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

[scathe]

[the stranger's confusion is met with his own. thoughts glitch, overlapping one over the other, like he doesn't know what to do with that statement. he gets stuck there. no one calls elias anastos beautiful, even his mother, who loved him as much as a mother loves a child, never uttered those words.]

Fuck off with that. [but there's no malice, only dismissive annoyance.] Are you asking me to hit you?

[snaggleteeth]

[sad, to have one's best hand at sincerity tossed away. the stranger smiles instead. better to have capacity to self-direct schadenfreude, if you're going to run around in his boots. (he knows what schadenfreude is, now. looked it up.)]

Yeah.

[scathe]

[elias recalibrates. a computer running into overdrive. the stranger is giving him an opportunity to swing into flesh when all he's done is collide fists with sandbags and redirect hits from amy, the same as swatting a fly out of his face. the rage and confusion pent up from weeks in saltburnt, days locked in a house with four that knew his face and only two of them he knew, and the conclusion being: you are trapped and will continue to be trapped.

he swallows. he will never turn down an opportunity that serves him, even if the source is asking for it.]

Pick a number one through ten.

[snaggleteeth]

[if this is not normal game night conduct, it should be. the stranger understands these rules much better than whatever was going on inside the restaurant. granted, he doesn't actually understand what's going on here at all.]

Eight.

[that wouldn't stop him from playing. he stares at the gap between elias' understanding and the seeing eye in his head, the void where elias' happiness should be, and the scruff and structure of elias' unacknowledged beauty. and he waits. easiest thing he's ever had to do.]

[scathe]

Eight.

[he exhales. an unlocking begins. two steps on the balls of his feet and jumps. a collision happens made up of ferocity without malice, a simple, sharp one-hit wonder, white-hot in elias' fist straight to the stranger's face. honesty lies in the contact, animal energy he's trapped inside ticked up to eight, the number the stranger gives him and the number he assigns the amount of force given, the amount reduced to five knuckles and gravity.]