#Coco fanfic
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Echoes on a Toy Guitar
Oneshot Summary: Coco AU. Imelda's parents die in a house fire and it just so happens the only photo she has of them is from her and Hector's wedding. On the Day of the Dead she puts the photo of her, her parents, and Hector on the ofrenda without a second thought. That night, the toy guitar Hector sent for Coco starts playing Coco's lullaby.
TW: Death, implied sex
It started on the Day of the Dead. Imelda’s parents had died in a house fire barely a month before the holiday and the only picture she had of them was from her and Hector’s wedding. She put it up without much thought to her husband standing beside her in the middle of the photo, the only one smiling in what was supposed to be a serious portrait of their wedding party.
“How can I do anything but smile?” he had asked, when her father had complained, “I just married the most wonderful woman in the world.”
Imelda had blushed, and tried to fight down her own love sick smile, but when he’d turned those soft brown eyes her way, she had melted.
So she put the wedding photo on the ofrenda and placed down a few offerings, including the gifts Hector had sent for them three and a half weeks ago. Well, gifts was perhaps not the right word, her parents had asked her to ask him to send them some parts to fix their record player, and he had complied, albeit a few days too late. She didn’t know what she expected them to do with those parts in the after life, but hey, they’d asked for them.
As Imelda placed the wedding photo on the ofrenda, her only worry was that Hector might not have received her letter alerting him that her parents were dead. In the letter sent with the gramophone parts, Hector had mentioned that he was trying to talk Ernesto out of yet another detour that would only serve to lengthen their tour. Based on the return address on the money she’d received two days later, Ernesto had once again gotten his way.
A toy guitar had arrived for Coco the day after, with a note promising he would teach her how to play it as soon as he got home.
She was glad the tour was going well, really she was. They had bills to pay after all, and it was nice to have some savings. However, Imelda missed her husband, and she couldn’t help wishing that he would just come home already. She had started looking at alternate ways for her to make money, perhaps working was a bit below her station, but if it meant their little family could be together more…? Imelda would do it with a smile on her face.
But then on Day of the Dead, less than a month since she’d last heard from her husband, the little toy guitar in Coco’s room started to play music.
It was when the child friendly festivities were over and Imelda was putting Coco down for bed. Her teeth were brushed, her face was washed, and all that was left for her to do was sing the lullaby her father had written at 8:15 sharp. Coco started singing, and the small guitar sitting on the rocking chair in the corner accompanied her.
Coco laughed and clapped, “Papa sent me a magic guitar!”
Imelda stared at the guitar, slowly nodding, “You know your papa, he wants you to have the very best.”
She tucked her daughter in, kissed her good night, then lifted the toy guitar so she could inspect it for gears. Imelda didn’t find anything, but she decided that they must be there regardless, hidden somehow. It was simply a fancy looking music box, she told herself, that went off by itself after three weeks of lying silent. It meant nothing.
No, that wasn’t true, it meant Hector had tracked down a toy maker and custom ordered a music box for their little girl. That ridiculous man. Didn’t he know Coco would have been happy with a perfectly normal toy guitar? Imelda shook her head, smiling fondly.
When she was done toasting their parent’s memory with her brothers, Imelda changed into her nightgown and laid down to sleep. She thought again of Coco’s “magic” guitar and her heart ached for her husband. It ached so hard that as she fell asleep she could almost swear that she felt a hand stroking her hair, just as Hector sometimes did.
The guitar played Coco’s lullaby the next day, and the day after. Coco was delighted, Imelda was mildly curious about how it worked.
No more letters arrived from Hector. The last gift she got from him was a necklace with Coco’s and his name inscribed on the heart shaped pendant. She wore it every day.
The money he had sent lasted them six months, long enough that Imelda was able to learn how to make shoes and had started doing so before Hector’s money ran out. Her brothers moved in to help her run her new business, they didn’t ask where Hector was, but they eventually did ask about the self playing guitar.
“It’s a music box,” Imelda brushed off the question, “Hector wrote that song for Coco, he must have gotten it custom ordered. Like my necklace.”
Oscar and Felipe had shared a look, a worried frown taking over both their faces. Imelda pretended not to see it, she just focused on the shoe she was making.
The guitar accompanied Coco every night, even when she sang the song a little bit late or early. Most nights, Imelda fell asleep to an invisible hand stroking her hair. She tried not to think about it, she focused on shoes and raising Coco, and tried not to wonder where her husband was.
A year after Hector’s last gift arrived, the radio in her workshop began playing Hector’s songs. Sung by Ernesto.
The first time one of his songs came on the radio, everything in the workshop froze. It was the song Hector had written for their first anniversary, a song that he had never allowed Ernesto to sing.
“It’s not for them Ernesto, it’s not for money,” Hector had said, shaking his head, “It’s for the love of my life, and the many years we will spend together.”
“But Hector-.”
“No,” Hector had stood firm, he always stood firm when it came to songs he’d written for his family, “I’m sorry mi amigo, but this one belongs to Imelda.”
Imelda stared at the radio, Oscar and Felipe did the same. She put down the shoe, and stood to turn it off or perhaps change the channel, but before she had taken a single step towards it, the radio turned off by itself. They could all clearly see the off switch toggle off without anyone touching it. In the ensuing silence you could hear a pin drop, so there was nothing to cover the sound of feet stomping out of the shop and up the stairs.
A door slammed somewhere else in the house.
“Imelda,” Felipe said.
“I know,” she whispered.
She sat back down, eyes still glued to the radio, and her heart pounding in her ears.
“Oscar, Felipe, I… I need you to run an errand for me,” Imelda eventually said, “the last of the money came from Mexico City, I need you two to go, take Hector’s picture and-. I-if the police there don’t recognize him, he was in Santiago de Queretaro before that.”
“Si Imelda,” they said as one.
“We’ll go pack,” Oscar said.
“We’ll leave on the first train tomorrow morning,” Felipe added.
“Bien,” she heard herself say, slowly nodding.
They left her alone and she sat there holding a half finished shoe for who knows how long before she eventually got back to work. Nothing was confirmed. It could have been… a power surge, perhaps the radio was broken. And the stomping was the pipes banging around. And the hand that stroked her hair every night was her imagination. And the guitar was a music box.
Hector… Hector was probably fine.
Except he wasn’t. A week later she met Oscar and Felipe at the station, they looked at her with mournful eyes and handed her a copy of her husband’s death certificate. The cause of death was listed as curare poisoning. Three days after the toy guitar arrived, Hector was found dead in the street with his suitcase and wallet, but no guitar.
“He… he had a train ticket home,” Oscar said, voice choked up.
Felipe nodded, “He would have been back in time for Coco’s birthday.”
Imelda stared at the sheet of paper and wondered how in the world she was going to explain to Coco that her father was dead.
“They’re going to send us his personal effects.”
“And somebody to… arrange for the b-body to be moved here. If that’s what we want-?”
“It is.”
“Imelda…”
“We are so sorry.”
She nodded, still staring at the death certificate, “Curare poisoning.”
Her brothers didn’t respond, when she looked up at them they were avoiding her gaze.
“How does somebody… is it a kind of food poisoning?”
“It… no. It’s not something that…”
“They said it doesn’t happen… naturally.”
Something cold settled in her gut. Her husband was poisoned, and left for dead with his wallet but not his guitar.
And now Ernesto was singing her song on the radio.
“Let’s go home,” Imelda said, she could feel steel crawling up her spine, coating her bones. Her mind whirled with thoughts of violence and grief. She went straight to her workshop and made shoes until it was time to pick Coco up from school. Dinner was thrown together, then eaten, and before she knew it, it was 8:15.
“Coco, mi corazon,” Imelda put a hand on her daughter’s wrist to forestall the inevitable song, “we… need to talk. I need to tell you something, about your father.”
Coco’s face fell. She had stopped asking when her Papá would be home four months after the guitar started playing her song. Imelda hadn’t dared to ask where Coco thought Hector was, Imelda hadn’t dared asking herself where Hector was.
“Where’s Papá?” Coco asked, for what would be the last time.
Imelda swallowed past the lump in her throat, but there was nothing she could do to stop the tears from forming in her eyes, “He… He is not coming home, mija. Your father loved us very much, and he wanted to be here with us, but he… he is with abuelo and abuela now.”
“Are we going to have a funeral for him too?” Coco asked, beginning to sniffle.
“Sí,” Imelda nodded, she would have said more but Coco began sobbing, all Imelda could do was hold her.
Hesitantly at first, then somewhat desperately, the little toy guitar began playing Coco’s lullaby. It didn’t stop there this time, it played every soft song Hector had ever known, one right after another. Coco cried herself to sleep in Imelda’s arms after an hour, but the guitar kept playing until the break of dawn, when it played “Remember Me” one last time, then finally went silent.
Imelda listened to each song, held her daughter, and slowly accepted that her husband was haunting their home.
“Hector, if I can find some way to kill you for dying, I will do so,” she whispered to the room, then when there was no response she continued, “do you have any idea how much we’ve missed you? How much we’re going to-. Hector, you are the love of my life, you can’t just, just-, if you think I’m letting you out of this marriage that easy you have another thing coming!”
She almost, almost heard a chuckle. But it could have been the wind, or an echo from outside.
“Hector, what am I supposed to do?” Imelda squeezed her daughter a little closer, “How am I supposed to raise Coco without a father?”
The rocking chair rocked without anyone touching it.
“Sí, sí, you’re here, but you’re not here Hector,” she frowned at the toy guitar firmly, “you can’t help her with her homework, or run errands while I make dinner. You won’t be there to dance with her at her quinceanera, or walk her down the aisle. You… you’ll be a face on the ofrenda, a hole in the family photo, and a lullaby on a toy guitar. That is not the same thing as being here.”
There was once again, no response, but she didn’t need to see or hear her husband to know he was wearing the same kicked-puppy look he’d worn the first time Coco had gotten sick.
“You never should have left, we could have made do without the money,” Imelda sighed, then said, “I love you Hector, I always will.”
A hand began stroking her hair and she closed her eyes, trying to shut out the tears that fell anyways.
Imelda wasn’t surprised when she got Hector’s things back and his songbook was nowhere to be found. She wasn’t surprised when rumors spread about his fate, and soon the whole town knew he’d been murdered. She wasn’t even surprised when the sheriff showed up at her door and asked if she wanted him to investigate Ernesto.
“I am gathering evidence, anything you can add will be most appreciated,” she’d said, chin raised high.
“What you planning to do?”
“I simply wish to ensure that my husband is remembered well.”
Imelda was surprised by how many people showed up for Hector’s funeral, although she probably shouldn’t have been. Hector was a kind man, a charming one, she was far from the only person who loved him. Still, the crowd that gathered for the modest service was almost overwhelming in its size. The amount of well wishes and offers of help was enough to almost break through her defenses and pull the tears from her eyes.
“The only assistance I require is in gathering proof,” Imelda said, to each person that offered their help, “If you could write down any memory you have of Hector and that man you think may be relevant, I would like to collect them.”
The memories came, and they kept coming. When they could afford to do so, Oscar or Felipe would travel to the towns Hector had played in, and ask around at the venues Hector had written to her about.
Before Imelda knew it, another year had passed, and the guitar still played Coco’s song every night.
Ernesto’s voice was almost inescapable, it seemed that every other song on the radio was written by Imelda’s late husband.
The radio in the workshop would change channels the minute Ernesto started singing. It freaked Oscar and Felipe out at first, but they got used to it, at one point Oscar had even asked for a song to be turned up. The radio had obliged, even as Oscar had frozen solid, staring into the distance as he realized what he’d done.
One night, Imelda sat in front of her vanity, brushing her hair out before bed, and when she looked at the window in the mirror, she could see Hector’s silhouette. She couldn’t see his face, but he was turned towards her, doubtlessly staring at her with a soft smile on his face, like he’d done so many nights before.
There was something about it, about this ghost of her husband sitting in the window, likely giving her the same love sick look he always had, that broke her. As she started sobbing the silhouette came closer, then disappeared. A hand stroked her hair until her tears dried.
She drifted towards her bed and curled up in a little ball under her covers, holding herself as tightly as she could. Arms wrapped themselves around her and out of habit she went to place her hand over his, but there was nothing there for her to hold.
Imelda didn’t sleep that night.
By the third anniversary of his death, she had collected every story of her husband there was to collect. Whenever she wasn’t in her workshop, or taking care of Coco, Imelda was putting the stories in order.
A poster of Ernesto reached Santa Cecilia. He had Hector’s guitar.
Imelda had to stop the musicos in the square from burning the poster, “I can prove that guitar is Hector’s, let me have this. And if you find any other pictures of Ernesto with my husband’s guitar, send them to me.”
The pictures soon came flooding in as well.
With the evidence compiled, Imelda began checking out law books from the library. The librarian ordered books on copyright law and intellectual property.
One night, at 8:15, Coco sang her lullaby along with the guitar, then stared at the toy.
“Mamá, when you said Pá was with abuelo and abuela… are you sure?”
Imelda hesitated, but eventually said, “Your father loves us very much.”
“He’s not stuck, is he?” Coco asked, brow crinkling in concern.
Imelda hadn’t known for sure how to answer that, but she shook her head and simply said, “No mi corazon, he’s just not ready to leave us.”
Coco accepted this with a little nod, “Good night Mamá, good night Papá.”
Imelda pressed a kiss to her daughter’s hair, stood and walked to her own room, doing her best to keep her steps calm and even. As soon as the door to her bedroom was closed she hissed, “You’re not stuck, right? You’ll be there to meet us when it’s our time, right Hector?”
The room was silent. Imelda waited for something, a sign, a whisper, a miracle, but there was only the faint sound of music coming from outside. She sighed and got ready for bed.
As she drifted off she heard a voice, an achingly familiar voice say, “I will never leave you again.”
It took until a little after the fifth anniversary of her husband’s death for Imelda to feel sure that she had all the evidence she needed, and a thorough enough understanding of the law to keep from getting steamrolled over by Ernesto’s lawyers. Now she just needed to figure out the best way to come forward.
Her confidence flagged. She was just one woman and she had no proof that Ernesto had killed Hector, just that Hector had written all of Ernesto’s songs. And that he wasn’t receiving any credit.
She could surely sue and receive enough money to set her family up for generations to come, but she didn’t want money.
Imelda had never cared about the money her husband’s songs brought in.
Then, it happened. It was a normal day, she was making shoes with her brothers, listening to the radio and keeping half an eye on the clock. Coco would come home from school soon, and Imelda would have to get started on dinner. The radio jumped around, avoiding Ernesto as it always did.
And then, “Remember me…”
It was like the first time the radio had played one of Hector’s songs, but somehow ten times worse. Oscar and Felípe froze, and so did their breath as it hit the air and turned to mist. The only movement Imelda could muster were a few shivers as the temperature in the room plummeted.
She smelled Hector’s cologne, just a quick whiff of it, and she heard a guitar. Not a stolen guitar playing a stolen lullaby over the radio, but one that floated invisible through the house, echoing and rageful and drowning out all other sound.
The radio lifted itself into the air, and then slammed onto the ground, it cracked but played on. So the radio slammed into the ground again and again until it was nothing more than a pile of broken pieces.
The guitar settled, then disappeared, the temperature returned to normal.
Oscar and Felípe gulped in unison, each as white as a sheet. Imelda, took a few deep breaths, she put down the shoe she had just started and stood.
“Oscar, Felípe, will you go wait for Coco? Take her for ice cream,” Imelda said, and they were nodding, racing for the door before she’d even finished talking.
When they were gone, the room was briefly still, Imelda fought hard to keep her eyes from drifting down to the pile of rubble that had once been her radio.
Invisible arms wrapped around her legs, then she heard Hector weeping.
If she could have touched him, she would have bent down and pulled him into her arms. She would have rubbed his back and kissed his face and told him she loved him. If she could touch him she would have dragged him up to their room and held him until he fell asleep.
But if she could touch him, he wouldn’t be dead, would he?
So all she did was wait. The weeping went on for what felt like hours, and her feet ached by the time the arms wrapped around her legs released her. But she didn’t dare move, standing there and waiting was the only thing she could offer her husband.
When she looked down at her skirt, the lack of tear stains made her want to hit something.
“Hector, go upstairs, go rest. Or whatever it is ghosts do when they’re tired, I will clean up the radio.”
The broom in the corner fell over, Hector had always hated it when Imelda cleaned up after him. It didn’t happen often, if he made a mess he was always sure to clean it up before she got to it, but sometimes even the best of men get sick. Rather pathetically, the broom started trying to drag itself over to the destroyed radio.
It barely moved, Imelda wondered if Hector had tired himself out with all the theatrics.
“Go,” she said firmly, “I will handle this.”
The broom gave up, a kiss lingered against her cheek for a second or two, then she was alone.
Imelda frowned as she realized she could feel the difference between Hector being in the room and him not being there. The startling thing was that she hadn’t felt the absence of his presence since… well, for a long time. Was he always watching her?
It wouldn’t be too out of character for Hector to spend all day staring at her, grinning like a damn fool, the thought that he was doing that even now made her heart ache. But he had been such a vibrant man, a man who so enjoyed life and all it had to offer. He hadn’t spent all of his time staring at her, there’d been too much else to hold his interest.
There had been food to eat, and by extension recipes to learn, songs to write, guitar strings to pluck, a daughter to play with, and an endless list of random hobbies to try.
Now, what did her husband have? A wife to watch, a toy guitar to play for the daughter he loved, and a best friend to hate.
When Imelda was done cleaning up the shop, she went upstairs and sat on the edge of her bed.
“Hector, mi amor, are you happy here?”
There was, of course, nothing but silence.
“We love you, we miss you, a-and I wish-, I do not want to let you go. But I love you Hector,” her voice broke and she stared down at her lap, “I-I can’t-. It’s bad enough knowing what was done to you, what was taken, seeing you suffer like this? Por favor, if there is somewhere you can go, if there is an afterlife that will hold some peace for you-.”
The bed shook, and she heard that guitar again. It wasn’t quite as angry as before, rather it strummed out a tango much like the ones they used to dance to.
Next to her ear, rougher than she’d ever heard it in life, her husband’s voice growled, “I will never leave you again.”
Imelda stopped breathing.
The bed stilled. The guitar faded. She took in a shaking breath.
When Coco got home, Imelda sat with her and explained that Ernesto had started singing Coco’s lullaby. Imelda told her that she didn’t want to hear that man singing Hector’s songs anymore, so she would no longer be allowing a radio into the house.
“From here on out if you want to hear music, you will have to rely on a record player,” Imelda said, sternly.
Coco nodded, “I understand, I don’t want to hear that murderer sing Pá’s songs either.”
“You-, who told you that Ernesto was a murderer?”
“I don’t know,” Coco shrugged, looking up at Imelda with a confused pout, “everybody I guess. Everyone in town knows what happened to Papá, was I not supposed to?”
Imelda sighed, “No, I just- I suppose I wanted to protect you from all that.”
Coco didn’t say anything, she just stared down at the table in between them.
A few months later, word reached their little corner of the world that Ernesto would be starring in a movie. A plan started forming in Imelda’s mind.
She kept up with his interviews as he promoted his movie, taking notes. She also started searching for a lawyer.
One night after everybody else was asleep, she set the law books down on her desk, and set her notes aside. Imelda stood, stretched, and walked to her dresser to pull out her nightgown. As she unbuttoned her dress, the room grew warmer.
Imelda frowned when that guitar came back, she hadn’t heard it in months, and she had assumed it only happened when Hector was feeling emotionally charged.
She shucked the dress and the guitar got louder, she glanced at the mirror and jumped when she saw her husband’s silhouette standing right beside her. Invisible hands began pushing her slip’s straps off her shoulders.
“Ay for god’s sake, you’re dead Hector, I can’t even begin to describe how inappropriate-,” she started to say, but cut off when he kissed her neck.
She had missed her husband, in many, many, ways.
Imelda sighed, “Why now? It’s been almost six years?”
Her slip fell to the ground and her corset opened by itself. Kisses and love bites continued to make their way up and down her neck. Her linen chemise started opening button by button.
“You’ve figured out how to touch me, have you figured out how to let me touch you?”
The mouth on her neck paused, then grinned, it kept going and the guitar sounded almost teasing. She could just see Hector’s eyes sparking with mischief, and she felt a reflexive smile spread across her face.
The chemise joined her slip and corset on the floor, as did her bloomers. The knee high socks were allowed to stay, she noticed.
Hands gripped her hips and began directing her to the bench at her amour, and she gasped. Hector always had her sit there when there was something very specific he wanted to do to her.
“Hector,” she whispered, “this-. We shouldn’t. None of this should-.”
The back of her knees hit the bench and she sat, invisible hands spread her legs wide and she could almost feel him pressing against her as his mouth reappeared on the tops of her breasts. Her knickers started creeping down her hip and she instinctively lifted herself off the bench long enough for them to be pulled off completely.
She closed her eyes, and let herself forget that her husband was dead. His hands caressed her softly and his mouth sucked on her sweetly, as a guitar plucked out an impassioned love song.
After that night she barely went a day without her husband's caress.
He was becoming stronger, she realized, he touched her more, interacted with the house more, his silhouette appeared in the mirror more. Another month, and she stopped bothering with the record player, whenever she was home the invisible guitar followed her from room to room.
Ernesto’s movie came out, two weeks later the lawyer she had chosen knocked on their door. She invited him in, and swallowed back her amusement as he tried in vain to find the source of the playful song Hector was strumming.
“I can not prove any violent crime, but I can prove that my husband’s songs and guitar were stolen,” Imelda said, after briefly bothering with pleasantries.
“Stolen by who?” the lawyer, Señor Bererra asked.
In answer, Imelda placed the family photo of her husband holding what was at the time a brand new guitar down on the table, followed by some of the letters Hector had sent with song lyrics and dates.
Señor Bererra picked up the photo and stared at it, jaw slowly growing slack, “Is that…?”
“That bastard was my husband’s best friend,” Imelda all but growled, and Hector began playing a war march, “he was at our wedding, he was my daughter’s godfather! Then my husband showed up dead in the street with no guitar, no song book, and all of his valuables. And now, he’s playing my daughter’s lullaby as a tawdry love song!”
Bererra gaped, “I-I think I need further proof. What you’re implying is that-.”
“I know what I’m implying, and I’d be happy to provide whatever proof you need,” Imelda pulled out a folder, “here are the receipts from when we bought that guitar, and correspondents between Hector and the guitar’s maker discussing the design. Oh, did I mention it was custom made for him? Here is a signed letter from the guitar’s maker verifying that he made the guitar for Hector, not Ernesto. Here is a wedding photo with Ernesto, myself, and Hector, here is a photo of Hector and Ernesto preparing for a performance in Mexico City two days before my husband was poisoned. Ah, speaking of which, here is my husband’s death certificate and a signed letter from the coroner verifying he most likely died of curare poison. Anything else?”
Instead of responding, he shuffled through everything, shock giving way to grief. Eventually he put everything down, and sat back in his chair.
“I have all of his albums,” he said, in a quiet voice.
“I would thank you to keep them far away from this house. None of us wish to hear Hector’s songs being sung by that scum.”
He didn’t show any sign of having heard her and for a minute she worried she had chosen poorly. He shook his head, sighed, then started nodding instead. With a resigned look he held his hand out for her file, when she handed it to him he immediately began flipping through it.
Imelda waited. Before long, Hector began playing random melodies, and plucking out experimental new songs.
Finally, Señor Bererra put everything back, closed the file, and pushed it back towards her, “You are right, you won’t be able to prove Ernesto de La Cruz killed your husband, not with his team of lawyers. However, you have enough here to end his career if it were to come to light, you and your daughter will be set for life.”
“We are already taken care of,” Imelda waved his words off, “I want my husband to be remembered as the artist he was, I want the entire world to know that he wrote those songs, that he was the genius behind Ernesto’s success. And if I have to burn everything Ernesto has built for himself to the ground in order to make that happen, well! I will consider that a perk.”
He pursed his lips, “Coming forward with this information would be extremely risky, for you and your daughter.”
The guitar music abruptly stopped.
“I am not afraid of Ernesto. That vapid-.”
“It is not Ernesto de la Cruz I am speaking of, although I think it bears mentioning that we have reason to believe he has already killed once for success. It is his fans. They will not accept this easily, some will accuse you of lying, they may come after you and your family in a misguided attempt to protect their idol.”
Imelda drummed her fingers on the table. She hadn’t considered that.
Hector plucked out a nervous melody, he had never been one for caution, not until Coco was born. Even then, while he had staunchly guarded their daughter from every swinging cabinet door and potentially dirty fly, he hadn’t bothered exercising the same care when she was out of his arms. But Imelda recognized his plea for caution in the song.
“I will talk to the sheriff,” she decided, “see what protections he can offer us.”
And she would abandon some of the flashier plans she had made. Much as she would love to grind Ernesto under her heel, she would not allow any harm to come to her little girl. As long as people knew the truth about Ernesto and Hector, that would be enough.
“Ah, sí, that is an excellent idea,” Señor Bererra agreed, “in the meantime, we should have copies made of all this. And I will begin drafting some letters for some friends of mine. This will be quite the undertaking, I will most likely need help.”
“Very well,” she nodded, “is there anything else you need from me?”
The meeting went by swiftly after that, Señor Bererra explained what she might expect to happen next, what letters he would be writing, what judges and agencies he would be contacting. All that. She offered him one of the guest rooms, since he had come all the way from the city, and he accepted.
At dinner that night he seemed quite charmed by Coco’s questions about his job, and increasingly confused by the guitar music that followed Imelda in and out of the room.
He didn’t ask, not at dinner, and not in the morning on his way to the train station.
Imelda spoke to the sheriff and he offered to round up volunteers to guard her house when the news broke, she accepted, despite her pride. She had her daughter to think of, after all.
By the time Señor Bererra returned with his secretary to make copies and take pictures of the evidence, the towns’ musicos had formed a militia they were calling the Hector Riveria Revenge Patrol. Hector was quite touched.
Then, things started happening very quickly.
Señor Bererra got in touch with somebody in the government who did something concerning copyright.
News broke two weeks later that Ernesto was being investigated for multiple copyright violations.
A reporter came to town and asked around the square about Ernesto, and Hector. Somebody, Imelda didn’t know who, spilled the whole story, suspected murder and all.
The story hit the front page of multiple newspapers, mere days after it became known that Ernesto had another movie in the works.
More reporters came.
Then the fanatics arrived. Imelda had expected yelling, anger, even violence. She hadn’t expected a group of fans to camp out in the streets outside their home with a record player and every single one of Ernesto’s albums. Señor Bererra advised her that throwing shoes at them might hurt her case.
Hector did his best to drown them out, but the anger and pain in his songs hurt just a little more than the sound of Ernesto singing Hector’s wedding vows.
After two weeks of those bastards camping outside, Imelda stepped out of the house to do the grocery shopping, only to be met by wolf whistles and drunken offers.
“Oh terrific,” she grumbled, eyeing the pile of yelling morons leaning on the house across the street, “somebody gave them tequila.”
“Ay mamacita,” a red faced man hollered, trying and failing to get to his feet, “how’s about you let me give you a reason to remeeeemmmber meeeee.”
A barrage of drunken giggles and guffaws followed his attempts to sing Coco’s lullaby, and they only grew louder when the man finally got to his feet, managing to dance with all the grace of a lame rocking horse.
Hector started playing louder, and the wind picked up.
When the man was swaying in front of the record player, he let out a startled shout, then fell onto the table holding the record player, smashing it.
The guffaws turned to angry shouts.
“Who pushed me?!” The man shouted.
“My record player!” One of his compatriots, presumably the one who owned the now obliterated record player, gasped.
“Hey! That record was limited edition," yelled another.
“Aw the music,” the fourth man lamented, then took another swig from the bottle in his hand.
“I mean it, which one of you assholes pushed me?”
“Nobody pushed you, you moron, you fell and smashed my record player!”
“No, no, somebody pushed me! I felt it.”
“Do you have any idea how much that record cost me?”
“That record-?! Do you have any idea how much the record player cost me?!”
“I know one of you assholes pushed me, now fess up or I’ll-.”
“Or you’ll what?! Break my record player?”
“And my record!”
“Hey lady, do you have a record player we can borrow,” the fourth man called out to her, over the arguing.
“Would you forget about your damn record for a second?!”
“It was limited edition!”
“You know what?!” the first man pushed both of his companions, “There! See how you fucking like- oof.”
Predictably, the three men stumbled their way through a drunken brawl, while the fourth grumbled and scooted away from them. Meanwhile, one by one, all of the records they brought started floating up and smashing themselves against the side of the building they’d been sitting against. By the time the sheriff arrived to break up the fighting, there was only one album still intact.
The sheriff “accidentally” stomped on it as he dragged one of the men off the others.
Hector’s chuckle echoed down the street.
Imelda spent her time in the market racking her brain for a single instance where Hector had followed her out of the house. She had only ever felt his presence in their home, she had assumed he couldn’t leave it. But now the faint sound of Hector’s guitar followed her as she ran her errands.
There were more fanatics, most weren’t calculating enough to actually reach Imelda, usually she only found out about these fans when she had company over and the men would boast about how they’d ran this fan or that out of town. One memorable exception was a young woman with a sweet smile, and a mean right hook. She managed to sneak past the musicos and the Hector Riviera Revenge Patrol to knock on Imelda’s door.
As soon as Imelda opened the door the young woman attacked her, fortunately, Imelda had been holding a shoe at the time and had no qualms with using it.
She’d sported a shiner for the next week, anyone who saw it reacted with either sympathy or awe.
Mostly awe.
Things only got worse after Imelda traveled to the city to tell a judge her story. The courthouse had been surrounded by reporters and fans alike, and she was encouraged to play up her grief for her husband as the cameras flashed. The courtroom itself was empty with the exception of her, the judge, the stenographer, and the lawyers. She was offered a truly obscene amount of money to drop the case.
“Exactly how much money do you think I’d need to convince death to give my husband back?” she had asked the opposing lawyers with narrowed eyes, “I will accept no less.”
They hadn’t responded, and she had turned away from them in disgust.
The judge accidentally let slip to the press that after hearing her testimony he felt the case was all but over. The fans who rolled into town started seeming a bit desperate. Somebody painted threats on the side of her house. A few rocks were thrown through her window. A young couple were caught in the act of trying to burn down the house.
A few months into this pandemonium, Imelda stepped out of her house to head to a meeting with the sheriff and almost tripped over a young man holding a guitar. The boy had been lying on her stoop but immediately got to his feet, stuttering apologies as he did. Imelda examined him closely.
He didn’t look like any of the musicos from town.
“Who are you? What do you want? If this is about de La Cruz my lawyer has advised me-.”
“No! Well, yes, but also no-. I uh, I don’t really,” he shrugged, “I-I guess I just want to um p-pay respects? Or um apologize? I don’t know. I just um wanted to acknowledge, you know, how not great what you’ve been through is?”
Imelda frowned at him suspiciously.
He shuffled his feet and shrugged again, “I know you’ve probably had a lot of Ernesto fans knocking at your door, I read about that stuff in the news sometimes, b-but-. Well, maybe somebody else has come to offer their condolences, I mean, I hope other people have. B-but as an ex Ernesto fan, I-I feel like I should be one of them?”
“Ah,” Imelda said, not sure how to take this, “I am headed to the sheriff, do you know your way to the cemetery?”
“No?”
“Come, I will give you directions, you can pay your respects there,” she started walking, not bothering to check if he kept up with her. After a few beats he appeared in her preferary, so she launched into her explanation on how to get to Hector’s grave.
The boy hared off as soon as she was done, but reappeared outside her door as the sun fell, nervously strumming on his guitar.
“You’re back,” she informed him, through the window above his head.
He glanced up at her, then nodded, “I’ve been a traveling musician for a while, I don’t really know where else to go.”
“The inn.”
He grimaced sheepishly, “I’d need money for that.”
“Then take your guitar to the town square and make some.”
“I uh I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well… the only songs I know are- are your husbands.”
“Ah.” Imelda opened the window so she could stare at him.
“It doesn’t feel right, y’know? Singing his songs,” the boy told her, “not after what happened to him.”
Imelda sighed, leaning crossed arms on the window sill and staring up at the stars, “What do you want? My permission?”
The boy took a couple beats to think about it, “No, I think even if he came back from the dead and gave me permission it still wouldn’t feel right. It- I- His ability to sing his own songs was stolen from him, I-I could never-.”
He cut himself off and sighed, heavily.
Hector played a sad melody that echoed into the street. After a few beats, the boy strummed along, then trailed off.
“I don’t know what to do now,” he whispered.
“I know the feeling,” Imelda quietly admitted. It was easier, somehow, to be honest with this stranger than it was to be honest with her well-wishing neighbors.
The boy looked up at her, eyes shining with sympathy.
“My husband and I used to sing and dance together on nights like this,” she closed her eyes and listened to her husband’s ghost play a song of tragedy, “I still love music, I still love dancing, but to do it without him? What would be the point? It would never hold the same joy as it did when he was alive.”
“So you’ve just stopped dancing?”
“I… I have found other sources of joy,” she said, “other things that keep me going. Like my daughter, or the shoes I make, even the fight to ensure my husband is given the credit he is due. I do not dance any more, but then again, I didn’t use to know the pride to be found in a well made pair of shoes.”
The boy nodded, slowly, eyes growing distant. He looked down at the guitar in his hands, strummed out a few chords, then sighed and leaned his head back against the wall of her house.
“Your husband was a genius-,” he started to say, but was cut off when Imelda broke out laughing.
Hector briefly stopped playing, then when he started again the song was at once playful and angry.
“Sorry, sorry, I-, sí, of course he was incredibly talented, he had a real gift,” she got herself under control, “b-but he also was an idiot. A complete fool.”
“What? Really?”
“Sí, first and foremost, he could have had any woman in town, but he chose the most difficult one he could find,” Imelda said, with a wry smile, “then there was his complete inability to make breakfast, he could make lunch and dinner just fine, but breakfast? If it was before that first cup of coffee it was beyond him. He was terrible at mopping, somehow, but always insisted that if he tried one more time he’d get the hang of it. And he always had way too much faith in people, the poor fool thought everybody in the world was as good hearted as he was.”
The boy gave her a few beats of silence, a chance to say more, then said, “He sounds pretty great.”
She took a deep breath to keep from crying, “I could talk about him all day, and only ever cover half of what made that idiot the love of my life.”
“I’m sorry he’s gone.”
Imelda didn’t respond, all too aware of the love song Hector had started playing.
Eventually, she gave the boy some food, and enough money to pay for a night at the inn. The kid hung around a month or two, joining the musicos in the square, only ever playing accompaniment. He helped to run a few of the more stubborn fans out of town, and last Imelda saw of him he was following some doe eyed girl to the train station, carrying both of their suitcases.
He was not the last of Ernesto’s ex fans to come give their condolences. Soon, there were as many well wishers running around town as there were enraged fanatics. Imelda never let any of them into her home, but she did agree to a memorial being set up for Hector in the town square.
Hector’s songs stopped sounding so sad.
Finally, there came the vultures in their fine suits. Lawyers who promised to get her three times the cash el Señor Bererra could, talent agents offering up a career with the stars if she sang Hector’s songs, even a few fellows with cameras who wanted to make a documentary about her situation.
After consulting her lawyer, Imelda sent each of them packing, but kept the contact information of the most earnest seeming documentarian.
“My only wish is for my husband to be remembered, for him to have the credit he is due,” she told him as she accepted his business card, “I don’t want any of this attention, but perhaps, when the court case is over, you might tell his story.”
“I would be honored,” the starry eyed young man had said, almost breathlessly.
When he was gone and the door was closed, Imelda remarked to Hector, “Hope that boy was just playing innocent, they’ll tear him to shreds in that business if he’s actually that naive.”
Hector chuckled, playing something light.
“Would you want your story told? They’d put it on the silver screen, you’d be even more famous than you are now,” she asked, walking towards the kitchen.
The guitar trailed off and she felt a sigh brush the back of her neck, a ragged voice next to her ear said, “I only want to come home.”
She stopped walking, staring straight ahead. She tried to swallow the emotion rising in her throat, then took a deep breath and continued on with her chores. The guitar picked back up, playing a song of longing.
Slowly, things started to wind down. The money from the various lawsuits started to trickle in, and just to make a point, Imelda donated most of it. As far as she cared, the day was won as soon as the world learned the truth, she never wanted the money. She wanted her husband, alive and whole, and if she couldn’t have him, she wasn’t about to accept Ernesto’s blood money as a substitute.
The well wishers and mourners now outnumbered the enraged fans.
Hector followed her wherever she went.
Coco started trying to learn how to play the guitar.
And somehow, Imelda felt that things weren’t quite over, that it wasn’t safe to let her guard down. So, she always answered the door with a shoe in hand, even though every time she opened it she was met with a friendly face.
Imelda thought perhaps she would finally have closure when she got Hector’s guitar back. Yet, even once it was sitting on their family’s ofrenda, surrounded by wedding and family portraits, there was still this nagging feeling that things weren’t over.
She wasn’t done, there was still more to do.
One night, a week after the last of Ernesto’s blood money had been donated, Imelda sat at her kitchen table. Her hands were cupped around some cinnamon tea that had long since gone cold. She was still, but her thoughts raced.
When they reached the finish line, she all but deflated.
“You need to move on,” she told the gently strumming guitar that had been trying to soothe her all night, “please Hector, I need to know you’ve found peace.”
His voice was quiet, but the kitchen shook from the emotion it held, “I will never leave you again.”
“Trust me, I am aware,” she huffed, being very careful not to shout and wake the whole house, “there will never be a day that goes by where I won’t miss you. But I’m not asking you to leave, not forever. I am asking you to move on, to go… I don’t know, wait for us at the pearly gates. Visit us on the day of the dead, and play Coco’s lullaby in heaven every night, but stop-. Hector, please, stop punishing yourself.”
As soon as those words were out of her mouth, Imelda knew what was left to do.
The air was still, the guitar silent. She could feel him, however, like a thick blanket on her shoulders, like a warm hand in hers, like a vow on their wedding day. She could feel him standing taut, every intangible muscle in his body tensed for action.
Imelda closed her eyes and prepared herself to lose him, to truly be without him.
“I forgive you, Hector,” she whispered, “I forgive you for leaving, I forgive you for dying, I forgive you for not being here. You can stop atoning now. You can rest.”
Like a cut guitar spring, the tension snapped and the heavy warmth lifted from her shoulders. She held her breath, waiting for the guitar to pick back up.
It didn’t.
“Hector?”
There wasn’t so much as a single note.
Imelda’s breaths sounded like thunder in the empty kitchen. One of them shook, then the next one came out sounding like a whimper. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. No invisible hand stroked her hair, there was no mournful melody to assure her she wasn’t grieving alone, it was just her, crying as quietly as she could in the empty room.
When she heard the creak of a floor board, she cut herself off mid sob. Holding her breath, she listened as quiet footsteps approached the kitchen, coming from the foyer where the stairs up to the bedrooms were. Swallowing a curse she took out her handkerchief and did her best to clean her face.
The footsteps were too heavy to be Coco’s and the only other people in the house were Imelda’s brothers, so when somebody pushed the kitchen door open behind her, she said, “Sorry hermano, I didn’t wake you, did I?”
But it wasn’t one of her brothers who responded.
“Oh no Imelda, you didn’t wake me,” a deep, smooth voice replied, “I’ve been up for hours. Drove all through the night to get here, in fact.”
Imelda gasped, standing from her chair and turning, “Ernesto?!”
He closed the door behind him, and smiled at her cooly, simmering rage lighting his bloodshot eyes. Ernesto’s hair was not quite perfect, his suit almost wrinkled, his stubble just a tiny bit more visible than was considered decent. By his standards, he was an absolute mess.
“Hola Imelda, how have you been,” he said, as casual as you please, despite the revolver held in his right hand, “I myself, I haven’t been well. You see, I’ve lost everything thanks to-.”
It took a few seconds for her brain to register what she was seeing, who was in her kitchen, then it clicked and without thinking, she took the chair and hit him with it.
“You’ve lost everything?!” She yelled as he staggered back, no longer caring if she woke the rest of the house, “You’ve lost everything? Hector has lost his life! I have lost my husband! My daughter has lost her father! All because you couldn’t write your own damn songs.”
He tried to speak, but she hit him with the chair again.
“Was it worth it? Was all the fortune and fame worth killing your best friend?!”
“It was,” he raised the revolver before she could hit him again, and although she snarled, still enraged, she stopped.
The last thing she wanted was for Coco to lose both of her parents.
“Well, good for you then,” she sneered, “so glad my husband’s death was so profitable for you.”
Ernesto glared, cocking the gun, “I worked hard to get where I was-.”
“Worked hard! Hah! Oh what?! Did your hand get tired stirring the poison in Hector’s drink?”
“Shut up,” he hissed.
But Imelda shook her head, “This isn’t one of your movies Ernesto, I’m not following your script. You killed my husband-.”
“You can’t prove that.”
“I don’t have to,” she smirked, “you wouldn’t be here threatening me if I did.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he sighed, “you didn’t need to prove it to ruin my life, which is why I’m not here to threaten you.”
“Then what do you want?” she snapped, putting the chair down so she could put her hands on her hips.
“You know what the most painful part has been?”
“The feeling of the devil clawing at your soul?”
“What all this has done to my legacy,” he ignored her, apparently determined to get through whatever monologue he’d prepared for her, “I was going to be remembered as one of the greatest artists who ever lived, people would have worshiped me for the next hundred years, I was going to go down in history. But now? Now you have taken my legacy and turned it into ash to spread on Hector’s grave.”
“Hector shouldn’t even be in a grave,” Imelda said, through gritted teeth. If she wasn’t a mother, if she didn’t have Coco to think of, she would hit him with the chair again.
“And yet, he is. What good does it do to take my success and give it to him? He has no use for fame and fortune,” Ernesto chuckled a little and she snarled almost against her will, “even when he was alive, all this meant nothing to him. For whatever reason, all he wanted was you.”
“Did you ever stop to think that he would have let you sing his songs if you gave proper credit? That you could have had your fame and fortune, and he could have come home safe and sound?” Imelda interjected, she didn’t want to listen to this monster’s practiced speech, she wanted to know how he lived with himself, “Did you even try to negotiate, or did you skip straight to murder?”
Ernesto sighed, “I wanted to sing to the world, he wanted you. Since you have taken my dream from me, it is only fair that I take his.”
“You’ve already taken his dream, you killed him, remember?” she shook her head, making a sound of disgust, “All he wanted was to come home and you stabbed him in the back for it. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Imelda, do you understand I am pointing a loaded gun at you?”
“Sí, it’s the only thing stopping me from beating you to death with a chair.”
“I’m here to kill you Imelda,” he took a step towards her, “you have killed my dream for Hector’s sake, so now I am killing Hector’s dream.”
“You’re going to kill me?”
“Sì.”
“No matter what I do?”
He nodded, and started to speak, but didn’t get the words out before she had raised the chair once more and knocked him back a few steps. The anger was still there, but now she was fueled just as much by fear, fear that if she hesitated Coco would be left an orphan by the night’s end.
Ernesto tried to point the gun at her, but she knocked his arm away even as he pulled the trigger. The sound of the bullet leaving the chamber was deafening, but Imelda didn’t dare let it cow her. She swung the chair again, forcing him to jump back in order to avoid it.
He raised the revolver again, and pulled back the hammer. She raised the chair for another blow, stepping towards him, but knew there was no way she’d beat his trigger finger.
The kitchen started to shake just as the second bullet whistled past her ear.
Imelda almost didn’t hear the guitar music over the sound of her own heartbeat. She had to put the chair down again so she could use it to steady herself as Ernesto was thrown to the floor.
The revolver flew out of his hand and across the room.
“What in the-?!” he started to say, then cut off when he apparently recognized the melody playing.
Imelda had never thought Coco’s lullaby could sound so haunting.
“Remember me,” Hector’s voice echoed low, multiplied and layered on top of itself, at once a guttural growl and a choir of hissed whispers, “and prepare to say goodbye.”
“H-Hector?” Ernesto tried to right himself, only to get slammed back onto the floor.
“Remember me. You owe me for your life.”
Ernesto struggled against whatever force was holding him down as the shaking settled and the air froze, “Hector, what-?.”
“You tried to send me to heaven,” Hector sang, “but now you’ll burn in hell.”
Ernesto was lifted from the floor and pinned to the cabinets instead.
“You killed me for my daughter’s song,” slowly, Hector appeared above Ernesto, face colder than it had ever been in life, his feet didn’t quite touch the floor, “I hope it served you well.”
The gun dragged itself back into Ernesto’s hand and he struggled against it as it raised itself to his temple, “How-?! What-?! No. No!”
“Remember me. The blood you spilt got you far,” Hector sneered, “Remember me. My stopped heart got you where you are.”
“Hector, I’m-. Please, I’m sorry, Hector please!”
“No, don’t try to beg! When you took everything from me,” Hector shook his head, fists clenched, “I’ll let you have one last breath to…”
Hector trailed off, the guitar plucking out a crescendo while a mismatched beat underscored the whispered echoes of his latest refrain.
“Remember me,” Hector commanded, disappearing from sight even as the hammer pulled itself away from the barrel.
As the guitar finished with an angry flourish, Imelda realized that mismatched beat was not accompinate like she’d assumed, but footsteps. The kitchen door slammed open and people spilled into the room.
Imelda didn’t look at them, she couldn’t take her eyes off Ernesto as tears spilled down his cheeks. With the gun still jammed between his hand and his temple, the trigger twitched away from the barrel.
“No!” It wasn’t just one voice, but several. All combined the shouts were almost enough. But they couldn’t quite drown out the gunshot.
Ernesto’s body collapsed back onto the kitchen floor.
Imelda felt Hector’s presence slip away.
“Imelda,” one of her brothers, she didn’t bother to check which one, shouted as they pulled her into an embrace, “thank god, when we heard the gunshots-. The door, it wouldn’t open and-, and-, oh thank god you’re ok.”
“Señora Riviera,” the sheriff put a hand on her shoulder, “are you alright, did he hurt you?”
“He tried to kill me,” she said, faintly.
Several people gasped, and there was a great deal of shouting. A few people surrounded the body, blocking it from her view. She blinked, the world suddenly coming back into focus.
“Coco? Where is she, is she ok?” Imelda asked, raising her voice to be heard over the noise.
“She’s with Oscar,” Felípe told her, only half letting her go, “come on, I’ll take you to her, before she comes racing in here and sees-. I’ll take you to her.”
Imelda allowed herself to be led away, the last thing she wanted now was for Coco to see a dead body in their kitchen. The sheriff called out a promise to take care of things behind her, and she turned to give him a polite thank you, but he was already bent over Ernesto’s body.
Felípe took her to the workshop, where she could hear a soothing melody playing on an invisible guitar. Inwardly, she sighed and wondered if she would ever convince Hector to move on after this.
When she stepped through the workshop door, Coco looked up and shouted, “Má!”
“Mija!”
They ran into each other’s arms and squeezed tight, Coco started crying. Imelda did her best to soothe her even as it started to sink in that she almost lost her life. Her daughter was almost orphaned. Then what would have happened to her?
Imelda shoved those thoughts away and focused on her little girl. She let the sheriff do as he promised and spent what was left of the night hugging Coco close.
When Coco was eventually asleep, and Imelda was alone with an invisible guitar, she drifted off. The transition from waking to dreaming was almost seamless. Almost.
“Ah, you’ve learned a new trick,” she remarked hollowly, even in her dream, she felt boneless, exhausted. She couldn’t stop picturing Coco in her funeral garb.
They were dancing, her in her wedding dress, him in his musico suit. He’d saved up and got a real suit for the wedding, a modest suit, but one meant for formal occasions rather than preforming; it had met an unfortunate accident shortly after arriving from the tailors. In hindsight, Imelda wondered if the accident had anything to do with the fact that Hector had lived with Ernesto at the time, Ernesto had never wanted Hector to settle down.
In real life, her family’s courtyard had been full to the brim with people. Here in her dream, it was just them. Cheek to cheek.
“Sorry I wasn’t there,” Hector’s voice only sounded a little muffled, a little distant, “I-I was saying goodbye to Coco.”
Imelda blinked a few times, before the words made sense, “So, you’re moving on?”
“Uh, sí, eventually. I uh, I have to wait until the day of the dead,” he smiled sheepishly, she couldn’t see the smile, but she felt it pressed against her face and knew exactly what it looked like, “it-. I will need-. Leaving won’t be easy.”
Imelda nodded, then pulled back so she could see him, she drank his face in but couldn’t manage anything else, it took almost everything she had in her just to whisper, “I will miss you.”
“I will visit, every year, I promise,” he held her tighter, but the sensation was muffled, “although not like this. I-I don’t have any unfinished business anymore. Once I move on-.”
He cut himself off, but Imelda’s tired mind eventually churned out what he’d left unsaid. Hector would be at peace, but that meant she would lose him. For real this time. She swallowed back the urge to rescind her forgiveness, to come up with some other reason why he should keep haunting them. He could touch her sometimes, and talk to her in her dreams, and play his guitar. It was almost, almost, like he was alive.
But she loved him too much to keep him, “Promise me you’ll be happy. Wherever you go when…”
“I will be as happy as a man can be when he is separated from the love of his life, and his daughter.”
Imelda nodded, closing her eyes, resting her chin back on his shoulder, “Good enough.”
“And I will wait for you,” Hector said, “at the gates. However long you take, however long we are apart, I will wait for you, mí amor.”
They spent the rest of her dream dancing in silence, tears mingling on their joined cheeks.
The last month didn’t last near long enough. Hector managed to appear to her four more times, but never as solidly as he had on that night; he appeared to Coco once, to give his final goodbye, but Imelda didn’t find out about that until days after it happened.
It ended on the Day of the Dead. Imelda allowed Coco to stay up all night, and they danced along to the invisible guitar that followed Imelda wherever she went. Eventually, Coco could barely keep her eyes open, but stubbornly persevered through the night. Finally the toy guitar Hector had gifted Coco plucked out Coco’s lullaby, the last few notes seeming to echo through the room as the sun rose.
Then it fell silent.
#Coco#Hector Coco#Imelda Coco#ernesto de la cruz#Coco AU#ghost Hector#sadly the internet did not want to tell me the secrets of Mexican copyright laws in the days of bw film#so I had to make guesses based off of American copyright laws in the days of bw film#tragic#Coco fanfic#Hector x Imelda
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#fanfik#conrad fanfic#coco fanfic#fanfic movie#fanfic netflix#tosiek fanfik#fanfik tosiek#Tosiek#Tosiek x Conrad#Conrad x tosiek#Fanfic 2023#fanfik movie#fanfik netflix#tosiek x konrad#fanfik konrad#konrad#Fanfik fanart#Fanfik 2023 fanart#Fanfik Netflix fanart
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abuelo
elena is ten and alone, cursed and sitting on a bench alive in the land of the dead. how she got there isn’t important: what is important is this.
she is brought quickly, swiftly, to the department of family reunions, thick hair tied into pigtails with soft purple ribbons, the same colour as her abuela’s dress.
and she gets asked the rather simple question: “who is your family, here in the land of the dead?”
and elena, guileless and brave and fierce but still ultimately ten, answers, carelessly: “my abuelo.”
you see - you see, elena’s abuelo on her papá’s side had died just that year. elena doesn’t think about her other abuelo - in fact, she doesn’t consider him much of one at all, just that dastardly husband of the best abuela in the world -
but she does say abuelo, and she does say mine, and well. nobody has ever dared accuse the department of family reunions of not keeping meticulous records.
so that brings us back to the here and now: a little girl with purple ribbons in a waiting room in the land of the dead, and a burgeoning argument outside.
no one was there with elena except one staff member, and well. no freshly-minted staff member would be prepared for this .
“héctor!” and elena perks up, even though the voice is angry, even though she is a little confused, because: that’s her abuelo! she has missed him so much. “what are you doing here?”
papá alberto says his name like a curse.
“I don’t know,” someone else says, someone elena does not know, another man. younger, less certain. “I - well. I try to keep the department on my good side. but.” a nervous laugh. “how’s the family?”
papá alberto remains quiet for a few solid beats. “good. but why would you care?”
a nervous chuckle. “well. I want to hear about how things have been going in santa cecilia.”
a strained, heavy silence pierces through the air.
elena cocks her head, curious about this stranger - this héctor - who angers her papá alberto. adults never tell her the full story.
“how’s mi familia ?” the other man - héctor asks - his voice now painfully desperate. “I have never been able to cross over - ernesto won’t talk to me - I just.”
something cracks.
“I just want to know,” héctor finishes, soft and unsure.
"you just want to know?" papá alberto asks, mocks. "it's decades too late for that, héctor!"
"you think I haven't tried ?" héctor asks, this stranger making her abuelo upset.
"no one has seen hair or hide of you since 1921!"
elena tilts her head to the side. who is this man, and how does he know her papá alberto? she wants to tell him off, to stop making papá alberto upset, like mamá imelda would, wagging her shoe fiercely.
"that's when I died!" héctor says, anguished.
a pause: one, two, three. elena leans forward.
the next time papá alberto speaks, it is a little softer. “you died in 1921?”
“did you not know?” another pause, this time more pained. “does no one in santa cecilia know?”
elena leans forward, intrigued. nothing much happens in santa cecilia - day by day life comes and goes, and that estupido músico is from it, the one all the tourists fawn over, but not much else.
papá alberto’s silence is enough answer.
another question, softer and more uncertain. “does imelda not know?”
“your wife is included in everyone,” papá alberto says, shortly. “I did not know you were dead before tonight.”
there is a loose connection forming, between héctor and abuelita, mamá imelda - but a wife from santa cecilia named imelda is not conclusive evidence in elena’s mind, a mere curiosity. she is ten years old and alive in the land of the dead, after all, and her mamá imelda's husband has long been a non-entity in her head. she is not scared, certain in her papá alberto’s ability to fix everything.
it is one of the most certain things in elena’s life: that her mamá’s papá is a non-entity, a scoundrel and a liar, who left without a word - not someone who died.
right?
héctor speaks next, cheerful in a way that sounds forced. “foolish me, thinking my best friend would tell my wife I died! what’s next, did he also frame me for robbery when I was dead and buried?”
“ah,” papá alberto says, stumbling a little, “not that I’m aware of? but everyone does think - well.”
"I gathered, gracias." the faux cheerfulness drops. “that explains a lot, alberto. I died! I didn't -”
a repetition, a yearning, like he is trying to reach between the land of the dead and the land of living and tell people the truth, tell his wife the truth.
it will be scandalous news in santa cecilia, that’s for certain.
(elena still does not make the connection. why would she? she has never known her mamá’s papá name, knows nothing more about him than that he was a good-for-nothing walkaway músico.)
(that’s all about to change.)
“I know,” papá alberto says, a little faintly. “you never seemed the sort to - well. you dying makes more sense. we’ll discuss that later. we have more pressing matters to attend to.”
“of course,” héctor replies, smoothly. “did the department call you here too?”
it looks like they have stopped fighting and that elena is going to get her blessing and going to give her papá alberto one big hug and then go back home, with a secret to tell the whole town.
“the reason the department called me,” papá alberto says, slowly, “is that my granddaughter - she’s only ten - got herself cursed and needs my blessing to return to the land of the living, or so I have been told.”
“oh, poor chamaca !” héctor sounds genuinely troubled. “well, I shouldn’t hold you any longer, thanks for telling me my family doesn’t know that I’m dead!”
a clatter of feet, and elena looks towards the door, but it still doesn’t open, not yet.
“wait, héctor. I know why they called you,” papá alberto says, before stopping.
he never hesitates.
“she’s your granddaughter, too.”
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I did a thing and posted "Define Love" on AO3
#yupyupyup#penco writes#coco pixar#coco oc x canon#canon x oc#marco veracruz#coco oc: marco veracruz#rosa rivera#marrosa#coco fanfiction#coco fanfic
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Simon Riley! who isn't traditional in the gross way but in the he wants to protect you and make sure you don't feel like you have to provide for yourself, he wants to be a safety net, something to rely on
Simon Riley! Who made it a point to buy your dream house as soon as you were married,
Simon Riley! Who didn't expect houses to require so...much...work
"Baby! The water won't turn off?"
"The fuck you mean it won't turn off just-" Simon grumbled as he dropped the moving box and walked into the kitchen, grabbing the handle of the faucet and trying to pull it, only for it to come flying off. Leaving him dumbfounded and you a giggling disaster.
Simon Riley! Who likes handy man tasks as much as the next guy but the people at the store are beginning to know his name
Simon Riley! Who didn't have a dad to teach him some stuff like plumbing and whatnot so he calls Price
"Oi, Cap-"
"She came to her senses and ran away, yeah?"
"No...I need you to tell me ho' to turn off th' water."
Simon Riley! Who does know how much you love watching him do yard work but doesn't dwell because these godddamn weeds-
Simon Riley! Who loves nothing more than watching you paint the walls of the house, finds it like to be a scene of a movie and it would be a lie if the reality was much better than the cinema
Simon Riley! Who hates facebook because you would randomly send him across the city because you found an old China cabinet you thought would be perfect
Simon Riley! Who doesn't care how his buddies tease him about becoming a domestic civilian so soon, because he would happily fix a thousand houses if it meant a thousand more years with you
(Comments and feedback make my day! annnd yeah that's it <3 )
#simon riley#simon ghost riley#ghost cod#mw2 ghost#simon fluff#simon ghost riley x reader#simon x reader#simon riley x reader#simon ghost x reader#ghost x reader#ghost imagine#simon riley fanfic#simon riley fluff#coco's chaos <3#cod ghost#cod x reader#cod imagine#cod mw2#cod#tf 141 x reader#task force 141#simon riley x female reader#x female!reader
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He's fucking beautiful
Does he need to look at the camera like that?😮💨❤️🔥
Ft. @theladydelulu
#pedro pascal#pedrohub#pedropascaledit#pascalispunk#jose pedro balmaceda pascal#pedro pascal fandom#pedro x reader#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal x reader#Thank u mira chai#coco ullrich queen
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Good morning, I should be working on my fic but I had this thought instead. Post season 11.
“We need a new bed, Mick.” Ian was right, ‘course he was. The full bed had always been on the small side for Ian’s frame and now that they had the dog (and Mickey didn’t have the heart to kick her out of the bed), his poor husband was slowly being pushed out of his own bed. So, they went to a discount mattress and bed frame store. Decent enough place, there was plenty to choose from. Mickey was thinking a good queen size would be good but Ian apparently had other ideas.
“We need a king - look at all the space!” Ian gestured to the large bed and Mickey frowned. Look, he might admit to needing a bigger bed but he also...he didn’t want Ian to be a fuckin’ continent away while he was sleeping.
“It’s fuckin’ expensive as shit, let’s get a queen.”
“Mickey, I’ve never really had a bed long enough for me - look how long this is! Plenty of room for us and Kiki.”
“It’s too fuckin’ big, man.”
“Too big? I’m a six foot man being chased out of my bed by my husband and pitbull. We need big.”
Mickey shifted his weight on his feet. “Yeah well, what if I like being on top each other a little, huh?”
Ian stopped, turned to Mickey and smiled that stupid fucking smile like he had Mickey’s number (which he did but he didn’t have to be an ass about it).
“Baby.”
“Don’t fuckin’ ‘baby’ me here!” Mickey hissed.
“Baby,” Ian repeated, “I’m still gonna hold you in a big bed. I’m still gonna make you a little spoon.”
“You shut the fuck up right now,” there was no real bite to Mickey’s words though.
Ian crowded Mickey, placing his big hands on Mickey’s hips before leaning down to kiss Mickey’s forehead. “I want space for my legs, baby, not space away from you.”
They ended up getting the king. The night it was delivered, Ian wrapped himself around Mickey and stretched out his legs while Kiki stretched out at the foot of the bed.
#just a random sunday morning thought#gallavich#ian x mickey#gallavich fanfic#kiki was a compromise name#mickey wanted 'killer' ian wanted 'coco'#so 'kiki' is short for 'killer coco'
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♡ Destiel Valentine's Day Special ♡
Synopsis: Castiel has never celebrated Valentine's Day and so he wishes to do so with Dean. He wishes to show Dean how much he loves him and from the YouTube tutorials he's watched, things seem to work
Word Count: 3.4K
Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Warnings: Childhood trauma/anal/biting/marking
Notes: @ja3hwa helped me a shit ton on this fic. I couldn't have finished it without her ehhe. But I did it, it is here on time and I'm quite happy with it. I wish I had more time, but eh, what are you going to do? Sue me!?
Flowers had just been the beginning of it all. He had found them by his bed side when he woke up. Being very confused and still very tired, he went to seek out anyone in the bunker for an answer.
Then it had turned into petals down every single corridor in the bunker. That had Sam laughing up a lung when all Dean could do was look around confused in the main foyer. Everywhere was covered in red rose petals. On the chairs, on the table, on the bookshelves. It was like some cupid had come around and vomited up petals.
“Do you know what’s going on?” Dean had asked with his face scrunched up with one of those looks.
Sam had only shrugged and said, “Maybe.”
Then, he had walked away with a shit eating grin on his face that had Dean boiling with anger. With that, the discission to go back to his room was adamant. He wanted to change and get dressed for the day. But, he found something else.
Castiel, an angel of the lord and a warrior for heaven, throws unwrapped chocolates onto Dean’s bed.
For a moment, the hunter can only stand there and watch the angel grab a handful of chocolates from a larger than life box -most likely from Costco with Sam’s membership if his brother is in on this- before throwing them onto the bed like he’s throwing a frisbee. The sight is… it’s a sight.
Dean clears his throat and Cas whips around with wide blue eyes. If the angel had any feathers, Dean can take a guess that they would be ruffled.
“Was that you with all…” Dean waves his hand as if shooing a fly, “that out there?”
“Do you like it?” Is the reply he gets from the angel as he takes a step away from the bed.
Dean can only stare, his gaze flicking to the chocolates on his bed to the angel with his brows raised waiting for an answer. He clutches the large box to his chest, almost like holding a child it’s that big. But Dean doesn’t know what to say. Like, yeah he likes it but… this has never happened to him before.
“I uhh-“
Cas’s brows furrow before he crosses the room to Dean, throwing the box of chocolates beside the bed.
“You do know it’s Valentine’s Day today, right?” Cas asks.
Valentine’s Day!? It’s February already!? Dean tries to hide his panic but it’s clear on his face. Where in hell did January go!? They’ve been on so many hunts lately that they nearly missed New Years! And now Valentine’s Day!? This year was going by quicker than he thought.
He tries to play it off with a smirk and a gruff, “Of course I knew!”
But the angel doesn’t look impressed.
He raises a hand to cup Dean’s cheek who flinches slightly at the touch. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Cas, but he makes no comment of it.
“It’s alright if you forgot,” Cas says softly.
Dean chortles at this as he softly takes the angel’s hand off of his face. But he doesn’t let go of it, holding onto it between them.
“That’s not the point,” Dean murmurs.
Cas raises a brow with a tilt of his head, urging the hunter to go on. This leads to Dean letting out a staggered sigh. He didn’t really know the point himself, nor why he constantly acts so recoiled with Cas’s affection at times. He did love the angel, but the image of his father would come creeping in his mind at times. And it always left a distaste in his mouth.
Why couldn’t he just love the angel they way Cas wanted, the way he needed.
“I’m just…” The hunter huffs, rubbing his scruffy chin, then his eyes. Before pinching his nose with another huff. Cas could see Dean turn on himself, something he did a lot. He’s self-destructive.
“Dean. It’s okay.” Cas can’t recall a moment he didn’t say this to his lover.
It’s okay. Two simple words that humans use to reassure one another. Normally it’s always hollow and more of a silent lie, but Cas had never meant it as such. It’s okay meant; I’m here. I understand. I love you.
“How did you get stuck with me?” Dean scoffs, thinking low of himself.
Cas is so attentive; Dean would always question if he would be a perfect fit for someone else. Someone more like him. Maybe another angel perhaps? Not some hunter that can barely face the fact he is in love with such an angelic man.
Someone that it’s been drilled into his head time and time again that all creatures are bad. That it’s always shoot first and ask questions later. That did happen the first time he met Cas, but beside the point.
Something has changed inside of him that’s changed only for the angel.
“I like being stuck with you,” Cas tries his luck again, tugging a hand free from Deans tight grasp to lay a cupped hand on his bearded cheek.
Dean doesn’t flinch this time. In fact, he moulds his hand over Cas’s much softer one, his rough palms such a wild contrast to the angelic beings. One would thing that a warrior of heaven would have a soldier’s hands. But Dean doesn’t care, he leans into the touch and lays a small, soft kiss into the palm of the angel. Cas chuckles softly to himself, a deep rumble that Dean always loves.
“Thank you…for the uh stuff.” Dean mumbles letting go of Cas’s hand so the angel could place his it back to his sides in almost an awkward manner.
Cas turns to face the bed again inspecting his work. He spent almost three whole days with Sam trying to find the best way to please Dean with this human holiday. So, to say he was nervous that Dean was not going like it was an understatement.
“I’m glad. I watched a tutorial on that YouTube thing you showed me.” Cas emphasised the word Tube with a strong ‘B’.
Cas then begins to ramble on about how he purchased such items and how he managed to use one of Sam real credit card. Dean rolls his eyes with a grunt before coming forward and wrapping his arms around Cas’s waist. He kisses the nape of his neck where the skin is exposed above his trench coat and the angel goes ridged, his words getting caught in his throat.
“Oh…” The angel peeps out. The tutorial was correct.
Dean begins undoing Cas’s buttons from behind, his fingers skilled from doing this many, many times in his past. He may not be great at sappy words, but he could classify himself an expert in other departments.
Cas turns around in the hunter’s hold to only have a pair of desperate lips crash into his. The angel grimaces but holds onto Dean’s face and doesn’t let him go. He pulls the hunter closer as his shirt is pulled out his pants. He’s slowly walked backward into the back of the bed. As soon as his knees hit the bed, he spins Dean around as if they were dancing.
Dean lands on the chocolate ridden bed with a gruff, “Oof,” before he can even register what just happened.
The hunter watches Cas shrug off his trench coat that flops to the ground heavily. Then, he pulls off his jacket and already undone shirt in the same motion. Dean can’t help but let his eyes wonder over the angel’s toned chest.
A little heavily, Cas sits down a top of Dean’s hips. The bed creaks under the added weight, but it’s nothing it can’t handle. Cas grinds down ever so softly but the motion has Dean grunting deep within his throat, his hands instantly grabbing onto the angel’s waist.
“Let me show you, Dean,” Cas grumbles deeply as he bends down, so close to the hunter that their noses touch, “Let me show you that you’re loved. That you’re cared for. That I love you.”
Dean breathing hitches in his throat as the angel kisses him deeply. Many would dream of this moment. To be kissed by an angel that they’ve read about in the bible. Or heard about from their priest and how the lord will send one down to help them in their worries. Well, Dean has many worries and problems, but he doesn’t think any priest or bible reader would be able to wrap their head around a sight like this one.
One that has an angel of the lord, grinding his hips down on his hardening crotch. One that has him doing something special for Valentine’s Day. Showing him how much he loves him and how much he’s cared.
At this affection, it has Dean feeling all weird and gooey inside. Something that he has never felt before with his one-night stands. There’s something about Cas that has Dean feeling desperate every single time. Out of breath, red in the face, weak in the knees.
It’s Dean that has to pull away from the kiss for air. He pants as his head spins from lack of oxygen and because Cas is still grinding down onto him, it makes his feel even dizzier in the head. The angel’s been either watching too many pornos or he’s picked up some shit from the hunter.
“Get these clothes off me,” Dean growls deeply before bringing Cas down for another kiss with a hand on the back of his head.
The angel groans as Dean tugs at his hair, keeping him as place so that he can abuse his mouth. But he does as the man wishes, breaking the kiss once again. He begins taking Dean’s clothes off as quick as he can. Pulling his shirt off over his head and unbuckling his jeans to pull them down. Dean’s half hard cock becomes exposed to the cold bunker air and he hisses through his teeth.
Cas is quick to follow suit, slipping his own pants off as well. And Dean soaks up the view all the same. He’ll never get over seeing the angel like this.
And certainly, won’t get over how the angel plods over to the bedside drawer and opens it up. His bare ass is open to the world and Dean can’t resist. It’s like there’s a massive red, neon sign pointing to his lily white ass saying, Smack me. So, he leans over where he is on the bed and slaps it.
The only reaction Dean gets from Cas is a slow turn of the head with a frown deep set on his face. He’s slightly disappointed in the hunter. He grabs Dean’s still outstretched hand and pins it to the bed as he climbs onto the bed again and over the top of the other.
“That was impulsive,” Cas murmurs.
“Hey,” Dean pipes up. “It was right there.”
Cas rolls his eyes at this but let’s go of his hand so that he can pop the lid of the lube he grabbed from the bedside table open. It should be embarrassing that he knows where to look without asking Dean, but he shouldn’t be all too worried. All worrisome thoughts are quickly ridden of though. Dean can’t help but runs his fingers over the angel’s thighs as he pours a generous amount of lube onto his fingers.
He's all too tempted to reach in between Cas’s legs and touch. But he holds himself strong, waiting for the angel to say he can. He’s learnt well in the past to not touch in certain places without asking. The angel explained it as overwhelming but in a way that every single sensitive touch is like a hundred fireworks. What a thought.
Touching your own dick and fireworks begin bursting out of you.
Then, the angel lifts himself up a bit. And all while making eye contact with Dean, those blue eyes so dark now that they’re almost like midnight, he pushed two slicked fingers into himself. Dean bites the inside of his cheek as he grips Cas’s thighs tighter. Small grunts escape the angel’s throat as he leans over Dean more, working himself open for him. Dean swallows thickly, a warmth coiling in his gut at the sight. All for him. He grips Cas’s thighs tighter again, not being to break eye contact with him.
He feels like he’ll miss something. The sight of Cas is intoxicating. He wonders why his father saw this as wrong and unnatural. There’s nowhere else Dean would rather be right now. He would never be able to admit that out loud, but he just hopes that his angel knows that. Maybe one day he’ll be able to speak his mind without thinking he’s sounding like a little boy.
Then all of a sudden, like something out of Dean’s pornos, Cas reaches around to grab the hunter’s cock. He gives it a few strokes with his lubed-up fingers and each touch feels like fire to Dean. He holds his breath as the angel lines himself up, biting his lip with the amount of concentration on his face. The head of Dean’s cock pushes in smoothly and it feels like the hunter can’t breathe, all the air being punched out of him.
Slowly, the angel works himself onto Dean’s cock. Inch by inch, he’s determined to get every bit of the hunter into him. Cas breathes heavily through his nose as he closes his eyes, getting lost in the feeling himself. Dean can’t help but imagine the fireworks and it has him grinning.
Finally, the angel sinks down fully and sits on top of Dean with a shaky sigh. Dean can’t let go of the angel’s thighs. If he does, he reckons he’ll float away and never come back.
Only because it’s Cas, it feels so much different for Dean. The angel has Dean throwing his head back into the blankets and chocolates with a little movement of his hips. His finger nails scratch into Cas’s thighs and he can’t help but pant and groan deep within his chest. His angel hasn’t even done anything special, and he feels his skin buzzing.
Cas spreads his hands out onto Dean’s chest, his thumb rubbing over the tattoo on his peck. He sits on Dean for a moment, fully flush against his hips. He breathes slowly, taking in the beautiful sight of Dean trying to hold it together. He begins a slow yet brutal pace to watch Dean writhe. Moving his ass up an inch before moving back down with a twist of his hips. Each movement he’s able to get a small whine from his lover beneath him.
He keeps up the slow and agonizing pace though, waiting for Dean to say something. But he won’t force it out of him, he likes seeing him squirm a little.
“C-Cas,” Dean pants out. “Cas, please move fa-ah-ah,” he’s cut off for a moment, having to find his words in the muddle of moans and groans that force their way from his mouth. “Faster,” he gets out finally.
The angel can’t help but grin as he does as Dean wishes. He rises up until the head of the hunter’s cock sits at his rim then comes back down with another twist of his hips. He quickens his pace and his own hard cock bobs between his legs. The heat that coils in his own gut is intoxicating. Something he’s had to get use to with feeling everything tenfold.
With the new pace, Dean quivers and groans with every movement and coarse of pleasure that strikes through him. He looks to the angel through squinted eyes and feels his heart jump in his throat. Cas, his angel, he’d have to be an idiot to not see beauty in him.
He brings his angel down with his hands on either side of his face to kiss him. He just needs him close. Needs to feel his breath against his face. Needs to taste him on his tongue. He moves his hips upwards every time Cas comes down and each time it gets a grunt from the angel. A beautiful sound that is silky to the ears.
Dean pulls away from the kiss, having to catch air. But it’s very hard when Cas begins pecking and sucking at his jaw and neck quickly after. It’s all too much. He tries to flip Cas over like he’s done so many times. So that he can get at a better angle to fuck into Cas. But the angel holds him down tight on the bed.
Cas continues his pace, working himself on Dean’s dick without a faulter in his progress. He also continues nipping at Dean’s skin, kissing and sucking at him. Leaving marks wherever he’s been that will be there for days to come.
Dean holds onto Cas as his gut tightens, everything becoming fuzzy. He’s close and Cas is going to make him come his way tonight. And he holds on for dear life.
“C-Cas,” Dean pants out. “’M close.”
He can feel the angel smile into his neck as he changes the pace again. To something that has him taking the entirety of Dean and grinding down where he sits. Dean splutters, trying to move his hips but his legs begin to feel like jelly. He moves his knees up the best he can, so that he can move his hips in a way that he’s actually getting a grip on Cas. What the angel is doing to him is torture.
Cas sits up again and arches his back. He breathes heavily, sweat trickling down his chest and stomach. He rests his back against Dean’s knees, using it as a support so that he can concentrate on what he’s doing.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut, his breath hitching in his throat at his loss of simple thoughts. And he doesn’t register it at first. The thing that’s pressing up against his flushed lips. But when he opens his eyes, he gladly takes the sweet chocolate being pushed into his mouth. Two fingers follow after it and Dean sucks at them before he knows what he’s doing. The chocolate breaks inside of his mouth and a gooey caramel covers the angel’s fingers and his tongue. He groans at the taste of the chocolate. If only if the brown sweet could taste this amazing all the time.
Without even asking, Dean begins licking and cleaning the angel’s fingers from the sweet and salty caramel and chocolate. He never breaks eye contact, looking at Cas through long lashes. His tongue twists and curls around Cas’s soft fingers, not leaving an ounce of caramel behind.
Once deemed acceptable, Cas removes his fingers and smiles at Dean’s work. He wishes to grab another, but the hunter has other plans.
With this new found position from Cas, Dean is finally able to move his hips properly. He grips onto Cas’s waist and begins driving his cock into the angel. The angel shivers and trembles at the abuse, having to hold onto Dean’s chest for support. He’s so close and he needs that little extra oomph. He grunts and whines as he comes closer and closer until finally.
Cas lays a hand over one of Dean’s hands as the hunter comes undone deep inside of the angel. His thrusts stutter but he gets a few more in before letting himself go fully. He can’t help but moan as his body goes ridged. He doesn’t let go nor does he move from inside Cas. He lets himself get lost in the orgasm and the sticky feeling dribbling down his balls.
It takes awhile before Dean comes back to the land of the living. Out of breath, sweaty and having lust filled eyes stare down at him is a wonderful mixture of things.
Cas moves off of Dean and the hunter’s softening dick flops onto his thigh. The angel sits down on his stomach gently, his stare never leaving the man under him. Dean swallows thickly, licking his caramel sweet lips. He looks down at Cas’s still hard and reddened cock between his legs and grunts in his throat.
“Give me,” Dean swallows thickly again. “Five minutes and we’ll go round two,” he says as he holds up two fingers.
Cas raises his brow. “Are you sure?”
Dean nods with a snort. “Of course, it’s Valentine’s, isn’t it?”
-
Happy Valentine's Day bitches :)
#coco posts#destiel#dean winchester#castiel#supernatural#spn#destiel fic#destiel valentine's day#valentine's day#destiel smut#destiel fluff#destiel fanfic#dean winchester fic#dean winchester fanfic#dean winchester smut#castiel smut#castiel fanfic#castiel fic#spn fic#spn smut#castiel x dean winchester#castiel x dean winchester fic#dean winchester x castiel#dean x cas#dean x castiel#supernatural fluff
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A Relaxing Day At The Beach
Readers 18+ Only
Summary: You spend a lazy day at the beach with the boys. Inspiration for this came from yet another Lana Del Rey song called Music To Watch Boys To. Hope you like. Mentions of Angel, Creeper, Coco, Gilly and Ez.
WARNINGS: Just some light language and naughtiness.
You dig your toes into the warm sand, the smell of the ocean and sounds of the waves crashing onto shore always took you to a special place, one of peace and tranquility. You could easily fall asleep, the ocean waves and songs of seagulls flying over the sky was like nature’s lullaby. On any other day you would have already dozed off but this day was not like any other day.
“Ey, watch what the fuck you doin’. You damn near knocked my beer out of my hand.” Gilly shouted to Coco who had bumped into him.
That was the third fight that had broken out in the half hour that you’d been here. Kids. It was like watching kids fighting over petty things. If it wasn’t one thing it was another. It’s like they look for any excuse to start shit, like they don’t know any other way, it’s all they’ve known you surmise. You put your headphones on, the ones with the flowers on them. You roll your eyes and hit play on your phone, the sounds of Smashing Pumpkins’ ‘Today’ flowing through your ears drowns out their shouts. No, there would be no peaceful napping on the beach today.
Still it was quit amusing watching them argue now that you couldn't hear them. Using body language and your knowledge of their individual personalities, you could imagine quite accurately what they were saying to each other or re-imagine what they were arguing about. You make a game of it, adding your own narrative to the scene.
“That ain’t my fault though. You shoulda had a better grip on it.” he grinned but Gilly wasn’t haven’t it. Gilly gets in his face and Coco bracing himself for a fight.
You wonder how far this will go before someone intervenes. You always like to watch Coco get all worked up, he’s very… passionate. It often leaves the mind wondering if he’s that passionate in all things. It doesn’t take very long before Ez is there trying to break it up.
You look around and find Creeper hitting on a random girl he just met, or at least attempting to in his own way. Large breasted and nearly half his age, the woman was clearly out of his league but he was either oblivious or didn’t care. Wild horses couldn’t drag away Creeper’s confidence. He’s showing her all his battle wounds. You wonder as he points to one in particular why he thinks that would actually work but it does. The girl’s face softens up and you could almost hear the ‘ay, poor baby.’ as she traces one of his scars. He of course is all smiles reminiscent of a kid in a candy shop. Oh he is trying to fill his bag with sweets today.
He tried that on you once but it hadn’t work. You had just snickered and said, “well maybe next time don’t get shot.” That had led the entire club in an uproar of cackles and ribbing on Creeper but he didn’t care. If it had bothered him it did not show one bit. He’d just smiled innocently at you, “that’s okay y/n, one day you’ll change your mind and I promise I won’t mock you when you do but I might make you beg for it.”
You turn your attention to the ocean but it's not the waves that have caught your eye. It’s the tall dark haired man walking out of the water that you are drawn to. Beads of salt water trickling down his body, you count each one only to lose count as a new one falls down. One particular drop catches your gaze and you follow it down to his abs. You’ve heard of washboard abs but your curious as a kitten mind questions if you could actually wash your delicates on it. A naughty smile creeps across your face as you imagine yourself washing your panties on those abs while still wearing them, you bite down on your lower lip to hide it and begin singing along to distract yourself from your own fantastically kinky thoughts.
The drop you’ve been following takes its painfully slow time to make its way down, further down, way down until it reaches its final destination, the very edge of his black swimsuit. Leave it to Angel to be wearing speedos. Unaware that you were even still gawking you let out an audible gasp loud enough to both snap you out of the most delicious thoughts and get the others’ attention but you paid no mind. Angel’s eyes were on you now and there was a storm brewing there, a dangerous one. One of amusement, desire and lots of mischief.
“You like what you see, babygirl.” It was a statement not a question. Like he knew he was that hot, like he knew if he just reached between your legs he’d find your bikini bottoms soaked. That ego and the confidence of this man was through the roof.
“Yes, Daddy.” You answer in your sweet good girl voice.
Oh yes there was definitely a storm coming, one that promised to fulfill all unspoken fantasies, even those you’ve never acknowledged to yourself.
#mayans x reader#coco cruz#coco cruz fanfic#coco x reader#angel reyes x reader#angel reyes fanfiction
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can i try one ?
a/n: posted originally in april i think? there was a prompt list but i can't remember exactly <//3 oh !! and it was requested by @sweetbabygirlsworld and betaed by @forevermoreharrington i think <3 (0.4k)
cw: reader is a bit ditzy? a luna lovegood type beat ; petnames ;
steve harrington x fem! reader
masterlist // taglist
You had a sort of fascination with the screwdriver in your hand, turning it this way and that as you ran your thumb over the cross-shaped end. What once was a sharp star-shaped end was blunt with years of use, the screwdriver now slipping from the screw’s slot unless the pressure usually needed was doubled. Steve was staring at you, the wonder evidence in the slight pucker of your brow almost endearing to him. He was studying the slope of your cheeks, the way your tongue stuck out in concentration, his eyes tracing every dip and mole on your face before he was jolted back to reality. He tapped your shoulder, the motion all fond as his voice penetrated the silence.
“Can I borrow that?”He almost seemed sorry that he was asking to use the tool; that he was taking away the source of your fascination. You twisted your body so you could face him and he smiled, the expression saccharine sweet. Steve was about to follow up on his question, moving his hand to rest on top of yours before his previous statement registered in your mind.
“Steve,” he tilted his head, the motion an inaudible question, “can I try one?” He nodded, his lips parting ever so slightly as he decided on what to reply. Steve completely missed the way your gaze lingers on his lips, doesn’t notice the way you trace the soft cupid’s bow of his upper lip with your eyes. So it comes as a surprise to him when you lean forward, pressing your lips on his in a kiss that lasts only a second but leaves him with a bashful smile nonetheless.
“Sorry baby, just really wanted to kiss you. what were you saying?” Steve had forgotten anything he’d been planning to say, so instead, he took the one of your hands clutching the tool in his and brought it to screw.
“‘kay, so you hold the screw and put the end into the little slot,” he paused to direct you through his instruction, “see? you’ve got it. then you twist it to the right.”
Steve took his palm off yours, letting you experiment with the new skill. Your brows furrowed in concentration, twisting the screwdriver until it was too difficult for you to move.
“s’that okay?” you looked at him and he smiled, holding his hand out so you could high-five him. Heat rose to your cheeks at his approval and you leaned into him, your head resting on his shoulder.
“that’s perfect”
#ivy is writing !#coco 🍪#steve harrington (ivy’s version)#steve harrington fluff#steve harrington#steve harrington fanfiction#steve harrington drabble#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x y/n#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington blurb#stranger things x reader#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things#stranger things fanfic#stluvs
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if sb needs a Konrad scene pack dm me I just made one
#Fanfik#fanfic netflix#fanfik netflix#fanfic 2023#fanfik 2023#Fanfik movie#Konrad#Konrad fanfik#Conrad fanfik#Conrad fanfic#Konrad fanfic#Coco fanfik#Coco fanfic#scene pack#Fanfik scene pack
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Summary: Coco prepares for the birth of his and OC Daniela's child. All while enduring hazing from her brothers and trying to cope with his own anxiety about being a good father.
As always my stories are 18+.
Tag List: @keyweegirlie @hatersaremymotivators @meera10 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @kikijackson-blog
"I still can't believe you got my baby sister pregnant" sighed Angel as he dropped onto the couch next to Coco dramatically making him roll his eyes but not looking up from the book in his hands.
"Kind of a shit move. She had her whole life ahead of her" joked EZ as he clapped Coco on his shoulders from behind the couch.
"My bad. Figured after being married for two years this would be fine. Though I am starting to wish I had rethought the relationship after realizing you two idiots were her brothers" snarked Cocoas he shook EZ's hands off him and stood from the couch.
"If I didn't know better I would think he was the one pregnant and hormonal" stated Angel as they watched Coco stalk off and upstairs. EZ simply nodded as he took Coco's vacated seat.
***
Dani was upstairs finishing her makeup when she saw Coco appear in the doorway a frown on his face. "You okay love?"
Coco flopped onto the bed and sighed trying to decide if it was worth stressing her out to tell her his rising anxiety about the birth of their daughter. "I'm good mami" he finally called as he heard her move into the bedroom. "You look stunning" he added as he propped himself up on his elbows taking her in. Lucky, he thought to himself. He got lucky that night all those years ago that she had turned down that alleyway.
Dani put her hands on her hips as she stared him down. "Don't deflect Coco. I know something is bothering you so spill it"
Coco took a deep breath as he met her eyes. There was no use in trying to deny it any longer. "What if I am a bad dad? What do I have to offer? I messed Letty up and I can't stomach the idea of doing that with our little one. I know its too late but I don't think I can do this Dani" explained Coco as he buried his face in his hands as tears spilled down his cheeks.
"Coco, my love" murmured Dani as she moved to the bed and tried to pull him as close as possible with her baby bump. "You are a great man and a great father. I promise you that. Letty has grown into a lovely young lady and you did what you thought was best for her. I know in my heart you will do the same for our little girl. I am honored to get to raise her with such a gentle, kind, hardworking man" soothed Dani as she rubbed his shoulders.
Coco nodded as he listened to Dani speak. He knew she would never lie to him. "Thank you. Sorry for this" mumbled Coco as he sat up and kissed her cheek.
"No apologies needed love. I got you like you got me" replied Dani softly as she caressed his face. A knock at the bedroom door had them both turning.
"Guests are arriving. E is getting everyone settled" stated Angel as he looked at the floor awkwardly.
"You go on mi amor. I'll be down in a couple minutes" stated Coco as he stood up offering his hand out to Dani to help her off the bed. Dani nodded and made her way out of the room, giving Angels arm a squeeze as she passed by.
Once Dani was down the stairs Angel turned to his friend. "Hey man, I hope you know its all just jokes. EZ and I couldn't ask for a better guy for Dani to be with."
Coco nodded as he took a deep breath. "I know man. Just got a lot on my mind. Don't want to fuck this up"
"You won't. You love my sister to much to do that. Besides you got me and EZ to help ya" replied Angel with a grin.
"Thank god I got Boy Scout and Pretty Boy to help me. Whatever would I do without?" replied Coco sarcastically as he chuckled as he stood up making his way out of the room with Angel.
The End
Want to see how Dani and Coco started? Click here
Return to Series Masterpage
#ravennasmasterlist#mayans mc#mayans mc fanfiction#RaisingGirlsSeries#mayans imagines#mayans imagine#OCDanielaReyes#coco cruz#coco cruz fic#coco cruz imagine#johnny coco cruz#coco x oc#mayans fanfiction#mayans fanfic#fanfiction#fanfic
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newbornDad! Simon Riley
Simon! Who insists on carrying the baby carrier through the threshold of the house when you get home from the hospital
Simon! who spent nine months training Riley to be gentle with the baby
Simon! Who carries the baby around showing them the house with little whispers, 'annnn this is your brothers room, he's had your grandads right now but don't worry sweetpea, you'll meet him soon'
Simon! Who strongly believes the baby needs skin to skin, so...are you complaining about him walking around shirtless with a baby held to chest, not at all
Simon! Who is so worried when Ollie holds the baby for the first time because yeah Ollie is six years old at that point but anxiety??
Simon! Who hates that he has to go on a mission, even if for two weeks because they are sooo so vital and he doesn't want to leave you alone and-
Simon! Who tells Oliver to take care of his little sibling and to look after you
Simon! Who hates his job sometimes
#simon ghost riley#simon x reader#simon fluff#simon riley x reader#simon ghost fluff#simon ghost riley x reader#dad!simon riley#dad!ghost#simon riley#fluff cod#cod imagine#simon riley imagine#simon riley x you#ghost x you#cod fluff#cod x you#simon riley fanfic#simon ghost x reader#coco’s chaos <3#simon riley x female reader#x female!reader#coco’s pre-k universe! <3
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“I should have killed you that night in Mexico City,” Ernesto says to Héctor as he holds up a half-empty bottle of tequila. “Should have killed you the very moment I had the chance.”
“Ah, you wouldn’t have had the guts,” Héctor says without missing a beat.
He never takes Ernesto’s grouchy threat seriously. Not when his friend has growled and grumbled and groaned the same empty words for years over any little inconvenience or annoyance he blames Héctor for.
When Héctor wakes him up to early to practice – “I'll kill you if you poke me again,” Ernesto gripes.
Héctor drinks all the coffee before Ernesto can get to it – “I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Ernesto whines in the middle of the kitchen.
Héctor embarrasses him in font of the Rivera family with another sappy tale of their childhood when Ernesto had moved Heaven and Earth to make sure his hermanito had something to eat at night – “Gah! I should have let you starve!” Ernesto groans into his hands before adding a thousand embellishments to the story to make himself seem grander because his ego is just that big.
It’s an empty threat. It makes Héctor laugh sometimes.
Like now. He chortles to himself and nudges Ernesto’s empty shot glass closer to him. The movement sends Ernesto’s losing hand of playing cards sliding to the edge of the table. “Go on, you loser, drink up!”
Ernesto grumbles and pours himself his nth shot of clear liquor for the night.
Héctor can see Imelda over Ernesto’s shoulder, sitting at her desk by the window, head bowed over neatly arranged sheets of drawing paper. She’s singing to herself under breath as she works, sketching improvements to existing boot designs. A strand of silver hair falls over her brow.
Héctor begins to hum along to her beautiful voice until he hears Ernesto mutter, “I was planning to, you know.”
“Huh?” Héctor turns to him.
“Kill you,” Ernesto says. He’s shuffling the cards, lips twitching into something that’s not quite a snarl but close to it. “I planned it all for that night you left.”
Behind him, the sound of Imelda’s brothers laughing with Coco in the garden only vaguely catches Héctor’s attention. He leans forward on crossed arms, eyes the cards that Ernesto flicks across the table towards him. “The night I left?”
“When you left me in that cheap hotel in Mexico City ten years ago,” Ernesto says. “And took all your songs and your pinche guitar with you.” He’s done dealing out the cards when he meets Héctor’s eyes again. “I was going to kill you and take all of it for myself.”
Héctor narrows his eyes. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes. With rat poison, of all things,” Ernesto says. “But luck wasn’t on my side that night.”
Silence.
And then, as if on cue, they laugh. Héctor hugs his middle and tries not to send his cards flying. Ernesto’s shoulders are shaking and his head is bowed, laughing in that wheezy way of his that he’s only ever comfortable doing in the presence of people close to him.
Héctor says through his laughter, “I really piss you off that much, eh?”
“Every day,” Ernesto says. “Back then and even now – even now I still want to poison you.”
Any other man, and Héctor would blame the tequila for the harsh words. But this is Ernesto. The man just says things like that sometimes. Even his ridiculous jokes -even ones about abandoned murder attempts, apparently- sound charming with the way he speaks.
“You can try. But would the world really forgive you if you silenced this beautiful face forever?” Héctor gestures at his face with a flourish and gasps when Ernesto flicks a card at his nose. “Hey! Ouch!”
“Forget it,” Ernesto grouches. “I think if I try, Imelda will kill me a dozen times over.”
“I would enjoy that,” Imeda says without looking up from her work.
“I know.”
“Ah, well,” Héctor says. He pours them both shots of tequila and holds his glass up. “To failed plans and bright futures. Or, at least,” he adds, grinning lopsidedly at his friend. “At least to another ten years before you try again?”
He's had enough of the joke. He wants to end the night on a good note.
Ernesto stares at him for a long second before rolling his eyes with a scoff and raising his glass. “To bright futures and no more poison, I suppose. You’re too annoying to even get rid of at this point.”
“To being too annoying to get rid of!” Héctor crows and clinks their glasses together.
They drink, and get back to their game. Outside, the sun sets on a quiet evening at the Rivera home where everyone, at least for a good long time, lives happily.
#based on something i think I posted to discord a few years back#coco#héctor rivera#ernesto de la cruz#imelda rivera#heeey first coco fanfic in years aw yess#look i wrote a thing
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Summary: The thrilling sequel to Coco that you've all been waiting for! Miguel visits ... wait for it... wait for it... A LIBRARY.
Or : Miguel probably can't prove that Ernesto is a murderer, but stupendous fuckbucket is still on the table.
Author: skater_of_the_surface
Submitter: @edgy-ella
Note from submitter: Genuinely one of, if not THE best fic I’ve ever read. The use of outsider POV is pitch perfect. 10/10, would recommend to anyone that’s seen the movie
#official fic poll#haveyoureadthisfic#pollblr#fanfiction#tumblr polls#fanfic#fandom poll#fandom culture#internet culture#Ernesto de la Cruz vs. The Court of Public Opinion#Coco#disney
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"A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life"
Redraw of my first Casey drawing that I posted exactly a year ago! 😊
I do wish I had more energy to really show the improvement in my work because this is still very much on the quicker side but I just thought it'd be a nice thing to do today 😊
I remember having some thoughts at the time such as "no one's going to buy this girl as the Boss", "I wish I could draw digital like the cool people" and "when people find out I ship her with Matt Miller I'm going to get ripped to shreds".
Turns out, it was the best possible thing I could have done to start posting on here, and to start drawing again, on so many levels. You're all fantastic. 🫶
Little side-by-side below the cut 😊
I also drew the full outfit here
#that quote may be coco chanel but shaundi also said it in my hc#and i think she should know#saints row#saints row boss#sr boss: casey clark#post-sriv#sr fanfic: out of time
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