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merrywaanderer · 2 years

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the ocean's daughter

victoria de angelis x fem!reader

synopsis: while on holiday in italy, an encounter derails your life enough to make you pack up on a whim and move to the very city in which you first saw her — the ocean's daughter.

warnings: swearing; alcohol consumption; drowning as a metaphor; my terrible attempts at roman dialect & italian; mild, fade-to-black smut (please dni if this makes you uncomfortable, or is not the kind of content you signed up for :))

word count: 5.7k

a/n: after a brief (okay, so, nine months) lapse in writing for måneskin, i am back!! i hope you can forgive my lack of interaction with you all, as my first year of university was a busy one. please take this fic as an apology and an attempt to wheedle my way back into your hearts <3

⭒

The problem with beautiful people in foreign countries is that there is absolutely no way you might ever run into them again, even by pure coincidence.

But you couldn’t get her out of your head.

Walking along the shoreline as the sun set over an unnamed beach on the Italian Riviera coastline, the light turning her skin and her hair to gold, the whole world forgotten as she reached out a hand to touch the waves which crested at her side, as though the ocean were walking with her. Everything was golden at this time of day, but nothing shone like her.

And oh, how she delighted in the life about her, as though this day, and every day hence, were the best of her life.

It was not an unnamed beach on the Italian Riviera coastline because you could not remember its name, or had never known it, but simply because it was so small a stretch between the colourful buildings hiking up the cliff face that no one had thought to name it.

You thought of it now as her beach, the woman you’d seen, illuminated in sunlight like it loved her too much to let her go, if even for a moment.

La sua spiaggia.

You hadn’t spoken Italian, until you’d come back from Italy and enrolled in Elementary Italian at the public university close to where you lived.

You couldn’t get her out of your head — the way she’d laughed, made her way along the shore and sung as though she was speaking to the water, its rush and flow, a tempest contained within each wave.

Now you were in class every Wednesday night, repeating sentences and sounding as stupid as could be, but you forewent every shade of embarrassment for determination, and never had you been so fixated on anything in your life, to gain understanding of the language in which this woman had spoken. Because it seemed to you that the waves had composed their melody in the image of her voice, and you wanted to know how to speak like that, to be the waves beneath her fingertips.

You knew you sounded crazy, and possibly were crazy, but for some unfathomable reason, you didn’t care.

You couldn’t get her out of your head, and so be it. You were happier for it, the memory of her flirting with the sun, the sun blushing deep in the evening sky. And who could have blamed the sun? You would have blushed too.

When the night grew dark earlier in winter, you curled up on the sofa with a blanket wrapped around you, and watched Italian movies without subtitles.

Most of the films were dramas, often romantic, because these were the most easily accessible in any language.

In summer, you sat outside in the garden and drank wine, listening to a radio that played Italian music.

Most of the music was mellow, but occasionally, the host announced some sort of rock band, and amidst the quiet calm of traditional ballads, you relished the uncomplicated anger and infatuation of the rock music. There was something accessible to that, too. Something universal and simple.

It was the simplicity you appreciated, perhaps mostly because there was little of it in learning a new language. That which is sparse is precious, like the sunlight in her hair at the end of the day. Like the moments in which she had been in your life, so quickly gone, like a dream grasped at in waking.

Had she ever been there at all?

She had. You held onto that memory like a lifeline.

Every day, it got you up in the morning. Silly, for something so small to have an impact so great, and yet, it did.

There she was, in your mind, every time you thought you could no longer take what the world threw at you. Smiling, the sun setting on the water.

Dancing, the ocean’s daughter.

⭒

A year down the line, and you were back aboard a plane. You’d bought your ticket and packed your bags and were heading back to Italy, this time for good.

Each day, you’d spent hours learning, practising, perfecting, but one could only go so far in a classroom setting. All the people you knew who spoke more than one language had said the same thing, the same thing that your teachers had said: the best way to learn was through immersion.

You’d spoken at length with your work superiors, and they had verified that it was no trouble for you to work remotely. Having nothing you would miss too much in your homeland, you’d decided it was time for a change, and a new start, at that.

What better way to start anew than to cast yourself into the abyss of the unknown, off to a place you’d never lived, to speak a language you’d only just learnt to speak?

To find a woman you didn’t know, for but her laughter and her golden hair.

At this thought, you laughed a little yourself. In part, you recognised the madness of your endeavour. But mostly, your vision was too foolishly rose-tinted, with dreams that dallied only just out of your reach, and you thought that if only you could reach them, all would be right.

Such was the nature of a dreaming heart, a hopeful mind. Had you been a character of Greek myth, it would have been your Achilles’ heel.

The city lights glittered outside of your window.

⭒

You collapsed on your bed with a heavy sigh. It was of tiredness, it was content.

Beyond the window, the black sand beaches of Cinque Terre shimmered in the setting sun, the town alight with the fiery light of evening. The turquoise ocean turned tangerine in the fading day, and you thought almost that you could hear the water lapping against the rocky edges of the cliff face upon which the village was built.

Riomaggiore.

Built up like biscuit tins in a hundred different colours, abundant in boats constructed for fishing and places meant for sitting and looking out over the wide world. There was a quiet age in the winding streets, lined with plants and people, buildings as old as time.

It smelt of salt and bread, lemon and olives and basil, of the best pesto you’d ever tasted — at the bar tucked away beneath residential balconies, between stone-paved streets — of wine and sea air. It prickled on your lips.

With those thoughts lingering in your head, you decided it was time for dinner, and got up from the bed to change.

Afterall, it was almost nine o’clock, and therefore the perfect time to eat.

⭒

You ended up at a quaint little place with wicker chairs and wooden tables, crowded beneath parasols that remained up in the evening as much as in the day. Amongst these parasols were strung warm paper lanterns which made all beneath them glow, continuing the endless sunshine of summer into the night.

Having been shown to a little table in a corner, with a view of the darkening ocean, you ordered a glass of wine in Italian clearly more fluent than the waiter had expected.

“Parli molto bene l'italiano,” he complimented you. He then proceeded to ask, in a conversational manner, where you were from and what brought you here, to which you answered with continued fluency, and he replied again how good the accent was with which you spoke.

You carried a companionable conversation with the waiter for a handful of minutes, until he apologised for not yet having brought you your wine, and also for having other tables to attend.

He brought your wine after a short interval, along with a small decanter of water, and a basket of bread with oil and balsamico.

With this acquired, you sat back in your chair and contemplated the menu. It was written entirely in Italian, indicative of a restaurant not much frequented by tourists. You were pleased to realise you had no trouble reading it.

After a while, however, you began to struggle. Not because you didn’t understand the words on the card before you, but because you felt the tingling sensation of someone’s eyes on you.

Tilting the booklet slowly, you peered over the top of it in what you hoped was a surreptitious manner.

But when your eyes fell upon the other pair in question, you all but dropped the menu to the ground.

Because leaned back in a wicker chair only two tables away, sunglasses perched atop her blonde hair beneath the cover of the table parasol, was the one person you’d come here hoping, beyond all reckless and silly hope, to see in the first place.

The ocean’s daughter canted her head, and tipped a finger against her lips.

“I know you,” she said, in careful English.

You sputtered, “Pardon?”

She smiled enigmatically, with a soft-curving mouth and gently crinkling eyes that were lit in a way that betrayed mischief, or some secret knowledge.

“I know you,” she repeated. “You were on the beach, last time I was here.”

You blinked, searching for something to say. Anything, to respond vaguely in the affirmative, without giving away exactly how much you had thought about this golden stranger since you last had seen her. “You don’t live here?”

“Not in Riomaggiore, no.” She smiled again. “I’m from Rome. But you’re not from here, either.”

You laughed. “What gave it away?”

She was drinking Peroni from a bottle, and at your question, she picked this up, stood, and swept over to your table. She sat down in the chair across from you.

“There,” she said. “Now we don’t have to shout at each other.”

Mildly surprised at her coming to sit down with you, and with your question still hanging in the air, you stared at her.

“Just a good guess, is all,” she answered finally, lifting a shoulder. “And, you answered naturally in English.” She reached out her hand. “I’m Victoria.”

You shook her hand and gave her your name. Her skin was soft, a blushy pink. Her eyes churned with the colour of the waves that had danced beneath her fingertips a year ago.

“Well, Y/N, what brings you to Riomaggiore for the second summer in a row?”

“I could ask you the same,” you countered.

Victoria leaned back again. She had a curious look in her eyes that you couldn’t place.

“I asked you first,” she said wryly, folding her arms. The strength in her grace was not lost on you; doubtless, her arms were strong.

Mirroring her action of earlier, you sipped your drink. So went the saying, ‘imitation is the highest form of flattery,’ but not only that: you knew that mirror neurons had a direct link to the brain chemistry involved in romance.

You’d pushed the first pawn across the chess board. The next move was hers.

“For the pesto,” you replied.

She laughed succinctly. “And here I’d thought you’d come here for the same reason as me.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Which was?”

The corner of her mouth turned up slowly. “To find you, of course.”

She lifted the glass bottle to her lips. Her eyes did not leave yours.

Oh she’d moved her piece all right.

You looked out over the sea so as to not look at her, to not reveal how her words had affected you. But of course, in the sea, you saw her.

Abruptly, the waiter returned, saving you from making a response. He seemed surprised that there were two patrons where before there had only been one, but he took it in stride and asked whether you’d had time to consider the menu.

You nodded, but it was Victoria who spoke first.

“Avremo la pasta al pesto, per favore.”

The waiter looked between you, “Entrambi?” Were you ordering the same thing?

Victoria looked at you, in askance.

You squared your shoulders. “Certo,” you told the waiter.

“Bene,” he said, and informed you that it would not be a long wait. Then he left.

You turned to Victoria. “How did you recognise me? I was just sitting on the beach.”

“You were staring at me.”

Recalling that day, there had been many people staring at her. You told her as much.

“Yes,” she agreed, “but none so beautiful as you. I would have noticed you anywhere.”

You baulked at this. Victoria was the kind of person people noticed. You were not.

“You’re a little intimidating, you know,” she said, to which you frowned. “I think that’s why you think people don’t notice you.”

Then, as though privy to your thoughts, she expanded upon her own. She seemed to have a knack for reading you.

“You think people don’t notice you, because they don’t necessarily talk to you. But I think they don’t talk to you, because they are intimidated. I could not imagine not noticing you.”

You felt a little light-headed at her words, an unfathomable thrill washing over you like a tide. “Then you are the first person brave enough to speak.”

Victoria’s eyes glinted puckishly. “I take pride in that.”

The sun sank farther in the sky, turning the water red and rouging Victoria’s cheeks till tiny freckles stood out beneath her eyes, over her nose, upon her lower lip. She smiled coyly, and you realised you were staring again.

“Sorry,” you mumbled with a half-laugh.

“No,” she shook her head. “Look at me all you like.” A gentle breeze ruffled her hair, and she pushed the fringe from out her eyes. You nearly reached over to do it for her.

“Makes me feel warm,” she said quietly, like a confession.

Paradoxically, there were goose bumps raised along her arms.

“You look cold to me,” you responded.

She wrinkled her nose. “Sea air, sun going down, no suffocating heat like Rome in the summer.”

Standing, you shrugged off your cardigan and side-stepped the table, reaching her side. She watched you move in silence.

“May I?” you asked, holding out the cardigan.

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Nodded.

You sank halfway into a crouch, and draped the garment over her shoulders, pulling the edges around her to meet at her throat.

Suddenly, time had slowed to a dripping treacle, and you were hyper aware of her eyes tracking your movements, eyelashes low on her cheeks, of the rise and fall of her chest, breath suddenly shallow. There was a slight flush to her skin, though it was golden, touched by sunlight. Those faint freckles on her face traced a speckled path down her neck, over her collarbone and farther still, past where the open collar of her shirt fluttered over her breasts — only just hidden by the white cotton fabric.

“My eyes are up here, cuore,” she said smugly, and the clichedness of the line shattered your trance as the fever of embarrassment rose beneath your skin.

“Yes, I — ”

“Pasta al pesto per due?”

You started at the voice of the waiter, practically falling into your chair as you stepped back to your side of the table.

Victoria seemed unfazed. “Sì, grazie mille,” she smiled up at him.

The waiter smiled tightly as he set down the plates. “Parmigiano?”

“No, grazie,” you said, wanting him simply to leave as soon as possible and spare you further embarrassment.

“Più vino? Birra?”

“No, no, grazie.” You did not want more wine. You wanted him to leave. Now.

Victoria was leaned back in her chair again, still beaming. “Prenderò un'altra birra, per favore.”

“Certo,” said the waiter, and left, equally as fast as you’d wished him to.

You were leaning your forehead on the palm of your hand, still reeling from the embarrassment of the waiter witnessing your fawning over Victoria.

But you took a breath and composed yourself, picking up your fork for something to do with your hands.

“So, tell me about Rome,” you inquired of Victoria, without looking up from your food.

But she gave a little laugh, and before you knew it, her hands were over yours.

You looked up.

“Not like that, cara.” She took your hand, and stabbed the trofie — pasta pieces wound into long, tight coils — properly. “And when it’s spaghetti or linguine, you twist, no spoon.”

She let go of your hands, but you felt the warmth of them still. You could scarcely remember how to breathe with the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.

She picked up her own fork and speared the pasta.

“You can call me Vic, if you like,” she said. Then, “Rome. Hot, this time of year. Lots of tourists.”

You laughed, partly because the way she had phrased it was amusing, and partly to diffuse the sudden tension which had come between you just before. “You dislike it that much?”

“No, I was just being realistic. But I suppose you want the sun-soaked boulevards and flowerpots and music.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Victoria nodded. “And there is that too. Rome’s a little bit of both. Isn’t everything?”

“Both optimistic and pessimistic?”

She pointed her fork at you. “Exact.”

“Exactly?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Shut up, I know I’m not fluent in English.”

You swallowed your pasta, waving a hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to seem like I expected that of you. But I also didn’t want to assume that you weren’t fluent just because you’re Italian.”

A strange expression came across Victoria’s face, something between surprise and admiration.

“Thank you,” she answered laconically, her voice soft as though her gratitude should have been secret.

Once more lost for words, you could do nothing but nod, and push another pile of trofie onto the tines of your fork.

The two of you ate quietly for a while — because Victoria suddenly could not look at you, and you still knew not what to say. The wind blew through the cobblestone corridors of Riomaggiore, and stars in the sky began to replace the sparkling of the ocean surface by sunset. You could smell mingled spirits and spices, hear laughter and chatter in a dozen different languages. The chatter was different; the laughter sounded the same in every language.

Victoria’s fork clattered to her empty plate, momentarily startling you.

She took a breath. “Do you want to do something crazy?”

You put the last piece of pasta into your mouth, chewed, swallowed, your heart beating fast at the unspoken promise held by her words. “Like what?”

“Like leave, now that we’ve finished eating.”

Your eyes widened, and you lowered your voice. “Victoria, if you saw me, a tourist, leaving a restaurant after finishing dinner, you’d be horrified. This is Italy. You don’t just leave after eating.”

The smile that twisted your insides graced her pink-red lips again. She leaned forward, and your eyes darted involuntarily to her mouth. Her eyes were a thousand different shades of blue.

“Told you it was crazy.”

Then she straightened up again, stuck a hand into her pocket, retrieved a bundle of plastic Euros, placed them on the table beneath a glass, and once more extended her hand to you.

There was a command in the action, and you obeyed.

When her hand was in yours again, it felt like sanctity, a warm flush spreading through your body at her innocent touch.

She drew you up from your chair, and before you knew what was happening, she was holding your hand like the memory of her that had held you enraptured for a year, and you were running through the streets of a seaside village, your footsteps loud, your laughter resonant in your belly, in your chest and your lungs, upon your lips.

You ran and ran, hand in hand, and if anybody had asked, you wouldn’t have known how to explain the energy which had suddenly made a rollercoaster of your veins.

The streets wove and turned like a labyrinth, like a web, and all these strings ran in one direction: to the sea.

It was only when there was sand in between your toes that you realised that you had reached the end of the road. You kicked your shoes off without a thought, as Victoria discarded her borrowed cardigan into the sandy dunes.

And then she was pulling you toward the rushing waves and the dying sun ever and ever closer to the horizon, and the water was sloshing up over your ankles, your calves.

Another laugh burst forth from your chest, and you turned to splash Victoria.

She shrieked, because the day had been hot, but the water was still cold, and the difference was jarring.

When she looked at you, her hair was soaking wet, bangs dripping down her face like the water that had made her makeup run, and somehow, she was even more beautiful now, in what should have been ruin but instead was triumph, like every grain of sand on her hands was residual stardust from her soul, though still was nothing when compared to the light in her eyes. The laughter was still warm in your chest.

She shivered, and your moment of trance shattered like sugar glass. You took her hand this time.

“Come on,” you said, leading out of the water like she was Venus born of a Botticelli vision. “Let’s go dance this cold away.”

Against your own, her pulse fluttered, and her clammy palm in yours, with its calloused fingertips and short-cut nails, was suddenly the most important thing ever entrusted to you.

You swallowed, before letting go of her hand to put your shoes back on. She sat down beside you.

“Y-you like to dance?” Her wide eyes were wider beneath the smudged makeup. The devious glint in them was gone as she shivered, the sun nearly gone now.

I could learn to love anything if I was with you, you thought. It was a dangerous thought, to be told. You dared not speak it aloud.

You pulled on your cardigan, but only to drag the sleeve down over your wrist and press it carefully under her eyes, blotting away the remnants of mascara.

Her eyes closed slowly, and you breathed in tandem to the sound of the breaking waves.

You tugged off your cardigan again, and set it around her shoulders once more before she had the chance to protest.

When she opened her eyes again, her lips parted too. She might have leaned in, if you hadn’t spoken then.

“When in Riomaggiore…” you murmured, and were rewarded with her gentle laughter.

Victoria stood and pulled you up. When you were fully on your feet, she nearly lost her balance, but you caught her arms before she fell to the sand, and instead she fell against your chest.

Her breath was on your collarbone, laboured — presumably from the adrenaline rush of the ground disappearing from beneath her feet. Her fingers were against your back, curled to keep herself standing.

Already your thoughts were gone from the beach, from the light still left on its shore, deep now in the midnight dark that would soon follow, fast-forwarded to a fantasy, of her body against yours, every part of her as soft as the skin of her palms, and flushed a pretty pink, her open mouth against your collarbone, your fingers in her hair, her fingers on your back drawing the visceral, unspeakable sounds from your mouth.

The seaspray brought you back to reality.

But apparently Victoria’s thoughts had been lost as well, because now it was not her breath on your collarbone, but her lips, and you weren’t dreaming that she was kissing you there.

Your breath had gone shallow in the space of milliseconds, and her mouth moved up to linger on your neck, your jaw, your cheek. Her arms were wrapped around you, and that open-collared shirt was against your chest, warmth bleeding from her to you.

Finally you could take it no longer. You took her face in your hands and pressed your mouth to her mouth.

When you kissed her, she tasted of salt and wheat and sugar. Her lips were soft and warm as the summer air, and when your fingers tangled in her hair, her hands were on your elbows and your heart was in your mouth.

You were kissing a stranger in a foreign land, and you felt as though you’d known her forever, disintegrating in her arms like salt in the sun as her kiss came up to meet you like a wave, and you couldn’t remember the right way to breathe. There was nothing left to your identity for but the memory of what it was to kiss her, and else nothing mattered. You would not have cared, if this ocean’s daughter had drowned you. You would have gone willingly to that watery grave. And had she tried to leave you, you would have traded your soul to have even a moment more of hers.

Because here it was: your heart, exposed in how you held her, how desperately you kissed her.

How much you adored her, after knowing her so little.

She angled her head and her teeth bruised your lip as she deepened the kiss, eliciting a gasp from you. You thought she might have laughed — softly, behind your mouth — a quiet, secret laughter meant only for your ears, and new heat surged through you at the thought.

She was only kissing you, and yet, she was tearing you asunder. Pulling you apart at the seams with only her touch.

“Vic,” you breathed, and it was all you managed.

You were staggering back, falling against the sand, and she was pressing evanescent kisses to every square centimetre of your skin, and you’d never felt so alive in your life, with the heat of her body against yours and her pulse against your own like a metronome gone rogue.

“Fuck dancing,” she murmured, between kisses. “I want you.”

Her words were like an open flame to oxygen, burning inside of you.

Her lips touched your earlobe. “Do you want me?” she whispered.

“Yes,” you replied, heart thundering.

And you had been trying to play down your attraction to her, to hide it so that she wouldn’t see how much everything she did affected you — when she bit her lip and you wished it was your teeth instead of hers, that coy smile she always turned to the ground like she knew exactly what it was doing to you, her long fingers drumming on the table, already in time with your pulse.

And now there was nothing subtle about it.

Her hand was in yours, and you were running again, up into the town, pushing her against an alleyway wall to steal a kiss as she asked,

“Mine or yours?”

“Unless you’re one street over too, then mine is closer.”

Her laughter tickled your lips, seaspray in the wind. “That eager?”

“You kissed me first.”

“Touché,” she whispered, her breath coming sharp and short against your mouth, sticky with her lipstick, warm with her scent, her touch.

The last of the climb to your rented rooms was a stumble, Victoria pressing messy kisses to your shoulder, into the crook of your elbow, as you fumbled for your keys and tried, impossibly, to keep quiet.

By the time the two of you stumbled through the door, she had unbuttoned your trousers, and had your blouse in her fist. You reached for her and found yourself bare for but your bra and underwear, while Victoria retained only her white shirt and panties.

You paused.

Slowly, as her chest rose and fell, she took your hands and guided them to the buttons at the ridge of her breasts, and slowly, you unbuttoned the few remaining, tantalising buttons of her white shirt, letting the garment fall to the ground like a flag. Like surrender.

You stared at her for heartbeats, in awe of how she breathed and obsessed with the way she moved.

Then, as though she could wait no longer, she crushed you against her and kissed you, sucking your lower lip into your mouth and biting down, evoking from you a desperate whimper, for anything more of her that you could get — all of her, if she would give it to you.

You drew back from her lips to kiss the rest of her, pushing her into the mattress to press your mouth to every bit of skin you could find. When her fingers found your hair and pulled, your kiss left a bruise on her neck, and then her shoulder, before she pushed you down on the mattress and your thighs apart.

Her palm was already there for you when you groaned, and you felt her smile of satisfaction against your mouth when her fingers brushed over your clothed folds.

“God,” she murmured, “you’re so pretty when you know what you want.”

You managed only a hoarse whisper in return. “Then give it to me.”

She laughed and it tickled your skin, and then your bra was gone as well, and her fingers were curled around the elastic of your underwear. She took too long for your liking, and you pushed her hand, leaving yourself exposed to her mercy and the cool night air.

But she was merciful if nothing else, this ocean’s daughter, and her fingers were inside of you before you could utter another plea.

Already she needed no guidance, played you like the strings of a harp with a flick of her wrist and those long, gently curling fingers.

Her eyes never left yours, half-lidded in the same haze you felt cloud your mind when she touched you, when your back arched up from the already untidy sheets, when her other hand travelled up your thigh and your stomach, finding a resting place beneath your breasts as she pushed you into the bed, held you there as you writhed.

When you came, you pulled her down with you until the moon sank into the sky as well, until the sun dawdled once more on the horizon.

And perhaps, you thought, this was where the moon and sun went in those small hours of the night when neither could be seen by those still awake on Earth — they were together, entwined in a beautiful, impossible duality of silver and gold, at last unfettered by human imagination.

⭒

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you remembered Victoria. Remembered her breath as it whispered against your legs, her lips the inside of your thighs. Already, the memories were imprinted upon your mind like whorls of sand, and on your tongue the salt of her demise as she’d gasped beneath your touch with her head tipped back in ecstasy — and god, she had been so unfathomably pretty. Endlessly so.

Now, you reached out to touch her, to sweep the gold strands from the eyes of your very own gold dust woman. But the sheets were empty.

Fear gripped your heart in a sudden vice, that she should have left you with so little, so early, so soon.

But the light trailed her still in the wake of morning, and as your eyes followed it, you found her outside, leaning against the railing of your balcony, summer-sunshine hair falling down her back, her legs still bare though her upper half was hidden by your cardigan — and oh, how good she looked in your clothes. You wanted to see her like that all the time.

Slipping out of bed, you took a leaf from her book and tugged on her long white shirt, before pattering out onto the balcony.

She turned at the sound of your approach, and smiled sleepily. Her hair floated atop her shoulders, over her back and her chest in waterfalling waves, blonde strands twining messily and yet perfectly in what could easily have been sunbeams, returning to her as though she were the very star they had awaited all along.

“Buongiorno,” she murmured. The wide blue sky arced above her head, and the streets below your balcony had begun to crescendo in the sounds of waking, the morning routines of a thousand strangers beneath your feet, the waves washing ever over the shores in their ethereal clockwork.

“Morning,” you replied. It appeared she was only wearing your cardigan and her underwear, and in her shirt and your own underwear, you were no better. Your heart filled with lightness at the thought that she should be so uninhibited in your presence. No one had ever been so easily open with you before.

She held out a hand as you drew nearer, and you slid your fingers into hers. Before you could react, she pulled you flush against her, wrapping her arms around you and kissing you, ardently but achingly slow like the dawning day, lips tender but her hold on you fierce, as though she could not have let go had she tried.

Her hand came to rest on your cheek, her thumb brushing over your lower lip.

“I want you to know,” she said breathlessly, “that this is not all I wanted from you. I just couldn’t help myself.” Your pulse quickened, the strings of your heart tying themselves in knots. “I want everything of you, if you want that too.”

A smile found its way to your face, and you wound your fingers through hers. She looked down at your intertwined hands, and you fell apart a little at the fond look on her face.

“I do.”

Her hands slid to your waist as she came to stand behind you, with her chin leaned on your shoulder and her gaze returned to the view beyond the balcony, though you felt her lips briefly touch the space between your neck and collarbone.

The daughter of the ocean, in your arms at last.

You knew little about her, still. But summer held many days yet, and when she turned and smiled at you in the sunshine of the new day, you knew that she would give every day to you, if only you asked.

⭒

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ykaaaras · 1 year

Text

The Preacher Masterlist

Pairing: DAMIANO DAVID x 2 fictional females insert

Story summary: Damiano exorcises a demon from Medusa, helps her to recover, and chooses to protect her from what she sees. However, he can’t protect her from one thing…

Story content and warnings: angst, priest Damiano David, dom Damiano David, original characters, hurt/comfort, supernatural, mystery, mention of religion, fluff, daddy kink, smut, mention of suicide, murder, death and possession, demon character, polyamory relationship

Word count: 15.2k (so far)

A/N: This story doesn’t intend to disrespect any beliefs or to preach, it’s all pure fiction for you to enjoy. Be nice.

Chapters:

Chapter 1 // Back To The End

Chapter 2 // Bury With Smile

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baddestbittyontheblock · 7 months

Text

måneskin fic recs

you are responsible for the content you consume‼️

✧*:·˚ hi everyone!! here is a list of all the fics that are my favs with tagged writers/authors ✧*:·˚

✧*:·˚ remember to like and reblog the works you enjoy in order to support each writer!! ✧*:·˚

✧*:·˚ however, make sure you read the information on each story themselves such as triggers & warnings ✧*:·˚

✧*:·˚ also, if you'd like me to remove your fic from this list, message me! ✧*:·˚

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

måneskin x reader: blurbs+headcannons+fics

୨୧ 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬

୨୧ 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙤𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧

୨୧ a headcanon with må with you being a successful model

-they're wearing earbuds, blasting music into their ears when they remember the they left their phone charger in the bathroom. they don't know you're showering and can't hear you over the music...

୨୧ headcanons with må x fashiondesigner!reader

୨୧ a valentine’s surprise | SMUT, orgy, oral sex, anal play, double penetration, food play, spit play, alcohol

-You’ve been feeling a little left out in your relationship so your four partners show their love to you with a surprise for Valentine’s Day.

୨୧ Gettin’ Frisky With The Måneskin Members | explicit content, gender neutral reader, switch!damiano, hard domme!victoria, vanilla!thomas, sub!ethan, freaky stuff, toys and s/m, oral (both ways), degradation, spit, pain play, brat taming, bondage, sinning cuz rock’n’roll never dies

୨୧ our favourite band with an S/O with bad menstrual periods

| talk abt periods, so dyphoria warning (we'll get back on the totally GN shit tmrw, just filling requests rn), lil bit of swearing and NSFW on Ethan

୨୧ how the members of Måneskin confess their feelings for you måneskin x gn!reader

victoria de angelis

·。🍓 my sweet valentine vic de angelis x fem! reader | Fluff

-Victoria's first Valentine's day celebrating with you is a bit chaotic but turns out better than expected.

·。🍓 date night vic de angelis x fem! reader | smut, fingering, oral (female receiving) and bdsm dynamics

-you and vic go on a date and it ends with fun at the hotel

·。🍓 hush, hush, cucciola. vic de angelis x fem! reader | smut

-you’re were asked to come over and help to calm Vic down after another disagreement during creating new song, and you find just the way to make her happy and peaceful again

·。🍓 pillow talk vic de angelis x fem! reader | smut

-your night trip to the kitchen gets interrupted by a strange noise, the results of your investigation are more pleasant then you could expect.

·。🍓 long stormy night damiano x fem!reader x vic | SMUT!!!, degradation, corruption kink, wax play, knife play, blood play, spanking, bit of fear play, unprotected sex, it’s just wild ok, i wanted to treat y/n

-It’s a last day of your small, a bit disappointing gateway trip. The big storm is approaching, yet your evening takes an interesting turn when you bump into two hot Italians in the hotel bar

·。🍓 cold breeze, hot cheeks vic de angelis x fem! reader | angst, fluff

-a rather cold October makes your blood boil as you and Vic attend Ethan's birthday party

·。🍓 i think I wanna hold you, but I'm not sure i'm allowed

vic de angelis x fem! reader | angst with tiny hint of smut

·。🍓 I'll show the lovin' that you'll never get from a man. vic de angelis x fem! reader | angst, fluff, smut

-your friends finally meet your boyfriend, and even though nothing goes according to the plan, your night ends up being better than you could hope for, thanks to Vic

·。🍓 sweat and good grips vic de angelis x fem! reader | smut

·。🍓 the one with victoria’s boobs. victoria x gn!reader | fluff

-Victoria needs help taping her boobs for an upcoming performance. You get more than you bargained for.

·。🍓 the one where victoria wants to watch victoria x fem!reader x ethan | smut

·。🍓 “OPEN YOUR MOUTH.” victoria x gn!reader | soft smut

-along the lines of The one where victoria is patient.

·。🍓 “YEAH, WELL, IF YOU WEREN’T SO DRUNK MAYBE I WOULD.” vic de angelis x fem! reader

·。🍓 “I KNOW YOU CAN BE LOUDER THAN THAT.” vic de angelis x fem! reader

·。🍓 “GIVE ME ATTENTION.” vic de angelis x fem! reader | smut

·。🍓 say you'll see me again even if it's just in your wildest dreams vic de angelis xfem!reader | fluff, smut

-You're an up-and-coming actress, and Vic's best friend since high school. You have been friends and in love with each other for as long as you can remember. So when you have the chance to be together, it's magical.

·。🍓 baby said vic de angelis x fem! reader | smut

-you've been on a few dates with Victoria and you think things are going really well. You just wish you had known where the night was going beforehand- maybe you would have picked a table with longer tablecloths.

·。🍓 latenight devil vic de angelis x fem! reader

-victoria covers for you after you sneak backstage ahead of a Måneskin gig & invites you into her dressing room for an unusual encounter

·。🍓 forgive me father vic de angelis x fem! reader | smut, basically porn

·。🍓 the ocean's daughter swearing, alcohol consumption, drowning as a metaphor, smut

-while on holiday in italy, an encounter derails your life enough to make you pack up on a whim and move to the very city in which you first saw her — the ocean's daughter.

·。🍓 vic blurb

-doing domestic stuff with Victoria

·。🍓 a threesome with victoria and damiano! damiano x fem!reader x vic | smut

-reader is victoria’s partner and starts to develop a certain ‘obsession’ for dami, until vic decides to fix it.

·。🍓 vic de angelis fic victoria de angelis x fem!reader

-y/n is the other female member of the band, who has had feelings for vic for a while now, but was too nervous to say anything. one night after a concert in new york changes that after the bassist overhears a conversation between damiano and y/n.

·。🍓 thorns victoria de angelis x fem!reader | Mentions of smoking. Mentions of panic. Swearing.

-victoria meets her ex-girlfriend (Ava). The unplanned “date” upsets her and she decides to drink and smoke to cope. When she wakes up in the morning her best friend Y/N (who she also happens to have a crush on) is there to try and reason with her.

·。🍓 lucid victoria de angelis x fem!reader

-It started with a spilled drink and ended with a clumsy kiss on the dance floor. A night out with friends takes an unexpected turn when you bump into the one person that's been on your mind for the better part of a year- the same stranger who stole both your chapstick and your heart.

·。🍓 nightmares victoria de angelis x fem!reader | A description of a nightmare. Other than that all is fluff and comfort.

-When Y/N has a terrifying nightmare and wakes up screaming, Victoria is there to comfort her.

·。🍓 kisses and cake vic de angelis x reader | very fluffy, a little spicy

·。🍓 vic blurb vic de angelis x reader

-being in a punk band and having vic feature in a show (you know like thomas recently did with starcrawler) and her doing her scissoring thing on top of me and then when she extends and after extending a hand to help me up and pulling me into a very gay gay gay kiss smearing her lipstick on my lipstick and leaving a big lipstick stain on my cheek as well

·。🍓 birthday wish victoria de angelis x fem!reader | smut

-little birthday blurb

·。🍓 church crush vic de angelis x reader | kinky as kink abba; innocent/corruption kink, and idk, sacrilege?

-good girl!reader having a massive obsession on a not-so-good girl from her church.

·。🍓 proficiency test victoria de angelis x gn!reader | a bit of swearing + one (1) explicit and one (1) implicit mention of sex + i'm very much projecting (who doesn't) + shitty german

-vic decides to help you study. chaos ensues.

·。🍓 coming home victoria de angelis x fem!reader

-vic has had a long day but coming home to you lifts the uneasiness from her shoulders and she vocalizes just how lucky she feels that you are in her life.

·。🍓 because of you idiot! victoria de angelis x gn!reader | angst(I guess), romantic fluff

-Victoria suddenly comes distance, and you try to find out why.

·。🍓 fluffy blurb vic de angelis x reader

-(it's something about getting matching tattoos with vic)

·。🍓 fuffly/smut with victoria victoria de angelis x fem!reader

-fluffy morning/half smut with victoria. nipples playing.

·。🍓 your camera roll while dating vic vic de angelis x reader | fluff, smut

·。🍓 knowing your worth vic x fem/gn! reader | hurt, comfort

-Vic is there for you after a conflict with your parents.

·。🍓 the first happiest birthday vic de angelis x reader | fluff

·。🍓 crawling back to you vic de angelis x reader

-Vic once again finds her way back to you.

·。🍓 one of a kind vic de angelis x reader | fluff, mentions of sex

-Vic finds out just how rich the feeling of love can be.

·。🍓 “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretend that it’s you!” vic de angelis x reader | fluff, angst

·。🍓 pt 2 hospital vic fic. vic de angelis x reader

·。🍓 “everything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit.” vic de angelis x reader | smut

·。🍓 the one where victoria is patient. victoria de angelis x fem!reader | smut

-you've been with Victoria for half a year. Maybe it's about time you pushed your fears away.

·。🍓 “Yeah, well, if you weren’t so drunk maybe I would.” vic de angelis x reader | fluff

·。🍓 “Give me attention.” vic de angelis x reader | smut

·。🍓 “We’re in public, you know.” vic de angelis x reader | fluff

·。🍓 “Wait, don’t pull away… Not yet.” vic de angelis x reader | fluff

·。🍓 "Take off your clothes, but leave the heels on." vic de angelis x reader | fluff

·。🍓 vic fic vic de angelis x reader

-A kiss that is leading to more, but is interrupted by a third party

·。🍓 vic blurb vic de angelis x reader

-Distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead.

·。🍓 l'amore è più forte di ogni segreto: Part 1. victoria de angelis x fem!reader | angst, swearing, bad google translate translations, overuse of italics, mention of someone called ‘A’ - Damiano’s girlfriend

-unbeknownst to you both, paparazzi photograph you and Victoria while on your way back from a date night. When you find out in the morning, the two of you have very different ideas of how to handle the situation.

·。🍓 l'amore è più forte di ogni segreto - Part 2. victoria de angelis x fem!reader | angst, swearing, bad google translate translations, overuse of italics.

·。🍓 k is for kisses vic de angelis x reader

-You and your girlfriend, Victoria, both like to tease each other. Kisses ensue.

·。🍓 peculiar and beautiful victoria de angelis x gn!reader | angsty but also fluffy

-reader finds themself in a emotional rut. A few comments online, the constant youtube recommendations on how to be “perfect” have been making them feel some type of way, hiding away from the one person that can help them; Victoria

·。🍓 amalfi nights victoria de angelis x fem!reader | smut, pretty vanilla, softdom!vic, servicetop!vic, praise, kind of fluffy smut

-reader and victoria are for vacation in Amalfi. After a candle-lit dinner at the restaurant, after a long day of swimming and sunbathing, victoria just wants to show you her love.

·。🍓 afterglow victoria de angelis x gn!reader | mentions of sex

-reader meets victoria while traveling with friends. The two create a lovely summer fling and reader can not help but bask in the afterglow of victorias influence hoping to encounter her again.

·。🍓 homesick vic de angelis x reader | tw sickness, vomitting

-vic and the reader being on a long vacation together. One night the reader wakes up homesick and ends up being sick in the toilet, trying to be as quiet as they can not to worry vic too much. To no use, of course, as vic wakes up alarmed by the sounds of someone being ill in the bathroom and then goes to comfort the sick, guilty, crying reader?

·。🍓 vic fic vic de angelis x reader

-An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose.

damiano david

✧*: i want to dance on your body damiano david x fem!reader | smut

-you and your bestie hit up a party when you start grooving with Damiano, and the dance floor chemistry carries over to his hotel room. That's where the magic unfolds, and you both go to cloud as he compares you to an angel.

✧*: i'm gonna fly straight to you damiano david x fem!reader | fluff

-you and Damiano are cuddled up in bed, brainstorming epic future adventures together.

✧*: i wanna paint your face like you're my Mona Lisa. damiano david x fem!reader | smut

-damiano takes you to see his new yacht

✧*: long stormy night damiano x fem!reader x vic | SMUT!!!, degradation, corruption kink, wax play, knife play, blood play, spanking, bit of fear play, unprotected sex, it’s just wild ok, i wanted to treat y/n

-It’s a last day of your small, a bit disappointing gateway trip. The big storm is approaching, yet your evening takes an interesting turn when you bump into two hot Italians in the hotel bar

✧*: overthinking damiano david x fem!reader | swearing, alcohol, smoking, smut related things in general

-Your relationship with Damiano is going through a crisis and some jealousy. All becomes clear after a filed party and a steamy night. There is a bit sad, angsty beginning, smut in the middle and a bit of fluff in the end. So, we have the whole package.

✧*: welcome home damiano david x fem!reader | surprisingly fluffy but also smut

-after a long week all you need is a loving touch of your currently absent boyfriend. Luckily in the morning there is a very handsome surprise waiting for you, and this allows you to start your day in best way you could possibly imagine

✧*: 300,000 hearts damiano david x fem!girlfriend!reader

-where damiano sings a song about you he wrote in highschool, to a full arena

ethan torchio

ᑦ( •ᴥ• )ᐣ blush ethan torchio x reader | pure fluff

-a blurb of Ethan meeting his new makeup artist who's really kind and bubbly and he instantly gets a crush on them?

ᑦ( •ᴥ• )ᐣ a night in paris ethan torchio x fem!reader | smut+swearing

-you went on a tour with the band and Ethan enjoyed Paris the most. Having your boyfriend all happy and excited turned out to be better then you expected.

ᑦ( •ᴥ• )ᐣ "The way your eyes get darker when you get aroused, is making me lose my mind." ethan torchio x fem!reader | smut

-If acting unwise get's you places, maybe you're just pushing it to be on your knees.

thomas raggi

❤︎ ❥ "We passed 'just friends' about 20 fucks ago." thomas raggi x reader | angst, fluff, smut

❤︎ ❥ sanremo. thomas raggi x gn!reader | swearing, slightly sugggestive

-ever the supportive boyfriend, thomas indulges you in a sanremo 2023 watch party.

#maneskin x reader #maneskin #måneskin #måneskin x reader #måneskin imagine #maneskin imagine #vic de angelis x reader #vic de angelis #damiano david #damiano david x reader #ethan torchio #ethan torchio x reader #thomas raggi #thomas raggi x reader #smut #maneskin smut #fic recs

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filthforfriends · 3 months

Text

Chapter 21: Brave Enough

Authors Note

Word count: 7.9k

Read the rest here!

After an emotionally taxing conversation with his psychologist, Damiano decided to also stop smoking weed/otherwise consuming cannabis. It’d been too triggering, a reminder of all the reasons he loved coke and opioids. Admitting he wasn’t ready for parties or group gatherings was even more difficult. He loved his friends, his family, and going to Vic’s DJ gigs. He loved playing pool at bars or dancing to the deafening pulse of techno music in a club. These things allowed him to feel the hurried, bright energy of his youth. It was proving hard to differentiate between craving community, craving mania, and craving situations because he associated them with drug use.

He also made a habit of exercising in the mornings, before treatment. The earlier he took his lithium and ate some protein, the better he tended to feel throughout the day. Routine made cravings easier to resist when he woke up with them and endorphins lessened the severity of his depressive moods.

“I’m so fucking proud of you.” That's what you told Damiano when he debriefed you the next evening, a chip to mark 24 hours sober clutched in his fist. He’d disclosed his relapse in group and sobbed, despite hardy efforts not to shed a tear. You make dinner and stroke his hair when Dami lays his head on your lap. He’s cynical, not receptive to positive affirmation. Unfortunately, this mood has become more common as the years pass. So you focus on gestures: nicely making his bed, meal prepping his breakfast, cleaning the litter box even though it was his turn.

Surprisingly, Damiano requests you read aloud some favorite passages from the books you’ve finished since the breakup. You’d always thought of that as an activity for your sake. Of course he doesn’t actually use the word “breakup.” Dami won’t touch that terminology with a 10 foot pole. He’s grumpy and lovable, snuggled under the pale pink bed sheet as you speak.

Dami returned the favor by waking you up with coffee, which became a tradition on weekdays. He probably got up 10 minutes earlier than necessary to do so. The first morning you thought it was a glorious dream. Instead of the abrasive and occasionally rage-inducing beep of your alarm, a hand you recognized as Damiano’s was rubbing your back. It slides under your t-shirt and gently strokes your spine. You shiver and hum in delight, then scooch closer. Eyes still closed, the bed dips and you sense Dami taking a seat on the edge. The morning light pours in through the curtains – to which you have your back turned – as the scent of espresso reaches your nose. Such sensory perfection must be fantasy.

“It’s time to wake up,” he murmurs.

“Mm mm.” You object and scoot closer, curling around Damiano. He chuckles and massages your scalp with his fingertips.

“Big stretch,” he narrates as Cheeto rouses herself by his feet. You can tell it’s not Princess, since she’d be meowing by the bedroom door as soon as she heard Damiano up and about. Finally, your brain starts to register that this might be reality, since you never dreamed of Cheeto and Dami simultaneously. You open one eye and are accosted by the bright light, confirming that this isn’t a dream.

“Hey,” you croak, squinting up at him. “What time is it?”

“A couple minutes before your alarm. I turned it off.” You readjust, head, shoulders, and arms splayed across Dami’s lap. “I don’t think that counts as getting out of bed.”

“I’d like to contest that.”

“Getting out of bed in general or if laying on my lap counts?”

“Yes,” you sigh, eyes falling closed.

“Mm mm, keep ‘em open,” he requests, affectionately. You whine in protest and pout. More than anything, you want to pull Dami into the bed for cuddles, but it’d make you late for work.

“Fine.” Awkwardly, you flip onto your back to stare up at Damiano. He’s smiling, which is good motivation to keep looking.

“You’re cute when it’s too bright. You squint so hard that you get this little line between your eyebrows.” He runs his finger along your nose, then taps your cupid’s bow. You’d very much like him to keep going, gently stroking your features. He delicately moves the hair from your face and your eyelids grow heavy. Damiano tsks, working a hand between your mid-back and the mattress.

“Sit up. C’mon.” With a sigh, you detangle your legs from the sheet. “C’mon,” he coaxes sweetly. “When you’re ready to stop pouting, there's coffee.” Your feet land on the floor as Damiano helps push you upright. After a couple sips of espresso, your pupils adapt and the brain begins working. Dami remains seated, hand on your back, and you love that he’s content to just share space. Love that things don’t always have to be full of words and amusements for one another.

“Thank you, this is so nice!” You hug Dami with messy enthusiasm, leaning some of your weight against him. Damiano embraces back and kisses your head.

“I’m happy to do it, sweetheart.” His hand resumes stroking your spine, the other moving the hair from blocking your face. “Just stay awake.”

“Okay, okay,” you groan, standing up and stretching. Dami doesn’t move, probably hoping to catch a glimpse of something. You want the physical affection to continue so badly that it hurts in your chest a little. So you give into an urge before thinking about it and sit on Damiano’s lap, throwing your arms around his shoulders.

“Wha – hey there, sweetheart.” Aware of morning breath, you kiss Dami’s neck, hairline, and behind his ears. “Feeling a little touch-starved?” You nod. Slowly, he slides his hands under your shirt. By touch-starved, you hadn’t necessarily meant skin to skin. Damiano sneakily took advantage of an opportunity by reading into it and you certainly weren’t mad about his decision.

Things start innocent enough, his hands rubbing your back, but then they move away from your spine. When stroking around your waist and hips, his fingertips brushed your stomach, pinky dipping underneath the waistband of your pajama shorts. Then those hands slide up, cupping your ribcage. You stop breathing, frozen with anticipation. Would he touch your breast? Would he slide his hand to the front of your chest and caress it in his warm, rough palm? Would he play with your nipples? Rub them with the callous on his thumb? Would he then slide his hand down your front and into your shorts? If he did, you’d raise your hips to give him room. Then you’d trap his hand against your pussy and grind. Did he want to tease you today or make you moan? Or make you cum?

When you check his expression, Dami’s eyes are glued to your heaving chest and erect nipples. Knowing that he’s hard, you throw a leg over and straddle him. Then you scoot in as close as possible to rest your weight against his erection, stimulating both of you. Damiano’s eyes flutter and his hands escalate from stroking to grasping. You wait for him to make the nest move, but he doesn’t.

“If you could do anything –”

“If I could do anything you’d be underneath me and too wracked with pleasure to say anything but my name and the word please. If I could do anything the neighbors would be filing a noise complaint and you’d be on probation at work for repeated tardiness. If I could do anything we’d have already gone through a bottle of lube and half a dozen sex toys. Our clothes would be on the doormat, panties included because last night we fucked against the front door as soon as you got home. Then again on the kitchen counter and again in front of the bathroom mirror and a fourth time in the shower, which was all a preamble to what I’d do to you in this bed.”

You look over his shoulder at the mattress cover and twisted sheet. You’d gotten in the habit of sleeping on Dami’s side. It hadn’t actually smelled like him for months.

“What would you do?” he asks.

“I…I have to get ready for work.” You try to climb off his lap, but Damiano holds onto your waist firmly.

“Did what I said offend you?” he pressed.

“No,” you reply breathlessly. The moment is deliciously intense, especially the way he’s staring.

“Overwhelm you? Turn you off in some way?”

“Uh, no. Well, maybe overwhelm a little bit…”

“In a bad way?” Dami hasn’t forced the issue in terms of sex since coming home.

“In a good way.”

“Then what would you do? If you didn’t have to get ready for work.” You pause and look down. “We don’t have to actually do it, at least not right now,” he whispers.

“I would – I want you….Um, you’d play with my nipples.”

“Mhm.” His hand slides up your chest and rests on your sternum.

“Then you’d put – push your hand down my front.” Dami obeys, his fingertips stopping at the waistband of your shorts. You stare, willing him to go further with every ounce of your being.

“Does my hand go under your shorts?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Does it go into your panties?”

“Yes.” His real hand doesn’t move. “Between my legs so I can…Actually, I kinda wish that I was just wearing a t-shirt so I could pull your pjs down and grind against your cock. And then, maybe…”

“Mhm,” he encourages.

“I’d take off my shirt too and rub my nipples against your chest until they were sore. Your – your sweaty, hairy chest. And you’d hold me like you weren’t worried about scaring me away. Really grabbing me, like you were confident, but also because you couldn’t help yourself.”

“Show me what you mean,” he demands.

“I – I can’t. You just have to.” Dami grabs a hold of your upper thigh with his free hand and flips both bodies. Your back lands on the mattress, arms and legs already wrapped around him. Damiano pushes you further onto the bed, so he has room to climb on top. It would take less than a minute for you to both wiggle out of your clothes then locate a condom and lube. Probably closer to 30 seconds. It's the same sensation as the makeout two mornings ago. You wanted to say yes, but your self preservation instincts weren’t letting that happen.

Damiano searches your wide-eyed expression for decisiveness and finds nothing of the sort. He can see you thinking about it. Then he sees you over-thinking it and knows that this will not be the moment you feel comfortable enough to trust freely.

“Like this?” He’s panting, as well, and for some reason, that's unbearable sexy. Dami isn’t putting on a facade. This borderline chaste amount of physical contact has got him worked up, too. You almost kiss him, then recall your morning breath and cover your mouth.

“I need to brush my teeth.”

“Y/n, I don’t give a good god damn whether or not you’ve brushed your teeth. I don’t care!” Dami loses his cool, but quickly recovers it. “I – sorry. Sorry, let me…” He walks his hands backwards and climbs off the bed, then helps you stand up.

“Thank you for the coffee,” you repeat, taking a long sip, that way a response won’t be expected. As you slip by Dami to leave the bedroom, he gives your butt a little squeeze. It was once a regular gesture in private, but he hadn’t taken this type of initiative since getting sober. You whip around with an impish smile, the mug nearly held to your lips. Damiano’s expression is watchful, then validated. He was testing the waters and your reaction basically invited him to jump right in.

Rather than refocus on his own routine, Dami watches you assemble a lunch while still in pajamas. He stands on the edge of the kitchen, pondering something, admiring you.

“Whatever your timeline for physical intimacy, I will respect it, 100%.”

“I know that, Damia.” You wash and fill your water bottle. He leans his hip against the counter with crossed arms.

“But if you're waiting for things to feel not scary with me, that day may never come. Our history isn’t gonna get more palatable.” You hadn’t considered things from that perspective before. “Part of a nurturing relationship is pushing each other, challenging restrictive thought patterns.” Damiano moseys over. First, his right hand cups your hip. Then, the left rubs the side of your glute languidly, before wrapping around your middle. Dami holds you casually, but still body to body, standing behind you at the kitchen sink. Each exhale ruffles your hair, a reminder of how much you’d missed this. Dami’s wandering hands and desire for closeness.

This must have been another thing you blocked out for survival, since an awareness of what once was made losing it lethally painful. You’d forced yourself not to remember and now the remembering felt like the first first bloom of spring after a frosty winter.

You lean against Dami, let his shoulder take the weight of your head. Then you lay your left arm over his, fingers lacing together.

“And I don’t want to push past your boundaries, but at the same time…” He leaves tender kisses down the column of your exposed neck. “This definitely exceeds a hand holding level of intimacy. It breaks the no couple behavior boundary –”

“Me and my fucking rules,” you groan. Repeated back, you sound certifiable, even from an understanding Damiano.

“This certainly qualifies as sexual touch.” His pinky and ring finger dip under your waistband as he dips into a whisper. “But I didn’t ask first and I don’t have to ask now, either, because just your body language is telling me how much you like this.”

“Forgot until just now.” With an even more dramatic groan, you turn around to meet his eyes. “Ugh! I know I’m shit at this –”

“Not what I was saying, at all,” he interrupts, thumb brushing your cheek. “I was just gonna suggest using a Listen for My No system of consent instead of Wait for My Yes. But that's such a sexually aggressive thing to suggest on someone else’s behalf that I…” He makes a face, nose scrunched up.

“But I agree with you. I’d like that, I really would, but, um…” Dami’s expression goes from relieved back to uneasy. “When I submit, I can’t usually access the decision making part of my brain. Kinda the point, actually.”

“Baby, we never do anything in subspace if we haven’t agreed to it first.”

“I know, but I’d feel –” You gesture erratically, but the right adjective never surfaces. So you settle on “shitty, I guess.” Avoidant, you stare at the floor in anticipation of Dami’s reaction. Of course, Princess is right there, biding her time for the inevitable moment that all this attention is rightfully turned to her. “Sassy Pants,” you coo. She rests her front paws on your shin and meows, so you pick her up.

“Y/n, I never want you to – awe, look at the fur baby.” Damiano gets distracted by Princess, who uses you like an elevator to his shoulder. She leaps onto him and Dami winces at her claws through his thin t-shirt. “Ow, ow, ow. Thanks for that Sassy Pants, now get off.” He sets Princess back down where she stares at him in betrayal.

“I’m sorry, was having him to yourself all night not enough attention?” You sass her right back with a hand on your hip while Dami laughs. The cat sulks, nimbly returning to the couch and curling up right on his pillow. “Do you see that? She’s the real reason we practice non-monogamy. So I don’t end up with my throat slit in my fucking sleep by her murder mittens!” Hoping to have successfully distracted him, you brush your teeth then slip back into the bedroom to get dressed. In the living room Dami sings to Princess, doing a little dance with her paws. The happy sounds carry through the partially ajar door.

“So, uh…” You’d almost finished pulling on your stockings when he leans against the door frame. “Sorry, am I allowed to look?”

“Yes, you’re allowed to look,” you scoff. He turns the corner just in time to watch your thighs disappear beneath a linen skirt. His lack of objection indicates that your earlier distraction wasn’t effective. He’s not feeling playful.

“What I was saying before is that I never want you to feel bad about putting parameters –”

“Damia, it’s not that.” He’s trying to soften the determination in his expression. “If I allow my rational mind to just slip away then I’m gonna…” again, words evade you “embarrass myself.”

“What do you mean embarrass yourself?” he croons. Damiano walks into the bedroom, cupping your cheek in his right palm. Meanwhile, his left hand slides across your waist and settles on the top of your glute. Another barrage of hidden memories: the early years when Damiano spoke your self-confidence into being fruition on anxiety-ridden mornings.

“I mean grind against your lap or leg or whatever while begging you to fuck me until I sob in a way that’s gonna hurt you to watch. Zero inhibitions as I try to convince you, okay? Just babbling and clinging and tears for your cock. ‘Daddy, my heart hurts because you won’t make love to me.’ I don’t want either of us in a position to navigate that.” Damiano becomes a statue. When it doesn’t immediately pass, you decide to pick a pair of sensible shoes while his brain resets.

“Does your heart hurt for more intimacy?” Now you’re the one frozen in place. “Seems like you may have just accidentally been completely honest with yourself.” Fuck. He was right.

“Could you pretend not to know me as well as you do?”

“No, y/n, I can’t.” You’d tried to lighten the mood, give yourself an out, and he’s rejected that effort wholesale. Damiano stands there, waiting for a real response, hands in the pockets of his pajama pants. Every morning he puts them on, after sleeping in his boxers, to make you comfortable. It suddenly feels so elementary, this game of pretend you’d been playing because you were scared shitless of losing him again.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For being a nervous wreck.”

“Being a nervous wreck about what?” You’re taken aback, having expected some sweet platitude like "don't be sorry, sweetheart.” Or perhaps, “You’re trying your best in a tough situation” punctuated by a kiss to the forehead. But you’d finally exhausted his patience and Damiano wasn’t going to feed you reassurances that you already knew to be true.

“About,” you gesture between your bodies “us!”

“Elaborate for me, please. What about us?” His tone isn’t hostile, just insistent.

“Our relationship.”

“Not my sobriety?”

“No…actually.” You’re even more surprised than Dami at that answer.

“Good. Why is our relationship making you a nervous wreck?”

“Because, because…” You feel cornered even though he hasn’t moved an inch. “I’m not sure.”

“Yes you are. You’re constantly reflecting and self-examining, especially recently. Some days you’re more in your head than you are in the world.”

“But the last couple days, I’ve been better at staying in the present. After our fight, I’ve been trying not to walk on eggshells.”

“And we’ve been so much more connected, which has been fucking incredible. But you’re still unhappy.”

“I’m not…” Were you happy? You should be happy. You have an objectively good job, a beautiful apartment. You have a loving family, loving friends, loving companions. Your soulmate has returned and he’s stable. But were you happy? With a subjectively horrible job, home full of traumatic memories, emotionally unavailable parents, fading friendships, and companions who’s reassurance couldn’t make you feel adequate so you’d stopped asking for it entirely.

“How many months do I need to go without relapse, without a crazy mood swing, without –”

“To get your dick wet?” You snap at him in anger. This was the definition of pressuring you.

“For you to trust me, y/n!”

“But sex is the way to show that I trust you? Go get laid, Damianno. Stop avoiding your other companions because you’re afraid they won’t forgive your behavior.”

“You get laid. Stop avoiding your companions because they remind you how profound our intimacy could be.” For what feels like an eon, you glare at each other in silence.

“How about we both admit that having sex with other people wouldn’t do anything to fill this…space?” It feels good to concede. Most of the tension leaves the air.

“Void?”

“Void is probably more accurate, yeah.” It’s just enough breathing room for reality to set in. “Fuck, I’m gonna be late for work.” You look around frantically for a hair tie to wrangle your unbrushed hair into an updo.

“Can you please just give this conversation another five minutes of your time?” There's a hair elastic on the floor, by your nightstand. You make a noise of victory, trying to remember if your travel hairbrush was still in the glovebox. “Three minutes?” he pleads. It’s too much. Mentally, you try to check out as an act of self-preservation. In your peripheral vision, Damiano snatches your phone off the bed. You can’t leave without it.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“I’m asking how long until you can trust me?”

“For me to trust you completely?” That gives Dami pause. He seems to realize that it's a pretty big question to spring on you before 9 AM. ”Check the phone you’re holding hostage for the time, please.” So begins the hunt for your purse.

“It’s…” With a strained voice, he looks at the home screen. Then his hand drops to his side. “It doesn’t matter. I am asking you – How about when are you gonna be able to at least trust that I’m not gonna abandon you?” Despite attempts to create space between yourself and this moment, it feels like being stabbed with a dull spear, right through the center of your torso. “Hey!” he finally raises his voice in exhasperation. “Can you at least fucking look at me when I’m bearing my soul to you!?” Both cats are hiding under the kitchen table. Standing in the kitchen, you turn to meet his gaze.

“I’m gonna be late for work.”

“Then be late! You hate that job anyways!” The shock reads easily on your features.. “I – that was out of line. Sorry. But this is never gonna work right until you trust me.” Your stomach drops. You feel nauseous and something akin to the beginnings of dissociation. This is why you’d been avoiding tough conversations. What if it went wrong? And if it did go wrong, what was going to happen? The ways Damiano had evolved as a person since going to rehab were great, but it also meant that you couldn’t predict his behavior anymore. If he walked out in anger, would he walk back in?

“Baby, that was really bad phrasing on my part.” His tone shifts completely, soft and doting in the way you’d expected it to be earlier. “Way too extreme.” Dami knew he’d scared you. That took precedence over what he so desperately wanted to achieve with this conversation. You have half a mind to run into his arms.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s gonna make me feel reassured that you won’t abandon me.”

“You don’t know, as in you can’t think of anything?”

“I don’t know!” You curl your hands into tight fists, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of your palms.

“Giving me an answer you regret and take back would be better than this purgatory.” Demand has officially overtaken supply. You’d required so much patience from Dami that it’d burned through all the categorical gratitude he felt for taking him back in any capacity. He was no longer just grateful to be here, he wanted a partner.

“If your answer is I don’t think I can ever trust you again, so be it.”

“I can trust you! I do trust you, but you’re also…” He’s hanging on to every word and you can’t even craft a basic sentence. “There’s you, but then there’s also an addict you. The first one earned my trust back more easily than I’d care to admit, but the addict you, he – it’s always there.”

“And you can never trust an addict.”

“No! But, but –” The phrase “never gonna work” rattles around in your head. “No, because…because” then we might break-up. You barely think the thought, but it's like a tripwire. Suddenly trapped under all the ways you could lose Damiano. Originally there were two contenders: freak accident and growing apart. Then fame was added to this list, then addiction. Now you had to acknowledge a fifth. Like the fifth side to a cage that can finally hold you captive, invisible to others, making them helpless to do anything but watch the light leave your eyes. He might break-up with you because you couldn’t figure out how to put the pieces back together.

“Hug me.” Damiano crosses the apartment in a few quick steps. The stinging of tears distracts you from returning the embrace, but that doesn't give him pause. The only reason you weren’t blubbering already was how secure he’d made you feel the past few days. Now that was out the window.

“Continuous hugging or do you want room to breathe?”

“Breathe,” you choke, wiping your eyes. Dami’s version of breathing room was taking half a step back and resting both hands on your hips. It was perfect.

“Be brave a little longer,” he coaxes.

“I don’t want us to…God, it’s like saying Voldemort or some shit.”

“The Phrase Which Must Not Be Named that starts with a ‘B’ and ends in the word ‘up?’”

“Yeah, I…No, I don’t even want to talk about it, Damia.”

“That's adorable.” You rest your forehead against his sternum and whine. He cups the base of your head and you loosely cross your arms behind him. “But I do need to know what made you think of The Phrase Which Must Not Be Named.”

“What if,” you resume hugging him instead of finishing the sentence. “What if I can never learn to trust the addict part of you and it happens?”

“I don’t trust the addict part of me, y/n. After everything that’s happened, I sure as shit don’t expect you to.” You pull away in order to look up in confusion. “Awe, sweetheart. I just need you to trust that this part of me has control over that shithead.”

“But relapse happens and – and you’ll always be an addict and an alcoholic. This is permanently a part of you.”

“Can you trust that I’m always gonna do my damndest not to lose control? And if I do I’m gonna find my way back?”

“It hasn’t even been three weeks.” Dami opens his mouth, closes it, and nods.

“Yeah thats a fucking good point. Damn.” He’s reeling. It’s interesting to see it happen to someone else. “I’m over here fuckin’...demanding to know when you’re gonna trust me again when I haven’t even given you a full month of stability.” You place a hand on Dami’s cheek, trying to redirect his gaze back to yours so he doesn’t get lost in self-loathing. He turns his head, but looks down. “I’m fucking comparing ‘well, I feel this way about her so –’”

“How do you feel about me?” His eyes flit up and you think the romantic in him might win.

“I feel the same way.” Or not. “Because it's easy to fall in love with somebody again and trust them again when they’re the same person. When they don’t have all this new baggage like I do.” Staring at his feet, Damiano mutters, “Nothing to compensate or…��

“You do not need to compensate, what a ridiculous thing to say!”

“Okay.” You watch him only partially internalize your words, in the same way he raises his eyes, but doesn’t quite look at you.

“Hey, you getting sober created new character traits that I love and am attracted to.”

“Enough to balance out the shit?” You scoff, taken aback.

“Yes! You’re not a fucking equation, Damia. You are a beautiful, compelling man who contains multitudes with this incredible capacity to create multitudes. Don’t separate yourself into these categories of worthwhile or not worthwhile.”

“Y/n.”

“It’s so linear. You’re reduced to a collection of likable traits when –”

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he announces. You allow yourself to be pulled in by the back of the head, eyes falling to his mauve, shapely lips. It’s sweet, slow, polite. It’s a gesture. It’s a this-kiss-conveys-my-love-and-respect-because-it's-not-the-kiss-I-wanted-to-give-you gesture. It’s a gesture that reveals he’s forgotten the comment you made earlier this morning.

“Lets,” one syllable and you feel short of breath. “Let's have the big scary talk tonight – tomorrow night! Let's have it tomorrow night.”

“Alright.” Damiano coaxes you back in by holding your chin and brushing his pointer finger back and forth. It tickles faintly and makes you smile into the equally chaste kiss. “Don’t forget, you have therapy today.”

***

“I’m only here to avoid the missed appointment fee, honestly.” You slouch, as if trying to disappear into the chartreuse loveseat.

“Oh?” Your therapist puts pen to paper and waits for elaboration. You stare at the floor and feel the pressure of tears behind your eyes. It's been like that since leaving the apartment, as though you were one inconvenience away from crying.

“Your disposition is certainly much different from our recent sessions.” Dr. Borough gives you another chance to speak, which you don’t take. She’s wearing all beige, minus an oversized necklace of reflective black beads. The color palette certainly suits the mood.

“Is it Damiano, work, anxiety that's been weighing on you?”

“All of the above.” After arriving 13 minutes late for work, Izolda called you into her stuffy, windowless office. She chastised you for being tardy twice in two weeks and you didn’t have the balls to point out that she’d personally excused the first instance. There were vague references to your performance review and callous comments about “allowing personal experiences to impede project outcomes.”

“Wow. So it's been a tough week?”

“It’s been emotionally laborious…So, yeah. Tough, I guess.”

“But productive?”

“Not when it comes to my job. That place is so devoid of humanity that I can feel part of my soul dying.”

“Sounds like you might need a change. Have you tried searching for –”

“I can’t handle a career change right now!”

“So what can you handle?” Finally, you burst into tears. “Oh, dear.” Dr. Borough pushes the box of tissues across the coffee table. “So what's going on in the other facets of your life? Are you and Damiano on good terms?”

“Yeah. He woke me up with espresso this morning, it was really sweet.” You wipe your face, which leaves a black smudge of hastily applied mascara on the white tissue.

“And his sobriety?”

“He relapsed trying to reintegrate too fast. It was just booze and he’s been sober since.”

“Wow.” She scribbles on her notepad. “So that must have been triggering.”

“It…It actually made me realize how sturdy he is. Like, he got right back on the wagon and he started really acting like himself the next morning. He didn’t go back to being an asshole with a passive death wish, he did the opposite.”

“So that sounds like great news!”

“I was such a mess, such a fucking mess.” The note taking intensifies. Somehow Dr. Borough is already halfway down the page. “He was so supportive! And he basically confronted me.”

“You mean comforted?”

“No. Well, yes. He’s noticed that I’m always in my head, trying to figure out the correct or most true course of action. And he said I didn’t need to be, because I wasn’t going to ruin his sobriety. Because he was taking care of his sobriety with a bunch of people at his rehab and stuff, so I didn’t need to prioritize it anymore. I could just prioritize myself and I could depend on him because he’s gotten to a point where he can be my support and also stay sober. But I –” you devolve into sobbing.

“Alright, take a moment. Just take a moment, y/n.” Dr. Borough doesn’t look up from her notepad for several seconds. “So, that's huge! How many days ago was that? You must be emotionally drained.”

“Yeah, from not dealing with it.”

“You’re emotionally drained from purposefully ignoring emotions?”

“Basically.”

“Alright.” Visibly processing, Dr. Borough adjusts her teal glasses and sits back. “Tell me about that.”

“Damiano just keeps pressing the issue. He wants to deconstruct and cross-examine the whole fucking situation immediately.”

“Is this usually the case, him pursuing hard conversations and you avoiding? In the past, you’ve mentioned having great communication.” It feels like an accusation that you’ve failed Damiano somehow.

“No, I’m just not ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“These fucking exhausting, weighty conversations!”

“What about them are you not ready for? In my experience, you can be very articulate, especially when it comes to emotions.”

“I’m not scared of talking about our feelings. We talk about our feelings all the time, anyways. I’m not even scared of conflict. We’ve fought twice this week already!”

“Oh, really?”

“But we work it out because we can admit that we’re wrong. We don’t get off on resenting or controlling each other.”

“What were those fights about?”

“This! Me!”

“You?”

“Ugh!” You throw your head back and groan. “He…thinks that I’m unhappy. I’m making myself miserable trying to do the right thing or by trying to control…something, us.”

“The right thing?” She raises one thinning eyebrow.

“What's best for me.”

“Doing what's best for you is doing what makes you happy. It’s doing what makes you fulfilled, puts you on the path to achieve your goals.” Dr. Borough pauses, staring at you pointedly. “In terms of Damiano. What are your goals? What will make you fulfilled?”

“Being together for real, harmonious, mind, body, and soul.”

“And are your current choices facilitating that?” You feel claustrophobic, fingernails digging into the heel of your hand again. “Why the anxiety?”

“Because I can’t control him!”

“True. But that’s always been true, y/n.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter what my goals are if the other person doesn’t feel the same.”

“You think Damiano doesn’t feel the same?”

“Well, no. I know he does.”

“Alright. So let's talk about this desire to control him.” That definitely felt like an accusation. “I just watched you have a strong reaction. Why don’t you explain that to me.” Pen to paper, Dr. Borough waits while you roll your eyes and huff in annoyance.

“Before I ever stepped foot in this office, I knew that the desire to control another person was toxic. I was already taking steps to ignore that desire when I felt it.”

“So you’re not trying to control him? That's not what's making you miserable?”

“I’m not miserable,” you bite.

“No, you’re not,” she agrees. “But you are experiencing bouts of unhappiness, like right now. You also have clinical anxiety which constantly affects your quality of life. Agreed?”

“Yeah…” The section of carpet at your feet is more worn than another other spot in the room.

“Explain to me why that is.” You choose to be insolent instead of introspective.

“It’s impossible to tack down exactly what collection of innate and external factors contribute to any one person developing –”

“Not the anxiety, y/n.”

“I…” don’t know. But Dr. Borough wasn’t going to let you off the hook. She waits expectantly. You check the clock to find that the session isn’t quite halfway done. Damn it.

“Why are you unhappy?”

“I’m at my therapy appointment when I’d much rather be taking a nap.”

“How has your sleep been since Damiano’s relapse?”

“Worse than usual, better than expected. We…”

“Yes?”

“Don’t judge me, but the night he relapsed we slept in the same bed. Like, I slept with him on the couch.”

“‘Slept with’ as in…?”

“Cuddled.” You blush all the way up to your ears.

“And that was enjoyable.” It’s apparently obvious from your delivery since Dr. Borough makes a statement, not a question.

“Yeah and…I could hear him crying so hard. I didn’t intend to spend the night there either, but I got sleepy really quick.” A stinging sensation alerts that you’d been picking at your cuticles without realizing. “Because it felt so safe.”

“Huh. So it didn’t feel like the kiss on the plane?”

“No, not at all.”

“Then why are you unhappy?” You glower, finally meeting Dr. Borough’s eyes. She is unfazed. “Damiano has the same relationship goals and it sounds as though he may be ready to act on those goals, right?” You don’t protest, because she’s correct, but you also don’t concede. “So this should be great news! It’s exactly what you wanted, which is why this reaction raises questions. I know it’ll be hard to admit, but maybe now that you have Damiano back, you’ve realized that your feelings towards him have changed.”

“What? No! God, I fucking wish I felt more casually about him. I wish that he couldn’t read my mind and that we didn’t have this fucking soul bond and that I could have a halfway satisfying sex life without him. I want to stop watching him sleep, getting choked up when I see his bougie shampoo in the shower, huffing his dirty gym clothes, and feeling like my heart’s been ripped out because I love him so much. I want to be less in love with him!”

“No, you don’t.” Dr. Borough sets the notepad and pen on her lap and settles into her chair with a smile. There’s been some sort of breakthrough or resolution reached. “So what's the real reason you’re self-sabotaging? Do you feel like you don’t deserve him?”

“I…guess.”

“Don’t guess.”

“Deep down inside somewhere, probably.”

“So is that it?”

“You’re the therapist.”

“And you’re far from emotionally repressed.” Dr. Borough purses her lips and squints. “So are you afraid of losing him?” You swallow hard, vision blurring with tears.

“Yes, of course. Now with these fucking high stakes conversations, what if something goes wrong?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Anything!”

“Based on what you've said so far, it sounds like you guys would work it out.”

“What if we break up?”

“Does it feel like you’re going to break up?”

“No.” You blow your nose and steel yourself. “I need him. I’ve let myself need him again. So I can’t, ca – can’t lose hi – him again. I can’t! It’ll fucking kill me. I don’t care if you think that's dramatic, because it genuinely feels like I’d die of heartbreak. Even thinking a – about it, can’t – I ca – ca –can’t breathe!” Dr. Borough ends up talking you off the edge of a panic attack. You think that’ll earn some slack, but it doesn’t.

“Okay, so just take small sips of water.” She uses her most soothing voice as you hold the paper cup in a trembling hand. “I’m going to be candid with you, y/n. Breaking up has always been a possibility and you’ve functioned despite it for years. Damiano dying of an overdose, however, is new. I think that’s what’s scaring you, the fact that death is irreparable.” You manage a nod. “Alright. That risk factor is never going away. So you have to decide if he’s worth it.”

“Of course he’s…” It's reminiscent of what Dami said this morning, which forces you to acknowledge that he was probably right. Putting the pieces back together was going to feel terrifying and you had to do it anyway. “I have all these rules to stop things from progressing before I’m ready. But maybe I’m never going to feel ready.”

“Progressing?”

“To stop Dami from getting too close, from things getting too intimate. I compartmentalized so damn much and I…every time I let him a little bit closer, it's like being hit by a semi-truck.”

“Reminders of his substance abuse?”

“No, beautiful memories of how our love manifested, all the ways we connected and felt at home in each other, felt profoundly understood. Memories of being joyous and intimate and becoming better people together.” Dr. Borough is noticeably moved.

“You choose to close yourself off to that because of the possibility of pain?”

“Yes!”

“That’s not living.” Finally, someone had just outright said it. You should feel stunned, but you don’t. “We’ve talked about living versus surviving in terms of your anxiety. The same can happen after trauma. Seeing Dami on life support –”

“Haven’t we already talked about that enough?” Reflexively, you make yourself smaller, hunkering down to survive this horrendous topic.

“I don’t know. Based on this reaction –”

“Based on this reaction, seeing my soulmate an inch from death is still traumatic? Shocking!”

“Traumatic, absolutely.” The even tonality of her speech is an embarrassing juxtaposition to your reactivity, but you’re still unable to quell it. “And based on your reaction, that memory still holds tremendous power over you.”

“Of fucking course it does! I still can’t even think about it like a real thing that happened to me!”

“I recall you’ve been dealing with a lot of dissociation, recently. More than usual.” Dr. Borough resumes note taking.

“Yes.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because I can’t handle what's happening around me,” you reply, monotonously.

“You think you can’t handle what's happening around you because a parentified, 15-year-old y/n without an emotional support system couldn’t handle it.” She pauses. In that space, tears blur your vision until the view of the damaged carpet and scuffed shoes becomes indiscernible. “But now you have an emotional support system. You are deserving of an emotional support system, which is something that your parents failed to model in your childhood.” Again, Dr. Borough gives you space to speak, but you curl into a ball, instead. She nudges the tissues further across the table with an empathetic expression. “So you’re protecting her.”

“I am not protecting my mother,” you grumble.

“Not your mother. You’ve been protecting 15-year-old y/n, shielding her. And now you’re protecting the y/n who was confronted by the mortality of her support system’s keystone. Neither of them could handle the present moment, but you can.” Dr. Borough cleans her glasses while waiting for you to say something. Maybe it's an intentional respite from being examined.

“What – How can –” your first reaction is to splutter incredulously. “I’m not, I mean I’m – That's just human development, isn’t it? Burning your hand on the stove teaches you not to touch a hot stove. Burns are bad. They scar, they get infected.”

“Y/n, you are not avoiding a burn. You are eating takeout for every meal to avoid going in the kitchen at all. You are putting on noise canceling headphones everytime someone says the word ‘stove’ and singing to yourself loudly. In this metaphor –”

“I get it, I get it.” Well, shit.

“You’ve heard me say this before: the anxiety, the trauma isn’t your fault. However, coping constructively is still your responsibility. And, yes, that’s unfair. You had to live for your emotionally unequipped parents. In reaction to that hospital visit, I think you may have done a bit of living for Damiano when he was emotionally unequipped for sobriety. Now you’re living for the versions of yourself that are emotionally unequipped to handle the present. But it won’t break you like it might have then.”

“How can you know that!? How…I just want time to recover! I want to be certain!”

“There will never be certainty and there will never be a pause button. I know that's a really hard reality to face with clinical anxiety.” Dr. Borough sets her elbows on her notepad and leans forward. “But y/n, face it you must.”

***

You hold it together on the drive home. Knowing that Dami will be on a Zoom call with his songwriting and production team, you don’t want to walk through the front door a mess and distract him. Unfortunately, Spotify decides to play Folklore-era Taylor Swift as you pull into the parking garage.

I knew you/Hand under my sweatshirt/Baby, kiss it better

By the time the car is parked, you’re already crying. Your first group outing as a couple was a Roma football game with most of his friends and several cousins. The omnipresent barrage of screaming made your ears ring and triggered a panic attack. You tried to suppress your reaction, for which you’d finally receive a diagnosis just weeks later. When that became impossible, you settled on concealing your emotions until it passed. Just don’t freak out. For fucks sake, don’t embaress yourself.

Having turned your focus inward, the roar of the audience was a surprise and so inescapably loud that it couldn’t even be described by volume. The sound became a tangible force, beating you over the head. So you fled, hands clamped over your ears, tears flowing. It seemed like every person you passed chided you.

“‘Msorry, ‘msorry, ‘msorry, ‘msorry, ‘msorry,” you repeated, voice frail and high-pitched with terror. The adrenaline at least made climbing all those steps easier. Upon reaching the hallway at the top of the staircase, you turned around to scan the field, determining it was a good time to drop your hands. That's when you saw 18-year-old Damiano huffing and puffing, all focus dropped from the game behind him.

“Hey,” he panted, expression confused. “Hey, you just…Are you okay?” You shook your head, mouth contorted into an ugly shape. “Well, come here, baby.” Dami opened his arms like it was obviously the next logical step to hold you. The gesture revealed that he’d remembered your purse and was wearing it. You could have blurted out “I love you,” right then and there. His sparkling, empathetic eyes framed by smeared eyeliner, outstretched hands decorated by gaudy rings, and wearing his lucky sneakers which were at least a size too small. A couple middle-aged, balding men looked him up and down in disgust. Dami didn’t even notice.

“You need a hug,’ he decided, wrapping you up.

“Thanks,” you croaked, trembling arms finding steadiness where they held him.

“What’s wrong with her?” asked a male voice passing by.

“Nothings wrong with her! Who the fuck are you, eh?”

“Sorry, man.”

“No, who the fuck do you think you are saying that?”

“You’re in the middle of the walkway, dude.”

“And you’re in the middle of my fucking business, asshole!”

“Damia,” you murmured.

“Sorry, sorry.” You wondered if he could discern your smile against his pilling jersey. The fabric made your face feel raw after exposure to the ruthlessly cold gusts of wind that swept up the sides of the stadium. Still, you felt compelled to hug him tighter, but ignored the compulsion so as not to encourage Damiano acting like an attack dog. But fuck if it hadn’t made you feel chosen at age 18, coming from a family who’s attitude was god forbid your emotions inconvenience anyone.

Damiano didn’t think you were too emotional, the girl choking on her own tears over a football audience being predictably loud. He stood in the stadium’s walkway, inconveniencing everyone else to prioritize comforting you. Despite not knowing what was awry, he still managed to be soothing. Dami’s inexplicably warm hands rubbed your back under the Roma sweatshirt you wore – actually his, of course. He hummed music from the radio with a cheek pressed to your head and you subsequently felt the music’s vibrations. It tickled. An unfamiliar sensation burgeoned in the darkest recesses of your heart. Not then, but eventually, you’d come to know it as stillness.

Notes: Don't yell at me I warned you! Also I'll post the next part (the smuttastic part) when this post has 40 notes hehe

-XOXO Eden

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f4ngedgirl · 7 months

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no minors!!!

to any måneskin writers out there, i would love me some switch!damiano sucking on readers strap? … here’s the video that inspired it, im going feral 🙏

#måneskin #minors do not interact #må #fic #authors #damiano david fic #damiano david x reader

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saturnsconstellation · 22 days

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I wanna be your slave by Måneskin but it’s just Barty’s rant to Evan.

#rosekiller #barty crouch jr #Evan rosier #barty and evan #Barty is so MÅNESKIN coded #I need singer!Barty AU fics recs pls #the marauders #dead gay wizards

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witch128chick · 3 months

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I need to write a fic for these lyrics it's genius

#måneskin #ao3 writer #i wanted to write a fic for a very long time now that is based on some cool lyrics #i might've found it

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nonvaleniente · 2 years

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From Fx to a D // Professor Damiano AU! x Fem! Reader

Pairing: Damiano x reader

Summary: Y/N was never good at learning foreign languages. It got even harder when the most handsome man she has ever seen started teaching her Italian class and got her distracted all the time. He seemingly noticed her interest in him and one trip to the library lead into something more interesting...

Warnings: SWEARING, SMUT, PUBLIC SEX, UNI TEACHER-STUDENT RELATIONSHIP, PROBABLY INCORRECT ITALIAN WORDS/PHRASES (I used Google translate because I am too embarrased to ask my italian learning friends to help me with smut lol), ALSO BARELY PROOFREAD BC I AM STUPID AND NEED TO RUSH THINGS

Y/F/N - your friend's name

Y/L/N - your last name

IT IS FINALLY HERE!

Yes, I promised it would come out on Monday but I literally cannot grasp the concept of time. Managing it is really something I need to work on. But I hope no one is that mad at me. Now, let's enjoy this trip to horny-town, shall we?

ENJOY!

Don't forget to leave any sort of feedback and reblog if you like it!

You couldn't keep your eyes off him.

You weren't able since the first day of last semester. When he walked through the door, his messy hair and white shirt with few buttons undone on the top, you knew you were screwed. He looked like a roman god. Straight out of historical romance novels. The perfect little stubble showing on his face made your mind wander off many times. Wondering, how would it feel scratching against your thighs, with him between them. Oh, how many nights you thought about him leading you to the professors' lounge and after closing the door, slamming you against them and not having any mercy.

You had no chance.

You had to keep reminding yourself to get out of these little daydreams. To actually pay attention to his words, you had to fight yourself every Tuesday afternoon. You were never that good at Italian and ever since this distraction in a human form walked into your life, it got even harder. Hell, if some higher powers weren't in your favour, you probably would have been out of this school already. But to have the chance to keep looking at this man, that was a motivation for you to at least pass.

The silence all around pulled you out of your thoughts. Upon realising that everyone was staring your direction, you turned your head up. There he was, looking at you. Patiently waiting for your answer to the question he had previously asked.

After a few seconds, which felt like eternity, he gave you a smile and moved on to get the answer from someone else. You started blushing from the embarrasment. Your friend sitting next to you noticed and playfully hit you with her elbow, while raising a brow at you. She obviously knew about this little crush and always made jokes about how the two of you should just get a room already. You always rolled your eyes, knowing deep down thats what you wish for.

The next round of questions started and you saw your teacher going down the line, all of your classmates answering one by one. When you knew it would be your turn next, your heart began racing. You were quickly counting through the questions, to see which you would have to answer, so you wouldn't embarass yourself even more.

„Signorina Y/L/N, domanda numero 6, perfavore.“

He set his hand on the table in front of you, supporting his body weight as he was leaning a little bit. Tattoos peaking from under his rolled sleeves, you had to push away the sinful thoughts once again.

You looked up at him, trying not to stumble over your words.

„Domanda numero 6? La ri-risposta corrette è b: il fiume,“ you quickly got out of yourself, while feeling the sweat dripping down your body.

„Corretta, not corrette, Y/N, otherwise, good enough,“ he switched to english now, and you earned yourself another sweet smile from him. You were glad that you finally got something right but also that the torture was almost to be over for another week or so.

After Y/F/N answered her question, he decided to finish the lesson, as an hour and half already passed.

„Alright guys, let's wrap it up. You dont get any homework, as there is going to be the test I already told you about next week, so you better study hard,“ he paused, as everyone started getting up from their chairs already, making a lot of noise as they were packing up their belongings.

„And...,“ he raised his voice.

„...don't forget to lend the book Compiti Italiani 2, it can seriously help you.“ He finished the class by picking all of his books up, walking towards the door. He let everyone pass through, before walking out of the class himself.

You and Y/F/N said your goodbyes and each went different ways. Yours lead to the library.

Your teacher semeed to be following the same path.

Upon arriving to the library door, you noticed that it seemed to be closed. You couldn't see people moving inside, not even the librarian. It seemed quite unusual that the library would be closed at this time, it was usually opened everyday until 18:00. It was barely 16:00.

You shook the handle and checked for the opening hours sign, just to be sure.

The sign was showing exactly what you thought.

It was still closed though.

You weren't happy about the situation but there was nothing you could do, so you decided to go home. As you turned away, you started rambling through your tote bag. It was always full of things and you could never find your wireless headphones. You were slowly walking, crunched to the side, still picking on random things, to find the plastic box. As you took a few more steps, you noticed a figure in front of you.

Upon turning your head up, you noticed your handsome italian professor standing there. He was playing with a set of keys, turning them at their hoop around his fingers.

„Exemplary student, I see. Running to borrow the book I mentioned straight after the class,“

He smiled, while slowly walking towards you. Your heart started pounding, but thanfully, he just passed you to get to the door.

„I didn't know you're in charge of the library, Mr. David. Where is Mrs. Andrews?“ you were geniuenly curious.

While trying to unlock the door, he turned his body halfway to face you.

„She is still in charge of the library, but I volunteered to take her place when she has to bring her daughter for a checkup at the doctor, which is every other week at this time. You know, I get credits for it and it's not that hard of a job,really.“

You almost forgot that he was just a student like you. The only difference is that he was currently working on his Doctorate degree and in order to achieve it, he had to teach some classes as well. Credits were definitely something good to have more of.

When he finally got the door unlocked, he made his way behind them. Holding them open with one hand, gesturing for you to come through with the other.

As you marched foward, you felt his eyes looking you up and down. While walking over the threshold, you heard his voice behind you.

„And outside of the class, it's Damiano for you.“

Did he really just suggest for you to call him by his first name?

You quickly gave him a smile while speeding your walk to get to the shelves, so you can look for the books you need and get the hell out of there.

Soon, a few more people started coming through the door. They were sitting down to study or simply trying to find the books they want. It was taking you surprisingly long time to get to the titles you were looking for to help with your school work, but you didnt want to ask your teacher, you would rather die on the spot.

You spent a good 10 minutes going slowly over the section of letter „C,“ but didnt see any copies of the Italian book left. Thinking your classmates already took all of them, you were slowly losing hope. You slid over to the frame on the right, moving on to find a book for your sociology finals.

Scanning the shelves with your eyes, looking for the letter „S,“ the dark figure appeared next to you once again.

„Need any help?“ he asked you generously.

Oh well, you didn't want to ask him at first. But since he was already standing there, you decided to give it a shot.

„Maybe.“

He started walking away from you, signaling you to also leave the cubicle made out of shelves.

„Well, maybe Compiti italiani is in a different section, you're not in the language department, signorina.“

You were following him to the other side of the library, but this comment made you pause for a split second and roll your eyes. He was following you to the cubicle in the furthest corner of the room. You really just wanted to get this over with and come back the next day, when the usual librarian would be back.

Then, Damiano, as he asked you to call him, walked between the two giant shelves and you kept following him. Stopping in front of the middle one, you started scanning the section of the letter C once again.

„Thank you, I can handle from now on.“

Something didn't seem right as he didn't leave after what you just told him. In fact, he got even closer. You didn't know if you were scared, purely annoyed or even a little bit aroused. You just barely got to notice that the books on the shelves were about history, when he turned you around in one swift movement. You dropped your bag on the ground in a response, hoping your glass water bottle didn't shatter.

He pinned you against one of the book cases, roughly holding your hands above your head.

„And maybe, I lied about the book being here,“ he smiled at you while intertwining his hands with yours. He started placing a few kisses on your neck, leaving you in complete state of shock.

„What is going on?“ you were trying to get an answer while holding in a moan.

„Shhhh, we're in a library, remember?“ he commented between the kisses. „a bad student like you needs to be put in her place.“

You were fighting the urge that was growing inside of you and weakly tried to push him off. He looked at you, worried, waiting for explanation.

„So you do this with all of the students who get bad marks in your classes?“

„No, just the ones who eyefuck me basically every lesson. C'mon, michetta, you are so desperate for me, I can see it.“

You were practically melting at his words. As pinky blush started appearing on your face, you were trembling. Of course, you wanted him, you would give up anything to have this man fuck you. But in this situation, you were a bit confused.

As the adrenaline kicked in, you reached out your shaking hands and pulled him back to you by his arms. He had this suggestive smile on his face and you knew very well that he had unspeakable intentions. You reached your neck up and got your mouth close to his ear.

„Well then, fuck some of the italian into me, Damiano.“

„Volentieri“ he winked at you and finally pressed his mouth against yours. You kissed back as one of your hands made its way out of his grip. It trailed into the back of his head, carefully caressing his hair. You finally had the chance to fully give in and pushed your tongue even further into his mouth.

Damiano started leaving little trail of kisses from your mouth, traveling down your cheeks and chin. Finding his way to your neck again, he was bitting on little bits of your skin, which made a moan escape your mouth involuntarily. He quickly put a hand over your mouth, so students in the front wouldnt hear you.

He hiked one of your leg sup to his torso, which made you automatically wrap it around him. Sliding his hand up your thigh, he found his way towards your underwear. He brushed his fingertips right between the outline of your labia, feeling the increasing wetness in your panties. You felt a little laugh against your neck.

„Do you leave my class this wet every week? Or is it just the thought of me fucking you in a place we shouldn't that has gotten you so excited?“ he looked deep into your eyes while still caressing you through the soaking fabric. Not giving you time to respond, he leaned in to slip his tongue into your mouth once again. He let go of your leg and his hand trailed up to the hem of your panties, pulling them down. He bent over, taking them off completely and putting them in the pocket of his blazer afterwards.

„We'll see if you're good enough of a girl to get them back after this,“ he said with a hint of arrogance in his tone.

This got you so worked up, making you want to show how well you can behave for him. You grabbed the man by his shoulder, turning him around, so he's the one leaning against the book casing. Almost smashing him against it, he let out a silent suggestive grin. It seemed like he could read your mind, knowing about your plans. You dropped to your knees in front of him, trying not to lose any eye contact. Reaching hands to his belt, you tried to unbuckle it fast so you could get what you wanted. Unfortunately, the belt had no intention of coming undone. Upon seeing you struggle, Damiano finally put you out of your misery by helping you.

Once the brown belt around his pants and his zipper were open, you pulled them down to his ankles. This action left you with his intense boner showing right through his boxers in front of your face. It has taken you back to the many nights you imagined getting this view. Kneeling in front of the man built finer than any renaissance building in Rome. Ready to take him all in, it really felt like you're dreaming.

His boxers finally joined the pants down at his feet and you were left with a view that you never had before. He wasn't the biggest in the world, but still way bigger youve ever seen in your life. For a second, you were worried if you would even be able to fit him all in your mouth.

But what better way to find out than give it a try, right?

The question followed your worries and you dived straight in. You gave him a last good look up, seeing him waiting in anticipation. Grabbing his lenght with your right hand, you immediately realised you needed some kind of lubrication. You spat right on his tip and smeared it all over, which quickly turned into giving him slow strokes. This has already earned you an expression from him, being interested in what youll do next. You started picking up the pace, trying hard not to make the sloppy sound. Your hand was sliding up and down, getting faster and you were joyfully looking at his face in pure bliss. You decided to give him a little bit more of a show and quickly switched the hand for your mouth.

„Cazzo.“

Going at the same tempo as before finally got a moan out of him that he was struggling to hold in for so long. Hearing him speak in italian had some kind of effect on you and you started to feel the knot in your stomach getting tighter. You were speeding up, jerking your lips around his cock as fast as you could. Damiano was definitely enjoying it, fighting himself not to be any louder. You wanted to finally have him inside of you, so you took a next step.

Stopping this activity, you reached for your bag that you previously dropped onto the ground. After ramaging through all of your belongings, you found the condom you have thrown in a few months ago „just in case.“

„Always prepared to get fucked but rarely for an italian exam, I see,“ he smiled at you.

„You know, I'm naturally talented at the first option. The second one? Not so much.“

You took the condom out of it's wrapper and carefully rolled it out on his cock. When you got up from the ground, you immediately found yourself pressed against the wall once again. Damiano wasted no time, passionately kissing you. This time, he wrapped the leg around his core himself.

„Let's see if youre right about that, bella.“

He roughly pushed himself into you, which made some of the shelves shake. There was no adjusting period, he was pounding you at the speed of light. This tempo made you light headed, you were rolling your eyes back. There was clearly sweating rolling down his face, which made you aroused even more. You still couldnt believe this was happening but tried to be present in the time and place. You were whinning, practically melting into his body as he was fucking you. He reached his hand to shut your mouth once again.

„How I wish you could scream my name right now, begging me to fuck you harder. Unfortunately, bad girls like you have to be quiet because they can't learn their fucking lesson.“

In one swift movement, he turned you around, forcing you to bend over. With one of his hands still on your mouth and the other hiking your skirt up, he entered you from behind. You let out a muffled moan against his palm, as you felt him deep inside of you. Your walls clenching around his cock made him seem short of breath. He was pounding you while being completely pressed against you. You were slowly losing yourself to him.

He moved the hand from your back to your cunt. Without warning, he started rubbing your clit fast, matching the speed of his thrusts. You were being tipped over the edge and it seemed like he knew that you were getting close.

„Sborra per me, puttana,“ he growled at you in italian. Although you didn't understand, it was the last push you needed. This killer combination made you come undone with another muffled cry.

You felt a few more thrusts until he came himself, his whole body shaking into you.

When you were both done, you stayed in your place for a minute, just catching your breath and processing whatever just happened. You were absolutely in bliss after this scenario, which seemed like cropped out of your pornsite search history. It has definitely taught you a lesson or two, but you maybe didnt want to admit it to him.

You heard his pants buckled behind you, so you finally decided to face him. He still looked great, if not better, with messy hair and his shirt all creased up.

„Well, you definetely got a part of italian fucked into you. Was that enough for you to start studying for my lessons or do you want to fail, so you can keep on salivating in my classes?“

„I admit, it made me rethink my past decisions, but also if I wasn't bad at learning foreign languages, I wouldn't have a gorgeous italian man fucking me in the back of a library, so I guess it was fine after all.“

You grinned at him, sticking your tongue out.

He pulled you closer to him by your waist, passionately kissing you one more time.

„What if I keep fucking you, maybe in my place or yours, and we might get to some tutoring in between, hm?“ he raised an eyebrow suggestively.

„Sounds like a deal to me.“

You quickly collected yourself, grabbing your bag off the ground, straightening your skirt down. Soon you realised that you had no underwear on.

„Do I get my panties back, please?“ you looked to Damiano one more time.

He just giggled and shook his head.

„When you pass my class, at least with the D mark, you can have your underwear back.“

He immediately walked off, heading towards the front of the library. You also got out of the cubicle, burning up with embarrasment. You really didn't want anyone to think youre sleeping your way to a better grade. On the other hand, you were still so happy about what just happened that you didnt want to care about other people.

Seemingly, there were only two students left, both with headphones on. Looked like film majors editing their final projects so there was a low chance they heard anything.

You made your way to the door, as Damiano was already behind the librarians desk. As you were about to pass through, he jogged around the table to quickly get to you.

„Not even saying goodbye to your teacher? That is rude,Y/N“ he frowned his face at you. You playfully hit him into his arm.

„Well, Mr. David, you didn't seem to care about 'rude' when you were fucking one of your students in the school building, but let's talk about that later, shall we?“

He bit his tongue and smiled at you. After that, he handed you a piece of paper with his number and adress on it. It also said „TUTORING“ on top, which made you smile as well.

You nodded your head and waved to him, knowing you couldn't kiss him goodbye, as there were already two sets of eyes on you. You just dissapeared through the door frame and went your own way.

Replaying of the scene that just occured in the library didn't stop in your head until you fell asleep, thinking about the right time to call him about your first tutoring session.

#maneskin #måneskin #damiano david #maneskin smut #maneskin fic #maneskin fanfiction #damiano david smut #damiano david fanfiction #maneskin imagine #damiano david fic #professor au!

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tempobrucera · 1 year

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All this madness

Description: If you could see yourself through Thomas’ eyes on a bad day, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Pairing: Thomas x Reader Wordcount: 1.6k Warning(s): Mental Health A/N: Didn’t really want to post this, but here we go. Just a few words until I post my Valentines fics which will be happier, I promise.

Add yourself to my taglist. / Masterlist

._____.

It has been a while since you’ve been feeling like this. Or since you’ve even felt off, not since that day Thomas banged on your door, stayed, kissed you and never really left again.

Now the feeling is overbearing. The feeling of being too much, but not enough. Not worth anyone’s time or thought. Of not looking the right way, not being pretty enough. And nothing happening around you helps.

It’s a terrible day on top of it. Outside it’s raining, it’s cold and grey. Usually you would be okay with that, your head leaning against the window, watching the rain, with a warm cup of tea in your hands. On a particularly good day, Thomas would get you to go outside with him, maybe kiss you in the rain, and you would end up in giggles. But today isn’t usually. It’s gloomy, like the thoughts in your head. You felt like freezing to death when outside earlier, and maybe that wouldn’t be so bad after all, you think. Your socks are wet, the water of the rain seeping through your sneakers. Thomas’ leather jacket not keeping you the warmest but at least it gave you comfort. The umbrella - forgotten on the kitchen table. The train never came - you sob.

“Hey,” Thomas lays his arms around your waist, “I’m here.”

You smile through the tears that somehow started falling. When you want to wipe them away Thomas stops you. You keep smiling, you don’t want him to worry, you don’t want to explain. You just want him to hold you a little longer - and Thomas loosens his grip on you. Another sob is escaping your throat, before he spins you a little and hugs you closer.

“Shhh, it’s okay.” His heartbeat is loud and goes faster than it normally does, you have your ear against his chest, then bury your face into his shirt before you’re erupting into more sobs. “Hey, it’s okay. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shiver. The wet socks still on your feet are getting uncomfortable. And not only your tears but also the rain on the leather jacket are soaking through his dress shirt. “It’s stupid … I am stupid.”

“You are not and it’s not stupid, I promise. Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.” He puts his pointer finger on your forehead as if it’s a drill. “And then we’re going to talk about what this mean thing in here is doing to you.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be? Somewhere more important?” You hide your face on his chest again. “With some more important people than me?”

Thomas scoffs: “I’m exactly where I want and have to be.”

When you look at him, his eyes betray him. He should be somewhere else, it probably is important as well, you can see the little bit of guilt for leaving the other’s hanging in his eyes. You know that Vic will call and will be vocal, you don’t want him to deal with it, just because you hate yourself. It’s not worth it. And as if you wouldn’t have known it, his phone starts ringing.

“Get your ass here, Thomas.” It’s Vic, she’s loud. “Now!”

“Sorry, I won’t be attending.”

“What the fuck? You’re getting your ass here.” You can hear her saying through the phone.

“Sorry, something important came up,” he tries again. “Tho-”

“No.” Now he’s getting loud, “Fuck yourself, Victoria. I am the one who’s always there for shit, for fucking everything, even when some bitch thinks I don’t talk or cuts everything I say or whatever. Every goddamn time, I’m there. My turn to play this bloody card, I am not coming. I can spell it out for you or sent you a letter if that hel-”

“I’m sorry, Vic.”

Thomas looks at you. You sniff, you don’t want them to fight. Not because of anything, but definitely not because of you. He’s still holding you.

“I … Are you okay?” Vic asks but you’re already sobbing into Thomas’ shirt again. “Fuck, sorry.”

“Bye, Vic. If you’re thinking about calling me again today, think about fucking yourself instead.” Then he hangs up before he talks to you again. “At least she would love to do that a great deal more than annoy me.”

“She loves to annoy you.” You almost giggle and Thomas smiles at you gently.

“Yes, but she loves the other thing even more.”

You aren’t quite sure how you got out of your socks after that, and in some cosy ones. How you got out of your jeans, or how you got out of Thomas’ jacket that you kept wrapped tightly around your body and into one of his warm hoodies, or how you ended up on the couch, Thomas' arms still wrapped around you. You don’t know, but you’re certain that he helped with all of it. There’s a steaming hot cup of tea waiting for you on the table.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s …,” you cuddle closer to him, “it’s stupid.”

“I guarantee you, it’s not.”

“Do you not want to be with anyone taller sometimes?”

“What the f-” He catches himself, when he sees your face. “Sorry. It’s not stupid, it just caught me off guard. And the answer is no, no I don’t want that.”

“Are you not tired of leaning down all the time?”

“No, it’s excellent, because it happens to be that I love crouching down a bit.” He presses his lips against your forehead.

“I want to scratch my eyes out.” Thomas furrows his brows, but he isn’t interrupting you. “I hate them. I hate seeing myself through them. And why do they have to be this boring.”

“I happen to love them.” And then he carefully presses his lips to one of your eyelids. “I can’t see anything boring in them.”

“God, I hate myself.” You sob but Thomas isn’t letting go of you - calmly stroking your back. “Why are you even keeping up with me? I’m sure you could get something better instead of sticking around, someone prettier and not as fucked as me, you know?”

You can hear the deep inhale and exhale before he talks again: “I don’t want anything else. You’re more than enough for me and more. There’s nothing I would change that for. I wish you could see that or believe me when I say it. And … I’m sorry, I seem to have done a pretty shit job when you’re thinking that I think this.”

“No, it’s me, I-”

He kisses you instead.

“I’m sorry, if I did anything to make you believe that,” he looks at you, “I know how it is.”

“But you’re actually pretty.” You kiss the corner of his lips. “So, so pretty.”

“Depends on who you ask,” he sighs, “But your pretty eyes luckily see me like this. Just as much my pretty eyes see you like this.”

“Who do I have to punch?”

He laughs: “I think that line is a bit too long to punch. And before the question comes up, I won’t punch you for thinking any of this. We can … we can do it a bit harder if that … helps. But no punching.”

There’s an adorable blush on his nose, and you blush as well.

“Okay.”

Silence. It isn’t uncomfortable, no one of you has to fill the silence between you to feel comfortable.

“Is there anything else?”

“Don’t you think my hobbies are stupid?”

“Okay, who’s hobbies aren’t actually stupid though?” He furrows his brows again. “And look at me, my stupid hobby became my job and otherwise my stupid hobbies are, and maybe not in this order, taking naps, eating, going out to dance silly and get kicked out of fancy venues because they can’t handle me. That’s what I call stupid hobbies. But you know the best of them, the best of my silly hobbies? Spending time with you.”

You have to sob again.

He kisses your cheek, and you know instantly that you will not like what is about to follow.

“I haven’t seen you eating in a few days probably.” Before you can protest, Thomas keeps speaking. “That one salad and one piece of brownie doesn’t count.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That might be the case,” his voice is soft, “but you still have to eat. Which is why we will order pizza now.”

“Thom?”

“You only have to have one slice. I’m not gonna force it. But you need some food, okay? And you can have cake.”

“No, Tho. It’s nine o’clock in the morning. That’s not pizza time.”

“It’s the best time for a pizza.”

Later, when you’re still in his arms, nibbling on the one slice of pizza, watching a silly documentary on Youtube about the mystery of who wrote the Disney Channel theme music, the world is okay for a moment. Thomas isn’t judging when you nibble on your slice or tries to get you to eat more and you’re grateful for it.

“Don’t you want to be anywhere else right now?”

Thomas looks at you, for a long time. Longer than before, before he answers: “No. I’m exactly where I want to be. You know, that’s the sort of magic all this madness is for. Just having pizza at nine in the morning, with you.”

You wish, you could see what his hazel eyes saw when he just looked at you for the longest time. But the thing is, you can’t.

._____.

END.

Read something recently that led me to want to scratch my eyes out. Cool how your brain can go not even in this fictional scenario someone would want me, right? So we ended up here.

Add yourself to my taglist. / Masterlist

Taglist: @writingmaneskin, @oro-e-diamanti, @iamtashaquinn, @teenyweenynightghost, @findaqueenwithoutaking, @foreveryking-thatdied, @findoutwhoyougonnacall, @maneskinbrainrot, @little-moonbeam-666, @ethaneskin, @maneskin-dimensione, @l0standn0tf0und, @butkutee, @gr8rainbowpunk, @maneslut, @maneskintifoso, @weareoddlydrawn, @hiraetheral, @imjustanerdwholikestoread, @cuzimitaliano, @hopelessromantic727, @dating-villain, @maneskinsimp, @lauraosheaoh, @till-you-scream-and-cry, @wonderlandishell, @h1ppieth1ngs, @paralianeyes, @livvyysstuff, @que–sera–sera, @cheese-toastie-11, @roisinlove123, @romanoffswoman, @lovelyy-moonlight, @crwnnjules

#maneskin #måneskin #thomas raggi #thomas raggi blurb #thomas raggi x reader #thomas raggi x you #thomas raggi x y/n #maneskin fic #maneskin fanfic #maneskin fanfiction #maneskin x reader

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taste-your-silhouette · 11 months

Text

Say you'll see me again even if it's just in your wildest dreams

Pairings: Vic De Angelis xfem!reader

Contents: Fluff, SMUT

Summary: You're an up-and-coming actress, and Vic's best friend since high school. You have been friends and in love with each other for as long as you can remember. So when you have the chance to be together, it's magical.

Words: ~2276

A/N: Firstly, English isn't my native language, so pleeease forgive me if you come across any errors while reading. It's my first fanfiction, but I've planned it so so so much and I sincerely hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it!

"Well, she is..." A torrent of reminiscences flooded your mind, evoking memories of your youthful days, your time together in high school, and the challenging battles you fought to progress in your careers, always finding each other and nurturing your affection whenever circumstances permitted. "the love of my life."

In that poignant moment, it felt as though the air itself froze in your lungs, while a profound chill coursed through your entire being, setting your stomach aflutter.

"So, enlighten us on the factors contributing to your current state of not being together," the interviewer probed.

"We're constantly in each other's company, you know, whenever we can orchestrate it," you responded with a chuckle. "We're currently living the pinnacle of our lives, I mean, career-wise, you know? Måneskin is rocking it worldwide and I've got a TV series and two movies in the pipeline. It's quite a juggling act. Therefore, we're doing our utmost, just going with the flow."

You and the journalist continued to engage in lively discussions covering various topics, including your professional journey and the prospects of your upcoming projects. However, it was the part about your personal life that made you the most jittery. You had openly professed your love for Victoria in an interview for one of the biggest magazines in the world. Not that you both had never expressed your feelings for each other before, but this was different.

"What is the projected publication date for the article?" you inquired of the journalist.

"In a fortnight. Why do you ask? Regretting any of your statements?" she inquired, with a touch of suspicion yet clandestinely relishing the notion of your potential regret.

"Oh, not in the slightest," you responded, chuckling. "Simply curious."

🎸

"Guess who's rocking the cover of Rolling Stone!" your publicist burst into the dressing room, where you were getting ready for a TV show.

"Finally!" You widened your eyes and asked for a moment to quickly skim through the article. Of all the topics discussed, the focal point inevitably became your heartfelt declaration of love for Victoria, as though you had never before professed your love to her.

As you read snippets of the article, your phone rang, and a snapshot of you and Vic materialized with her name.

"Ciao cuore mio," you enthusiastically answered the call.

"So, am I really the love of your life?" Vic responded, her smile palpable.

"Did you read the magazine? I forewarned you, they would exploit it shamelessly, akin to treasure seekers lusting after gold."

"I only read the parts that piqued my interest, obviously. You look absolutely hot in the photoshoot they did. I want a poster of each of those pictures to plaster on the ceiling of every hotel I stay at during our tour." You struggle to contain your laughter, but it's futile.

You both shared a laugh for a moment. You needed to get back to doing your makeup, but hearing Victoria's voice was so invigorating. You missed her immensely.

"I wanna see you. It's been far too long since our last encounter, I can't bear it any longer," Victoria whispered the final sentence, sending shivers down your spine.

You were aware that the band was in the midst of their tour, so if you didn't go to meet her, you wouldn't be able to see each other.

"I have a recording session today, but I'm available all weekend. Where will you be?"

"Hmmm, we'll be passing through Germany. We have a concert in Berlin today and another in Cologne tomorrow. I'll have Sunday free. Fancy a little adventure around Germany?"

"Only if I have a backstage pass for the concert in Cologne."

"You always do, Y/N," Victoria replied confidently.

"Deal, now I have to go, I'm running terribly late. See you there."

🎸

At 7pm, you strolled into the dressing room accompanied by the security guards. Vic, Thomas and Ethan were gathered in a room adorned with an array of intriguing items, and serendipitously, you entered just as Victoria enveloped Thomas from behind, insinuating an intimate encounter. The vibrant energy exuded in that moment reignited a sense of belonging within you.

"I can't believe I made it to this amazing gathering!" You exclaim boisterously, bursting into laughter.

"Now the Måneskin is complete!" Thomas bellows, thrusting his hands into the air as he approaches to embrace you.

"Mia cara amica Y/N, I saved some slices of pizza for you," Ethan chimes in, hugging you while holding his drumsticks.

Damiano appears, shouting something incomprehensible, and in an instant, you find yourself on his shoulders.

"She's the love of my life," Damiano exclaims, mimicking your voice and bursting into laughter. "I've loved her ever since I grasped the true meaning of love. So much love for her!"

You close your eyes and burst into laughter as Damiano playfully mocks you, creating a nostalgic atmosphere where you all feel like carefree teenagers once again.

Suddenly, Victoria appears, perched atop Ethan's shoulders, mirroring your playful stance. You lock eyes, and in that moment, the world seems to stand still, leaving only the two of you. Having been apart for several months, every reunion is an explosion of emotions. One particular phrase she shared with you after a year-long separation still resonates: "I wanna swim between your thighs” Not long after that, Victoria confessed that, inspired by the night you spent together, she wrote "For Your Love" in just 20 minutes.

Your train of thought was abruptly halted when Damiano playfully released you, allowing Victoria to seize your face with both hands. With a glimmer of excitement in her eyes, she examined your features before planting a passionate kiss on your lips.

Regrettably, the kiss was short-lived, as they needed to take the stage. You accompanied them backstage, assisting Damiano and Thomas with their attire. When you approached Victoria to lend a hand, she awaited you with a radiant smile.

"I promise, once we're finished, I'll be completely devoted to you," she pledged, punctuating her words with one final kiss before donning her blazer.

"Oh, baby, rest assured, I'll be right here, hungrily devouring every captivating moment of the concert, my desires ignited by your mesmerizing performance."

"Mmm, I can feel the exhilaration coursing through my veins, knowing that this time, those deliciously naughty cravings will surpass your wildest imagination and materialize into an intoxicating reality."

She gave you a mischievous grin and, before turning towards the stage, playfully blew you an air kiss.

The concert was absolutely mind-blowing. The four of them were rocking it harder than ever, and your heart swelled with pride, having been there since their very first dream of starting a band and supporting them through every phase. Whenever Victoria had a chance to come backstage, she would shower you with passionate kisses, leaving you breathless.

By the end of the concert, they were buzzing with energy.

"You guys were fucking amazing!! I love you so much, I missed you!"

"We missed you too!" Ethan shouted over the roaring crowd, and Thomas nodded in agreement.

"Now that you're a big-shot actress, it's rare to see you tagging along to concerts with us," teased Damiano, laughing and tousling his hair. "But enough with this drama, I know you and Victoria are burning up inside. So go on, go head to the hotel and have a blast!"

"Next time, I'll bring Giorgia along so you won't be bored out of your mind, alright?"

We were teasing each other while Victoria changed outfits, and when she emerged in a different ensemble from the one she wore on stage, you, Damiano, and Thomas attempted to mimic a challenging dance move Thomas had seen on TikTok. Ethan, on the other hand, dared you to perform the same dance while he evaluated and gave it a rating.

As soon as you laid eyes on her, she looked absolutely stunning, even more down-to-earth than she did just moments ago on stage.

"Alright, enough fooling around, I've won, and my prize is Victoria. See you later." You halted the dance, approached Victoria, and planted a kiss on her lips.

🎸

You hop into an Uber to head back to the hotel, chatting away during the ride. Conversation has never been an issue for you both—you always have so much to catch up on since your lives are jam-packed, leaving little time for heart-to-heart talks.

"Last week, I was in Paris, did you catch that? Y/N, I stumbled upon this incredible restaurant that we absolutely have to try together. It's right up your alley, with all your favorite things. The whole time I was there, I couldn't stop thinking about you," she confessed.

"Was that the day you called me, and I couldn't pick up?"

"Yes, exactly! I just wanted to hear your voice. Sometimes it sucks being so far away from you," she replied, her gaze lowered as her hand gently glided up your thighs.

"We've arrived," the driver announces, and you step out of the car.

The moments leading up to entering Victoria's hotel room were a whirlwind for you, consumed by thoughts of indulging in every inch of her captivating form.

As soon as she locked the door behind you, her eyes locked onto yours, a potent mix of desire and admiration shining through. You yearned for her, craving her presence in every imaginable way. With a seductive grin, Vic shrugged off her jacket, revealing a tantalizing hint of her confidence. Closing the distance between you, she extended her hand and deftly slipped the coat off her shoulders, letting it fall carelessly to the floor.

"Now you're all mine," she whispered, pressing her lips against your exposed shoulders, playfully nibbling at your neck.

"And you're all mine, just us here," you whispered, your voice laced with possessiveness and adoration. With a gentle caress, you twirled a strand of her hair around your finger, relishing in its silky touch against your skin. In that moment, the world faded away, leaving only the two of you entwined in a uniquely intimate bond.

With a daring move, she firmly grasped your hips, asserting her dominance. In one swift motion, she pressed you against the wall, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. A surge of anticipation shot through you as your back met the unyielding surface.

Driven by a heady mix of desire and control, her hands began their ascent. One arm encircled you possessively, drawing you closer, while the other embarked on a tantalizingly slow journey, inching higher and higher. The tension mounted, testing your patience, until at last, she cupped your breast, igniting a surge of pleasure that rippled through your entire being.

Vic pulled back her hands with a mischievous grin.

"Not yet," she said, slowly stepping backward toward her bed, still holding your hand, her gaze fixed on you.

She undressed you completely, leaving you completely naked. A triumphant smirk played on her lips as she pushed you onto the bed, delighting in the sight of her breasts bouncing.

"I missed you so much," she whispered.

Crawling on top of you, she captured your wrists, trapping you beneath her. Her lips crashed against yours, trailing down to your chin and neck. She ravished your skin, sucking and nibbling, leaving a trail of moist kisses in her path. Then, with purposeful motion, she positioned her knee between your thighs, pressing it against your moist center. A gasp escaped her lips as you instinctively moved your hips forward.

She showered your body with kisses, leaving love bites on your sides, hips, and thighs. Her gentle touch caressed your heated skin, sending shivers of delight through your body. Vic reveled in teasing you, savoring the sound of your moans. At last, she focused her attention on your most sensitive areas, her mischievous grin fueling your excitement.

Her fingers embarked on a tantalizing dance, teasing your folds and stroking your clit. As she slid two fingers inside you, she lowered her face, nestling it between your thighs. Vic's warm breath against your skin sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body. With deliberate slowness, she lavished your clit with a long, languid lick, her tongue pressing firmly against it. Your moans filled the air as you instinctively reached out, tangling your fingers in her blonde locks, pulling her closer to you.

Vic increased the speed of her fingers, skillfully exploring every inch of her pulsating pussy, creating a symphony of juicy, tantalizing sounds. She eagerly sucked on your clit, simultaneously thrusting her fingers in and out with rapidity. The intensity heightened, your muscles tensing, and your body edging closer to the precipice. You couldn't help but let out loud moans, the pleasure intensifying within you.

And then it happened. Your climax crashed over you like a wild wave, and you couldn't suppress the loud scream that escaped your lips. Waves of ecstasy engulfed you as you experienced the euphoric release.

Vic continued to bestow attention on your sensitive folds, indulging in a few more licks of your pussy before planting a gentle kiss on your thigh, a silent sign of satisfaction.

"I missed you so, so much," she whispered, her mouth and chin still glistening, soaked with anticipation.

"Well, now it's my turn..." you whispered, a mischievous grin spreading across your face as you pulled her down, aligning your eyes with hers.

You pressed your lips against hers in a passionate kiss, and then shifted on top of her, reversing roles. This time, you took the lead and embarked on fulfilling her deepest desires, transporting her to euphoric heights just as she had done for you.

#vic de angelis #victoria de angelis #victoria de angelis x reader #vic de angelis x reader #victoria de angelis fic #måneskin fic #maneskin imagine

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daddyhausen · 19 days

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｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡「 MUSICIAN/BANDS MASTERLIST 」｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

「 HOZIER 」

「 DAMIANO DAVID — MÅNESKIN 」

「 ETHAN TORCHIO — MÅNESKIN 」

「 THOMAS RAGGI — MÅNESKIN 」

「 VICTORIA DE ANGELIS — MÅNESKIN 」

「 CHRIS MOTIONLESS — MOTIONLESS IN WHITE 」

「 RICKY HORROR — MOTIONLESS IN WHITE 」

「 VINNY MAURO — MOTIONLESS IN WHITE 」

「 WILL RAMOS — LORNA SHORE 」

「 VESSEL — SLEEP TOKEN 」

「 II — SLEEP TOKEN 」

「 III — SLEEP TOKEN 」

「 IV — SLEEP TOKEN 」

「 OLI SYKES — BRING ME THE HORIZON 」

「 NOAH SEBASTIAN — BAD OMENS 」

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ykaaaras · 1 year

Text

The Preacher: Chapter 2

Pairing: DAMIANO DAVID x fictional female insert

Chapter summary: Medusa with Damiano are preparing for the funeral. Medusa encounters an unpleasant surprise.

Content: angst, priest Damiano David, supernatural, hurt/comfort, fluff, funeral, demon character, anxiety, fear

Word count: 9k

Warnings: self-loathing, a lot of self-loathing, mention of homicide

After many physical and psychological procedures at the hospital, Medusa finally got better. She still felt the pain in her sides and the nightmares still tortured her, she felt unbearable self-loathing, and honestly, every day was painful. However, she already could have been released from the hospital. After caring, of course. She talked a lot about what happened with Victoria, Ethan, and Damiano, and even though it made her realize things better, she still couldn’t feel full. She felt like an invalid, a criminal. Which at casual circumstances would be logical, it would be the truth. However, Damiano thought differently, he was sure that he can forgive Medusa her sin. The possession was actually serious, Medusa was completely weak-willing during its process.

While Medusa was still at the hospital, but was ready to be released, she sat on her bed and looked at one point somewhere in the ward’s corner. A strange feeling it was, like being let out of prison when your sins are forgiven, even though you know yourself that it isn’t right. Medusa felt a tear dropping down her cheek. She will come back to life, and what then? She will meet her sister, and what she’ll say to her? Sibyl will probably never forgive her, and Medusa clearly understood why. Medusa wouldn’t forgive such a thing too. She left Sibyl an orphan just because of her stupid imprudence. She swiped tears running down her cheeks. And why did all this shit have to happen to her? She didn’t do anything after all, besides that read that fucking book. Medusa pinched her wrist. Fool, she thought at herself.

She was sitting quietly when Victoria came to the ward. She wore a suit pans, which hugged her torso very pretty, and that white doctor’s robe. She watched how Medusa cried for a moment, then she noticed that Medusa was pinching her wrists.

“Come on, stop doing that,” Victoria got slightly angry. “We talked about this, I said to you that self-harm isn’t an escape. You’ll only feel worse.”

Medusa slowly pulled her fingers away from her wrist. Maybe, she would like to say sorry, but she didn’t say anything. She talked with Victoria a lot. About how she feels every day and Victoria prescribed her a medicine about which Medusa didn’t hear anything. She didn’t process her memories overall, everything now was blurry and those people only helped her to remember only what feeling that could be and a few facts about her past. Sleeping was hard, she was afraid to fall asleep because nightmares seemed too realistic. She wanted that Damiano would be there when she sleeps, but he often was somewhere away and Medusa most of her free time used to spend with Thomas. He used to come to her after his lectures and they used to talk about the subtleties of medicine, which Medusa honestly didn’t understand fully, but listening to it was way better than suffocating in her self-loathing and horror.

Victoria’s gaze got a little bit gentler. It seemed like she understood Medusa. Victoria slightly tilted her head.

“The funeral of your loved ones are already prepared. Would you like to attend?” she asked while coming closer to Medusa and sitting near her. “Completely understandable if not.”

Medusa shrugged. Wouldn’t attend her own parents’ and friends’ funerals would be more than disrespectful already because in the sight of Sibyl. However, Medusa didn’t want, if she’ll see dead ones, she’ll probably have a panic attack. She’ll probably start to puke or start crying loudly, distracting the mourners and paying everyone’s attention to herself. No one wants to comfort criminals. No one wants to see how criminals mourn their own victims.

“Which is better?” whispered her. “I don’t know.”

Victoria put her palm on Medusa’s shoulder and patted gently.

“Think about it, Medusa. Damiano will conduct the funeral.”

Medusa frowned. It was even worse. She really will start to wail. She felt the storm of feeling approaching already. She felt sick in her stomach. But she couldn’t not attend, and she knew that, she knew that she’ll attend. Damiano would want it. Medusa nodded.

“I’ll think about it.”

She wanted Victoria to go away because she felt the pressure to think fast when Victoria was near. Victoria stood up. She very squeezed Medusa’s shoulder very gently.

“Take your time. It is still a little bit of time,” it seemed like Victoria did read Medusa’s mind.

She walked away and closed the door behind her. Medusa felt like she was in a cage. Even though Victoria let her think as much as she needs, Medusa still felt like a caught animal, which is fed vegetables by force. But she deserved it. Coercion. She had to suffer for what she did. It was her provision to herself, she was convinced that did a deadly sin and if she won’t go to jail in this life, she’ll go to hell after death. She was so scared. And in general, every step felt like a sin, even eating was hard, Medusa thought that she didn’t deserve it at all. The only thing that helped a bit was that she could have confessed her sins to Damiano a little bit. But she knew that even that was some kind of wrong because she realized that she is attracted to Damiano. He was a priest, Medusa shouldn’t have even a little bit of those thoughts she had.

Sometimes she still hears the creature from behind the nightstand. However, it never crawls out and Medusa was scared of searching for it, she got used to the sound. It could have been some dead patient’s ghost and she didn’t want to see a corpse at all, or it could have been a doppelgänger developed from a dead baby, but Medusa couldn’t imagine what a baby would do in an adult’s psych ward. Maybe some mother hold them before their death. Medusa got cold from such thoughts. Earlier before everything she really would be interested in what is hiding there. Now she didn’t even intend to look for that creature and she hoped that it won’t follow her after she leaves the hospital. It used to happen with others, they would follow Medusa from an old, wooded cemeteries in which she used to wander with her friends. And then they haunted Medusa everywhere she goes, even at home, till she used to start losing her mind. The ghosts used to get bored then, and they didn’t like her anymore because she was always angry.

Then will those funerals be, Medusa thought, Victoria hasn’t said that. Soon she’ll be released, she wonders who will take her. Medusa squirmed in her position and took a peek at her little suitcase. Where will she live? Maybe she’ll go to a crisis center, an orphanage or a prison? All of these options seemed terrible. Where does Sibyl live? Medusa curled up, with their grandparents probably, but they would never take Medusa to live together with them, not after what she did to her parents. They probably renounced her already anyway. Medusa left a person without a place, without an entity, without an insides. She was nothing. The idea of human. The idea without meaning.

A girl closed her eyes. The darkness stood in front of her eyes, the emptiness. Medusa’s mind learned to block horrible images from her parents’ and friends’ massacre and it usually sneaked out through her nightmares while she was asleep. Probably because then she hadn’t any will to resist. She squeezed her eyelids heavily, she heard the scratching from behind the nightstand. Just she would go out of here sooner to a place where she could calm down a little bit, somewhere where wasn’t interesting for supernatural creatures, for example… Medusa didn’t know where such a place could be, those creatures like whatever.

Suddenly someone entered the ward. Medusa rushed to open her eyes. She saw Thomas entering the door. She smiled crookedly. Will he take her somewhere? Tomas took a look at Medusa’s suitcase.

“Take your things. It’s time to go,” he smiled in a friendly, gentle way.

Medusa lifted her eyes to him. Her eyelids suddenly felt hard, she felt tired and very heavy.

“Where will we go?” asked her. The anxiety rushed in her body, where did he intend to take her for real? Medusa was sure that not to his own home. Even though she thought that it would be really nice. Living with Thomas would be a God’s grace to such a monster like Medusa.

Thomas noticed that Medusa wasn’t moving from her position. She sat like she was stuck in her bed.

“Should I take your suitcase?” asked him while laughing quietly.

Thomas was nice. He acted friendly with Medusa. It was understandable that the others were kind of polite, they were working with her health, but Thomas didn’t do that. It wasn’t important to him that Medusa did so much damage. He still willingly communicated with her and even once said that he likes Medusa’s personality, which Medusa hadn’t really believed. She just thought that he considers her as his research object for studies to some project about which he never told Medusa.

“Not needed,” Medusa moved finally. “I’ll take it myself,” she stood up and went to take her suitcase. It was quite heavy almost like her eyelids. And Medusa regretted not letting Thomas carry it, for a second.

Thomas with suspicious disbelief looked at Medusa.

“You sure about that?”

Medusa nodded and lifted her belongings. They came out of the ward and Thomas closed the door behind them.

“Come,” said him, going through the hallway.

Medusa stopped again. She put her suitcase on the floor. She felt stupid and probably annoyed Thomas by not moving fast enough. Thomas turned around, and surprise appeared on his face. Medusa’s stare at him became scared and asking.

“Where?” asked.

Thomas noticed that Medusa was scared. His facial expression became comforting. Medusa stood and was looking at him, her eyes got wet again. Thomas get why she was acting like that, he saw that as a completely natural thing, he never condemned Medusa and didn’t know why even himself.

“It’s okay, Medusa,” he said gently. “We are going to the sacristy of the basilica, to Damiano.”

Medusa’s eyes got wide for a second. To the church? To Damiano? So suddenly she didn’t know how to act. Sometimes Damiano used to visit her, however, he usually was somewhere else and Medusa, of course, understood that probably he was at mass or at some kind of exorcism process. However, now they’ll meet in freedom, and he’ll conduct the funerals and… Then what? She didn’t want them to separate, even though Medusa knew that she always could meet him at the church, but her stupid feelings wouldn’t be satisfied. And in general, Medusa was a little bit scared of the churches. She wanted that, exactly him, Damiano would stay. She could not visit Victoria, could not talk to Ethan, and don’t spend time with Thomas, but being without Damiano she wouldn’t manage.

“Give that case to me,” suddenly Thomas insisted on taking Medusa’s suitcase. When he took it, Medusa felt weird, she didn’t think that she deserves help. Dragging things is suffering since childhood, no one wants to do it by themselves.

Medusa was following Thomas. Just coming out of the building into fresh air Medusa immediately felt the wind. The whole week was rainy and the other probably will be the same, so the funeral has foreseen gloomy and rainy as well. They have foreseen really gloomy, more gloomy than it already was. Thomas put things into the car’s trunk.

“You can drive?” curiously asked Meduza, because she didn’t wanna that Thomas would think that she was cocky and doesn’t want to talk with him. All the time while they were going through the hallway, neither Medusa nor Thomas, haven’t said a word. She wasn’t sure why he should think that, but she tried to convince herself that probably because he had to carry her things.

Thomas nodded. The thought of a funeral didn’t abandon Medusa’s mind, the mass will be held in the big basilica, there probably live a lot of creatures, maybe not evil, but really annoying. They’ll think that Medusa wants to interact, however, now Medusa wasn’t in the mood to play with ghosts at all. On the other hand, at the cemetery could have swarmed evil ones too, you never know, she needed to ask Damiano to bless her as much as he can, bless her whole. Like he did that time.

“Yes, I drive,” Medusa was wakened up from her thoughts by Thomas's voice. “But the car isn’t mine. It belongs to Damiano, he don’t need to use it often so he borrows it to me.”

Medusa swayed her head but didn’t say anything. The car was full of Damiano’s scent.

~~~

To enter the sacristy wasn’t necessary to walk through the church. Getting in there was possible from the inner yard. The sacristy was the room where were stored ecclesiastical items, that were used during the mass or the procession process. In this basilica, the room was quite big, at the usual churches they were considerably modest. Damiano was sitting at his desk, he probably used to accept the faithful ones, who had some kind of questions. When Medusa noticed how he was sitting, she blushed. Damiano almost laid in his chair and was swinging in it. He looked so relaxed, legs spread open, and one of their heels was put on the other’s knee. Sometimes Medusa wondered how this man exorcises demons and at the same time is so calm, it seemed like he wasn’t bothered by anything. How he was a priest altogether. But Medusa liked it. When he was near, it felt like nobody can ever hurt you. He was the guarantee of a safety. Everything that Medusa needed. When he saw them, he didn't even bother to change his sitting position, but his face lighten up with a smile.

“Here you are,” said him cheerfully. “Now I’ll have an excuse why I can’t accept old ladies who want to gossip, anymore.”

Thomas giggled. Medusa was kind of amazed by Damiano’s words, however, their good mood cheered Medusa too. Here was way more fun than at the hospital, even though she was here for not so long, she’ll go soon to the place about which she don’t know yet. She was afraid of the women’s penitentiary. Damiano looked at Medusa. Examined her carefully with his gaze. Medusa heated up.

“How is Duzzy doing?” asked gently. Medusa always shivered with some weird pleasure, when he called her Duzzy.

Medusa didn’t understand if the question was intended for her or for Thomas, so she didn’t answer, just lowered her eyes and changed her standing position, in other words, squirmed. At first, her eyes were running around the patterned carpet, then her gaze stopped at the little cross that was hanging on the wall. Medusa frowned. She wondered how badly God will punish her. People are afraid that God will punish them because they masturbate, maybe they come to Damiano to confess such sins… Medusa caught herself thinking of it and her mind with shame came back to the point where she was thinking about herself. So what about her then? She was a murderer. The tears filled her eyes again. She felt how she would love to be with her parents right now, that they would be near. She wished she could live a normal life, stupid that she didn’t recall what it was like.

“She’s alright,” answered Thomas to Damiano’s question, seeing that Medusa don’t intend to speak herself. Damiano dramatically lifted his chin and nodded.

“ I see.”

Medusa couldn’t understand what that could mean. He probably was talking sarcastically. Does it seem so clear that she’s in a completely miserable position both physically and mentally, that even the phrase ‘she’s alright’ seemed so unbelievable?

Medusa glanced at Damiano’s face by the stealth. He was so handsome. She had to ask him something so he wouldn't notice that she was meaninglessly staring.

“Could I meet my sister?” Medusa remembered Sibyl. She was surprised when Damiano shook his head.

“Only at the funeral. She asked to keep her away from you.”

Medusa’s ears got tense and she started to sweat. She somewhat expected that, but to hear that was way more painful than telling it inside of your head. Medusa would instinctively ask ‘why’, but it would be so stupid that she even refrained. It’s better to say nothing. She was thinking what will she say to her sister, apologise would be worthless. Sibyl wasn’t that person who easily forgives, she was difficult to negotiate, and honestly if not for this incident, Medusa even wouldn’t desire to meet her. Sibyl was older and during one session Ethan said, that when he talked with their mom, earlier before everything happened, she said that Sibyl used to hurt Medusa when they were children. And hurt badly, however, he didn’t say why and how, said that he don’t know, and their mom didn’t speak of that, but Medusa didn’t believe. She hardly trusted anyone. Ethan was good to her, but sometimes he seemed a little bit… Suspicious. Even though he was a therapist, he had some kind of strange mystery and something in his entity did emphasize it. All of them were strange, to be honest. It was weird how Medusa’s destiny occurred. Unbelievable.

“So I won’t be adopted by my grandparents?” quietly asked her, lowering her head. What kind of question was that. She knew the answer, and knew it really well.

“Of course not,” casually answered her question Damiano, justifying her thoughts. “Why did you think that they intend to adopt you?”

Medusa shrugged. She got unbearably sad, they all will be at the funeral, but she couldn’t be a part of that family ever again. Poor girl. Down her cheeks actually dropped a unwilling tears.

“But where I’m going to live then?” snored her from now abundantly flowing tears.

Damiano observed how Medusa cries with a curious expression on his face. He smiled comfortingly.

“Don’t worry, you’re not going to jail,” he laughed. Medusa didn’t get why he was so not worried at all. Medusa felt ruined. If not to the jail, then where? Is there a worse place? Where she deserves to be imprisoned. Where? To the penitentiary? To a psych ward?... Again, just this time for forever. Anyway, she has to be jailed somewhere, how she’ll redeem her guilt?

Medusa started to shake her head. She didn’t understand.

“Then?...”

Damiano was snapping a pen between his fingers. From his expression, it didn’t seem that he would be preparing for the funeral overall. It made Medusa frown. It felt like he was mocking her. Because of nerves, Medusa felt her limbs itching and tears became bitter. She pressed her lips together hard. Damiano’s eyes stopped running around the room and now captured directly to Medusa’s face.

“You’re going to live with me,” he snapped his pen once again and let it go. The pen jumped out of his hand and landed on the desk. “Unless you don’t want it.”

Medusa listened for a moment. Then she got a little shock. At first, she couldn’t believe what she heard. It even seemed funny to her. She stupidly and hardly, through the tears released a small laugh. But it wasn’t a funny laugh, it more reminded a question.

“But you’re… A priest?” said her lifting her head.

Damiano shrugged, he rolled the pen with his index finger. He gently chuckled.

“You think I don’t have a home? Because I’m a priest?”

Medusa felt ashamed. She just wasn’t expecting that. She had a lot of with this related questions, but she knew that she can’t ask them. It would be even more shameful than just standing in silence. Medusa a little bit lost and cowardly looked around the room, her eyes caught the cross again, but she tried not to stay there for too long. Soon she took a peek at near her standing Thomas. When he saw that she was looking, he gently nodded as if he agreed with Damiano and Medusa’s face got all red.

“Not at all,” wanted to justify herself, but then she realized that it was hopeless. “Okay,” only said, agreeing with the fact that she will have to live with a priest.

It probably appeared funny to Damiano, but he got himself not to laugh, Medusa already was damaged enough, mocking would be unethical. And Damiano didn’t want to mock. Medusa was just so cute to him, she had so much pain in her heart, and Damiano understood why. The good mood he only wanted to help her understand that she was safe. Worry and grieving really were for what, but gnawing yourself to the bone only makes everything worse. She must know what she did, but not lose her self-control, which was needed to survive it. Finally, Damiano sighed, remembering that they must talk about the funeral. He glanced at a tears swiping Medusa.

“So, you’re going to attend the funeral procession, Dussy?” asked, taking his notebook and gently spreading through its pages. He got serious. His voice tone sounded more like an order than a question. Medusa felt that, she shrugged.

“I…” started to stutter her. “I’m not sure that I want it.”

“You think it depends on your wish?” Damiano’s voice now was completely serious, so serious that was inherent to a priest before a funeral. “I think that you must. You think differently?”

“I don’t know if I’m ready enough…” quietly sighed Medusa.

“You had enough time to do it. They’re your relatives.”

Medusa had no other choice, but just to nod. He was right, but she was so scared. She couldn’t look at the faces of the dead ones, even though she knew that she’ll have to say goodbye to them forever. And what if one of the dead will resurrect as a ghost and start to follow Medusa for all of her life, everywhere she goes, reminding her of what she did. That would be deadly scary. She shivered from such thought and started to gaze at Damiano. It was strange to her how fast he changed from a kind and friendly to serious and strict. She felt so weird, that she was talking with Damiano at all. She unwillingly blushed. Deep inside it looked attractive to her. However, it was shameful for Medusa to admit it so because of that it stayed deep inside, somewhere between her brain nooks and crannies.

“When will the funeral be?” cowardly asked her, realizing that this was a piece of information that she didn’t know yet.

“Tomorrow. Noon,” Damiano answered. He marked something in his notebook and a smile appeared on his face again. “Do you have something to wear?” asked again, gazing at Medusa’s yellow hoodie.

Medusa shrugged. She hadn’t anything else to wear. She probably will have to go to her home and take black clothes. Thinking that she’ll come back to her home, was a weird feeling. Will there be the same scent and atmosphere, which used to persist there? The yellowish shade of the sun’s reflections, in the combination of slightly pink walls and furniture. It used to look a little bit unconventionally, but at the same time, it was also somehow intimate. Medusa missed that room. It seemed that centuries passed since the last time she was there. Even though she actually didn’t know how much time passed since the possession. Medusa, on the other hand, hadn’t remembered what the feeling was to be there. What a feeling was being at home, and even having them after all. Now she was, let’s say, homeless.

“Well, it means we are going to visit your home,” Damiano laughed quietly. “Maybe it will be beneficial for you. You’ll remember something tangible, for example.”

Medusa nodded. If he says so… Damiano began to stand up. He put a notebook on the desk’s surface and the pen into a pencil case. He wore a black suit jacket and approached to coat rack he took his leather jacket and put it on.

“Let’s go?” said, throwing up a bit sacristy’s keys into the air, and catching it in his palm. “Where are my car keys, Thomas?”

Thomas dug in his pocket a bit and then handed Damiano his keys to his palmful. They headed toward the exit, but Medusa left standing in her position. She kind of turned to the exit’s side but didn’t dare to go. She was stopped by the fear of actually facing the real memories. What if she’ll remember something she wouldn’t want to? What if Sibyl will be at home? Meeting her so suddenly would be really scary, so sudden without preparation, Medusa wouldn’t know what to say. But Sibyl probably has a lot to say to her. That was what Medusa thought. She stood like that looking at how Damiano and Thomas stopped by the door and turn to her. Medusa hardly blushed, but she just couldn’t, stupid, but trauma probably was so bad that even the thought of getting back to the place where she lived before committing a crime that she actually committed, was freezing. She felt nauseous and her bones froze into one place. Damiano didn’t look surprised, instead of that Medusa noticed the tenderness in his eyes. Medusa felt something in her stomach.

“It’s okay, Dussy, we just going to take some clothes,” he comforted her. “What’s the worst that can happen?” asked. “Nothing,” then answered his own question and giggled.

Medusa always felt a little bit calmer when Damiano was in such a mood. Slightly kind. He was a priest and also an exorcist, how could she not trust him? And if he isn’t nervous about anything it means there’s no actual reason to be stressed about for real. Medusa hardly moved. She approached the boys and they went toward the car.

Damiano drove not like appropriate for a priest. Medusa could say that he even almost didn’t follow road traffic regulations. But only almost. The police wouldn’t catch him because there would be nothing to accuse him of. It looked like Damiano was clever. He drove fast but didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Medusa guessed that he drive like that because of his own pleasure. Silent music was playing in the car. Medusa leaned her head to the back of the seat. The views running together with the car, through the window looked blurry.

When Damiano unlocked the doors of the apartment, Medusa almost puked. When she sniffed the scent of the home, she also felt that without all this aroma, the apartment was also reeking of the scent of blood. Is it the place where she did slaughter her parents and friends? Damiano put his keys in his pocket. He cautiously entered the apartment. Will Medusa need just to take her things from her wardrobe and they’ll leave? Suddenly, before going to her room Medusa heard something. She stopped and listen attentively. There was something in Sibyl’s room. Medusa swallowed hardly. Is sister at home? She turned to Damiano interrogatively. He shrugged but it seemed like he knew. Medusa sighed silently and with the pain. She won’t avoid it. Anyhow.

“Sibyl?!” called out Damiano. “Are you home?”

Medusa closed her eyes. He wasn’t sure whether she was at home, or he just didn’t say it to Medusa? Someone went out of the room. It was Sibyl. The sister of Medusa. In her eyes appeared the same horror as in Medusa’s when they saw each other. Now Medusa won’t avoid the hurtful speech nohow. However, she was surprised when a few minutes passed and Sibyl didn’t say a word. She stared at Damiano as if she was asking what Medusa was doing here.

“We came to take black clothes for the funeral. What you’re doing here?” Damiano pushed Medusa so she start to move from the hall to the hallway. At first, she obeyed but then she stopped again. She grasped that Sibyl is not going to say anything. It was a way uglier feeling than Medusa thought. It would be better if Sibyl would deliver a painful speech or shout at her, but Medusa got that Sibyl just doesn’t have what to say. She did not consider Medusa her sister anymore, or her relative, and nothing that would be related to her, nothing that was worth talking to.

“I…” Sibyl started to say to Damiano. “I also pick things. Today I’m moving to my grandparents for good. And… picking my parents’ things that I would like to put to their grave.”

Medusa’s eyes got wet. She was curious about what things she had picked. Medusa thought that she knows, it could be mom’s perfume bottles and her dad’s favorite tie. Also, the souvenir statues that they brought from the various countries. Her parents used to love traveling and their souvenirs were so precious to them. A little bit and Medusa will start to cry and shout because of sorrow and self-loathing, but she controlled herself.

“Okay,” said Damiano. “We’re here not for long,” he gently took Medusa’s hand. “Come on, Dussy, let’s go.”

Medusa came to her room. Her room had pinkish walls and from behind burgundy-colored curtains sneaked a greyness of the day. The room looked gloomy and sad. However, no matter how weird a feeling it was to be here, she still couldn't remember anything. Only what her brain did recall about the parents’ belongings which they loved. And even though the scent of blood was very strong. Medusa couldn’t say how she killed her loved ones. Damiano probably notice that Medusa was only confused. She didn’t think anything sensible, her head didn’t process any useful detail of the memories. He frowned because Medusa just stood and didn’t do anything. Again.

“Find those clothes,” he ordered to her, and Medusa looked at him with a gaze that said ‘I don’t know where it is’. “Comeee on,” Damiano whined and pointed his finger to the chest of the drawers standing nearby.

Medusa nodded and opened one drawer. There was underwear, she frowned, blushed, and hurried to close it. Finally, only when she opened all of the drawers one by one, she found black clothes. She messed them up a little bit till she decided that found a dress appropriate for the funeral. She took it to her lap and looked at Damiano.

“That’s all,” said her. “I think this one will be suitable.”

Damiano tilted his head and its gesture showed Medusa to come with him.

“Let’s go out of here. Your presence in the apartment disturbs your sister.”

Medusa clenched her teeth. Hearing that was a wreaking feeling. Grasp that it was the truth, felt unrealistic. Sibyl and Medusa, now at their age, kind of got along earlier, the pique about sibyl hurting Medusa in their childhood was already faded. Now everything turned around.

Her nod was blunt. Passing by Sibyl, she felt her legs numb. She thought that she’ll fall. Sibyl was talking with Thomas. She didn’t seem happy at all, she probably told painful things to Thomas instead. Maybe not about Medusa, but clearly nothing vivacious. Thomas looked serious too.

“Well,” opening the door and holding Medusa’s hand said Damiano. “See you, tomorrow,” He waved at Sibyl. She slightly and a little bit confused waved back to him.

Thomas said goodbye to Sibyl too and came out of the apartment after Damiano and Medusa. Sibyl will stay alone in a blood-stinking home again. Medusa lowered her eyes. That’s all. Tomorrow will probably be the last day when she’ll sees her own sister. She wondered how much time had to pass till she’ll get used to it. Medusa kicked the little stone on the path. Stupidity.

“Damiano?” Medusa lifted her eyes to him when he let off her hand and started to look for car keys in his pockets.

“Mhm,” mumbled Damiano kindly, looking at Medusa from above.

“Where I’m going to sleep tonight?” asked her, but deep inside she thought that she suspect the answer. She’ll probably need to spend a night at the sacristy. However, Medusa got surprised by Damiano’s reply.

“At my place.”

“At your home?” Medusa frowned. Damiano gently laughed.

“Not this time. At my place, I mean at the church's rectory. I’ll spend a night there myself tonight. I need to prepare for the funeral.”

“Okay,” blushed Medusa. She felt stupid because she thought that she’s gonna stay at Damiano’s home. It seemed even bold and she was wondering what Damiano was thinking about that if he thought about it at all. Medusa was overthinking everything now.

~~~

The church’s rectory was a kinda big apartment, which was set up with a bedroom and office. In the bedroom, big windows opened the view to the fountain. Medusa stared there for some time. The bed was also quite big, there could have fit two people that was for sure. But it was a sin to even think that she could sleep in one bed with Damiano. However, such a thought was somehow pleasurable that she let it in for a while. She even fantasized that they could cuddle. But when Damiano came into the room she remembered that he was a priest after all because his white collar was seen so clearly that it was hard to forget that. And since he was a priest she shouldn’t be thinking even about touching him. More than he takes her hand himself.

Medusa stood holding her clothes and a few more things she took from her home in her lap. She wasn’t sure where she should put all of it.

“Just place them on the bed,” Damiano noticed that Medusa was still standing a little bit confused. She obeyed and put her things on the bed covered with a red blanket. Then sat. She stared through the window. The water in the fountain looked grey like everything else. To be honest, in all this greyness that persisted inside and outside, only that bed’s blanket stuck in the eyes.

It was getting dark outside and Damiano turned the light on in the bedroom.

“You’re going to sleep here,” he said and smiled at Medusa. “If you need something, I’ll be at my office.”

Medusa nodded.

“Okay,” answered her and felt stupid again just this time she didn’t know why.

When Damiano left the room, Medusa left sitting on the bed. She swung her legs. She has to go to the bathroom and change into pajamas. But suddenly she was hit by the perception, that she forget to take her pajamas from home. She was trying so hard not to dig into her underwear drawer for too long, that she forgot to take half of the things that she needed. Sleeping with clothes on would be uncomfortable, but it was the only option that was left to her. Medusa’s clothes were very uncomfy, sleeping with a hoodie would be too hot, but underneath it, she had only a bra. Also, she wore jeans. So the only choice was to sleep just with a hoodie, even though it stank like blood. The scent she brought back from her home. She was impatient to put it into the washing machine.

She slowly walked away from the room. She had to find a bathroom. Medusa wandered a little bit around the apartment. Then coming through Damiano’s office, thought maybe she should ask him. She took a peek through the door crack. Damiano sat at his desk, put one leg on another just as he sat in the sacristy. He watched his phone, seemed like he was reading something. Near him on the desk was laying a pile of papers and a couple of books. Medusa half-opened the door, Damiano lifted his head in sudden and placed his phone on the table by other things.

“I wasn’t expecting that you’ll need me so soon. So, what happened?” Damiano smiled cunningly and changed his sitting position. Now he leaned his head on his palms and put elbows on the surface of the desk.

At first, Medusa shrugged and for a moment realized that maybe she did a mistake by coming here. She could bet that bathroom will be at the most obvious place ever. But now it was too late. The decision was made and she had to admit what she came for to him.

“I need to use the bathroom. Could you tell me where it is?”

It seemed like Damiano got surprised, but so unrealistically. Medusa wondered why he should pretend, but then he said.

“You only needed to look directly in front of your bedroom. I left doors open on purpose.”

“Oh.”

Then Damiano added.

“Forgive me, I forgot to mention it earlier.”

Medusa shook her head.

“It’s okay,” she said and cursed herself inside, that she couldn’t manage to look in front of her nose. She looked everywhere just not there it was.

Damiano lowered his eyes somewhere onto the papers as if he was expecting Medusa will go to use the bathroom. But Medusa was still standing, she needed some clothes made for sleep to sleep with. Maybe there were some nightdresses or pajamas, there was a wardrobe and a lot of drawers in that room after all. Medusa was sure that it wasn’t for sacred clothes, it was kept in the sacristy. Just she was afraid to look in there without the permission, of course.

After some time Damiano lifted his head again. Medusa held the door handle and swung it back and forth.

“Something else?” asked Damiano, his voice was so soft as if he was talking to a kitten. Medusa got a little bit surprised by his changed tone.

“I need pajamas…” Medusa squinted guiltily. “I forgot it at home.”

Damiano shrugged like saying ‘and?’ but soon his eyes widened when he grasped what Medusa wanted from him for real.

“Well, something such as pajamas I don’t have here.”

Medusa nodded but deep inside she felt disappointed. She didn’t want to sleep with that hoodie, it had too many horrible experiences. But then, Damiano had begun to stand up from his chair.

“But maybe we’ll find something…”

Medusa was watching his face while he was walking past her. Damiano gestured his hand so Medusa would go with him. Medusa followed him.

Damiano entered the room and opened the wardrobe. There were hanging a lot of black shirts and white ones. Damiano took them and spread them in front of him.

“Do you think these would be suitable for you?”

Medusa wanted to shrug but realizing that she won’t get anything better nodded. She wasn’t sure how she felt about sleeping in Damiano’s shirt, it was so weird, but Damiano didn’t look very affected by it, he just stared at Medusa waiting for a verbal answer. Finally, Medusa understood it.

“They’re okay… I guess,” she said and Damiano put those shirts into her lap. Before walking away he stood one more time to take a peek at Medusa. She looked broken. She needed sleep, but she was afraid of nightmares. Perceive that she won’t be able to talk to her sister ever again should have felt terrible, and not having any memories even if they were bad, was probably tiring. Damiano peered at her face seeing how she lowers her eyes feeling his gaze on her.

“Don’t be afraid, Dussy, it’s safe here,” Damiano comforted her. “I’ll be nearby.”

Medusa nodded. She wondered if there were creatures here. But she realized that she was practically in a church and this thought calmed her down. Even if there were any, they won’t be evil. Also, Damiano will be here.

“Thank you.”

Damiano left. Medusa used a bathroom and dug into the blankets. It felt so nice to lay not in the hospital and all clean and… In Damiano’s shirts. She squirmed, her feet were cold. The blankets here were warm, soft, and cozy, the blanket itself was royal size, and it could have covered up few people for sure. Medusa considered if she should turn the night light off. Then she chose to sleep in the dark anyway. When the light was turned off the reflections of the street lights started to penetrate through the window. In the dark only with a little lamp on she was used to sleeping at the hospital. Medusa fell asleep.

She probably was deep asleep and had a nightmare or maybe experienced a sleep paralysis because opened her eyes she saw something in the dark. She felt that she can’t move and the first thought that came to her mind was ‘not again’. Her eyes started to run around the room, but they couldn’t grope anything, the light wasn’t penetrating through the window, and she didn’t see the wardrobes or the nightstand. However, there was something else. Something alive.

Medusa tried to make a sound but she managed only to squeal. She got deadly scared when someone started to approach her. God, she thought, please save me. No matter what that was, please don’t let it possess me again, she preyed. But then in front of her, she saw some kind of human. At first, she noticed little, red horns and later she perceived that it was a girl. In the dark, her facial features were blurred, but Medusa still could have seen them. A girl came near the bed. Medusa saw how she smiles. Medusa couldn’t move and honestly, that girl, whoever she was could have done everything she wanted to her. She had horns, which means she was a devil, Medusa thought. It was so scary and when that devil extended her finger and squeezed Medusa’s forehead a little bit, she let the silent squeal again. However, the girl’s finger was soft and Medusa almost could smell the scent of the perfume. That creature even wore clothes.

“Have trouble sleeping?” asked her and chuckled quietly. Maybe it was some kind of ghost, that used to live here? “That means you don’t know what’s waiting for you. You can do way worse things than kill people whom deep down you didn’t even love. You’re happy just don’t let yourself understand that.”

What she was talking about? Medusa shut her eyes. Medusa wouldn’t even ever think that she doesn’t love her parents or friends. And even more, so that she’s happy that had killed them.

“We both would be such good friends. It’s such a shame that you got along with that… Priest. I have no idea why but he’ll really try to separate me from you,” suddenly girl spread her both hands at Medusa. “Booh… I am you.”

Medusa felt herself flinch unwillingly when that girl scared her. Medusa would have said something, but unfortunately, she couldn’t speak. So she let that creature say heartbreaking and horrible things to her.

“I’ll follow you until you start losing your mind,” a girl warned, and Medusa sensed that she was saying that as if she was joking, then she heard a silent laugh that proved her guess right. “You’d ask why right? Just because. You look like a fun person.”

It was so strange to Medusa what that girl was talking about. Medusa never in her life hadn’t seen such a creature yet. Only one explanation was that she was a ghost. But what such ghost would do in a church rectory? She looked evil, but at the same time kind of not. Very weird, those horns were triggering Medusa because they made her doubt. They were even a little bit funny but what creature without chimeras and animals in general, would have them, only a devil. But Medusa couldn’t remember seeing devils. Medusa was scared, but she wasn’t feeling like she feels when she sees a really evil creatures. Even though a girl was talking unpleasant things, she was always giggling and Medusa felt like she wasn’t talking seriously.

“You like him?” asked the creature. However, once again grasping that Medusa can’t speak, answered her own question. “Of course you like him, he’s hot, right? But I don’t like him… I don’t know why. He’s somehow weird.”

A girl sat down near Medusa’s legs and patted her shins.

“Poor girl you are.”

Medusa frowned as hard as her strength let. She wished for a morning to come sooner and this creature would disappear. Or maybe she wasn’t afraid of the light? Maybe she was some human who broke into the room through the window? Maybe those horns aren’t real? Maybe someone was playing with Medusa? But her doubts vanished when she remembered that she can’t move. She stuck her gaze to the ceiling.

“He should have some conscience, I hope you understand that he exorcised that demon — who was my mate by the way — not without a reason?”

A mate, Medusa thought, that means she’s actually a demon. Medusa got cold. A little bit too cold.

“You fell into the trap. The only way out is to trust me,” a girl squinted. “Will you trust me?”

Medusa tried to say something and she almost succeed, but a girl suddenly stood up and pushed her finger on Medusa’s lips.

“Shhh… He might hear us,” she gently spread Medusa’s lips and started to stick her finger into Medusa’s mouth. Now Medusa had not even a little idea what was happening. She stick her finger deeper and deeper till Medusa started to choke. A girl was giggling and Medusa choked and choked louder and louder and louder…

“Medusa…”

Medusa couldn’t understand who had said that because she started to catch air so hard she jumped and sat in her bed. Her eyes started running around the room like crazy, looking for a creature. Finally, she grasped that the room is lightened up and Damiano is in it. She probably was making loud sounds. He interrogatively looked at Medusa.

“I… I…” Medusa wasn’t sure how to explain, everything already felt like an ordinary nightmare now, so she decided that it was probably just a nightmare, only a very realistic and vivid one. But like Damiano often says — nightmares are harmless. “I had a nightmare.”

Medusa noticed disbelief in Damiano’s eyes. He came near and sat on the bed.

“What had you dreamt?” asked.

Medusa began to reproduce her nightmare. She interpreted that the girl was a demon. She said it was her mate, so she knew it.

“It was a demon…”

Damiano’s eyes extended for a second. Could have it been the demon that had possessed her before? But that had to be impossible, Damiano thought, he sent away that demon. Also, here in such a place as a church rectory, it couldn’t even appear.

“In what shape?”

“Human.”

It was unexpected to Damiano. He wanted to ask what that human looked like, but he refrained. That would be a memory probably too disturbing for Medusa. Then Damiano realized that she probably didn’t have a nightmare. He quickly thought about the sleep paralysis demon. And that calmed him down, they usually aren’t real.

“I couldn’t talk or move and she looked very very human.”

She.

“You probably experienced a sleep paralysis,” comforted Damiano Medusa. “Nothing harmful. It can be sometimes. And especially when you’re traumatized.”

Medusa nodded. It could have been the truth that what she saw was simply unreal. The horrors of subconsciousness reproduce in form of hallucinations. She trusted Damiano, not her own head or feelings. After that incident, Medusa overthinks a lot of things. She lifted her head to Damiano. He was watching her.

“Come,” suddenly said opening his arms. “Maybe a hug will help you to calm down.”

For a moment, Medusa seemed to realize that Damiano knew. Knew how much she likes him. She crawled out of her blanket. Damiano’s shirt was a little bit too oversized for her, she snagged in them trying to reach Damiano. Then gently sat in his lap. She felt how he put his palm on the top of her head and softly patted her. Medusa closed her eyes, she started to blush. Damiano didn’t say anything. His fingers were running through her hair and Medusa realized how safe she was. The safest as she could be. All those demons were fading in her memory while she was with Damiano. She didn’t feel how she started to sink herself. Finally, calm and quiet she sank into a deep sleep.

~~~

Medusa saw how to the funeral are gathering many of her known people. She wore her black, lacy dress, stood in the doorway of the entryway, and didn’t dare to go to the armory hall. The mass should have begun soon. She noticed how Sibyl enter the room. Maybe she had to go to her and say something for the last time. Apologize. What else she could say? Even though the anxiety was shattering, she decided to try. She cowardly sneaked out of the entryway and started to quietly and slowly so nobody noticed, approaching Sibyl. She heard how many of the attendance were silently wailing. Medusa never felt worse. She just hoped that she’ll reach Sibyl without being noticed. At the mass, she must keep her distance from everyone else. At first, Sibyl hadn’t noticed Medusa, but when she felt how Medusa touch her shoulder she flinched. Her eyes extended from an unpleasant surprise. She didn’t try to say something, she just interrogatively stared at Medusa.

“Sibyl…” started to say Medusa but didn’t know how she should continue. Her sister still was silent. She was so angry, sad, and disappointed, but what else Medusa could expect? Medusa couldn’t find any other words and just said. “I’m sorry. So much.”

Sibyl snorted a laugh. At that moment, someone else touched her shoulder. They glared at Medusa judgmentally for a moment but said nothing.

“I’m very sorry…” said them to Sibyl.

Medusa walked away. That was the last time and it was so… Quiet and stupidly sad. Medusa’s eyes got wet and soon hot tears were running down her face. Well, at least she said that, at least she apologized. It was stupid to expect, but maybe now the sorrow will leave her heart.

Finally, it was time to gather in the church. While everyone tried to approach to dead ones as closely as possible, Medusa stood at the very end of the church. She tried not to look at those corpses, she didn’t take a peek not even once. She shuddered at the mere thought of those cold bodies for which she once had such warm feelings for them and they for her.

When the mass began, Medusa started to glance at Damiano who was holding them. He looked so calm and cold. A little bit different that yesterday when he hugged her. He was dressed in weird clothes and spoke words that Medusa didn’t understand. She never visited churches. Maybe that was her mistake.

Medusa started to look around the church. It was beautiful here, but suddenly her eyes caught one thing. They haven’t stayed there for long, but then suddenly came back. She froze, her eyes were wide as never now. There, not very far away, a little bit separated from the crowd, between pillars stood a girl. And… Her facial features were completely the same as the girl’s in Medusa’s nightmare, everything was like in it, as much as Medusa had remembered. Just that Medusa couldn’t have said if she had horns or not because she wore a little pillbox hat with laces. For a moment a girl didn’t notice that Medusa was watching. Her eyes were impaled on Damiano. Impaled so intensively that it seemed like she’ll suck his soul out. She had a little cunning and soft smile on her face. Then Medusa’s stare probably got her attention. She turned to Medusa, looked surprised, then grinned to Medusa. That was girly, but the most creepy grin Medusa had ever seen. A girl lifted two of her index fingers to her lips as if she was saying to Medusa to smile together. But when she saw that Medusa hadn’t had any intention to do so, she came near and stood beside Medusa. Medusa felt shivers running down her spine. A girl looked at Medusa, then at Damiano. It’s a hallucination, it’s only a hallucination, tried to calm herself down Medusa, she’s not real…

“You think he can’t see me?” softly asked her and Medusa recognized the voice. She shook her head. “Ah,” a girl laughed slightly. “You wanna I’ll prove you wrong?”

Medusa shook her head again. However, her interlocutor cheerfully jumped a little in her spot and then made her way through the people to the altar. Medusa was watching her. It was so scary.

A girl climbed on the pulpit near Damiano and did a little mimic with her fingers as if she is spreading his lips into a smile. But she wasn’t touching him, just playing something. It seemed that no one saw her, and Medusa calmed down a little. However, when Medusa looked more attentively, she saw that he was slowly reacting to the girl’s movements. But he was acting like he was completely unbothered. If he sees her that means other sees her too. But maybe they’re so concentrated on dead ones and Damiano’s sermon, that aren’t paying attention? That would be too weird. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

He was so cold and unresponsive, if Medusa wasn't so intense, she probably wouldn’t notice any reaction from him. Maybe her eyes were lying to her?

But he can see the girl. He can see. Or at least feel, the thought didn’t leave Medusa. Damiano saw, he saw. But he can pretend so good. So good, that it’s even creepy. A tear dropped down Medusa’s cheek. He sees just pretends so good…

A/N: Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it. Any kind of attention motivates to write further 😊❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Masterlist 🩸

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artinandwritin · 2 months

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would love to listen to the promises promises playlist if you were ever comfortable sharing it!! You know I love playlists loll

OH yeah ofc!! Here you go!!!

I tried to put the songs a bit in order but bc a lot of these are not just related to plotbeats or character moments but are just in there bc they help with my writing mood as well, that turned out to be harder than i thought lmao

Hope you enjoy tho!! <33

#my current faves are the fruits and wolf #the fruits reminds me of siri and the berserker council and the way they threat her throughout her life #wolf actually reminds me of a part we don't get to see in promises promises bc its before the story takes place #which is why its at the start #of the playlist #something something gussiri going through a rough spot #if anyone is up for it id love to infodump about it LMAO #it also reminds me of the whole fic in total #like in animatic form it would be all events playing out during that song wheeze #dont mind my måneskin obsession i absolutely love their music #coraline gets me everytime #so siri coded if you actually read the translation #ty sm for asking!!!#playlists are sm fun #promises promises

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filthforfriends · 4 months

Text

Chapter 19: Northern Lights

Author's Note

Word count: 8.2k

Read the rest here!

Operating on autopilot, you brush your teeth while a sense of existential dread settles just under your sternum. It's heavy, asphyxiating. Today was gonna be hard. Largely because you weren’t allowed to have a hard day since it’d been Damiano that had a crisis: relapse. He needed your support and you’re pondering the extent of this responsibility when the drug test on the back of the toilet catches your eye. Somehow, you’d forgotten about it.

Negative for everything. Except marijuana, which Dami had already disclosed. Overwhelmed, you slide down to the floor with your back against the wall. You didn’t feel anything. Not relief, nor anger. Not even disappointment. Stranger than numbness was the urge to cry when your eyes won’t even tear up. Standing upright then spitting out the foamy toothpaste, you stare at your reflection. Cry. If you’re gonna do it, do it. Because after this you need to be strong. So cry. Fucking cry. The tears don’t come. Your dry eyes burn, and despite sleeping relatively well, you look drained of life force.

In the name of coping mechanisms, you devote an extra five minutes to a makeup look that always makes you feel put together and pretty. Today it comes off as clownish. The blush is too intense and the eye shadow garish. There isn’t enough time to take it off and start again so you avoid looking in the mirror and shift focus to getting dressed. One thing at a time. Pairing this mantra with caffeine will likely be the only force propelling you through today. One thing at a time still feels like more than you could handle, but not functioning wasn’t an option, either. Your chest tightens.

“Hey, goodmorning.” Damiano’s voice startles you. He typically got up around when you left for work.

“Shit! What time is it?”

“It’s 8:07, don’t worry.” Dami harshly clears his throat twice, trying to get rid of his gravelly morning voice. It's almost an accurate replication of normalcy, except he won’t look at you. Damiano begins making espresso and his eyes briefly dart in your direction.

“What do you want for breakfast?” The moment’s cognitive dissonance is truly formidable.

“I –” Obviously he was trying to make last night up to you. Should you accept? Do you even want to?

“I – no! No. You – we’re not just gonna skip to this part.” He looks so fucking wounded, a kind of woundedness that can only be achieved when you’re not expecting the pain. Only visible for a second, then he hides it. Still, you’re in agony.

“You – I need…I – don’t do that! Don’t make that fucking face at me. It’s been less than 12 hours and we were sleeping most of them. How can you reasonably expect me to have processed last night in less than 12 hours?”

“You’re right, it's not fair. I guess that I –”

“If you know it's not fair then why are you so fucking destroyed over it!? I can’t –” You stare out the window, thanking whatever cosmic entity may be that you can’t cry right now.

“I’m sorry.”

“No!” Your voice comes out high pitched and guttural in anguish. “No, don’t –” You stamp your foot. It was a childhood habit that you loathed, but still made an appearance in moments of emotionally charged exasperation.

“I’m sorry. I was just, I was just…” He trails off, staring at the floor. You stomp across the apartment and briefly strangle him in a hug. Dami is so surprised that by the time he embraces in return, you’re pulling away, keeping your gaze fixed on the chipped corner of the kitchen cabinets. Because meeting his eyes up close, even for a millisecond, might be more than you can bear. With a large step back, you attempt verbal communication.

“Don’t apologize for having an emotional reaction.”

“I’m sorry for relapsing.”

“That you can apologize for.” Next you stare at the catch all basket by the door and feel your face heat up. “I just can’t take you looking so devastated over me not wanting to play house right now.” Had you not demanded last night that he disclose the hardship of Substance Abuse Disorder to you? This morning he does so for all of two nanoseconds and you react like this.

“No, I’m sorry. I take it back.” Of what you can see out of the corner of your eye, Dami’s expression is perplexed.

“You take what back?”

“That reaction. I want to know what you’re genuinely feeling right now. I want to support you through this.” You steel yourself before meeting his eyes, but Dami is, again, intent on staring at the ground. He presses his lips together while rapidly shaking his head.

“What?”

“You shouldn’t be, ugh…” Damiano sighs heavily. In the background, the water boils audibly. He returns to his task of making espresso while crafting a sentence. One hand is braced against the counter. It's the same hand that caressed the bare skin of your stomach last night. What the fuck had you been thinking? Even while disparaging yourself, you can feel how sturdy and reassuring and loving Damiano’s body was as it lay behind you. He couldn’t have pulled you any closer without undressing. And it felt so natural.

“You shouldn’t be consoling me. I’m the only one that should be apologizing, even if you’re angry, if you yell at me, whatever. And you don’t, ugh…” Dami uses the hand not bracing to gesticulate. “Supporting me through relapse doesn’t mean not being pissed at me. I – that reaction,“ he points towards the bathroom, “was perfectly fine. It was fine. I just wasn’t sure how to acknowledge what happened and be like ‘oh, hey! Sorry I relapsed. Can I make you breakfast? Not in I’m-making-amends-through-this-gesture-and-if-you-accept-I-will-expect-it-to-count-towards-my-forgiveness kinda way, but in a I’m-up-and-want-to-do-something-nice- for-you kind of way.” You take a beat to think and settle on meeting him in the middle.

“I will take an omelet and a double, please.”

“Okay.” He sighs in relief and sort of smiles. Also inhaling deeply for the first time since probably yesterday, you return your focus to getting ready. When selecting a pair of shoes, the safe at the bottom of the closet is a reminder to give Dami back his phone and keys. The memory of the night before comes crashing down; his suicidal ideation, how tortured he was by self-hatred. You end up on all fours, studying the scratched floor of your closet while weathering this rat’s nest of emotions.

You’d let Dami back into your life knowing relapse was inevitable and deciding it was an inevitability you were prepared for. However, he’d been so even keel since coming home that it made yesterday jarring as a reality check.

“Hey, um,” he knocks on your bedroom door, tone uncertain.

“Come in.” You don’t feel short of breath until your voice comes out as such. Dami slowly opens the door, holding your plate and espresso.

“You okay?”

“Just getting your stuff out of the safe.”

“Oh.” Awkwardly, he steps out of the room and turns his back. You’re so caught up that, on the first try, you enter in the wrong code. The safe beeps abrasively and a small light at the top of the keypad flashes red. On the second try you make a point not to be frantic and get it right.

“Okay, here you go.” The metal door of the safe slams shut. Your nervous system is so fried that you jump, heartbeat skipping.

“Right.” Damiano swivels, both hands occupied with your breakfast just as both of your own hands are occupied with his belongings. In disjointed gestures you try to exchange the items before realizing it's physically impossible.

“Let's set it on the dining room table.”

“Right, yes. Good idea.” You cringe at the silence following Damiano putting the dishes down. “Um…okay, so now you will be late if you don’t leave soon, actually,” he calls from the kitchen.

“Shit!” You pull on your most well-worn pair of boots. Even scurrying around the apartment, they omit a sophisticated click each time the sole collides with the flooring. Upon making it to the door, you look back to see Dami sitting at the table and eating. In front of your empty chair is the untouched omelet and full cup of espresso he’d so tenderly made for you. The scene was reminiscent of a date night. As if he’d cooked dinner for two, then been stood up. So Damiano was left to eventually eat his meal all alone, after accepting you wouldn’t show. Cold food and wondering what he’d done wrong.

Dami isn’t reading into the moment at all. His down-turned eyes are preoccupied with his phone, but his words from last night are still fresher than a wound needing stitches. The phrase “do you a favor and throw myself off the roof” is running through your head on repeat, even when you try to direct your thoughts elsewhere. In fact, Damiano was standing almost exactly where you are now when he’d said it.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Your voice comes out frail and shaking, so much so that Dami’s head snaps up.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll be fine.” Sweetheart. He misses the slip-up because he’s preoccupied by concern, setting his fork down to examine you. “I’m just gonna treat it like any other day: eat this, work out, go to treatment.” Unable to feel your face, but aware that this is an appropriate time to nod, you consciously perform the gesture. “I mean, obviously, I don’t feel good right now, but I’ll be okay. A lot of rehab was focused on getting back on the wagon, so to speak.”

“‘Kay.”

“Like, I hate myself right now, but I’m not gonna throw my sobriety away and go on a bender or something. Because I know that ultimately I’ll end up feeling so much shittier. Try not to worry.” He smiles in good humor: knowing, gentle, calm. “I’m sure you will anyways, but you don’t need to.” The difference in Damiano’s temperament since devoting himself to treatment is suddenly so evident. His chest isn’t puffed out with bravado, speaking from the perspective that he’s less fallible than your typical mortal. He’s not manic, you realize.

“You’re sure?” Dami’s conciliatory expression is brimming with empathy.

“Yes, my love,” he placates, then catches himself. “Erm – y/n, sorry. Basically, I…I’ve examined my behavior a lot. Not just in the sense of hurting people, but also – I’m totally springing this on you, so I’ll skip to the point. As a person, I am done behaving that way, okay? So you’ll go to work; I’ll go to therapy where they’ll probably treat me like a pipe bomb. Then we’ll complain about how shitty our days were while eating takeout.” After the alarming way he’d spoken last night, it was a relief to hear Damiano genuinely sound like himself. The steady, resilient version of himself that predated addiction and the omnipresent hysteria.

You’d been holding out for it, gazing into the sky every night as if searching for the Northern Lights. Damiano acting like the man you fell in love with again – despite the incognizance with which he did so – was worthy of exactly this display. Opulent shades of violet and greens so electric they become yellow hurtling across a midnight canvas with the abandon of a child first learning to dance.

“Are you okay?” You’re about to say yes, out of habit, then realize that you could choose honesty over politeness and admit that the answer is no. But what’s the result? Being late for work and, in the process, interrupting Damiano’s routine. He needed the control and predictability his schedule offered, now more than ever. Allowing him to expend even an ounce of this precious resilience on comforting you was downright irresponsible. Dangerous, even, because you had no idea how much tranquility the day’s events would require.

But it wasn’t that simple. Concealing your emotions had previously fueled communication failures which contributed to breaking up. Logically, mending things meant doing the opposite. Damiano’s simple question left you to choose between his sobriety and your relationship. The choice was obvious. You’d made it before. It was the exact choice presented to you at the time of the breakup. An event from which you feel so far removed, that it might have happened in a past life. Simultaneously, in this moment, the pain is fresh enough to sting, as if it was merely yesterday that your heart was mercilessly cleaved in two. You want to scream, out loud, how the fuck did we end up here again?

“Y/n?” He cocks his head then his eyebrows furrow. You remind yourself that Damiao is not your boyfriend. You cannot expect him to provide the level of comfort and support a primary partner would. If you needed it, then too fucking bad, you’d have to get it elsewhere. This was a decision you made, a boundary you’d set. Because a stronger version of the fragile girl quivering by the front door knew that Damiano solely focusing on his own wellbeing was necessary for his sobriety. So you try to pull it together and decide on reaching out to Sam during lunch break. They had the wisdom of someone twice their age with the inner serenity to match.

“Hey.” Damiano stands upright, rounding the corner of the table. The sound of the chair legs against the floor makes you flinch, breaking your train of thought. Holding a hand out, you stop Dami from approaching.

“I feel guilty for not having time to eat the breakfast that you made me. I really don’t want to start out today with you feeling rejected or lonely and end up reaching for substances to cope.”

“I don’t feel rejected and just the thought of liquor makes me nauseous, right now.”

“Liquor…you know liquor isn’t the only thing I’m worried about.”

“Well, frankly, the other stuff is a lot harder to get, especially if you’re not willing to poison yourself. It's also fucking expensive in Rome, so I’d have to be carrying around a fuck ton of cash and look." Damiano picks his wallet up from the table and opens it. The only currency that falls out are some coins and a two dollar bill Victoria gave him for good luck. “The fuck am I gonna get with this?” He holds it up, almost grinning until he examines your features and realizes that this has been the opposite of reassuring. Dami immediately picks up on turmoil brewing beneath the surface, but little does he know that it’s more like a cataclysm.

“You’re thinking about it.” It's a struggle to force the words out, like your body doesn’t want them to be true.

“Last night I was, yeah.” He admits it quietly, but his whole demeanor changes. Dami felt triumphant a moment ago, for not using drugs, not giving himself the means to acquire drugs. Instead of validating his achievement, you’d disregarded his triumph and replaced it with a profound feeling of defeat. It was quite literally the worst thing you could have done.

“And I know it – that I, um…” Dami sighs, nervously switching his weight back forth. “God damn it. So last night was one of my lowest moments and I really, really fucking wish you weren’t there to see it because it's not representative of who I am or how I feel. What I – baby, those were just thoughts. They were just thoughts, I promise.” His voice is so fond that your heart hurts. “I don’t ever plan on acting on them. I’m not gonna hurt myself. I know I really scared you when I said –”

“Mm mm!” You gesture for him to stop talking while squeezing your eyes shut and turning away. The urge to cry creates pressure in your throat, but the tears won’t come. So it feels like you might choke or be sick.

“Take a deep breath,” Damiano coaches after falling silent for a moment. You comply, grounding yourself via powerful inhales through your nose, exhaling out of your mouth. It was adjacent to a breathing technique you’d learned in yoga. The feeling mostly passes.

“Okay. I can’t talk about this right now.”

“Of course.”

“I want to talk about it. I will talk about it. I just need…”

“Time to process.” He finishes your thought after observing several seconds of you staring at the ceiling, searching for the right words.

“Yes. All I want in the entire world right now is for you to focus on yourself. Get stable, do things that make you happy. Don’t worry about me.”

“...okay.” Damiano scrunches his nose up while slowly turning away, as if he’s biting back the words he’d like to say.

“Okay.” You pick up your keys and double check that you haven’t forgotten your phone. “So, I’ll see you –”

“I am worried. About you, I am worried.” The silence hangs over your heads like a noose. “You’ve got so much going on internally that I can’t read you. We’ve been together for so long that it’s really unsettling.” You’re at a loss for how to respond. “You used to be so forthright with me. Like absolutely transparent until…until things started going downhill.” Dami shoves his hands in his pockets, shoulders raised in a defensive gesture. “And I want to take things at your speed. I want to fucking – to be transparent with you. But you, you…” He sighs heavily and relaxes, turning his gaze towards the window where morning light is seeping in.

“What?”

“I know we said we would wait until things weren’t so in flux, which –” he laughs bitterly.. “Which, god damn, I somehow made worse last night.” Damiano’s eyes return to the floor, where the big toe of his right foot is nervously tracing the seams. “I think, for my sanity, we need to look at the R.A.S. again and really talk.” R.A.S. is an abbreviation for what has been dubbed the Relationship Anarchist Smorgosboard – essentially a map of all possible relationship components. Often, polyamorous folks – yourselves included – used it as a tool to precisely define everyone’s desires and expectations. For you and Dami, the topic of non-monogamy actually resulted from discussions about relationship anarchy. So the request isn’t the issue. It's productive and healthy, even considering the metric ton of emotional labor. The strain with which Dami says “for my sanity” however, makes you nervous.

“Yeah, okay, uh…”

“Fuck me,” he groans, rubbing his face harshly. “Maybe I don’t wanna do this now. After yesterday I – you’re not gonna – I just destroyed all fucking progress!”

“I, I…I don’t know how I feel, Damia. But, obviously we don’t have to have this big heavy talk if you’re not ready for it.”

“That's not what I’m saying,” he snaps. Your left hand starts to shake at the agitation in his voice. If he gets upset, it’ll interrupt the routine keeping him intact. What will he use to deescalate then?

“Have you taken your meds?”

“Y/n, I –” Dami’s tone is venomous and biting, but he stops himself from lashing out mid-sentence. He goes into the bathroom and takes his lithium, hands gripping onto the edge of the counter as he swallows painfully. He takes a second to manage his anger, meaning that exactly what you were trying to avoid is happening. He’s burning through that precious resilience for your sake. Each second that you watch the sharp outline of his clenched jaw, you wonder if this was the moment that Damiano dips into reserves that he needed for later in the day.

What if he drinks again? Or worse, uses coke? Heroin? What if he goes on a bender then we don’t talk again for three months? What if he OD’s and permanently damages himself? What if he dies? It will be my fault. What if the resilience that could have prevented it is being used up this very second, right before my eyes? What if I’m signing his death sentence with my mere presence?

“The reason I want to renegotiate isn’t really because I need to renegotiate.” Damiano speaks while still standing in the bathroom. Out of something adjacent to survival instincts, your mind has plunged you into disassociation. He may sound steadfast, but his voice barely cuts through the mental fog.

“It’s more that I want to clarify exactly where the boundaries are. So I know what I can ask because…” Dami pauses to rinse his face. The sound of water landing on the porcelain is eerily distorted from the disassociation. “Sometimes we are so connected. Like last night, not just when we were cuddling, but when you were genuinely pissed at me. I could feel your anger. You let me feel it, but then this morning you’re so far away. I don’t know what planet you’re on and we were never like that before, ever. Even at the very end, you were more present than you sometimes are now. I’m not trying to criticize you, I’m really not, but…” You force your eyes to focus when Dami goes quiet. He’s just brushing his teeth. He’s okay.

“But I just want you to let me in and I don’t know if I can ask that as a nesting partner. Even when you’re submitting, there's like 15% you’re holding back. And I get that it's a trust issue, but when we were on the bed,” the faucet is running again. The sound is still detached from reality. “With just a vibrator between us, you let me in completely and it was amazing. Not just because of the sex! There’s other moments where we’re intimate emotionally and then this wall just comes up. It's so sudden that I don’t think you’re doing it intentionally. But I don’t know, you tell me.” Silence. Your chest hurts. “Sorry that I’m making you late for work.” Work? The anxiety of obligation yanks from inside your ribcage. Work!

You try to get a grip on reality, but have to compromise for a grip on the countertop. As soon as you begin coming back into your body, the necessity for air is overwhelming. But you can’t breathe and you’re so fucking dizzy that you can’t even focus on sustaining the most basic of bodily functions. So you try to grab the countertop again and miss again.

“Y/n?” He knows you wouldn’t just leave, unannounced. So Dami pauses his morning routine to check if you’re out of ear shot or giving him the silent treatment. Upon seeing your blanched face and restricted breathing, he feels like a dumbass for not considering the obvious third option: panic attack.

“Hey, you’re okay. You’re okay, baby.” Damiano throws distinctions between boyfriend and nesting partner to the wind while taking you into his embrace. “You’re gonna be fine, piccola mia. Come here. C’mere, baby.” He hugs you loosely, but the arms around your middle are snug as Dami pulls you onto his lap, perched on the edge of the couch. For a few seconds the dissociation lingers and you don’t have control of your limbs. What follows is much worse. There's deep, intrusive stabbing pains in your chest as you fight for air.

“You can breathe, baby. You can breathe, your body just forgot how for a second.” His tone is so calm and even, having perfected this skill over the years.

“Can’t.” Your ironclad grip on your purse finally fails and the sound of its contents hitting the floor then scattering is so that loud you shudder. “Can’t!”

“Yes, you can, piccola mia.” Finally, you regain control of your limbs, wrapping your arms around Dami while pressing your face against his shoulder. This isn’t close enough, so you turn chest to chest and wrap your legs around him too. He gives you just enough space to readjust, no communication necessary since Dami predicted this reaction. Panic attacks made you clingy when they made others claustrophobic.

“My little koala bear,” he coos. For a moment, it feels like someone’s lodged a dagger in your lungs and you cry out, intending to say his name. But, for days, you were forced to constantly implement life or death boundaries when doing so is in direct conflict with your very nature. The resulting strain morphed into blinding fear that, in holding power, you’d destroy what you loved most. What you needed as an animal, amongst a world constantly delivering over-stimulating levels of novel information. So the name – or more accurately the plea – that comes out, at 8:31 AM, is his honorific.

“Did you say ‘Daddy?’” He barely misses a beat. You nod, all the color returning to your cheeks as a blush. “Awe, do you need Daddy to help you calm down? Well, I’m right here, topolina.” He runs a hand up your spine and under your hair to firmly grasp the back of your neck. It wasn’t restricting anything, the gesture was about control. Specifically, to indicate that you had none.

“Listen to me.” His tone of voice makes you shiver. It’s just as firm as the grasp of his warm, muscular hand. “No, keep breathing. I didn’t tell you to hold your breath.” You gasp for air, hyperventilating. Damiano tsks, tucking your hair back so he can put his mouth directly to the shell of your ear. “Piccola mia, listen to me.” He dips into a baritone while whispering, breath fluttering against your eardrum. “Feel this?” Dami squeezes the back of your neck. “Mine. I decide how you breathe.”

Oxygen. It's the first and last thing most humans have control of and he just rips that away, wholesale. Your mind is so relieved that it finally lets you cry, feel. Dami softens, slowly rocking back and forth, the same way you soothe a cholicky baby.

“Daddy’s here. Daddy’s here.” He repeats the phrase in a sing-song voice between counting the pace of your breath out loud. “We’re gonna start with four. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.”

“Daddy,” you croak, twisting the fabric of his shirt around your fingers. It's an ugly sound, revealing just how desperate you feel. Desperate to do right by him. Desperate to keep him sober, even though you know that, ultimately, it was out of your control. But it couldn’t be out of control because you couldn’t lose him again now that you’d remembered how much you needed him. Now that you stopped subsisting on scraps in the form of memories. During the split, it had been heartbreaking to recall the dysfunctionality. Even more heartbreaking, however, were reminders of a joy more potent than you’d ever felt in your adult life.

“Daddy, I…” need you. I’m ready to admit that you are an essential piece to the ever changing puzzle that is my life. But you can’t get the words out before the urge to sob takes over, so end up omitting a wounded whine, like when you trip over an excited dog and accidentally step on its tail.

“Oh, piccolo mia,” he laments. Apparently the noise was just as painful to hear as it was to make. You tighten your legs around Dami’s hips, knowing full well it's probably too much. He throws caution to the wind and pulls up the back of your blouse, untucking it from your pants. His hand is clammy from nerves when it touches your back.

“I’m right here. Daddy is right here, giving you all his attention. And the only thing you need to do is breathe with me.” With the movement of Dami’s hand on your skin, you begin falling into his rhythm. There's no penalty when you choke up or make a mistake. Damiano rubs circles on your back at the exact same pace with which he counts. You’re grateful that he knows not to set it on your butt or flank today. Once you’re calmer, he moves up to six counts, then eight.

“I love you.” It’s the first thing you say when the eight counts feel manageable. “I – I need you.”

“You need me?” Dami is so pleased that his voice sounds like a warm blanket. He readjusts the position so your eyes can meet. Realizing this moment has to end, you begin clawing your way to the surface. The further you are out of subspace, the less his leaving will hurt. Damiano’s face visibly falls.

“There. You just did it. You were totally present with me then you put a wall up.”

“Don’t let go of my neck!” The words are so rushed they’re barely discernible.

“Topolina, I will never discipline you like that.” Your bottom lip trembles, but you keep your eyes on him because it's grounding. “I will never ever be callous with my sweetest Little Girl.” His words and the earnestness which accompanies them unlock a vault in your mind. It’s so well concealed that you’d hidden it from yourself, and for good reason, apparently. Every notable memory of submission to Dami comes rushing back, all at once. The hand on your neck shifts, almost negligible.

“Not ready!”

“And I’m not letting go,” he responds in his softest voice, overflowing with affection. “I’m just kissing your forehead, silly goose.” Damiano uses his grip to pull you a couple centimeters closer and tilt your head down. “Mwah! Mwah, mwah. See?” He makes theatrical noises as his lips meet your skin. It's an effort to make this stressful moment lighthearted, but your hands continue clenching the fabric of his t-shirt. When Dami moves to kiss your cheeks, he ends up wiping a couple stray tears away. You hadn’t felt them fall.

“Undo your fists. I’m not going anywhere.” Uncurling your hands takes some effort. You splay them across Damiano’s back to feel his heartbeat. Again, you’re stuck between states: being Little and functional adulthood. Correction: calling what you could reasonably achieve today “functional” was probably too generous.

“I can see you fighting it so hard, topolina. You don’t have to. I’m right here.” He thinks you’re battling subspace because of all the times you’d coped with sub-drop alone during the breakup. It’s certainly a factor, but more worrying is the fact that your brain is sabotaging both your mornings. It didn’t feel like a safe time to slip into submission.

“I – work! Gotta, gotta…” You couldn’t afford to become non-verbal.

“No.” Both his tone and expression were stern. “What you’re going to do is allow yourself to be 100% present with me for a few more minutes. Non-negotiable.”

“I can breathe though.”

“You’re so afraid you’re trembling,” he deadpans. Even with faltering interoception, you can sense that it’s true.

“Why’d my brain just, just…”

“It's adrenaline.” What you’d intended to ask is why in the fresh hell did my brain launch me into headspace. Damiano wraps an arm around your lower back and pulls you flush against his body, so close your noses are touching. “I need you to feel how steady I am.” For a second, the shaking gets worse as your emotions intensify, but then it lessens. With your entire being, you wanted to believe that Dami was steady, that today’s events couldn’t compromise his sobriety. His gaze is so intense that you’re both drawn in and fighting the urge to look away.

“I am okay. You are okay. Our relationship is okay. And you can get back to reality without putting five football fields of space between us. That’s what I’ve been doing a piss poor job of communicating all morning.” Embarrassed for reacting so drastically, you nod, then try to avert your eyes. Damiano doesn’t allow that. He grabs your chin and uses it to turn your face back in his direction. For a second, the urge to fawn almost takes over completely.

“Now there she is,” he coos. “There’s my perfect Little Girl.” Your cunt throbs so you collapse forward with a dramatic groan.

“Why you gotta say the sexiest shit when I’m trying to pull myself together?!” Damiano breaks character and laughs right in your ear, so loud that it organically brings you to the surface.

“Okay, okay. Scene over?”

“Mhm.” He begins taking his hand away which earns an agonized whine. Dami freezes.

“Scene not over?”

“No, it’s just…sudden.” You sit up which turns out to be a horrible idea because your gaze falls to Dami’s lips. Your logical mind knows not to kiss him right now. But your submissive side wants to give him everything you have and more, especially since a hand on the back of your neck is exactly the gesture he’d use to pull you in for a makeout. So you stare at his lips again before consciously tearing your eyes away.

“This is doing wonders for my ego, watching you fight the urge to kiss me.” That earns him an eye roll. “Oh, the sass is back! So we’re feeling better then.”

“Yeah.” You look at the floor and this time he doesn’t stop you.

“Okay, I’m actually gonna take my hand away.” You brace for it, but the air is still cold and bitter against your neck. Plus, what feels like the weight of the world resumes its resting place on your shoulders. Damiano moves his hand up a few inches, onto the back of your head instead of taking it away from the area entirely. He watches for subdrop, eyes pained after seeing how crestfallen you are. Needing a respite from the intensity of this unexpected moment, you decide to let work know that you’re going to be late. The tears in your voice are recent enough to pull off a very convincing performance about your sick grandfather being in the hospital with a mystery illness.

The veteran secretary who answers the phone finds your project manager right away. She offers to give you the whole morning off, visibly piquing Dami’s interest. Based on his expression, he expects you to take it, and if not for coinciding with his treatment schedule, you would. Instead, you promise to be there within an hour.

“You didn’t want the morning off?”

“I think that we’ll both do better keeping our schedules today.” He considers this for a moment then accepts it. Dami sets both palms on your mid-thigh to indicate that this was now an adult interaction between equals.

“We need to have a tough conversation or two…or five.” He tries to make you smile, but your stomach flips instead. “Obviously not right this moment, but we both need to find space in the next couple days. It’s time.”

“You’re right. I know it, I’m just, well, scared, as per usual.”

“Yeah, me too.” You look up in surprise. Damiano was the most courageous person you knew. He was the one to call it, even though it was obvious to both of you that avoiding a discussion for any longer would be counterproductive.

“Scared about what?” He looks at you wide-eyed and sputters while gesturing to the door. “Damia, I told you not to promise me perfection because I knew it wasn’t realistic. My expectation is that you try your absolute best to stay sober and when relapse happens, you fight like hell. And I don’t want to impede your ability to do that by making you spend all your inner resources on me.” Anxiety concealed as exasperation creeps into your voice. “Which is why I didn’t take the morning off. Because I didn’t want to interrupt your routine, when that routine helps you be sober. I didn’t want to create a demand for emotional labor, when –”

“What, by having emotions?” he interrupts sharply.

“I – yeah. You’re used to having these peaceful quiet mornings and I just…”

“Existed? Experienced things? Was a human being with needs?”

“Yes, but I – I mean, yeah because I – You, you’re still at risk of like, like…It's more important! Your sobriety is more important.”

“Than your emotions?” He narrows his eyes as if that's an unhinged beleif.

“Yes! It's more important than my emotions. It's more important than me. It's more important than everything!”

“No!”

“Yes!” You push his hands away and stand up, pacing to the other side of the living room.

“I am the only one that can prioritize my sobriety above all else, and I do! Despite last night, I fucking do! My sobriety can’t be your priority.”

“Why?” you snap and whip around, shooting daggers with your eyes.

“Because it's my life.”

“Ditto. I can prioritize whatever I want.”

“You have to prioritize yourself. You can’t live for somebody else!”

“Prioritizing your sobriety is living for myself because I would never be okay if you died from an overdose and you fucking know that. So I’m not sure why we’re fighting about this.”

“Because only I can keep myself sober,” he implores.

“I fucking know that!!” you screech through gritted teeth. It's a fact that haunts all my waking hours and several of my slumbering ones. “I don’t live in some fairytale land where I control your decisions. Nor do I want to, whatsoever. But I can make your sobriety easier, so I’m damn well going, too. Today of all days!”

“It's not your responsibility!” He stands up and gestures in frustration.

“Did I say it was!?” Doubt starts to creep in as to why Damiano is hellbent on whatever point he’s making.

“You’re –”

“Am I annoying you when I try to help with your sobriety? Is that what it is?”

“Wha – no. No.” His tone changes completely, all the wind gone from his sails.

“Fuck,” you sigh and bite the inside of your lip. “Sorry, I just did that thing where I get insecure and you have to be nice to me instead of having your feelings.”

“That’s not what just happened.”

“Seems…” You’re about to say that it seems like Damiano has to bottle up his feelings instead of getting to resolve them. And that it felt like he started to avoid fights with you pre-breakup, since you’d get all pathetic like this. Dami was so empathetic and didn’t want to deal with your occasional bouts of middle school level self-confidence, which became more numerous as things fell apart. It was the only bit of jealousy, in terms of his other partners, that had staying power: confidence. Glowing, radiant, unshakable, sexy confidence. The opposite of your insecurity, which was so powerful that it could totally warp your sense of reality, as it probably was now.

“There! That! Tell me, just fucking tell me.” Damiano’s pointing at you, so you look down at yourself, startled. “It started with you hiding your anger from me, but it's become this. Like you won’t take a single step without considering how it might impact my sobriety. You edit out everything that could possibly trigger...I don’t even know what! Like, I’ve started playing a guessing game where I try to think of anything you could plausibly say in a situation that would jeopardize my sobriety. And besides that last night, there was never anything I couldn’t handle.”

“I…” your brain feels like sludge. “A second ago was just classic insecurity, but generally…yeah. Yeah, I’ve been walking on eggshells a lot, if I’m honest.” Dami sighs in relief and approaches.

“You hold me down. You keep me sane. Not just sunshine you, but scatterbrained, insecure, anxious you. Keeps-an-extra-pair-of-pants-in-her-car-since-she-always-spills-her-coffee-driving you. Veterinarian in a past life, too competitive for board game nights, can’t stick to the grocery list, maker of near disaster via spontaneous hugs in the kitchen at the least opportune moment you. Scowls at men, but smiles at every child, and they always smile back. Picks the restaurant, but can’t pick what to order, then insists on tipping too much at bad service. All music is dancing music, borderline delusional optimist, empathy for the socially invisible, never finishes a book before starting another because she hates endings. Believes in love instead of god because she can find something to love in everyone she meets. Everyone has beauty and purpose and fascinating complexity.”

“Dami…”

“Calls me out on my bullshit when all the others are too intimidated. Remembers who I am when I forget. Understands my art when the public doesn’t, but believes that anyone can be an artist. Believes that the world is full of magic, in the form of human possible connection.” Damiano backs you against a wall, bodies barely brushing. “I could keep going,” he whispers. “You don’t have to try. Just be.”

“But I want to be sure that I’m not jeopardizing your sobriety.”

“On the off chance that moment ever comes, I will tell you. I won’t let you compromise my sobriety.” Some of that weight lifts. “The way things were when we broke up, they’re never going to be that way again. I am prioritizing my sobriety and I've got a small army of physicians helping me. You don’t need to prioritize my sobriety anymore.” He sets a hand on your ribcage, still speaking in a whisper. The moment is extremely intimate. “It's taken care of, my love. It's time for you to be taken care of. And I know we’re gonna have this same conversation again and that's okay.”

You loosely wrap your arms around Dami, to keep him close and extend the moment. Just based on your body language, he can tell that you’ve finally internalized what he’s been trying to say.

“I’ve been anxious about coming home and you’re gone.”

“Not going to happen. No surprises, no disappearing acts.”

“Okay.” You cast your eyes anywhere by his face. Damiano takes your jaw in his hand, coaxing you to look at him, but not demanding it as he did minutes ago. You take a couple seconds to corral your emotions first, since you can’t gauge if your reaction is gonna be more tears, hyperventilating, smiles, giddiness, or feeling lovesick. He sees this effort and presses your body into the wall using his own.

“Let me in,” he demands. You stop intentionally directing your features into an expression and wait for thoughts to come up organically. Except they don’t, so you try to recall how this worked when transparency was your first instinct with Damiano. Unfortunately, the only thing discernable is your sense of smell informing you that Dami is delicious. You’d braced for the stench of booze coming from his pores this morning, but it's not because he barely drank. So he still smells like home, plus a tiny bit sweaty from getting too hot in his sleep. That was only perceptible up close though. His skin would be salty if you licked it. You can also tell that he brushed his teeth while you were getting dressed, but that should be obvious. He wouldn’t have gotten in your space like this otherwise.

So the urge to kiss him returns with a vengeance. You attempt to see around the obstacle to identify something of your innermost thoughts. What do I feel? How do I feel? Horny, obviously, which wasn’t exactly news. More like your resting state. It’s as if your mind is a shaken snow globe. So you’re squinting your eyes to see the miniature winter wonderland below. But all you can perceive is the mental permafrost that is wanting to ride Damiano until you collapse and this fucking blizzard obscuring your vision.

“Y/n –”

“I genuinely can’t figure out what I’m thinking. I’m trying, I swear.”

“Can I take a guess?” he smiles. “You’re horny.” After the initial embarrassment, you get flustered, consider hiding it, decide not to, and end up aroused. Damiano’s gaze devouring your blush certainly inspires confidence, as well.

“Actually it was way more specific than that, but sure.” You can see the progression of Dami’s emotions: aroused, realizing your transparency, excitement, even more aroused.

“Why do you torture me?” He boxes you in with his arms and uses his pelvis to keep you pinned against the wall. When his cock twitches you smirk and raise an eyebrow, but a more serious answer crosses your mind. “Tell me, tell me,” Damiano chants.

“I don’t want to jerk you around, with the physicality stuff. Because on a couple days it’s been…I wake up feeling really steady and so do you. Then I come home and you’re reading a book on the couch and you’ve done all the laundry and I just want to fucking…slip my panties off and grind on the crotch of your jeans while we makeout until I’m sore. And then maybe you – anyways, then some –

“No, no. Finish that thought first.”.

“Your tongue can be really, really gentle,” you admit, feeling a tiny bit perverse. “Soft, soothing, so when I’m sore it's �� it's, um, nice.”

“What’s my tongue doing?” He leans down and speaks directly into your ear again.

“You go down on me.” Your voice starts to climb in pitch from the anticipation.

“Right there on the couch?”

“Mhm.”

“We don’t even make it to the bedroom?”

“I, um – It’s just in my head.”

“But just in your head, we don’t make it off the couch.” His lips barely brush your neck. Was it an accident?

“No.”

“Why? Cause you’re too desperate?”

“Hng, I –” He boldly nips at the base of your neck.

“This okay?” he murmurs. As Dami speaks, his breath hits the spot of saliva his mouth left on your skin and you’re so keyed up that it evokes a full body shiver.

“Mhm!”

“So are you desperate because you need to cum? Or desperate because you got carried humping me since you were too horny to stop yourself?” Somehow, one of the arms that had been around Dami’s waist is now clutching his shoulders as he licks your neck. You don’t remember it happening.

“What…was I just talking, um –” Thankfully, Dami raises face to look at you which makes thinking easier.

“Anyways, then some.”

“Huh?”

“That's how your next thought started: ‘anyways, then some.’”

“Oh, um…then, I don’t know, maybe I have a bad anxiety day or I talk to my therapist or something reminds me of a painful memory and I don’t want sexual touch.”

“But do you always want physical touch of some kind, like cuddling?”

“Well, I came climbing into bed with you last night, didn’t I?” He smiles wide and looks over the couch for a moment.

“Yeah, that's true…and very good to know. If all days are good physical touch days, you are about to get very sick of me.” Now you’re both smiling like fools and the gravitational pull of chemistry has your noses nearly brushing while Dami slips an arm between the wall and the small of your back. It occurs to you that this is the same move he made in the shower, when encouraging you to grind against his leg.

“I just don’t want you to feel rejected or misled if you touch me in a certain way and I’m not into it, even though I was yesterday. Because it's so momentous since we were broken up for a while.”

“Well, you can just tell me that and I’ll understand.” You nod, but the fact that it isn’t so simple occurs to you. Damiano sees it and raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, I forgot how fucking inconvenient this mind reading thing is but –” he bursts into joyful laughter, head thrown back. You rest your other arm on Dami’s shoulder as well. In return, he pulls you body to body, resting his other hand on the top of your ass with a watchful expression. It’s exactly the point you were making.

“Obviously, I wasn’t feeling like jumping your bones today. The way you placed your hands over there,” you nod towards the couch, “I really appreciated, because it was exactly the right thing. Like it was so conscientious and considerate and nurturing,” even saying the word made your pussy throb, “that I’m pretty sure it turned me on. So fuck if I know how this works!” Again, Dami is filled with boisterous laughter that's infectious. As you giggle along, you wonder if he was right about just letting your organic connection do its thing. “My brain was like ‘Wow. He’s so nuanced about doing this in exactly the way I need. He’s so respectful about the fact that this is totally non-sexual for me that it's making me wet. Oh, wait.’”

“Okay. So sex is never a –”

“Sexual contact,” you clarify. “I still don’t feel ready for proper love making, I’m sorry.” Dami’s face is the most offended it's been all morning.

“Sorry? What do you mean ‘sorry?’”

“I know, I know,” you brush him off with an eye roll.

“For fucks sake, don’t apologize. Why would –”

“Stop, you’re so dramatic!” You jostle Damiano while speaking and he almost delivers a retort before changing course in an effort to make you laugh. Effusive, he gasps and brings a hand to his sternum in scandal.

“Who, me? Dramatic?? Never!” You’re filled with a yearning that originates in your mind, but starts in your cunt. This time you don’t fight it off as it travels upwards to envelope you. “I would –”

“Kiss me,” you interrupt, so giddy that you’re bouncing on the balls of your feet. Caught off guard, Dami stops speaking. “Kiss me, kiss mmm –”

Notes: It's a good one! Thank you for waiting for this update and for reading this fic. I hope the holiday season is at least bearable for y'all. And if its not, me and my Masterlist are here for you!

-XOXO Eden

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