#scribbles by the proprietor

[brawltogethernow]

Waking up and opening my activity page on 4/1/24.

#boop #april fool's #april fools #scribbles by the proprietor

[hazbinstohell]

Late Night Paperwork

Warnings- None, just suggestive; ya been warned!

Inspired by fanart from @chubs-deuce

Charlie was always working. Making sure everyone was happy and taken cared for. She didn’t mind it…as a matter of fact, she lived for it. But if there was one thing in Hell besides the absolute violence, sinful pleasure, and all the in between, you’d bet that paperwork would be anything but in Hell.

Wrong.

It was a part of Hell just as much as turf wars. It was after midnight, and Charlie had forgotten all about a few forms left on her desk. She snuck out of her room exhausted, her robe wrapped around her as she entered her’s and Alastor’s office. She tapped a small lamp and a she grabbed what she needed, sat down, and put her pen on the paper…

Until she felt eyes on her. She looked up to see Alastor at his own desk, his head propped up by his fist, and she pushed against the desk, making her chair screech against the floor, “WHAT IN THE…”

Alastor beams at her, “Why hello dear! What brings you into the office so late?”

Charlie, whose heart feels like it will rip out of her chest, lands back into her chair, her palm on her trembling chest as she tries to take a breath, “Alastor, you could of said you were in here when I came in!”

Alastor shrugs, “I figured you’d of noticed, what with my bright eyes!” He raises his eyebrows and she huffs, “I’m doing paperwork I didn’t get to earlier. It will only take me a few minutes, then I’ll leave.”

Alastor hums, “Don’t let me stop you, darling! I’m sure you’re wanting to go back to sleep soon anyway.”

Charlie sighs and picks up her pen, scribbling her signature on a few pages, before she looks up and sees him leaning over her, pointing at one of the papers, “Ah! You missed that.”

Charlie turns to look at him, and his smile is friendly enough, albeit it’s Alastor. She thanks him, and marks the overlooked part. She feels him leave her, but his presence is daunting, and she tries to focus on her next paper.

For a few moments she is reading when she sees him standing in front of her desk, “Darling, you look exhausted…”

Charlie looks at him as he leans forward, his face inches from hers, she sighs, “Yes, Al. But, these have to get done.”

Alastor moves back slightly, “Yes, but I’m talking about other days. Are you sleeping well? Nightmares?”

Charlie paled a moment, it wasn’t nightmares keeping her up…well, some might find them to be nightmares. Instead, they were more of him…

Doing…things…

She clears her throat as he watches her with interest, “Just having some trouble.”

He seems to leave her then, that is, until she feels his hands on her shoulders, “That just won’t do, my dear! You are the proprietor of this hotel! You need rest more than the lot of us!”

His hands tighten a moment, and she bites her lip to stop a moan from escaping her. He stops however, and pulls her chair back, coming in front of her. All she can do is look up at him and point around to the papers, “Alastor!”

Al “shhs” her by placing his finger on her lip, “If you’re having trouble with sleep, you should have came to me. I could of taken over this excruciating paperwork. And you could be lying in your bed, warm, cozy, and relaxed. Unless…”

Alastor beckons her forward with a finger. She takes a sharp breath and stands, and Alastor’s smile is almost dark, “Are you thinking of something else you’re needing?”

Being this close, she bites her lip, “I don’t need…”

Alastor leans forward, “Sure on that, darling…?” His voice is low and close to her ear, and she almost leans in a moment…

Until Alastor picks up the pen, and hands it to her, “One more signature. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Charlie looks annoyed, and she rips it out his hand, slamming the pen to the paper and signing it swiftly, he takes the pen and slams it down, grabbing her wrist and spinning the two of them, Charlie now trapped between the desk and himself.

Alastor’s smile is just menacing, as he leans her back, Charlie’s hands land on the desk, her hands smudging the papers. He tsks at her, “Oh too bad darling, the papers are destroyed!”

Charlie argues, “They are not!”

Alastor flicks his wrist, and the paper around her bursts, “Alastor!!! Really!? That’s…”

Alastor leans forward, and she leans back more on the desk, “Enough for tonight, my dear. You need help getting to sleep. I believe I know just the thing…”

#charlastor #alastor and charlie #charlie x alastor #Alastor #charlie morningstar #hazbin hotel fanfiction #suggestive

[trekkingaroundasgard]

Midnight Meetings (Clint Barton x Reader)

Summary: In the middle of the night you wait to meet your contact for the upcoming mission. He's not quite what you expected.

Gender: Neutral

Rating: Gen/Teen

Tags: SHIELD!Reader, first meetings, spies, eventual colleagues to lovers

Words: 1.1k

Note: The first part in a mini series. It will be updated... at some point.

@thehawkeyesbingo prompt: "Quick catch that flamingo, it stole my wallet"

The seat in the booth behind you creaked. You glanced to your left, attempting to steal a look at the man – you assumed, from the light smell of aftershave. However, a server stood directly in front of the mirrored surface where you could have caught a glimpse. You expected her to move any moment but she didn’t; apparently, flirting with the line cook was much more important than serving truck drivers cold, drip coffee.

Slowly, you reached into your jacket, fingers curling around the handle of your pistol. The last thing you wanted was to whip out a gun in the middle of the shitty motorway diner but it was better to be safe than sorry. Should things turn sour, the nearest exit was less than five steps away and your secondary escape remained unblocked.

You stiffened as the man moved, lazily stretching his arm across the thin surface that separated your booths. He twisted his head, not quite enough to bring him into your peripheral but close enough to your ear to whisper, “Catch that flamingo.”

The grip on your gun loosened. “It stole my wallet,” you responded quietly. If the situation weren’t so dire, you’d be suppressing an eye-roll about now. Whoever came up with these ridiculous countersigns had issues.

Without another word, he dropped a folded note into your open bag which you then gathered casually along with your coat. Leaving a few notes on the table, you walked out to the car park without looking up from the ground. It was only as you sat in your car, fastening your seatbelt, that you finally caught a look at the man you were to partner with through the diner window.

It was difficult to make out details from this angle, not helped by the reflection of the neon sign on the glass, but you saw enough to know who you’d be looking for later. Short blond hair, broad frame. Otherwise unremarkable. Just what you’d expect from a spy.

You unfolded the paper he’d given and frowned.

A New York pizza menu?

You were used to cryptic clues from both your sources and your superiors but even by those standards this seemed left field. Were you supposed to call the proprietor and ask for mighty meat? Perhaps it was a front for the New York branch of SHIELD, a way for agents in the field to get the information they needed. But what good would that do you half way across the world?

You looked at the leaflet again, this time giving it more than a confused cursory glance, and there you saw it. Scribbled in the bottom corner, a telephone number with a distinctly local calling code. A quick search returned the name and address of a crappy hotel about half an hour away.

It was probably a bit paranoid to assume you were being followed but you checked for a tail nonetheless before heading towards the hotel. The guy on the desk was half asleep when you arrived, a victim of perpetually unlucky scheduling judging by the dark bags under his eyes. He didn’t bother to check your fake ID, instead simply handing over a preprepared room key and pointing vaguely up the stairs.

The overhead lights were too bright for this time of night so you only switched on the bedside lamp. Perched on the edge of the bed, in the relative darkness, you pulled the case folder from your duffle bag and skimmed through the files once more. Halfway down the page, you heard a gentle knock.

You peered through the viewer and saw a blond man. Or, rather, a very intense close up of his nose and an eye. “I caught the flamingo.”

Clearly more tired than you thought, your mind blanked entirely on the correct response. It didn’t matter, though, you rationed, since he had already come to your door. Flicking the lock, you opened the door wide enough for him to step through before locking it again. Gesturing towards the beds, you said, “How does that one go?”

“Huh?”

“The countersign. I caught the flamingo…”

“He’s a slippery bastard.” He flopped onto the bed and dragged a large palm down his face. With a sigh that seemed to come from deep inside his bones, he said, “I don’t know. It’s not a real sign. I’m too tired to think. Just needed you to open the door. What time is it?”

“About two thirty.”

“Right.” The man sat suddenly, like someone had yanked on a puppet string and pulled him upright. “Well. It’s nice to meet you and all but I’ve gotta make some calls and get everything ready for tomorrow. You’ve got the files?”

You nodded towards the brown folder that you’d been reading before he interrupted.

“Great. I’ll brief you in the morning.”

He looked up and suddenly seemed to see you for the first time. Not fast enough to hide the interest that flickered across his gaze, he instead leaned into it. You’d have shrunk under such over attention from any other agent, especially one you’d just met, but there was something about him, something magnetic. The bedside lamp cast a warm light over his face, highlighting both the sharp features and the softness in his smile.

Resting back on his hands, you couldn’t help but mirror his appreciation. The bedside lamp worked doubly hard to emphasise the thickness and strength of his muscles. The midnight chill had set in but he hardly seemed bothered; with no jacket to hide beneath, you were given a full view of the tight pull of his shirt across his chest and the prominent veins along his arms. You doubted if you’d be able to wrap your hand around the muscles, so large were they.

He unashamedly let his gaze drop to your lips, your neck, your chest, before dragging his attention slowly back up to your eyes. “I’m Clint, by the way.”

You gave your name in return and felt your stomach twist when he smiled back. Forcing some semblance of professionalism into the ever shrinking space between you, you stretched out a hand and tried not to shiver at the sparks which danced across your skin when he shook it.

Slowly pulling it back, pretending that his simple touch hadn’t set your nerves on fire, you said, “I look forward to working with you, Clint.”

“Get some rest,” he said softly, finally pushing up off the bed and heading towards the door. “I’m in one-oh-six if you need me.”

There was an invitation there, in the inflection, the up tick of his grin, you were certain. Not tonight, you cautioned yourself. Maybe after the mission was over. Yeah. If he still looked at you the same way after this was done, after he learned what you really were, then you’d accept the invitation. Not a moment sooner, though.

#clint barton x reader #hawkeye x reader #nicola writes #marvel fanfic

[trek-tracks]

"Do you have a phone?"

I looked up from my bowl of pho (which I had ordered to attempt to recover from the error of dressing for yesterday's 24C weather in today's 4C weather) to see a little girl, probably between 4-6, the daughter of the proprietors in the otherwise-empty restaurant.

"Sure," I said. "What do you need?"

"Do you have a translator app? Can you tell me how to say sriracha and hoisin sauce in Vietnamese? I need to say them to my grandma."

"Let's look them up," I said. So we did, as well as I could manage, on Google Translate. In the meantime, she asked me what had happened to the Duolingo owl on my app (it looks like it's on fire, for a year-plus streak). She ran to the back of the restaurant, and I heard an exclamation of recognition and laughter.

As grandma rang up my lunch, the girl handed me my receipt. "Wait," she said, snatching it back."

"Oh, wrong copy?" I asked.

"One second," she said, staring at me and scribbling. Then she handed me this. We wished each other a lovely day, and I left.

It's going on my fridge. The world is a wholesome place, sometimes.

#not trek #my life #the world is a wholesome place sometimes #love letter to humanity #happy story #my face #...sort of #<3

[dont-f-with-moogles]

Someone said smut prompts? Ho ho ho how about 16? ✨️

Smut Scribbles 16. “You taste so good.”

In The Empty Hours (NSFW-ish) Characters: Levi x Hange Modern AU Word Count: 1341 words

Too much of the night had elapsed to call it dusk; too little for it to be proclaimed dawn. Pale patches of sky were blotted by dark blooms of cloud like ink on paper. Below, where the rest of the city slept, drizzle soaked empty pavements. Flickering, neon lights glimmered in shallow puddles. Above where Hange was seated, the flimsy gable whipped under a sudden, rain-flecked gust. A cluster of plastic bottles and take-out containers were tossed into the gutter. Cloaked in a fine mist, the rain cleansed away all the sins of the previous day. Hange mused upon this gravely, the promise of a clean slate, as their hair sank damp and heavy upon their shoulders. Shifting around on their seat, Hange gazed over a low counter surrounded by tacky wall menus and faded images of deep-fried dishes. This establishment was little more than a hatch in the wall rather than an actual restaurant, but for twenty four hours a day it served questionable food and reasonably-priced drinks. For that reason it drew all the lost souls of the city; the ones who never slept but wasted the stretch of empty hours until sunrise. Reaching for their drink, they knocked back one last mouthful of cold beer before setting it back down amongst the glasses which cluttered the wooden bar. There was a hand on their waist. Levi Ackerman was helping them down from the stool, passing a handful of notes to the proprietor for his trouble.

Admittedly, Hange had lost count of the number of drinks he had bought them that night. The alcohol had spread through their veins like warm water, setting their cheeks aglow in the cool air. It had loosened their tongue and left them with a smile upon their lips. Although, admittedly this had less to do with the half a dozen bottles of beer they had consumed and more to do with the company. The pair of them had talked for hours, one playful snipe aimed after another. Conversation was a game to them both; a series of matches to determine who would have the last word. Only what had begun as friendly sparring quickly descended into provocation. Levi’s voice was as dark as smoke, drifting dangerously as he drew close enough to whisper in their ear. Intoxicated, Hange had leaned closer; Levi’s fingertips danced circles on the back of their hand, eyes cast down to their mouth. A foot leaning innocently against his ankle one moment had started to slide invitingly up the inside of his leg the next. 

On the other side of the counter the manager had averted his eyes, rubbing at the same water spots with a dirty dishrag. Subtly, Levi’s fingers had threaded through theirs; his thumb tracing their knuckles, sending electricity shooting along their arm. He was so good-looking, he really needn’t have wasted any money on so much beer. Either way, the two of them were leaving together. There came another small shock as their noses touched. Anticipation sent Hange’s insides fluttering. Levi was so close now that his breath was grazing their mouth. As Hange closed the gap, he pulled away at the last minute. Tantalisingly, he lifted their hand and pressed a kiss to their open palm.

“We’re a little too exposed here, don’t you think?” he had remarked, eyes narrowed. Hange glanced over his shoulder, left and then right, taking in both ends of the empty street as they smiled to themself.

“Then it’s lucky for you that I live nearby.”

Lulled into a haze, Hange’s limbs were too heavy to move with any kind of grace. Instead, they were forced to cling to their new acquaintance as the pair of them traipsed along the narrow sidewalk together. In the distance, the call of sirens wailed and died. Voices rang out from several roads over, only to be answered with peals of echoing laughter. A far-off throb of music shook the earth several buildings away, sending residual tremors beneath their unsteady feet.

They swayed towards the road together, Levi’s arm slung around Hange’s neck. A car rolled into view, forcing Hange to pause in mid-stride with one foot lifted from the curb. Wobbling, they clung onto Levi’s waist.

“Whoa!” Hange laughed airily. Levi’s arm rested against the back of their neck, fingers entwined with theirs. “Don’t let me go, okay?” 

Levi’s hand squeezed theirs in reply.

“Never.”

The two of them wound their way towards Hange’s apartment, Levi’s arm encircling their waist. His fingers grazed over their hip, thumb toying under the hem of their shirt. Hange stepped down a sidealley leaving the scents of fried chicken and the faint waft from the sewers behind them. Here the night air was cooler, carrying with it the tang of sea salt. Tower blocks leaned so close together that only a glow of artificial light filtered down, outlining the expanse of redbrick which stretched to dazzling heights above them. Air conditioning units dripped cold water into shimmering puddles below. Bolted doors loomed within shadowy recesses.

Levi’s shoe scraped against the pavement. Hange drew to a halt, expecting that he had lost his footing. Instead he pulled them into his arms.

Excitement exploded in the pit of Hange’s stomach as they felt the press of his lips against theirs. He broke away slowly, with a gentle pull upon their bottom lip. Parting only for a moment, they leaned in again. Each kiss was deep, sensitive, lingering - laced with hidden meaning. Each time they parted, in that brief second, the fire inside Hange reignited all over again as they yearned for the pressure of his lips. Turning their head, Hange felt his mouth open against theirs, tongue gliding across the back of their teeth. 

With a jolt, Hange’s back slammed into cold metal. Their mouths, their hands ran all over each other; bodies obscured by the shadows which pooled from the recess. Levi’s tongue was cold from the beer. Addicted to his flavour, Hange’s fingers threaded through his hair, keeping his head in place. The sounds of the city faded on the wind, replaced with the rustle of Levi’s jacket; the gasp of quickening breath; the sounds of kissing. 

But Levi had other designs on them. He eased his head away, dropping his lips to Hange’s jawline. Dark, damp hair swept featherlike across their cheek. With a sigh Hange’s head rolled back against the door, leaving the skin of their neck bare. Already a step ahead of them, Levi’s body covered theirs. Hot, open-mouthed kisses were pressed to Hange’s throat. A half-stifled moan only seemed to spur him on. His lips lingered on their neck, branding their skin until it was reddened and raw. 

Hands reached underneath Hange’s shirt; Levi held them to him, fingertips stroking their back. Gently, he teased with the subtle grinding of his hips as he kissed the soft spot of skin beneath Hange’s ear. A delicious thrill ran through them, electrifying their very core. Hange’s leg slid up, knee crooked into his waist. He was hard against them, each movement sending whips of white-hot pleasure lashing through them. If this is how he could make them feel fully clothed… Hange couldn’t begin to imagine how well this man could fuck. Their apartment was so close, barely a two minute walk from the alleyway, but it seemed unlikely that either of them was going to make it there. Desperate for real friction, for the sensation of his warm skin against theirs, Hange’s hands moved down to his belt.

Levi pulled back long enough for Hange to draw in a ragged breath. A hand slid out from the material of their shirt to encircle their wrist. 

“I find that the best meals are the ones where you savour every bite...” His eyes shone, their depths dark like the ocean floor. “...so if this is just for one night, then let’s make it last.” His mouth was tracing their jaw again.

“Besides, you taste so good…” Levi’s breath curled against their lips. “... I have to try every part of you.” ... Okay, okay so the reason this one is so long is that I shamelessly lifted it from a x reader oneshot I've been working on! Sorry but I've been pushed for time this week. Hope you enjoyed it anyway, Nube! ❤️

Go on, send me not so SFW Ask. You know you want tooo~ 👉 Smut Scribbles

#If I've accidentally left 'you' #Or 'Yokohama' in here #Let me know? #tw: alcohol #hange zoe #levi ackerman #levi x hange #levihan #Levihan smut #Sort of #Levihan drabble #attack on titan #aot #snk #n.sfw-ish #smut scribbles #my writing

[nebylitsa]

The Offstage Adventures of Prince Hamlet

Hamlet’s birthday

On his birthday, Hamlet writes to Horatio, “I’m getting older and I have nothing to do. Nothing to show for it.” As if he hasn’t just been heroically dragged offstage. As if he hasn’t played his role perfectly. Horatio only sighs and writes a few lines of consolation – his only job, it seems, these days. Ophelia, still abroad after her surreptitious exit, would know how to deal with the prince’s moods more effectively, but she refuses to send even so much as a picture postcard with a cathedral or a monument on it. She needed some time to be a hermit, she’d said before she left.

•

Hamlet and his friends

Soon after their first acquaintance at Wittenberg, Hamlet writes Horatio an instruction manual containing all the rules necessary for a good friendship. The rules apply to them both, he says. Don’t gossip about each other. Do treat vows of undying love with the seriousness they deserve. Don’t turn a blind eye to self-destructive habits, like drinking or reading romantic novels. Do remember the phrase “contra mundum.” Don’t wear a mask. Don’t break your friend’s heart. Don’t flinch when your friend breaks yours. Horatio reads the entire thing, scribbles wry comments in the margins, learns the precepts by heart. To Ophelia, Hamlet sends a book about mysticism – its seven chapters have titles like “Vengeful Ghosts,” “Tricks of the Light,” and “Secret Societies.” He tells her not to read it in order, but to open it at random and see what meanings reveal themselves to her. She follows his advice and comes across a passage on plant symbolism. How curious, she thinks, that so many different flowers signify loyalty. That night, the three of them all have the same dream: they’re in a garden, kissing each other.

•

Hamlet in Italy

This is what the three of them do when they travel to Italy. Ophelia tears up a garden, thieving every single violet and lilac, deaf to the hotelier’s protestations. Horatio, his nose in a book, falls into a canal. Hamlet casts his nighted color off and buys an embroidered suit. Ophelia makes Hamlet a nosegay from her stolen flowers. Horatio considers running off with the proprietor of an antique shop. Hamlet puts the flowers in his pocket, their petals peeking out over the fabric like eyes. Ophelia insults a priest during high mass thanks to a shoddy phrasebook. Horatio is found fondling a bust of Marcus Aurelius. Hamlet throws the flowers into a canal. Ophelia kisses Horatio on the mouth and wonders what it would be like if he were a woman. Horatio forgets all about the ancient ruins he saw that day. Hamlet sits for a portrait in his new suit, his hand positioned on a table as if ready for a bloodletting. Hamlet gets marvellously drunk and tells a ghost story. Hamlet finds out Laertes is staying in the same hotel. Hamlet challenges Laertes to a duel during breakfast, which consists of lemon biscotti and black tea. Hamlet hears the duel’s been called off. Hamlet and Laertes laugh about it and get drunk together. Hamlet loses his luggage at the train station. Ophelia breaks a window. Horatio burns his travel diary. Hamlet receives a letter edged in black.

•

Hamlet and family

When Hamlet meets Horatio’s family, he’s struck by how very ordinary love is. A cup of tea is offered with extra sugar for no reason other than that sugar is sweet. There are flowers on the windowsill and it doesn’t seem to matter that soon they will wilt. Nobody in this family feels the need to dig up secrets: and so there are no secrets. The caged parrot in the parlor sings words of reassurance. Horatio’s mother opens the golden latch; the bird flies out and away into the garden. It always comes back. Hamlet is amazed. Like a traveler in a faraway land, he finds himself getting used to the strange customs and manners here – small smiles, evenings together by the fireplace, little notes passed back and forth, no dissembling. He wants to stay here forever. He can’t.

•

Hamlet’s new hobby

He needs something to while away the long nights at Elsinore, so Hamlet takes up building miniature castles. Each one is an exercise in fancy: each window no bigger than an eye, each ballroom small enough to fit in the palm of a hand. He paints the castles with a tiny brush, hands never shaking though he’s hardly slept. He wonders if this is what it feels like to be a god. Did the demiurge entrusted with the creation of all the fragile things in the world also stay up late like this, minutely toiling away through the night? How did it decide which paint to use? Did it, too, grieve that it could never see its handiwork from the perspective of a toy soldier?

•

Hamlet and his elders

The king and the queen are so alike, they might as well be the same person. This is a change that Hamlet had not foreseen, but perhaps it’s a natural consequence of marriage. His mother now takes her coffee black like his uncle does; his uncle’s acquired his mother’s habit of descending staircases with extraordinary slowness like an aging tragedienne. Gertrude now has a permanent predatory twinkle in her eye, inspects the regiments every morning, wears epaulettes and gleaming black boots, sleeps with every officer in the kingdom. Claudius now drinks less, makes plans to open a school for intelligent bourgeois girls who are down on their luck, uses words like “motherland” in his speeches to the senate, kisses Hamlet on the cheek. No, they’re not the same person – rather, they’ve exchanged natures. How far will this misrule go? Hamlet worries that soon he won’t be able to tell the difference between himself and Laertes, of all people.

•

Hamlet visits the capital

The manager of the theater flat out refuses to put on any revenge tragedies while the prince is in the capital. He says the idea of such a performance would be a bigger spectacle than the show itself – good for ticket sales, maybe, but not for politics. Bookshops, too, replace all their Gothic novels with pamphlets on Stoic philosophy. Public monuments are covered up with tarp. Even the fountains in the parks are drained, now nothing but heaps of dry marble. People are advised to stay indoors. It’s as if another great plague is coming to the city. In spite of this, crowds of children, actors, fishwives, and gravediggers fill the streets to get a glimpse of Hamlet. He takes hand after hand, answers each breathless greeting with a smile. This is how his uncle must feel when he goes on a royal progress through the country. Horatio stays close to Hamlet, glasses askew. Ophelia, draped in green silk, dances in a circle with a gaggle of prostitutes – silly girls who can’t possibly be older than she is. Because all the church bells have been dismantled in anticipation of Hamlet’s visit, nobody knows what time it is until the night watchmen show up.

•

Hamlet goes to war

Ophelia laughs at him for going. She guesses it’s all part of some scheme of his to be more like Fortinbras, but she simply can’t imagine Hamlet marching to the beat of a drum, a rifle on his shoulder, unflinching as he trudges through snow. War won’t chase the bad dreams away, she says. He knows this. He goes anyway. It’s only when she sees him putting on his uniform that Ophelia realizes he’s serious – she chases him all the way to the barracks, silk shawl unfurling like a flag, still laughing through her tears but begging him to stay. Horatio worries himself sick. He pores over maps and Roman military manuals, listens for gunshots, writes Hamlet three letters a day. When he returns, Hamlet puts all his toy soldiers in a box.

•

Hamlet’s coronation

At what point does Prince Hamlet become Julius Caesar? How many times should he refuse the crown? Should he take a different regnal name, so as to avoid being compared to his father in odes and elegies alike? Horatio will come with him, of course, but will Ophelia be there? Can he bring a sword into the cathedral, or will he have to leave it by the door? How long until his subjects give him a subversive nickname? How long until his subjects see who he really is? How long until his subjects decide they don’t like him? Is chivalry still relevant? If at some point he finds he’s turned into Julius Caesar, which of his friends will play Brutus?

•

The death of Hamlet

Many years have passed since the death of Hamlet. He doesn’t remember his last lines – only that he was betrayed. Only that he never got to grow old, that he was never crowned, that for a few wild moments he held a sword in each hand, that one of the swords was envenomed. He doesn’t remember if he became a ghost afterwards. He doubts it; he isn’t the haunting type. The miniature castles gather dust in his study. The embroidered suit, immaculate except for a bloodstain near the heart, lies folded in a chest. All the letters he ever received are locked in a drawer somewhere. He can’t bring himself to throw all these useless things away.

#mp #shakespeare #hamlet #writeblr #writers on tumblr #i wrote this back in college and am still really proud of it

[ambiguouspuzuma]

Constructive feedback

I'm a compulsive feed-backer. At least, I think that's the right word. It feels like the verb might be in the wrong place - one who backs feeds, perhaps, like a supporter of TV channels - but I'm not sure of the alternative. Back-feeder? Or does that make me sound like one of those oxpeckers - you know, the birds that ride around on kudu or wildebeest - or something else entirely? You can let me know, if you like. I certainly would.

I mean that I give feedback. Any chance I get, really - and you'd be surprised how many there are. The pop-up that you'd usually swipe away; the installation screens you scramble through. Am I willing to spare two minutes for a quick survey? You bet. Rate us in the app store? Don't mind if I do.

Sometimes they don't even ask for it. There's just a company email address on the leaflet, a pause in the spiel, and suddenly I'm giving more feedback than a microphone within an inch of its own speaker. I write letters to global corporations; I phone back their call centres; I scribble on marketing flyers and return them to sender. A compulsion, as I said. It's a problem, except that I'm not sure that it is.

I like to feel that, in my own small way, I'm improving the world. Most people don't have the patience for all of that work, and so it's down to the likes of me, the back-feeders, to spot the errors; to suggest the improvements; to do the silent work that makes everything we use a little bit better. I identify bugs, and I swat them away before they have the chance to land on your salad. You're welcome.

By and large, I find myself ignored, and that's okay. I'll occasionally feed that back in turn, for important stuff - when the council take too long to acknowledge my letters about potholes, for instance - but otherwise I'm happy to work in the shadows, offering up my free advice without the hope of recognition or reward.

They don't all have to heed my words. I know that I can be pernickety, a pedant, a perfectionist. Not all of my suggested improvements can be prioritised, and I appreciate that resources might be better spent elsewhere. I just give them the information, and leave the best course of action for them to decide.

That is, I used to. Until the start of this month, when I left a restaurant a two star review, and walked past later to find it had closed down. I felt guilty, wondering if I was responsible, although I hadn't thought my words too harsh; perhaps the proprietor had thinner skin than that which lay across the surface of his soup, I thought.

But then I called the local pet store's attention to the uneven drawing of its parking bays, and they vanished too: not even the shop, just the car park. I tried it with a park I visited, which needed more benches in the shade, and suddenly there weren't any benches, or even any shade. It felt like a petulant response, co-ordinated across the various powers that be, sick and tired of my complaining. It was like I was provoking them, or they were trying to provoke me.

I tried to cut back, of course, but you can't just quit the habit of a lifetime. I decided to redirect my energies elsewhere, starting a blog to vent my thoughts about life more generally, rather than risk upsetting any more people: I moaned about the way it always seemed to rain on the weekend, or how quickly my knees and back had gone with age, and suggested flaws in natural systems, like the strange way that animals and plants with warning colours now looked more attractive to humans, particularly young children.

One day I received a parcel in the post. I hadn't been expecting anything, and my immediate thought was that the postal service had delivered to the wrong address, despite my previous corrections, but it was my name on the label. Inside the box, I found another note addressed to me, atop a set of neatly folded golden robes.

"Go on, then," it read, in a language I shouldn't have been able to read, and therefore couldn't check for typos. "Let's see you do any better."

#writing #short story #writeblr #creative writing #original fiction

[sarahreesbrennan]

Hi! is it true we can still order a signed copy of iol from book moon books? I know it's been advertised that way on your website for awhile so I was wondering if that's still accurate.

Yes, I believe so!

If the fine proprietors of Book Moon Books need more signatures I promise to send them right away.

Thank you for asking, I always feel very fancy when asked for my signature. (Yes I will scribble in your books!)

#book moon books #in other lands #gavin grant #small beer press

[aemonds-fire]

Coming Soon

Up next will be my contribution to Spooky Season!

The Sapphire Spell Ghost Aemond x Fem Reader

Can a spell cast by Alys long ago bring Aemond Targaryen back to life centuries later in Westeros? When the remains of the Kinslayer are found and put on display in a Cabinet of Curiosities, the ghost of Aemond discovers the proprietor’s beautiful daughter is the only person who can see or hear him.

Fic will be posted on my side blog @fire-scribbles

#aemond targaryen fanfiction

[ajs-art]

some scribbles of my stardew farmer, Jigsaw, proprietor of Saw Farm and the normallest girl in the entire world.

#farmer jigsaw #stardew valley #her relationship with every single resident is pelican town is that of a father with the dog he did not want. except still very begrudging #except Marnie who she is in love with. the mayors shorts quest was devastating

[brawltogethernow]

The joke is that only Agatha gets grawlixes when she swears instead of using cute fantasy cusses. Girl what are you saying under there where did you learn that.

#getwellsoonkaja #girl genius #scribbles by the proprietor #this time i remembered..............her glasses

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

the last princess (11)

“You look like you’re about to go off to war.  Have I missed something?”  Dickon watched as Riven facepalmed, muttering what sounded like obscenities under her breath.

“I’m breaking in this armor.   I’m not going off to war on anyone or anything.”  Which was technically the truth.  As far as the general world knew, she and her closest allies were in Thravnair, helping with the rebuilding effort.  The perfect cover for a group of seemingly-now-out-of-work adventurers.  Only the Forum and the upper levels of Raz-at-Han’s government knew the truth, and it had been agreed that it should stay that way.  Word had come two weeks ago that construction on the artificial Atomos was nearly completed, which meant for Riven and the others, it was time to prepare.

Which also meant new armor for everyone.  Riven’s own set was the last to arrive, and when she’d been in the process of strapping it on, Reinhardt had shown up.  He’d then proceeded to yell for Sebastian and the others--

RIVEN ACTUALLY HAS BLOODY PROPER ARMOR!!!

And it all had just gone downhill from there.  Adding into the chaos, the dragoon had screwed up on the supplies they’d ordered for their quarters at Vrtra’s place.  Somehow Reinhardt had selected a bottle of hair-growth potion instead of conditioner, and he, Augustine, and Mathye had used it.  Desperate for a little peace, quiet, and to keep from murdering her bone-headed brothers, Riven had fled for Sharlayan.  She could finish some of the shopping there and also work some of the stiffness out of the mail plating.  Exhaling, Riven put her hands on her hips and looked up at the highlander.

“I’m honestly tempted to stay the night here, because if I go back, I may commit murder.”  She said.  “Four grown arse men and sometimes they don’t have a single brain cell between them!”  Dickon burst out laughing at the comment.

“Here, how about I get you something to cool off a bit.”  He offered, chuckling.  “We’re experimenting with some Midsummer Fire Festival offerings, though I can’t seem to keep the little paper umbrellas we use for them in stock.  I just might charging extra for anyone who requests extra.”  Riven huffed, nodding. 

“Sure.”  Maybe by the time she finished the frozen drink, she’d be less inclined to scream.  She watched as Dickon scribbled an order down on a tablet, handing it to a nearby waiter who passed.

“Does it get quite busy towards summer’s end or?”  She asked.

“For a while.”  Dickon replied.  “Generally there’s about a fortnight’s break around this time, then it’s an onslaught of new scholars about to attend school for the first time.  We get super busy then.”  The waiter came back over with a cream and pastel-colored drink, and Dickon took it.

“Here we go.  One Colada sun...”  The proprietor of the Last Stand froze, drink forgotten in hand.  Riven blinked.

“Dickon?”  She asked.  The Highlander didn’t respond.  Couldn’t respond, not with his senses reeling.  Standing next to Riven was another woman--her form semi-solid.  Her eyes were slightly narrowed, and she was staring intently at Dickon. 

“I...”  Dickon shook his head and blinked.  The woman was gone, and it was only Riven standing there.

“Dickon?”

“Sorry, sorry.”  Dickon said, handing over the iced confection. “Just..had a odd moment there.  You reminded me of a girl I once knew at school.”  Riven frowned.  It was a weird change of subject, but probably best not to press the matter.

“My thanks.”  She said, accepting the drink.  Dickon watched as she turned and walked away, shaking his head once more.  He was a scholar like everyone else on the island, he believed in solid, empirical evidence. 

Been up too late the past couple nights, Dickon.  Seeing things like that means you need sleep.  And yet...he hadn’t been lying.  The woman had been Emma Laulter, and he’d attended the same classes with her at the Studium. Hells, he’d even paid his respects at her funeral.

And seeing her stand next to Riven...he’d immediately noticed the similarities between them.

Bah.  Dickon shook his head again.  That’s it.  I’m heading out early tonight.

-------------

the last princess: previously

#ffxiv #ffxiv dnc #ffxiv dancer #wol riven #riven fortemps #the forbidden tools #oh look it decided to go a little bit horror story vibe #now the question is #was dickon honestly seeing things or did emma show up to MAKE A FUCKING POINT

[blandbradshaw62]

Casino Will get A Redesign

In January 2018, the United States Treasury Division sanctioned Kings Romans, its proprietor, Zhao Wei, and the "Zhao Wei Transnational Crime Group," alleging the casino was used to launder cash and site visitors drugs, amongst other serious crimes. Leach, Robin (January 19, 2011). "Strip Scribbles: Andre Agassi to be inducted into Tennis Hall of Fame". After Hunter's reference to Le Roux became publicly known in December 2014, his defence lawyer argued in January 2015 that Hunter acted out of worry of Le Roux. Out of 35 questions, what number of will you wager you'll get right? For his or her Pace Bump, Karen & Bert had to use pitchforks to wash out manure-coated hay from a horse stall in the stable and then lay down fresh hay before they could proceed racing.

Lao authorities have additionally carried out some enforcement action following the reports. The zone has an space about 3,000 hectares and was created in 2007 by the Lao government together with the Chinese language-owned Hong Kong-registered firm Kings Romans Group with the hope of producing financial growth. The street is a part of Lao Route three which continues from Houay Xay to Luang Namtha and thereafter via Route 13 to the China-Laos border crossing at Boten, an extra whole distance of 230 km. It's the biggest casino in the country and accounts for about half of the overall gambling income annually.

This marked Broner's profession low for whole punches landed at 50, his previous low was ninety in opposition to Jessie Vargas. The Golden Triangle Particular Financial Zone is linked by street to Houay Xay which lies about fifty five km to the east. The Thai village of Ban Sop Ruak close to Chiang Saen town, Chiang Rai Province lies straight across the Mekong River from the zone. Regardless of this, consignments of drugs and precursors still transit near the Golden Triangle Particular Economic Zone. At livehousecasino.com there are increasing reviews of precursor chemicals from throughout the area going by means of Laos, destined for autonomous particular areas and recognized drug-producing areas in neighbouring Myanmar.

#livehousecasino.com

[battleyusuf75]

Casino Gets A Redesign

In January 2018, the United States Treasury Department sanctioned Kings Romans, its proprietor, Zhao Wei, and the "Zhao Wei Transnational Crime Group," alleging the casino was used to launder cash and traffic medicine, amongst other critical crimes. Leach, Robin (January 19, 2011). "Strip Scribbles: Andre Agassi to be inducted into Tennis Hall of Fame". After Hunter's connection with Le Roux turned publicly recognized in December 2014, his defence lawyer argued in January 2015 that Hunter acted out of concern of Le Roux. Out of dospinslot.com , how many will you wager you will get proper? For their Velocity Bump, Karen & Bert had to use pitchforks to scrub out manure-lined hay from a horse stall within the stable after which lay down fresh hay before they might proceed racing.

Lao authorities have additionally carried out some enforcement motion following the experiences. The zone has an area about 3,000 hectares and was created in 2007 by the Lao authorities together with the Chinese-owned Hong Kong-registered firm Kings Romans Group with the hope of generating financial growth. The highway is part of Lao Route 3 which continues from Houay Xay to Luang Namtha and thereafter through Route 13 to the China-Laos border crossing at Boten, an extra total distance of 230 km. It is the largest casino within the nation and accounts for about half of the entire playing revenue annually.

This marked Broner's career low for whole punches landed at 50, his previous low was 90 towards Jessie Vargas. The Golden Triangle Particular Economic Zone is linked by highway to Houay Xay which lies about fifty five km to the east. The Thai village of Ban Sop Ruak close to Chiang Saen town, Chiang Rai Province lies instantly across the Mekong River from the zone. Regardless of this, consignments of drugs and precursors still transit near the Golden Triangle Special Economic Zone. At the identical time there are growing reports of precursor chemicals from throughout the region going by Laos, destined for autonomous particular regions and recognized drug-producing areas in neighbouring Myanmar.

#dospinslot.com

[whatsinyourstory]

Motivations to adore Used Books

Used books are heavenly, they're ancient rarities of social history, bits of workmanship and cherished scholarly belongings all simultaneously.

Here is a couple of things to appreciate:

1. Dry, rumpled spines and very much dealt with, hence all around cherished youngsters' books. Beautiful to consider how frequently the book has been perused. Was it part of an assortment? Was it the main book the past proprietor or proprietors had?

2. This book has a place with...

I love seeing a name, written in youngster's composing particularly, scribbled in a book. It provides the book with a feeling of 'having a place' and appears to be intentional, and confirms the youngsters' book some way or another. A name assists with envisioning the kid, the past proprietor. We have practically the whole 'Thomas the Tank Motor' book assortment, with the name 'GUTUM' ( in some cases a blend of capitals and lower case) scribbled on each cover inset. I love that this was GUTUM's assortment, and we've figured out how to hold the books together, joined by their past proprietor.

3. Cover insets, old ones particularly, a prelude to the story inside, laying the right foundation in an unconventional fantastic manner. I like it when they're stain filled and written on, as I feel I'm taking a gander at an image that was once gazed at, examined and modified by tired youngster eyes and grimy little fingers.

4. Irregular kid drawn numbers: you find this a ton in recycled LadyBird Books I find, simply the sheer rationale of this mystery message from a kid's brains eye, and how this then, at that point, bewilders me, the grown-up peruser, such an extremely long time later. What did they mean by this. What's the code? What was the youngster attempting to say...if anything! It's a perplexing secret, that is probably going to be rarely settled.

5. Furthermore, along these lines, the very much ready, good natured youngster write. I think this is my #1 of the relative multitude of motivations to see the value in used books. I particularly love furious dark felt tip jot like those above as it's actual last, extremely long-lasting and positive. I can likewise envision the kid who crawled off and 'altered' this book thinking 'I'll get you terrifying canine, take that!' I think these changes are so aesthically satisfying, so significant, and profound. They're bits of genuine craftsmanship. Maybe I ought to set up a craftsmanship presentation showing all of my used book pulls, showing the furious verve of the kids and felt tips of this 'age' 😀

6. Old books! You can get a few actually quite old, wonderful books in cause shops, for instance. I like taking a gander at the various strategies for restricting, and the various inks, and

avocations and print type textual styles. The book above is from 1947-quick post war England! How old is the first proprietor today? What was their life like contrasted with now, and when did

they part with this book? As far as friendly history, a need to wear recorded gloves, these are valuable and interesting things. It's a priveledge to run over these old tired books. I like to give them a relaxing retirement, some place where they'll be protected and cherished once more.

7. Lastly, stories that have left design. A portion of these truly odd stories, with the creepiest of outlines, genuinely interest and captivating the present youngsters. We have an exceptionally odd first release, perhaps independently published book from the 1980s about a witch and her shadow. The kids love it, in spite of thinking that it is new and frightful. That sensation of dread, is in someways, part of the allure and draw. We read this book, The Kindling Box, this evening. The components of the story are all extremely dim, and there doesn't appear to be an ethical string, with the exception of the reality the warrior gets what he needs from killing a witch, taking care of a show kid, and wedding a princess. It's very reviving then, at that point, to peruse something quite a lot more like reality, than how the glossed over current youngsters' fiction, would have us accept.

Buy Secondhand Books From Best Used Books Store Online Now!

[staunton-duchamp]

No, But Really

Before I open the floodgates and drown us all in my directionless musings about Chess, Congruence, and The Sublime, I'm going to see if I can't establish for us a mild statement of intent.

I, J. Snippet, as sole proprietor of this delineated corner of infinity, endeavor to distill, realize, and stabilize ideas to the best of my limited ability, with aspirations to compile, condense, and compress said ideas such that instances become Moments, and they in turn become Places, to which one can return at any time, for any purpose. And I will also try to become brave.

In this pursuit I will be posting all manner of drawings, music, scribbling, and the odd game of Chess here and there, but most importantly, reflections on why every single lovely thing in this universe is not just congruent-

that maybe it's all exactly the same.