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]

[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.]