* RUINATION!

“Look, mother — look at me now. Kingdoms blooming beneath my feet, and a throne of shadows waiting for me.”

[dcmultiverse]

Red Hood and the Outlaws Vol. 2 #20

[shadowreigned]

terramars.

Nights filled with terror, Calus has gotten used to wandering about after the sun goes down. His own stash of a particular substance is running low so he figured, might as well do some shopping while he’s out and about. His wallet now significantly emptier, his pocket heavier, he’s on his way back home. Home. As if that’s what you can call the trashy apartment he stays at. It’s only home because of the people living in it. Back to his pack, more like.

He’s wearing his standard jean jacket over a black hoodie, the hood pulled up over his head, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jacket. With the minimum light out, he’s surprised anyone can even see him – let alone recognise him. Upon hearing his name, he looks over his shoulder, not even slowing down his steps. Who knows who could be calling out for him? Eyes narrowed and with a little help of a streetlight nearby, he figures out who it is. Calus sighs, tension leaving his shoulders at once. No need to fight this one.

Without looking either way, he crosses the street and makes his over to Nixon. “Could ask you the exact same thing,” he muses, a little swagger to his walk the last few steps. He pulls a hand out of his pocket and snatches Nixon’s cigarette out of his hand, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke straight into his face. “On your way to your mistress?”

under any other circumstances, nixon might’ve gawked at the openness of which someone snatched his lit cigarette from his very hands, put their filthy mouth on it, and blew his smoke from his cigarette right in his face. under any other circumstances, the opposing person would be surrounded by shadows uncoiling from his hands, squeezing and pulling and making them choke on the ashes as they force their mouth apart, force the cancer stick down their fucking throat. any other circumstances. but calus was not a foe, he was a friend — and the most he earned was a glare sent scalding in his direction, and the gray smoke wafted away with a scowl. it was a victory in itself. most people didn’t see another day.

“you know i don’t sleep,” nixon drawls, his voice a little haughty, as he fishes in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes again. he shakes one out, lights it, and takes a calming drag, his cheeks hollowing out as the toxins fill his lungs. fuck it. he wasn’t going to die anytime soon, and definitely not from smoking. at the mention of his mistress — the thought brings a crooked, arrogant grin to his lips; as if aspen could ever be something as fickle as a side piece — he eyes calus and then shakes his head, a resounding no.

he dabbles, quickly, with the idea of letting him know his intentions, but if nixon really thought about it... well, did he really have any? he hadn’t been on his way anywhere in particular, just that he needed to stretch his legs, needed fresh air and the night sky and the calming quiet. “if i woke him at this time for a booty call, i think he’d stab me where i lay.” he’s lost track of what time it was exactly, but it never mattered anymore. he had all the time in the world. that, he hoped, was something calus could understand. reversing the conversation so that it wasn’t on himself, nixon raises a brow and puffs on his cigarette, leaning against a nearby wall. getting comfortable. talks with calus could be fifteen minutes or five hours; it just depended on the day. night. wherever they were. “what about you? you can’t tell me you were just wanting to soak up the moonlight.”

[s8gif]

“He cares about you.”

[shadowreigned]

bloodstaineds‌.

it’s days like these that make aspen truly feel his age. though his back doesn’t hurt and his muscles don’t ache like they would if he was human, the full weight of his ninety years seems to rest on his shoulders, his normally impeccable posture traded for a weary slouch. he drags behind nixon as they enter their apartment, half-aware of his surroundings, his brain caught up in a fog of names and numbers and dates discussed throughout the day. it takes a while to pull himself out of that headspace once he leaves work, to let his icy facade thaw into the warm, soft demeanor nixon brings out in him. aspen at home and aspen on the job are two completely different people, although that fact is known to few.

he barely notices he’s trailed nixon all the way into the living room until his fiancé nearly dislocates his arm yanking him onto the couch. a quiet oof passes his lips when he lands heavily on nixon’s lap, an impossibly familiar pair of arms winding around his slight frame. immediately, aspen melts into his embrace, shoving his nose into the curve of his throat and inhaling a deep breath of his scent. “we could at least stay until bennie marches up here and pries us apart,” he mumbles, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the idea of someone separating them. without a doubt, they would be hard-pressed to do so.

“i don’t want to talk about business for the rest of the week — for the rest of my existence.” sighing, he fiddles absently with the short hairs at the base of nixon’s neck, looping the curly strands around his fingers. as of late, work has seemed to take an extra toll on him, every minute annoyance plunging him into a dark mood that only nixon can break him out of. logically, he knows he needs a break; they could both use one, for that matter. aspen feels like the stress and uncertainty leading up to nixon’s change and the whirlwind of events that occurred since — nixon’s struggle to control himself, his father’s sudden reappearance, recent disagreements with his mother — have drained him more than he’s willing to admit. “i’m just going to start sitting in your lap at work. it’s not like anyone would say anything to us. they’re all way too used to it.”

although he’s still getting used to the adjustments that the change brings on, nixon doesn’t think that strength will ever be one that he can wrap his head around. he only notices that he’s tugged too hard when aspen winces in pain at the action, and his face briefly contorts into one of guilt, shame, as he looks up at his tiny little lover, his own pitied noise trapped in his throat. nixon’s green gaze searches his expression desperately while his fingers quickly massage at the bunched muscles of aspen’s shoulder, a quiet ‘i’m sorry’ passing through him. no, he muses, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to temporarily being stronger than aspen, when it was painfully obvious before that when human, aspen had been stronger than him.

perhaps, in more ways than one.

nixon doesn’t dwell on the negative thoughts that try to force their way into his mind, a metaphorical fortress of cement walls so high that it’s a wonder how any person can penetrate them. aspen is the exception. aspen is the only one who nixon swings the door wide open for, begging him inside with a look that screams i’m yours. he always has been. and he always will.

nixon groans with elation when aspen presses himself just as desperately into him, though he can feel the exhaustion nipping at both of them, the desire to stay until the last thing they have to do is pry apart. at the mention of bennie, nixon’s lips curl into a sardonic grin — he loves bennie immensely, but even he wouldn’t tolerate her splitting them apart. not unless she wanted to be on his good side. “i’d like to see her try.” nixon says with a bit of a growl, the noise rumbling dark in his throat. even the idea... it twists his gut in ways that he knows isn’t quite healthy, but who can blame him? years of disbelieving in everything aspen stands for... he’s not willing to give it up so easily.

and then aspen starts playing with the curls at the base of his neck, and whatever dark resolve nixon has started to let fester, eases just as quickly as it came. he’s found that lately, the beast inside of him is more than willing to rear its head at the first sign of tempers being raised, and he doesn’t know if it’s the versuch side of him or if it’s always been there. god only knew after the death of sebastian, nixon wasn’t the same. “that sounds like a fantastic idea.” nixon muses gently, angling his head up so he has access to aspen’s neck. he presses kisses along the column of his windpipe and only stops when he feels himself start to get carried away, nips turning harder, mouth lingering longer. for once, he just wants to unwind naturally — not by something he’s inherently caused. not when aspen sinks too easily into him.

“aspen—” he chokes on his name, always, and tightens his grip on whatever place of aspen he holds. nixon gets lost in the warmth of him, the perfect way he molds against him, and nudges his nose softly against the sharp cut of aspen’s jawline. “how often do you dream of me?” nixon knows the answer before aspen says it, but it’s not from heightened intelligence. the question is simple, but so much more: a rooting mechanism, one that pulls the other from their troubled thoughts, their growing hysteria, come-what-may. always. nixon’s been on the opposite end of the question a thousand times. it always works. “how often am i on your mind?”

[wasabelieverarchive]

[daddariodaily]

[yafictionquotes]

Beth Revis, A Million Suns

[shadowreigned]

it’s here, in the safe confines of his luxury apartment with the love of his fucking life, that nixon can finally breathe. hours upon hours of meetings — important ones, no less, but meetings — have taken their toll on the youngest versuch, and he lets out a loud, albeit dramatic groan as he all but throws himself down onto their soft, exceedingly expensive couch. bundy meows gently at the arrival of his parents, and while nixon loves the stupid cat more than fucking light itself, aspen will always have his heart, his soul, his very essence of being.

and, aspen’s a lot warmer than bundy. so it’s a win-win.

nixon stretches his arms out for his pint-sized lover, digits curling around the other’s nimble wrist, before he yanks him down onto his lap unceremoniously. there. that, at least, is better than space separating them. before aspen has time to react, nixon buries his nose into the fabric of his shirt, arms already snaking around his waist, as if to keep him trapped there forever with intentions of never letting go — as if aspen would ever want to leave in the first place.

“it’s so good to be home,” nixon muses with a light air. the heat aspen radiates off is ten times hotter than it was when nixon was human, but months of dealing with the change, months of controlling urges and desires and the ability to be near aspen without wanting to tear every piece of clothing off one by one, have subsided. now, nixon is colder to the touch, dropped down to the same body temperature as windsor, but much more powerful. —too powerful. “do you think we can stay here until the end of forever?” nixon gazes up at his fiancé, awe and wonder and undeniable affection etched over every inch of his expression. when he stares at aspen, he doesn’t just see the world, he sees the entire universe. and then he grins. “if i have to spend one more fucking meeting without you in my lap, i think i’ll die.”  //  @bloodstaineds

[shadowreigned]

there was a strange, sick satisfaction with the way the night sky blanketed manhattan in the early, early morning. insomnia had pulled nixon from the warm comforts of his bed, boots shoved on and hoodie thrown over his nimble frame, before he pushed through the front doors of his apartment complex and took a stroll. perhaps not the most sane thing to do at four in the morning, but everyone in new york knew not to fuck with nixon. doing so would definitely end up with his hand around your throat and a knife pressed against your stomach.

absently, he fishes for his pack of smokes in the pocket of his hoodie, the eery atmosphere forever calming to his senses. more than anything, a walk around his terrain would result in him feeling more relaxed than ever, and the versuch would retire back to his apartment feeling sleepy, heavy-lidded, and ready to knock out a few hours until he had to get up for work. work, which required an insane amount of focus and steady hands. luckily for nixon, he only needed a few hours to reset himself back into shape.

even now, his mind never stops.

he’s just making his way towards a park when something catches the corner of his eyes, and he angles his head with the cigarette between his lips, quiet, watchful, waiting. it’s only when his green eyes adjust easily to the darkness — thank you, chaos — that he eases, sets his alarm levels significantly lower. “calus,” nixon sighs, almost exasperated. smoke billows up into the air as he pulls the cigarette from his mouth and taps off the excess ashes, embers floating to the cold concrete. nixon smiles, the act wolfish, filled with amusement, and he can’t help but chuckle softly at his friend. “—isn’t it well past your bed time?” // @terramars​

[daddariodaily]

[jimmysea]

Matthew Daddario photographed Paige Kindlickd for Hollywood Life

[aestheticslyrics]

wildest dreams // taylor swift

[helltore-a]

@unholybcnes

[thequotejournals]

Isn’t it exhausting?’ ‘What?’ ‘Keeping people out.

K.A. Tucker, Ten Tiny Breaths (via thequotejournals)

[a-ltrove]

[tombstcne-blog]

RICHARD SIKEN / WAR OF THE FOXES Change pronouns as necessary and tweak sentences as appropriate!

I am faithful to you, darling.

When you bang on the wall you have to remember you’re on both sides of it but go ahead, yell at yourself.

Some people don’t understand anything.

He’s easy to desire since there’s not much to him.

No one wants to know what’s in his head.

To make something beautiful should be enough. It isn’t. It should be.

You’d break your heart to make it bigger.

Will you defend yourself? From me, I mean.

Let’s kill something.

I prefer to blame others, it’s easier.

All these ghosts come streaming down and I wish I had something else.

We all move forward anyway. Ripples in all directions.

What is a ghost? Something dead that seems to be alive. Something dead that doesn’t know it’s dead.

All thoughts finish themselves eventually.

Can we love nature for what it really is: predatory?

When you have nothing to say, set something on fire.

I wanted to explain myself to myself in an understandable way.

Something’s not right about what I’m doing but I’m still doing it.

The enormity of my desire disgusts me.

Look away but I’m still there.

Want something to chase you? Run.

Take only what you need.

Never finish a war without starting another.

I’ve seen your true face: the back of your head. If you were walking away, keep walking.

The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does.

All these things and what to do with them. We carve up the world all the time.

I like dead things. They cannot hurt me.

We like things related to our survival: soup, arrows - they expand the range of the species.

My body is a graveyard.

People like to think war means something.

Let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other. We know who our enemies are. We know.

There are many loves but only one war.

You will need to comfort him, or we will never be finished with this.

You cannot have an opponent if you keep saying yes.

Its roots in the ground and its branches in the air, a tree is pulled in two directions.

The boy is a bird, bad bird. He falls out of trees.

You cannot get in the way of anyone’s path to God. You can, but it does no good.

Some say God is where we put our sorrow.

In the wrong light anyone can look like a darkness.

What can you know about a person?

Difficult thing, to be scrutinized so long.

Even when I look away I am still looking.

Everyone secretly wants to collaborate with the enemy, to construct a truer version of the self.

How much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it’s some kind of murder?

Why build a room you can live in? Why build a shed for your fears?

There wasn’t much left but it felt like him, wild and scared.

The best part of spirituality is reverence. There are other parts. Some people like to hear the sound of their own voice.

If you don’t believe in God, then who are you talking to?

But truth doesn’t count in law, only proof.

Was I discovered or invented? Feels like I’ve always been here.

Measure yourself against the truth and not the other way around.

Perfect and completely dead.

People don’t learn anything unless they are afraid of being left behind.

Logic is boring because it works. Being unreasonable is exciting.

I am your arrival, there is no refusal, we are here, you see, together, we are already here.

This is also part of the story: how the story changes. This is something I forgot to tell you.

You might like it here. I think that you might like it here.

I tell you these things because I love you.

It’s nothing like I thought it would be and closer to what I meant.

Maybe we will wake up to the silence of shoes at the foot of the bed not going anywhere.

It reminds me of where I was going without you.

You know what it’s like to be alone: gimlets and vermicide. You know what it’s like to be alive, so forgiveness.

You asked me once, What are we made of? Well, these are the things we’re made of.

I turned my ears in all directions. I’ll live alone or in between.

Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else.

Your body told me in a dream it’s never been afraid of anything.

I live in big spaces, so I’m left alone in big spaces.

We made ourselves cold. We made ourselves snow. We smuggled ourselves into ourselves. Haunted by each other’s knowledge.

To hide somewhere is not surrender, it is trickery.

I try to guess your trajectory and end up telling my own story.

I surrender my desire to be healed.

Take it or leave it, and for the most part you take it.

Shame comes from vanity. Shame means you’re guilty, like the rest of us, but you think you’re better than we are. Maybe you are.

There is no new me, there is no old me, there’s just me, the same me, the whole time.

Don’t try to make a stronger wind, you’ll wear yourself out. Build a better sail.

You want to solve something? Get out of your own way.

What’s the difference between me and the world? Compartmentalisation.

I hope it’s love. I’m trying really hard to make it love.

I clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary.

I’d rather quit. I’d rather be sad. It’s too much work.

I mean, maybe it’s better if my opponent wins.

What happens when I no longer want to meet you?

Nothing lasts forever: we know this.

Longing and suffering? Of course, of course. You want it to mean something.

You can disconnect it or you can try to glue it all together.

We could pull it apart, spend our whole lives pulling it apart and have no time left to do anything smart with the pieces.

The sooner you embrace it, the sooner it will leave you.

You are what you cover up.

Noise and more noise. Noise up to heaven.

One wonders why a story like this exists.

I want to give you more but not everything. You don’t need everything.

Someone has to leave first.

He was pointing at the moon but I was looking at his hand.

All this was prepared for me. All this was set in motion long ago.

I stayed as long as I could. Now look at the moon.

What does all this love amount to?

[archirenaux]

[khcleesis-archived]

@thotzones

[juliaroselotusviolet]

watch me make ‘em bow one by one.