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

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.