#💔 ╭┈◦•◦❥•◦dead air

[paramourist]

// tag drop

[gnohomotho]

Hello! Gonna be veeeery honest because this request is extremely personal and you ABSOLUTELY don't have to do it if it's too weird or something you don't wanna write 🙈🙈🙊

But like...the recruiter meets the femreader because she wants to end it (yeah that way) and plays with her for it instead..but he actually cares about her and doesn't want her to die 💔 Ik it's ooc I know it's stupid but I'd really really really appreciate it

Thank you and I love your writing so much! ❤️❤️❤️

Hello, Anon, of course it's alright. I hope I'm not the one being personal and intruding here - just a bit worried about you - if you want to drop into my messages and talk, that's more than alright, too. ♥

And no, it's not stupid. It's a very understandable thing to want to read when you're not doing well. :c Having a caring presence save you from the literal edge is - again - more than understandable.

Here you go. ♥

And a big computer hug from me.

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Two Lives on the Table ➴ಇ

Pairing: The Salesman // The Recruiter x fem!reader Summary: She wants to leave, he doesn't seem too eager to let her go. No, this lady in her strong but crumbling suit of armour is something for him to play for - yet - he may be playing for more than himself as she finds...that perhaps someone truly, in their own, very sweet and very odd way, cares for her. Warnings: Angst, mentions of suicide, mentions of death, guns, loaded guns, firing guns, threat and consequences of death, 18+ MDNI, heavy personal contact, kissing, touch, teasing, harsh language. Word count: 1.8k A/N: You'd think I'd let you go without fluff? On this blog? Link to epilogue ฅ^._.^ฅ Gorgeous gif by @phantom-evil

"Do you trust me?"

The voice circles your ears and kisses their opening.

"Not really, no."

Your answer is as dry as a bone.

"Good," the voice coos before continuing:

"You don't need trust to play."

You straighten your back to avoid a shiver running down it.

"I find this game unfair."

The voice moves, circling to your other side, gently warming your temple.

"Good."

The shiver sauntered down your spine without issue.

"Has anyone ever told you you're an unhinged lunatic?"

"Many times," you can hear him smile into the words as they coil around his lips like honey, "though you know what they say. Dead men tell no tales."

"Is that why you never shut the f---"

"Ah ah ah. Little lady. That's a bit unbecoming." He hushes you, a single finger resting on your lips. His thumb traces their outline before laying in their center.

Why you agreed to play a game with this near stranger in a secluded place is starting to weigh at you. Almost as much as the blindfold.

He nudges your lips to open and his thumb gently rests on the border. Never quite intruding. But intruding nonetheless.

"Alright. Look. Stranger. Mr. Stranger. I know molesting girls you find on bridges under the guise of a game must be as fun as it is predictable, but I expected something different. Something more fun."

Oh, now you've offended him.

Attacks of character? No issue.

Attack of his games? Now you've done it.

The voice doesn't change, but the air loses every molecule of warmth it had huddled against its bare chest.

"Then allow me to make it more fun than your little wager with Death."

❥❥❥

You swallow on an empty dry throat. Did you really want to die? Or were you just playing? Or were you just...tired?

"You remind me of my favourite film," you voice in a low whisper.

You don't feel his breath anymore. But you do hear a distinct *click*.

"Hmm?" He voices, half amused, half bored.

"A young man who's been through enough meets Death, who is to take him. Fetching fellow, that one. Death. Nice calves. Anyway. The young knight says that before Death can take him, he has to play chess. And win."

"Does he?"

"It's never that easy, is it, Mr. Stranger?"

"Oh, little armoured darling. Do you think yourself a knight?"

"No, I just like Death."

"Then open wide, maybe he'll pay us a visit."

You do as you're told, and your lips feel the outline of a cold circle that tastes like…harsh metal.

“Good girl.”

He pushes the barrel of the gun just a little further as his sentence concludes, lightly turning it in your mouth. Left to right. Left...to right.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of mumbling into it, but your breaths are hurried, and a small whimper escapes your occupied lips.

Did you hear him sigh?

Just as elegantly, he slowly pulls the gun out of your mouth, and you cough.

“Innovative.”

“You know, I think we both know I can see straight through you, Y/N. Your cards are huddled up to your chest, but they’re…” he brushes the cold steel against your chin and runs it up your cheek, softly pushing into it, lenient pity in his voice that you know is false.

“…All turned the wrong way around. The whole table can see.”

His hot breath circles your cheeks, he must be gazing right at you with only millimetres separating his lips from yours.

“The whole table except for you, little lady. Blind to the game and blind to the threat. Blind even to yourself.” He playfully pushes three taps into your cheek with the gun and you feel warmth on your other, from your jaw to your eyebrows, even through the blindfold. It’s almost…kind.

His hand. His hand is on your cheek, as the gun pushes into the other.

“Now, let’s play a game.”

❥❥❥

Two bullets. One gun.

Two bullets. One blank.

Two players. One blind.

Two choices. Both wrong.

“Choose a bullet for me, little lady.” His slick voice rings in your ears.

“Who shoots who?” You try to remain steady, hands firmly clasped into each other, wondering how far he is from you, where you are, and what the table in front of you must look like.

How fast you could flip it on him and run.

“Well, curious little thing you are…I’ll leave it up to you. If you choose to shoot me and the bullet is blank, I get something in return.”

“Jesus, you’re predictable.”

But your voice is shaking. Anticipation? Cold fear? Armour crumpling?

“And you’re unravelling. If you don’t shoot, I get the gun. And I get to pull the trigger.”

“And I get a favour,” you add, your trembles not matching your thoughts.

Though by now the favour would likely be ‘fucking shoot me already’.

“Now who’s being predictable?” He teases, but you hear he must be having some sort of fun from his voice alone. It’s almost jovial, light, if he were anybody else, you would seek warmth in it. But you don’t. A painting of a fire underwater, that’s all he is.

You place your hand on the table, gently laying your fingers across each new inch to feel for the bullets and not disturb them.

He’s entirely silent, perhaps watching your fingers so softly touch even in their shivers, meticulous, elegant, gentle – perhaps he’s thinking you’re taking too long. You don’t care.

Your fingers find the two shapes, as you nudge them and envelop them in touch, you feel there is no discernible difference. Well, there goes the plan.

 Left right left right.

I had a good home but I left, right…left.”

You pick that one and softly flick it towards the sound of his voice. The bullet rolls on the flat surface with a little dull *clink* and lands against what must be his hand.

He loads the bullet wordlessly, the magazine spins and you lift your palms as if expecting something delicate and fragile, you’re weary of holding the gun, even through your tough words.

“So polite, it’s quite lovely to see.” He coos his little lullaby of words that barely reach you, and as he lays the gun just as carefully in your hands, you feel a single finger brush the knuckle of your dominant hand’s trigger finger. Not much.

Just enough to make you falter.

Your breath is stuck in your throat, your lungs aren’t getting enough, and you want to be done. You want to be tired of it all. You want to hesitate and refuse and throw the gun at him. Not shoot. Reset the whole scene. At the same time…

It took you less than a second to connect the two moves.

Aim. Fire.

The sound fills your ears and your heart beats as if it were a sleeping bellringer just now aware it’s the full hour.

The sound woke you up and you tear off your blindfold, nothing but regret and shame on your mind, you couldn’t have shot him, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, no no no, no matter who he is, you don’t murder people he didn’t even hurt you no---

But you tear off your blindfold to a swift blur of both light and dark, so fast you fall back in your chair with a heavy weight pinning you down, sudden crude touch circling your nape and without warning, cool supple flesh connecting to your lips – his own.

Their smooth warmth traverses the entirety of your mouth from outer corners to the very centre, their brisk but no longer concealed hunger enveloping them fully as he pulls you in.

A large hand shoots around your neck, not quite pushing, merely resting on your rapid pulse and holding you in place. One final thrust of his body against you as you feel his tongue enter your mouth and the blur hushes, your eyes closing on their own, reciprocating its motion, holding onto him for dear life.

The anticipation, the fear, the relief – all expressed and all barely breathed between your intertwined lips, your own gasping body, his form over you and his hand tightening around your throat – momentarily leaving to brush through your hair and pull your head back – allowing his tongue ever deeper into you.

Exploring, taking, feasting, you feel both subdued and his – and you feel alive.

❥❥❥

“You…you could have…said the favour was a kiss.”

You barely manage words against your explicitly not steadying chest. The blindfold is back on and you’re glad at least half of your truly flushed cheeks aren’t on display. He seems far calmer from his voice alone, but you know what you felt. Oh, he’s at least half as fucked as you are.

“I am not one to kiss and tell. Choose another bullet.”

It almost sounded like an order.

Alright, perhaps twenty-five percent as fucked as you are.

You once more choose the one on the left.

“Never was one for variety," you try to chuckle, but it comes out dissembled and half cut off. You’re shivering.

He merely hums and loads the gun again. You’d give quite a bit to know what he’s thinking. Your heart is fluttering out of your chest and your breath keeps getting stuck in the same place he grabbed your throat. As if he were grabbing it for dear life.

The magazine spins once more and once more; you take it in your hands with care. You could take it with less consideration, but somehow, the weight of the gun seems…heavier.

You endeavour to do exactly the same as before but…you cannot.

Your finger brushes the trigger, but does not move to push. Your lips open a tad, his taste still upon them – sweet, poisonous, invigorating, life-giving. And here you are. Holding something to take life away.

Just two movements, like before.

Easier than opening an unlocked door.

But you cannot. And your hesitation is more the duly noted.

Wordlessly, he takes the gun back from your hands and you hear the safety click.

Your thoughts stop.

Your heart almost follows suit.

You stop breathing.

The silence envelops you, but you do not move nor fight. Merely open your lips just noticeably, drawing a small shallow breath.

“Thank you for a…pleasant game, Mr. Stranger,” you whisper slowly, softly, holding your hands to yourself with each finger intertwined, “never could play chess to save my life.”

You almost laugh bitterly to yourself. But end with a wistful smile in wait as the thickness of each passing second rings your ears hollow.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

❥

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

❥

One.

Two.

Three.

❥

*click*

❥

Dull.

Reverberating.

Empty.

❥❥❥

He had taken the live bullet out.