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| Whatâs waiting down Zuni Road |
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Pairing: Gabriella Castillo (Mayans M.C.) x Ignacio âNachoâ Varga (Better Call Saul)
Gift for the wonderful, illustrious, prolific @drabbles-mc - Rarepairs Exchange 2023
Word count: â5k
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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MamĂĄ always told me to watch out for red flags in life. Dime con quien andas, te dirĂ© quien eres. Porque when someone shows you who they are, theyâre 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 couldnât 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 didnât bring her to tears. But it didnât. 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 couldnât 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 couldnât even explain what it was that hurt me so.
Even PapĂĄ, loving and kind as he could be, made MamĂĄ feel small when he told her that having to sell her floral shop in Mexico, so we could come here, wasnât as great a loss as him losing his career as a police officer. âWhatâs selling a few flowers to a few abuelitas to putting my life on the line, to upholding law and order every day?â heâd 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.
đ€
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. Itâs not that there werenât 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 wasnât 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 motherâs 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 surgeonâs 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 Angelâs 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 podĂa mentir una mierda, ni siquiera a sĂ 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 Angelâs 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 Iâm no fool. The car probably wasnât his. They wouldâve stolen it before they got to the hospital.
The sun has been beating down on me through the driverâs side window, relentless and my face is so damp, I canât 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 lĂĄgrimas 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 shouldnât let it die and disappear from my old life completely. No, with MamĂĄ 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 didnât 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.
đ€
After I left Angel and EZ, grappling with each other on that hilltop by the hospital, I went to Mercedesâ house to hole up. It was a dingy little duplex not far from the hospital but EZ didnât know where it was and thatâs 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 Iâd 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 didnât 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. âAre you Gaby?â He'd barely batted an eye. I nodded slowly. âAngel sent me with some stuff for you.â I furrowed my brow, suspicious but too frazzled to form words. âYeah, uhâ 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.â He extended his hand. âIâm Manny.â 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. âNah, I donâtâ I canât stay long. Just wanted to give you these.â He held out the crumpled cigarette box and the keys to 'Angelâs' car, dropping them in the palm of my hand. Through tears that I wasnât even aware had begun to fall, I joked tiredly, âSo, I narrowly escape getting killed by the love of my life and Angel thinks Iâm ready to take up smoking?â âYea, right? Guess when you cheat death, seems as good a time as any to pick up a habit that causes terminal illness.â Manny stuffed his hands in his hoodie pockets and leaned against the doorway, eyes cast down, chuckling at the ground. âNah, actually thereâs 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 peopleâll take care of you.â âWho is it?â âHis nameâ well, heâs a guy whoâs connected enough in Mexico that EZ canât come after you there. Yâknow, bad for business.â With a knowing smirk, he tipped his head, âSi me sientes.â There seemed a reluctance to say this manâs 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. âLo peligroso que es ser una mujer enamorada.â** I began to cry harder now and Mannyâs head snapped back up to look at me. âAw easy now, ma,â he said gently, stepping closer to brush a tear from my cheek with the back of his hand. âTodo estarĂĄ bien.â I nodded weakly before choking out through something that was halfway between a laugh and a sob, âI know this is a weird question butâ pero ya puedes abrazarme?â 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.
đ€
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 âTapizados, Custom Upholstery, ReparaciĂłn.â 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 wouldâve 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 isnât, 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 theyâre arguing but largely because they both seem to be wearing matching uniforms, an indication yes, someone indeed ran this fine establishment and didnât 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. SimĂłn! Ăl es un gruñón de verdad like Angel said. He looks just like another gruñón I know too. In fact, if his hair wasnât 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 heâs had someone important to worry about for a very long time. Who was this Vargaâs someone?
More heated now, Señor Varga points to the building and I think I can make out the words 'vuelve ahà 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 Iâm 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 âThe Wonders of Kaptex!â and âChrome-Tanned Whole Cowhides!â 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 Iâve read repeatedly, over and over and over: Ask 4 grumpyass mf named Varga. The qualifier doesnât 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. ââScuse me, miss? Something I can help you with?â
My head snaps up to meet a look of cool intensity from the younger Varga. He was younger sure, but I couldnât 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 oneâs eyes that I donât 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 Iâve 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.
âPrefieres que hablamos en español?â 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.
âA mĂ no me importa,â I shrug, trying my best to seem casual. âPuedo hablar de los dos.â
âO sĂ? Pues la podrĂa preguntarte de nuevo pero ya sabrĂĄs que es la misma en ambos.â
Maybe this Varga is more prickly than grumpy. Would Angel know the difference? Probably not.
âHmm,â I hum. He seems skeptical, so I switch to English. Two can play this game. âHuh? Yes. Yeah. Actually yes. I need- Iâm looking for someone naââ 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.
âIâm so sorry. I donât know what-â I pause, closing my eyes, searching for the words. âI have not slept much. I just came here all the way from California and did not make many stops.â
Varga picks up the last of the pamphlets and with a resigned smirk on his face, offers his hand. âAh, well, you wouldnât be the only person to end up in ABQ whoâs running from something.â 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. âOh, not the car fresheners. It looks like someone went to a lot of trouble to make these look nice,â I tease, holding up my hands in defeat. âIâll keep my distance.â
Varga shakes his head, suppressing a laugh like he doesnât want me to know I have said anything heâd 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, âSo, you were saying?â
âSorry?â
âYou were about to say you were looking for someone right before you decided to go full Jenga with my pamphlets over there.â
âOh,â I blow a puff of air 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? Theyâd 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.
âAlright, I have danced with death,â I hold my index finger and thumb up together and squint my eyes, âonce 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 thisâ 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,â the lump in my throat hurts as I swallow it, but still choke up despite myself, âhe tried to kill me. His brother, Angel Reyes, told me to lie low here in case he tried to come after me again.â
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 itâs 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, âUh, hello? Does any of this sound familiar?â
Face impassive, he crosses his arms and just keeps staring at me before finally breaking the silence with one infuriating word. âVest.â
âMm? Pardon?â
âYou said chest. You meant vest.â
He is like a brick wall. I am still not getting it.
âYou meant vest. You said,â he flattens his hand bringing it down to punctuate the end of each phrase, ââplaying your cards close to the chest.â The expression is âplaying your cards close to the vest.â Like back in the day, old guys playing Poker in saloons and shit.â
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. Whatâs more infuriating, he turns back around to the money trays and the ledger and continues talking at me like that. âYeah, yeah, I got a call from Manny, told me someone was coming. I remember those Reyes brothers too. One of themâs a wiseass and one of themâs a dipstick. Which one almost killed you?â
Poor Angel. My cheeks are burning and my chest floods with indignation on his behalf. âAngel is not a diââ the word is new to me and comes out of my mouth clumsy, âdip-ssstick.â
Vargaâs shoulders rattle as he chuckles, âSo it was the dipstick,â nodding to himself like heâs 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 Iâm the one whoâs pleading with the sky. âNo, it wasnât the dâ no, not Angel. Heâs the one who saved me, told me to come here for help. Not that I would call,â I wave my hand around at nothing in particular, âwhatever this has been, 'help.'â
Varga says nothing, so I continue. âNo, it was the other one. Ezekiel. EZ. Heâs the one whoâ well.â 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, donât shoot.'
âHey, look. Iâm sorry, I didnât mean to be soâ such a dick. I forget what itâs like for people notââ he wavers, running his hand up and down the back of his head, searching for the words, âwell, normal people. People not in our business.â
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. âCâmon.â
He stops at the door once he realizes I am not following him. More speaking to the door than to me, he calls out, âYo, you coming or what?â
âComing? Coming where?â
In an oddly graceful gesture, he spins around, arms swinging, coming to rest on his hips, as he tips one out to the side. âYou like milkshakes?â
âDo I likeâ?â
âMilkshakes. 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.â
âI meanââ I shrug. âWho doesnât like milkshakes.â
âGreat.â 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 doesnât smile with true joy often. Something clicks just then and it occurs to me: what if heâs the someone the senior Varga, M. Varga, has had to worry about all these years? He turns back around, grabbing the door handle. âLetâs get a milkshake.â
âWait.â
I watch his shoulders rise and fall, an unmistakable sigh of frustration. A reaction I immediately resent. âHey.â I cross my arms. âNo 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.â
Turning back around, he strolls slowly over to me, smirking and fiddling with his keys. âMystery milkshake, huh?"
Still unamused, my eyebrows are halfway up my forehead. I wait.
âYeah alright, you got me there. But I think Iâve got a solution for that. You said your name's Gaby, right?â I bob my head once and he holds out his hand. âMy nameâs Nacho.â He seems to take notice of my eyes darting to the name tag on his uniform. âWell, Ignacio, but no one calls me that.â Leaning forward, voice dropping low and quiet, he pleads like itâs a secret. âYeah, please donât call me that, seriously.â
I canât 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.
âWell, itâs nice to meet you,â I beam at him, our hands moving up and down in tandem, "Señor Not-Ignacio Varga.â
âOh good,â he says, smile deflating slightly as he cocks an eyebrow. âAnother comedian. Remind me never to introduce you to Lalo.â
It seems Iâm already treading dangerous ground, but that only makes me beam at him more. âWho is Lalo? And why should you never to introduce us?â
âPues,â he looks me up and down, assessing me before rolling his eyes, âhay muchas razones pero la primera? Eres demasiado guapa y chistosa para conocer a un hombre peligroso asĂ. But heâd sure think youâreâ I dunno, something.â
O, demasiado guapa? Nacho is becoming more interesting by the minute. âHmm, wellâ," I muse as he turns to open the door. "And what does Not-Ignacio think?â
He shoots me a look like donât go there through half lidded eyes. It is the first time I notice how long his eyelashes are. TĂș eres guapĂsimo tambiĂ©n. He seems like the type to not really know it. Or at least, the type to be unconcerned with it anyway. Of course itâs 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.
âOkay, okay,â I put my hands up, âlast time, I swear. So, what does Nacho think?â
âI think...â he takes a long pause while holding the door open for me, scratching his head like he is considering the question with genuine sincerity. âI think ..... thaaat itâs time for a milkshake.â
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 itâs the sleeplessness, or maybe itâs 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 passengerâs side of Nacho Vargaâs 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.
â
taglist: @narcolini
#Gabrielle Castillo x Ignacio âNachoâ Varga#gaby castillo#nacho varga#better call saul#mayans mc#crossover AU pairing#rarepairs exchange 2023#shockingly not narcos mexico#ignacio nacho varga#yoyoyo#148- 3 to the 3#to the 6 to the 9#representing the ABQ#whaaaddup biatc????#leave it at the tone
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#cobbleâs tones#loosely inspired by if it sucks hit the bricks#i think walking into the ocean and never leaving could fix me
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Instagram credit: not.so.well.read
#bookblr#booklr#darkacademia#dark academia#dark academia aesthetic#dark academia vibes#classic literature#literature#dogblr#dog#cute dog#fall autumn#autumn colors#autumn leaves#fallblr#fallcore#autumncore#coffeeblr#coffee break#coffee lover#earthy tones#cozy house#cozycore#cozy aesthetic#comfy#comfy colors#cozy
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obligatory Oscar post đ«¶đ«¶
#oh lord I am UNWELL about him#I went a little crazy whenever Oscar was mentioned in 44 I wonât lie#I got scared Arthur had this tone that implied he was gonna leave the letter but thank GOD for John#John will get him to read it soon i have faith in him#artists on tumblr#malevolent#malevolent fanart#malevolent podcast#oscar malevolent#arthur lester#arthur malevolent#marie pilon#marie malevolent#john malevolent#blindfaith#blind faith
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~ Jewel Tones ~
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*bracing myself on my knees and trying to breath, nursing a cramp*
I got here as fast as I can. I just wanted to point out that THISâŠ
Is one of the gayest fucking lines of television Iâve heard in my life.
Even if the presence of the song itself somehow wasnât a flashing spotlight enough, the literal voice of God directly draws attention to it. Telling us that in universe, a nightingale really is in fact singing in Barkley square, and to know its music is sweet regardless of if we can hear it. Just like there are really in fact angels (one fallen but weâll let it slide) dining at the ritz, and theyâve been falling in love regardless of if theyâve been allowed to openly pursue that feeling.
And hell, maybe itâs BECAUSE of the traffic that the nightingale finally sings. Perhaps it wasnât ready until it was sure no one else could listen.
#couldn't get this across but God's tone of voice on but it was there... is SO telling#there's such a cheekiness to it#part of leaving the garden means leaving that surveillance#being able to make free choices and do so PRIVATELY#WITHOUT fear of consequence#something beautiful and rare is happening at that table#and it's now NONE of heaven or hell's damn business#good omens#ineffable husbands#Crowley#aziraphale#season 1#a nightingale sang in Barkley square#episode 6#1x06#biceratops#meta#analysis
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#beetlejuice#lydia deetz#song is ghosting by mother mother#i've been wanting to make a crushingly sad animatic with this song about lydia outgrowing beetlejuice and leaving him behind for years#maybe someday....#also editing this was funny because the original scene has its cartoony little incidental music as usual#and beetlejuice crying WAUUUGHHH in the bg after he leaves#so i had to remove all that LMAO#let's remove the cartoony tone and make it.....depressing!!!#anyway thank you if you read my tags sorry for rambling
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can someone please list all of the nasty, cruel shit nesta has said to cassian? I'm serious. "she was really awful to him." where? when she was a human and he came into her home and insulted her? she gave him a dirty look and then ignored him. when he violated her personal space and she kneed him in the balls? she's 20, he's 500+, and she had very recently almost been assaulted by a man. next. at solstice? nesta kept to herself and only after he followed her did she say "I don't want anything from you." how is that cruel? at worst she uses a cold tone with him. that's literally it. she called him a bastard once after he called her a witch. like what are we talking about lol
#pro nesta#pro nesta archeron#she did nothing wrong#why are men given a pass for being objectively evil but nesta uses a frigid tone and she's the devil#anti cassian#she was mean to feyre in book 1#that's it#nesta archeron deserves better#leave nesta alone#nesta
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i guess it's all building castles in the air about a character who only appears in flashbacks but i don't really get interpretations that claim shou's mom ~abandoned~ him when "lost the equivalent of a nasty custody battle with her supervillain ex husband and went behind his back anyway to at least stay in touch with her kid" feels like the much more obvious conclusion to come to about that whole situation given his dad's line about not "letting" shou see her
anyway i can admit i'm biased because i think shou, 13-year-old who sees himself as a responsible adult, suddenly having to deal with a parent who actually wants to be in his life As A Parent is a hysterical dynamic. he moves in with her like "so what do i owe you for my part of rent" and she's like "shou 1) you are my middle school aged son and 2) i own the house." there's a thematic argument to be made obviously vis a vis mob psycho 100's insistence on showing you genre-typical kids carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders and taking you by the chin and going "look. look. that's a child." but mostly i want to see shou ask his mom how they should revise the chore wheel he used with his adult lackeys to be fair for two people and her mentally screech to a halt and think maybe her plan to give him an allowance in case he wants to see a movie or something is not the biggest issue they need to deal with
#havent finished the manga yet tho so if I'm wildly wrong about something they cut out just dont worry about it#shou suzuki#mp100#suzuki shou#shou's mom#mob psycho 100#it also. tbh. feels a little uncomfortable when people get mad at shou's mom for leaving in a tone that kind of#verges on ''women should stay with their violent husbands no matter what if there are children involved or else they're selfish monsters''#which... holy first wave feminism batman#the turbo divorce attempted patricide family of all time
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Kingdom Hearts - Hollow Bastion
#kingdom hearts#kh1#hollow bastion#scenery#my gif#creating this set helped me truly appreciate just how detailed this world is#i mean i always knew it was beautiful but i never actually slowed down long enough to REALLY look at it#seriously every single room is so varied and intricately designed it's so impressive#it was difficult to select only eight locations to showcase because this place is huge and each area is so memorable in its own way#i technically used two shots from the lift stops but c'mon i wasn't going to leave out those giant stained glass windows are you kidding me#they look amazing but can be easily missed since they're so high up#this world is so dark and moody with its elaborate architecture despite its soft peach toned skybox that's surprisingly calming to look at#she has the range
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Play stupid games win stupid prizes Raven.
#rwby#rosebird#my art#cherry this one goes out to you lmao#also I know the skin tone is grey#my tablet colors were fucked up leave me alone
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"the Gabe and Sally dynamic in the show is abusive" and "the way they've portrayed Gabe in the show is distinctly different from his book counterpart and fans can criticize that" are two discussions that can coexist
#I understand that this is hard topic to navigate#but me saying that /they've changed Gabe and that's consequently altered the dynamic he has with Sally in way I don't like/#is NOT me saying I don't think what they've portrayed onscreen is non-abusive#or that I WANT to see him abuse her???#its just the guy in the show while clearly controlling and abusive (emotionally and financially so far)#...I don't believe he's the guy who's presence was so horrid and disgusting MONSTERS avoided him#I wouldn't call him /Smelly/#in the book his abuse (all forms) is much more overt#(and just to be painstakingly clear: abuse doesn't have to be overt to be abuse)#but the guy in the show does not have the same presence as the guy in the book#book Gabe is menacing#he growls and he threatens and both Sally and Percy have developed very specific responses to deal with it#I've seen one take saying that people can't recognize the abuse in the show because its not physical (yet?)#but even disregarding the physical abuse entirely#if you compare the book scene and TV show scene of Percy arriving home and he and Sally readying for Montauk#there is a pretty stark difference in tone#and in how both Sally and Percy interact with Gabe#in the book Sally goes out of her way to avoid /provoking/ Gabe and asks Percy to do the same until they can leave for Montauk#and Gabe is just itching for any excuse to keep them home#and imo if Book Sally had said the things that show Sally did to Gabe#Gabe wouldn't have let them gone!#and again im not saying that the show's depiction is nonabusive#or unrealistic#im saying its simply /different/ than the book#and im upset that it doesn't feel like dynamic depicted the book#and no book sally is no simpering wilting flower#but she's also not what they depicted in the show either#pjo adaptation#sally jackson#pjo
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There's an awkward "first date" silence between them, the kind that suggests there isn't going to be a "second". Giselle tries her best to keep the conversation going.
#giselle philip#king edward#enchanted#disneyedit#enchantededit#enchanted 2007#enchanted movie#prince edward#amy adams#rucksack*#so much I love about this scene#the way she's awkwardly playing with her hair#edward's confusion when she says âthe day AFTER thatâ#the way they're just not on the same wave length At All#the very unexcited tone in her voice when she says âwell I'm very excited about that but...â#followed by the immediate joy she feels when she sees/orders their hotdogs#like she's so excited for that food it's probably the only part of that date she did enjoy#meanwhile edward just wants this shit to end so they can leave#like he's so bored and uninterested in everything she says#also it's not mentioned here but in the script she continues and mentions wanting to open a small business#and possibly do volunteer work too#and edward doesn't understand even a little bit#god. their date is just. so good. they're both so utterly miserable the whole time I love it so much
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ig credit: myphotography_com
#fall autumn#autumn leaves#fallcore#fall season#fall vibes#fall leaves#fall aesthetic#october#bookblr#books#rainday#rainy city#dark academia#darkacademia#light academia#lightacademia#coffeelife#coffee lover#coffee#breakfast#brown aesthetic#brown tones
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Itâs summer but Iâm forever dreaming of fall đ
#autumn#fall#fall aesthetic#fall season#fallforautumn#fall leaves#fall vibes#fall cottage#fall decor#fall blog#pumpkins#warm tones#warmth#fall weather
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~ Earth Tones ~
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