born under scorpio skies.

grayson blythe, resident author.

[scorpiostelliums]

watch out , grayson blythe has crash-landed into roswell !! they look forty-two years old and celebrate their birthday on 1 november. they are from london, reside in lunar crescent and are currently working as an author. one thing you should know about them is they moved here away from their old money family, but are still living off the family fortune.

BASICS

name: grayson blythe.

age: forty-two.

birthdate: 1st november, 1978.

hometown: london, england, united kingdom.

gender: non-binary.

pronouns: she / her / they / them.

sexuality: bisexual & biromantic.

relationship status: profoundly divorced.

occupation: author. runaway heiress.

BIO

   tw: drugs, alcohol, depression, divorce mention

they’ll give it to you — they’re not exactly the first person you’d think of as a magdalen college ( oxford, or britain’s harvard, as she may be known to quip from time to time — maybe all the time ) graduate and a successful writer.

indeed, grayson blythe — to look at her, red hair flying in the wind through the open window of a beat-up but sentimental car — isn’t exactly the kind of person you’d expect to have been born with a silver spoon in their mouth; most of the time, they’re running from it. or, at least, the bits of it that don’t involve a full bank account, like the overbearing family, and the british rain, and all the tory party socialites her parents know.

a last name change ( never changed back, despite a messy divorce from their wife ) and being on christmas-card terms with their family — who live in belgravia, an affluent area of london — hasn’t made roswell feel quite as otherworldly as she’d hoped, but maybe she’ll get there.

well, if someone tells them it’s because they’ve still got the family fortune, because she hasn’t been disowned, per sé, since she exists out of sight and ‘doesn’t shame them.’ with her . . . habits, one may presume.

( they still meet their little sister in her favourite café in greenwich, on an annual-ish holiday back to england. but her family don’t have to know that. )

after leaving home dramatically at the age of twenty-one, grayson often writes novels in relative seclusion, but the author can be found roaming the town for perfect nooks and crannies to hide in with notes: indie coffee shops, bars, even booths in nightclubs to let the sounds wash over them and influence their magic. 

what is it that so often leads grayson’s relationships, both platonic and romantic — see, their musician ex-wife, who moved to islington ( back in london ) after their divorce five years ago; they’re on speaking terms, but it certainly hurts, still — to decay? well, their intensity and secretive nature are plain, but they’ll rarely tolerate the latter trait in others. combine this with an intense hunger for all areas of life, and a fixation upon sex, death and the taboo that have likewise haunted her fiction, and you get what could fairly be called a ‘difficult character.’ 

their life has been . . . tumultuous, and patched with periods of deep depression that have kept grayson in & out of clinics for a long while now. don’t ask them about the stints in rehab for substance abuse ( various ) or the fact they never really planned to stay on the wagon at the AA, because you’ll only ever get the one answer. writers are all fucked-up liars, aren’t they?

[maisierichards-deactivated20210]

OPEN STARTER. ↪ at the wild pony. ↪ for anyone ( @roswellstarters​ )

“listen, the secret to a great drink is the ice cubes. not too icy or your drink will take forever to refresh but you also don’t want chunks of frozen slush watering it down. right? ” maisie points it out while stirring up her drink, making the cubes tinkle against the glass. “you know what would be the perfect solution? a perfectly clear giant ice cube.” she says with a proud smile. “aren’t i a genius? they should just hire me on the spot.”

[scorpiostelliums]

grayson had plentiful ( perhaps excessive ) experience with drinking, how to make said drink truly pop, and the watery qualities of an over-iced drink. leant up against the bar with their whiskey in-hand, letting out an appreciative chuckle at the image demonstrated in her mind. “that’s good, but you might have to be careful not to break the glass with it.”

[scorpiostelliums]

brooktumanday​:

“yeah,” brook replies, dryly. he wasn’t really asking. the twenty-year-old sits at a nearby table, preoccupied with homework. he looks at the person. neither they nor brook seems like the talkative type. but he makes an effort to do some small talk anyway. “what were you singing? sounds nice.”

such efforts are appreciated — and reciprocated — by the author; they smile, just slightly, in greeting. “oh! it’s black hole sun by soundgarden. a favourite of mine in high school.”

     ( blythe’s expression changes a little, when she realises how much that says about her present age. particularly as it seems like brook wasn’t even born when the song was released / they were in high school. ) 

[oftatteredwings]

for: @roswellstarters​ location: the wild pony

“A couple of days back at school, one PTA meeting and I’m already turning to drink, this isn’t a good sign.” Skye reached for her second drink of the night, although she was already on the doubles, an exasperated sigh escaping her as she turned to her companion.

[scorpiostelliums]

“ you’re fine,” grayson waved a hand, not in dismissal as much as it was . . . forgiveness, as though absolving skye of some perceived sin. they glanced out at the blazing sun beyond the bar window, the exhausted expression of the england-born in the sweltering heat ( the fahrenheit doesn’t help assuage it any ) still present after over twenty years’ residence. “ i don’t have any of those things, and i’m still here, aren’t i? ”

[scorpiostelliums]

“ black hole sun, won’t you come . . . ” absent-minded lyrics muffled in the sleeve of grayson’s jacket, until her head pokes upward at the sensation of eyes boring into her head. they rub at the markings of a ring-bound notebook newly scored into pale skin, vaguely irritated by the mild sting, earphone tumbling out of place. “what? me? yeah. fine. always fine.”

   after twenty-one years in town, they’d think ‘i’m always fine’ would have made its point by now, but then again, their actions had always spoken otherwise.

[unrealunearths]

Amy Adams as Camille Preaker in Sharp Objects, 1.01 Vanish