Rosie

sometimes I write stuff

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Hiya! I'm Rosie :)

I'll use any pronouns, no preference, and unlabelled.

This is a writing account and hopefully it will stay as such <3

For my sins, I have an A03 and an Instagram, neither of which are particularly active, although Ao3 loves a good oneshot on occasion.

Writing posts daily at midday GMT (That is, when I feel like it). They'll vary from ocs to Greek mythology retelling snippets. Apollo and Hyacinth, to be particular, or Cupid and Psyche more often than not. Although, expect those to be few and far between. At my heart, I adore my ocs. If you happen to enjoy any particular character, I would be obsessed with you if you just took a look at their tag

Fandom account is @mydearestdarlingdead (Very active) but I'm also active occasionally on is @andthnyoudie.

I want it to be known that I do not consent to anybody using any of my work for the purposes of training artificial intelligence or otherwise any practise involving or contributing to artificial intelligence. If this is done, I reserve my right to take legal action.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

"Aphrodite!" Ares voice, muddled as though miscommunication brought about by repetition upon the battlefield, barrelled toward her. From her position, lounging in an alcove upon a plush mattress, Aphrodite peered at the shadow having entered her court through the farthest door. Charging, Ares stripped himself of his armour as his feet pounded the marble floor.

Love and War, they say, are two quintessentially human philosophies, intertwined beyond all celestial understanding.

Finally, clad only in his helmet and sandals, Ares settled into her lap, cushioning his head upon her stomach. Careless, Aphrodite flung the helmet from their alcove, consumed by an innate desire to lay siege to his features, the unique amalgamation of his expression. The unshed tears, lain idle upon his lashes, became apparent as they graced her flesh, heavy- Significance made material. She drew him closer, a soft hand to the base of his neck, encouraging and nurturing.

Her lips graced the shell of his ear, the hollow beneath his jaw, the chest of his cheekbone, the divot between his eyebrows, the climax of his nose, the cupid's bow of his upper lip.

With an open, blatant adoration, Ares gazed at her, heedless. He felt the whisper of his breath upon his lips, the warmth in her tangibility, of her humanity.

"What happened?" Aphrodite asked, rough in her language, mimicking Ares' tongue as her hands roamed. He stiffened as she found purpose. The emotion drained from Aphrodite's expression, leaving only a husk which appeared, quite frankly, unbothered. She repeated languidly, "What... happened, Lover?"

Leisurely, her hands continued their quest, uncaring for Ares' pain or pleasure in equal measure. She pinched and prodded, delighting-Silently, secretly- in the theatre of his blown pupils.

"We- I... Laboured inhales, unsatisfactory exhales. Ares' mind was thrown into utter chaos. Finally, throat constricting around the word, he choked, "Defeat."

A spark of interest ignited in Aphrodite's eye. Naturally, she rewarded her lover accordingly, for Thetis was not the woman to disregard. Ares whimpered, face falling forward to press against her stomach in a fit of bliss, teeth gnashed against her skin.

She stilled entirely.

Ares rose in panic, cheeks flushed and eyes wild. She could see the impulse to demand retribution in his eye, to fight until his opponent lay bloodied and he, victorious, the spoils of war clutched in his bruised fist. She would have commended his ability to suppress the instinct, if Ares did not respond quite so well to praise.

"Tell me more." She commanded of him and, with his renewed understanding, her masterful work continued, to Ares' audible relief.

"Athena- I..." Aphrodite's fingernails graced a portion of Ares' lower back, thick and mottled with scar tissue, sensitive with memory of the wound, and he cried out for her.

"Go on." She encouraged, gentler than intended, reminding, "Athena..."

"She disrespects my domain." Ares announced, ever so eloquent while sobbing into Aphrodite's lap, naked but for a pair of sandals and his collection of scar tissue, "What she encourages... War should never be so clean."

For a moment's breadth, the haze of pleasure deserted Ares and, beneath, molten rage flooded decisively into his expression, the type of rage known to impair decision-making, to goad honourable men toward dishonourable actions.

In Aphrodite's experience, only one emotion carried the same weight, powerful enough to make a man pliant when he should become vengeful. Finally, she understood her role in this- To propel him to the brink, and catch him before he fell.

She pressed her lips to the crown of his head, relishing in his vocal response, saying, "Hush, lover... This, I will not lie, will hurt-" Ares whimpered as she shifted to cradle her face. His tongue darted out, intended to lick the perspiration from her palm. The same palm cracked across his face.

"-But you'll enjoy it anyway, won't you, my darling?"

[mydarlingdearestdead]

"I'm fairly certain Lottie is reading pornography during her breaks."

Marriot rubbed his eyes, "Who the fuck- I don't give a shit. It's her break, she can fuck off around the corner and find a hooker if she wants as long as she's back in half an hour. Don't start conversations like that. What's wrong with you?"

Loyal shrugged, "You try growing up with Alys. You become a chronic tattletale before the age of five."

"Lottie isn't your sister." Marriot responded shortly, "And dare I say this is different than taking a cookie from the jar."

"Alys never did petty stuff like that." Loyal braced his hands against the edge of Marriot's desk, leaning forward conspiratorially, "She got banned from horse-riding because she would demand they be put down whenever they didn't like her- Made up crazy stories to facilitate it and everything. Even cut her own cheek with a shard of glass and claimed the thing threw her against the stable door. Then she wasn't allowed to do ballet anymore beca-"

"Ah!" Marriot held up a hand, "I do not want or need to know this." He said, rubbing his eyes, "What- What's up, Hayden? With you. Not Lottie or Alys or Odessa or Dinah or anybody else. You, please."

Hayden seemed to shrink, despite how he straightened his posture, crossing his arms over his chest.

He smiled, a grand, patomine of a thing, "I'm great."

Marriot nodded as if convinced.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

"And there she was."

Dinah held her mug to her lips, blowing gently, creating ripples across the dark surface. She was smiling behind the guise of a mouthful as she muttered, "Odessa."

Hayden pushed aside his own mug, confirming with a nod, "Dr. Halliway, they had me call her."

"I remember the first time I met her, you know." Dinah placed her mug upon the granite with a clatter, quaking hands in the cold. She buried her hands in the cavernous pockets of her father's overcoat, pressing against the worktop, edging toward him despite the barrier, "I remember mum's ranting after she left."

He barked a laugh, short and lively, "Caoimhe was still waiting on an engagement ring when Odessa appeared... It wasn't- I don't want you blaming her, Di. I- If it hadn't been- I mean, Caoimhe... When-"

"Daddy!" Dinah's face was flushed, rosy with December and her hair lifted in spectacular curls, framing her face. She was beaming, glowing with a contentment Hayden could not claim responsibility for, "You and mum are blameless, okay? Odessa, too, if you need to hear it. I never needed you to make yourself miserable on my account."

Hayden rounded the island, then, reaching for her, muttering, "I've never been miserable, baby, not with you."

[mydarlingdearestdead]

No post today, I'm so busy <3

[mydarlingdearestdead]

"My whole life, I've had this sort-of... Ace up my sleeve." Lottie snorted, swallowing a mouthful of cider, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of Marriot's jacket before continuing, "A cheat code, y'know? Since I was a kid, I had the option... The option to call mommy and have ten grand in my account within the hour." She took the beer mat into her hands and, rather rapidly, begun to tear it to pieces.

Marriot, lain before her with his head cushioned in the bed of his arms, yawned at this admission. His own mug lay drained and discarded. His eyes were leaden, pressing ever downward, only opening to witness her.

Lottie reached out, poking a finger at his temple, "You're sleepy." She accused, light-hearted and soft, despite the lingering momentum.

"You're payin'." Marriot replied, mouth gaping.

"Prick."

He hummed, "Yes, darling."

[mydarlingdearestdead]

"I never had hobbies." Daphne snorted, her head lolling against the sofa's cushioned arm. If she pressed, she could feel the wooden frame beneath, unyielding and stern. She sighed, "I didn't need to. My hobby was explaining that I'm Dolly Caldwell's daughter. That I do not condone or- God forbid, intend to continue- her work." She breathed a laugh, "I mean, fuck."

She had balanced her glass upon her bare stomach, shivering beads of condensation met her skin. Nathaniel dragged the sofa as near to the fire as possible without the possibility of arson and yet, still, she insisted on shivering.

"I'm afraid I do not understand the intricacies of your mother's research myself." Nathaniel replied and, raising an effectively silencing hand, continued, "Nor do I wish to do so. But it cannot be denied that the good she did, in a morbid manner, certainly outweighs the cost."

"Don't give me that 'She was a good woman doing her best in a shit situation' bullshit." Daphne jerked, upsetting the glass. It tumbled to the carpet and, although Nathaniel braced himself for a thundering crash and an immense feeling of loss, collided with a dull, meaningless thud, contents forgotten.

Daphne trudged on, oblivious or merely ignorant, "I know. Trust me. I know that she had her reasons. But if one more person asks me about the fucking Trolly Problem, I'm going to blow myself up."

Nathaniel nodded, lifting his own glass to his lips, asking, "Is the point to destroy her research or is that an added benefit to suicide for you?"

"You decide."

[mydarlingdearestdead]

"I used to- For years, I wished at bedtime on stars that weren't there. I wished that the next morning, I'd wake up and everything would be how it was. How it should have been, that's how I thought of it."

"Did you manage to convince yourself?" Nathaniel asked.

The two lay upon the carpet of his office, the expanse of carpet cushioning beneath his aching, creaking bones. Daphne squirmed, throwing her arms in wide arcs above her head and writing poetry in the air.

She shook her head, a movement so inconsequential that Nathaniel may have missed it if not for the accompaning, "No... Never."

Something beyond their universe- Their world in which warmth and full bellies were a given, where the past was merely an open doorway awaiting your passage- produced a grand clanging, disturbed tremendously by the storm. Nathaniel shivered.

He understood the ease of slipping into a fantasy, a world built upon a foundation of wishing and merriment. He knew intimately the suffering which came with returning to the present.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Jude glimpsed the numerous saw-toothed blades hanging, their dull sheen indicative of decorations typically associated with a convenience store interpretation of Halloween, amongst swaths of pumpkin orange gauze suspended from the ceiling. They shivered, the sensations of a million spiders’ spindly legs suddenly enveloping them.

They were led through a curtained doorway, the butcher’s daydream swiftly replaced with an imitation of a hospital ward. In the far corner, a man stood with a cigarette dangling from his lip, his straitjacket sagging around the waist where he had removed one hand to quell the nicotine craving. A woman trussed up in a bright, latex imitation of a nurse’s uniform greeted them with an equally manufactured smile. The fluorescent lights reflected off the folded cap situated in her hair, morphing the innocence of the red medical cross into a sinister scythe. Jude swallowed, mimicking her expression with some effort.

When she spoke, she did so without inflection or emotion. Perhaps this was due to the energy expanded during the pantomime she was conducting behind her back, attempting to alert her companion to his need to disperse. He, unfortunately, did not manage to grasp her intention. Instead, the man put his cigarette out on the wallpaper- An action, usually despicable, which rather improved the aesthetics of the room- before approaching just as Lennon inserted her debit card into the proffered machine.

Jude was not privileged to witness the ensuing discussion as Lennon clutched their arm. They moved as if Lennon was single-handedly propelling an unwilling sack of flour toward bakery, approaching a flimsy imitation-oak door. Beyond, the anguish of the undead wailed from cheap speakers. Lennon, naturally, slammed the heel of her boot into the wood.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Loyal often wondered about the intricacies of Odessa's mind. He could never hope to fathom her pain or despair, only to ease it by some infinitismal measure. He knew that no action born of his mind or word from his lips could repair the scar tissue acting as armour around her heart. Yet, despite every scrap of logic and base impulse, Loyal was damned if he was not going to make a valiant attempt regardless.

Hayden Loyal, Odessa pondered, was rather unlike any man whose bed she had ever trespassed upon. For one thing, he seemed entirely too reluctant to allow her a swift exit afterward. This, she pleaded with her mind not to question. This, she wanted only to accept at the most basic value: He did not wish her to leave him.

Does idealism make a fool? She wondered, and paused, because what great fool Hayden Loyal would be if so. The man whom the celestial sun would not dare attempt to outshine.

She thought, some days, that he could have been a man she would love at twenty. What a world that could have been.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

The strand of hair which fell across Daphne's eye had spiraled into an imperfect curl which she batted idly away as it entered her field of vision. On the opposite side, strands wove themselves into an indecipherable smudge.

She shrugged, throwing her head back with a tie on her wrist, "It got wet."

"Says she, as if any part of her was not thoroughly soaked."

Daphne exhaled in a huff, "I meant that it curls when it's wet."

"Yes, I understood." Nathaniel replied, "It was merely not a sentence worth uttering. I wish you had stayed silent, is all."

"Silent so you could ogle me?"

Now, Nathaniel's turn to turn from her in a sigh. He meandered toward a dark oak cabinet, retrieving a frosted whisky glass and a handful of ice from the white interior. Then, from a higher cabinet set in the same fashion, a bottle labeled pretentiously in gilded, cursive script.

Partially turning, he informed her, "There's apple juice in the main fridge."

"Thanks." Daphne replied, voice low and dry,

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Dawson produced a monumental shrug, summoning all essence of himself into the singular, dismissive movement. Jude, in reply, aimed a kick to his shin.

He leapt to his feet with a yelp, demanding, "What was that for?"

Jude reclined upon the sofa, positioning Dawson in their periphery to a Goldilocks perfection. In reply, they scoffed, "Answer the question."

"Fuck you- Jude!" This, he exclaimed as, once more, his body interfered with Jude's tendency to forcefully stretch their limbs.

"Were you drinking?" They asked again, feigning enticement by the water stains upon the ceiling.

Dawson crossed his arms.

"Dawson."

He sniffed, "Yes."

"Fuck."

But Dawson merely waved a hand, "Progress isn't linear, Jude. How many times have you told me that? And now you're going to get all pissy because I made a mistake-"

"A mistake implies that you regret it." Jude retorted, "If it had been a mistake, you wouldn't have lied to me- By omission, for fuck's sake. Don't say you didn't."

Dawson, perhaps wisely, closed his mouth.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

If you add 3 sentences to your work in progress and show me, I will add 4 sentences to my work in progress and show you.

You know what why not

(Technically four sentences, I know)

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Wellington threw his hands into the air, whooping at such a volume to disturb the bats nesting the attic.

"Canary!" He screeched, "Oh, my god, Canary. Canary, you-" He clapped a hand over his mouth, an action which did nothing to dull the grin evident in his eyes, "Canary." He whispered, muffled.

Canary, still and mute, paid him no heed as he leapt around her. Her hands folded in her lap, hair tied into two long, cascading fishtail braids, she almost as a human being might. Numbed to the outburst of her brother, she inhaled and exhaled and counted her breaths internally.

Eventually, he manually turned her head by way of a calloused hand upon her cheek.

Wellington's expression had not lost its fervor. He beamed, taking his sister by her arms and pulling her to her feet with an exclamation, "Canary! Do you- Are you understanding this? The magnitude?"

She nodded, although, within the privacy of her own mind, Canary supposed she was feeling rather neutral about the entire thing.

She looked at Wellington- Shirtless, his torso gleaming with perspiration which only served to heighten the stark contrast between flesh and scar tissue- and willed some joy into her expression, for his sake, if not her own.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

I have black ink, originating from a ballpoint pen, on my outer thigh. This is hardly unique as the same is splayed across my bedsheets, my ancient teddy bear, my bedroom furniture, across my cheek, upon my husband's lower lip... I prefer to think of it as being physically marked by my work, rather than simply inconsiderate of my surroundings.

Each pen I own shows evidence of having been gnawed on, perhaps by a rabid dog or misplaced grizzly bear- Although, as before, the same could be said of the pendant on my necklace, my lower lip, my husband. It has been suggested that I subconsciously wish to damage that which I love but I, in my infinite wisdom, prefer to acknowledge the self-destructive tendency and couple it with my inability to exist without that which I love- My work, my love... I cannot speak for the necklace. I think that is merely habit.

I suppose this is not a difficult pattern to identify. There is always a widely accepted interpretation and my interpretation- Separate but gloriously kind, kinder to myself than I have been to anybody else. That is, save, of course, Atlas.

I have always been weak for Atlas, unable to suppress desire or imitate humanity in the face of him. I love him, which is not a statement worth dressing up in fancy syntax or metaphor. I love my husband and it is, as simple as that.

I love Atlas.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Daphne Caldwell lays upon the kitchen island, the marble cool against her bare shoulders. Her legs hang off the edge, beating against the base. She is staring at the light fixture hanging above her, an amalgamation of frosted glass and steel. She grimaces. 

Nathaniel Locket has dragged a stool away from said island so as to sit by the arched, kitchen window. The rainfall beats softly against the pane, a confused rhythm. He sips from a whisky glass, the drink diluted by melted ice. 

The refrigerator- Left, nonsensically, to display it's innards to the world- chirps irritably. Daphne, her reluctance sounded in a groan, rises, her bare feet hitting the tiled floor with a solid this. She throws an elbow to the refrigerator door, mouth gaping in a yawn. Nathaniel, his back to her, raises his glass in an imitation of a toast. 

She sticks her tongue out at his turned head. 

"Wretched little girl." He says. 

Daphne snorts, "Prudish old man." 

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Finch yawned, blinking rapidly as tears marred her vision with the motion. She rubbed her eyes, careless of mascara, heedless of appearance. It was early and Doe was late.

Before Finch sat a pathetic, floral-patterned of what was supposedly 'Lemongrass Tea'. It was the colour of a certain bodily fluid and smelled even worse. She nibbled at the shortbread circle they had placed on the saucer's edge without emotion, eyes trained upon the doorway.

She flagged a server, requesting the concoction before her be swapped for anything out of a bottle, just as Doe swept in, a magnificent, pristine cloak of white hanging from her shoulders. Finch swiftly handed the tea, biscuit and all, off and rose to greet her.

Doe, naturally, ignored her.

Addressing the same member of staff, Doe requested an espresso and sat, one ankle tucked behind the other, upon a faux-leather chair, her brows pinched.

"So." Finch leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table's linoleum, "How are things?"

Doe's venom, extruded through nothing more than a glance, could have fell any giant of old. Fortunately, resistance has been known to build up with prolonged exposure. Finch reclined, returning a dashing smile, despite the sugar packet she had taken to tearing to shreds in her lap.