fuck marry kill

[money]

FUCK, MARRY, KILL

welcome to GAME NIGHT at DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES. the game on the docket? FUCK, MARRY, KILL. the rules are simple: roll the game picker wheel three times or just pick three as you'd like, dropping the names in your header comment — icly we'll say they picked they names out of a hat. people respond, comment around, get into fist fights, kiss a little? thread hop and react as you see fit!
(meme threads can be considered canon!)

Comments

[masticated]

Nah I mean somethin'. [raising his own shot to clink against hers.] Будем здоровы!

[bottoms up!]

I get a full eight hours of sleep every night.

[buio]

(Grimacing — at both the shot and this answer —) Fuck you.

(But also what did she expect.)

D'you wear jammies?

[masticated]

[keep them coming, waiters (or waitresses). maybe just bring them a plate full, thank you. now with a plethora of shots at their table and a shit-eating grin from saber:]

Fuck you, too. Nope, I don't like 'em. Prefer sleepin' in my underwear or naked. [next shot – he's making sure she's taking them – next drop of information:] I hate downers. Not so good, yanno? But I eat anythin' in front of me. You knew that, though, didn't ya?

[buio]

Jesus, (a little gravelly, Ptolemais pinching the next shot between finger and thumb.) Slow down. (buuuut she puts it away anyway, rests the glass briefly on her lip.)

Could have guessed that about you.

—This is shit, by the way, you're not convincing me of fucking anything.

[masticated]

Slow down? [softer, less playful. ptolemais is talking to a guy who's diet has consisted of potato and vodka and potato vodka. he moves around the table so he's shoulder to shoulder with her.] I'm not tryin' to convince you of anythin'. I'm teachin' you how to kill me.

[another shot is placed in front of her. he downs a third, then a forth while she takes a breather.]

You do wanna kill me, [elbow on the table, he tilts his head to look at her, resting his chin in the palm of his hand.] right? Or do you wanna do somethin' else. Somethin' close to killin'.

[buio]

You're teaching me you have a fucking drinking problem. (The tail end of the third shot hits. She scrunches her eyes shut for a wet breath and he's right there when she opens them again, cradling his chin. Eyes boring into her face, goading, always prodding.)

And you aren't listening to me. (She veers close, accidentally strikes a shot glass with her elbow; the spilt alcohol wets her sleeve. Mouth to his ear, words slow and precise (as she can make them),) If I could stick every single butter knife on this table through you, right now, and get away with it, I would.

That's what I want to do.

[masticated]

[a pleased chuckle rumbles through him, low and flirtatious. she's pretty when she's angry, but she has the sullen look of someone who keeps her explosive emotions under a sliver of shyness. yes, he decides right then and there, looking at her through half-lidded eyes and a lazy smile, that he'd fuck her on the table.]

I'm listenin', [her breath is warm on his skin. her threat sends heat straight between his legs. he turns his head, their faces so close their noses brush.] why don't you do it, hm? Stab me.

[in the same tone as fuck me. then he takes her hand gently and places a butter knife in her palm.]

[buio]

(She laughs against his cheek, hating him, tightening her fingers around the handle of the knife. Her legs feel strangely numb. In a way he really is teaching her the way to kill him — the line has to blur, she has to make him want it. Has to make him think she wants it too.

She stays right where she is and drops her gaze to the tender inside of his wrist, his front, all the places he's soft, where a knife will slam home easy.)

I'll do it if you don't make a scene.

(They're in public.)

[masticated]

I won't. Leave my face and dick alone.

[this takes him back. hours spent alone in a sensory deprivation room, only to be thrust into harms way directly after. his handler, waiting with a pair of pliers. there is little ptolemais can do to him that hasn't already been done, and as he's rolling up his sleeve to rest his arm on the wet table (an option, if she chooses) he watches her, unconcerned with the knife or her plans. she wants him to take her seriously— he is. at a price. this is an intimate action, even if she'll never admit it. he's trusting her and she's trusting him. funny thing, when she hates his guts, when it's all she wants to do is watch him suffer, and all he wants to see is the look in her eyes when she follows through.]

Make your mark.

cw stabbing, blood

[buio]

(He's done this before and so has she, only once, not like this. She didn't tease, there was no sharp, bright spot thudding in the base of her skull made by the vodka and the guy she stabbed didn't goad her. She had a hunting knife. They were alone.

Are people looking at them now? Ptolemais doesn't check. She skirts the hem of his shirt up with her fingers and licks the flat of the knife before she punches it into his stomach, down low, near the hem of his trousers. It takes less force that she realised it might. There's a thirsty sort heat in her, a wild satisfaction undercut by the trembling in her other arm, that she can't feel her legs. She's breathing quick and fast, little short bursts.

Her fingers stay curled around the handle, pushed up against his skin.)

[masticated]

[he grunts when the knife plunges into his stomach. being stabbed is like being punched. the air gets stopped in your throat and every single muscle tenses, bracing, waiting for a hint of what comes next. for saber, this only lasts a few seconds, and with one exhale, his big hand curls around her wrist and traps her in place. he's checking her pulse. blood spills from the entry point, pooling and warming his shirt, trickling down toward his hip.

years and years of being under the thumb of someone more dangerous than himself, of pain conditioning and psychological manipulation, the slice of a butter knife is no different than a paper cut. but now she's in, and he's got her. ptolemais breathes like someone who isn't built for killing but does it anyway, amped up with so much adrenaline it freezes them in place, like she skipped to step five before dealing with step one: preparation.]

'Atta girl. [she made a good call. closer to organs than the tendons of his wrist. his free hand reaches to caress her cheek.] Feel better?

[buio]

(It's too hot in here. The air is too thick and Saber's hand on her wrist burns, fingering her pulse, making her sweat in the crooks of her arms, breath held. The blood touches Ptolemais's hand but she doesn't let the knife go. His body hasn't relaxed but it has accepted the blade somewhat and when he touches her cheek, she twists it.

This clammy reaction is familiar, the tightening of her chest and airlessness, a dull roar in her ears that makes it hard to hear what he's saying. She can guess, he isn't that complicated. She nods at whatever and her grip, bloodied, slips.

Dark spots wink in front of her eyes, Saber haloed by black. She leans hard into her elbow on the table, rights herself with a grunt.)

[masticated]

[the color in her face has drained, pulse slowing significantly. she twists and another groan leaves his throat, chest tightening and relaxing as he breathes through it, deep compared to the quick stuttering of air leaving her lips. he's waiting, then it happens, her body capitulating to what her nervous system considers panic.]

Oops. [he cups her face with both hands when she's corrected herself, one wet with blood. smears it on her cheek.] You cut out for this shit?

[he's kept the knife inside of him. better not to pull it out just yet.]

Lookin' like you've seen a ghost. Don't worry, it gets easier. You want it to get easier?