#threecardtrick

Shane lets out a long breath as he slumps down onto the bench in the locker room, dragging a hand down his face. He doesn't typically get into fights, but as the end of the season inches closer and closer, his patience gets thinner and thinner. He knows it's burnout, but there's not much he can really do about it. As much as he loves hockey, sometimes he wishes that it was still just a hobby. Now he's sporting a split lip and a bloody nose, and the press awaits him, eager to talk about it. Fucking hell.

The last thing he wants to do right now is a fucking interview, but that's what's expected of him. He practically yanks his jersey off and throws it to the floor, pulling a normal shirt on and grumbling to himself. Everyone else on the team decided to give him his space, which he's thankful for. It's only when he hears another set of footsteps in the silence that he blinks and looks up.

"Greetings, sir." Reaper is quick to address the man once he steps into the room, waving a hand and politely choosing a spot not too near but not too far. "This unit has been sent by Miss Kagan to assist you. Explanation: Mister Cromwell seems fatigued and-or unwell, per Miss Kagan's analysis. Query: is there any preferred way in which this unit could commence aiding procedures?"

“you imagine there to be but one to pluck and place in your finely crafted doublet as insurmountable proof of pedigree, master cromwell? come now, ask correctly and i may choose to humor you.

and above all…aim true.”

from somewhere down the green there comes the bright wooden clack of nine pins. something set between them catches the light…like sun off sweating, silver chalices as they sit in picturesque attendance - attentive as all of second standing were taught to be.

the breeze shushes along the strict maintained copse of trees, tattling barely reckoned realities in half painted secrecies. her veil whips with quiet laughter. lips lifted in unearnest regret, “an appalling shame of some egregious oversight, no doubt.” she exhales, a relaxed bath-like sigh, “but what would you have of me, master secretary? some other alternative?”

"I--" Pen hesitated. Before her engagement to Colin, it seemed as though no one had cared about her happiness. She was a pestilent wallflower, a shadow on the wall that everyone seemed to look past. But now that all her dreams were coming true, her life and all the people in it seemed to shift too. She had a feeling Thomas had cared about her wellbeing before, to a certain extent-- if only as a mere politeness to a measly debutante. But now the question nearly brought tears to her eyes. For the first time in her life she could admit she was happy, and she planned to keep it that way.

"Yes." She finally dared to answer with a smile. "Yes, I believe it would make me very happy, indeed, to have you at the wedding, Mister Cromwell."

MEMES / @threecardtrick

Fuck, why was his phone ringing again? How had it not died yet? He was almost a little mad about Hayden bringing it, especially since he could barely look at it without getting a headache, without his vision blurring. But it was always another player, someone connected to the league, or once Rose, who were checking on him after that hit. It was clean - he was just at a bad angle, and it happened to the best of players at least once in their careers. He was just concussed, and drugged, and tired, but at least the drugs kept the pain at bay for now.