I was tagged by dear @jaarijani to post my lockscreen, recently listened song and last picture of a celebrity I saved - can't deny that there's a pattern here 😂💜
Aaand I tag @breaddo @reserved-fruit @groovygrumpyghoul @hazelestelle @technicallycleverdetective @lovvecherrymotion @esskuesli @mogoce-nocoj if you want ☺️
(last pic by jokervxsion, unfortunately i can’t find who took the lockscreen pic. also. im not a bokris truther it’s just the colors are pretty…i swear)
I tag @c28hunter @mournmourn @devotedlydarkcrown @ere-na @flananjan @dreaminofu @anxious-witch
ooo @glossykris perfect question because you'll like my answer:
Lockscreen: amazing art by @lemon-h4 (i kinda commissioned bc i needed to heal after seeing the irl handshake... Some coping mechanizms we simply don't question)
Player: Stožice album on repeat, stuck on NGVOT bc I got home.
Celeb pic: mopey Bojan. I don't know why I needed it.
Tagging @jedibinx , @guggi04, @eikohanjatketa @damiannasworld (no pressure :))
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
✧ The Sun is the Center of Everything Table of Contents
last song: devil take the hindmost from love never dies. i can't decide if i love it or hate it i have to listen like twenty more times before i figure it out
favorite color: green & pink
last movie: i'm thinking of ending things (2020)
sweet/spicy/savory: savoury all the time
relationship status: ex fiance broke off our engagement to date my (also ex) best friend whoops
current obsession: THE SUCC but specifically roman and his evil president boyfriend <3
tagging: @bigpeepee @llynwen @lightningmcpiss @sjweminem and anyone else who wants to do this (frank reynolds voice) TELL PEOPLE I TAGGED YOOOOUUUU
Favourite Colour; Blues, all shades especially the ones leaning towards the grayscale and a more soft hue (and soft yellows too)
Last Movie; Brokeback Mountain (I think y’all know by now 😭)
Sweet/Spicy/Savoury; SPICY SPICY SPICY it makes my tongue go WEEEEEE
Relationship Status; taken by the most wonderful boy ever <33
Current Obsession; SO MANY ACTUALLY, but mainly Marvel, OCs and Rdr2 fn (also going insane over Tom Hiddleston and Chris Hemsworth in general and I’m still thinking about Brokeback Mountain too)
Tags; hmmmmmmm @frostshieldnumberonefan @breath-of-fresh-grantaire @marthalovesu @eatingoleander @asexualkieranduffy @milkinmoose @wilchur free to! No pressure, I just had to tag a few people anyway! <3
Suddenly you’re in the dark, being jostled to consciousness. It takes a couple seconds to remember how opening your eyes works. Your lids are heavy and mind sluggish with the sensation that time has passed.
“You fell asleep, baby. I wasn’t sure if you meant to, so it's only been 30 minutes. Look who decided to join us,” he whispers. Princess is passed out next to you with Cheeto sitting on the farthest corner, watching. Eyes sensitive to the daylight, you turn around and are thrilled to get a face full of chest hair.
“Don’t shave this,” you groan.
“But my tattoos –”
“But my libido.” You press long kisses to his skin, loving how full his pectorals looked when Damiano lay relaxed, on his side.
“Okay, well if you’re more likely to fuck me –”
“Hmm, some of these tattoos were a bold choice.”
“I’m not ready to talk about it,” he grumbles, partially sarcastic.
“Okay, fair.” With a final kiss to his sternum, you shimmy upwards while trying to figure out if you feel groggy or subby. Dami appears to be struggling with the same discernment. You close your eyes and focus on your body’s signals. Almost overwhelming is the tugging sensation from your stomach that demands proximity with Damiano.
“Wanna keep napping?”
“Mm-mm. Stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere. topolina,” he whispers, voice husky. “I watched you sleep for half an hour and didn’t want to be anywhere else.” His gaze is so intense that you open your eyes to meet it. There's a storm of emotions behind those eyes. You press your noses together so he knows you aren’t afraid of it.
“Signore?” That doesn’t quite get the response you were hoping for. Dami’s gaze softens, but there's still a lot of distance. So you decide to risk it and get as intimate as possible.
“Daddy?” you whisper.
“Yes, piccola mia?” He responds in an equally hushed tone.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.” His bottom lip wobbles so he bites it. “It’s okay. I don’t need you to be invincible. I don’t want it.” He finally lets a tear fall, then leans forward and kisses your forehead. First for a few seconds, then half a dozen pecks in as much time. If someone were to count all the times Damiano kissed you today, it might be in the triple digits. Every touch was like he couldn’t believe his fortune, and while that was very flattering, it wasn’t sustainable. He hadn’t found his way back because you were charitable. He’d fought and suffered with his whole soul.
“Whew, I needed this. I really, really needed this.” He sniffs forcefully, shaking his head as if he can shake off emotions.
“Daddy, you aren’t lucky. You earned this.”
“I earned my little girl back?” He tears stream down his cheeks as he cups yours.
“Yes.”
“And now I’m gonna earn y/n back.” He tries taking a deep breath to move on, but you can see that the conversation has barely scratched the surface. Instead of talking about him, you try talking about yourself.
“I never tried to find another dom, because I didn’t think anyone would want me the way you did.”
“That's crazy,” he scoffs. “I mean, that's how I feel. Like, I don’t understand why you still want me but – but thats fucking insane.” Dami roughly wipes the side of his face with the heel of his hand. “You’re an incredible submissive. Anyone would be fucking privledged to earn your submission.”
“That’s how I feel about you. Like I’m just lucky to be the center of your world as a dom.”
“You are the sun. Of course you’re at the center of everything.” For at least 10 seconds your mind goes blank.
“I…I, um…The reason I don’t have another dom isn’t because I’m insecure.” Damiano’s eyebrows furrow. “I know that’s in my head. It’s just that you’re the only person that makes me feel seen when I’m submitting. If I’m alone or with someone else, I get insecure and feel so stupid –”
“No –” His expression is sickened.
“That I just want it to be over, but with my daddy I feel…weightless. Unencumbered. Only you do that for me.” Dami’s tears stain the bedsheet where they land. “I don’t think I’ll ever trust anyone with my mind like I trust you.” He sits up, pulling you onto his lap. Even as he wanted a breather to process his emotions, Dami prioritized your well being as a submissive and kept you close.
“See, even now I know you just want to be alone. I know you want to sort through these feelings and move on, but you promised you’d stay by my side, so you’re doing that instead. How can you call yourself inadequate?”
“I don’t want to be alone, piccola mia. I want to get sick of you. I want to feel suffocated.” You force your legs and arms between Dami’s torso and the couch pillows. Once thoroughly coiled around him your squeeze.
“Oof!”
“Mission accomplished?”
“Not even close.” You giggle and he loves the sound, encouraging it. “Oh no! Not the love of my life, totally naked and wrapped around me with her boobs pushed up to my chin! Please god, not a face full of glorious, pillowy tits with the world’s more lickable nipples!” He falls over sideways while speaking, taking your body with him. Damiano does, in fact, end up with a face full of your boobs. “Whatever will I do? Perhaps cum in my pants like a 13-year-old!” Getting a stroke of inspiration, you grab the lube and messily squirt some onto your hand. It’d been so long since love making had been spontaneous. It sent a shiver up your spine and made you feel more alive.
Damiano was much too preoccupied with your boobs to expect the hand in his boxers. He yelps in surprise and then his head lulls back.
“Tell me how you want it.”
“I – I…yes.” You tighten your index finger and thumb extra when passing over the ridge of his shaft, then massage the head for a few seconds extra. After that you stoke halfway down and back a couple times, finally rubbing your thumb in his slit. This earns a rush of pre-cum and an open mouthed moan. The head glistens with milky-white drops, which you know to be both salty and musky to the taste. His cock is throbbing, no doubt you’d be able to feel it on your tongue. The largest vein up along the side of Dami’s shaft is bulging out. Amongst his dark and wiry pubic thicket, naturally grown to its full glowy, his dick is begging to be licked.
You turn around, sitting on Dami’s chest so the curve of his shaft was going with the curve of your esophagus, and take it all the way back. He’s confused where your tits have gone and is then howling in pleasure.
“Topolina, topolina, topolina,” he chants, nails clawing down the back of your thighs. It occurs to you that this is not normal behavior for Little headspace. You should have asked first. Clearly you were out of practice for submitting properly, but the familiar pressure of Dami’s cock in your throat and the taste of his pre-cum was satiating. If homecoming sex had a flavor, this was it.
He whines and says something about “embarrassing,” before whining again. Daminao’s hips quiver, then raise, pushing his cock just a little further down your throat, which you accept with care.
“Gonna cum. Fuck! Gonna…” Another whine. It hadn’t even been two minutes, but after spending so much time erect, his balls must be heavy with seed. “Topolina, cumming,” he warns. “Cumming, cum – uhh,” Dami groans. His hips twitch then shoot ropes of hot jizz down your throat. You focus on the action of swallowing, first raising your tongue then tightening your esophagus. You make it most of the way through his orgasm before some of his semen nearly brushes your gag reflex, causing you to pull off while you’re ahead. There's only about five seconds of getting him to the end of climax before Dami feebly pushes your hand away from his exhausted cock.
You turn back around to see the bedsheet and blanket gathered into fists, eyes still fluttering from the stimulation. You kiss all the parts of his torso that have hair before checking in again.
“Well hey Miss Initiative.” Hiding your face against his neck seems like the best course of action considering you’ve been bad.
“Sorry,” you groan, tangling your limbs together. “You needed to cum. I wanted to make you.”
“Usually, you’re more of a listener than a doer in headspace.”
“Sorry.”
“We can practice.”
“Sorry.”
“Shh, stop apologizing. You know I have a rule about that and any other time I’d penalize you for breaking it.” Cue another noise of mortification. “I did need to cum and that was fucking incredible, but we didn’t negotiate getting me off.” This time the sound you make is more like a wail, face turning red and heart sinking. You couldn’t just keep your hands to yourself when he was so damn delectable and tempting. Dami rubs your back comfortingly.
“To be fair, we also didn’t negotiate kissing either and that's gone pretty well, too. Maybe we both need to practice our roles, hmm?” When this doesn’t prompt you to stop hunkering down, he tries being even nicer, cooing instead of speaking. “That makes sense, though. I haven’t gotten to play with my little girl for months. Both of us need to remember our places a little better. Nothing bad happened. No one got hurt in any capacity. I’d say today has been successful, hmm?” Rather than sit upright, you shift just enough to grab the corner of the blanket and pull it over your head. Damiano laughs and does the same, so you're in a tiny world apart, together.
“Are you really not coming out?” This talking to that’s probably been too gentle to call discipline has you slipping into subspace. However, it feels like you’re falling backwards and subsequently hanging onto Dami in hope that sensation will go away. Unfortunately It’s only worsening due to sensitivity so heightened that looking at a candle from across the room would probably give your hand third degree burns.
“Piccola mia?”
“I feel…wrong?”
“Wrong?”
“Off. Falling.”
“Falling into subspace or out of it?”
“Between. Brain…can’t decide. Guide me.” He pulls the blanket out of the way and repositions while you blink hard. You land on your back, with Dami resting against you. He’s using the position for close observation and aches with empathy at your discomfort.
“Which way do you want to go?”
“Mm-mm.”
“You don’t know? Well, I don’t wanna bring you out of it before you’re ready, love.” The weight of Damiano’s body and his pointed attention – whatever it meant to move towards these things – that's what you wanted. His shoulder muscles rippled underneath your hands, which traced the boxy shape of his waist, down to his rounded hip bones.
“Feels same.”
“Well, I would hope so.” You pull him in for a brief kiss, kept chaste by the dominant party. Once your mouths separate, you try pulling Dami in for more. At first he heeds your request, then retreats once you’ve gone completely pliant.
“Tell me what you want.” Whining is your first instinct. “Words, little one.” Shaking your head also doesn’t deter him from this newfound goal. “Try to use your words. Right now.”
“Mm-mm, feels…no.” You watch Dami make a decision.
“Okay, well since you can’t put together a basic sentence, let's do bath time.”
“Together.”
“Together? Alright. Step one is gonna be me getting off of you.” That earns some objections which make Dami smile with his teeth. Not so secretly, he loves being needed by you. “I have to stand up. I can’t just be your incredibly sexy weighted blanket.” On the word “sexy” you lick the hair on his sternum and nip his pec. He sits upright and swings his feet onto the floor. You crawl across the bed after him and yank down his boxers.
“Excuse me!?” You swat at his cute butt, which thankfully didn’t have any surprise tattoos. “Hey!” He pretends to jump out of range, only to look over his shoulder, making sure you’re following. After climbing off the couch, you try to pinch him, but Dami is too fast, squirming out of the way and high-tailing it to the bathroom. This is not how you anticipated your first proper game of chase going.
The water is already running by the time you catch up and jump on his back. Damiano isn’t expecting to give you a piggyback ride, but he adapts quickly. You take the opportunity to smell his head while it’s still dirty then run your lips along the shell of his ear.
“Bath together or shower together?”
“Bath.”
“Bubble bath?” You nod as the white-mittened cat darts into the bathroom, alarmed.
“Cheetoooo,” you sing.
“What are you doing with mom?” Dami impersonates in a funny voice. She actually meows in response. “Meow. I thought you didn’t talk.” Cheeto vocalizes again, much to your surprise. “Meow.” Of course she’d start talking for Damiano. Princess took a couple days to find her voice, but hadn’t shut up since. What was so special about Dami that even felines responded to his speech? You knew the answer of course, even if you were unable to put an exact name to it.
“I’m gonna set you down so you don’t scare her,” he says quietly, squatting. The cat takes a couple careful steps back to the edge of the bathroom. “I’m sorry I don’t have treats this time.” Cheeto looks behind her, sits in the doorway, and begins cleaning herself. It’s typical behavior. Damiano refocuses attention to you, running a hand from the crease where thigh meets glute, over your ass, parallel to your spine, and ending in your hair.
“Look,” he murmurs, wrapping both arms around you. Dami is gazing in the mirror, so you stare over your shoulder and lean into him. “I wish I could take a picture of this.”
“My back?”
“No, silly…I want to take a picture of this moment.” You sign in annoyance and nod, glancing at the tub to make sure the water wasn’t on the verge of overflowing.
“Really? Okay? Okay!” Now Dami is the one with childish joy as he skips into the living room to locate his phone. He re-enters with a digital camera whose lens extends several centimeters out when he turns it on.
“Higher quality images and I take better care of the SD card than my drugs.” You falter while wrapping your arms around him and Dami makes a face in return. “Ignore that, just do that thing you were before.” You set your cheek against his chest and look up in confusion. Meanwhile, Damiano is focused on the camera screen, so totally distracted that you whine.
“Oh, piccola mia, I’m not ignoring you,” he coos. The shutter snaps and you pull at his free arm. Immediately, he wraps that around your mid-back, hand resting on the top of your ass. Feeling more content, you relax against him and look in the mirror. Dami is holding the camera partially in front of his face, expression contorted with focus. He takes two more pictures and you kiss his chest in between.
“Oops! Sorry, just let me…perfect. Thank you, you’re perfect.” He sets the camera down, putting the lens cap back on. “Someday I’m gonna frame those photos.” Damiano then responds to your shaking head with, “oh, no, I’m gonna do it. It's gonna make all our house guests super uncomfortable and I’m gonna turn the dirtiest ones into magnets for the fridge.” Realizing he’s at least mostly joking, you allow laughter at the mental image. “Actually, that's a lie. I’m gonna turn the dirtiest ones into Christmas ornaments!”
“No!”
“Yes and coffee mugs! Now, there's a way to start the morning right.”
“Pop-socket.” He spins around. “Keychain."
“Incorrigible, this one.”
“Phone case.”
“For free? No way. Oh shit.” Damiano turns off the faucet before the tub gets too full and bends down, searching for the bubble bath container.
“Not gonna work,” you pout. Hearing the change in tone, Damiano whips around to check on your expression.
“Piccola mia, what’s not gonna work? Hmm? What’s wrong?” You’d forgotten how god damn healing his attentiveness was. Your parents had never done bubble baths or bath toys. They claimed not to have time. Getting clean was always utilitarian. Once you told Dami he was horrified that you’d missed out on an apparently integral part of childhood.
“Faucet.” He looks at the bathtub faucet then back at the purple bottle below the sink.
“Oh, the water needs to be running, duh.” As he rectifies the situation and pours the soap in, you resist the urge to climb him as a koala does a eucalyptus tree. Instead, you move to pinch his ass again, but Dami catches your wrist without looking. He tsks while turning around, holding your other wrist.
“Do I need to cuff you again?” He must have taken them off in your sleep. Surprised, you look down at your wrists, then shrug amicably. “Awe, you take the cuffs so well, topolina, but do you really want them, right now?” Trying to wash yourself then Dami in handcuffs sounds complicated, so you shake your head decisively. “See, that's what I thought. So stop pinching my ass.”
“So cute.”
“My butt is cute?” He opens and closes his pointer finger and thumb theatrically, like a lobster claw. Then Dami ducks his head down with his eyebrows raised in a nefarious expression. He chases you around the bathroom while you shriek, trying to avoid his naughty intentions. Of course he’s faster and you end up backed into a corner, squealing as he pinches your ass and thighs, snapping his jaw in your ear.
“Gotcha!”
“Eek!”
“Bath time!” He drags you across the bathroom by your waist. Cheeto has long since darted around the corner, but Princess is used to these antics and decided to lay in the sink and judge.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Damiano releases you to avoid splashing water everywhere as you both climb in. A bigger bathtub had been on the top of the list when searching for this apartment, however it still felt too small. He minimizes the kvetching on this occasion because Dami missed squeezing into this tub together. By spilling more than a few drops of water on the floor, he’s able to reach the basket of bath toys under the sink. Once, Ethan’s boyfriend found them while searching for makeup remover and Dami made up a story about using them while bathing Princess. He didn’t miss a beat, meanwhile, your heart had stopped entirely.
“What pleases you on this fine day, m’lady?” You pick out a simple set of rubber boats, each a different color. It is just so you can string them together and watch the rainbow weave in and out of the bubbles. Dami uses a pitcher to wet your hair. You’d washed it last night, but the roots were likely already greasy with stress sweat. He takes the time to massage your scalp, resulting in a moan or five, then a giggle when his cock twitches against your lower back.
“Ignore that.” When he begins to rinse the shampoo you whimper in protest, so he runs his blunt fingernails along your head a bit more. “It's just gonna get tangled now, piccola mia.” Damiano switches to conditioner, making sure to saturate the ends of your hair, before putting it all up in a clip. With your head tilted to the side, it was easy to relax back, as he rubbed a bar of soap between his palms. Washcloth forgotten, Dami runs his hands along your skin, sudsing it up, before rinsing off with the same pitcher. He moves on to himself, but you still his hands with your own.
“Let me.” It's a bit of a task, turning around and retrieving the washcloth. Both your tailbones are resting towards the center of the bathtub, knees bent out of the water, chest to chest.
“Why don’t you just sit where I was?” he suggests. This repositioning is equally as arduous, but having Damiano lay between your legs does inarguably feel more natural. He even retrieves the many pieces of the marble run out of the basket: a collection of ramps and gears that suctioned to the wall.
“This toy really helped me learn to trust you. Isn’t that funny?”
“Really? Mmm,” he moans as you run your nails along his scalp.
“When we first got it, you tried to build as many tiles high as possible. I felt so fucking self-conciousess and stupid for trying out the toys and its like…you taught me not to feel all that animosity for myself. You weren’t above any of it as a dominant.” He scoffs and looks back. You carefully wipe shampoo from his forehead so it doesn't burn his eyes.
“They’re just bath toys. They’re fun. Used to be my favorite part of the day. I wanted you to have a little more joy and…something that helped with headspace.”
“I know. Tilt,” you instruct warmly, washing the shampoo away. Dami raises his chin and screws his eyes shut. “But it wasn’t that simple for me and you made it simple. You made being a dom about making positive feelings more accessible to me.”
“Mmm, well I’m pretty sure that's the whole point of it. Christ, that feels good," he groans pornographically. It's immensely distracting.
“I’m not sure that's true for every dynamic. Some of them seem more symbiotic, where their kinks compliment each other. It's not about joy and reverence.”
“Or love,” he adds, lacing your fingers together.
“Yeah…but that's kind of a given without joy and reverence.”
“I know, I just wanted to say it.”
“I know,” you whisper. “I love you, too.”
“Fuck, I needed this so bad.” He lays his head back on your chest. “I feel like I can actually inhale all the way, you know? Having some control and autonomy back…it feels like my brain is producing its own serotonin.” You run a hand over Dami’s wet hair and kiss his temple, earning a glorious smile. “Hmm, god this is perfect.” His head lulls to the side as he gazes at you.
“How do you feel now?”
“Good. Great. Stable.” You force yourself not to choke up, again. “Thank you for being sober, coming back to me, being my daddy, or dom, or signore, or whatever. I know you don’t always like it when I call you that.”
“Baby, it's just the name that gives me the ick sometimes. And thats not your fault, its because I’ve become so god damn hypersexualized by fucking 14-year-olds who leanred about kink on Twitter. Like I get that we all had a sexual awakening, but they say that shit directly to my face and it's weird.” You try not to snicker. Most of them were just kids who didn’t realize they were sabotaging their own sexual maturation. Maybe their parents didn’t give quite enough of a fuck, which you could more than relate to.
“I remember wearing this offensively bright blue, sequined turtleneck to the Jonas Brothers as a kid, thinking that Joe was gonna notice my practically prepubescent ass and be stunned by such impeccable taste.” Dami chuckles and it jostles you. “I scream-sang like a possessed banshee that whole night and lost my voice for three days.”
“Oh, so like when you first started coming to Maneskin gigs?” You splash him in retribution.
“No, like when we saw Metallica. The VIP box? Security had to ask me to quiet down, because I was ruining the concert for the billionaires and their vapid teenage sons.” That earns a cackle, Dami clapping his hands together without thinking sprays water droplets so far that Princess yowls in protest.
“Sorry, babygirl. I’m sorry,” he wheezes, the corners of his eyes crinkled. “God, that was so much fun."
"Then they finally got so sick of it that security put us in front of the barricade, but I thought we were being kicked. I felt so bad!"
"Hah! I forgot that part because we got so many dirty looks from the scary biker metalheads during Nothing Else Matters. They were all crying for the first time since childhood and apparently us dancing like maniacs was running the vibe."
“We were the problem that night.” Because we were drunk, is what you don't say.
“Oh, 100%. I just thought the fame was gonna last 15 minutes and was trying to get through my concert bucket list as fast as possible while they’d still let us in VIP. You know, I actually met Kirk at a festival and he commented that I looked familiar.” You gasp out loud.
“No! What did you say?”
“I don’t even fucking remember. I was high so…pretty sure he didn’t want to be around me. Actually, I probably burned bridges with a lot of sober artists. Big ones.”
“I think they’ll be forgiving. They’re only sober because they spent a good chunk of time destroying their lives in active addiction.”
“I don’t know,” he mumbles.
“I mean, wouldn’t you be? If you were a rock elder and some kid who was obviously using made a social blunder, but you saw him a year later and he was clean. Wouldn’t you be forgiving? Encouraging?” He raises his eyebrows in thought and nods slowly.
“Yeah. I would, but I’m not, like…” Dami searches for an example besides Metallica, but you interrupt his tangent preemptively.
“Real people aren’t gonna hold this against you like you’re bracing for, Damia. We all have shit. The press is basically a representation of the worst things sociopathic assholes on the internet find amusing. It's the shittiest shit.”
“‘The shittest shit’” he almost smiles.
“You’ve survived people saying the shittiest shit they can possibly think about you. You’ve survived hard drug addiction. You’ve survived a schedule so inhuman that it violated labor laws. You survived our breakup and the scorn of your family, the disapproval of your friends. It can only suck less.”
“It can only suck less,” he nods. “I like that. No more positive attitude, manifestation, good energy, self-help bullshit. That always made me roll my eyes. It can only suck less.” You shift around, sore from sitting on the hard porcelain in the exact same position. Damiano thoughtfully strokes your leg as you wash his chest, then arms, shoulders, and torso.
“It's just the name I don’t like, sometimes. The role of being a daddy, the behavior and responsibility, all of that I love. I really do, I love our dynamic, the way we do it. I’m sorry there isn’t a perfect name for it.”
“Doesn’t need to be.” You rinse Dami off with palm fulls of water.
“I know, but you’re my little girl. That – when you’re submitting I know it, feel it so clearly. It must be hard not having an Honorific in return.”
“It’s really not that big a deal,” you shrug, bracing for what you need to say next. “I loved what we had before so much, but I just had to set myself free. The you came back to me.” He turns around, cups your jaw, and kisses you. Internally, you know it's gonna be the last kiss for a while and maybe he does too.
“I overthink everything, but today my body knew it could trust you. I didn’t feel any unease. That sensation of quietude is all that matters, not the Honorific.” He nods, emotional and carefully crafting his words. Dami steals one more kiss. With the way he cups the back of your head and quivers, the desperation is palatable and it confirms your earlier suspicion. It's heartbreaking for the person you’re in love with to touch you like they’re starving. Especially when you're so preoccupied trying to nourish yourself that you don't have the capacity to nourish them just yet.
“Damia…”
“It’s fine.”
“I just…I want –”
“You don’t have to explain yourself. Don’t give me what I haven’t earned.”
“I hate being the gatekeeper of our relationship. I want to throw caution to the wind and just pray I don’t regret it.”
“But you will. This was – I’m thrilled and" he searches for a word. "Beyond gratified that today was what…but I won’t take anything further.” He takes a deep breath and stands. “So it's time to get out. The water’s getting cold and I don’t want you shivering.”
Notes: It's here and it's angstier than you bargained for. The fact that a few of you were heavily anticipating this chapter has been so encouraging. <3 Reminder that I will be taking next week off so chapter 16 will be posted on the 28th. By then I'll most likely have set up the option to tip me for my writing. No pressure, but if you're able and feel compelled to, it'd really help with the bills.
@letkeepitbetweenus3 @zahra10999 I am still unable to tag you, unfortunately. Double check that you've disabled the hide blog from search results option. If that doesn't help, there could be a glitch which prevents people from tagging your blog. It's happened to me before and I resolved it by contacting Tumblr Help.
The conversations in the tub is great and having been around musicians that are in recovery most of them will be the biggest supporter of other musicians starting that journey. They will give them crap for the stupid shit they did when using but they’ll try to help if needed.
My birthday is next month, my new coworkers are happy that I’m planning on being at work so they can celebrate it, asking about my favorite cake and my favorite things. I’m sitting in my office crying because I can’t remember the last time my birthday wasn’t forgotten or a last minute text.
People always gloss over how mentally damaging it can be to work in retail. I fucking hate that whenever I say “I could never work in retail again” someone has to reply “You snowflake millennials can’t take a starter job because you have to INTERACT with other people” No. Fuck you. I’ve worked as a planetarium host. I’ve worked as a public speaker. I’ve worked as a tutor and as a student teacher. I can work with people. I can work with crowds. Retail was fucking different. Retail was being treated as a subhuman. Retail was being treated so poorly that you have anxiety attacks before work. Having to work retail was a factor in my last suicide attempt. If I hear you say one fucking word about retail workers playing the victim I will personally break every bone in your body. Fuck You.
The holidays are coming up. Retail workers are going to be spiraling into a nightmare beyond human comprehension. If you’ve worked retail, you know this. If you haven’t, be aware of it. Please be kind to every retail worker you come across. Please be patient and understanding. It is misery out there.
I worked retail for yrs and left due to the damage it caused on my mental and physical health. When I left I weighed 108lbs at 5’11” and my hair was falling out. If I have to heard Christmas music for longer than a song I can feel my anxiety symptoms starting.
No one listens to me anyway. @elvirabelle - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
