#crossover AU pairing

[hausofmamadas]

| What’s waiting down Zuni Road |

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Pairing: Gabriella Castillo (Mayans M.C.) x Ignacio “Nacho” Varga (Better Call Saul)

Gift for the wonderful, illustrious, prolific @drabbles-mc - Rarepairs Exchange 2023

Word count: ≈5k

TW: Canon-typical violence, descriptions of violence

It's dangerous to be a woman in love. A brush with death at the hands of the man she loved sends Gabrielle Castillo on the run, in more ways than she expected. Burned in a betrayal she never saw coming, and tipped off by a non-garbage Angel Reyes to a place to hide out, a safe haven, a place to temporarily call home, she books it tf to Albuquerque. She arrives with newfound determination not only to survive, but a conviction to never let love blind her to pinshe toxicos malparidos like EZ Reyes ever again. Still, in terms of an actual plan? She has no idea where to go, who to turn to, or what to do next. That is, until she runs into our fav Walter Matthau-grumpy-old-man, not nearly old enough to be so grumpy, Nacho "forreal don't call me Ignacio" Varga. In some ways, he reminds her of EZ but she's dead set against falling for another pair of brown eyes full of lost hope and squandered dreams. But the more she gets to know him, the more it calls into question ... would it really be the same with Nacho? Is Gaby willing to find out? spoiler alert: she is. she very much is. sorry but like have you seen him? lbr here

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Mamá always told me to watch out for red flags in life. Dime con quien andas, te diré quien eres. Porque when someone shows you who they are, they’re doing you a favor.

She never said it out loud but I learned early on, the ones who waved the red flags most were the boys. Not that I was especially boy crazy at that age, but it seemed wherever I looked, there they were: waving red flags, making promises they couldn’t keep, being unfaithful, disloyal, dishonest.

My older cousin Mercedes had a boyfriend back in Mexico who used to tell her not to wear shorts that were too short because he did not like the way her thighs flattened on chairs when she sat down. At the age of five, I knew how mean it was and to this day, I cannot understand how it didn’t bring her to tears. But it didn’t. And she always listened to him about things like that, until he got her best friend pregnant and the two of them ran off together, leaving Mercedes behind. It was the best thing he could have ever done for her though. Because she never let anyone tell her what kind of shorts to wear after that.

The first boy I ever had a crush on in elementary school told me that even though he thought my eyes were pretty and he liked how I wore my hair in braids, we couldn’t be together because I raised my hand too much in class to answer questions. And girls were not supposed to be as smart as boys. At the picnic tables at lunch, I cried over my usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich, when my friends asked me what was wrong, I couldn’t even explain what it was that hurt me so.

Even Papá, loving and kind as he could be, made Mamá feel small when he told her that having to sell her floral shop in Mexico, so we could come here, wasn’t as great a loss as him losing his career as a police officer. “What’s selling a few flowers to a few abuelitas to putting my life on the line, to upholding law and order every day?” he’d ask. And she would say nothing in return, just smile soft and sad, plopping a scoop of rice onto his plate. It took me years to understand that sadness in her smile.

𖤓

Driving down highway 40, with the windows down, my hair whipping in the wind, and all the desert dust mixing with the faint, floral smell of my shampoo, I feel like I have been mainlining that sadness for the last five hundred miles. Because from the moment I met Ezekiel Reyes, I did not see it coming. It’s not that there weren’t red flags as with all the other boys. But he had a way of making it seem like they were all a force of circumstance. Gee, how did those get there? Someone must have put those up when I wasn’t looking. He was sensitive, compassionate, smarter than anyone I had ever met, and troubled in a way he seemed not to be responsible for.

I should have trusted my instincts. I should have listened to my mother’s advice. But EZ Reyes is also one of the best liars I have ever known. People who lie best are the ones who believe the lie first themselves. That is what he did. It was easy. So it was easy to believe him.

On the road, when it gets dark, I start to see his eyes like they were the last time I saw him. They are every pair of headlights in the rear view mirror: two voids with a kind of frigid, lifeless pain inside. Any echo of the love between us snuffed out, washed away, sterilized like a surgeon’s scalpel. Nevermind that candle in my heart might have burned for him forever. But it seems we do not love the same way.

One of my hands comes off the wheel to touch the spot at my ribs on the left side where he had held the gun. A shot I would have never seen coming, were it not for Angel’s screaming and tackling us both to the ground, shoving me away, telling me to run as fast as I could and never look back. If only I had fallen for that big lug instead of Ezekiel. But that one wore his red flags on his sleeve, screamed them from a mile away. That honesty I misjudged as a warning was really an asset. Porque Angel no podía mentir una mierda, ni siquiera a sí mismo. But we cannot help who we love.

Wiping sweat from my forehead, I pass a mile marker and then a bigger sign: eleven miles to Albuquerque. Good because Angel’s check engine light has turned on and I need gas. I drag my hand across my forehead again. Leave it to Angel to have a car with no AC. Well, no. I remind myself I’m no fool. The car probably wasn’t his. They would’ve stolen it before they got to the hospital.

The sun has been beating down on me through the driver’s side window, relentless and my face is so damp, I can’t seem to tell the difference between the sweat and the tears that periodically drop down to dot my cheeks. I stopped bothering to wipe those all the way back in Tucson. The dust has stuck to them too, so the skin on my face is stiff and my lips have a grainy feel to them. There is something about it that I like, that feels tangible. Algo sobre la tierra en mis lágrimas es un consuelo, y en mi dolor me hice sentir menos sola.

My cellphone buzzes in my bag. Low battery. It is a miracle it has lasted this long. Perhaps my last tether to civilization, I wonder if I shouldn’t let it die and disappear from my old life completely. No, with Mamá back home there is no old or new life. I escaped Santo Padre with the only one I have. Angel said he would get word to her, let her know I was okay, tell her where I was going. A place I didn’t even know.

Once I hit the city limits, I reach in my pocket and pull out the crinkled cardboard pack, an empty cigarette box Angel had hastily scribbled an Albuquerque address on. I triple check to make sure I have remembered it correctly, then take the fourth exit.

𖤓

After I left Angel and EZ, grappling with each other on that hilltop by the hospital, I went to Mercedes’ house to hole up. It was a dingy little duplex not far from the hospital but EZ didn’t know where it was and that’s what mattered. It was kind of funny. I had not expected Angel to follow up, texting me, asking if I was okay, where I was. But he did. Even after I told him, I had not expected him to do anything with that information, certainly not stop by or send someone. But he did. So, when a knock came at the front door, in a frenzy, I lurched off the couch and lunged for the baseball bat that I’d taken from the coat closet earlier and set against the front door before dozing off. Glancing through the peephole, I half expected to see EZ's cold, hard eyes, peering back at me across the threshold of warped glass. Mercifully, it was somebody else. Someone I didn’t recognize. Judging by the kutte over his hoodie and the large black script inked on his neck that spelled Mayans, another proud member of the club. Someone I had not met before. He stood in front of the door, hood up, hands clasped in front of him at attention, almost like a bouncer at a nightclub but without the air of compensation. On the contrary, he was at ease, almost serene when I swung open the screen door, wild-eyed and bat in hand. “Are you Gaby?” He'd barely batted an eye. I nodded slowly. “Angel sent me with some stuff for you.” I furrowed my brow, suspicious but too frazzled to form words. “Yeah, uh— He wanted to deliver this himself, but homie had to take care of that trifling, mocoso cagado brother of his, chase that motherfucker back down to Santo Padre. But I stuck around, so he sent me instead.” He extended his hand. “I’m Manny.” With some hesitation, I set the bat down and shook his hand, then motioned to allow him inside. He refused, head rattling from side to side. “Nah, I don’t— I can’t stay long. Just wanted to give you these.” He held out the crumpled cigarette box and the keys to 'Angel’s' car, dropping them in the palm of my hand. Through tears that I wasn’t even aware had begun to fall, I joked tiredly, “So, I narrowly escape getting killed by the love of my life and Angel thinks I’m ready to take up smoking?” “Yea, right? Guess when you cheat death, seems as good a time as any to pick up a habit that causes terminal illness.” Manny stuffed his hands in his hoodie pockets and leaned against the doorway, eyes cast down, chuckling at the ground. “Nah, actually there’s an address on it. A guy we know in New Mexico from a job Yuma and Santo Padre did with him a while back. His people’ll take care of you.” “Who is it?” “His name— well, he’s a guy who’s connected enough in Mexico that EZ can’t come after you there. Y’know, bad for business.” With a knowing smirk, he tipped his head, “Si me sientes.” There seemed a reluctance to say this man’s name outright but I couldn't understand why. Oh, right. Connected in Mexico. One of the cartels. So more of that then. Standing in the doorway with my arms crossed, at the manic pace only akin to that of an animal backed into a corner, I evaluated the options presented to me now. Could this truly be my only one? Something else my mother used to say was already at the tip of my tongue. “Lo peligroso que es ser una mujer enamorada.”** I began to cry harder now and Manny’s head snapped back up to look at me. “Aw easy now, ma,” he said gently, stepping closer to brush a tear from my cheek with the back of his hand. “Todo estará bien.” I nodded weakly before choking out through something that was halfway between a laugh and a sob, “I know this is a weird question but— pero ya puedes abrazarme?” He smiled softly, stepping back with open arms, and the moment my head hit the shoulder of this kind stranger, I came apart at the seams.

𖤓

It had only been two days on the road but the writing on the cigarette package is already faded, probably from so much time spent folded up in the pocket of my jeans.

6611 Zuni Rd SE,

Albuquerque, NM

ask 4 grumpyass mf named Varga

I am not sure why I bother to keep looking at it when I have the address memorized, seared in my brain because I had charted my route the old fashioned way, on a map I got from a gas station back in Lodi. A measure that seems silly now given that my phone is still somehow clinging to life.

I pull into the parking lot of 6611 Zuni Road and slide into an open spot, of which there are many. Business does not appear to be booming. In quaint, Hot-Rod red cursive along the top of the building, it reads “Tapizados, Custom Upholstery, Reparación.” Auto upholstery. As good a front as any, I suppose.

My nerves are fried and the entrance of the shop taunts me while I stare at it, trying to figure out how to smoke out this Varga. It would’ve been helpful to have more than just a name. Was it a first? A last? Based on what little was in the note, Varga could be a woman for all I know. Although Manny had specifically said it was a guy. Tracing the hastily scribbled address on the wilted cardboard, I am filled with warmth, reminded of my gratitude to Angel for doing the best he could with what he had. I can do the rest. I simply have to.

A broken bell clangs pitifully as the door of the shop closes behind me. It is empty of customers and seemingly, anyone who might work there. There is another bell on the counter and I wonder if that one is broken too. If it isn’t, with the Norteño music blaring in a room in the back with a bunch of tables with sewing machines, I wonder if anyone would hear it. Before I get a chance to find out, two men in matching uniforms arguing in the parking lot outside catch my attention. Partly because they’re arguing but largely because they both seem to be wearing matching uniforms, an indication yes, someone indeed ran this fine establishment and didn’t leave it to the norteño corridos to manage.

An older man with a thick, dark head of hair and a dark mustache alternates between pinching his forehead and speaking through gritted teeth to a younger man with hair buzzed so short, he looks almost bald, whose back is turned to me. Mustache man looks to be the boss and when the other man steps aside for a moment, I spot the name on his shirt. M. Varga. Simón! Él es un gruñón de verdad like Angel said. He looks just like another gruñón I know too. In fact, if his hair wasn’t so dark, I might have actually mistaken him for Felipe Reyes. He shared the same proud nose, perpetually furrowed brow, and lines etched deep into his forehead that say he’s had someone important to worry about for a very long time. Who was this Varga’s someone?

More heated now, Señor Varga points to the building and I think I can make out the words 'vuelve ahí dentro' coming out of his mouth. Exasperated, the younger, short-haired man throws his hands on his hips and tips his head back, as if pleading with the sky but whatever the old man has said trumps his silent negotiation with the Above. Varga throws him a set of keys and shoos him in the direction of the shop before stalking off back to the garage.

It takes me too long to realize I am staring. The short-haired guy makes it to the sidewalk in front of the windows, but by then it is too late to play it off like I’m just a clueless customer. Swinging my purse from one shoulder to the other, I attempt to anyway, and turn to examine the fabric swatches hanging on the walls and the stand full of pamphlets about “The Wonders of Kaptex!” and “Chrome-Tanned Whole Cowhides!” leafing through as if I know what I am looking at. The look of confusion on my face is the only honest thing about it. I have no idea what I am doing here, in more ways than one.

The short-haired man walks in, sighing heavily as the broken bell claps against the door handle, making another pitiful, pinched sound. It is not until he turns around to put something in the register that I finally see the name on his uniform. I. Varga.

Qué se chinga, of course there is two of them. Of course.

I nearly tear the cigarette box yanking it out of my pocket to study it again in the hopes I have missed some detail, some clue Angel might have left to differentiate the two Vargas. But no. There it sits, staring back at me, the same phrase I’ve read repeatedly, over and over and over: Ask 4 grumpyass mf named Varga. The qualifier doesn’t even help. They both seem equally grumpy. Could I just ask? Would Angel or Manny have thought ahead to let this Varga know I was coming?

A voice cuts through my panic. “‘Scuse me, miss? Something I can help you with?”

My head snaps up to meet a look of cool intensity from the younger Varga. He was younger sure, but I couldn’t venture a guess as to how old he might really be because even asking the most mundane of questions, there is something heavy in the tone of his voice and a weariness in his eyes that betray the gaze of a boy aged beyond his years by forces out of his control. I know this look. I am well acquainted with this look, yes. The headlights in the rearview mirror on the drive here flash in my mind. But there is a softness in this one’s eyes that I don’t remember EZ having. Not even in the beginning. By the time I finally understood, it would do me no good, but everything about Ezekiel Reyes was hard. And always had been.

All of a sudden, I am self-conscious, unsure of how long I’ve been standing there, not saying a word in response. Taking a deep breath, I finally open my mouth to answer, but instead of words, what comes out is some kind of throttled sigh.

“Prefieres que hablamos en español?” He is polite but with enough of an edge of impatience that it does nothing to distinguish him as the less grumpy of the two Vargas.

“A mí no me importa,” I shrug, trying my best to seem casual. “Puedo hablar de los dos.”

“O sí? Pues la podría preguntarte de nuevo pero ya sabrás que es la misma en ambos.”

Maybe this Varga is more prickly than grumpy. Would Angel know the difference? Probably not.

“Hmm,” I hum. He seems skeptical, so I switch to English. Two can play this game. “Huh? Yes. Yeah. Actually yes. I need- I’m looking for someone na—“ I start heading toward the counter but in the process, my purse swings to one side, knocking over the wire display of pamphlets. Varga is nice enough to come around from the counter to help me pick them up off the ground, even if he is chuckling to himself at my expense.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what-” I pause, closing my eyes, searching for the words. “I have not slept much. I just came here all the way from California and did not make many stops.”

Varga picks up the last of the pamphlets and with a resigned smirk on his face, offers his hand. “Ah, well, you wouldn’t be the only person to end up in ABQ who’s running from something.” I accept and he pulls me to my feet.

On his way back around the counter, he shoots me the look of a parent worried their kid is going to tear through the candy aisle at the grocery store. Pointing to a technicolor display of stacked, neatly wrapped, little trees, I laugh. “Oh, not the car fresheners. It looks like someone went to a lot of trouble to make these look nice,” I tease, holding up my hands in defeat. “I’ll keep my distance.”

Varga shakes his head, suppressing a laugh like he doesn’t want me to know I have said anything he’d find funny. He resumes doing whatever he was doing at the register. Not sure what to do with myself, I just stand there, watching him, moving the cash trays to the back counter, industriously counting the bills, scribbling in some kind of ledger. Without turning to look at me, he calls out, “So, you were saying?”

“Sorry?”

“You were about to say you were looking for someone right before you decided to go full Jenga with my pamphlets over there.”

“Oh,” I blow a puff of hair out of my lips, sending stray pieces of hair that have fallen out of my ponytail floating above my forehead. Glancing around the empty store, something in me snaps and I decide. Why not? What is the worst that could happen? I say the wrong thing to the wrong person and they kill me for it? They’d have to get in line. I am already on borrowed time and dancing around the issue might only serve to end that time. Entonces a la verga con esa chingadera. So I shoot my shot. The contact my hand makes as it smacks down on the counter with the mangled cigarette box is loud enough to surprise Varga. He stops and spins around.

“Alright, I have danced with death,” I hold my index finger and thumb up together and squint my eyes, “once this week already. I have also been driving for two days straight. I am exhausted. And you know what? Truthfully, I have never been good at this– hmm, what is it called? Playing my cards close to the chest? I never had to be. So, I'm going to come right out and say it. My name is Gaby Castillo. I came here from Lodi, California. My ex-boyfriend is EZ Reyes from the Santo Padre chapter of the Mayans motorcycle club. Two days ago,” the lump in my throat hurts as I swallow it, but still choke up despite myself, “he tried to kill me. His brother, Angel Reyes, told me to lie low here in case he tried to come after me again.”

Instead of the appropriate shock one would express at the stream of insanity I just blurted out to a perfect stranger, he seems entirely undisturbed. Just as I'm about to give over to reassurance at his calmness, it all at once becomes more jarring that he has no reaction. My heart kicks up, pounding so rapidly, I wonder if it’s visible from the outside, if he can see it's picked up speed.

Aggravated by the silence, I snap my fingers in front of his face, grumbling, “Uh, hello? Does any of this sound familiar?”

Face impassive, he crosses his arms and just keeps staring at me before finally breaking the silence with one infuriating word. “Vest.”

“Mm? Pardon?”

“You said chest. You meant vest.”

He is like a brick wall. I am still not getting it.

“You meant vest. You said,” he flattens his hand bringing it down to punctuate the end of each phrase, “‘playing your cards close to the chest.’ The expression is ‘playing your cards close to the vest.’ Like back in the day, old guys playing Poker in saloons and shit.”

How dumb must I look, standing there, eyes narrowed, mouth gaping open in disbelief that we are calmly discussing grammar after everything I said? The motorcycle club? The attempted murder? I can only imagine. He does not even seem to notice. What’s more infuriating, he turns back around to the money trays and the ledger and continues talking at me like that. “Yeah, yeah, I got a call from Manny, told me someone was coming. I remember those Reyes brothers too. One of them’s a wiseass and one of them’s a dipstick. Which one almost killed you?”

Poor Angel. My cheeks are burning and my chest floods with indignation on his behalf. “Angel is not a di–” the word is new to me and comes out of my mouth clumsy, “dip-ssstick.”

Varga’s shoulders rattle as he chuckles, “So it was the dipstick,” nodding to himself like he’s just shared some private joke that he happens to also find hilarious.

I roll my eyes and turn my back to him so I can lean against the counter. My head sinks back to look at the ceiling and now I’m the one who’s pleading with the sky. “No, it wasn’t the d– no, not Angel. He’s the one who saved me, told me to come here for help. Not that I would call,” I wave my hand around at nothing in particular, “whatever this has been, 'help.'”

Varga says nothing, so I continue. “No, it was the other one. Ezekiel. EZ. He’s the one who– well.” I stop, my thoughts invaded again by Ezekiel's eyes in the headlights, this time mixed with flashes of that night on the beach. How soft and gentle his fingertips were on my shoulders. How cold the barrel of his gun felt pressed into my side. Tears begin streaking from the corners of my eyes. With my head back like that, they drip down across my temples and into my hairline.

Another pair of fingertips gently brushes my shoulder. I jerk forward violently and turn around to see Varga on the other side of the counter, with his hands up, as if to say, 'oh god, don’t shoot.'

“Hey, look. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so— such a dick. I forget what it’s like for people not—” he wavers, running his hand up and down the back of his head, searching for the words, “well, normal people. People not in our business.”

I scoff, "Normal. That's funny, normal."

He looks at me perplexed, waiting for me to clarify. But I can't even begin. So, staring at the air fresheners almost catatonic, I simply say, "Normal is not what I feel."

Varga seems to accept this well enough because he starts putting the cash trays back in the register and locks them up with the ledger. On his way back around the counter, he grabs his car keys and motions for me to follow him. “C’mon.”

He stops at the door once he realizes I am not following him. More speaking to the door than to me, he calls out, “Yo, you coming or what?”

“Coming? Coming where?”

In an oddly graceful gesture, he spins around, arms swinging, coming to rest on his hips, as he tips one out to the side. “You like milkshakes?”

“Do I like—?”

“Milkshakes. Y'know, milk, ice cream, they blend it all up with like chocolate or strawberry or confetti sprinkles or whatever sugary shit people like. How do we feel about them.”

“I mean—” I shrug. “Who doesn’t like milkshakes.”

“Great.” He nods, with a small smile on his face that reaches his eyes for the first time. It softens his otherwise prickly demeanor, exposing a charm so authentic in its self consciousness, it is plain to see he doesn’t smile with true joy often. Something clicks just then and it occurs to me: what if he’s the someone the senior Varga, M. Varga, has had to worry about all these years? He turns back around, grabbing the door handle. “Let’s get a milkshake.”

“Wait.”

I watch his shoulders rise and fall, an unmistakable sigh of frustration. A reaction I immediately resent. “Hey.” I cross my arms. “No mames, hombre. Like it is unreasonable for me to be uncertain about letting a perfect stranger take me to some unknown location, in a town I have never been to before, for a mystery milkshake.”

Turning back around, he strolls slowly over to me, smirking and fiddling with his keys. “Mystery milkshake, huh?"

Still unamused, my eyebrows are halfway up my forehead. I wait.

“Yeah alright, you got me there. But I think I’ve got a solution for that. You said your name's Gaby, right?” I bob my head once and he holds out his hand. “My name’s Nacho.” He seems to take notice of my eyes darting to the name tag on his uniform. “Well, Ignacio, but no one calls me that.” Leaning forward, voice dropping low and quiet, he pleads like it’s a secret. “Yeah, please don’t call me that, seriously.”

I can’t help but smile, accepting his hand. Though firm, it's also warm and softer than I expect, sending goosebumps up my forearm that take me by surprise.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” I beam at him, our hands moving up and down in tandem, "Señor Not-Ignacio Varga.”

“Oh good,” he says, smile deflating slightly as he cocks an eyebrow. “Another comedian. Remind me never to introduce you to Lalo.”

It seems I’m already treading dangerous ground, but that only makes me beam at him more. “Who is Lalo? And why should you never to introduce us?”

“Pues,” he looks me up and down, assessing me before rolling his eyes, “hay muchas razones pero la primera? Eres demasiado guapa y chistosa para conocer a un hombre peligroso así. But he’d sure think you’re— I dunno, something.”

O, demasiado guapa? Nacho is becoming more interesting by the minute. “Hmm, well–," I muse as he turns to open the door. "And what does Not-Ignacio think?”

He shoots me a look like don’t go there through half lidded eyes. It is the first time I notice how long his eyelashes are. Tú eres guapísimo también. He seems like the type to not really know it. Or at least, the type to be unconcerned with it anyway. Of course it’s just a hunch, but for some reason it warms me to him even more. Nothing like the Reyes boys. Well, except Felipe, who had never seemed especially preoccupied with his appearance.

“Okay, okay,” I put my hands up, “last time, I swear. So, what does Nacho think?”

“I think...” he takes a long pause while holding the door open for me, scratching his head like he is considering the question with genuine sincerity. “I think ..... thaaat it’s time for a milkshake.”

Stepping outside into the simmering Albuquerque sun, it is my turn to roll my eyes. But for some reason, I decide to up the anti by crinkling my nose and sticking my tongue out at him like a petulant child. Maybe it’s the sleeplessness, or maybe it’s just nice to talk to someone after 3 days of running. On the road alone. He laughs at me, letting the door slam shut, and waves me over, in the direction of his car.

Despite my pretend annoyance, I walk around to the passenger’s side of Nacho Varga’s car and a feeling hits me as suddenly as a flashbulb of an old camera: relief. For the first time since I left Lodi, I finally feel like I just might be okay.

As it turns out, I am right. I would be okay. Just not before all hell breaks loose.

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taglist: @narcolini

[otaku553]

Ok so I have been stewing this crossover au in my brain nonstop for the past few days and. I am nothing if not committed to the bit, so. Volume cover redraws :)

Here are the originals:

If you want to read more about my one piece spy x family crossover, keep reading!

So the idea is simple! Crossover reincarnation au where ASL is reborn in Spy x Family. They’re each born separately and none of them are born with the same names as their previous lives, and with no way of finding each other, they each find their own thing to do in the world.

Sabo, too used to the dangers of being a spy, eventually finds a cause to devote himself to again, in preventing war from engulfing the country he was reborn in. Ace, drawn to fire as he was in his previous life, used arson as a means to rob rich people for sustenance and survival, and is eventually scouted and hired by Garden as a fire specialist and assassin. And Luffy, though born in perhaps the poorest condition, grows up happily and takes whatever part time jobs he wants to do.

The thing about Sabo is that, as much as he seems like a young man of good repute and high standing within society, everyone in WISE knows that he is a massive nuisance. Nobody knew in the beginning how a child less than half the age of most of their veteran agents could have the same skills and knowledge in their profession. Sabo was— and still is— hyper competent, and by the time WISE figured out just how much of a menace to society he was, it was too late.

Ace forgot for the first few years of his new life that he wasn’t made of fire, and consequently, received multiple accidental burns. This did not deter him, however, from growing up to be a very skilled arsonist, well-practiced in every which way to start a dumpster fire or house fire. As a teenage he would use this often to draw attention as he robbed rich people blind. When he was caught, he was given an ultimatum by Garden: join them and receive payment for starting fires and causing problems under contract, or face the government and authorities for his crimes. Begrudgingly, he joined Garden, but eventually comes to appreciate that he can make substantial money in his element.

Luffy is Luffy. No telepathy or experimentation, no fancy schools, no gimmicks or secret identities. But he has still lived an extremely colorful life in this world, full of fascinating and kind individuals who have helped him grow up healthy and relatively happy. He goes where he is free, and he takes whatever part time jobs he wants in order to make the minimum he needs to survive.

Ace and Sabo find each other first, in their late teens, and neither of them realize that the other remembers their previous life, but both refuse to separate. (Sabo thinks Ace doesn’t remember, because Ace didn’t recognize him. Ace never saw Sabo grow up past 10, however, so he doesn’t recognize older Sabo immediately. By the time he does realize who exactly Sabo is, Sabo has backtracked and pretends to know Ace from a dream, or from somewhere else.)

Sabo’s attachment to Ace, predictably, causes problems between Sabo and WISE, but by then, Sabo is indispensable to the organization, and they make an exception for Sabo to be able to remain with Ace, so long as Ace never finds out what Sabo’s actual job is. Ace, on the other hand, hides his job because he doesn’t want his brother, who he has just found and who does not know Ace well enough yet, to know that he makes a living from killing people.

And they find Luffy sometime afterwards, prior to the beginning of the Spy x Family canon. Luffy figures out, not long after moving in with his brothers, both of his brothers’ secret occupations and the fact that both of them remember their past memories. He thinks it is common knowledge, however, and so he never brings it up.

[butterfilledpockets]

PHEW that one took a WHILE! hid lottsa little details in this time :)

I am so excited for all these guys to meet (I have written the dialogue and drawn teh thumbnails) I really hope you guys liked this one because i am actually quite proud of these pages :D

previous ---- part 10 ---- next (coming at some point)

masterpost

[theratking-heheheheheh]

I read a fanfiction crossover where they were the main ship and it was glorious hasn’t been updated since 2022 I don’t think but it was glorious so in celebration and morning I drew this👹



[moss-on-trees]

dp x dc prompt: snow white au

danny pulls away from his friends and family due to an incident where a ghost coming to challenge him for the throne almost killed jazz. he flees to the ghost zone and spends his time ruling the ghost zone - which is suprisingly chill, considering ghosts are used to ruling themselves. he could do without the paperwork - and helping clockwork set the timeline right when it is necessary. he is only ever out in his human form when he is travelling back in time.

on one occasion, he is about to go back to the ghost zone after handling an issue with the timestream in [insert distant time period there] in another dimension when he is stabbed in the back while he is in his human form. close to death, he freezes himself with his ice so he can be safe while he heals, waiting for clockwork to take him back. but the ghost of time never does what's expected of him: he puts danny in a time out and hides him from view.

eons later, a team of superheroes find a young man trapped in glowing ice with a green sticky note stuck next to his face saying it is time for the ghost king to wake up.

[harpyface]

Fanart for @phospadparadscha's Disco Universe! Featuring weapon ideas :))

Harry has a spiked bat but instead of nails it has spiked glass (disco ball-esque) which would have been a normal bat for pre-martinaise harry (great for a gym teacher), and uh I actually don't know what to call Kim's weapon, they're like disc blades, and so stick plus little sharp bits equals Black Opal's chainsaw ^_^

more thoughts and praises under the cut <3

My original ideas were a disco ball frag grenade for Harry, maybe something dodgeball like for pre-martinaise, and a compound crossbow for Kim, which would probably just be a pellet crossbow for Black Opal. But then one, I wanted Kim's weapon to be "something strikes quick and hard, with little need for multiple blows" (in the words of phos :3) and generally more aerodynamic than a crossbow (I was definitely thinking ranged weapon). So um throwable halo as a weapon equals the disc blades :) ummm now i'm gonna be completely honest, the disc blades are from deathbringer in wings of fire, they are like circles that are knives??? and i looked at the graphic novel and yeah they are just sharp circles lmao

I think in general I was really excited to draw a chainsaw lmao, I also switched up Black Opal's design a little (aviator jacket, different colors) but I love the blacklight/bowling alley carpet palette that he has.

I haven't actually seen steven universe but this has a bunch of my favorite things so I really like this AU (minerals, disco elysium, crossover aus) and phos's art is so cool <3

[cloudofbutterflies92]

WIP Wednesday

I was tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton 💕💕 for Wednesday's WIP. Since I'm working on chapter 3 in the meantime I had a little flash of genius and created a little introduction to my COD x Fallout AU (Fallout is one of my favorite games, then put together with COD and boom). I hope everyone will like it 💕

"So let me get this straight, you've found the right person to make sure that this shithole can have drinking water again?" The masked mercenary looked wordlessly at the leader of Task Force 141. Ever since those bombs had been dropped, there had been no peace for people.

Ghouls, Supermutants, marauders, Caesar's Legion, and the Enclave. Task Force 141 were the ones everyone called for dirty jobs, or to protect important people, but to have the person who could save lives for Ghost and protect her...was a daunting task

"I owe this friend, Joshua Graham, and of those you are the one I trust you the most. The girl is precious" Price getting up, cigar to his mouth reached for his Pip Boy setting off an audio.

"I don't know how long I can remain incognito. Micah is gone now, I know you were friends, and I ask only this favor. I was able to create a formula that can bring clean water without using the kit K.R.E.G, my mother Helen worked on this project for years. When she was killed I decided to take back her notes, day and night I was there studying them and I was able to decipher it. I just hope I can live long enough to see the project come to life. My name is Eden by the way."

Taglist(no obligation): @chloekistune @graveyard-party666 @alypink @kaitaiga @corvosattano @onehornedbeast @themotherofhorses @carlosoliveiraa @cassietrn @socially-awkward-skeleton @thewanderer-000 @thedeadthree @priceseyes @sinclxirx @simonxriley @marivenah @strangefable @captastra @aceghosts @kikiharinezumi @katsigian @justasmolbard @dickytwister @theelderhazelnut @elderglocks @yourluckyoswald @caelums-fate @alexxmason @simplegenius042 @voidika

[moxie-girl]

acey-deucey!

[mo-ok]

Go On/RPM helmet off comparisons

[madamebaggio]

Notes: This isn't related to any of my previous snippets. It's just something short and sweet.

***

Robb cleared his throat as he held the mic in front of his mouth. “Good evening, everyone. I’m Robb, the best-man and the bride’s brother.”

“Hi, Robb!” Many voices called back, and someone wolf whistled -probably Theon.

“Sansa was the first of many -many- younger siblings I’d get eventually, and she was a cute baby, even though the patch of red hair made her look a bit like a tomato.” Laughter all around. “She was also a bit annoying as a teenager, but at least she wasn’t setting the house on fire like Arya. But the one thing that Sansa has always been is immensely kind and loyal.”

He turned his eyes to his sister. “I feel that -at times- we didn’t appreciate it as much as we should’ve, and we took her for granted, but Sansa is a rock.” He was looking directly at her as he said that. “She only became stronger with time, and now she’s this beautiful bride and I couldn’t feel prouder of her.”

Sansa had tears in her eyes as she looked at her brother.

“Now, that fucker…” Robb turned to the groom, making the whole room explode in laughter.

“ROBB STARK! Language!” Cat screeched at her son.

“I met Arthur in University, where we became friends almost immediately.” Robb raised his glass to Arthur, who repeated the gesture. “And the first time I invited him to our house for Easter, he took a look at Sansa and said: ‘We’re going to be brothers’. And I asked him ‘why?’ to which he replied: ‘because I’m going to marry your sister’.”

Laughter all around again, because they all knew that Arthur would’ve definitely said something like that. “And I said: ‘it’s never going to happen, because my sister is way too smart to fall for you’.” Robb gave Sansa a flat look that made her explode in giggles. “And you know what? She is smart. Smart enough to see how good he was. To look beyond his reputation, and see the great guy he actually was. So yeah, Sansa is still smart as hell. And I guess you were right, Arthur: we’re brothers now.”

Arthur covered his mouth with his fist, while Sansa rested her head on his shoulder.

“I’m happy that we got here.” Robb told the others. “That Sansa found someone that knows how amazing she is, and that Arthur is with someone that knows he is great. As much as it pained me as a big brother seeing those two flirting all the time before they finally decided to get together, I couldn’t imagine two people more perfect for each other: you’re both smart, kind and hard working.”

“And hot!” Arthur called from his place.

Robb rolled his eyes as people laughed again. “Welcome to the family, Arthur. We’re really happy to have you here.” He narrowed his eyes. “But we’ll still fucking kill you if you hurt her.”

“ROBB!”

Applauses all around, and Robb could finally get drunk and party (and hopefully sleep with the maid of honor).

[jamiragondrawstuff]

If I only could, I'd make a deal with Truth, And get him to swap our places Be runnin' up that road, Be runnin' up that hill, With no problems… There's one picture (part of a sketchdump) of Yosuke running away in tears, and it has haunted me so badly. I think I would do the exact same thing in his situation. Being a "hybrid creature" is the ultimate fantasy, but I think I deserve for it to hurt if that's what it is. There's also this but I don't think it turned out nearly as good.

Dear agony, just let go of me Suffer slowly, is this the way it's gotta be? Don't bury me, faceless enemy I'm so sorry, Is this the way it's gotta be? More Yosuke for @mousewife-stash, you stole my heart! <3

[thatmultifandomchick]

I’m starting to regain interest in Beetlejuice and Goosebumps, so have a doodle of my favorite crossover ship, this time in an AU!

(BeetleBumps my ship name for Nathan Bratt x Beetlejuice)

These two were super fun to design! They also have a lot of lore, so, here it is.

They’re both ADHD/Autistic because I said so.

BJ is Dewey Finn coded, but generally way more intimidating, so he’s a pretty lonely guy. Despite that, he’d vibe with Lucas. After getting possessed, he’d probably write a song about it. Kanduu wouldn’t really need to trick him, because BJ also doesn’t have the strongest moral code and wouldn’t mind a few people dying for the sake of his art. He’d only end up helping the kids because Kanduu didn’t keep up his end of the deal.

Goosebumps is in desperate need of glasses and Adderall, but being invisible has prevented him for acquiring any prescriptions. AKA, that man cannot focus or see for shit. He is permanently drooling green liquid for reasons related to his death. Goosebumps is also deeply lonely, as well as hell’s least intimidating demon. He’d get along with the Maitlands more than Lydia, despite the fact that she’s the only breather who can see him.

[madmanwonder]

Prompt (Crossover AU): "Valentines Day card"

The cat burger Namai finally give it to her favorite white hair grump Ragna.

Ragna: *Sorting through the mails* Bills, Bills, Death Threats, Death Threats, Junk Mail, Junk Mail—*He paused when he saw the name Nami* The hell do the damn thief want this time?*He opened the letter*

From Nami

You are the greatest treasure i ever have seen. You are priceless and irreplaceable to anything that I owned. And I am going to show you how much you mean to mean to me~

Ragna: What the hell does that even mea—*Entered his bedroom and stopped to gawked when he saw Nami seeing on the edge of his bed wearing green lingerie set*

Nami: *Seductive* Happy Valentine Day, Ragna-Kun~

[gelu-the-babosa-multiversal]

Madeline: Do you take constructive criticism?

Swindle: I only take cash or credit. Thanks.

[winterxisxcomingx]

Violet Parr and Camilo Madrigal manips ♥

[antigonenikk]

do i dare//disturb the universe?

words: 1621

chapter 1/?

pairing: eugene sledge/john “bucky” egan

summary: Eugene Sledge and John Egan are both adrift in the wake of the War. They find each other in a small bar in a small corner of Chinatown. And the rest, as they say, is history.

also posted on my ao3: @wintersangels69

"And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —

(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."

-The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

—————————————————————

There were certain things he couldn’t do anymore. Certain things he couldn’t take. And one of them was sitting still. After- well, after, there had been talk of sending him back stateside. Buck had headed back to Wyoming soon as V-E Day and went, and Bucky was right behind him. That was, before the goddamned Docs put a stop to it. As they so helpfully pointed out, Buck had had time to recover. Had been fed and watered and was back to looking like a real human being in between his rescue and his transfer back to East Anglia. Not so with Bucky. According to medical personal on base, Bucky wasn’t going to be able to go anywhere for at least six months. See, Bucky was down to 125 lbs, half his teeth had rotted out somewhere between Bremen and Berlin, he had sores all on his feet infected and peeling from frostbite, and to top it all off he had what the Docs were calling “mono-nueropathy of the upper limb” which really just meant that his left arm kept fucking twitching. Wouldn’t goddamn stay still. All of this combined meant that Bucky himself would have to stay still. And for a long time.

It was killing him, honest to God. Buck had given him a sort of sympathetic look before he was set to leave, standing awkward by his bedside. Like he was asking John for forgiveness. For what, he couldn’t be quite sure. For leaving maybe. But it seemed lately like Buck was always leaving. Those last few months marching from one camp to the next, he had started to forget Buck’s face. The color of his eyes. The way his eyebrow would twitch when he thought something was especially funny. All he could remember was the back of his head, gleaming and golden and leaving him. Always, always leaving. But that’s how it was, wasn’t it? With people like him. Unnatural, too loud, too brash, cloying and clinging and desperate for an ounce of human touch or feeling. It never worked. No matter what he did. Whether he was loud or quiet, strong or weak, joyful or stoic. He’d made himself into a million different men between the time of his birth and the time of his discharge from the military hospital, and none of them had ever warranted anything but the back of some poor fucker’s head. He’d had a lot of time to think on that, while recovering. He’d heard the boys in the middle of the night cry out, and he’d try and pace with his stupid fucking feet, and he’d stare out the windows as the nurses fussed over him, and he’d think. About Buck. About Leaving. About Home. About what any of it all meant now that he’d survived. What were you supposed to do, after you had spent years sure you would die, trying desperately to do anything you could to survive? What did it mean to live after all of that? It seemed to Bucky like everyone around him had it figured out. Everyone but him.

He wasn’t pathetic enough to follow Gale to Wyoming. He’d had a letter delivered two weeks before his release about the wedding. And that was great. Real great. He wanted to be angry, but he knew he wouldn’t have come to the thing even if he’d been able to, even if the wedding had been held off until he could walk on his own two feet. They were young, and in love, Gale and Marge, like two fucking little Dresden Dolls, perfect happy life perfect happy family. He would have ruined it anyways. And now there was no place for him. All those nights, the soft brush of a hand in his hair, whispering, love you, Buck, love you, and never once hearing it in return. There was no place for him there. They discharged him in April 1946, after months of grueling recovery and only a handful of letters, and he headed out for somewhere. Somewhere else.

From the top deck of the boat, crowded on all sides, he could feel the breeze in his hair, and it didn’t feel like freedom should have. It just felt like more nothing.

—————————————————————

He was back on Peleliu in the dream, for some reason. Sid was above him, blood leaking from his open mouth. He hadn’t known what to do. He tried to call for a Corpsman, but the words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t move his arms couldn’t move his legs just the oppressive heat drowning him. And then he’d felt fingers in his mouth, and he’d looked up, and there was Merriell, his glacier blue eyes wide with unhinged glee, a knife in hand, tearing out his back molar. He tried to scream, tried to tell him. It’s me. It’s me. But the image shifted. And instead of Merriell it was him, Eugene, grinning at him beneath the pelting rain. He pulled out his own teeth, one by one, his face in an approximation of a smile, laughing, and then-

He woke up silently. He couldn’t help it if he tried. The memory of that noise, the shovel hitting the poor fucker whose name he never learnt, the memory wouldn’t let him ever get to anything but a choked out whine in his sleep. No matter how bad the dreams got. His mind knew, vaguely, that he was back home. But his body was still on that airfield, in the middle of a warm wet hell, saying, “It was him or us.”

He wasn’t gonna be able to sleep. So instead he wandered downstairs, watching the sun rise through the curtains. College, of course, had been a bust. He was technically on break and set to return in the fall, but he knew deep down he wasn’t going back. Couldn’t stand to look in the eyes of people his age and see souls lurking back there. The resentment within him bubbled up each time he saw souls that still lived and breathed and hadn’t been left back with a crying baby in Okinawa. And besides, he couldn't stand their smug indifference, as if any of them knew what it had been like in the thick of it. Half of them hadn’t even served, and the other half kept talking about the European Theatre like it meant something to him. They’d been back home for a year before he’d had an inkling of returning to the waking world, and it showed. While they celebrated Hitler’s defeat he was in a foxhole being shot at, losing his humanity inch by inch.

Part of him wanted to go to New Orleans. To ask why. Why. Why wasn’t he good enough for Merriell? Why did he leave him there, sleeping, on that train bound for Alabama? Part of him wanted to run down the street to Sid and Mary’s house and start screaming at the both of them. “I used to fuck your husband! I used to fuck him! And he left me there without saying fucking goodbye! He didn’t warn me!”

He didn’t warn me. And now it was all too late. He wouldn’t go back to school. And he’d been trying to survive for so long he couldn’t kill himself. And he couldn’t stand the thought of New Orleans and the rejection he’d find there. And going to Sid’s was really just a funny little fantasy, something to indulge in when he was feeling real low and wanted to cry for the sake of crying. There was nowhere left to go, nowhere really. And he couldn’t stay here.

The urge to flee came inside of him and started tapping at the walls of his chest. He had to get out of Mobile. He had to leave, now.

In his room he spent an hour packing the essentials. His Bible from the War tucked into his back pocket. A few changes of clothes. Soap and a razor and a second pair of shoes. A book by Eliot. It was funny. Before the war, he always thought Eliot was a real sop. Could never get into the lilting rhymes. But now, it seemed reading Four Quartets or Alfred Prufrock was the only thing that could get him to calm down when the noise reached unbearable levels inside his own head.

There was only one thing for it, really. New York. The idea called to him, deep in his bones. He could feel it. He could belong in New York. He could be as inverted as he wanted to be and no one would bat an eye if he picked the right neighborhood. He could hide among the faces of strangers and forget that the word sledgehammer existed in the English dictionary. It would be like Peking. Which he had learned to love so dearly. The noise and the beautiful tonal language, the bright lights and the rickshaws. Maybe he’d move to Chinatown even. He knew the language alright, and he’d never felt as at home as when he was dining with one of the host families last winter. Yes. Yes. This would be good. This would be a fresh start.

He left a letter to his parents. He didn’t want to give it more thought than it needed. A swift separation was for the best. It was only a matter of time before they too got sick of him, and sent him to the hospital, having seen the weakness and the black ooze at the heart of him.

By noon he was on a train headed due North, set to run into the open embrace of a new city. Set to run straight into the back of one John Egan.