#galxhxd

[tiembres]

    ❝ Let me guess.... you are in need of a good PSYCHIATRIST ? ❞  

                                       aka. saam wants @galxhxd‘s attention

[byebyecroft]

galxhxd replied to your post:

[Five out of six people find Russian Roulette to be a great pastime]

[ ADD YOU IN THE MIX AND THE PERFECTION IS COMPLETE. ]

[merestaff-blog]

CALLSIGN :     GALAHAD

MOMENTARY pause, head in a curious tilt. How in the world-… ah. Perhaps one should remember to turn the feed off, occasionally. She allows a slow tongue to wet lips, fully aware that her companion knows of its whereabouts this fine afternoon.

❝In my defense, I did not make the initial approach.❞

Surely that counts.  

BRIEFLY HAVING TO REMEMBER TO COUNT HER BREATHS, face barely suppresses a growl at the obvious disrespect of her position; not entirely surprising   given their agents’ contribution to Merlin’s workload, she chastises herself mentally for having expected other- -wise. The displeasure is clear-cut on her features,     no-nonsense. 

         ❝ Which part of no fraternisation was unclear when it came to new              candidates? I specifically requested that you stay out of anyone’s              trousers. How was I unclear. Approach or not, you crossed a line. ❞

[hartstrung-blog1]

[ @galxhxd   //     encoded   via   AGENT GALAHAD. ]

A mere blink of the eye, but an eternity in passing, long fingers reaching for fabric, skin, anything, and meeting instead the sickening plaster of thick scarlet. Late by mere seconds once more.

HIS blood had been darker.  

❝Little one…❞ Weakness, however brief, features forced into hard lines, emotions quenched in favour of detached efficiency. And, just as was the norm more than a decade past, Galahad lifts her daughter into strong arms, making a swift escape through the adjacent door.

❝Remain awake, Helena.❞

      SHE CAN SEE IT NOW, the legends that always paved way through childhood fantasies, the result of too many bedtime stories of Arthurian knights and holy grails.       Perhaps it’s the clarity of bleeding profusely, EXSANGUINATION blurring lines that had been  separated  for years. Lips part, eyebrows marking clear surprise, --- ---  ❛ You... it’s y--- ❜

      Body betrays her, sagging in Harry’s arms. Forgiving where none is due, and it is in her mother’s arms that Helena realizes that maybe she did blame Harry just a little bit for leaving. Wants to insist that she’s a GROWN WOMAN now, a fully fledged operative ---  (note the GSW to  the thigh, aren’t you proud of me, daddy?)       as the world blurs. 

         Swallows hard to ride through the pain.

                               ❛ --- --- ---  THEY’RE --- they’re coming. ❜

[amazonleader-blog]

It rests there, within the palm of one trembling hand, dialed number obscured by a line of scarlet - the outcome of droplets attempted wiped away by a thumb. It seems, much to her anguish, the exact weight of a tiny baby girl, content in sleep. Harriette hits dial. "Ly-... Hippolyta." There is a quiet assumption, that nothing more need saying.

♕.          @galxhxd        /. 

    IT IS A VOICE SHE HASN’T HEARD IN YEARS; a decade stretching between them like a muddied river once clear. Lyta cannot contain the small gasp leaving her lips, as the world reinvents itself around her. She learned long ago that she cannot predict Harriette Hart, and that perhaps she wasn’t meant to, even if, for a while, she thought herself appropriate for such task. Heartache had proven otherwise., leaving behind two devastated women and a young daughter in misery. But, Lyta had always told herself, it had been for the better. She had to know it.

     Then why does she hear TRAGEDY falling from her ex-wife’s lips before she can even greet her? Tears pebble,  unbeknownst to Harry (always unbeknownst). Fingers tighten around the phone’s edge, knuckles whitening.    ❝ Harry. ❞   

     So many thoughts spring about, but no, she cannot voice them, too afraid of making it all to real. Her mind is screaming but she is fumbling, reaching, panicking, and her breathing probably all too well betrays her. How many days has it been? What did she say? — Is Helena— ? She has heard that tone too many times, but never directed at a call like this. Yet fire rises, unbelieving. ❝ Where is she ? ❞

[datavampire-archived-blog]

@galxhxd, data saved [here].

❝ I imagine it is. It is all over your face how much you love being taken care of. The only thing missing is your gun against my head and you telling me to back off... Lucky me you aren’t this charming. AND for your information I was not going to perform an operation here and now, in the red zone. Try not to enjoy this too much, we have a job to do. Will you let me patch you up or you’re a strong, independent woman who needs no assistance from a scrub like me? ❞

[ihrschatzi-blog]

☀️ ☔️

⸨ MEET THE PEOPLE IN MY MUSE’S LIFE. ⸩          von @galxhxd

Someone who can turn lemons into lemonade

Konrad Montagne, her cousin. Always uncharacteristically optimistic, he inherited a bright mind from his father, the late composer Hubert Montagne. During their childhood, he would always have Johanna tag along for adventures and tinkering sessions. No matter the dreadful outlook of long study sessions, Konrad always managed to make Johanna laugh. He could have pursued the sciences, but after the Great War he became a watchmaker, tinkering with clockwork in the back. It would not have surprised Johanna to find out.

Someone who can turn lemonade into lemons

Gitta Schröder could always ruin her oldest daughter’s anticipation for something she had well reason for looking forward to; with court comments that suggested impropriety. Heinrich did his best to improve her moods, but as it was done mostly behind his back, he just presumed it was Johanna’s disposition. 

[vorcotec]

@galxhxd liked.

          "Mammatus clouds aren’t clouds in their own right. They’re a supplement to other clouds. An accessory.” Beyond the window, the lobes of the mammatus clouds cover the sky; the light filters around, but not through them. Jane’s head is cocked, looking up. “They usually form of the undersides of anvil clouds. Thunderstorms. Air saturated with precipitation sinks to the underside of the anvil and hangs there... Like beads of water on a glass. Some people think they herald tornadoes.” She pauses, then drops her gaze. “I don’t think there’ll be a tornado. But it is almost five o’clock. ... Maybe it’ll rain.”