Rosie

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.

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."

"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.

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.

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.

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,

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.

You know what why not

"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.

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.

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." 

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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?