#hector looks ridiculous

[katfreaks-hidyhole]

[adriles]

hector’s death hitting especially hard as he was the only one in this citadel who didnt point the blame of war toward me. now i am truly alone. now i am weeping

[n0vazsq]

What would you do? | Hector Fort x Reader

pairing . . . hector fort x reader

summary . . . After seeing it on Tiktok, you decide to try the 'What would you do?' trend on Hector

request . . . yes!! based on this request!

word count . . . 1.2k+

warnings . . . none!

faceclaim . . . N/A

alexavia yaps . . . i wrote this a few hours ago but just started proofreading // editing rn so yeah thats why it took a while! also finding pics for the little moodboard legit takes me 293 centuries!!!! also im proofreading this at 1 am my timezone so if some phrases or sentences dont make sense just ignore it or comment so i can fix it!

taglist . . . @barcapix (lmk if you want to join the taglist!)

. . . The soft hum of music filled the air, blending with the golden hues of the late afternoon sun streaming through Hector’s apartment windows.

The two of you were sprawled across his couch, limbs tangled under a worn throw blanket. Outside, the city bustled with life, but inside, the world felt quieter, softer. Just the two of you, alone.

Your phone rested on your lap, the screen open to TikTok, where you’d been scrolling aimlessly. A video caught your eye; it was of a girl teasing her boyfriend with the trend, 'What would you do if another guy did this to me?'

You glanced over at Hector, a mischievous smile forming on your lips. His focus was on the ceiling, eyes half closed as if he were lost in thought.

Typical Hector, always calm, always composed. It was moments like these that made you want to annoy him, just to see him open up a little.

You nudged him with your shoulder. "Hey."

He turned his head slightly, one eyebrow raised. "What 'Hey'?"

"I wanna try something."

That eyebrow quirked higher, suspicion obvious in his eyes. "That sentence never ends well."

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress a grin. "Relax. It’s just a game."

He stretched, one arm draped lazily behind you on the back of the couch. "Alright. What kind of game are we talking about?"

You shifted, facing him fully."It’s this trend on TikTok. I ask you what you’d do if another guy did something to me."

He smirked, a playful glint in his eyes. "Oh, I see how it is. You wanna test me?"

"Maybe." You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a whisper. "You scared?"

He let out a low laugh. "Of you? Never."

You bit back a smile, then gently bumped his shoulder. "Okay, first question. What would you do if another guy did that?"

Hector tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Depends. Was it an accident, or should I be worried about this guy’s future?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "You’re so dramatic."

"Am I?" His eyes softened, but the hint of protectiveness lingered. "Try me again." He smirked, his arm now rubbing circles in your shoulder.

You looked around, pretending to think. "Alright, what if... he said I looked pretty?"

His smirk faded, replaced by something more serious. "I’d thank him for having good taste. And for not being a blind bat." He leaned in, his voice dropping a notch. "Then I’d ask if he’s lost."

You couldn’t help but laugh, the warmth in his voice making your heart beat faster. "You’re ridiculous."

Hector’s eyes never left yours. "You’re the one asking the questions."

You felt a blush creep up your neck, but you continued asking. "Okay, what if he tried to hold my hand?"

The playful glint disappeared. His jaw tightened, his fingers tapping against his knee, his other hand clutching your shoulder. "Then we’d have a... conversation."

You raised an eyebrow, trying to hide your smile. "A conversation?"

He leaned closer, his voice low and serious. "A very short one."

You burst into laughter, the image of Hector trying to intimidate someone in his calm way too much to handle. "You’re terrible."

He grinned, but there was a flicker of something more intense in his eyes, something that made your heart skip a beat. "Next question."

You took a breath, steadying yourself. "What if he brought me flowers?"

Hector’s gaze softened, but his expression stayed serious. "I’d buy you a bigger bouquet. And another one with thorns. For him."

You bit your lip, the protectiveness in his voice sending shivers down your spine. The room seemed to grow quieter, the playful conversation fading into something deeper.

You hesitated, then asked the question that had been lingering on your mind.

"What if..." You glanced down, your voice barely above a whisper. "What if he told me he liked me?"

The air shifted. Hector’s eyes locked onto yours, the teasing smile gone. He reached over, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered, his touch soft but deliberate.

"Then I’d make sure you knew how much I do."

Your breath caught, the weight of his words settling in your chest. The room felt smaller, the space between you charged with something unspoken. For once, you were the one flustered, the usual banter replaced by a quiet intensity.

"Hector..." You couldn’t find the words, your heart pounding in your ears.

He smiled, the corners of his lips softening. "Any other questions, or did I win the game?"

You shook your head, a laugh escaping despite the lump in your throat. "No more questions."

He leaned back, his arm slipping around your shoulders, pulling you closer. "Good. I like winning."

"I love you, you know that?"

You could feel Hector's breath near your ear, warm against your cool skin. His arm had now moved from your shoulder to your waist, gripping it tightly.

"I know that. And I love you too. More than anything." His voice was a tiny bit deeper, but boy, it made you go insane.

Hector's hand cupped your cheek, his touch gentle like the soft brush of a breeze against your skin. You could feel the warmth radiating off him, pulling you closer, as if the distance between you had never existed.

"I'll make sure every single guy knows you're mine, yeah?" His eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense, like they held a thousand unspoken words.

Then, slowly, his lips brushed against yours, hesitant at first, like the first raindrop on a parched earth.

You melted into him, the kiss deepening as he leaned in, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that made your heart race, like a fire igniting in the cool night.

His fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you even closer, until there was no space left between you, and you felt as if the world had disappeared, leaving only the two of you.

"You're mine, mi hermosa amor."

"I know, Hector, I know. And I wouldn't want to have it any other way."

"Good, because I'm never letting you go away."

He said it with such sincerity that it made your heart melt in your chest. You looked up at him, eyes searching his face, looking for any trace of doubt. But there was none.

His gaze softened, and a gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips, one that was all for you. It made your breath hitch.

The way he said it made you feel as though nothing else in the world mattered, like he had found his happiness in you and wouldn’t let go. But Hector did find his happiness in you, it was that you were too clueless to realise that.

You could see it in the way he looked at you, that quiet, deep affection, the kind that didn't need words to be understood.

You rested your head against his shoulder, feeling him tense slightly but then relax. The silence stretched out, comfortable and warm. Outside, the city continued on, but in that moment, it didn’t matter.

You already knew who’d won.

He always did.

[wagconts]

Challenge | Héctor Fort

summary :: where you participate in the 'guess the weight' video with your boyfriend.

warnings :: none...!

word count :: 1.363 words

notes :: video link here 🔗

I stood in front of the cameras, positioned next to Hector. The marketing team I worked with for the Barcelona squad had decided it would be a good idea to pair me and Hector for a video on the club's channel.

After all, according to them, Hector’s fans and Barcelona supporters were always rooting for a moment of us together on camera, especially if it involved something playful.

— Hi, I’m Hector Fort, and I’m here with my girlfriend to play ‘Guess the Weight' — he introduced the video.

The camera focused on me, so I waved and smiled.

— Today we’re making mac and cheese! So we’ve got pasta, cheese… — I introduced the ingredients. — …and some other stuff I’m a bit lost about.

Hector glanced at me, grinning. — Really? — he asked. I just nodded with a smile.

First up: 40 grams of butter.

— Do you think 40 grams is a lot? — I asked, trying to guess the weight just by holding the cup.

— Forty grams is forty grams! — he replied sarcastically.

— Seriously? — I shot back. — You don’t even know what 40 grams looks like.

I watched Hector, who seemed just as clueless as I was, as he cut a block of butter in half. Meanwhile, I confidently went to check the scale.

— Each line is 20, right? — he asked, joining me. The production team confirmed.

I placed my cup on the scale, and the needle moved to exactly two lines.

— Spot on, 40 grams! — I said with a triumphant smile.

— You’re joking! — he exclaimed. — How?

— I’m just good at everything. — I teased, winking at him. — Your turn!

— I think I’ve got less. — he said, placing his cup on the scale.

Sure enough, the scale read 36 grams. — It’s because I cut the butter. — he explained.

— It’s fine, Hector, it’s fine. — I teased, giving him three light taps on his arm before moving on to the next round.

Second round: 30 grams of flour.

I started scooping flour into my cup, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hector looking completely lost, holding the butter cup to compare weights.

— Are you crazy? — I asked, noticing the ridiculous amount of flour in his cup.

— Why, my love?

I didn’t say anything, just placed my cup next to his. The difference was glaringly obvious.

— No! No! No! I put in too much, didn’t I?

He started removing some flour, smiling nervously. When he weighed it, the scale read 20 grams.

— You’re terrible! — I said with a grin as he gave me a disappointed look.

— If you’re so good, let’s see yours.

I placed my cup on the scale, and it also read 20 grams.

— You’re just as bad as me, cariño!

— You somehow manage to be worse, trust me. — I said with a mischievous smile.

He quickly changed the subject, focusing on the tie for that round.

Third round: 400 ml of milk.

— This one’s going to be tough for me. — I whispered.

— It’s still easy for me.— he replied confidently.

I held the pasta container to get a sense of weight, and Hector decided to tease me back.

— Looking lost, cariño, or am I wrong?

— You’re definitely wrong. The problem is this is heavy, so it’s tricky.

— I’ll give you the honor of going first.

I ended up with a surprisingly low number—200 ml. I quickly removed my cup, trying to keep Hector from seeing the result, and added more milk.

— Hey, stop that! — he protested. — She did 200!

— 200? — someone from production asked for confirmation.

— Yes!

With a victorious grin, he stuck out his tongue at me and started measuring his own.

— That’s not 400! — I said.

— But it’s 370! — he said, his grin growing wider.

— Okay, let’s see. — I placed my cup back on the scale.

— No! You already measured.

I waited, and the scale remained at 370. This led to more teasing from him about how I couldn’t even beat him when I was “cheating.”

— This round is mine!

Next up: 150 grams of cheddar cheese.

— Is 150 a lot or a little? — It was his turn to ask a “silly” question.

— I have no idea! — I said as I placed a spoonful of cheese in my cup.

— Well, I think this is it! — he said, lifting his cup confidently.

How could he? He barely added three spoonfuls of cheese before going straight to the scale. I didn’t say anything and let him proceed.

— You’ve got to be kidding me! — he exclaimed.

I glanced at the scale and understood his shock.

— I got 50! — he said, making me laugh uncontrollably. — Stop laughing.

— That was ridiculous!

— Let’s see you, then!

I smiled confidently as I placed my cup on the scale. It didn’t reach 150 grams, barely 100. Had I really done worse than Hector?

— I got 40, cariño! — I said with a disappointed smile, as he celebrated next to me.

— Alright, point to Hector! — I said, pretending to be upset.

Next up: 180 grams of Parmesan cheese.

I watched as Hector poured the Parmesan straight from the container into his cup. — Use a spoon, Hector!

— I don’t need one! This time, I’ll be spot on.

— Alright, then! — I said, smiling slightly.

When I was done, I set the container aside and checked the scale. The result wasn’t as expected. I had exactly 100 grams.

— No! No! — I ran my hands through my hair.

— Nice try, cariño!

— You probably got the same amount. — I said, eyeing his cup, which looked about the same.

It was close, but not quite a tie—he had 95 grams.

— Let’s call it 100 for both. — he suggested.

— No! You got 95! — I pointed to the scale’s line.

— Trying to cheat?

Despite Hector’s attempts to claim a tie, he failed. This round was mine.

Final round: 150 grams of pasta.

This was probably the easiest round to measure. We simply poured the pasta into our cups, waiting for each other to finish.

Hector went first and ended up with 200 grams. — Ole… 200! — I booed him.

— She won… she put less than me. — he said grudgingly.

I held my cup close to my face as if sniffing it.

— Can you smell that? The scent of victory.

— In the last round, we tied, but you cheated. That was dirty! — he tried to argue.

— Can you smell the victory? — I teased, ignoring him and pointing the cup toward him.

— No! No! You cheated! — he insisted. — Come on, put the cup on the scale.

Victory was certain, 150 grams of pasta, just as required.

— I’m the winner, right?

— We need to recount the scores.

— I guessed two right, and you guessed one. The rest were basically ties! — I told him.

— I don’t remember that. — he said, pouting like a child.

Final score: Hector Fort 3 vs. (your full name) 4.

— They’ll recount, and you’ll see this win wasn’t fair.

— We’ll see, Hector. We’ll see!

After a few more protests from him, we stood in front of the camera again as he closed out the video.

— CUT!

The production team called out, turning off the cameras.

— It was nice competing with you, but winning was even better!

I gave him a quick kiss on the lips before heading back to work.

— Stop your teasing, it was all rigged! — he called out loud enough for me to hear.

[joaosnovia]

❦ - moonlight

summary:: it’s midnight in barcelona after the barcelona copa del rey celebrations after party and you and your lover are on the balcony, enjoying life.

warnings:: none

writers note :: so i’m gonna start a series of blurbs based off songs so lmk if u want any players based on any songs. also in my original version hector was smoking a cigarette but i realised its a bit much so i removed it 😔😔.

tags: @barcapix ; lmk if u wanna be added

The moonlight turns everything silver, but it’s the way Hector looks at you that makes the night feel magical. The two of you sit on the balcony, a half empty wine bottle between you. Below, the city hums quietly, but up here, it’s just the two of you.

Hector leans back in his chair. His shirt is undone at the collar, sleeves rolled up, the sharpness of his usual demeanor softened by the glow of the night. He glances at you, smirking. ‘You’ve been staring at me for a while now.’

You scoff, raising your glass. ‘Maybe you’re just nice to look at.’

He laughs, the sound low and warm. ‘Careful, cariño. Keep saying things like that, and I might get used to it.’

You roll your eyes, but there’s no hiding the smile tugging at your lips. Nights like this; quiet, intimate, unhurried, feel like a dream. ‘This doesn’t feel real sometimes,’ you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

‘What doesn’t?’ he asks, looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

‘This.’ You gesture vaguely to the balcony, the moonlight, the way he’s looking at you. ‘Us. It’s too perfect.’

Hector leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘If this is a dream, I don’t ever want to wake up.’

You laugh softly, your cheeks warming. Before you can respond, he stands and holds out a hand to you. ‘Come here.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Dancing’ he says, his lips curving into a grin. ‘Don’t tell me you’re scared.’

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. There’s no music, just the faint hum of the city, but he doesn’t seem to care. His arm slips around your waist as he starts to sway, guiding you effortlessly.

‘You’re ridiculous,’ you say, resting your hands on his shoulders.

‘Maybe,’ he replies, pulling you closer. ‘But I’m yours.’

The world feels smaller now, reduced to the warmth of his hand on your back and the steady rhythm of his breath. You rest your head against his chest, his heartbeat calming and steady.

‘You know,’ he murmurs, his voice soft, ‘you’re the only one who gets to see me like this.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like I’m just a man. Not a ghost, not a name people fear. Just me.’

You look up at him, brushing your fingers against his jaw. ‘You’ve always been just you, Hector. That’s why I love you.’

His lips find yours, the kiss slow and grounding, like a promise sealed under the moonlight.

‘Don’t let go,’ you whisper.

‘Never,’ he says, his arms tightening around you. And in that moment, you believe him.

[savvythepirate]

How they react when seeing scars from the past

Jack Sparrow:

• You couldn’t deny the fact that you instantly felt insecure about the scars from your dark past when Jack Sparrow saw them for the first time

• Jack may think that someone is currently hurting you and will question you about it, at first he thinks otherwise as you tell him the honest truth

• Jack would want to and is capable of disposing of anyone who has the nerve to hurt you, you may have to hold him back before things end badly

• “If you want them to live, you better keep them out of my sights.” He would say and you would just roll your eyes at that statement from him

• “You’re being ridiculous.” You throw back, in return, getting a scoff as he turns to walk away

• As if Jack Sparrow wasn’t overly protective already, this made him even more, especially after telling him about the painful past, how they got there and who actually did this to you

• You agree that if Jack ever encounters the monster, he could do whatever he pleases

Hector Barbossa:

• Although you knew you couldn’t hide the scars forever, Barbossa would see them sometime and you won’t have a choice other than to be truthful of how you received scars from the past

• After he sees them for the first time, he thinks that you’re in harm’s way and you’re just not telling him

• Once you’re finally able to get him to calm down, you’re able to tell him how they really did happen and Barbossa believes you, but he still can’t shake the thought that you aren’t being completely honest in the beginning after he made his own suggestion on how they came to be

• You reassure him continuously until he gets it through his head, which takes you a while but you’re able to help him think of it differently than before

• In the beginning, Barbossa is actually very understanding about how this can be a sensitive topic for you or anyone for that matter to talk about, so he waits patiently on your terms when you’re ready to tell him

• The only thing you aren’t completely truthful about are the names you had given him of who did that to you, you change their names to protect their identity from Barbossa

• You’re a very forgiving person and that’s one of the things Barbossa loves about you

• You couldn’t help it, you were born that way and continue to live it

Will Turner:

• He’s not quite sure what to make of it at first, but when you tell him your story, you don’t leave out a detail and it hits home to him

• Ever since seeing your scars for the first time, Will has sworn to be even more overly protective of you

• He keeps a sharp eye on you, and when he can’t, he gets someone else to look after you, not giving that person a choice, he couldn’t go without knowing you were more than okay and safe

• It helps him to have a peace of mind knowing you were being looked after, when he asked who did this to you, you made the mistake of telling him the actual names of those responsible for it and would later come to regret it

• Will secretly turns it into a manhunt to catch those responsible

• You don’t find out until they have actually found the people, they bring them to trial and sentence them

• They were sent to be executed, but you didn’t attend it

• You’re a little upset that Will went and did that, but than you’ve come to understand that he did so with reason and now, with that taken care of, it makes it a little safer for you and other individuals

• It prevents them from hurting anyone else and you took victory in that

• Though you were a little more forgiving than Will, you wanted others to be safe and sometimes there is no other way to make sure of that

• Will would eventually come find you later and apologize to you for doing what he did

• You had already forgiven him

***

@savvythepirate

Requests: OPEN

Tags: @princessofthornsandroses @justafairytailofinnocence @royisrandom @friendlynova @mypookiebeardavyjones @imalittleoutthere @marsswann @always-on-hiatus @aresrivas

Characters:

• Jack Sparrow

• Davy Jones

• Hector Barbossa

• Will Turner

[horoscope1078]

Pau sat in the corner of the locker room. His head hanging low as he fidgeted with his phone. His teammates Hector and Lamine were chatting animatedly nearby but Pau wasn’t really listening. His mind was somewhere else, specifically, on you. He had been crushing on you for months now but he just couldn’t work up the courage to tell you how he felt. Every time he thought about confessing his nerves got the best of him and he chickened out.

He let out a heavy sigh, catching Hector’s attention.

“Yo Pau, what’s up with you?” Hector asked tossing his towel over his shoulder as he walked over to him. “You’ve been quiet since training ended.”

Lamine who had been joking around with Hector moments ago joined them. “Yes man. You look like you’ve got something on your mind. Everything alright?”

Pau looked up at his friends, hesitating for a moment before speaking. “It’s this girl…”

Hector and Lamine exchanged a knowing look. “Ah... the girl. We’ve heard about her before” Lamine teased raising an eyebrow. “Still haven’t told her, have you?”

Pau shook his head feeling his face heat up. “No. Every time I get close.. I just.. I don’t know.. I freeze up. I want to tell her but I don’t know how to do it without making a fool of myself.”

Hector leaned against the lockers, crossing his arms with a grin. “Man.. you’re overthinking it. Just be confident and go for it. Girls love confidence.”

Lamine, however seemed to be more excited about giving Pau some advice. He rubbed his hands together, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Alright alright.. listen up. I’ve got the perfect plan for you. It’s simple. Write her a love letter.”

Pau blinked confused. “A love letter?”

“Yes man!” Lamine said nodding eagerly. “It’s old-school, romantic. Girls love that kind of stuff. You write something like ‘Dear crush, you light up my world like the stadium lights on game day. Every time I see you, my heart does a bicycle kick.’ ”

Hector snorted shaking his head. “A bicycle kick, really?”

Pau couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, I’m not sure that’s the right vibe Lamine.”

Lamine crossed his arms looking proud of himself. “Hey.. I’m just saying, it’s poetic. It’ll make her swoon.”

Hector rolled his eyes as stepping in with his own idea. “Forget the love letter. You need to do something bold, something that’ll get her attention for sure.” he thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Got it! Challenge her to a penalty shootout.”

Pau stared at Hector, half-amused and half-confused. “A penalty shootout? Seriously?”

“Yes! Hear me out” Hector said clearly excited by his own idea. “You invite her to the field, you both take turns shooting penalties and if she wins, you tell her your secret, you’ve been in love with her all along. If you win, same thing. Either way, you’ve got to confess. It’s a win-win!”

Pau rubbed his face with his hands, laughing but also groaning. “Guys.. I don’t think I can confess my feelings through a football match.”

“Why not?” Lamine piped up. “Football’s your thing Pau! It’s how you communicate with the world.”

Hector nodded in agreement. “Exactly. Make it fun. Girls love a guy who can make them laugh and doesn’t take himself too seriously.”

Pau chuckled, feeling a little better despite their ridiculous ideas. “Ok.. but what if she’s not into football? What if she doesn’t want to kick penalties against me?”

Lamine waved him off. “Then we move to plan b. Serenade her.”

Hector’s eyebrows shot up. “Serenade her? With what Lamine? You’re not gonna tell Pau to sing, are you?”

Lamine grinned unbothered by the scepticism. “Why not? I bet Pau has a decent voice. All he needs is a guitar and a few romantic lines. Something like ‘Girl, you dribble through my heart like Messi in his prime.’ ”

Hector burst out laughing, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re killing me man. Messi in his prime? Pau, please don’t do that.”

Pau leaned back, laughing so hard his sides hurt. “Yes.. I think I’ll pass on the serenading idea.”

Lamine pouted though there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “Fine fine. No singing. But seriously man, you’ve got to do something. The longer you wait the more you’re going to psych yourself out.”

Hector nodded clapping Pau on the shoulder. “Yes bro. Just be yourself. Talk to her like you always do but maybe.. y’know.. throw in a compliment or two. Tell her how you really feel but don’t overthink it.”

Pau sighed feeling grateful for his friends even if their ideas were totally out there. “You guys are ridiculous but thanks. I think I just need to figure out the right moment and go for it.”

Lamine leaned in with a grin. “And when you do, remember.. ‘bicycle kick of the heart.’ ”

Pau shook his head laughing again. “I’ll keep that in mind, Lamine. I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”

With his friends by his side, Pau felt a little more confident even if he wasn’t ready to challenge you to a penalty shootout or sing about dribbling hearts just yet.

[the-crow-binary]

Trans headcanons: when people ridicule the thing they think they support

So I'm tired. Let's have a talk.

Let's start with the very concept of headcanons, before I get to the infuriating part: A headcanon is, by definition, an idea that has never been confirmed as being actual canon. It's people imagining things about the characters they like, taking advantage of the fact the media they're in never depicted certain things, certain moments of the characters' life, to fill the gaps. A headcanon that make sense, and isn't there to just make the character your OC, takes into account what the actual canon has already shown, such as the character's personnality or goals. (I'm taking characters as example here but headcanon can be about the media's universe as a whole, too)

For example: In Castlevania: Curse of Darkness, and it's mangas, we never saw the life Hector and Isaac lead in the Castle between the moment Hector arrives (Isaac being already there) and the moment he runs away. It's a perfect opportunity to have fun and imagine what happened all those years! So, by taking into account what official products gave us, such as Isaac and Hector's personnalities (before and after the curse took ahold of them), how they interact together, and their common roles and duties under Dracula's reign, we can easily headcanon that they used to be friends and respected each other, before it slowly gets crushed by Isaac's obvious inferiority complex and jealousy in regards of Hector's power and relationship with Dracula.

That's a headcanon. A thing that can differ from one person to another, as interpretation can also vary, just like the plots we like to see. But let me tell you something absolutely crucial this headcanon does that make it a valid one: it doesn't contradict canon material.

That's a thing I feel like tends to be forgotten by many claiming their takes on characters as "headcanon". It stops being a "headcanon" and start being a "i'm twisting this character into my OC" when you start making shit up that not only does not fit the Character, but also contradicts directly what has been shown about said Character, just because you're a certain way or like certain things. That's not a headcanon. That's fanfiction. Not one that will interest those who actually like the canon and doesn't like when people change things about it instead of just adding to it, but if you're having fun, go for it! Just own up to the fact that you're deforming a pre-existent character, lol.

Now that... that is still pretty harmless. Sure it's annoying to see someone take your Blorbo and make it do things it would never do and call it a "headcanon", but it's just that. Annoying. But then...

Have you ever come across, in your favorite medias, male characters who look are act just a bit feminine? Or female characters who might be a little rough, angry, or muscular? And then you go look for content of them, and are met with "that character is trans" headcanons? Chances are, if you're very active in fandoms, you have. Maybe some of you cringe because there's something wrong going on there and you're not sure what, and you're afraid you're just being transphobic even though you support transfolks and maybe are one yourself... at least it was my case at first lol. But not to worry! There's a very good explanations to your cringiness! And it's that: Lots of those headcanons are straight up awful in their logic and an insult to every genders involved! :)

Let's take the Netflixvania version of Hector as an example. He's the perfect target for those kind of headcanons, because he's a pretty boy! He's (a bit) feminine! So of course, just from that, you'll have people claiming he MUST be a trans woman. An awful take to call "headcanon", because it's very surface-level, gleefully ignores that everyone everywhere have both feminine and masculine sides to them (and the fact Castlevania is originally a JAPANESE product, have you ever seen ACTUAL anime? Pretty boys and boys who look like girls be everywhere in this media), some men being more feminine while some women can be more masculine, and literally goes back to gender-conforming logic. Something the very concept of transgenderism actually fights against. I mean sure, you have trans women trying to be as feminine as they can, and trans men as masculine as they can, for reasons that might differ from one person to another. But there's also those who don't. Those who simply exist, feeling secure enough in their gender that they don't care how masculine or feminine others percieve them to be. And what about the very cis people who don't conform to what others say they should look like, according to their genitalia?

Headcanoning a character as trans because of the way they look only is great !... To perpetuate gender-conforming mindset and clichés, and be uncomfortably close to transphobic logic (the "we can always tell" crowd who'll think a cis woman is a man because her body, that she has never altered in any way and is only the result of her genetics, is a bit too masculine, for example :) ). So what else you can use to headcanon a character as trans without it leaving a sour taste in other people's mouths?

Their personnality? Well, yes... but also no. It all depends on how you turn it. And in case of N!Hector? Oh boy! ^^

Hector is kind and compassionate... mostly with animals lol, and the devils he creates. He is gentle, can be vulnerable. He doesn't want humanity gone, but he wants them to be kept under control, because on one hand, he doesn't like them because Trauma, and on the other, he's not a bad guy at heart. He is naive, dare I say, emotionally, physically and mentally weak, wich causes him to be compared to a child by actual characters in the show, and a dumbass by the fandom. ^^ And ALSO causes him to get tricked, beaten and abused by vampires (wich makes the fandom call him even MORE of a dumbass for, and side with his abusers because "haha hot women vampire go brr"). Overall, even if he's trying to be tough here and there, and opposes some (futile) resistance sometimes (never going as far as it should've because of Peak Writing), he quickly goes back to being, well, soft (wich is NOT a bad thing in itself btw).

Now there's nothing wrong when you look at his personnality alone, and ignore literally everything else such as the way he was treated by the narrative, the characters, and the fandom itself. But look at this... and tell me it feels trans woman-coded.

Headcanoning Hector as a trans woman boils down to say "i think women are soft, naive, stupid, weak, kind and compassionnate, and men cannot be". It's already a very vomit-inducing take insulting both genders, but then you take into accounts what actually happens to Hector: him being tricked, used, abused, beaten, dehumanized by every character he interacts with and never taken seriously, even by the man who hired him as one of his GENERAL. Oh, and treated like a literal pet, too! Called as such by Lenore herself! And it gets worse. Because the narrative itself sees nothing wrong with that (exactly because he's a man :)). Just... why would you see a man being treated like a pet, not human and not even an adult, and think "ah, yes. A woman." ?? I'm sorry but I can't, in good faith, approve of that. What kind of vision does it mean you have of women and trans women?

So not only headcanoning N!Hector as a trans woman is an insult to women and tells more about how YOU view them than anything else (consciously or not), but it also serves to completely rip Hector off of his masculinity and insult men as well. As if a man couldn't suffer the way he did. As if a man could not be kind or naive without being compared to a child. As if a man had to have short hair or beard or drink beer or whatever you think a man is supposed to be like and how a woman is supposed to be like.

Oh, and special shoutout to that one tumblr user I will not name that literally said "how can you not headcanon Hector as a trans girl. She's literally a doggirl ok"! It's is the most awful take I have EVER seen and I want to throw up all over your blog! Literally, how dumb does one have to be to see a gentle, pretty man being treated like a dog for kinky points and go "not only is this a girl, that's also a doggo! Woof woof!" I swear to God.

Sigh... so, yeah. This far, I have yet to see anyone headcanoning Hector as a trans woman and not making me want to throw up in my mouth, considering how the character is. But there's one more thing! The narrative.

The narrative can also be used for headcanons, and often is. "What is this character and their story about?" "How is the [media] portraying them?". "How are we supposedd to feel about the character/story/actions?" In N!Hector's case, despite him having potential... the narrative is just humiliating him through and through. He gets tricked by everyone, mocked for his harmless personnality, his mistreatment happens out of pure sadism and to elevate the Girlbosses, and he gets used for horny points. He is just a victim durîg the whole show, and when you THINK he's FINALLY going to do something... nope! He vaguely help bring back the Big Bad Guy (wich ends up being useless i swear to god N!Hector's life is joke lmao killme) while falling for his abuser! Getting back at her by protecting her, I guess! ^^

So what was his character and story about? A misunderstood man... who exist only to be used and tossed around and never get justice nor is allowed to fight back. You can't even say he's a plot device because the plot itself mocks him and could have worked well, if not better without him. (Isaac going after Carmilla directly instead of going after Hector and choosing last minute to kill Carmilla while he's at it would have made a little more sense, though he still would have went after the wrong people, but that's another story) Definitely the kind of character I love to see having his masculinity revoked and called a woman! Not insulting at all!

See, it is very difficult to headcanon a character as trans... especially when you don't think about it through. Wich people like that one user calling Hector a "doggirl" did (that was a whole other level of victim blaming holy shit. Shows once again how men's and males' trauma and suffering are not taken seriously enough). What is happening to Hector here happens to many other characters in other medias, and to stay in Netflixvania, it is happening with Alucard as well. Because people are cowards and won't headcanon the big grumpy hairy guy as a trans woman, they have to headcanon the gender-nonconforming character and, by doing so, actually gender-conform him ❤️ (i mean it as a half-joke. you do you, but I think this is a clear proof of how the gender norms have a big place in your mind)

I think I would have less problems with lots of these if they weren't called "headcanons". Let's be honest, many will think of a character as trans because THEY'RE trans and it's their blorbo, and MAYBE think of justifying it further afterward. That's not how HCs work, you're just projecting. And you know what? It's fine! It's not a bad thing in itself! Make a pre-existent character trans if it's fun for you! If it makes you feel better! I mean I'm worried of N!Hector is the one you relate to the most. But it doesn't matter if others don't like it, because it's a content made for you, by you! But don't call it a "headcanon" (or claim it as canon directly, wut) and try to justify it when there's nothing in canon even slightly hinting at it being potentially true, or working, or making sense for the character. Don't call it "headcanon" when you're literally genderbending a character. Please. Think things through.

Also, remember when I talked about a proper headcanon does not contradict actual canon? Well. The male character you call a trans woman going by "he/him" the whole time kinda contradicts your idea. It's as if you "headcanoned" a character who has been seen only being attracted to the opposite gender and in love with someone of the opposite gender as being gay. Sure, you can say that's a closeted trans character... but then you better have solid reasoning for thinking that, once again. Or, you know, you could assume that you genderbend the character for fun (and i don't mean "turn it into a cis character of the opposite gender", i mean keep them trans, but don't pretend to base your vision mostly on canon). Would be less insulting than saying "this weak pretty man is actually a woman because he's weak and pretty, canon told me". I prefer someone who owns up to the fact they don't care about canon and just want to have fun rather than someone who implies they care about canon by using "headcanon" and then give poor and insulting arguments.

I get that lots of people with these headcanons don't have bad intentions and don't realize how fucked up their reasoning (or the simple fact of calling N!Hector a damn DOGGIRL- sorry i'll never recover from that) is, but still. As much as I respect everyone's right to do whatever they want with characters in their own little corner, caring about nothing but having fun, I've been needing to vent about this issue for a while now. Being an ally or a trans person yourself doesn't prevent you from spreading stereotypes, I'm afraid.

This problem of "i'm using poor and stereotyped arguments that is more insulting than anything to justify my idea" could apply to autism headcanons too, btw. And probably other things as well. Just. Please. Think about what you're writing. Think before you talk.

[writing-whump]

Hey Sol! 💫

It's the dessert question anon. I know this prompt doesn't really fit in the current situation but, later on, can we please get something with Arnie and Matt? We got all the other interesting or rather unconventional pairings like Hector and Matthew, Seline and Hector, Arnie and Seline, but we have yet to see those two truly interact 👀

Btw I don't think I have seen this emoji around, but if there is another anon who signs with this, please let me know and I'll change it asap!!

- 🍰

Haha that's a nickname with fun context. Dessert is all yours!!✨️ Thank you for the prompt💙

This is also the 💫100th💫 fic and the official start of the vacation arc🏖

100. Airport troubles

"Remind me why I have to tag along with you guys again?" Arnie said for like the third time as they made their way through the airport.

Matthew was walking behind him, so he rolled his eyes openly. God, the kid was a handful.

"You wouldn't want to get dragged into pup training, would you?" Seline said quickly. "This way, Isaiah can train Rip on the way, Dylan can learn some tricks and since Hector graciously offered to help-"

Oh yeah, Hector was oh so gracious. Maybe he just wanted to avoid the fucking airport.

Honestly, Matthew didn't know why he wasn't in the car either. He could help with training Rip? At least with the sparring part? And who was going to look out for Isaiah during the 4 day drive it took to Bulgaria?

And he could have skipped the crowd in the hall.

Though Seline picked the earliest flight as possible—they were already at the airport at 4 am—it was still crawling with people. Happy families, crabby teenagers, loud babies.

Matthew's skin was itching. He couldn't help rolling his shoulders back repeatedly and it took all his strength to not jump everytime someone bumped into him or walked too close on accident.

The only way to avoid people completely at Vienna Airport would be by climbing the ceiling.

Another elderly man bumped into him, nose almost touching his phone screen, eliciting a shudder from Matthew. Why didn't he ask Isaiah to roll his shadow for the flight? This was torture.

Seline's hand suddenly hooked around his elbow and she leaned her weight against him. "Look, that's our control check that way. We'll be out of here in no time."

Arnie also wore a constant pout, grumbling about not getting first class and being left out when his brothers were having fun.

Matthew suppressed a sigh as they got into the queue. Trying to be nonchalant, he leaned over to take a deep breath of Seline's ozonic grapefruit scent, the air brushing against her silver blond hair. An ancherpoint of familiarity in the sea of chaos.

"You'll get your cabin bag up on the stripe yourself. They will only touch it when they move it forward. Once it goes through the box, it's all yours," Seline said, side of her face brushing against his shoulder.

Matthew glanced towards Arnie, flushing a little. "I know." He had seen movies with airports before.

Arnie snorted. "What? You have never been to an airport before?"

Matthew flushed a little more. So he never had a reason to fly, big deal. Airports and stations and everything crowded was a challange for wolves. He preferred to drive, bike or take empty night trains over flights any day.

"Shouldn't you have gone with the pups after all?" Arnie teased as he expertly unpacked his laptop and tablet and ereader out the bag. Why did he need so many devices was beyond Matthew's understanding.

Seline had a delicate frown on. "Don't be mean now. Matthew didn't have proper wolf training in his pack."

Which didn't make Matthew feel any better. Arnie gave him another ridiculous look as he moved forward to get through the security check.

Matthew quietly fumed his way through the procedure, partly comforted and partly emebrassed by Seline waiting for him and hanging herself on his arm again.

"I have saffron drops for nerves," Seline whispered in his ear.

Matthew nodded tightly and looked away. He wanted to be able to do this on his own, no meds needed. Though Seline was their local medical expert, she also liked using lots of herbs and drops and natural remedies like teas and leaves whenever she could.

It would probably help. He could try taking it when Arnie was out of earshot.

They finally made their way to a row of chairs near the right gate that wasn't open yet. Since Bulgaria was Seline's family favourite destination she moved around the airport with practiced ease. Her parents even offered them to borrow three apartments they rented over the summer next to each other for free.

Matthew promptly collapsed on the chair nearest to the window, taking deep measured breaths.

Seline sat beside him, watching like a hawk. Her hand was firmly planted on his forearm.

Arnie eyed them critically. "You gonna be buzzkillers the whole time? We have at least a whole hour left. Let's get some breakfast."

Seline bit her lip in consideration. "We can get food and eat it here together. I'll bring you a croissant, Matt?"

Matthew grumbled, wishing Isaiah was here. Or anyone who would offer to get the food so that Seline could stay sitting like this next to him, shielding him from the masses of people.

Arnie's eyes glittered knowingly, but the snide twist to his mouth betrayed he wasn't up to feeling any sympathy.

Arnie wasn't a person to offer anything, even if he caught the hint. He was observant, Matt would give him that, but for all his insight and knowledge about wolves, he still opted to be provocative and mouthy instead. He knew how hard it made things and he still did it. What was up with that?

Was Arnie really that mad for not being able to go with his brothers, taking his anger out on them?

At least Hector was blunt and predictable in his remarks and challenges. Matthew could get behind that. Isaiah was a generous caretaker from his soul. None of them seemed as petty and jealous as Arnie.

"Meet you here in 20 minutes?" Seline suggested.

Arnie scoffed. "Not much time is that? I wanna check the boutiques and get a good coffee."

"It's half five in the morning," Seline said.

"All the more. We had to get here at this crapy hour for Mr Second here. I don't wake up before 10, thank you. If I am to function I need a frappe."

Fortunately it didn't take long for Seline to return with a plain croissant and some tea. She didn't mention Matthew stayed at the seats, sitting on his arms to keep his jumpy reaction and shadow in check.

Matt felt guilty for the service, but immensely thankful to have something in his stomach.

Arnie took way more than 30 minutes to get there, sporting a large transuclant plastic cup inside another one with the frappe and melting ice.

Seline wrinkled her nose. "You had two?"

Arnie shrugged. "How else do I survive? Maybe they will have coffee on the flight too."

"Did you at least eat anything?"

"No hungry. And what's that to you anyway? I'm 18, you know?" Arnie said in a tone like that really made him an adult.

Spoiled little brat. How did someone rough like Hector even manage that? Matt was definitely throwing that in his face when they saw each other.

"The gate just opened." Seline was squinting on the far away timetable screen, one of her hand resting on Matthew's knee. "We have priority seats, so we can go sooner if we want...but maybe you better enjoy the view a bit longer?"

"I'm gonna be fine. Closed up spaces aren't a big deal."

"Yeah, but there will be lots of people. Though the priority seats also mean we have more leg space and you can sit by the window-"

Matthew smiled, his hand coming to rest on top of hers. "Sel. It's fine. Thank you."

She nodded, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "You are doing great for your first time. I'm proud of you."

Matthew rolled his eyes, feeling his cheeks turn red as his hair again. "Don't-don't say nonsense, there is nothing to be proud of."

"If he was half his age, maybe," Arnie added. He sat a few seats away from them, fidgeting with the empty cups with jittery fingers.

Seline rolled her eyes and stood up. "Last bathroom break. I'll be right back."

Matthew had to chuckle at how she couldn't look at either of them as she said it, trailing away. Still so easily flustered about such things.

A loud rumbling gurgle caught his attention then. Since people lined up to the gate, it was just him and Arnie left in the row by the windows.

Arnie sat hunched over himself, staring at the ground like he was trying to burn it. He kept licking his lips, rocking back and forth a little.

It was Matthew's turn to snort. "Bathroom break for you too? So much coffee on empty stomach was so adult of you." Not that Matt never made that mistake.

"Shut up," the blond said. His earlier pouty high attitude burst like a balloon and he got pale as a sheet in just a couple of minutes.

The kid rocked back and forth again, shaking the backpack off his shoulders and hugging his stomach with both hands. "Ow, okay, that hurtsss."

"Stupid," Matthew said, leaning back in his seat. "You better hurry up before you shit your pants. Plane's leaving soon."

"Asshole," Arnie said. His blond curls were sticking to his forehead with sweat. He shot up to his feet, leaving his bag behind and sprinted towards the bathrooms.

Matthew grinned to himself, pleased with how fate got back at the kid for him.

...it wasn't that funny half an hour later, when the last call for passengers appeared. Matt and Sel stood at the gate, looking around themselves in hopes of spotting Arnie.

"Damn this timing," Matthew complained, Arnie's backpack now thrown over his shoulder beside his own. "Think you can talk with the attendant to wait a bit more?"

"Can't hurt to ask. But we better not split up anyway. We can always take the next flight."

"And let the tickets go to waste?" Matt grimaced. "No way. I'm gonna drag that kid over. Just don't fly without me."

He left the bags at her feet and made his way to the bathroom, glad he knew which one Arnie went to.

When he entered the surprisingly large white room with rows and rows of stalls, he was greeted with the horrible retching sound and a liquid splash.

"Arnie? You in here?" Matt headed to the stall with the noise, knocking on it.

"G'way," Arnie groaned.

Matthew sighed. "No can do. Come on, kid, we're gonna be late."

Another loud belch and more liquid splattered inside the bowl. Matt pushed against the door experimentally, finding it open.

Arnie was hunched over the toilet, a large sweaty stain in the middle of his back. The foul smell had Matthew's hair standing up.

He crouched down behind the boy, trying to get a glimpse of his face. "Still bad?"

"My stomach's fucking killing me," Arnie whined in the most undignifed manner, spitting into the toilet. His nose and eyes were running, his face a mix of liquids.

"You can sit at the plane and heave over an airsickness bag too. You can't have anything left there, it was just the coffee-"

Arnie's back heaved violently at the word and he gagged over and over the bowl like crazy. A meager but chunkier gush came out. He suddenly pitched to the side.

"Fuck, no you don't-" Matt was glad for his reflexes as he caught Arnie from behind.

"...dizzy."

"That's some serious sugar low," Matthew grumbled. It felt awkward to touch Arnie. He felt very strange to Matt's shadow and he wasn't exactly thrilled to be sitting in that small space with him.

Matthew gathered some toilet paper and handed it over, steadying Arnie with a hand on his shoulder.

Arnie blinked at him in confusion, accepting the papers and blowing his nose loudly. He was very noisy for his small stature.

The big green familiar eyes in the foreign face felt even weirder to Matthew.

Arnie moaned pathetically, letting the crumbled paper fall on the floor and curling around his middle again. By the loud growls it was making, even on empty it was still plenty upset.

"Want some water?" Matthew tried.

Arnie gagged at the mention, pressing his chin against his chest. He shut his eyes again, face drained for colour even more.

"Shit," Matt muttered. He flushed the toilet then brought the larger towels for hands, cold with wet water and pressed them against Arnie's forehead.

"J-just go ahead. I'll catch up. Next flight's in six hours and I have-" he burped, eyes still shut, "I have the money, it's fine."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "That's what you would deserve, you little prick. Whatever. Not gonna leave you like this. You absolutely sure you can't go yet? It'll probably let up in a bit."

Arnie shook his head. "C-can't. My insides feel like they are about to fall out."

Matthew grimaced and nodded. "Okay. It's fine. I'm gonna text Sel about, ehmm, the situation. She probably has some herb drops to help, if you want."

Arnie opened his bleary red-rimmed eyes. "You really don't have to stay."

"Shut up. Who do you think I am? Ain't gonna leave Isaiah's little brother behind when sick."

Arnie snorted, face relaxing a little. "Not cause Hector would have your head?"

Matthew scoffed. "I'm not afraid of that idiot, stupid."

[beevean]

It took me a lot of time to put into words that Isaac, simply, wants to feel important.

On one hand, there's his wanting to be the perfect weapon for Dracula. He is subservient to a T, he changes his body for him, he refuses to think about what they're doing, in pursue of surpassing Hector and becoming the Lord's favorite. He never accomplished that. It eats him up inside, and drives him to do illogical actions, like insisting on fighting Hector on fair terms to prove himself.

"I'm not as thoughtful as you, Hector... If you have a good weapon, you use it, don't you?"

"Good for you that you can judge our Lord’s deeds… It’s not bad for my position. But I will not tolerate any disservice and betrayal towards Him."

"I will not deny your loyalty..."

On the other, there's Hector. Isaac isn't going to submit to Hector, of course, not when Dracula indirectly forced him in that position already. At first, he wants to be at least his equal: he respects him but as I mentioned he wants to prove himself against him in a fight. Again, he doesn't accomplish that, and in fact Hector defeats him when wounded - and, in a last spit to his face, leaves him alive, unworthy of being finished off.

"Take a look at this pathetic sight, my Lord, my broken sword used as a cane. My body is the proof of Your expectations for him. Please ridicule me, scold me, next time I will do whatever it takes."

But then, he chooses another way. For three years, Hector dominates Isaac's every thought, as he rots away, hidden, a waste, a failure, while Hector gets everything he ever wanted.

"Mhh... You make that kind of face too… I've gotten a lot better too... How many times has the moon waxed and waned, I wonder?

"That’s a nice expression… I'm happy. Good pain is proof of life. I won't afford you the peace of death easily: live, spit blood, and then…"

He writes Hector's name under his boot, which can be interpreted in many ways, but I personally see it as a symbol of how thoroughly Hector owns him, like a toy.

So, then, Isaac flips the script on him.

I have spent words already on the significance of Isaac killing Rosaly. I also mentioned how repaying Hector with the same trauma he had inflicted on Isaac, albeit unwittingly, puts Hector in the position of the one being "owned" like a toy. Now it's Hector the one who is obsessed with Isaac, ruled by his anger and hatred. Isaac can play with him as he pleases. He can move him around like his puppet, and Hector will obey, not because he's stupid, but because Isaac has seized control of his emotions and thoughts. Isaac went from being dead in Hector's eyes to being his only reason left to live. At last, for a short while, Isaac was the most important person in Hector's life - and you bet he was relishing in that power, he who was made to feel worthless by the same man.

Hurts even more than even in his death, he was being as second best, as faulty material for his Lord's resurrection, his body left to be crushed under the castle.

It contrasts with Hector, who wants mostly to feel safe.

"The ability to rebel and blaspheme against the Divine Providence is accepted without blame. A place where we are allowed to exist."

When he talks in the MF manga that he sought power for the sake of remaining human, he was most likely referring to the power to live in peace, unthreatened, not feeling weak or vulnerable. He didn't care at all about being important to Dracula, something that Isaac envied instead.

It's yet another tragic parallel that Hector ended up being important to many people. To Dracula, as I said, as his best Devil Forgemaster. But to Rosaly as well, as someone she could live with and love, and to Julia, as someone who could help her and support her in her grief. Hector clings to people much like Isaac does, but not to the point of destruction, whether to himself or others.

[faraway-sunshine]

Do you have fun stories about Basil? Everyone seems to be focused on the negative, but you clearly like him a lot, so there's surely reasons for that

I have a lot, but I'll just pick one for now.

One day, I was at school and there was a fire drill. It was a brand-new alarm and I hadn't been paying attention when we were warned, so I didn't recognise the sound and thought it was a lockdown drill (for when there's bee swarms or people with guns). We were in the halls at our lockers, so I ran off into the library to hide under the main desk. Mari wasn't in my class so she had no idea I wasn't lining up outside.

I huddled into the tiny hiding spot, hugging my knees and shaking as the alarm roared. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't, because what if that gave me away? My heart was pounding. I'd watched Jurassic Park recently, which I was amazed by, but the scene where the kids are in the kitchen being chased by velociraptors was haunting me in that moment.

The next thing I knew, also looking scared and hating the bell, I saw Basil apologetically walk over and crouch by me. Normally he hates the desk part of the library, which smelled heavily of paste and gives him a headache, but he didn't hesitate to sit by me. And he knew what I was thinking without me even saying it, or possibly just did a lucky guess, but either way it caught my attention.

"You know the ones in the movie weren't velociraptors, right? They were a different kind of dinosaur. Velociraptors were much smaller, like, this big. They'd be just as dangerous as Hector."

I didn't say anything, but I focused on his words, and let my curiosity overtake my fear.

"In fact, some scientists think they had feathers! Wouldn't that look silly? Actually, here, let me show you - bother, I forgot I can't draw dinosaurs. You give it a go?"

He handed me paper and a pen and I got drawing, making a fearsome velociraptor. Basil gently stopped me when I was adding a lot of teeth.

Then, carefully, he proceeded to draw ridiculous feathers on it, like peacocks and parrots and weird birds of paradise. It was funny how much he concentrated on it, and suddenly it looked ridiculous and not scary at all. I had a small laugh, and he took my hand, and it felt like we were in our own safe little world under the desk.

Later on, we clubbed together our pocket money to get a dinosaur coloring book and finally covered both our fears (Basil admitted he was also scared and that's why he looked it up) with bright colors and smudged lines and sunglasses.

(Tuesday 12th September, 2000, 7:40 PM)

[msweebyness]

Miraculous Second Gen: Class of Heroes Edition

Here the Class of Heroes second gen kids! Enjoy and watch for the recess/science from Artzy! @imsparky2002 @artzychic27

Polycule:

Emma:

She/Her

Age 16

Bio Parents Adrien/Marinette

Hair that reaches her ankles, and has mild healing abilities

Has a ridiculous amount of energy, and always up to try something new

Can struggle a bit with OCD, has to make sure she's doing everything right

Has a channel where she acts as an influencer and makes cool craft projects (Adrien frequently guests)

Makes friends incredibly easily

Louie:

He/Him

Age 14

Bio Parents Luka/Kagami

An incredibly talented musician, like his bio father, specializes with violin and flute

Always calm and dignified, can usually resolve situations without a fight

Good at helping people talk through their problems, should pursue a degree in therapy

Has a huge crush on Darius

Hugo:

He/Him

Age 10

Bio Parents Luka/Marinette

Has way too much energy, bouncing off the walls

Loves to play every sport imaginable, and he's very talented

Already a bit of a himbo, you can't help but love him

Loves to practice swords with his moms

Best friends with Hector, helps bring him out of his shell

Alison:

She/Her

Age 6

Bio Parents Adrien/Kagami

As stoic as Kagami, doesn't express much emotion

On rare occasions, will get very passionate about something...it's intense

Knee-length hair, also has mild healing powers

Very intelligent for her age, enjoys reading stories from around the world

Alyno:

(Twins)

Cecily “CeCe”:

She/Her

Age 16

Half Fairy, Half Human

Incredibly driven and focused when she wants something, like her mom

Can sometimes be a bit too blunt with her opinions, but means well

Still getting the hang of her magic, doesn't always turn out quite right

Runs a site about news at the school and current events

Always bickering with her brother about something

Cody:

He/Him

Age 16

Half Fairy, Half Human

Very charming and charismatic, easily able to befriend just about anyone

Likes making comics about the heroic endeavors of his friends in his spare time

Struggles a bit with anxiety, but does meditation to help with it

Loves granting wishes for the people he cares about, but is a very clumsy flyer

Has a huge crush on June, but is much too shy to make the first move

JuleRose:

Marek:

He/They

Age 17

Bio Mom Juleka, he has small horns and claws (Vicki thinks they're cute)

Pretty shy like Juleka, doesn't do a lot of talking

Adores anything small and cute, just like Rose, huge soft spot for kids and animals

Fiercely protective of their loved ones, will fight anyone

Enjoys playing piano with his uncle

Dating Vicki, is her number one fan

Myvan:

Juniper “June”:

She/Her

Age 16

Every bit as fair and kind as her mother, but hides it under a surlier demeanor

Knows she's beautiful, but doesn't make a big fuss of it

Cares deeply about animals and the environment, is involved in several advocacy groups

The mom of the friend group, always looking out for everyone

Can have a fierce temper when pushed to her limits, and never call her dad a freak

Has a crush on Cody, but doesn't think he feels the same way

Hector:

He/Him

Age 10

Huge for his age, and sometimes doesn't know his own strength

Incredibly shy, doesn't talk to many people outside his family

Prefers to spend time out in the forest with his mom, working with animals

Tends to shrink in on himself when he doesn't know how to respond to a situation

Best friends with Hugo, one of the only people he feels comfortable around

NathMarc:

Elicia:

She/Her

Age 17

Bio Dad Marc, she has powers over the air and wind

An incredibly talented sculptor, her powerful winds make cleaning up easy

Has a very sharp tongue, will not hold back if you're acting a fool

On the high-functioning end of the spectrum, doesn't express emotion very conventionally

Much more accepting of her powers, she was never forced to hide them

Can be a bit of a perfectionist, likes things to go right

Wants to ask Destiny out, but thinks she's way out of her league

Kimdine:

Victorique “Vicki”:

She/Her

Age 17

Has the energy of five people, always wants to be doing something and be around people

Inherited some of Kim's strength and uses it to help wherever she can

Tall, buff and beautiful girly, she's a model part-time

Book smart, yes! Street smart...debatable

Loves to play any sport she can try

Dating Marek, she loves her beastie demiboyfriend, will deck you if you mess with him

Nicolette “Nikki”:

She/Her

Age 13

The most chill and reserved member of her family, but can be silly when she feels like it

Incredibly tech savvy, she's something of an apprentice to Max

The deadpan-est of deadpan snarkers, she will never let something stupid pass without comment

Often has to keep her sister and father from doing boneheaded things, but loves them all the same

Has a deep fascination with the ocean, loves listening to her mother's stories and keeps up with marine biology

Very close with River, they snark at anything and everything

Alix:

River:

They/Them

Age 13

Adopted at 2 years old, from the streets of Agrabah, Alix saw the chance to help someone like her

Like their mama, has a knack for getting into trouble but is also skilled at getting out of it

Highly intelligent for their age, but doesn't always use this for productive reasons

Has a tendency to lash out at unfair authority figures

Snarkiest little shit, there's a mouth on this one, it's why they get along with Nikki

Sabrinelmar:

Darius:

(Delmar is Wasabi in this universe. Max was the one to introduce him and Sabrina.)

He/They

Age 14

Carved from wood, brought to life by Aurore, and enhanced by cybernetic technology

Like his mother, honest to a fault. You will never question what he thinks about something

A very eloquent speaker, wants to go into politics to make a difference for non-humans

Like their dad, they have a bit of a thing about things being in the right place

Likes doing woodworking with his grandfather on the weekends, his work sells really well

Has a huge crush on Louie, but both are too shy to make a move

Breckvie:

Destiny:

She/Her

Age 17

Quarter-Fox Hybrid

Like her mother, she adores working with children, has a very lucrative babysitting service

Also like her mother, her manners are impeccable and she expects courtesy from others

She loves to sing, and has a chipper little tune for any task, she's close with Alan-a-Dale, who taught her to play the lute

Has very strong maternal instincts, cares for those around her on instinct

Many people have crushes on her, but she only has eyes for Elicia

Reagan:

She/Her

Age 12

Quarter-Fox Hybrid

Herbo, but in the best way possible

Loves to cook, often spends Saturdays working in Alya's soup kitchen (who she idolizes, wants to work in her restaurant one day)

Massive daddy's girl, loves to go riding and camping with Brecken

Will get into fights with bullies, she doesn't care about getting in trouble

Has already had three boyfriends, this girl's a charmer

Milo:

He/Him

Age 9

Quarter-Fox Hybrid

The happiest kid you will ever meet, can make anyone smile

Has a strong connection with animals, they follow him no matter where he goes

He wants to be a veterinarian, helps Mylene and Jesse in their clinic often

Surprisingly perceptive for his age, he's good with feelings and expressions

Very close with the Merry Men, especially Little John, and Friar Tuck

Jessthony:

Warren:

He/They

Age 15

Adopted from Halloween Town at 3

Can be a tad reserved and closed off, but sweet once you get to know him

Always has at least two fidget toys, needs to be moving their hands

He loves to make clothes and accessories, specializing in anything related to patchwork and upcycling

Sees Mylene as an honorary aunt, loves to hang out with June, teaching her how to sew

Picked up Anthony's sharp wit, will comment on any idiocy witnessed

Master of the silent scare, he can sneak up on anyone

Cand-Yeon:

Kirk:

He/Him

Age 16

Adopted at 2, from the Rescue Aid Society

Human-Cat Hybrid, he loves to play with yarn to de-stress

Always striving to prove his worth, incredibly academically driven and involved in extracurricular activities

Captain of the cheer team at Francois, a natural born leader

Defends those close to him fiercely, especially his family

An amazing, and passionate dancer, but doesn't see it as a career (Jean WILL change his mind)

Has a HUGE crush on Mellie, but always stutters talking to them

Ayesha:

Mellie:

They/Them

Age 15

Dog Hybrid, Cocker Spaniel/Terrier Mix (Yes, Dante is the Tramp, they just ended up platonic in this story)

Has their mom's perky and unbeatable energy, their dad's street smarts, and their own gothic style

Has a channel where they watch and critique horror movies, they have a fanbase in Halloween Town

Spends weekends with their dad, just doing whatever

Loves to knit and crochet, always working on a new project

Loves to be around people, a total chatterbox

Not shy about being affectionate towards Kirk, flirts relentlessly

Let me know what you think! Leave your thoughts in the comments and reblogs!

[alpaca-clouds]

About Redemption stories - and Enver Gortash

I decided to be a bit self-indulgent today and write about this a bit more.

As some people might know: I am currently kinda hyperfocusing on writing a redemption story for our dear wanna-be tyrant from Baldur's Gate 3.

This originally started out mainly as me being kinda pissed about the fact that a) the game does not really have a happy end for Karlach, and b) that you could not convince Gortash to give up even though from his perspective it should be the logical thing to do, given that he should realize at the point that he has no chance winning that fight. And also: I played a fucking bard with +18 on persuasion at that point, and I got kinda annoyed with the game for not allowing me to persuade Gortash after destroying the guard. Especially given how ridiculously easy his bossfight is.

So, originally all of that happened completely out of those reasons - I wrote an alternate ending in which he lived but was put under house arrest, because duh. And originally I kinda left it at that, because... yeah. Let's face it. There are villains in stories, that kinda ask to be redeemed. My other big fandom is Castlevania - mainly the Netflix series - and pretty much all the villains there are cut out for redemption, and many of them do actually have some redemption in the show happen.

And I mainly write for some of those. Mainly Hector, Isaac, Striga and Morana, all of whom are at least partly antagonists in the show.

Because I freaking love good redemption stories. And also one of my hobbies is to rant about the redemption stories we get in media, mainly because a lot of it puts more focus on character making those big gestures (like almost or completely sacrificing themselves and such) rather than going more into how the character realizes the evil they had done and such.

So, at some point I looked at Gortash, this pathetic asshole of a man, and I thought to myself: "Huh, what would it take for this asshole to admit he had been in the wrong?" Because from all I had written at that point (which was Hurt begets Hurt and Cheesy Noodles) he very much was of the opinion that sure, maybe things he had done had not been nice - but they had been his right, because people were shitty to him, so why should he not be shitty to other people. Again, his giving up was mainly just him not wanting to die and realizing that in the situation he had no chance to get out of that situation alive. (And also Tav promising him, that he could just get away - which mind you, Tav actually meant, but Tav had kinda forgotten at the moment, that Ravengard was hanging out at the camp, and Ravengard would be obviously like: "How about no?" And in fact putting Gortash under house arrest, rather than having him executed was a compromise that was won only after Wyll unhappily sided with Tav.)

And so... the "depressed Gortash" storyline - as some people have called it - was born. Basically going into two core ideas:

Gortash was only a Chosen because of the second sundering, and while Bane was kinda fine with it as long as Gorts was winning, he instantly pulled his support for Gorts, once the guy lost. (We know in the game when Gorts dies, Bane punishes him for losing, too.)

Without a purpose or anything, Gortash's mental health takes a big ass nosedive afterwards and he is bloody miserable.

Throw into this mixture my Tav, who himself is a survivor of a ton of abuse, who has the core believe that outside of devils and some gods, there is no true evil in this world. This man will stop people from killing monsters, because the monster could theoretically be just nice, but misunderstood. xD So, Tav feels a lot of pity for Gortash and the abuse the man has suffered, and he is of the firm opinion that Gortash's soul can be saved. And he tries to convince Gortash to try and be a nice person for once.

Now, my Tav is - just like my interpretation of Gortash - on the autistic spectrum. However, kinda on opposite ends of it. My Tav is autistic, yes, but the very social kind of autistic person. (Or to put it differently: He is a total and absolute people pleaser, who has core values he will always prioritize, but also fears that people could not like him.) While Gortash very much is not. And Gortash, who is bad at reading other people, and also in his life has basically never had any relationship that was not somehow dominated by fear of being abused/backstabbed, looks at the guy and goes: "Okay, either this dude is shitting me, or he is the biggest gods darn idiot who ever existed, and the only reason he is here is to make me aware of the fact that I was defeated by the biggest idiot that ever existed!" Which to me as a writer is hilarious - but in a very whumpy way xD

The aspect, that I decided to go with in the end is, that while Gortash is really bad at relating and empathizing to people, he somewhat kinda does know that he did the exact thing to Karlach, that his parents did to him. And despite him struggling to admit it, he actually at some point liked Karlach. So, yes, if he is fully honest with himself, he can understand that this specific thing he did was a bad thing, actually.

And everything else has to come from there. Partly also from the very logical analysis of: he is aware of how fictional stories go. And he has enough awareness to understand, that someone who does the stuff he does, usually gets to be the antagonist in those stories - and hence would be seen as evil. So the rational thing is to assume that yes, indeed, he did bad.

But yeah. It is so interesting to me to write this and explore the redemption of a villain, who does not instantly see that yeah, they might have done wrong. And he needs a long while to see it.

(Also: yes, this is also absolutely me being a prison abolitionist who does not think that a system of law that punishes does any good for anyone. Because yeah, guess what: Nobody who was killed is alive, just because the bad guy is inprisoned or executed.)

[foggyfanfic]

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.

[pecanwriter]

Fog Lifted

Themes: comfort eating, unplanned weight gain, emotional overeating

TW: the character is clinically depressed

Words: 1501

Part: 1/1, completed

Hector bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep himself from crying. Another ridiculous email from his boss, requesting something basically impossible. Not only that, it was outside of his work description and with a deadline of twenty-four hours. Of course. 

“Hector, in my office, now.” Mr. Richards appeared at the door momentarily, just to disappear again. 

Hector took a shaky breath, his palms sweating and his stomach a block of ice. He was working late every day, barely keeping his head above water, not getting paid for his overtime and now he was getting called into the boss's office? Hector was close to snapping, he could feel it beneath his skin, at the back of his head, pulsing in his brain…

“As a company, we’ve given you everything for you to show us what a competent creative manager you are.” Richards licked his finger to turn a page in the stack of documents in front of him; he didn’t even bother to look at Hector. “And there are no results. Or rather, the results are mediocre.” 

Hector’s exhausted brain chose that moment to snap. 

“You know what? I don’t need to listen to this, I quit.” 

Richards looked up.

“What?”

“I’ve given this company all I could, sacrificed my private life… And you treat me like garbage. I’m done. I quit.” 

Richards stared at him, a vein pulsating at his temple. 

“I will leave my resignation with Marla,” Hector said, unfolding himself from the uncomfortable chair and leaving.  

“Oh God, what have I done?” Hector gasped. He was sitting in his car, still in the parking lot in front of the office building. He quit. Without another job offer, without any plan, he just… snapped. 

And without any plan or even a vague idea of one, Hector went home. He stopped at the nearest supermarket and bought an embarrassing amount of cake. 

Hector ended up pacing his flat for hours, nearly sick with anxiety. Finally, exhausted with worry and shaky from not eating all day he sunk into the couch and brought the whole cake with him, not bothering with a plate, simply digging into the massive dessert with a spoon. 

Somehow, the explosion of chocolate moose, spongy dough and chocolate icing made him feel better. It felt like a sweet, sugary hug he was giving to himself. 

From that point on, Hector remembered very little, everything felt foggy in his head. He spent the next few weeks applying for jobs in the morning and then stuffing his face until it was time to fall into restless sleep. Hector was vaguely aware of how his belly was slowly pushing outwards and how his body softened. Soon, the distended belly turned into a round ball of fat and not long after that, the ball was so large and heavy that it came to rest on Hector’s lap. 

When he popped a button on his jeans Hector was momentarily aware of how much time had passed without him actually remembering it, but that awareness didn’t last very long and he soon drifted back into numbness, stuffing his face some more.

Finally, after months of draining his savings and barely consciously drifting through the days, Hector decided to apply for a job at a warehouse. Even before he became a creative manager, he got a certification to operate the forklift; after all, Hector was a firm believer that you always needed a plan B. And he was proven right when soon after applying he was invited for an interview. 

Hector stuffed himself into a suit that was long overdue for a size up and went to the job interview. The interviewer eyed his clearly overfed body suspiciously and said that “there was no need to go to all this trouble for an interview at a warehouse”. And so Hector became a forklift operator. 

He spent his days managing the warehouse and if the day was slower he’d sit in the office in front of the tiny TV and stuff his face. He liked the new job; he didn’t have to deal with the toxic office environment, he didn’t even have to think most of the time, just loading, unloading, loading, unloading… Hector went through life on auto-pilot, at work numbing his brain with mundane tasks, at home numbing it with sugar and grease. 

Hector didn’t really have any particular feelings about his weight gain, he wasn’t oblivious to it, obviously, he could see he was getting fat, but it was of absolutely no concern to him. All he cared about was that when he was shoving enormous spoonfuls of cake into his mouth he felt at least marginally better and not like everything was falling apart. 

The fact that he had to constantly ask for new uniforms at work when the old ones became too tight or that walking around the grocery store was becoming way more laborious than he ever remembered didn’t really tip him off about just how fat he was getting. 

That realisation came a while later when one day he waddled up to his forklift and hefted himself into the seat only to discover that he couldn’t reach the controls which were completely obstructed and hidden beneath the giant mound of flesh that was his belly. 

And so Hector lost his job as a forklift operator. He once again fell into a state of complete numbness, sitting on his couch and gorging himself on sweets. 

But enough was enough, and no matter how Hector felt, he knew he needed to get money from somewhere. So he bought a new tent-sized suit and started applying for jobs in creative marketing again. 

The company was a complete mess, with no structure and no process to speak of. But it wasn’t nearly as toxic as Hector’s previous job, and so he stayed. People at work were making fun of him behind his back, but they were not so discrete about it that he didn’t know. He knew they made fun of the obese creative manager who could barely walk, waddling like a penguin and making the entire office floor shake. 

One day Hector got asked to the boss’s office and he was almost sure he was going to get fired, but instead she told him that she was concerned about his well-being and that he obviously needed help. And so she sent him for a health check-up. 

The GP was so shocked he went white when he saw Hector and Hector feared the man would pass out, but he only berated Hector and told him that “This is dangerous, you must lose all this weight immediately!” and gave Hector a referral to the psychiatrist. 

Hector, now medically proven to be 736 pounds, went to the psychiatrist and was diagnosed with depression. He received anti-depressant medication and a referral to a dietician. 

And Hector dutifully did all he was told to do. He took his medication, he followed the diet plan. 

The pounds were falling off Hector almost as easily as they previously piled on, and yet he felt nothing. Most of the time he couldn’t even remember what he did the day before, or even earlier the same day. It was all like a haze, he just went through the motions, his head completely disconnected from his body. 

Surprisingly soon, Hector reached his target weight, and the doctor was thrilled. He signed Hector up for surgery to remove the excess skin. 

Hector thanked him, took his referral and left. As he was leaving he threw the referral note into the bin. 

On the way home he bought three cream-filled chocolate cakes. Hector was miserable, when he was skinny before, then when he was obese and now when he was nearly skinny again he was still miserable. But there was one thing that made him happy. Food. If anything could clear the fog around Hector’s brain it was food. And so Hector ate. 

He ate and ate and didn’t look back. Soon, people at work were whispering behind his back again, laughing that the fat fuck couldn’t keep away from stuffing his face for long. And Hector did. He stuffed his face at home, at work, during the holidays, on the weekends… Always. 

And something incredible happened then.

As Hector’s loose skin slowly started to fill up with fat again, the fog was lifted. 

Hector realised that the anti-depressants actually worked quite well, but because of how exhausted and worked-up he’d been from following the strict diet regime his head was still as clouded as before. Now, when he was medicated and well-fed, he felt amazing. 

And so Hector ignored the snarky comments at work, happy for the first time in a long while. He patiently fed his deflated body all that it desired, feeling how it expanded anew every day. Hector was happy, but he knew he would be even happier when his loose skin was once again overstuffed with fat. 

Perhaps, he would get even fatter than he did before. 

[agentrouka-blog]

Lyanna is almost certainly inspired from Helen of Troy. However, it doesn't take a genius to understand that hers was not a fully consensual situation since she was already promised to Paris by Aphrodite so any consent she gave was already dubious, and that is being generous since its also entirely possible she wasn't seduced and was outright kidnapped (there is 50/50 chance for both options). Secondly and more importantly, it is stated that she was plagued with self loathing and regret and she came to despise Paris and his weakness (often comparing him to his more likable and brave brother Hector), wishing to return. She also apparently betrayed the Trojans for the Greeks. And when her husband finds her again, she is said to have lived a harmonious and happy life with him again 💀💀 (if she really was forced by Paris, I am glad she found her happiness again though)

Anyway, the point is that Paris and Helen is certainly not a love story in any shape or form. How do people compare them with Rhaegar and Lyanna with a straight face and come to the conclusion that yes, its a great romance!

Anon, you don't understand! If a fifteen-year-old is SO BEAUTIFUL that a married 20-something leaves his wife and kids FOR HER, starting a war in the process, this means she wins at being The Most Beautiful, which is way more important than any personal values she may have expressed about honor at any point prior!

It has to be romantic! Otherwise, what could possibly be the point? Something about abuse of power, egocentrism and the pitfalls of outsourcing critical thinking to some nebulous prophecy? Ridiculous. So, in hindsight, the parallels to Helen imply that Helen's story was also romantic.

Anyway, if Lyanna being beautiful doesn't buy her an epic romance, what's the point of Arya looking like her, right?

(Sorry. I am grumpy today and it's activating my hyperbolic mode.)