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]

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.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

There was a girl, in a time before words were apprehended by ink or encased in stone, the tale of whom we are capable of retelling only through whispers beneath sheets and stories spoken grandly around the firepit.

Her name, say most, was Solace.

Solace, they say, was no thing of great beauty. Her teeth were crooked and yellowed, her face haunted by craters, produced by a grotesque compulsion toward tearing at her own flesh. The boys who passed her were known to close their eyes.

It was in her garden that she found companionship, found peace.

Solace’s father was a man of wealth who kept a manor home upon their town’s grandest hilltop. At its back, a magnificent garden, crowded with all manner of flora, from climbing ivy upon their trellis’ to vibrant red roses, dripping with condensation. Towering oak trees lined the property, their boughs lush, saturated with leaves larger than dinner plates. Often, if it was found that Solace’s bed was deserted, it was among these boughs that she could be discovered.

Many a time, her father was forced to call to her from his lowly position upon the ground. When she emerged, often with twigs strewn in her rust-coloured hair, it was with a satisfied pallor. In a blink, she would scuttle toward him, light and soundless on bare feet.

His encouragement had surely festered her wildness, although it could hardly be attributed entirely to the man. Although, still, he caught her when she stumbled upon an oak root, laughing heartily as she.

Solace, as she walked, took passing blooms into her hands. She cupped the massive head of a lily just briefly, moving then onto the wilting daffodils by the cook’s entrance. The lily, it was said, rose proud, then, invigorated by her attention.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Despite their requirement for proximity, Rosalyn often exclaimed, "I have no idea where my husband is."

This, naturally, was my cue to attempt to locate Atlas while Linney grasped their hand and chuckled good-naturally. She soothed those requiring it, addressing the camera with a jest or quirking an elbow toward a production assistant. I never had her gift for putting people at ease and, hence, it fell to me to race down endless, unfamiliar corridors, my boots pounding against linoleum, marble, hardwood, until Atlas Carraway could be found.

Usually, he had tucked himself into an alcove or closet, distractedly chattering to an intern or speaking on the telephone to a nameless producer. Once or twice, he had simply picked up a pamphlet in reception and was engrossed. Otherwise, occasionally, he was merely lost, attempting to locate Rosalyn through movements very much similar to those I took to locate him. In those instances, it was about being quick, rather than precise.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Hayden hoisted Dinah against his waist. She seemed to dissolve into him, pillowing her head against his shoulder while her arms came idly to encircle his neck in a loose grip. 

Marriot paused to coo at her briefly as he entered, attempting apparently to detach his own thumb for her amusement. Dinah grinned as if subject to the king's finest jester, teaching toward him with one plump fist. 

Lottie hung behind him, her iPad clutched to her chest. She exchanged glances with Odessa, sat upon the edge of Loyal's desk, her legs swinging mechanically beneath her. 

Hayden pressed a hasty kiss to the crown of Dinah's head, the girl pulling away preemptively as Marriot opened his arms. Lottie blanched as Loyal turned to Odessa, "Shall we?" He asked. 

She leaped toward him, careful to ignore Charlotte's plastered smile. 

[mydarlingdearestdead]

I don't think Rosalyn's desire when they began this journey was to be revered or worshipped.

I am no expert. I beg of you, do not uphold me as that for which I am severely underqualified. But, with that in mind, I feel I must admit that it is my opinion that Rosalyn Carraway wished only to possess the freedom to create and create without judgement.

Of course, that must be aligned with the omnipresent requirement of an existence with Atlas. This, I say as if they were not two who would would be content with life in curled into the Paris sewers, so long as the experience was shared. As if they would not have slit their wrists in tandem if only they were certain that immortality in each other's company awaited.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Lain discreetly upon Allie's lower lip, unlit, a cigarette. Karma grimaced as he saw it. Remus complained, "Lung cancer is still cool, then?"

Allie merely winked. He was the type, you understand. Belonging to a class which transcended status, appearing instead as gods on high, waving gavels and raising voices in their dictations. To put it simply: If Allistar James was guilty of doing anything, that activity automatically became infinitely more attractive to those of lower standing until each was clamouring for the opportunity to debase himself.

Remus could have raised their hand to him, like a cruel adult bearing down upon the misbehaving child. This, they thought, is not the role I intended for you.

Although, the truth of the matter was that that role had been constructed with incomplete context, a jest at its core. That role, the one left pathetically unfulfilled, could not be played to fruition by he for whom it was written.

But could it ever be recast?

[mydarlingdearestdead]

"Caoimhe wants a ring."

Loyal, seated at the kitchen island upon a sturdy, if without cushioning, wooden stool, shifted as he spoke, twirling a band of gold around his ring finger. He sat with one knee tucked beneath the other, elegant and languid. The image was rather spoiled, however, by his constant tremoring.

Busying herself with the steps of brewing tea, Odessa hummed in a dazed acknowledgement. There were bees in her mind, buzzing incessantly, prodding and begging attention. She sniffed, reaching for the kettle, praying dismissal.

"Dess?"

Again, she hummed, vaguely in tune with her captors. They seemed to grow bolder at the gesture.

Then Loyal was rising slowly. Each bare-footed step upon the tiled floor was silent and, yet, Odessa knew of his approach without meeting his eye.

She gasped when his hands came to cradle her waist, boasting of affection and lightness. And, for a moment's span, all was silent.

[thornsamigurumi]

SPOP Saturday

what I read this week:

sparkle by @jezmatronwrites - Adora is trying to get some details for her latest blog entry, this time in New York. Unfortunately, a prior mistake comes to bite her in the proverbial in the form of an angry, glittery bundle of energy. How will Adora tackle the persistent and weirdly ever-present menace? Someone who invades your privacy needs to get a stern talking to, obviously.

planted by resflower - Adora's terrible with plants but they make her happy. Catra just wants her girlfriend happy.

no smoke without fire by jezmatron - Adora is a firefighter - she lives to do well by her community. But currently she finds herself back at the same damn apartment block rescuing cats and putting out trash fires whilst a certain hetero-chromatic eyed girl watches.

season renewed by jezmatron - Adora and Catra are the leads on a show that has just aired its finale. Now, on a deserted set, these old estranged friends reminisce and have a final showdown.

POP FEUD by @n7punk - Catra got the opportunity to perform on the VMAs main stage and she used it to make it obvious to everyone what popstar her breakup songs are about – Adora included, because she didn’t even know Catra was making music until she was watching from the side of the stage. The public has front row seats to watch as their feud and relationship unfolds online, in the tabloids, and through fan interactions. As public figures, everything about their story is told through the public eye, and interpretation of their music isn’t up to them anymore. (Or, my third popstar Catradora AU but let’s not talk about that)

princess prom and slaughter soiree by @crack-fic-casey - The All-Princess Ball is the focal point of Etherian Royal Culture. Whichever kingdom hosts it would spend literal years preparing the greatest food, the most wonderful music for every Princess in the world to enjoy. The anticipation for the event is astronomical! For Perfuma, it's a chance to meet more people like her. She's been feeling the burnout from protecting Plumeria alone, and desperately needs a night free of drama and chaos. Unfortunately, it doesn't look like her date with Bow will give her the respite she needs. Glimmer wants to make more friends and prove her value as a Princess. But when Bow and Catra abandon her for people they just met, she feels forced to take drastic measures. All Catra wants is a good time with all her new friends together, but when her ex-Best Friend from the Horde shows up, she's left flailing for the right thing to do. And Adora seems to have everything she said she wanted; a Force Captain's badge, a squad under her command, and the praise of her superiors. Why is she risking everything? Is it just to see Catra again-- or does she have a darker agenda?

the orrery by @thiakerrigan - She should start to grieve, that's what the stories say. She should say goodbye, once for each moon, and let Catra go. But her First Ones blood, or maybe the heart that pumps it, screams that something is wrong. She can't let go of Catra, and Catra can't let go of her, and every ghost story she's ever heard says that that spells disaster for the both of them… but she has to see it through. The moons are turning. Etheria is trying to finish something it started. And Adora is running out of time.

the devil i know by @tippenfunkaport - Glimmer's a demon hunter with a rare gift: the ability to sense demonic energy and identify otherworldly threats before they reveal themselves. As a hunter, she's a ruthless fighter, but, off the job, she hides a painful secret: she's trapped in an abusive relationship she can't seem to escape. She's hiding the reality of her home life from her team, ashamed she can't face her personal demons as well as the literal ones. Until she arrives home to find the biggest otherworldly she's ever met, so powerful she can barely defend herself against it before it overloads her gift and knocks her unconscious. When she wakes, the threat is gone, but something's off. It's not like her boyfriend can't be nice when he wants to be, but his care with her recovery seems different than the usual manipulative lovebombing. He's baking, helping around the house, actually taking an interest in her life. Almost like he's an entirely different person. If there's a demon possessing her boyfriend, especially one that powerful, what Glimmer needs to do is tell her team so they can eliminate it before it can threaten humanity. What she absolutely should NOT do is fall in love.

shadow weaver vs the machine @irc-d-x-ao3 - Shadow Weaver, a prominent albeit problematic sorcery tutor in Mystacor’s college, is slowly being replaced by none other than an Artificial Intelligence bot that she herself helped create. Having ignored the warnings of her fellows, she’s now at risk of losing her job entirely, while the bot that displaced her breaks havoc in Mystacor. If the Horde Enterprises remains unpunished, their bot online, and the sorcery pupils lazy, tragedy may be closer than expected.

an ace up my sleeve by @es272, @mydarlingdearestdead - The Ocean has cared for Mermista since she was a babe, crawling through tidepools and roaring with laughter at the sensation of waves lapping at her toes. At nineteen, following the utter desertion of her father some years previous, she has little to occupy herself aside from her annual reread of all eighteen Mer-Mystery books and the occasional opportunity to traumatise a few sailors. When her actions disturb her protector, Mermista is forced for the first time to disobey the Ocean in order to save the a life. Unfortunately, that life belongs to an awfully attractive and disturbingly endearing pirate who rather enjoys punishing her kind deed with greatly exaggerated tales of swashbuckling adventure. That, of course, is the universe's sense of humour kicking into gear. Yet, even as she protests, there is something about Sea Hawk that makes her question this hyperconfident exterior of his… But if he is going to offer to do her laundry, gods know she will not be ruining a good thing by psychoanalysing the guy. Probably. If she can help herself.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

I have been accused many a time of being pathologically unable to ‘Take a joke’.

I do not deny the accusations. In fact, I rather endorse them. Quite simply, I have standards for humour. It is hardly my responsibility to coddle those who do not reach them, especially when the ‘Jokes’ uttered possess punchlines reliant entirely on whether my self-respect can withstand a blatant attack.

I have been deemed stubborn for the fact that I wish not to compromise my morals for the ease or attention of another. ‘Selfish’- Another word hurled clumsily. I do not think I am selfish. Uncompromising and stubborn, I accept. But I do not think I am selfish.

Let me put it this way:

Say you, dearest reader, have spent decades cultivating a gorgeous, lush garden. Can you see it? Gardenias in abundance and towering rhododendrons. Yellow roses mingling with their white cousins, rubbing elbows with sturdy fruit-bearing trees. You and I walk through such a garden, me munching on an apple torn from a bough. This, I had done without question. You, if asked, would have denied me, for these are your creations. Who am I to trespass here? The gift of entry does not validate any purpose of destruction, surely.

But this, because I am a friend, you allow to pass undiscussed.

Next time, I arrive with a basket. I’m making apple pie and you don’t mind.

Then, I bring my mother and my brother and my uncles and nieces.

Then, I ask you to burn the garden to the ground. Why wouldn’t you? You’ve already given up your apples. This endeavour has become pointless. It is spoiled, rotten from the inside out.

Would you take the torch from my hand?

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Mrs Doe Divine sat solitary in a corner booth, her hair falling in soft, sculpted curls across her shoulders. 

The coat settled around her shoulders was a warm tan, the cardigan underneath, navy. In her hands, she cupped a blue ceramic mug, cradling it in such a way as to allow the steam to warm her face. 

On a plate before her, two chocolate-dipped shortbread. 

If promoted, she would state to be awaiting her husband, gleeful in the admission. 

Her lipstick- Glorious red- left a stain on the mug's edge. 

The servers, circulating to a rhythm entirely their own, waltzed around her, careless with their gazes. Once, she would have detested their thoughtless smiles.

When Luka Divine entered, it was as if the planetary axis shifted. Golden sunlight poured in as his eye swept the tables. It only intensified as he found her.