#this was born from the idea of like. what if mariana becoming a god made her kinda incomprehensible looking

[codgod]

they both look pretty different now, right?

+ the frames

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Leaving A Mark

Javier Peña x Reader

Words: 3688

Summary: When Javi’s contacts with Los Pepes cross the line, he goes behind their backs to help Fernando Duque escape. Los Pepes decide to look for information elsewhere: you. 

Notes: So this is based on episode seven of season two. I’ve become totally addicted to this show and I’m super excited to possibly write some Mandalorian imagines as well because I love Pedro Pascal. P.S. I’m only basing this off of the fictionalizations in Narcos, so if something is incorrect, I’m sorry!

Warnings: Violence, language, and assault. (If you’ve seen Narcos, you know) 

-

The morning air was sticky and hot, making the sheets stick to your bare skin. The light was too bright for your tired eyes so you turned over to look at a far more welcoming sight. Javi never slept, but last night he’d let himself rest for the first time in weeks. You placed a soft kiss on his shoulder, his skin hot against your lips, and crawled out of bed as gently as possible. Before locating your shirt, you stood in front of the small mirror in your bathroom, placing your hands on your stomach. It was still pretty flat, but it wouldn’t be for long. 

It’d been about a month since you found out. Even without the Escobar terror, you wouldn’t know how to tell Javi. He was a fast man who liked fast women. You only started seeing each other after you helped him cast a group of sicarios when they robbed the cafe you worked at. You were an informant and you were surprised he’d stuck around this long. As soon as he found out about the baby, he’d be gone. 

You jumped, feeling hands trail around your waist before settling on your hips. Javi muttered a ‘good morning’, his face mostly buried in the soft curls of your hair. You quickly dropped your hands and turned around to face him, his arms wrapping around you tighter as you moved. 

“I have to go.” He sighed, forehead resting against yours. 

“I know.” You’d been with him long enough to know the drill. You rarely saw him, and when you did, it was only for the night. You knew what you were for him and what you would never be. But if you could be his escape for even a few moments, it was worth it. After all, he was your escape too. He was all you had left to cling to in this country. 

You knew first hand what Escobar’s empire had done to the families in Columbia. You had been at school in the States when your two younger sisters joined his group of traffickers. They helped him smuggle his cocaine into the states by swallowing small pouches. Until Mariana, the youngest, turned up in a Miami hospital morgue, three pouches having burst in her stomach. Your other sister, Zoe, tried to tell the police the truth about what happened to Mariana and wound up stuffed in the back of an abandoned car, two bullets in her head. 

After that, you moved back to Columbia to take care of your father, a police officer who mainly busted kids vandalizing properties. He died in one of Escobar’s attacks about a year after you came home. Now you were alone and since whatever you had with Javi was all you had, you stuck with it. And when he found out, you’d lose him too. Luckily, you’d found a doctor who would keep your secret. You were meeting with her later that morning for a health check. 

While you found your work uniform, Javier gathered his things and gave you a quick peck on the cheek before rushing out the door. As soon as he was gone, you released the breath you felt like you’d been holding since he woke up. Keeping secrets from a fucking DEA agent was exhausting. After eating a breakfast that you knew you wouldn’t keep down, you grabbed your keys and headed for the clinic. 

The doctor’s name was Rosa and she was married to the man who owned the cafe and she was more than willing to help you throughout the pregnancy. You’d gone a few times already, getting regular checks to make sure that both you and the baby were healthy. Despite the trouble the baby was causing you, you couldn’t afford another loss. 

“Everything looks good.” Rosa grinned, though there was something off about her smile. 

“No changes?” 

“Nope. You and the little guy are both in excellent health.” Her movements were hurried as she put away her equipment. 

“Do you have someone else coming in?” You wondered. “Because I can-”

“Yeah, actually!” She exclaimed, but she said it as if you’d given her a great idea. “I didn’t want to rush you, but we’re all done here, so I’ll see you in a couple weeks.” Rosa walked you to the door of the clinic and her suspicious grin faded into a somber frown. She looked scared. 

“What’s going-”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I really am.” She put a hand on your shoulder, eyes shooting towards a car parked down the street. “They were gonna go after my kids.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You yanked away, following her gaze as three men exited the vehicle. 

“Just do what they tell you and they won’t hurt you.” She locked the glass door, her eyes filled with guilt as she backed away, disappearing into the building. You turned back to the men heading towards you, they’re expressions dark and determined. You turned on your heel, sprinting down the sidewalk, finding every corner to turn until you weren’t even sure where you were. Your sandals offered little traction, rubbing blisters into your feet. You really thought that you’d lost them. You turned one more corner and straight into the chest of Los Pepes leader- Fidel Castano. You recognized his face from the photos in Javi’s files- you’d snuck a few glimpses when you were helping him catch Escobar’s sicarios. He grabbed your arms with a crushing grip. 

“Get your fucking hands off me!” You shrieked, trying to kick at his legs, not that it was any use. His hand found your throat and squeezed, silencing your screams. 

“We just want to talk.” His coy smile made your stomach churn. “You’re going to help us find someone.” 

“I don’t know anything.” You gasped out, the words clawing their way up your throat like blades. “I swear, I don’t know anything.” 

“Peña’s puta.” He chuckled darkly. The metallic scrape of a switchblade rang through the alley and you felt the ice-cold blade graze your stomach. “And his little mongrel.” Your feet desperately scraped against the pavement, trying to get away. “We know about the kid, Y/N.” He leaned in so his lips were next to your ear, his stinking hot breath burning your cheek. “And we know how to cut it out of you.” With his foul words, his fingers closed your windpipe completely, lifting your feet off of the ground, leaving your legs flailing for something to support you. The more you struggled, the more the knife scraped the skin of your stomach, beginning to draw blood. 

“Please.” You mouthed, completely unable to speak. 

“She’s no good to us dead.” One of the other men interjected. He dropped you just before your vision got dark. You were a coughing and sputtering mess on the pavement, curling up against the wall of the building to put as much distance between you and them as possible. Castano knelt down in front of you, lifting your chin with the end of his knife. 

“You’re going to lead us to Fernando Duque. Or Agent Pena won’t be able to tell your insides from your outsides when they find you.” 

-

Javi didn’t notice you at first as he made his way towards his car. You were pacing in the parking lot, your hands fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. You looked scared, no, terrified. Seeing your expression, Javier walked faster. You turned and saw his worried face and threw your arms around him, real tears streaming down your face even though the words from your lips were fabricated. 

“They came after me.” You balled, holding up the wadded, bloody cloth that Castano had given you. Javi unfolded the fabric slowly.

“Fuck.” He muttered, quickly wrapping the human finger back up. 

“It’s Alfonzo’s.” This was actually true. In order to get to Rosa, they’d been keeping her husband, your boss, captive only god knows where. Castano told you to say that you found it at the cafe with a note with your name and address on it. 

“Escobar’s pigs are coming back, Javi.” You clung to his jacket, playing up the dramatics as much as possible. You had to make sure that he took you with him. To save the baby that he didn’t even know about. “I know you’re working, but I didn’t know where else to go.” You started to hyperventilate, so Javi set the cloth on the hood of his car and wrapped protective arms around you. 

“I’ve got you, it’s okay.” You were trembling in his embrace so he rubbed soothing circles into your back to try and calm you down. Your fear was genuine. The threat was so much greater than a couple of sicarios looking for revenge. He pushed back gently, holding your face in his hands and wiping away your tears. “I’m going to take you home, okay? I’ll be able to protect you from there.” You shook your head frantically. You had to go with him. 

“No, Javi, they know where I live, they know where I work, hell, they could know I’m here right now.” You looked around, knowing that Los Pepes were off somewhere waiting for your call. Eyes settling back on his face, you tried not to let the guilt show. “I only feel safe with you.”

Javi knew that he was supposed to check in with Duque, but he also couldn’t leave you like this. In the heat of the moment, he didn’t know what else to do. 

“Alright, come with me and we’ll figure this out.” He ushered you to the passenger side of the car, opening the door for you. He gave you a stern look. “Do not get out of the car. No matter what.” You nodded and buckled up. 

You wanted to tell him. You wanted to scream at him to turn around. As soon as you knew where Duque was, you’d have to tell Los Pepes and you knew what would happen to him. His blood will be on your hands for the rest of your life. 

“We know that Peña is hiding him.” Castano had said. “And we have a different source that told us he was leaving today. You find him, you call us. It’s that simple if you ever want to see Peña’s bastard child born.” 

So you didn’t say a word. You watched out the window, trying not to notice his worried gaze dart to you every once in a while. The whole drive you tried to figure out what came next. He would figure it out. Maybe he’d arrest you. Maybe he should. 

Javi pulled up to a motel and paused before he went inside. 

“I’m going to go inside just for a few minutes, okay?” He held your hand tightly in his. “You have to stay in the car. You were never here.” You nodded in understanding and held his hand a little too long as he got out of the car. 

“Javi…” You might as well say it. “I love you.” He looked taken back. He leaned across the driver seat and placed a soft, but passionate kiss on your lips. 

“I will be right back.” 

The car door closed and your heart started to pound. With a shaking hand, you pulled out the phone that Castano gave you and called the number. 

“I’m here.” You said quietly. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Don’t back out on us now, pequeña perra.” He spat. “Or my brother va a joder until you bleed.” You took a deep breath and told him the address. “Gracias por su cooperación.” 

As soon as the phone went dead, you threw it out of the car window, listening to the pieces shatter on the pavement. Even without it, you could still hear his sick, sick voice. Now you just head to learn how to live with what you’d done. 

-

You’d calmed down enough for Javi to take you back to your apartment and get back to work. More than anything, he was worried about you, but he was also beyond pissed. He just wanted to nail these bastards more than ever. He’d never seen you scared of anything before, even when you were helping him catch the pricks attacking the cafe. When he took you home, you just seemed numb. Like all the fight had left you. 

You felt like you’d sold your soul. That you were now just a cowering husk of a person, waiting for Los Pepes to come back and cut the loose end. Soon enough, the pounding on your door made you jump out of your skin. 

“Open up.” Castano’s voice boomed from the hall. 

“I already did what you want.” You shouted through the wood, but your voice gave away your fear. 

“I just want to talk about our… agreement.” You knew he’d break it down if you didn’t open it, so slowly, you turned the knob. He barged in before you could say a word and you stayed close to the wall, as far away from him as possible. 

“What do you want?” You kept your head high and he chuckled. 

“I brought you a gift from Judy Moncada.” He tossed a small box onto the counter of your kitchen. He smirked. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” You shuffled your feet against the tile and grabbed him a glass. “Maybe Peña knows what he’s doing, eh?” You felt his rough hand begin to roam underneath the hem of your shirt and you jerked away. 

“Don’t you touch me.” You hissed, nearly throwing the glass of water in his face. He took the cup with a wicked smile. The phone started to ring, but you stayed rooted in place, not wanting to take your eyes off him. 

“Are you going to answer that, or should I?” 

Watching him carefully, you moved across the room and picked up the phone. 

“Hello?” 

“Y/N, baby, it’s me.” Javi sighed heavily, sitting across from Murphy at his desk. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to come over tonight.” 

“Oh,” You’d almost forgotten that part of your lie. You made him believe you were scared enough that you wanted him to stay with you until the threat was gone. Now, you couldn’t want him farther away. “I’ve had some time to calm down and I realized that I need to let you do your job.” Javi was kind of surprised. A few hours ago, you were begging to not leave his side and now you were telling him to stay away?

“Are you sure, because I could just pile this paperwork shit on Murphy-”

“You better fucking not.” Javi dodged the pen that Murphy launched at him from his desk. 

“Really, Javi, it’s okay. I was overreacting earlier.” You kept your eyes locked on Castano, and he kept his roaming gaze on your legs. You shuttered. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” 

“Is everything okay?” Javi whispered, turning away from Murphy, but Steve could still hear the worry in his partner’s voice. “This stuff about the sicarios isn’t adding up and you’re kinda scaring me here.” 

“I’m just tired of these guys running the town. But letting you catch them is more important than using you as a guard dog.” 

Javi ran a hand down his face, his mind spinning. “Okay. But if you think anything is off, you call me, alright?” 

“I will. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Without another word, you hung up, earning a grin from Castano. 

“Don’t give me that look,” He scolded. “He got himself into this mess.” 

“Get out.” You demanded, opening the door for him. “You’ve done your job now, please, leave me alone.” 

“You’re a part of this now, puta.” Castano growled, pausing in the doorway. “You’re one of us.” As soon as his smug face was out of your site, you slammed the door. You stared at the package on your counter like it would explode any second. Like ripping off a bandaid,you took off the top and looked inside. On top, a small baby rattle mocked you with baby pink and blue hues. You threw the rattle across the room, hearing the plastic shatter against the wall as you buried your head in the sink. It wasn’t morning sickness. It was the bile rising from the twist in your gut, painfully squeezing and retching with guilt. Underneath the rattle was a photograph of Duque’s mangled and bloody body stuffed into his car trunk… along with his son. 

-

Javi had seen a lot of shit, but looking down at the body of Duque’s fourteen-year-old son made him sick to his stomach. He just wanted to forget that the day ever happened as he drove to your apartment. While you started out as a distraction, just someone to fuck around with every now and then, Javi had developed feelings for you that he hadn’t felt since Loraine. And after what you said yesterday, his brain and his heart battled more than ever. He strangely just wanted to talk to you, something he usually did after a few hours of distraction. He wasn’t expecting to find your apartment a total mess. 

“Y/N?” At first, he panicked. They’d found you. He took out his pistol cautiously, looking around for any sign that someone was still there. It wasn’t until he looked in the ashtray that he finally understood what was going on. Everything clicked. And the rage that he felt was fueled by the hurt and betrayal shooting through his head. He grabbed the half-burned photo and searched the apartment until he found you sitting on your bed, staring at the wall. “The fuck is this!” He screamed, roughly lifting you up by the arm and shoving the picture in your face. 

“Javi-”

“How long have you been helping them, Y/N? How fucking long!” The emptiness in your eyes made him even angrier. “Did they offer you money? Huh?” A string of Spanish curses left his lips and he shoved away from you, grabbing a cigarette from his jacket pocket. “Is that what the whole ‘Javi, I love you’ bullshit was about? Just trying to drive the nail in?” 

“They didn’t give me a choice.” Your voice was hoarse from sobbing and your face was still red. 

"You got that kid killed you fucking bitch!" He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look him in the eye. "He was fourteen and they fucking butchered him!" With your head lifted, he could see the purple handprint shape that spread across your neck. It was impossibly dark, covering almost your entire throat. 

“I didn’t have a choice.” You repeated, only now, your voice was stronger. 

“Did they do anything else to you?” Javi imagined the worst. Even with all of his anger, the thought of something happening to you made his blood boil. 

“You think I give a shit about me?” You scoffed. “You think I would have given up that kid if they had threatened to beat me, rape me, put a fucking bullet through my head? I don’t matter to anybody.” His expression might have proved you wrong, but you kept going. “I would just have been another victim like my sisters, like my father.” You shook your head bitterly. “No, this wasn’t about me.” 

“Then who was it about, Y/N?” His words were now genuine. 

“They were going to kill our baby!” You finally screamed. Javi froze. His shoulders slumped forward like you’d punched him in the gut. After a long silence that wouldn’t seem to end, he stood up straight and shook his head. 

“No.” Without another word, he closed the bedroom door behind him. 

It was his fault. They came after you because of him. He got involved with Los Pepes in the first place and now he was trying to blame you instead of look at himself. He wanted to scream. He wanted to put his fist into the nearest wall he could find. He almost did both. Instead, he took a deep breath and walked back into the bedroom. 

He found you standing in front of the mirror, shirt lifted slightly so you could examine the cuts scattered across your belly. They were shallow, but there was a chance they would scar. You didn’t notice him walk up behind you until he slipped his hand underneath yours, fingers splayed out against your stomach, gently grazing the scrapes. In the reflection, you looked up into his eyes. 

“You matter to me.” His lips lightly kissed your shoulder and he slowly turned you around so that his chest pressed against yours. “I’m sorry. All of this happened because of me and I tried to blame it on you-”

“I got that boy killed, Javi.” You cried. “Now there’s a mother out there without her child because I sacrificed them for mine.” 

“For ours.” Slowly, he moved his hand from your stomach to your cheek and closed the little space between you. This kiss was different. It wasn’t lusting or assertive. It was slow and soft and spoke more than Javi ever could. When you finally pulled away from each other, he faced one of his greatest fears, second only to losing you- loving you. “We’ll get through this, mi alma. Te amo.” He pulled you in for another kiss, his lips then traveling down your neck and stopping at your stomach so he now knelt in front of you. 

As he looked up, you could see that he was scared. That part of him wanted to run for the hills and never look back. He pressed one final kiss to the soft skin of your stomach.

“I love you, Y/N.” He was going to be better. For you and for the kid. He didn’t know how, but he would do it. He would do whatever it took. For you, the beautiful, incredible woman in his arms and the life that was now in you, he would be a better man.

-

Group Chat(s)Tag List (You know who you are!): @rae-gar-targaryen​; @jnniferjreau​; @ladamari68​; @libellule2001​; @c-ly-g​;

[metamorphosies]

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 . . .  𝐄𝐕𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐎.  𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑾𝑨𝑵.

27 YEARS OLD.  PRINCIPAL DANCER AT THE NEW YORK CITY BALLET.

❛   and that’s no apple but a heart torn out of someone in this myth gone suddenly aztec. this is the possibility of death the snake is offering: death upon death squeezed together, a blood snowball. to devour it is to fall out of the still unending noon to a hard ground with a straight horizon and you are no longer the idea of a body but a body.

                 ❛   this is how you learn prayer. love is choosing, the snake said. the kingdom of god is within you because you ate it.   ❜

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐋.

𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄:  eva madelena riviere, known professionally as eva miro 𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒:  swan queen; the swan 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄:  march 18th 1934 — 27 years old 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇:  arlington, virginia 𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍:  principal dancer at the new york city ballet 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓: HERE

𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍.

EXT. ARLINGTON   /   a midsummer day; old southern gothic; dawn breaking over a horizon; the scent of magnolia and vanilla sweetening the air; homemade iced tea at the height of noon; secrets sealed in closed lockets and closed rooms; sun swept afternoons; the feeling of grass beneath your bare feet; wet blood streaked across palms; picking wildflower bouquets; the skeletons buried in the family closet

if this was a fairytale we would begin not at the beginning, but here, in the still antebellum calm before the storm. here is the amber-glaze veneer of old world nostalgia, curled at the edges like a faded photograph; a moment in time slipped between acts, between prelude and prologue: it begins in a garden.

a girl, half-sunbeam and half-wildness, twirls across the grass barefoot, lighter than a wayward breeze. there’s a woman watching her dance, an exclusive performance for an audience of one. the piece ends and the girl sweeps into an extravagant bow, dipping her head to the imaginary shower of roses raining down upon her impromptu stage of weeds and wildflowers. her solitary spectator bursts into jubilant applause, her laughter incandescent, filling her from throat to limb to toe. the both of them, radiant, the colour of sun swept afternoon, sprawl in the golden hour shade beneath the willow oaks. the girl lays her head in the woman’s lap as she soothes her fingers through the dark tangles of hair so like her own. she closes her eyes, breathing in the tenderness and blooming summersweet in the air.

her name is eva.

            —

there is a way of telling this story that makes it bearable, but only just. enduring, in the way of the tide wearing away a thousand years of sand and stone, returning everything to seafoam.

perhaps we start with once upon a time, because it’s familiar and feels handmade. once upon a time, there was a prince. he was handsome and charming — two things too easily mistaken for good — and beloved by all that encountered him. magnetic by nature and flirtatious by disposition, he deflected the rumours and speculation swirling around him about marriage by declaring that he would go down on one knee only when he had met the most beautiful woman in the kingdom. but summers passed and the prince remained inexplicably unmarried. you see, though the kingdom was rife with dainty high-born ladies and heiresses, the most beautiful woman in the kingdom was not a lady or an heiress. she was the daughter of the castle’s steward, kept out of sight and mind by the humble circumstances of her birth. her beauty is fairytale, dreamlike, unrivalled by any woman the prince had ever graced with a smile or a kiss to bare knuckles. he thinks, at last, i’ve found you. 

in the story, the prince and the steward’s daughter fall in love. against the king and queen’s wishes, the prince announces his engagement to his newfound love. they are married in the palace gardens, a simple ceremony with only a priest in attendance. nonetheless, their happiness glows with tangible sunlight. 

a year later, the steward’s daughter gives birth to a princess. the last thing she sees in the world is the sight of her daughter’s eyes peering up at her, dark and starlit as her own. the prince takes his daughter into his arms as his wife draws her last breath, his greatest joy and most terrible loss coalescing with his daughter’s first cry. 

despite the tragedy surrounding her birth, the little princess’ childhood is full of life and laughter and simple pleasures. she is raised by a nursemaid who becomes like a mother to her. what more is flesh and blood, after all, than the woman who cradles you at night and sings you lullabies to sleep, who kisses your scratched knees and teaches you how to dance? she is her world, and her world is everything the nursemaid nurtures within her, stoking the embers of imagination and zeal, courage and fearlessness. the princess learns to dance almost as soon as she learns to walk. she is raised with music and song, the rhythm of hands and feet barely a step from instinct. she dances as she breathes, intrinsically, innately, like the music is another facet of bone or artery. when she is seven years old, she begins classes with a private master. by the next full moon, she is ready to leave the kingdom to dance, to dance forever.

INT. NEW YORK   /   the cold curling around your skin and through your bones like a well-worn blanket; the loneliness of being inimitable; the becoming of a star; the aching of muscle and sinew; gazing out at the city skyline at 3 in the morning; the whispers trailing in your wake; tongues and nails sharp as razor blades; hunger blooming in the dark

interlude: eva is twelve when she wins a scholarship to the school of american ballet in new york. sixteen, when george balanchine handpicks her to join the new york city ballet. eighteen, when she becomes the first black principal dancer.

she is one of only two dancers in the ballet that is not white, and mariana was at least born and bred in spanish harlem. eva, with her burnished skin and southern lilt, sticks out like an unruly hair from a bun, like a ballet master’s correction. she is good, unrivalled for her age, but not the best, and it doesn’t take long for the muffled whispers and cutting glances to score and scrape away at any last shred of resilience. the isolation and playground tyranny, she can live with, but it is the loneliness, the distance from her aunty celia, the homesickness that festers in her stomach like spoiled milk, that makes her bend until she feels like she could break. she writes dozens of letters home to her beloved nursemaid that she doesn’t send, and resolves to wait out the year until summer when she decides she will quit. 

the magnolia trees are in full bloom when she arrives in arlington, and maybe it is the smell of home, or the jetlag, but when she sees aunty celia, she dissolves into a cloudburst of salt and tears. she spends the summer in a daze of blissful relief, tucking ballet from her thoughts like a chest of old dolls in the attic. it isn’t until the second last day before she is to return to new york that aunty summons her to the garden. aunty, who is nothing like an aunty, really, with her petite frame and miles of thick, dark curls framing a painter’s muse of a face. tell me what is wrong, aunty celia says. you haven’t danced a single moment since you came home. eva bites her lip and stares skyward. i’m quitting, aunty. i hate it there. i don’t belong there, it’s cold and i miss home. i miss you, and papa, and being here. aunty arches a picturesque brow. but what about dancing? won’t you miss it? eva clenches her teeth, insistent. i can dance here, too. i can dance anywhere.

listen, little bird, aunty never calls her that anymore, not since she was tiny and still begged for bedtime stories. aunty holds out her hand and eva takes it, reluctant but with a quiet thrill at the easy gentleness of her touch. aunty twirls her slowly in a semi-circle, arm raised elegantly above her head. you will never belong anywhere because you weren’t meant to; you were made to be brilliant. you are a star, and stars only shine brightest in the dark.

so eva returns to new york, carrying a music box — her parting gift from aunty, specially crafted just for her, to play whenever she feels cold and misses home — and an inimitable light inside her that refuses to be tamed for anyone or anything. she is relentless, driven by more than mere ambition and pride. everything she does, she becomes the first. the exception and the exceptional. the trailblazer on an ever-ascending meteoric rise without a summit. 

this is her becoming.

INT. VIRGINIA HOSPITAL CENTER   /   the smell of antiseptic clinging to skin; an expressionless mask; sickly saccharine platitudes; the knife of betrayal sinking into raw flesh; a broken locket; a sea of faceless strangers; the long soundless scream of grief; mourning lace; the suffocating weight of revelation

three days before eva is to dance the defining role of her career at age twenty-three, she receives the call. it’s papa. there’s been an incident; aunty is in the hospital. 

in the midst of final rehearsals and preparations, eva leaves. the director threatens to drop her from the show altogether, threatens to blacklist her from all future roles and performances. with her career hanging in the threadbare balance, eva nods, gives her full blessing and best wishes to the cast, and leaves. 

she arrives that night at the hospital and finds auntie swathed in the stark white sheets of a hospital bed, smaller than she’s ever seen her. a stroke, papa explains, hemorrhagic bleeding, a rupture in her brain. eva clutches at aunty’s hand, tears blurring her vision even as she scrambles to drink her in, by eyelash and smile line, the last glimpses of her she will ever have. aunty wakes with a small rasping inhale when she sees eva at her side and not in new york, getting ready for her stage.

of course i’m here, eva says, how could i be anywhere else but here? aunty shakes her head, lifts a shaking hand like a marionette extending beyond the life of her puppet strings to brush her fingertips down eva’s cheek. my eva, my beautiful girl. eva swallows, throat thick with love and apologies she doesn’t know how to speak, i’m sorry i did not write you every day, i’m sorry i did not come home last summer. i’m sorry i don’t know how to tell you how much you have made me who i am. worry creases the lines of aunty’s face, sunken deeper than ever before, in the sketches of time through across her features. she asks about the show, and what will happen to her career, and all eva can think is, i only wanted to dance because of you, because so much of me is just you.

you have to go, little bird. aunty smiles, and it reminds eva of endless afternoons in the garden, their very own kingdom, whirling barefoot beneath blue sky. time for you to blaze like the sun.

           —

this is the end of the fairytale: the steward’s daughter dies in a hospital bed holding her daughter’s hand. the princess rises to discover she is gone from this world, as if every star and the sun itself has gone out. 

this is the truth, which will be brief, because when the truth comes, it comes hard and fast like a knife in an alleyway: eva was born out of wedlock, a wealthy heir’s bastard daughter. when his parents gave him the ultimatum, the girl he loved, or the business empire of his inheritance, he chose empire. the truth of eva’s birth was concealed, obfuscated when her father married an heiress selected for her surname and birthright. they told her that her mother died in childbirth, and allowed celia to care for her as her nursemaid, raising her not as a daughter but a ward.

after celia’s death, eva is given a letter from her father with her mother’s dying wish, and the terrible secret she had taken to her grave, sealed within. in the letter, celia tells eva the one fairytale she had never spun for her as a child. she tells her about how the prince and the daughter of his family’s groundskeeper fell in love, and everything that came after. she tells her that she never regretted a second of it, watching the supposed love of her life marry another woman and build the family he was always meant to have with them. he made his choice, and i made mine, and i would do it all again in a heartbeat because our love gave me you. my daughter, my eva.

tucked inside the envelope is the locket celia used to wear but never allowed eva to open. and inside the locket is a picture of a seven year old eva.

eva packs everything in her suitcase and leaves for new york the next day. she never sees her father again. 

INT. NEW YORK CITY BALLET THEATRE   /   a single silhouette beneath a spotlight; silk sculpted to a perfect body; the headliner that the crowd has been holding its breath for; gilded thread on golden skin; the blaze of a meteor; the coil of anticipation in your gut; adrenaline pounding through your veins; the exhilaration of perfection; the metamorphosis of the swan

the evening of the first show of swan lake by the new york city ballet, eva goes on stage. she dances odette, and it is the defining performance of not only her career, but of american ballet history. she is the first african-american principal dancer of the new york city ballet, and the first to dance odette in swan lake. it is a triumph and a magnum opus of a performance. 

she takes her final bow before an endless sea of faces, her heart going cold in her chest knowing the only one that she wanted to see is not there.

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒.

after her history-making performance as odette, the media and arts society gave her the name swan queen. patrons and friends of the ballet frequently address her as odette or the swan at NYCB galas.

eva’s most prized possession is the music box her mother gave her during the summer she had made up her mind to quit ballet. it plays a version of the lullaby she used to sing to her as a child and features a specially hand-painted black ballerina as the miniature figurine that dances when you wind up the mechanism. she keeps the locket her mother used to wear inside it.

to watch eva dance is an experience — she makes ballet feel alive. while famous for her thirty-two fouette sequence in swan lake, it’s the emotions and tragedy she breathes into each performance that makes her dancing unforgettable. she lives and dies on the stage, dancing as if each show is a swan song.

largely alienated from the rest of the corps throughout her training at SAB and within the NYCB, eva is accustomed to solitude and keeping herself company. a combination of prejudice and envy at her exceptional talent kept her isolated, but rather pushing her to the margins as would have been preferred, it thrust her directly into the spotlight. over the years the whispers and rumours that she has only excelled and outstripped her rivals because of her unique circumstances have shadowed her. she’s proven them to be blatantly and objectively false time and again but it doesn’t stop the insidious nature of the hearsay from spreading. the instinct to brace herself for the worst when she meets new dancers, even those untouched by the poison of the NYCB corps, is deeply ingrained in her. it’s a habit she’s never had reason to break. 

there have been a handful of flings and stolen kisses with dancers from the corps, girls and boys alike. her longest and most serious relationship was a brief but volatile affair with a renowned artistic director visiting from paris. it was a passionate but disastrous love, and they ended things as the season came to an end and he returned to france. eva has never had relationships, or even dalliances, with anyone outside of the ballet. in her mind, it’s unlikely anyone that isn’t involved in ballet could ever capture her attention long enough to spark her interest. 

she’s well-versed in a variety of dance genres and still enjoys dancing for the simple pleasure of it outside the ballet. she frequently dances without music, on the rooftop of her apartment in the late hours of night, occasionally humming music notes and melodies. 

since her debut as a principal dancer, she’s had a number of suitors — mainly wealthy patrons, older men with fortunes to spare — that would send gifts and bouquets. other than wine or champagne, eva tends to give away the lavish gifts of perfume, makeup and jewels to other dancers. 

she has a younger half-sister and half-brother from her father’s second marriage. they don’t speak much anymore but she still sends them tickets to NYCB shows.

eva speaks slightly beyond conversational french and is fluent in spanish. other than ballet, languages are the only thing she has ever put her mind to seriously studying and learning. she’s interested in learning russian, particularly while she’s immersed in the culture at the bolshoi theater. 

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

TBD.

[tomasorban]

THE ZODIAC: CANCER THE CRAB

Date of Rulership: 22nd June-23rd July; Polarity: Negative, female; Quality: Cardinal; Ruling planet: Moon; Element: Water; Body part: Heart, Lungs, and stomach; Colour: Silvery Grey; Gemstone: Pearl; Metal: Silver.

In the signs thus far examined, we have seen the formative energies of life achieve expression through different mediums: initially through the spontaneity and impulsive carnal drives of Aries; then through the aesthetic kaleidoscope of meandering Taurus; and finally the subdivision of vital force under the command of Gemini which enabled an innovative, evolutionary leap of consciousness. The latter’s propensity to concurrently exist in material and ethereal worlds also made sentient an intermediary realm in which the physical and spiritual mingled. Many would understand this intermediary plane to be the unrestrained world of imagination, intuition, thinking, memory, and emotion. It binds spirit to the body, and the emancipating dialogue that ensues between the two as a result engenders far-reaching repercussions for both. It invariably shapes the bundle of psychological habits and impulses that each of us calls self. It is the god Proteus and the nymph Thetis; a primordial ocean of acute shape-shifting awareness. Sometimes one might find themselves trapped in a kaleidoscopic labyrinth of geometrical contours or in shapeless clouds. At other times, one might see a sequence of rhythms or sounds, hear colourful objects, and taste backward or previously unseen locomotion. At other times still, one can be overwhelmed or possessed by anxiety, fear, titillation, love, or relaxation one minute, and riddled by a complete absence of emotion the next. At some point it might be apparent that everything in existence comprises the skin of a gargantuan cosmic animal and at other points all created matter might appear to be discarnate and autonomous entities that simply inhabit the same cosmic space. Polarities can coalesce under a singular experience and thinking processes are transposed to concentrated levels that elude comprehension on the physical plane. Nothing is ever controlled or mediated; there is just a perpetual waxing and waning of thoughts and ideas that explode onto the sands of consciousness one minute and dry up the next. Time becomes a helium balloon, expanding as to spur the perception that a plethora of daylong activities have been squeezed into the space of a few minutes and then shrinking as to flush out the space of a day in two seconds. In this realm, the personal can become impersonal very quickly and barriers deemed impenetrable in the physical world are breached at will.

Gemini’s severe allergies to the emotional faucet rendered it somewhat superficial, insensitive, and impotent to the depth of experience, an anomaly which is corrected with the inauguration of the Cancerian archetype. Because the formative energies of Cancer originate from this intermediary realm of being which connects the physical and spiritual, it acquaints humans with their individual souls but also with the anima mundi, the cosmic soul of Mother Nature which unites all creatures irrespective of size or complexity. A newborn inclination to look inward for nirvana underpins the fundamental Gnostic adage of this archetype, namely that the external environment, the mechanical world into which we are born, appears to be an exotic synthesis of indifferent and insensitive elements that cannot offer inner harmony or fulfilment to spiritually-orientated humanity. The only hope for the human condition, according to Cancer, is to turn on the emotional faucets of the psychic plane and let the cold and hot water form a sensitive current that incite a sense of meaning and purpose and drive the impersonal spirit or life force through the tumultuous waters of life until it is again time to reunite with the paradisal state of perfection in maternal unconsciousness.

“Folks, life’s all about being feelings,” says Cancer. “Feelings and sandcastles, my friends! I like to build mine with all sorts of implements, usually down by the seashore. If I don’t use sand and water its paint and pastels, and sometimes I even use pen and writing paper. I create them with my vivid imagination and decide who or what is going to be living inside. I decide upon fates and lifespans and transcribe the romantic events that will unravel within its high walls. Sadly, there comes a time when the incoming tide levels and sucks them back into the pit of the ocean’s stomach. I understand the tides, the coming and going of primordial energies, and the cycles of the cosmos like no other which is why I build my houses strong. Strength equals domestic stability and tranquillity, something everyone wants! I use the sturdiest things available–sticks, stones, metals, bits of detritus from the seabed–to insulate my soft and squishy parts from Mother Nature’s wrath and Man’s acidic and unbecoming temperament. As a humanitarian, I’m always willing to share my space with an appropriate other, especially if that other is a poor, helpless soul in need of smothering or mothering.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m tactile and love affection. I’ll also admit that I do have too much of the moon and the sea in me; my moods can go from black, to low, to white, to high, and to crescent shape in the space of about a microsecond. I can be volatile that way, but I more than make up for it with my talent for story-telling, my attention to detail, and my emotional rapport. I can also be timid and shy, but once you’ve gained my trust and extricated me from my crabby shell you’ll feel like you’ve known me for years! Once I’m out you’ll have to be rather gentle with me; I’m not particularly fond of prying eyes or confrontation, verbal or otherwise, so I will often sidestep around these. If this is not possible or plausible I’ll just thrust my big old pincers out and threaten to dice the adversary up into little pieces. You should also know that I’m a fiercely faithful friend, and my concern for the welfare of others can often be mistaken for clinginess and co-dependence. My soul is dark like rocks of obsidian, and deeper than the Mariana trench in the Pacific Ocean. Just like these qualities strike night terrors in those individuals not quite attuned to their inner selves, so too does it nurture my own worst nightmare–the fear that I might be deserted to my own devices and have to face life alone.”

Cancer is undoubtedly the first sign to actively work through the mimetic bank of the collective unconscious, drawing upon cosmic archetypes like the tribal brother or sister, love, the heroic journey, utopian societies like the legendary Atlantis, and the struggle between seemingly disembodied forces of good and evil to create its own narratives, real or imagined. Souls incarnating through the stars of this zodiacal constellation more often than not exhibit melancholia, sentimentalist romanticism, and a longing to recapture the locus classicus of Golden Ages bygone. The latter is most likely due to the fact that Cancerians retain prenatal memories of the paradisal perfection within the womb, and hence looking backward into the past is also examining a longwinded path that meanders further and further from union with the divine.  Their deep connection to the supranormal and creative powers of the greater subconscious mind and its intuitive faction, as well as a heartfelt obsession with the subtler and intimate details of our psychological makeup makes them the true hub of the arts. It is no coincidence that souls born under the aegis of Cancer tend to be artists, writers, musicians, and poets. The unconscious willpower or drive of a Cancerian soul is second to none.

Lamentably, Cancer’s derivation from an imaginative plane experienced through the electrical power of primordial ebbs and flows without the aid of a transistor isn’t all milk and honey. Cancerians are notorious for letting the intellectual throne of their personal kingdoms be usurped by emotion, and we all know what happens when unchecked emotions are given prominence over wisdom and intellect: problems and worries multiply and quickly distort our perceptions of the outside world so that everyone appears dishonest, deceptive, potentially threatening, and narcissistic. Emotionally disturbed Cancerians usually repress their feelings for prolonged periods, letting grievances and resentments simmer and become pressurised deep in the confines of their unconscious until these can no longer be contained. When the tempestuous eruption finally comes to pass, the rock-melting intensity of the sonic blast can be so potent as to incinerate, alter, or disfigure relationships permanently. This is one of just many reasons why Cancerians are introverts, choosing to traffic in relationships that are highly unlikely to balloon into melodramatic love affairs or force them into encounters with their own shadows.  

Like Aries, Taurus and Gemini, there are also two symbols associated with Cancer the Crab. The first of these, the animal totem, evokes the primary psychic composition of all beings born under this zodiacal sign; deriving from and dwelling in the element of water, crabs are tranquil, expressive and passive in their habits. The existence of a shell denotes a self-absorbed proclivity towards domestication, introversion, emotional vulnerability, and cultivation of the soul’s imaginative realm. In embarking in a cross-cultural and historical examination, we find that the ubiquitous expression of this archetype has altered in time. For some of the prehistoric cultures, Cancer was represented as a crayfish. Moving into historic times, the ancient Egyptians imagined the constellation as an embodiment of the morning sun–Khephera –whose totemic animal was the scarab beetle. The modern image associated with this archetype was inherited from Babylonian or Chaldean astrology, the latter also influencing the iconography used by the Persian and Hellenistic peoples. The fixed stars associated with this constellation were deemed of utmost importance given that they delineated the seat of an ethereal Great Mother Goddess from which all life in the cosmos had sprung forth. Two ancient calendars, the Egyptian and the Mayan, further illuminate Cancer’s importance as an archetypal indicator of cosmic beginnings and endings: the ancient Egyptians, ascribed prominence to it as the home in which almighty Sirius, the mediating star of the wheel of heaven, rose heliacally to herald the New Year; and the Mayans prophesized that an alignment of the planets within Cancer would spur an act of un-creation and spell the end of the universe. In Roman myth, the goddess Juno fashioned Cancer and placed her in the starry heavens to serve as a cosmic chronometer and reverse the forward-moving cycle of creation when she finally felt that the process of becoming would be of no further benefit to mortals and immortals alike.

The second symbol, an astrological shorthand for the zodiacal sign, shows two identical figures whose arrangement discloses polar opposition. In Gemini this image of duality symbolizes a conunctionis or marriage of opposites, but in Cancer it draws attention to the insuperable psychic tides that are inherent in the nature of this archetype and demonstrated by the gravitational forces and see-saw interfaces imposed upon the earth by its mediating planet, the moon. The two spirals pertaining to each figure may be interpreted in a variety of ways; either as a pair of breasts, symbols of fecundity and divine providence, or as two spermatozoa whose conjunction generates the miracle of life. Both are connected to creation and both recall the feminine element of water as the great cosmic womb through which evolutionary life processes take root. Naturally this sign is intimately connected to physical conception and birth, as well as the psychological dependence of the developing ego on the uroboric Self. Hence, the symbol also serves as a memory cue for those primordial moments of happiness, fundamental unity, oneness, and paradisal perfection experienced in the womb before birth, along with the sadness and loss that comes from being separated from the maternal realm of unconsciousness.

[ficdirectory]

Somewhere Inside (Disuphere series #4) Chapter 24

(To listen, click here) - 13:39

“Are you okay to keep going, Dominique?” Jesus asks once hers and Francesca’s tears have subsided.

“Are y’all okay to keep seeing me?” she challenges, raw.

“We are, yeah.” Jesus confirms.

“You know what?  No.  I shouldn’t have done that.  I shouldn’t have relied on you like that, Francesca.  You’re just a kid, it’s too much pressure.”

“It’s not,” Francesca denies, wiping her eyes.  “I wanted to be there, Dominique, nobody made me.  This is the only place where I’m not treated differently because of CP or because I’m the youngest.  It’s the only place I’m treated the same.  Please don’t take that away.”

Jesus is surprised by Francesca’s honesty.  Her vulnerability - and, no denying it - her desperation to be treated equally by them.  He all but holds his breath to see what Dominique will say.

“I just don’t wanna mess up,” Dominique breathes, still shaky.

“But we can mess up here,” Pearl offers, her tone warm.  

“But I’m saying it’s terrifying.  I’m  terrified,” Dominique manages.

Jesus is so proud of her he could just about burst, but he dials back his enthusiasm, so he doesn’t freak her out anymore.  “It’s hard.  It’s a risk,” he offers.  “Being vulnerable.  But not in a dangerous way.  It feels dangerous because of trauma.  But it’s safe to feel stuff with us.”

Dominique sniffles.

“Francesca was safe being there for you.  She was your backup.  But while she was yours, all four of us?  We were backing up both of you.  We were supporting her.  She wasn’t alone, Dominique.  Neither are you.” Jesus tries to explain.

“This sucks,” she complains, laughing through her tears.  “Oh my God, I just wanna go hide out somewhere until this trip is over…  This is so embarrassing…”

“I think it’s actually really brave,” Levi offers.  “Feelings...I...like, seriously hate them.  I’m book-smart like Pearl but emotionally, I feel....”

Jesus braces himself.  Just like that, he hears it in the back of his head: this sound like audio from a movie: Him smashing Jesus’s finger and telling Jesus he’s not so smart.  Jesus, screaming, and confirming it for him.  It’s one of his main fears now - to be seen as stupid again.

“Unprepared?” Pearl suggests.  “I know that I feel that way.  Like there’s just this sea of feelings I’m swimming through and they’re all just there, but I have a hard time figuring out what I feel.”

“My feelings are there...but they’re kind of...dull?” Mariana shares.  Like, they’re trapped under layers of cotton.  So...whatever I feel is like...far away?  I feel a little, where...most people feel a lot.”

“But you cry,” Francesca points out.  “Especially when we watch Frozen together.”

“Because Elsa’s kind of like me,” Mariana shares.  “All her feelings are trapped inside and she can’t feel them.  It makes it hard for her to connect with people...because they don’t understand her.  Or they think she’s being mean.”

“But she’s not,” Francesca objects.  “They just don’t know everything about her.  That she’s trying really hard not to hurt her sister.”

Jesus listens carefully.  It’s not easy for Mariana to articulate her thoughts or feelings anymore.  So any chance he has to know how it is for her matters to him.

“So, Mariana’s like Elsa.” Francesca says.  “Can we take turns saying which Disney princess we all are? ‘Cause maybe that’s easier to say than feelings.”

“Ooh, that’s a good idea…” Pearl nods.

“But Mariana, were you done talking?  I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Francesca apologizes.

“Yeah, I’m done.  Thank you, though.  Francesca, which Disney princess are you?”

“Ariel,” she says, shy.  “But only when she has a tail.  Not later.”

“Why not later?” Pearl asks.

“Mmm…  Because…  I want to change myself like her...but I can’t.  When she becomes a human, she’s not like me anymore.”

“But you are a human…” Dominique reassures quietly.

“But I can’t walk like all of you guys…” Francesca observes.  “And I have actual bad dreams about getting lost.  About Ursula the Sea Witch chasing me to steal my voice.”

“That’s true,” Dominique nods permission for Francesca to sit with her on her lap.  “But you know...if you were born without CP?  Chances are, we wouldn’t all have the chance to know you.  And I think you’re pretty great.  Including CP.”

“Okay,” Francesca comments quietly.  “Dominique, which princess are you?”

“Tiana.  Before she’s a frog.”

“Ooh, isn’t that one of your costumes?” Francesca asks.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Why, Tiana?’ Levi asks.

“Because...she got me through a hard time.  The music.  That she was a hard worker.  That she couldn’t just magically wish her way through hard times.  She had to do the work.  That felt real to me.” Dominique shares.  She seems steadier now.

“I never knew that,” Jesus comments, smiling.

“Who would you be?” Dominique asks Jesus, rerouting any attention he’s put on her.

“Mariana’s gonna like this answer, maybe, but I think, Belle.”

Jesus glances at her and she does smile.  “Mari liked Belle so much as a kid.  She wore this costume dress to school every day.  Right?”

“Yeah, until I fell and it ripped.  Everybody laughed except this one girl,” Mariana remembers.  “I know why I liked Belle, but why do you?” she asks.

“I don’t,” Jesus admits.  “But I relate to her.  She got kidnapped, like I did,” Jesus keeps eye contact with Levi as he speaks.  “And...she had to trick the bad guy into thinking she was happy, in order to eventually get away.  I relate to her until then.  But only until then.  Because I’d never go back.”

Francesca’s wide eyed, like Jesus has just revealed something major that she didn’t know.

“What?” he asks.

“Belle got kidnapped like you?” she asks, a little afraid.  “I thought she was saving her dad...”

“She was.  But a good guy would’ve let them both go.  A good guy wouldn’t have captured them in the first place.” Jesus reasons.

“I always thought she loved The Beast for real…” Francesca muses, still shaken.

“Well, I think Belle was really good at pretending.”

“Were you?” Francesca asks.  “Did you have to do things to pretend like Belle?”

Jesus nods.  “Yeah, I got really good at pretending, too.”

There’s silence as everybody thinks about whatever Jesus getting real about his abduction makes them think about.  

--

Levi wonders if he and Pearl will be included in this Disney thing.  He’s pretty obsessed with Disney and it would be a big letdown if they didn’t wanna include him in this.  But Jesus said they wanted him here.

Eventually, Pearl offers her take, without being asked.

“Pretty sure I’d be Tangled…” she ventures.

“I think you mean Rapunzel,” Levi corrects, smiling gently.

“Yeah.  The one with all the hair, who’s trapped in the tower and can’t escape.”

“But Rapunzel couldn’t get out.  Because of Motherrrr Knows Best!” Francesca sings.

It brings a smile to almost everyone’s face.  But it chills Levi.  He sits still.

“But you can get out,” Francesca observes.  “Like...it’s not like you’re locked up in a tower with no way down…”

“But sometimes, my fear does that.  It locks me inside.  Makes me scared to go out.  Scared I might run into my own Mother Gothel out in the world.”

“Did she cut your hair?” Francesca asks, scared.

“No,” Pearl says.  “The person who hurt me...they did a lot of things, but they didn’t do that.”

“Because if they did, maybe you wouldn’t have power anymore.  But you still do.” Francesca observes.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe that...Mother Gothel tried all these ways...to hurt you.  Scare you.  Keep you small.  But she didn’t know where you’re real power was.  So she couldn’t take it.  You still have it,” Levi explains.  “She can take a lot away, but not that.  Is that kinda what you meant?”

Francesca scrunches up her face.  “In fifth grade words...but yeah.  You explained better, though.  Which Disney princess would you be?  Moana?” Francesca asks Levi.

“Actually, I don’t think mine is a princess.  She’s a goddess.  But she is from Moana…” Levi shares.  He clears his throat.  “I would be Te Fiti and Te Ka,” he confesses.

“You’d be human Hawaii?!” Pearl asks.  

“She’s not human Hawaii.  She’s the goddess of life.  She loves nature and wants things to grow.  But - assuming you didn’t watch the movie - if you’re calling her human Hawaii - something bad happens to Te Fiti.  It changes her.  Makes her angry all the time.  She sends lava and destruction everywhere.”

“But that’s not like you,” Pearl objects, worried.  “You’re good.  You haven’t destroyed anything.”

“Give me time…” Levi says gently. offering a shaky smile that barely masks his pain.

“Levi…” Pearl says, as he gets up to walk away from the table.  He can hear her chair scrape back.  Can hear her following him up to the loft.

She catches his arm once there, and he turns on her.  Jerking away.  Eyes burning.

“Levi…” Pearl begs.  “What happened today?  Will you please talk to me?  Please?  I’m your sister and I love you.”

“You don’t know me. Pearl!  Not really!  You know the idea of me.  You don’t know the rest.  You don’t know....who stole my heart...” he manages.  (He can’t say her mom raped him.  Sexually assaulted.  Whatever.  He can’t say it.)

“This is about…  Were you in love?” Pearl asks, perplexed.

(Okay, she really didn’t watch the movie, did she?)  

“No.  Pearl.  Te Fiti’s heart - her actual heart from her body - gets stolen away from her.  She’s not the same anymore, Pearl.  She’s changed.  Who she is...on a base level.  She’s not that anymore.  She’s this...scary demon who destroys stuff.  Because of what happened to her.”

“So somebody took something away from you...that you can’t get back.  And you feel changed,” Pearl reviews slowly.

“I am changed,” Levi tips his chin, defiant.  “I’m not the polite kid you thought you invited to live with you.  I’m the rude jerk you think I am.  Okay?  You should be glad to be rid of me.”

“Levi, I am never glad to be rid of you.  I lived seventeen years without you.  That’s way too long.  Whether you’re acting like the goddess of life or the scary demon, you are my goddess of life.  You are my...scary demon...okay?  You’re my brother.”

“You don’t have to.  You don’t have to say all this.  I know I just...showed up out of nowhere.  Disrupted your life.”  Levi feels heavy all over.  He’s looking away from her, arms crossed.

“Can I hug you?” Pearl asks.

“I’ll just burn you…” he chokes out.  Feeling fiery.

“I’ll take my chances,” Pearl says, stoic.  But she waits until he drops his arms.  Until he nods.  

Then, Pearl closes the distance between them.  Wraps him up in her arms.

Though she’s normally a huge talker, tonight, she’s not.  Tonight, she just holds onto him.  For a long time.  Until he steps away, wiping his eyes.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.  Just know...I relate to what you’re saying.  Having something stolen.  Something happening to you that’s wholly transformative?  I get that.  Just, please don’t shut me out, Levi.”

Pearl saying this reminds him of Anna’s words to Elsa in Frozen.  Of Francesca’s words about Elsa.  And her words mean Levi has words of his own to use right now.

“It’s like Francesca said about Elsa earlier…” Levi ventures stiffly.

Pearl’s brow furrows.  

“You don’t know everything.  Just your side of everything.  I’m...trying not to hurt you…”

“But Levi, you don’t have to do that.” Pearl insists.  “I’m the big sister.  I protect you, okay, not vice versa.”

“Francesca protected Dominique tonight,” he points out.  “Age is just a number…”

Pearl shivers.

“Please...just believe me.  Just...hear me.”

“I don’t know everything, and you’re trying to protect me?” Pearl asks.

Levi nods.

“How do you want me to respond?” she asks.

“Trust me that I know myself.  Trust my judgment about this.  You don’t wanna know this, Pearl.  You really don’t…”

“Okay,” Pearl nods, blinking back tears.  “If you need something tomorrow, will you call?  Or tonight?”

“It’s okay?” he asks, incredulous.  “I basically just told you off…”

“I think what you just did is called boundaries, according to the Feelings Laundry Crew…” Pearl observes, glancing down over the railing.  Francesca waves.

“Don’t call them that.  It’s so embarrassing,” Levi laughs a little, in spite of himself.  

“Okay.  I trust you.  If you can, try to trust me back?  Call me?  Otherwise I’ll come back tomorrow sometime.  Are you going into work?”

“Yes, or else I’m gonna get fired…” Levi shares.  “But I think Dominique and Francesca might go with.”

“Oh, nice.  Backup,” Pearl grins.

Levi wonders what other things the two of them will pick up from The Avoiders in the coming days?  Before they have to leave and everything goes back to the way it was.

He watches Pearl walk away, and swallows.  Levi kinda can’t bear the thought of being without this support system.  So he pushes it out of his mind.  Sits down on the floor where he can see everything.

He watches through the railing.  Waits.

[itslvca-blog]

introducing,

waddup, peeps ?? this tiny bean goes by the name of rue ( she/her ) and i’ll be playing soft boy™, luca rosario. he’s pretty much a new faceclaim for me with an old character’s background. however, francisco has recently become my forever fave, therefore i’m so excited to have the opportunity to play him !! if you would like to hmu for plots / scream about connections all day long, please give this a like and i’ll come wiggling into your ims ( or discord; find me at justrue#2233 ) shortly after. under the cut, you’ll find a brief summary about luca and his life. also all my wcs are listed over here if you wanna check that out as well. his stats can be found here too. can’t wait to start interacting !!

+ disclaimer: very slight talks of cancer and mental health are below. read at your discretion.

layer one: the stats.

name. luca leonardo rosario.

alias. people usually just call him by luca but sometimes luke, luki, or leo make an appearance.

title. over time, he has proudly deemed himself an obsessive pizza addict, artistic nutcase, or one of the missing dead poets society members.

name meaning. his true significance of his name means a bringer of light.

age. eighteen years old.

gender identity. cis-male.

pronouns. he/him.

sexual orientation. predominately panromantic demisexual. it isn’t so much so that luca is completely disinterested in sex (he’s got a perfectly good libido, thank you very much), he just doesn’t find himself sexually attracted to people based on physical appearance or initial impressions. instead he finds personality, intellect, and existing emotional attachment considerably more compelling. the idea of intimacy with somebody he’s not close with rather repulses him.

current residence. boston, massachusetts.

religion. he was raised roman catholic but converted to spiritual agnosticism when he was fifteen. he views that universal ethics and love are far more important than claims about any deity and trivialize the arguments supporting or rejecting such claims. to luca, it doesn’t matter which religion someone might follow, nor does it matter whether or not someone believes in god. what matters is what someone does, not what they believe. he has his parents’ full support in his switch even though the rest of his family practices catholism.

spoken languages. portuguese  (fluent/main), english (fluent/2nd main), french and polish (still learning but can understand it quite well).

education. currently a senior at houghton academy.

layer two: the story.

- so this is my baby boy, luca rosario and i love him sm ?? he usually goes by luca, but on occasion people call him either luke, luki, or leo. but he doesn’t care what people call him as long as it’s kind.

- luca was born in san paulo, brazil to both loving and supportive parents named jeremi and mariana. he lived there until he was six years old when his family moved to boston because his parents, who are both marine biologists, were located for work.

- his parents had him when they were both young.

- luca was also born out of wedlock, so by the time his parents decided to marry two years after he was born, his parents had already made the decision to give him his mother’s maiden name even though his father’s surname is polish.

- growing up, he had and still does, have a great relationship with his parents. with his childhood consisting nothing more than love and devotion from his parents, luca had nothing to complain about. his parents loved him dearly, whose pure heart and open-mindedness they helped to cultivate. they encouraged luca’s belief in extraordinary things and hoped he had carried it throughout his life growing up. his parents had always made him promise to have courage and be kind to others, for—as they explained to him—kindness has power, and that they would see him through all the trials that life could offer, in life and death.

- cancer/mental illness tw: when he was thirteen, his mother had been diagnosed with cervical cancer. upon hearing the news, luca’s whole world clasped. not only was he at a pivotal stage in his life where everything was changing and becoming more stressful ( becoming a teenager, starting high school, going through puberty ), one of the most important people in his life had be claimed by the deadly disease altogether. so many thoughts and feelings were going through his mind at the time, that he ran himself physically sick and had experienced his first panic attack. he has since been medically diagnosed with panic disorder. thankfully the cells on his mother’s cervix were diagnosed at precancerous stage and the doctors were able to treat it because it developed and spread. however, that didn’t and doesn’t stop luca from being in a constantly state of panic every time his mother so much as feels pain or coughs due to irrelevant reasons. the entire year had changed him and his family for a while.

- he has brother, who is three years younger than him, named tomás. his relationship with his brother, however, is a bit estranged. as much as he loves his brother and wishes they could see eye-to-eye, sometimes they have a tendency to butt heads often. whether that might mean your typical sibling arguments or full-on blown out fights, they just can’t seem to see get along. sometimes people believe they aren’t actually related or that they’re half siblings because when his brother was born, he took their father’s last name.

- most people would describe luca as the benevolent. despite being in a world where there’s hatred and suffering, luca declares himself independent and strong-willed by remaining kind-hearted and self-loving, not allowing the bitterness surrounding his life to overtake him and morph him into someone as cruel as the world seems to be every day. he makes the most of his life by remaining optimistic of the possibilities of a brighter future. but besides that, he’s also witty and sarcastic. he is unafraid to stand up for himself when he feels he’s in the right–or at least, attempt to do so. and although he strives to contain his optimism aura, he can fall into fits of frustration and annoyance quite often.

- he’s also super quiet and shy. he loves to make friends but because of his quiet complex, he usually has trouble speaking up and making his voice heard. he tends to become flustered a lot too when he can’t express his emotions; which he has trouble doing anyway when he’s not flustered.

- luca is capable of enduing tremendous hardship. though he may not handle difficulty in the healthiest or best way, often repressing emotion, he mostly like emerges on the other side. he doesn’t know how to express his emotions in a diplomatic way, but rather fumbles it all up and starts to ramble. rarely opens up because of this.

- to put it plan and simple luca is an art ho. luca always loved anything artistic. even when he was little, he would go around with his disposable camera and take pictures of everything and then take to paper to draw of all the things he had taken pictures of as well.

- he’s like a hippie dippy child of the universe. no joke. no seriously, his place at home is full of sensual shit and art. it’s getting out of hand and somebody needs stop him soon.

- he strongly believes that art is an umbrella term that relates to expressing of oneself ( not just through photography and painting ) and that everyone has the freedom to express themselves however they please. because of his beliefs, he chooses to break gender roles like bread and wears whatever the fuck he wants because yolo.

-  his appearance pretty much represents his hippie dippy lifestyle with him wearing all sorts of cute hipster shit. he’s clothes are v flow-y but don’t let that fool you. he doesn’t miss the opportunity to represent his upper-middle class within his style, so he does dress to impress, let me tell you ( he’s a fashion ho too ). his hair color changes sometimes too depending on his mood but it’s generally never too eccentric.

[goldenscript]

the taste of ambrosia (among other things)

pairing: min yoongi | reader genre: kiki’s delivery service au / fluff word count: 8,029 description: Min Yoongi has always been content with his life as a feline, really, it’s all he’s ever known, but he would be lying if he said he never once imagined what life was like with two legs instead of four. At least until you came along. author’s note: happy (late) 18th birthday to my majo bun aka @jungnoir! i figured i might as well write out your fantasies for jiji!yoongi, and even though this is late i hope this mini monster makes up for it. ilysm bb! <3

Desires take form in dreams, in wishes. They’re the sorts of things that cause trouble for people, because sometimes they’ll spend endless days and nights trying to get a taste. It’s akin to ambrosia—a gift from the gods above, like a nectar not just of the sweetest affirmations but the tangy bursts of tangibility. It’s there. Right in the center of calloused palms is a fallen petal from the cherry blossom tree in winter. But, that’s the thing. This is something so fleeting and so potent for the weak-hearted. It’s all hard to believe anyone can get it because as all things do, they fall.

Or, more or less, land uncomfortably.

Min Yoongi has a particularly rough landing, giving a particularly feral snarl to no one aside from the viridescent and burnt sienna expanse. He bites back the snark at the tip of his tongue as his canine companion motivates him to move forth with the prodding of a hazel-speckled paw. Not that the insufferable brat would even hear him anyway.

This isn’t the first time Taehyung ordered and (literally) sent him to do out-of-the-way tasks; oftentimes, he was out venturing the small town with a plastic bag in tow or Jimin himself to haul the wagon just to get it to the cursed, (not-so) little witch. They’ve never been anything far-fetched. Usually a root of mandrake or a sprig of baby’s breath, maybe a delivery made on his behalf, but these trips have become farther and frequent as of late with the difficulty of spells only increasing.

Of course, it’s only expected when the three of them have all been born and bred for this kind of thing.

Growing up with Taehyung prepared and primed him for a life of companionship over servitude. Throughout the years, this became more than just a contract between magical beings unlike how most people could see it on the outside. In-between the large bouts of duty came laughter over frivolous things, late nights where they poured out all their anxieties and excitements for a future so close yet so far, birthdays and holidays celebrated to its fullest effects, failed spells that have left him with a few resentments (after all, he swears his tail is hell of a lot shorter than it should’ve been after that lengthening charm), and successful spells that had Taehyung crying and him trying not to.

All of which spanned across a set of twenty-one years when he came four years after the aforementioned came into existence. Yoongi has seen him grow up and become someone that’s only gotten better at his craft with each passing year. He’s still trying no matter how hard it’s been (and they both can honestly say it’s been plenty hard).

Such a ripe, young age for that witch’s profession, but he knows his long-time friend will go places, far and untouched by others, with him and Jimin tagging right along. This is just one of those steps to help expand the young boy’s dream, where the two familiars can do things the former can’t when exams and practices run higher stakes.

During moments of stillness, the kind that comes with trekking through endless kilometers of hundred-acre woods, leaves Yoongi to his thoughts. He drowns out the quips that Jimin is yapping about, not that it’s important very much anyway. The very same contemplation of the night before resumes—this time, it’s existence.

There’s usually no set conclusion, of course, asides from the bitter fact that at some point everyone will become translucent wisps floating around the world to either take up a new form or just to engage in the lush, multicolored meadows with images on their soles touching the ground and chloroplast painting pictures on their skins. Beyond all of that, it’s hard to say much else. Maybe consider what everything is all about or if there are things one wished they could have in this life. He’s only ever considered between wanting to be human and wanting to sleep for a whole year. His motivations in its entirety come in his nature, a natural affiliation for sleep and recuperation from all the strenuous tasks given to him for sixteen years and a natural instinct that may have others consider calling him a cliché—curiosity.

He hears a lot of what humanhood is like, sees it for what it is from his very skewed perspective, and understands it only so much before his brain gets completely thrown into overdrive and he has to snap at the other person to talk in a language he can understand before he storms off to sleep off all the yearning that constricts his chest like a coil only tightening each time he tries to soothe the pangs.

Feeling so sad over something so trivial is silly. It’s childish. This is that sort of feeling one is always so certain they’ve outgrown well past their prepubescent years when all the questions and hopes are at their highest peaks. He’s come to terms with the fact that he would never be human, that his fate as a feline will be his fate from start to finish. It’s not quite so bad anyway.

He can sleep whenever he pleases for however long until he’s needed, his food is provided to him because he simply can’t reach, and he gets lots of affection just from being this furry, soft-looking creature despite how cold-hearted he really is on the inside. His life is pretty much set for him, even more privileged than most since his own quips and needs can actually be heard unlike the regulars. However, he still feels largely unhappy.

He yearns to see the world at a higher peak, to understand what two legs are like if only just to know if it’s as tiresome as Taehyung claims, and to feel love because he hears that it’s different when you’re human. Not just in who you love but in the magnitude, because love as a cat is minimal. It’s considered superficial, really. You see your potential lover, and suddenly the whole world stops—it’s akin to love at first sight, according to Taehyung. But in a way, Yoongi’s never been fond of those sorts of things.

Stepping across a fallen log, Jimin no longer yipping over something that happened in town during his last delivery, Yoongi becomes particularly immersed in his idea of love. It’s slow and steady, the kind that happens after time, leaving only more and more curiosity in its wake. To him, love is far more like the universe. A place of wonder, of vastness, and of understanding that make take ages to comprehend but it’s that effort that really culminates it well past infatuation and into actual, wholesome love.

He’s certain that the right one comes by chance, by some circumstance that changes his whole world. Perhaps out of humanity, he just wants to be able to love someone as much as they love him, and to finally taste the rarity of ambrosia that so many have just once, if not twice. If only—

“Yoongi!” Jimin’s voice sounds exasperated, his snout nudging Yoongi’s back leg. “Didn’t you hear me?”

Looking at his friend with a scoff falling passed his lips, he asks, “No, ‘course not! I’ve had you drowned out since we landed. What do you want?”

“We’re here!” He follows Jimin’s snout, catching a glimpse of the cream-colored cottage. The mariana blue shingles on the top are U-shaped, almost like the poorly-drawn ruffles Taehyung used to make during arts-and-crafts but not as grotesque. The windows are screenless without the blinds drawn, only faint outlines of its contents to be seen as the two of them drew nearer.

The surrounding air dances with hints of vanilla and very faint traces of cinnamon, a very low humming emitting from the amicable home, even Yoongi finds his interest piqued. It’s almost like Taehyung’s with the homebody atmosphere a major staple for a witch, it’s the sort of place that makes you want to curl up into a ball and nap by the windowsill, maybe even drink tea by the porch just to get lost in their thoughts. It’s a comfortable place, it’s… well, it’s like back home. Even the small puffs of smoke floating away from the chimney has the pair getting closer and closer.

Patches of grass and peeks of calla lilies lead the two along the pathway, steps so careful not to trample on the Earth for fear that they might disturb the peace. It’s a habit, almost an involuntary action not to trip the balance in the presence of magic, where the world is at its purest. The music still continues, beckoning them forth with hearts laden in warmth and stars in their eyes, until they’re standing beneath the curved, white-frame doorway, peering inside. Starting from the dark mahogany floorboards, starting their way to their left to the well-decorated walls filled with photos of your friends and family, past the door-less entryway into what they assumed is the kitchen, on the other wall are a few pieces of art that neither of them try to decipher but there are some familiar-looking watercolor paintings, the dining room appears to be straight ahead with a large viney plant atop a table that matches the wood on the floors, and a compact, open space on the left, a large grey rug basically inviting Yoongi to lay down and nap upon.

Instead of waiting as expected, he does another quick once over ahead of him, not really straining very hard to confirm that you’re inside, before he slips inside and Jimin hastily following close behind.

He harshly whispers his name, brows furrowing ever-so-slightly from what Yoongi can see from the corner of his eye. “You can’t barge into someone’s home like

“The door was open. That’s basically inviting people inside.”

“I guess... hey!”

Yoongi continues on his way inside, finding a long corridor a little past the open space and the chimney on the far left of the dining area. It’s connected to the kitchen, a large open window where he catches a glimpse of your hair. He sees you swaying your hips and humming to the same song he heard upon entering but he can’t quite decipher where it’s from, but he doesn’t quite care to find out considering it isn’t terrible—he actually kinda likes it.

“Yoongi—!” Jimin’s voice disrupts the tranquility, earning a glare from the dark-haired feline.

“Shut up,” he glowers, recoiling onto his heels before jumping onto the counter.

Now he can see what you’re up to, throwing in sprigs of rosemary, a dash of glimmering scales, and giving the giant pot a stir. You’re donning a loose T-shirt and jeans with the same description and hair’s tied together loosely into a makeshift ponytail. He can’t tell what you look like or if you’ve noticed him or Jimin, but your back remains turned from the two of them and it makes him itch with a small inkling of curiosity, because did you look like? It wasn’t like he could tell from the photos hanging on the way, nor did he pay great, detailed attention to any of them. He just knew you had to be pretty, because Taehyung had a bit of a goofy look on his face when he talked about you (but the goof has always been a mess around other girls anyway).

Regardless, he does find out. It takes only a moment before grumbling Jimin decides that he’ll join him on the counter, recoiling onto his hind legs before giving a mighty leap. It falls short (as always), only his front paws making contact with the wood before he slowly slips down from the lack of grip and comes crashing into a heap on the floor.

It’s a loud sound that even has you jumping, causing Yoongi’s gaze to snap at his clumsy friend with a groan escaping his lips.

“You idiot, way to make an entrance.”

His paw catches his snout, small exasperated sigh sailing past his lips before he turns his body to watch you. He’s finally able to study your visage, the natural contours and the bright gleam in your eyes reminds him of the photo he saw by your doorway when you were beside Taehyung and another companion. Even when your eyes are glazed over in worry and hint of surprise, you still look at them with a smile on your lips.

A small laugh tumbles out as you place a hand on your hip, “you two do know that sneaking up on someone isn’t polite?”

“It’s also not safe to just leave your door wide open.”

You raise a brow at him, lips twitching as you state, “Well, it isn’t like many people wander around this area anyway.”

His shoulders rise, only to fall as Jimin finally pipes in: “Hello! You’re Y/N right? Taehyung sent me—my name’s Jimin—and Yoongi—over there—for stuff. I forget what it was.”

The white and hazel-colored canine looks over at him with his head slightly tilted, “d’ya remember?”

He gives an eyeroll, “Like I’d remember what that scatter brain needs.”

Jimin frowns slightly, looking at you with what would appear to be a pout to anyone else. (Yoongi knows he’s just trying not to get scolded if you’re that kind of person.) “Sorry, miss. I forget what we came for, but Tae sent us… if that helps. Heh.”

“Oh yes!” you exclaim, immediately clapping your hands before scurrying back into your kitchen. Jimin waits patiently, but Yoongi simply turns around just to watch you grab a few vials of whatever concoction you had cooking up. It has a alluring purple hue, with smoke wafting off the ladle as it slips into the glass before getting capped off by accompanying corks. There’s nothing familiar about any of them, only a hint of mint intermingled in the already too-sweet smelling air.

You return to the two of them as you place all the vials into a purple velvet drawstring pouch, setting the cargo in front of Jimin. This time he actually notices the small details like the lack of shoes adorning your feet, the loose hairs framing your face without much try, and the apron tied around your waist with one too many things all threatening to slip out of the pockets.

He doesn’t miss the dark brown wand sticking out from the largest one or the small vials and sprigs of herbs from the smaller ones. Each of them a familiar hue of a certain ability, all mashing a plethora of scents that didn’t smell like anything Taehyung tried cooking one time. They all seem to be arranged by shades, with an aquamarine shade punctuating the almost rainbow that hung precariously at the corner of the stained pocket.

He’s about to open his mouth to warn you, but as soon as your attention flits from Jimin to him, it falls and a puff of white ensues.

Of course, this is normal. Things like that always fall (mostly with the clumsy witches but they can’t help it sometimes). They’re usually those sorts of things that can sprout a flower right where it landed or even cause everyone in the close proximity to fall in love with the first thing they lay their eyes on. Simple things. They don’t usually hurt, and they most certainly wear off,  but beyond the obvious uncertainty of what the vial was, what it does elicits a rush of deep pain and tingling that has him and what he can make out aside from the ringing of his ears are Jimin’s own whimpering that has him squinting through the dissipating white.

In place of white and hazel is the form of a boy with fair skin and brunet locks in disarray. If it wasn’t for his eyes, Yoongi would’ve dismissed him but he knows that damn pup anywhere and it has to be him. It’s weird to think, of course. He’s never once seen a familiar in their human form, let alone seen Jimin in his, but the years spent together even with the mask of indifference he holds so high into the sky, he can spot his friend anywhere.

It would’ve quirked a smile on his lips, if not for the sudden screech you let out as you quickly run into another room with things in hand and tossing it at the two of them.

“What the hell—” he snarls, catching what appears to be a T-shirt and a pair of fluorescent yellow shorts that could only belong to one horribly dressing boy he knew. But that isn’t what stops him short.

No, it’s the sight of milky fingers and the clench of a fist that most certainly belongs to him. His mouth immediately falls open, looking to you and then Jimin as the younger boy’s mouth falls open and his name parts the plump pink lips.

The nearest item in his mitts is a stray spoon laying off to the side, and his first action is to grab it in hopes of catching a glimpse of whatever change has come to him—well, truthfully, it was more or less to confirm that this was actually happening—and although even just grabbing it with his free hand is an odd sensation, his body acts so naturally and that makes the whole situation even more peculiar.

His heart is pounding so loudly in his chest he actually feels a hint of embarrassment as he catches a glimpse of what should’ve been a black Bombay cat but is that what he sees? No, what he sees is everything he’s only ever dreamt of in being a human—alabaster skin so smooth and supply it felt absolutely foreign and familiar all at once, hair as dark as his fur hung over his forehead with the tips kissing the lids of his eyes, and he was bare, almost positively without any form of clothing that he was used to carrying on his own back.

Compared to Jimin, who’s lean and quite built even in this form, he is thin and wiry, almost underweight if he thought back to human body standards. There were still traces of boyishness to his companion while he was a devoid of it, with traces of actual fatigue coating his visage because of this physical change.

Insteading firing questions your way, he shrugs on the clothes and flashes a lazy smile toward you and Jimin when he catches a sight of the leaking bag on the ground, “Have fun you two.”

The brunet laughs, adjusting his shirt as he waves him off. “Of course.” It sounds like a scoff, but the traces of playfulness only has the older man grinning a little more now that his back is turned to them.

“What? Where are you going?” you ask, blinking and brows furrowing. He knows he should probably stick around to hear what’s supposed to happen now, maybe even fix whatever was done, but he doesn’t want to hear it or fix it for that matter. In fact, all he really wants to do is feel the rug beneath him and fall into the void of slumber.

Glancing at you from over his shoulder, he says simply, “M’gonna nap.”

— 

When Yoongi wakes by Jimin’s hand, he has to refrain from trying to bare his fangs at the latter though the small canines still manage to strike some fear. It seems that while he was out, you explained to Jimin the simple gists that this would be temporary for a few more days and that the broken vials would need to be replaced so the journey back to Taehyung would also take much longer (a week maximum). And it’s all these things that send relief coursing through his body. For once in his life, his dreams have come true. 

The taste of humanity has always been fleeting and far, the sort of thing that could only happen if he pushed his subconscious hard enough and maybe manifest into his dreams. Sometimes it worked, but other times he felt the whole thing become a nightmare to watch something so close be dangled right before him, only to be snatched away like those godforsaken cat toys that Taehyung thought were funny when he was younger. Now that he has his dream in the form of reality, right in his hands like a precious gemstone, he’s more than willing to bask in its beauty and hold it tight while he still can. 

Even as the tasks you entrust to him and Jimin to take care of run on a little, the bright blue hues have long since fades in shades of scarlet and peach, with the cool air settling in and the inhabitants of the forest becoming the house’s music. You’ve worked just as hard to salvage the rest of the vials for Taehyung’s upcoming project, though there are no traces of the former soot and baby hairs sticking up haphazardly. It’s obvious that despite the backfire of some of your charms, you’re still in a jovial mood.

Truthfully, even he’s actually been enjoying the use of his newfound arms and legs. They’ve grown on him now that he’s gotten the hang of them, and from what he can see—even Jimin is enjoying his new form, tiring himself out especially with the heavy lifting. He isn’t outside with either of you, instead his light snores are being muffled by the shut door of the guest bedroom.  

What a shame, he thinks to himself, Jimin would love the view. 

It’s peaceful sitting out back—the trees aren’t as congested around the surrounding area, giving a front-row view of the twinkling stars. Each of them stark against their dark canvas, painting pictures of Greek myths that Taehyung (and by extension, him and Jimin) once had to study with a close eye. He couldn’t pull up any of them from memory, but he always enjoyed the fact that each of the heroes and even the deities had dreams in one way or another, whether it was to maintain their status or to fall in love, they all wanted something in this life, and it made him want more too.

He lets out a soft sigh, not quite as harsh as he’s used to, but perhaps his own fatigue has set in to tame the biting beast inside him. He’s used to becoming more lax during late hours though this is a little different.

There’s a question on the tip of his tongue he never thought he’d ever utter though. Of course, he’s only ever asked Taehyung once about the matter, the younger boy sported a knowing grin and inquired why, only making Yoongi close off further discussion. It was embarrassing, even just the thought of admitting that he’s dreamt of being human makes him shudder. If his other brunet friend knew, then it’d be endless inquiries and teasing because he’s never shown any sort of romantic interest in anything besides sleep and tuna night. Honestly, the idea of Yoongi so much as wishing to be human is a little more unlikely to Jimin admitting he always wanted to eat chocolate.

But when he sits beside you, the end of your blanket covering his right side and your own body leaned close next to his, he can’t help but feel a form of contentment. Maybe it’s his defenses lowering or maybe it’s his semi-fatigued brain coaxing him to just be okay with all of this. Either way, he holds onto these reasons, because it isn’t like he felt that at ease with you anyway. (Maybe…)

He releases a soft breath. His head turns in your direction but the words don’t fall off his lips as easily as he wishes they would.

“Something wrong, Yoongi?” you ask, slowly turning your gaze from the high heavens to him.  

He wants to shake his head, but he can’t seem to do that either. He doesn’t know what it is about you, whether it’s the stupid (read: adorable) look you’re giving him or the warmth you’re spreading to him, that makes him feel this weird. Normally Taehyung and Jimin are the tongue-tied fools, but the words on the tip of his tongue refuse to budge.

The corners of your lips curl and cue flutters in his chest. He just frowns, “What?”

“Are you always this shy?”

“M-me? Shy?” He wants to laugh, even if it is true.

“Well, are you?” you ask with a raised brow.

When he makes a guttural sound that is neither a snarl or an actual sound that’s more akin to what you would consider a ‘tsk,’ you nudge him and only make the sound more louder. He can’t help it. All of his reactions are involuntarily because of you, and he can’t get a handle on why exactly (but his heart may or may not already know…).

Instead of making another sound to drive you off his tail, he just grunts a negation. “I’m just trying to…” He briefly pauses before coming up with a somewhat applicable answer, “figure out how to phrase my question.”

You don’t look particularly convinced, but he doesn’t care because 1) your smile is still in tact and 2) now he feels a little less awkward about asking such a deep, soul bearing question. Because what is humanity, really? What makes a person human? And, if he, a feline familiar, is temporarily in this human form then what can he do to truly bask in this opportunity?

The answer seems so simple to just go off by example, but when he thinks back to models that pop out the most in his mind, he has to refrain from considering any of them presentable as a role model. He’d rather not take Taehyung’s words with heavy intent for one thing, or the many characters on the streets that varied between relatively kind and downright mean. The happy medium seems to be a hard find in itself, all the semantics of humanity seem so complicated and circumstantial, he feels like his head might spin right off his neck if he so much as tried to understand it all.  

So, without a second thought, he goes with the sole question that has always hung precariously off his tongue with a casual drawl: “What do I do to be more human?”

The questions catches you off guard for sure, but perhaps it’s the reminder that he wasn’t actually a human by grand design that makes your features melt back into its former amusement.

“You don’t know?” He gives you a look, earning himself a scoff in return. “Well that’s one thing you shouldn’t do.”

He tilts his head at you, “What?”

You laugh, stating quite bluntly, “Be a jerk.”

He nods slowly, making a mental note to be a little nicer. (Though the last time he was on a delivery and he crossed the street too quickly, the driver far more meaner things to say than what Yoongi just said.)  

“When you’re human, you should, y’know, be more… human… show empathy,” you explain, eying him with relative sternness. It’s kind of fascinating to see what else you have to say on the matter so he continues to watch you speak. “Some people may not show it, but that’s them. Those sorts of people can be jerks, but I know you’re a cool cat somewhere underneath all that hostility so I expect a little more from you.”

As you lean your visage closer to his, he can’t help but lean back in response. His cheeks respond, an encompassing warmth biting against the cool air. “H-how would I do that?”

You just grin, tone nonchalant as ever despite how close your visage seems to be. “Listen to them when they’re speaking, help them out when you know they need it, basically try to understand them.”

He’s never really had to empathize with other people. For him, his tasks were often straightforward and to the point so it didn’t leave much room to dilly-dally. Always get from Point A to Point B in X amount of time. Plus, being with Taehyung and Jimin always left free time spent together rather than off in different areas doing whatever there was to do.

This time around his next question falls past his lips in ease—

“Well, what’s the best way to do that? Understand them, I mean.”

“Talk to them!” you laugh, watching as his expression betrays the confusion racing through his head. Of course, this doesn’t stop you from positioning yourself to face him, hints of an authoritative tone laced between the casual words: “Like… well, here—we can talk and try to understand each other.”

When he nods slowly, still watching as you say with a much softer tone, “What’s your favorite color and why?”

“Black… because I like it.” When you laugh, he frowns a little,—what’s so funny about that?—“what’s your favorite color?”

You grin in amusement, though he has to fight back his own smile when he hears your response: “Green.”

He heaves out a sigh, feeling kind of alright with the fact that he’s talking to someone other than his two goofs for best friends. “Why?”

“You’ll think this is really cheesy but it’s because green is so full of life! It’s literally everywhere and I guess I just associate it with nature so being around this much green makes me happy.”

He thinks for a moment; after all, he’s trying to understand you rather than speak about himself (which would’ve been a feat anyway because there really isn’t much to say about himself in the first place), so he choose his next few words with careful consideration, “I… see. Have you always loved nature?”

“Good job!” you exclaim, giving his leg a pat. It catches him off guard but he’s kind of mesmerized by the way you’ve just brightened up underneath the moonbeams. “And yeah, i love the atmosphere. It’s cleaner than the city and a lot emptier too. Truthfully, I’ve always been okay with being alone, so this place is literally heaven to me.”

That definitely strikes him as interesting, so he lets his own instincts take over and he says the first thing that comes to mind. “You don’t seem like it… from—um—the photos.”

“I mean I love people, just not how cities seem to hurt the earth.”

“That makes sense… I hate how cities do that too.” he says, thinking back to the many time him and Jimin shared conversations similar to this. Not many people knew how badly animals—familiars, especially—could be affected by environments so he takes the initiative to explain himself. “The kind of pollution that comes in those places makes it harder to live longer and it sets us off easily.”

There’s pensive silence that ensues as you nod, digesting the information. He doesn’t feel quite as nervous now that he’s aired out some of his feelings about things. It’s a bitter reality, but as terrible as it is, he can’t help but feel a smile creep on his features as you joke, “No wonder you’re so tense. It’s all that city air.”

He pursues his lips and just rolls his eyes. “I thought you said to be human is to be nicer.”

“Well, I’m a witch so…” Without warning, he taps your forehead with his index finger. “Hey!”

This time around Yoongi just can’t contain himself or the muscles on his face, because he cracks a smile and watches as a small pout forms on your lips. It’s really cute and it kind of squeezes his heart in a nice way, but he’s certainly not going to say a word about that no matter how comfortable he��s beginning to feel around you.

“Oh hey…” you pause, staring at him.

His lips tighten up but the smile refuses to dissipate. “What?”

“You have a nice smile.”

He blushes, looking away from you because you can’t see if it you’re not looking at his face right? Who cares if it’s nighttime. He’s not taking any chances. “S-shut up.”

Despite how cool the air was that night, Yoongi felt warmer than ever from his cheeks to his chest. Sitting beside you with mugs of tea in hand put him in ease, his heart just couldn’t seem to stop beating so damn fast but another part of him was kind of (okay, really) okay with it.

The feelings are new, but he likes that talking to you and spending time with you makes him feel more human each day. And although only a few have passed, he’s grown used to being in his human form. It’s not difficult or annoying actually. He enjoys having opposable thumbs and being able to sleep undisturbed because now he can kick perpetrators out of the area and return to his comfortable warmth. Honestly, despite not being able to jump on counters without banging up a knee or squeeze into tight spaces, he actually can live without any of those things.

The remake of the potions succeeded not too long ago, maybe a day or so, prompting Taehyung to inquire about his order. You’ve long since explained the situation, only earning laughter on the other end because apparently it’s kind of expected for you to drop a thing or two more often than not. This unleashed inquiries of when either of his familiars would return, and it’s been pretty obvious that Yoongi Isn't quite ready to go yet.

“I can go,” Jimin smiles, looking between you and the former feline. “I’ve been meaning to go back to the city. I miss Tae!”

Yoongi comments dryly, though the edges of excitement feel a little hard to contain, “Don’t you mean you miss your neighbor girlfriend?”

Rouge creeps up the brunet’s visage like vines, but he remains somewhat indignant in his response. “Pfft, psh! Being home would be nice, y’know. You just stay put, maybe find out how long this will last and I’ll probably come back for the remaining potions.”

“I can just deliver them when they’re ready?”

“Nah, I know you’ll miss me so we can travel back together.”

This earns the former canine an eye roll and a feigned look of disgust. “Bye, Min.”

“Bye, Yoongi!” he grins, hugging the older man before embracing you. “You two try not to have too much without me!” 

The familiar puff of smoke has the brunet materialized away back to Taehyung.

Without Jimin, Yoongi feels a little empty. He’s grown so accustomed to his company that having gone so quickly is weird. At least until you latch a hand around his wrist and whisk him off to the kitchen with a few supplies awaiting the two of you on the counter.

“You’re making me do heavy lifting?” He meets your eyes with a raise of his brow. “Do I look like that muscle pup?”

You laugh, scrunching your nose as you drag him closer. “It’s nothing you can’t handle, you lazy cat. Look! There’s just blankets and a basket.”

“For?” He tilts his head at the load with a careful eye. “A picnic?”

“I mean wouldn’t it be nice to sit out at a nicer spot than my backyard?” You can’t contain the smile spreading across your lips. “C’mon, I promise it’ll be really nice. It’s a small hike but I figured since you’ve been such a big help and becoming a really great human that we could, y’know, celebrate that.”

Between the shine in your eyes and the pout on your lips, he can’t deny you. It’s ridiculous because when he thinks about it, nearly a full week has passed since his and Jimin’s arrival in your place. And here he is, beckoning to your whim. Your growth on him has been exponential, the kind of person you are to the things you like to do and what certain topics make you feel have just slipped between the two of you with long conversation, with his observations of you, and with this undeniable desire of his to just bask in all this time with you.

He sees why Taehyung talks highly of you. The way his friend lights up at very sound of your name or reminders of you whenever the three of them go out. The brunet has many friends. So many people know him and talk to him, but you’ve always been one of those really special friends that he holds near and dear. And for Yoongi to be able to see and hear just how witty and funny you are makes him very addicted to your atmosphere.

Your aura is unparalleled, and he actually finds it very hard to believe that you don’t have a familiar because people you and Taehyung usually do. The kind souls keep theirs, so it kind of strikes as odd that you don’t.

His thoughts and your words keep him company as the two of you reach your final stretch toward this secret spot. It makes him feel elated because you admit that no one else has seen it, and that out of everyone you’ve met and come to know (despite how short) he’s the one you want to show. His grip tightens on the items you given him, his brows raised as he begins to see the forest around you two melt into an open field, bare of any trees that could hinder the sight of the twinkling stars above.

He sees why you keep it hidden from everyone else. The place is simplistic with a touch of what feels like home to him—with several other accompanying hills offering the same vantage point as this spot, but he can tell from the tall grass and the small sleep flowers surround the area that this is yours.

He smiles at you, unabashed this time. “It’s beautiful.”

You grin, guiding toward the center where it’s most clear. “Thank you. I found it when I first moved here and I come here sometimes. I thought I’d take you since you’ve been really great, Yoongi.”

His voice gets smaller as he mutters while looking away, “Thank you.”

“No, Yoongi.” He looks up at you in confusion, “Thank you.”

— 

There’s a particular stillness that falls between the two of them after the food’s been eaten and the incessant chatter becomes a dull hum among the chorus of branches rustling and the crickets chirping, even a few notes from the prowling owls. The starry night takes up both your attentions with the luminescence shedding light upon the scene.

You brought a battery-powered lantern, but you two decided to keep off until it was time to head back, if neither of you fell asleep right then and there. Truthfully, Yoongi would’ve. His ability to fall asleep anywhere and everywhere was uncanny and unparalleled compared to most, but the racing of his own thoughts keeps him wide awake beside you.

The obvious one is the scariest one—his human form. Of course, none of this is permanent, but the realization that he would no longer be this way makes his heart hurt. He wouldn’t be able to flash a sarcastic thumbs up or walk around on two legs. His daily tasks as a human would be done as a feline, and whether it was possible to do such things in that form was still up for debate. For him, losing this also meant losing out on opportunities he didn’t think he would have as a familiar. It’s even worse to consider losing his familial status, not because he enjoys it—well, of course he does—but if he wasn’t a familiar, then would Taehyung still want to see him? After all, did this happen with your familiar? Did yours up and leave you to loneliness?

He doesn’t realize how engrossed in his thought he’s been until you repeat his name, accompanied with a nudge of your shoulders this time.

Letting out a sigh, he cranes his head toward yours and turns back toward the stars when he realizes you’re staring at him. “Sorry... what’s up?”

“S’okay,” you say, a breathy laugh falling past your lips as you look back up at the stars. “Do you like being human, Yoongi?”

“Well, yeah,” he says immediately. “A lot, actually.”

“Has it been a dream of yours?”

Am I that transparent?

He blinks, raising a brow at you. “How’d you figure?”

“You asked me how to be more human. My old familiar did that when I first spilled that potion on someone.”

“That’s why you don’t have a familiar?”

You nod, “It’s not a big deal. I live here and do orders, as more of a pick-up place so I don’t really need a familiar to do things when I can do them myself.”

“I see…”

“Yeah, so how long has this been a dream for you?”

“A while,” he admits, a soft laugh parting his lips. Yet another question is on the tip of his tongue, threatening to fall off but he’s hesitating just a little time around. Whether it’s fear of the answer or just his own anxiety keeping him from asking, he doesn’t know but what does part his lips eases him just a centimeter. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, of course you can,” you smile, waiting now that he’s laid a pathway for an answer he’s kind of dreading to hear.

“I know this won’t last forever… so what’s my expiration date on this whole thing?” he asks, daring to look at you. He finds that you’re back to staring, and it makes his heart thrum just a little. 

“Usually a few more days, weeks at most…” you answer, grazing over his features before you continue with one more word that he feels more hope he should. “Unless…”

His voice is soft, mind still loudly screaming at the prospect of this being a forever. “Unless?”

“Well, unless you really wish to stay human.” 

He opens his mouth to say something on his mind, but as he tries to conjure up the nerve he can’t seem to really think. He knows he wants to be human. He wants it so bad. Even more than tuna night  at Taehyung’s, but the golden-skin boy with the boy of haphazard brunet lock becomes apparent in the back of his mind and it leaves him feeling a little bittersweet. “...I see.”

“Is everything alright?”

He tries to scoff out a laugh, but his throat wavers just a bit. “Y-yeah, why?”

“Well, I thought you’d be more excited to know you could really be human…” you admit, trying to laugh off your own small disappointment but he doesn’t miss it at all. 

“I mean, of course. I just don’t want to get my hopes up y’know?” It’s a partial lie and he knows it. You probably know it too, but you don’t call him out on it.

“Oh, I understand, but I promise if it’s what you really want then you will stay human…” you try to reassure, smiling a little at him. He feels sad to think that if he stops being human, he wouldn’t be able to share another moment like this with you. “That is what you want, right?”

He sighs and admits, “I don’t know. I’d feel bad if I left Taehyung like that, but… I really want to stay human. God,” He releases a soft chuckle. “I’ve wanted it since I was a kitten, honestly. And you made that come true, so seriously thank you for giving this to me.”

“Thank you for keeping me company,” you muse, turning your body towards him. He takes that as a cue to do the same, and when you don’t pull away from his hand on top of yours, he keeps it there. The way your index fingers interlocks with his certainly doesn’t fly past his head like he pretends it does. “You’ve been really nice to have around, and it makes me a little sad to see you go, y’know.”

They stare at each other for a while—he doesn’t say a word—rather he studies your visage with an adoring intensity laid beneath the steeled dark hues. He wants to tell you that he’ll stay human, if not for himself but for you too. He doesn’t want to miss out on any more moments like this, especially when you’re not pulling away from the way his fingers completely intertwine with yours. When you open your mouth to speak, he brushes a stray hair.

“Is there something on my face?” The half-joke falls past your lips but the deep blatancy that what presses on in his head is now or never and the small details like Taehyung can wait.

The inner him wants to smack for what he says, but it flies out of his mouth anyway in the form of a mocking scoff. “God, you’re so stupid you know that right?”

“Hey!” You laugh, giving his chest a smack with your entwined hands. “And you’re mean.”

He shakes his head, cheeks burning just a tad, “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know how to express how i feel or do these sorts of things,” he holds your hands. “But.. There’s something I’d like to try with you, because it feels right and you were the one to tell me that it’s best to do those sorts of things, right?”

You nod slowly, looking at him as he gets a little closer. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes dart from his to his lips, but he’s certain you don’t miss the way his does the same exact thing to yours. “What is it?” your voice is soft, clenching his heart even tighter than before.

His nose brushes against yours, his lips hovering over yours as he asks, “Can I kiss you?” He admits, “I’m scared that if I don’t stay this way then I’ll miss this chance and I—”

“—Yes, you can,” you smile, using your arm you’ve been resting on top prop yourself upward and press your lips to his. And whatever magic feels like, that sort of calm before the storm washes over him. Like a spell, he doesn’t think of his worries or anxieties that this won’t be forever as he kisses you back. You pull back for a moment just touch the side of his face in a tentative caress, eyes searching his just to say, “I mean it, if you want to be human then you can be. Whatever else comes afterwards, it’ll work out, ‘kay?”

He nods, allowing them to sink in. “‘Kay.”

Shutting his eyes once yours do, he just lets you push him onto his back and relishing in the way you lean atop of him. Whether this bliss of humanity remains forever, he doesn’t deny that the taste on your lips of mint leaves and the fruit tart from earlier are fresh, delectable, and addictive, nor does he care if it does or doesn’t, because his dream has finally come true.

—

Eventually you two find yourselves laid atop the soft, flannel blankets, his arms wrapped around your body and your arm laid across his chest. He feels peaceful, more than he’s ever been in all twenty-four years of his existence, and it’s because of you.

“Yoongi?” you hum, tracing a pattern on his chest.

When he hums an affirmation, you tell him, “I know you’re worried about Taehyung, but I promise he’ll want you to be happy too. Plus, I can kick his butt if he’s being mean to you.”

He lets the laughter rumble out into the open air, colliding with your own and he’s reminded of the warmth from the first night you two shared together.

A thought occurs to him right then—perhaps the taste of ambrosia isn’t quite sweet or bitter, but rather split down the middle with flecks of compromise and love encompassed in between the seams. Min Yoongi has always wished to be human, to feel what two-legged creatures feel and see the world a little higher than he once did, and to finally have that, all thanks to you, is all the more better.

If anything, it’s better than any concoction made by the gods above.

[ohlvca-blog]

INTRODUCING,

» francisco lachowski & twenty-two & cismale.「 after checking isabella’s diary, we saw luca rosario show up many times. apparently, he is a fashion photographer that isabella called her mutual friend. she mentions that they can be compassionate yet naive, and our background check says luca has lived here one month. if we move fast, we might catch them at the photo lab. 」

waddup, peeps ?? this tiny bean goes by the name of rue ( she/her ) and i’ll be playing Soft Boy™, luca rosario. he’s pretty much a new faceclaim for me with an old character’s background. however, francisco has recently become my forever Fave, therefore i’m so excited to have the opportunity to play him !! if you would like to hmu for plots / scream about connections all day long, please give this a LIKE and i’ll come wiggling into your ims ( or discord; find me at justrue#2233 ) shortly after. under the cut, you’ll find a brief summary about luca and his life. also all my wcs are listed over HERE if you wanna check that out as well. can’t wait to start interacting !! 

+ disclaimer: very slight talks of cancer and mental health are below. read at your discretion.

LAYER ONE: THE STATS.

NAME. luca leonardo rosario. he was born out of wedlock, so he took his mother’s name at birth even though his father’s surname is polish.

ALIAS. people usually just call him by luca but sometimes luke, luki, or leo make an appearance.

TITLE. over time, he has proudly deemed himself an obsessive pizza addict, artistic nutcase, or one of the missing dead poets society members.

NAME MEANING. his true significance of his name means a bringer of light.

AGE. twenty-two years old.

GENDER IDENTITY. cis-male.

PRONOUNS. he/him.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION. predominately panromantic demisexual. it isn’t so much so that luca is completely disinterested in sex (he’s got a perfectly good libido, thank you very much), he just doesn’t find himself sexually attracted to people based on physical appearance or initial impressions. instead he finds personality, intellect, and existing emotional attachment considerably more compelling. the idea of intimacy with somebody he’s not close with rather repulses him.

CURRENT RESIDENCE. he currently lives in venice, california but he travels quite often for his job, so residency usually fluctuates depending on how long he stays there. 

BIRTHPLACE. san paulo, brazil.

NATIONALITY. brazilian.

ETHNICITY. half portuguese and german on mother side, half polish on father side.

RELIGION. he was raised roman catholic but converted to spiritual agnosticism when he was eighteen. he views that universal ethics and love are far more important than claims about any deity and trivialize the arguments supporting or rejecting such claims. to luca, it doesn’t matter which religion someone might follow, nor does it matter whether or not someone believes in God. what matters is what someone does, not what they believe. he has his parents’ full support in his switch even though the rest of his family practices catholism.

SPOKEN LANGUAGES. portuguese (fluent/main), english (fluent/2nd main), french (still learning but can understand it quite well).

EDUCATION. graduated with the bachelor of fine arts in photography and painting at the school of visual arts in nyc.

PROFESSION. he works as a full-time fashion/commercial photographer. meaning, he works with different agencies such as fashion magazines, building, modeling, landscapes, etc. he’s also usually on location and travels a lot for his career.

LAYER TWO: THE STORY.

- so this is my baby boy, luca rosario and i love him sm ?? he usually goes by luca, but on occasion people call him either luke, luki, or leo. but he doesn’t care what people call him as long as it’s kind.

- luca was born in san paulo, brazil to both loving and supportive parents named jeremi and mariana. he lived there until he was six years old when his family moved to maryland because his parents, who are both marine biologists, were relocated for work.

- his parents had him when they were both young, making his parents both twenty-two when he was born. 

- luca was also born out of wedlock, so by the time his parents decided to marry two years later, his parents had already made the decision to give him his mother’s maiden name even though his father’s last name is polish.

- growing up, he had and still does, have a great relationship with his parents. with his childhood consisting nothing more than love and devotion from his parents, luca had nothing to complain about. his parents loved him dearly, whose pure heart and open-mindedness they helped to cultivate. they encouraged luca’s belief in extraordinary things and hoped he had carried it throughout his life growing up. his parents had always made him promise to have courage and be kind to others, for—as they explained to him—kindness has power, and that they would see him through all the trials that life could offer, in life and death.

- cancer/mental illness tw: when he was thirteen, his mother had been diagnosed with cervical cancer. upon hearing the news, luca’s whole world clasped. not only was he at a pivotal stage in his life where everything was changing and becoming more stressful ( becoming a teenager, starting high school, going through puberty ), one of the most important people in his life had be claimed by the deadly disease altogether. so many thoughts and feelings were going through his mind at the time, that he ran himself physically sick and had experienced his first panic attack. he has since been medically diagnosed with panic disorder. thankfully the cells on his mother’s cervix were diagnosed at precancerous stage and the doctors were able to treat it because it developed and spread. however, that didn’t and doesn’t stop luca from being in a constantly state of panic every time his mother so much as feels pain or coughs due to irrelevant reasons. the entire year had changed him and his family for a while.

- he has brother, who is three years younger than him, named tomás. his relationship with his brother, however, is a bit estranged. as much as he loves his brother and wishes they could see eye-to-eye, sometimes they have a tendency to butt heads often. whether that might mean your typical sibling arguments or full-on blown out fights, they just can’t seem to see get along. sometimes people believe they aren’t actually related or that they’re half siblings because when his brother was born, he took their father’s last name.

- most people would describe luca as the benevolent. despite being in a world where there’s hatred and suffering, luca declares himself independent and strong-willed by remaining kind-hearted and self-loving, not allowing the bitterness surrounding his life to overtake him and morph him into someone as cruel as the world seems to be every day. he makes the most of his life by remaining optimistic of the possibilities of a brighter future. but besides that, he’s also witty and sarcastic. he is unafraid to stand up for himself when he feels he’s in the right–or at least, attempt to do so. and although he strives to contain his optimism aura, he can fall into fits of frustration and annoyance quite often.

- he’s also super quiet and shy. he loves to make friends but because of his quiet complex, he usually has trouble speaking up and making his voice heard. he tends to become flustered a lot too when he can’t express his emotions; which he has trouble doing anyway when he’s not flustered.

- luca is capable of enduing tremendous hardship. though he may not handle difficulty in the healthiest or best way, often repressing emotion, he mostly like emerges on the other side. he doesn’t know how to express his emotions in a diplomatic way, but rather fumbles it all up and starts to ramble. rarely opens up because of this.

- to put it plan and simple luca is an art ho. he even went to university for it too ( the audacity of it all smh ). luca always loved anything artistic. even when he was little, he would go around with his disposable camera and take pictures of everything and then take to paper to draw of all the things he had taken pictures of as well. 

- he’s like a hippie dippy child of the universe. no joke. no seriously, his place at home is full of sensual shit and art. it’s getting out of hand and somebody needs stop him soon.

- he strongly believes that art is an umbrella term that relates to expressing of oneself ( not just through photography and painting ) and that everyone has the freedom to express themselves however they please. because of his beliefs, he chooses to break gender roles like bread and wears whatever the fuck he wants because yolo.

-  his appearance pretty much represents his hippie dippy lifestyle with him wearing all sorts of cute hipster shit. he’s clothes are v flow-y but don’t let that fool you. he doesn’t miss the opportunity to represent his upper-middle class within his style, so he does dress to impress, let me tell you ( he’s a fashion ho too ). his hair color changes sometimes too depending on his mood but it’s generally never too eccentric.

- when he turned seventeen, luca decided he wanted to go to college after high school. so he applied to an arts school in new york and graduated at twenty-one with two degrees in photography and painting.

- for about a year after graduating, he took some time to create his own freelance business while also looking for jobs in the commercial and industrial world of photography. about a three months ago, a fashion agency, settled in california, had contacted him about loving the work he had done in his freelance business and offered him a job as their full-time photographer. of course he accepted the job and moved out to venice, california. he’s been there for a whole month and hasn’t looked back since.

- upon hearing the news of isabella souza’s murder and also being a suspect in the case, luca’s kind of been on edge since. granted, he never knew isabella all that well, considering he met her through a mutual friend of theirs about as long as he’s lived in venice and became rather decent friends because of it. but to know someone killed her, freaks him out. he never met someone who has been a victim of a homicide case before and frankly, he doesn’t know how to act since the news broke.

[ficdirectory]

Blink (An AU Fosters family fic) Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

 They don’t have much time.

In a way, that’s good, because it means Jesus can’t really drag this out.  He doesn’t go home for lunch.  Instead, he calls over to Grandpa’s and asks if Moms can come over for Porch Time at Pearl’s.

 “Porch Time?” Pearl asks, once Moms have agreed and he’s ended the call.

 “Yeah...um…  It’s this thing?  My moms and I go hang out on our front porch each night and I can tell them how I’m doing or if I need anything, like, accommodations-wise.”

 Pearl raises her eyebrows.  “That’s amazing.  I’m so glad you have that.”

 “I’m still kinda nervous that it’ll end up like Monday night, though…” Jesus hedges.  “I know you said if we met here, you and Gracie would go, but…  Could you stay?  I’d feel safer if you stayed.”

 “Then, I’ll stay,” Pearl nods.

 They pass the time eating lunch and Pearl gives him some cookies to stash in his bag.  As the clock inches toward 1:00 PM, Jesus thinks seriously about including Dr. H. in this.  It would make sense.  To have all of his safe people on the same page about what he needed.

 He finishes the giant piece of a casserole thing that Pearl gave him and then clears his throat.  “Is it okay if I call Dr. H. too?  Like, on Skype?  I know you said you’re not ready for therapists for yourself, but she really does help me.”

 “Jesus, you do what you need to do.  I want you to feel as safe as you can, so you can tell your moms what you need.  And maybe your therapist will have ideas for you that we haven’t considered.  Yeah, call her.”

 He breathes a sigh of relief and calls Mama, asking if she can get in touch with Dr. H. on a Saturday and Skype in with them.

 --

 Pearl feels like an outsider at first.  When Stef and Lena arrive, she’s sure Jesus will want to sit with them, and she’s in the chair across the room just for that reason.  Until Jesus comes and stands by her.

 “Will you sit next to me on the couch?” he asks lowly.

 “Oh.  Yes.”  She moves to the couch and pats her lap so Gracie’s there, too, lying across Pearl.  

 “Where do you feel comfortable having us?” Lena asks.

 Jesus nods at the chair Pearl had sat in moments before.  She’s about to get up and move a kitchen chair in, but Stef pulls up the foot stool alongside the chair.

 It feels awkward, all of them gathered around her laptop, waiting for Jesus’s therapist to call, but at least she’s timely.

 While Dr. Hitchens talks to Jesus about getting grounded, Pearl can feel herself start to come apart.  She’s not sure why the hand tremor is back with such a vengeance but she doesn’t like it.  Gracie’s on the case, though, and Pearl’s glad her hands are hidden from the doctor’s view.

 “Do you need me?” Jesus asks quietly as Dr. Hitchens, Stef, and Lena discuss the upcoming departure.

 Surprising herself, Pearl nods.  She holds one of Jesus’s hands in both of hers.  With both Gracie and Jesus there, the tremor starts to ease.  Pearl tries not to hold on too tight to Jesus’s hand, but she can’t help it.  At least, Jesus doesn’t seem bothered by it.  And thank God Stef, Lena and the doctor don’t comment.

 “Jesus?  I suggest breaking your return trip down into smaller pieces, so you have less chance of becoming overwhelmed by the scale, and you can be successful.”

 “Sounds good,” he answers.  “Pearl suggested having somebody with me at each different stage.  Like, a buddy.  We kinda did that on the way here, but I think it might help to be even more intentional about it.”

 “That sounds like a sensible idea.  Let’s take a breath, though.  Stay with me,” Dr. H. coaches.

 Jesus does.

 “Now.  Let’s think about this together, but Jesus, I want to hear from you.  What part of leaving to come here first made you anxious?”

 “Packing,” he says definitively.  “Because of the bags.”

 “Okay.  Is there any way we can help minimize that stress for you?” the doctor asks.

 “If I didn’t have to see it or hear it.”

 “You’re welcome to stay here while your family packs,” Pearl offers.  

 Jesus breathes a sigh of relief and squeezes her hand.  “Thank you.”

 Dr. Hitchens checks if Jesus needs a break and when he doesn’t, she asks what the next thing that made him anxious was.

 “Carrying a backpack.  Seeing it.  Because it was all I could leave with.  But not having it would be hard, too.  Because I wouldn’t want to feel like I had nothing.”

 “Okay.  I hear you,” Dr. Hitchens says. “Slow down and breathe.  We can talk about that together.  But I want you to feel safe when we do.”

 This time, Pearl breathes along with Jesus.  She doesn’t do any of the other things. She doesn’t focus or press her feet into the ground.  But the slow, deliberate breathing is helpful.

 After what feels like forever, Jesus’s doctor okays the continuation of the backpack discussion.  Stef offers to carry it.  He bristles.  Lena.  Same reaction.

 “How is that resonating, Jesus?” Dr. Hitchens checks.

 “It feels dominating…” he admits.

 It shocks Pearl the kinds of words Jesus uses.  How specific they are.  And that Stef and Lena genuinely seem to be okay hearing them.  

 --

 Jesus gets that this conversation is necessary, but he’s starting to hate it.  It’s hard to think about every single part of what will make him freak out tomorrow.  And even though he knows that talking about it will help him get through tomorrow, right now it just feels like too much.

 They can’t figure out the backpack thing.  

 He still has to talk about why Moms offering to carry his backpack for him feels like a control thing, not like them trying to help.  It’s not that Jesus is embarrassed.  It’s that both options are making him panic right now.  The thought of carrying the bag himself had felt so similar to when he got away, he doesn’t want to relive that again.  But the idea of Moms carrying it makes him feel like they have all the control, and he doesn’t have any.

 Jesus doesn’t even realize he’s at Level 1 until Pearl says, “We need a break,” and stands up with him.  They walk to the corner with the swing.  He gets in it and she sits outside.  Headphones on.

 She keeps holding his hand.

 “Can you ask them to talk about themselves, not me?” he asks.

 “Excuse me?” Pearl calls.  “We need you not to talk about Jesus unless he’s present.”  She turns back to him and passes along that Dr. H. agreed.

 She’s flipped on the purple lights and they still have that perfect, calming effect.  With Pearl sitting right here, too…  Well, it’s all helping.

 “Can I talk just to you?” he asks, easing his headphones off.

 “Of course,” Pearl nods.  “What’s up?”

 “The backpack…”

 “We will figure that out.  I promise.  You and me.  All right?” she reassures.

 “But so far all we have are two ways that won’t work,” he insists, feeling desperate.

 “Do you know what that is?  It’s important information.  What won’t work for you is just as vital for us to know as what will.  I have an idea that could work.  Is that something you’re ready to hear?” she checks.

 Jesus feels relief flood him.  “Yeah.  Please.”

 “Okay.  Take it easy.  Focus on the lights.  And the swing and how it’s holding you.  Now just let yourself listen.”  She pauses to let his brain catch up and then speaks again, really calmly.  “Who do you trust most in your family?”

 “Mariana.”

 “What about asking Mariana to carry it for you?  You guys stick together, right?  She wouldn’t go anywhere without you.  And if she had to, say, go to the restroom, then maybe you have a backup person to carry it.  Or she can keep it with her, so you’ll know it’s safe.”

 “Okay,” he nods.  “Mariana can carry it.  If she wants to.”

 Eventually, Jesus is ready to rejoin Moms and Dr. H.  He updates them about the backpack plan.  And then they work their way through slowly picking people to be there for him in the car, at the airports, and on the plane.

 By the time they’re done, Jesus is exhausted.  But he feels like he might be able to arrive home in one piece.  If only it didn’t mean leaving Pearl behind.

 --

 “Thanks for doing that with me,” Jesus says, once everyone is gone.

 “Do you feel more comfortable having a plan?  Or is it still awful?” Pearl checks.

 “The leaving you part is still awful, and the traveling is gonna suck no matter what, yeah.  But I do feel a little safer about it.  That Moms know this time, and that we talked through all the stuff that could be bad for me.”

 “Speaking of leaving - not that I want to speak of it ever - but…”  Pearl lets go of Jesus’s hand and walks across the room to where she’s left her knitting.  To the scarf she’s spent the majority of the last twenty-four hours - whenever she and Jesus weren’t together - trying to finish.

 It’s been in plain sight this entire time, but since Jesus, Stef and Lena didn’t know to look for it, Pearl had felt confident leaving it out.

 She walks back over to him, sitting down and offering it to him.  “Here.”

 It’s yellow.  Bold.  As close as she could get to the color of that blanket Jesus has with him.  Pearl can tell the moment he takes it in his hands that he’s registering its softness.  “A scarf?  California’s not exactly the arctic…” he says gently.

 “I know...but I thought...maybe there might be situations where you don’t feel one hundred percent at ease with the blanket.  But a scarf?  People wear those as accessories.  No one would know if you had it to cope,” Pearl explains, stumbling more than she wants through the explanation.

 She can see when it clicks with him.  That the scarf is more than an awkward gift for a California-born kid.  That it’s an accommodation that doesn’t look like one.  His eyes find hers and they are so full of everything that she has to look away.

 “I don’t know what to say…” he manages finally.  But he’s putting the scarf on as they sit there.

 “I hope it’s okay,” Pearl says, nervous now.

 “Yeah.  It’s awesome.  Can I--  Is it okay if I give you a hug?” he asks.  “You can say no.”

 “No way.  I’m saying yes,” Pearl laughs and opens her arms.  It feels strange, but also right.

 --

 The hug is super short, but Jesus is okay with that because he wants Pearl to be comfortable.  He lets her call it when she is done, because he respects her.  He unwinds the scarf from his neck and holds it.  It’s so soft.  It reminds him of the blanket Officer Saunders gave him the day he got to go home with Stef to San Diego.

 He doesn’t know if he can tell Pearl all that.  But he thinks she knows it rocks all the same.

 “I had a question for you, too,” Pearl says.  “Can we take a selfie before, you know, tomorrow?”

 That stops him in his tracks.  It’s been a little bit since he’s had to think about getting his picture taken.  Callie not having her phone on her cut down on his anxiety about that a thousand percent.  Jesus wants to say yes.  It’s Pearl.  He wants her to be happy.  But he has to balance that with him being safe.

 “Have we talked about pictures before?” he asks, because this week has been a whirlwind.  They’ve talked about so much stuff.

 “Not sure.  Why?  Are they a thing?” she wonders.

 Jesus nods.  “So, I’d need us to have a kinda weird conversation about it first.  If that’s cool?”

 “It’s not weird,” she says, totally sure.

 Laughing, he asks, “How would you know?  It’s like, a legitimate boundary talk about pictures.”

 “Boundaries are a part of respect, and I respect you.  Nothing weird there,” she insists.  “What do you need me to know?”

 “That you’ll let me tell you when I’m ready for it.  That I can okay it before you keep it.  And after you have it, that you don’t post it anywhere or share it with people I don’t know.  I don’t like the idea of people I don’t know seeing me.”

 “Sounds straightforward to me.  And fair.  So you let me know when you’re ready.”

 He does, and they take a totally awesome selfie, with their faces close, both of them smiling.

 “Oh, one more question,” he blurts.  “Will you send this to me when I have cell service?”

 “Of course,” she nods.  “Are you still okay hanging out here while packing’s going on next door?”

 “I was hoping,” he admits.

 Pearl gets up and goes to the freezer.  “Do you feel like chicken enchiladas or cheese ravioli?” she asks holding out two frozen dinners.

 “Ooh.  Definitely enchiladas.  Unless you want them.”

 “No, I was actually hoping for the ravioli,” Pearl smiles, and sticks the enchilada in her microwave first.

 “I really don’t have to learn to cook to live on my own?” he asks.

 “I mean, not if you don’t want to.”

 “It’s just that He always acted like I was terrible ‘cause I didn’t know how to make every single thing from scratch, when I was like, nine.”

 “He obviously never learned to cook for Himself.  So, the way I see it, He was in no position to judge you.”  

 Jesus smirks.  He kinda loves how fearless Pearl is.  How she says exactly the thing that’s on her mind.

 “...Is that why you get nervous in the kitchen?  Sorry.  You don’t have to answer that,” she asks, turning away to check out the food in the microwave.

 “Well, that, and the fact that He had me cleaning His house like whatever the boy-kid version of Cinderella is.”

 “Ah…” she says.  “In the interest of being obvious, you do not have to cook or clean here.  I’m happy to do it.  I like taking care of people,” she says, setting the frozen dinners down on the coffee table in front of them.

 “Who takes care of you?”  It’s out of his mouth before Jesus knows he’s gonna ask the question.  His ears burn.  It’s none of his damn business.

 “Gracie, I guess.”

 “I know I can’t cook or clean or whatever, but I can be there.  Like, as a friend.  If you need me ever.”

 “I know.  Thank you, Jesus.”

 She scoots a bag of Sun Chips his way.  He raises his eyebrows.

 “For your backpack.”