#flashback.

[ofwrxth]

+ ISLA / ATLANTA, NOVEMBER 2016

"Look, this is what you ordered," Elliot insists, finally putting a menu in front of Isla with an exasperated sigh. He prefers working at the flower shop but picking up a few bartending shifts downtown means better tips. It also means unpleasant customers. "See?" he points to the item she had one hundred percent ordered. "If you said you don't like it, that's different. But I confirmed it twice. Or do you got short term memory or something all of a sudden?" @waterfallswords

[peacefulatom]

My childhood cat on Halloween. A cosmonaut, I think? A poor one, but I think his cuteness makes up for it. Anyway, hopefully all the Flora fans like him, too.

[snitchdorvda]

flashback : cinco de noviembre, después de la fiesta, con @meetmeafftcrdark

había perdido a james en medio de la oscuridad de aquel ataque, aunque esfuerzos por evitarlo habían consumido gran parte de las acciones de lily aquella noche, todo había pasado demasiado rápido de parecer un juego de escondidas macabro a una explosión de pedazos que recogían gritos de dolor, angustia, terror y desesperación. mientras que sus pensamientos solo lograban concentrarse en el paradero de su esposo aún cuando le tomó más tiempo del planeado salir de allí una vez todo acabo y los aurores (que quedaban) comenzaban a trasladar a los heridos. una chica, mucho más pequeña que ella en edad estaba completamente en shock, aterrada, y su mano aferrada con fuerza a su muñeca había dejado un moretón que quemaba mientras esperaba que alguien más pudiera ayudarla y sirius llegara corriendo a darle noticias de james.

pasos resonaban apresurados sobre el piso de san mungo, una escena agobiante para cuidadores que iban de acá para allá tratando de acomodarse a la afluencia de heridos que había llegado, silueta mucho más alta de su amigo guiandola entre las personas y justo allí, detrás de él en una esquina, la camilla de su esposo. “james.” llama aunque voz casi no sale y caminata se convierte en carrera hasta alcanzarlo, lágrimas picando en sus ojos al ver su estado y palmas buscando acariciar su rostro para poder ver sus ojos en la cercanía aunque atención se desviaba a toda su anatomía, buscando más daños aunque ya la sola imagen fuera desalentadora.

[hvneybxns]

some club in LA six years ago || @watatis

another win and the hockey player was on the same adrenaline high that most of his team currently shared as they entered the club. he had heard his captains warning, behave, think of the team, you still have another game in two days but to angel? two days was a life time away and this place was swarming with good signs. from the vip area he and the other boys were all perched he had full scope of the potentials for the night and the second he saw her the dips was instant. she was fucking phenomenal and she would be home with him if he had any say in the matter. ignoring the coos of his friends angel was moving towards where she had been dancing, hands finding her waste the second she was in reach. "so i gotta know, how are you planning on taking your eggs when i make them for you in the morning?"

[xaviermattthews]

who: xavier matthews + vanessa gable // @vanessagable

where: x's los angeles aparment, circa april 2020

trigger warnings: drugs, cheating mention, .nsfw mention, alcohol

VAN --

It felt unnatural to keep something from Xavier. She was often more vulnerable with him than what she had ever been with any other person.

Which was part of the problem. And she knew that.

They often skirted talk about her husband, which is why the conversation about his career and what jobs he was booking never came up. She'd lived in the pretend of it for awhile -- that everything could somehow be sustainable even with change. And she had known X well enough and long enough to know that changed was never something he coped well with.

But she was leaving in two days. She couldn't put it off any longer.

For lack of any other offering she could think of, she arrived knocking on his door with a bottle of the most expensive tequlia she could find in hand.

And a rock in her stomach.

X --

A knock on the door and X's head immediately sprang up to look at the back of it from where he sat on the couch neatly cutting lines with his credit card. Had he texted for more white? He probably had and had forgotten after he got distracted by the burst of inspiration he had that was scribbled in almost incomprehensible letters in his notebook.

With his shirt fully unbuttoned where it hung on his body, he put his credit card down and got up and walked around the coffee table to open the door.

It wasn't his dealer, but it was a much better surprise.

"Baby," He greets with the kind of smile he only got when he's gotten more into a bottle of Hennessy than he should have. His arm hooked around her shoulders to usher her into his place and to draw her into his body so he could kiss her forehead and her temple and the side of her face in an onslaught of affection before he releases her so he could wander back inside.

"What you doing here?" X asked as he collapsed back down onto the couch, slumped in how he sat with both his arms held out in a beckon for her to come join him -- across the room was too far for his liking.

VAN --

The utterance of 'baby' makes her stomach twist as much as his smile does -- because she knows that smile. It means he's been using for an hour at least and had a round of shots all to himself.

She should have told him she was coming. She should have asked him to be sober when she got there. She shouldn't have brought tequlia. She should have done all of this two weeks ago.

She's grateful that he can't see her face as he's kissing over it -- she'd never much had a poker face. Especially not with him.

Van's eyes follow him as he makes his way back from the couch, still wearing her denim jacket as she sets the bottle down on the table. It's impossible to look anywhere but the white lines, but she fights the urge she feels to swipe her had across them and scatter them to the wind. She had a terrible feeling that he'd lick the remnants off of her fingers for the taste.

"Um, I need to talk to you," she starts, her fingers laced in front of her as she takes a breath and considers him, not moving from her spot across the room.

"How fucked up are you right now, X?" X --

When she places the bottle down, he instinctively sits forward to pick it up, inspecting the label. Tequila, not his favorite but it was at that moment because it was forty proof and in front of him.

He doesn’t open it, instead he places it back down as he looks across the room at her, trying to discern why she was across the room and not on his lap. Had he pissed her off somehow? Probably.

Everything was a little hazy to him right then.

“I’m not fucked up.” He tells her, even though the fact he couldn’t do another line then because they were having a conversation was starting to make him too aware of his own heartbeat.

“What do you want to talk about?”

VAN --

"I'm not fucked up."

How many times had she heard that one? How many sound checks had he'd stumbled into? How many times she'd picked him up off a green room floor? How many times with his mouth against hers and she tasted something too chemical?

Enough times. Enough to know a lie when she sees it.

She shakes her head slightly to herself. There's no way this goes well or even halfway well. But if she tries to wait for a moment where he's sober she could be waiting years or until the day he dies.

Van bends down to pick up the bottle of tequlia, she pulls out the stopper with a heavy sigh and takes a mouthful and swallows it clean before putting it back down.

"Um. Lee got a job. A big one. Lead in a new series based on some James Patterson shit. For Netflix. He quit the soap."

X --

X’s mood instantly sours at the mention of her husband, the man an ever present figure in the background of his mind whenever he was around Van. Easily ignored, but still there.

“Am I supposed to say congratulations?”

He tended not to say anything about him if he could help it, he was rarely nice on the topic.

VAN --

"No," Van says through a frown, brows furrowed as she looks at him and crosses her arms over her chest.

Even getting him to acknowledge the man she'd been married to for over a decade was treated with the same amount of dread and distate as being sat for a root canal; it seemed the longer she knew X the more petulant he became about someone else having the audacity of knowing her first.

"But it's filming in Toronto. And it's a six month shoot. And I'm gonna go with him."

X --

There was silence in the immediate aftermath of her news, one that stretched on for an eternity though it count by have been more than a few seconds.

Then he laughed.

The sound was mirthless, devoid of any joy as his mind tried to find where he thought she thought the punchline was in her words because that’s what it had to be. A joke.

“You’re not going to fucking Canada, Van.” He tells her, sitting forward again so he could reach for the tequila, this time he was taking the top off and taking a swig of it.

“Coming in here saying stupid shit like that like we ain’t got gigs lined up.”

VAN --

There's absolutely no comfort brought by the sound of his lap, the line between her brow only growing deeper as his tone follows.

She doesn't know if she's annoyed or worried.

Annoyance takes the drivers seat.

"I am going to Canada. In two days," she adds, posture unmoving and tone more defiant than what she'd initially planned.

"The label knows and they're sending in a sub bassist until September."

X --

X’s hand lifts to his face, rubbing his eye as he found himself the sudden victim of a migraine of sorts. He places the bottle down at his feet and then looks to his bandmate, his expression that of simmering rage.

“You’re bailing on us to go follow your husband to Canada for his job?”

He was trying to follow the threads here, but so far the picture they displayed wasn’t making much sense.

VAN --

She narrows her gaze at him.

"I'm not following him. I'm going with him."

Her tone is becoming more firm and less contrite.

"And I am not bailing. I am taking a break, Xavier."

X --

Now she was starting to grate on him.

His attention diverts to the lines he carved out that were still on the table, the rolled up 100 dollar bill he had been using now picked back up and re-rolled so he could use it as an aid while he leaned over and snorted the closest one to him with little residue left behind.

He places the bill down again and straightens up, wiping his nose with his thumb before he’s looking at her again, a little more wild-eyed before.

“If you fuck off to Canada for six months you better not think you’re going to come back here and still be a member of this band.”

VAN --

He couldn't do it. He couldn't have one single real conversation with her without having having to literally put a line in the middle of it.

And she finds the worst part is is that she doesn't stop him. She knows she can't -- she just watches him do it, like watching a car wreck happen from three lanes away.

"It's just a break," she repeats to him, her voice remaining even but grounded. "We've been on tour for the better part of the year. I need a break and I need to spend time with my family…"

X --

That wired feeling he likes that takes over his whole body felt like too much when he was faced with a waking nightmare — losing her.

He could deal with anything but that.

“So we’re not your fucking family now?” X asked, on his feet suddenly, his hand movements erratic as he ranted.

“You want a fucking break while we’re on the verge of our big one. We’re so fucking close to it and you want a sub to step in so you can be a full time wife.”

It makes his skin crawl to think about the two of them together, and it would be all he could think about the entire time she would be gone.

“That’s fucking pathetic, V. You can see that, right?”

VAN --

"That's not what I fucking mean and you know that," she argues when he puts words into her mouth, gaze following his abrupt movements as suddenly he's up from the couch.

As if the band hadn't been what had kept her afloat the last several years. As if it wasn't where she was at her happiest and most proud. As if she hadn't poured just as much of herself into it as he had.

She takes in a long breath through her nose and squares her jaw.

"It's not pathetic to want to be happy with my husband. There's nothing wrong with that. You just have a fuckin vendetta…"

X --

“You tryna be happy with your husband every time you let me make you cum?”

It’s a low blow and he knows it as soon as he says it, but he doesn’t apologize because he never has before and he isn’t about to start now.

She was integral to everything Submergence was, everything he was, and he had never had to truly contend with the idea of her not being there.

His pacing was as sloppy and out of time as he was, only coming to a halt when he was stood directly in front of her. It was then that he takes her face in his hands, his hold gentle as it always was when he touched her.

“Please, baby. Please. Don’t fucking do that. I don’t know how to do this without you. I don’t know how to be me without you. He doesn’t need you, we do. I do.”

VAN --

It's not that what he says isn't fair or unearned -- he's in the right on both fronts on that.

But he's never used their affair against her as a slight, or made her seem horrible about it as she often felt -- not outside of songs, at least. It stings and it shows on her face, her nose wrinkling in disgust as she looks away from him.

Her face is only brought back to him by the guidance of his hands, her jaw still clenched stubbornly to keep her lips for quivering.

It isn't fair for him to call her baby right now.

"You don't need me. You just said I'd be out of the fucking band if I go. So you must think you can get on just fine, huh?"

X --

He leans down as she speaks, his forehead pressing to hers gently as they exchange warring words. X had never cared much about how combative he could be, he was always someone who found some thrill in the battle, but it was hard not to hurt himself in the process when his opponent was Van.

They had always been on the same team.

“You know that’s not true. I know you know that. Stay.”

VAN --

"How am I supposed to know that's not true, you just fucking said it…"

Her voice is hollowed, a far cry from the soul she usually sings in when she's at the mic backing him up.

There's still hurt in her eyes as she looks up at him, their foreheads togethers as her breath shakes.

"Stay. Stay and do what, X?" she questions, her voice low and between them. "Hmm? Stay and watch you do another line?"

X --

His shoulders tense at her final question, his thumb stroking against her jaw as his face lifts from hers and he takes a step back from her, oscillating between anger and hurt at a speed so rapid he couldn’t dissociate the two.

“It’s s fucking line, Van. Don’t make it sound like it’s something it’s not.” There was an unspoken agreement in the band — don’t mention X’s using. He never took it well, no matter what kind of place it was coming from.

“Fucking coming over here acting like you can tell me how I’m supposed to be living when you’re about to throw everything away for the same motherfucker who’s been weighing you down since you were a teenager. Least I can do another line if I want to. You can’t do another fucking life.”

VAN --

"You're doing coke in your apartment alone at 9 pm on a Tuesday, so maybe it's exactly how it sounds," she says, eyes still on his as he pulls himself back from her.

She knows she's struck a nerve in him -- one that she'd previously been protecting. She's made so many excuses over the years for the way he used, she's tried to put herself between him and the highs as if she could be the more alluring and safe option than whatever pills or needles he could get his hands on.

Van realizes with a feeling of sinking that she's probably only further pained him and made everything worse. Having but not having her killing him just as much.

"He doesn't weigh me down," Van argues, even when in her gut she knows that he's right. But it's like him and his vices, and she rationalizes herself around it the way trees in the forest do when there's an abandoned car or bike in their way.

"When you're married you make sacrifies. You give shit up when you love someone," she swallows hard, hurt on the edges of her next words.

"You only love one thing that much, so I don't expect you to understand it."

X --

“Fuck you.” X says without hesitating, the bite in his delivery as deliberate as he was when he had been cutting the very lines she was judging him for. He’s a little unsteady on his feet as he makes a swipe for his box of cigarettes that was open on the coffee table, taking one from it and tossing the box back where he got it before he held it between his lips to light it.

He needs to fill his lungs with something other than air, to prove to himself there was something in his chest other than the hollowness he feels at the conversation at hand, at the fact he would lose her to another country and to a man who could live a hundred life times and not deserve her in a single one of them.

( There was no man more qualified than him to make that observation — it was true for him too. )

“You’re right though, I don’t understand. I don’t understand how you can be as good as you are at what you do and still be unwilling to be great. Because you’ll never be that with him dragging you down. One foot in this world, one foot in his. Half the focus, half the talent, half a person. Who the fuck are you, Van? Do you even know?” His question is asked around an exhale as he breathes out cigarette smoke, his stare locked on her from across the room. Even then, she’s too far away, yet he’s supposed to be able to stomach her in another country.

“Because right now, I don’t. You’re just some guy’s wife. It’s pathetic and it’s beneath you. And if that’s what you want to be, if that’s all you are, get the fuck out of this apartment, get on that plane and lose my fucking number. Have fun playing house, and when the house comes down on you and you realise you made a shitty call, don’t come knocking. Bassists aren’t hard to come by, we’ll be just fine. I’ll be just fine.”

VAN --

"Fuck you, too," Van bites right back without a moment's breath, like a reflex in spite of the fact that her voice rarely holds that kind of venom for anyone -- especially him.

She watches him with her jaw heavily set, biting on the inside of her lower lip as her eyes keep a narrow gaze on his movements.

Vanessa Gable feels everything from the heart, but in this moment she'd rather draw her own blood than give him the satisfaction of her tears.

Even when he's making her feel a foot tall.

Even when he's right.

"Do you even know?!" she shouts at him incredulously, the force of the words taking her a step forward.

"Because for the last three months you haven't looked me in the eye, X, you've fucking looked through them. This is the first time you've listened to a word I've had to say in weeks. We don't even fucking play together anymore because every fucking gig of the last leg has turned into the Xavier Matthews ego hour. And the last time you fucked me you didn't give a single fuck that it was me. You weren't even on the same fucking planet as me, there wasn't a fucking thing in your eyes and I -- I haven't ever felt that fucking used in my entire life so I think you've forgotten who the fuck I am, too."

She inhales sharply, eyes dead on him.

"So you know what? I'll be pathetic. And while we're at it, mark me down as a coward -- because if this is the path you're going to keep going down then I can't fucking walk it with you. I won't. I'm not gonna stay here and watch you run your fucking genius into the absolute waste that you seem to be aiming for."

X --

“There. That.”

X says with a point of his index finger at her, her words bringing about epiphanies in real time for him. The syllables feels like a scalpel to him, a phantom incision that slices from stomach to sternum until he’s nothing more than spilled guts on the floor.

“We’re not on the same planet. You can’t even comprehend where I’m at, what I’m aiming for.”

X thought he was clever enough to not befall the same fate as Icarus — he wouldn’t fly too close to the sun, he would become it instead.

A band that revolved around him, a fan base that found illumination in the light he cast, ambition that burned brighter than any open flame.

He was the fucking sun.

He had it all figured out. He had himself all figured out.

He never factored in Vanessa Gable.

The scorched earth that he would have to leave in his wake had never been a factor he cared about until it became her. Until it was soft hands and kisses that had meaning and talent that was enviable even to him. Until it became a feeling that was bigger than he was.

She’s all he wants to hold even though he knows she’ll turn to ash in hands if she stayed.

“If I’m that hard to be around, if you think I’m just a dead end road, go. You want to know why I’ll always choose the drugs over you? Because they choose me back. You never did. You never will. So you’re right. You are a fucking coward. So run back to your husband, to your marriage, to what’s easy and expected of you and when I win a Grammy and I’m stood there thinking who to thank I’ll look back on this moment and I’ll be so sincere when I say your name because I’ll be eternally grateful for the only good thing you ever did for me and that’s you getting the fuck out of my life.”

VAN --

She used to be able to tell when he would say something he really meant -- she could be laser-eyed and find the truest sentiment in the layers of bullshit he displayed to the world. She could find it in his lyrics and his rambling on-stage speeches, and in everything he ever said to her when it was just the two of them locked up in a hotel suite.

And even when she didn't agree, she always believed.

And now the waters are more foggy under the layers of mixed substances -- it's harder to tell anymore if there's a difference in what he's saying now or things he's felt all along. But the unwavering conviction is there, so it must be true.

And maybe he's right. Maybe this is the best thing she's ever done for him. Maybe she's been the selfish one all along.

Her head hangs in defeat a moment, amber hair curtaining her face as she sniffs sharply and wipes her eyes, nodding to herself before she brings her eyes back up to him.

There's tears in her eyes and a forced smile of pure heartbreak, making a last-ditch effort to give them both a goodbye that they could live with.

"I really hope you get that, Xavier," she tells him, and while her voice is hoarse and wavering, the sentiment is sincere.

"I look forward to being a footnote in your story."

With that, she turns and makes her way out of his door, closing it calmly behind her so as to not cause any further intrusion into his life.

She'd clearly done enough.

[tcniliang]

starter fechado!

toni is with @willeminas

flashback, dez anos atrás . . .

🟣 ━━━━━━━━━━ tanta gente em um mesmo lugar, toni lembrava-se do orfanato a cada passo em falso que dava. mesmo assim, desistir nunca foi seu forte, apesar de ter o medo como seu maior aliado. ela segurou a espada que haviam lhe entregado com firmeza, era seguro? as freiras tampouco deixavam que usassem facas. mesmo assim, não podia ignorar as lembranças recheadas de brincadeiras com galhos no lugar das armas. semideus… blasfêmia, no mínimo. “will?”, a voz aguda soou esganiçada, jurou ter visto uma de suas irmãs, como chamavam no orfanato. então correu, largando a arma pelo caminho e pés desengonçados guiando o caminho. “will!”, gritou dessa vez, sem esperar para se jogar em um abraço. o orfanato antigo muito mais presente, de repente. “você também é…?”, perguntou sem se soltar, surpresa, olhinhos cheios de lágrimas, queixo trêmulo e o aperto se intensificando mais. “que saudades!”

[myriamas]

who: @baashirdayne / surprise flashback thread. when and where: starfall, 124ac. both myriam allyrion and baashir dayne are seventeen years old

she had not been expecting for the future ruling lord of starfall to come to her chambers this evening; meaning she was entirely in a state of relaxation both in appearance and nerves when the ladies informed her that she had a visitor. as beautiful as every corner of starfall truly remained, perhaps the most beautiful she had seen in all of dorne, she found their ways different to the ways of home where the greenblood delivered her.

"coming!!!" she called, her voice echoing around the chambers, the sounds of her anklets jingling loudly as she picked up the pace into a light run.

the people of starfall were more traditional thinking, more rigid in their approach to matters: and so, she had slipped on a simple orange lehengha when she came to the door, thick dark hair remaining slightly unkempt. "one moment!" she found herself particularly on edge around lord and lady dayne, feeling as though there was something in their gaze, even in their kindness to her. even in the way lady dayne would fix her stance, or where her foot had landed. the door opened, and her mouth opened slightly in surprise to find him stood there.

"arey, you could have said something, na?" she asked, a slight laugh slipping from her lips as she looked upon him. how she looked at him like it was the first and last time she ever would, every time she did look at him.

and it was him. it seemed as though they would cross paths within the keep, whether she found herself by the shore surrounding the island or along the multitude of courtyards; she saw him, perfecting stance after stance, swing after swing. there had been a moment where she had watched with curious observation, what it was the sword of the morning done: mythical, the name sounded. and he would be hers, as she would be his. of all the mornings, she had decided she wanted to spend hers with him; mornings and evenings. beginnings and ends.

"do they know you are here?" she asked, her tone lowering as her eyes glanced around the hallway.

a small smile came over her features as her head remained poking from the door, head resting against the wooden frame. a part of her wondered quietly whether he had come to speak to her of something, something serious; another part of her hoped that the sword of the morning had come to see his own sunrise. "a password for entrance is required. my lord."

"how many chances should i give you?"

[visxionaries]

who: @ofgoldengrove // flashback week let's go!

Cedric Tyrell had always struggled to speak of matters that were more serious of an emotional manner: he could sit and discuss theories of growing tensions between the factions of the Targaryens. The Blacks and the Greens, what they called them; and he had noted the way in which many of the nobles of the Reach seemed to dress in some shades of green. Aside from the Rowans of Goldengrove, who continued as they always had been.

He were sat now within the breakfast chamber of House Rowan within the early morning hours, the sun rising over the clouds and illuminating the stinking city that was Kings Landing below him. And he were drinking the fragrant tea of the Old Way silently, listening distantly to the sounds of the Ruling Lady of Goldengrove by holding her eye contact. That's how you made people feel as though you were listening.

In reality, he were thinking of the way he had stumbled across Mathis Rowan returning later than usual to his apartments. There was no need to ponder on what Cedric had found himself distracted with, but as he saw Mathis also returning to his chambers late at night, the two men laughed. It was not until he returned to his chambers did he overhear his mother whispering something to his sister; he heard nothing. But now he thought about it, he noted the fact there had been a cloak around Helena's shoulders.

He waited for others to leave as he cracked an egg, looking upon Mathis and focusing. They were conversing entirely normally, and he did not know how to feel, admittedly. He knew Mathis Rowan had developed some affections for his older sister, those which he returned: but how long would this go on for before her reputation became damaged publicly? "What are you doing with Helena so late?" Cedric spoke, taking a swig of wine. "She got home just before me last night."

[tammie--jones]

at: neon boots @spencejones​

-

A rowdy night at Neon was basically routine for the Jones duo. And if it wasn’t Spencer causing mayhem, it was Tammie. Or, the two of them. Tonight seemed different though, there was a calmness to the evening despite everybody having a good boogie to the music and constant laughter. She didn’t intend to end up at the bar again next to her brother, but the two sort of gravitated to one another, insult each other’s existence and then float away again. It was their own idea of normal. As Spencer was talking to a friend, Tammie had swapped her finished whiskey for his half full glass but her attention was moved to the door. “God dammit.” she huffed as she recognized the guy’s face instantly. Tammie couldn’t remember his name, so she often referred to him as Chad, who still owed Spence some money. Tammie knew instantly that the alcohol running through all their systems was not a good mix. “Don’t you dare.” she pointed to her brother when he looked. “Let me go talk to him before you act crazy, okay?” she ordered, but whether or not he listened to her was another thing altogether. She pushed herself from the bar and headed towards the ‘Chad’ who decided it was a good idea to simply shove her out of the way to continue walking. “I’m trying to save you from losing your teeth as well as fifty bucks, asshole.”

[gcuienveres]

who: @baashirdayne when and where: random wheel spun starter, using a random prompt as a sentence starter. this is a flashback thread, back to when the realms met in the kingdom of the reach.

there was a figure stood within the garden, dimly lit by the flickering embers of candles that lined the gravelled path of one of highgarden's seemingly endless amount of land. in the distance she knew there would be endless fields of golden roses beneath a starry night; the hues of the sky had long since turned pink and light blue, and soon they would turn even darker. the figure was dressed in shades of champagne, if not for the threads of gold and crimson running through the borders of her skirts; it was rare to see this specific lioness adorned in shades of gold, for where there was the most gold was in the tresses of a mane.

pinned, somewhat loosely, where there was enough ringlets to come loose to frame her face; only startling emerald hues were fixed upon something that was entirely beautiful.

beautiful, in a way that was not natural. it were not the seemingly endless amounts of natural beauty one could find within the reach, superfluous at best: there was no sense of beauty needed for true human survival, and yet the gods had bestowed a land that were naturally beautiful in a show of their benevolence. to create a sense of fascination and peace for their creation. this were no beautiful flower, or natural pool which glistened with shades of blue - it were a canvas. manmade beauty, which perhaps at times, even rivalled the beauty of the gods.

an easel had been left within this section of the garden, perhaps left unattended by another who had decided to attend the excessively extravagant ball within the feasting hall. the sound of music continued to play from the distance, a tune she had known since she were a girl: only the nightingale no longer sung, and the cage had become more of a home than the top of the world ever was.

upon the canvas, were figures; only she could barely see it, considering the darkness that stretched over the garden. taking a step toward one of the candles that were lit up to illuminate a path, she swept it within a dainty hand, careful to hold it by the base rather than where the wax would burn her: using the flames to look upon the image. there were two figures, seemingly clad in lavish dress, holding empty bowls; in the background, there seemed to be a world on fire. and yet, their plates remained high, bountiful, with fruits. all bright crimson fruits. her gaze flickered toward the seven pointed star that both the figures wore, though she were unable to tell if they were meant to be men or women. and finally, at the bottom, there was a title.

the stranger's mercy.

her brows furrowed slightly, finding herself fixated upon the image of the burning world on the other side of the window in the painting, though when she heard the sound of gravel, she turned. only, the way she turned did not imply surprise, or even shock, or alarm. almost as though she were ready to accept, acknowledge, or cast away whatever it was the world had brought upon her now. instead, she found a man stood before her she did not know in the slightest. her hand wrapped around the candle, silently bringing it between them. she knew not this man - and she would have no qualms with setting him on fire if she needed to. "does this illustration belong to you, my lord?" she asked, ready to make it clear she were not planning on torching it.

[luckylewis]

who: lucky lewis + @macaulaymontgomery

where: london, circa november 2021

Mac sits crosslegged on Lucky's bed, easily biding time as he studies while she plays around on her phone. She glances back and forth from the screen to him, taking a breath before she speaks up. "Have you thought about what you wanna do for Christmas?"

. . .

With mid-year exam season fast approaching, Lucky's stress levels had reached an all time high and in true Lewis fashion he did nothing but internalise it. He was in the thick of revising programming with data when he found his attention sidetracked by Mac from behind him. He hadn't much considered it, and it showed on his face as he swivelled around in his desk chair.

"Most of my housemates'll be going home, I think. I was just going to spend it here." He shrugged, placing his pen down on the table. "You got any plans?"

. . .

She gives him a quick 'hello again' smile as he turns around in the chair, backlit from his computer. He'd been focused, working tirelessly, and she did her best to stay out of his way when it came to the academic part of his life.

Except flashcards -- she was fucking great at making flashcards.

"I don't know, my mom's been texting me asking if I'm gonna be around," she says with a limp, one shoulder shrug and a tilt of her head.

"You haven't thought about going home?"

. . .

Lucky swallows subconciously at her question, knowing she meant well because Mac always did but being unable to sidestep how the question made him feel. The same way he always felt when he thought of home -- like he was a failure.

It was a large part of why he studied so relentlessly.

"Don't think I'm very welcome back home," He tells her, keeping his tone level. "And you know that, so I'm having a bit of a hard time with why you would even ask me that."

. . .

She knew that asking that question, even innocently, was very tennuous. His answer illicits a frown from her, corners of her mouth completely downturned in disagreement.

"That's not true, I'm sure your sisters would love to see you --"

His words stop her and her brows knit as she looks at him.

"No, I don't know how I would know that," she replies slowly, moving her phone to lay it face down on the bed beside her.

"We don't talk about home. I've been here nearly nine months and we never mention it except to say where we've met."

. . .

"Sister. Singular." He corrects, unable to refrain himself from it. There was no doubt in his mind that Lemie would welcome him back with open arms, but Lori was a much more unpredictable matter.

She always had been when it came to the pair of them.

It was sad in it's own way, not just siblings but twins with the kind of disconnect that they had, but he didn't know how to mend it.

Especially from a different continent.

"What is it exactly you want me to say about home?" He asks, his arms folding across his chest defensively.

. . .

Mac presses her lips together at the correction, momentarily averting her gaze with an exhale. She talked to Lorelai -- all the time, at least every other week. Lorelai knew she saw Lucky, that they "hung out", but Mac had never gone into the depth of the situation. And Lor never asked after him.

The way that family could pretend a problem didn't exist if they couldn't see it -- it was so deeply foreign to her way of operation. But she played along for the sake of calm water, and because she liked the little world that they made up when they were together.

"I would go with you. We could go together, it wouldn't be so bad," she offers him in answer to his question as she draws up to sit on her knees, trying to tilt optimism into her voice --trying to make the prospect of home sound good.

"We could stay at my parents house, even…You could see some people, if you wanted."

. . .

"It wouldn't be so bad for you." Lucky corrects, and why would it? The family next door had always gotten along from what he had seen, always managed to find some unity even in their disputes. He hadn't grown up like that, his family had always been disjointed.

Existing on separate pages of what was supposed to be the same book.

"There's no one there who wants to see me." He straightens in his seat at that, believing it to be the absolute truth. The friendships he had before he left had trickled down to radio silence, ghosts of his past to join the rest.

And he understood it, he wouldn't have any time for him either if he was trying to make a friendship work with someone who had abandoned their baby before she was even born.

"I'm never going back there."

. . .

"I just thought maybe it would help to have me with you…" Macaulay answers, the words coming out a bit deflated and less idealistic as she realizes how silly it must sound on his end.

She looks at him across the short distance, considering every inch of his form and everything she knows about him -- from the life they live now in tandem, to the boy next door that she had been in love with before she really knew what it was. Neighbor, crush, best friend, lover, boyfriend. Well, not boyfriend. But pretty damn close.

"Do you mean that?" she asked, gaze unwavering as she finds the courage to ask the question that she's been stomaching for months.

"You never want to meet her?"

. . .

Her question makes his heart feel like it's being constricted, as if some invisible force had reached through his chest to grip it and start twisting. If he couldn't hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, he might have been worried that was the case.

He had thought about his daughter every day since he had left, before he had even known for sure that he was going to have a daughter. He had found out her name through Facebook, seen his first glimpses of her through Instagram. She had been born into a world without him and seemed to be growing and thriving in his absence.

He didn't want her to turn out like him. He didn't want to inflict himself on her like a plague carrying his family's curse when he wasn't sure he could be a good father to her.

Nothing could change the fact that he had never even held her when she was a baby.

"I want to meet her, but I don't want her to meet me."

The impossibility of it was what kept him frozen there, in that chair, in that city.

. . .

Macaulay's eyes soften, sad, at his answer. For all the show she puts on for the rest of the world -- the way she puffs herself up to make it seem as if nothing sad or bad could touch her -- it always fails to be effective when it's the two of them alone together.

She'd seen his daughter -- met her, accidentally, in passing when she'd run into Sterling at the grocery store. It'd left her with a strange feeling, something that hadn't settled right in her stomach the whole time she'd visited.

Like she'd felt guilty that she'd met Sunny first, in spite of the act that she hadn't spoken to Lucky in over a year at the time.

"Don't you think that that's a little unfair?" she asks as she moves to sit on the foot of the bed.

"To just completely remove yourself from her life forever and not even giving her the option?"

. . .

“Is it more fair to be a half-there presence in her life?”

Thats the most Lucky ever was anywhere, half-there, half-present. The only thing he ever was wholly was selfish and he’s known that since the second he stepped on a plane to London without looking back.

Even if things were different, even if he was different, it was too late now to take back what he had done and he wasn’t man enough to face it head on.

“I don’t want to talk about this, Mac.”

. . .

"It's better than not trying at all," she answers without filter before her brain could stop her, her voice low in consideration.

She couldn't claim to be any kind of expert in the matter -- except that she herself had a 'just okay' sort of dad. So maybe she wasn't the best example.

There's a chance to drop the subject and move on like it never happened; it's right there and staring her in the face with his words.

But she can't. He's flown halfway across the world to avoid this, formed a whole new circle of friends who don't even know that his daughter exists, and she can't stomach the feeling that he hasn't had anyone to check him on it.

"I just -- If we keep being in each others lives like this, Lucky, I think we have to talk about it."

. . .

“Then maybe we shouldn’t be in each others lives like this.” He says, a little too fast and a little too harshly.

It was the direct opposite of what he wants, a fear come to life in truth. If he didn’t have Mac he didn’t truly have anyone, not in a real way. Even Adam only knew the version of him that was tailored and fine tuned and polished to fit in there.

( He can’t help but wonder if maybe that’s what he deserved for the choices he’s made. )

. . .

Maybe she'd just gotten too hopeful.

They'd been playing house since she'd gotten there nine months before. They'd had a summer in Italy together that made her so happy that she could easily start picturing forever with the two of them together.

It felt like something real. And she was hoping that if they finally talked about this specific and especially large elephant in the room, then maybe they could really talk about what they meant to each other and where they wanted to go.

The quickness of his reply stings in a way that shows on her face, but she inhales sharply.

"Do you mean that?"

. . .

“Yeah.”

He’s certain he would have said anything to end the conversation, the consequences of it be damned. It’s harder to pretend those consequences were inconsequential as he imagines them, imagines what he had decreed — Mac not being a part of his life.

It makes him draw in a shaky breath, his eyes screwing shut so that might save them from the way they welled up as the weight of it all hit him square in the chest like a punch.

“No.”

He’s as unsure of his own words as he was uncomfortable with the emotions he couldn’t get a handle on, the type that he only ever let himself experience in an empty room where no one would ever be any the wiser.

He can’t bring himself to look at her as his head turns to focus on the clipped wooden floorboard near his desk, swiping at his eye with the back of his hand as he tried to get a handle on himself and the rising sense of panic he felt at the vastness of the things he’s said and done that led him to that moment.

“Fuck. Can you just give me a minute. Please.”

. . .

He answers in the affirmative and her lips pull in tight, nose scrunching as she does a terrible job in hiding how much his knee-jerk reactions had hurt her.

She's already on her feet by the time he walks it back, reaching for her phone and a charger chord, both of which she stuff into the front pocket of her hoodie.

Macaulay looks at him as she's turning to the door and she's never felt more torn -- she doesn't know whether to refuse and stay stubbornly with him through it or follow his wishes for space. Either holds the potential to make the situation worse.

Then again, it seems like he's made his stance on the importance of her presence pretty clear.

"It's fine. I'm going. I'll go," she answers, a waver in her hollow voice as she exits his room and starts down the stairs from the landing.

. . .

He’s equally grateful and devastated as she does what he asked her to, her footsteps on the landing rather than towards felt like the worst kind of prize. For most of his life he felt like he had dabbled in some accidental practice of making himself an easy person to walk away from — now he’s worried he may have mastered it.

He lets himself feel it all once he’s the only person there to witness it and it feels like the kind of regret that morphed into something else. An insurmountable grief for the lives he could have had. With his daughter, with Mac, the hundreds of other version of the present he could have found himself in that weren’t his current reality hunched over in his desk chair with his hands covering his face as he sobbed like a boy overwhelmed by emotions no one had ever taught him to understand.

It’s the kind of anguish that makes him want to call his mom though he knew she wouldn’t answer. She rarely did these days, texts back were even less frequent. His dad was no different, the pair of them too tangled up in a war with each other to spare the capacity to be any kind of comforting presence when needed.

The pair of them embody exactly what he’s most afraid of — that one day the little girl with his eyes half a world away might find herself in a moment where she just needed her dad and he would be a name and a number and a voice on the other end of the line that didn’t pick up.

[ofwrxth]

FLASHBACK + ISLA / ATLANTA, GEORGIA

"I hope it's a girl." Elliot's whisper breaks through night and the quiet of their bedroom. His voice is the only sound besides the steady beat of their hearts and quiet breaths. Are you sure? he'd asked earlier that night when she told him the news. And when she said that yes, she was sure, Elliot's heart felt like it wanted to escape his chest before realizing it already existed outside of his body. In Isla. In the child she's now carrying. And in this moment, in this room, they're in their own world. A million thoughts swirl between them, enough that Elliot barely registers the rain starting outside. "I don't know why," a small, shy smile tugs at his lips as he presses a kiss to Isla's bare shoulder, "but I do." He says as his hand rests over the sheet atop her flat stomach. A little Isla. She's got months to go before she even starts to showing, but Elliot already knows that he'll do anything for her, and their child. It's a promise he makes to himself even now, reveling in the news that he's going to be a father. @waterfallswords

[adrianserrett]

where: at the tourney, in the stands where the westerlands court is seated

the serrett lord chooses to not partake in the tourney this time. adrian has, of course, trained in the various skills displayed at such events but it is not like his skills are anything special. it is his skills of the mind that stand out more, his wits sharper than most. the young man is just like his father in that way, preferring to outsmart rather than outmaneuver in a battle. his silver tongue could talk him out of almost anything, he is pretty sure. adrian turns to his sister as the battle below turns especially bloody. he smirks and chuckles to himself, as it is a man of the west who is besting a man of the north. good, as it should be, he thinks to himself. he looks over at katherine, sips his wine then opens his mouth.

"you know, i bet 50 gold dragons that he would win... they all said no, a northman will always best a westerlander. seems they were wrong," he laughs.

@withsilvereyes

[lucreziasredwyne]

where: the arbor, the kingdom of the reach date: july, 129AC; the dance of dragons had not yet begun, there were no blacks and greens, and westeros had one king - viserys i 

of all the corners of her home upon the island of the arbor, it was a small crook consisting of uneven steps carved into a descending rock that remained her favourite, where the shore of the sunset sea crept over a pebbled area of the lands surrounding the castle house redwyne called home. over the years, she had found herself lighting small candles in the area to avoid sitting in the pitch black, for she always felt the need to see what was beyond the horizon. most of the time it was merely a beautiful sunset, hues of orange and pink - most of the time it was a stretch of midnight sky, where the constellations came out to play.

still, she knew and understood just how pitch black the ocean could become at night; how one was enveloped in complete nothingness with nothing but the sounds of the waves. lucrezia remained sat upon those uneven stone steps, bare foot with entirely unkept hair as she simply took in a moment of quiet. her father spoke of rumoured tensions within kings landing, but that was a world away, was it not? what care was alicent hightower t her, apart from quite a formidable lady she would not like to get on the wrong side of. that, and the fact she had some paper and chalk upon her lap, using rocks to hold it down as she flickered hazel hues above her, attempting to map out the constellations, or as much of them as she possibly could.

truth north was a concept that had always intrigued her; and she watched for the star that pointed toward it when she heard the sound of steps descending behind her; it made her turn behind her shoulder to look upon the figure looking to join her, before straightening her back and moving to hide the bottles of wine she had stolen from the kitchens behind the back of her lady mother, governess and other kitchen attendants. "can i help you?" she asked, her tone light as she cast the chalk aside, refusing to budge. “i thought i had seen enough of you today.”

[hvneybxns]

closed starter for stacey | christmas 2021 | @flirticst

"you know you keep looking at me like that and i don't think santa is going to have any issues about switching you out to the naughty list even last minute." angel muttered against her lips, a soft hum following because really there wasn't a hint of malice or real warning in his words. angel wasn't sure that he would be able to muster it even if he tried, not with how god damn content he felt as his lips found herself once more and he tugged her closer to him where they stood in the kitchen waiting for their dinner to finish. "you're going to have to behave or i'm going to burn our food and i don't know if you noticed." the male paused, taking another second to kiss her. "we are in the middle of no where baby, no take out for us."

[hoffersona]

FLASHBACK;

com @vampirelord-dracula

Astrid sentia-se livre. O vento batendo em seu rosto, a medida em que Tempestade planava alto. Havia se apaixonado com a ideia de pertencer ao mundo, ao lado de seu dragão. Todas as vezes que montava na nadder mortal sentia a necessidade de agradecer a Hiccup uma vez pela oportunidade que ela havia trazido, ainda que Berk não se desse com os dragões. Era por isso que preferia fugir para longe, escapar para onde podia voar sem fim e buscar respostas, buscar questionamentos e buscar paz. Seus olhos haviam se habituado a velocidade, acompanhando o ao redor, a medida em que buscava nas matas mais abaixo algum sinal de civilização, gostava de ter das mais diversas informações para repassar para Hiccup sempre que o via, numa espécie de que competição sobre quem havia voado para mais longe de Berk. A viking sorriu, a euforia tornava seu corpo mais forte e mais preparado, fazia com que ela se arrepiasse dos pés à cabeça, levando-a a apertar mais as rédeas que lhe prendiam a Tempestade. Lá embaixo Astrid viu algo que lhe chamou atenção. Impossível não ver, na escuridão, a fogueira logo abaixo, a fumaça subindo e o cheiro incomum de fogo queimando. Ela tocou a cabeça de Tempestade. "Para baixo, menina", afirmou baixinho, impulsionando o corpo levemente para frente e então para baixo, e deixando que ela mergulhasse profundamente na imensidão. Gostaria que fosse uma aventura impressionante, para contar aos outros, sobre o que ela e Tempestade haviam descoberto. A trança mantinha o cabelo longe do rosto enquanto desciam. "Uhul, estamos na vertical, Tempestade!", comemorou, rindo, aos berros a medida em que o dragão continuava a fazer sua descida. O pouso foi mais tranquilo, o dragão planou e tocou sua causa na copa das árvores antes de pousar em uma clareira mais a frente de onde a fogueira vinha. "Você fica aqui, viu", comandou Astrid a medida em que descia de sua cela, pegando o machado de duas lâminas e se perdendo no meio da floresta, na direção de onde o fogo crescia alto.