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]

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?

[buio]

(She goes to pull out of his hands but the sudden movement makes the room go cold and dark and narrow — she has to stop, sink the weight of her head into his bloody palm.

Muttered,) I'm fine. (She wrings out her hand, wipes his blood off on her jeans. Hard not to be hyper aware of the knife handle protruding from him, the blood showing through his shirt and how he barely cares about any of it. Probably doesn't even hurt.

Fuck.)

I don't need your help.

[masticated]

You can lie to yourself but you can't lie to me. I got a thing for spottin' those. It's all over your face.

[the blood, the shivering of nerves running through her veins so erratically he can see it in the pins of her pupils. the weight of her head in his hands is satisfying. he holds her just so until the color begins to return, then he taps her cheek and drops his hands away, grabbing one of the shot glasses.]

There ya go. [leaning back, he lifts his shirt and stuffs the hem between his teeth, removes the knife and pours vodka over the wound. words muffled by the shirt, he takes a napkin and dabs at his skin to clean himself off.] You sure? You might need it when shit hits the fan. I mentored a few kids back home, yanno.

[buio]

(She moves, blinks hard, copying his movement without thinking to tip a fourth shot into her mouth. It doesn't help but it doesn't hurt either — the taste animates her, scrunches her mouth up. She takes a breath that isn't shallow.)

I'm sure. (This was a mistake. What the fuck was she thinking? The blood is already going through the napkin. Slowly, she stands up.)

If I leave are you gonna follow me?

[masticated]

[he watches her with a predatory gaze, cleaning his wound with practiced hands.]

Why would I need to follow you? I know where you sleep.

[he grins and bites his lower lip, cocky.]

[buio]

Great. See you there.

(That's sarcasm. And she needs to get away from him, this, all the noise, she has to be somewhere quiet so she can think and remember everything and hate herself for doing this.

She pushes up from the table slow and doesn't look at anyone as she leaves.)