reached out with his fist, smiling wobbly when Joe tapped his own against it. “Thanks, Joe..”

“Don’t mention it, kid.”

[ragyragd0ll]

Speaking like a true world dominator, except the only world he managed to dominate was mine.