#twd-rp

[ruthlessnegan]

Well how about that little name drop at the end of the episode? Lucille is thirsty! Come play!

[ruthlessnegan]

How many Fucks could a Fucking Fuck Fuck If a Fucking Fuck could Fuck Fucks?

[ruthlessnegan]

Hes Back

After a long Hiatus (due to family health issues) I'm making a return look for me to start looking for plots soon! Please anyone with ideas or starters let me know!

[ruthlessnegan]

Slipping //Negan&Judith//

Safety, such a fickle thing. What defines safe? Is it when you no longer need to worry about food and shelter? Is it when you feel okay to let your guard down? Or maybe it's when you no longer have to be worried about having the flesh slowly stripped from your bones by ravenous hordes of un-dead. Such a luxury would never exist, could never exist in this world right? It certainly didn't on that fateful night on the Greene family farm.

The memory was like a famous painting, it would never leave for as long as Negan lived. Darkness, tall untended grass, fire, screams and gunshots. The smell of rotten wood burning  and gun-smoke were burnt into his mind. All of these images accompanied by the guilt of letting Otis's wife take her out into the Garden that night without supervision and the image of his baby girl being ripped apart by walkers as the barn burnt down in the background. The separate instruments of his torment combining to form a symphony of nightmares. every morning it tore away at his brain, every morning it took away more of his humanity. Made only worse by the illusion of "Safety" by officer Rick Grimes.

Rick, the so called leader of this "Group" of misfit fuck-ups. He had taken Negan and his daughter in when they were in need. Stuck on the side of the road on the interstate out of Atlanta out of gas, he was the one that convinced the group to let Negan and his girl onto the truck on their way back from looking for Merle. It it weren't for him they never would have made it this far. None of that mattered anymore. Rick didn't have to deal with the losses everyone else did it seemed. Negan had lost everything, his one and only everything in the form of an eight year old blonde-haired blue eyed smiling little girl. All of this happened to Negan and Rick had the balls to claim HE ran this group? As if he had protected anyone other than his own family.

Negan believed deep down in his heart that someone with real losses, real experiences and real devastation in this terrible world should be making the calls. Someone who knows the terrible end of bad consequences. Rick didn't deserve this leadership. He wasn't capable. The only thing had managed to do was finally and a little too late, find a seemingly safe spot in the old prison for them to live. Other than that he was striking out left and right. The only thing clinging him to his remaining sanity and keeping him from going off the proverbial "Deep End" was the few around him who had been there as best as they could in this tough time but Rick was always too busy to care about others issues. No 32 year old man should ever have to bury his own daughter yet to him Rick seemed very unharmed by the whole deal, because his life was so fucking perfect. Try as the few helpful people might, the dam was cracking and eventually it was going to give way.

Negan woke up. Hyperventilating. Drenched in a cold sweat, His white tight form fitting T-shirt was soaked. It hugged his muscular rugged frame as his chest moved up and down rapidly as his lungs worked overtime. He sat up quickly in his bed resting his head against the Cell wall. His deep breaths echoing off the walls of his second-level C-Block cell turned bedroom. By the look of the night sky out of the cell-block window he had to guess it was about 2 a.m. "Not again" he said quietly as he pressed both hands to his face and he wiped the sweat away. The rest of the prison group had been used to this by now. He was always waking himself up with Night-terrors. Always of the same thing, Him standing idly  by while his daughter is repeatedly ripped apart and he can't do a damn thing to save her. It was beginning to take a toll on him physically aswell.

One look and someone could tell that he was in great shape, he was often the one asked to do most of the heavy lifting around the place when needed, but here he sat it a pool of his own sweat, hands quivering against his face as he is still on edge and unable to relax, his arms weak from the hard flex they had been locked-in in his nightmares. He just sat there, in the silence of the prison reliving the torment of his failure to his little girl in his bedroom.