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Abbacchio Week 2025 is coming

Abbacchio fans, it's once again time to celebrate our favorite moody mafioso! Beginning March 19th and ending with Leone's birthday on the 25th, we'll have a week of art, fics, cosplay, crafts, any sort of fan creation is welcome! Join the fun, and use #abbacchioweek2025 or tag the blog with your submissions. Happy brainstorming, and we'll see you in March!

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It's time to depart, but we'll see one another next year.

Thank you to everyone who participated in Abbacchio Week 2024. It was an honor to run this account and see everyone portray their love for Leone Abbacchio.

If you are behind on prompts (like the person who runs this account), then you can still post and we'll retweet. We'll spread the glory of Abbacchio for as long as we can!

Ciao!

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Go Now

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Your Wildest Dreams

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Am I three days late to this prompt? Yes, yes I am. But hey, life happens.

Some part of me really likes to write about the first meeting between Abbacchio and Bucciarati. It's only natural that I did it again for Abbacchio Week.

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Abbacchio Week 2024 Day 7: Go Now

Enjoy!

Abbacchio’s take on everyone else’s takes on him. A showcase of kindness and jealousy. Whiny bitch Leone.

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@abbacchioweek2024

[abbacchioweek]

Abbacchio Week Day 7: Go Now

Final fic for @abbacchioweek2024 ! This one is obviously an Everyone Lives AU.

(warning for brief canon gore)

Thanks to everyone who read my fics this week! You can find all of them HERE on Ao3

~~~~~~~

He couldn’t remember where he had been before this. It was such a strange feeling that Abbacchio didn’t know what to do with. It was like there was some sense of urgency in the back of his mind, scratching at him to pay attention, but he couldn’t remember what it was.

He stared down at the fork in his hand, the half-eaten plate of pasta, the glass of wine sitting beside his hand. What the hell had he been doing? And where were the others? Were they supposed to meet him here?

He heard a grunt and looked up to see a man coming out from under the table next to him, placing several pieces of broken glass on the table. Abbacchio’s stomach twisted slightly at the sight of the all too familiar uniform the man wore.

But that wasn’t the only thing familiar about him either. His face…it also started to scratch at the back of Abbacchio’s mind. But again he couldn’t tell why.

“Hey,” he called suddenly. “What are you doing?”

The man looked up in surprise. “I’m collecting evidence. I apologize if I’ve disturbed you.”

“No, it’s just…” Abbacchio shook his head. He hesitated a moment, before he pushed his chair back. “Hey, can I help at all?”

“You really shouldn’t, Leone.”

Abbacchio stopped, frozen in place. “You…how do you know my name?”

The man finally looked up at him, meeting his eyes with a sad smile. “You don’t remember me?”

And it was then that Abbacchio did remember him. Images of blood and shame, tearing through him like the bullet that had taken this man’s life.

“It—it’s you,” he gasped, staggering, propping himself up against the table. “How…what is this?”

The man, his partner—his dead partner—straightened up and gave him a kind look. “You don’t know? You haven’t figured it out yet?”

Abbacchio’s breathing quickened into panicked gasps, his whole body shaking. “No…no, this isn’t…I’m not….”

“Not quite, no,” his partner said kindly. “You have a choice, Leone. I was sent here to tell you that.”

Tears started to fall from his eyes. “I don’t understand,” he pleaded.

“You have a choice, Leone,” his partner said again. “Stay here with me, help me with this investigation, or go back to your mission.”

The mission. And like that Abbacchio realized what he had forgotten. Moody Blues rewinding the place of the photograph, searching for the Boss’s face. Kids playing soccer. He’d reached for the ball to get it out of a tree for them and then…

Abbacchio’s choked. Blood dribbled from between his lips and he reached down to grasp his chest, only to find…nothing but mauled meat and bone.

He collapsed to his knees with a wheeze and his partner knelt in front of him, grabbing his shoulders to keep him steady.

“It’s not your time yet, Leone. You still have a duty to do.”

“But I…failed,” he choked out in a bubble of blood.

“No, you didn’t,” the other man insisted, still holding him up. “You didn’t fail. And you don’t belong here. Listen.”

Abbacchio shut his eyes, dizzy, as he could hear shouting in the distance, voices screaming his name, pleading with him. He blinked his eyes open again and his partner was smiling encouragingly at him.

“Go. Go to them, Leone.”

“But…”

He squeezed his shoulders hard. “I’ll see you again some other time, my old friend. Go now!”

He shoved him hard, and Abbacchio fell back for what felt like an eternity until his back hit something hard and solid and he gasped, lurching up.

Giorno and Mista reeled back.

“Holy shit!” Mista cried, eyes wide in horror. Giorno’s eyes were red with tears that soon turned to genuine awe.

“Abba!”

Abbacchio collapsed backward again as Narancia flung himself at him, sobbing.

“Careful, careful, Narancia!” Giorno cried. “He’s still not completely healed.”

“But he’s alive,” Narancia sobbed and pulled back to look at Abbacchio. “You’re alive.”

Abbacchio stared at him, still processing the pain in his chest with each breath, the coppery taste in his mouth, between his teeth. He was alive. He must be. He was in too much pain to be dead. It was odd too, because he thought he’d had a strange dream…

“Leone.”

Bucciarati pushed through the others, staring at him for a long moment, eyes wide, lip bleeding. Then he surged forward and yanked Abbacchio into his arms hard enough to make the mostly dead man wheeze.

That seemed to be an invitation for the rest of them to envelope him, even Giorno—Abbacchio was too tired to care at the moment, and it seemed the kid had saved his life and all.

Outside of all the bodies surrounding him, he caught a movement off to the side and turned slightly to look.

He saw the lone figure of a familiar policeman standing there watching, a soft smile on his face as he waved. Abbacchio blinked and he disappeared just like that, as if he had all been simply a part of Abbacchio’s imagination all along.

Bucciarati finally broke the embrace, pulling back with a surreptitious swipe of his eyes. “I’m sorry, but we need to be going. The Boss is close, and we now have his face, thanks to Moody Blues.” He met Abbacchio’s eyes with a nod. “You did well, Abbacchio. You should get some rest in the turtle while you can.”

Abbacchio nodded in agreement. Despite their urgent situation, he couldn’t help but feel somehow at peace. He was now positive that no matter what was to come, he was right where he was supposed to be.

[abbacchioweek]

In your wildest dreams - moody blues

this is a bit late but i really wanted to use this song as the lyrics touched me quite a bit!!!

I see you now, and I remember the rain soaked day that you extended your hand and through your hand love flooded my soul. Home was never existent until I met you, a place to hide from the rain, a warm embrace, hot tea, soft blankets, reassuring kindness and all of it was you. You saved my soul and gave it a place to stay and now I must say goodbye. Now residing in the sky I see you and I know you will join me soon, grief consumes my heart for the life you could, should have lived, but it is soothed as i know you are not angry. We meet in the sky, love is all we knew and all I knew was you.

@abbacchioweek2024

[abbacchioweek]

All good things must end.

It's been wonderful seeing the fandom come together for Abbacchio Week, so let's celebrate one last time for the year with our final prompt "Go Now".

Saying goodbye is difficult, but everyone has to do it at some point. Even Leone Abbacchio himself.

Tag the blog or use the tag #abbacchioweek2024 so we can see your posts and reblog all your submissions.

[abbacchioweek]

Once beneath the stars, the universe was ours.

We're close to the end, so let's enjoy it while it lasts. It's time to dedicate a day to one of the more popular songs by Moody Blues, "Your Wildest Dreams".

The wildest dream could be many things. The past and those associated with it, the future and what it may hold, or the daydreams of the present.

Before posting your works, please check that you are using the tag #abbacchioweek2024 or are tagging the blog.

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The Story in Your Eyes

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I Know You're Out There Somewhere

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Abbacchio Week Day 5: The Story in Your Eyes

For today's @abbacchioweek2024 fic I'm playing with my 1930s AU which up to this point has mostly been headcanons and some various art I've done. I think this might be the first time I've written first person for a character that was not an OC but tried to replicate a noir style narration for Abbacchio here. This AU is set in New York City

~~~~~~~

New York, 1932

It was a quiet night. A bit surprising, honestly, what with all the growing tensions between various gangs—one of which I had, perhaps foolishly, gotten myself embroiled with.

I lit up a cigarette as I stepped out of the restaurant I had come to frequent as of late. The back room had become a little too familiar to me, filled with smoke and discussion, broken up only by the asinine arguments of the young rips my new ‘business partner’ seemed intent on surrounding himself with.

I’d asked him once why he took in a bunch of kids who were more likely to shoot themselves in the foot than enforce protection in his territory and he’d told me firmly that they were good kids. Good kids. Heh. None of us were very good, but that was just what Bucciarati was like, seeing the best in people. He’d tried to do the same to me and I had promptly told him that he was being an idiot. Not that it stopped him, but he’s stubborn like that.

Still, I guess he wasn’t wrong. They weren’t bad kids, they’d just been dealt bad hands—much like the rest of us. Except that new Giovanna prick. I’d thought Fugo was a smug little shit when I first met him but he doesn’t hold a candle to the new blond-haired bastard Bucciarati had picked up. I wasn’t usually in the habit of questioning his judgement, but I was coming close with this one.

I exhaled a cloud of smoke into the night air before tucking my hand into my pocket. I wished for a moment that I hadn’t started attempting to replace my nightcap with a smoke to varying effect. I could really use one tonight.

Bucciarati had a good heart despite his chosen profession, and I knew he wanted change as much as the rest of us did. But I just got the feeling in my soul that Giovanna and his grand ideas were going to cause trouble one of these days—with the certainty that I would somehow be dragged along with it.

I wasn’t entirely wrong, if not slightly mistaken in my original judgement. If anything, Giorno Giovanna was a harbinger with an angel’s countenance, heralding the devil close on our heels. Because it was that night, about a week after Giovanna joined Bucciarati’s team that she showed up.

She was waiting in my office when I got back after the meeting. I never locked the door in case a client needed to get inside—all my important paperwork was hidden in the back of my closet in my apartment and I had been grateful for my constant paranoia on more than one occassion.

She was young, that was the first thing I noticed, couldn’t be older than sixteen and her clothing was expensive and well put together; a gold and emerald necklace around her neck that I could tell even in the dim lighting wasn’t paste.

But it was her eyes that struck me most of all. As emerald as the stone around her neck holding a look of desperation and fear that would have caught the attention of Bucciarati a mile away. She was in some kind of trouble—the bad kind. She wasn’t one of my usual clients who came to me about stolen possessions or a cheating lover. She was terrified, running from something, and I thought for a moment that I should send her out the door before she could tell me what it was.

But she spoke up, voice firm, with a tremor that only one as trained in human mannerisms as I am could detect. “Are you…Mr. Abbacchio?”

“I am,” I replied, in a little bit of defeat. “What can I do for you, sweetheart?”

She shifted, uncomfortable, worrying her gloved hands in her lap. “Mr. Abbacchio, I hope I can trust you to be discreet?”

I pulled my overcoat off and sat down in my chair across the desk from her, tucking a new cigarette between my lips as I reached for my lighter. “I have no one to tell, miss. Not even a secretary to pry into your business.”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly but her hands still twisted in her lap. “Mr. Abbacchio…I believe that my father… is trying to kill me.”

I pause briefly in my movements, before I collect myself again and flick my lighter into life, inhaling deeply as the cigarette tip glows red. “That’s quite the accusation. Do you have any proof of that?”

“I have no physical proof but I…I heard him over the phone today, telling someone that…that he wanted me…taken care of.”

She was shaking. I got up slowly to pull the bottle of brandy out of my file cabinet. I poured some into a glass and headed around the desk to press it into her hands. “Are you sure that was the intent?”

She nodded firmly. “I’m positive. I believe the man on the other end of the line asked the same thing and my father said, ‘no, I want her dead. I want… to be sure.’” She was shaking so hard now she could barely hold the glass as she brought it to her lips, taking a bracing drink.

I leaned back on the desk, arms folded over my chest. “Who is your father?”

She looked down, still shaking. “You’re just a private detective, right?” she asked. “You’re not…affiliated with anyone?”

“I work for myself,” Abbacchio said, wondering if he could count Bucciarati as an ‘affiliation’ and decided that explanation would complicate things. At the end of the day Bucciarati and his gang were my clients, not my co-workers. “If I may ask, why exactly are you concerned about that?”

“Because,” she whispered. “My father…is a very powerful man.”

I nodded. “I gathered as much from your appearance.”

She looked down, hugging her coat closer to her. She had probably put on her least fancy dress to come here thinking she could hide. I felt another wave of pity for her, she was just a kid, after all. A terrified kid.

“What’s his name, sweetheart?”

She shook her head. “His name means nothing. You wouldn’t know him by that. No one does.”

I felt unease run through me as I bent to meet her eyes. “Who is he?”

She let out a half sob. “He—he’s the head of the mafia branch—Passione. The Boss. Don Diavolo. He named himself after the devil, Mr. Abbacchio. That’s the kind of man he is.”

I was still processing the information when her eyes finally snapped up to me with a new look of desperation. “His men are looking for me and they want to kill me. I don’t have anywhere to go, please, Mr. Abbacchio, please help me!”

The tears in her eyes had me pulling out a handkerchief, handing it over.

“I can’t,” I told her simply. I knew I was sealing my fate, whatever that may be, as she looked up at me in shock and hopelessness and I continued. “But…I know someone who can.”

[abbacchioweek]

Abbacchio Week Day 5: The Story In Your Eyes

Giorno shares some non-favourable thoughts of Abbacchio.

Enjoy!!

@abbacchioweek2024

[abbacchioweek]

Let's listen to the tide slowly turning and wash all our heartaches away.

Time to celebrate Friday with the prompt "The Story in Your Eyes". Is Abbacchio thinking about his fortune and that he is not to blame? Or is he part of the fire that is burning, using the ashes to build another day? The question and answer are up to you.

Use the tag #abbacchioweek2024 or tag the blog so we can reblog your works!

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Abbacchio Week Day 4: I Know You're Out There Somewhere

Lesbian Trish agenda and her thoughts on her bonding with Abbacchio back in 2001.

Enjoy!

~

@abbacchioweek2024

[abbacchioweek]

Abbacchio Week Day 4: I Know You're Out There Somewhere

Today's @abbacchioweek2024 fic is from my Vampire Hunter AU (if you haven't read it, check it out HERE!)

This story is set soon after Abbacchio joins Bucciarati's team in this verse so technically pre-canon Vampire AU ;)

Brief warning for some gore

~~~~~~~

It didn’t matter how Abbacchio chose to look at the situation, there was only one conclusion he could come to:

He had fucked up. His first real solo job and he had completely failed.

He slumped in the corner of the rusty cage he was currently trapped in—though on second thought, it was probably less rusty than he had initially thought since it seemed quite sound when he tried to kick his way out. And that left a whole new connotation to the red stains on the metal.

He’d tried to stop the bleeding in his leg with strips of his shirt, but it had still soaked through. He was bleeding so much he could smell it, the sharp metallic tang of iron and fear, mixing with the fetid odor of older blood in his surroundings.

The space he was in, a hidden passage under the crypt he’d been investigating, was dark, but he could see the eerie eyeshine from the ghouls milling around, waiting for…something, as they cast hungry glances over at him.

Abbacchio snarled in fury, slamming his good foot into the door of the cage again. “What’s the matter? Am I still too fresh for you to eat?”

The ghouls snickered.

“You won’t be once ‘e’s done for ya,” one of them growled in a wicked glee, licking its lips.

What the hell could they have meant by that? Abbacchio looked around the stone catacomb. He had been here for at least two hours now, he thought. He wondered if Bucciarati would consider him missing at this point or just late. Would he and Fugo be out there looking for him?

Would they even go to the crypt first, or would they choose to look in the public houses instead?

Abbacchio felt his heart sinking at the thought. It was true that he had barely earned the loyalty of his new team, but he couldn’t deny that it was demoralizing to think they might not be coming for him. Even if it was deserved.

The ghouls suddenly started whispering amongst each other and Abbacchio felt a shift in the atmosphere as another figure entered the room, a lantern held up. Abbacchio could clearly see the red eyes indicating he was a vampire, and he curled his lip in disgust.

“I knew there was something else going on here,” he growled. “So what…can’t even hunt for yourself, fang?”

The vampire sneered, hanging the lantern on a hook set into the wall before he leaned down toward Abbacchio’s cage. “Bold words for a trapped and injured Hunter.”

Abbacchio snarled. “You think I’m going to let a blood-sucker intimidate me?”

“I don’t know, I think you already have.” The vampire smirked. “See, while someone like you might not understand, I see the beauty in the opportunity here. The ghouls get to feed their nest and I also get to eat without having to do any messy hunting.” He crouched next to the cage, grinning in a way that showed off his fangs. “It’s quite a good arrangement.”

Abbacchio reached for his crucifix, but realized the ghouls must have taken it with the rest of his weapons. He was defenseless and furious at the fear that was creeping through him.

“Oh, are you scared?” the vampire mocked.

Abbacchio glowered at him. “You wish.”

“Oh, I can smell it on you.” The vampire chuckled before his eyes traveled down to the soaked rags around Abbacchio’s thigh and he licked his lips.

Abbacchio’s heart skipped a beat as the vampire reached through the cage and suddenly dug his fingers into Abbacchio’s wound.

Abbacchio cried out in shock and agony, pressing as far back into the cage as he could as he watched the vampire slowly bring his bloody fingers to his lips.

“Stop!” Abbacchio croaked. “You don’t get to drink my blood, you fanged freak!”

The vampire chuckled as he licked his fingers. “This is actually the worst thing you could possibly imagine, isn’t it? How delightfully naïve. You humans are always so close-minded in your prejudice.”

Abbacchio shut his eyes briefly, trying not to remember what had happened to his partner, how Abbacchio had watched the man get turned, helpless to do anything, and how he had been forced to kill him before he…

Maybe…maybe he deserved this. Maybe it didn’t matter if Bucciarati and the others were out there looking for him. Not that they would care much if they found him now after he had fucked up so royally. Maybe Bucciarati would finally realize his mistake in recruiting Abbacchio to begin with.

The vampire motioned to one of the ghouls who brought him the key to Abbacchio’s cage and he opened it, reaching inside.

Abbacchio bared his teeth as he was dragged out and his hands were manacled. He fought as much as he could but a well-placed kick to his injured leg had stars bursting over his sight with dizzying agony.

He slumped against the wall as his hands were suspended above his head, panting. The vampire grabbed his chin and wrenched his head to one side to expose his neck.

“It’s always a pleasure to feed on a Hunter. A reminder that your kind don’t really have all that much power over us.”

“Don’t!” Abbacchio tried, embarrassed by his cowardice, before the vampire sank his fangs into Abbacchio’s neck. He cried out through gritted teeth, eyes fluttering at the sudden loss of blood, sick to his stomach.

He briefly thought about Bucciarati’s kindness, the way the man had firmly, yet compassionately dragged Abbacchio out of his personal gutter and into a new life. One with purpose. But what purpose did he serve now, nothing but a meal for the beasts he had sworn his revenge on?

As he felt his blood being drained, he started to feel desperate. If anyone’s out there, he pleaded. Bucciarati…if you’re out there. You were right. I don’t want to die. Especially not like this…

As if in answer to his prayers the sound of the ghouls screaming suddenly echoed through the catacombs. The vampire drew away to look around in confusion as something landed with a thump, a hiss hailing a mist that began to permeate the small space.

The vampire suddenly screamed, pulling back as his skin began to blister on contact. He raced down the hallway, only for his footsteps to stop suddenly with a meaty thump.

Abbacchio’s head lolled on his shoulders as he watched the vampire’s head roll to a stop at his feet, suddenly incredibly nauseous.

“Fugo, clear the rest of the tunnel, make sure there are no more victims.”

The commanding voice hailed a figure in blue and black, rushing over to Abbacchio as he sheathed his sword.

“Abbacchio!”

He blinked as firm hands found his face, lifting it up to inspect his throat. Bucciarati’s tongue clicked as he saw the wound. “You still with us?”

Abbacchio moaned, unable to form words right now.

More footsteps ran up. “It’s clear, Bucciarati.”

“Thank you. Help me get him down.”

Abbacchio was barely aware of Bucciarati and Fugo releasing his wrists from the manacles, until he slumped against them with a short cry, his leg collapsing.

The two Hunters took his weight easily enough between them.

“Damn, he looks awful, how much blood has he lost?”

“I’m not sure. Enough. I have to say, those holy water grenades worked out better than I could have hoped—good job, Fugo…”

Abbacchio listened to their back and forth as he tried not to vomit or pass out. He hadn’t felt this bad since he was getting over his drinking problem.

However, he still couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. His prayers had apparently been answered after all. He had half expected his admission of wanting to live to doom him via the universe’s perverse obsession in fucking him over. But maybe it had more to do with having a team he could count on now.

“Easy, watch his leg,” Bucciarati cautioned Fugo as they made their way toward the carriage that would take them back to their headquarters.

He bit back a cry as he was maneuvered inside, but they carefully laid him down across one of the benches and Bucciarati tucked his cloak around him. Abbacchio hadn’t even realized he was shivering but he was cold…and grateful for the gesture.

“Abbacchio.”

He tried to blink the blurriness out of his eyes to focus on Bucciarati as he hovered over him. “The vampire…he did not make you drink his blood?”

Abbacchio felt terror wash through him at the thought, but firmly shook his head. “He didn’t. You know I would have told you that.” He would have put a stake through his own heart if that had been the case.

Bucciarati nodded and went to sit down before Abbacchio worked up the courage.

“I’m sorry.”

Bucciarati frowned. “For what?”

Abbacchio stared at him incredulously. “For…for getting caught! You trusted me with the job and I—”

“Don’t,” Bucciarati cut in sharply, face stern. “That job was a death trap I didn’t expect. I never should have sent you in there alone. That one was on me; a move ill befitting a team leader.”

Abbacchio was shocked to hear Bucciarati admit to guilt, he tried to protest, but the other man reached out to squeeze his shoulder. “You did good, Abbacchio, accept my sincere apology to do better next time. Rest now, we’ll get you fixed up, soon enough.”

Abbacchio slumped onto the bench as Bucciarati knocked against the top of the carriage and sat beside Fugo. His eyes slid shut despite himself.

“Thank you…” he murmured.

He didn’t hear a reply, but it was enough that his team had come for him. Blood was indeed thicker than water, especially for those who spilled it together.