gracewritesmanythings

[gracewritesmanythings]

[gracewritesmanythings]

im aware this is an insane thing to say but i fucking. love characters that are just cockroaches. and i dont mean like. gross i mean they just do not fucking die. they can survive anything. they will outlive EVERYONE because they just will not die no matter what be it because they have a reason or because they literally cannot stop surviving the odds i love it i love it

[gracewritesmanythings]

screaming, crying, throwing up, as I force myself to write a story i'm very passionate about and love writing and have no obligation to write except that i want to

[gracewritesmanythings]

*emerges from the other room covered in blood* you should see the word document

[gracewritesmanythings]

listen you NEED to borrow that book from the library. i know youve got like 10 other books lined up to be read but you need to go to the library. remind the library that it's loved and cherished

[gracewritesmanythings]

rain; a retrospective

continuation of this

“Evan,” Rain asked, her voice low and deadly, eyes gleaming like chips of sapphire in her shadowed face. Moonlight, steady and bright, poured through the window behind her, turning threads of her black hair silver. “Where. Is. Tobias.”

Evan clutched Amina a little tighter, lips twisted in bitter, defiant anger. In his arms, his girlfriend’s face screwed up - perhaps because of the shouting, perhaps because of how tight he was squeezing her. “I am not going to apologize.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Rain spat, casting one arm wide. Evan’s eyes tracked the movement, as though to make sure she wasn’t about to drive a throwing knife directly into his heart. She couldn’t bring herself to be hurt by the obvious mistrust; she herself was still unsure as to whether or not she’d do it. “Where is he.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, before some semblance of shame and responsibility stole his bravado, and his eyes dropped down and away. “The…the river.”

Rain recoiled as though he’d just struck her, fear running like wildfire through her nervous system, adrenaline slamming her heart against her ribs. The river, whichever direction he was talking about, was well outside their territory. It was well outside where they were all safe. “Gods damn you.”

“I am not going to apologize for saving Amina’s life!” Evan roared back. “I won’t do it.”

“So you gave Tobias in exchange?” she demanded, too angry to control her volume, her words. She was done being politic.

“It was what was demanded.”

“What, Tobias himself? Or a fucking replacement?” He tried to control his reaction, but they’d been living practically on top of each other for far too long. “A replacement, then. Should I be flattered that you picked him over me?” Again he opened his mouth as though to respond, but Rain got there first. “No, that’s not it. Amina would never have forgiven you if you’d sold me out, so you picked the only acceptable option. Gods, why didn’t you just ask us for help?”

Evan was quiet for a moment, visibly wavering somewhere between anger, guilt, and sheer stubbornness. And then the silence stretched for far too long, and while she desperately wanted an answer, every moment she spent here was a moment wasted. Evan had only just gotten back, which meant there was a chance that Tobias was still…

“I don’t have time for this,” Rain snapped. “For the last time, where is he?” The punctuation mark for this question was a gleaming knife in the palm of her hand, scattering bright shards of moonlight.

At last, Evan looked away. “...Werewolf territory. By the big rock.”

Rain was vaulting out of the window before he’d even finished talking. She heard him call her name behind her, just once, but the sound was lost in the rushing wind, and in the knowledge that the full moon was insidiously high and bright overhead.

Cain, they had lost. The two third years, they had lost. All of the other first years besides Tobias they had lost as well, and now - Not him, she begged quietly, legs burning as she sprinted and grappled faster than she ever had before. Not my best friend.

[gracewritesmanythings]

but i don't LIKE being in a creative fallow period. i want to be an eternal harvest!!! i want to sow a little bit and then reap and reap and reap. waiting for the seeds to grow sucks.

[gracewritesmanythings]

prince and retainer 3

continuation of this and this

“Mother,” Ilya says, calmly but politely interrupting her. Once he is certain that he has her attention, he turns to Adrien. “Adrien, you look like a wastrel. But as I was saying, mother, I sincerely doubt that Ylistra will attack us. Not yet, anyway. They’ve only just figured out the wheel. Give it a year or so.”

Annelise takes a measured look around, checking to see if any of the family is paying attention, before stepping forward and murmuring in Adrien’s ear, “Bet you that his Majesty is next.”

Adrien snorts, an amused grimace curling his mouth. “Absolutely not. Serene for sure.”

Annelise shakes her head and steps back again, folding her hands into place. None of the other family members pay her more than a passing glance. She doesn’t even have another retainer to share an exasperated look with; the King’s guards are stationed at the other end of the room, and the other siblings go through retainers like Adrien goes through clothes.

The king clears his throat and dabs delicately at his mouth. The rest of the table falls silent. “Ilya, sometimes—”

“Ooooh, Adrien!” Serene interrupts, slamming her utensils down on the table in an explosive show of petulance. “Would you cut that out? I am your little sister. I don’t want to see that!”

Adrien looks up innocently from where he’d just convinced Calliope that they needed to make out, right now. The woman lets out a soft, disappointed sigh, and sits back in her seat. “Who, me?”

Annelise scowls and vows to slap Adrien soundly over the back of the head for this later. That’s cheating.

“Adrien,” Ilya says, his voice frigid as ice. “If you can’t act appropriately at the dinner table, we will have to send you away.”

Adrien huffs, kicks out his feet, and gets up. He offers his arm to Calliope and favors his family with a mock-unimpressed look. “I’m afraid I am incapable of acting appropriately. I will send myself away.”

“Adrien—” Pietro says, his eyes wrinkling at the corners in consternation.

“Oh, let him go, Pietro,” Beatrice says, waving her middle child away. “It’s not like he was going to say anything relevant, anyway.”

Some emotion ripples up Adrien’s side. It doesn’t touch his face—it never does—but Annelise can see the hitch in his step. Her heart aches to reach out and comfort him, but her station forces her to scan the room as they leave for anything else that could hurt him. It’s all she’s ever been able to do.

They walk in silence for a few minutes; even Calliope seems to sense the tension in the air, and keeps quiet.

Then Annelise says, “You cheated.”

“I never said that I’d play fair,” Adrien says petulantly.

Calliope turns around and grins like a fox at Annelise. Her dark hair, rippling with dyes that turn it almost opalescent in color, streams around her hair like it’s alive. “Oh, but it was funny, wasn’t it?”

Annelise bites down on a smile. Seeing the princess Serene squirm in her seat is a rare treat. She has only just lost the last of her milk teeth, but thinks that she’s mature enough to rule the world.

[gracewritesmanythings]

My not-so-hot writing take for this fine middle of the night: prologues are virtually never necessary, and Origin Of The World prologues are even more virtually never necessary.

And if you are going to write one, it should be very short and damn good.

[gracewritesmanythings]

Being obsessed with your own ocs is so so good for you i seriously can't recommend it enough

[gracewritesmanythings]

of glitz and glamor

“You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

“I’m being serious,” Samwise responds with a wide, cheshire grin. The individual in front of him is a veritable tree of a man, thick brown beard covering about 70% of his face. The remaining 30% is flushed a bright, angry red, and his breath reeks of the cheap beer he’s no doubt been drinking all night. “I’ll bet you, let’s see - 500 credits that I can guess something completely true about you.”

The man sneers, and then twists around to look at his friends, who’re already laughing. “Get a load of this kid!”

“Oh, why don’t you let him, Al?” one jeers. “Experiential learning is important for little kiddies’ development, after all!”

Samwise surreptitiously peers into the air above the head of the man who’d spoken, and a small frown turns one corner of his mouth. But he quickly swallows down his distaste and forces a smile back on his face. “You heard him. If you’re so certain I won’t be able to do it, what’s the harm?”

Alistair hesitates for a moment and suddenly looks around the bar, as though he suspects Samwise of having brought accomplices with the intent of springing some sort of trap. Then he seems to remember that he’s surrounded by a testosterone-riddled gaggle of equally beefy men, and his suspicion relaxes.

“Alright,” he agrees with a wide, malicious grin. “Give it your best shot, then.”

Samwise makes a show of letting his eyes slide toward the ceiling, as though he was deep in thought. In reality, he’s just making sure he got the number right.

“How many times have you cheated on your wife? And with multiple of these men’s wives, to boot?” It’s like all the air has been sucked out of their little corner at once, leaving only pure, stunned silence behind. Even the constant background noise from the rest of the bar seems muted in the still, stuffy atmosphere. “24 times, really? That’s quite a prodigious number, Al.”

For a while, no one says anything. Alistair’s bright red face turns very pale, and he gapes at Samwise in astonishment, which - really, he’s all but confirming it with his reaction. What a joke.

Then one of the other men says in a hush, “Sirona doesn’t look like me,” and things get very ugly very quickly.

“Experiential learning indeed,” Samwise mutters as he slithers between someone’s legs and makes a hasty escape out of the side entrance. Considering the many angry problems Alistair currently has on his hands Samwise doesn’t think he’ll be attacked, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. And anyway now that the whole sordid mess has been revealed, there’s no glitz or glamor to be found in the continuation of the story. Just busted knuckles and broken noses and a whole lot of senseless violence. The only thing left is to collect payment from the Mrs. Alistair.

Boring, really, the whole thing. Samwise has the ability to look above a person’s head and comprehend some fantastical quantity associated with them, and all he can do with it is cheap parlor tricks.

And then, something extraordinary happens: he bumps into someone.

It’s his fault, of course - he was meandering down the street, brooding deeply, not paying attention at all to where he was going, certainly not the person coming his way. So when his shoulder jams against someone else’s, he mutters a mental oath, turns, and calls, “Sorry about that!”

“Don’t worry about it,” the other person replies absently, and hurries along. If it were any other person, that would’ve been the end of it.

But Samwise freezes in the middle of the street and continues to stare in bewilderment and growing amazement. He’s just seen something not dull, not dull at all - as glitzy and glamorous as can be, actually. For above that strange person’s head are the words:

Extraterrestrials killed: 27

“Oh, no,” Samwise mutters, a manic grin spreading across his face as he breaks into a run. “You’re not getting away from that easily.”

[gracewritesmanythings]

port of lions 2

continuation of this

“Torren?!” Sparrow squeaked, while Nedir let out a wordless shout of surprise. However Devon, who had been watching all of this with dark, concerned eyes, stepped up beside Alisha and took her by the shoulder. When she turned to look at him, the archer stared steadily, knowingly back.

Sharp eyes, Alisha reminded herself. What had she said to him, when she’d recruited him for her mad quest? I want the sharpest eyes in the whole city.

Alisha was distracted by Aurelia letting out a rough bark of laughter, and then spitting out a tooth, which clattered on the cobbles. “That’s a damn impressive right hook, Torren,” she said admiringly, one hand on her steadily reddening chin. “You’ve only gotten stronger, I see.”

“It’s no business of yours,” Torren said, his normally relaxed tone frostbitten as the mountains he’d come from. “Stay away from us.”

“From Alisha, you mean.” Aurelia’s honey eyes once more fell on Alisha. Raising her voice, she called, “Rather rude, siccing your attack dog on me. I hadn’t even done anything.”

“Hold on a second,” Nedir cut in, stepping between Torren and Aurelia and turning on the former, fists clenched like she wanted to pull out her greataxe. “Torren, I’m not sure what grudge you have against Aurelia, but that was uncalled for.”

Torren actually sneered at her, which surprised Nedir so much she almost physically took a step backward. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Nedir rolled her eyes. “Alisha, can you talk some sense - “ and then her gaze fell on Alisha, and she trailed off into a frown.

“You didn’t tell them, then,” Aurelia said, amused. Alisha wanted to scream. “Interesting.”

Sparrow twitched, and then stepped forward as well, hands spread in a conciliatory gesture. “We apologize for the unprovoked violence - “ and they favored a mean look in Torren’s direction, “ - but I think it’s time for us to go.”

“I’m not sorry,” Torren muttered. “I’ve been wanting to do that for years.”

The whole group, sans Alisha and Aurelia, looked at him strangely at that. The Torren they knew had never been the type to hold a grudge, especially not for years. He held no enmity for the bandits he’d casually mowed through over the years. Even the noble houses of Morrah, which had almost gotten them all killed, hadn’t earned such a sentiment.

“Sure, Sparrow,” Aurelia said lightly, as though Torren hadn’t spoken. “Maybe we’ll see each other again before I leave town.” Her gaze fell on Alisha again.

And then, unexpectedly, Devon stepped between them, meeting Aurelia’s gaze steadily. Without looking away, he reached behind him, found Alisha’s arm, and began pushing her in the opposite direction. It took a moment for Alisha to get the memo, and she stumbled a bit before finding her feet and letting him lead her away.

After a few minutes of walking, where Alisha wasn’t sure where they were going and wasn’t sure she cared, they finally stopped. After a few beats of strained silence, Alisha realized her breaths were coming too hard and too fast, and she felt a little lightheaded. With an effort, she sucked in a long, steadying breath and breathed it out, trying to calm down.

“I’m not sure what that was back there,” Devon said quietly. “But I know I really, really didn’t like it.”

Alisha huffed a laugh, running a shaky hand through her hair. “Wherever did you get that impression?”

“Nedir and Sparrow always talk so fondly of Aurelia,” Devon continued, unmoved by the weak attempt at a joke. “But something happened, didn’t it?”

[gracewritesmanythings]

sometimes you need dialogue tags and don't want to use the same four

[gracewritesmanythings]

dive

“Dream sequence initialized. Time to dive: 60, 59, 58…”

“You know what to do,” Asher told Nova, looking down at her as lights began to blink in her bulky, old fashioned dive helmet. The bed she was lying in was a newer version, luckily - they’d added railings after a client fell in the middle of a dive, which had ultimately sent them to the hospital. Nova herself wasn’t particularly active when she dove, but the safeguard was reassuring all the same. “Don’t dawdle.”

The helmet prevented her from nodding, so she only let out a soft noise of agreement. Long used to her reticence, Asher nodded in satisfaction and stepped away. To one of the dive technicians he said, “Five minutes on the clock. Any sign of unusual activity, we pull her. Understood?”

“Yessir,” the technician replied, already punching in the numbers.

“...25, 24, 23, 22…”

Nova let her eyes fall shut as the metallic voice continued to countdown, and as the drugs coursed through her veins, which would allow her to slip into someone else’s deep slumber. A lot of people hated the sensation, but they were one of the few things which made her feel warm all the way through. Her willingness to fall into the dreamscape, which so many found uncomfortable at best and terrifying at worst, was the reason she was nigh irreplaceable.

“...5, 4, 3, 2, 1…”

She opened her eyes, and sat up.

It took her a moment to realize that she actually recognized the place she’d landed, widely referred to as the ‘reference point’. It was much neater, and there was a lot less blood than there had been in the crime scene photos, but this was definitely the victim’s room - Celine Grey’s, to be exact. The woman whose subconscious she was currently diving into, who had fallen into a coma after being attacked in her home.

As Nova silently studied the space, she realized that it could only be described as ‘cozy’, an adjective she’d never had cause to use before now. There was a thick, plush carpet on the floor, and what appeared to be a reading corner with a squishy chair in one corner. Blankets were so piled up they were basically a nest on the bed, which Nova had coincidentally woken up on.

Nova shook her head, and bright, flaming curls unfurled around her, licking harmlessly at her cheeks and neck. Her eyes - her many eyes, a feature which had become practically permanent during her dives - projected in front of her face in a honeycomb pattern, zooming in on every little detail. When she twisted to slide off the bed, her bare feet landed just an inch off the ground, allowing her to seamlessly hover in the air.

This was another reason she loved diving so much, which most people were incapable of understanding; you could be anyone, anything, in this ephemeral space. Most people couldn’t handle the dysphoria of the mental transformations; Nova thrived in them.

There was a clattering sound, and Nova almost startled out of her skin and spun in the direction of the noise. The victim - Celine Grey - stood in the open doorway, staring openmouthed at Nova. She was a small woman, with jet black hair and almond eyes, and she was wearing a comfortable looking cardigan and jeans.

After a very long pause, Celine cautiously said, “...hello?”

“Hello,” Nova replied without opening her mouth. “Do not be alarmed. I am here to help.”

[gracewritesmanythings]

"write what you know" is so boring. write what you obsessively researched at 3 am and now know enough about to fake expertise.

[gracewritesmanythings]

waiting forever

Clara studied the set of footprints leading up to her door, unsettled. By themselves they wouldn’t have been that alarming, but…they were a rather odd shape. Not quite pawprints, not quite human footprints, they occupied some nebulous space in the middle that made it hard to determine what could possibly be their origin.

Clara knew how to handle werewolves; she kept a silver stiletto in her dress and threaded wolfsbane through her bodice like any good, devout woman should. She knew how to handle ill-intentioned people as well - that silver stiletto was just as effective on human assailants as on supernatural ones, God be praised.

But this sort of odd inbetween-ness was new and strange, and that made her nervous, because just because silver was effective against werewolves and vampires didn’t mean it would be effective against whatever this was. Monsters weren’t as common in these parts as they were in the bloody West, but she’d heard the nightmarish stories, just like everyone else.

It…probably wasn’t anything. It was probably just a big, big dog, which belonged to one of her far-off neighbors, that had gotten lost and entered the first human residence it had found.

Had she left the door open? She must have. She must have left the door open, because it stood ajar now, right at the end of those strange, muddy footprints.

“Father Viscena protect me,” Clara muttered. She knew that most considered her a wretched, unGodly woman, and perhaps in some respect they were correct, but that did not mean she bowed her head to the comfort of delusion. 

Even if it was some sort of danger, what was she to do? The knight who guarded this town would sooner spit in her face than lift a finger to help, as would the oh-so-benevolent Congregation of Purity. Madras would come in a second if she called, but while he meant well, he was no fighter thanks to his lame leg. Even thinking Sloan’s name made Clara shake her head - Addie was in her second trimester, and Clara would sooner die than potentially deprive the unborn child their father.

No. She was on her own.

Your father was a hunter, may he rest in his eternal peace, she reminded herself, slowly drawing the stiletto from its sheath, distantly reminding herself to try not to feel so comfortable with the weapon’s weight. It was inappropriate, for a woman to be so attuned to a killing device. And so was your heathen mother.

She would handle this, or she would die trying.

So quiet as to almost be inaudible, Clara glided toward the open door, using one shiny edge of the thin blade to peer around the corner. Seeing no sign of movement, she carefully nudged the door further open with her boot, wincing at the soft creak of the hinges. She’d purposefully left them unoiled so that she would get some warning if someone tried to sneak in, but what she’d thought of as a clever trick at the time was now to her detriment. Such was luck, and trying to play games with the universe. God saw all.

At first she saw nothing in the one-roomed cabin, and for a brief, optimistic moment she wondered if the creature had already left. Then without warning bright, unnatural yellow eyes blinked at her from her own bed, and Clara’s eyes finally adjusted to the darkest shadows.

A creature - for surely that was no woman sitting there, in her tight-fitting black trousers and low-cut black shirt, which left very little to the imagination - reclined on her bed, watching her with obvious amusement dancing in its canine gaze. Upon seeing Clara’s shocked disapproval, the creature’s blood-red smile widened, exposing too-sharp teeth.

“Finally. I thought I was going to wait here forever.”

[gracewritesmanythings]

twenty years across the sea