#rustedseven

[rxllofthedie-blog]

[pvt] Die, do you have a moment?

[private] Not for you.

[sixoclockandtimetodie]

Please just come home.

As you wake up, your memory comes in vivid flashes of bloody red and green. There’s no rest, no relief - as soon as you start to regain consciousness, you are acutely aware of what has happened. Blood, so much blood, hot and slippery all over your hands, screaming, tightness in your chest, pain in your arms, then crack - white light, pain, a ringing in your ears and the sensation of falling, falling backwards falling into blackness - And now here you are. You’re laying down with your head slightly elevated on a firm mattress. Your side hurts. Your head hurts like hell. You try to open your eyes but immediately regret the decision: the world spins and the light feels like nails being hammered into your head. You groan, instinctively raise a hand to your forehead, then wince in pain as the movement puts strain on your injured side

You’re not sure how long it takes you to wake up fully, how many minutes you spent easing yourself into a sitting position, how many times you struggled to open your eyes. You know at some point the dizziness got the better of you and you vomited, although you’re not sure what it was that came out, whether it was blood or bile or just saliva. It takes what feels like forever for you to adjust to the point where you can squint around the room. Your vision is blurry but you can tell that you’re in Stitch’s workshop, laying on a cot. You’re naked except for your underwear and the bandages wrapped around your head and midsection. There’s a table next to with your belongings sitting on it. Stitch must have taken them out when he took your clothes off. Your doll is there, your flask, your wallet and your lighter. The knife is there too, its red encrusted blade and handle juxtaposed against the clean white handkerchief it’s laying on, presumably to keep the blood from making a mess of the table. There’s one more item, a small dark rectangle that it takes your eyes a few moments to focus on, due to the small red light near the top of it that’s just blinking away. It’s your communicator. It’s your communicator and the little red light means that you have messages from Crowbar.

You had somehow managed not to feel anything about the situation yet. It’s strange, given that you feeling too much about everything is how this whole thing started, but some combination of physical pain and shock had kept you from realizing the consequences of your actions.That is, until you saw that light and realized what it meant and it all came crashing down on you like a ton of fucking bricks.

You fucked up. You fucked up. You were angry and you were lashing out and you wanted to kill someone. And he told you not to go. He told you not to go and you could tell that he was mad, he swore at you which he almost never did, but you ignored the message and you went anyways. It takes you a few tries to grab the communicator. Your depth perception isn’t very good under normal circumstances and it’s only made worse by the dizzy headache you have now. After flailing a few times you manage to get a hold on it. It was a few more failed attempts before you managed to enter the password correctly. You have two unread messages from him. In the first, he’s pleading with you not to go. And in the next, all he says is  “Please just come home.”

Fuck, here come those tears again. Here come those stupid fucking tears.With shaking hands, you type out a reply to his message.

“im hone”

[hedonistichearts-blog]

@rustedseven WELL WELL WELL, IF IT AINT MISTER INNAUGERAL PLEASURE TO MEET YE THERE.

[oneshadyhellhound]

rustedseven started following you

Oh lovely.

[sk1tchy-blog]

rustedseven started following you

“Heeey, it’s another Crow! Sup?”

This one’s got both eyes at least.

[sixoclockandtimetodie]

> There is a rose in a tiny glass vase next to Die's door. A small name tag is around it's stem and it read 'from 7.'

You had been locked in your room for…you don’t even know how long. Things had been bad, lately, the type of bad that made interacting with others impossible.

When you finally stumbled out of your room, drowsy and hungover, to get something to eat, you hadn’t expected anyone to have even noticed your absence.

But there was a rose.There was a beautiful, if slightly wilted rose in a beautiful vase, and when you picked it up, you saw that it was from Crowbar.He had taken the time to get this for you. He had gone through the trouble of getting you a flower, a rare luxury in the desert city.Oh Lord. You felt like you were about to start crying.

[rosallorart]

Wow.

You are my:[] Acquaintance [] Friend[x] Stranger[] Boyfriend/Girlfriend[] Love Interest[] Best Friend[x] Enemy[] Nemesis[] Other

I think you’re:[] Ugly[] Ok[x] Pretty[] Beautiful[] Gorgeous[] Sexy[] Hot

We should:[x] Fight[] Fuck[] Kiss[] Make love [] Text[] Watch films

I:[] Like You[] Hate You[] Love You[x] Think you’re expendable.

I secretly:[] Hate You[] Love You[] Like You[x] Dislike You (it’s not much of a secret, you’re Felt, I’m Crew, can I be any more obvious?)[] Think You’re …

Should you reblog this?[] Yes[] No

[sixoclockandtimetodie]

Crowbar is not a hundred percent sure of what the hell went down. He’s not sure he wants to know, if at all. He’s got a pile of work that keeps growing and growing and he’s honestly very fucking tired of writing the same old things over and over again. He wants a break, though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone. This incident was just ‘nice’ enough to happen around the same time as all of this. From what he had heard, Die had went out for a drink and would not accept any comfort or anything from anybody. Figures. Yes. Figures. Crow wished he could understand Die at all. Why he would think something so gross and toxic about himself. He pitied the Feltie, he did. He felt incredibly sorry for him and he wished he could help. Hell, Crow often wished he could help most of his crew. He was just far too busy, and often far too stressed. The rapping at the door took him off guard and he gave a sigh, shaking his head as he stood from his seat, cracking knuckles before he opened the door. His expression was neutral – neither mad or sad. Just a neutral look. “Die, please come in.” The leprechaun stepped away from the door, leaving it wide open. “Try not to freak out or anything, and sorry for the puppy hair. It takes forever to get that out of the sheets…” “.. Er, anyway. I’d just like to talk to you.”

Your heart starts beating quickly in those few moments of time between your knocking on the door and his opening it. You’re starting to wish that you drank a little bit more. Maybe then you would be number. Maybe then you wouldn’t have felt your heart leap almost painfully when the door opens and you see him.

Instantly you’re examining him, his face, his expression. He doesn’t look outright furious, although every little line and furrow in his face is communicating anger to you in your nervous state. He usually looks so much happier to see you. He’s usually smiling when you’re standing here, at his door. You can’t help but feel like you ruined something, something very good that might be gone forever, because you can’t control yourself.

You hunch in on yourself as you walk into the room. For once, you’re not happy be in here. You stay by the door, backed up against the wall, hands balled into fists at your sides. You have to say something. You can’t wait anymore or you’re going to lose your mind. You need to get this over with, you need to just let him hurt you or yell at you or tell you that he never wants to see you again, or - or whatever he’s going to do.  “S-so, uhm.” your voice sounds small and shaky in the room, but you hope it’s enough to just get this started. In a weak attempt to somehow make it better, you keep speaking. “I. I r-really am s-sorry.”