any flesh and blood couldn't be his match

Your throne once said Spades Slick, and all your friends are dead. ________________________ m!a status: none

[one-eyed-royal]

((A new Spades Slick blog? Oh yes.

texas-stab-em is going to fill the void that Royal probably didn't leave in your hearts for several months.))

[one-eyed-royal]

I have no idea how many posts I'd have to delete to get this thing back to normal.

Eugh. Might just start anew, but I'm not sure I have the time.

[one-eyed-royal]

Hm. It's been a while.

I guess I should admit that I left basically all-at-fucking-once, which wasn't so bad, but I left a lot of plates cracked. Took a kind of several month long break. For mental health issues. And being broken all to hell by a giant troll hellbeast.

And...

It's been a while.

The more I look back at this ruined blog, the more I hate it. Wow. What a pool of shit. All of this is bad.

Nobody double-check me on that.

....

Hi.

[one-eyed-royal]

number-one-mom started following you

[number-one-mom]

Love you too, sweetie <3

I hope you’re resting well.

[one-eyed-royal]

I don’t heal as fast as I used to.

[number-one-mom]

My poor baby :(

How can Mommy help?

[one-eyed-royal]

Don't worry yourself over it, Mom. I'll be asleep soon again anyway.

[one-eyed-royal]

number-one-mom started following you

Love you, Mom.

[number-one-mom]

Love you too, sweetie <3

I hope you’re resting well.

[one-eyed-royal]

I don't heal as fast as I used to.

[one-eyed-royal]

number-one-mom started following you

Love you, Mom.

[one-eyed-royal]

By the time Itchy is walking out the transportalizer again, you kind of come to. Your vision is too blurred over to see anything, and you bit your tongue in an attempt to straighten things out-- it doesn't help. You grasp at the bandages on your body for a moment.

It's going to be a long night, you decide-- you don't remember what you said to him at all, if anything.

[spectresque]

» There’s hardly any time that passes before you’ve come to your decision — though you really do feel bad about just leaving. You pull the phone away from your ear and cover the microphone with your palm and yell something indistinctive at your carapace companion before pulling the phone back to your ear and still finding him silent.

“I hate you for this — I really do,” you reprimand, swiftly making your way downstairs toward the transportalizer. Once there, and still no sign of Royal on the other line making an effort to speak, you impatiently drum your fingers against the keys, scowling at the screens.

“I’m going to need your coordinates, asshole. I’m coming over.”

[one-eyed-royal]

You spout off a long serial of numbers and letters in blurry, not-quite lucid mutters, but they end up being right despite the drunken delivery. You pull yourself up a little higher on the couch, deep red bloodstains seeping into the white leather, and you glance away. You had a feeling that it wasn't just going to bleach out, either.

[spectresque]

» There’s a few moments of silence, in which you’re convinced he’s slipped into unconsciousness or something close enough to it, before you can hear some shuffling before his exhausted tone comes back to creep into the phone. Maybe he isn’t joking. 

» You listen to his attempt in trying to complete a sentence without tripping over his words for a short moment. There’s a bit of silence from your side as you pull your lip into your teeth, idly playing with the steel of the piercing before exhaling heavily.

“Didn’t Scratch give you a shiny and functioning transportalizer? It’s either we hang up right now and you wither in pain, or I come see you in person and we’ll talk.”

[one-eyed-royal]

"Yeah, he did.. it's your choice. Either way, I'll be waiting for you."

You don't hang up-- you let him do it. You clutch the phone tightly in your hand, surveying the damage and often closing your eyes to let the blurriness fade and wash away before going back to the damage check. There was something wrong with you, at least you know that much, and though there aren't any cracks on your limbs, you find them hard to move and painful to clench.

[spectresque]

» You aren’t entirely sure whether it’s the bleach talking or not, but you frown as his words reach your ear. What could you do? He’s there, off in his own little universe and corrupt kingdom, while you’re here, wallowing in your own frustrations and regrets.

“Should’ve drank yourself into that coma like I told you to.”

» There’s a slump in your posture as you stuff your unoccupied hand into your pocket and lean against the wall in the hallway, listening to his pleading and apologies. Again, you’re torn in just hanging up or bothering to help in what little way you can.

“Really hurt that you want to die or live? Because I’m getting tired of your suicidal act,” you say with little interest, shuffling your weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t know where you are or how to help you, Royal.

“Do you want me to take you to a hospital? I’m pretty sure there’s no doctor here that knows how to fix carapace. I don’t know how to help you since I don’t know how badly hurt you are. You seriously couldn’t have called Snowy to help you again? She’d know more than I would ever hope to.

“What do you want me to do?”

[one-eyed-royal]

You actually start crying into the couch, and smother it, holding the phone at a distance for a moment to force you to regain your composure. You don't reply for some time-- and you don't really know how badly hurt you are, either.

"I-it's fine-- I'll bandage myself-- i-it's just that I wanted to hear a friendly.. a friendly voice. S-so.. I'm sorry."

You cautiously pinch the phone between your head and your shoulder, feeling slightly light-headed as you grind your teeth, trying to force yourself up and giving a tiny growl of pain.

"Oh. Yep. That's broken. F-fuck, sorry.. you were the only person I could think of to ask."

[spectresque]

» You’re comfortably spread out on a couch that’s not of your own, in the company of someone you’re on somewhat good terms with — and with his beast of a dog. Your fear of dogs is slowly beginning to subside in being in the canine’s presence, as you’re playfully squishing his face with your hands and given affection for it, while Slick scoffs.

» It’s difficult to ignore the vibrating in the pocket of your jacket, however.

» There’s only one person you could guess it was coming from. Dave was too busy with his work, Quarters possibly busy with his own, and Bec was just.. being Bec. You stop rubbing Dennis’s face and sit up on the couch to fish your phone out, good mood subsiding at the name on the screen.

» Part of you wants to let it just go to waste — but another part wants you to finally settle the issue out. There’s little thought running through your mind as you push yourself off the couch and excuse yourself from the room, answering the phone just before the last ring.

“What do you want?” 

[one-eyed-royal]

You're pathetic-- this is pathetic-- this is worse than anything you could've thought of, really, you don't know why him, or why you reached out at all.

"Pl-please help me."

You don't know why you didn't call the emergency number. Are you ready to die or not? Are you just trying to stall until the head injury gets to you? You're amazed you even found the number, to be honest.

"I'm really, r-really hurt, and I didn't do it to myself."

Your vision is too fuzzy, anyway, and you shut your eyes so you don't have to deal with the waves of pain and confusion sweeping over you.

"I'm sorry."

[one-eyed-royal]

You manage to climb onto the couch, panicking-- why aren't your legs working? What's wrong with you, why isn't ANYTHING WORKING-- and your vision becomes blurry and you can't quite read the number you're dialing, and you're not at all sure it will work, in fact, you're sure it won't. Even a moron like you can figure that out, you decide, but you still let your face come to rest on the phone as you listen, desperately hoping for the comfort of Itchy's answering machine.

[one-eyed-royal]

im sorry

[one-eyed-royal]

Your fingers skitter across the screen of a phone that is more whole than you are, and as you pull your breaking body close to it, you grind your teeth and try to swallow down what comes up for it.

[one-eyed-royal]

You give up a second time, fear flashing through your mind, quick and ugly, and you let yourself crumple up beneath words and pain and words, and you don’t have a reply. You couldn’t say one if you had it, and your tongue doesn’t work as pure pain mars everything— even the promise that death had finally given you— it was gone, now, too. And you just give up, and you decide it isn’t worth fighting for anymore.

[deshuesar-rey-blog]

When you feel his body tense, then you ease and rise to your feet. There are rivets of red blood on your hand that dredge up a deeply rooted hate and anger that your genetics enforce on you. You wipe that on him. 

“Good fucking talk, brother.” 

Your nostrils flare at the pathetic pile before you and you turn to find his transportalizer. You’re sick of this world and you’re sick of the sour, corpse stench of his fear and other dank emotions. 

[one-eyed-royal]

As he finally leaves, all you can do is draw your arm around your face deeply and hope not to actually break before he's gone. You crumble in a pathetic way that you didn't expect-- you didn't like-- you didn't need--

and you crumble, and you let yourself pretend you're dead, in hopes that it would make the real thing come and rescue you.

[deshuesar-rey-blog]

Before he finishes, you’ve kicked him to the ground. 

“Shut up.” 

You crouch down over his body and dig your knee into his ribcage and put full force pressure onto his spine. His skull fits easily in the cup of your palm and you grind his head against the floor, making sure to do so slowly so every crack and splinter is agonizing and he has to feel every second of it. 

“I didn’t say life was good. I told you that life was worth fucking living. But you wouldn’t have known what I told you you dense motherfucker considering your HEAD IS SO FAR UP YOUR GODDAMN ASS YOU ARE LISTENING TO THE OWN FLUIDS OF YOUR DIGESTIVE TRACK.” 

You shift your weight some before putting it back full force on his ribcage. 

“I’m going to tell you again, and I would very much fucking like it if you were to pull your head out of your anal cavity and fucking listen.” You crouch down low and get in his ear again, continuing to grind his face against the floorboards and apply pressure to his skull. 

“Everyone wants to save you, you say. Fucking look around, princess. Nobody is here except for you me and the whole lot of ugly you’re making come from the both of us. Why? Because you’re so fucking convoluted nobody is worth the excrement of your smell receptor.  Nobody fucking gets you. Nobody understands you. Nobody can comprehend the mysic and cryptic piece of shit you are. 

“No. I understand what the fuck you are. You are a fucking worm that is so desperate for love that it has succumb to pathetic attempts as pleaing KILL ME KILL ME I DESERVE NO LIFE to any motherfucker that walks by your precious gold brick house. You make yourself so fucking complicated so people will stop and try to figure you out. You are fucking nothing. There is nothing to figure out. Your thinkpan has long since burnt out motherfucker. It’s not everyone else that is the problem, it is not your life that is the problem. 

“It’s that you’re just a goddamn moron.” 

[one-eyed-royal]

You give up a second time, fear flashing through your mind, quick and ugly, and you let yourself crumple up beneath words and pain and words, and you don't have a reply. You couldn't say one if you had it, and your tongue doesn't work as pure pain mars everything-- even the promise that death had finally given you-- it was gone, now, too. And you just give up, and you decide it isn't worth fighting for anymore.

[one-eyed-royal]

h-help