#huntingthem

at least that is more practical than me looking at the Steam super sale for Halloween…. All these horror games. |:

Tell me why you followed me and what made you stay.

to be fair I would actually kind of enjoy him dying brutally… |: I don’t hate daryl. I hate his fan base.

I would kinda love to see him die brutally but not like that. The whole point of that death was because Glenn was the most useful to the group and even Rick says he was the most good out of them all. 

MEME.

her anger seeps through her& he can see it, but he doesn’twant to touch it —  because itscares him and it fascinates him& he likes it.

he’s staring down at the barrel of her gun,flat against the leaves, looking over her.( how many people have you seen die?  he thought about asking her once,  afraid the answer would be the same as the amount she’s killed. )( how HEAVY is your burden, daughter atlas?  are your bones going to BREAK from the weight yet? )

and he’s scared.and he likes it.

he’s staring down the barrel of her gun.he’s staring at the barrel of her anger,and he feels the bugs crawling throughthe leaves.

he still manages a smile.

Drafts: 3 Replies Owed: Undetermined Starters: 7

For those 3 Drafts:

@farfromgxne

@huntingthem

@pick-a-damn-side

Starters:

@notameanbcne

@builtforthisworld

@whenimgxne

@fcrsurvival

@alwaysthisfullofshit

@eyeforaneyepatch

@gunslingerdixon

it’s late, it’s cold – for once.(he might not feel most things, but cold he still knows, cold he likes. )he’s somewhere between sleep and heaviness – heavy shoulder sagged against a wall, heavy feet settling from the toes, from the legs, from the hips. he’s weighed by an anchor, there’s something of dreams – images.she cuddles against him, half startling him from his sleep. she jerks a grunt from him – louder, urgent, slightly scared. he looks around blearily, wants to tell her don’t touch him, wants to keep her against him, wants to tell her she smells good despite the smell of dirt, of sweat and death. she smells good. he settles for a shift of his shoulder against the wall, the turning of his body to accommodate her. he settles for an exhale through his nostrils, a crooked, too-toothy half-grin. 

he’s dead, she should shoot him – she tells him so.it’s too high school romance for him,she’s too close and he knows she knows it.

‘i know,’ emm wants to say, settling for tasting his own saliva and the aftertaste of something he can’t remember eating. he chews on the inside of his cheek with a molar, eyes glancing from the slope of her shoulder to the bird-like shape of her collarbones.

he might think she’s beautiful, wonders what she’d taste like, and pushes that down into the pit of his belly, where it feels all too queasy and none-too-human. he might’ve smiled at the idea of her style, letting a low gurgle come up from his throat before his own voice kicks in, rumbling, gravelly, growled.

           “there’s all sortsa .. styles bet you can pull off,”              he says, the cheeky implications laced through its lilt,& he leaves it, giving a thoughtful grunt and swaying on the balls of his feet, toes pressing against the inside of his shoes.

yes, he finds himself about to say, deciding against it in favor of the shape of the knife underneath her jacket.

         “only when .. hungry. don’t worry, not on th’ menu.”