#is ‘blood sweat and razor blades’ not fucking metal and perfect for them

[whaliiwatching]

sparks fly

cleared the smoke for you

#spider man: across the spider verse #spider punk #spider noir #hobie brown #noirpunk #yes i AM repeating the same few poem pieces what of it #is ‘blood sweat and razor blades’ not fucking metal and perfect for them #shotgunning is like if. um. if you couldnt fuck on screen and needed a replacement scene of similar emotional intensity #or something #the intimacy of sharing breath. warmth. hand on your face guiding you closer #intricate rituaaaaaals #mmmmhhhhhhhhhhh i like them normal #they do this while pining and its torture. if you even care #btw the text behind them says #DARK SIDE OF LOVE HAPPINESS SEEMS TO BE LONELINESS AND LONELINESS KILLS MY WORLD #cw smoking #cw cigarettes #dont smoke kids

[kinsbin]

I Cut My Hair [Xena/Daryl]

Title: I Cut My Hair Ship: Love and Zombes [Xena/Daryl Dixon] Word Count: 1500 Warnings: Angst, Gore mention

Summary: After Glenn’s death and Negan’s rise, Xena feels lost. She needs to start new. She needs to be something else. She hopes a pair of clippers she finds in her bathroom can help that.

A/N: I wrote a fic about how my TWD insert cuts her hair and her emotions behind it! AKA season 7 Xena has a shaved head now and this is whyyyyyy

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Drip… Drip…. Drip…

The echo of the faucet spitting down on the porcelain of the sink was a dramatic thrum against the dead quiet of the entire house. Daryl had gone out. He had gone out a lot lately, not that she could really blame him. She couldn’t blame any of them after the events of Negan. After what happened and what they had all witnessed. After what she witnessed.

Xena’s heart clenched when she thought about it. Glenn’s head fresh on the ground, splattered into various pieces and beaten to the point where she couldn’t tell just what parts where what. The smell of blood, sweat, and fire and the sound of screaming. The sound of mostly Maggie’s screaming, echoing dangerously loud and close to her ear even as it rang out against the high-pitched mechanical snarl of terror hidden beneath her veins. Not even Daryl’s grip, hard and worried on her wrist, could remove that pitched screech that accompanied the scent of gore and-

Xena slammed her hands down on the sink, jostling the material for a moment. She wanted to scream. She wanted to yell and rip something apart. Rip herself apart. For not doing anything and for being so stupid as to let Glenn go with them. To let any of this happen in any remote capacity even though she knew, deep down, that it wasn’t her fault. That nothing that happened could have been stopped after their decisions.

Tears wormed their way out of her eyes and down her cheeks as she sobbed, looking at herself crying in the mirror with a sense of disgust at the being returning her gaze. God, she realized with a gross sense of terror, her hair was red, wasn’t it? Despite the lack of hair dye in the apocalypse she had kept it that same ruby shade somehow. It had remained a glossy and colorful purple-ish auburn throughout her stay with the group and it was only by some miracle it hadn’t faded yet. She would have been proud of that at some point, she was sure.

Now she just saw the color of blood.

She didn’t stop herself before she reached around the cabinets of the sink, scrambling desperately to find the pair of clippers she knew were somewhere within them. Though neither she and Daryl put much conscious attempts into their grooming of facial hair or otherwise, they had been grabbed haphazardly on a run at some point and left with them out of chance.

She held the razor up, the metallic blade glistening in the light as her breaths grew ragged. Tears blinded her now as she cursed, shoving the plug into the outlet nearby and turning on the machine. It whirred to life, violently gnashing its blades together as she watched it for a moment longer before the hesitation left her and rage replaced it.

Rage that mixed with determination as she slid the clippers along her scalp, feeling her head lighten as it removed chunk after chunk of thick hair. She watched strands fall from her head to the ground like pieces of crimson snow, bright and vivid against the white tiles below them. Her shaking hands made it hard to keep the blade steady but it didn’t stop her as she ran the thing over her entire head. As she removed the hair that she suddenly found weighed far too much. Each stroke made her feel lighter. Made her feel at ease.

Made her free.

She all but slammed the clippers down onto the sink, the echo of metal hitting porcelain a dangerous screech as she screamed with it, tears falling faster now as she let out the most raw and intense yell she could manage. It devolved into sobs for a moment as she hiccuped, pushing herself up and running her hand along her scalp. As she tried to regain her composure for a moment.

Her scalp felt so rough. Still littered with maybe half an inch or a quarter or so of hair, it felt similar to how a dog’s fur would. Rough and different and new upon her body as she stared at herself, red faced and shorn, in the mirror. Her glasses were fogging up with tears. The single eye that still produced the wet moisture dribbled while the other was reddening from what tears could push through the scarred over tear ducts.

Xena let herself stay like that for perhaps far too long. Until the tears stopped and she was able to breathe again. Until she was able to pick up the clippers without shaking and put them away again, hiding them up behind the sink as she stood up and looked at her body, brushing bits of her own hair off of her shoulders and the front of her shirt as she clipped the missed pieces of long hair with scissors, sometimes even just pulling out the strands with a wince.

She looked… different that was for certain.

She kind of liked it.

The door to the front of the house opened, Daryl’s voice announcing his presence somewhat muffled by the second story separation, but she didn’t mind. She knew it would be him anyways. Taking a deep, shaky breath Xena brushed herself off one last time and exited the bathroom, wiping her tears away and rubbing her head one last time for good luck before heading down the stairs.

The air was cold on her tank top and boxer clad body, but more so against her scalp. She hadn’t ever felt the wind brush through her head before like that, a new and foreign feeling that made her startled as she quietly watched from the doorway as Daryl unpacked his items from the recent outing he had gone. He did so more violently than usual, and she knew why. Half of whatever he got would go to HIM. Half of whatever they fought for would be given to a man who did nothing but kill and intimidate.

God, it pissed her off.

She bit her lip, trying to push away the thought before Daryl finally faced her. His eyes widened at the sight of her head, gaze fixated on the bareness of the scalp offered before him. The silence was a heavy and thoughtful one, a pause to find words as he stared her down.

“Fuck, Red.” He finally whispered. Xena laughed and averted her eyes, rubbing the back of her shorn neck with a sheepish and exhausted smile.

“I… uh… I wanted to change things up, ‘s all.” She managed out, her throat raw from the tears she had shed.

“Yeah, that’s one hell of a way.” Daryl scoffed softly, making Xena’s brow furrowed as she averted her eyes. Rage was still inside of her, her mood testy because of it and Daryl could sense that now. Her body language was rougher than it usually was, the harshness to her edges making his heart hurt as he remembered her back when they had first met.

Soft. Loud. Funny. Different than it is now.

He supposed they both were different now, though.

“Hey,” He murmured and began to reach out, touching her hand and bringing it into his. Xena allowed it, her gaze following their hands and then finally looking up at him and, oh, the sadness in her eyes hurt him. They mirrored in his blue pools and it made her stomach flip to see so much of himself inside of her. As if they had joined together to be one unit. A perfect entity. A beautiful thing that was never going to be separated as much as they could help it.

Xena wondered if this was what a ‘soulmate’ was.

“It uh… It looks good,” Daryl managed out, blush red on his skin, “Hell, anything you do looks good on ya, so don’t be all embarrassed over it. ‘S practical too so-”

She leaned forward and hugged him, dragging his body close to hers and holding him there as she laughed. Tears welled and spilled again and she let them, crying in front of Daryl was always easy after all. He waited for a moment, looking down at the girl who had grabbed him with surprise, before he hugged her back. A hand went up to rub at the newly shorn head and, he had to admit, the feeling was nice. It was a comfort even as he let her cry beneath him, holding her close. Holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

Nowadays, in this world, she was.

“Guess I can’t call ya Red anymore, huh?” He joked.

“I don’t know,” Xena smiled into him as she sighed, “Might find some hair dye in the next town over… What, don’t like my natural hair color?”

“‘Course I do,” He returned, “Ya just look like even more of a squirrel, though.”

“Yeah? You look like a hobo.” She returned, her hands cradling his cheeks and rubbing her thumbs along his scruffy jawline. Daryl chuckled with her, their eyes meeting for a moment before they leaned forward, pressing their lips together in a warm and emotional kiss. His lips were so chapped compared to hers. His body enveloped her, his hands finding the back of her own and squeezing gently.

At least they still had each other. At least they were all they had left.

#self ship #self insert #self shipping #self ship writing #love and zombies #i love daryl and he supports my deicions ok #i also justrealized that any art of me now and him could maybe be mistaken as carol/daryl and i'm fear but #idc

[blameitonshy-ffxiv]

TW / RQ Prompt: Shyril awakens from a heavily-induced anesthesia while personnel in lab coats look to take her vitals again. An assistant lays a small pair of scissors near her fingertips while they prepare for another incision shortly after. The words of a familiar father constantly echoing in her ear from her recent dreams, "precious harlot, your father and my son would not approve but our little girl will make my dreams come true."

TRIGGER WARNING: RED QUEEN

(Gore, Violence, Mind Control, Language)

Stupid.

She’d been so fucking stupid.

These were the first thoughts to filter through Shyril’s newly conscious mind, the tendrils of sanity still sluggish and heavy with whatever toxin they’d thought to drug her with. Deja vu made the world around her seem fuzzy at its edges as she remembered the moment she’d been taken, and those same thoughts silently screamed with every ounce of her internal rage.

Stupid. You’re so. Fucking. Stupid.

For years, she’d managed to evade the Collective’s smothering grip. Never before had they managed to catch so much as a whisper of her name…a name she’d tried to bury with the husk of a man she so resembled. For years, she had succeeded in being something other than what they’d tried to make her. Something better, if badly broken, pieced back together with only the dregs of smoldering defiance.

And then, she’d gotten greedy. She’d reached for more - for something she didn’t and never would deserve.

It had begun as one, then spread to a select few. That name, whispered on lips that sought to understand the thing that stood before them, desperate for something to call it. Shyril. She’d objected, at first, not willing to admit that her heart leapt to be seen. Acknowledged. Even, possibly, loved. Needed, certainly. That would have been enough.

Her beloved shadows, however, had offered only betrayal. It was their nature. That single name had carried back along their currents, to those who’d sought her long ago. Hands she’d long thought dead. The wraith had grown complacent, even bold. It had cost her everything.

It had hurt, when they’d taken her. Though she hadn’t seen her assailant’s face, he’d known exactly where to strike. The damaged shoulder had sang in agony as a perfect blow found its mark. The rest had been a pitifully quick affair, her every attempt to resist muted by pain and the inability to find that delicate line of control. She’d bitten him when he’d pushed the cloth over her nose, and felt bone snap between her teeth. It was one small, satisfying moment before the world had begun to fade into an ugly dark.

Stupid.

The monitors were beeping at a slightly quicker rate now, though she kept her eyes closed and breaths deliberately heavy. What she could see beneath lowered, slightly parted lashes was vague at best - three shadows, wreathed in white. What she could feel was by far more important. A hint of metal lingered near her right index finger, though she couldn’t guess to what it belonged, and her restraints were loose circles around each wrist as if they had never actually be meant to be of use. She wasn’t supposed to wake, that much she was certain of. Years of intentionally ingesting small amounts of poison daily rendered even the effect of the strongest sedatives muted, though the nightmare still quivered in her bones.

“Hold.” A doctor murmured, leaning across her body to get a better look at the jagged, spiking line meant to visualize her heart rate. It was the only opportunity she’d get. Her elbow snapped up on reflex, cracking bone as blood gushed forward from a broken nose. It bought her precious seconds, long enough to slip her right hand free, fingers closing around an open pair of surgical scissors.Blood pooled in her palm from one blade even as she drug the other viciously across her second assailant’s throat. A fountain of crimson painted the room in a hot spray, its scent worming through her senses and taste pooling in her mouth. A quick, clever flip  of the weapon and she drove the point home in the other’s heart, leaving only one white-faced nurse to cower in the corner as she pulled the wires and tubes free from her skin in a vicious plea for freedom.

It was amazing how quickly those skills flooded back to her - that murderous bloodlust that sang at the gasps of the dying even as part of her recoiled and gagged on the slick crimson sweat she wore. 

This is what you are.

For the first time since waking, the pain in her temple throbbed to the forefront of her consciousness. Fingers coated in thick, crimson lifeblood stretched upward and danced along what felt like an incision - the stitches rough against the pads of her fingers. Another throb, and the words echoed again.

THIS is what you are.

The hand she’d lifted pulled away, revolving slowly before brilliant green eyes as she traced the vivid spatter across it, both abhorrent and delightful. A piece of her mind - that weak, miserable piece that had rebelled against her very nature in an attempt to break the chains of fate - screamed silently as the walls of a cell slammed shut around it. Her very blood heated, tek spilling through it with every pump of her rapidly beating heart as the signals in her brain rerouted and settled into a new, terrifying pattern.

For only a moment, those green eyes seemed to glow, shifting left to right and drinking in the grisly masterpiece she’d painted. The realization fell, then. This had not been a punishment, these people not her torturers.

This was a gift.

The corner of her lip tugged once, a short curl of a smile, as the feral gaze shifted to the still cowering hyur sobbing in the corner. When the former phantom moved, she was surprised to find that no pain accompanied the effort - her shoulder still mercilessly mangled, but the sensation no longer a sharp reminder. No longer present, at all. Another sense clicked savagely into place, like a thought dancing just out of reach.

“Octum.” She murmured, her voice filled with a cruel pleasure as she faced her prey. “Engage.”

The circlet of scalpels and instruments attached to gleaming metal arms above the table on which she’d previously lay responded, the bright lights of the room reflected in the glint of razored steel. 

“Don’t worry, puppet. We’re just going to have a little fun. I’m dreadfully out of practice.”

The Red Queen wore a wicked smile as the symphony of screams began.

——-

The sharp, precise click of boots approaching the open doorway rang in time with the last few beeps of the heart monitor. She’d watched them approach, of course, the chip within her temple connecting to every sensor in the stronghold. A thought had the scalpel she’d been so carefully maneuvering retracting upon it’s metal arm, and when she lifted her hands from the cavity the still warm heart rested within them. Her own gift to the one who had truly made her. It made no matter at all that the shared not an ounce of familial blood.

When she smiled, her teeth gleamed scarlet, that deceptive innocence replaced with something much more sinister as she laid adoring eyes upon the one who had started it all. The one Iados had once slain, but what was death to them but an opportunity? Honeyed words fell sweet upon a crimson tongue, and shadow of the rebellious ghost long fled as she dipped her head in a gracious gesture of submission.

“Hello, Father.”

Mentions: @valanthius-xiv (Thank you for this!)

#trigger warning #gore #violence #language #death #red queen #shyril ashlyn #the collective #daddy v #iados valanthius #CMIYC #caught** #au #for now #:)