#and some warm goat milk to help you fall asleep afterwards

[archmagerykarr]

He just wants to make sure you're touched by the light tonight.

[maevesdarling]

Take me home tonight

Sooo, I decided to post chapter 1 of the story @unicorn-cloud and I have been cooking up for a while. This plays post series in an alternative universe. There’s mentions of gore and canon typical violence in both this and the second chapter, basically Walt is not dealing with things as good as he thought... I’m not sure how many chapters this story will have, probably around 3 to 4, also please be kind to me it’s been a long time since I uploaded my works to Tumblr, thx!  

Chapter 1: The Call

Later, after he put his gun and badge down and moves further away from the border, Walt gets a call from an unknown number. He contemplates not picking up. It's been years since Kiki's death and operation Leyenda. He thinks, for a moment, that it could be Miguel Angel, calling him from his jail cell to taunt him, but no, he's not important enough to that man and besides, Miguel Angel doesn't wield as much power as he used to.

There are others. New players in this fucked up game, Walt knows that. He saw them rising on the horizon like a looming thunderstorm, ready to destroy the earth in it's path. But for now, he decided to enjoy his peace. His back's been bothering him more as of lately and he's got a few more grey hairs. He quit smoking about a year ago, after his doctor told him to do so. He's had a few setbacks since then, a half finished pack is always hidden underneath his kitchen sink, just in case he needs a fix. But overall, he's trying to stay away from the cigarettes and eat more healthy, even though the microwavable dinners at the supermarket look damn tempting, especially since it's only himself he's cooking for.

He's up in Colorado these days. The DEA was kind enough to leave him with a nice sum of retirement money, probably to shut him up after all the shit he pulled of during his career and to be fair he doesn't blame them.

He buys a nice enough house on the outskirts of town, with some additional property, a rundown barn and an old apple tree orchard that he has no plan on using. The weather's less hot, and there's a few lakes where he can fish, but otherwise, it's pretty much like any other town he's lived in. The dark red sandstones dotting the farmland remind him of Mexico. Of sitting in the hot sun and watching a small airfield in the distance, with a pair of binoculars in his hand. Sal's voice next to him asking about their next move. It's nostalgic in a way.

The first day, after he finished dropping off his stuff in the small, rundown house, he sets off to drive around, get familiar with the place. He finds a shabby bar, a small supermarket, a post office, a family owned diner and a few farms, with cows and hundreds of chickens roaming the surrounding fields, that sell local products. Over time, he ventures out further and discovers some more bars, supermarkets and, to his surprise, a gay club.

It's well hidden, two cities over, wedged between an antique bookstore and a barbershop. It looks nothing like a club from outside, and from the inside, it's hardly distinguishable from any other bar Walt has ever set foot in. But he knows where to look, it's something you learn over time.

The first time he orders a drink, his eyes fall on a guy sitting on the other end of the bar. Dark hair and dark eyes, with a bristly moustache. He's wearing a black cowboy hat and a jeans jacket, it's not what he would have worn. Plus he only looks a slight bit like Sal, his face is much older, more weathered from years of hard work in the sun, but it's enough for Walt to give in to his yearning.

He buys Not-Sal a drink and they fall into an easy chatter. Two hours later, Walt is driving him back to his house. Not-Sal is more experienced than Walt had thought when he starts undressing him with steady hands, his fingers touching in all the right places, he's already prepared, as if he'd been expecting this to happen, and doesn't mind it when Walt accidentally let's Sal's name slip at the height of his pleasure.

They lie together afterwards, sharing a cigarette between them, neither of them ready to leave yet. Walt is slowly falling asleep to the feeling of another person combing their hands through his hair. When he wakes up the next morning, the house is empty. There's a note on his kitchen table, a short thank you message, that's it. Next time he's at the club, Not-Sal is gone. He finds someone else. A different man, with dark hair, dark eyes and a friendly face, and then another and another. Some of the men he brings over are kind, they'll stay the night and sometimes even the morning, to share a quick meal with him before they move on, others leave almost immediately after they finish. Some of them yell out Walt's name as they come, others don't. And some yell out another man's name, but that's okay because so is Walt.

He's careful with the company he keeps. Always making sure that no one sees him leaving the club with another man, driving different routes back home and of course he's always stocking up on enough condoms because he's not stupid, he knows how important protection is.

Even though he's had a few men over, none of them return for longer than a couple of times. Its fun, to fill the mornings with senseless chatter, and to fall asleep in another person's arms. But they're not Sal.

He's longing for him. Even after all those years he's still longing for him. It's been three, almost four years since he last heard from Sal. He was moving to San Francisco. The DEA wanted someone new up there and Sal was growing tired of the shit hole they had placed him in after Mexico. They had called each other almost everyday, sometimes they would even meet each other, for a quick chat and an even quicker fuck. There was never enough time.

Sal wanted to call him back, he promised, once he was in San Francisco, to call him every day. Write a postcard. But nothing came. The telephone was silent for two whole months and Walt was desperate. First, he checked the newspapers for any missing or recently deceased people, when that search came up empty, he started to search the phone book for Sal's new address but of course that came up empty as well. He kept buying new phone books, just in case and by now, there was a small bookcase filled with old phone books in his house, and not a single one held an address for Sal Orozco. It was almost like he never exited. Only Walt's memory kept him from going insane. The fading photos on his wall, the one he kept in his wallet, next to a picture of Greg and his family. One of Sal's shirts he forgot in Walt's apartment in Texas, it had long stopped smelling of him, but nevertheless, Walt would pick it up and inhale deeply, thinking that the ghost of Sal's smell was still there, etched into the fabric. He slept with the shirt, on those nights when he woke up drenched in sweat, screaming and with a thundering heart. He wrenched his eyes open but he saw them anyway, Amat, Ossie, Danilo, sometimes even Kiki. He saw them die, he saw their bodies, bruised, burned, riddled with bullets, standing in front of his bed, he could hear them calling out his name. "You killed us, Walt." They'd point at him, blood dripping from their fingertips onto his bedsheets. Those nights were the worst. Sometimes they could only be stopped with an entire bottle of whiskey.

The dreams had gotten better since he found the dog. The dog didn't have a name. He was a stray, with dark, golden fur and dirty white paws. He picked him up on his way home from an unsuccessful night at the club, the dog was covered in ticks and fleas, one eye had been badly bruised and he was tied to a tree by the side of the road. Clearly abandoned. He expected the dog to bark at him, or worse, bite him, when he kneeled down beside him to untie him, but instead, it sat down in front of Walt and started wagging it's tail, as if he'd known Walt all his life. He took the dog in and gave it a bath, making sure that no ticks or fleas survived, before driving him to the vet the next morning to check out his eye. The vet couldn't save it and so Walt decided to take him in, just another broken thing keeping his company.

He put a collar on the dog and called him his, they slept in the same bed and sat on the couch together, watching football games and stupid action movies. The dog went fishing on the lake with him, even though he was no big help in catching the fish, he also liked to run around the orchard and sit on the front porch to sleep, and Walt liked to sit beside him and think, scratching behind his fluffy ears. Sometimes he wondered if Sal liked dogs. What he'd say if he met his dog.

The other animals were intentional. Walt bought a couple of chickens to sell their eggs at the local farm, and to keep himself busy. Then he renovated the old barn as best as he could and bought three goats to sell their meat, but once he saw them in their pen, he decided they weren't going to the slaughter house and kept them for their milk instead. He also fixed up the orchard as best as he could and started collecting the apples. Soon the onslaught of apples was too much for him to handle and so he collected them in a few boxes, along with the chicken eggs and sold them to the nearest farm. Surprisingly, the people around town started knowing him once he started visiting the farm more frequently. He would have regular conversations with some of them and at some point, even started looking forward to see them. He didn't go to the town hall meetings, or to Sunday mass, and the people had been weary of him, but once they saw him with his dog and the boxes of apples in his trunk, they warmed up to him.

He enjoyed his new life. It wasn't luxurious, but that wasn't what he wanted for himself anyway. He was no Miguel Angel. He didn't need a fleet of private planes and a couple of hotels to be happy.

The phone rang again and reminded him of his current situation. The dog had stopped wagging it's tail on the couch beside him and was looking at him with his one eye, almost as if he was saying "what are you waiting for?"

And so Walt picked up the phone, fully expecting Jamie or Ed or someone else from the DEA to yell at him to get his ass back to Mexico.

"Hello... is this Walt Breslin?" The phone slipped from his grasp and fell, he caught it in his suddenly sweaty palms, pressing the shell back against his ear. Three years silence could not erase the memory of that voice. Hushed conversations between them, hiding behind a parked car as they watched over a suspect, a gasp and then a low moan, while Walt kept hitting that one spot inside him, that set Sal's body on fire, a chatty conversation over two mugs of steaming coffee in a diner that ended with both of them laughing hysterically. Walt had enough memories for an entire lifetime with that voice, he would recognize it anywhere.

"Sal-" He breathed, rearranging the phone against his ear.

"Is- Walt is that you? Oh my god- fuck- I found you!" There was a short pause on the other end of the phone and for a moment Walt thought he was imagining things, then Sal's voice returned. "I- I'm sorry, Walt. I'm so sorry-" He sobbed, apologizing over and over.

"Sal- How did you find me? Wh- Are you alright? Is- do you need help?"

"No, no, I'm fine, Walt. I am. I just- fuck- I missed you so much. Where are you? I called you're old address so many times- I thought something happened to you…"

"Shh, I'm okay. I'm in Colorado. Small town near Denver. I'll give you the address… That is… If you want me to…"

"Yes! I mean... yes I want- I want to see you. If that's okay. I need to- need to know you're okay."

He contemplated with himself wether to ask this or not, but in the end, Walt did it anyways. "It's been three years, Sal. Why did you never call? What's changed?" Another sobb from the other end of the line. "I'll tell you. In person. Friday? Is that okay for you?" Walt squinted at his calendar. Friday was in two days, he needed to clean the house, buy some groceries and pack the car for Sunday's apple delivery.

"Yeah, Friday works."

"Alright. I'll see you on Friday… Walt… I missed you."

"… Missed you too Sal."

He put the phone down slowly, feeling like he was still in a dream. The dog had noticed something was off about his behavior and was staring at him in concern. " 's alright bud, I'm just… surprised, is all. We'll meet a friend of mine on Friday. I hope you'll like him…"

Lost in his thoughts, Walt began his evening routine, closing the chicken pen, checking on the goats and refilling the dogs food in case he got hungry during the night, only when the brown cibbles hit the kitchen tiles did he notice his thoughts slipping off. The only thing on his mind was Sal. Sal with his kind face and the warm, dark brown eyes, Sal wrapping an arm around his hips and pulling him closer, Sal whispering into Walt's ear. A hushed love confession neither of them dared to talk about. So, so many memories they shared between them, how was he supposed to wait any longer to see him again?

Friday couldn't come soon enough.

[hungergames-fanfic]

Grounded

Having to wake up before the sun is horrible. It’s cold but not really, my eyes are itchy and dry, daddy’s in a mood. I’m not having any fun. I guess that’s the point. I’m not supposed to have fun, this a punishment.

“First things first”, daddy says.

He makes me light an oil lantern on my own, at first the task makes me nervous. Last time he taught me I ain’t pay any attention, luckily all I had to really do was light it. “Easy, see”, daddy says when I smile at the flame.

In a way, he wasn’t kidding, that was the easiest task. For the entirety of the morning I’m put to collect chicken eggs. This takes me about an hour. Ari left so many behind that I fill up two buckets. Then, we have so many chickens it’s hard to walk in the coop without having to kick some. They flap around erratically and smack me with their wings. For a second there, I’m jumped by over twenty chickens.

Usually daddy only makes me do one thing and calls it a day, but not today. He’s still mad about yesterday. Ari and me getting lost, then finding out she ran away and we ain’t tell nobody. Has me shoveling up pig poop, carrying buckets of feed, tossing hay into the goat pen and spoils at the pigs. Has me working so hard I ain’t notice how hungry I am until my stomach starts to roar. Even then I ignore the noises and emptiness so daddy won’t have a reason to yell at me some more.

By the time the sun is high in the sky, hot with no light breezes, daddy calls me to the farm house. In a pen he has one of our bulls, he’s big and brown with the longest horns I’ve ever seen. The other one is just a calf. He hands me a brush and tells me “Billiard” needs to be brushed, then leaves me to this and goes out in the horse pen where I can hear him calling Spice, one of our three horses.

“Milk!”, I hear daddy a couple of minutes later, “Milk, down girl, down!”, followed by a loud distinct crash. It sounded like a wooden wall being torn down. “Goddamn it, Milk!”, daddy yells. Footsteps approach.

“Polomir!”, momma Bilmin yells at him, “now I know you ain’t talkin’ like that in front of Dora”, behind her are three men.

“Lookin’ like you need help”, Mr Oxoro says with a big smile. Usually his clothes look dirty like daddy’s after a long day but today he’s well dressed. Has cowboy hat on, in a bright red, long sleeve button up and navy blue jeans with the cleanest boots I’ve ever seen, he stunts with his attire. I say he can try all he want but he’s still funny looking. Short, with a big belly and the funniest waddled walk, he walks besides Eduardo and some other boy I’ve never seen before.

Eduardo looks nothing like his dad. Mr Oxoro is dark skinned. Eduardo looks like his momma. Tall, light skinned with pretty colored eyes. “Milk man’s kid”, Omarion said once. Whatever that means. The second I see Eddy my cheeks feel warm and I hide behind Billiard.

With them is another kid just as tall, he’s skinnier and tanned, his clothes are sun bleached and if there were a strong gust of wind it looks like he’d fly away with it. He looks amazed. His mouth open, looking all over the place like he ain’t ever seen so many animals before.

“This right here is Vano, one of my sister’s kids, they visitin’ for ah, y’know”, Mr Oxoro says tryna keep himself from saying “the reaping”. “Seen them a lil bored so I thought I’d bring’em down here to work”, he says holding on to his belt. Daddy swings his arm for a firm, friendly hand shake.

“Need help? Naw”, daddy says turning around to look at something. All the men chuckle.

“Since y’all here”, momma Bilmin says, “you ain’t gon need Dora no more. Dora!”, she calls for me.

I’ve been out here sweating all morning, I’m dirty and stink. I ain’t tryna have none of them see me, specially Eddy. My cheeks feel hot. “Dora?”, momma Bilmin calls for me just out the pen. Not having heard her creep up startles me into a shriek that makes me giggle out of sheer nervousness. Momma Bilmin laughs and pokes fun at me. “Girl look at you, almost feral, you been playin’ with the pigs?”, she chuckles.

Daddy puts Eddy and Vano work on the broken fence, who both stare at me walk out the barn. I wish momma Bilmin wasn’t holding my hand, they probably wanna laugh at me cause I’m dirty. This makes my cheeks warm again and I try my best not to look at them.

While daddy and Mr Oxoro go and catch Milk, who happens to be distracted by a patch of grass behind the pen where we keep our lactating cows, momma Bilmin talks about us spending the rest of the day together. She sounds excited and tells me about the book I read to her on Friday, how she wants to know more about corals. I’d be excited to read to her again but after working all morning, hungry and tired, all I want is a good nap.

Blessed with nice cold shower all I can do is laugh and play with momma Bilmin who despite finding all of them dead, won’t stop looking for live lice. Says she “ain’t stoppin’ until all those pests leave my baby’s head alone” and kisses my cheek. Afterwards, I’m made to wear a frilly dress and she ties my hair into half a braid, half a pony tail. It gives me the sense that we’re going out but she tells me we aren’t. Says momma is gonna love the way I look when she gets back from work.

For lunch she makes me a cheese sandwich with juice that has bits of fruit floating around. She sits with me at the table and talks about paying Efrain a visit tomorrow.

“You mean that, momma?”, I jump out of my seat so excited I almost fall off. Momma Bilmin smiles at me and nods. Says he’s better now and we can finally go visit. It’s been almost two whole months since I last seen him. I’m so excited to tell him about Ari being my new friend, I can’t wait to see his face. I also miss playing outside with him and the other kids. Wendy says they miss us too.

When we’re done eating, momma Bilmin and me go to her room and lay down on the bed. She has the ceiling fan at high velocity so it’s not as hot as it is in the kitchen. In no time, she’s fallen asleep and snores really low and quiet. It’s cute. I’m not sleepy though. Instead I quietly leave her room and go to mines. For a long second I stand in front of my bookshelf and stare at all the books that I have. Two shelves filled with them, none I wanna read.

Bored, I stare outside from the back kitchen door and watch Eddy and Vano still tryna fix the fence. Vano holds a plank, Eddy nails it in place making the whole fence wobble. Meanwhile daddy and Mr Oxoro walk around the open field pointing and talking amongst themselves. Looking around my eyes catch a glimpse of some of daddy’s mecate. Thin ropes he’s braided with horse hair. This gives me an idea. Daddy won’t teach me how to use a lasso cause I don’t have my own. What if I made one myself? I seen how he makes the ones he sells. It’s just four ropes braided into one that’s thick and slightly stiff. If he sees that I made one he won’t have any other choice but to teach me!

First rope over third rope, second rope over fourth rope, fourth rope over first rope. I go on and on and the ropes never seem to finish, but i am determined. Some duct tape where the braid is loose, a haircut where there are too many hairs poking out and lastly I put the lasso inside a water bucket to make it look wet and pretty. Daddy and Mr Oxoro joke and laugh while they inspect one of the cows. I’m not sure how long it takes for me to finish but by the time I do, daddy’s walking back to the barn, probably to check on Vano and Eddy.

It takes me maybe an hour to finish the world’s shortest lasso, still proud of myself, I go to them around with it in hand. “The roll of hay comes out to four-hundred, five-hundred, the O’doyles are flexible with the price”, daddy says to Mr Oxoro when I pull on the back of his shirt.

“Daddy look what I made!”, I interrupt with a big smile on my face.

“Girl you made a whip?”, Mr Oxoro asks. This makes daddy laugh but the second he sees it his smile fades away.

“That my mecate? Who gave you permission, Isadora?”, he sucks on his teeth, smacks me hard on the shoulder and takes it out of my hands. “Isadora”? Oh, he’s mad. “It took me a week to make these damn braids! I got Samsonite waitin’ and this girl..”, he pauses and pinches the brindge of his nose, “..when I open my eyes you best be on your way back inside”.

Stomping back to the house, holding in my angry tears, I notice Milk is out on the horse pen. She’s staring right at me and wags her nubby hairless tail. For some reason it feels like she’s calling me. Behind her, at the other side of the pen, Eddy climbs the new fence only to break it. Vano laughs and disappears behind the barn house. I crawl under the fence and make kissy noises to Milk. My dress is covered in dirt now. I don’t care, I making noises for her to come. After a few long seconds she finally starts walking over to me. This makes me happy. When she’s close enough I extend my arm and slowly try to touch her face. She lets me and even sniffs the palm of my hand. I remember daddy saying this is a good thing.

Eddy and Vano make me a little nervous cause I ain’t tryna embarrass myself in front of them but having broken the fence again they’re busy tryna look for more wood in the barn. With no possibility of judgment I get up close to Milk and give her a hug. Her letting me get this close for the first time makes me so happy I can’t stop giggling. Maybe this is why Ari is all giggles too. I feel Milk’s buzz cut mane and caress her face, when I stop she sniffs my hand and nibbles on my palm as if asking for more. With my yellow saddle already on, I dare myself to ride her. Part of me wants to, the other talks me out of it. I’ve only ridden her once and daddy was there to calm her down. “She already looks calm though”, I tell myself.

I stare back at daddy who’s not that far away. Him and Mr Oxoro stare and point a the hills past our land. I figure if anything happens, he’s right there. Picking up the courage, struggling to do so, I manage to climb the saddle and sit on her. All she does is huff and move a few feet. Nervous but thrilled I giggle. So happy to have climbed Milk all on my own I try to make her move forward so I can get the hang of riding a horse. Poking Milk’s neck I whisper for her to “go”, but all she does is huff and sniff the ground slowly walking towards the broken fence. I keep poking her and even dance back and forth tryna make her move to another direction but she doesn’t.

”This way”, I say wiggling my feet. She doesn’t budge. Disappointed, I give her a hug tryna hop off but suddenly Eddy speaks up. “Ain’t know you knew how to ride a horse”, he says popping out the barn. This spooks Milk. She neighs and stands up on her hind legs. Suddenly she leaps and takes off in a run, thrashing and kicking her hind legs tryna hit Eddy and fling me off. My scream is so loud that for a second I wonder who it is. My feet no longer on the stirrups, along with her trashing, makes me hit my face on the saddle horn. Unable to hold on, scared out of my mind, I let go.

Hard, dry mud rocks poke at my shoulder and my fall knocks the wind out of me. Having landed on top of my hand hurts so much I can’t move, I was screaming but not anymore, I can’t breathe and hot tears are rolling down my cheeks.

Milk thrashes and neighs running away. Eddy and Vano run up and help me sit up. Eddy takes one look at me and covers his eyes, rubbing his face and head. Vano sucks air through his teeth, he has a pained look on his face.

On their way back, daddy doesn’t run to me, he goes after Milk who kicks anything in her way. For a second I wish she was dead. Daddy should be here helping me, not her. She hurt 𝘮𝘦! Instead, Mr Oxoro comes to my aid. He helps me stand up but my knee hurts too much to stick out and the sight of my hand makes me scream only to go silent again. It feels hard to swallow. Nothing I could say or do can describe how much my hand hurts. The warm tears fall dawn my chin.

Behind me I hear momma Bilmin running up to us asking what happened. She approaches and takes a look at Mr Oxoro holding out my arm. My right thumb is bent backwards. There’s a bump where it used to be. This makes her scream too. Daddy is too busy tryna calm the stupid horse to come help.

“Why wasn’t you watchin’ her, Polomir!”, momma Bilmin screams at him. I’ve never seen her so mad before. She points at him and scolds him for having let me get on the horse. Daddy doesn’t say anything, he just walks back forcing Milk back to her pen.

“She was just with us, Miss Bilmin, she was just with us!”, Mr Oxoro says taking off his hat, scratching his sweaty balding head.

Daddy looks worried when he approaches. Momma Bilmin stands behind me, holding me so I won’t fall while I stand on one foot, she shushes and wipes my tears, caressing my face tryna stop me from crying. “You’re okay baby, you’re okay”, she says.

Without a word, daddy grabs my thumb and pulls on it fast and hard. It pops so loud Eddy flinches and looks away, Vano and Mr Oxoro wince, momma Bilmin whimpers and I scream so loud I feel lightheaded. I jump and kick tryna get daddy away from me but momma Bilmin ain’t strong enough to hold on. Back on the ground I cry so loud I feel like Sasha when was a baby.

Like a sack of potatoes, daddy puts me over his shoulders and walks off. Behind him momma Bilmin tells me “it’s alright, Dora” on the verge of tears while Mr Oxoro tells her “I swear to you on my youngest that little girl was just with us”. “Dad!”, Eddy snaps at him. All of them following us look like momma running after the mayor when he does something silly like leave out the wrong door. It makes me wanna laugh but it feels like I have my heart inside my hand and every time it beats, it hurts.

Inside the house, I sit and watch daddy wrap a white long bandage over my hand and thumb with what looks like a broken popsicle stick holding it straight. Says he’s fixed it already and I don’t need to see a doctor. For a second there, I begged him to take me to the hospital, I thought I was dying. This made momma Bilmin laugh but her hands shake and she rubs them together.

“What I tell you bout that horse, Dora”, daddy scolds me while tying my bandage, “always some with you, no but you don’t stop and think, you just go ahead”, “Polomir!”, momma Bilmin snaps at daddy. “Naw, aint nobody tell’er to go climb that dang horse”, he points out the door. He stares at me really mad and leaves. Already sobbing, I keep crying knowing daddy’s so mad he doesn’t wanna look at me no more.

Momma Bilmin touches her cheeks, her eyes are glassy and she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, momma”, I say.

“It’s okay, baby”, she assures me, “now come on, we need to figure out what we gon tell ya momma”. Oh, she’s gonna kill daddy. This makes me wail, mourning daddy’s eminent death.

[pengychan]

[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 5

Title: Mind the Gap Summary: Modern Day AU. Tired of Ernesto’s snide remarks, Imelda decides to put him in his place and her husband is more than happy to help. It was supposed to be a one-night deal. Things quickly get out of hand. [OT3, mostly porn and humor. Plenty of instances of Ernesto being Dramatic, Imelda getting Sick Of His Shit, and Héctor trying to be the peacekeeper. Don’t expect anything serious.] Pairings: Ernesto/Héctor/Imelda Rating: Explicit.

To see the version with art by Dara, check it out on Ao3.

Tag for all parts up so far.

A/N: May as well have titled this one Kitchen Nightmares tbh.

***

"Another chorizo?"

"No."

"Oh, I insist. You clearly wanted it pretty badly only a short while ago."

The remark, uttered with a smile fake as a three pesos coin, gains Imelda a sullen look from Ernesto that fails to impress her in the slightest. Héctor tries to disguise his chortle as a coughing fit, but if Ernesto's reaction - stabbing the chorizo with his fork while staring at him dead in the eye - is anything to go by, he wasn't very convincing. He gives Ernesto a sheepish grin, crossing his legs in mild discomfort when his friend chomps down on the sausage without breaking eye contact, and chews viciously.

All right, so precisely none of them is being very subtle tonight, but Héctor supposes they're way past that.

“Oh, come on. It’s not like we left you hanging,” Héctor says. All right, so they made him wait a fair bit, but considering that the original plan was to make him plead Hector thinks they went pretty easy on him. Once he and Imelda were done Héctor turned his attention on his friend almost right away, taking the gag out of his mouth under his wife’s watchful eye.

“You all right there, amigo?”

“Untie me,” Ernesto demanded, and even light-headed as he was Héctor found it quite telling that he didn’t have it in him to add an insult, and that his voice had cracked towards the end. He was hard and covered in sweat, both from the arousal and the efforts to free his hands and dislodge the gag. His eyes shifted from him to Imelda and then back to him, pupils blown wide even as he tried to put on a believable scowl and pulled at his bounds

Héctor smiled. “Don’t you want to come?”

“I’ll take care of it once you untie me!”

“Or I could take care of it myself,” Héctor said, running a finger down his stomach and to the waistband of his boxer shorts. Ernesto shivered under his touch and, really, it was the only answer Héctor needed. The next minute his hand was coated in lubricant and beneath the fabric, gripping Ernesto’s cock, tight but not too tight, and Imelda was grasping Ernesto’s hair. She forced his head back, exposing his throat and getting a hiss out of him. Héctor saw Ernesto swallowing, say his Adam’s apple bobbing for a moment before Imelda lowered her head to murmur in his ear.

“Got to work for it.”

And he did right away, with no other protest but a broken-up groan as he buckled into Héctor’s fist again and again and again. It was quick and desperate, his breathing fast and thrusts erratic, and soon enough he was done, spilling into Héctor’s hand with a shuddering moan before going limp again. He didn’t even react when he and Imelda untied his arms, nor when each of them took a hand in theirs to massage the angry red marks on his wrists.

“You look good like this, amigo. Should show up at the next concert just as you are now.”

Ernesto mumbled something that sounded much like he wanted him to do something very unpleasant with a dead fish, causing Héctor to laugh, but he didn’t say much of anything afterwards… or now, over dinner.

He just chews, and glares. Héctor smiles.

“Come on, you know it was funny. But I’ll make it up to you,” he adds, picking up his glass. Out of the corner of the eye, he can see Imelda’s lips quirking upwards. He waits for Ernesto to start swallowing before he speaks. “You can fuck me next.”

The sudden coughing fit is loud as it’s predictable, and this time Imelda laughs first while Ernesto hunches over the tabe, hacking and wheezing.

That’s for telling everyone of that time I choked on a chorizo, Héctor thinks, but he knows better than saying as much with multiple pieces of cutlery within Ernesto’s reach.

“Sorry, was it the wrong moment?” he asks instead, snickering. That’s when Ernesto looks up at him, face all red and eyes teary, and coughs out something that is most likely an insult to all the men in his family seven generations back, which somehow involves goats.

He doesn’t notice - and Héctor doesn’t mention - how Imelda casually puts down the arm she had raised to pat him in the back in case he really began choking.

***

Stay for the night, Héctor said.

Like hell, Ernesto wanted to reply, only that of course that would mean giving ground to Imelda, which was most definitely Not Happening. Plus, well… he did want that chance to fuck Héctor in the morning. He’d earned it, after all. So he shot a challenging glance at Imelda - he was mildly disappointed when she seemed uninterested in returning it at all - and muttered that sure, if he really insisted, he’d stay.

Except that he’s beginning to regret it, and he’s not entirely sure why.

He’s got one side of the bed all for himself, since those idiotas keep insisting on sleeping draped all over each other. He’s stolen most of the blankets. He’s warm and has plenty of space; he’d slept in worse conditions while touring, or on Héctor’s old couch after he hurriedly left his own home. Héctor isn’t even snoring; he should fall asleep quickly.

But hours tick by, and he just can’t sleep. Something feels amiss and he can’t figure it out, like an itch he cannot scratch, a sort of hunger he cannot sate. He lies in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet breathing on his left - the breathing of two people, skin on skin, keeping each other warm.

It makes him scowl in the dark, something sitting heavy in his chest which he’s quick to dismiss as annoyance. Because it is annoying, how all over each other they are all the time. God, do they ever take a break? Do they really need to be so clingy, resting so close there seems not to be a single inch of space between them, like he’s not even there? It’s… rude.

As though to rub salt into the wound - wait, what wound? - Héctor chooses that moment to shift and let out a content sigh, no doubt while snuggling up against the bruja he decided to marry after a moment… well, more like about a couple of years of mental blackout. It makes him scowl, but that is not unexpected.

What does catch him by surprise is the unexpected pang of something when he hears Imelda yawning and shifting as well, when he imagines the smile on her face while she sleeps in Héctor’s arms. She smiles a lot at her husband, Ernesto thinks, until her gaze turns to him. Then, she sneers. It used to annoy him, it really did.

But now that he thinks about it, the weight on his chest heavier and heavier, Ernesto de la Cruz is not annoyed: he’s livid. He turns on his side without thinking, a hand reaching out for what should be Héctor’s shoulder. And his hand does touch skin - but too soft to be his.

Imelda.

There is an unintelligible mumble, the hand beneath his own shifts, and Ernesto pulls back as though the touch alone has burned him. He waits, heart hammering in his throat, for her to awaken, to utter something scathing - but she does not. There is only another yawn, the creaking sound of springs and she and Héctor shift and then, again, silence.

Except for their breathing, of course. That keeps going, slow and regular, while Ernesto holds his own for what feels like a very, very long time.

Tomorrow’s fuck had better be worth this nonsense.

***

Ernesto does not, in fact, get to fuck Héctor the next morning.

He doesn’t even try to, which strikes Imelda as more than slightly odd, given how keen he was on the idea. There is no attempt to touch him, nor the suggestion is even uttered, after they wake up. Or as they shower - again, she and Hétctor shower together and Ernesto goes in later, which he pretends doesn’t bother him - and then have some breakfast.

There are a few digs at her, but they’re half-hearted and hardly warrant a response. She can see Héctor wondering about it, too, the looks he shoots Ernesto even as they talk about a new song he has decided to write, as they go through possible titles and lyrics, which part each of them should sing. He seems distant, and for once he’s not talking over her husband; he’s hardly talking, and has has the unmistakable expression of a man who has hardly slept.

When Héctor leaves the room to fetch his notes for the new song, she decides against uttering a jab about the dark shadows under Ernesto’s eyes and just pours more coffee in his empty cup. He stares at it as though not comprehending for a few moments, then nods.

“Gracias,” he mumbles, and brings it to his lips to drink it in one gulp, black and hot and bitter as it is. That is odd, too: he won’t drink coffee without sugar and milk in it, usually. Imelda raises an eyebrow when he puts the cup down with a grimace.

“Not of your taste?”

“... I think I burned my tongue.”

That makes Imelda chuckle. “And here I thought you’d take the chance to complain about my coffee,” she mutters, and waits for a moment for Ernesto to latch on that excuse to resume a more… normal sort of conversation between the two of them.

He does, and there is something soothing about how familiar it is. It feels far more natural than Ernesto quietly thanking her for a cup of coffee.

“Oh, right. It did taste awful,” Ernesto mutters, glancing up at her, but she could almost swear she’s seen the corners of his mouth quirking upwards. “As most of what’s on your table. Héctor should have picked a better cook.”

“Which would rule you out as well, from what I’ve heard of your cooking. What was that again about the eggs in the microwave?” Imelda mutters, and smirks when Ernesto stammers, face reddening. “How did you even make to adulthood?”

“That was-- it was one time!”

“Or the time you microwaved the fork and almost set the kitchen on fire?”

“That was also only one time!” Ernesto protests. “I can cook just fine!”

“And yet you live on delivery food,” Imelda says, glancing at his stomach. “It kinda shows.”

“Wha-- it does not! This is muscle! Just… just well-padded!” he protests, and sits up straight. Imelda decides against pointing out how painfully obvious it is that he’s sucking in his stomach. Truth be told, she feels just slightly bad for pointing it out: she remembers how chubby Ernesto used to be when they were kids, and how self-conscious he was about it. He may not have a visible six-pack now, but he is in a pretty good shape… although he does tend to get winded while in bed with her and Héctor. But then again, who wouldn’t?

“Fine, fine,” she concedes. “But I still have doubts over your cooking skills. If you have any.”

“I can cook better than you do!” Ernesto snaps, and turns to the door just as Héctor steps back in with his notes. “Héctor! You’re coming for dinner at my place!”

Her husband stop in his tracks, blinking at him. “... We are?”

“Yes,” Ernesto mutters, glaring at Imelda. She responds with a smile.

“Oh, I look forward to it,” she says with the sweetest voice she can muster, and her smile widens a bit at Héctor’s confused expression.

***

“Hello?”

“Sofía? It’s--”

“Ernesto, yes. Cell phones have a screen, and the names of contacts show on it when they call. It’s been a thing for a while.”

“So you didn’t delete my contact.”

“Not yet. I’d love to keep talking, but I’ve got a client with her head in the dryer and--”

“You can cook.”

“... Guilty as charged?”

“I need you to teach me how.”

“Trying to impress your next prey?”

Ernesto reaches up to rub the back of his neck with his free hand, looking at the blackened lump that has solidified on the pan. He’s not sure he can salvage his only pan; maybe, if he chisels away at the lump… “You could say that.”

“Just take him or her or whatever out for dinner. Spare yourself the embarrassment, and them a bad case of food poisoning.”

Granted, giving Imelda food poisoning wouldn’t be the end of the world, but Héctor might not appreciate it. Ernesto shakes his head. “I can’t. I said I’d cook something.”

There is a long sigh at the other side of the line. “All right. I can think of a few easy dishes you could manage. How long do you have to learn?”

Ernesto glances at his watch. “About five hours.”

“En serio?”

“Five and a half?” he tries, and he can hear the smacking sound of skin on skin. The mental image of Sofía smacking her forehead in the middle of the hair salon makes him smile a bit.

“Forget it. Have you tried cooking?”

“Yes. It… didn’t go that well.”

“Good, at least your kitchen is a mess and it will make things more believable. Now follow my instructions closely: slowly step away from the stove, close the door, end this call, arrange some food delivery and then hide the boxes.”

“... Really?”

“Welcome to the world’s easiest cooking course. I’m amazed you didn’t think of it yourself.”

He did, truth be told, but a very stubborn part of him refused to give up without trying. He wants to see Imelda impressed, and he wants it to be over something he did do himself.

“So you’re telling me to lie about it?

“Why not? You lie about your size all the time.”

“I do not--”

“Sure, sure. Look, I have to go before someone’s head catches fire. Just get dinner delivered, move it on nice plates and call it a day. Don’t call back unless it’s with an update,” Sofía cuts him off, and ends the call. Ernesto scoffs, and glares at the pan.

“I don’t need to lie about my size,” he informs the charred remains. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’s mildly thankful for the fact that, despite all the jabs between them, that is not something Imelda had brought up against him by comparing it with Héctor’s.

Not that she’d have any reason to, after all: his cock is perfectly fine, and Héctor is the one with the ridiculously long dick. He checked online and his is perfectly average. Or just slightly below it, but it’s thick and that’s what counts, surely.

With an indignant huff, Ernesto turns his back to the stove and marches out of the kitchen, looking for the number of his usual delivery service.

***

Everything is delicious and very, very suspicious.

Of course Héctor is about ninety-nine percent sure that Ernesto cooked none of this; they used to share that small apartment before Imelda came in the picture, after all. He was subjected to his best friend’s attempts at cooking more than once… and Ernesto to his. It did not go down very well for either of them.

Ernesto has many talents; he can play, he can sing, he was born to perform… and to get them in touch with just the right people to get them exposure, venues to play in and paid work. For all of his talent in songwriting - perhaps the one thing he’s really good at - Héctor knows he would likely amount to nothing without Ernesto by his side. Without him, he’d probably still be in Santa Cecilia, without a family and getting by with a few odd jobs while writing music he’d play for fun and nothing else.

Imelda won’t even hear it, and insist he could do just fine on his own, but she also refuses to see what her parents saw from the first moment: she has married down. Maybe she loves him too much to see it, but if Héctor has a chance to somehow be worthy of her, to provide for her and not make her ever regret her choice of a husband, he owes it to Ernesto.

But there are two things he knows Ernesto cannot do: songwriting, and cooking. Imelda knows it as well and she certainly look suspicious, but alas, she has no proof. She eats, joins some small talk, and keeps eyeing towards the door leading out of the dining room. Héctor is not in the slightest surprised when she excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

“You did get rid of the boxes, didn’t you?”

Ernesto shrugs. “I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” he says smoothly, pouring some more wine in his glass. Héctor snorts out a laugh.

“Very well. If, by chance, you had some food delivered - which you did not - would you have thought of getting rid of the boxes, in case someone hypothetically went to check your bin?”

That gains him a wide grin. “Of course. I’d leave nothing to chance, hypothetically speaking,” he says, and pours some wine in Imelda’s half-empty glass just as she walks back in the dining room. To her credit, she looks just mildly annoyed and it would be unnoticeable to anyone who doesn’t know her as well as Héctor does.

“I noticed your frying pan is done for,” she comments, not casually at all, as she sits down.

Ernesto gives her a bright smile, resting an elbow on the table and leaning his chin on his hand. “The first attempt didn’t go too well,” he says, his voice dripping false modesty. “But practice makes perfect.”

“Oh, it does,” Imelda says, her voice rotting honey, and leans her chin on her hand as well. She smiles back. “The pozole was delicious. Mind sharing your secret?”

Ernesto’s smile falters. “... Qué?”

“Well, for starters, what part of the pork did you use?”

“Oh. I, uh… the… the leg. Clearly.”

“Clearly. And how long did you let it cook?”

“Uh… I wasn’t really checking the time. Until it was tender,” Ernesto replies, and shoots a very, very quick glance at Héctor, who’s staring at the scene - God, it’s like watching a car crash in slow motion - while biting the inside of his cheek and trying not to laugh.

Ayúdame, that look says. Héctor holds back a laugh and gulps down some wine.

“When did you add the chile guajillo?” Imelda is still asking, her voice sweet as her smile is sharp. “How much of it?”

“I, well--” Ernesto starts, only to trail off when Héctor lets out a grito and slams the empty glass down on the table, causing them both to wince and turn.

“Oh! I had an idea!” he exclaims, grinning widely. All right, so it’s not a sudden idea as much as something he’s had in mind for a few days now - the embryo of a plan - but this seems the best moment to bring it up. “About that song I’ve been writing! I know why it didn’t work!”

They both blink. “... You did?”

“I thought it worked just--”

“It needs to be a duet, but it shouldn’t be the two of us singing,” Héctor says, grinning. “I’ll stick to playing. What this song needs is a woman’s voice.”

The mixture of confusion and relief on Ernesto’s face turns into annoyance, but of course he pays no mind at all. He’s saving his sorry culo, after all, and he’ll thank him later. On the other side of the table, Imelda is raising an eyebrow.

“A woman’s voice,” Ernesto repeats, and makes a face. “If you say so. I suppose I could see if someone is available…”

Oh no, amigo. You know exactly where this is going and we’re doing it on my terms.

“Why bother? We have a singer right here,” Héctor says, and turns to smile at Imelda. “She sings wonderfully, you should know that.”

“But--”

“The song still needs work,” Héctor speaks up, and his smile widens at Imelda’s unimpressed look. “You’d be perfect.”

“I’m not singing on stage.”

“Not on a stage. Just among us, so that I can figure out how to make it work,” he says, and some of the tenseness in her frame fades. Then she glances at Ernesto, and Héctor can see her lips twitching just a little at his annoyed expression. As much as he enjoys - he will claim he tolerates it, but the truth is plain - Imelda’s presence in the same bed, he draws a line at singing with her.

Sucks to be him, Héctor thinks, and clearly Imelda shares that thought.

“... Well. If you really need me, I figure I can help,” Imelda says slowly.

“We don’t really need--” Ernesto starts, only to trail off with a wince when Héctor’s foot - clad in a nice Rivera leather shoe - connects with his shin. “I mean-- fine,” he grumbles, and empties his glass. Héctor holds back a satisfied grin, and stands.

“All settled, then! But we’ll worry about the song later. Now, I think there was something on offer,” he adds, and tilts his head towards Ernesto. “It would be a nice thank you for the dinner. If you’re still up on it.”

Ernesto blinks at him and Imelda, clearly confused. “Something on offer? What are you-- oh. Oh! Right!” he exclaims, and stands - only to pause, and make a noticeable effort to appear nonchalant. He clears his throat while Imelda hides a smile behind her hand. “I mean… if you’re up for it.”

And oh, yes, he is. He really is.

***

The sound of Héctor’s moans is almost like a song, and it is one Imelda never tires of.

She loves that sound as much as she loves his breath against her breast, his hair tickling her skin,  his arms around her, the warmth of his body as he clings to her, shuddering. She loves the few jumbled words he manages to gasp out from time to time, and how her name sounds spoken like that, when she murmurs back to him that he’d doing so well, he’s so good. She loves it all so much that she can even tolerate Ernesto panting like a bull as he grips her husband’s hips and drives into him again and again with deep groans, pushing him against her.

He fucks like a mindless animal and really, it’s not surprising. He was never very imaginative… but at least he seems to make up for it with sheer stamina. Imelda has to concede a grudging point there.

A harder thrust than others tears a strangled cry from Héctor’s mouth, and he muffles it against her breast. Imelda murmurs something soothing, trying to ignore the head pooling in her lower belly - not her turn, not yet - and finally glances over at Ernesto for the first time in several minutes.

In all the years she’s known him, she has never seen the appeal; she doesn’t really see it now, either. There is no logical reason, as far as she’s concerned, why he would be such a hit with women with Héctor standing right there. Good for Imelda that no one had snatched him up first, really, but it still puzzles her.

Still, she has to admit she doesn’t find the sight unpleasant, either. He sounds like a bull and he’s built like one, too, broad-shouldered and deep-chested; it is a stark contrast to Héctor’s lean frame. He’s breathing fast, skin covered in sweat, as he thrusts mercilessly into her husband; his hair, usually styled so carefully and kept in place with hell knows how many different fancy hair products, is falling in messy bangs in front of his eyes.

Still, it’s his expression Imelda’s gaze lingers on - the way he’s squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth - and again, she finds she likes him best like this, when all conceit is gone from his face and he’s not keeping up some stupid act. If he looked like that more often, then perhaps--

“Ah-- aaaah...!”

A twist of Ernesto’s hips causes Héctor to cry out, and the head in her lower belly turns into raging need. Imelda presses her lips against Héctor’s temple for a moment before she glances back at Ernesto and speaks.

“Sit back.”

Her voice is like the crack of a whip, and it causes Ernesto to still and look back at her. He’s still panting and she expected annoyance at the interruption, but he seems too far gone to be annoyed: he just looks rather confused and very, very needy.

Good. It makes him easier to work with.

“Sit back,” Imelda repeats, and strokes Héctor’s hair. “With him on your lap. Don’t pull out.”

There is only a moment of hesitation, then Héctor rocks back against him with a whine of protest, and Ernesto recoils with a hiss. He does shift to sit back - good for them, Imelda thinks, that Ernesto’s bed is king-sized - and within moments Héctor is sitting on his lap, Ernesto’s cock still deep in him. He moans, skin flushed and hair tousled, lips still red form when he’s bitten them, and he’s the most alluring sight Imelda has ever rested her eyes on.

“You should see yourself now, mi amor,” she murmurs, and he looks up at her with clouded eyes, licking his lips. His cock is hard and leaking, and she shifts forward to sink on it without a second thought, letting it fill her to relieve the need that has now turned into ache.

They groan at the same time, all three of them, and Héctor is the loudest of all. He jerks beneath her, trapped between their bodies, with Ernesto in him and Imelda around him, and her hands on his chest and Ernesto’s mouth sucking marks on his neck. And it feels good, all of it - the warmth and the hardness and the sounds, Héctor’s scent and even Ernesto’s, beneath the cologne.

“E-Ern… ‘Melda…” Héctor is stammering, breathing fast and desperate, arms reaching back to grasp Ernesto’s head, hips shuddering as though he’s not sure what to do, if push back against his best friend or up into his wife. Imelda looks at Ernesto over his shoulder, and he meets her gaze; his eyes are clouded with pleasure, but she sees the challenge a moment before he twists his hips and makes Héctor moan.

Try to do better, the look on his face tells her, and Imelda gladly takes that on.

They both move fast and hard and relentlessly, each trying to make Héctor moan louder than the other, but soon enough the challenge is unimportant, their thoughts lost in the wave of pleasure. Soon enough, it’s about their own pleasure as much as Héctor’s… although his cries of pleasure still are the sweetest sounds Imelda has ever heard.

For a time there is only that, moans and groans, the occasional cry and muttered pleas, skin on skin and fast breathing and whispered praise, touch and motion and warmth as pleasure builds and the ache at her core fades into ecstasy.

In the throes of her climax, she feels Héctor’s mouth on her breast. A warm hand is cupping her ass, calloused fingers digging into her skin; she cannot tell whose hand it is, and she finds she doesn’t care.

***

They stay there for the night.

It wasn’t the plan, because Imelda never had any intention to sleep in Ernesto’s bed, but after they collapsed on the pillows, amongst rustled sheets, none of them felt like getting up again.

“Do we have to pay for boarding?” Héctor joked, gaining himself a light smack.

“Heh. Make breakfast tomorrow, and we’ve got a deal.”

“Why us? You’re such a great cook,” Imelda muttered, and there was some snickering - even from Ernesto - before they settled down to sleep. It didn’t take long for Héctor to doze off, and now she’s about to follow suit.

Imelda yawns, and her hand slips from Héctor's hair on his upper back, rising and falling steadily with each breath; she likes falling asleep like this, matching her breathing with his own. She closes her eyes, smiling a bit, and she's about to surrender herself to sleep when a sudden touch on her hand startles her.

Ernesto.

Despite the pang of annoyance, Imelda feels more than a little smug at the thought she's placed her hand on Héctor's back first. She waits a few instants for Ernesto to pull back his hand as thought the touch burned him, because of course he would, except that he does not. To her surprise - and annoyance, but mostly surprise - his hand rests over hers and grips it loosely.

What the hell does he think he's doing?

Imelda lifts herself on her elbow, glaring towards him and opening her mouth to snap, but words die in her throat when she doesn't meet the smirk she expected: Ernesto's eyes are shut, his mouth slightly open against the pillow and breathing steady, clearly asleep. Unless he's pretending - but that would be painfully obvious to her - he's not actively trying to annoy her; he just reached out for Héctor in his sleep.

And grasped her hand.

Imelda's eyes shift from his stupid, sleeping face to their hands, both resting on Héctor's back. If she pulls her hand back, she's giving ground. If she shakes his off , she could wake both him and Héctor up and she's really too tired to deal with Ernesto's drama that night. She keeps staring at his hand over hers for a few moments before she rolls her eyes and, with a sigh, rests back down and closes her eyes. She expects annoyance to keep her awake but, truth be told, it fades quickly enough.

The next morning she awakens first and, when she pulls her hand from beneath Ernesto’s, he doesn’t even stir.

***

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