#threecardtrick

"we lost." HE SOUNDS MORE DEFEATED THAN HE'D LIKE. sure , he'd given it his all but it hadn't been enough. fucking rozanov. he leans back in his chair , ignoring the sting of the bruise on his shoulder. glancing towards thomas , he shakes his head.

"i should've done more - if i hadn't fucked up that shot..."

“you’ve lingered too long in your cups, my lord - and lack sense in speaking so.” she sidesteps his advance with flighty ease; a traitorous charm enhanced infinitely with her own imbibement.

“you should be put to bed - ” she titters sharply, a stinging nettle as fine as a sewing needle. her smile curving sickle sweet at high harvest.

— @threecardtrick, prompts.

"Shit."

Being called out is one thing, but being called out by the very person who gave him the stupid stack of documents in the first place is embarrassing. Robert rubs his hand down his face, shaking his head from side to side, and then presses his hand back onto the surface of the table.

"I'm sorry, Cromwell." In his defence, he does mean it. "I swear I'm trying to pay attention, it's just been a... busy week."

There's too much fucking paperwork just to cover SDN's ass, is the real thing he wants to say. Do they really want to help me out, or is this a way to keep me in their debt? What'd I just sign myself up for?

If Pen didn’t have her own source of income, she might not have been so quick to inform @threecardtrick of her mother’s financial tendencies. If it weren’t for her ever-growing Whistledown stash beneath her floorboards, she, too, would be heavily reliant on her husband’s generous spirit, and thus caged by it.

“And you may call me Penelope, if you wish. Or Pen, if it’s easier.” Her eyes remained downcast, feeling wholly inexperienced for such a moment. She’d taken lessons in everything a young lady of the ton might need to secure a marriage: pianoforte, dancing, embroidery, even maths for a short time. But there had never been a lesson for what was to be done after a marriage had been secured. It was, she supposed, different for every union. The ease of the wife’s life would also depend solely on the man’s willingness to compromise and his affinity towards benevolence.

Thomas didn’t seem cruel, but he didn’t seem like an utter romantic, either. Perhaps she might learn to love him in time, but it would be a long and grueling journey, she thought. Or maybe it wouldn’t be too terrible. If she could learn more about him, about the way he worked, the way he lived, Pen might have an easier time finding a rhythm in the new arrangement. But how was she supposed to tell him she wanted to know everything?

“Is there anything you believe a wife should know about her husband?” Finally raising her gaze, Pen’s eyes meet his and she wonders if she’ll always be this way with him, if there will always be a rift of awkwardness between them. If she were to ask her mother for advice, she’d most likely suggest ignoring his presence altogethr as best she could. Getting to know him wouldn’t matter, and, if anything, would only be a chore for the new bride. But Pen wasn’t fond of the idea of sleeping beside a complete stranger, let alone someone she actively avoided. If her own parents' marriage was anything to judge by, living a life avoiding one's spouse proved more tedious than learning about them. And if such an arrangement were to be beneficial to more than just him, she would need to open herself to the possibility of seeing all of him, and, in turn, being seen.

“Or, rather, is there anything a husband should like to know about his wife?”

𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 : 𝔯𝔞𝔭𝔥𝔞𝔢𝔩 prompt from : 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃  &  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄

“Well, well. . . Imagine my surprise.” Raphael leaned back, whiskey eyes flicking to the damning parchment in Thomas’s hand—inked proof, smirking up at them both like a jester with a knife. He grinned. “You come bearing receipts. Adorable. Most mortals clutch their truths like children to a dying breast, so afraid to let go, even when the milk’s gone sour. And yet here you are. . . Cradling contradiction. Yours? Or mine? Mmm, perhaps both.”

They rest, Thomas. Her. Your children. They did not suffer. I made sure of it. Thomas had clung to those words like a drowning man, it appeared.

Now, standing in the heart of the Devil’s Den, the unpleasant truth lay bare, etched into a brittle page in Infernal script. The ledger did not lie. He even took his time to translate infernal to common. . . Admirable, sure.

Raphael rose, a ripple of Hellfire dancing at his fingertips. Not in threat, but in amusement. “I did not lie. They rest, I said.” He chuckled. “Yes. In cages. Beneath molten stone. Not screaming, not awake. Just. . . still. Like dolls, until summoned. Like leverage, perfectly preserved.”

‘ You’re lonely too. ‘

The Darkling barely heard him, those words like a whispered wind. Lonely. He wanted to say it was a preposterous idea, that he could ever be lonely-- and yet he knew, if he said such a thing, it'd be a lie.

He'd always, always been lonely. From the times running as a boy, to hiding in caves or avoiding all others, to climbing the noble ranks and power and playing the courtly game over and over-- He'd never had an equal.

He'd never been anything but other.

@threecardtrick liked for a starter

Coriolanus was moving through the party, sipping a glass of champagne. It seemed to be going quite well. There were plenty of Capitol attendees, all desperate to get closer to the tributes. President Ravinstill had already praised his initiative, the party bringing in plenty of money. It seemed Capitol citizens were willing to pay a very pretty penny to attend.

It was his 7th year as a Game Maker and he too, like a chance to get closer to the tributes. The Arena was finalised but they always liked to have a few surprised and a few tricks up their sleeves. Mutts were all well and good and lately Coriolanus had enjoyed playing with the idea of both fire and ice as a means to bringing the tributes back together or tearing them apart. It was fascinating to speak to the tributes, pluck pieces of information from them that could be useful later to him.

He saw the male tribute from 10 standing in the corner alone. What was his name again? Thomas. He hadn't wasted much thought on him. He was a skinny thing and being from 10, underfed. He hadn't gained much attention in the Capitol and Coriolanus knew he would likely be dead within minutes once the Games begun. Still, he did like to speak to each of the tributes and so he made his way over there, picking up a glass of Posca on the way.