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prettyplanchette:
“ — Is that, like, a thing? Am I just supposed to know you can’t trust Swe–Holy shit–” Another bat flies out of her nostril which she quickly covers with both hands–as if that’ll stop them. “ — What the fuck I did not sign up for this.”
“Everyone knows you can’t trust Swedes! Have you been living under a rock?” Gross! Hamlet quickly sidesteps to avoid the bat, arms hugged across his chest to disguise the shudder racing up his spine. “What did you do, Yenn?”
aravensflower:
[ text: hamboy ] thAT WA S A N ACCIDNE T OKA Y [ text: hamboy ] lE T IT G O
[ text: HOWLE’IN FOR YOU ] i’m still picking glass out of my shoulders sam why [ text: HOWLE’IN FOR YOU ] this is no happy little accident this is a very sore bloody and possibly intentional happening
philosophex:
Horatio sighed. Honestly, while there may be a reason behind it, this way of handling it was getting to be rather excessive. It wasn’t helpful. In fact, it was making things worse. But no, Hamlet was stubborn and sulky.
“Yes, you have to. You’ve been at this for days, and you need to actually get up and leave your bed at some point. Now, with all due respect, oh noble prince, get out of bed and put on a pair of pants.”
"You’re shooting my plan to waste away in the neck, you know.” He says this without making any move to entertain Horatio’s demands. He’s got a point -- he does have to leave at some point. The idea is, he will: on a stretcher. When he dies. Call him melodramatic, but it’s the best he’s got.
playingatquestions:
“I don’t know where Guildenstern went. I don’t want you to go too.” He said quietly, but let his breath level out. “You know I worry, Hamlet.”
He wanted to apologize and to quiver, but he bit his lip and stood a bit taller. He wanted to step closer and hug him.
“You did love me once.”
“Guildenstern will return, Rosencrantz. And I will stay put.”
Step one is reassurance. Step two is to pray he buys it. This is truly an ugly process. He can only wonder if this is what it’s like to deal with him on a bad day.
“What makes you think I stopped?”
aravensflower:
“don’t forget— you still have to pay for it, princess.”
“you won’t give me a free pass? or a -- a foreign royalty discount or something?”
tauhreliil:
◀☢▶ “What the fuck do you care, Lindgaard?” she snaps, rounding on him.
Poor guy. He’s right; Nina has indeed been smoking all night. She’s also been pacing back and forth all night, running a million different worst-case scenarios through her head all night, andwaiting all night. Nina’s been on edge all night, and she’s also been just waiting for an excuse.
Congratulations, Hamlet. You’re the lucky winner. Your prize is a Nina seething with rage, so much so that the air around her almost seems to writhe with it. What will you do with your winnings?
“Nothing.”
Except that at least half of those were his, and even though he’s not about to put himself between Nina and her vices, he’d like at least enough to last him the rest of the week. Her agitation bleeds into his mounting anxiety, manifests when he hooks his fingers into his clavicles and pulls.
“Never mind. Forget it. Just -- what’s got you so wound up?”
littledxvil:
“That’s a very bleak way to look at things. Tell me, have you ever painted before?”
“Sorry. And I haven’t. Why -- why do you ask?”
peacable:
She’s never seen her shoulder blades in action, but can imagine how they pop from her frame like broken wing stumps here. Julie twists and turns, arms straining back and up to try and reach the zipper of the gown. The attempts are fruitless; each time she lets go of the shimmery bodice at the front it slips down, bunches at her waist, putting her effectively back at square one. It’s no wonder he calls over the dressing room curtains. She’d wager it’s been over three minutes by now. “Um…” The filler hangs in silence for a second as she picks the bodice back up in a rustle of fabric. With one hand pinning the front to her body to preserve her modesty, she pulls open the curtain and steps shyly out and into view. “I can’t get it to — close?”
Patience is a virtue and Hamlet is very well versed in it; if there were more hours in the day, more days in her visit, he would be glad to wait here for as long as need be for her to finish up in the dressing room. Tragically, though, there aren’t, and with an infinite amount of gowns to try on at her fingertips, they’re burning daylight.
It may have only been three minutes, but every second counts, here.
Hamlet glances at his phone briefly to check the time -- four thirty four in the afternoon -- and once he hears the sound of the curtain’s metal rings sliding across the rod, looks up. “I think it has a few hooks, that one.” He rises. “Just at the top. Turn around for me and I’ll get them for you.”
