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Hey babe, can I ask for an angsty Damiano fic with prompts 18 + 20 from your list?

❤️

Tell Me Everything

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Pairing: Damiano David x Reader (she/her)

Requested: Yes

Summary: Will Y/N let the stars take full control of her life or will she let go?

Warnings: Mentions of scars

A/N: Hi, guys! This is the last fic of 2021! This year, despite being one of the hardest was also one of the most rewarding years ever! Thank you to all the people who made it this great! See you in 2022! All the love, Axe <3

Tags: @wasteddoubts @teenyweenynightghost @wannabemarlenabutiscoraline @cheese-toastie-11 @unitersmoonshine @selenophiliaxx @mywritingonlyfans @l0standn0tf0und-fics @sunflowerpumpkinpie @que--sera--sera @writingmaneskin(if you’d like to be removed from the tags feel free to tell me :) )

Add yourself to my taglist - Check out my other stories

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The camera had a case made from raven dimpled aluminum, the lens jutted out on a highly polished brass-looking cylinder, finished at the end with a rim of more black metal. Two dials and an argent button poked out from the top; it bore the name Heloise. Delightfully heavy in her hands, it made magnificent mechanical rattling and clicking noises.

***

(his pov) Monday. Ink eyes fell back to his veiny, cold hand; chipped, rough nails coated in black nail polish, two silver bands on his middle and pointer finger. Velvety fingertips caressed the white, lustrous metal surface of the first one - flat, icy band; a plethora of bright red tulips painted on top of it, indented letters on the side spelled - “Veni. Vidi. Amavi.” (“We came. We saw. We loved.”). A slight smile; edges of thin black lips turning up, brightening his whole face. The second - a fine ring with a french cut emerald stuck to the apex of the silver shank; shiny prongs holding the green gem in place. Another engraving - “Ars longa, vita brevis.” (“Art is long, life is short.”).

- Aldgate East Tube Station. - The monotone, robotic voice echoed off the white walls, metal doors opening with a loud screech.

There. In the crowd of grey T-Shirts, frowns, stares stuck to the floor and a couple of over-the-top fur coats and absurd hats, he spotted her. She, whom he didn’t know, was holding onto one of the metal poles, standing right behind an elderly lady who sat right next to the automated sliding doors. She, who had stolen his breath just by blinking, had a light layer of black eyeshadow smeared on her eyelids, dark pink gloss on her lips, and a single dangling earring on her right ear - three bright, red tulips, identical to the ones on the singer’s ring.

Without realizing what he’d done, the charcoal-eyed boy joined the huge mass of people, exiting the train two stops too early, far away from the street of his hotel.

***

(her pov) Monday. Her calloused fingertips traced the smooth ingot surface of her camera. Heloise carved in aluminum. Ash eyes wandered around the crowd, stumbling over bright-colored mohawks, leather jackets, and braids, only to linger upon a ring. Scarlet Bokhara tulips. Identical to the ones that hung from her ears. The ones that were tattooed on her leg and the ones on the patches of her cinnamon backpack. The sketches in her father’s workshop; she could bet her head there was a Latin quote on the side of the argent band.

***

Now the camera sat on a sombre koa shelf, a sheer layer of dust coating its magnesium-alloy body. The table beneath littered with countless photo albums; late-night trips to Rockaway Beach, the view from Peillon, him.

***

(his pov) London had so many faces. Sidewalks moved like a living, breathing creature; the roads - rivers of cars. Aged buildings that have seen the modern times, witnessed change, stretching toward the blue sky.

- Hey, watch where you’re going!

***

(her pov) London had so many faces. The lemon-tinted gravel popped under her boots. All was hectic, blaring, real. Too real for her bubblegum brain. Y/N. Name stood bold, carved into the verdurous bench.

- Hey, watch where you’re going! - A plethora of red flecks on a ring. The stranger colliding with the ground.

***

Each photograph held a different story, just like each scar on her skin had a different tale, hidden deep beneath the bleached flesh.

***

(her pov) All of a sudden golden daffodils seemed unimportant. Heloise hung low on her neck as she ran.

- Are you ok? - Voice, like a cascading waterfall. Brittle.

- Yeah, yeah, I’m alright. - Only now, she noticed his face and realized; he looked like art. His cheeks were flushed, a few messy strands framed his sculpted face. Sable irises hidden behind a row of long eyelashes. His nose; left nostril adorned with a thin steely ring, had a slight bump. Chapped lips, insides red from being continuously bitten.

***

(his pov) All of a sudden golden daffodils seemed unimportant. Her gaze roamed around his face; he took his own time to observe her. Now that she was so close he noticed the little things. A small beauty mark on her jaw; the little scar on her forehead; the depth of her almond-shaped, stormy eyes. Realising his head was still on the gravel, he lifted his body off the ground; sleeves revealing his own blotches. Blues. Pinks. Purples.

- What’s your name? - He cursed himself for how apparent his accent was; words blurring, mouth feeling dry.

- Y/N. - A smile burned on her face. A genuine one. - And what’s yours?

***

She left a trace everywhere she went, murmured her name to every mountain, repeated it like a mantra through all her travels, carved it into woods, bridges; until one day the names became two.

***

(her pov)

- Damiano. - A smirk shone on his anthracite-colored lips and just for a second the girl longed to be reckless and kiss him.

***

(his pov)

- Damiano. - She echoed and it sounded like it was meant to be.

***

Rich, astringent wine filled her mouth, taste buds tingling from the pungency that washed over them. A knock.

***

(his pov) 6 months later. The frostiness crawled in the room. Grimy fingers clawed at the pine door frames; gleaming hinges screeching; numbing breaths making goosebumps run down his spine. The man felt small; like a plastic bag being thrown around in the air.

- Amore? Are you ok? - Deja vu. Same question, just months apart. Y/N’s voice still sounded like pattering rain, each drop drumming on the umber roof.

- No… - He knew there was no point in lying because all she had to do to find out the truth was look at him. Waverly breaths and heaving weren’t the dead giveaways of being happy. He wasn’t sure, they could even be a sign of being ok.

***

(her pov) 6 months later. Sunlight filtered through the cream voile curtains. Each gilded strand carefully woven in the braid of the sun. The sleep shooed away; constellations taken down from velvety skies; trees and wands of grass - magical.

- Amore? Are you ok? - It was a stupid question. She knew he wasn’t.

Tar-black strands, slightly wavy, a mess on his head; hands wrapped tightly around his shaking figure and at this moment she wanted nothing more than to hold him close, plant firefly-wings-gentle kisses to his temple and tell him everything will be alright. It won’t be, it never is. Both knew that, but sometimes believing that all will eventually get fixed was tempting.

- No… - His sobs wrecked her.

***

The wine danced around the rim of the glass, a small drop staining the white carpet. A curse left her lips as she ran to the front door.

***

(her pov) Cobwebs of cracks covered the cement. Heloise clutched tightly in Y/N’s hand as she shot - mountains, the sky, foxes, Damiano. I hope this never ends. It will. She didn’t expect a response. Not now, not here. What do you mean? The voice in her head continued conversing with the nothing, to whoever had decided to creep in her mind and talk.

***

(his pov) Cobwebs of cracks covered the cement. The camera clicked delightfully, as she positioned him in front of trees and flowers. A chartreuse pocket knife used to carve their names. The wooden handle was hand-painted with red Bokhara tulips - flowers her father had an obsession with.

Unlike the silky petals, the blade digging in his skin stung, but now they were linked forever. His blood dripped with hers.

Then her silver eyes glossed over.

***

Flashing sheets of icy droplets embraced his body. A tulle shirt draped over his ink-covered skin, tears pooling in his eyes; a bunch of red roses clutched in his hands. The argent band still wrapped around his ring finger.

- What are you doing here? - Y/N wanted to reach out and wrap her arms around him, but she couldn’t. They didn’t want her to.

- Tell me everything. - A cough left his throat and the woman pulled him into the apartment.

Damiano, having been pushed down on the cracked ground, tilted his head up, bloodshot eyes meeting her venomous gaze.

- You have scars. - The girl looked deep inside his irises. - Some of these weren’t caused by me.

- You aren’t telling me anything. - The man stumbled, his body lifted off the ground. All that met his words was the silence. - Talk, god damn it! - His fingers tightened around her wrist as the now-ruined flowers were clutched in her hold.

- Tell you what, Damiano! - She didn’t dare look at him, afraid she might ignite a new feeling; different than the hate she had convinced herself she felt. Perhaps the emotion was never new; it was just buried too deep inside.

- Y/N, stop! You can’t let crystals, stars and voices control your life. That shit isn’t real. - His grip forced her to look at him.

- To me it is! - The glass vase now filled with water, a few drops spilled on the marble counter.

- And what about me? Am I not real? Do you expect me to sit on the sidelines and pretend nothing happened? That we didn’t happen? - Heartbreaking screams wrecked him, fists slammed on the closest table.

- It’d be better if you did. - Poison laced with her voice.

- Fuck that. - In a split second his chapped lips were on hers. In his kiss she felt home. Waves crashed and thousands of cerise Bokhara tulips bloomed in the pit of her stomach.

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