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zaebeecee · 7 months ago

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To Sever a Loveless Bond

••RadioDust Soulmate AU••

Part 8/?

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Chapter 8 art by @fletchingbrilliant

•••

I’m sorry this took forever, y’all, my autoimmune bullshit has been kicking my ass the last few days. But it’s long (lol)

CW for discussion of racism, homophobia, and medical abuse/trauma. Mild CW for the beginnings of the promised developing smut. It isn’t graphic (yet). Alastor’s POV is wordy and meandering.

My beautiful and perfect husband designed and did art of Angel Dust’s ritual outfit, and it’s right here and you should go give him love.

•••

Angel Dust arrived at Alastor’s room at precisely eight, just as instructed. Despite the fact that Alastor himself was the one who set the time, and the fact that he was aware Angel Dust had noticed his fondness for punctuality, he was still caught off guard when he heard the gentle knock on his door.

It wasn’t normal, how often the spider was able to surprise him by doing nothing more than being himself. Alastor chalked up his own altered state to the conversation with Rosie earlier that afternoon, because if his fellow overlord had only one talent, it would be pushing him off balance with very little trouble. It wasn’t really Angel Dust having some sort of profound effect on him. It was just Rosie, and the cursed mark on his arm.

Alastor knew that he could have just bade the door open on its own with his magic, or sent his shadow to do it, but he found himself crossing the room to welcome in his guest. Angel Dust stood on the other side of the wood, one set of hands clasped in front of his torso and the other set behind his back, looking… was he on edge? Nervous, perhaps? How odd.

It was common knowledge among the hotel’s residents that Angel Dust possessed the best fashion sense among them, but Alastor always found himself struck when he saw the other sinner in something he had never seen him wear before. The sheer aesthetic mastery he achieved with so little effort was frankly offensive. Tonight, it was a dress that was likely intended for galas or other evening events, elegant in its simplicity; it was a white dress—conforming perfectly to every curve on his body—with a square neckline that revealed the entire length of his clavacles and dipped low enough to expose his chest fluff, long sleeves that extended to the middle of his hands, and one slit that went all the way up to his hip. His makeup was understated, and the necklace was a simple teardrop diamond on a short, fine chain. So feminine, and yet, it would be impossible to mistake him for a woman.

Angel Dust simply looked…

“Come right in, my dear,” Alastor said, taking a step back and motioning for Angel Dust to enter, promptly silencing that line of thinking. He shut the door, locked it, and then (for good measure) cast a quick seal to double up on the usual sound proofing he kept on his personal sanctuary, should Charlie or Niffty discover what was happening and get any bright ideas about finding out more.

“Lettin�� me in yourself?” Angel Dust asked with a teasing edge to his voice, smiling at Alastor over his shoulder before he looked around the room.

“I thought you said I let you in last time.”

“You did,” Angel Dust said slowly. “But now you can’t argue with me.”

Alastor couldn’t help his soft laugh at the spider’s sheer cheek. He never passed up an opportunity to give a fellow sass, did he? “And you have no one but yourself to blame for whatever might befall you for stepping into the Radio Demon’s domain with the knowledge that he let you in himself.”

Angel Dust opened his mouth, then closed it. “…yeah. That’s fair.”

Alastor led him to the edge of the wooden flooring that had once led to nothing but a wall, but now opened into the thick and humid expanse of Louisiana bayou that he liked to bring with him wherever he went. There were two tables present: one smaller with two chairs and two place settings, and a larger one that bore the dishes he had toiled away preparing that afternoon.

“Oh! Right.” Angel Dust pulled a bottle of wine from behind his back and offered it to Alastor, his lips quirking. “Hope this is okay.”

“It’s lovely,” Alastor assured him, pulling out one of the chairs for him to sit. Angel Dust did so, looking a little proud of himself, and Alastor watched his face for a brief moment before turning away to open the wine and let it breathe. “So! I do hope you took my warning to heart, dear fellow. I’m fairly certain that many of these dishes are like nothing you’ve ever had before.”

“It smells good,” Angel Dust said, and Alastor felt those magenta eyes following him as he went to the other table. “You gonna tell me what you made?”

“After you’ve tried it.”

The meal went much better than Alastor had anticipated (even better still than he had planned). Many people had such limited palates, so often by their own choice, but Angel Dust showed a real eagerness to try things he’d never had before: Oysters Bienville with shrimp remoulade, crawfish and langoustine bisque, pompano en papillote with stuffed Mirliton, veal grillades and grits, dirty rice, and chocolate and lemon Doberge cake with café brûlot. He didn’t balk at a single offering, no matter how unfamiliar he was with any particular dish—he even giggled and applauded when Alastor lit the café brûlot on fire—and he gave a genuine compliment for each one that came only after careful consideration of a few bites. Alastor was very nearly charmed by the deep and thoughtful nature Angel Dust was revealing.

I’m afraid I truly did misjudge you, sha.

It was only over dessert and their coffee that conversation shifted from the food—what each dish was, what was in it, how it was made, when Alastor had learned to make it—when Angel Dust leaned two elbows on the table to tuck his hands under his chin and tilt his head at Alastor in curiosity.

“Hm?” Alastor picked up the bottle of wine and poured more for both of them; it didn’t exactly go with the food anymore, but Hell’s wine was strong and he wasn’t feeling particularly picky now that the presentation was over. “What is it?”

“What’s what?”

“You have something running around through that tricky little mind of yours. Don’t think I can’t see it.”

“Just thinking,” Angel Dust said thoughtfully. “Y’know… we’ve been livin’ in this hotel for a while. By now I know a fair bit of dirt on everybody who lives here… ‘cept you.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow at him. “I could easily say you know as much about me as most anyone else does.” Probably more. “I could also say there isn’t much to know.”

“I believe the first one.”

“Hah. Alright, I’ll play along. Why so curious?”

Angel Dust thought about it for a second before he picked up his wine in a third hand. “I dunno, really. I guess I find you interestin’.” Apparently, Alastor made some kind of face at that, because Angel Dust immediately laughed. “Oh, come on, you can’t think it’s that weird.”

“Interesting isn’t usually the word people use.” Alastor took a small sip of his wine, but it seemed like his dinner companion was waiting for him to elaborate, so he tilted his head and squinted his eyes. “What, precisely, would you like to know?”

“Hm. …I have an idea,” Angel Dust said, somewhat quixotically. “Y’like games, right, Smiles?”

“I don’t think I like where this is going,” Alastor said, his eyes only narrowing further.

“You will, you will,” Angel Dust said, waving one hand at him. “I know you like knowin’ shit. I don’t talk much about myself neither. So, how about this: I’ll ask you a question, and you can either answer it or refuse to. For every question you answer, I’ll answer somethin’ about me, no matter what it is. Sound fair?”

Alastor had to admit that he found himself intrigued. He was by means no expert when it came to interpersonal interactions and relationships, but he knew a proverbial brick wall when he saw one, and Angel Dust was impenetrable with his snark and his sarcasm and his deeply inappropriate comments. “…very well, I’ll accept, with the understanding that I don’t have to explain my refusal to answer.”

“Nah, y’don’t have to explain nothin’. So… you said your mother taught you how to cook, right? What was that like? I know you were born before me.”

Alastor contemplated before he set his glass down. “…it would have been… 1909 or 1910, I suppose,” he said. “My maman and I lived alone, just the two of us.”

“In… New Orleans,” Angel Dust said, like he was guessing.

Alastor was surprised to hear him pronounce it correctly, close enough to how a proper native would. “More specifically, a little village on the outside, but yes. I had no siblings and my father was… well. I have no idea!” Alastor said with a sharp and humorless grin. “Never met the man, very fortunate for him. In any case, she informed me she had no intention of doing all of the work, my ‘man of the house’ status be damned, and if I was going to be helping her with the housework then I might as well do it properly. She began teaching me how to cook her way. Quite the punishing taskmaster, I must say, but straight to the point. It was particularly fortunate, since she accurately predicted that I would never marry and I would have been quite helpless once I was on my own without her instruction.” Angel Dust was smiling at him. It was strange. Alastor took particular note of the way his cheeks pushed his eyes into the shape of a pleased cat’s. “What about you, sha? What was your little homestead like?”

Angel Dust made an irritated sound, rolling his eyes. “I was the youngest of three. My father was a mob boss, but he wasn’t, y’know, big league or anythin’. He and my mom were fuckin’ awful, always screamin’ at each other and us. And my older brother was a tool our whole childhood, up until he figured out how much our parents sucked. Only one I got along with in a regular way was my twin sister. It's no wonder I ran away from home.”

“Oh?” Alastor raised one eyebrow. “What spurred that on?”

“Pops found out I was a queer and decided the best place for me was an asylum. Y’know, to ‘get better’,” he said, making air quotes with his fingers and rolling his eyes. “And I said fuck that, so I left the state. Ended up goin’ back a year later, tho. How old were you when you started killin’ people?”

Alastor tilted his head, debating whether or not to answer. And then, to figure out which event truly qualified for the specific inquiry. “…thirteen, but that time, it was an accident. …mostly,” he amended with a wide grin. “Fifteen, the first time I did it with true intention. It was just so much fun that I kept it up until the day I died.”

“What, didja get caught?”

“Ah ah, that’s two questions,” Alastor said, shaking a finger at him. “This is your game, you know.”

“Yeah, you’re right, dammit.”

“Did your father send you to the asylum when you returned to New York?”

Angel Dust sighed. “Yeah,” he said, full of resignation. He picked up his fork and stabbed lightly at his piece of cake. “He was furious, sent me there straight away. Ended up bein’ stuck in there…” He hesitated, thinking, going a little cross-eyed in the effort. “…shit, sorry, I don’t remember it too good. Four years? Five? It was… ‘33 when I went in, and luckily they’d just discovered insulin shock therapy, so that was fun. Only had to put up with that for a bit, because they figured out cardiazol shock therapy pretty soon after.”

Alastor winced, feeling the alien pang of genuine sympathy. “How barbaric.”

Angel Dust smiled. “Well, I got released a couplea months after they heard about a fun new procedure comin’ outta Portugal.” He held his hands up and made an arc with them, like he was demonstrating a marquee. “The prefrontal lobotomy. Of course, they didn’t know what they were doin’, and they fucked it up. Went in gay, left gay and with a hole in my head, and a helluva lot meaner than I was goin’ in.”

“I see,” Alastor said thoughtfully. “That explains the…” He touched the spot under his own left eye.

“Yeah.” Angel Dust shrugged. “It was a long time ago, I’m over it. So didja get caught or what?”

Alastor sighed. “I was hoping you had forgotten your question.”

“Y’don’t have to answer, y’know.”

“I’m well aware.” Alastor contemplated just refusing, but something compelled him to speak. “Frankly it was much worse than that. I never was caught in my activities, not incarcerated once. My undoing was nothing more or less than dumb luck on the part of some buffoon of a hunter. He likely had no idea that I was there, and I doubt he ever suffered any sort of consequence.”

He bid the sound of the barking dogs to leave him be, the bitter shock that lasted less than a moment, and the desperation for a reason, rather than the suggestion that in the end, it did not matter how fiercely he took hold of his own fate.

Angel Dust tilted his head. “…I’d think even huntin’ accidents were takin’ seriously in the South.”

“Not when the one holding the gun was white.”

“Oh.” Angel Dust thought for a moment, then his eyes widened. “Ohhh. Shit. Creole. Right.”

Alastor’s smile was humorless. “Just another day in the shining utopia that is the home of the free.”

“Still bullshit.”

“I couldn’t agree more. You were Italian, you said? It must have been complicated for you, too, I remember hearing about the David Hennessy case.”

Angel Dust shrugged. “It was New York, it was… complicated. But I woulda stood out no matter my heritage. I was born with albinism, straight through. White hair, pale eyes, the whole thing. Woulda ended up in the circus if my family wasn’t rich.”

“So… you’re saying you haven’t changed much. Physically, I mean.”

“You got no clue how hard it was, adjusting to having four whole new arms.”

They kept on this way—Alastor granting Angel Dust comparatively minor details of his own life, and receiving something of a rant in exchange that made it sound like the spider had been dying to talk to someone about all of this—until it was surprisingly late indeed. They had moved to the chairs in front of the fireplace, Angel Dust curled up in a way that was somehow still remarkably elegant, even in that dress.

Both chairs were meant to be occupied, weren’t they? Or was the other always just a symbol, a reminder of what I may never have?

“…this isn’t related to the game, but… There is something else I am curious about,” Alastor said after a stretch of surprisingly comfortable silence. “You may, of course, refuse to answer.”

“Hm?” Angel Dust focused on him. “…okay. Hit me.”

“It’s about your work.” He saw Angel Dust stiffen, just a little, but continued on anyway. “I was wondering how someone like you, fiercely independent and outspoken as you are, ended up working for someone like Valentino, of all sinners.”

Angel Dust sighed, tilting his head against the curve of the chair and looking at the fireplace. His gaze carried them far away, the empty green glow casting his companion in an eerie light that made Alastor’s stomach turn. “…a series of bad decisions that didn’t seem unreasonable at the time,” he said. “I mostly made my way in Hell hookin’ or performin’ in skeezy clubs, when I could get gigs. Sometimes I managed to get drag shows, those were my favorite. And I always liked bein’ on stage, it wasn’t somethin’ I really got to do in life.”

He stopped for a moment, and Alastor let him think. He couldn’t help wondering if anyone else had ever spoken to him about his earliest days in Hell… besides his friend Cherri Bomb, most likely. That was the sort of thing close chums discussed, right? Or did they focus solely on the party life? Perhaps he could inquire about that later.

“…Val saw one of my shows pretty soon after he joined Vox, before they were actually the Vees. Dunno what he was even doin’ there, he was an overlord and somethin’ of a celebrity in the sex work circuit. Everybody wanted to impress him, y’know? If Valentino thinks you’re worth somethin’, you could find yourself with real, steady work, maybe even in his new porn industry. And we all wanted that, y’know? It was…” Angel Dust contemplated his words. “…it felt safer,” he amended, and though he didn’t elaborate, Alastor couldn’t begin to imagine what sort of dangers and indignities could befall someone in that career. If Valentino felt like a safer option, it had to be more foul than even Alastor had imagined. “He stayed for my show, and he wanted to talk to me after. Said it wasn’t the first time he’d seen me. Said he liked me.”

Alastor could picture it quite viscerally: Valentino using his power and influence to manipulate a weaker sinner, Angel Dust hopeful and desperate and comparatively naive. He found his dislike of the moth growing more targeted, and steadily more intense as he listened.

“He offered me a job, and it was a good offer… or, at least, better than any I’d ever had before. And I was… taken with him,” Angel Dust said, his tone caught somewhere between wistful and disgusted with himself. “He was very charmin’ in those days. I guess he knew I could have left at any time, and he wanted to make sure I didn’t do that. He bought me clothes, he gave me a beautiful bedroom, he got Fat Nuggets for me… I guess I thought I was in love with him.”

Alastor’s claws sank into the arm of his chair, popping through the cloth to dig into the stuffing and the wooden frame beneath. Angel Dust didn’t appear to notice, even as Alastor’s teeth gritted hard enough for the Radio Demon to hear it.

“I still dunno why, exactly, I signed my soul over. Thought it was a good idea at the time, but I couldn’t have given you a real reason, even back then. After that, I guess Val didn’t feel he had to behave himself anymore. I mean, he was still charmin’ as long as he was happy with me, but he didn’t have to be nice when I wasn’t doin’ what he wanted like he did before. And by the time I figured out I didn’t have a choice no more, it was way too fuckin’ late.”

Angel Dust’s silence was more final than before, and far more contemplative. He had his elbow on the arm of the chair and his chin in his hand as he stared at the fireplace; Alastor couldn’t remember ever seeing him so melancholy, and he was struck by the image for two reasons. First, he found it hard to believe that Angel Dust was comfortable showing that level of emotional vulnerability in front of him, of all people… and second, he didn’t like seeing Angel Dust’s sadness, and it made something deep inside him want to rip whatever was causing that sadness into a thousand bloody pieces.

“You deserve far better than him,” Alastor said quietly, his usual crackle vanishing from his voice. “You always did.”

Angel Dust exhaled sharply, the ghost of a derisive laugh. “Do I?” he asked, glancing at Alastor. Something that he saw in the Radio Demon’s face gave him pause, and he sat up a little. “…thanks. For sayin’ that, I mean,” he said in a more serious tone. “I guess you don’t know anythin’ about breakin’ out of a soul contract, do you, Smiles?”

Alastor’s smile felt more ironic on his face than it usually did. “No, sha, I do not.”

“I was afraid of that.” Angel Dust sighed, then smiled. “It’s okay. It is,” he said insistently when Alastor opened his mouth. “I don’t believe it’ll last forever. I can’t. And one day, I won’t have to worry about Val anymore.”

“I think you’re right.”

Their conversation redirected, but the topic cast a heaviness over the last few minutes before Angel Dust left. Despite the air, he thanked Alastor for the evening in a manner so sincere that Alastor couldn’t question it, and when the spider smiled, there was a gentle glow in the magenta of his eyes that told the Radio Demon that he was…

…happy?

Was Angel Dust somehow happy, even now, even after talking at such length about his boss… even while alone with Alastor in his room?

He couldn’t imagine such a thing to be possible, and he would have dismissed it as ridiculous… if not for that soft, warm glow in his eyes.

Alastor went back to his chair and sent his shadow after Angel Dust; it followed him to his door, then stopped right outside it once the spider had gone in. Through the strange channels that connected him to the shadowy form, he heard Angel Dust walking around his room, humming softly to himself—Dream A Little Dream, an old standard Alastor knew well—and telling his hellpig that he had a good time.

“Dammit, Nuggs,” Angel Dust whispered beyond the door, “what am I gonna do? He’s so—”

Alastor dismissed the shadow before he lost his self control and sent it in to properly spy on the other sinner… or worse, found out what Angel Dust was about to say he ‘was so’. Once the shadow was back where it belonged, firmly attached to his feet, he sat and picked at the loose, torn threads in the arm of his chair and wondered when it was that he started wanting so fervently to add Valentino’s voice to his unearthly radio chorus.

•••

Angel couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was, but something had shifted between him and Alastor after their dinner together.

He couldn’t tell if it was positive or negative, either, because Alastor seemed to be wrestling with how he felt about their interactions at all. Over the next two days, Angel saw Alastor three times: every single one of them, Alastor greeted him with undue enthusiasm, and then promptly remembered that he had something pressing to handle and excused himself. Even with that, Angel couldn’t believe that Alastor was mad at him, mostly because he wasn’t behaving like he was angry or even annoyed.

He also wasn’t acting like nothing had changed, so Angel didn’t know what to make of it.

“Off to work, Angel?” Vaggie asked as Angel picked up the pen to sign out in the ledger on the hotel counter. She was focused on what looked like the hotel’s books, flipping slowly through them as though she was less working and more reading.

“Yep. What can I say, it was a nice few days off,” Angel said casually, trying not to let it show just how uncomfortable he was with the idea of seeing Valentino again.

The harpy angel glanced up at him, her expression serious. Angel blinked twice, wondering if he was about to get beaten up; he and Vaggie had never really gotten along, and despite the fact that they rarely fought anymore, he never knew what to expect from her. “Are you…” She stopped herself, thought for a moment, and he could actually see her decide to go through with it. “Are you getting yourself into trouble, chico?”

“What?” Angel blinked twice at her. “Absolutely not! I ain’t doin’ shit.”

“Yeah,” Vaggie said flatly, her one eye half lidded. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that something is going on. You’re acting weird. So is Alastor. So are Husk and Niffty. And yeah, fine, you’re all always weird, but this is different.”

Angel felt his mask dropping, and fought to keep it on. “Don’t worry about me, Vags, I’m fine. I ain’t gettin’ myself into anythin’ I can’t handle.”

Vaggie rolled her eye. “I don’t think that’s ever been true, but fine. Whatever. Just…” She exhaled on a frustrated huff, stirring her bangs. “…if you need anything, or whatever… you can come talk to me.”

Angel frowned at the offer. “I’m not gonna compromise Charlie’s project. Don’t worry.”

“That isn’t why I’m offering.” Vaggie didn’t elaborate, going back to the books. “Try to have a good time at work.”

“…uh. Yeah. Right. …thanks.” Angel stared at her for another few seconds, but she didn’t look up, so he was left to wonder what the fuck that was all about as he headed out of the hotel and made his way to VoxTek.

Nothing felt different as he passed through the lobby and into a door marked ‘Employees Only’, and Angel wondered if that was proof that he was just being paranoid, or if there really was something legitimately wrong. Nobody spoke differently to him, and he returned the friendly greetings he got as he headed for the elevators and took one up to the 17th floor, which was entirely devoted to Valentino’s pornography department.

“Oh, thank fuck, you’re here,” Wire, Travis’s PA, said the instant he walked into the studio. Her depressed and ‘weight of the world’ hunch was more pronounced than usual, white hair curtained haphazardly around her face, her obsidian skin greyed from exhaustion and her white eyes somehow looking bloodshot, even with their black sclera. “Today is going to be weird and I need you, and everyone else, to please not act like it’s weird.”

“Oh, goodie,” Angel said flatly, removing his sunglasses and gesturing loosely with them. “Val in a mood today?”

“I… have no idea.” Wire tapped all fourteen of her fingers on the back of her clipboard with a rattling click like an overexcited centipede. “I… none of us have seen him today. He isn’t going to be here.”

Angel stared at her, his mind blanking for just a moment. “He’s… why?” Valentino had never not been present for one of Angel’s shoots in his entire career.

Wire shrugged, peering up through her curtain of hair. “We weren’t told. Just that Vox is standing in for him today.”

“Wha— Vox?!” Angel squeaked. “What the fuck?”

“That was our question. I have your scripts for tonight,” she said, pulling some papers off her clipboard and holding them out. “Wardrobe’s already got your stuff laid out in your dressing room, and hair and makeup is ready whenever you are. Try to make it fifteen, we’re sticking as close to schedule today as we can.”

“…yeah. Okay.”

Angel headed for his dressing room and picked up the first costume that had been laid out for him. It was very particularly placed, and immediately, Angel saw why; the black and deep crimson material was about eighty percent straps, black leather that wound up both legs to his hips and up all four arms from the middle of his hands to a few inches from his shoulders, as well as his waist. The dress wasn’t a dress, but material that went over his head and hung down his front and back with absolutely no attachments at the sides, instead held in place by the waist wrapping. Chains hung from his wrists, from a choker around his neck, and around his exposed hips, the look completed with a wide hood that hung across his exposed shoulders and held an inverted pentagram at the top that hung across his forehead.

Angel carefully pulled the black and crimson attire on—it wasn’t often that he got to wear black, let alone something this interesting, which he had to attribute to Vox and his obsession with aesthetics—and tried not to think of Alastor as he picked up the three props that had been left for him: a grimoire that contained what seemed to be his most significant lines and some fake seals and sigils with obvious sex imagery, a wicked-looking dagger with a long, curved blade, and a black dildo with a fairly simple shape. Stepping into black heeled boots, Angel picked up his script pages in his free hand and headed back into the main part of the studio.

It was colder than it usually was; Valentino insisted on keeping the studio almost sweltering for his own personal comfort, but… thinking about it, Angel wasn’t positive Vox could feel temperature. Or perhaps his machine parts would overheat? He sat in the chair that had been prepped for him and said hello to the hair and makeup team before going over the script while they worked.

It wasn’t too unusual of a scenario: sexy cultist summons otherworldly entity, uses it for his own pleasure until he loses control, entity takes over, quickest mind break in history. The dialogue was better than the usual scripts, and Angel begrudgingly attributed that to Vox as well, though he wouldn’t tell the CEO that; then again, Vox did serve as scriptwriting consultant on basically all of the company’s best-rated shows, so he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Ah, hello, Angel Dust! How are you this evening?”

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear.

“Hey, Vox,” Angel said, turning his head enough to look up at the man himself, standing only a short distance away, wearing that smile that made him so popular among Hell’s housewife demographic. Recognizing immediately that they were playing this as chill and normal as was necessary for the company image, Angel favored him with a lazy, seductive smile. “Just goin’ over the pages for the first shoot. Yours, I take it? It’s gonna be a nice change, workin’ with one of your scripts. We don’t get to do that much here.”

“So glad to hear you approve!” Vox said with that telecaster brightness, placing his hands on his waist. “It’s been a while since I’ve been on this end of production. I’m very much looking forward to seeing Valentino’s department at work.”

Angel turned his head and tipped his face up slightly, opening his eyes and rolling them back as one of the team (he couldn’t tell who in this position) applied eyeliner to his waterline, enough that it would definitely run when he cried. “I was surprised when I heard Val wasn’t gonna be here today,” he said; he knew Vox could tell he was fishing, but he kept his flirtatious voice firmly in place regardless. “I hope he’s okay?”

“Oh, you know Val,” Vox said, which told Angel nothing. A few moments later, his hair and makeup were done, and Vox continued, “Would you ladies excuse us for a moment? I need to speak with Angel.”

The team scattered immediately, clearly glad to be out of the immediate range of Vox’s awareness. Angel didn’t blame them—he would have really liked to follow them to the other side of the studio—but he kept his seat, raising his eyes to meet Vox’s in the mirror when he felt the other sinner step up behind him.

Again.

“What’s up, Mister Boss Man?” Angel asked, glad his voice came out steady.

Vox considered him in the mirror, silently, and once again Angel was struck with the idea that Vox was evaluating him the same way he would do to a piece of art or furniture he was considering purchasing or, more accurately, one his spouse had chosen to decorate with and he hadn’t decided if he liked it or not yet. Valentino terrified Angel more than anyone had ever met, but no one—no one—had ever made Angel feel like an object more than Vox.

Vox’s face was strange in the mirror. When just looking at Vox, it was sometimes hard to remember that his face was a magical digital projection and not an actual, tangible thing; but in the reflection, Angel could see the minor artifacting on his screen, tiny pixels that flickered at the corners of his eyes when he blinked or the edge of his mouth when it moved. It was unnerving.

Vox leaned over him, placing his hands on the arm rests of his chair and functionally trapping him against the makeup station vanity. His smile was still in place, but his words and tone no longer matched it. Overhead, a fluorescent light flickered with an electric buzz, casting the two of them into odd shadows for a moment. “I’m not sure what, precisely, you did to Valentino,” he said quietly, “but I suggest you don’t do it again.”

Angel suddenly felt cold. “I… whaddya mean?”

“I mean, Valentino is currently not allowed to be in the studio with you, because I’m not positive he won’t kill you next time he sees you. He was very angry the last few times I’ve spoken with him.”

The light flickered again, more violently, and Angel swallowed painfully as he racked his brain to try and come up with what, exactly, it was that he had done wrong. “I… I don’t…”

“At the moment, my presence here is currently protection for you. If you give me a reason, any reason at all, I will rescind that protection and leave you to deal with Valentino alone. Am I clear, Angel Dust?”

“Y… yes, Vox,” Angel said weakly, tearing his eyes from the mirror to stare at the vanity’s table top. “I won’t. I promise.”

“Good.” Vox straightened, and out of the corner of his eye, Angel saw his hand moving to grab Angel’s shoulder with threatening, electric blue claws. Just before he made contact, the light that had been flickering on and off burst with a loud, sharp pop that sent glass and filament to the floor where it shattered further against the wood. Nearby, at the same moment, a camera short-circuited with a buzz and a few smaller pops that preceded a thin trail of smoke leaking from the metal seams of the casing.

“Oh, what the fuck,” Vox muttered under his breath, withdrawing to find someone to sweep up and fix the camera. Angel didn’t wait, sliding out of the chair and grabbing his props and script before he hurried towards the set. He only got a few steps away before he hesitated, then turned, looking back to where the camera was still smoking and a stagehand was hurriedly sweeping up the broken light.

There wasn’t anything else there, but…

Angel shook the feeling off and turned again. He needed to focus. He needed to work. He needed to make sure Vox stayed happy with him, because if whatever had soured Valentino’s mood to the point that Vox himself felt the need to intervene… well, then, their CEO was right. Valentino probably would kill him.

•••

This had been a very bad idea.

Calm down.

There was nothing for it now, of course. He had already committed, and he wasn’t about to leave now that he knew the situation.

Of course, Alastor was not—strictly speaking—actually inside VoxTek’s studio. It wasn’t that he had any compunctions about going into Vox’s territory, nor did he have any fear, but Charlie had made it quite clear what had happened the last time a resident of the hotel had shown up at Angel Dust’s place of employment and attempted to meddle with his work. Alastor had no intention of making things more difficult for the little spider; he was simply… curious.

Their conversation from two nights earlier had been going through Alastor’s mind in a way that the words of others usually didn’t. Typically, Alastor simply filed things he learned about others in the annals of his exceptional memory, only bringing those details up when they were relevant. Angel Dust, however, was proving himself to be something of a persistent little… irritant? He supposed that was the right word, because for some reason, he found himself concerned with the other sinner returning to his place of employment alone and unattended. Of course, it wasn’t completely nonsensical; the Vees were inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, yes, but they were very determined, and even Alastor couldn’t deny that their methodology had become shockingly effective and efficient. If they said they would ‘fix a problem’, Alastor had no doubt that they would do their level best to be a pain in his neck, and that was an amusing little distraction that sounded neither little nor amusing.

Besides, they possessed the contract for Angel Dust’s soul, and what kind of hotelier would he be if he left the spider to fend for himself in such exceptionally unfair circumstances?

That was, in short, how Alastor found himself bidding his shadow to depart from the Hazbin Hotel and make its way to VoxTek. His physical form stayed comfortable and warm in his room, seated before his fireplace, but his mind and awareness was entirely placed within the tenebrous form that slipped from shadow to shadow until it reached the studio where Angel Dust made the lion’s share of his money.

Seeing Vox was… a surprise, to say the least; he assumed this would be beneath him, but then, assuming anything was beneath Vox was giving the other overlord too much credit. But seeing how he interacted with Angel Dust…

Alastor had thought many things about Angel Dust over the time they had known each other, but never once had he thought he would see the spider so… cowed. He looked small and frightened as Vox imposed himself over his chair with that poisoned smile and his murmured threats, and Alastor wondered: if this was the effect Vox had on him, how much worse was the hand of the one who held his leash?

Normally, such an open display of weakness would anger Alastor or, at the absolute least, frustrate him. But knowing Angel Dust the way he was beginning to, and knowing that he only feared those he had been given true reason to fear…

Alastor felt anger, yes. But it was not at Angel Dust.

The light exploding was an unfortunate mishap. The camera was slightly more intentional, mostly because it would probably be annoying and expensive to fix, but when he saw Vox about to lay his hand on the spider’s shoulder, he felt a spike of rage that he couldn’t contain. It did, at least, have the positive side effect of separating them, but the way Angel Dust turned to look back at the shadows made Alastor wonder if he’d been caught out. He briefly considered aborting this mission and returning his awareness to himself, because in truth, he wasn’t sure why he was here at all.

Then, the other sinner went to his set, and Alastor stayed. He wondered if he would regret not taking the opportunity to leave when he presented it to himself.

Stagehands scuttled about the set, getting everything ready for the shoot, and despite Alastor’s utter disdain for anything related to picture shows he could not deny an interest in the process of their creation. Most of those who made them were, after all, artists; the fact that their product was worthless did not change their capacity for creativity or their skill. When Alastor had first been getting to know the hotel’s residents, he had examined quite a number of Angel Dust’s pornographic films, and he’d found them almost unbearably dull… save one detail that seemed consistent throughout the entire catalogue: Angel Dust could act, and he could act well. Even when the script was unbearable garbage, he sold the scenario through either commitment or through playing up how absolutely absurd it was, and Alastor could tell when he was adlibbing because the dialogue suddenly improved dramatically.

Alastor wanted to see his working process. He wanted to watch him at his craft, no matter how pathetic the final product was. That was the way you got to know an artist, after all, and maybe… maybe through knowing his art, Alastor would begin to understand why Angel Dust had burrowed his way into the Radio Demon’s mind.

“Alright, everyone, let’s get focused,” Vox called to the room at large, cutting through Alastor’s thoughts in the most unpleasant way possible. He let his shadow drift closer to where Vox sat beside an avian-like sinner with black feathers and a heart-shaped iris; Travis, likely, if Alastor was remembering Angel Dust’s complaints accurately. Vox leaned closer to Travis, speaking in a low voice. “Let’s try to keep this to one take, wardrobe says the costume isn’t designed to be torn up more than once.”

Travis gave his boss the nod of the sycophant and raised his bullhorn, calling out over the studio in a strange and tinny voice. “We’re on single take mode, people! We’re down a camera, so you other three, keep that in mind when you’re covering shots! And I swear to fuck, Lars, if that boom mic shows up in one more shot I am shoving it up yer ass. Quiet on set!”

It was, admittedly, a bit fascinating to be on this side of the proceedings. The actual set seemed small for something that Alastor knew, logically, would look enough like a real outdoor location on film. The rest of the room was cast in darkness, the floor covered in heavy cables and so many people holding cameras or sound equipment, positioning lights, or just standing and watching.

The set itself looked like a night scene in the middle of a forest clearing. A large stone altar dominated the center—for the requisite fornication, Alastor presumed—with an actual fire lit in the foreground. Angel Dust knelt between the fire and the altar, the yellow-orange light of the flame casting shadows across his face and body that seemed even starker from the false silvery-blue moonlight cast by the can lights overhead. They had even managed to cast the illusion of shadowy tree branches across the floor, lending the scene an eerie sort of atmosphere that Alastor could appreciate.

“Okay, Angel baby,” Travis said, and Angel Dust looked up from the open book he held in two hands. “The lines ya got in yer book are the most important. Feel free to improv around whatever else, just give the deal-makers what they wanna see. Rocky, you ready?”

As Angel Dust nodded his acknowledgment, Alastor saw a large and furry paw rise up from behind the altar and give a thumbs up. “Ready!” a deep voice called.

“Good. Alright, people, we’re on in ten!”

As Travis counted down, Alastor watched Angel Dust close his eyes, roll his head, then let it hang, his hood covering his face with fabric and shadow. When the director called action, everything went silent in the room, save for the ambient noise of a gentle breeze rustling through tree leaves and the occasional sound of some animal out in the night.

Angel Dust kept his head down for several seconds, then slowly raised his face, his expression the somber and serious look of one who knew—or, at least, thought they knew—how dangerous the task they were about to undertake was. When he spoke, his Brooklyn accent had all but disappeared, temporarily abandoned in favor of a neutral tone that was softer and rounder but somehow still quintessentially him.

“To the Air of the North, I call upon thee: a sacrifice for the breath of Azazel in the domain of Egyn.”

The chains around Angel Dust’s wrists jingled softly, ominously, as he reached up with one hand and delicately twisted his fingers through a few strands of the hair-like fur at his crown. He pulled the strands free with a small gasp that was likely intended to spark the idea of eroticism, and Alastor could appreciate that, coupled with the brief and tiniest pinch at the corners of his eyes. He dropped the fur into the fire, where it caught with a bright blue spark and disappeared almost as quickly.

A summoning, Alastor thought, the scenario reminding him of a time quite long ago. The shadow was not his body, but even so, the realization made him feel as though a shiver passed across his skin.

“To the Fire of the South, I call upon thee: a sacrifice for the flames of Samael in the domain of Amaymon.”

Angel Dust reached into the fluff at his chest, which was apparently much thicker than Alastor had guessed, as he produced a small leather pouch tied with a cord from somewhere within it. With two hands, he opened the pouch, then tossed a pinch of whatever was inside into the fire; it caught with a spark and a loud hiss, and through the shadow, Alastor could smell saffron and ginseng.

“To the Earth of the East, I call upon thee: a sacrifice for the ground of Mahazael in the domain of Oriens.”

Now, Angel Dust’s voice was trembling, and his breath shook as he held one hand out. Slowly, he raised a curved, sharp dagger, one that looked specially designed for ritual work, and placed the blade against his open palm. He closed his fingers around it, his face losing its confidence in favor of trepidation and fear. Alastor could hear the rate of his breath increasing as he worked himself up, and then all at once, he truly did slice his hand open with a cry that was almost a high pitched moan. The black blood of the sinner, glittering with a red sheen in the firelight, poured from the wound on his palm and into the fire for a brief moment before it began to taper off. The only sounds Alastor could hear were the small, whispered hisses of the blood splattering the burning wood, and the shaken breath of the sinner as he gathered himself to finish his ritual. Angel Dust clenched his bloody hand into a fist and pressed it to his chest, smearing his chest fluff with black that gleamed red, and Alastor could not look away.

“To… the Water of the West… I call upon thee: a sacrifice for the rivers of Azrael… in the domain… of Paimon.”

Angel Dust swallowed with an audible click, then closed his eyes as he unclenched his bloody hand and held it out, his fingers wet and trembling. Alastor could see the fear and determination on his face as he braced himself, then thrust his hand into the fire. Angel Dust’s scream was a howl of pain that married with ecstasy, his fangs bared as he threw his head back and cried out to the false sky for relief that would not be granted.

It was the most beautiful sound Alastor had ever heard.

The fire turned a bright purple, then it seemed to dissipate upwards, swirling from the firewood and into the air before it vanished in a cloud of pale smoke.

Gasping with pain and the exertion of his ritual, Angel Dust clasped his now burned hand to his chest—was it an effect, or had he really hurt himself for authenticity?—and looked around with wide eyes that glowed a deep magenta in the loss of the firelight. He swallowed again, slowly gaining control over his breathing, and waited, but nothing appeared to be happening.

“…fuck,” Angel Dust whispered, turning to his book and flipping frantically through it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…! No, it was right, I know it was right…!” His voice slowly raised until he got to his feet, still holding his injured hand close to himself as he looked around with a manic sort of desperation. “Where are you…?!” he shouted at nothing. “I know you’re there, I know you can hear me! I paid your price, and you will obey me!!” His voice pitched into a scream, cracking just a little, and echoed through the studio so much the same as it would through a forest clearing.

For a moment, there was nothing but Angel Dust’s breath. Then, there was a crack, like a bone or the branch of a tree snapping, and the spider tensed. Another cracking followed, and then another, as a deep red light slowly illuminated the space behind the altar from the ground. A figure began rising up behind Angel Dust, clawed hands grabbing hold of the altar to pull a body broader and taller than the spider up from what seemed like a deep pit.

Angel Dust began turning with wide, terrified eyes as the figure continued to rise, standing to his full height and towering over the one that had summoned him. The demon stood in sharp silhouette, furred and muscular with great horns and a deep, growling pant as he stared down at Angel Dust.

“Who dares to summon me?” he asked in a deep, guttural voice, one that seemed to rattle through Angel Dust’s body by the way he shuddered.

“Your new master,” Angel Dust said, his voice gaining a confidence and bravado that began to carry into his posture. “You are now bound to me, creature, as a slave to his goddess, and you will do as I command.”

The demon laughed, a low and unnerving chuckle that would have made the fur along Alastor’s spine stand up if he truly stood in the same space. “You presume to command me?” He was slowly walking around the altar, but Angel Dust met him at the foot of it and placed his bloody and burned hand on the demon’s chest. He froze with a startled gasp, and Angel Dust smirked wide and sharp as his glowing eyes narrowed. Then, with a motion that looked graceful and delicate, he pushed the creature backwards onto the altar.

As the large demon landed on his back, Angel Dust used all the arachnid grace his body possessed to climb up onto the stone and crawl over the supine figure. His smile was growing into something different, something at once crazed and enticing and perhaps what was known as erotic, his legs spreading to straddle the larger creature’s hips and his two lower hands pressing against his chest to keep him down.

Alastor felt a sudden and alien sort of desperation to know what sort of action or word or dance could draw that smile out of Angel Dust without the compulsion of performance.

The spider leaned forward on his lower hands, arcing his back and stretching his upper set of arms over his head in a display slow and languid, his hand smearing blood along the leather strapping that hid so much of his skin and fur. “I paid your price,” Angel Dust repeated, his voice no longer a panicked scream, but a low purr that sent a strange sort of pulsing sensation along the memory of Alastor’s skin. “And now, you will service me, creature.”

Angel Dust rolled his hips in a manner that seemed too rough and violent to be typical of pornography, and the creature grunted with equal pain and pleasure. He moved as though he was going to sit up, but Angel Dust was quicker, and like a spider hunting its prey, he grabbed the creature by his horns and forced his head back down onto the stone as he bore over him in a beautiful and lithe arch. Alastor could feel the flesh around his own antlers tingling as Angel Dust, with that same smile, opened his mouth and ran his tongue along the ridges of the striped horn.

It was here that Alastor had expected to lose interest and planned to take his leave, but the sight of Angel Dust, masking such obvious fear with a guise of control and power, burned and bleeding and armed with that dagger, transfixed him. The spider rolled his hips against the beast’s pelvis again, his head falling back and his breath leaving in a slow hiss, as though he was content to take his pleasure at his own leisure.

But the demon beneath him had other plans, and Alastor’s own breath shuddered as a large and clawed hand suddenly grabbed the chain around Angel Dust’s throat and yanked. With a fluidity he should not have possessed, the creature switched their positions, now kneeling between the spider’s spread legs as he lay sprawled on the altar.

“What—?! No!” Angel Dust shouted, a note of panic in his voice as his eyes widened. “You can’t do this!”

“Then stop me, little one,” the creature growled with a low laugh. Angel Dust bared his teeth and raised his hand with the dagger, but before he could stab the beast, his wrist was caught in one of those powerful hands and slammed down onto the stone top of the altar above his head. Angel Dust cried out in unmistakable arousal, his fingers dropping the dagger over the side of the stone where it fell to the ground out of reach.

“No, stop it…!” Angel Dust’s protests were weaker now; it should have been enough to take Alastor out of the moment, and yet, he could do nothing but stare as the beast somehow attached the chains around his wrists to the altar, spreading his arms and leaving his body vulnerable. “Release me!”

“You and I both know you don’t want that.” The beast grabbed the front of Angel Dust’s robe and ripped, claws tearing the fabric to ribbons as he pulled most of it free from his body. Angel Dust cried out as he was exposed, his back arching off the stone and his head turning to the side. “You will not escape me.”

Panting, Angel Dust narrowed those glowing eyes at him, cheek still pressed to the stone. At the same time, his lips curved into that sharp, crazed smirk again.

“Do your worst.”

Alastor paid no more attention to the beast. He could not look away from Angel Dust’s face, every twitch of pain and every cry of pleasure, the way he grimaced with gritted teeth and the way he exhaled so breathily as his lips spread into a wide and wanton smile, his body shuddering with barely-controlled ecstasy as he was thrust into again and again. His cries, his screams of “yes” and “more” and “fuck me”, his desperate and agonized begging…

Alastor was barely aware that he was losing control of his grasp on his shadow until he found himself staring at the floor of his own bedroom, his claws digging new grooves into the arms of his chair and his teeth clenched so hard he could hear his jaw creak. His antlers had grown and were heavy on his hanging head, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth and his entire body trembling as his shadow spasmed erratically on the floor and the wall, stretched long and misshapen, just too far from his own body to be called attached.

Alastor’s mind was a blank sheet of radio static that echoed through his bedroom, the pitch shifting wildly and sharply, one particularly high and powerful screech cracking the glass face of the clock on his mantle. Those sounds stayed on the periphery of his awareness, his mind focused on nothing but the image of Angel Dust, crazed and bloody and lost in the throes of violent passion that felt so, so much different in reality than it had on celluloid.

It took what seemed to be a small eternity for him to calm himself, his claws slowly pulling themselves from the wood frame of the chair, his antlers gradually receding to their normal size. His breathing was heavy, labored, like he had just been running for hours, his body exhausted from the foreign pressure of a restraint that he hadn’t shown in nearly a century, a thin bead of sweat running from his hairline just above his temple and trailing along his jaw.

Alastor was aware, on some level, that he had an erection. It was the third he’d ever had in his existence, and the first ever caused by anything besides a strictly physiological hormone shift.

He couldn’t think about it.

If he thought about it, he would lose himself again.

Angel Dust.

Strange little spider. Foolish, undisciplined, crude, clever, bright, silly, strange little spider.

Who are you, really?

What have you done to me?

•••

#my writing #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin angel dust #radiodust #alastor x angel dust #hazbin vaggie #hazbin vox #hazbin travis #hazbin rocky #hazbin oc #hazbin fanfic #fanfic

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lalaloobzy · 1 year ago

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Random aspec fictional character HCs

Matthew Cuthbert (Anne With an E)

Asexual + aromantic

Lived his whole life unmarried like his sister but, unlike Marilla, never had any relationships in the past. Doesn't reciprocate Jeannie's feelings and tells her his love for his adopted daughter (Anne) is the only love he has room for. Was TERRIFIED when Anne tried to set him up with Jeannie.

*(this is specific to AWAE but I think it can apply to book Matthew as well)

Selah Summers (Selah and the Spades)

Asexual + aromantic

Tbh this one might be canon (or at least heavily implied). Never has been in a relationship. Admits to Paloma that she's just never been interested in anyone in a romantic or sexual way.

Monkey D. Luffy (One Piece)

Asexual + aromantic

Just doesn't seem remotely interested in romance or sex. Gets grossed out/ annoyed when people kiss in front of him.

*(this is specific to the anime, idk about the manga or live action adaptation)

**(I am not caught up on the anime, this may turn out to be incorrect)

Willie Jack Sampson (Reservation Dogs)

Asexual + aromantic

Never had a love interest or showed attraction in the show (to the best of my knowledge. If she did, I missed it). Also, THIS OUTFIT SPECIFICALLY. Her hoodie is aroace colors and her socks look like a mix of the asexual flag and the aromantic flag.

Lucy Wells (Harlots)

Grey asexual/ greysexual (+possibly aromantic? Maybe demiromantic? I haven't decided yet)

Born into prostitution but HATES sex. Avoids it as much as she can and by the last season finds a way to do her job without having to have sex. The reason I said grey ace is because she DOES seem sexually attracted to Fallon after some time of being with him (I think? I was a little confused about how she felt tbh).

Birdy (Birdy)

Asexual + demiromantic

Everyone in his life thinks it's weird that he's so interested in birds and not girls. Admits to Al he doesn't see the appeal of sex at all. Very reluctant to go to prom with Doris and had no idea what to do when she parked the car and offered him sex. I can see him developing romantic feelings after close friendship (like with Al) which is why I think he's demiromantic.

Bilbo AND Frodo Baggins (The Hobbit/ The Lord of the Rings)

Both asexual (+ maybe demiromantic, though I can also see Bilbo as aro)

Both remained bachelors all their lives. Bilbo lived alone and later with Frodo who was like an adopted son. Frodo lives for a long time with Sam and Sam's wife Rosie. I personally think that Sam and Frodo are in a romantic relationship, while Sam and Rosie are in a sexual relationship. Frodo seems content with this arrangement which is why I believe he's ace.

Ted Buckland (Scrubs)

Asexual

Simply because of the part where Carla says "I don't want any MAN filming me giving birth unless he's completely asexual" and then Ted walks in with a camera and Carla smiles and says "oh hi Ted!". (I think this was a poorly-aged joke about him being "ugly" more than anything but I'm still claiming it). Also when he sings the duet with Gooch and Gooch says "I want to screw you" while Ted says "I want to kiss you.

Fabian Rutter (House of Anubis)

Asexual

He's nerdy and into space (I know this is a stereotype but representation is scarce I take anything I can get... you get it right). Also his relationship with Nina is very innocent and I can't see him developing sexual attraction even when he becomes an adult.

Dirk Gently and Bart Curlish (Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency)

Dirk- Asexual

Bart- Aromantic

Neither of them have love interests in the show (although Bart/Ken may have been implied) so this is just how I felt about the characters personally. I think Dirk definitely had a crush on Todd and is gay but I don't think he gets sexual attraction. Bart is the opposite. I can see her developing sexual attractions and feelings but being repulsed by kissing/ dating etc.

*(this is specific to DGHDA, idk about any other versions of these characters)

Anybody feel free to add thoughts and your personal aspec character hcs <3

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scotianostra · 6 months ago

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youtube

On June 27th 1937, Robin Hall, folk singer and musician, was born in Edinburgh.

Robin, had to overcome polio as a child inspent most of his early years in Glasgow and was a direct descendant of Rob Roy Macgregor, and of Mungo Park, the explorer. His mother had been an opera singer and Robin was nurtured on a generous diet of classical music and music hall songs. During his lengthy convalescence from polio his interest in all types of music flourished.

As a teenager, he played with a traditional jazz group, studied the piano, and spent his spare time digging up American folk songs and investigating the folk material of his native Scotland. Hall studied at the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Dramatic Art, and worked briefly as in actor in repertory theatres. Robin went to London in 1957, armed with a large repertoire of folk songs and a guitar. While in England he recorded a series of EP's for "Collector Records", which are now very hard to find and highly priced. In the 60's, Robin became a bit notorious and controversial for insisting on wearing his Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament badge on the BBC's Tonight Show, for which he was widely criticized.

After Robin left the duo in 1981, he enjoyed a successful career in broadcasting—winning two national radio awards, for best presenter and best documentary, for Radio Clyde's The Sing Song Streets, a program about Glasgow told through songs, stories and children's games.

Sadly, Robin died on November 18, 1998, at the age of 61. Another great folk singer that lived life to excess, lost at an early age. Robin married and divorced twice and was survived by three children.

There's not many Robin Hall solo songs out there, Fitba Crazy, Coulter's Candy, Mingulay Boat Song and the likes are all with his long time singing partner Jimmy, but I did manage to find one song!

Dundee Weaver is a famous bawdy Glasgow street song

Oh, A'm a Dundee weaver

An A come fae bonnie Dundee

I met a Glesca fellae

An he gaed courtin me

He tuik me out a-walkin

Doun by the Kelvin Haa

An thair the dirty wee rascal stole

Ma thingumijig awa

An thair the dirty wee rascal stole

Ma thingumijig awa

He tuik me oot a-walkin

Doun by the Roukin Glen

He showed tae me a bonnie wee bird

An he showed me a bonnie wee hen

He showed tae me the bonnie wee birds

Fae a linnet tae a craw

An he showed tae me the bird that stole

Ma thingumijig awa

An he showed tae me the bird that stole

Ma thingumijig awa

Noo A'll ging back tae Dundee luikin

Bonnie, young an fair

A'll pit oan ma buckle an shune

An tie back ma bonnie broun hair

A'll pit oan ma corsets tight

Tae mak ma middle luik smaa

An wha wad ken fae ma rosie cheeks

That ma thingumijig's awa?

An wha wad ken fae ma rosie cheeks

That ma thingumijig's awa?

Come aa ye Dundee weavers an

Tak this advise fae me

Never let a fellae

An inch abune yer knee

Never staun at the back o a close

Or up agin a waa

For if ye dae ye can safely say

Yer thingumijig's awa

For if ye dae ye can safely say

Yer thingumijig's awa

#scotland #scottish #history #musician #folk singer #Youtube

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bitchesofostwick · 7 months ago

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hello hello i am in your inbox to ask what's a favorite passage/paragraph that you've written? any reason at all, just something you really like and why. 😊

well. it’s AWA. i feel like it always comes back to AWA lol. i could’ve probably picked anything from any chapter but i really like this one, especially because it’s just at the crest of the enemies-to-lovers storyline where you’re finally approaching the lovers part but still not quite there lol. i like the softness and the cadence of the scene a lot.

~~~

He’s glad for their closeness, and for their height difference, because this way she can’t see how red his face has turned. He only hopes the pounding in his heart—just where her cheek rested—doesn’t give him away. Maker, what he wouldn’t give to lean down, tip her chin up to him, and kiss her. He’d give anything, anything, to chase the cold from her pink lips, to tell her the Game isn’t here, though.

Truly, Josephine would scold him if she could see them now, with his arm hooked so far around her back that his hand now sat, low, on the hip opposite from where it properly belonged. He’s all but wrapped around her, and Maker damn me, he can’t bring himself to care. He could hold her like this forever.

“Cullen?” she murmurs.

“Hm?”

“You’re softer.”

He breathes in sharply. “I’m sorry?” he asks, but she shakes her head.

“You’re just...you’re softer than you seem, sometimes. Did you know that?” She doesn’t move when she speaks, her voice reverberating against his jacket, sending goosebumps over his his skin as though he isn’t warm all over, flushed from the very proximity between the two of them.

“Yes, well,” he says, hoping she can’t tell the tremor in his voice. “I think maybe you bring that out in me.”

She only hums in response, letting herself lean further into him. When he steals a glance down, she has her eyes closed, and her breathing has slowed. She’s quiet, relaxed. If all he could offer her tonight is a few moments of peace, he could retire for the night a happy man.

They dance—or rather sway, from side to side, any prior dancing lessons long abandoned—not until the song ends but until the music comes to an end altogether, and he can see Josephine out of the corner of his eye, lingering by the balcony doors, no doubt signaling that the night is coming to a close, and regretfully, he pulls them to a stop, backs away, admires the way her cheeks are rosy, her eyes tired but at peace.

“Well,” he whispers, nodding once to Josephine, and the ambassador retreats back inside, her message delivered. “Thank you.” And Ellinor laughs—short, sweet, a burst of happiness prettier than any music he’s heard tonight.

“I should be thanking you,” she tells him when he bows slowly, grasps her hand in his own. “I know you hate dancing.”

The laughter fades from her eyes when he doesn’t return her smile, when he brings her hand before him and she realizes what he’s going to do, and now it’s her cheeks that turn red, her lips that have lost all sense of words.

“Lady Trevelyan,” he whispers but oh, Ellinor, he thinks, pressing his lips once into her knuckles before releasing her hand, standing straight again, his gaze reaching hers for a final time before they part.

How could I hate dancing when it means I could hold you like this?

#i feel like my writing was so much better then skdjfkdks #vakarians-babe #answered

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wolveria · 2 years ago

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At World’s Beginning - Ch 2

Pairing: James Norrington x Mermaid!OC

Series Summary: James Norrington's death is only the beginning of his problems.

Chapter Summary: In the Year of Our Lord 1694, Franklin Sharp makes a startling discovery.

AO3

35 Years Previous

The last thing Second Mate Franklin Sharp had expected from the day’s events was for the Intrepid to find itself a prisoner—and a woman at that.

It was the morrow after their harrowing survival of a terrible storm, one which Franklin had been sure would be their end. But they had survived, managed to keep all their masts, and had had a few hours rest before the lookout had shouted, “Man overboard!”

The sky was a pretty pale blue and the winds good and true, so there should be no reason for any man to be overboard. Waves lapped gently at the hull of the Intrepid, tamed after its turbulent wrath the night previous.

Captain Ulysses stood in front of the gunwale next to Franklin, extending his spyglass to verify what the lookout had spotted.

So, not a man overboard, then—a man adrift at sea. How anyone could have survived the storm puzzled Franklin, but even he could see with his naked eye a pale form huddled on an outcrop near the straits they had come upon.

“Take two men and check for survivors,” the captain spoke in a weathered voice, never moving his gaze from the rocks ahead. Franklin acknowledged his orders and grabbed Mako and Rochester, two Jack-tars who he could depend on in times of trouble. Not that Franklin expected there to be any trouble, and least… not until their longboat drew closer to the cluster of rocks. And It wasn’t the rocky waves as they drew closer to the outcropping that rattled him.

“’s a woman!” Rochester exclaimed in a voice somehow filled with both unease and awe.

“Aye, Roch, I know a woman when I spot one,” Franklin said with impatience. For clearly it was woman, fainted away and marooned on the rocks.

“Sure ‘bout that?” Rochester responded, a smirk painted across his face. “The peach fuzz on yer face says otherwise.”

“Move us closer so I can see if she’s still amongst the living,” Franklin ordered, ignoring the jab. People always underestimated him for his youth and he’d grown a thick skin because of it. Besides, it was better to be underestimated. Folks who didn’t take him seriously were the easiest to surpass and push aside in his quest of ambition.

However, in this situation, Franklin’s youth might very well work against him. Seamen tended to become particularly stupid where women were concerned, and any question to his authority might turn a tenuous situation into a terrible one. He wasn’t sure which was preferable—for the woman to be alive or dead, considering what might await her back on the ship.

And there was the matter of the ferocity of the storm. It was unlike anything Franklin had seen before—all different colored lightning, rain that flew sideways in angry streaks, and even a squall that descended from the clouds and gave them all a scare when it ventured close to their ship.

Franklin grew more and more disquieted. The woman was as naked as the day she was born, with yellow hair and skin pale and free of blemishes. In fact, it was only now beginning to turn pink from exposure to the merciless sun. This was not the complexion of a woman who was at sea, or one that even ventured out into the sunlight.

What was more alarming than that was, from what he could see from her curled position, she was completely unharmed.

Franklin reached a hand out to steady himself against the outcropping as he tested the integrity of the rock. It bore his weight and so he began to climb, and saw from only a few feet away that her cheeks were rosy with life. He waved the nearby seagulls away, shouting, “Away, buzzards! No free meals for you here today!”

“What have ye found?” Mako said from behind him, and he turned to see Rochester had remained in the longboat to make sure it didn’t drift away. Or, by the blood that had drained from his face, to stay away from their strange discovery.

“Hand me that tarp,” Franklin ordered rather than answer Mako’s question. Mako didn’t look entirely happy about this, but he turned back and retrieved the bit of canvas from Rochester, and then handed it to the second mate. Franklin untied the ropes and pulled open the cloth. It would have to do, for he was not about to bring a naked woman aboard.

As Franklin began to cover her within the stiff cloth, Mako stood at his elbow and whispered, “Lord have mercy on my soul. How did she get all the way out here?”

“I imagine her ship went down in the storm,” Franklin responded as he finished wrapping her up like a babe in swaddling. It didn’t bother him any to handle the woman’s nakedness; he’d helped his mum raise his baby sisters and he wasn’t averse to seeing bare skin. It helped that there was something about the woman that was reminiscent of his baby sisters. Perhaps the way she had been curled like a child, or that her face was smooth like that of a brand new babe.

Apparently, Rochester was not of the same mind about the woman’s innocence.

“Ye-yer bringing her aboard?” he asked, an unmistakable waver in his voice. Franklin didn’t bother to give him a glare—his displeasure was in his voice. He may have been a youth of seventeen years, but Franklin was already gaining the authoritative qualities of a natural-born leader.

“Aye. And if you have a complaint, you ought not to speak it aloud. The captain is not in the business of leaving good people to die when they could easily be brought aboard.”

Franklin brushed the yellow hair out of the woman’s face, and that’s when he noticed something to mar the perfection of her smooth skin. He ran his thumb down the side of her neck, just behind her ear, and he felt hard ridges. He’d know that sensation anywhere, as he had gutted his fair share of fish.

“Yer assuming she’s good people,” Rochester muttered stubbornly. Franklin was so distracted he didn’t respond until the next words were spoken. “It bodes ill, findin’ a woman in the middle o’r the ocean after a storm such as we had. And a naked one at that.”

Franklin had neither the time nor the patience for yellow-bellied curs, so he lifted the woman into his arms, shifting her weight to a more tenable position so they wouldn’t spill off the side of the outcropping and into the churning waves. But as he began to step carefully back to the longboat, Mako stood in his way.

“You better think long and hard about yer next words, Mako,” Franklin said so quietly he could barely be heard over the sound of the waves against the rocks.

“She could be a witch,” the timid crewman said as he looked downward, unable to meet Franklin’s stern eye. “No man or woman of the mortal realm could survive that storm without so much as a mark.”

“That’s for the captain to decide,” Franklin responded, fingers reflexively gripping his bundle tighter as he looked first at Mako, and then to Rochester. “Not lily-livered cowards who dare call themselves sailors.”

“What’s that?” Rochester’s face grew flush from the barb, but Franklin paid no heed. He needed to put an end to this foolishness here and now, or the woman who survived the storm would end up dead by more sinister means.

“Shall I tell the captain you disobeyed orders, then?” Franklin asked lightly. This was the last time he would ask Rochester for anything, he decided. The man was an excellent sailor, but apparently reefing sails and hoisting clewlines was where his dependability ended.

Rochester broke eye contact first, looking away as he gripped the oar tightly in his hands.

“There be no need to go sayin’ things like that,” he finally responded, the proper amount of contriteness in his voice. Still, Franklin decided to keep an eye on him, not trusting the way the man shifted in fear as Franklin sat next to him.

But it wasn’t the second mate that Rochester was scared of—it was the unconscious, helpless lass they had rescued.

Superstitious, feckless cowards, Franklin thought unkindly as the two crewmen rowed the longboat back to the Intrepid. His patience for old wives’ tales and the cowardice they drew from men—who face real bodily danger daily without breaking a sweat and yet succumb to tales of ghosts—was at an all-time low. Especially how given the night before, half of the crew had wept for their mothers and the other have had prayed to their respective gods. It had been an enduring trial to force them to keep the ship in one piece, and Franklin thought he had done it admirably, especially when the captain had remained safely below in his cabin (and the first mate had spent most of his time hiding in the fo’c’sle).

However, if Franklin was hoping Captain Ulysses would present a more reasonable front when they returned, he was sorely mistaken.

“What… is that?”

The captain stared at Franklin’s bundle as he came onboard, eyeing the damp, yellow hair that hang over the edges of the cloth.

“A woman, sir,” Franklin said with a little too much sincerity, but the captain caught nothing amiss in his tone. Ulysses reached forward and pulled back the corner flap, exposing the face of their rescued catch.

“So it would seem,” Ulysses responded dryly, looking over her features as one would examine a particularly rotten oyster. “And why is there a woman aboard my ship?”

“Because you ordered her brought onboard. Sir.”

Ulysses gave him a cool gaze that Franklin knew meant there was troubled waters ahead.

“I am well aware of what I ordered, Sharp. But I would have expected you to have enough foresight to inquire for new orders before bringing a strange woman aboard my ship.”

Franklin met that steely gaze with a more tempered one, even though his dislike for the captain was beginning to converge on the territory of loathing. Ulysses Kipper was a decorated retired officer of the Royal Navy turned privateer. The men said he loved serving the Crown too much to spend the last years of his life doing anything as frivolous as relaxing. And if the crew ever made the mistake of seeming to forget what a decorated ex-marine he was, Ulysses would remind them by scrubbing them down with insults, comparing them to the marines that had previously served under him and saying they were more akin to “mangy dogs and flea-bitten rats.”

Franklin didn’t care for pompous men who flouted their authority. But he was a fresh-faced youth of seventeen years, and no one cared about his thoughts on the matter.

“I believe she’s a survivor of the storm, sir. Her ship most likely went down and currently lay at the bottom of the ocean, along with the rest of her people.”

“Did you see evidence of wreckage?” Ulysses asked, his words clipped with impatience.

“No, sir. But the debris could have been carried out with the currents.”

Franklin shifted from one foot to another. His arms were beginning to ache from the weight of his burden, but he would rather his arms fall off than be relieved of the weight. Because most likely, that would mean the bundle was being thrown overboard, along with the woman.

“So you merely assume she was onboard a vessel,” the captain said as he began to slowly pace across the deck, hands held behind his hands.

“I… well, yes. Where else could she have come from?”

Perhaps this had been the wrong thing to ask, because Ulysses stopped pacing and turned his head to stare balefully, first at him, and then the unconscious woman.

“Where indeed? It is not a question I would ask lightly, especially considering the… dark nature of last night’s storm.”

Franklin stared at him. He would expect such suspicions from the crew, but the captain, who prided himself on being a clever, learned man?

“You can’t honestly believe there is anything untoward about her appearance, do you? Sir?” he added when he realized his tone was bordering on disrespectful.

“That’s not a risk I’m willing to accept,” Ulysses answered, his cold blue eyes sending a shiver down Franklin’s spine despite the warmth of the day. “Take her down to the brig.”

“But,” Franklin began, his voice suddenly too high as it betrayed his youth. “You can’t—“

“Are you refusing to obey a direct order, Sharp?”

Ulysses hovered over him, his bearded face inches from Franklin’s, and the young man realized how out of his depth he was. Scheming and wheedling his way to be the captain’s second mate, especially at his age, was one thing. This was another thing entirely, and he would have to play his cards right or he and the woman might end up as a tasty meals for the fishes.

“No, sir,” he responded softly, gaze lowered. Unfortunately, this meant he was looking at the woman in his arms, and he abruptly felt pity for her. Perhaps you were best left to rot in the sun. An unkind thought, but not unreasonable given the circumstances.

“Then what are you waiting for? Take her below!”

Franklin feigned a wince, mumbled, “yes, sir,” and walked around the captain to retreat into the shadows and the bowels of the ship where he would stow away their captive. Once below, Franklin gently set the woman on the ground as he retrieved the cell door keys, his wince now authentic as he looked about at the conditions of the brig. It wasn’t often used, and even if it had been, the captain wasn’t a man to waste resources on making prisoners more comfortable in their confinement.

He laid the woman down on the floor of the dank cell as gingerly as he could, not entirely sure there was a point in taking care. It was possible she would never awaken, and Franklin antagonizing the captain would end up being for naught. But there was always the chance she would live, and if she did, she would need an ally. Especially considering the secret he had discovered and omitted from telling his captain.

Franklin reached out and gently moved her head to the side, carefully folding the curl of her ear forward so he could get a better look. He needn’t have bothered, since his findings were in alignment with his original assessment. The captain was right about one thing—this was no woman, as indicated by the hardened slits hidden behind her ears. Slits that could be nothing other than what they appeared to be.

Franklin was touching the dried-out gills of a fish.

The gills were vestigial, perhaps, as they didn’t seem to go very deep and he couldn’t imagine how she would breathe through them. But they were unmistakable. He moved her head back into place, glanced around to be sure he was alone, and allowed himself to utter a single word, spoken in quiet wonderment as he studied the face of a being who shouldn’t exist.

“Mermaid.”

#at world's beginning #james norrington x oc #mermaid!oc #mermay #wolveria writes #pirates of the caribbean #my oc franklin sharp is the real mvp #shoutout to franklin

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libidomechanica · 24 days ago

Text

It fell Kai Khusrau, he decoys, the hand did you have

A curtal sonnet sequence

Charades and snow decks Susan’s cloth he, And you gave me that done? Of heaven the Ground; years Rose-bud in your mind. It fell Kai Khusrau, he decoys, the hand did you have? Tell me shepheards gladde with a frown, it made him lives a lull in vain travail hath writ: to languish’d for a kind of intoxication thrives on contrary, but a humble salve while the wild carrot. Hey ho Bonibell, tripping out of all is, when you do deceive.

Are blown over there’s might. She shrieking something green, two white goodnight I had seen the pipes it incarnation pouring of the rosy silk, the dew, sweet mistress’ eyes were fix’d with adoration thrives only to thee. When followed: and how, as made, ylke can form to fix it, or your frail as flower. Forced to wayst, till may the act of the Branch that’s that come; for all yonder by her hunt, I know the show the deer wounded bosoms fits!

She said I’ve a Pretty lambs we pull; fair- lined slippers for my days, which my Lover, raving ascendancy, are dead!—Alas! Little maid reply, seven dead, and any wrinkled with content; so runn’st thou catching a prayer to whose sight of Beres and Soldier once, with slaughter from instruments defaced,—and I don’t standing sheet. Distractions were awa’ that I shall lie unstrung, and fever dear lord! Makes a lull in vain— in vain!

’St credit give the pineal gland, I all rate? Yet, hadst thou the Wolues iawes: and on the cold were not thy side shall not hear. And if thou wert made a hundred friends, whose rules. That iudge their dancing eyes read clear sense did spill their sex, and that’s asymptotic to a Diamonds in nature’s change the sun that way, the ruthless with others have to suit thee; the birds left the white of elk and me roots of high degree, and robed the night he!

And and tender’d they from your cheek, and wishes mixe both legs and caught his wings of thine at morning over silks, and of tales did intwine my sisterhood. Things happen when the little mate thy light-headed, I fear, fantastically swollen moon let my braine not pointing been grown, lawless to crown! That it seek him thence with every soundly sleepe: she only midnights. Yes, even they straight the sound is departing sea, yet, ye are taugment?

Thou could not talk to gentle Groane at last she saw his wish, nor brings, it scarce less our pretty maid, my prime, like a wig. Past, howling, knowing the Rose—and tender pray take answer, Muse: wilt say, and this false impostor can renew our hour; but that was bedded? Far, far removed through the common than their souls commingled, and used to pry, to see that wine, in your jeering ravish’d, plunge into the pathless playing not your sisterhood.

When and squares feeling porticos which done, then did feede there we must I understood and ivy buds, with wake, and the Heaven; a new rose gem-like me why this darkening His teeth at the arrowy to tune. What it is ere he stalking payned, to hide our kisses once! Thousand he tied around I sit and bonie laddie’s your bonnet brave day, a false and expropriated and that my heart have the tablets has got to butter.

But Stage-play-like up before of heaven! The night, thy nature grow: but Walter Vivian-place, her lord, all fashions, and you tell, sweet girl-gray lightingaling terms of inflations; we hae seen upon your depart; at length of Reconciliation, he laid and summer’s art in her hand only be the two are deaf to reach. The happy eyelids open window-ledge on which one word said … Nay, we are thy growth, thou art not yet.

How am I ravish’d, plunge into thee. And which bore him o’er the park will come what Meg o’ the bonds which the night. The house is He not—Continent cannot be foes. At a Draught thy Head. Now in more the world, baring into the holly is darken’d with coral berry: that Maud, so diving of the Branch—and bade it, sparke Take all thy ioynts benomd with borrowes fast traveller. She shriek’d aloud, and send it to her with two smiles?

But many are a duty do I dream of thy growth, thy dart hath time had darke, since which the rose-bud-like help! Us all thee were seven. Her lord, all into the first a nation thrives only I’ll behold where in me like his grave where is smiling arms and charioteer that bred he, and many thoughts augment, the lads with ache? Purpose waste not thy eternal. To me, though in bullets and waters warre: and has so long we wanted?

For me, alack, shall be both become very much? Little maid would shade, while my woe, bene thy smoothly with indiscernible flower as befits for the black nights the boy hath hym payne, and only fright English air could change, time is infidelity? Sir Walter, patting not amiss; which is true. But often I caught in silken masquer, and some other John was her time and close meete to wonder the Willye his back to-night.

And when I demaund of your hart, till God released her noble hearts, I thinke your forefinger and a children do in the silver’d o’er to lend base subjects light way; but convey a melancholy into their sweet odes of life in their strawberries. Despite the din of the radio was left his wings of an airy flute, while, amid the Rose—and wild woddes my trickling terms, but that dare equal with the ecstasy expire.

Met a lithe and when he perfect, every day, to stay. And stumbling down her neck round then did smart, the Mill have we spoil it, get beyond affection. Which, while our love too weak to meet the fruit, as full songs can trippe it very side. This Parable—wretched that circumscrib’d, and said … Nay, we are and who was lost my kissed us much I pray you shalt scorn what ever told the wing, ever for that in a mirror are only a mocke.

And when you over, pledge you left undertook to me, and used to lifeless song areede me, I fear, fantastically swollen moon to slacken all thee down at the exact opposite of which gives it cometh, as the fix’d; they are your skin and quivering in dreamed, if thou art, must makes her lord! Then thine own to each belovèd hands and poore, your mind spilt had in travail so gladly spent; so runn’st thou, Muse; I teach the Crowne, saw not why.

Meanwhile the flying and look from thy hart; stella, when we hope, to the sheds, he asks not fades away with my younglings that day. I’ll stay; you go to froze to see, so will be new and therefore, that way, to find him, and will no more, and think’st thou should not cut him up, it could be; we’ll gentle mate thy prison roof confines to war’s alarms; she only scorns me, who cause of fear. Lips unchain’d; for azure pillars of the year, in the wretch!

From that thoughtful stately place. And smite the heaven shines so in the same was its breached an universary, a dove, must makes me too. Take all to-night. Some, with sidelong glance the field-mice are abroad, at Florence, and no birds were off—of course throat. By this is my life in every parachute and Crown with many are always their Institute taught to rue my smart, that were away with blood, my Stella O dear repose for blood!

A talk you Gods can smile; but many Lilia’s head, and the time in the Root he drank from when the chase the greenish marble, mixt red and some call; of each came cloath’d their cookout scuttle by in lava, fans of sandaled for the best. The feud, then with thine, and prepare my heavy load to the flying ratio to thee to that Stella O dear Lady, let some were stopt without the facts. An innocuous occupation.

—In vain, ah, what we wanted—to be stamp’d by the game before supper the Signs of Kingly tribute takes a ladde: withdraw Thee from hollow me weekly-strewings of the cream from when each other, the dale alone, knowing. I shadow to placed a wrong myself refuse: thou liest in Abraham’s bosoms fits! A chapelet, of touch. Her garden, taste me that day. Hate, I find in and who was long white goodnights, half chill wind me and strive.

From the silent to share her foode relide. And downe swayne: sike another’s deadly cryes ye heart of people you seem’d your iris tightens mechanically swollen moon let my hands, from me far off I bear my fall from far where Laura’s heaven shine before him quite a score of high degrees, it had redden’d her eyes on mine, they ask why. Best to hunt, I know. The lark’s wild rose-bud-like up before dull dress’d. With ease his capricious plight.

There I will I praised hand did most true sorrows fresh fire, through to common treasure the rapid blasted Pine, to find, nor earth doth wake, and turn thy Father by the pink, the game before duller eye: areede me, and thrust in heavens did once did, and th’ amorous ledges the city. A wet napkin, wrapp’d in vain. Dale alone and wake elsewhere I go, in perfect straine; nor with gratify? Sick for recompense with tears. This death?

Exactly four creepe: let the rolling looked in the mystery of me, but many girls—sick for her sight did the boy hath him to which, while Twilight we’ll seek, but the Line. To each, spirit that since them; only I’ll no more. Not pointing I despisd, and there. Take Lilia, then, ’ said I, if these, and true heart that. And letting darkness. Forget not kneel for grace then, ’ said was Hugh’s at Ascalon: a goodly wild carrot. What is dearly?

Just like and a Grecian dame, thus while crafty loving eyes; nay, now enlarge, who pleasaunt spring ouer they thriue in her and the snow upon his spoils despite of either hailed with anguish in love’s growin’ yet. One, and overhead the bond thy balmy lips unchain’d; for a man with pity you be? In the fall offence from time in languish pay. And her sleep. And I awoke in the moat, stifling Lilia woke with industry.

’ Ken ye how Meg o’ the Mill lo’es deare Monument: and her endlessly afloat, I loved yours; o then, lastly, let the gree, and let our Ashes mixe both it died the hogs. And from the enquiring eyes; nay, now! To tell men, till I praised her mines! As an unworthiness of the burnt vn’wares hearse. Fight with the danger in the subterranean echo of my sorrowe. Listening by the torrent day, fair Love is not thy eternal.

Out of a parrot turns up through thou desire is, to love with sometimes under them better, bitter when holly!—And what shall their time proceed, till the ballad or a stream, we lay stone heart of Memory and triumph—let the longed a saucy message to a summer shall I dwell near thy native earth: so goes on yawning and expropriated each others have no less, shall thy cheek, and bonie was combing out her but I?

When I them and a kiss the sun-brown’d Arab’s lip. Am, first a nation of anguish, when thou will; heroic, forfeits, all is spent; sing than Time was carried until death, and the Sunnebeame so bright convey, and let our close ivy-twines; there from the rock. And who do love fame whose Firmán the wholesome night her was lost libertie is gone; and nothings I do not knowne worthless stroke, nor bound, go thro’ the Mill lo’es deare. How with ache?

To meet in sphere is, which lov’d into the hears deep sighs, my love and bring part of Hope with thine own torn away; for a kitchen before dull not be long, till we in the road besides his brother. ’ Embraces of telegraph they rode; the best and all the world, baring through but kind, and lead the sparke Take all night, not winter is less thing into each other, the race She held myself to annoy; trebles sing a mother’s nakedness.

The men, but move in my hands. Embracing, didst passe the pineal gland, I looked forward the watching pasture made his from them yet, forget not rise thy prison roof confines to end. First sighed all shapes part, kiss sweet body of hys misdeede, that footstep of love receivest by wilful taste or flake white of beauty’s treasury, when there write my last one, the joy of best, and convey the people: thither, and smacking of that toong?

And all of long we try in vain—in vain! Lips shall never can recall are? I shadow to my thighs, my legs. Such a chaunge my ruby stony and more that my plain, ah, what we have a man with sidelong glance at hob-nail Dick, who looked out, each in youth, that great; but kind? As Jove did spill the name. Bloom-covered my nursling new love you the which, though our brain … I wish you would, how I wish you would trace my little white and lift my legs.

A flower as May never can dispense more than if I had no tears you’re driving, lowers their close ivy-twines; there we must be at home: the night and kiss, for the will not fades, my love were not self-kill’d. Deep sighs, my love; who, cowards the dame; and drew, from them that day could cure though Natures may floating he dying at the sword between the momentum. When follow me weekly- strewings of an aik, bonie was what chance hast stay’d still.

Thou art a lay me do the fall from eyes twinkle graves and warmth he might shift still shows. As an unaverred in the chilling on a Silver snow and th’ angry gods had climbing o’er me the musick match what had rather be your sacrificial move—all those weakens his own fair some worthless ruin and that her sad words are forbear to talk with suddenly I saw the heart that’s for malice shown, on each, spirits need thee.

In Badajos’s breast, and I’ll fall, that bred he, and manna dew; and smil’d at the air; i’ll seized my little porringer and eager face, as none of the arrows flow, and wiser that armed her own fair Love is best. And sighed deep, outstretch’d and lands—the Pledge, which erst from thee, and, yonder with busts: from an infinitely distant memory was full, or utter on the snow covered, Seven are wet! They rode; the wickedness. Now I’m numb.

Hey ho chapelet, of finest Gogmagogs, whose streames my care, whose possessing, can life in tears that move in whom those busy bee therefore dull dress. If it’s one sovereign churchyard lie, my sinewy thigh almost wreckful siege to blame, where Cupid’s name. The interested in that light in plates some might? And we hae seen, althought: so loue I pyne, hey ho grace the stores of long light, when nor doe intermix’d? Rose blood; it grew, for Oh!

Although it fades aware of Selefkia from thee all night? Your sound that may be alive? But for you to slope, and therefore, she made of Loves Crown both Was and in another’s way; and leafless, shall o’er the solitary dove, must, surer bound, whom the electric shock dislinked with a look; with the rest. Oh, thoughts, from home; but tis not! The isles of the Woman’s Henna from the spring of the while gazing up on its object find.

To say, and summer youth, like a sea of mine own. The room with flowers and argument. And ruby stony and who with this colours and king thus it shuttles through winds creepe, as represents the dale alone. I dare stript as bare and pointer is come downe swayne, or red with a wand’ring the game before. Which, as though he was bedded?—Youth in bleak November, and the queen attended knees he lay directly in the vena cava.

In the watches him—then Roger, then quickly ghost, thro’ the Mill has gotten to the vats, or foxlike in the Breath of my soule up their narrow to my turf, and force her face with me. That was give: to meet in silken masquer, ancient fictions made him in the rising these north clymes too coldly him embrace and both attended; in whose shrieks and Tygres, there it glide a sunbeam: near and takes the splendour of the bonie boys wither.

Low like me. No loved my life—send it will, from college: he had darken’d into her of thee and years after me for one; take the heart and goosebumps lift, would have cares all are in our brain … I wish you wander’st in youth of her poor flowers have gone back toward childhood were off where erst from men atheists, hollow me, then, with which sight at a time, and who with scoff; and there such sweets that thou might beautie and leaves and three time will not hear.

Truth to lay; but them smell and all the way thee; and one man lay in dreamed, ah woe betide thee, wretched about; then bedded. The racket this proud usurper, and absence my second Foot. Instead, taking upon your mind. White good, nor earth: so goes on yawning your light flow’r to decay, and saw the heart that made the sun that to my belly, he burning he disappear, then sitte the street outside, which she had cease to mine eternal.

She answered, each be hero lies plaints did in this face of wrong than Time have my soul of Petrarch’s lease hath its worthiness of Albany. Let not walk as friend of my woe cannot blind unco wae, to those who on thy birth is he! The Nymph passe the deity oft will say that I do, where in this heir owne smart; I saw all day longed, all else he broad in the laughter: we were some gentle Maud too, and seem long we try in vain.

Had breaths of ice, there is not long that beats, a feudal knight say, No! Whether walls, that celestial thief, and she might, from a sepulchre, and when each belov’d Stella euer sene? Thy long; and turn back they do weare his festive day, yet so it could have show no fancy set, and other part; if thou art out ioy, such a flower-enamour’d busy bee there upon a tried to thee when each maid that lately interested in haste away?

Lo! But her with that when all into the sound to carve out thy sake too hot the Abbey- ruin in too long ages yet thou, Muse: wilt thou art more right of a habit— blows eight loaves in Brunswick Square. Good brother for such as Emperor-moths, or more did lay, sweet odes of my chiefe light at all weepe.— We’ll night, who can too late his front steps. I walked in the valley; let the tottering steps. With which I lov’d repose for it had fully.

She wounded in their open for one? To be Kingdom is the arrowe, ne can Willye now I think’st thou, that Maud and that: a pleasures are borne away. The graves give me leaves fallen, or no; or whether in part ’tis here we took off his will freeze from heat must, and there; it is the bed, bodies artful houses are we took off his being with a page or thee standing Jealous of an airy flute, whilst the world, and fickle Nelly Gray!

They pass’d swift throat in which, like there’s as we once he giveth all of it thy eternal lines, and I will discharge, whose sweeter it be seen, the little buttercup in sheaves which I fill within the sweets distil through of the lines to sip; sweet could death- pale warre: and he liefest boye, how dolefull beauteous region bids me that in its tranquility; then listneth ech vnto blisse. The flowing fires of our breast did in tears the steps.

Is it thy narrow house; but comes just that. Love is laid down on Laura lies in Petrarch’s lease hath that course; a love calls me hence, and what’s it! The Mill was brought by greefs augment my doom, and wreaths, too, Maud, so tend her foes with a key, and tells the slender fades away; and the son,—the souls in circle of our isle, wash’d sweet faces and leaves which our hand this and he liefest boye, how many women sat on his shroud; and now Will’s his pay.

And leave me; and other. Full faith yet never couples, woven in celebration; the spring. An’ the Mill lo’es deare Monument: and cold, thou euer shall the tear my Garment for the hills where to play thee with sweet the fields: and now all’s past and beauty can of nut-brown ale, they rode; the chasm of time, leans a kind of faith of man, and when December I don’t bother this, that iudge their loves and churchmen starue. And thrust in the holly!

I am sure heir. She looked forward the scortching to all, saith Loue, since I Ioues cup do keep my drooping heate? The joy of my cherelesse hether if he was, To-day; to which name of God, nor with diamonds in language who would have played, my brother, the walls of depart the feud, then you half- historic, countrey moue: true, original course in your wind, forget not knows, it had fasten’d watches him—then Roger, thought: so you be?

And elusive shore, and square were not take myself deceive So I began, and sweet sake thee to go and harass’d swift foot was a something in dream. And white, doe idly spent, adversity then image should it not blamed, if these dull dress’d. Her mouth, from Time’s channel, where erst from his inside of myself so, but a weak Woman; nor Valiant love I did not haply say truth of the way and Tygres, there in language of dreery death!

I met a ladde: withdraw Thee from thenceforth, thee to tell me Perigot so shall owe you left with As you will, from her words bringing to the fall of ladies sing madrigals. For each spicy flows of them better foode, hey ho Perigot his eyes appeare; I saw the monster’s ragged hands. And tells her lips: and ouer there I’ll no more, till time. As thou the wildness shaken as I loved, the days are desperate rage, whose fair Albany.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #116 texts #curtal sonnet sequence

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