rosie &mdash; mare lamentorum https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/tag:rosie jiggery f*ckery </br> abandon all hope, ye who enter here Mon, 25 May 2026 19:58:33 +0000 https://i.snap.as/dru4XEMk.jfif rosie &mdash; mare lamentorum https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/tag:rosie day nine yawn https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/day-nine-yawn?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #postmsq #rosie #felstel #wolship #fel #stelmaria #fluff warnings: toddlerfic? general: toddlerfic verb involuntarily open one's mouth wide and inhale deeply due to tiredness or boredom (of an opening or space) be very large and wide noun * a reflex act of opening one's mouth wide and inhaling deeply due to tiredness or boredom !--more-- Rosemary Molkot, aged 4, hated bedtime. There were very few things Rosie hated more than bedtime. Rosie cannot yet write anything besides scribblings, however if she was capable of such a feat her greatest hates list might look something like this: --- THINGS ROSIE HATES Medicine Vegetables Bathtime Worms Bedtime The dark --- Needless to say Wee Rosie did not care for her parents calling bedtime all willy-nilly, after just one single, tiny yawn. Not even a yawn so much as commentary on the interminable banality of her modern existence. An existence laced with indignities such as—but by no means limited to—the aforementioned bedtime, a strict limit on the amount of ginger-cinnamon cookies she's allowed to consume in a day, and the time outs she must endure on the rare occasions she succumbs to temptation and chases ma's chickens into a frenzy. A temptation she'd indulged in today, as a matter of fact. The long, shuddering yawn was an act of protest against these injustices and should be treated as such, but her kind, ill-informed parents failed to grasp this nuance and sentenced her to bedtime. How dare they just assume? When conclusive proof existed to show that not only was she not tired, she had never been tired, not once, in all her one thousand five hundred some odd days of life. If only she could better resist the heaviness of her eyelids, the weakness in her limbs as da gently scoops her up from her \~\~nest of blankets\~\~ fort by the fire and cradles her against his chest. No doubt her inability to fight back is the result of some wicked magic of ma's; all the neighbors called her a witch and she never denied it, just laughed as she handed them sparkling bottles of sweet-smelling liquid to treat so-and-so's fever or to help their auntie's cousin's wife's niece three times removed’s milk flow freely after her baby came early. Whatever that means. Still, despite her parent's treachery she loved them and looping her short arms round da's neck is a surrender she accepts, even enjoys. She nuzzles close to the warmth emanating from his dusky skin and metal prosthetic alike. "Not sleepy," Rosie grunts. "Aye? What ya think ma? Can she go another quarter bell or tuck 'er in ta bed?" Da looks at ma, dragging his chin over the silken fur of a tiny, tufted ear. "Well I'm tired, certainly, and my poor chickens are exhausted. Regardless of what she says, seeing as the Princess Rosemary's servants and playmates are all succumbing to the sleep of the just, she may have no choice but to join them." "I love it when ya say a buncha stuff I don' understan'." "So you just love anything I say then?" "Aye. 'An not just whatcha say neither." Rosie grumbles to herself, eyes squinched tightly against her parents' ridiculous wordplay. She's already surrendered to their impertinent demands, must this humiliation be dragged on further? Da takes her to her room then deposits her between the sheets of her trundle bed, tucking her in, arranging her crowd of stuffed companions just so, and—after a whine from Rosie—switches on the small device he made for her. Soft orange light radiates from backside of the insect-shaped lamp, banishing the looming shadows from corners and ceiling. "'Night, sweetroll," murmurs da, sliding an errant lock of the small girl's shining ebony hair out of her eyes with gentle, artificial fingers. Rosie is already fast asleep, one fang glinting as she dreams of chasing squawking chickens across the yard, unreprimanded.]]> #ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #postmsq #rosie #felstel #wolship #fel #stelmaria #fluff

warnings: toddlerfic?

general: toddlerfic

verb

  • involuntarily open one's mouth wide and inhale deeply due to tiredness or boredom
  • (of an opening or space) be very large and wide

noun

  • a reflex act of opening one's mouth wide and inhaling deeply due to tiredness or boredom

Rosemary Molkot, aged 4, hated bedtime.

There were very few things Rosie hated more than bedtime.

Rosie cannot yet write anything besides scribblings, however if she was capable of such a feat her greatest hates list might look something like this:

THINGS ROSIE HATES

  1. Medicine

  2. Vegetables

  3. Bathtime

  4. Worms

  5. Bedtime

  6. The dark

Needless to say Wee Rosie did not care for her parents calling bedtime all willy-nilly, after just one single, tiny yawn.

Not even a yawn so much as commentary on the interminable banality of her modern existence. An existence laced with indignities such as—but by no means limited to—the aforementioned bedtime, a strict limit on the amount of ginger-cinnamon cookies she's allowed to consume in a day, and the time outs she must endure on the rare occasions she succumbs to temptation and chases ma's chickens into a frenzy.

A temptation she'd indulged in today, as a matter of fact.

The long, shuddering yawn was an act of protest against these injustices and should be treated as such, but her kind, ill-informed parents failed to grasp this nuance and sentenced her to bedtime.

How dare they just assume? When conclusive proof existed to show that not only was she not tired, she had never been tired, not once, in all her one thousand five hundred some odd days of life.

If only she could better resist the heaviness of her eyelids, the weakness in her limbs as da gently scoops her up from her ~~nest of blankets~~ fort by the fire and cradles her against his chest.

No doubt her inability to fight back is the result of some wicked magic of ma's; all the neighbors called her a witch and she never denied it, just laughed as she handed them sparkling bottles of sweet-smelling liquid to treat so-and-so's fever or to help their auntie's cousin's wife's niece three times removed’s milk flow freely after her baby came early.

Whatever that means.

Still, despite her parent's treachery she loved them and looping her short arms round da's neck is a surrender she accepts, even enjoys. She nuzzles close to the warmth emanating from his dusky skin and metal prosthetic alike.

“Not sleepy,” Rosie grunts.

“Aye? What ya think ma? Can she go another quarter bell or tuck 'er in ta bed?” Da looks at ma, dragging his chin over the silken fur of a tiny, tufted ear.

“Well I'm tired, certainly, and my poor chickens are exhausted. Regardless of what she says, seeing as the Princess Rosemary's servants and playmates are all succumbing to the sleep of the just, she may have no choice but to join them.”

“I love it when ya say a buncha stuff I don' understan'.”

“So you just love anything I say then?”

“Aye. 'An not just whatcha say neither.”

Rosie grumbles to herself, eyes squinched tightly against her parents' ridiculous wordplay. She's already surrendered to their impertinent demands, must this humiliation be dragged on further?

Da takes her to her room then deposits her between the sheets of her trundle bed, tucking her in, arranging her crowd of stuffed companions just so, and—after a whine from Rosie—switches on the small device he made for her. Soft orange light radiates from backside of the insect-shaped lamp, banishing the looming shadows from corners and ceiling.

”'Night, sweetroll,” murmurs da, sliding an errant lock of the small girl's shining ebony hair out of her eyes with gentle, artificial fingers.

Rosie is already fast asleep, one fang glinting as she dreams of chasing squawking chickens across the yard, unreprimanded.

]]> https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/day-nine-yawn Sat, 10 Sep 2022 17:05:45 +0000 navigation https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/navigation?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[|| post type || series || genre || universe || ship || character || --- a id="posttype"/apost type: wordoftheday prompt drabble ffxivwrite2022 shitpost --- a id="series"/aseries: ffxiv wolshipewfic exlibris ffxivwrite2022 dnd threadsbetween --- a id="genre"/a genre: horror nsfw kindansfw fluff au --- a id="universe"/a universe: ffxiv worldunsundered prearr arr heavensward stormblood shadowbringers endwalker postmsq dnd eberron --- a id="ship"/a ship: felstel hythhades wolcred wolexarch wolgraha wolmagnai wolship wolzenos --- a id="character"/a character: ffxiv alisaie alphinaud ancients estinien exarch fel fray graha haurchefant magnai poppy rosie stelmaria thancred wol yotsuyu yshtola zenos dnd polly]]> || post type || series || genre || universe || ship || character ||

post type:

#wordoftheday #prompt #drabble #ffxivwrite2022 #shitpost

series:

#ffxiv

#dnd

genre:

#horror #nsfw #kindansfw #fluff #au

universe:

#ffxiv

#dnd

ship:

#felstel #hythhades #wolcred #wolexarch #wolgraha #wolmagnai #wolship #wolzenos

character:

#ffxiv

#dnd

]]> https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/navigation Tue, 02 Nov 2021 19:58:22 +0000 embellish https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/embellish?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[#wordoftheday #prompt #drabble #ffxiv #postmsq #felstel #wolship #rosie #fluff “Then what happened?” Rosemary watches her da’s face in a state of rapt focus only attainable by the tiniest children. “Well then ya’ ma said,” Felcy’ra’s voice rises into a breathy falsetto, a terrible imitation of his wife, “’Oh won’t some han’som hero save me from this terrible, disgusting chigoe?’ An’ then she gave a great swoon—” “She what?!” Her ebony ears fly back in surprise, disbelieving eyes sliding across to Stelmaria, who works quite determinedly at her embroidery—head down and lips thin. Rosie can’t imagine ma ever swooning. Fel grins in unrepentant glee. “—Ya’ ma went swoonin’. Pay attention sweetroll, this is gettin’ to tha good bit.” !--more-- The small kit stifles giggles with her dove gray hands, amethyst eyes shining, “Aye, da.” “So I come leapin’ into the clearin’, strong lance arm ready to bring down this foul beast—” “What did it look like, da? The chigoe?” Chigoe sometimes lived in the tree outside her bedroom window. Rosie could hear their gentle chittering on quiet nights before she drifted off to sleep, but she’d never seen one. “Huge. Three or four yalms tall at least, giant slaverin’ mandibles click-clackin’ away thinkin’ of its’ next meal. To this day I’m deadly sure it meant to devour ya’ ma whole righ’ then an’ there—jus’ snatch her up all in one big gulp.” Rosie, ever the appreciative audience, gasps. Good thing indeed that the ones in her tree couldn’t possibly be that big, or she might worry they planned to eat her too. “So I come leapin’ over the hedge, then manage to jump up on one log, then over to another—up an’ up an’ up until—” “Until?” “I snap on my lucky goggles,” he demonstrates, ”an’ I come down off the bough like the wrath o’ the Twelve. Jumpin’ wi’ all my might—an’ ya know ya’ da, wee Rosie, I got a lot o’ might. The wind was whistlin’ in my ears an’ sending my hair all flyin’ any which way. I tell ya I was very glad I had my goggles for protection.” Rosie’s da only takes his blue-lensed goggles off to sleep and take baths. She’s allowed to wear them herself for a single bell on her nameday, to make the next twelve moons happy ones. They are that lucky. “Anyway, the point o’ my lance pierces right through the monster’s crispy shell an’ brain an’ deep into tha dirt. All twenty of it’s long, spindly legs go twitchin’ an’ flailin’ as it dies, an’ so I twisted my lance jus’ ta be sure it was dead.” “Was it dead?” “Aye. An’ I was so lightnin’ fast I managed to kill it stone dead an’ catch ya’ ma ‘afore she hit the ground.” “Ma fell!?” The little girl’s mouth hangs open, eyebrows almost hidden under her sweep of jet black hair. “She caught a swoon, Rosie, remember?” Rosie may be just six summers old but she’s learning that her da sometimes fibs in his stories. She loves them though, and loves her da and ma, so she lets da think that she believes him, even when she doesn’t. Besides, if he goes too far ma will stop him, like always. “An’ there I was: covered in sticky, green gore, hair a right mess, my lance stuck in a dead chigoe, and with the most beautiful miqo I’d ever laid eyes on laying helpless in my arms. All well an’ good—‘cept she was out cold.” “No!” Ma knocked out? He is definitely telling tales. “Aye. So I kissed her to wake her up.” “Like in the stories?” Da puts his broad hand over his heart and assumes an earnest expression. Pity it’s completely ruined by the quirk at the corner of his mouth. A rustle of skirts before ma’s clipped tones ring out, “—That’s enough nonsense for tonight, I think. Time for kits to trot away to bed.” She rises from her rocking chair and tidies away her things, making ready to take Rosie to her room for bedtime. “But ma—,” whines Rosie. “But Stel—,” whines da. “No buts. Bed.” With a petulant grunt, Rosie pads down the hall ahead of her ma, tail hung low. Da clears his incomprehensible metal thingamajigs into a basket he keeps by his chair. All traces of his former protest have vanished, replaced with his usual fanged smirk. “I don’t swoon. I’ve never swooned,” quips Stel, without heat. “I beg ta differ. I could make ya swoon right now if I wanted,” murmurs Fel, wrapping his wife in his arms and chuffing warmly into her ear. He traces the shape of her jaw with one scarred thumb, calluses rasping on her smooth skin, before pressing his lips softly against her carmine mouth. She smiles against his kiss. “Hush.”]]> #wordoftheday #prompt #drabble #ffxiv #postmsq #felstel #wolship #rosie #fluff

“Then what happened?” Rosemary watches her da’s face in a state of rapt focus only attainable by the tiniest children.

“Well then ya’ ma said,” Felcy’ra’s voice rises into a breathy falsetto, a terrible imitation of his wife, “’Oh won’t some han’som hero save me from this terrible, disgusting chigoe?’ An’ then she gave a great swoon—”

“She what?!” Her ebony ears fly back in surprise, disbelieving eyes sliding across to Stelmaria, who works quite determinedly at her embroidery—head down and lips thin.

Rosie can’t imagine ma ever swooning.

Fel grins in unrepentant glee. “—Ya’ ma went swoonin’. Pay attention sweetroll, this is gettin’ to tha good bit.”

The small kit stifles giggles with her dove gray hands, amethyst eyes shining, “Aye, da.”

“So I come leapin’ into the clearin’, strong lance arm ready to bring down this foul beast—”

“What did it look like, da? The chigoe?”

Chigoe sometimes lived in the tree outside her bedroom window. Rosie could hear their gentle chittering on quiet nights before she drifted off to sleep, but she’d never seen one.

“Huge. Three or four yalms tall at least, giant slaverin’ mandibles click-clackin’ away thinkin’ of its’ next meal. To this day I’m deadly sure it meant to devour ya’ ma whole righ’ then an’ there—jus’ snatch her up all in one big gulp.”

Rosie, ever the appreciative audience, gasps. Good thing indeed that the ones in her tree couldn’t possibly be that big, or she might worry they planned to eat her too.

“So I come leapin’ over the hedge, then manage to jump up on one log, then over to another—up an’ up an’ up until—”

“Until?”

“I snap on my lucky goggles,” he demonstrates, ”an’ I come down off the bough like the wrath o’ the Twelve. Jumpin’ wi’ all my might—an’ ya know ya’ da, wee Rosie, I got a lot o’ might. The wind was whistlin’ in my ears an’ sending my hair all flyin’ any which way. I tell ya I was very glad I had my goggles for protection.”

Rosie’s da only takes his blue-lensed goggles off to sleep and take baths. She’s allowed to wear them herself for a single bell on her nameday, to make the next twelve moons happy ones.

They are that lucky.

“Anyway, the point o’ my lance pierces right through the monster’s crispy shell an’ brain an’ deep into tha dirt. All twenty of it’s long, spindly legs go twitchin’ an’ flailin’ as it dies, an’ so I twisted my lance jus’ ta be sure it was dead.”

“Was it dead?”

“Aye. An’ I was so lightnin’ fast I managed to kill it stone dead an’ catch ya’ ma ‘afore she hit the ground.”

“Ma fell!?” The little girl’s mouth hangs open, eyebrows almost hidden under her sweep of jet black hair.

“She caught a swoon, Rosie, remember?”

Rosie may be just six summers old but she’s learning that her da sometimes fibs in his stories. She loves them though, and loves her da and ma, so she lets da think that she believes him, even when she doesn’t.

Besides, if he goes too far ma will stop him, like always.

“An’ there I was: covered in sticky, green gore, hair a right mess, my lance stuck in a dead chigoe, and with the most beautiful miqo I’d ever laid eyes on laying helpless in my arms. All well an’ good—‘cept she was out cold.”

“No!”

Ma knocked out? He is definitely telling tales.

“Aye. So I kissed her to wake her up.”

“Like in the stories?”

Da puts his broad hand over his heart and assumes an earnest expression. Pity it’s completely ruined by the quirk at the corner of his mouth.

A rustle of skirts before ma’s clipped tones ring out, “—That’s enough nonsense for tonight, I think. Time for kits to trot away to bed.”

She rises from her rocking chair and tidies away her things, making ready to take Rosie to her room for bedtime.

“But ma—,” whines Rosie.

“But Stel—,” whines da.

“No buts. Bed.”

With a petulant grunt, Rosie pads down the hall ahead of her ma, tail hung low.

Da clears his incomprehensible metal thingamajigs into a basket he keeps by his chair. All traces of his former protest have vanished, replaced with his usual fanged smirk.

“I don’t swoon. I’ve never swooned,” quips Stel, without heat.

“I beg ta differ. I could make ya swoon right now if I wanted,” murmurs Fel, wrapping his wife in his arms and chuffing warmly into her ear. He traces the shape of her jaw with one scarred thumb, calluses rasping on her smooth skin, before pressing his lips softly against her carmine mouth.

She smiles against his kiss. “Hush.”

]]> https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/embellish Fri, 15 Oct 2021 15:31:36 +0000