#and I HATE the therapist they assigned me to he's the worst but the other one isn't even any better...... I must endure but not today 😔 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

devilyn · 3 years

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belated regrets | kuroo tetsurou

— alexa, play: remember me by umi

Cuz I'm getting older Know that I've changed But I can't go back now Nothing's the same And I won't forget how You called my name When I was afraid And now I'm afraid

— synopsis: after taking advantage of your friendship, what will kuroo do to win it back? — genre: angst, friends to lovers if you squint — word count: 3.1k

This wasn't like you. You had stopped crying over Kuroo months ago. You stopped thinking about whether or not he had eaten yet, if he had gotten home safe, if he would text you goodnight, and yet here you were. You were crying again, after claiming you moved on and healed, and after telling all your friends that you would cut him out of your life.

You wish you blocked his number. It felt mean to do it back then, but you really wish you did, because now you definitely wouldn't be able to.

"I think we should take some time apart," were the words you whispered to him over the phone one night a few months back when he was telling you about some girl he had gotten close to in his chemistry lecture.

There was a painful silence that lasted over 15 long seconds. You'd never forget. You counted, after all.

"Why?" he asked quietly. "You're my best friend. What did I do wrong?"

Your 'friendship' had always been strange, after all. Everyone told you that, and even Kenma firmly believed that the two of you would end up dating eventually. But every time, Kuroo would laugh and ruffle your hair while proclaiming he would never date you.

And every time, you'd force a smile and agree with him.

"This friendship...just isn't what it used to be," you answered. It was true. Ever since the two of you got to college, things had changed. He met different people through his classes and bustling parties, and thus different girls that he'd ask you about. You manufactured his sweet texts to them, all while wishing he'd send them to you and feel just as nervous calling you late at night. You'd help guide him through the process of asking her out, then let him come over and be sad when he was rejected.

Every aspect of your friendship became about him, him, and him. His academics were doing well--he was a surprisingly smart man after all--but they took a toll on him mentally, as they do to all college students. The same happened to you as well, but never once did Kuroo ask about how you were doing, how you were feeling, how you were coping with the sudden changes to your life.

You kept in contact with Kenma, who you'd text once in a while to tell him about how much you hated his previous captain. And Kenma would listen to you cry over the phone about his foolish childhood friend that knew nothing about your growing feelings for him. He was the only person who kept you grounded, and understood that your feelings for Kuroo couldn't be so easily tossed aside as the rest of your friends claimed. He also was the one who encouraged you to end your friendship with Kuroo gently, knowing that he would have to deal with the aftermath of Kuroo's confusion.

"Can I fix it somehow?" Kuroo asked in a panic, and you laughed bitterly. You had asked him many times to fix things--his treatment of you as if he were your therapist being the main one. He’d apologize, yet things would always end up returning to how they were before, with you being at the bottom on his list of priorities.

"Not anymore," your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat to pretend like you weren't crying. "I think you'll be fine without me."

“Y/N--”

“Don’t call me from now on, please. Don’t come over, because I won’t answer the door,” you paused. “...you’re still going to be my friend. I just need space.”

A lie. You knew it, and Kenma did too when you rehearsed your lines to him. He told you such, but you couldn’t bear to tell Kuroo the truth.

And even as you hung up, deep down, you wished he would disobey your wishes. You wanted him to text you and come to his senses, realizing he was wrong. You wanted to relive late night calls where you would laugh and talk about absolutely nothing just because you couldn’t fall asleep. You wanted to go back to him showing up at your front door with a bucket of fried chicken to reward you for studying hard for your midterm exams. You wanted to lay next to him on a grassy field again, where he was gazing up at the stars and you were mesmerized by how beautiful your best friend was, inside and out.

But Kuroo never called. You no longer sent him good morning texts, asking how his day was, and he stopped asking for your advice. It was like the two of you were less than friends. You’d only speak when you sent him an occasional meme that reminded you of him, or a song you knew he would enjoy. He’d respond earnestly, as if your friendship of over four years wasn’t shattered during that one call months ago.

Kenma called you an idiot for not cutting him off entirely, and you would have to agree with him. You were an idiot who was head over heels for a man who would never share your feelings.

It took months for you to get over it, but the distance you put between the two of you definitely helped. So why was it, all of a sudden, after you were finally healing and moving on, that Kuroo decided to call you out of nowhere?

You stared at your buzzing phone, the image of a stupid face Kuroo made flashing on your screen.

Should you pick up? Should you pretend like you didn’t see his call? During your time contemplating, his photo faded away and your phone stopped vibrating angrily against your coffee table.

Your heart felt like it was going to beat through your chest when you saw the ‘one missed call’ notification flicker mockingly at you. You stared at your phone, breath hitching in your throat when suddenly, you received a new text from none other than Kuroo Tetsurou himself.

“Fuck,” you cursed, leaning your head back against the couch and groaning loudly. Should you call Kenma? You could already feel a headache incoming.

Why? Why did Kuroo always do this to you? He’s always had terrible timing, and apparently that never changed.

You plucked your phone from the table, braving it all and finally reading what he had to say to you.

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you fucking serious,” you grumbled, squeezing your eyes shut to chase away the anger building up inside of you. “Now? Now of all times? Does he even know what he’s sorry for?”

It wasn’t uncommon for Kuroo to apologize to you just because he knew you were upset. Still, you always forgave him solely because he was your best friend. But now, you knew better.

Fully ready to toss your phone aside, your eyes caught a new text from your ex-best friend.

“I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

Liar.

“I’m sorry for that one time I told you I’d help you study for your chemistry exam but ended up forgetting and missing all your texts and calls.”

You remembered that day. You had confided in him about your bad grade, and when he told you he could help you study, you were over the moon at the thought of being able to raise your nearly failing chemistry grade (and at the thought of spending more time with him). You called him multiple times when he didn’t show up, but gave up when he didn’t pick up the fifth time. You stayed up all night studying on your own, but still ended up failing that exam. You dropped the class, and ended up taking it next semester to get a much better grade without Kuroo’s help.

“I’m sorry for when you couldn’t tell me why you cried the entire day but still let me over so I could complain about Kira turning me down.”

That day, you were extremely overwhelmed. Your roommate was out somewhere, so you were left on your own to cry over the endless amount of assignments you had to deal with, on top of everything else. Kuroo had called that day, clearly in distress, and though you were in tears, you wiped them away and put on a weak smile when he showed up at your front door with a pained expression.

You wanted to be there for him. He was your best friend, after all.

“I’m sorry for that time that I left in the middle of our movie night because Ayane called me and wanted to go out to eat together.”

Your heart stung at the memory. The sight of his back getting up from your couch while completely ignoring the hurt in your eyes was still engraved into your memory, even if you spent months trying to forget it. You had called his name, but he was too busy eagerly chattering on the phone to even hear you. When he turned around, it was to bid you goodbye before abruptly leaving you with a half-eaten bag of popcorn and an animated movie still running that you no longer felt like finishing.

“I’m sorry for making you think you didn’t mean anything to me.”

Did you make an impact on his life? Deep down, you had hoped you did, so he’d always remember you.

“I’m sorry for taking advantage of your friendship.”

That, he definitely did.

“I’m sorry for being the worst friend ever. I miss you so much, Y/N.”

Why were you crying again? Your hands came up to wipe at your cheeks before hurriedly video calling Kenma’s phone.

When he picked up, the first thing he did was sigh at the sight of your disheveled appearance. If you weren’t completely in tears, you may have laughed at his attitude towards the situation, but all you could do was let out a weak whimper.

“I think he’s drunk,” he spoke without you needing to say anything. The thought of Kuroo only texting you because he was inebriated hurt you even more.

“He’s such an asshole,” you managed to croak out between your cries. Kenma only nodded, eyes clearly focused on the screen of his PC. Briefly, they turned to look at you again and his expression softened.

“You should’ve blocked him,” he mumbled, and a weak laugh left your lips. “Are you going to reply?”

You were quiet for a bit, before shaking your head.

And with that, Kenma hummed softly. He stayed on the phone with you until you finished crying over his childhood friend, and only hung up when you finally promised him you’d call him again the next day.

Tomorrow came quicker than you thought it would, and you managed to ignore Kuroo’s messages without giving into the temptation to text him back. Your life went back to normal, relatively, aside from one thing.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you for not understanding me when you gave me advice. I was childish, and only wanted to hear what I wanted to hear.”

Now, Kuroo was texting you everyday with something he was supposedly sorry for. And now, you were calling Kenma everyday to beg him to tell Kuroo to stop, to just leave you alone so you could move on. And every day, Kenma would tell you that you both knew how stubborn Kuroo could be when he put his mind to something.

“I’m sorry for not being there for you whenever you needed me even though you were always the first one to worry about me and how I was doing.”

At this point, it had been a few days since the initial text, and you wanted nothing more than to find him and yell at him to leave you alone. You were fine with brief interactions, pretending like your feelings for him never existed and he never regarded you as someone he could trust with his deepest feelings. You were fine with that.

“I’m sorry for being stupid and being able to understand everyone else’s feelings except for my best friend’s.”

But now he was pushing your boundaries. He was asking for more than what you could give him without giving him your entire heart again. You knew, and Kenma probably knew too, that if Kuroo kept doing this, you’d end up forgiving him. You’d give up on all the work it took over the past few months to get over him and go back to being his best friend if he asked you to. All that courage you put in to cut him off in the first place would disappear, and you’d be back to square one.

“I’m sorry for not realizing you liked me, and that I like you too.”

That was the last straw.

“You’re a prick.”

His response was almost immediate.

“Can I call you?”

Before you even had the chance to reply, your phone was buzzing in your hand and you nearly dropped it in your surprise. Without thinking, you picked up. And you cursed yourself for doing that.

“Y/N,” his familiar voice calling your name in that teary tone nearly made you cry again. Instead, you bit down on your lower lip to prevent the sadness crawling up your throat. You could hear the noises of cars passing by on the other line. He must’ve been outside

“Y/N, I missed you so much,” Kuroo’s voice was weak, and cracked a bit as he spoke, as if he too was holding back tears. “Thank you for picking up the phone.”

There was silence between the two of you for a bit before you shakily breathed in.

“Please stop texting me,” you finally managed to mumble. “Please stop thinking that you actually have feelings for me just because I was a comfortable person to fall back to when you didn’t have anyone else to go on dates with at the time.”

“That’s not the case--”

“If that’s not the case, then what is, Kuroo?” you interrupted, voice trembling. “I’ve had these feelings for you for so long, and now all of a sudden I’m gone and you like me too? Fuck off, I can’t believe you of all people would think so lightly of my feelings.”

“Listen,” his voice was pleading. “It’s not like that. Can I talk to you in person?”

“If I see you, I’m just going to cry again,” you laughed bitterly. You could hear shuffling on the other line.

“Then I’ll hold you until you stop crying,” he retorted firmly, and your heart jumped in your chest. How long had you waited to hear him speak like that about you? Like he just might share the same adoration for you that you did for him?

“You won’t even be able to find me,” you mumbled more to yourself than to him. It wasn’t like you were at your apartment, after all. You needed to get away.

“If you really think that,” you jumped at the sound of his voice closer than you thought. Looking up from your feet, your traitorous heart rate raced at the sight of those familiar almond eyes and unfixable bedhead. “Then I must’ve been a really bad friend, huh?”

You spent an excessive amount of time just staring up at him from your spot on the swings, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. He had bags under his eyes, and his bedhead was a little messier than it had previously been. Despite all that, the man in front of you was undoubtedly the best friend you’d caught feelings for.

“...how’d you find me?” you finally asked as he took a seat on the swing next to your own.

“I wanna say that I’m just a genius, but honestly, you never removed me from seeing your location.”

Your eyes adjusted to the brightness of his screen. When you spotted the familiar profile photo of your smiling face on the map, all you could do was sigh. Anxiously, you ran your sweaty palms along your pants to wipe them off.

“I’ve said it a dozen times at this point,” Kuroo tucked his phone back into his pants, “But I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

“Yeah, I get it,” you mumbled, exhausted of his apologies at this point.

“I don’t know what more I can say besides I’m sorry,” he admitted weakly. You couldn’t find the courage to lift your head to look at his probably desperate expression. “I’ll be honest. I wanted to respect your wishes at first. If you wanted distance, I’d give it to you. But the more time passed, the more I missed you.”

You fiddled with your fingers and the edge of your shirt, trying to find any distraction so you didn’t have to listen to his explanation.

“I missed you so much,” he murmured, “I thought I was an idiot, for treating you the way I did. I took advantage of how comfortable I was around you, and when you finally left me, I realized how lucky I was to have someone I could be so myself with.”

He turned to look at you, and you finally lifted your gaze to meet his eyes. Your heart ached. He looked so tired.

“Have you been eating?” You asked quietly.

“See?” He smiled bitterly. “You care so much about me, and all I do is take that kindness and give nothing back.”

You felt tears prick at your eyes again as he took your hand and placed it onto his cheek, the familiar warmth of his hand reminding you that you truly would never be able to get over him.

“I hate you,” you lied through the tears slipping down your cheeks, “so much for everything you’ve done. For making me fall for you.”

“I’ll spend as long as it takes making it up to you if you’ll let me,” his other hand reached up to brush your tears away. “As your friend, and as someone who finally realized his feelings for you too late. And if I’m lucky, I hope you’ll let me back into your life.”

“It won’t be the same,” you admitted honestly. Truthfully, your friendship would never be the same after all the hurt you endured because of him. Things that may have seemed so small to other people hurt you deeply, solely because you trusted him so much.

“I trusted you to be there and to understand me,” you told him, “and you ignored all that. You can’t expect that to be fixed so quickly.”

“I know,” he brushed your hair behind your ear. “So I’ll give my all to build a new relationship with you. One where I’ll be better, and won’t hurt you ever again.”

The two of you were silent as you cried. Through your tears, you could see his wet eyes. The sight brought a weak laugh to your lips.

“Kenma said you’re way too stubborn when you put your mind to something,” you smiled sadly. “This is your last chance, Kuroo. Don’t ruin it.”

#haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu angst #hq #kuroo tetsuro #kuroo tetsurou x reader #kuroo tetsurou angst #kuroo tetsurou imagines #kuroo tetsurou scenarios #kuroo tetsurou #haikyuu!!

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its-afucking-mess · 3 years

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A Drought of Action in the Mind - Damiano David

Her words hit a soft spot, and Damiano wondered why it had hurt so bad.

or - Damiano and Victoria fight, and it seemed to be the final straw for him

(title from Numb by Sam Brookes)

Disclaimer!!!!: Firstly. This work is a product of fiction. This isn't in any way something I think Damiano went through, or something he will do. The opposite in fact. Secondly, the work has some dark themes. If any of the warnings are a known trigger to you, I'd advise to proceed with caution (if you want to proceed at all)

Warnings : suicidal ideation (suicidal thoughts), unfulfilled suicide attempt (overdosing), intrusive thoughts, mentions of self harm, fighting/yelling, panic attacks, anxiety attacks.

Masterlist

________

“Many performers point out how mentally draining a tour can be, with all the stress that goes in the planning, and the shows. How are you all coping?”

Damiano fidgets with his words. “Well, for us, the preparation for the tour, endless practicing and meetings with venue owners is the worst part. Actually performing is like a reward, where we also let out a lot of pent up energy” he explains, making various hand movements along his words to support his reasoning.

“It helps that we don't have a fear of the crowd. We see the hundreds of faces looking up at us and cheering as inspiring, rather than intimidating” Vic adds, sharing a silent high-five with Damiano when out of frame.

“You also are one of the first bands- young bands- to share your mental health with your audience. That is, like, putting yourself so far into the spotlight for so many, yet you seem to cope with it fine” he says next, eyes glued to the four in front of him.

“How do you manage the thought of, let's say, Jason from the States, knowing such personal information?”

“It is one of the things we felt was necessary” It’s Vic’s turn to talk.

“Many people that are young don’t see their illnesses as ‘valid’, ‘cause adults always tell us “Oh, you’re too young to have anxiety”. We wanted to show them that mental illness shouldn’t be something you are ashamed of, but something you can embrace, for yourself, and for others” Victoria replies, readjusting her legs on her seat.

“We all have something that has held us back. We don’t hide it, we embrace it to help others seek the help they need,” she continues, and nudges Damiano with her elbow subtly.

“I, um,” Damiano stutters silently, not expecting the spotlight on him, rubbing at his side where Victoria hit him.

“We feel like talking about it shows that there is no ‘look’ for mental illnesses. No one would look at me and think that I have depression, but I do. And even if it isn’t nice to have, I still try to live my life to the max,” he completes, clearing his throat.

The interviewer seems shocked.

“I really wouldn’t have guessed you have depression, it really seems to not affect you” he comments, and Damiano makes an expression, feeling extremely exposed. Of course it fucking affected him. He was just on a heavy dose of meds 90% of the times it did. Victoria had convinced him this was a subtle way to finally say it, to finally admit it. Not even in the nude photos he’s taken has he felt so exposed. The spotlight was suddenly on him and he really felt weak under the camera-crew's stares. He feels partially guilty for thinking that way, but he tries to shake off the feeling.

“That sounds like a lot to have on your plates, for four twenty-year-olds. I really admire your perseverance,” the interviewer says, sitting back.

Thomas mouths a thank you, leaning on Ethan.

“So, if I may, how do you even cope with everything on hand?” the interviewer asks, abandoning the cards in his hands. He seemed so curious, rightfully so. Even if Damiano hated those types of questions, he had to agree that learning about psychology was interesting.

“What if the day is bad from the start of it, how do you work through it with such a busy schedule? It isn't like you have an assigned therapist following you around”.

Damiano and Victoria share a look.

“Me and Damiano have prescriptions for medication, thoroughly discussed with therapists and psychiatrists. Thomas and Ethan have to rely on more ‘natural’ remedies,” Victoria replies, ruffling Thomas’ hair.

“Do they act as, blockers? Or something,” the interviewer asks and he’s starting to get on Damiano’s nerves. He has begun to get a bit more easily aggravated and he is desperate for this tour to end, for the sake of his, and mostly other people's, sanity.

“Not so much. They are more like regulators. They help to control the hormones in your brain and make you function as you would at a less stressful situation,” Victoria clarifies.

The interviewer nods, and he seems about to ask another question, change the topic maybe. Damiano just sits in his chair, begging whatever god is out there, if there even is one, to get him out of there.

“Dami?” he hears, and he’s broken out of his trance by Thomas’ voice. “You alright? You’ve been quiet this whole time”. Damiano bites the inside of his cheek, looking down at his lap, then the window. The interview had been replaying in his mind the whole trip back. "I blew the whole thing,” he admits, and Ethan seems ready to combat the negativity. Damiano rolls his eyes. “Oh, such a smart idea to get it over with at the start of the interview!” he says, mocking Victoria. “I definitely didn’t want to get the fuck out of there, everyone’s stares were so uncomfortable” he says with a shudder. Vic never comments.

“God everything’s been so shit, this week is a nightmare. I feel like jabbing a knife in my head, maybe that’ll solve my issues”. Ethan is quick to re-butt with ‘It’d actually give you new ones, though’, and Damiano wants to laugh, but he can’t. All that leaves his mouth is a pained exhale that makes his eyes water. His head is hurting, and his energy is on a critical low. Nothing funny about that.

He is near tears, and his palms feel clammy. It doesn’t take much to shut it down, but an overly dramatic sigh leaves his mouth instead.

“Shut up”. Damiano’s head snaps to Vic’s direction. She’s curled up in herself, looking out the window.

His ego is too bruised from the interview to hold himself back. He feels self-destructive. “Come again?”

Thomas looks between the two, and worry is plastered on his features. "I'm afraid I didn't understand you, sweetheart" Damiano continues and Vic lets out an annoyed sigh.

“I said. Shut. Up. It isn’t hard to understand. Basic orders” she snaps back, and Damiano feels angry, confused and hurt. It’s too easy, too natural, to mask that under a cocky grin. He doesn't like being given orders from Vic. Arrogance flows in his bloodstream, apparently.

“Who said I’m taking your orders?” he pushes, and Ethan’s hand on his thigh feels like a warning. Not one he considers, anyway.

“Oh gods, why is it impossible for you to not talk? This whole week, everything has been faulty for you" Victoria explains. She shifts her body to be able to see the older, to look down at him from her seat. Damiano has never felt less intimidated by her. He feels his blood boiling, his mind races for arguments.

"One day, I played off. The other, you felt uninspired. Then Thomas is being juvenile, Ethan is being too careful. Find something that satisfies you for once, you selfish prick!”

Damiano stills, the comeback he planned dead on his lips. Thomas runs a cautious hand on Victoria's shoulder, but she pushes it off harshly.

“Always with a complaint in your mouth. Something is always annoying, tiring, stressful. Something makes you feel like shit, so what do you do? You turn it to us, then move on like nothing ever happened” She pauses to wipe some spit from her chin. “We didn’t become a band to be your personal therapists. At this rate you vent to us, to me, so fucking much and so often, I’m not convinced you’re sorry for ruining our moods”. Thomas whispers a 'calm down' to her and she stops with a huff.

Her words sting, make Damiano feel as if radioactive acid was in his chest instead of air. They hit a soft spot, and he can't understand why tears prick at his eyes. His throat itches, and he swallows it all down, trying to find a comeback before the silence deafens him. “Fuck off,” is all he can manage without his voice breaking.

"Enough," Ethan warns, just before Vic has time to prolong the fight any further. "You both are exhausted and stressed out of your minds. Stop taking it out on each other, we all know you’ll regret it"

Victoria curses under her breath, and Thomas busies her with a video on his phone. Damiano turns to the window with what he hoped delivered as a cocky sigh, shoving Ethan’s hand away from him. He ignores his concerned gaze, jaw clenched and stance stiff against the leather seat. He uses whatever energy he has to not burst into tears, biting at his nails. He wouldn’t allow Vic to see that her words held weight. His whole façade was being the tough one, the oldest, seeming brick wall, that nothing got to him. He held himself to too high of a standard to drop this whole attitude.

His stomach is turning, and he hopes this car ride will be short. He can hear Thomas’ hushed whispers, and Vic’s louder ones, not subtle at all, Ethan can’t be heard, he assumes he put earphones in again. Damiano doesn’t want to look at any of them right there. He feels a pit form in the back of his mind, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He just wants to go back to the hotel room, where he can be alone. But it unfortunately isn’t that easy on him. It still was only five in the afternoon, he had a long way until he got alone time.

And he was right. Instead of pulling up to the front of the hotel, saying goodbye to the driver and packing their bags, Leo instructed the driver to take them to a reastaurant god knows how fucking away from the hotel. Damiano isn't sure he'll be able to make it the whole early dinner without crying or yelling at someone, maybe both at the same time.

He is pulled to the side before they sit down. "Try not to make too much of a fuss with Vic. The place is busy, and if we get kicked out you two are walking back to Italy," Leo warns, and Damiano wants to cry, right then, right there. He doesn't, he just pretends Leo isn't even there when he completes, walking to the table, choosing to be stuffed in the corner seat.

Damiano doesn't eat. Well, not as much as he wants to, at least. He would have been straight up murdered by Ethan if he didn't get anything in his system. He makes sure to make an innuendo when Ethan gives him the warning, but the giggle he delivers with the joke was more exhausting than the whole day had been. It isn't like he could keep anything down, so it was better not to overwhelm his body with a lot of food. He passes it off as motion sickness.

The table is buzzing with conversation, yet Damiano can't find a single one to join in. He just moves his food around the plate, keeping his mind devoid of any thoughts, in fear he won't be able to control them. Maybe it was a bad idea to not carry his meds around, but then again he didn't want to advertise his depression.

He had tried to text Giorgia, but she was working. She had left him with a promise to call, signed off with a kiss. That's what Damiano focuses on, the kiss Giorgia left him and the hope of calling her afterwards. That, and Leo's promise of their 'dinner' being cut short due to being practically forced out from the busy restaurant once they're done with their meal.

Nothing more than a warm shower and his lover's voice helped him keep it all together.

○•○•○•○

Once in the car, speedily making way back to the hotel, Damiano tries to relax. It was a reasonable attempt, and something he doesn't manage. Through his mind, the words 'STOP THE THOUGHTS' bounce around, trying to prevent the inevitable. He was currently devoid of all control of any thought, as if his mind wasn't his own anymore. It isn't him sitting in the backseat of the weird minivan-thing, no, it was someone else that Damiano had the pleasure to watch from a first person perspective, whether fortunate or not.

He doesn't know what it is, it scares him to no extent and he feels anxiety bubble at the back of his mind. He can't find an efficient way to keep busy, to stay grounded. It isn't like he can hold a conversation, but not that he wants to either. He reaches into his coat pocket, grabbing the box of cigarettes and pulls two out, one between his lips, the other behind his ear. The ride seemed long, and Damiano knows how to shift attention to and away from him too well.

He looks out the rolled down window, letting the ashes of burnt tobacco fall on the ground they leave behind. The air is refreshing, and for a moment his mind clears. No one notices when he finishes the first one, which if you asked Damiano had to be record speed, even for yours truly who liked nothing more than a quick smoke whenever available. If they turned to look, the second cigarette burning in his hands could easily pass as the first one. They never do, and Damiano feels something in his chest.

Stop being butthurt. You aren't any victim.

Damiano sighs, the smoke spreading all through the car, not a single glance his way. Better this way, he thinks, and finally manages to relax in the leather seat with a satisfied hum, just as they start up again at the green light's sight.

Much to his dismay, eyes are all on him, right at the moment he didn't want them. The attention is too much for his anxious mush of a brain.

"What?" he asks, tone rude and harsh. He hated talking that way, especially with the curious and concerned gaze of Thomas on him. No one replies, turning back to what they were doing beforehand. The street Damiano has grown familiar to this past week comes into sight, and he holds in his sigh of relief, for lack of someone's comments.

He all but runs out of the car when it comes to a stop, being held back by Ethan before he could run through the stupidly fancy doors. "Wait" Ethan instructs, and who is Damiano to not listen to him. He doesn't want to be a further disappointment to any of them, so he obeys, albeit with a reluctance he isn't sure if Ethan picked up on.

The band walks in the hotel all together, and is squished in the same elevator, going up to their floor. The silence hurts Damiano's ears, more loud than a plane taking off next to him. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry, he repeats in his mind, squeezing his eyes shut. The elevator stops abruptly with a ding and they all shuffle out quickly. Thomas and Ethan move to one side of the hall, Damiano and Vic on the other. Their doors open as if in sync, and Damiano slams his shut without second thought.

He doesn't hear, or care, if the others got in their own rooms, he is in desperate need of getting in the shower now. It wouldn't be the cure to his problems, it isn't like he could drown the black pit in the back of his mind in hot water and honey-milk soap, but it didn't hurt to try.

The hot water on his skin is an instant relief, and Damiano makes sure to relish this small victory, the little comfort he got from it. The shower runs long over the thirty minute mark, and he knows Leo will be on his ass over it tomorrow, but he can't be bothered to care.

He is flushed red all over from the hot water, and his skin is starting to feel prickly. The screen of his phone lights up, and he nearly jumps to it to pick it up.

"Hi baby," she giggles, and Damiano all but collapses. If the shower was relieving, Giorgia's voice was the fucking cure to all his problems. "Hi" he replies in a giddy tone, and he feels a smile crawl on his face.

"How was the day?" she asks, and he isn't sure how to reply. Does he tell her everything? Was Vic talking on her behalf too, about his vents being annoying and hurtful? He isn't willing to risk it, not now.

"It was okay, had this shitty interview," he decides to say, grabbing some underwear from his otherwise packed suitcase. "Jus' came out of the shower," he adds, sliding on the cotton briefs. The moisturiser he had stolen from Giorgia’s stash of, about a million, sits on his bedside table, and he makes an effort to apply some to his irritated skin.

"That's nice- the shower I mean. Why was the interview shitty?" she asks, and concern seems to lace her voice. Damiano isn't sure.

"I took this suggestion Vic had, to talk about my mental health stuff. I didn't really enjoy the delivery, but what can you do," he replies, trying to keep his casual fuck-all tone.

"Fair enough, what can you do?" she repeats with a giggle, and it's instantly infectious. “Talk to me about your day,” Damiano says, in desperate need of a distraction from his own life. Giorgia hums in thought, and he can’t help but imagine her little pout on the other side of the phone as she thought of what to say.

“Well, I didn’t do much, went out to get some food for lunch, gave Bidet her medicine and gave a treat to Lego too because he got jealous,” she narrates, and Damiano's smile is hurting, it's so wide. She really was the only one who managed to change his mood to one-eighty. “We watched a film, the three of us, thinking of how we all miss you,”. Damiano makes a high-pitched ‘Aw’, which probably hurt her ears, judging from her quiet squeal. He doesn’t mention how it seems unbelievable to him, how he doubts there is a chance she misses him, when she had all the freedom in the world, away from Damiano’s complaints and problems. The insult had nestled very deep.

“Never do that again, god that was so loud,” she complains, and Damiano manages a snort. “Anyway, then I had that meeting I told you about, then I gave the kids some food and called you,” she completes. Damiano shrugs, expecting an additional comment of any sort. Anything. Any distraction. The universe doesn’t let it slide.

“Is there really nothing else that happened today? You seem quiet, all okay?” she asks, and he curses mentally. She knows him too well, but Damiano knows her too. It was a matter of a convincing tone.

"Got in this fight with Vic," he replies after some time, finally laying on his bed. “But it's okay, don't worry about it,” he adds, and fuck, that was an open invitation for her to worry, wasn’t it? Damiano curses silently, thinking of ways to change topics, and quick.

"Oof, want to talk about it? Or it isn't that important?" she replies, and Damiano tries to muster as much chill he has left in him to reply. With as little emotion as possible behind it, even if the mere thought of the fight was like salt on fresh wounds, he replies.

“Not really, it was pretty stupid. You know, the normal stuff. Just a bit shaken up, otherwise fine as ever,”. His reply seems believable, and Giorgia seems to fall for it fine. He hates lying to her, lying in general, but he’d hate to ruin her mood more. Suddenly, it seems his excuse is the least believable thing he’s ever said, even if he put any confidence he had left in delivering it.

“Oh, I’m glad” she replies, and the relief is obvious in her tone. Damiano is relieved too. “I was worried for a moment, you know, with your stress, and Victoria’s too. I thought it might end up worse” she admits. He can’t understand if she’s trying to prove a point. “You know, I was worried it was like that fight you two had on the first tour. But thankfully, it’s not”. Damiano furrows his brows. He isn’t sure if he should be trying to retrieve that memory, but he does, gives in to his curiosity.

He tries to remember, back to their first tour, all the fights he had with Vic at the time. They weren’t few, Vic was a teenage girl tired of authority and Damiano was a hotheaded teen, respectfully tired of not being the authority. He thinks of severity, and there’s only one fight that matches, that locks in place.

Oh.

That fight.

He cringes. It had been a really bad fight. In a moment of heat, recklessness and his fucking stupidity, he had managed to make Vic back off. She hadn’t really ever been the one to de-escalate fights, but he had been so pissed off over god knows what, and had scared the shit out of her.

“God, remembering that time. Vic called me in tears, saying you two had overdone it, that she had gone back to the hotel with Ethan. Then Thomas, poor kid was probably so concerned, saying you left, holding on the coat you had taken off when he grabbed you. Everyone was scared shitless, leaving while you were that unstable could have been a disaster” she trails off, and Damiano tries to forget. His hands are on his neck, pulling at his hair, trying to stimulate a healthy reaction. It isn’t too successful of an effort, and he can’t hold a pained whine that leaves his lips.

Stop. Stop, stop, stopstopstopstopstopstop. No luck.

“Dam?” Giorgia asks, and he inhales deeply. The flashback runs in the back of his mind. “Shit- still here” he replies, suppresses a sob, pushes the tears back. His voice wavers, slightly, but he’ll think of something.

“What happened? I heard something, did I trigger you? Fuck-” she says, and Damiano’s fight or flight response kicks in. “No, no, baby, you didn’t do anything. I tried to go get something and pulled at my shoulder hard. Don’t worry, please, I’m alright,” he lies, again and again, and his throat burns. Believe me, he screams, his words drip with desperation. Believe me, move on, change the subject. Don’t be sad over me, focus on something else.

“Sorry, I just panicked. If you’re okay, I’m okay too” she replies, and she lets a small laugh out, one of pure relief. Damiano copies it, he tries to feel it in him, but all that looms is the thought of making it all about himself again.

Selfish prick, Vic had called him, and the words are burning on his skin, even more so now.

“Let’s talk about something else, hm? No fights, no stress, no bad memories” he offers, begs to take all attention away from him, because everyone must surely be sick of that.

“Don’t really think we have anything to say, love”

“Do you want to go back to your movie? I can hear Bidet purr behind you” he says, and there's a tinge of guilt painting over his whole face, he’s sure. Maybe jealousy is plastered on his features too, but he is quick to humble himself.

Selfish, you are. She’s probably happier at home alone than if you were there. Maybe let her enjoy that first, hm?

Damiano nods at himself, his thoughts more aggressive by the minute. “Maybe head to bed too,” he offers, seeing the time. He might be a few hours away, but it isn’t hard to know it's late for Italy if it's late for him too.

“I just might,” she replies, and a laugh contours her words perfectly. Damiano’s thoughts seem to soften for a bit. "You sure you're okay?" Giorgia's voice echoes in the hotel room. Damiano makes a face she can't see, like a grimace of amusement. "I'll be fine, don't stress your pretty head over it," he replies, and her giggles make him feel warm. "Alright then, I guess I'll believe you" she comments, and Damiano's brows furrow in surprise. "'I guess'? I'm offended". Giorgia's giggles sound muffled, and Damiano guessed she had made it to bed.

"Alright, go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow at one," he smiles through a yawn, trying to keep the smile as real as possible. Giorgia says goodnight back, sneaking an 'I love you' and hanging up before Damiano gets to say it back. It's a game they have, and it brought an honest laugh out of Damiano as he looked at the balck screen of his phone.

Their light back and forth banter was a sufficient distraction from the thoughts clouding his mind. He refused to tell Giorgia though. His thoughts race, plagued by Victoria’s words.

“At this rate you vent to us, to me, so fucking much and so often, I’m not convinced you’re sorry for ruining our moods”

“We didn’t become a band to be your personal therapists”

He wasn't about to make Giorgia feel terrible too. She wasn't supposed to sit through his vents, it wasn't something she had to worry about. It's Damiano's battle, he didn't have to drag anyone alongside him in it.

Not to mention, he didn't know how to tell her he was near tears from his side of the phone, probably the least happy he's been this past few years. Not when she was smiling (Damiano could understand when she talked, if she smiled or not. It was something he found beautiful in their bond), happy and full of life as she is about to go to bed, dream about happy things that leave her with that tingling feeling in her body which makes her bubbly and sweet. He didn't want to ruin her night, so he said nothing, no comments about the fight he had with Vic, no mentions of his feelings, prioritising her happiness and making sure to maintain it. He didn't care that he was falling apart. Not if that meant Giorgia could be happy.

He lays down on his back with a sigh, palms pressing into his watering eyes. The tears still manage to spill down the sides of his face, and he makes a half-assed attempt at wiping them with his bare forearm. His chest feels heavy and his mouth feels sticky as he tries to fight back sobs.

It's futile, to fight them back, and Damiano knows that. He knows himself more than he likes to admit, and he knows that all the pent up frustration from the afternoon will come and bite him in the ass. His arrogance has come to screw him over for the millionth time in what seems a single week. He drags his palms lower down his face. The moisture from his tears spreads with them.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Over and over again.

He needs something, something. Water, he needs water, he decides. The bathroom is within close range, and even if it seems like a marathon to even get up, he manages fine.

Stop being lazy.

The bathroom feels weirdly small, scary. In the way he’s scared of getting trapped in it. He turns the light on, and his reflection averts him. Red eyes and lines down his face, disheveled hair and his perked shoulders. He makes an effort to relax them, he feels too cocky with them raised like that.

But that’s all you are. A cocky, selfish asshole.

He swallows briefly, takes a deep breath. The water runs cold on his palms, and even colder on his face. Splash after splash, face dripping with freezing water, landing on his collarbone and raising goosebumps to his skin. Nothing. He needs a moment to run through everything, or he’ll never relax. Normally, he’d do this with someone else, but right now, he couldn’t bother anyone. Couldn't bring himself to.

The fight with Vic feels weird to him. Left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. It wasn't the longest fight they've had. Their normal fights, all were meaningless matters that had him and Vic avoid each other like the plague for a few hours, at most days.

This one wasn't like the others. This fight wasn't about Damiano being bossy, or about the lyrics that seemed to be a bit off. It was something that really bothered her, Damiano could tell. It was over a recurring issue that didn't only annoy her but ruined her mood.

He never thought of it that way. Not when he was raised to be open about what's on his mind. He didn't open up to many, and the band were three familiar faces that he trusted with his life. He told them everything, they told him everything. He trusted them to be themselves and stand their ground, it was his whole bravado when the band did their first album. And Vic's words did hold a lot of weight, even if he wouldn't admit it to her. It was exactly like Damiano wanted her to be. Fending for herself, for everyone.

This time, he's hurt. He is the one Victoria needs to stand up to, and it’s a painful realisation, to learn that he is the asshole all along.

Cazzo, che stronzo sei. You've made her feel terrible, always ruining her mood with your stupid thoughts.

He tries to blink the thoughts away. They don't leave, and he doesn't push more. He just lets it happen.

Victoria made it clear she didn't want, she didn't like Damiano talking to her about his life's misfortunes. The greater punch to the gut was her saying "us". She was speaking on behalf of all of them. Everyone.

Stupid. Wrong. Immature. You're supposed to protect them asshole.

Ethan and Thomas were so eager to let Damiano speak. Even on days he was reluctant, he knows they'll persist, stubborn as ever until Damiano said what bothered him.

Damiano doesn't want to talk to them. Gods, he doesn't want to see them. He feels betrayed, his ego is hurt and his trust is shattered. All the times he would ask, "Are you sure I can vent to you?", all the times he tried to shy away from it, but Ethan dragged him out by the pool, or Thomas looked at him with his adorable eyes and assured Damiano he needn't be worried. All those times Ethan was lying. Thomas was lying. They weren't okay with it.

So stupid. You should have known. They are basically kids, and you go on about hating life. What did you think they’d say?

Starting to understand the problem?

"I'm the problem," he whispers, and the familiar lump is back, making Damiano want to claw his throat out. The silence reminds him how alone he is.

"They were lying, they didn't want to hurt me. They didn't know better. I'm the reason they are uncomfortable". The tiles make his words echo around him, setting in the realisation deeper.

Victoria isn't out of the conversation. She's the confusing one. The main cause of conflict. Victoria

Young, sweet Victoria.

She was closest to him. She knew things about Damiano that could destroy his life, and she knew how to make him go from a crying mess to the kick ass rockstar he tries to be, he pretends to be. He knew just as much, but the inner workings of her mind were a mystery to him. Maybe that's why he didn't notice he was being a pest.

Excuses. Always excuses. Maybe if you were a good friend you would have known.

Look, how pathetic. You never bothered to ask her. Not to mention your half-assed apologies. You've probably made her feel terrible on a daily basis. What a fucking hoax. A piece of shit that she has to endure, comfort. So, so stupid.

Victoria had her own stuff to worry over. A full blown anxiety disorder that made her life so difficult. She never seeked Damiano's attention. She never ran to Ethan for comfort, to Thomas for a distraction. She was responsible, unlike he has been.

He claws at his throat, his nails digging at the back of his neck.

Shit. Shit, shit, shitshitshit.

He lets the sobs out, and he feels weak. They hurt, and Damiano is heaving, trying to breathe through the tears. His emotions hit like a truck, and he’s never felt like this before. There is an overwhelming urge to give up, surrender to his thoughts, let them get the best of him. It isn’t the first time he’s been close to abandoning his logic, but it is the first time he really considers it. It’s more like a stormy sea now, rather than a deepless pit as it had been on other days. It’s inviting, and it reeks of destruction. Damiano feels a strange tug, he feels self destructive. So, he allows his thoughts to get the best of him, taking over any logic in his mind. Simply pushing them back isn’t doing anything for anyone.

He looks at his reflection again. Picks at it. The pimple on his temple, the hairs poking through his skin, forming stubble. His messy eyebrows, one eyelid hanging lower than the other. He seeks to create insecurity, to escalate his thoughts. And his thoughts have escalated, but he’s too scared of them. His eyes fall on the pills by the counter. The damned prescription. He forgot to take his dose, fuck.

He throws his head back. The light is too bright, it’s stinging his eyes, but he doesn’t want anyone here. He doesn’t need them by his side, even if his body screams at him. Drop it, drop the act. then, do it, fucking do it, stop being a fucking coward. He’s weak, too weak, and he does it, he grabs the bottle with his prescription in shaky hands, uncapping it. There isn’t any need to count, it’s a new bottle that he opened in the morning. There have to be about forty in there, and he doubts he’d be able to take all of them at once. They’re tiny, they fit into his palms just fine, and the bottle has maybe two or three left in there.

He looks down at his hands, and the feeling is overwhelming. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.

Damiano is suffocating, a phantom pair of hands wrap around his neck, pressing with no little force onto his throat, thumbs digging into his skin as he tries to breathe. It's too much, it's all too much, please, just please just let him breathe-

He can't. Can't think. Can only feel the ever-present panic shaking incessantly throughout his form and sinking to his stomach, as heavy air presses in all around him and he-

He doesn't know what he's doing, what he’s doing, what's happening, he doesn't know, can't help can't can't can't can't-

He can't. fuck. fuck-

And. and he's really so stupid, so fucking dumb and such a fucking baby that he's acting like this, isn't he, because nothing happened, he just had a fight, just had some thoughts, just, just, just he's overreacting and there's nothing much to it, and-

He's not there. He's not there. Here. Where? Only here, only existence, only the overwhelming sensations clawing at his skin and begging for attention, which he gives them because he's stupid like that, because he gives in, because he's weak, weak, and it's too hot and he's suddenly overcame by the thought that he wants to claw his own skin off his bones.

He knows his breathing is unsteady, and he tries to hide it because he just knows he’s getting more and more overwhelmed, tries to hide his panic, hands both trembling, but it’s just making it worse and, fuck, he’s just making everything worse. The almost empty pill bottle drops to the floor.

He isn’t even twenty and yet here he is, clammy hand shaking as he grips a handful of pills he emptied on his palm and wonders if it would even matter if he took them all right then. He doesn’t know what he is doing, his mind runs blank, he feels light-headed and his right hand grips on the sink for dear life. He looks up again and the light sheen on his paler skin makes him look ill, feel ill.

There’s taste of sick in his mouth, the acid burns his throat, and god, is he about to throw up? Damiano doesn’t want to consider the option even, and his grip on the sink slips when his knees buck forward randomly. It sends his back flat on the tiles across and he just lets himself slide lower and lower, his empty hand over his mouth, trying to muffle the sobs that leave his mouth.

He’s being loud, too loud, so loud. He can’t breathe, the hands around his neck are still there, and someone must be pressing a two-ton plaque on his chest, because even deep breaths aren’t working, not when his torso as a whole is on fire.

His hands shake, incredibly so. His mind is racing, the lack of oxygen makes his thoughts fuzzy and unclear, but one thought hasn’t moved the slightest bit.

The pills are rattling against each other in his palm, and he strains to even raise it to his face. Tet-a-tet. With his thoughts, with the feeling plaguing them, the whole origin to his spiral.

Selfish. It rings in his ears louder than a microphone pitch, and he can’t think of anything, nothing besides one thought. You can’t hurt anyone if you’re dead. Their pain is prolonged by your very existence, it says, it sings, and it’s song seems too appealing to his exhausted brain, even if his body is doing everything in its wake to stop him, before he’s done something stupid, hurtful.

Go it pushes, and he’s about to.

“Damiano? Are you awake?”

And he stills.

“It’s Vic, if you can’t figure,”

Shit. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

“I just wanted to apologise, if you’ll let me”

God, fuck fuck fuck fuck. Why now, why right now? Fuck off, he wants to say. Don’t pretend you care, he wants to say, but he’s taken all his pent up anger out on himself, so much so he can’t even speak. Victoria’s words just linger in the air, heavy.

“I’ll try to be quick, I promise” she says, and Damiano hears a slight tremble in her words. She had been crying, he made her cry. His brain is already jumping to conclusions, and he opens his palm, looking at the pills only centimetres away.

“I’m sorry, Dam, so fucking sorry. I was so stressed after the interview, ‘cause, fuck, I was also thinking it went bad, and I wasn’t in the mood to hear your complaining. But what I said, I never thought it through, not until we came back and you slammed the door shut, which you wouldn’t do if you weren’t upset. And I was worried, still am. I asked Gio if you talked and she said you two did, and that you were acting weird, but she didn’t push you” Vic pauses to take a breath in, and he knows she’s shaking from her side. And he’s shaking too, and he feels cold against the tiles.

“I, um, I told her about our fight, ‘cause I needed to tell someone or I would explode, and I accidentally worried her more, but I assured her you’re fine, or I thought you were at least. Anyway, uh, I was thinking that I should apologise in the morning, maybe get you some coffee as part of a truce, but I heard you earlier, it sounded like you were crying. And I felt terrible, I tried to come up with a good enough apology for you, because it isn’t often you actually cry, and it’s less often you’re alone when you do, so I wanted to make sure you know I didn’t mean anything from what I said, and I’m fucking sorry if I planted doubts in your head, because they aren’t fucking real,” she says, and takes a deep breath in. “Fuck” she says, and it’s shaky, because she’s trying not to cry. Damiano knows her, knows the signs, and she knows she’s telling the truth.

Fuck. Fuck him.

Is this out of concern perhaps, or maybe pity? Damiano didn’t want her fucking pity, it was pity, Vic wouldn’t be concerned about a waste of space like him. He tries to ignore her words, her apology trying to process in his head, leaning on the bathroom walls. Fuck, he could feel his tears pooling up again. He rubbed his eyes vigorously, hoping that it just disappeared. It felt fucking awful, his eyes blinded by the watery liquid, he could feel the tears streaking down his face, a few drops of it reaching his lips, the faint salty taste lingering in his mouth. How did he even get to this point in his life?

God, he hated how much he felt. How much he bled his emotions onto the page of the world. When he is high, it is great, he can fly, he is on top of the world. The highs are great. But the lows- The lows are excruciating. He’s still shaking, and he’s still cold, frozen in place, when a new thought overwhelms his mind.

I don’t want this.

It’s simple, understandable, and still so fucking much. He tries to breathe, but the adrenaline of his- what even was it, a spiral? Depressive episode? Whatever it was, the adrenaline had worn off, and the realisation of what he was about to do, what he could still do and what he wanted to do is crashing on him, fast and rough and unforgiving.

“You must be asleep; or ignoring me. I wouldn’t blame you for either. God, that’d be weird if you were asleep, I’d be talking to myself for however long” Victoria says, and her voice is grounding, maybe to a certain degree, to the degree where he isn’t heaving anymore, knowing she’s there, and that she can help, and that she wants to help him. A particularly loud sob leaves his throat, and his body is aching all over.

Fuck, fuck fuck fuck. He kicks the tiles across, but it’s to no use, it won’t help him. It only makes it worse, and he stops with a hiss when he manages to cut his shin on a sharp part under the sink.

“Damiano?” he hears, and she knows she heard. The cry, the hiss, the curses dropping out his mouth, the ones he deems silent because his ears are stuffed and his head is hurting, throbbing.

"Are you okay?". The concern thick in her voice makes Damiano's eyes sting with more tears. "Yeah," he starts to say, before he changes his mind. He fucking needs her help, whether his stupid fucking brain likes that fact or not. "No," he admits, and his voice sounds beaten up. "Not really."

"Can I come in?" Victoria asks. Her voice is too careful, too gentle. He can still pick up a tremble, a waver, and Victoria is scared. Damiano winces.

"Yes," he says, although he wants to say no. He wants to refuse entry to her, he wants to hide, hide hide hide. He wants, wants, wants, wants. The thought of being selfish resurfaces, scares him, and he can’t do it.

Victoria swears she’s never run faster around a hotel room before.

Her mind is racing, what else would it do?

Not really, he had replied, and his voice had been shaky, and beat-up. Damiano’s voice had never been like that, ever, as far Vic is concerned.

“Please,” he cries, and it's almost inaudible to Vic. Almost. Thank fucking god for the shitty walls they have. Her room has never felt so fucking big, until she has to look for a very specific and small key.

Not here.

Not in this drawer.

Maybe in the closet?

Fuck, what if she returned it to the reception?

She takes a drawer holding millions of flyers, from various restaurants around the area, the key falling on the carpet with a small thud. Her hands grab it as soon as she’s thrown the drawer on her bed, running to unlock the door that separates their rooms. It had been a weird detail at first, but now she couldn’t be more thankful for it. She’s shaking, she knows, and she hastily pushes the door into the wall, connecting the two rooms. Her eyes skim around the room, and she spots him curled up on himself, rocking himself back and forth in the bathroom of the room, hands in fists and on his head.

Damiano could only make out a blurry figure entering the room through his peripheral. Maybe the universe didn’t actually have a special hate for him. Her hurried steps provided a sufficient distraction, and a tempo he could try to match his breathing to. His palms are sweaty, and the pills are disintegrating in his hand, sticking to each other.

“Damiano?” she asks, and his eyes are unfocused. He is shaking a lot, and Victoria can spot the sheen on his back, and his skintone paler than what she’s used to seeing. She kneels down to his level, brushing the hairs that are stuck on his forehead, his shoulders, his neck, gathering it in a bun above his head.

“Dami?” she repeats, softer this time, trying to control the concern shining through in her words. She holds her hand out, trying to maybe hold Damiano, pull him out of the bathroom, but she quickly retracts it when he flinches violently. He tries to push himself further in the bathroom, scared out of his mind. Victoria’s sure, she’s witnessed and experienced enough panic attacks to know.

Damiano closes his eyes and swallows hard. He’s shaking, a worrying amount, and he tries to fix his breaths desperately. He can’t even think properly, he’s so fucking underoxygenated. It’s just I DON’T WANT THIS all over his head, and it won’t help anyone anytime soon if he doesn’t manage to respond to Vic. His eyes burn when he manages to open them again, and he tries to make eye contact with Victoria, trying to focus on her features, trying to find something grounding.

He chokes back a sob, and the room seems to close on him. The walls feel closer, and the fact he can’t breathe isn’t helping his panic. Maybe he is dying after all. No need for unnecessary drugs.

Hands are on his waist, pulling hard, and he’s not in the bathroom anymore. The carpet feels warm, and he tries to welcome that feeling as much as possible. He feels a twitch run though him, and there’s an overwhelming urge to go back, hide, hide, hide, fucking hide.

His whimpers are heart wrenching and Victoria is near tears as she tries to help Damiano calm down. It isn’t like she doesn’t know what to do, but she’s so scared she can’t think of what to even start with.

She kneels down by him, and Damiano latches on her like a hurt toddler in need of comfort. She lets him cling on her, running her hand up and down his back in an attempt to soothe him. It’s futile, and she figures just so when a sob so intense runs through her body, when it passes through Damiano, too. He tries to speak, but it’s all failed breaths and pained cries. His balled up hand nudges her back when Damiano claws in further, and she prys it with her own back between them. Damiano buries his head in the crook of her neck, and she attempts to break his grip on whatever has balled in his fist. He opens his hand instantly, and Victoria wouldn't have known what it was if she hadn’t seen the empty bottle just by Damiano’s side, and actually seeing the mass of pills that had morphed to the shape of his palm makes her heart skip a beat.

“I changed my mind,” he whispers in her neck, and Victoria’s breathing stops.

“I changed my mind, I don’t want this” he repeats, voice breaking as he tries to hide further in her embrace. She’s confused, and worried sick. “What does that mean?” she asks, but it comes out too harsh for Damiano, who just sobs in her chests, breathing calmer, yet still uneven. Vic’s panic isn’t letting her think clearly.

Did he take any? Is that why he can’t breathe? God how many are in those fucking bottles?

“Damiano, what do you mean?” she begs, ignoring the tight feeling on her chest. Does she call an ambulance? Will Damiano die in her arms, just because they can’t communicate? Fuck. She has to work it out. Now.

“Damiano, love, I need you to listen to me, okay?”. Damiano doesn’t respond verbally, but the sharp inhale he takes sounds a lot like a ‘yes’.

“Did you take any?” she repeats, voice loud and clear, but running calm. She is surprised at herself. He shakes his head no in her neck, she feels his mouth ‘no’ against her skin. She can finally breathe again, allowing herself to relax in their embrace. His hands claw on her back hard, trying to stop his breathing from picking up again. She can’t tell, but something must be resurfacing in his thoughts, something is still running though his mind, and if he doesn’t manage to take some proper breaths within the next minute she will have to call the ambulance.

She holds on him, palms flat against his back, trying to naturally regulate his breathing. She takes a breath in, and her expanding chest pushes Damiano’s shaking one out. She holds it in for a moment, closing her burning eyes as he convulses in her arms. She lets out the breath, pushing down on his back firmly. The muscle gives away easily under her touch. She repeats the motion, with every breath she takes in, Damiano exhales the previous one.

After he is calm, Victoria lets him breathe alone, running a hand up and down his back for any sort of comfort. She just sits, enjoying his warmth, calming her own racing mind down. The warmth he could have so easily lost. hadn’t she spoken up and apologised.

Damiano takes in a ragged breath and pulls away from Vic, her hands quickly detaching from his back.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice scratchy. His headache is back, and his brain must be throbbing against his skull. His hands lay in his lap.

“You’re- you’re okay,” she replies with an exhale, picking at her nails.

Damiano’s vision focuses for the first time in what must be hours. Victoria’s eyes are red and she looks completely messed up.

Great job Damiano! Way to go! What an amazing friend you are! Fucking asshole.

His eyes start to water again, and he quickly wipes the tears before Vic has time to notice.

“Once again,” she starts, clearing her throat. “I’m really sorry, for- uh- earlier,”

Damiano cringes at the thought, bringing his knees to his chest. He doesn’t reply.

“You should-” he says, taking a deep breath to ground his thoughts. “you should go to bed. It’s, uh, it’s getting really late”. He punches his open palm, closing his burning eyes.

“I’ll be fine. You should go rest first,” she rebutts, and he’s about to protest, but shuts it down before any words make it out his mouth.

“You must be, exhausted after, um, this”

He swallows hard, and she regrets ever mentioning it. He nods, rising to his feet quickly and walking to his bed. Victoria follows short after, walking towards the bathroom. She drops the handful of pills in the toilet, flushing them down. The box on the floor still has two in it, but they’re nowhere near enough. She sets them down on the counter, grabbing a painkiller and some water for the older, closing the door behind her.

Walking back to the main room, he’s sitting on the bed, murmuring to himself, head in his hands. She can’t quite understand him, so she doesn’t bother to intervene. She just nudges him gently, placing the little white pill in his mouth, handing him the bottle of water. He accepts it, swallowing with a grimace, leaving the bottle by the bedside table.

His eyelids hang, and Vic knows he’s fighting back sleep. She helps him lay down on the cotton sheets, pulling the comforter over him and goes to his suitcase to maybe grab a shirt he could wear to bed. Before she’s even turned around, Damiano is already fast asleep, breathing laboured with sleep. Vic can see his legs twitching from under the comforter, and she just kisses his head softly, walking back to her room and closing the door behind her.

○•○•○•○

“Welcome. You’re only,” Leo checks his watch with a shake of his arm. “Twenty minutes late”. Damiano doesn’t reply to his snarky comment, and Victoria can tell he hasn’t slept well at all. She could hear some cries from his room at some point in the night, but she knew it was better to not be all over him.

“Did you take out your prescription from your suitcase?” Leo asks, and Damiano just pushes his sunglasses up.

“I don’t have any left,” he replies, and Leo seems confused, but doesn’t reply.

“Alright, we have considerably less time to get to the airport, so no coffee for you,”. No one seems to be too affected by Leo’s words, and they all make their way to the car in silence. Victoria itches to go to Damiano and ask him if he’s alright, maybe apologise again. He seems to be colder than he was yesterday after their fight, and she can hear his conflicting thoughts from where she sits.

The ride to the airport isn’t long, considering a lack of traffic and the missing stop for some coffee. There is total silence everywhere they go, and she can’t understand why this silence hurts her ears. Normally, they’re filled with banter, or when they aren’t the atmosphere is pleasant and warm. She felt cold.

Going through the routine checks, no one jokes about Damiano and Vic ‘smuggling drugs’. No one jokes about Ethan having to go through a pat-down because his bulge is ‘suspiciously big’. Nothing about Thomas’ suitcase being heavier than himself. Victoria feels a bit melancholic, but she blames it on everyone being tired out of their mind. Her anxiety is making her thoughts reel, but she has managed to ground herself with common sense.

“Damiano, keep an eye on your phone, if I call you it means we’re boarding” Leo says, and Damiano nods, disappearing from the group's eyes. Victoria curiously follows him, too worried for her own damn good.

Damiano walks, quickly, trying to maneuver around the near empty airport. He feels tears prick at his eyes, and he’s taking his bag in his hands, in desperate need of a smoke. He’s almost outside, but someone pulls him back and-

“Fuck” he yells, dropping his bag. He takes a deep breath, then another, and Vic’s hand against him is the final straw.

“What?” he yells, aware of the guard looking straight at them. “What, Vic? Interested in me all of a sudden?” he continues, and the tears spill hot down his face. Victoria makes a move, but she never reaches to wipe them off.

Fuck. Fuck him, fuck this, Damiano thinks, and he’s boiling, a sob running through his whole body, rather violently. VIctoria watches him, concern blatant on her face.

“We have to talk about last ni-”

“No we fucking don’t” he exclaims, and Victoria tries to reply. “We won’t talk about it, not now, not anytime soon”

“Damiano, please-”

“No! Vic! Talking seems so easy to you, you think it’ll solve everything, you think it will erase the fact I almost fucking commited suicide last night?”. Victoria swallows, and Damiano seems amused.

“Oh, please, were you really so oblivious to think it was a random coincidence? I’m sure you’re smart enough to know what’s happening at certain times”. Victoria looks down, coaxing more out of him. She knows he’s mad, and sooner or later, he’ll admit why he’s so pissy and uncooperative.

“What, Vic? Too stunned to speak? Or did I trigger you, somehow? As if you didn’t practically tell me to go fuck off yesterday, bringing the whole band into it, making me believe Giorgia even didn’t fucking like my existence”. Victoria lets him get it out, and her phone vibrates in her pocket.

‘boarding in 10. dont be late, i really need to go home’ from Leo.

“I really hope, really wish, you never drive yourself to such insanity Vic, because I am so close to losing my mind from the things you said to me, because I can’t even look at my fucking reflection without getting flashbacks to last night, when I couldn’t fucking breathe”. Damiano takes a deep breath in, and his hands fidget with the box of cigarettes. Victoria stops his hands with her own.

“I know simply saying sorry won’t fix shit,” she starts, calm and collected against Damiano, who is anything but that. “But you need to know that whatever I said was because of my own anxious spiral. I didn’t know how to approach you after, you seemed so cold and I was worried you were still mad. And I’m so fucking sorry you can’t even fix your hair in the mirror because of something I caused, but cussing me out in the middle of the airport won’t fix shit either”. Damiano nods, sniffling, trying to get his breaths under control again. “I know, I’m sorry, but I feel like I’ll fucking explode,” Damiano explains, and she nods reassuringly.

“I know. And I promise, when we land, we can go look for a specialist. Pick up therapy again, hm?”. He nods, and she brings him in a half hug as their gate comes into sight.

“Vic?”

“Mm?”

“I love you”. Victoria smiles, really fucking wide. His own face wears a giddy smile, and she just hugs him impossibly tight. “I know, dumbass,” she says, and Damiano picks her up from the waist.

“Say it back, shithead,” he says, and Vic wriggles out of his hold. “Only if you let me ride your back,” she says, and Damiano compromises, leaning forward. Vic jumps on his back with a yelp, and her arms loop around his neck.

With a kiss to his temple, she says “I love you too,”. Damiano spins them around once, and Vic giggles. “I promise, you’ll get better. I will ensure you do,” she says, and Damiano just bites back a smile.

“I know you will, you caused all of it,”

Victoria hits his head with her bag, and they both are a mess of laughter when they’re back at the gate.

________

Tags : @writingmaneskin , @oro-e-diamanti , @cheese-toastie-11 , @teenyweenynightghost , @idyllicbutterfly , @iosonoarina , @que--sera--sera , @i-cant-remember-my-old-login

#tw intrusive thoughts #tw suicice #tw overdose #tw anxiety #tw panic attack #tw selfhate #damiano david #måneskin #måneskin fanfic #victoria de angelis

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epicene-humanoid · 3 years

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some trans Jeff thoughts:

he realized he was trans in elementary school and just went fuck it I'll just start introducing myself as Jeffery and see if anyone decides to stop me (as we know, jeff winger can get away with almost anything)

he got top surgery the second he could afford it (around the same time he started at his law firm), and probably bribed someone to keep it a secret

"I'm jeff winger and i would rather look at myself naked than the women I sleep with" are the words of a man proud of his transition

he's really insecure about his fashion sense, which is why he mostly dresses like the douchey guys at his firm in the start of the show, he thought you can't go wrong with the sleazy lawyer look

he will never admit it but he feels super good about the dean hitting on him, because the dean is a (cis) guy, acknowledging that Jeff is more manly than him

i think he starts out stealth and comes out to everyone one by one, probably starting with abed because he knows abed won't judge him and will probably just see it as an interesting backstory.

abed just says it's cool and maybe worth a prequel exploring Jeff's transition, and jeff asks him to predict how all of the members of the group will react to him coming out.

abed's predictions:

britta will be over-the-top supportive and do a ton of research about trans history, probably put together a slideshow just to prove how progressive she is, and jeff will be a little bit weirded out, but also touched that she did all that for him, though he would never let her know that

shirley will be confused, because she doesn't know how someone she trusts and knows so well could be part of a group she was raised to hate, but ultimately realizes that there's nothing actually against the lgbtq people in the bible, and, as a cool character development arch, starts to advocate against use of the bible to justify bigotry

troy will just think it over and decide that Jeff's physique and coolness are even awesomer knowing how much work he'd had to put in to be like that, and respects Jeff's manliness even more

annie will give him a hug, say something sweet about how she'll always love him, and worry about his health, because even she read somewhere that taking testosterone makes you more likely to have a heart attack, jeff will explain that the risk is still only as high a cis guy, and she'll be the one to always remind him to take his shots

peirce will say at best say "jeff winger used to be a chick?" and at worst call him a slur, either way there's sure to be a lot of misgendering from him, and pestering to know Jeff's deadname (needless to say, Jeff just doesn't tell peirce)

the whole group goes out of their way to keep their beach trips a secret from pierce (the girls don't want him there anyways, he's too liable to be creepy) even though jeff knows that even if pierce saw his scars, all he would have to do is make up a story about some childhood accident and pierce would never question it

sorry this ended up being super long. can I hear some of your headcanons for him?

YES ALL THIS!!! yes yes i’m fully accepting this as canon oh my god

i’m about to type a whole ass ESSAY at midnight because i have been DYING to talk about this for months ajfdksljk,,, this is going to be obscenely long and i might end up adding even more to it as i continue to rewatch the show because there is truly no shortage of trans jeff content (especially when you’re trans and see transness in every little thing ajdkslfkjs)

spoiler warning for literally everything about this show under the cut <3

i 100% agree, i feel like he realized he was trans super young, especially since in the show we see him as a little kid a couple of times.

like look at little jeff with the oversized sweatshirt and little ponytail!! that’s childhood trans fashion. not to be dramatic but part of me thinks that jeff’s dad left before he fully came out to his family (which gives him even more angst about it, because until that one Thanksgiving episode, he’s never able to prove to his dad that he’s a better man), but part of me thinks that his dad left after he came out (which adds that spicy i-should-have-stayed-in-the-closet guilt that he has to work through).

either way, because his dad wasn’t there, he had to base his concept of masculinity on something else, which was becoming a lawyer!! there’s some line that’s like “after the dust and divorce papers were settled the only man i looked up to was [the lawyer guy]”. like, replacing your father figure in your mind with the concept of “a job where you can talk your way in and out of anything and distort other people’s concept of reality”? that’s trans.

and the fucking THANKSGIVING EPISODE... i struggle to watch it without crying hehe <3 yeowch! the dichotomy of willy jr. being the “wrong” kind of man because he’s “too soft” but jeff also not being enough despite adhering to all the social standards of masculinity... fuck!! this whole scene of him telling his dad “i am Not well adjusted” and talking about how he gave himself an “appendix surgery scar” when he was a kid and he still keeps the get-well-soon letters from his classmates under his bed? oh my god. the implication of people loving him not despite his scars but because of them?? trans. i can’t think about this episode for too long or i’ll start yelling.

OH and this scene? where he talks about how his mom got him a girl costume for halloween?? and everyone said “what a cute little girl” and after a few houses he stopped correcting them?? and “once the shame and the fear wore off, i was just glad they thought i was pretty”?? THAT’S TRANS... the man needs validation oh my god... and then in all the halloween episodes we see he has these ultra-masculine costumes (a cowboy, David Beckham, one of the fast and furious guys even though he never watched the movies, a boxer with his DAD’S boxing gloves... god) costumes are about becoming something else and he always chooses to be hypermasculine and that is trans.

THE PHYSICAL EDUCATION EPISODE!!!!!!! being uncomfortable during P.E. is a queer experience. period. but him being specifically uncomfortable in the clothes someone else is assigning to him? trans. “are we gonna talk about clothes like a girl? or use tapered sticks to hit balls around a cushioned mat like a man?” TRANS. and him eventually stripping in public? celebration of transness. and the fact that he eventually becomes comfortable in both the uniform and his own style!! trans!! god i love this episode.

AND AND AND!!! the gay dean coming out episode!!! where it’s the three of them discussing the best way for the dean to come out as gay despite not entirely identifying with that label!! so we have both frankie and the dean who are sort of ambiguously queer, and jeff who’s a stealth trans man who’s probably only out to only the study group at this point. this scene where the dean and jeff have this like eyebrow communication while frankie is talking is just so cute. queer-to-queer communication. “I am so curious” “oh?” “intellectually.” “oh...” ajfdksljfk this scene just screams high school GSA to me and i love it so much.

and SPEAKING of the dean!! i totally see you on that. i feel like jeff has some internalized homophobia/biphobia (like he’d throw punches over someone else, but when it comes to himself he has a lot of shame). and also seeing the dean so confident in all his different outfits/costumes has a weird affect on him bc it’s like “okay, the dean, a cis guy, can do that, but i as a trans guy could Not because that’s Breaking the Rules”. which, like, throwback to the halloween thing. of course there’s no right way to be masculine, but mr. winger does not know that.

another thing!! the episode where their emails get leaked? that includes his emails with his therapist. fuck!! he was outed to the whole world in that episode!! no wonder he was so fucking angry!! this whole episode (and really any time he mentions his therapist) is so interesting when you think about them as a person he talks to about his transition. OH which adds to the thing with the dean!! “and you told your therapist you wanted to be alone this weekend” and “not you jeff, i know you’ll be visiting your dad” ”I told you to stop reading my emails”. luckily his study group has his back and just makes fun of him for emailing astronauts lmao

and WHO can forget “they’re giving out an award for most handsome young man!!!!” what else is there to say about this line besides: he’s trans. you know he didn’t get awarded enough for being a handsome young man when he was a kid, and no amount of compliments when he’s fully-grown can really make up for that. some people crash a kid’s bar mitzvah to cope with the fact that they struggled to be seen as themselves when they were a teenager <3

also his weird relationship with pierce? where he kind of hates him (understandably lmao) but at times has this almost-friends-almost-father-son relationship with him? especially in this episode where he’s forced to bond with him and ends up having a good time by accident (at a barber shop no less, the perfect place to Be A Man with your Man Friend). idk what to say about him besides the fact that pierce says his mom wanted a girl when he was born and made him dress like a girl (and his middle name is anastasia!) so if they’re gonna do any bonding over transness it’s gonna be that.

okay one last thing and then i’ll shut up for the night. this episode kills me (and almost kills jeff hahahahelpi’mcrying). it’s a very Trans thing to not be able to visualize your future self, it just is. growing up trans at the time he did? i don’t know what kind of future he saw for himself, but i’m so happy that he ended up with a group of friends who became his family and love him the way they all do. i’m so emotional over this asshole it’s ridiculous.

in conclusion:

they’re trans, your honor <3

#community #jeff winger #trans jeff winger #GOD i'm gonna make a video essay about it if nobody stops me #yall know that youtube channel AreTheyGay? i want to be that but AreTheyTrans #the videos would just b like... jeff community. neo the matrix. bill and ted bill and ted. audrey little shop of horrors. jo little women.#maybe i should start that youtube channel sjdfklsj #thank you for prompting me to talk about this because i think about it twice a day #i might end up reblogging this and just adding different responses jeff has had to casually homophobic/transphobic things that happen #in the show #like the episode that last photo is from when the dean is like #'spring transfer student dance isn't rolling off the tongue so we're calling it The Tr@nny Dance!' 'much more greendale.'#OH AND ACCIDENTALLY KILLING PIERCE'S DAD!!! HOW DID I NOT MENTION THAT EARLIER SJFKLSJ #'you LITERALLY killed a father!' 'well not MINE dummy!!'#alright i need to do my homework now ajfklsdjfl

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magniloquent-raven · 3 years

Text

more trans billy fic! read my first two here and here (not necessary for context, but they are technically a series)

(cw: talk of past suicidal thoughts/suicide attempt)

billy's never been with anyone who didn't ask about his scars.

if it wasn't their opening line—fake concerned bullshit, trying to get in his pants by pretending to care, it only worked on the days he was feeling especially low—it would always come up later. some people's idea of good pillow talk. like the fact that they'd stuck their dick in him meant they were entitled to his life story or something.

once, a guy made it a whole three weeks before he asked. he'd picked the dude up at a bar and kept around because he was good with his hands. then kicked him to the curb because he was shit at minding his own business.

everyone seems to think him wearing low-cut shirts that leave the twisting ropes of scar tissue over his heart on full display means they're allowed to pry.

everyone except steve.

they knew each other for months before they started dating, and he never brought it up. and now. he's seen all of billy's scars and he hasn't asked about a single one.

and billy's starting to wonder if he wants him to.

they're laying in bed together one morning, the sun streaming in through half-drawn blinds, dappled on the bedspread and lighting up the honey coloured highlights in steve's hair.

hair that's tickling billy's nose, but he can't bring himself to move. not when steve is so comfortably draped across his chest, breath warm against his collarbone, fingertips absently trailing up and down, caressing his side.

another first for billy, truth be told. he didn't date much before steve—wasn't really the boyfriend type—and the people he did date never did this. never wanted to just...exist together in an easy silence, sharing soft touches with no intent.

it should make him antsy, the stillness, the quiet, but he's found himself enjoying the lie-ins just as much as the mornings he coaxes steve awake with lazy kisses and a thigh pressed between his legs.

on really good days he gets both.

but today...today steve's lips trail down billy's chest, following the sunburst lines of scar tissue, and. billy stops him. with a hesitant hand on steve's shoulder. and steve looks up at him, a question in his wide brown eyes.

"you've never asked," he says after a moment, holding steve's gaze but shifting nervously.

"asked?...if you want to—oh god, did you not want me to—shit, billy, if you aren't in the mood you can just say so, i—" steve starts to pull away, scrambling, looking absolutely mortified, but billy shakes his head immediately and pulls steve back to his side wrapping his arms around his waist.

"not about that, jesus."

a relieved sigh ruffles his curls, and steve relaxes into his embrace, "alright, then...what?"

billy chews the inside of his cheek. "the scars, steve. you're not even a little curious?"

there's a pause. "what? i mean, i thought, uh...guys like you usually get, like, surgery right?"

"...you thought—" billy chokes on a strangled noise that's almost a laugh. "what, that i got my tits hacked off with a chainsaw or something?"

steve snorts against his shoulder, smushing his face further into the crook of billy's neck with a groan, "maybe? shut up. i dunno how it works, okay. didn't figure it was polite to ask." he shifts his weight around, wriggling into a position that lets him look at billy's face without detangling their limbs.

"ahh, country club etiquette, shoulda known." billy smirks at steve's eyeroll. "next time just ask, baby."

"okay." he worries at his bottom lip, brow furrowed, gaze darting between billy's face and his chest. he puts a hand over the worst of the scarring, palm flat over billy's sternum. "so..." his voice is soft, suddenly, hesitant, "what happened?"

he expects regret. irritation at himself. shame. he expects to feel himself closing off, second guessing his decision to invite the questions. but.

he covers steve's hand with his own. lets out a breath. lays there and feels nothing but the warmth of steve's body next to his, and a slight twist of trepidation in his gut.

"i was kind of. a fucked up teenager," he starts, and grimaces. "used to jump into any fight i could find. and when i was eighteen...i stumbled across...something. all i know is there was some little girl about to get kidnapped or worse, and i. well. i blacked out most of it, but. she got away. and i woke up in a hospital a few days later all..." he pauses, and gestures vaguely at his chest. "and there were all these people tellin' me it was a fuckin' miracle i survived, but..."

his blinks away the tears threatening to fall, turning from steve's wide-eyed concern, but steve puts a gentle hand on his cheek and guides him back. "but what?" he murmurs, brushing curls away from billy's face.

but he never wanted to wake up in the first place.

but every time someone told him what he did was brave he just got a little angrier, a little more bitter.

but no matter how much better staying at the hospital was, away from neil, away from max, always trying to be his sister, no matter how many times he told himself his life was better now, he still felt hollow and lonely and...

he's never talked about it. any of it. not with the shitty hospital-mandated therapist they assigned him when he was still bedridden. not with the psychiatrist he went to a few years later when he was trying to get prescribed testosterone. not with any of the friends he's made here.

he doesn't know why the hell he decided digging up this particular skeleton was a good idea now, but he can't exactly rebury it at this point.

steve's hand is warm and solid and his thumb keeps softly rubbing his cheekbone and making his heart flutter. and he supposes that's the why of it. love has made him an idiot.

he sighs. leans into steve's touch. "i hated it. all of it. there was this article in the local fucking paper and everything, about what i did, calling it heroic. and people constantly telling me i should be grateful to be alive but i didn't want to be." his breath catches in this throat, voice breaking, "i didn't save that kid to be a hero, i did it because i wanted to die."

steve makes a wounded noise, low in his throat. "billy..."

"i don't anymore," he says quietly. "i—it hasn't been that bad in a long time."

there's a moment. a pause. a silence that has billy holding his breath as steve watches him with a pinched frown, his eyes shining with unshed tears. and then he shifts, slips a leg over billy's and rolls on top of him, rustling the sheets and knocking the air from billy's lungs.

it takes billy a second to realize what's happening, that steve's buried his face in the crook of his neck again, but this time hugging him with his whole damn body.

"...steve?"

"m'sorry," he whispers, muffled and quiet, breath hot against billy's skin. "sorry i wasn't there."

billy's heart clenches. painfully, bittersweet, swooping like he's been dropped from a great height. he tightens his hold on steve's waist. "you're here now. and i'm okay." he pauses, and turns his face to rest his cheek against steve's dishevelled head. "better than okay."

steve hums. kisses his collarbone. slips his hands more securely under billy, wiggling til his palms are squished between billy's shoulder-blades and the rumpled sheets. "you're sure?"

"yeah, pretty boy. i'm good."

"...good enough to make me pancakes?"

billy snorts. "i can't when you're laying on top of me, steve."

"lies. i know you can lift me."

he snorts again, dissolving into helpless giggles that entirely ruin his ability to respond with a clever retort. steve lifts his head and meets his eye, smiling softly. he presses that smile to billy's mouth.

and they have their pancakes. later. much later.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #trans billy hargrove #a raven's writing desk #just to be extra clear yall there was no mind flayer in this universe but he still has the big yeah-that-shoulda-killed-you scars

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kirain · 5 years

Text

Hazbin Hotel and VivziePop Drama

I've been hearing/seeing a lot of drama concerning Hazbin Hotel and it's creator VivziePop, and while I don't know her personally or really care what people think, I do hate slander and the spread of misinformation. Truly nothing in this world upsets me more than when people believe rumours while making no effort to fact check, and that's exactly what's happening right now. That said, I wanted to try and clear up some of the rumours going around about Vivzie and the show, because I think some of them are absolutely outrageous and need to be addressed.

1. Vivzie hired an abuser onto the show.

Now, I’m not here to burn anyone at the stake, especially since I don’t know anything about Chris Niosi (the alleged abuser), who I believe openly admitted to the allegations? Regardless, this is a moot point. He’s not credited anywhere at the end of the episode. So either he was booted before production wrapped up or he had nothing to do with the show in the first place.

2. Vivzie supports bestiality.

Admittedly I thought this one might be true, since she draws so many anthropomorphic animals. In the very least, I figured she was probably a furry, but I haven't seen any evidence supporting this accusation either. Near as I can tell, this rumour started for two reasons. One, because of her famous Zoophobia comic, which revolves around a therapist named Cameron who gets assigned to work with human-like animals. Ironically, poor Cameron suffers from crippling zoophobia, which makes for some pretty decent comedy. I didn't read the whole comic because, quite frankly, it’s not my cup of tea and I just don’t have the time. But from what I saw there are no examples of bestiality anywhere in its contents.

Two, this message, which blew up all over social media:

To me, this just proves that people are more interested in virtue signalling than checking to see if their claims are actually true. Everything about this message is 100% false, which I’ll touch on in my next point.

3. Vivzie is a pedophile and she’s drawn child porn.

This is hands down the worst allegation and holy shit, I really wish people would stop using it to defame someone when they don't have any proof. This is a life-ruining accusation and you're disgusting if you believe it based solely on hearsay. This rumour began to spread when Vivzie allegedly shipped the two underage characters in the above photo and drew them NSFW-style. At the time, one character was 19 while the other was 14, and the relationship was a very illegal student-teacher relationship.

This is WRONG! The characters were not 14 and 19, they were actually 18 and 19, the legal age of consent! Additionally, the relationship wasn't student-teacher. One character is a student and the other is Alumni (a student teacher). This one pisses me off the most because it’s obvious the person who sent that message didn’t even bother to conduct any research. They said, “He’s a teacher, she’s a child.” Both characters are MALE!

Since then, Vivzie has apologised for any NSFW art she drew in the past and stated that it's not a reflection of her art today, and I'm inclined to believe her. Almost every artist has drawn NSFW content at some point in their career, and hers wasn't even distasteful. Other than this one example, there is no evidence anywhere that suggests she’s drawn “child porn”. In fact, she’s never even drawn explicit NSFW.

Please stop spreading this rumour. It’s dangerous and completely incorrect.

4. Vivzie said the "N" word!

No, she didn’t. It was a fabricated tweet. That is all.

5. Vivzie is copyright striking every video that criticises her!

No she isn't. YouTube’s DMCA is automatically striking people who are using full clips without permission. Vivzie has gone public several times, telling people exactly how to avoid getting a copy strike from the algorithm, which is something she absolutely does not have to do. At this point, she doesn't owe you anything. In my opinion, she should just sit back and watch these channels burn.

6. Vivzie copies and traces other artists’ work.

This is another one I’ve seen going around, but I looked into it as thoroughly as I could and failed to find any concrete evidence to support the allegations. As of right now, there are only two examples of Vivzie “copying” or “tracing” other artists’ work, and both of them can be explained. The first is a gif she made with a character from her Zoophobia comic, which looked a lot like the girl from ME!ME!ME!:

Damn, that’s pretty incriminating. She obviously stole-- oh, wait. This gif was part of a ME!ME!ME! MEP (multi editor’s project) and Vivzie didn’t take full credit, despite the fact that it’s not even a direct trace. It’s supposed to look like the original, which she fully cited. The second example comes from a short dance sequence from her Timber video, which seems to have been inspired by several Disney movies. As Vivzie herself stated, that was an homage to the original animations. Lots of artists and shows do this, including the beloved Stephen Universe series.

Regardless, this doesn’t count as stealing character designs or plagiarising someone’s work. It’s meant to be respectful, an admiration of other projects. Other than these two instances, however, there is no evidence of her tracing or stealing other people’s art. From what I’ve discovered, all other designs she’s been accused of “stealing” are characters she bought and paid for. They’re quite literally HER characters.

7. Vivzie supports problematic creators.

I’m getting really tired of guilt by association. Vivzie follows and enjoys some controversial figures, but who cares? We can argue all day about whether or not the accusations against them are true, but it ultimately has nothing to do with the show or Vivzie as a person. I do the exact same thing, to be honest-- follow and listen to people on all sides so I can learn, understand, and form my own opinions. The fact that some people think this is bad, to me, is absolutely mesmerising. Vivzie doesn’t control what the people she follows post, and if they do something overly questionable she publicly criticises and denounces it.

From Vivzie:

Now that that’s been dealt with, I’d like to address some complaints/claims about the actual show.

8. Vaggie is an angry Latina stereotype and a lesbian stereotype. Vivzie is appropriating Hispanic culture and misrepresenting the gay for profit.

First off, I see a lot of people passing around yet more misinformation regarding Vivzie's race. So many people seem to think she's white? Well, I'm here to tell you they're wrong. Very incorrect. Vivzie is in fact Latina, and Vaggie is meant to mirror some of her own personality traits.

Second, who is Vaggie mad at? Context matters, and if we take a look at the episode, we see that Vaggie is literally only mad at two specific people: Angel Dust and Alastor. Why? Well, for starters, it's her girlfriend's dream to run a rehab hotel for sinners, and Angel Dust nearly demolishes that dream single-handedly. Vaggie has every right to be over-the-top vitriolic. Then there's Alastor, a known sadist, narcissist, and murderer who loves trapping people in his nefarious schemes. He invites himself in, effectively takes over the hotel, and pushes both her and Charlie aside. At one point he even sexually assaults her by slapping her butt during his musical number. So yeah, I think her seething ire is totally justified. Keep in mind, however, that when she's around Charlie she's calm, collected, and happy. I wouldn't call that a stereotype.

Thirdly, the lesbian stereotypes. I keep hearing this argument but I really don't see it. Both Vaggie and Charlie have so much personality and trust for each other. Maybe I'm wrong, but the stereotype I know always totes a more butch, tomboyish woman with a ditsy, innocent, naive woman. Charlie is optimistic, but she isn't stupid. She refuses to shake Alastor’s hand because she knows he’s likely trying to screw her over. She’s also not entirely innocent herself and uses words like “fuck” and “shit”. I also wouldn’t call Vaggie butch or tomboyish. She has a cute, girly presentation, complete with a pink ribbon in her hair, lace stockings, and a dress. She's protective of her girlfriend, as I think we all are with our partners, and there's nothing wrong with that. They're flawed characters, as every character is meant to be. This isn't a problem.

9. The show is racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic, blah, blah, blah.

I’m amazed this is even an argument. The show is supposed to be a dark comedy that takes place in HELL. You know, the place the worst of the worst end up after they die? What were you expecting? Everyone gets a shot or two fired at them, but that doesn't make them bad characters nor does it make the show itself horrible. Take, for example, Katie Killjoy, the news reporter so many people are up in arms about. She says she doesn’t “touch the gays” because she has “standards”. Well, here’s a newsflash of my own: we’re not supposed to like her! She’s an antagonist. Not to mention ten seconds later Charlie insults her and isn’t the least bit slighted by her pretentious attitude. The characters are strong and don’t take shit from anyone, because to some degree they’re all terrible people who can throw down when it’s called for.

Obviously if you don’t like the show or think it’s offensive, I’m probably not going to change your mind. That’s perfectly fine. You’re entitled to your opinions and you don’t have to watch the show. Just stop lying and stop trying to take it away from everybody else. Stop attacking Vivzie and spreading misinformation without checking the facts. I realise a lot of people probably aren’t trying to be vindictive and only want to do something good, but just remember this: the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

#hazbin hotel #vivziepop #vivzie #alastor #angel dust #vaggie #charlie #timber #stephen universe #drama #radio demon

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astarryon · 3 years

Text

Another Lifetime: Shouldn’t Have Gotten Shot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Description of war and battle injuries, mentions of blood, gunshots, language, etc.

Summary: Bucky doesn’t like talking about her, but Dr. Raynor isn’t an easy person to argue with. And now that it’s summer –– now that he’s living through the months they’d shared together all over again, only without her by his side –– fighting the memories becomes all the more difficult.

A/N: Listen, I really don’t know what’s gotten into me but ever since tfatws started I have been INSPIRED! Hoping to update this fic sem regularly, but we’ll see where the new school term takes us. As always, I hope you enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think!

Bucky Barnes has never been overly fond of the summer.

One aspect was the fact that he could remember what it was like to be a miserable kid living in a cramped Brooklyn apartment with no air conditioning and three baby sisters who never stopped whining about the heat. Of all the jumbled, foggy memories bouncing around the confines of his skull, that one is clearer than most. And though he still finds it difficult to picture the faces of his little sisters –– can’t hardly remember arcs of their noses, much less the colors of each of their eyes –– a nostalgic, brotherly feeling washes over him all the same.

There’s also the little detail that he’d received his draft notice in the summer months. That Bucky remembers perfectly, one of the few memories strong enough to remain unmuddied by all those years of shitbag scientists rooting around his head and picking his brain apart. The heat that year had been sweltering, and once his mother found him in her kitchen with that damned letter clutched between his fingers, he felt it burn right through the strings of his heart.

The first week of July delivered the news. The last saw him shipping out to bootcamp.

He guessed he didn’t mind the sunshine. That part had always been nice, and it helped to calm him on occasion these days, to remember that the golden rays licking comforting heat up his skin were the same ones which had shone down on him back in the 40s, before and during the war.

Before Hydra had condemned him to seventy long years of dark and cold.

To that end, logic said the season he really should hate was winter, but he’d never felt any ill will toward the colder months, and found now, in the present, that he’d only grown fonder of them. When the rain came down from the sky in sheets, or when snow fell so thick it resembled white, puffy clouds blanketing the ground, he took walks. Partly because no other soul would be idiotic enough to trudge through a borderline natural disaster at three in the morning, meaning he wouldn’t have to put up with prying eyes and conspicuously pointing fingers, and partly because experiencing said natural disasters in solitude did wonders for the soul.

Steve thought it was strange. Hated that Bucky did it, kept insisting that he at least take a goddamn jacket, there isn’t any actual proof he can’t get pneumonia. But Bucky always shook his head and declined, rolling his eyes and muttering beneath his breath about how apparently the tables have fucking turned.

But, no. The winter, the rain, the cold –– none of that could ever draw half as much ire from him as did the gentle beginnings of June, the scorching heat of July, the fading light of August. Because those weren’t the things which served as reminders from before.

Reminders of her.

“James. Did you hear me?”

Bucky blinks hard, freeing his gaze from the wall calendar tacked up and viewable just over his doctor’s shoulder. Glancing down, he sees the familiar green of the velvet armchair –– one of three options for patients to choose from in her office, and Bucky’s personal favorite on account of the way its textures did something to sooth him as he gripped its arm anxiously with his flesh hand –– and the worn, fraying knees of his black jeans against it. He doesn’t bother meeting his therapist’s gaze. He already knows which of her expressions he’ll find her leveling at him, if he does.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters, sucking his teeth. He hopes his voice isn’t quite as strained as it sounds –– though, judging by the way Dr. Raynor clucks her tongue as her fingers twitch toward her pen, it definitely is. “Guess I’m a little scattered today.”

The sardonic hum Raynor gives in response as she knowingly tilts her head nearly makes him open his mouth to finish the silent argument she’d started, but Bucky knows better than that. The moment he starts up, she’ll feign innocence and inquire as to why he feels the need to defend himself when no verbal accusation has been made. God damn, it would be just his luck to end up with the one government assigned therapist actually capable at her job.

“That’s what you said yesterday,” Dr. Raynor offers. “And the two days before, if memory serves me right.”

Bucky shakes his head and tsks, tapping a metal finger against his temple. “Not a funny joke, doc. Remember the audience you’re dealing with here.”

“‘Deflecting.’”

The word drops from Raynor’s mouth with a simpleness that puzzles him.

“‘Scuse me?” he prompts when she only goes on to stare at him owlishly.

“Oh, that’s what I’d be writing in my notebook,” she explains simply, folding her hands together in her lap and leaning back in her chair. “If we were using it right now, that is.”

Again, Bucky rolls his eyes, and has to make an active attempt not to cross his arms like a forlorn child. The threat in her words is easily recognizable, not that she’d really bothered trying to conceal it. She knows that damn notebook irritates him more than any other aspect of their current arrangement, and he knows she’s not bluffing. If he doesn’t start talking, Raynor starts writing –– and if Raynor starts writing, he gets tailed by government watchdogs to ensure there are no imminent incidents lurking in the near future.

He sighs dejectedly and meets her gaze. “What was it you asked me?”

“What it is about the month of June that makes you so uncomfortable.”

Bucky blinks, red alarm bells shrieking in his head. Fuck, he can’t help but think. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Caught red handed.

“June’s fine,” he tries, but even to his own ears the assurance sounds weak. To think, he’d once been the most prolific tool of espionage around –– now he can hardly deliver a lie with a straight face. “Don’t have any feelings toward it one way or the other.”

“Strike two,” Raynor quips, glancing one again toward her pen.

Fuck!

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Bucky sits a little straighter in his seat, searching for any semblance of comfort to be found while already knowing he was bound to come up short. Damn it all. She wasn’t going to let him out of this one.

“Alright, hold your horses,” he sighs, waving a halting hand. Raynor’s expression doesn’t shift. She simply continues peering at him with her dark eyes, waiting patiently for his next few words to come. “Why do you assume I’ve got a problem with June?”

“Because you didn’t start staring at that calendar until it switched over from May,” Raynor supplies. “Like I mentioned, today isn’t the only day you’ve been scattered. Seems like something we should consider talking about.”

“No,” Bucky answers quickly. Too quickly. Shit. If she thought he’d been deflecting before, he didn’t even want to know the words running through her mind in regards to his behavior now. “I mean–– well, no. I don’t think it’s that important.”

Raynor arches a brow. “Funny,” she tells him, “the way your eyes keep drifting back to the word ‘June’ tells me otherwise.”

He sighs, worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth. Caught between a rock and an even bigger, weightier rock. The universe really wasn’t one to take his side often.

Bucky knows there really isn’t any choice here. Either he does what Raynor asks and elaborates on his suspicious behavior, or he risks facing the repercussions of those notes she’ll be jotting down in her notebook. Which of the two evils is more definitively the lesser, he can’t rightly say, but he knows which of the consequences he’d prefer to suffer through. And they’re certainly not the ones which see him robbed of the ability to walk freely down the street without a detail of armed babysitters.

So he figures that, maybe for once, being honest can’t be the worst decision to make.

“A few years ago, back before the blip,” Bucky tries, “I spent a summer in Wakanda.”

“Housed by the royal family,” Raynor nods, tone soft. “We’ve spoken about that before. You said you found it peaceful there. That you liked it.”

He did, and still does. On the nights when his mind isn’t quiet enough to let him find sleep but his heart feels light enough to forego the slideshow of horrors he’d been made to suffer throughout the years, Bucky’s thoughts often return to the bliss which life in Wakanda had offered him. He’d remember the farm he kept there, the little children who would come to sing and play and dance in trees to keep him company in the afternoons. He’d remember Princess Shuri –– Just Shuri, James, come now –– and the kindness she’d displayed in deactivating the deeper, most concerning parts of his programming. The day she’d told him it was done, turned off, that he’d never be forced to revert back to the Soldier against his will again, he’d rushed her and caught her up in a bearhug so relieved and forceful that her Dora Milaje detail had actually pointed their spears at him. He’d remember the tranquility of it all, the simpleness.

The peace.

There’s no hope of him being able to return to that place any time soon, much as he’d like to, but the memories sit resolutely concrete in his mind. The first of a new set which he’d never have to worry about being stolen away from him by the currents of an electric shock.

“It’s a nice place,” Bucky affirms, sighing wistfully at the thoughts swirling up in his head. “I bring it up because back then, that summer… I started remembering a few things. From before.”

Raynor keeps her face smooth and composed, but Bucky notices the twitch in her cheek that says she’s got a question. “When you say before,” she asks, voice gentle, “do you mean your time as the Winter Soldier?”

He shakes his head, swallowing thickly. Ironically, things would be easier, were that the case. He might not be so miserable in the present, seeing the month of June start all over again. The melancholy might not be so strong. “No, not then. I mean from before. From the 40s, during the war. I don’t know if it was Wakanda’s heat that did it, or that my programming was officially deactivated. But one night I went to sleep in my hut like normal, and then the next morning I woke up, and… and I remembered.”

Raynor clasps her hand together in her lap, the pen, the notebook, the hesitation all forgotten. Bucky sees it in her expression, the shock at the fact that he’s speaking, that she’s actually making progress in getting him to talk about things so painful he often wonders if they aren’t better left in the past. He’s still trying to figure that one out. Miserable as he’s been for the first four days of June, he figures nothing good or relieving or positive can come from retelling this particular tale. It’s all behind him now, and there isn’t anything to be done to change the ending in any significant way.

But… but he figures he owes it to her. As painful as the memories are, they can’t be anything in comparison to what she must have gone through in the aftermath of it all.

Slowly, Raynor crosses one ankle over the other. “What was it that you remembered, James?”

Bucky sighs, closing his eyes and inhaling as deep a breath as he can pull. He lets it loose after counting to six, then opens his eyes again and crosses his arms over his chest. “It started back in June of 1944. I got shot.”

––

June 1st, 1944

It was damn lucky you weren’t sleeping much these days.

A funny thought, really. One which brings a sarcastic, bitter smile to your lips as you bend your neck to get a closer look at your handiwork. Wasn’t it just two nights ago that you’d been laying in your cot, staring up at the moon through the flap of your tent and counting all the reasons it wasn't fair that the bliss of unconsciousness evaded you? Wasn’t it three that you’d considered sneaking into the med tent and downing a few of the sleeping pills meant for the soldiers? You hadn’t, of course –– god only knew the sort of trouble you’d get in if it came to pass that you were caught –– but the consideration had been there all the same.

“Fuckin’ shit!”

The foul language, mixed with the rough jerk of the body beneath your dexterous hands, was enough to steal your attention back from your jaded inner monologue. Nearly two years back, when you’d first signed on to work as a field nurse, the pained outburst would have sent you flinching. Now, the swearing isn’t anything new, and thankfully for the soldier whose leg you were currently stitching up, it was no longer anywhere near enough to give you pause.

“You better hold still unless you want this to scar even worse than it's already going to,” you tell him matter of factly, gently tugging the thread the rest of the way through your current stitch.

The soldier –– Matthews? Moore? You can hardly remember the name he’d gasped at you in pain, but you’re sure it started with an ‘M’ –– rakes his dirty hands over his even dirtier face, brown eyes squeezing themselves shut as his fingers quake with agony. “Sorry,” he rasps, skin paling. “Just… Jesus, shit hurts so bad!”

You cluck your tongue, guilt racking your heart as you push the needle through his skin once more. “Shouldn’t have gotten shot then, genius,” you murmur, shaking your head disapprovingly.

It works. For a moment the soldier’s face twists in disbelief, and in the next, a shuddering, wheezing gasp of laughter expels itself from his throat. The sight is bleak, but it’s enough to twist your heart with warmth as you once again pull the thread through the stitch. You’d learned in the first few months of working as a nurse on the frontlines that the last thing these men wanted or needed was to be coddled along over their injuries, especially by a woman. Vulnerability was more averse to them now than ever before.

Personally, you don’t much understand it –– but your work isn’t, and has never been, about yourself.

“Look, why don’t you tell me something,” you start, glancing up to… Morrison’s…? face in apology before sticking him with the needle yet again. He jerks, but not quite so violently this time. Another one down. Only about a thousand more to go tonight. “How’d all this happen? I thought you boys weren’t meant to scope the new territory until tomorrow afternoon. Y’know, in the daylight? When you can actually see whether or not someone in the distance is pointing a gun at you?”

“Unit leader was gettin’ jumpy,” the soldier coughs out, groaning against the pain. Guilt stabs your heart like a knife. You’d have given him something for the pain if you had it, something to numb the wound. But shipments of med supplies were behind, and it would be at least a week before you got your hands on anything like that again. “Said going at night would be better, that we could get the drop on them before they even knew we were coming.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Never mind the fact that their soldiers know the land better than ours do.”

So, the unit leader had jumped the gun. You’d figured as much, when two of your nurses had run into your tent with messy hair and sleep addled expressions, panicking about the oncoming slew of injured soldiers who needed immediate medical attention. That had been two hours, six patients, and about one hundred and ninety seven stitches ago.

Again. It was lucky you weren’t sleeping much these days.

The soldier whose leg you were currently stitching up opened his mouth to speak –– whether to snark along with you at the poor choice made by the unit’s leadership or to blindly defend his superior’s decision, you couldn’t be altogether sure –– but before he could even fix his mouth to properly shape the words, a sudden roar of someone else’s agony effectively cut him off.

Steadying your hands, you carefully turn to peer over your shoulder, searching for the source of the commotion. All night, you’d been surrounded by a cacophony of screaming soldiers, but that yell of pain is one you’re certain hasn’t yet met your ears. And, as you watch the flap of the med tent swing back before admitting entry to three people –– one of your nurses and two soldiers, one leaning bodily against the other –– you discover that your assumption is correct.

“We got a bad one,” the nurse –– Sally, curly haired, nearing twenty four and a bit more capable than the other girls when met with the sight of blood –– shouts. Her eyes scan the tent, searching and searching until her gaze finally lands on you. She pauses only a moment to turn and direct the uninjured soldier to drag the one he’s supporting over to an empty cot before barrelling in your direction. “Gunshot wound to the abdomen. I haven’t really had the chance to get a good look at it, but he’s–– well, to be frank, that man has lost a shit ton of blood.”

A gutshot. Poor guy would either go through a sickening amount of pain just to die, or he’d survive, and end up having to endure even more pain. Either way, in light of your depleted supply of painkillers, ‘excruciating’ didn’t even begin to describe it.

Oh, damn it all.

“Take over here for me,” you command, gesturing with your chin to the needle perched between your fingers. Sally’s already moving to pluck it from your hand before you’ve even finished speaking. “He’s got about fifteen to go before we even think about sending him back to his tent. Don’t let him convince you otherwise.”

“You don’t think I know better?” Sally remarks drily, but you don’t have the time to come up with a witty comeback. You’re already on your feet and rushing toward the soldier writhing in pain across the tent, reflexively grabbing a collection of gauze, thread, tweezers, and rubbing alcohol along the way.

This isn’t going to be much fun for either of you.

The first thing you do is excuse the uninjured soldier, the one who’d carried him in. For one, there isn’t any need to keep him witness, and for another, you work better when an addition of unnecessary eyes aren’t tracking your every move. Besides. You doubt the poor soul laying on your med cot is at all interested in one of his peers –– one not sick or out of his mind due to his own pain, that is –– see him in this state. So, you simply thank the young man for his assistance and shoo him back in the direction from which he’d come, waiting until he’s passed the tent’s entrance before turning your full, undivided attention to your newest patient.

He’s got his eyes screwed shut tight in pain. You can hardly blame him. Of all the wounds to suffer through, a gutshot has the potential to win least desirable. It’s easy enough to see why, as the young man’s handsome features carve themselves into an expression of despair. A slick sheen of sweat coats his pale forehead, dampening his dark hair and sticking it to his skin. He’s biting down so hard on his bottom lip in effort to swallow his screams that you’re genuinely shocked he hasn’t drawn blood.

Though, part of you wonders if there’s even enough blood left in his body for his lip to bleed. Deep scarlet blooms stain his green shirt, so thoroughly soaked through that the fabric has turned almost black. Swathes of red cover his torso, his pants, the pale skin of his arms. It’s everywhere, already leaking onto the white sheets of the cot.

Sally wasn’t kidding. He really has lost a shit ton of blood.

“Hey there, soldier,” you start up, setting your collection of medical supplies down before taking a closer look at his torso. Shirt sticking to his skin the way it is, you aren’t going to be able to get much done until it’s out of the way. And, given that this man is certainly in no state to shrug it off himself, you’ve got no choice but to cut it. Lucky that you’d thought to grab a pair of scissors too, you suppose. “Don’t suppose you might be able to help a girl out by telling her what year it is?”

His jaw works for a few moments, teeth grinding together so forcefully the sound is audible. You think he might be gearing up to let loose another scream before he shakes his head a single time. “I got–– got shot,” he wheezes, whole body shaking, “not concussed. Don’t–– ah, don’t really… get how the year’s relevant.”

You exhale a bemused scoff through your nose, considering your response as your scissors work their way through the bloody fabric concealing his wound. You’re working as gently as you can, and so far it seems to be doing the trick. The soldier hasn’t flinched once since you started, though it’s hard to tell if that’s more due to the fact that he hadn’t noticed any difference one way or the other, or if it’s because he’s dedicating what strength he has left to keeping his head screwed onto his shoulders.

“Fair point,” you reply, still carefully cutting through his shirt. “How about a name, then? Little more relevant to the conversation, I’d say.”

It takes a few moments of silence for him to respond –– almost as if he’s trying to remember that he’s got a name –– but eventually, it comes.

“James,” he tells you, the single syllable leaving his mouth in a pained grunt.

You nod, cutting away the last of the fabric. “Nice to meet you, James,” you tell him, carefully peeling the tatters of his ruined shirt from his abdomen. “You just hold tight a little longer for me, alright? We’ll fix you up good as new.”

It isn’t a pretty sight, what you find beneath. Under all that red is a nasty wound, jagged and swollen at the edges, punched into the flesh just beneath the southmost edge of his ribcage. Thankfully, no bones have been hit –– a shattered rib would be immediately evident, both in the pitch of his screams and the deformed shape of his chest –– but the wound is more than a little inflated. There’s a puffiness to it that you can’t comprehend, a stiffness to its perimeter that doesn’t click in your mind, until––

Until you see the small, dark center, and suddenly it does.

You swear beneath your breath, a filthy, ugly word that you’d picked up a few weeks back from one of your patients. You don’t even know what it means, not really, but speaking it feels cathartic enough that you don’t altogether care.

Oh, sweet, holy hell.

James cracks an eye open, muttering, “Darlin’, you rea–– you really gotta work on your bedside manner.”

“Alright, listen to me, James,” you tell him, forgoing a witty response. You don’t have the time, not considering what you’re now dealing with, and you figure James will appreciate your working hands more than he’ll appreciate your shitty attempts at banter. “There’s… there’s something I need to do for you, before I can start patching you up. Now, normally I could give you something for the pain, but we’re out of the anesthetic I need. So this isn’t gonna… it’s not gonna feel very good.”

James looses a labored sigh, oddly calm for the clear anguish marring his face. “Shit, well good news,” he mutters, swallowing thickly, “it already doesn’t.”

His lashes flutter in a telltale manner, one which lets you know he’s getting closer to the brink and you’re running short on time. It’s easy enough, not to give in to the panic this incites in your chest. You’ve been doing this job a long time now, know that what James needs is your calm, your level-headedness. Those things have a higher chance of keeping him alive, of seeing to it that he comes out of this on the other side. Scarred up, maybe, and without the ability to breathe as deep as he once could, but still alive.

You shake your head, grabbing the tweezers from where you’d set them down before planting your forearm against an uninjured section of James’ bare chest for leverage. “Alright, big breaths, James. You scream as loud as you want or need to, but just… try and stay as still as you can, okay? I won’t be able to stop until it’s done.”

The only answer he gives in response is a shaky nod, the thick black fringe of his lashes brushing his cheekbones as his lips begin to move at a speed with which your eyes can hardly track. A prayer, you figure, or a plea for a quick end. Whichever it is, it helps him to relax just the tiniest bit more, slightly smooths out the lines of pain and suffering etched into his face.

Until you start digging with the tweezers, that is.

Then it’s all white hot screams of pain.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper beneath his cries, words drowned out by the sheer volume of the howls ripping out of his throat. But you don’t stop working, don’t withdraw the tweezers from his bloody wound. You hadn’t been joking when you told him starting meant you couldn’t stop until you finished. Abandoning the task now meant leaving James to bleed out in a matter of seconds. “I know it hurts, I’m sorry. You’re doing good, though, alright? You’re doing amazing. I’m sorry.”

It takes a moment for the tweezers’ edges to find the metal bullet lodged in his skin. At first, all you can feel is a mess of flesh and muscle, shredded and frayed from the impact of the gunshot. For a few short seconds, you wonder if your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you, if it would have been more wise to search for an exit wound on his back than to simply jump straight in without taking the time to stop and think.

But your worries are unfounded –– proven two seconds later when your tweezers make contact with the tiny, foreign object threatening James’ life. Carefully, you maneuver the tweezers into the correct position to properly take hold of the bullet. Then, with one last whispered apology, you slowly and carefully begin to pull.

James’ legs buck hard against the cot, arms straining at his sides where he’s got both his hands fisted into the sheets in an attempt to hold on for dear life. His teeth chatter against each other, knocking and clacking as he tries to get ahold of the screams pouring freely from him, and that thin sheen of sweat coating his skin has turned into a full on tidal wave.

But his torso doesn’t move –– not a single inch.

“We’re almost done,” you assure him, keeping your hand steady as you continue gently easing the bullet up, and up, and up. You can just make out the silver edges of it now, slick with blood and dented. It won’t be long now, before it’s out and you can start working on staunching the blood leaking from his body. Maybe you can lift his spirits with a joke or two then, a witty comment to ease some of the pain. Maybe––

The bullet slips from the tweezers, catching you off guard and jerking your hand to the left. It’s only by a centimeter, not a huge distance, but given that you’ve got edges of metal inserted into this man’s wound, to him, it makes all the difference in the world.

James throws his head back and screams, loud enough that you can instantly hear his vocal cords go raw beneath the strain of the volume. A single word leaves his lips; it sounds like Ma, only it’s warped, strangled. Much as you detest the fact, you know the sound well. A soldier crying out for his mother while under the thrall of delirium and pain isn’t exactly a rarity around these parts.

Guilt twists your heart with the razor sharpness of a cruel knife.

“Stop,” he gasps, voice hoarse. “P-please–– please stop!”

“I can’t,” you tell him, already repositioning your tweezers and going back in. Luckily, the bullet is much closer to the surface of his wound now. It only takes a second before you find another grip on it, instantly deciding to forego gentleness in favor of speed. “But the good news is––” With a slight bend of your wrist and a soft, wet pop, the bullet comes loose from his wound. “––we’re done with the shitty part.”

James’ eyes, glassy with pain and pupils blown wide, fall first to the bullet you hold up for his perusal, set against a backdrop of lowlight and your blood covered hand, before wandering their way up to your face. It’s then that you notice his irises are water blue and clear as crystal. You’re not sure why, but their color fascinates you.

“I wanna keep that,” he mutters weakly.

Then, his lashes flutter rapidly and his head lolls to the side, his lungs expelling a great, big breath before shuddering to a halt.

Your heart lurches at the sight. For one, awful moment, you think you’ve just put the poor man through all of that pain and agony only to end up somehow killing him in the process –– never mind the fact that this isn’t the first time you’ve extracted a bullet from a soldier’s abdomen, and certainly isn’t likely to be the last. But then his chest starts up moving again, at a much less worrisome pace. It’s slow, and his breaths are shallow, but they’re still breaths.

Unconscious –– not dead.

The realization is enough to make you send a mental note of thanks to whichever being was kind enough to have shown James mercy.

You allow yourself the shortest of moments to bask in the relief –– that you’d successfully extracted the bullet, that James hadn’t died during or after your attempts to do so, that you aren’t now left to set in motion the process of another condolence letter being shipped across seas to his family.

And once it passes, once you’ve inhaled and exhaled and wiped your hands on a cloth, you grab a cloth and press it to James’ wound, setting to work on stopping his bleeding –– but not before wrapping the bullet you’d just dislodged from his body in a pad of gauze and tucking it into the breast pocket of your uniform.

––

Chapter Two: Someone Good

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #mcu #tfatws #catws #marvel #fanfiction #marvel fanfic #au #series #angst #hurt #comfort #1940s bucky

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bubblesuga · 4 years

Text

off the table.

Summary: Fate has an odd way of playing with your mind. When you leave Min Yoongi on his door step nearly a decade ago, you became positive that you would never find love again. Settling for a man you thought you could learn to love, you had given up on fully moving on. But again, fate likes to play.

W/C: 11,680

Genre: Idol!AU, smut, fluff

Warnings: cussing, smut, mentions of exhibitionism, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, Jimin is curious about Yoongi’s (non-existent) sex life,

A/N: Based loosely off of Off The Table by Ariana Grande if you want a song to listen to as you read :) x

“So, this is it then?”

“Yeah.”

The near migraine-inducing memory always happens to flash in your mind at the worst times possible. Eight years ago, you found yourself standing at the front door of your ex boyfriend’s dorm with a solemn heart as he softly explained what his life was going to turn into. It was a short conversation, one the both of you had seen coming but neither of you wanted to admit it.

As his new friends and new life began to form behind him in the small one bedroom apartment, you nodded, and you left with one last kiss to his rosy lips. His deep brown eyes bore into yours with just as much sadness that you felt before you dragged yourself away helplessly.

Of course, now that you were 3 months into a new relationship, the memory decides to pop it’s way back into your brain as if it had just happened. A soft whisper in your mind gently coaxed you away from your latest fling and disassociated you from the moment entirely. He’s a nice guy, as well. Good head on his shoulders, smart with money, and loves to cook for you. So the sense of guilt you felt was tremendous because despite having this gorgeous man in front of you, your mind always flew back to him.

It has become more and more difficult not to think of him considering the fact that his face is now everywhere. The news, the internet, your fucking cold brew... He was there, the same bright features and adorable nose. You wondered if he thought of you from time to time, how you’re doing or what you could be up to since you graduated university. With as hectic of a schedule that you’re sure he held, you highly doubted that you have been on his mind since the end. Knowing him, he threw himself into his work and hasn’t looked back. It shows in his music, though. You always knew that he would be successful.

“...are you even listening to me?”

The words dragged you out of your trance and you immediately set down your coffee, “What? Of course I am.”

Junwoo couldn’t help but roll his eyes, “What was I talking about then?”

Fuck.

You push your hair back, a habit you developed recently as your desire to try and forget about your ex boyfriend has grown stronger, “I’m sorry, I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately.”

Maybe it hasn’t just been lately. Maybe every single time you feel Junwoo’s lips against yours, you can’t help but compare him to Yoongi. He didn’t need to know that, though.

“Yeah, you use that a lot as your excuse. I’ll try not to bore you with tales from my clients anymore.” Junwoo slides the plate in front of you, a heart shaped kimchi pancake lay flat in the middle of it, and you feel your guilt grow stronger.

“No! I love hearing about them, I- I think I need to see someone about what’s going on in my head.” You explain. You had yet to mention to anyone that you dated Suga of BTS before he was known as such. In fact, you’re pretty sure if you even hinted at it, you’d become the laughing stock of Seoul. It made it impossibly difficult to talk about your feelings with Junwoo. He always tries to pry, but you shut him down completely.

“What’s going on? Is it serious?” concern laces his features and he sits carefully beside you at the table.

“No, I just need someone to talk to.” you try to shake the feeling of discontent when his arm wraps around your shoulder.

He leans his head on yours- “you can always talk to me.” -you shutter.

“A professional, just to help me get back on my game. Regain control of...” you let out a soft sigh and feel Junwoo’s lips brush against your temple, “...myself.”

“_____, I am a literal therapist.”

“A literal therapist who is emotionally involved with me. Isn’t it inappropriate to make out with your patients?” You quirk, raising an eyebrow.

He rolls his eyes again, “Okay. Let me know if you need recommendations. Us in the brain community are pretty tight-knit.” He stands up and runs a hand through your hair before trotting back to the kitchen to begin his own breakfast.

You nibble on the inside of your cheek as you stare down at your pancake, picking up the butter knife beside your plate and dragging it down the center with a grimace on your face.

~*~*~

Even though you spent many years studying medicine, you didn’t think it would involve this much typing. Staring at patient charts has become a normal during your regular work day, especially since you’re boss decided that he didn’t need to look at the charts, he just wanted to hear from you.

You’re a nurse, not a secretary.

Today you were assigned to the emergency room, which was one of your favorite places to be. Everything was much faster than if you happened to be in post-op or general medicine, but the moment you enter the doors, you were piled with paperwork that you were sure a medical assistant could be doing.

The drowning sounds of chatter and machine’s melodic beeping blended with your fingers as they typed name after name, number after number for an hour straight. Just as you thought your soul had completely drained from your body, you hear a tap on the desk.

“H- hi, uh- my friend’s foot got cut open and we think he needs stitches. Is there any way that we could get seen quickly?” You glance up and your eyes immediately go wide.

You remember meeting Namjoon a few times in passing when you were still seeing Yoongi, but he’s much taller than you remember. Instantly you feel your face go red, and you were frozen in place. Why the hell was Namjoon here? How did he manage to choose this hospital of all the ones in Seoul?

You happen to tear your eyes away from him for a second, glancing over and seeing Jungkook being held up by Jimin as his foot stays elevated in the air. The minute you see a t-shirt wrapped tightly around Jungkook’s foot, you move to action.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that! Let me get you a wheelchair,” you swing around the desk and grab one of the folded up wheelchairs and roll it towards Jungkook. He grimaces as he sits down, his foot crossed onto the opposite knee. Jimin seems relieved not to have his friend leaning on him anymore, and you pause for a second to assess the situation.

“Jenni! Do we have an open bed anywhere?” You grab your co worker who walks passed you with her hands filled with bandages.

“Back corner, we just cleaned it.” She calls back, walking without glancing at the people you’re trying to help.

You nod, immediately walking Jungkook towards the back and gesturing for Namjoon and Jimin to follow. You grab an empty chart as you walk, before opening the curtain for the bed and allowing the three men to slide into the area.

“I hate to be pushy but this really hurts.” Jungkook hisses as wrap your arm beneath his and slowly lift him towards the bed. Immediately, you slip gloves onto your hands and begin to unwrap the t-shirt. There’s quite a bit of blood, but not enough to have you worried that he hit an artery.

Namjoon bites his lip before speaking, “I should have watched the stage better. I’m sorry.”

Jungkook shrugs, wincing while he attempts to pull himself up higher, “It was hard to see. Not your fault, or anyone else’s.”

“Except for the person who broke the stage.” Namjoon quips, rubbing his hands over his face, frustrated.

“It’s fine, hyung. The pretty nurse is going to fix Kookie right up.” Jimin is quick to comfort both of his friends while simultaneously causing you to blush.

It’s then that you notice the three of them in clothes similar to their rehearsal getup from all those years ago. Sweat lines each of their foreheads and you wonder just how this whole thing happened.

After inspecting the wound, you whip towards the suture kit, “It is deep enough to require stitches. I’m going to call the doctor down and have her suture you up. Until then would you like me to numb the pain?” Even though you’re well aware who these men are, and how close you potentially are to your ex boyfriend, you can’t help but let your professional prowess overpower your incessant need to think of Yoongi.

Jungkook nods, “At this point I’ll take a shot of whiskey and something to knock me out.”

You smile, “Unfortunately there isn’t any whiskey here. Believe me, I’ve been searching since I got here.”

Namjoon chuckles from beside you as you put your finger up to let them know you’ll be right back. Pulling open the curtain, you meander over to the nurse’s station and pick up the phone to call the ER doctor down. As you wait for him, you grab all the supplies to clean Jungkook’s foot, including a Lidocaine injection. Before you get the chance to turn back around, you hear the ER doors burst open and see four sweaty men tearing their way into the hospital.

Four sweaty men, including Min Yoongi.

An uncharacteristic whimper leaves your lips as you spot the rest of the members, all rushing passed you when they see Namjoon stick his head out of the curtains.

You feel all the blood drain from your face when the familiarity of Yoongi’s presence passes by you. Jenni notices your panic from the other side of the nurse’s station and lets out a little giggle, “Come on, you can’t get all shy just because they’re BTS. You have a job to do.”

“I can’t go in there now, Jenni. You have to take over.” You turn back to her with wild eyes, desperately trying to hand her all the supplies you gathered. Your eyes continuously glance backwards, watching them pile in. Yoongi can’t see you, you won’t be able to look the man in the eyes. You can’t even begin to think about the embarrassment you will feel if Yoongi sees you.

Jenni only laughs, “You’re a professional. Dr. Gwan will be down soon so you only have to be with them for a few moments.”

In a last ditch effort, you call out to her as she walks towards another patient.

Okay. You’re panicking now.

The universe has to be playing some sort of sick game on you right about now. You have not been able to get that stupid man off your mind lately and now here he was in your emergency room. First he’s worried about his brother but now he’s going to see you and want to chat and catch up. Knowing him, he’ll ask you for coffee and you’ll probably learn of his girlfriend or possible wife. He’ll wonder why you’re not married yet, and you’ll have to hide the fact that you haven’t been able to properly move on because of him.

That’s only to say if he even remembers you.

Taking a deep breath, you swallow your anxiety and enter the curtain.

“Alright, Jungkook. Do you have any allergies that I should know about before I inject you with my magic numbing liquid?” It’s much more cramped in the room than it was before. The 6 members crowd to one side of the bed while you stand on the other. You refuse to look up for fear that Yoongi is going to recognize you.

“No allergies.” Jungkook shakes his head.

“Good, good,” you lean forward, elevating Jungkook’s foot and removing the make shift bandage, “you’re gonna feel a slight pinch.”

“He’s not going to lose his foot or anything, right?” A voice asks. You recognize it as Taehyung’s.

“No,” you’re sure they can sense how rigid you are, “he’s not going to be able to dance for a little bit, but he’ll be back and better than ever in no time.” No one responds, and you finally make eye contact with Jungkook, “Are you ready?”

Again, he nods, and you slowly push the needle into his foot. He cringes enough to jerk his upper body slightly, but Jimin is at his side just as quickly as it started.

You dispose of the needle immediately afterwards, wrapping his foot up to keep pressure applied to the wound, “Okay, Dr. Gwan will be here soon. She’ll get you sutured up and I’ll be back later to check on you.”

“Thank you, miss. It already feels better.” He sighs happily, relaxing backwards onto the pillow.

You grin, momentarily forgetting that your ex boyfriend is 3 feet away, “Of course, Jungkook. That’s my job.”

It’s then that you catch Yoongi’s eye for the first time that night. It’s not to say he didn’t recognize you before, but he wasn’t able to say anything once he saw you working. He was deathly still, the rest of the day leaving his mind when your shiny eyes met his. He sees you swallow, and you walk out without saying anything else.

“That was _____.” Yoongi murmurs after a moment, staring at the swaying curtains where you once exited.

The chatter stops instantly, and everyone turns to Yoongi.

“The _____?” Hoseok questions, his eyes wide while he also turns to watch the curtains.

Yoongi nods, his throat going dry as memories of you sleeping beside him at night when he had nothing to his name wash over him. You, with the exception of his brother, were the only person supporting him when he said he wanted a career in music. You applied to universities in Seoul so you could be closer to his dream, you were always so excited to hear his new music and you always told him that he was going to make it big.

It’s not like Yoongi hadn’t thought of you since you broke up. He was a complete mess for months afterwards. His schedule solely consisted of working and rehearsing because he couldn’t bare to have a moment to himself.

Yoongi repeatedly beat himself up for the way he ended things and more specifically, the reason he ended things. After getting into BigHit, Yoongi realized he was seeing less and less of you. You were so busy with med school and he was so busy with rehearsals that you were lucky to see each other once a week. He knew you’d be better off finding someone who could be there for you, and that it was best for him to focus on his career.

He just wasn’t aware of how much that would kill him inside.

“Well what are you doing here? Aren’t you going to go talk to her?” Seokjin pushes. There are times when Yoongi has to remind himself that he isn’t the oldest in the group, and that usually comes when Seokjin takes his role as older brother very seriously.

Yoongi scoffs at the taller man, “What do you want me to say? ‘Hey I know it’s been 8 years but lets meet up for coffee and pretend like we didn’t break each other’s hearts’?” he takes a moment to collect his thoughts, “Besides, Jungkook needs us here while he gets his foot stabbed.”

“Oh no, hyung,” Jungkook laughs, “I’m doing juuuust fine. You go talk to the pretty nurse.”

Yoongi swallows, “What should I say?”

Namjoon shrugs, “Whatever comes to mind.”

Yoongi’s feet carry him out of the curtained off area, his eyes searching across the emergency room in an attempt to find you. He spots you at the desk by the front door, and with a nervous head tilt, he’s dragging himself towards you.

The moment you left Jungkook, you threw yourself back into paperwork and became so immersed that you didn’t hear anything going on around you. Except for the soft footsteps pattering up to your station, which causes you to tear your eyes away from the chicken scratch handwriting on the chart in front of you.

It’s silent for a beat, you can feel the heat rising to your ears as you look up at him. His hair is longer, different from the short style he’d gel up every morning before the break up. There’s more piercings on his ears, but at the core of the new flashy clothes and dyed hair, he’s still the same man who professed his love for you at 17 years old.

“Hi.” he whispers.

“...hi.” you respond, your hands still frozen over the keyboard as Yoongi fiddles with his fingers on top of the desk.

“Thank you for helping-” Yoongi is cut off by another Nurse calling you over from a different bed in the emergency room.

You give him a quick glance, “I’m sorry, duty calls.”

Yoongi couldn’t help but feel his heartbeat quicken when you stand. He had a better look at the pink scrubs donned on your body, and the smile on his face was nearly uncontrollable when he realizes that you made it exactly where you wanted to be. Your dreams of helping people has now become a reality.

You’re truly in your element, and Yoongi can tell. The concern on your face as you help a little girl sat in the center of a bed way too big for her was a sure fire way to know that you were in the right place.

So, Yoongi doesn’t push a conversation. Instead, he walks back to his band mates and watches in awe as Dr. Gwan stitches up Jungkook’s foot.

~*~*~

“He walked away.”

“He walked away?!”

“He. Walked. Away.” You emphasize to Jenni, holding your hands to your face while you let out a groan.

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” she sets down her iced americano, the chatter of the hospital cafeteria drowned out by your conversation, “you dated Suga from BTS before he was famous, and he broke up with you because you were both leading different lives?”

You nod.

She continues, “and you see him in person for the first time in 8 years, and you don’t talk to him?!”

“Wait why are you yelling at me?!”

“Because, dummy,” she leans over the table and flicks your forehead, “he’s been on your mind a lot lately and suddenly he’s at your job! It’s not a coincidence.”

It’s only been about a week since you saw Yoongi, and of course your attempts to get him out of your mind has been fruitless.

“What am I meant to do? Drop everything and run to him?” You ask incredulously, angrily digging your spoon in your yogurt.

Jenni waves her hand haphazardly, “No, no. You catch up with him, see how he’s doing now that he’s a world famous rapper- oh my god, _____ you let go of him?! You didn’t fight for him?!”

“You said you weren’t going to judge me!”

“That was before I learned exactly what you did! Dumb girl,” Jenni shakes her head disapprovingly, “and you’ve settled for Mr. Brainiac instead.”

Jenni isn’t the biggest fan of Junwoo.

“Mr. Brainiac is nice and sweet and knows how to treat me right,” You explain quietly, the fruit in your yogurt seemingly tasteless on your tongue, “but...”

“But he’s not Yoongi?” Jenni tilts her head.

“I don’t think anyone can ever compare to Yoongi. I’m sure it’s unrequited at this point.” As much as you hate to admit it, that’s the part that broke your heart the most about seeing Yoongi. The fact that you couldn’t bare to look at him for more than a second, because it just wasn’t the same as before. It will never been the same as before.

Jenni shrugs, “you won’t know until you find out.”

“And I’m supposed to... what? Show up at his house?”

Jenni’s eyes seem to trail behind you, and a grin on her face, “When is Jungkook supposed to get his sutures removed?”

Confused, you raise an eyebrow and turn around in your chair to see none other than the man of the hour, Min Yoongi. Instead of being dressed in rehearsal clothes like the other day, Yoongi wears all black with a silver bag wrapped around his torso.

You whip back around and glare at Jenni, “I swear to god if you call him-”

“Suga!” Jenni calls out before you can finish your sentence. Your head falls into your hands with another frustrated moan. Jenni waves her hand to him, Yoongi watching warily before he spots that you’re sat right across from her.

He hesitates for a moment, noticing the way you drag knees to your chest which is a nervous tick you have had since before Yoongi had met you. However, he realizes that if he ever wants to talk to you, now would be the best time. Having followed Jungkook to the hospital for the sole purpose of possibly bumping into you, he had to make due with any interaction he could get.

Jenni gets up and leaves as Yoongi walks his way over to you. Your head is now buried in your knees, but you hear the chair screech across from you.

“Hi again.”

You lift your head up, “Hi, Suga. How is life?”

You can see hurt flash through Yoongi’s face at your use of his stage name, but he shakes it off, “Life is going pretty well. How about yours?”

“It’s going well.”

You still haven’t made direct eye contact with him. Despite having not seen you in person in so many years, his heart ached in his chest at the thought that you may still be hurt. Who is he kidding, though? He’s still hurt by the decision himself.

With a sigh, he scoots his chair forward, “Are we going to pretend that there isn’t a history behind us?”

You laugh bitterly, “Haven’t you been doing a pretty good job of that for the passed eight years?”

Yoongi’s jaw drops. You don’t remember Yoongi ever showing his emotions so freely on his face. That was one of the good things from the interviews you have seen, those 6 boys have opened up Yoongi more and more to his emotions. You feel bad for your response, but you’re unsure how to apologize.

“I didn’t want to end things just much as you didn’t,” He bites, ignoring the tinge in his heart, “I want to catch up. It’s nice seeing you again.”

“I have a boyfriend.” You say, your yogurt seeming much more interesting than it was moments before.

He clears his throat, “That’s okay.”

“Because I had to move on.”

“That’s okay.” He repeats, his fingertips drumming along the table top. He hasn’t been chewing his nails lately. That’s good for him. Though, the nervous habit has developed into something different, the drumming of his finger tips echoing more and more in your head as the awkward silence mulls on. Even in a loud cafeteria, your mind only focused on him.

With out thinking much of it, you reach your hand forward and place it on top of his to get the drumming to stop. Yoongi looks up at you while you hold your hand atop of his. For a moment, the silence continues as you stare into his deep brown eyes. You’re transported back to your late teens, where you felt as though you were on top of the world with Min Yoongi by your side. He stared at you as if you were his entire universe, spending night after night cuddled up together, talking about your dreams and aspirations while simultaneously chasing them together.

Well, it used to be together, but instead you had to push yourself through your dreams alone.

Yoongi’s the first to break the silence, letting a dry chuckle fall effortlessly from his lips while he stares down at your touching hands, “You used to do the same thing if you saw me biting my nails.”

Even though you want to be mad, you wand to walk away and never speak to him again, you can’t. Instead, you nibble on your lip in an attempt to stifle your giggle. Yoongi notices and realizes he’s making good headway into conversation.

“You told me to help you stop, the only thing that seemed to get you to stop was-”

“Your touch?” Yoongi suggests, a teasing gummy grin on his face.

“Yeah,” you finally let out a laugh, “my touch distracted you from a lot of things.”

The people in the cafeteria didn’t seem to be bothered by the two of you in the center of the room. Busy doctors and nurses trying to get their lunch in, loved ones of patients desperately waiting to hear if their surgeries went well, all is forgotten as you fall into the same pit you found yourself in many years ago. Bottomless, but bright. Visions of the future dancing along you as you fall deeper and deeper. Although now, it seems to be visions of what could have been.

“Of course it did, how could I focus when I had your pretty face in front of me?” Yoongi’s tone is still teasing, but melancholy wades through his words.

You slip your hand away hesitantly, and Yoongi’s wrist twitches at the sudden loss of contact. “That’s the reason it ended, isn’t it?”

This is a conversation that Yoongi is not ready for, but at this point he’ll take anything he can get with you, “What do you mean?”

“You broke up with me because you knew I’d distract you from your dream.”

He brings the hand you once held upward, scorching skin touching the back of his neck nervously as he takes a deep breath, “I’d be lying if I said that didn’t play a part.”

You inhale and drop your legs from the edge of your chair before leaning forward. After years of questioning whether or not you would ever move on, you finally have the chance to get some closure. “What was the final straw?”

He bites his lip, “I was able to fall asleep without you.”

You didn’t think you’d be able to feel your heart sink as deep as it has. Even after all these years, your emotions are bubbling to the surface. How can something so simple break your heart so badly?

“You were in school during the day and I was training at night,” he continues, “we never saw each other and I struggled for so long to fall asleep without you next to me. Then... one day my head hit the pillow and I fell asleep immediately.”

Another knife to your chest.

“Did you struggle at all? After the break up, I mean.” You try to search for some sense of regret in his eyes but he’s always been very good at putting up a wall and having people fight for a way in.

He laughs bitterly, “Of course I struggled. Are you kidding me? I thought I was going to marry you, have kids with you. I was nearly inconsolable once it really set in that you weren’t going to be with me anymore.”

You swallow anxiously, “But it was really for the best, yeah? You’ve got your career and I’ve got mine. We’re both successful. Given, you’re entirely more successful than I am but I’m happy with where I’m at.”

“Don’t say that,” Yoongi breaths, “you worked your ass off to get to where you are, you’re just as successful as I am.”

“You think we wouldn’t have got to where we are if we stayed together.” It’s more of a statement than a question, but Yoongi seems to ponder on his answer.

“I think we were young and didn’t know much about life. It was a shitty time for both of us, but I did and still do think that in some aspect of the word, you are my soulmate.”

Your breath hitches at the word.

Beyond already having thought this yourself, the realization that Yoongi thinks it as well causes your chest to flush with heat. The adoration you felt years ago when Yoongi’s hair was always styled neatly in a mohawk and you had no clue how to use eyeliner still rests itself neatly at the bottom of your heart. Hearing Yoongi even say the word ‘soulmate’ nearly reduced you to a puddle of tears.

Yoongi notices that you haven’t let out a breath, “Fuck,” he’s panicking, running his hand anxiously through his hair, “fuck. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to freak you out, I- I-” He cuts himself off and allows his head to fall into his hands.

A moment passes, and he seems to gather himself once he hears you exhale, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I saw you last. I dreamed about what I wanted to say to you and insisted on being the one to drive Jungkook to the hospital today with just the hope and slightest chance that I might run into you.”

“What’s your plan here, then?”

“I want to be friends.” He proposes.

You scoff, “Do you have time for friends now?”

He sighs, expecting the reply but still feeling his chest tighten, “Let’s hang out on a day where the two of us have nothing going on. When are you off next?”

“I have a boyfriend.” You reiterate, raising an eyebrow.

“Not a date,” he dismisses you, “just as friends. When are you off next?”

Crossing your arms, you eye him suspiciously as he widens his eyes in an attempt to push you towards an answer.

“Saturday.”

“Great,” he breathes, “I’ll make sure I’m free that day too.”

~*~*~

Maybe you are taking a bit too much time getting ready for a man who has already seen you at your worst. Maybe you purposely wore purple lipstick in an attempt to show that you have been paying attention to his career and maybe, just maybe, you are way too happy to be hanging out with Min Yoongi once again.

That doesn’t take away from your nervousness, though. Your hand shakes as you finish applying your mascara. You don’t live in a nice mansion like Yoongi does, and you’re terrified that someone will spot him picking you up from your apartment and all hell will break loose. You’ve read some of the tabloids involving anyone close to the group, so your anxiety is nearly palpable.

“Get a grip,” you whisper to yourself, “you’ve seen this man naked before. There’s no need to be nervous.”

As you finish your make up, you move on to your hair but stop once you hear a knock on your door.

Yoongi isn’t supposed to be here for another half hour.

“Fuck.” you whisper, standing quickly from your vanity mirror and rushing towards the front door in a panic. You peep through the lens in the door, confusion striking you when you spot Junwoo.

The lock turns loudly and you slide open the door, “Hi?”

His eyes raise from the ground until he meets yours, “You’re awfully dressed up just to be hanging at home.”

“I have plans.” You state, slipping your undone hair behind your ear. You couldn’t help but notice the instant meekness you felt take over your body the moment you saw Junwoo.

“With me?” He questions, stepping into your apartment. His black hair is pushed back with way too much gel to be comfortable, the honey brown eyes that usually comforted you suddenly made you feel uneasy.

You shake your head in response, “An old friend. He and I are-”

“He?” Junwoo cuts you off, much louder than he was moments before. You take a step back at the sudden change of tone, your jaw nearly dropping at his audacity.

“Yes, he. Is that a problem?” It was probably in your best interest not to challenge Junwoo. If there is anything you learned in your short time together it’s that he was very good at manipulating your words. He claims it’s his way of reading deeper into the situation but you think your intentions are pretty surface-level.

Junwoo didn’t seem to expect your attitude, backing down immediately with a nervous scratch to the back of his neck. “Well, I don’t know how I feel about you hanging out with another guy.”

A scoff leaves your mouth as you scan Junwoo’s posture change, “Are you one of those people who assumes men and women can’t be platonic friends?”

“Yes.”

Well, at least he’s honest.

You roll your eyes, “I can assure you that he’s just a friend.”

A friend who you have a long, egregious history with. A friend who’s lips have touched every inch of your body, has seen you break down over text books and has kissed away your tears when you were beginning to reach adulthood.

But yeah, a friend nonetheless.

“Are you still going to hang out with him if I tell you I’m uncomfortable with it?” Junwoo presses, puffing out his chest.

“I don’t feel like you have the right to tell me who I can and can’t be friends with,” you furrow your brows, “why are you even here?”

“I wanted to take you to the park, but that’s not important. Were you going to tell me that you were going out with a guy?” Man, Junwoo’s ability to annoy the fuck out of you has seemingly grown beyond a point of retribution in the short 10 minutes he’s been in front of you.

As you open your mouth to respond, another knock sounds on the door. You let out a small groan, reaching towards the doorknob and turning it swiftly. On the other side is Yoongi, a striped black and white button down unbuttoned on his torso with a white t-shirt underneath. He’s certainly gotten a better fashion sense.

“Hi, Yoongi. I’m almost ready,” you send a glare in Junwoo’s direction, “I have to finish my hair and I’ll be ready.”

Junwoo is staring wide-eyed at Yoongi with his jaw dropped. Yoongi looks back at him and subtly crinkles his nose, just enough for you to spot it.

After a moment, you break the silence, “Yoongi, this is Junwoo. Junwoo,” you gesture to Yoongi, “Suga of BTS.”

Yoongi lets out a laugh, “Stop introducing me like that to people.”

“That is your name, isn’t it?” You tease, spinning the black hat on his head backwards. “Anyway, are you heading out, Junwoo?”

“You didn’t tell me that it was Suga you were hanging out with.” Junwoo speaks accusingly, making you realize that you truly didn’t make any progress throughout your entire conversation.

“He’s an old friend,” you explain, “I’ll call you later.”

Junwoo opens his mouth but closes it again. You know it’s more than likely because he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of someone so influential. Junwoo cared too much about his image to do anything to disrupt it. One bad word from Yoongi and he was done for.

Silently, he steps out of your apartment but doesn’t hesitate on slamming the door shut.

Yoongi glances at you and points to the door, “Him?”

“I never claimed to make good decisions.” You sigh, causing Yoongi to giggle. “Anyway, let me finish my hair. Help yourself to anything here.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You hesitate for a moment before deciding that you didn’t have anything in particular that Yoongi could accidentally get his hands on that would be embarrassing.

As you walk out of the room, Yoongi runs his fingers along the picture frames on your wall. He remembers these pictures previously sitting on your desk in your parents’ house. Now they were lined perfectly across the off-white painted wall in your living room, images of your family and close friends filling the black painted frames.

He smiles at the picture of your mother, you’re an exact replica of her. One of the first things he struggled with beyond not seeing you anymore was the fact that he wouldn’t see your family. Despite your relationship being short lived in the beginning, he had grown very close to your family in the process. After the break up, your mother called Yoongi repeatedly asking if he needed food and clothes. He knows that you gained your big heart from her, and he wishes that he can speak with her again.

Moving on, he spots the familiar picture of you leaning against a bookshelf with Le Fleurs Du Mal by Charles Baudelaire gripped loosely in your hands. He remembers that picture from the end of high school, you insisted on stopping by the local Daegu city library one last time before you both moved to Seoul. Yoongi snapped the picture as an opportunity to remember your hometown, because he was sure the two of you would never be back there again. You would stay together and conquer the world, but unfortunately that never happened.

Yoongi can’t help but run his fingers along the side of your face, your smile hiding behind the book. Yoongi’s reflection can be seen in the window behind you, his grin just as wide as yours.

You were in love, and Yoongi misses that.

Of course now it’s not like he can do anything about that. You have a boyfriend who is clearly very loving and trusting in you.

Yoongi wasn’t necessarily sure what his plan was when he was searching for you in the hospital, nor was he sure what his plan is now that he has you within arms reach of him. Namjoon was sure to tell him how stupid he was for even attempting to get involved with you again even though you have a boyfriend but Yoongi didn’t care. So long as you were in his life somehow, he was willing to make it work. Friends, maybe more. He wasn’t sure, but he wanted whatever he could get.

He did...okay for a few years without you. He dated on and off but never really developed a connection with anyone the way he had you. He couldn’t help but compare everyone who came into his life to you no matter how hard he tried not to. It’s laughable at best, because deep down in his mind he’s well aware that nobody will ever compare to you.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

Yoongi tears his eyes away from the picture and instantaneously rakes his eyes up and down your body, “Whoa.”

Dressed in a simple leggings and plaid button down combination, it accentuates your curves and causes Yoongi’s mouth to water.

You let out an embarrassed giggle, “I, uh- I wasn’t sure what we were doing to I tried to dress casually.”

Yoongi doesn’t stop his eyes from staring at your hips, “It works. Everything about you, works.”

“Careful now.” You warn jokingly, putting a hand out in an attempt to pause his thoughts.

Yoongi shakes his head, “Okay, I have a reservation ready for us.”

You lead him out your door and to the car park, “You better not be taking me to some expensive restaurant because I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

“Nah,” Yoongi shakes his head, opening the passenger side door for you, “but if you still love chicken then I may have found the greatest restaurant in existence.”

Slipping into his car, you wait to respond until he moves over to the drivers side and turns the car on. “You remember that I love chicken?”

He smiles, gummy and bright just like before, “I remember everything about you.”

You ignore the flutter in your heart at his words, and sit silently beside him while the radio plays softly from his speakers. The car is far nicer than the one he used to have, and the seats have a warmer that Yoongi seemed to know the perfect temperature of. As he continues to drive on, you try not to watch the way his left hand grips the steering wheel and his right sits idly on his thigh.

8 years ago, that hand would have been resting on your thigh, fingertips brushing the inner part of your softest flesh while you leaned your head back listened to the melodic tunes of whatever song he made most recently. A few of those tunes have been turned into BTS songs, and you still felt beyond proud of him.

“Okay, we have to go around the back and through the kitchen. I just don’t want to risk-”

“Yeah, yeah,” you cut him off, waving your hand dismissively, “you’re hot shot famous guy now. Don’t want to risk getting seen with a lady.”

Yoongi chuckles, “I may be some hot shot famous guy but I’m still the same person I was a decade ago.”

You watch as he turns the car off, “Prove it.”

“What?” He laughs in disbelief.

“Prove that you’re the same person you were all those years ago.” You push, tongue in cheek while you smirk at the man beside you. He seems to ponder for a moment, puckering his lips in thought before he exits the car and runs over to your side of the car.

“Come on,” he gestures for you to get up, “hurry up.”

“Hold your horses, Mister.” you adjust the bag around your torso as you stand and let your eyes fall back to Yoongi. His back is to you and his knees are bent. Hands reach backwards for you and he turns to look at you expectantly.

Tilting your head, you smile as you hop onto Yoongi’s back. A move he’d do regularly when you’d spend hours on your feet interning at various hospitals around the city. His large hands gripped the back of your thighs and you let out a squeal as he hikes you up until your legs are wrapped around his waist.

It takes a moment for him to steady his walk as he leads you carefully up to the back door. You lean upward and knock on the back door labeled “staff only” and wait patiently as you feel Yoongi adjust you again.

“You used to carry me around like this all the time.” You grin, wrapping your arms around his neck in a hug. It didn’t feel weird hugging him like this. Natural instincts kicked in and the whiff of his cologne had you reeling. It’s exactly the same as he wore before, and his hair smelled of coconut conditioner. Before you would turn his head and kiss his lips every time you caught his scent, and it’s taking everything in you right now not to do exactly that.

“I did,” you can hear the smile in Yoongi’s voice, “and you never reciprocated.”

“I’ll give you a piggy back on the way out, how about that?” You pat the top of his head as the door opens to reveal a very confused looking employee.

A sheepish smile is held on Yoongi’s face while the employee realizes who he is. “Mr. Min,” he bows his head, “lovely to have you again. We have your usual table set up in the back.”

“Awesome,” Yoongi drawls sweetly, “lead the way!”

Heat fills your face as the kitchen staff of the unnamed restaurant watch curiously while Yoongi walks you to the table.

He doesn’t allow you to get off, instead he turns around and drops you onto the booth seat as you try to silence the squeal that leaves your mouth. Yoongi only laughs as he flips back around to see the top half of your body slip between the table and the seat. He’s quick to help you up but his arms grow weak from laughing so he takes a few moments to pull you back up. You couldn’t help but laugh as well, the ridiculousness of the situation bringing back memories.

“I’m sorry,” he says, inhaling another laugh as he slips into the seat opposite of you, “I didn’t think you would fall.”

You adjust the hat on your head, “It’s fine, I didn’t need my equilibrium to work properly anyway.”

Yoongi can’t help but watch you carefully as you open the menu. Your nose still crinkled when you came across a dish you may not particularly like, and your eyes widened whenever you saw something that you thought looked good.

Both of you decided on a beer to drink and various flavors of dry rub wings to enjoy. As you waited on your food to be cooked, you sip your beer and suck your teeth while you decide whether or not you want to ask him all your dying questions.

Deciding to start small, you took a deep breath as Yoongi met your eyes, “How much did they have to fight you to get you to start dancing?”

He let out a sigh of relief, half expecting the awkwardness of your history together to take over, “I almost quit like four times, I won’t lie.”

You giggle, “I figured. You do well, though. I was amazed by your Seesaw performance when you started dancing on your own up there. Genuinely was the last thing I expected.

Yoongi doesn’t respond, he only smiles widely with his head rested gently on his hand. You tilt your head as his eyes scan yours, “What?” You couldn’t help but feel embarrassed, wanting the world to swallow you up at the thought that you could have come across as weird or creepy by knowing so much about Yoongi’s career.

“You watch my performances?” He questions, his smile not dropping. A hint of pink brushes the tip of his nose.

“Of course,” you say almost incredulously, “you’re everywhere. It’s hard not to.”

“What’s your favorite song?” Yoongi presses, leaning forward to show you’ve piqued his interest.

Okay, there’s no way you’re going to let him think he has some sort of head over you.

“Cypher part 3.” you say confidently.

“Oh?”

“Mhm,” you hum, nibbling on the bottom of your lip for a moment before deciding to say why it was your favorite, “specifically the part where you say you’re a starfish feeding off the envy of others.”

“Ah, yes. Truly a fan favorite. You should hear the cheers when I explain what my tongue can do.” Yoongi whispers the latter half of his sentence, causing your throat to go dry. His tongue is skillful in many ways, not just rapping, and you were well aware of that. Decadence rested on the tip of his tongue, and you’d like to think that you contributed to his *ahem* practice.

He pulls away with a cheeky grin just as the waiter comes by with steaming plates of food.

The affect that his words had on you still amazes you to this day. Maybe he does have a head above you, and maybe you’re okay with that.

The rest of the dinner goes by with a breeze, the two of you laughing over drinks and trying each other’s food. It didn’t take long for you to fall into a comfortable fit with Yoongi, even though so much time had passed. It was like he never left, and he truly is still the same person he was before. He laughs the same, his shoulders shakes and his grin is always huge. Although his hair style changes and his fashion sense has gotten better, you still see the old Yoongi poking out whenever he laughed particularly hard.

Being face to face with him has allowed you to compare to the younger him, though. His face has slimmed and his voice has gotten deeper, the adam’s apple you kiss at night was larger than before and his neck was longer. Despite all that, he was still the same. Fame hadn’t changed him a bit.

The moment the check comes you snatch it up quickly.

“_____.” the way Yoongi says your name shoots a chill down your spine, but you ignore it when you slip your cash into the designated sleeve.

“Yoongi.” You mock, handing the sleeve back to the waitress who seems scared of Yoongi’s deep tone.

“I was supposed to pay.” He pouts, leaning back in the booth and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Be faster then.” You grin, standing up and crouching in front of Yoongi’s side.

He laughs, remembering your promise from earlier and slipping onto your back. The path you to through the kitchen is a bit less crowded now, but you felt the same amount of eyes on you the entire time. You felt much less embarrassed about it now, though, because Yoongi had a way of calming you down even at your worst points.

“The night is still young,” Yoongi speaks as he slips off of your back and unlocks his car, “would you like to revisit Yongsan Park?”

“Always.”

It wasn’t a far drive from the restaurant, and it was spent mostly talking about music and the new album that Yoongi was extremely proud of. Of course you had already listened to it but you didn’t want to take away from his excitement of showing you some of the songs.

When you made it to the park, the lights lining the jogging path were already on. You hadn’t expected it to be so dark yet but fall time always had a habit of sneaking up on you.

There was an intense rush of nostalgia associated with this park for the both of you. Nights where the two of you huddled close under the stars were spent here, right beneath the biggest tree in the park. It was unspoken that that was your spot, and you hadn’t been to it since you broke up.

Yet, muscle memory kicks in and both of your legs carry you right to the tree.

“Isn’t it funny how we spent so many nights here?” You bring up as you sit at the base of the tree.

Yoongi nods, “So many nights in this exact spot.”

“I love it here, it was our spot.”

Yoongi’s proximity to you is much closer than it should be but neither of you are making any move to change it. His shoulder brushes against yours and you resist the urge to rest your head on his shoulder.

“It still is.” He corrects, tapping your knee gently with his hand and resting in there.

You freeze for a moment, not knowing how to process his touch anymore but you can’t push him away. In fact, you’re relishing in the heat burning on your skin beneath his hand. It’s one of the best feelings in the world.

“Do you remember when you tried to scare me by climbing a tree and the branch broke?” Yoongi looks up, and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh at the memory.

“Yeah but that was because I was trying to get you back for pouring ice water on me when I fell asleep on my text book.” You roll your eyes at the memory, distinctly remembering the chill on your back while Yoongi cackled in your small one bedroom apartment.

That same cackle leaves Yoongi’s lips from beside you. You snap your head towards him, “Oh you think it’s funny still?”

“Yeah,” his laugh turns into a giggle, “you can still see the broken branch.”

“What?” You glance up, and sure enough the branch is still gone. Your jaw drops and you use your hands to push Yoongi over. He doesn’t fight you on it and falls with ease even though you didn’t use very much pressure at all, and you’re quick to try and wrestle him down. “It must be so funny,” you groan as you try to pin him down, straddling your legs on either side of his waist, “to still be pinned by- holy shit you’ve gotten strong.”

Yoongi takes his opportunity to flip the two of you over, switching positions and easily pinning your hands on either side of your head. Vaguely, you wonder how much time it took for him to gain so much strength, but your mind quickly shifts once you realize the precarious position that Yoongi has put you in.

Glancing down, you see his hips rest just above your navel, and images of the many nights you shared together flash through your mind. Rushed breathing and sweaty skin sticking together as you explored each other’s bodies and always found new ways to please each other. Briefly, a rush of heat flashes through your lower abdomen at the way your imagination flushes with possibilities of Yoongi’s touch.

You inhale, your chest heaving and Yoongi’s eyes fly to the way your cleavage displays itself for him. You’ve gotten fuller than before, and it suits you. He’s enjoying every second of it.

Before he can stop himself, he leans down and smashes his lips onto yours. The grip on your wrists loosen just enough for you to slip out and have your hands flying to his cheeks. He tastes the same as he did before, his smell intoxicating as it fills your nose. Your senses are overwhelmed with him, his tastes, his scent, the way his lips feel against yours. The familiarity is there, but they feel new and exciting at the same time, like you were pushed back to your youth.

He exhales against you as if he’s been waiting all night to do just this. Slipping his legs out from beneath him, he presses his chest against yours as your hands slide to the back of his neck to hold him against you. The rest of the world falls, dissolving into nothing. You keen helplessly as you feel him grind against you, and that noise seems to push Yoongi over the edge. He growls into your mouth, pulling away to start his descent onto your neck with bites and licks in all the places you loved before.

Arching into him, your hands loop through his black locks with a gasp as his tongue licks at your wine kissed collarbones.

This is everything you’ve been wishing for. Everything feels so right.

Yet, it’s wrong. You need to stop him. You need to ask him to pull away. But you can’t. He feels too fucking good. It’s not until he reaches the stop of your chest, his fingers hesitantly reaching at your collar does he look into your eyes for permission.

And you stop him.

“I- I think I need to go have a very uncomfortable conversation with Junwoo.” You state, and Yoongi’s face drops.

“I can’t believe you still managed to think about him when I was kissing you.” He says nearly incredulously, crawling off of you and leaning his back against the tree again. His chest is rising and falling faster than before, showing that your affect on him was much stronger than you previously had thought.

Your heart twinged at Yoongi’s cold tone. You swallow, “If you think there’s a possibility of us continuing this, I have to end things with Junwoo.”

Yoongi whines, “Why now?”

You let out a little giggle, sitting up and leaning your head on his shoulder like you wanted to before. “Even if I didn’t do it right now, I don’t think we could go any further in the middle of a park.”

“I thought you liked exhibitionism.” Yoongi leans to the side, kissing you once again. It’s much breathier than before, and he prays that you don’t feel his heart pounding wildly in his rib cage at the mere thought of someone catching the two of you outside.

You gasp into the kiss and force yourself to pull away even though you didn’t want to at all. Giving him a look, Yoongi sighs.

“Okay, okay. I’ll drive you home so you can have that uncomfortable conversation.” He mutters, standing up and pulling you with him. He’s much more touchy than before, his arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders while he guides you back to his car.

The conversation you’re about to have with Junwoo will truly be one of the most anxiety inducing things you’ve ever done.

~*~*~

The dorms are dark when Yoongi arrives back. The living room in which everyone has a tendency to congregate after a particularly grueling practice day holds no one, a small reminder that everyone finally got some well deserved rest.

He hums softly to the tune of ‘People’, one of his favorite songs from his recent mixtape and opens the fridge to grab a bottle of water. When he closes it, Jimin is standing on the other side.

Yoongi jumps, “Jesus fucking christ, Park Jimin!”

“Didja get back together with her?”

“What?” Yoongi takes a second to assess Jimin’s pajama clad body, “N- no. We just hung out.”

“It’s a shame,” Jimin reaches forward and grabs the water bottle from Yoongi’s hand, “I heard you humming so I figured you finally got laid.” Yoongi opens his mouth to protest but Jimin continues before he can, “You know, I’ve known you for so long and I don’t think you’ve ever had a woman sign an NDA? Have you even had sex since you broke up with the pretty nurse?”

“I feel like that’s none of your business.” Yoongi yanks the water bottle back, opening it and praying that Jimin didn’t backwash.

“But it is my business because I have no clue how you did it. I’m sure she was fucking other guys regularly. I hear it’s bad for women to go without sex because they turn into-” Yoongi attempts to drown out the sounds of his roommate, his hand gripping the counter top tightly with unwanted images of you in another man’s bed ripping through his brain, “-and I’ve always wondered what it was like to only ever have your hand to get yourself off. Is it lonely? How much porn do you-”

“Jimin!” Yoongi shouts.

“Cutting me off is awfully rude, don’t you think?”

“Shut. the. fuck. up.” Yoongi grits his teeth, moving to walk away as Jimin laughs.

“Called it! I knew you were a born again virgi-”

“Goodnight!” Yoongi calls back, walking up to his room and locking the door behind him. He plops down onto his bed, the TV situated perfectly level with his bed. It’s a stark contrast to the small black and white TV he could afford all those years ago, so the familiar sound of his TV sounding on brings a smile to his face as he realizes yet again how fortunate he’s become.

Now he’s determined to make sure you feel the same sense of fortune that he has. Because he has you back in his life. Was it a twist of fate or the inevitability of soulmates, Yoongi isn’t sure. However, he’s immensely grateful to have you back, even if you’re not truly his yet.

~*~*~

"I’m breaking up with you.”

“What?!”

You cover your mouth as the unexpected sentence leaves your mouth. Junwoo sits in his office with his fists clenched tightly on top of his desk. He’s never been particularly good at hearing bad news, and even though it’s only been a few months you feel as though you’re signing divorce papers judging my his reaction.

It’s been two days since you last saw Yoongi. You put off speaking to Junwoo for a little bit to try and figure out exactly what you were going to say to him. You had a whole speech ready, talking about how he deserves better and that he’ll find his soulmate eventually.

But when the moment came, your speech was practically thrown to the ceiling fan and torn into a million pieces.

“W- why? What did I do?” Junwoo asks, he seems more angry than anything which you didn’t expect.

“You didn’t do anything,” you sigh, plopping in the seat on the other side of his desk, “I just don’t think it’s going to work out.”

“Everything was going so well!” Oh god, he’s yelling. “It’s that fucker Suga’s fault, isn’t it? He’s putting you up to this!”

“Fucking hell, Junwoo! How old are you, honestly? Immediately assuming that it was Yoongi is the most childish thing you could have done.” It is Yoongi, though. You know that, and unfortunately Junwoo knows that as well. It isn’t in good conscience to deny his allegations but you can’t help but do so.

Though, the inevitability of your relationship ending would have happened with out without Yoongi’s push.

“Well excuse me for thinking you would fuck a member of the biggest band on the planet! For God’s sake, any whore would drop their pants for one of them.”

Your jaw drops, “I didn’t fuck him.”

Junwoo rolls his eyes, “Are you sure? Because it’s almost like I could smell the stench coming off of you.”

You place your tongue in your cheek, biting back a response. Should have figured the man wouldn’t know how to take a break up.

Then, you laugh, “Okay. You got me, I fucked him.”

“I knew it.” Junwoo’s nostrils flare.

“Hundreds of times, eight years ago,” You spit, standing up quick enough for the chair behind you to tip over. “it wasn’t working out anyway and clearly that’s for the best. The last thing I need is a chauvinist asshole who refuses to see what was right in front of him.”

“I-”

“No,” you put your hand up, “I’m done.”

You turn around swiftly, walking out of his office and ignoring the stares from his receptionists. Surely they heard the yelling and the last thing you needed was to feel judged.

Except you weren’t being judged. Just before you reached the elevator, one of the girls spoke out. “You’re the second break up he’s had this week, don’t feel bad.”

You turn around, watching her flick vivaciously through a magazine. “What was that?” You speak slowly, turning around walking up to the desk.

“Another woman came by earlier this week, she said he’s been fucking some nurse behind her back and threw a ring at him.” She shrugs, then leans forward with a whisper, “You’re better off without him.”

You scoff, “and I had the decency to break up with him before I fucked someone else. Thanks for the tip, darling.”

As soon as the elevator doors close, you whip out your phone and text Yoongi.

To: Suga Delivered: 13:52

Deed is done if you still want me to come by

You make it to your car and hear your phone ding.

From: Suga Received: 13:57

I’ll meet you outside

Your heart flutters, so you start your car and drive as quickly as you can towards the directions of the dorm. It’s not hard, everyone in Seoul is keenly aware of where BTS stay, but there’s an unspoken rule that nobody is to bother them. One of the things you enjoyed most about this whole situation is the amount of respect they boys have earned, and you couldn’t feel more proud of Yoongi.

The gated group of buildings is intimidating to say the least, but you’re unable to contain your excitement as you pull up. Yoongi is a few feet away, waving from the other side of the gate as he presses a few buttons before you hear the gate click and begin to side open.

Your excitement over simply seeing him is nearly too much to contain. A week ago you struggled to not get nauseous at the thought of him seeing you but now you didn’t know how you ever made it without him. Inching your car forward became an arduous task because it took precious seconds away from you being able to kiss Yoongi once again.

So, you throw your car into park as the gates slip closed behind you and run out of your car to jump towards Yoongi.

He catches you, immediately slamming your lips onto his. It’s soft this time, the urgency isn’t there but he doesn’t mind the feeling of your hands gently tugging at his hair and scratching his scalp.

“Mm,” he hums against your lips, “does this mean you’re mine again?”

“With some adjustments to both of our lives,” you smile, “and making time for each other, then I’m willing to try again.”

“Good,” he grins, “let me take you inside and show you how much I’m gonna try.”

He slides you down his torso and grabs your hand, yanking you closely behind him. You let out a quiet yelp as he does so, following him into the building and welcoming the warmth that greets you. You’re lead through a long hallway but are stopped abruptly once Yoongi spots Hoseok walking through the living room.

“Hey pretty nurse, and Yoongi.” Hoseok says without looking up, and Yoongi lets out a sigh of relief.

You give him a questioning look but shake it off when Yoongi leads you up a lot of stairs and straight to his bedroom.

“Okay, there’s two ways this can go-” Yoongi slips his shirt over his head and you try to process everything as it’s happening because holy shit you’re going to fuck Yoongi for the first time in years and might actually be able to have an orgasm “-slow and steady or hard and fast.”

“Save the romance for next time,” you giggle, slipping your dress over your head and falling backwards onto his bed, “I haven’t had you inside me in years. Hard and fast.”

He chuckles, “You got it baby.”

He jumps on top of you, his hand flying to your thigh to steady your leg as he grinds his still clothed cock into your core. He’s already hard, and you’re already dripping. The last two days you spent not being near him was the most difficult thing you had experienced because you knew what was coming and how he was going to do it.

And you’re loving every second of it.

Spreading your legs wide, you reach between the two of you and play with the hem of his boxers. He groans into your mouth, inching upward so your hand slips further in, “No teasing, baby girl. Hard and fast.”

“Right, yes. I’m sorry.” you bite his bottom lip before lifting your hips and feeling his hands loop on either side of your panties to slip them down your legs. He drops between your legs immediately and inhales your scent, tossing his head back in pleasure.

“Fuck, just like I remember.” Yoongi dives back, his nose brushing against your aching clit while his tongue darts out and licks your quivering hole. You let out a quiet moan but are quick to cover your mouth as you remember there are six other men on the other side of these thin walls.

The pleasure of knowing that he remembers your scent is enough to send you feral, your back arching off the bed as his lips finally wrap around your clit and sucks hard. The obscene sound of him drinking in your juices fills the room, his groans against your core sending chills up your spine. If there was anything you knew about Min Yoongi, it’s that he knew how to use his tongue.

You fill your core begin to heat up as your orgasm builds and before you know it, you’re uncovering your mouth and letting out a moan loud enough to be heard for miles.

Yoongi can’t help but smirk against you as he drinks in your release, moving to trail kisses up your abdomen as you come down from the pleasure.

“You ready for more?” He kisses your lips, and it’s then that you notice his cock his gloriously hard against his stomach, boxers long discarded.

“Please, yes. Please please plea-”

“Alright, hold your horses.” Yoongi jokes, brushing the head of his cock against your slit a few times teasingly.

You pout, “You said no teasing.”

He nods, “I can’t help it. Your face is so cute when you’re begging for my cock.”

As you’re thinking of a rebuttal, Yoongi finally slips inside. Both of you moan in pleasure at the clenching of your core. He remembers exactly how to move to get you to gasp, how deep to move to get you to clench, and he remembers what each of your movements mean. Your nails currently dig into his back harshly but he doesn’t complain, because that means his thrusts are going at just the right speed.

He wishes you can scream like you used to, but he realizes how weird that could be for his bandmates to hear. However, he can’t say that he necesarily minds all things considered. He’d love for Jimin to hear what he’s doing to you after the way his smart mouth moved the other night. He could imagine his face as he listens, but then Yoongi is dragged back to the moment when he feels you clench particularly hard.

You feel him tensing more and more, struggling to hold on as your vice grip on him tightens even further. The soft sponge of your warm cunt is nearly too much for him to bare, and as you feel your second orgasm approach, you grip Yoongi’s face in your hands, “Cum for me. Please.” His eyes flutter closed and he begins to thrust faster, lips on yours and sweat building on both of your foreheads. Then, your second orgasm washes over you deliciously, Yoongi’s hips stuttering before he follows with his own release, his cum coating your walls white. He’s still for a moment, gasping above you. When you reach up and brush the hair from his forehead, he collapses on top of you, “Fuck, that’s even better than I remembered.”

“Good,” you giggle, kissing his nose, “because there’s so much more I want to try with you.”

His heart flutters irrevocably, knocking the wind out of him when he realizes that you’re in this for the long run just as he is. This time he swears he’s going to make it work, and he plans on spending the rest of his life with you.

His lips brush against you once again, then he speaks.

“Write me a list, baby girl.”

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