r-f-m-writes
R.F.M
PWriter/Author"Pretty, Dead Animals""Bittersweet Babygirl" "A Lark in a Hollow"
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Pretty, Dead Animals Chapter Four
Linette runs on Mondays.
It's ritual. A routine she had been honoring since she was fifteen and still in foster homes, trapped in the city.
It felt safer out on the flats of the desert, nowhere for predators to hide, no unexpected turns in the roads, just clear, calm sand stretching further than she could see.
Linette would have liked to listen to music while she ran, but the cost of headphones and a smartphone were luxuries that she couldn’t even dream of. The steady pound of sand under her shoes and even rushing of her breath was good enough as Linette sped across the ground, a pleasant sting in her legs and stain in her lungs as she moved.
It was mid morning. The sun sat high. She felt good, oddly optimistic for the week ahead as if there were a little spout of hope sprung up from the rubble of her heart.
Something good was coming Linette’s way. She could feel it.
~R.F.M~
Logan tugged at the length of chain to test its bearing again, watching the silver links go taught, pinching one after the other, all the way along to the stud tightened securely in the wall.
It didn’t budge.
Dropping the metal tether to the floor with a clatter, he stepped around the careful arrangement of scented markers and mindful coloring books to the mattress. Twin sized, brand new, made with top quality memory foam. It was pushed flush with the wall, right under the thick metal stud.
He hadn't bothered with a bedframe. Too much potential for her to hurt herself if she pitched a fit when she was brought home.
The sheets were white and pink, an organic blend with eight hundred thread count. Two pillows, just the same as what she had in her apartment and a light duvet with a single, beige fleece blanket folded into a square at the foot of the bed.
Other than the sleeping area, her room was sparse. No pictures hung from the walls, no clutter on the floor, nothing that she could make into a weapon or use to hurt herself. It was perfect.
Logan would buy her things, of course. If she was good, his girl could have whatever she wanted. Books. Movies. A full screen TV. Clothes and makeup.
New, pretty toys to play with that were more fun than the single raggedy old bunny she doted over.
Linette could have whatever she wanted if she was good.
But if she was bad?
Logan lifted a hand to rub along the hinge of his jaw while he stared at the length of chain.
If she was bad, then it would be Logan who got whatever he wanted.
#ao3 original work#original writing#original poem#original work#ao3 writer#ao3feed#original novel#original character#original female character#original male character#dead dove fic#dead dove do not eat#dark romance#dark writing#prettydeadanimals#pda#rfmwrites
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A Lark In a Hollow Chapter Two
Lark stared at her hands, the cuticle on her thumb was bright red, scabbing over slowly, the curved edge of it gummy and recessed after years of relentless picking. Just her right one. Her left was the one she used to wound its twin.
Christopher Hollow’s truck was big, black, and almost as intimidating as the man himself when Lark walked toward it across the small, crowded, city parking lot.
Mrs. Poppy’s voice rose light and chipper on the air behind her, speaking to Hollow with enthusiasm while Lark came to a stop beside the truck, standing still and silent. Waiting. Her father’s voice rasped in her memory, hazy as a cloud of cigarette smoke, half as bitter.
Good girls are seen, not heard.
“- very smart, her grades are the best I’ve seen in a long while, no need to worry about tutors, just to have her enrolled in school before the end of winter break. Do try to get her outside and socializing once in a while. Lark’s a shy thing.”
Averting her eyes to the dusty cracks in pavement, Lark blinked at the white rubber toes of her worn shoes while Mr. Hollow moved past her, the heat of his body like an open log fire as he loaded her duffle bag into the bed of the truck, reaching up to fasten it to the safety screen with a length of elastic cable.
“That right?”
Christopher’s voice was rough and low, syllables rumbling out of him like the grumble of a bear who just woke from hibernation.
Lark tucked her chin toward her chest, shoulders hunching against the uncomfortable sensation of being looked at.
Mrs. Poppy saved her from having to speak.
“Wouldn’t say boo to a goose, this one. A bit of an introvert.”
The whole truck rocked when Christopher took his weight off its side, suspension squeaking slightly as dark boots stepped into Lark’s sight.
The steel caps of his boots mimicked the shape of her scuffed up sneakers.
Christopher stood near her and gave a grunt.
“‘s alright. Not much for people myself.”
Lark toed at an immature dandelion sprouting determinedly through cracks in the concrete.
Mrs. Poppy laughed, loud and bright.
“Oh, you two, peas in a pod! Come along Lark, let’s not keep Mr. Hollow waiting around.”
~R.F.M~
Christopher Hollow doesn't listen to the radio while he drives, and he drives safely, sensible and precise.
The inside of his truck is immaculately clean with dark leather seats and a grey plastic dashboard. The air smelled vaguely like dog and wood and muddy boots - but those were all scents that Lark was happy to endure for however long it would take them to get to where they were going.
He doesn't make her talk or take any offense to her silence, caution masquerading as shyness.
The girl sat still, not letting herself fidget, not letting herself become an irritation. Only Lark’s eyes moved, dark honey brown irises flicking rabbit quick over the landscape as it shrank from city, to towns, to farms, then shot up again in towering green-gray forest that enclosed all around them, swallowing the big truck in it shadows until Lark felt it must look like a shiny black beetle scurrying through dirt.
She had learned about old growth pines in school, got ninety five out of a hundred for her essay on the importance of preservation and advocacy. Gazing up at them from her passenger seat, towering and celestial like gods on earth, Lark felt she had sold them short in her paper.
The sun rose and rose and rose until it halted at its peak, then, slowly, began to regress back toward the tops of trees, casting long golden shadows over the road and the hood of the truck as it sank.
#original writing#original work#ao3 original work#ao3 writer#ao3feed#a lark in a hollow#sweet'nshort#rfmwrites#dark romance#dark writing#dark aesthetic#dead dove do not eat#dead dove fic
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Pretty, Dead Animals Chapter Three
Logan Driver had given ten of the best years of his life to the military. It was only fair that he had gained a few skills in exchange.
The lock in the door slid open easily under the ministrations of the master pin, hinges hissing quietly as it swung inward.
Back in the day, his call sign had been BlackCat. Logan could sneak his way into any building or compound under the cover of night without alerting a single guard or resident. His name meant stealth. If any higher up wanted a target taken out discreetly or off the books, Sergeant Driver was the first man they called.
Breaking into unguarded, rural apartments in the middle of the day was a little below the veterans pay-grade, but Logan wasn’t about to complain.
The fewer obstacles that stood between him and getting to his girl, the better.
Stepping into the apartment, Logan wasn’t surprised to see it clean and orderly. Every little object in its own place, not even one wrinkle in the floral sheets that covered the bed.
He watched the girl during his stake outs as she cleaned and cleaned and cleaned her little hollow any chance she got. Through the window, he could see she was always stooping over a broom, working a mop, or polishing imagery ring marks out of her stainless steel sink, the same sink Logan stood over and stared at.
It gleamed so brightly he could almost make out a clear reflection of himself in its ribbed draining board.
The air held the smell of something soft and floral, a cleaning product Logan couldn’t name.
Padding lightly over the floor, he stepped to the dining table, pulling out the lone wooden chair from where it was pushed flush with the edge of the table top, and sat down.
It wasn’t the first time he had been in her apartment. Far from it.
Logan had been paying his girl visits for three and a half months.
She didn’t know it yet. Didn’t know him yet. But she would.
Linette was his girl, and he had come to take her home.
Soon.
Soon.
Soon.
#original character#original novel#original poem#original post#original art#original writing#original work#dead dove fic#dead dove do not eat#dark romance#dark writing#prettydeadanimals#pda#rfmwrites
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Pretty, Dead Animals Chapter Two
The backs of Linette’s thighs stuck flush to the linoleum floor of her apartment as she twisted left and right, razor in hand, carefully shaving away a week worth of hair on her legs and arms.
Her aircon was still broken, its absence magnifying the stifling heat that rose slow and smothering through the space. No amount of persistent hinting would compel Mrs. Weller to have it mended.
Linette knew it was negligence on her landlord’s part, that she would be within her rights to lodge a formal complaint, make threats of breaking lease - but she wouldn’t.
Linette didn’t like making a nuisance of herself. She knew full well that she couldn’t afford rent anywhere else in town, and she didn’t have anyone to stay with if Mrs. Weller gave her the boot for being a pest over broken appliances.
Working up a lather on her skin with cheap moisturizing body wash, the girl sighed through her nose.
The weekend was running long, the sun seeming to drag its feet as it crawled slow and cumbersome through the bright blue, cloudless sky.
Rinsing her razor off in the bowl of soapy water, Linette started on the backs of her knees while she glanced around the apartment, thinking of what else there was to do.
The floors were spotless from her sweeping and mopping them yesterday. The kitchenette was tidy as could be. All her clothes were washed, folded and put away - not as much of a feat as it seemed when Lin liked to keep her wardrobe small. The only thing she hadn’t done was make her bed.
Passing a wet washcloth over her legs, Linette wrung it out over the second, smaller bowl of dirty water before hanging it on the handle of the stove, knowing it would dry out in minutes flat thanks to the heat.
Pumping the last of her unscented moisturizer into her palm, Linette layered the soothing balm over her legs quickly before she stood.
A slow, hot wind pushed through her apartment window, making cream checkered curtains billow inward and fluster around Linette as she stepped forward, feeling the soft touch of the heady breeze dust over her skin, cooling and warming all at the same time.
Outside stretched miles and miles and miles of red sand. Shrubs scattered over the scorched earth like round green dice thrown by the hand of a giant. Far away, almost further than Lin could see, there were trees. Tall, swaying, hardy. No lakes stretched far enough inland to supply the flora with water, so their salvation came as rain.
She could feel the promise of a downpour in the air. It sat heavy on the roof of her mouth, soothing and clean on the wind. There would be a cool change before the world was bathed. Linette would leave her windows open, let the glory of the storm roll through her apartment until the air held a pleasant snap of its chill and all her pillows smelled of rain.
Pushing away from where she had been leaned against the painted sill, she folded back the dressing screen that stood like a makeshift wall between her bed and the rest of the apartment, careful not to scratch the floor as she moved the wooden legs. Linette was getting her security deposit back if it was the last thing she did.
A disarray of pillows and sheets kicked around on top of her mattress greeted her with the screen pushed back.
Bun Bun lay on the ground looking up at her soulfully with his scratched glass eyes.
Linette’s stomach dropped. She swept him into her arms in a second, hugging him against her in apology as her throat went tight.
“I’m sorry - I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you fell.”
It was stupid. Embarrassin. Her attachment to the stuffed toy as an adult, as someone who should have grown up and then grown out of ‘childish’ things, but she couldn’t help it.
Bun Bun was all she had that was really hers as a child. Hers to keep. Hers to love. Hers to depend on as she was pedaled from one group home to the next, passed on like a burden no one wanted.
He wasn’t even given to her by her real parents. Some of the other kids had things like that. Baby blankets. Quilts made for them by mothers who were too young or too deststue to shoulder the responsibility. Little, hopeless gifts given in lue of real love, real apologies, real accountability.
Linette was abandoned with nothing.
Bun Bun was given to her by Mrs. Lee, the nicest foster mother she ever loved and lost. Her house had been big and clean and safe. There was always food in the fridge, and Lin was always allowed to eat when she was hungry. Mrs. Lee gave her hugs and didn’t punish her for anything, ever.
Linette didn’t realize she was crying until her tears began to wet the top of Bun Bun’s head, his floppy brown ears draped over her wrists as she held him up to her face, chest constricted and empty and horrible.
Wind picked up at her back. Curtains whipped, clicking on their rod.
The smell of rain rolled over her with a familiarity that was as soothing and unconditional as one of Mrs. Lee’s hugs.
#original female character#original novel#original male character#ao3 original work#original character#original art#original post#original poem#original writing#prettydeadanimals#pda
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Bittersweet BabyGirl Chapter One
“Please sign here, miss Bennet.”
Pedro’s penthouse was luxurious and sun warm around her, everything inside it smelling of him - just the way she liked.
Sarah scrawled her name on the certificate of adoption.
“This mean I have to call you Daddy now, Pedge?”
Looking over a shoulder at her co star turned father, she passed the pen back to his lawyer.
Pedro grinned, hands in pockets. The way he stared at her was about as subtle as a slap across the face.
“Only when you want to, babygirl.”
The lawyer supervising the signing looked uncomfortable. Sarah was impressed he seemed able to sense something that usually went over people's heads.
That tension, running an undercurrent through every moment she and Pedro shared.
She knew none of this was innocent.
And it thrilled her.
He thrilled her.
The knife against Ray’s throat was even colder than the night air that pressed around her, thin material of her worn out waffled thermal doing nothing to fight the cold as she was pinned against the front of Aiden’s chest, jaw grasped tight, forcing her to stare ahead, right at him .
“One more step and I’ll open up your girl, Mills, I swear to God.”
He was erratic. Voice shaking, breath puffing hot against the side of Ray’s face while her hands trembled, her own lungs barely able to gasp a clean swallow of air with how deeply the blade of his knife was pressed into her skin. When his voice came from the darkness, it was a balm to all her fears. Salvation, safety, love .
“Alrigh’. Easy , Aiden. Let’s talk about this.”
Ray’s feet stumbled under her when she was jerked backwards, open hands flinching in the air as the man behind her yanked her painfully to move with him.
“No, no more talking. I am done with the fucking talking . Either you give me what I want, right now, or I take away the only thing you love. I’ll kill her, Mills. I swear .”
Ray was panting now, hyperventilating around the choking blade. She couldn’t move if she wanted to. She was paralyzed in her fear.
“ Dad -”
He stepped out of the shadowed tree line, rifle slung over his back, heavy winter coat expanding his already impossibly large frame. Slowly, he raised his hands, stance mirroring hers as his eyes shone in the dim light. When he spoke next, he was talking to Aiden, but staring at her.
“Alright. No talkin’. We do whatever you want, Aiden, however you want ta do it. Just say the word.”
The press of the knife lessend. Ray felt her heart thundering, pulse spiking as she took deep pulls of air into her lungs, eyes welling up in relife and fear and hope as she watched her father step closer. She couldn't stop herself when she spoke again, desperate for him.
“Daddy, I’m scared .”
Pain furled across his face at the terror in her tone and the use of an innocent name she hadn’t called him since she was a young child.
“I know, babygirl. I know.”
The bell rang out. George’s voice came, calm but precise, from the director's chair. “Cut!”
Hot flood lights thawed the freezing air on set in a second as they doused the forest clearing in a golden glare. Samson drew the chilly prop knife away from Sarah’s throat. Pedro dropped his hands down to his sides and grinned at her.
The clapperboard snapped to mark the take.
She was bolting toward her co-star before the camera had a chance to stop rolling, coiling her arms tight around herself as she ran, “Fuck, I’m freezing .”
Pedro threw his arms open, lifting the flaps of his warm winter jacket, ready to swaddle her the second her chest met his.
“C’mere, you.”
Somewhere behind them, Samson laughed. Sarah plastered herself against Pedro, pinning her icy hands between their bodies as the man grabbed the flaps of his jacket and wrapped them around her tight, squeezing narrow shoulders and rocking them back and forth on the spot.
“Still can’t believe Laura put you in this for a night shoot. Shirts paper thin, not gonna do a fuckin’ thing against the wind. Hey, George! This the last take? We’re all tired as hell, an babygirl ‘s about to lose her damn fingers.”
Relishing in the warmth pouring over her body and the ragged, woodsy smell of his cologne - which Sarah can tell Pedro applied a bit too liberally that morning - she didn’t say a peep, instead closing her eyes and burrowing her head as deep as she could in the collar of his shirt.
George’s voice came steady and tired in reply. “Yep, last take for tonight. I’ll put it through to get approved tomorrow - hopefully we won’t have to torture y’all with a reshoot.”
Stepping down from his chair, the older man picked up his empty coffee cup off the grass, slotting the huge jumble of scripts against his hip as he began to walk away.
“Sarah, I liked what you did with it, good job. Samson, if we gotta shoot again, not so much shaking the knife, just hold it steady against her steady. Remember, you’re full of adrenaline, ready to go in for the kill. Otherwise, nicely done.”
Pedro’s voice rumbled through Sarah as he called after their director with false offense. “Hey! What about me? I don’t get any notes?”
Glancing over his shoulder with a good humored smile, George shook his head.
“What about you, Pedro? You get it perfect - every single time. Now, stop fishing for compliments, and get her inside. I don’t want the best half of my father - daughter duo freezing to death in a shit hole like Toronto.”
Smiling to herself, Sarah mumbled into her friend’s jacket. “You gonna let him get away with that diss, Mr. Emmy winner?”
Rubbing his hands in quick passes of friction up and down her spine, the man hummed.
“Not a diss from where I’m standin’. You are the best part of our duo, babygirl .”
He slipped briefly into Mills' deep, Texan accent for the last word. Sarah pulled a face and batted him on the chest.
“As if you fucking belive it. Carry me inside, I’m freezing, and exhausted.”
Scoffing at her attitude, Pedro drew his head back the tiniest bit, peering down the handsome crook of his nose at her.
“ Carry you? Nah. Don’t think I can do that on account ‘a my - what did you call them? Geriatric knee caps?”
Groaning, Sarah hugged her arms around his waist tightly and searched for the humility to repent.
“Look, I’m sorry, OK? I was just teasing. Your knee caps aren’t geriatric, and you aren't geriatric so please, please carry me inside.”
Clicking his tongue like he would if he were still playing Mills, Pedro slid his hands down to grip the backs of her thighs, squeezing once in warning before hoisting her up around his waist.
“All the things you’ve done to me, and I still carry you to bed. How do you manage it, Sarah? With those big brown eyes, fuckin’ can’t say no to anything.”
Smiling, the girl let her head roll against the strong jut of his shoulder, watching the forest set shrink away behind them as he took her the short distance back to the trailers, every step bumping the flat of her stomach against his slightly softer one.
The door to her caravan was unlocked, and Pedro deftly knocked the handle down with his boot, showing Sarah, without words and beyond a doubt, that he most certainly was not geriatric.
Lights flicked on automatically as he walked up the short length of steps and trod into the sleek temporary living space. Last week’s scripts were scattered thoughtlessly over the built in couch, and two pairs of dirty bowls crowded the small table along with half drunk mugs of tea. Her kitchen wasn’t much better, with an open box of cereal and a quarter drunk gallon of whole milk left out on the counter.
Sarah made a fuzzy minded note to herself that she should throw both away the next day as Pedro muttered something disapproving in Italian so she couldn’t understand it. She hated when he did that.
Her bedroom was the least shameful, with fresh floral sheets thrown over the queen sized mattress and none of her four sets of pillows scattered on the floor. Baby Bear lay lopsided against the headboard, looking up at her with mournful glass eyes as Pedro lowered her to the soft hug of the mattress.
The clock on her bedside said it was quarter past one in the morning. Sarah rolled her head, closing her eyes as she felt the laces of her - or, more accurately, Ray’s - boots being undone.
He undressed her slowly, careful and exact, mindful of the wardrobe pieces but always more conscious of her, his big, warm hands skimming her skin as he tugged off Ray’s jeans and pinched off her woolen socks.
The last thing to go was the thermal, beige colored and totally inadequate. He said something to himself as he drew it up over her head to unveil her sports bra benithe, muttering in quick, breathy sweeps of his first language while he balled it up and chucked it at the back wall.
Stripped down to her underpants and bra, Sarah slowly opened her eyes again, peeking up at him through her lashes as he gestured for her to sit up.
She did. He took hold of the bottom of the tightly fitted bra, jutting his chin toward her nightstand as he began to peel the compressing fabric up.
“You enjoyin’ the book I got you?”
Blinking hazily in the direction of what he was referring to, Sarah saw the pastel yellow cover and smiled.
I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy.
Lifting her arms to help with the challenging process of getting the activewear off, she laughed a little.
“My mother wasn’t that bad, Pedro. Yes, she forced me into a career I didn’t want, but it was nothing like what Jennette went through.”
Tossing the bra aside where he had thrown the shirt, the man looked down at Sarah with a disapproving pinch in his brows.
“But you do relate to it. I didn’t give it to you to say what she did to you was that bad, I gave it to you as a reminder that you made the right choice last year. I don’t want you to start spiraling. You needed to cut her off, if you hadn’t she would have kept on taking from you. Money. Love. All the other shit she didn’t deserve.”
Sighing, Sarah sank back, nipples pebbling in the cool air of the trailer as she took hold of one corner of her duvet to pull it over herself, closing her eyes and blindly feeling around the bed for her teddy.
“I know, Ped. I’m not spiraling, I’m just tired. Its been a long week.”
Footsteps padded by her bedside. The feather-soft- fur of Baby Bear brushed the skin of her naked chest, pressed against her by a warm hand. Pedro’s mustache tickled her cheek as he leaned down to kiss her there.
“Get some rest, bambino . Remember, I’m just across the lot if you need me.”
The rumbled pet name made Sarah smile as she moved her hand blindly to find the top of his head, gently scraping her fingernails through the soft, fluffy hair that grew there.
“I’m not seventeen anymore.”
A soft chuckle came from the man at her sleepy, disgruntled tone. She didn’t have those nightmares anymore. She wasn’t a child anymore.
“Maybe, but you’ll always be my babygirl, Sarah.”
She didn’t remember him leaving, or herself falling asleep, but in a blink, it was morning again, light filtering through the small cracks around the blinds and waking her.
When she walked out of her bedroom, Sarah saw her dirty bowls washed and dried on the side board of the stainless steel sink. Her scripts sat in a perfect stack on the small dining table.
Opening the mini fridge, there was a fresh bottle of milk and, when she looked toward the breakfast nook, two new boxes of her favorite cereal, a pink sticky note tacked to the front of one.
Remember to look after yourself, bambi. If you’re struggling, tell me. I am here for you, always.
~P
#shortandsweet#original female character#orignal character#original novel#orignal writing#original character#original poem#original post#original art#ao3 original work#ao3 writer#ao3feed#dead dove do not eat#dead dove fic#dark writing#dark romance
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A Lark In a Hollow Chapter One
Really, she doesn't have a choice.
Lark barely remembers the huge shadow of a man sitting beside her in the dead heat of Mrs. Poppy's office at the children's home. He is silent, stoic, and completely terrifying.
Christopher Hollow.
Muscled.
Six foot five.
Storm blue eyes.
Dog tags outlined under the straining stretch of his black tee-shirt.
"Lark," Mrs. Poppy says, gently, "you're happy with this arrangement? You want to go with your Godfather?"
There's no money left for her to live off until she finds a job - if she finds a job.
Her Dad is dead.
Lark doesn't have a choice.
Lark Douglas didn’t know who Christopher Hollow was when Mrs. Poppy brought his name up to her on a hot Saturday afternoon in her office. The additional details that he had served with her Dad in Afghanistan and was her appointed legal guardian and Godfather did nothing to help jog Lark’s memory.
In fact, it was a full week after Mrs. Poppy informed Lark of Christopher Hollow’s existence that the girl finally managed to scrounge up a single, short, fuzzy memory of the man.
She was home.
The door to their flat was open, the old ceiling fan had been turning in slow circles over her head. It did nothing to fight against the mid July heat that was so stifling and muggy it made her skin stick to the linoleum floors. She had sat on the couch playing with Labrador, her stuffed toy dog, when Mom walked in with someone.
Lark was five, she thinks, and she hadn’t paid attention to anything that was being said, or looked at who had stepped the room after her mother. She only glanced up from where she was making her stuffed dog do backflips off the worn-down couch cushions when big, black boots stepped into her vision off the edge of the sofa.
The man who stood in front of her was tall, wearing camo pants and a fitted grey tee-shirt. His face was hard to remember, but Lark thought he had sandy brown hair and the start of a thick brown beard. He had crouched down, setting aside a battered black duffle bag, looking at her like he expected something.
Lark had only stared at him.
Mom’s voice had a strain in it when she spoke.
“Say hi to Chris, baby. He’s come all the way from the airport just to see you.”
The man spoke before Lark had the chance. He had a deep, rough rumbly voice.
“Don’t worry her about it, Lori. Been two years. I’d be surprised if Pet remembered me at all.”
Pet.
That was the only memory Lark had of Christopher.
She wasn’t even sure it was real and not just something she had made up in the recesses of her mind as an unconscious effort to help herself fill in the gaps and feel less uncertain.
She had lots of memories like that.
Memories no one else could verify. Memories she wasn’t sure happened, but couldn’t shake as being real.
This was what led Lark to where she stood at the top of the worn flight of wooden stairs. Seventeen years old, dressed in clothes that didn’t belong to her, feeling entirely unsure of what the future would hold.
Seventeen, and only three weeks and four days shy of her eighteenth birthday.
It was ridiculous.
Stupid, even.
Why couldn’t she just wait it out at the girl’s home?
Why was Mrs. Poppy was obligated, by law, to reach out to relatives Lark had never even heard of and negotiate with them down the phone, asking and then, after the eighth rejection, pleading with each of them to come and pick her up?
“Just a month - no, no, you wouldn’t have to commit to adoption, Mrs. Tanner - not at all. I am only reaching out because Lark is your niece, and I am sure you want the best for her -”
The list thinned, name by name. Lark saw them each time Mrs. Poppy opened the manilla envelope with her initials on it, glancing over the struck off phone numbers and feeling nothing.
The rejections didn’t surprise her.
She knew from lived experience how reluctant people were to help a stranger.
It took less than half a week for them to reach the last one.
His name.
Christopher Hollow.
He was who Lark was waiting for as she hung onto the banister, her dark eyes fixed on the panes of frosted glass in the door, anticipating seeing a shadow blot across the panels when he stepped onto the porch and rang the buzzer.
Floorboards creaked.
Lark moved too late when Mrs. Poppy stepped out of her office that stood at the side of the stairs. The stacked blonde beehive of her hair bobbing into the girl’s view as Lark tried to scurry back out of her sight.
Too little, too late.
The kind wrinkles around Mrs. Poppy’s eyes doubled and deepened as the sound made her look upward and spot Lark.
“Lark, there you are! I was just about to come and find you, dear. Nip down into my office for a moment, I’ve got some things I want to discuss with you before Mr. Hollow arrives.”
The old stairs squeaked loudly as the girl walked sheepishly down the grossly worn-out blue carpet runner, rounding the curved banister at the bottom to follow Mrs. Poppy into her office.
It was sun warm inside, light spilling over the faded hardwood floor and shiny varnish of the big, brown desk, highlighting the dozens of ring-marks stained into its top by mugs of coffee past. Mrs. Poppy rounded the desk, having to skirt sideways between the edge of it and the rows of heavy metal file drawers that flanked the room on all sides.
Taking her perch in a black wheely chair, the woman gestured for Lark to sit in one of the two big, green, retro velvet sofas that faced her desk.
Sinking down into her seat, Lark folded her hands in her lap and looked at the woman, waiting to be spoken to. She had been thoroughly taught from a young age that she was to be seen and not heard. There had also been plenty of occasions when Lark wasn’t to be seen or heard. Those were moments when her half empty pink, princess wardrobe came in handy.
Mrs. Poppy placed a pair of up-swept cat eye spectacles on the tip of her tall, gently crooked nose, and took out a notepad. It was one of dozens she had, this particular piece of stationary sported Lark’s name on its front, written in black pen and then broadly underlined in purple marker.
“Miss Douglas today is a big one for you. How are you feeling, hon? Excited? Nervous?”
The soft slip of her southern accent calmed Lark some as she fought against the urge to fidget, keeping her fingers still in her lap.
“Excited, Ma’am. Dad didn’t like to travel much, so seeing the Appalachians sounds like a real adventure.”
Lark stuck a quick smile onto the end of her lie. She had rehearsed it in her head a hundred times since she was told the good news a week before.
Christopher Hollow wanted her.
He was driving the whole way down the coast from his home in the Appalachian Mountains to come and collect her. Lark couldn’t even comprehend where the Appalachian Mountains stood, just that they were stupendously far away.
Mrs. Poppy grinned at Lark, genuine and radiant, as she wrote something in fast scratching cursive over and empty line of the notepad.
“Always such an optimist, Lark. I’m sure Mr. Hollow will be delighted by you.”
Lark’s left thumb twitched. When she smiled, it felt tight in the corners, “I certainly hope so, Ma’am.”
And she truly did. Lark knew the way men behaved when they weren’t delighted by her.
~R.F.M~
A fist gripped long, brown hair tightly enough to tear dozens of strands out of Lark’s scalp as she was dragged down the hallway by her head, the girl’s frame stooped almost to the floor as she clawed at the hands restraining her.
“Fucking little bitch coming to steal from me? Think you’re slick, huh?”
In honesty, Lark did.
She had stolen from the man before on countless occasions, rummaging through the contents of his worn leather wallet, fishing out loose coins and dollar notes that wouldn’t be missed. Before, he was always too out of his mind to realize, so Lark had gotten greedy.
Twenty dollars was a lot of money to people like them. She was foolish for thinking she could snatch it away without his notice.
Lark didn’t know his name, or his age, or anything about him other than the fact he bought pot on Thursday afternoons and left the door to his apartment wide open with 90’s music playing full volume while he sat out on his balcony in a beat-up pink recliner, back to the living room, smoking.
By all accounts, the man wasn’t very smart. But he was still a man, a man much stronger than Lark.
#ao3 original work#orignal character#orignal writing#ao3 writer#archive of our own#a lark in a hollow#original male character#original female character#original novel#original work#dead dove do not eat#dead dove fic#shortandsweet#short and sweet#sweet'nshort#rfmwrites
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Pretty, Dead Animals Chapter One
The shimmering shift of tattoos over refined tendons of muscle made Linette feel like she was being hypnotized as she swept the man's card through the slot on the side of the machine, not even glancing at the amount due.
“Your boss ’s sick, so he leaves a little girl alone to deal with grown men all day? More of a shmuck than I thought.”
The genuine ebb of concern in his tone made Linette’s knees feel wobbly as she handed the card back.
The tip of his index finger brushed against the soft underside of her wrist as he took it from her.
“I can take care of myself.”
When he scoffed at her it wasn’t unkind so much as disbelieving.
"Yeah, kid. I’m sure you think you can.”
Linette’s stomach was swooping itself into hot, excited knots as she stood fixing her hair in the spotty restroom mirror, yanking brown waves out of the claw clip and fluffing out her roots before arranging the tangled mess over her shoulders in a way the looked half presentable.
It had been scorching hot the night before, she’d barely slept. Her under eyes were sunken and blue tinged, she felt groggy and deflated - the clothes she wore had been grabbed thoughtlessly off the top of the clean washing hamper.
Linette didn’t look good, at all, and he had just pulled his black Semi into the truck stop.
He, who had an American accent, a full sleeve of brooding black ink tattoos, and a defined five o'clock shadow that made something primal inside her purr.
He, who had blue eyes, brown hair, and a permanent scowl that etched itself into the center of all her silly, girlish fantasies for the last four months.
He, whose name Linette didn’t know, was mysterious and new and scary in a way that thrilled her from the inside out.
Who could blame a girl for craving something fresh in the monotonous nothingness that came with life in a desert town hours away from anything important?
The shrill ting ting ting of the little ringer at the counter being hit impatiently three times snapped Linette out of her fussing, the girl giving her hair one last pass over in the mirror as she called out.
“Coming!”
The door to the bathroom bumped heavily as Linette hurried out, pretending to dry her hands on the front of her singlet. Blush stung inside her cheeks as she walked toward the counter.
A grunt and the sound of heavy boots shifting on the floor came before his voice.
“Sorry, kid. Thought it was the old fella on today.”
The nickname heated her up. She almost fell over her own feet when the rubber soles of her sneakers caught on the slippery tiles. When she cleared her throat to speak, her voice came out in mumbles.
“ ‘s all good. Ben’s off sick, I’ve been holding down the Servo for him. Pump five?”
Linette lifted her head to look him right in the eye, acting braver than she felt.
He was wearing a cap, gray, with the name of some sports team she didn’t recognize embroidered on the front. His buzz cut had grown out since last time he was at the stop, five o'clock shadow turning into a real beard, all filled out, thick and dark with no irregular patches.
That was how Linette knew he must be older, much older, than her. Boys her age who were trying to grow out their first beards always looked scraggly and gross, like they’d cut off their pubes and glued them to their face in uneven clumps. His beard was nothing like that. He was nothing like that.
Everything about him was mature and distinguished, polished in a finish of radiant masculinity that made Linette want to sink into a dependent puddle at his feet.
Even his mesh of black tattoos looked classic, and tattoos were something that, right up until seeing him for the first time, Linette had absolutely hated; taking them as a red flag of insecurity and a person’s incomplete sense of self.
On him, they looked downright lickable.
Him being the most beautiful man she’d ever seen outside of a TV screen certainly helped compel her intense attraction - but, for Linette, his voice was the nail in the coffin. Low, slow, smooth and rumbling, tinged with an accent she didn’t know how to place. She wanted to listen to him talk for hours.
The spot between his eyebrows pinched as he stooped to lean his elbow on the counter. The cut off black teeshirt he wore looked like it was fighting to stay together around the bulge of his bicep as it flexed while he held out his card for her to take.
The shimmering shift of his tattoos over refined tendons of muscle made Linette feel like she was being hypnotized as she swept his card through the slot on the side of the machine without so much as glancing at the amount due.
The payment was approved immediately.
“He’s sick, so he leaves a little girl alone to deal with grown men all day? More of a shmuck than I thought.”
The genuine ebb of disapproval and concern in his tone made Linette’s knees feel soft as she handed him back his card over the counter.
The tip of his index finger caught off the underside of her wrist as he took it from her.
Linette had to lock her shoulders back to keep herself from shuddering.
Her voice was embarrassed and quiet in her throat when she replied. “I’m twenty one. I can take care of myself.”
When he scoffed at her it wasn’t unkind so much as disbelieving.
“Yeah, I’m sure you think you can. You got anything behind the counter? Pepper spray? A gun?”
He slotted his card back into a neat, folding leather wallet as he questioned her. Linette watched the deft flick of his thick fingers and suddenly her mouth felt dry.
“Nope. Have a panic button, though.”
Pushing the wallet back into the front pocket of his dark wash jeans, he let out a short, humorless huff.
“Panic button. Shit. What‘re you supposed to do between pressing that an’ waitin’ for the cops to pull up? Just gonna stand there, smile all pretty, hope some guy my size doesn't try to rob the place or do what he likes with you?”
Linette was struck silent by the question. She had wondered the same herself countless times, but never came to any sound, practical solution other than doing exactly what he had said; standing still and hoping nothing bad happened to her in specific.
She shrugged hopelessly.
He looked at her. It was a long, strange stare that Linette didn’t know how to understand.
Eventually, he shook his head and sighed.
“What am I gonna do with you, kid?”
#original male character#original character#original female character#original novel#ao3 original work#ao3 writer#ao3feed#dead dove do not eat#dead dove fic#prettydeadanimals#pda#PDA
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Ghost (in a purely professional context) : That'll do.
You: *Cums*
#simon ghost riley#older bf!simon#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#ghost cod#ghost x reader#call of duty#call of duty meme
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Jackie gets it. Jackie gets me.
#ao3 original work#book quotes#psasks#wattpad#ao3 writer#writers on tumblr#ao3feed#orignal writing#original character
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This is exactly the dynamic between my main WIPs protagonist and her love interest. She's pissing him off daily.
(He gets back at her by making her cry when she comes.)
#TLPIWA#psasks#ao3 original work#book quotes#wattpad#writers on tumblr#ao3 writer#ao3feed#orignal writing#original character#writblr#writing memes
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No one;
Logan's idea of a first date;
(I don't own this image)
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OMG I'm so excited you have a tumblr with asks!
I found you on Ao3 via pretty dead animals and I have been completely obsessed, I literaly scream every time you update XD
Its the best original work i've read in a year, the OW space on archive has been so dead lately its so good to see writing that isn't complete shit lol
You're super talented and i'm so looking forward to all your new works
back to what I came here to ask, do you have any fan casts for Linette and Logan? Like any actors who you would want to play them or models you think look like them ect
I love Linette so much i want to put a face to her!
Hi!
Thank you so much for your kind words. I am thrilled you have enjoyed Pretty, Dead Animals so much!
I can't speak to the state of the Original Work pool on Ao3 as I have only been using it for about a year and, prior to uploading my own works, had never been in any fandoms or had any reason to go on the site.
I have to confess I used to be a real "published books are the only real books" author snob.
The positive reception to PDA has been overwhelming, I am so grateful to everyone who has left Kudos and Comments and Bookmarked my work! It really means the world, so thank you from the bottom of my heart.
To answer your Ask about the appearances of Lin and Logan, I've attached some images to help you visualize the pair. Obviously these aren't exactly how I imagine them in my head, but they're close enough that I feel comfortable prescribing them to my readers, lets say as 'lookalikes'.
For Logan, I've chosen American actor David Corenswet. He's objectively very handsome, but there's something extremely off-putting about his face that makes me immediately uneasy, it's almost uncanny in it's effect.
Nothing against the guy, it really isn't his fault he has a face that looks like you asked an artist to draw Henry Cavill from (foggy) memory, lmafo.
In the case of Linette, I'm referencing an Australian model named Samantha Harris. She's beyond striking and has features that make me think of Mother Earth, like something that has lived for thousands of years and will go on living long after the end of existence. She's so perfect it almost makes her painful to look at, there isn't a single aspect of her face that doesn't catch your attention which is exactly the sort of appearance I visualized Linette to have.
There has to be a reason Logan sees her and instantly becomes obsessed. I personally can't subscribe to the "she was plain to the point of being lowkey-ugly but this super hot ripped dude was just SO into her" thing that some dark romance authors like to lean towards, it's just too unrealistic and always takes me out of the story.
Additionally, I felt like it was important that Linette be significantly more attractive than Logan (again, no offense David Corenswet) because there had to be a part of her that was objectively out of his reach otherwise his resorting to kidnapping her wouldn't make much sense; why not just go up and ask her out for coffee like a normal person? Logan had to feel some huge insecurity in order to take the course of action that he does, him being much less attractive than Linette seemed like a believable catalyst for me.
Please drop any more asks you have straight into my inbox, this is such a fun topic for me - I could talk about these two forever!
Thanks for your ask,
~P
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A Lark in a Hollow; early draft sneak peak.
The airport was cold, crowded, and confusing to Lark as she shuffled beside Christopher, the fraying straps of her backpack clutched in a white knuckled grip like they were lifelines. There was a rustle and movement at her right side.
Christopher fleece lined jacket was heavy and warm when he laid it over her tremoring shoulders, his left hand gently nudging her side.
“Want me to carry that?”
Lark’s backpack held everything she owned. The straps were making her shoulders ache.
It was shrugged off and passed to Christopher in a moment.
“Thank you.”
At hearing her speak for the second time, she saw his eyebrows rise a fraction, eyes widening, but he made no comment and swung the bag over one shoulder.
Lark had remembered him.
She could have been six or ten, the memories were so blurry – endless waves of tossing onto her back and looking at the white net canopy hung above her, or rolling on her side, staring through bleary eyes at the blinking curtain of golden fairy lights strung between the bars of her bed’s frame.
She had recognized him the second she stepped into Miss Poppy’s office at the group home, his wide frame crowded into a green faux-leather chair in front of the wooden desk. The tan work boots he wore were nearly identical to the ones that had stepped into her view off the edge of her bed years before.
She recalled her mother coming to her constantly, feeding her thin soups, water, some sort of medicine that tasted sickly sweet. Perhaps she remembered him because he was a break in the routine, an abrupt presence that shook a bit of the fever out of her.
“- you’re the only person who knows how this works. I can’t take her to a doctor, they have to report these cases. I’m scared they’ll take her, Chris.”
The airplane tilted to the right. Lark gripped both armrests tightly. Christopher chuckled.
“Don’t worry. ‘s supposed to do that.”
Miss Poppy’s smile was tired and kind as she gestured from Lark to the man and began to explain Lark’s options. Stay at Miss Poppy’s Home for Girls until she aged out of the system in another month and was forced to leave alone– or fly with a strange man she had only one memory of to a town in the mountains where she could stay for as long as she wanted with every expense paid, safety promised.
The floor creaked under unfamiliar footsteps.
The boots stepped into her view in the same moment that rough skin with a gentle touch met her forehead. His hand felt twice as big as her father’s.
“Did she show any symptoms before? Aggression? Tremors?”
Her mother crossed arms over her chest. Lark saw her hair, golden and soft even though it was unbrushed with its ends splitting.
“She had tremors two days before the fever started. Stopped talking, too.”
~~~
Lark was woken by bars of golden light spilling in pillars along the white painted ceiling of a room she was starting to feel comfortable in. Outside there was the far away sound of rushing water and birds singing, the flutter and rustle of their wings chased away the fog of sleep lingering over Lark, making her sit up in a flash, fists gripping soft white sheets as she remembered.
Rough forest floor flying under bear feet, freezing air rolling over naked skin, every sound and smell sharp and terrifying, animals running in disoriented droves as they were startled awake by the thing that crashed through their home.
She had never been in a forest before, moon bright silver in the black sky, trees expanding before and behind her, endless green in the leaves of trees and moss growing thick on their trunks. The sudden freedom had made her other half wild, manic, sent it racing towards something Lark didn’t understand.
When she was small, she thought the murky memories were bad dreams, nightmares stitched together using places from her waking life – but they were real, and as Lark slid on sock clad feet around the wooden banister at the top of the stairs, she prayed there would be nothing for her to find downstairs.
Panting, pacing, nails turned to claws dragging white lines over thin skin before hooking down into the slick smarmy red of flesh and bone that made her nostrils flare and mouth flush with saliva.
Blood didn’t taste like copper when she was that way. It was warm and full and sweet on her tongue unlike anything else she had ever eaten. The memory made her hungry and sick all at once as she reached the landing, looking for him, frantic, frightened.
The soft click and clatter of dishes being stacked in the kitchen made Lark heave, staggering around the corner to the doorway where she watched the tall figure of Christopher rinsing a bowl in the stainless-steel sink, hair mussed from sleep, onion and ham omelets cooking on the stove.
Lark was only able to observe him unnoticed for a handful of seconds before he turned around, draping a tea towel over his shoulder and smiling at her wide enough for the corners of his eyes to crinkle.
“Morning. Omelets ok for breakfast? Don’t have much in the house, gotta pick some things up at the markets.”
Lark nodded, padding through the kitchen, eyes flitting from place to place as Christopher spoke, searching for some outward evidence of what she must have done the night before.
She found nothing.
#chris evans x female reader#chris evans x reader#chris evans x ofc#ao3 original work#ao3feed#ao3 writer#a/b/o dynamics#a/b/o verse#werewolf#werewolves#shapeshifter#orignal writing#orignal character#one shot#drabble#fluff#short story
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