#lark writes
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describing a kiss is literally like. ok let me give you in detail the description of literally everything else except the kiss taking place in this scene. fill it in for urself u fuckers (affectionate)
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*crashes into the blog like a feral scientist leaving the lab for the first time in weeks* *drops fic link like it's an over-filled file spilling across the ground*
p.s. object shipnames >> namesmash shipnames, even if i know the history of namesmash shipnames.
#lark says#simon snow#carry on#lark writes#i have no defense for doing ANOTHER muscian epistolary social media fic#but in my defense#theyre fun#and its my archive account so#anyways im gonna go rewatch blue exorcist now
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It Takes Faith
Thinking about Steve and Lucas shooting hoops in a local park after everything happens. Max and Eddie are both still in the hospital, and Steve should be resting, too (a nasty infection that got worse before it got better), but Lucas is anxious. Restless.
Steve knows how to help with that. He can't fix anything, he can't offer solutions, but he can listen. So he takes Lucas to the park under the pretense of working on his form.
At first, they don't speak at all. Lucas is in his head, and Steve is patient.
They stretch, get warmed up. Jog back and forth across the court for a bit until Lucas gives Steve this look. He's ready to play.
Steve starts with the ball, and gets the first point without too much trouble. He doesn't go easy on Lucas; Lucas doesn't want him to.
Whatever advantage Steve might have from experience gets balanced out by the fact that he's simply not well, though, so it's not long before Lucas is beating him out.
After a certain point Steve's barely playing anymore, too exhausted to go running after the ball or shoot.
He's just standing between Lucas and the hoop, now, watching as Lucas shoots, then passing the ball back to him when it goes through the net.
It's nearing sunset when Lucas finally says something.
"Do you think they'll wake up? Either of them?"
Steve doesn't know. He hopes so. Can't let himself believe that they won't. "They're fighters," he says instead. "Both of them."
Lucas frowns. He bounces the ball once, twice. Makes like he's going to shoot, and then sighs.
He sits down on the pavement and buries his face in his hands.
"Hey," Steve says, softly. His core strength isn't what it was before the bats tried to eat him, so it's a struggle, but he manages to sit himself down next to Lucas. He puts a hand on his shoulder. "It'll be ok."
"How can you know that?" He's very nearly as tall as Steve now, but curled in on himself like this Steve is reminded of how small he used to be. How small all the kids used to be.
"I don't," Steve admits. Lucas curls himself even tighter. "But we gotta believe, right?"
"I guess."
Steve takes the ball from Lucas. "When you're lining up a shot, you have no way of actually knowing it will go in, right?"
Lucas gives him a look, but he doesn't interrupt.
"You know how to throw the ball. Where to aim it. But you don't know until it's in."
He mimes the action of setting up a shot. "You just gotta trust your body to get the ball where it needs to go. It's the same thing."
"It's really not."
"It is. All it takes is faith. We gotta trust that they'll pull through. We can make it easier for them, that'll help, but—"
Lucas cuts in. "But what if she doesn't?"
Steve's jaw snaps shut. He gives Lucas' shoulder a comforting squeeze.
"What if she never wakes up? How am I supposed to just— just— keep going? I already miss her so much."
"You can't think like that."
Lucas glares at the pavement.
"I know you miss her." Steve does, too. Fuck, he misses her so much. "She'd kick your ass if she heard you talking like that, though."
"Yeah." Lucas huffs out something that sounds a little like a chuckle, a little like a sob. "I know."
"Whatever happens, we'll work through it. As a team, right?" He gives Lucas' shoulder a small shake. "Max will wake up. I know she will. But she needs your support, too, ok? So don't go doubting her now."
Lucas nods. He sniffs and scrubs his hands over his face. "Ok. I won't."
"Good." He struggles up to his feet, and then offers a hand out to Lucas.
Lucas accepts, but doesn't actually let Steve take on any of his weight. He knows that Steve is still hurt, no matter how healed he tries to present himself as.
"Come on," Steve says "Let's get you home."
Later, when Steve's alone again, he climbs up to his room. He stumbles into the bathroom, ignores his reflection when he passes by the mirror, and throws himself into the shower.
The water is as hot as he can stand it. He sits down in the tub and feels the water hit his skin.
When he's done, he barely has enough energy left to towel off. He collapses into bed, ignoring clothes entirely, and turns onto his side to watch the last bits of sunset through the crack in his blinds.
After it's dark, he digs around under his pillow.
Eddie's vest is still covered in blood and grime. It's crusty and stiff and stained, but even through all that Steve can still smell smoke and cheap detergent.
He cradles it against his chest, and thinks of all the things he really wants to say now. Things might not get to say.
Steve doesn't believe in God, he hasn't since he came face to face with a monster in the Byers' living room, but still he prays. He prays that Eddie and Max will wake up. That they'll be ok.
Max's hair tie is around his wrist, and Eddie's vest is under his pillow. Always.
He needs them to wake up.
He needs his little sister back.
He needs his— his— He needs Eddie back.
Max's letter is unopened on his bedside table. He won't read it. Whatever she has to say to him, she can say when she wakes up.
What Steve has to say to Eddie will wait, too. It will wait until he wakes up. Until he's well again.
He just has to believe.
#lark writes#stranger things ficlet#Steve and Lucas friendship#post s4#steve harrington#lucas sinclair#background lumax#steddie if you squint#steve and max siblingism#cross-posted from twitter
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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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some snippets related to this (sculptor max)
Max finished sealing the sculpture, swiping off some excess from the arch of Daniel's foot. Max couldn't bring himself to step back and take in the whole of him. He stayed, kneeling at Daniel's feet, for a long time. He'd put so much of himself into sculpting Daniel; at some point, he'd started talking to Daniel as if he was a real person. Telling him about his day and the people he'd seen at the market and, in his weakest moments, how much he wished Daniel could speak back to him.
He'd spent too much time on Daniel. Neglecting his commissions for weeks. Max knew it was bad for his business but something had called him to Daniel - even when he was still just a solid block of imported marble. Max closed his eyes, bowing his head until his forehead rested just slightly on the bend of one of Daniel's knees. He would have to sell Daniel to make up for the loss of business. The thought cut Max to his core. He couldn't let go of Daniel.
Max didn't know how long he stayed there, trying to reconcile himself to giving Daniel up. Max took a deep breath, maybe if he could just get up and look at Daniel, he'd find something that he didn't like and could convince himself that Daniel wasn't the best thing he'd ever done, that Daniel wasn't perfect. He went to push himself to his feet, still reluctant to open his eyes, when he felt something touch his head. Something that felt like a hand, pushing his hair back from his forehead, tilting his head back.
Max's eyes snapped open, instantly locking onto warm, bright, brown eyes. Real eyes.
"Incantato, Max." Daniel smiled at him with teeth that Max had not carved.
--
Max couldn't stop staring at the inexplicable parts of Daniel. As if every part of Daniel was not now inexplicable. But it was his eyes, his teeth, the laugh-line wrinkle that had appeared by his right eye, the whorls of his fingerprints, that made Max feel the most insane. Daniel wasn't just walking, talking stone. He was. Real. A whole person. An angel maybe? Max didn't know.
All he knew was that Daniel was walking around his workshop, naked, picking up the little bits and bobs and tools that were laying around. He paused at the small basket on one of Max's worktables. He plucked a peach out and ran his fingers delicately over the fuzz. He looked over his shoulder, holding it up for Max's inspection. "Is this what you told me about? The fruit you were excited to find at the market yesterday?"
Max nodded, still unable to say anything to Daniel. Daniel had heard him yesterday.
Daniel smiled again - he did that a lot - and took a bite.
--
Daniel was examining himself in Max's small looking glass. He reached up to stroke along the bridge of his nose. He turned slightly, raising an eyebrow at Max. "You really had to make my nose like this?"
"I made it like that because I think noses like yours are, of course, beautiful." Max replied, feeling a little defensive.
Daniel blushed - blushed! - then recovered. Max couldn't believe that this was his life; that Daniel could blush now. Now that he was real.
Daniel lazily waved a hand around, gesturing to the other contents of Max's workshop, before pointing his finger downwards. "Did you think this was also beautiful?" Daniel asked, smirking slightly. "I notice your other work is not quite so well endowed."
Max flushed so deeply he knew that his entire face and neck were bright pink.
--
Daniel pushed inside Max, stretching him and making him gasp, wet with want. Daniel bent to speak directly in Max's ear, "Does it feel like you hoped? Fill you up just like you imagined?" Daniel ground his hips, pressing against Max's prostate and stealing the "yes" from his lips before he could get it out. Daniel didn't wait for Max to recover his words before he began thrusting, sinking deep into Max each time. Max couldn't help the almost constant string of moans coming from him. Daniel reached up to cup Max's face, wiping away tears Max didn't even know he'd shed. "Fuck, Max, you feel so good. Maybe you were the one made for me."
Max scrabbled at Daniel's back, his neck, trying to pull him closer. His hand's caught in Daniel's curls; luscious and soft and not reminiscent of the stone they had been less than a week ago. This time, Max managed to get out the words, "Yes, Daniel, yes. Just for you."
#maxiel#daniel ricciardo#max verstappen#larks writes#31 days of maxiel#(kind of)#the temptation to call this maxelangelo is strong but i am stronger :)
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Broke: Dr Ratio and Alhaitham would get along
Woke: Dr Ratio and Alhaitham would hate each other for being ‘exceptionally arrogant’
Bespoke: Ruan Mei and Dottore are the real crossover academia duo that we should be talking about
#every now and again I think about how Ruan Mei’s goals overlap with Dottore’s#more than Alhaitham and Ratio’s ANYTHING will ever overlap#it hurts me bc I loathe dottore as a person but love him as a charafter#while I love Ruan Mei as a character but loathe her as a person#like the main difference between them is that their atrocities are told differently#Dottore’s are seen as a direct violation of all that is natural#with his experiments being products of his own insane hubris and will to defy the gods#while ruan mei’s are passed off as ‘oh she was feeling a bit lonely and silly’#‘who cares if she created an emanator in herta’s basment’#‘drugging the trailblazer was just a silly quirky thing :3’#at least the story acknowledges that her hubris to become an Aeon is misguided#please hoyo I’m begging whoever wrote dottore needs to be let into the Ruan Mei writing room LET MORALLY GREY WOMEN BE MORALLY GREY#honkai star rail#hsr#genshin impact#alhaitham#dr ratio#ruan mei#dottore#il dottore#the doctor gi#gi the doctor#lark rambles
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Sorry I'm late, I had this clear vision once of Lark in this very specific blue and pink cat apron the reads "Coffee Right Meow" and he's baking and for whatever reason he's holding a knife. Do with that what you will
Sorry IM late answering this ask lol also I forgot abt the knife part lol sorryyyy
Slightly younger lark and sparrow with a baby norm !!! Now I wanna draw all the kids as babies
#dungeons and daddies#dndaddies#dndads#dndads s2#dndaddies s2#lark oak garcia#lark oak#sparrow oak garcia#sparrow oak#my art#won’t tag norm bc he’s barely in this lol#looked up some Ecuadorian slang bc I wanted to write chamaco so bad but I was like noooooo they probably don’t say that there#and then i found actual slang that still fit lol#also those aren’t macaroons! they’re alfajores an Ecuadorian cookie that I prob wouldn’t like bc it’s dulce de leche which I hate 😔#hc that sparrow is the cooking sibling and lark is the baking sibling#when you have two kids close to each other one is only good at cooking and the other is only good at baking and they can’t do the other#only saying this bc my sister and I are like that lol and picturing lark as the baking sibling is v funny#also the translation is p much ‘i can see you kid!’
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I fully believe that contact between henry and the kids is lost because of Hero and Normal. Like there is no way itwasn’t
A lot of times Toxic behaviors of grandparents become more noticeable to parents once their children get pulled into the mix. I think the reverse happened. Henry is treated like shit by both of his kids, for his entire experience as a parent and he just loves them. That makes them hate him more.
Then Normal who is so full of love despite everything that must have squashed Hero’s. And he sees the annoyance and anger, and he fucking snaps. Cause Normal and Henry are the same part of the cycle. Nothing they do will ever be enough.
No matter how much Lark and Sparrow love Normal. They are Barry in the scenario. They are continuing the cycle from Barry’s position. Nothing either of their kids do will ever be enough. Hero can never be strong enough, Normal can never be Normal enough. Henry could never be good enough.
For Lark, For Sparrow, For Barry.
It doesn’t matter if they love their kids (Bill loved Glenn, that still went to shit) and with the way Lark and Sparrow have acted in every episode.
It never will
#dndads s2#dndads#dungeons and daddies#dndaddies#normal oak#sparrow oak#sparrow oak garcia#lark oak#lark oak garcia#henry oak#barry oak#hero oak#Like no sparrow tell lark to go run in a circle again#the last good conversation you had with him was when lark was running in a circle#Lark I love you because I was issues#that being said#go fuck sparrow wife#genuinely the only thing good you have ever done#anyways#if I ever write an ao3 fic I will most likely be labeling that shit#pre ep 35 lark and sparrow.
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My kiddads brainrot (primarily lark & nark focused) is back and the things I would do for like a season 1.5 comic series focusing on the kiddads RAAAHHHHH
#dndads#dungeons and daddies#lark oak garcia#nick close#nark#nark nation#terry jr#sparrow oak garcia#grant Wilson#I need their messy queer friend group drama plus fighting the doodler and shit#I would potentially Mayhaps be down to collab with someone to do with Mayhaps Mayhaps#like me writing other person drawing….#just cause my art isn’t really great for comics#lunarrosette’s shit#shit post
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an important question for byler shippers:
rb this and put in the tags what pet names you think mike and will have for each other.
(pls, i need help for a fic)
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grant wilson my beloved
#this is for my lark releases willy au...chapter two is coming along lol#See I've Come To Burn Your Kingdom Down by autumnl3av3s#my writing#sparrow oak#dndads#dungeons and daddies#dungeons & daddies#dndaddies#dndads s1#sparrow oak garcia#grant wilson#🍁
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As a writer I serve a very specific audience. And that audience is me.
#dungeons and daddies#dndads#lark oak#fanfic#ao3 writer#nicky foster#nick close#glenn close dungeons and daddies#glenn close dndads#they own my whole brain#the brainrot is real#try not to write these 3 challenge: level impossible#nark
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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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Daniel was not, strictly speaking, a Taylor Swift fan. He had ears, obviously, so he’d heard his fair share of her music over the years; his girlfriends had typically been into her music, too. It meant he knew the popular songs and there were maybe a couple tracks on folklore that hit a little too close to home, but nothing wild. So, when his girlfriend told him that Taylor Swift had dropped a new album, he didn’t really think anything of it.
Over the next few days, he assumed that’s what she was listening to in the apartment. Over and over. But he couldn’t fault her for that because he could get the same way. It wasn’t a big deal.
Then he had a phone call with Max. It was just about coordinating flights and taxis and boring shit so it didn’t matter that T. Swift was loud in the background.
I love you, it’s ruining my life.
Max laughed loudly at something barely funny that Daniel said; his chest warmed at the sound, something content and pleased re-making it’s presence known. Daniel’s thoughts stuttered to a very distinct, “Oh. Oh no.”
#sorry if someone else has already done something similar i promise i haven’t been lurking and thieving#larks writes#larks tries#(not to sink into oblivion even though it’s very nice here)#maxiel#daniel ricciardo#max verstappen#okay goodbye forever again
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tee hee glark <3
this is literally their dynamic to me btw they're so silly
#my art#i love them so much#theres super secret artist dialoge that i didnt end up writing#and that is that grant was gonna be saying some stuff abt him not being a good person#followed by lark saying yeah yeah youre probably not . can we fuck now ?#anyways#i simply think people deserve to know#dndads#dndaddies#dungeons and daddies#glark#lark x grant#grant x lark#grant wilson#lark oak garcia
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Messy spoiler heavy Aventurine appreciation post
I am so so so so so so so in love with him it’s unreal. Anyway.
I am SOOOOO happy he’s got a present and active role in the story so far. I’m used to my favs in Hoyo games not showing up a lot because they’re either ‘side characters’ who’s lives are usually expanded upon in limited time events or they have a Deep Dark Secret Past and as such they don’t get screentime because their past is Too Much. Can you tell the deep dark secret past is about Luocha and Jingliu ANYWAY
Even if he’s a bit of a bastard, I genuinely enjoy his personality. I find it funny that he’s a gambler yet supposedly doesn’t put himself in situations where he could end up with the short end of the stick. It’s contradictory and stupid to believe you’re above bad luck but I love him anyway. He’s smug and clearly has an eye for charming his way into favour.
Not to mention he’s smart and in a way his gambler persona plays into how he acts. He keeps his proverbial cards close to his chest, and doesn’t let on what he doesn’t want others to know, only stepping into the fray when he knows (or believes) he can’t lose. Penacony as a whole seems to have heavy themes about deception but that’s besides the point.
The whole talk about his past is interesting too, from the tattoo that appears to be an actual word (and possibly a way of the IPC branding him?!), the implication his home planet is full of ‘wolves in sheeps’ clothing’ like how Kafka is from a planet where its residents physically cannot feel fear, him being an orphan??? and the implied debt he has towards the IPC. I know deep down below his smug exterior there is a sad traumatised man.
His dynamics with the other characters is entertaining too. From his underlying distaste for the more diplomatic characters (Himeko, Sunday), the passive aggressive banter with Sparkle and Ratio (although Ratio is just straight up condescending at times) and the way he’s very clearly trying to manipulate the trailblazer onto his side.
As a final note, he’s actually short compared to a good majority of the male cast. The hat adds a decent amount of height I did have a photo of him next to Luocha for a better reference but I forgot to save it, so take this Ratio screenshot instead.
#if this is hard to read sorry#I’m writing this late at night#and I can barely form coherent thoughts about my favourite characters normally#hsr aventurine#aventurine hsr#aventurine#honkai star rail#hsr#penacony spoilers#honkai star rail spoilers#hsr spoilers#lark rambles
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