#thosewhothrive --- a private and mutuals only roleplay writing blog featuring AU canon muses from "The Walking Dead" franchise. NO MINORS ALLOWED!
rules
muses
notes
will byers stan first human second

izzy's playlists!
Monterey Bay Aquarium
sheepfilms

JVL
we're not kids anymore.
$LAYYYTER
hello vonnie
cherry valley forever

ellievsbear
Acquired Stardust

JBB: An Artblog!

Origami Around

blake kathryn
Misplaced Lens Cap

pixel skylines
styofa doing anything

Kiana Khansmith
RMH

seen from India
seen from Argentina

seen from South Korea

seen from Belgium
seen from Vietnam
seen from United States
seen from France

seen from United States

seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from TĂźrkiye
seen from Ukraine
seen from Italy

seen from Australia
seen from South Korea

seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Saudi Arabia
@thosewhothrive
#thosewhothrive --- a private and mutuals only roleplay writing blog featuring AU canon muses from "The Walking Dead" franchise. NO MINORS ALLOWED!
rules
muses
notes

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Beth hesitated, eyes flicking between the tracks & Darylâs calm expression. The tension in the air hung thick like fog, wrapping around her instincts, urging caution. She could see the determination behind his steady gaze, & a small flame of confidence ignited within her at the thought of having a plan.
â Yeah, â she nodded slowly, her voice low. â Letâs see where it goes. â
She led the way, stepping carefully on the uneven ground as they moved away from the stream. The forest closed in around them, sounds of the trickling water fading into a distant memory. Each step echoed in her mind, louder in the quiet than it seemed out here.
Darylâs presence was a constant at her back, solid & reassuring, but even so, she felt the weight of the woods pressing down. The light filtering through the branches above lost its golden warmth. Shadows lengthened, twisting into dark shapes that danced just beyond the reach of clarity. She inhaled deeply, catching the rich scent of damp earth, mixed with the faint trace of pine. It settled in her lungs, reminding her of simpler times back at the farm, before everything changed.
The path twisted deeper into the thicket, & with each footfall, Beth could feel her heartbeat quicken. She focused on the tracks, trying to decipher who â or what â had passed this way. Her mind raced with possibilities, the sharp edge of trepidation slicing through her nerves. It could be a survivor or something else entirely.
Not far ahead she spotted a clearing. Sunlight barely penetrated the canopy, but a faint glimmer caught her eye â a structure half-hidden among the rustling leaves, its shape shifting with the shadows. Curiosity mingled with caution as Beth glanced back at Daryl, who stood at the edge of the thicket, his expression unreadable.
â Over there. â She whispered, pointing with a trembling finger. The air felt thicker here, weighed down by the stillness. She took a breath, trying to steady the unease coiling tight in her stomach.
Goosebumps prickled on her skin; an unshakeable feeling crawled up her spine. The building was probably empty, long abandoned, but memories of empty homes & lingering dangers flooded her mind.
The closer they got, the clearer it became: a barn, though its weathered wood had succumbed to time & neglect. Moss curled around the beams, & the roof sagged like a tired old man. It didnât fit well with the trees, standing out like a lost traveler. But it was a structure â a possible solace from the encroaching night.
From where they stood, Daryl scanned the surrounding area, always being cautious before storming ahead. Being too hot-headed got people killed, and as exhausted as the two travelers were, they needed to be careful. All it would take was one slip up, one blind eye, and they were dead.
With a gentle nudge of his elbow, Daryl led Beth to the barn. Before entering its interior, they did a quick search around the structure. There were no vehicles or equipment. The owners must've taken everything they could when they up and left. Whether it was due to the outbreak, or reasons predating the former, the aged barn was left to the elements.
The crossbow remained loaded when he and Beth carefully pulled the doors open. Daryl expected resistance; maybe the owners would've locked up before leaving. But he was also ready for a nasty surprise in the form of walkers. His mind flashed to Beth's former home, where her family kept their barn full of them, including deceased loved ones. Including Sofia, Carol's daughter. Neither turned out to be the case, because inside the barn was the skeleton of what used to shelter crops, livestock, and general storage. Hay was scattered across the floor, while the stalls were void of anything living or dead.
The smell of aged wood, hay, and dirt filled Daryl's nostrils, as the inspection continued. He'd anticipated the unmistakable reek of animal shit, but seeing how old this place was, that odor was likely absorbed by time. A ladder was propped against the back wall. Daryl instructed Beth to watch the door while he climbed up to the loft using the ladder.
Muscles ached, and the cold air made tiny goosebumps along his exposed skin, but he pushed forward. He saw old bales of hay stacked along the wall. An empty bedroll was on the floor, with a small stack of books and pens by the head rest. Still not allowing himself to lower his defenses, Daryl poked through the hay, to make sure nothing was hiding in them. Whether it was walkers or pests, the last thing he wanted to deal with was something gnawing on him.
"Let's secure them doors, and head on up," Daryl said once he climbed down the ladder and approached Beth. He was weary, but he couldn't deny that they actually found something decent. "We'll bring the ladder up with us."
She emerged from the underbrush, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, a woven bag slung over her shoulder. Bethâs eyes, once bright and full of hope, now held a hardness that hadnât been there before. Sheâd grown up fast in the past few months. She didnât look up right away, instead taking her time to scan the thicket behind her. â Didnât find much. â She muttered. The Georgia twang in her voice had been sanded down by months of hunger and vigilance.
She finally met his gaze. â Deer trail, maybe. â She held up her prize: two eggs, cupped delicately in her battered palms. â Chicken coop. Didnât see no chickens, though. I found a stream about half a mile east. We can fill up the canteens there before nightfall. â
Taking a moment she placed the eggs into a soft pouch inside the woven bag. She was smarter than people gave her credit for. It was different now, she was different now, sharp and hard-edged, shaped by weeks of cold and nights spent pressed back-to-back for warmth.
Beth crouched beside him, helping to organize their things. They worked in silence for a moment, a routine theyâd perfected over weeks of survival. Beth rolled their sleeping bags while Daryl checked their weapons. Theyâd learned each otherâs movements, anticipated needs without words. It was the closest thing to trust either of them had felt in a long time.
â If weâre lucky we might find some where to stay tonight before the cold sets in. â She knew it was going to be hard to find a spot that isnât abandoned or crawling with walkers, but the nights were growing colder and the days turned to nights faster than they used to.
Bethâs fingers brushed against the worn fabric of their makeshift gear, adjusting it on her shoulder.
Beth was a fast learner. Daryl admired that about her. She was also tougher than she looked, hence the tone he took with her when she returned in one piece. Despite his rough exterior and tendency to not talk much, he did care about her well-being. He worried that sheâd been gone for a little too long. At first, he wasnât even sure if sheâd be able to keep up with him, given what happened back at the family farm and prison, but she proved him wrong. Dead wrong. Much like Carol had. Daryl understood that no books should be judged by their covers.
âWeâre gettinâ that water first,â he said. While the deer trail interested him, their priority was shelter. There was no sense in wondering if and when they would be reunited with their companions. As of now, they could only rely on each other.
Once everything was secured, Daryl had Beth lead the way to the stream. They cautiously trekked through the woods with their eyes and ears ever alert. Every sound that didnât come from beneath their feet caused them to instantly draw their weapons. After careful scrutiny of their surroundings, theyâd continue on until they arrived at their destination. It wasnât paranoia, but being rational. Walkers didnât care about making noise. All they cared about was food, no matter what condition their rotting bodies were in. Nothing would stop their relentless hunger for the living. Â
Water was bottled and stored. Daryl couldnât resist drinking more than usual from the source before recollecting himself. Neither he nor Beth knew when they would come upon water again so easily.
âCâmon,â he said as he worked his way around the stream, eyes scanning the ground momentarily. He hated wandering aimlessly. If he went anywhere, it was with purpose. Especially now when they needed shelter.
Daryl abruptly stopped. His gaze settled upon a particular set of tracks which led away from the stream. His calloused fingertips brushed against Bethâs arm as he motioned for her to follow. Crouching down, he squinted his eyes, and investigated the hollows of the markings. Using the back of his hand, he brushed away the dirt, sticks, and leaves until he revealed the surface of a gravel road.
âSomeone hid this,â he stated to Beth. âDidnât want nobody findinâ it. They covered it up and stepped all over it, thinking it'll get looked over.â
Could be a trap. Could also lead to shelter. They didnât have much time until the sun set. Darylâs line of sight roughly followed the rest of the track until it disappeared into the tree lines.
He turned to Beth, not realizing how close they stood until now. Her proximity didnât bother him. She became one of the few people whose presence didnât bother him in the slightest. It took a lot for him to trust anyone, let alone in this day and age.
âCheck it out?â he asked, his head tilted in the direction to where the trail seemingly took off.
The woods were dense. Despite the sun being out, the air had a chilling bite to it. Daryl could see his breath form in front of his face with every breath he took. His eyes searched the area for movement of any kind before he secured his backpack over one shoulder.
He used to be part of a large group. Everyone had their roles. Folks kept busy. People earned their keep. Someone always watched each otherâs backs.
Nowadays, it was him and his companion. Theyâd been separated from the group for quite some time. They werenât sure where the others were, or if they were even still alive.
Nah, Rick's still alive, Daryl told himself. He was damned sure of it. If anybody could survive this hellscape, it'd be Rick.
Along with the protein bars he and his traveling companion took from the convenience store over a week ago, it was all they had for food, until he went hunting. First, they needed to find a place to hunker down. It was going to get dark soon.
As he proceeded to look over his crossbow, a twig snapped within earshot. In one fluid motion, he cocked and loaded his weapon. He aimed it in the direction of the sound. But as soon as he saw it wasnât a walker, he let out a sigh of relief and lowered his crossbow.
âYa took long enough to come back,â he grumbled as he removed the arrow from its rail.
@thewiickedones // Beth
Negan watched her. The urge to put a hand on her shoulder was strong â the old Negan would have made a grab for a joke, or at least slid a drink down the bar her way, but that felt like another universe, someone elseâs body. The bat was adequate company for the time being. He kept his fingers around it, tried to focus on the way the handle bit into his palm when he squeezed; it was easier to deal in pain than in confusion. â Shit, â he said, & it was half a bark & half a laugh. â You were always stubborn as hell. â The thought that she never once looked for him stung â it stung like hell. Then again, maybe that had been for the best considering the path he crossed after her death.
Negan felt something slide into him â felt a sour pulse in his guts, right below the scar of where heâd buried her. He was supposed to make it easier for her, always had been. Now, all he wanted was to shoulder the hurt for her, but it just kept passing right back. Heâd tried to torch the house to lay her memory to rest, but here she was, still smoldering, still finding ways to keep herself alive.
â They had a hint of the cure. Or rumored it, anyway. But I just stuck to the old routines. Strangles, bludgeonings. Baseball. I went city to city, just to see if blinking made it all go away. It never did. â He shifted on his stool, elbows on the bar. The surface was sticky & dark with dried liquor, & for a second Negan let himself imagine the old world: Friday lights, cheap beer, cracked laughter. He felt an ache for it, none of which made it to his face.
Negan took a deep breath through his nose. He pressed his tongue into the gap where his molar used to be, worrying the hole with a violence he reserved for his own flaws. The world really did know how to find the worst reason to keep people around.
What does he say to love of his life â to the one he thought heâd never see again, knowing she hated being alive ? Neganâs gloved hand raised hesitantly. He reached for the bottle, sloshed out a swallow more than strictly necessary into Lucilleâs glass, & pushed it her way. The gesture was the closest thing either of them would ever get to an apology.
â You want to know the real bastard of it all ? â Neganâs voice was low, bone-dry. â Itâs that some days I think you had the right idea. Better to punch your own ticket than let someone write you into a science experiment. â He took a pull straight from the bottle, whisky souring his tongue, burning a soft trail over the cliffs inside his throat. â Not that it matters now. Thereâll be another fuckinâ flavor of hell tomorrow. â
For a second Negan wondered if she was about to ask him to kill her for good this time, & the idea ignited a socket of panic somewhere under his ribcage. He steadied his right hand by wrapping it around the bat, pressing down until the wire pressed into his skin. He had not prayed in many years, not since her, & even now he could only manage the wish that she would not ask him for that.
â I donât think thereâs anyone alive these days that isnât broken & fucked up in some way or another. â
She accepted the glass, but instead of drinking, she listened to him talk about routine. Her mind drifted to the old days. All she wanted him to do, was to quit wasting his time playing video games and screwing around behind her back. With this talk about structure, she realized he was more put together than ever before. Negan was always capable of so goddamned much. That was why she pushed him, nagged him--to get off his ass, and work more.
Her fingers drummed along the glass. It was difficult to feel temperature. It was one of the few things she struggled with since her revival. She drank because it was out of habit, not because it did much for her. The flashbacks were also a bitch: the memories of what she was capable of doing, what she did when she was a walking corpse, the taste of human flesh. It was the only thing that made her feel alive, to truly feel much of anything--
She pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers momentarily.
âIâm so glad youâre still alive,â she whispered through clenched teeth. âI really am, Negan.â
She swallowed hard, forcing the harsh, tainted memories of what she once was (still was) away. Withdrawing her hand from the glass, she offered Negan a smile. It wasnât one that reached her eyes. Rather, it was a bitter one.
âIâm being hunted,â she informed him. âI donât want you to get hurt again because of me. Ever since the bunch of us escaped the labs, those scientists have sent their men to round us up again by any means necessary.â
Now her fingers pressed into the counter of the bar. Brows furrowed, she whispered harshly, âI wonât go back, and I wonâtâŚâ
Her words trailed off. For the first time in a long, long time, her heart twisted with grief. It was visible in her eyes as she gazed longingly at her husband (former husband? Widow? Did those terms still matter in this day and age?) Hurting Negan all over again would break her. No matter what horrors this world put her through, nothing would destroy her more than seeing Neganâs heart shatter because of something she did, whether she was in control of the situation or not.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Neganâs boots were loud as hell on the threadbare carpet, but he made no attempt to quiet them. The barâs interior was preserved in a haze of brown â old varnish, old stains, the sullen bouquet of sour booze & ancient cigarette ash. The windows were blocked out with battered plywood, & the only light fermented from the exit signs & the red glow of dusk at a few chinked seams. Most men in the new world walked with shoulders slumped, eyes glued to the horizon or the gun in their fist. Negan stood like heâd already won the argument, like the air was contractually obligated to go into his lungs.
He stopped ten feet from her, silhouetted in the neon shroud. His face turns pale like heâs just had every bit of wind knocked out of him & replaced with the chill from just outside the door. His knuckles were thick & scarred, a ring of dried blood caked under the white of his thumbnail. His eyes watered from the inside. â You said not to leave you. â Negan echoed, voice gone flat as the whisky dregs in the glass between them. â But you didnât stick around to let me say goodbye. â
Heâs dreaming â thereâs no other explanation as to why sheâs standing in from of him alive as if nothing ever happened to her. He pinched himself & vividly felt the pain from it. No, it couldnât be a dream. There was nothing left of the world theyâd known except what lived, rent-free, between his temples. He thought back to that painful night & shook his head. No, he wanted her locked away where time couldnât touch her. Instead, there was her voice, clattering at him again, but not gentle, not half-asleep in bed. She spoke like a person scraping the last sinew off a bone, dry & hollow. It hit him somewhere he thought was already cauterized shut.
He shrugged his shoulders higher, tried to smirk but it snagged at the corner of his mouth. â You look good. â He tried, because it was it was all he could manage at the moment. He found himself keeping track of her breathing as she leaned forward into the weird twilight.
â How are you alive ? â He finally managed to choke out the words as he sat his barbed bat on the bar counter between them.
His voice had a harsh, gravelly edge to it. There was a haunting presence about him. Heâd done things that the old version of him were incapable of doing.
Her eyes fell to the nasty weapon on the counter top. It reeked of decay and rust. It was a thing of brutality. The barbed wires reminded her of the many needles the doctors injected into her for âthe cureâ to work.
âI shouldnât be,â Lucille informed Negan as she reached over and gently placed an index finger upon one of the single strands not stained with blood. Green eyes briefly flashed at him, but they swiftly darkened with bitterness. âI should be dead. I didnât want you to see me like this. Didnât think Iâd ever see you again.â
Her gaze fell to the dirt covered carpet. âThe worst thing about this shit driven world isnât the dead. Itâs the people. The living. They brought me back, Negan. I shouldâve stayed dead, but theseâŚâ
She took her hand away from the bat and drew it to her chest, where she folded her arms together. Head bowed, she continued speaking, much in the manner like she did when she informed him of her cancer diagnosis.
âThey were these off the grid assholes. They werenât with the CDC. They wanted to play God with corpses. They collected bodies like mine, and conducted experiments on us by using a âcureâ they developed. Didnât work most of the time. Some of us came back to life, but others came back as just the same: infected. Those ones were put down. We were treated like animals. Studied. Caged. Abused.â
She stopped crying long ago thinking about it. It wasnât as if she were the only person assaulted. Those so-called doctors were no more than sick fucks who got their rocks off by screwing the âcured infected.â If it wasnât for the escape, she wouldâve attempted to kill herself.
She finally looked at Negan, where she nodded with approval. âYou gained some muscle. And the bat youâre carrying? Iâm assuming youâre not just taking baseball lessons for fun. Youâre looking pretty good yourself.â
Itâd been too long since she felt like her old self. It belonged in a world that no longer existed. That part of her was from a life that died when she had cancer, when the world was thrust into chaos.
âIâm broken, Negan.â
A twisted smile formed on her face. âA woman canât even die on her own terms in this fucking hellhole. But here I am, still alive and kicking. Guess that says a lot about my resilience.â
When the Wildfire Virus swept across the globe, Lucille was already struggling with pancreatic cancer. She had no idea that the walking dead would be the least of her worries. Years later, sheâd come to understand two things: one â being brought back to life wasnât all cracked up to be. And two â the living was more dangerous than the undead.
She could still recall the unbearable, potent stench of ammonia and disinfectant, even as she downed the last of her whiskey before setting the now empty glass on the bar. The dust refused to the settle in the air, as she slowly turned to see the stranger who managed to slip into the building she thought she fortified for the night. It wasnât a walker, because it wouldâve made some noise. They were human, and much like herself, they were dressed and armed to kill by any means necessary.
Upon seeing the mere outline of the man who stood a fair distance away, however, Lucilleâs stomach clenched into a painful knot. She was momentarily paralyzed in her seat. The word ânoâ wanted to form from her mouth, but not a single sound came out.
âWhy in hell does he look like that?â she thought fearfully.
She suffered from cancer. Killed herself so that she no longer had to be a burden to the man that was her husband. Her corpse was forcefully removed by underground scientists, and was experimented on. She was revived, but at a heavy cost. She struggled to survive, day in and day out. Now she faced a man who was a ghost from her past.
Was this a trick? Was she finally starting to crack from the abuse she endured? She was alone for so long. She lost contact with the other âcuredâ after the Great Escape, and she refused to seek shelter with any of the living.
Lucille bristled in her seat. She wore a stoney expression that masked the frantic worries of her thoughts, and looked away from the stranger.
âI told you not to leave me like that,â she simply said, referring to the last words sheâd spoken to him before she killed herself.
@thewiickedones // Negan