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aquaticstyles · 4 years

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from the dining table

I know I said I was posting at 7, but I finished earlier than expected :) 5k inspired by the song we all know and love, From the Dining Table. Hope you all enjoy reading! I really liked how this one turned out. As always, feedback is welcomed and appreciated!!!

“Whatcha doin' out here by yourself?"

You nearly jump out of your skin and send the wine sloshing in your glass splashing onto the freshly cut grass at the sound of his voice.

You hoped—you prayed that you could get through the night without running into him. You were here to celebrate your good friend and her new husband, not re-open old scars. Yet here he is, right in front of you, dressed to the nines in all black, tailored perfectly to fit his broad shoulders and slim waist, chestnut locks styled haphazardly and intentionally all at once, new, foreign stubble on his upper lip and jaw making him that much more ruggedly handsome, chest hair peeking through the opened buttons of his shirt, and a white rose clipped to the lapel of his jacket.

He looks good. He looks really good, and you would like to die.

You would very much like to bury yourself in a hole.

He seems so familiar, traces of an old lover lost in the gold flecks of his eyes, but you don't know him, at least not anymore. He's a stranger now, an array of old photographs and journal clippings scattered throughout your memory. He went from being your person, to a person--from being the one person you could talk to for hours upon hours tangled in the sheets, the moonlight from the open curtains dancing upon miles and miles of bare skin, without ever growing tired, to the one person that sucks every word out of you, leaving you speechless, an awkward shell of the confident woman you used to be around him.

You would have followed him anywhere, blind, heart thumping beneath your chest, relying solely on his palm in yours to guide you through the dark—to the ends of the earth, tiptoes over the edge, ready and willing to plummet thousands of feet downward.

The breeze that floats through the air and brushes against your arm adds more goosebumps to the ones already present due to the man next to you. Everything around you is calm—the ocean to your right, waves slowly reeling in and releasing back against the shoreline, the sun setting in the horizon, creating warm hues of tangerine and pomegranate in the sky and sparkling on the endless canvas of blue below, the palm trees rustling gently, the soft chatter of guests behind you in the distance. Outside, there's a whirlwind of serenity, but inside, there's a hurricane crashing against your rib cage.

"Oh, I, um, had a phone call," you confess. You barely got the day off to come to the wedding, and your phone has been buzzing nonstop with work emails, texts, and voicemails.

Yes, you had to take a phone call, but you also needed a minute. A minute for yourself. A minute to reflect, on both past and future.

A minute to inhale--his palm in yours, your cheek pressed against his chest, his temple resting on top of your head, swaying slowly in the kitchen, Frank Sinatra's 'One For My Baby' echoing softly, pulling you closer to him if possible, hushed whispers of "I love you" from two hearts beating in unison.

A minute to exhale--love letters, broken promises, his (your) favorite t-shirt, borrowed books, his handwriting still in the margins, tokens of his thoughts, postcards, one for each new city he inhabited while he way away from you for months on end, pearls, a Frank Sinatra vinyl, your ring stretched and bent from his pinky, anything and everything that was part of him, tucked away in a cardboard box in your attic, collecting dust.

Weddings are supposed to be joyous; they're supposed to remind you of just how amazing life can be, particularly when it's spent with someone you love, but you can't help but feel lonelier than ever.

This is what you wanted.

This is what you wanted with him.

"Still always working," sparkles dance in those eyes of his, morphing every coherent thought in your head to mush. It's criminal how relaxed he is. It's almost as if you're old friends catching up, as if all of the history between the two of you simply no longer exists. He's smirking at you, making your insides turn to jelly and your brain slosh around in your skull. He seems entirely unfazed as he strolls closer to you, the whiskey in his glass barely moving from how slow he progresses. He's honey, the golden sugar dripping lazily from a swarming hive.

You look good. You look really good. And he notices.

His eyes trail from the very tip top of your head, to your cherry red toenails, and you immediately shrink in on yourself. He studies your appearance, long locks of hair he used to comb his fingers through flowing in the slight breeze and cascading down your back, thin straps holding up the loose, silky fabric of your sundress, heart-shaped lips glistening, coated in your favorite lip gloss (He thinks the longer he stares, the more he can taste them again—the more he can feel the sticky substance transferred on his own lips, remnants of your sparkles imprinted on him), freckled cheeks paired with a rosy nose, results from a sunburn (You're tanner than he last saw you. Has your skin always been this golden?), a new tattoo on your inner right forearm, a compass, so minute that one would have to be staring to notice (Which he was, and he did).

Then he sees it.

That all-too-familiar gold band wrapped around your right middle finger, catching the light reflecting from the white wine in your glass.

The ring he gave you.

The one he saw in Japan and had to buy because it had you written all over it. The one he left on his pillow in your shared bed, waiting for you once you had successfully stretched and rubbed the sleep from your eyes while he was off to an early studio session. The one he had engraved, "H.S." on the inside of, a little piece of him always with you. The last token of him you couldn't bring yourself to rid of, a time capsule from a past love.

As soon as you realize he's spotted it, your grip on the glass in your hand tightens. Harry's eyes immediately snap back to yours—after all this time, you still wore the ring. Why were you still wearing the ring?

In a desperate attempt to distract Harry from asking that question you knew was swimming around in his mind, you clear your throat, "Still always working," you force a tight-lipped smile and rock on your heels, "that and you know I'm no good at dancing." You nod your head to the crowded dance floor alive with couples drunk off the mini bar behind the two of you.

Harry's hard expression softens, accompanied by a dimple as memories of your horrible dancing come flooding back. He releases a warm chuckle, one you haven't heard in ages that echoes in your eardrums longer than you would have liked, "Can't argue with that, 'member you almost broke m'big toe a couple times." His eyes never leave yours as he takes a sip from his glass, the amber liquid gliding down his throat with a faint burn.

The space between the two of you progressively decreases as he moves closer and closer, until suddenly his shoulder is only a couple inches away, daring to brush against yours. You're both facing the ocean now, backs towards the roaring crowd. You close your eyes, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore easing the anxiety coasting through your veins. You inhale slowly, enjoying the feeling of the wind brushing against your cheekbones, cooling off the nervous heat Harry has caused. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Harry turns his head and watches you with your eyes fluttered closed, admiring your side profile up close with no shame, because how could he not? He hasn't seen you in person for over a year—it's like he's seeing you for the first time again. He fights the urge to tuck a stay piece of hair behind your hair, something he would have done without thinking if things hadn't gone completely downhill. He wants to memorize how you look in this moment, the exact position of every eyelash, the exact angle of the slope of your nose, just in case he has to go another 12 months without seeing you again. But boy, he wants to see you again. And again.

You keep your eyes closed, your lips turning upwards in a faint smirk, "I saw you at Target the other day," you open your eyes and turn to look at Harry, only to find him already fully fixated on you. Has he been staring at you this whole time? "Rolling stone? That's big."

He grins at your flustered look of shock; he was caught, but he's not embarrassed at all, not trying in the slightest to hide how much you have captivated his attention, "Uh yeah," Jesus, your eyes are beautiful. Your eyes didn't look this beautiful when you were together. Did you do something to your eyes? No, that's impossible. Is that a new piercing in your ear? You hate needles. Did you pierce it yourself? What else has changed about you? Harry, focus. What did you say again? Oh, yeah, Rolling Stone. "Doesn't do well for my narcissism though."

"Hmm... I can imagine," you take a sip of wine, returning your eyes back to the horizon, this time focusing on a pack of seagulls gliding through orange creamsicle skies. You can't stare into his eyes for too long without thinking of everything, the good, the bad, the ugly. Each time you look into his eyes, it's like reliving every conversation you ever had. His words, a gallon of feathers poured on top of you, soft tufts brushing against your skin. His words, a gallon of daggers poured on top of you, sharp metal piercing your skin.

Silence overwhelms the two of you—filling the void of words needed and wanted to be said.

Harry clears his throat and finally looks in front of him to the breathtaking sunset melting into the skyline, almost as breathtaking as you. Taking a big gulp of his whiskey, he prepares himself for the words about to spill from his mouth. He has to ask, because you're here, in person, live in stereo, and when will he have an opportunity like this again? This question has been swimming in his brain for months; it's been eating him alive, the unknown mystery of the situation. He's dying to know if you've heard that one song.

"Have yeh listened to the album?"

He chose the absolute worst time to ask this question, right when you were taking a sip from your glass. You nearly choke on the liquid sliding down your throat, erupting into a coughing fit as soon as you get a breath of air. Harry's eyes widen, immediately angling his body towards yours, a look of alarm flashing across his features. You hunch over, sending cough after cough into your free hand. A warm palm rests on your back between your shoulder blades, causing goosebumps to rise, and as soon as he's about to ask if you're okay, you wave your hand, brushing off your near-death experience. You cough one last time, your raspy voice hesitantly admitting, "Um yes, I have."

Harry furrows his eyebrows, analyzing your face to make sure you're actually okay and before he can stop it from happening, he's rubbing small circles into your back. He hovers his body slightly over yours as you cough one last time into your elbow. You mouth "I'm good" inaudibly and send him a thumbs up. You finally straighten back up, brushing your hair out of your face and blinking slowly a couple times, God, that was embarrassing, way to keep it cool.

When your posture returns to its natural state, and his palm on your back is no longer appropriate, Harry removes his hand and pushes it into his pocket. He silently curses himself for not grabbing intertwining your fingers together and squeezing your palm once—that was something he would always do when you were together. It was his thing. When you would be out shopping and the paps would show up inconveniently out of nowhere, he would grab your hand and squeeze it once, letting you know that he's here and he's sorry, before dropping it. When you would be eating dinner at your parents, laughing about who knows what, his knee brushing yours underneath the table, he would grab your hand and squeeze it once, letting you know that he's here and he loves you, before dropping it.

Silence returns again and you're both back to your original positions overlooking the sea. Bass thumping, "cheers!", clinking, birds chirping, leaves rustling, waves crashing, heavy breathing, congratulations, "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!", his rings tapping against his glass, the soles of your shoes crunching the grass, heart pounding.

The loudest silence breaks, "Figured one day you'd at least g'me a call back."

If you weren't sure if that last track was really about you, you were completely certain now. Maybe one day you'll call me and tell me you're sorry too. For the first time since he's been in your presence this evening, you regain a sense of confidence, your nervous jitters diminishing with your next statement.

"I didn't have anything to apologize for."

And you didn't. Not when he was the one that left, when he was the one that decided he didn't want to love you anymore, when he was the one that chose his life over the both of yours. It hurt. It still does. So why would you call him and tell him that you're sorry too? Sorry for what? Loving him too much? Because you loved him too much. He was the love of your life, the man you wanted to marry, the man you wanted to be the father of your children, the man that completely and utterly captured your heart and sewed it together with his own. But he left. And you had to figure out how to live without him, how to do the dishes when he wasn't drying, how to dance when it wasn't his records playing in the background, how to kiss when it wasn't his lips that were folded over yours, how to love again when it wasn't him that you were loving. You had to do it all. Alone. Pick up the pieces he scattered, put them back together, and super glue them.

Then he put out his debut album. And suddenly he was everywhere, from magazines, to billboards, to tv shows, to recommended YouTube videos, to Instagram, to twitter, to even Facebook, there he was again, closer to you than he had been in months, yet still light years away. And all of those pieces you super glued? Yeah, they became completely undone again, and it didn't help that you decided to actually listen to his album. It was one thing to see him everywhere, but to hear him again, hear that voice that once felt like home, it ruined you.

That song ruined you.

You remember the day that song was inspired from, every single detail.

You had a particularly busy day at work, and you decided to have a spa night. A bubble bath, a bottle of rosé, a face mask, a couple bath bombs, and a pizza was exactly what the doctor prescribed. You had just stepped out of your steamy wonderland, your body covered in your favorite, fluffy robe, soapy suds still clinging to damp skin, completely content in your cotton bubble and slightly buzzed from the glasses of wine you consumed. It was nearly 3 in the morning, and you just sat down at your vanity to apply your various lotions and serums when the phone rang.

Who on earth is calling you this late at night?

You shuffled your slippered-feet to your bedside table, glancing over to see something you never thought you'd see again.

His name.

Harry Styles

Flashing on your screen.

Nearly giving you a heart attack.

You froze in your tracks, eyes widening, mouth hanging open, breathing halting, heart beat slowing and thumping louder than ever in your ears. It felt like the entire world was put on pause, every car on the busy street outside your apartment stopped, traffic lights stuck on red, clouds frozen in place in the sky, every form of life on hold. You miss the call, not that you could have answered anyways; you were completely and utterly paralyzed.

Another notification: Harry Styles Voicemail.

Then you're breathing again, quick, sharp puffs of air in and out. Are you dreaming? You squint your eyes shut tightly and pinch your wrist. This has to be a dream. You open your eyes, the same notification illuminating your screen. You're not dreaming.

God presses play on the world, your surroundings slowly returning back to their normal pace around you, your bubble bursting as you frantically pull your phone from its charger, typing in in your passcode at the speed of light and going straight to the neon green cube on your dock. A shaky thumb taps on the voicemail, hitting the speaker button. There are a couple seconds of static, and for a moment you think maybe it was an accident, a butt-dial, a complete misunderstanding. Please let this be an accident.

Key word: moment.

Because as soon as you think you can forget about this, go back to your nightly routine, and have a peaceful sleep, his voice is booming through the speakers, and you're paralyzed again.

"Um... Hi, it's Harry," the ghost of the man you used to know lets out a nervous laugh, "But you knew that didn't yeh? Probably why you didn't answer..." there's silence, two seconds, five seconds, eight. "I'm in Japan. It's noon here, and m'drunk, alone in my hotel room," his voice is deep, raspy, tired. "'Member that ring I gave you? I'm stayin' a couple blocks away from that shop. Y'loved that ring. Think tha' was the last good thing I did."

Your eyes shift to your right hand, the one that's not death-gripping your phone, the one that holds the piece of metal he's referring to. A lump grows in the back of your throat, and suddenly it's becoming harder to stand. You collapse on the edge of your bed and gulp. Tears pool uncontrollably in your eyes, falling onto the robe that now feels like pinecones suffocating you.

"I saw Mark befo' I left. Ran into him at the grocery store," Mark, your co-worker, your friend. Mark didn't tell you he saw Harry. Why didn't he tell you he saw Harry? Why is Harry talking about Mark? Why did Harry call you? Why did Harry leave you a voicemail? "I asked him how you were, and he said you were fine. Are you fine?" No. "Cause I'm not. M'not fine at all."

You shut your eyes in pain, wincing at his words. Waterfalls flood from your eyes, and you hate it. You hate that this is affecting you so much. You hate that he still has a hold on you. You wished you could not care; you wished you could simply say "fuck you forever" and forget him. It's been 6 months since the breakup, and you want more than anything to move on and forget him.

"Love I-" You bite your tongue at the pet name, almost drawing blood. When was the last time he called you that? 'Love'—the equivalent of a knife plunging into your chest again and again. "I fucked up... and I miss you." And again. "God, I miss you so much." And again. "And m'sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." And again. "Th'worst thing I ever did was what I did to you."

You're fully sobbing at this point, your phone thrown across the other end of your bed, his voice slightly muffled by your duvet. Your hands are tangled in your hair, elbows resting on your knee caps, shoulders shaking as you hiccup, wave after wave of his words hitting you. Little do you know, Harry is on the other end of the world doing the exact same thing—hands pulling his hair, hunched over on the edge of his grand suite's expensive mattress, an almost empty bottle of whiskey to his right, tears staining the carpet beneath him.

"And I know this is late. M'a fuckin' idiot for not saying it until now. I just..." He breathes out a sigh, and you pinch your eyes shut even tighter. No, he's drunk. He doesn't mean it. He's drunk. He doesn't mean it. Don't fall for it; you've been doing fine. You're fine... right? "I needed yeh to hear that. Need you to know I'm so sorry for hurting you. I did th'one thing I swore I'd never do."

Relaxing your grip on the roots of your hair, you sit up at his words, the words you have waited to hear him say for six months. Why don't they sweep you off your feet like you imagined? Why don't you feel different? You had thought about this moment over and over, the moment he would finally own up to his mistakes, finally apologize for all the shit he put you through. You imagined him showing up to your doorstep with a dozen sunflowers, your favorite, a speech prepared on how much he still loves you and how much he is sorry for everything. After, you would launch into his open arms, sinking back into his quicksand, enveloped in his love all over again. Everything would fall back into place; you would be whole again. What you didn't expect was a drunken voicemail, making you want to crumble inside yourself until all that is left is a pile of bones, useless. It felt as if there was a surprise epilogue to your joint ending—you were experiencing the break up all over again. What was supposed to give you life, hope was slowly taking it away each second the voicemail continued.

"I'm dying, love." Me too. "Can I still call you that?" No. "M'dying without you. Just... Please call me. Please let me show you how sorry I am. Need to hear y'voice. I'm so sorry. Call me."

His voicemail remains in your phone. You never called him back. You've lost count of the times your finger hovered over his contact name, nearly jumping into the deep end, just for you to take one step backwards on the diving board. One particular night, after taking another step back, you decided to write down everything you wanted to say, everything you wished you knock on his door and scream at him until you lost your voice—all of the heartache, the sorrow, the stress, the hope, the anxiety, every single emotion you felt since it ended. You wrote twenty-two pages. They're now hidden in your bedside table, addressed and stamped, never sent. Harry didn't call you again; that was the last time you heard from him, over a year ago now.

Silence welcomes itself again. Comfortable silence is so overrated.

Shoulder brushing against yours, Harry stands still, digesting your last words. I didn't have anything to apologize for. There was a time when he would have completely disagreed with that statement, clearly, given the lyrics to his last track on his debut album. Then, he would have argued that both of you had dipped your toe in your downfall, each equally responsible for how things crumbled apart. Now, however, he sees how it was him that was in the wrong. He was the one afraid of the commitment you wanted from him—part of him could never fully love you like he wanted to. A couple hundred therapy sessions later, he's sorted his shit out, and he sees just how much shit he put you through, as if someone had sat him down in a theatre, showing him your love story from your perspective. You don't owe him an apology; you were perfect, always giving him your all, every single drop, every single ounce of your love from an endless fountain. He was the one that left. Hewas the one that broke you into small, jagged pieces.

But he's selfish. He still misses you so much. He misses your hand encased in his, your laugh at his terrible jokes, your lips on his cheek, your faint snores that only erupt on Friday nights after a hard week at work, your face buried in his neck, chest on top of his and legs entangled in his on the couch, your finger poking his dimple, your face scrunched in concentration as you painted his nails, your records playing in his house (the ones you said he had to borrow, but if he scratched them, he was a dead man), your hugs (the way you would make him feel itty bitty in your embrace, enveloping him into your open arms after he was away for too long), your mind, always alive and itching for those deep conversations that always arise at midnight in his bed.

That's why he came to the wedding in the first place. He was originally booked to shoot a music video, but he quickly cancelled at the possibility of seeing you here. And that's why when he finally spotted you, off in the distance, speaking into your phone away from the buzzing reception, he knew he had to talk to you. He didn't care if it re-opened closed wounds; he was selfish and he had to talk to you. He missed you.

"Listen-"

"I-" Harry speaks up at the same time you do, beginnings of sentences clashing together. Your eyes meet again, shoulders turned towards each other now. He grins, bunny teeth making an appearance at the mishap regardless of the obvious tension that has invaded the air between the two of you. You envy that trait, his ability to make any situation comfortable and relaxed despite its origin. "You first."

"No, um you go," you mumble out awkwardly, finishing off the remnants of wine in your glass in a rather large gulp to ease the nerves. You know Harry, sometimes better than he knows himself, and you know that he would have never approached you if he didn't have some motive on his own. You had to shut this down—there was no way you could go down this road with him again, not when just this conversation was enough to ruffle your feathers, making you feel like a traitor in your own body, someone you don't even know.

"How 'bout we both go?" There's a cheeky look in his eye, and if you look hard enough you could see a tinge of excitement, hopefulness, "On th'count of three?"

Not daring to quirk upwards, your lips remain straight, and you nod.

"One," You can do it. Just tell him you want to basically forget he exists. "Two," You can do it. Just tell her you still love her. "Three."

Two similar heartbeats.

"I still love you-" Sweet sugar crystals, an honest confession from candy land.

"I think it's best if we don't see each other again." An exploding cannon, sinking his battle ship.

Two entirely different headspaces.

The next morning, you wake up with a massive headache, one that was undoubtedly brewing as you cried yourself to sleep the night prior (it might also have to do with the entire bottle of wine you consumed as soon as you slipped off your heels in your apartment).

You notice it's technically no longer morning when you check your phone, squinting in pain at the sudden brightness, the numbers 1:25 yelling back at you. Thank god it's Saturday; you haven't had a hangover of this intensity since college and there is no way you could possibly go to work like this.

Slowly slipping out of the warmth of your numerous weighted blankets, your socked feet hit the plush carpet, and you bend down and open the bottom drawer of your bedside table. Tied up in a pink bow are four envelopes, addressed and stamped, waiting to be delivered to the man whose hopes you crushed. You reached for the stack, running your fingers along the edges, reading over his name, tracing the letters with your fingertips.

With the letters firm in your grasp, you rush to your front door, making sure to slip on your robe; you don't want anyone to drive by you putting these letters in your mailbox in nothing but a t-shirt and undies, after all.

You're finally doing it, diving into the crystal-clear water that was once forever still. You're going to mail all twenty-two pages, every emotion. This is it, the last period to the epilogue, the ending of this book, the closure the both of you so desperately need.

As you reach for the handle, you pause, noticing the one thing you nearly forgot about—that gold band. You slip the piece of metal off your finger, observing his initials engraved on the inside for the last time. Untying the bow holding the envelopes together, you slide the ring onto one end of the cotton-candy colored ribbon and retie the knot, the ring now attached. Inhale, one moment to reflect. Exhale, one moment to say your final goodbye. You swing open the door, and right before you can make another move, something stops you. Looking down at your doorstep, a bittersweet smile breaks out across your face. He was saying goodbye too.

A dozen sunflowers.

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pennyserenade · 3 years

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FIRST LINE GAME

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

tagged by my favorite domestic slut sister: @astroboots

PUBLISHED WORKS:

scenes from a marriage (javi fic): The designs of misfortune carve themselves in the woodwork that is Colombia, marking and scarring a beautiful country for the sake of one man’s empire.

(a/n): i wrote this on a whim one night while just trying to write for the sake of writing and look where it’s got us.

freedom is just another word (frankie morales fic): Sometimes, Frankie could not stand himself. Really, despise himself.

(a/n): i did this one because i’m cruel and a slut for angst

ungodly hour (agent whiskey fic): Her knees rest on his forearms, and she pushes his shoulders into the ground beneath him, earning a groan as his head bounces lightly off of the ground.

(a/n): i wrote this one because i just wanted to write but i didn’t wanted to take a break from scenes. also, i was listening to the ungodly hour album and it makes me feel like a bad bitch so i had a desire to character a leading character that was one.

NOT PUBLISHED WORKS:

the world is yours (maxwell lord fic): Step ahead into the past. It was a meaningless, get-rich sentiment stamped on the box of each Polaroid camera they sent out, one that she’s seen a million times before but never felt the depth of until now; Maxwell has said it, willing away the accent she loves, and she knows that this is exactly what they’ve done: They’ve stepped back into a joyless, oppressive past in order to preserve some inkling of a meaningful future.

(a/n): this will probably make a debut after i finish scenes and get somewhere with freedom. the step ahead into the past bit came from a poster at my work that i saw while i was on break. this is gonna be a fic exploring the beginnings of maxwell’s desire to be something, and i hope it covers the struggles he goes through a bit better than the film. also, i’m not gonna make him the villain as much as i am going to make him the anti-hero, because who can deny that michael corleone wasn’t a baddie once or twice hm ?

strobe lights (unpublished maxwell lord fic): It was a concoction of heavily artificial music--the sort that drips in materialism and would bling if sound was tangible--and Maxwell’s insistent stare that made her do it.

(a/n): this will probably never see the light of day because it has a no real meaning, but it’s older than any of the other stuff i’ve written for the p. characters. it was made before i created this blog, and just something that got the wheels in my head turning again.

scenes from a marriage (a very very early draft that i didn’t end up liking, javi fic): He had forgotten. Or she thought he had forgotten. She couldn’t be sure yet, but the hours kept ticking away, and he hadn’t shown up yet. Javier wasn’t ever the most timely man, but he was never this late.

a/n: what are my fics, if not angst preserving?

mama, you’ve been on my mind (a fic not belonging to the pedro fandom at all, but a story about two characters that my friend created): Something had gone taut inside of Henry the day he found out that Mari had gone missing. He’d worked hard to conceal it from Stella, expressing adequate amounts of concern and worry and frustration, but he never showed the absolute panic that rattled him to his very core. He didn’t want to upset her. Stella was a great woman, but no one could stand the shade of pale he would get when he was by himself, or the way he sobbed quietly thinking about her at night in the bathroom when he was alone and Stella was asleep. He hid it from her, something he had never, ever done with Stella, because he knew that this grief was more personal than he ever wanted her to know about.

(a/n): my friend gave me henry to write with her, and we attached pedro to his face to him, but the main story is about mari, a girl who henry had married when he was a younger. they divorced later on because they both came to the conclusion that mari loved women more than she ever would love him, but he never, ever stopped caring about her. mari eventually ends up getting murdered by one of her patients (she’s a therapist) because she rejects his advances, (but i promise the story doesn’t end there, because mari is very, very cool and my friend is such a bad ass writer, i just don’t want to give it all away). anyways, this takes place shortly after mari has gone missing. at this point, it has been about tenish years since henry and mari have split and he’s remarried to stella, a woman whom he loves dearly. henry and mari remained friends, and he’s not taking it well.

untitled mando fic: His first words to her had been these: It had to be done. They were muttered with such commitment and unwavering faith, she knew that he was a man who truly believed in whatever dogma he abided by.

(a/n): this was the first thing i was gonna publish on here but everything i wrote felt odd and out of place, and i think i need a bit more time to set on this one before it goes anywhere.

let it be: (a story i was writing for a school contest but never finished): There came an awful, tightening sensation in the middle of her chest, so strong it felt like she was about to double over there, in front of all of these strangers.

(a/n): this was gonna be a story about a young woman who has just found out she was pregnant. i set it during the day that the beatles played there rooftop concert because i liked the idea of this young woman being surrounded by many people who’s eyes were glued to the sky because the beatles are playing their brand new fucking album, and she’s just coming undone. this is gonna expose me as a beatles stan and that’s okay.

diane’s a friend of mine (a story i didn’t remember writing until just now, doing this): It had all started with Diane, a woman who had loved him so passionately that he’d dated her twice. Diane was an intelligent woman with the tendency to date men who were far below her, and he wasn’t the exception as much as he was the rule. He remembered the way she didn’t mind his desire to be and do nothing on Sunday mornings, and the kind way she would trace his nose and smile approvingly before saying, “You’ve got the nose of greek gods, Francis.”

(a/n): this must’ve been written during my al pacino phase a couple of months back, and i think, as i scan over it, this is the story i wanted to write about an actor who has spent his entire life as someone else, just a plethora of different characters, so when he eventually retires, he begins to struggle with who he is. i think i wanted it to be told through the stories of women he’s loved during those years, because it’s the only time he remembers being himself.

untitled roman sionis fic: roman sionis reminded frankie terribly of fredo corleone. he was void of that pure innocence—that essence of goodness that made fredo such a lovable character—but he had the stupidity. it was a stupidity that stopped him from being something more.

(a/n): i have written about thirty roman sionis drafts but none of them amounted to anything. i think the character is neat, and had a very big ewan mcgregor phase.

an untitled fic set after the events of the panic in needle park, if anyone of you has seen that: This is where I am. This is where my stuff is. The wind was biting this morning, reddening Bobby’s cheeks as he stood on the sidewalk waiting for Eileen.

(a/n): this was definitely during my al pacino phase, it’s about how bobby gets clean and has started life with another woman because he couldn’t stay with helen because they enabled each other too much. if i’m ever gonna do anything for any of you please let it be to turn you onto al pacino’s movies in the ‘70s. all of them are fantastic, and the panic in needle park the first installment. this movie lead to al giving his famed role as michael corleone later on, and it covers a lot of topics i didn’t expect, like drug addiction and poverty and i just think al pacino is amazing in it. i cannot believe that his first movie. here’s the link to the trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watchv=0ahe2zepONg&ab_channel=JulienPinault. drug tw and needle tw.

okay i think that is all i have and i know it’s not twenty but i can’t find any more.

tagging: @mourningbirds1, @disgruntledspacedad and anyone else who wants to do it because i think you’re all neat and lovely.

#misc.#tag games.

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victorluvsalice · 7 years

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AU Thursday: Londerland Bloodlines -- Prophetic Nightmare

Another Thursday, another chunk of Londerland Bloodlines. This one’s a long one, focusing on a nightmare Victor has not long before the endgame, with Alice fighting the Sabbat at Hallowbrook Hotel. This isn’t just him worrying about everyone’s safety, though -- one of the “perks” of Malk blood can be an ability to see the future (in your own unique way), and I figured something of that could probably transfer over to a ghoul. Victor’s basically being warned “bad shit gonna go down” -- and fortunately for him, it’ll be a warning Alice takes to heart. (Too bad Lizzie and Victoria don’t get out of town quite quick enough. . .and before any freaks, quick reminder they do not die, they just need to be rescued.)

So, given that the first part of this snippet is a pretty nasty nightmare, I’m going to warn for blood, gore, dismemberment, and eye trauma. Poor Victor, I put him through the wringer. . .fortunately the ending of the fic is another trip to his wooded happy place. Because Alice doesn’t like seeing him unhappy any more than we do. Anyway, you’ve been warned!

"I'm home, everyone! Who wants – hello?"

Victor shifted his grocery bags, peering between them into the apartment. To his surprise, the living room was empty, as was the attached kitchen. "Emily? Lizzie? Wasn't there anything good on TV?"

No response. Victor frowned. It wasn't like them to just vanish like this. . .had they gone out for some reason after he'd left? But he couldn't see a note anywhere. . .he glanced up at the loft level. "Alice? Are you up?"

Silence. Now thoroughly puzzled, he set the bags on the counter, then headed upstairs. The little office nook was empty. Victor bent over the computer and wiggled the mouse. The screen came to life, showing the five of them lined up on the couch. He couldn't help a grin as he took in Emily's enthusiastic wave to the camera, Victoria's shy smile, Alice's sparkling eyes. Knowing just one of them was a privilege. Being the boyfriend of all three? And getting an older sister into the bargain? I really am the luckiest man in the world.

Unfortunately, he couldn't just stand here and stare at his favorite ladies all night – he had a mystery to solve. He opened up the e-mail client and typed in the password. "15 e-mails – 3 unread," popped up. So that definitely meant Alice wasn't up yet – she never left the haven without reading her e-mails. Still, it was rather late for her not to be up – generally she was stumbling to the fridge for a quick morning drink just minutes after sunset. And while she'd assured him vampires couldn't actually get sick from human diseases. . .he put the computer back to sleep and knocked on the bedroom door. "Alice?"

Still nothing. Victor frowned and pushed open the door, flicking on the light switch. "Al – ALICE!"

His hand clamped itself over his mouth practically of his own accord. The bedroom was painted in blood and gore, red dripping off the walls and body parts flung carelessly every which way. A leg draped over the edge of the bed. . .a hand saluting him from the top of the dresser. . .an arm lying right at his feet. . .and a very familiar head watching him from its place on the pillow. No. . .no no nonono –

Dark sister, not dark mistress!

Victor blinked, then forced himself to step over the arm for a closer look at the head. It gaped up at him, an expression of agonized horror on its beautiful features. But – the hair was different, longer and with a fringe of bangs falling across its forehead. The lips were a trifle fuller than the ones he was used to kissing, the nose turned up slightly more. And the eyes were a clear blue instead of a bright green, the sky on a summer's day instead of the grass. Not his dearest beloved – yet someone almost as bad. "Oh no. . .Lizzie. . . ."

His fingers traced the contours of her cheek, tears welling up in his eyes. "Oh Lizzie. . .who did this to you? I thought. . .didn't we get rid of all the local Giovanni?" He sniffled, and wiped his face with his sleeve. "Oh God, I'm so sorry. . .Alice is going to be heartbroken. . . ."

If she's still alive.

Victor's blood turned to ice in his veins. Just because it wasn't Alice here didn't mean – he tore open the door to the master bathroom, hoping against hope there wasn't a similar scene inside.

There was – but again, it wasn't Alice's face that greeted him. Instead, Emily's broken and bloody visage stared up at him from under the toilet, the rest of her body scattered across the floor. The sight of those beautiful deep blue eyes staring sightlessly into space – dead in a way she'd never been, even while living in the Underworld – was almost more than he could bear. He dropped to his knees, gathering up her head and one of her discarded arms – the left, the one that he'd first encountered as a skeletal "branch" back in Burtonsville – and cradled them to his chest, weeping openly. "No. . .no. . .Emily. . . ."

SLAM!

Victor jumped, head whipping around toward the noise. What – was that the front door? Did I leave it open? I don't think I did. . .and I don't think it would close on its own either. Oh God, is Victoria here, I can't let her see this. . . . Carefully setting Emily's abused parts on the floor, he hurried out onto the balcony. "Vi – VICTORIA!"

It was indeed Victoria downstairs – or, rather, what was left of her. His living love was lying on the floor of the apartment, skin now even paler than his. A torn-open throat hinted at the reason for this state of affairs. Victor almost tumbled down the stairs in his haste to get to her. "Victoria. . .oh God no. . . ."

He skidded to a stop beside her, pulling her into his arms. She flopped around like a rag doll, clearly beyond any help. Those bright blue eyes were dim now, filled with fossilized terror. Victor broke down, pressing her head against his chest. Why? Why? I had so little time with all of them. . . .

Dark mistress still lives, the voice in his head whispered, cracking. You must find dark mistress!

Victor touched his chest. Yes. . .Alice still lived. Their blood bond was weak, and fading more with each passing day, but he was sure he would have felt it break entirely. He still wasn't entirely alone. Not yet. But where was she? He couldn't imagine she was responsible for this chaos, and she wouldn't have let it come to pass if she'd been at home. . . . He gently laid Victoria out on the floor, then made for the front door, throwing it open so hard he broke it off its hinges.

An alleyway stretched out before him, longer than any he'd ever seen. He blinked, then groaned. Oh no. . .not now! he scolded the voice in his head. I thought I'd lucked out just hearing you!

Not me, the voice replied, sounding distinctly confused. Not my luck.

Victor blinked again, staring at the concrete below him. But – if it's not you, then –

Dark mistress! the voice cried, and Victor snapped his head up to see a figure dressed in blue, long hair streaming out behind her, running down the other end of the alley. In pursuit of whoever had inflicted such carnage on those they loved? Fleeing same? Victor didn't know and didn't care. All that mattered was that she was there, she was alive –

and he wasn't going to let anything happen to her. He took off down the street, sorrow transforming into rage. You took my loves, he hissed mentally at the invisible culprit behind the slaughter. You took my family. You took almost everything I had that made life worth living here. But you will not get her. You will not get the one I have left. I am going to find you, and I'm going to tear your heart out and feast on your sweet blood. I'm going to commit as close to diablerie as a human can! I am going to hunt you down and suck you – "Ooof!"

Abruptly something jumped on him from behind, dragging him to the pavement like a wolf taking down a deer. Victor struggled and kicked, but its strength was ten times his at the peak of his buffed state, and he hadn't had any blood for a while. Soon he was pinned to the ground. "Let me go! Alice! Alice!!"

But she was already gone, almost as if she'd never been. Moments later, so was the light. Victor felt the beginnings of panic gnawing at his mind as the alley was plunged into deep shadow. No, please no, I don't like the dark. . . .

Claws caressed his face almost lovingly. "What a yummy little bloodbag," a voice rasped in his ear. "We might keep you for a while." Fangs raked his neck, raising painful welts. Victor elbowed the creature, but it didn't even notice. "Let's make you a proper drink, why don't we?"

Victor had exactly one second to wonder what the hell that meant. And then suddenly his eyes were on fire as the claws dug into them, and the darkness deepened to an endless impenetrable void, and there was wetness on his cheeks but it wasn't tears and he couldn't see he couldn't see he couldn't see no no no no no no – "NOOOOOOO!"

He flew bolt upright, eyes flying open – and thank God, they were there to open, he could see the little lamp glowing in the corner of Alice's bedroom, but his sockets still hurt his neck still hurt everything still hurt and he was afraid to move, afraid that if he got up and switched on the light he'd find himself staring at another disembodied head and no no he couldn't go through that again once was enough –

"Victor?"

He jerked his head down to see Alice stirring by his side, eyes opening muzzily to peer up at him. "What was–"

"Victor!"

The door flew open, leaving him blinking as light suddenly intruded on the darkness. It didn't last long, though – Emily, Lizzie, and Victoria all crowded into the doorway, each trying to be the first to get inside. "We heard a scream – what happened?" Emily asked, finally making it to the front.

"Are you both all right?" Victoria added, twisting her hands together.

Victor stared for a moment. They were there. Everyone was there. Everyone was whole, and alive, and – and – and –

The tears were pouring down his face before he even realized he was crying. Victor curled up on himself, pressing his face into his knees as he sobbed. He couldn't help it. He was so, so glad they were all okay. . .and yet he could still see so clearly in his mind's eye Emily and Lizzie's torn-apart bodies, Victoria's violated throat. . .can't let it happen can't let it happen I can't lose them can't lose them. . . .

A cool arm wrapped itself around his shoulders. "Hey, hey, it's all right," Alice said, voice still a little foggy. "You just had a nightmare, all right? Or, well, daymare I suppose. . . ."

He managed a nod, sniffling and gulping down air. He knew that. Knew that the hell he'd just gone through was blessedly unreal. But the biting, gaping sorrow of seeing his friends – his family – torn apart before him, and the sheer, unadulterated terror of the monster in the dark clawing at his face – well, it was hard to wiggle free of either. The bed squeaked as the others crowded around, and more hands joined Alice's in rubbing his back or his hair or his knees. He leaned into the touches, still sobbing uncontrollably. They're here, they're here, they're okay. . .but God, it felt so real. . . .

"Victor." Suddenly Alice's voice was all command. "Look at me a moment."

Victor raised his head. His vision was cloudy with tears, but Alice's green gaze pierced straight through, holding him still. "Is it all right if I – make you calm down a bit?"

Victor was puzzled briefly – then remembered a hospital room suddenly becoming his childhood bedroom. "L-like in the clinic?" She nodded. "Y-yes, please." Anything to make all this pain go away.

Her hand gently cradled the back of his head. "You're in a safe place, Victor. Someplace you like a lot and feel totally comfortable and happy in. Nothing can hurt you there. You're safe."

The world flashed purple, just as before. . .and then, suddenly, the walls were gone, replaced with trees. Victor blinked and looked around. The five of them were now sitting on a mossy log in the middle of a forest, pines and oaks stretching up to a bright blue sky above them. Below was a layer of needles and old leaves, interspersed here and there with patches of stubby grass and a few hardy flowers growing in the dappled light that reached the ground. Nearby, a stream gurgled away happily as it wound between the trees. Car horns and traffic had been replaced with the song of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind. His shoulders slumped as the tension drained out of him. Yes. . .he was safe here. This place, this world – this was all his own. Not even the horrors of his own dreaming mind could reach him while he sat on this log. Especially not while surrounded by the people he loved. He cuddled up to Alice, smiling. "Thanks."

She stroked his hair. "My pleasure."

"Er – what did you just do to him?" Emily asked, watching him with a slightly-concerned frown.

"It's called Dementation – it's a specialty of my clan," Alice explained. "You know how I made those last few Giovanni guards collapse in helpless laughter? This is something like that. Technically I've just made him hallucinate – just in a nicer way than most Malkavians use it." She looked up at him. "What are you seeing? I'm not actually privy to what's going on in your mind when I use this."

"A forest," Victor told her. "Kind of like the one near Burtonsville, but less – gray." He glanced up at the sky. "It's daytime, but don't worry, we're sitting in the shade."

Alice snorted. "Good. I think me bursting into flames would be against the purpose of this little mental trip."

#londerland bloodlines #fanfic #tw: eye trauma #tw: blood #tw: gore #tw: dismemberment #tw: disturbing content #tw: death #okay that should cover it #yes the Sabbat vampire gouged Victor's eyes out #when you get to their headquarters you can find blood dolls who have been similarly maimed :(#and given my Victors' horror over not being able to see #my poor baby #this is basically Alice's main reason for knowing Dementation #using it to help rather than hurt #also I just like writing Victor's wooded safe place #he really likes trees guys #I'm happy to give them to him #queued

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