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morvantmortuary · 1 year

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Heyy, I just wanted to ask you this question because it’s been bothering me for a long time. Do you think the Morvants would love still love their reader if they were ugly? I know that ugly is a word that is thrown around a lot but I mean it. Someone who is not conventionally attractive at all, who is not the desired version of plus size. Someone who has a big tummy, big thighs but not a round ass. Someone who is fat not thick. Someone who is not wanted by anyone. Would the Morvants still love them? Someone like me? I’m sorry if this is depressing I just can’t get out of my head and I hate the thought of my comfort people not loving me. Either way thank you for bringing them to life and letting us read about them ❤️❤️

I'm sorry this took me so long, sweetheart -- I've been caught between coordinating ongoing events at work with a whole learning curve, dissertation prep, and then a migraine swept my feet out from under me this morning, so I've just been trying to get my shit back together lmao. but I've been thinking about it since you sent it in. <3 I almost wanted to save this to be part of something I'm going to try to do coming up, (*knocking loudly on wood*), but I didn't want to leave you hanging.

short answer first to alleviate any anxiety: yes, absolutely, 100% without a doubt. once you're their person, you are their person, and nothing will change that -- not aging, or weight shifting, or any of the things that come with having a body and being mortal, okay?

I'll put the rest under a cut, because you got me talking a little on something I'm kind of sensitive about too <3

allow me a quick digression: from a doylist perspective, I'm writing the Morvants as someone who's definitely also on the curved stomach/big thighs/plush upper arms/saggy boobs side of things, along with some really frustrating skin that's prone to breakouts at the drop of a hat and other things about myself that lowkey stress me out on the daily. and we are just as worthy of love and desire and affection as anyone else, I promise you. <3 you do not have to be society's idea of beautiful to be worthy of love, or to be a good person. I'm sure you already know this, but I'm repeating it specifically just so you hear it, okay?

"ugly" is entirely subjective -- I'm also someone who isn't conventionally attractive, shall we say -- but I know we are our own meanest critics. I won't fight you on the word if it's one you've embraced, as I know everyone has a different relationship with it, but I will say I bet you're not giving yourself enough credit, honey. people do not have to be conventionally pretty to be worthy of love or a good life, I cannot emphasize that enough. we both deserve that, and we’re gonna get it, goddammit.

and you know something else? conventionally pretty changes every couple decades, and imho usually kind of sucks anyway. I think of being "ugly" as being memorable, distinct. we will never be duplicated, or in danger of looking like everyone else in our time. we're both a manifestation of history's crooked smiles and crows' feet and noses in interesting shapes. that's the kind of shit artists would want to sketch, baby, that's the fun part of being alive.

and circling back to that shifting standards bit -- I promise you there's a lot more classical statues that look like you and me than a lot of what you see on the image/video-dependent apps nowadays, okay? don't forget that. we've been the models for divinity for centuries now, as hard as it is to remember when the waistband of your jeans leaves a mark behind when you take them off like a regular mortal.

plus, there's the old saying about how your features are actually proof that people have loved people who looked like you for generations now. or the myth that your face was actually the face of the person you loved the most in your last life. on the days I'm feeling exceptionally self-critical, I find that one helps: that I've been left with the stewardship of the face of the person I adored more than anything, who meant so much to me in another lifetime that I might not still remember their name, or the sound of their laugh, but they imprinted onto me still, and I owe it to them to take care of it even if I can't bring myself to do it for me.

('rae you're delusional.' I might be. but here we are at the romantic necromancer blog, so it had to come from somewhere!!)

but anyway, you're not here for all that, you're here for the necromancers, so I'll get to those. thanks for humoring me, though ;3 and I hope it helped at least a little, maybe!

If you remember from the October Arc, a lot of Maxi and his Reader falling in love are them finding someone who feels just as out-of-place in the world as they do. When he meets you, he relishes the idea that he finally has someone he can be completely open with — not having to hide his dark sense of humor for the sake of propriety, someone who won’t think he’s weird or gross for being as fascinated by death and the horrible, beautiful parts of it as he is in his position. (A lot of morticians he knows will quickly say they’re not a morbid weirdo obsessed with death, just a normal person who does a job — he is definitely the aforementioned weirdo they’d like to distance themselves from. Who wouldn’t be, with his upbringing?) When he first falls for you, it’s because he’s realizing that after a lifetime of thinking he could only ever be alone (both due to his powers and his particular grimly sunny disposition), there was finally, really, someone who understood. Someone who doesn’t shy away from him in his more vicious turns, who isn’t going to pull back at the last minute when they see beneath the suit and the calmly professional exterior he shows to the rest of the town. It’s exhilarating. He never wants to lose that, and he’d do anything to keep you — to keep you his, and to keep you whole, healthy, and happy. He’s in love first and foremost with the person he knows to be his literal soulmate, the person he trusts with his heart after so long, and your body is precious to him because it keeps you both on the mortal plane. However you choose to adorn it, ornament it, or whatever designs are written into your genetics, it’s something he’s going to adore. But even outside of that — he would love you in any form you took, any change you decided to make, because it’s you. It’s always going to be you, and you’re his. And if he’s being totally honest, he hand to god has a thing for bigger people. It’s partly due to his specialization with flesh, compared to Rora’s bone and Hex’s ectoplasm, but also because he just finds it really, really attractive when someone has some extra pounds. He’s spent a lifetime around bodies that offered no comfort - be it very little warmth or affection from his living family, the cooling bodies of the mortuary in various states of decay, or the warped, broken horrors of the things still half-alive in the basement. His own body has been a source of stress (being lanky and soft in places at the same time all his life), of pain (growing up is hard enough, growing into a body that shapes itself to the needs of a demon doesn’t help), or of bitterness on his part (we’re going to learn more about why he re-opened the scar on his chest at some point). Your body, for whatever flaws you find with it, is something he associates completely with sweetness. He finds comfort in its shape, the way it moves, the way it feels under his hands. You’re entirely alive; your body works to keep you so. It’s a creature dedicated to keeping you here with him, so how could he not be devoted to it? He’s fascinated by all the parts of yourself you’re most concerned about, because it not only makes you something one of a kind (something he thinks of as his and his alone, in his darker, more possessive moments), but he’s also terribly taken with the softer parts of you. In your more intimate moments, he relishes the contrast between the pair of you - you’re unmistakably there, you take up space and ground him with the reality of your presence. (He gets a little carried away being clingy sometimes: whether it’s his hands over every inch of skin he can touch, squeezing the flesh he so adores, biting a little too eagerly at the softest parts of you where you’ll feel the marks later and remember him. Especially your thighs. He’s a thigh man at heart, always.) You’re always his darling, and he looks forward to watching you grow into your old age with him, however you change. Change means life, and he wants to linger on this side of the Veil with you as long as both of you possibly can stay. Watching you gain wrinkles, go gray, your weight shift around — it’s a privilege, and he treats it as such. You’ll have forever on the other side, he knows that. He’s not worried about that. It’s that the two of you can only do this part once, and he wants to make sure you enjoy it as much as possible. Until both your bones are in the family crypt, or ashes are mingled in the same secret place, he’ll love you and whatever your body looks like.

Hex doesn’t love in half-measures. When he’s into you, he’s all in. As we’ll see in his arc, he can’t always put his finger on what initially draws him to someone. But usually, he saw something in the most interior parts of yourself, your very soul’s essence, first. A glimmer of it caught his eye somehow — its color, its light, some facet of you that’s sewn through the entire fabric of your being. Whatever the sign was, he would follow it until he found you… And when he found you, saw you for the first time, your looks would be a matter of interest, certainly. But he wouldn’t be searching you for any kind of lack. He has no mental version of you to compare the real you with, no expectations. Your body is you, through and through, but what you are only complements what he’s already seen. He’s only looking at you to see the things he already knows he’s going to fall in love with. He sees your body as the backdrop onto which your Self is projected. (He would love Judith Butler if he read them ever lmao.) He’s fascinated with the little ways you manifest in your physicality: your geometry of your teeth, and how they’re arranged in your smile; how light plays on the fullness of your face; the precise way your belly moves when you laugh. The way you dress, walk, what you do with your hands when you talk. The way you move through the world is pageantry to him when it’s instinct to you. It’s something to be savored, because it only happens once. Hex knows what it’s like to be shy about certain things; he’s never been very confident in words alone, because people can say anything, only their actions will speak true. But looks, to him, are part of the factual, real world he can see. (Ironically, he’s one of those guys who very much believes in what he sees in front of him — he can just see way, way more than most people can.) You can make changes, or stay exactly as you are, and he will automatically accept that as part of the truth that is You. He also knows what it’s like to not be the blueprint that everyone else wants to look like, but he feels like there’s no point in stressing about that. Does your body bring you comfort when you sleep next to him, or when you eat the food he makes for you? Do you feel happy and free when you dance together? Do you like it when he touches you (there, and there, and…)? If the answer to all of these is yes, he figures, then why worry when you don’t have to? That’s easier said than done, though, he knows. But he will remind you, in a thousand ways, how he loves you for exactly how you look now. Your shape is the shape you were always going to come into his life with, he sees no reason to think about you in another. Your hair was always going to look that way in the light, your eyes were always going to be that color. Why would he ask one of the ancient oak trees outside to change the arrangement of its branches? Why would he ask the sun to be a different color when it sets? You are just as constant as that, to him. You don’t have to be beautiful by everyone else’s standards to be a force of nature that shapes his days. Whenever you cut your hair or switch your clothes or anything else, it’s just like the golden or blue hours to him — something he counts himself lucky to witness. Of the trio, he’s the ass guy, sure, but that means he’s smitten with what’s there. You are most attractive to him when you’re happy, and he only wants to make you happier when he holds you, and shows you exactly how you make him feel, with his hands or his lips or his tongue or— even, yes, the inconstancy of words. He doesn’t want you to think about how you look when the two of you are together, he only wants you to think about how you feel, and how good he feels with you. But he will do his best, always, to make you understand how much he loves your mortal self and everything it encompasses, until the pair of you cross through the Veil and shed your corporeal forms. (He can kind of do that now, tbh, and he’s more than happy to put it to use in some… very interesting ways if you’d be down with it.)

Rora makes it no secret that she loves that you’re not just another doll in a world that demands them. She has a hard, angry relationship with the idea of beauty standards in that she wishes she could set all phone cameras on fire at the same time. She thinks the modern world is mad for what it did to itself, how people have just made it that much harder for everyone to just exist, and it was already hard enough before she accidentally opened her own throat. She is indeed lovely in a nightshade kind of way, and she will acknowledge this when you both are sharing hard feelings, but the idea of beauty and desirability caused her nothing but pain when she was young. She’s a lot like you in the sense that she only sees what she’s missing: she was never the blonde, buxom type. She was never the southern belle that her parents had hoped for, or the perfectly feminine little mini-me that Mathilde had dreamed of for decades (and made no effort to hide her disappointment when Rora didn’t turn into that girl overnight). She wasn’t pretty in the right way her father needed to see her as an effective bargaining chip. She spent her entire first life feeling like she was made all wrong for what was expected of her. She has a loose relationship at times with her own gender, both because she’s doing things again in a borrowed mortal shell, and because she feels at times more like a creature than anything else. But she loves you. She loved you from the minute she first saw you — she loved your skin with any marks that might be there, the particular set of your mouth under your nose, the parts of you that move whenever you aren’t thinking about them. From your hair follicles to your fingernail beds, you were something she found wholly lovely in just how singular you are. You are the only version of you she’s ever seen. You are a rarity. Even in the most common parts of yourself, they’re a combination she hasn’t seen on anyone else her entire life. You look real to her. You look whole, and alive, and like a person who is allowed to just be. You move through the world as yourself, one of a kind, and there’s a part of her that, even now that she’s gained her independence, desperately envies that. Rora’s love is the kind of obsessive where she almost wants to set you on a stool like an artist’s model and study you up close. She wants to make notes about the places where your skin changes color, she wants to look at how your flesh settles into itself. You got folds, or rolls? She wants to get as close to them as she can, look at them like how soft-serve ice cream swirls into itself or a nautilus shell curls around. She wants to look at every bruise or old scar or stretch mark and take in the patterns of your life that has written yourself there. She wants to look at you naked like you would count the rings of a tree to see what the weather was like each year of its life, or like a big cat lounging in the sun. You are just as wild to her, and natural, and beautiful. …And then she wants to throw aside her notebook where she’s cataloguing every piece of you and eat you alive, but just in the fun way. Rora is the boob person of the three, and she is obsessed with yours if you have them/like people touching them. It doesn’t matter what size they are, if they sag, where your nipples point, she’s going to spend an absurd amount of time with her face in them whenever you’re shirtless. She’s just as bad about getting overexcited as her twin, and might bite or suck a little too hard at times, but she’s just enchanted by you. You are the earth itself made manifest to enjoy the sunshine and the breeze in the garden, and you have given her the supreme gift of deciding you like her too. She couldn’t not be in love with you if she tried. She understands our relationships with our bodies are complicated, but she is always on your side. She’d blind the entire town with a butter knife if it meant you felt more comfortable just sitting in the cafe with her. But she understands that the prison time for that is pretty hefty, so she’ll settle for refusing to let you talk bad about yourself.

I know this took a minute, and I’m sorry again love, but I hope it gives you what you needed. <3 Just know that I’m right there with you, but I would still rather us look like you and me than anyone else. Fuck the people trying to sell us something, we’re marvels as we are.

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morvantmortuary · 2 years

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Blood Fest II: touching in the dark.

Blood Fest prompts: Gore. Toys. Fluff. CNC. (maybe not quite but there’s not a lot of foreplay, that’s for sure.) keywords: Cold. Rapture.

summary: Hex works late sometimes. You’ve accepted this. But tonight goes a little differently.

warnings: smut, 18+, minors dni. penetrative sex, rough sex, spit kink, blood kink, fluids mention, slasher getting off on slashing, unprotected sex, slight stalker behavior when he ghosts into your house. implied breaking and entering, mild voyeurism. sex under the influence if you count supernatural highs as being under the influence.

general: Non-binary/genderqueer Reader; Reader is plus size; Reader uses both they/she pronouns but femme petnames (esp. in Spanish bc that’s what I know ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ), Reader is. referred to as a “girl” in a specific sexual situation. any notes towards tweaking Hex’s spanish or general language for a neutral Reader experience is welcome.

How about we let Hector have a turn, huh?

This is specifically for him and his individual Reader set sometime during his arc - I’m still feeling out exactly what their dynamic was going to be, but it was more fun for me to write this if Reader is somewhat ~In~ on the Morvants’ whole shtick to some degree, so I’m going for that for right now.

Sorry this is so late lmao, I’m hoping to get the other two out this weekend (plus everything else I’m working on, so much for this month’s writing goals ahdhghglg), but at this point, I’m just happy to be posting.

thanks again for everyone still reading, we love y’all <3

You were awakened by the sound of your front door’s hinges emitting their usual irritable scream. Somehow, it seemed to echo over the rain pounding against your windows, and even the wind howling outside.

Hex had been begging you since the two of you started going out to oil them - he’d offered to do it himself on multiple occasions when the two of you were lazing around your house on a quiet weekend, once even bringing a can of WD-40 from the Mortuary in his bag. But each time he’d offered, you’d gently refused him; it was an old trick from your mother, to leave the critical entry points of your house able to announce themselves when they were opened.

It came in handy for nights like tonight — the now-rare occasion when you were home alone, your usually constant boyfriend gone off to parts unknown for the evening.

You blinked blearily, squinting at your nightstand to bring the bright red numbers of your alarm clock into focus.

Three in the morning, exactly.

You rolled over onto your back, continuing to listen. But you caught nothing more than a roll of thunder, followed by the groaning of the ancient cyprus tree just outside your window. You strained your ears hopefully for footsteps; Hex had told you he would be away tonight, but he hadn’t told you for how long. You knew it was a late shoot — a time lapse shot, something about watching the light leave. Those normally took a while, depending on how long the set-up required. And Hex was nothing but meticulous when it came to his art, so you knew it might even take longer if he decided he was unhappy with any part of it. For as laid back as he tended to be when the two of you were hanging out together, seemingly without a care in the world, you’d seen what he was often like in the middle of a project. He had a much longer fuse on his temper than he used to (according to both him and the twins), but when a project wasn’t absolutely perfect, he was prone to get moody, mercurial - impatient with himself or his subject or both. More than once, you’d had to talk him down from scrapping a plan entirely, picking through the snags together verbally until he evened out enough to see the creative possibilities again.

It was in just such moments when he’d press his lips to your temple, your cheek, your throat, making obnoxious kissing sounds as he did so just to hear you laugh.

He’d called you his muse even before the two of you started officially dating, but in moments like this, he lavished the name on you like it was true - like you were something sacred, truly mythical.

Lying there in your bed, you found yourself tracing a path over your neck with your fingertips, tracing the path of soft marks Hex had left as souvenirs the last time you were together. It had only been the other night, but in your quiet room now, slightly chilled by the weather outside, it felt like that had even been too long.

You sighed, snuggling deeper into your blankets, just as lightning flashed across your wall —

Illuminating a silhouette that definitely had not been there before.

Sitting bolt upright, you quickly reached to turn on your bedside lamp, flooding your room with light. The shape that had been standing over your bed a split second ago was somehow gone. You saw only the familiar signs of your own habitation: some dirty clothes on the floor, books pulled out of the groupings on your bookshelves and left to rest there at the edge, and one of Hex’s hoodies slung over your desk chair where you’d left it this afternoon. Your momentos of your life - photos, old posters, collages you’d made when you were bored - remained on your wall, undisturbed.

…Almost.

The longer you stared at them, the more you swore that the little fragments of corners that weren’t held down with tape or tacks were trembling, just slightly. Just underneath them, on the hangers for what few necklaces you had, you could see them very gently starting to sway. Like a breeze you couldn’t feel was blowing right along your walls.

But even though you turned to cheek the still machines, you already knew your fans were off. Hell, it was the first time you’d turned the heat on in months, and even that was dormant right now, not a puff of warmth emerging from the little vent in your ceiling.

You sat there, trying to get yourself to be rational against the creeping sense of unease that was starting to spread from the center of your back and across your shoulders. So there was a little weird movement that you couldn’t explain, but really, what was that going to do? Maybe there was a gap in your window or a fracture in the glass you hadn’t noticed yet. It’s not like it was going to hurt you, just make things a little chillier. And if things got really bad, you could always go sleep on your couch for the night, ask Hex and his cousin Maxi to come take a look at it together in the morning. (Rora would come too, you knew, but not to help, just to comment dryly off to the side.)

…But that didn’t solve the problem of the looming shape you’d sworn you’d seen just a second ago.

You looked around your room again, lips pushed together in a thoughtful line. Your closet door was closed. It had been all day, as far as you knew, and you hadn’t left the house save to get the mail at the end of your driveway - not nearly enough time for someone to sneak in, you were pretty sure. You also hadn’t heard it open or close even when the thing was in the room.

Then again, you remembered, you had heard something else open. Or at least, you thought you had.

The longer you sat there, the more you swore you could feel the skin on your back start to crawl. Okay. So there had been a shape in your room, at least for a second, you didn’t recognize. Things were moving that, to your knowledge, had no reason to move. And you were pretty sure the noise that woke you up came from the door to your house.

Thunder rolled again in the distance, the only noise to punctuate your grim evaluation of your circumstances.

Biting your lip, you glanced back to your nightstand, seeing your phone sitting innocently on its surface. You weren’t about to call the cops, obviously - Greymoon PD was notoriously inept. But maybe you could call Hector, ask him when he would be done with work. If maybe he wanted to come crash with you tonight instead of going home. Maybe you’d get lucky, you thought, and he’d already be in the car on the ride back to the Morvants’ place. You could picture him driving as fast as he could get away with outside the county line, on an adrenaline high from a job well done, and having to turn down old school reggaeton he’d have blasting on his speakers before he could answer his phone.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, trying to get yourself to calm down as you reached for your phone; calling him sounding as nervous as you felt would only scare you both—

A second lightning strike crashed outside, sounding like it was literally just at the end of your driveway. You couldn’t help but yelp as you were startled, both at the metallic boom and as your house was suddenly plunged into total darkness.

You jumping caused your hand miss your phone entirely, knocking into your nightstand hard enough to make your knuckles hurt. The sharp pain was followed by the sound of a clattering as something fell to the floor.

You sat there in the new blackness, clutching your hand. You swore softly at yourself for being so easily spooked, and for now depriving yourself of the one way you had to call for help. Knocking your phone off your nightstand wasn’t unusual for you, and you knew perfectly well it could be anywhere from right next to the bottom to in the depths under your bed depending on how the case caused it to bounce. It just was super unfortunate that it was happening right at this very minute, where you were trying to keep your breath muffled so you could hear any signs of movement.

You sat perfectly still, your fingers curling and uncurling in your comforter as you desperately listened, on the verge of drinking the very air as you sought any hint of just what might be in the room with you.

But nothing so much as creaked. No doors, no hinges, not even the corner of a floorboard.

Everything was just… still. Almost like the house was empty. Abandoned.

Slowly, you willed yourself to exhale again, trying to keep your mind clear, not to let too much tension stay in your shoulders —

And noticed, as the room lit up again with lightning, that your breath emerged in a mist.

You blinked, perplexed - there was no way the temperature could’ve dropped that fast, was there?

All at once, where your room had been silent, sounds suddenly seemed to burst from every corner. Your jewelry clanked and jangled loudly where it crashed into each other from a breeze from nowhere, the papers covering your walls suddenly rippling against what held them there. Somewhere near the foot of your nightstand, you saw a glimmer of your phone as it lit up - and then immediately died, barely getting through the “Low Battery” chime before it bricked itself.

And standing at the end of your bed was the figure.

You flattened yourself immediately against your headboard, unable to help a muffled scream as you clamped your hand over your mouth. You realized, to your growing horror, that there was no lightning to separate the figure from the shadows. Instead it seemed lined in its own faint luminescence, some sort of weird light crackling around the edges of the frame that towered over you -

Including, you realized as you at last dared to stare into its face, in its eyes. They reflected back at you like the creatures in your dad’s night vision cameras in your parents’ backyard, staring into the lens like aliens out of some unknown abyss.

The figure in front of you had the same sort of half-feral stare, tilting its head to take you in like a night predator seeing its first potential meal after sundown.

You stared back at it, your hand shaking as you slowly pulled it away from your mouth. You swallowed hard, trying to summon what courage you could to keep your voice steady. “…My boyfriend’s going to be h-home any minute,” you said slowly, forcing the words out one at a time. “And h-he’ll fucking curbstomp you.”

The shape’s shoulders began to twitch as it made some sort of strangled, low noise, and with a sickening twist of your gut, you realized it was trying to laugh.

“It is me, preciosa,” the shape said, in a voice that made everything in your body freeze at once.

There was a burst of silence from everything in your room, all at once. For a minute that felt like an hour, there was an absolute stillness between the two of you as you refused to look away from the hollow pinpricks of light that passed for your lover’s eyes.

Another flash of lightning revealed that not only was it, indeed, Hector, his eyes still eerily lit from within… but the t-shirt and hoodie he’d been wearing when he left earlier was nearly soaked through with blood. For as long as the lightning lasted, you could see some up the column of his throat, flecks of it his his dark beard like rubies.

Your breath crashed out of you like someone had just slammed a bowling ball into your ribs. “Baby. Hex, oh my god.” You fell forward onto your knees, crawling across the mattress to him so fast you nearly slid off. “What happened to you? Was there an accident?”

When you reached him, frantic to look for some sort of wound, whatever had caused all this blood, Hector didn’t respond. He simply seized your upper arms and held you still so he could crash his lips down onto yours in a blistering kiss.

You stopped dead, your brain torn between wanting to respond and the confusing sensations you were experiencing: the acrid iron taste of what had to be blood, and just… cold.

His mouth was entirely too cold.

If he wasn’t kissing you as he was now, feverish and nearly frantic, you would’ve sworn that his skin was lifeless.

You pulled back just slightly, trying to catch your breath. “Hector, what’s… what’s going on?”

Hex shivered slightly, gasping, and you swore you saw the odd glow in his eyes burn just a little bit brighter. For a moment, the shiver turned into something more like a spasm, and you saw him have to move his jaw back into place with an audible click. “…Afterglow,” he managed, his voice still sounding strained. He leaned forward again to close the space between you, his thumbs tracing up and down the bare skin of your arms where he still had you in a grip like steel. “I needed to come and see my muse,” he mumbled, kissing just above your pulse and causing you to shiver in the process. “I couldn’t stay away another second.”

You tried to pull back again, partially because you wanted to look closer, see what his damage could possibly be. Partially because you were just scared. He’d never acted like this before. “Hex, let me see,” you pleaded, your voice climbing higher in your throat. “Are you hurt? Did someone… did someone do this to you?”

“I’m just cold, baby,” Hex said, with a note of a whine to his voice. “Can’t I come cuddle up with you?” He slid his hands underneath your sleep shirt, and you hissed from just how icy they were. Lifeless, again. “You’re so warm, Querida,” he said, running his hands further up your sides as you gasped. “You’re always so warm, you feel like you’re gonna burn me sometimes if I’m not careful.” His kiss to your throat turned into the slightest nip, and you squeaked. “I don’t mind if it hurts, though. I kinda like it when it does.”

“Hector, you’re scaring me,” you said, trying to sound firm somehow and not like your knees were threatening to knock together on the mattress. “Take your shirt off, I need to see where you’re bleeding.”

Hector straightened up enough so his eyes - glowing an odd shade of amethyst, you would swear - were level with yours, his mouth a fraction of an inch away. “What if I tell you it’s not mine, sweetheart?” His fingers gripped your chin, holding your face so you couldn’t look away. “What if I tell you it all belongs to someone else? Every drop?” He tilted his head again, and in the faint light, you could see a grin that you half-recognized. “You still gonna love me?”

You were frozen there, knowing your mouth must’ve fallen slightly open from the way his eyes dropped to your lips and immediately looked back up. After a few seconds of frantic thinking, you closed it again, swallowing hard as you leaned back to look at Hector again. “…So you’re okay?”

Hector blinked, his eyes suddenly looking more like fireflies as he did so. “Not a scratch,” he said, his voice still oddly light in tone.

“You promise?” You didn’t look away, your voice becoming more solid.

Hector stepped back from you enough to shrug his hoodie off, where it landed on your floor with an audible squish. When he dragged his shirt up over his torso, it slid slowly like a second skin, clinging like a snake’s ghostly shedded layer.

Underneath in the dim light of his own glow, his skin was still faintly red with a metallic scent you could smell from your bed. You realized with a slightly sickening jolt just how soaked his clothes must’ve had to be for it to stick to him still.

But he looked at you with a smirk that was very definitely smug, his arms outstretched like a demigod of war. “Told you.” But before you could look too long, he was close again, pulling you into a hug so you were flush against his chest. “Now c’mon, please?” He kissed your jawline and down, towards the hollow at the base of your throat. “I missed you,” he added, his voice low in his throat. “I’ve been thinking about you all night, how much I wanted to see you again…”

You thought about it, torn. On one hand, while you knew Hex’s art projects were… complicated, for numerous reasons both practical and supernatural, he didn’t come home like this… often, if ever. He seemed drunk almost on whatever had happened, and while he was always affectionate, this felt more needy than usual.

…On the other hand, as strange as he was acting, your brain was swimming in chemicals of relief that the only thing haunting your house was him, and your body was inclined to agree - especially as he hungrily kissed your shoulder, running his tongue along the faintest trace of your collarbone.

You tilted your head back at last, and as he went to nip at the juncture of your throat, you let your fingers slide into his damp hair. “You can warm up,” you said softly, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp and down the back of his neck. “But then we clean up before bed, okay?”

In lieu of an answer, Hex’s hands suddenly dropped to your thighs, pulling them out from under you with a sharp yank. You made a startled noise as you were suddenly on your back against your mattress, Hex pulling your legs so they were on either side of his hips as he stayed standing at the end of your bed. He was speaking softly under his breath, slightly too fast for you to keep up with this fresh from sleep, but the way he ran his chilled fingertips lovingly up the inside of one thigh got the point across. With his other hand you saw him undoing his belt and the fly of his torn jeans, pushing everything down just enough so he could pull your hips flush against his own bare skin.

It didn’t surprise you that he was already hard — the way he’d been so insistent in his touches, just on the verge of needy, had given him away. You watched, more than a little transfixed as one of his hands nimbly started stroking his shaft, the gesture soon accompanied by the soft slick sounds of fluid.

While you were too busy watching him, you missed his other hand in the dim light until you felt a chill fingertip tracing lightly up your slit through your thin cotton underwear. You made a hushed sound of surprise, which twisted into a moan as his first finger was quickly joined by a second to dip beneath the fabric.

“Aw, pobrecita,” Hex teased, a bit of a mocking edge to it as he felt you from the inside, just how quickly you were wet for him. “You miss me that much? Was I not here to put my muse to sleep, give them sweet dreams?”

“Shut up,” you mumbled weakly, your face suddenly hot in the dark. “You left early, and I didn’t know you were going to be so late.”

Hector’s laugh was just a little sharp, and the hand that had been stroking himself moved to grip your hip. “You didn’t even touch yourself to take the edge off?” You followed his gaze as he pulled his fingers from where he’d been warming you up, rough fingertips swirling over your clit before sliding inside. Looking you right in the eyes, he licked said fingers lasciviously, in a way that never failed to make heat spread from your cheeks to your chest no matter how often he did it. He made a show of leaning over to be closer to your face as he sucked them clean, his tongue running over his lips after. “…No. You didn’t, did you?”

You opened your mouth to answer, torn between a witty comeback and an honest plea - only for Hector to kiss you again, rougher than before. You let him hold your cheek against his palm, your brain finally drowning out the nervous logical voice at the back of your skull in favor of just how good it felt to have him back, have him here with you…

Despite that he still felt oddly, unnaturally cold.

The hand cupping your cheek moved to again hold your jaw, and he broke away suddenly enough to make you whine in protest. “Open,” he mumbled, and at the squeeze of his fingers, your lips dropped open again willingly.

When he spat into your mouth, it tasted briefly on your tongue like a mix of your own essence and something metallic. Nonetheless, you kept your eyes locked on his as you swallowed it, not sure if that feeling in your chest was an aborted shudder or a repressed fluttering.

“That’s my fucking girl.” Hex’s voice had dropped into a growl, and he messily kissed the corner of your mouth before his hands abruptly fell to your thighs again. He pulled your underwear the rest of the way off in one swipe, tossing it somewhere into the dark. You didn’t have time to look for it - you were aware of the world suddenly shifting as Hex pulled you roughly so you were at the end of your mattress with him, your back still firmly against it as he loomed over you.

A second later, he grabbed each of your ankles to rest them on his shoulders, pressing a kiss to the inside of both them in turn. “You just rest your pretty head and relax, gatita,” he said, his voice already a hazy half-sigh. “I’m home, I got you.”

You barely had time to respond, the words turning to a mewl on your tongue as he pulled your legs further apart and pushed into you just a little too fast and a little too hard.

“It’s okay,” he soothed, hearing your resulting whine. “Oh, preciosa, it’s okay, you’re doing so good for me, god.” You heard the growl return again as his head fell back, giving you a moment to stretch to accommodate him. “I’m sorry, baby, I just missed you, that’s all.” He kissed your right ankle again and down your calf, tracing his thumb lovingly over the skin there. “I just need you, querida - you feel how much?” He rocked his hips against yours, and you both couldn’t hold back a strangled groan. “Fuck, I’ve missed you all night.” His thrusts were achingly slow, lingering, but you could still feel the desperation behind them. “I always miss you when I’m working on a project, baby.”

Any coherent response you might have had was lost as Hex picked up his pace, your bed shaking slightly with just how hard he was pushing into you now. You didn’t have time to formulate just what he meant by missing you when he came home from his latest shoot soaked in blood, acting like he was starved for affection or just flesh. You could only manage a half-muffled moan in response as you felt him bottom out in you, your back arching.

You heard another sharp, hissed laugh over the sound of your skin colliding, and you glanced up at Hex to see him hiking your ankles just slightly higher on his shoulders. “You missed me too, I know.” He ran a palm affectionately down your left calf, stroking the soft skin behind your knee to watch you shiver. “You don’t have to tell me, I can feel it, yeah?” He drove into you again to prove his point, and you gasped. “You always — fuck,” he cut himself off with a groan, his head momentarily falling forward and his hair falling over his eyes. “You always hold me a little tighter when I’ve been away.” He grinned at you, looking up from under his lashes, and the expression you normally loved rendered slightly frightening by the glow still present in his irises.

“W-why were you gone so long?” You managed, your breath starting to come in soft gasps as you felt the molten need at the center of you coiling tighter. “You—“ You bit your lip, feeling your thigh starting to shake. “You told me it was going to be a simple shoot.”

“I know,” Hector murmured apologetically. He pulled your legs abruptly around his waist and leaned over to cage your torso with his arms. He kissed you properly, emphatically, pressing against the soft spot inside you as he did so. You squirmed, your thighs tightening round his hips as he did so, and he made a sound adjacent to a purr. “I know, bonita, I’m sorry. But the old guy had more fight in him than I thought,” he explained, pressing wet kisses now to your neck, your shoulders. “I cut his throat, and he must’ve had crazy high blood pressure, I mean, god. Everywhere.” As he pressed his chest against yours now, you could feel the way your skin stuck together around the fabric of your thin shirt. The copper smell was heavy, as though the heat from you was re-warming it where it had coagulated on Hector’s skin. “And I couldn’t leave a mess, could I, baby?” He pulled away just enough to look at you entreatingly. “Besides,” he added, his hands traveling to your hips and squeezing the plush flesh there greedily. “I knew you’d be good and be w-waiting for me when I got home, huh?” His new stutter matched the way his hips were falling out of rhythm, just as you felt yourself reaching your own end.

All of you felt searing in that moment, like the center of a star, but somehow your face managed to get even warmer. Hex just laughed again at this, the sound still smug but not cruel. “Of course you were.” Your shyness must’ve been written on your face, because his familiar vulpine smile was back. “That’s my sweet muse, just mine. All for me after a long night away.”

Your breathing was sharp, staccato, and the pressure inside you felt unbearable. “Touch me?” you managed, though it came out more of a whimper than a request.

“Of course.” Hex pressed his forehead against yours, his hand moving between your still—frantic hips to brush his fingers against your clit in a way he knew made you insane. The added pressure made you positively keen, and Hex hushed you soothingly. “C’mon, Querida, make that pretty face for me. Show me how much you like it.”

You came apart instantly, feeling yourself thoroughly soaking Hex’s cock in the process as you cried his name to your ceiling. Hex only sat up to ride out your orgasm, fucking you through it as long as he could before he joined you over the edge. He ground your name out through gritted, teeth before leaning down to sink said teeth into your shoulder, fucking his own release further into you with a force that bordered on painful oversensitivity.

At last, he let go of your shoulder, resting his cheek against it as the two of you relaxed together.

You realized, as you lay underneath him catching your breath, that there was no more mist as you did so. The rain outside even seemed to have stopped, with the faintest moonlight now peering in through your window — pale as though afraid of what it might find.

After a few minutes, you felt Hex fervently kissing the place he’d bitten into you, almost as if in unspoken apology.

You hummed in contentment, reaching up to stroke his hair. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he murmured back between kisses. In the dark, you felt the scratch of his beard as he moved to kiss your cheek. His voice was softer now, and you could hear the slight hesitance in his next words. “…You good?”

You snorted, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m fucking great, the hell are you talking about?”

Hector let out a soft puff of laughter against your skin, and you noticed that felt warm, too. “Alright, I’m just checking.”

You turned your head all the way to kiss his cheek, making an obnoxious noise as you did so. “I’m fine, babe. Though I won’t lie,” you added, unable to keep the amusement from your voice. “You came in hot with that one.”

Hex winced, his laughter slightly weaker now. “Yeah… sorry about that.” He sat up slightly to look at you, and you could see the amethyst light was slowly starting to fade to leave his eye their normal deep brown - your favorite shade. “That one was… more than I expected.” He closed an eye, rubbing the back of his neck like it was sore. “I didn’t realize I’d take to it that well.”

“That’s good though, right? I mean, do you see me complaining?” You arched a brow, unable to help a satisfied smile of your own.

Hex returned the smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. I mean… yeah,” he agreed, gesturing between you two in the international shorthand for ’No I agree the sex was awesome.’ “…I just worry, sometimes,” he added quietly, glancing off to the side.

You followed his gaze, finding nothing there in your room. “…He totally wasn’t watching us the whole time, was he?” you asked quietly, glancing back at him.

“What? No,” Hex immediately looked back to you, shaking his head. “No, no way. No one here but you and me, I swear.” He leaned down, kissing your cheek briefly. “No, I’m just… thinking,” he said, gesturing loosely at where he’d just stared off into space.

You hummed again, this time thoughtfully. “Well, we clearly can’t have that right now.” You sat up, kissing his jaw and catching him by surprise. “Great work, let’s hit the showers,” you joked.

Hex laughed, and this one sounded entirely like himself. “Yeah.” He paused, his eyes traveling down your front and his face darkening just slightly. “…Hey, for no reason at all, how attached are you to that shirt?”

“It’s a family heirloom from my great-great grandmother. I would literally die of shame if I had to throw it out,” you said, keeping your voice as serious as possible.

“Okay, claro, cool. Again, just checking, s’all good.” Hex nodded, his face equally serious.

The two of you held it as long as you could before you both broke down in muffled laughter.

“That bad, huh?” you asked, watching Hex gracefully try to stand up with his jeans still around his ankles before he finally just kicked them aside.

“Well… no,” he said, in that slightly sing-song tone of voice you recognized as him trying to gently word something. “Not if you consider, like, mine. It’s relative, right?” He paused as he stepped on something that definitely squelched, making a face as he lightly tried to hop to the side of it on one foot. “…How attached are you to this rug?”

“I swear to god, I’m gonna make you use the garden hose first next time,” you sighed, pretending to be irritated. “…Can you grab me a towel?” you added quietly, glancing down at the mess on your thighs.

“Here.” Hex reached over, his fingers skimming the soft skin of your stomach as he took the hem of your t-shirt in hand. Before you could ask him what he was doing, he whisked it up and off you like magic, before carefully dabbing at said mess.

You blinked. “…Didn’t you just ask me—?”

“It’s not like this is really gonna make a difference,” he said, glancing up at you. “This wasn’t getting clean, gatita, trust me.”

You sighed, unable to be too annoyed with him when he was taking such pains with you. “We’ll just add it to the Burn pile with yours,” you said quietly.

Hector hummed in the affirmative before tossing the shirt aside, holding his other hand out to you to help you up off your bed. Together, completely naked, the two of you walked into your tiny bathroom and flipped on the light.

“…Oh,” you said, taking in just how much of your skin seemed to have picked up a reddish tint where Hex’s torso had been pressed tight against you. “Oh,” you repeated, seeing just how much it looked like Hex himself was still covered in dried blood. Some of it was crusted into his chest hair by now, some still looking semi-liquid like glue. You turned back towards the door, nudging it shut with your foot. “I’m definitely gonna have to change those sheets.”

“I’ll buy you new ones, I promise,” Hector mumbled, and where he had just a minute ago sounded invincible, like some sort of hellspawn, was now just back to being your slightly spacey artsy boyfriend.

“Oh hell, I’m not worried about those, babe.” You turned back around instantly, taking his face in your hands. “I think I got them from, like, Wal-mart or something. Maybe Target if I was feeling fancy. Easy come, easy go.” You smiled up at him, tilting your head to meet his now-shy eyes. “It’s all good, I swear.”

Hector looked at you, and for a moment, his face seemed to be wavering — until you realized he was just trying not to smile. “…’Easy come,’ huh?” He finally cracked and grinned.

“Oh my god,” you rolled your eyes, shoving lightly at his chest. “I’m going to make you shower in cold water if you don’t stop.”

“Mean,” Hector mock-pouted, turning his big doe eyes on you. “I was already out in the rain.”

“And whose fault was that, scheduling a Chain shoot during a rainstorm?” You turned on the water, letting it run over your hand until it was at last warm. “Here, come on then.”

The two of you stepped into the shower together, sighing in unison at the feel of the warm water. After the chill of your room and the cold residual magic of Hex’s flesh, actual heat felt akin to rapture.

You turned to choose your soap as Hex shivered happily under the warm water. “Which one do you want?” you asked, turning to your collection of body washes - your main vice, you had to admit by now.

You felt Hex rest his chin on top of your now-soaked head, his body warmed by the shower as he pressed into your back. “…Can we use the lavender and bergamot one?” His voice was adorably soft and hopeful, damn him.

“Yes, we can use my most expensive one, Señor Fancy Pants,” you sighed, but only playfully. You turned around with the bottle, pouring some of the gel into your hand. “Don’t tell me I don’t spoil you,” you joked, glancing up at him —

And being momentarily struck dumb by just how pretty he looked in the steam, blinking at you as his hair dripped over his eyes with the faintest flush about his cheeks. “I know,” he said, his voice still hushed. He smiled his crooked smile at you before he leaned over, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. “I have the best muse in the whole world.”

You felt a flush of heat spread from your cheeks down your neck that had nothing to do with the warmth of the shower. “Yeah, well…” you mumbled, suddenly shy yourself. “You’re no slouch yourself, when it comes to boyfriends.” You stepped closer before he could protest, leaning up to kiss his jaw as you lathered his chest in soap. “Now let’s get you clean so you can get some sleep, huh?”

Hector hummed softly, but his eyes were distant and thoughtful again. “…I hope I’ll always give you reason to think that,” he said quietly, so low you almost couldn’t hear him over the shower.

You stopped where you were massaging the blood off his chest, glancing up at him from under your lashes. “You will.” You spoke without hesitation, knowing this as if in your very bones.

Hector frowned a little, gesturing between you two. You followed his gaze to watch where the water was washing off him in red foam, the lavender tinged with the scent of blood as it slid towards your shower drain.

You looked back up at him again. “Look… not my blood, right?” You shrugged, not sure how to word this. “Not… yours, either. So we’re not going to sweat it tonight, okay? That’s for when we can think clearer.”

Hector still frowned, looking unsure.

You sighed, reaching to clean his shoulders now as you locked eyes with him. “We are what we are, baby,” you said softly. “You’re gonna be what you’re gonna be. And I’m here for you when that happens. I swear.”

Hector’s smile fractionally returned. “I dunno that I deserve that,” he said, his voice unsteady just enough to be audible in the process.

“Yeah, well, lots of people don’t deserve lots of things,” you said quietly, your own shadow of a smile emerging. “I clearly won the lottery with you, messy nights aside, and I would’ve hardly thought I deserved it.”

Hector paused, opening his mouth —

“I’m not having the ‘you could have a normal life’ talk right now,” you said patiently, cutting him off with a held up soapy hand. “Not only because the water’s still running pink, but because it’s like… four in the morning, and no one wants to have that talk at four in the morning. Now, you make me pancakes for breakfast, maybe I’ll hear you out,” you added, your tone all business.

Hex’s lopsided smirk returned. “I could make you anything, and you want pancakes again?” His voice was gentle, though, a hint of laughter to it.

“I know what I like,” you said, giving him a pointed stare as you carefully scrubbed away some congealed blood. “And I like the way you make them.”

Hex laughed through his nose. “Fine. Pancakes for la reina it is.”

“Good.” You paused, leaning up to kiss his cheek again. “Thanks.”

It took a while for the pair of you to wash yourselves completely free of some stranger’s blood. By the time you did, the sky was looking a little lighter outside the windows — revealing just how much of a mess your sheets actually were when the two of you stumbled into your room.

Undeterred, you led Hex down the hall to your office/guest room, where the two of you at that point had no problem snuggling tightly into the little twin bed you normally saved for visiting family. Within minutes it seemed like, you were asleep against his chest, lulled by the sound of his breathing softening and the scent of warm soap between the pair of you.

You did eventually get your pancakes as promised, but it was well past noon by then.

Not that either of you minded, given your tendency towards odd hours.

(it’s been entirely too long since Hex got to come out and play, poor baby lol. anyway, if you read this far, you’re wonderful and I hope your Hallo-weekend is perfect <333)

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morvantmortuary · 2 years

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in honor of another monday, I present a time-honored question:

Would the Morvants still love you if you were a worm? 🧐

If you asked Maxi, he’d put down whatever he was doing (mortuary paperwork, reading a book, properly sharpening his scalpel and his lister knife before stalking his next victim) and focus on you intently, brow slightly wrinkled in confusion. “...Run that by me one more time, darlin’?”

When you repeated the question, he’d nod without a second thought. “Oh yeah, of course. I mean, obviously,” he gestures at you with one of his crooked smiles. “That would... change a few things, sure. But wouldn’t change who you are, I bet. And if that stays the same...” He’d pause, staring into the middle distance for a second with a thoughtful moue before he looks back at you. “...Do I get to be a worm too?”

When you blink at him, he’d shrug. “You didn’t specify how you got to be a worm. If it was a Kafka kinda deal, or if it was maybe a mistaken misapplication of dark forces beyond your knowledge, or a witch got mad and misfired a spell or somethin’.” He leans his chin on one hand as he ponders this, intertwining the fingers of his left hand with yours. (...You kind of want to ask if he knows witches who have accidentally transformed people into worms. Maybe later.) “But the way I figure,” he goes on, his eyes slightly distant in the way you recognize comes with his compulsive need to plan everything three steps ahead. “Is that my first thought would be to see if I could break the spell somehow. I don’t know,” he blushes a little when you giggle at this. “Maybe it’s like kissin’ a frog, or somethin’. I’d give it a shot. Then, if that doesn’t work out, I’d just ask whoever did it if I could be a worm too.” He squeezes your hand. “It’s only fair. Sure, that’d leave Hex and Rora in charge of the mortuary, but that wouldn’t be our problem anymore, we’d be too busy doin’ worm stuff.”

When you laugh at this, he grins, pulling you gently so you’re settled in his lap now where he’s sitting on the couch. He kisses your cheek, lingering there for a minute before he tucks you protectively under his chin and against his chest. “Of course I’d love you if you were a worm,” he says, like he’s stating the color of the sky. “Worms are an important part of the process of decay, you know? They’re just Death’s little helpers. Not that’d I’d be makin’ you do that, obviously,” he adds, distracted again.”I’d probably get you set up in a terrarium or the like, somethin’ nice and safe with good soil quality and adjustable temperature and some cute little decorations. But we could still go to the cemetery for picnics and stuff, if you wanted.” He kisses the top of your head, the fingers of his free hand now trailing up and down your spine. “I’d probably keep you in a little travel-sized terrarium to make sure the birds don’t try their luck, but y’know, we’d still go all the places we’ve been wantin’ to go.”

The two of you would stay entangled like that for a while, giving into the temptation of going over the list again: the one the two of you had made after the Halloween Incident, when you’d both been unable to sleep the first night of November due to anxiety and adrenaline, and were dreaming of somewhere you could go together. A little escape, even if it’s only temporary.

The list is longer now, and you know it’ll take your whole lives to finish it. It’s just nice to know that your Type A funeral director has a plan for everything, even the unexpected.

When you ask Hector, he looks up at you from where he’s editing some of his work on a tablet, narrowing his eyes just slightly with a dead serious expression. “You piss off a witch, Querida?”

When you explain no, it’s just a question, he’d narrow his eyes a little more, setting the tablet aside and stroking his chin. His eyes are fixed on something you cannot see, pouting slightly as he tends to do when he’s thinking hard. “...Is this a metaphor?” He looks at you with a glimmer in his eye, like he’s trying to figure out your game. “You know if you need something, you can just ask for it, my love. I’ll give it to you. Or do it, whatever it is.” He tilts his head, watching you still. “You just need to tell me straight, that’s all.” He holds up a hand, palm up and waiting. When you give him yours, he grazes your knuckles with his lips, his eyes never leaving yours. “Are you feeling neglected, gatita? Do we need to have another feelings check-in?”

He tugs gently at your arm until you join him where he’s stretched like a cat on his bed, making a happy little hum as he folds around you in a flat bear hug. He takes his time inhaling the scent of your hair, then tickling your face with scratchy kisses he knows make you giggle uncontrollably. “I’d love you no matter what shape my baby took,” he says, his voice soft. “But you’re so much prettier than a worm. You’d be a better raven, or a mockingbird - something smart, something that can tease and laugh and sing songs when they’re happy like you do. When you think I can’t hear you.” He nuzzles your cheek. “You always struck me as something that should be able to fly, you make me feel so light.”

He’d pause for a moment, going still, and his eyes would flicker open. You could almost swear you could see the dark thought there, circling, like something had whispered it to him. “...Did someone say something to hurt your feelings, preciosa?” His voice is softer still, but in a way that sends a chill through the soft insides of you. “Someone running off at the mouth?” He kisses your hair. “Need a house call? Because I can do that too, you know.”

You’d reassure him quietly that no, that’s not the case. This was just something you saw going around, that other people were asking their partners, and you’d been curious what he’d say. Your hair would stir with the warm breath of his muffled snort. “...People are weird,” he’d mumble. He’d reach up, his thumb tracing up and down the side of your neck as his palm cradled the back. “Yes, I’d love you if you were a worm. You’d love me if I was a snail. It’s the same thing. I love the you-ness of you, you know that. It’s simple. A fact.”

The two of you would lay there in contented silence, you comfortable against the worn-in cotton of his flannel shirt, and in the stillness of the room and the soft stroke of his hand, you’d just be dozing off for a nap when he spoke up again, amused. “...Hey. You would still love me if I was a snail, right?”

Rora would stare at you for a long moment when you asked her, her expression unreadable at first. Slowly, she’d cross her workshop to where you were sitting in a worn armchair, looming in front of you for a moment with her face gradually solidifying into puzzled concern.

That would be when she’d touch your forehead with the cold back of her hand, pressing it there with a critical eye on your face. “You don’t feel feverish.” She’d frown, folding her arms. “Are you gettin’ sick, sweet pea? Do you need to go lie down?”

When you explained to her no, you were just curious, she’d continue to stare, her perfect forehead puckering in thought. “...Why on earth,” she’d say slowly. “Would you be a worm?” She’d pause, her eyes suddenly alarmed despite the stoicism of her face. “You haven’t crossed paths with that infernal ginger woman, have you?” She’d ‘tsk’ her tongue against her teeth, turning to glare at the door. “You don’t listen to a thing she says, petal, she’s all talk. I’ve been telling my dumbass--”

At your question of ‘Who?’, Rora would look abruptly back around, blinking in surprise. “...Oh. Well.” She’d tuck the dark strands that had come loose from her bun behind her ear. “Never mind all that. Why are you askin’ me about being a worm, cherie?”

You would maybe show her a couple videos - Rora was always a visual learner, after all. She’d watch them with a cool, skeptical expression over your shoulder, at most arching an elegant brow. “...Is that all?” She’d look back at you when you put your phone down, and again, she’d be looking concerned. To your surprise, though, she’d come around to the front of your chair, sitting on the mismatched footstool in front of it so she could be at your eye level.

“You deserve so much... more, than that.” She’d slip her hands, ice cold as ever, into yours. Even when you giggled and tried to explain it wasn’t serious, Rora would shake her head. “No, I know - I’m undead, little bee, not ancient,” she’d add, giving you a wry look. “I saw what you showed me. But just -- listen,” she’d squeeze your hands, her face uncharacteristically open. Vulnerable. “That... that should be the bare minimum. ‘Could someone love you if you were a worm’,” she repeats the question with dry distaste. “That’s so abysmally small compared to how anyone should be loved, much less you.” Her thumbs would stroke the skin of your hands, insistent somehow. “You deserve people tellin’ you they love you if you were... a forest. As widely as they sprawl and deep as one can ho, and unknowable in all their parts but still beautiful. Even in the darkest parts where the sun never shines, and the mushrooms grow on everything, where things go to sleep forever because it’s quiet there and they know they’ll finally get some rest...” She trails off, her green eyes feeling like you might fall into them if you look too long.

She clears her throat, suddenly marshaling her face and looking down at her knees. “...I might’ve gotten a little away from myself, there,” she’d say, her mouth for a brief second flattening into a slightly embarrassed line. Finally, she’d look up at you again, her mask of impenetrable perfection back in place. “But I know I’m not wrong.”

Rora just manages to brace herself when you practically tackle her into a kiss - a kiss so enthusiastic and messy that her expression melts entirely, and you can feel her smiling against your lips a moment later.

The two of you get a little distracted after that, what with neither of your hands willing to stay still and both your shirts mysteriously on the floor.

This was inspired by the very sweet @darkhairedmenrule - thank you again for sending me that note, darling, and sorry it took me a minute to get it done! :’D I hope it was worth the wait. hopefully I’ll get to write more soon now that my schedule is kind of establishing itself, knock on wood.

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morvantmortuary · 1 year

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Morvant Mortuary Playlists -

(Because we finally got to the point where it’s worth having a separate navigation for this! :’D Thanks so much to everyone who continues to humor me and my ND need to have music to pace to whenever I’m in the brainstorming process, y’all are the real MVPs 🖤)

Links to all playlists below the cut; this masterlist to be updated as more are posted!

Maxi:

maxi’s spotify playlist

maxi catches feelings spotify playlist

(sssh don’t tell him I posted this)

running through the graveyard

cemetery sunrise

maxi playing piano when a bit tipsy at 2 am

maxi comfort vibes

covers our mortician would lose his shit over

Hector:

hector’s spotify playlist

hector catches feelings playlist

hex comfort vibes

(sssshh definitely don’t tell him I linked this)

hex and the balcony (meant to be for the unwritten NOLA reunion scene from don’t ask me how I’ve been, will probably turn up in his actual arc!)

Rora:

rora’s spotify playlist

rora catches feelings playlist

rora comfort vibes

(I’m still talking her into trying karaoke again, but she’s shy :) check back later!)

Greymoon/The Mortuary:

something is stirring playlist

halloween masquerade playlist

greymoon, louisiana playlist

morvant song recs from nice people (my playlist that anons/friends have been kind enough to make suggestions for and I’m always adding to!)

can I get a necromancer please?

scooby doo and the cursed mortuary (from this brief chaotic au)

holidays with the morvants (xmas 2021)

being festive at the mortuary (xmas 2022)

Others:

vincent etienne morvant playlist

leon labeau (the grey man) playlist [in progress]

sybil lavinia clay (the redhead) playlist [in progress]

(all dividers, as always, made by daisy at @firefly-graphics! ✨

to everyone who got this far, I hope your favorite song comes up next on your shuffle 🥰)

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morvantmortuary · 10 months

Note

Okay so I had a thought-slash-question:

I’m not sure if you’ve ever watched The Book of Life (if you haven’t you totally should, it’s on Disney+ and it’s really cool!), Diego Luna voices the main character in that movie and from what I can tell, he did at least some of his own singing. And he actually sounds pretty good, which brings me to the question: can Hector sing or play the guitar? Does he have any skills at either of those things??

Anyways, just wanted to get that out of my head (😅). Hope you and our dear necromancers are doing well!! ♡♡♡

aww, hi dolly! always nice to hear from you 🖤✨

I’ve discussed this only a little bit previously, but yes, I have seen Book of Life!! Jorge Gutierrez is one of my favorite artists/animators ever; I loved his series Maya and the Three (w/ Diego as a dorky vampire prince to boot), and I’ve been following him on various platforms for years. BoL is seriously underrated, I rewatch it every fall 🥰 And yes, Diego definitely did some (if not most) of his own singing in the movie! he’s a man of many talents fr

Hex is the only Morvant who I imagine sounding exactly like his fc with basically nothing changed (as I imagine before he moved back to Mexico fully with his mom, he went back and forth enough between there and Greymoon to keep his accent), whereas of course I’ve never heard Dani or Eva do a Southern/Louisiana accent before lol. (Now that I have Seth, his voice is also basically unchanged from Dast’s, just bc I think its so cute lmao)

I don’t remember if I’ve talked about Hex’s musicality here, outside of singing (I might have done so in my gc eons ago, but we’ll consider this an update). he can sing, but he’s generally pretty shy about it. he doesn’t like to in any public sense, and he only does so with you after you’ve been dating long enough that he feels fully comfortable doing so. even though he’s good, he sees it only as something to do for fun/goofing around. he doesn’t think of it as a talent so much as he does just part of being a human. his real art is always going to be his visual art, specifically his photography. that’s what he considers his main body of work, and the thing he feels he actively wants to pursue. but when it’s just y’all (or y’all and the twins, and maybe the twins’ partners), then singing is something he does when he’s relaxed and hanging out and living in the moment (or, at times when things are tense and it’s just the two of you, trying to get you to relax and maybe smile a little).

I can see him playing guitar very casually for the same reason — like, not enough to be a professional, but enough that he can competently play a few songs at a party or just hanging out when his eyes need a break from looking at his latest shoot. I imagine he picked it up during his brief stint in university at Mexico City (thinking everyone likes a cute boy who can play guitar at parties, if he wasn’t learning himself from a cute boy who played guitar at a party 👀) and ever since then has just noodled around with it ever since. He can play a few favorite songs of his (and of yours, although he’d want to keep it a surprise until he was sure he could do so without a hitch), but it’s kind of like Maxi and his tipsy piano-playing at 2 AM - nothing he’d really want to show off, purely something for his own enjoyment (and yours, potentially).

but this was so sweet of you to send my way!! thanks so much for thinking of him, hon 🥰 big hugs from us to you in your neck of the woods, and we hope you’re doing well too! 🖤👻

#nice people!!#dolly! ✨🧚#hector vibes #hector morvant-casares #hex morvant-casares #hector morvant-casares x you #hector morvant-casares x reader #diego luna fc #slasher oc #medium fc #morvant mortuary #monsterkisser fics

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morvantmortuary · 2 years

Note

for the request game, 64 + Hector. I can't stop thinking about it lord help

64: "I better leave my mark on you so everyone knows you're mine"

1. I’m sorry this took so long bestie, feel free to bonk me with a foam bat :’D

2. I’m sorry for what’s about to happen, bestie

el quiere sangre -

warnings: death scare, someone watches reader sleep, possessed!Hector, yandere behavior, ghosts, corpses, marking, possessiveness, some gore, dead person making less than wholesome insinuations to the reader. potential dead dove do not eat; we’re going scary and not smutty here.

reader notes: Hex’s Reader, established relationship! Reader uses ‘They’ pronouns, but Hex still refers to them by fem petnames and endearments in spanish bc those are what I know :’D Otherwise Reader is fairly neutral in all other aspects! Any tweaks to maintain that or to fix Hex’s spanish appreciated, as always!!

You knew the seance probably hadn’t gone well when Hex didn’t text you back that night. Or early the next morning.

Your concern was confirmed the following afternoon, when not only one but both of the twins were at the front door when you knocked and neither one looked like they’d come remotely close to sleeping.

“Oh! Hi there, sweetheart.” Maxi gave you his best attempt at a smile, but the circles under his eyes were darker than usual, and you could tell from the wrinkles at his elbows and knees that he was still in his dress shirt and slacks from the day before. “We, uh. Weren’t expectin’ company today. Sorry.”

Rora was lurking against the wall behind him - her hair a frizzy mess, her dress similarly rumpled, and her mouth poised like she was sucking on her teeth against a bad taste.

You blinked before you remembered to speak - it was unlike anyone in the family to look so rough in front of company. Sure, you’d been spending more time around the House lately, but you thought you still qualified on some level. No one had let you see the basement yet, for example.

“No, you’re fine! Totally fine, no big deal, ” you said, looking between the two. “I hadn’t heard from Hector yet, so I thought I’d swing by and see if anyone, um, needed anything. …Rough night, huh?” You tried to smile even a little at your own bad joke. Hex had warned you that sometimes seances left him a bit worn out, sometimes for a couple of days. He’d made it sound like getting over a bug, though, or something as inconvenient as a common cold.

But the way Maxi’s smile immediately dropped to reveal his bone-deep exhaustion, and Rora glared at the floor like it insulted her personally, you immediately realized that Hex had been selective in exactly what he told you.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, looking between the two. “Sorry, if that was, um. Bad taste. I didn’t know— He didn’t tell me—“

“No, no, it’s fine,” Maxi said, gesturing for you to come inside. “Just.” He ran a hand under his glasses as he shut the door behind you, muffling a sigh into his palm. “We didn’t want to have to do it to begin with, and then things just kept escalatin’, and the person we were lookin’ for kept puttin’ Hex through his paces—“

“It was a goddamn mess,” Rora cut him off bluntly, folding her arms over her chest. “Ectoplasm everywhere, and we just barely got what we needed. He’s still a mess.” She jerked her chin up to the second floor, towards Hector’s room in the back of the House. “I can’t remember the last time it went that badly, and he’s been doin’ this for almost thirty years.”

You looked from her to Maxi as you slid out of your shoes, who was shooting her a warning glare - something that gave you the slightest pause when you saw a faint red reflected in his eyes, a reminder that even the softie of the bunch could still be a bit frightening when you didn’t expect it. “Is he okay? Is he hurt?” You should’ve known the lack of contact was a bad sign - normally he at least sent you a joking ‘I lived, bitch’ selfie, but today there’d been not so much as a whisper across the static ether. You kicked yourself for not thinking to come over earlier.

“He’s fine,” Maxi soothed, holding up a hand. “Took me a minute to get his vitals stable when it left him, and he spent the night on an IV drip in the prep room.” His mouth flattened into a hard line for a moment at the memory. “We at least seem to be past the part where he keeps purgin’ ectoplasm.”

“For now,” Rora remarked over Maxi’s shoulder, still leaning against the wall. “What?” She lifted a hand in a languid shrug as Maxi shot her another look. “It’s come back before. We could just be in the eye of it before he starts leaking purple from—”

“Can I see him?”

Your voice - having gone up a couple octaves, at least, as the twins were sniping at each other - caused them both to look around. You weren’t entirely sure what your face was doing, but it must have been sad enough that both of them immediately looked more guilty than annoyed with each other.

“Of course, hon.” Maxi said, his smile all sympathy. “He’s just upstairs, I’ll take you.” He gestured for you to follow him, and you hurried behind his long strides towards the staircase.

“He’s been askin’ after you,” Rora drawled, tilting her head to look at you as you passed by her. “…I think it’s him, at least,” she added, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it.

You heard Maxi sigh ahead of you as you reached the second floor. “Don’t mind her,” he muttered to you, slowing down so you could catch up with his long strides. “She’s only grouchy when she’s anxious.”

You looked from Maxi over the bannister again, making sure Rora wasn’t lurking in the parlor below before turning back to him with a furrow in your brow. “But… she’s always like that,” you whispered, not taking the chance of being overheard.

Maxi gave you a good-natured wink. “Family secret.” The smile faded just a bit as the two of you turned the corner towards Hex’s room. “Hex’s channelin’ has scared her since we were little. Scared all of us, really, but probably Ror the most. She can’t… see ghosts quite like we can,” he explained quietly. “So for her, it always looks like he’s havin’ a seizure or somethin’. She’s missin’ most of the context and has to bear with it until it’s over. I can usually see what’s happenin’,” he added, frowning now. “But that doesn’t mean I can help, really. It’s all him.”

You stared at him, feeling your jaw drop slightly in horror. Hex had never mentioned anything of the sort to you. “Holy shit, why is he doing this if they’re that bad?”

Maxi’s eyes fell to his feet for a moment. “We don’t like him to, but he insists he can take it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I keep tryin’ to explain to him that ‘can’ doesn’t mean ‘should,’ but… well, you know him.” He gave you an exasperated side-long look. “And there are certain things we need that only the dead know, so…” He shrugged half-heartedly. “He volunteers.”

The two of you stopped outside a familiar door, clumsily painted a faded shade of black and covered in faded and blurry polaroids that were at least a few decades old by now.

“Last I checked, he was sleepin’,” Maxi’s voice had lowered to a whisper. “If he still is—“

“It’s fine, I’ll just wait with him,” you whispered back, shaking your head. Even if he wasn’t awake, the idea of leaving now felt impossible. You were trying not to picture him unconscious on the other side of the door, wracked by whatever the fuck had just put his body through hell. The very idea made your chest ache like you’d been punched there.

Maxi smiled, but the weariness of it aged him a decade. “That’s fine, sugar. He’ll be happy to see you when he wakes up.” He turned as if to leave you there, but immediately stopped, as if just thinking of something. You watched his face, seeing him briefly worry his own lip as he chose his words. “…If he comes to and doesn’t seem… himself,” he said slowly, meeting your eyes. “Or if anythin’ feels off, in any way - even if you don’t know why - you holler for me and Ror, okay?” His eyes were serious again, moving between you and the door. “He should be fine,” he repeated, though you weren’t entirely sure if it was for his sake or yours. “We’re well outside the usual window for a relapse, but… still.”

“Define ‘relapse’.” Your mouth felt dry, and you found yourself crossing your arms over your chest. Not… protectively, per se. But something about the way even Maxi seemed hesitant, of all people, left you feeling ill at ease.

Indeed, he sighed, briefly rubbing the back of his neck. “Sometimes, when he was younger, we ran the risk of somethin’… resurfacin’, for a bit,” he said. “Somethin’ that might not have given its hold up on him - not yet, anyway. It’s been a long time since that’s happened, trust me. Years and years,” he reassured you quickly. “I’m only sayin’ somethin’ about it at all just to be overly cautious, y’know?”

“Oh.” You felt your shoulders relax as you nodded. “Cautious is good, yeah.” You smiled the best you could. “I’ll let you guys know if anything’s spookier than normal.”

“Much obliged.” Maxi returned it with a grimace of his own. “Now, if you two’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go try not to fall down dead on the couch. Text me or Rora if he’s ready to eat somethin’.”

“Thanks,” you whisper-called after him, and he waved over his shoulder as he descended the stairs.

You turned back to the bedroom door, and caught yourself taking a deep breath before you realized what you were doing. What were you nervous about? It was just Hector. Your Hector. He wouldn’t be feeling well after… whatever the fuck that thing did to him, but even if he was just a glimmer of the clever, chatty weirdo you knew him to be, you’d be content.

Smiling briefly at the thought - and tapping a vintage Selena sticker stuck to the door for luck - you finally twisted the knob and stepped inside.

Hex’s childhood bedroom was dark to begin with, but despite the bright sun outside the House, it seemed completely engulfed in shadows with all the thick curtains drawn over the windows. You stood uncertainly in the doorway for a moment in the small cracks of light from the hallway, the silence within feeling somehow… thicker, than usual. Almost ominous.

Like you weren’t the only one in the room.

A flicker of movement in the dim caught your eye as your vision adjusted, and you stared at the bed until a shape swam into view —

A bundle at the center of the mattress, wrapped in an old quilt and stirring restlessly. A soft, unintelligible mumble and another roll of the lump revealed Hector, his mouth hidden by his blanket, his eyes closed serenely in sleep.

Dumbass, you scolded yourself. Of course you weren’t the only one in the room. You felt yourself exhale and your shoulders soften, your heart aching at the bruise-like shadows you could make out around his eyes in the dim light around the blackout curtains. Hex had a way of always looking like he was anticipating something when he was awake - a feeling of never quite sitting still even when the two of you were lying on the couch, as if expecting something or someone new to enter unannounced at any moment. It was only when he slept that you ever got to see him looking so at peace, so… young. For a moment, it was easier to picture him as he might have been as a boy, carefree and sweet. Away from… this.

You crept towards your usual side of his bed on tiptoes, carefully easing yourself onto the mattress over the covers so as not to jostle him too much. “Hey, baby,” you whispered as you lay down, your eyes at last adjusting to the pressing dark. “It’s just me, okay?”

Hex made a faint questioning noise, his eyes fluttering open like there were weights attached to his eyelids. When at last they seemed to fix on you, he mumbled something you couldn’t quite make out, but immediately scooted closer to you across his bed.

You cooed softly to him, wrapping your arms around his thin shoulders as he settled next to you with an exhausted sigh. You pressed your forehead against his feverish one, trying not to shrink away from the heat and sweat of it as you felt his arm squirm through his tangled sheets to wind around your waist.

“Que tal, Bonita?” he mumbled, and you fought the urge to wince at the way his voice sounded cracked - like his vocal chords were bruised.

“Hi there, Sexy,” you joked back, hoping your voice didn’t give away just how hard this was to see. You’d seen Hex sick, of course - a virus here or there, a bad flu once - but this was beyond any of that. He looked like it hurt to fucking blink. Indeed, when he did, he looked bleary and barely conscious. “Maxi and Ror told me you weren’t feeling so hot,” you whispered, snuggling to him. “So I’m here to be your lowly jello-fetcher while you recover, okay?” You were trying not to panic at just how ironically hot he felt through his covers; since the two of you had started sleeping together, you’d always known him to run cold, to the point you’d have a fluffy blanket all to yourself in the winter months. For him to be shirtless and still warm through the thin cotton sheets between you was… new. It scared you.

But Maxi and Rora said he was better than he had been, so. You’d have to trust them on that one.

“You hungry?” you whispered, hopeful.

But Hex only groaned, shaking his head as he withdrew into his blankets.

“Okay, okay, don’t sweat it,” you soothed, following him with your arms still around his shoulders. “Don’t sweat it, baby, there’ll be plenty of time for that later.” You felt him ease back against you, hugging him tightly as you tucked yourself under his chin. “I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

“Yo se,” Hex murmured, burying the end of his nose in your hair. “Te amo, Querida.”

“I love you too, babe,” you whispered back, listening carefully as his breathing quickly slid back into the deep rasp of sleep. You closed your eyes, trying to content yourself with just being close enough to hear him, to know he was recovering even if he hurt to look at. You made lists in your head to try to pass the time: of things you’d run back to your place and grab once he was awake, so you could camp out here for a few days; of dishes you thought you could try if he was having a hard time keeping stuff down - Rora and Maxi had mentioned ectoplasm, what the fuck was that? Was it anything like in the Ghostbusters movies? Of things you apparently fucking needed to Google, not realizing quite what it meant to have a medium for a lover —

You made lists until your breathing fell into sync with his, and Sleep carried you, too, away down its dark river.

You were so far gone, you didn’t notice when something else woke up.

It wasn’t the rustling that stirred you, or the broken-sounding giggle. It was the cold.

Hex had been so warm next to you that you’d eased into his heat, eventually rolling over so your back was against his chest. When at first the heat only disappeared, you continued to sleep, comforted by the weight of his quilt.

When the temperature dropped further, your dozing brain figured it was just the House’s rickety-ass air conditioning system kicking on at last - it was already temperamental, but in the summers it could be downright fickle, still as the grave one minute and then chilling everyone in the vicinity in the same hour.

…But this was something else.

You only woke up when you started shivering, pulling the quilt tighter around you until you were nearly tangled in it. Not quite wanting to open your eyes yet, you rolled over, one hand reaching out to feel for where Hex had obviously gotten up to go to the bathroom, or hell, even rolled off the mattress in a particularly restless dream.

Your hand skimmed flesh that was stone-cold to the touch.

Your eyes flew open, panicking. Oh god, oh god oh god what happened—

“Hex?” you croaked, squinting into the perfect impenetrable black of the room. Had it gotten dark outside? How long had you been asleep? How long had he?

He was still just asleep, right?

There was no answer. The figure beneath your hand, undeniably cold, stayed perfectly still.

You whimpered, the sound rising from your throat unbidden as your free hand frantically scrabbled across the mattress for your phone. You swear you’d had it with you when you walked in, you were keeping it close in case you needed the twins—

But that had been in case Hex got sick, or started running a fever.

No one told you he might not wake up at all.

The whimper in your throat rose in volume as you tried to get your brain to work, wanting to yell for someone to come help. This had to be a mistake, this was a nightmare, this couldn’t really be happening.

But your hand on his skin - his bare shoulder, you realized now - moved slowly upwards, desperately for a puff of breath of a pulse of warmth. You felt nothing, still, skimming his neck and finding his hair hanging in his face.

“Hex,” you demanded, your fingers desperately brushing his hair away as you still groped for your phone. “Hector, babe, wake up. Wake up right now.”

The only heat in the room seemed to be pooling behind your eyes as you begged yourself not to cry. This was a bad dream. This was a bad dream, or a prank. He was going to sit up laughing any minute now at how scared you’d been, how little it took.

But something in you knew that wasn’t true. Hex was a tease, but he wasn’t mean. He would never play a joke on you that made you cry.

He’d die before he’d do that, he was always telling you.

You let out a shaky breath as you finally found your fucking phone, fumbling not to drop it. “Hector, wake the fuck up and talk to me, goddammit.”

The dim light of your lock screen - a selfie of him ambushing you with kisses as you laughed - failed to penetrate the darkness around you, and you felt your panic begin to combine with a sense of claustrophobia.

You fumbled with your phone, trying to flip the flashlight on. Under your free hand, you felt Hector twitch ever so slightly, as if stirring from a dream.

“I’m awake.”

You jumped at the sound, feeling your own breath gush from you in a stuttering half-sob. “Hex, oh my god. I was so scared, you can’t do that to me.” You flipped your flashlight on at last, angling the phone upwards -

And seeing someone staring out of Hector’s face that was definitely not Hector.

You couldn’t explain it: it was his face, of course. But the expression - the grin, the rictus split of the lips - was entirely wrong. He didn’t smile with that much teeth, that much exposed gum. His lips were purple, like he’d been starved for air. His eyes were the wrong color, even: rather than his warm dark brown, staring out from between tangled locks of his hair, they were a sickeningly pale blue in his face.

Or at least, from what you could see of the irises. The pupils, in the dark of the room, seemed to fill every available centimeter of space.

Worst of all - it still didn’t look like he was breathing.

The person wearing your boyfriend’s face stared at you, laying perfectly still with his nose an inch from yours on the pillow.

You stared back at him, struggling suddenly for words.

The room between you two fell completely, utterly silent.

The only light source in the room shook with your hand as your brain raced. He hadn’t moved yet. He was just… laying there. God knows how long he had been laying there; you realized with a sick jolt that you could’ve been sleeping for hours with this… thing right next to you, staring at you.

Remembering Maxi’s words from earlier, you took a breath as slowly and subtly as you could, trying to ready yourself to scream.

“Try,” croaked not-Hector, watching you from the pillow. “And see what happens.” His grin only grew wider, to the point where it threatened to tear the corners of Hex’s mouth.

You froze, your breath dying in your lungs. “…What are you?” you exhaled, staring at the thing next to you.

It didn’t blink, it never twitched save for its lips. “Dead.”

Somehow hearing it, having it confirmed, was worse. Of course it was dead - nothing living smiled that way. Nothing living had eyes that color blue, like they’d been soaked in some sort of preservatives.

“Where’s Hector?” you whispered, the tears quickly returning to your eyes.

“Having his turn in the dark.” The thing clicked its teeth against each other in two sharp bites to punctuate this, then followed it with a laugh like a wheezing cough. Unbidden, you suddenly glanced towards the shadowy corners of the room, as if you felt something else standing there watching you. You couldn’t tell if the ringing in your ears was just fear, or the tail end of a distant shout.

You swallowed, trying to cover for the fact that you were definitely about to piss yourself. “G-give him back.”

“No.” The thing stiffly shook Hector’s head, and you covered your mouth as his neck made a noise that sounded entirely wrong. “No, no no, I like it here. I like this.” It gazed up at you and you wanted to vomit. “I like waking up next to you.”

You shivered, wanting to roll away but scared that moving would cause… something. Something worse. It took you a minute to try to breathe, your next question barely audible: “What do you want?”

“What we all want on the other side.” The too-pale eyes slid down to your neck, then slowly, torturously back up again, entirely silent in the process. “…To feel warm again.”

A black tongue moved wetly over the thing’s teeth, and as you finally went to scream, a withered hand shoved itself from under the covers to stick rotting fingers in your mouth.

You didn’t know when it pulled you under the sheets, but there was fabric everywhere - on your tongue, twisted around your wrists so you couldn’t thrash and between your legs so you couldn’t kick free. You were suffocated by moldering coffin breath as the thing above you laughed in a high pitched giggle, blue eyes still somehow luminous in the shadowy bedclothes. Every time you went to scream, you found cloth or hair in your mouth, and more than once you wretched, feeling like you’d drown in your own gag reflex. The thing holed up in your boyfriend, meanwhile, was pinning your chest with a chest that didn’t feel like Hector’s, like the chest of anything living - it felt too soft, somehow, and cold, like something left to rot in water.

You felt something cold and wet drip onto the skin of your neck, and it felt like river water falling from the thing’s mouth, the black tongue inching closer and closer to your pulse —

Something shoved you both off the bed, like somebody had leapt on top of the covers in a blind attempt at a pile-driver. You cried out as your head hit the floor - thankfully with the old rug between you and the hardwood, but still hard enough to hurt.

You could breathe again, though. You sat up as fast as you could, tearing the sheets from over your face like a caul and practically drinking your breaths. Everything was still cold, and heavy, but you were out from under the dead man.

You looked around, spotting the soft outline of your overturned phone on the carpet, and snatched up the light to point it towards the sounds of the thing being attacked.

Then you wished you hadn’t.

The thing wearing your boyfriend’s body was sitting upright under the sheets and shrieking to bring the house down, furiously flailing at someone else that seemed to be under there with it. You heard hideous gagging noises, like a drowning victim throwing up brine, and the sheets quickly became soaked with a putrid-smelling dark liquid. The other figure wrestled the thing down and slammed his skull backwards against the hardwood floor once, then twice, causing you to panic as you wondered if that would somehow give Hex a concussion. You realized someone was yelling in a language you couldn’t recognize alongside the dead man’s screaming, and there was a third voice in there somewhere, wailing like the damned.

You looked around, terrified of another spectral assault, before you realized a full minute later that the screamer was you.

The dead man was losing, and at one point the water that hit the sheet was a pinkish color that made you scream even more. If he was bleeding, was Hector bleeding? Was Hector in there dying? What if he couldn’t get back, and his body strangled to death on whatever that was?

You screamed again as something banged loudly over your shoulder, like something crashing hard into the wall. For a moment, you thought something was trying to bust through into your world, another unholy terror - until you realized that was only the door.

“Fuck, it’s jammed!” You heard Maxi on the other side, and something hit it again, hard enough that you were surprised the door didn’t buckle. “Get me the shotgun. MAGGIE, GET UP HERE—“

But the sounds of outside were quickly drowned out by what sounded like the roof threatening to cave in, and you looked up, screaming as you saw what looked like a shower of disembodied arms reaching down through the ceiling. They swung backwards and forwards, groping blindly, and as they got closer to the floor you sank lower and lower towards the carpet, afraid they would try to grab your hair or your neck.

The struggle next to you on the floor suddenly had your attention again as the dead man wretched like something was pulling his esophagus out through his mouth, and you heard the sound of fabric tearing. A glimmer of purple slowly grew under the dense quilt, as if someone had lit slow-burning neon, and as you watched, it glowed until it was brighter than your phone.

Horrified, you watched the body suddenly throw the quilt off and sit up, panting.

It was only when it forcefully pushed its hair back that you saw the eyes you knew.

“Hijo de puta, Duquesne,” Hex groaned, rolling onto his knees to wretch as he held his hair back out of his face. You watched, horrified, as black gunk like rotten plant matter ejected itself forcefully onto he floor. He sat there, panting, sounding on the verge of sobbing as he rocked back and forth to prepare for another wave. “Fuck you, you dead motherfucker—“

“Hector,” you croaked, and his eyes snapped up.

“Querida?“ he looked up at the sound of another rafter snapping, watching the ghostly hands wildly grabbing in his direction now. “What’re you— fuck, MAXI, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU BRO?” he yelled towards the door.

“I’M RIGHT HERE, HOLD ON!” You heard the sound of something clicking, then a loud crack like a car backfiring in the hallway, causing you to nearly jump right into a ghostly palm trying to grab at your face. “Fuck. HE JAMMED THE DOOR.”

You heard something scrabbling at the door like claws, like an animal was trying to dig underneath the door frame.

“I TOLD YOU WE NEEDED FUCKING BRONZE NAILS, YOU PRICK!” Hector bellowed, grabbing the hand next to your face and squeezing until you heard something squelch sickeningly. The hand in front of you glowed a bright purple and something above you wailed, dragging the appendage away from his grip as if it was broken.

“YOU’RE THE ONE THAT DIDN’T WANNA WAIT TWO DAYS FOR PRIME, DIPSHIT!” Maxi yelled back. “Fuck, Rora—”

“Get out of my way.” You watched the door suddenly glow around the edges with an ominous shade of green, then heard what sounded like someone snapping a whole box of dry pasta in half one piece at a time. “C’mon, little girl,” you somehow heard Rora cooing over the din around you. “Your turn.”

Mesmerized in your fear, you saw something small begin to slide under the door, Rora was shoving pieces of fine china through the crack into the room.

You heard something scream in the rafters and whirled around, only to see Hector had just bitten into one of the hands in front of his face that had gotten too close to the back of your head. While the creature above you was obviously trying to pull it away, Hex only yanked it by the wrist and bit down harder, until you saw its thumb fold in a way it shouldn’t. It was only then he let it go, spitting something grey off to the side. “WE NEEDED THE MOON, I TOLD YOU—“ Hector ducked another hand, this one getting close enough to grab ahold of one of his ears for a moment. He swore through gritted teeth, twisting the wrist hard in his hands. “SOME HELP NOW WOULD BE FUCKING GREAT, YOU TWO!”

“DON’T RUSH HER, SHE’S DOIN’ HER BEST!” Rora yelled through the door. “Here, Maxi, give me the damn gun—“

“Be my goddamn guest,” Maxi spat back, and you heard something thud against the door again. This time the door itself seemed to glow a deep red…

But if you stared long enough, you realized it wasn’t the door that was glowing.

It was something in front of the door, something large that seemed to be blocking it. Something that seemed to pulse now with the red light, like the raw, scabbing flesh over a healing wound.

The little white pieces continued to pile up at the bottom of the floor, then sort themselves again, doing an odd little spiraling dance like debris in water. Eventually, they began to fold together into something, to build upon themselves one at a time with an alarming speed. It was only when you saw the skull fold itself back together out of flat little shards that you realized it was Magnolia, Maxi’s skeletal house cat. With a growl, she lunged at the pulsating door - and clung to something fleshy, dragging her claws down it and leaving bright green scratches behind her.

Horrified, you watched as the thing like a skin graft lifted itself off the doorframe, revealing itself to be some sort of creature trying to shove poor Maggie headfirst into a suddenly gaping, oozing mouth. Magnolia let out an eerie echo of a yowl, throwing herself at the thing headfirst and tackling it to the floor.

Hector swore again, narrowly pulling you away from one of the hands. “You know what, fuck this.” He closed one eye as he looked up at the ceiling and began muttering something that was definitely not Spanish or English or any language you knew. He pointed with the index and middle fingers of his right hand and pulled back with his thumb, and you saw something worm-like in his familiar purple start to form and writhe around the extended digits. He made a sudden sharp gesture, like he was flinging it at the ceiling, and overhead you saw the spindly wraith arms suddenly lit up like there was a purple firework amongst them. The slimy, worm-like object spread across the ceiling and between the arms like a fungus or a root system, curling around the limbs and seeming to tighten around them painfully.

Something in the attic wailed, and it sound like it was a crowd of people in terrible pain.

You watched the hands turn on themselves, snatching at each other’s arms - only to scream when something grabbed the back of your shirt.

“It’s me!” Hector pulled you roughly across the floor so your back was against his chest, curling around you like a ball as soon as you made contact. “It’s me, Preciosa, I got you.”

“Hector!” You spun around to look at him as best you could in his tight grip, checking his eyes to avoid last time’s mistake. “Hector, what the entire fuck is going on?! Are you okay?”

“It’s okay,” Hector put one of his hands on the back of your head, pulling you closer to him and out of the path of a grasping hand that seemed to wither into a skeletal form before your eyes before crumbling to nothing. “It’s okay, it’s just some residual bullshit. It’s almost over.”

“Who the fuck is that?!” You pointed over his shoulder at the soaking wet quilt that seemed to sit up by itself, like there was a body from the embalming room underneath.

Hector turned, following your gaze and swearing loudly. He looked back to you with wide, slightly panicked eyes. “Baby, tell me right now: do you trust me?”

You checked his eyes again, paranoid now. “It… is you, right?” you asked, your voice drowned out between the screaming creatures overhead, the sound of another aborted gunshot, and poor Magnolia caterwauling as she wrestled with something twice her size.

Hector leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. In his eyes, you saw a soft purple swirl of what looked like distant stars.

“It’s always me,” he said softly, and somehow you heard him over the cacophony of wailing around you. “And I’m going to give you something so you’re always mine.”

You stared at him, confused, your cheeks wet with sweat and bile from god knows what and your own tears - but you nodded, wordlessly.

Hex smiled, somehow soft despite how absolutely exhausted he looked, and he took your shoulder gently in one hand. He leaned down, finding your pulse - exactly where the dead man had been going earlier, you remembered with a wave of nausea - and kissed it gently —

Before you gasped in pain, feeling something cold and sharp puncture skin.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, and you whined in fright as you felt something drag through your flesh to tear it. “It’s okay, I swear you’re okay, I’m not gonna let anything hurt you anymore, just breathe. I got you, it’s just gonna hurt a little right now while it takes—“

Your hands flew up to seize at his wrists, wanting it to stop, to pull away whatever he was holding. God, it stung, you swore you felt your own hot blood flicking against your face as it felt like he was carving your throat open.

But before you could establish a good grip, you saw something glow in a bright light you’d never seen before just out of your line of sight.

Hector sighed as if entirely absorbed in whatever was glowing on your neck. His eyes were soft, as if he was gazing at something sacred, despite the fact it hurt like all get-out. You gasped in turn, the wound now burning like something was being branded into you.

You gave another strangled cry when you saw the silhouette just behind his shoulder drag the quilt from its face, revealing the bloated flesh of a drowned man. Your mind reeled, panicking: if that thing had been hiding in Hector’s body — where did it get its own?

Hector saw your face and realized something was wrong, but time felt like it was moving in slow motion. He turned too late, just as the drowned man grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled backward—

But something bright green hit the intruder full in the face, dragging both the corpse and the necromancer to the floor.

You clapped your hand to where light seemed to be leaking from your neck, scrambling back to the end of the bed as you watched an enraged Maggie shove her claws into the eye sockets of the imposter beneath her. You watched, horrified and nauseated, as she freed her feet one at a time with a sucking squelch noise, the discolored milky eyeballs of the corpse speared on each of her feet. The corpse let out an unholy scream, splattering more murky brine as its head thrashed furiously.

In the distraction, Hector yanked himself free from the corpse’s grip, giving a muffled whimper as he sacrificed a good hank of his own hair in the process. He scrambled back with you, his hand shaking with fingers extended in front of him again as he landed back against the bed frame.

But Magnolia seemed to be well in control of the situation, now ripping the corpse’s black oily tongue straight out of his jaw with her little needle teeth and standing triumphantly on the corpse’s collapsing, soggy chest as it writhed and gagged on more brackish-smelling bile.

The hands above all retreated as the door burst open, filling the room with a red so bright you thought it was fire, at first — until it was accompanied by a near-nuclear green just behind it.

“Maggie, move!” Rora called — but something about her voice was… unfamiliar.

You saw Maggie leap nimbly onto the floor, and shrieked as the corpse seemed to explode with the force of a gunshot. Hector grabbed you and pulled your head against his chest, shielding you as you heard another loud bang and felt more cold water droplets against your face.

Under Hex’s arm, you saw Maxi and Rora walk into view, realizing they were indeed the source of the colored lights.

You’d never seen them look like this before - not too unlike when Hector was… possessed, you guessed. Rora’s hair was wild around her from an unseen wind, her lips and the y-incision scar on her chest black as though with rot and age, her cheekbones ferociously prominent as though her skin only barely covered her skull. She tossed the shotgun to the side of the room and stepped hard on the corpse’s knee, and you heard it pop loose from its socket with a sickening noise. The crack almost seemed to reverberate down the corpse itself, and you watched as joints seemed to slide out of place in a wave of force, the thing howling in pain.

Maxi knelt down next to her, and your stomach turned: his face looked… wrong. Like an accident victim without the funeral makeup, the flesh along his cheeks looking less solid and more like it was loosely holding his jaw together in thin strips. The red light shone through many vertical wounds in his face, and through them, you could see a tongue that looked like it’d been split in two. He kneeled in front of the corpse-like thing, peering at it with perfectly black eyes as though studying it.

When he turned and said something to Rora, you couldn’t recognize the language. But something in you churned, as though some primal part of you wanted to get away from it as fast as possible. Like you shouldn’t be hearing it at all.

“Don’t look,” Hector whispered, trying to block your vision as you saw Maxi extend a hand with fingers like pointed bone towards the corpse itself.

You didn’t see what he did, exactly — but through Hector’s fingers, you could still see just enough.

Before your eyes, the corpse - still staring at you with unseeing too-pale eyes - seemed to eat itself inwards, flesh shrinking to bone, bone shrinking to dust, dust piling onto the carpet.

Magnolia fell with an unceremonious rattling sound onto the floor, still chewing determinedly at the tongue in her mouth.

It took a moment for the twins to stop glowing, and a moment after that for the lights in Hector’s room to flicker back to life. You jumped at the sound of his laptop on his bedside table suddenly reviving, the rapid dialogue of one of his favorite old shows blaring through the tinny speakers in the relative silence.

You realized, with another sickening jolt, that the dark when you’d first walked into the room hadn’t been something he’d done on purpose. Something had been in here with you two the whole time, and had been holding the room in its sway.

Hex at last loosened his grip, letting you sit up. “Look at me, beautiful — you okay?”

You leaned back, studying him to make sure he still looked like himself. Like a human. “…Yeah,” you said at last, slowly. You didn’t know what you were, really, your head processing so much at once.

You nervously glanced out of the corner of your eye, making sure the twins looked relatively normal before you let yourself look entirely.

Rora was back to her usual self, her scars no more than a soft tissue on her décolletage that you only saw if you knew it was there. She was walking over to where she’d thrown the gun, picking it up and studying it with pursed lips before removing the empty shells and putting the safety back on.

Maxi was still kneeling next to the pile of corpse dust, human again but still frowning in deep concern. “They’re gettin’ better at that,” he mumbled. He shot Hex a look you didn’t quite understand. With a sigh and a slight crack of his knees, he got back to his feet. “We’re gonna have to figure out how, if we want to keep the House intact. …Maggie, honey,” he added, nudging her gently with the toe of his sock. “Spit that out, that’s nasty.”

Magnolia growled, clicking on her tiny toes with her prize under Hector’s bed, where she continued with her grisly chewing sounds. If anything, it just sounded like she was chewing faster.

“Claro, later.” Hex waved a hand at Maxi impatiently, still looking you over with concern. “Did anything grab you, love? Does anything hurt? How does your neck feel?” He added, glancing again towards the spot where you remembered it burning.

You took a breath to answer - and hissed as your skin moved, reaching up to the place where your neck still felt like there was an open wound. “What did you do to me…?” You pulled your hand away, expecting to see blood… but found none. Just a thick, viscous fluid that glowed with an odd purple sheen.

Hector opened his mouth to answer, looking oddly proud of himself —

“You didn’t.”

You whipped around (wincing again), seeing Rora’s shocked expression. She frightened you further by crossing back and dropping abruptly to her knees in front of you on the carpet, one hand taking your chin to tilt your head further to one side so she could see your neck. “Hector, what the fuck.” She turned, glaring at him. “Did you tell them what this was?”

“What?” Hector gestured defensively to Maxi. “He did it to his!”

“Not on purpose.” Maxi was gazing at you with similar concern, kneeling down next to his sister. As a new tingling pain made its way up your neck, you distractedly noticed how eerily similar they were when they were that close together, despite looking fairly different when they were apart. “And I sure as hell didn’t do it the old fashioned way. Fuck, Hex, those lines are raw.” He winced, glancing at your face before looking back to Hector. “We gotta get some disinfectant on that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Doctors, I definitely should’ve asked Duquesne to wait a second so I could scrub up first,” Hex muttered bitterly, folding his arms as he glared at the twins. “I made a call. It was the right one.”

“Will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?” you asked, looking between the twins and Hector with a mounting sick feeling.

“I told you, Querida,” Hector said softly, holding up his unfolded pocket knife, where the blade seemed dulled in the low light by a dark viscous fluid. “I put my mark on you, so everyone knows you’re mine.”

Rora closed the space between them so they were practically nose-to-nose, her eyes blazing. “Did you tell them what you were doing or not?”

“It was going to happen anyway, we all know that!” Hector gestured frustratedly with the still-unfolded knife. “I didn’t have time for it to happen the new way, Duquesne would’ve jumped to them next—“

“We could’ve handled that without this, Hector,” Rora said sharply. “This is something else. This is permanent.”

“No the fuck we couldn’t, Rora, I could barely handle that,” Hector spat. “It would’ve killed them if it had gotten to that point. I wasn’t about to let that happen. And they are permanent.” He said, gesturing furiously to you. “They’re mine. We knew that.”

“Did they agree to it, though?”

“I asked them if they trusted me!”

“Oh, fuck, Hector, you know that’s not—“

“Shut up.” Maxi growled over his shoulder. Hector and Rora turned in unison to glare at him instead, as if annoyed he’d interrupted. “For god’s sake, the pair of you, we have enough to deal with already. We can talk it out later. Here, hold on,” he pulled his already loose tie off completely, folding it up and holding it to the spot on your neck. “Hold this and keep some pressure on it, hon, okay?”

“I can handle that,” Hector snapped, sliding over to put his hand over it instead.

“Then do it,” Maxi spat, getting to his feet. “I’m gonna go get the goddamn gauze. You’re lucky they don’t need stitches.”

“I knew what I was doing!” Hector called angrily after Maxi. He waited until he’d carefully yet firmly held the ruined tie to your new mark before turning to Rora, glaring again. “I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t.”

“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” Rora drawled, her face skeptical as she sat back on her haunches.

“Goddamn it, Rora—“

“Is it supposed to burn?” you rasped.

The two of them looked around as if they’d forgotten you were there, despite Hex being the one to press the makeshift bandage to your wound. Immediately, both their faces softened, and they shot each other a slightly guilty glance.

“Only for a little while,” Hector said softly. He lifted the tie carefully, peering at the mark. “It’s just settling in. Making itself at home in your skin, that’s all,” he explained. He smiled his crooked smile at what he saw, and you at least relaxed at him looking normal again, if still slightly tired. “It’ll feel better in a couple hours, I promise,” he added, leaning over to kiss the corner of your mouth. “And you can have whatever you want when you get hungry, okay?”

You let yourself smile just a little bit, your head still feeling like it was swimming. “I thought I was here to take care of you.”

Hector leaned back to look at you, frowning and clearly confused. “Is that… what you were doing here?” He hesitated a moment, looking back over his shoulder to Rora for confirmation. “I don’t remember you coming over after…” he trailed off, concerned.

Rora met his gaze and hemmed for a moment, clearly unsure how much to say. “You were out cold, after,” she said at last, her voice low. “They got nervous and came over. Apparently you hadn’t texted them in a while, or something.” You could tell she was trying to be flippant, but her face couldn’t hide the way she still seemed worried. “…You looked like roadkill, if I’m bein’ honest.”

Hex laughed, but something about it sounded false. “That bad, huh?” He sucked his teeth thoughtfully, looking back at where the tie covered your mark with a new grimness. “Huh. So I was cutting it close with this, then.”

“That’s part of it, yeah,” Rora sighed, suddenly looking tired.

You felt your eyes go wide, looking from Rora to Hex. “Are you going to be okay?” You weren’t sure quite what was happening - you didn’t know how the fuck necromancers worked, and honestly who could blame you when they talked in code around you half the time. But the idea that Hex could look as sick as he had before from… whatever he’d done to you made you feel a new kind of queasy.

“Fine,” Hector reassured you immediately, kissing your forehead. “I’m gonna be just fine, gatita, don’t worry about it. I just might want to stick to chill hangs for the next couple of days, that’s all.” He kissed the spot next to your ear, the one he knew made you shiver pleasantly. “So don’t get any ideas, huh?” He didn’t move, speaking so you could feel him smile against your skin.

You giggled before wincing again, the literal pain in your neck giving another insistent spike. “Yeah,” you agreed with a careful nod. “That… sounds good for me too, probably.”

Something thudded to the floor next to your thigh, and you had to try not to jump.

“It’s my phone,” Rora sighed, leaning back against Hector’s bed and closing her eyes. “Pick whatever sounds good, my delivery app is hooked to Maxi’s credit card.”

“Goddammit, Aurore.” You looked around with the other two to see Maxi standing in the doorway with a neatly arranged tray of bandages, antiseptics, and a magnifying glass next to a tiny pair of tweezers. He was frowning deeply. “I just had a whole argument on the phone with the bank today about how all the burrito bowls at weird hours were from someone skimmin’ my card.”

“What? I don’t have one of my own,” Rora said, her lips pouting with false innocence. “Dead women don’t get credit cards, Maxi, you know the government throws a fit about that.”

“Shoulda thought of that before you up and died, then,” Maxi sighed, kneeling down in front of you.

You saw Rora stick her tongue out at him over his shoulder.

“And you could’ve at least not ordered extra guac every time,” he added, as if sensing that even if he couldn’t see it. He gently nudged Hector’s arm so he would put down the tie, and leaned forward, appraising your new mark with some teeth-sucking of his own. “Well, your hand was steady, I’ll give you that,” he muttered, giving Hex a sideways glance. “…You all good?”

“M’good, just drained. Give me a day and I’ll be conjuring circles around your ass as usual,” Hector muttered back. But you swore you saw him straighten up just a little at the compliment, whether he realized it or not. “I told you I knew what I was doing.”

“Apparently,” Maxi muttered, adjusting his glasses as he studied the mark some more. He glanced up at you over the frames, his eyes softening. “How’re you feelin’, sweetheart?”

“…I— Okay, I think,” you said, glancing between them. You winced as Maxi carefully dabbed some hydrogen peroxide on the wound with a wipe. “…Kind of still processing, to be honest,” you added quietly. Between the adrenaline whirling through your system, the pain in your skin, and the fact that you were pretty sure you weren’t going to be able to sleep tonight without jumping at every sound, your body was finally feeling everything that had just happened. Not to mention, the longer you sat there, the more you started to feel like there was something… else, under your skin. A second heartbeat, almost, alongside yours. You swallowed. “Today was a lot.”

All three Morvants made varying noises of understanding and agreement, as if you were talking about having to show up for jury duty rather than surviving whatever had just succeeded in temporarily possessing Hector and the House.

“Well, this’ll heal up just fine,” Maxi said softly, carefully applying a bandage to the spot. “I’ll let Hex talk you through the basics of it — he’s the one who put it there, after all,” he added, giving Hex another look you couldn’t read. (Hector gave him one back that you definitely read as irritated.) “But basically… well,” he hedged, clearly trying to figure out how to say something. “We think of it as… declarin’ someone part of the family.” He gave you a smile, shy smile. “Or at least, as intertwined with it.”

“‘Inextricable’,” Hector murmured under his breath, his eyes distant and hazy as if looking far into the past.

“Congratulations, I’m sure you’re thrilled,” Rora said flatly, sitting with her eyes closed again. Both men gave her a withering glance over their shoulders.

You slowly looked from them to Hector, feeling an entirely different type of fluttering in your system. “…Is that true, Hex?” You’d heard him call you permanent, in the aftermath of things. But so much had been going on, it had run off you like rain while your nerves were still swimming with whatever fire had been placed in them.

Hex’s eyes returned to yours immediately, as if you saying his name had woken him from a dream. As he continued to keep eye contact, you saw something you’d never seen before: he seemed… flustered, almost. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then hesitated, closing it again. His gaze turned inward, and you felt a new edge to the fluttering in your stomach. It was unlike him to so at a loss for words, especially for so long - since you’d known him, he’d always had something to say, some flippant response on the tip of his tongue at all times.

The worry that this prolonged silence caused you must’ve been written on your face because simultaneously, without even a look between the pair, both twins reached forward to give Hector a soft ‘thump’ on the back.

Hector shot them both another irritated look before turning back to you and taking a breath. “…We don’t always… do it that way, anymore,” he said slowly, nodding at your neck. “Sometimes, a mark like that just… shows up.” He glanced briefly at Maxi, who pointedly was still fussing with your bandages. Hex looked back to you. “We don’t always know how, though. So I figured, y’know, give it enough time and it’d just… happen,” he said quietly. He sucked the inside of his cheek, still somewhat restless. ��But we didn’t have time, Querida,” he continued with an exhale. “So I thought I’d... improvise.” He went to push his hair out of his face, wincing visibly when his hand skimmed the raw patch of scalp the imposter had grabbed.

You leaned forward instinctively, hand up to soothe the hurt and causing both Hex and Maxi to start slightly.

“Sorry! Sorry,” Maxi muttered, quickly smoothing over the bandage that might have warped. Hex set a hand on his shoulder, and Maxi froze, glancing between the two of you. “Actually, it looks fine,” he said quickly, giving you a hurried smile you assumed was meant to be reassuring. “Uh, Rora and I will go figure out dinner.”

“We will?” Rora opened an eye, and Maxi fixed her with a pointed stare as he picked up the tray he’d brought in with him. She looked between Maxi and Hector, who gave her the slightest jerk of his head towards his bedroom door. “We will,” she said, standing up and popping her back with a sigh. She gave you a dry smile. “Don’t worry, sweetpea. It’s a quick learnin’ curve.”

Maxi was holding the door open, waiting for Rora to leave before he glanced back to Hex. “…Do you actually want me to call FT?” he added quietly, glancing between you and Hector. “Because I’m sure they’re probably done for the day, or nearly.”

“C’mon, you were gonna call them anyway.” Hex gave him a knowing smirk. “...But sure.” He nodded, as if thinking this over. He looked between you and Maxi himself. “Might be nice.”

Maxi nodded, giving you a last reassuring half-smile, before slipping quietly from the room and closing the door behind him.

You could feel the confusion etched on your brow. You’d met Maxi’s partner before, of course - it was inevitable, with the pair of you spending so much time at the house - but you couldn’t help but wonder what they had to do with all this. What had the others meant, that these… things, could show up on their own time?

You wondered what the fluttering was next to your own pulse, feeling so rapid it was almost like a second panic that wasn’t yours.

You looked to Hector, worried — only to see him staring at your bandage with wide, liquid eyes.

“Hex?”

He met your gaze, looking like a sick little boy caught out of bed with the dark circles under his eyes. “…I would’ve done this different,” he said at last, his voice slightly raspy as the day seemed to be catching up with him too. He reached up with a finger, tracing the edge of the bandage as lightly as possible. “I would’ve waited for it to show up on its own, Querida, I swear. I know you’re mine,” he added in a hush, his eyes back on yours with a new softness to them. “I know it as sure as I know the Veil. As the stars in the sky.” He smiled, and you saw a flicker of his usual self. “If these things can just… happen, if they can just bloom on skin… then I would’ve waited. A hundred years, if I had to.” He took your hands gently - almost tentatively - in his, intertwining your fingers. The guilt returned, his eyes darkening. “But that thing felt like it wanted to tear me in half.” He shook his head. “And I couldn’t… if it got to you, I wouldn’t have been able to…” He trailed off, turning inward again at the possibility that clearly haunted him.

“Hey.” You pulled your hand loose to reach up, running your fingertips lightly through his beard and watching the tension in his forehead relax as his eyes closed. You waited until he opened them again, cupping his cheek. “You said it yourself: you made a call.” You gave him the best smile you could. “And I trust you, Hex. I do,” you emphasized, seeing him grimace. “I know you would’ve only done… this,” you gestured to the bandage, the thrumming still present underneath. “If you thought it would keep me safe.”

“That’s all I wanted,” Hex said quietly. His now-free arm wound around your waist, pulling you flush to him. He leaned down to kiss your forehead, lingering there for a long moment.

You closed your eyes, enjoying the contact… and froze, feeling the thrumming in your neck slowing down. The longer the two of you stood there, the slower it became, until it moved like a weird echo of your own heart.

“…What,” you started, swallowing your nerves down. Hex leaned back so you could see his face, and you met his eyes. “…What does it do, though?”

Hex studied you for what felt like an age before he gave you a smile you couldn’t quite read — something adoring, and yet at the same time, the tiniest bit melancholy. “It means you’re mine, Preciosa.” He let it hang for a moment. “It means no one can hurt you… but me,” he added, almost as a whisper. His eyes were sharp, and his grip around your waist tightened. “And I swear to you, I would—“

“Die first,” you finished for him, holding his gaze. “I know, Hex.” You leaned up, kissing the end of his nose — and watching his face melt into an expression of relief. “I know.”

You would know much more by the end of the night, the three Morvants and Maxi’s partner fielding your questions over pizza at the kitchen table. The entire time, Hector held on to your hand under the table, squeezing it as if he seemed to know whenever your heart sped up in your chest.

When something thudded ominously upstairs during a quiet portion of the meal, the group of you barely looked up.

There were more pressing matters at hand, now.

[*markiplier voice* IS THIS THE MARK OF ‘87?!

anyway. thank you again for your patience, rosie <3 idk for sure how the whole mark bit will play out in the actual arc coming up, but this was a fun hypothetical for sure. :) it was good to write some spooky shit, I obviously missed it.

thanks to everyone who read this far! sending you sweet dreams ;D]

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morvantmortuary · 2 years

Text

don’t ask me how I’ve been (wip) -

summary: Hex makes an uncomfortable realization about how much you mean to him, with Maxi and Rora’s help.

warnings: faint allusions to past family issues and abuse, but really nothing major.

general: y’know what. I’m having A Day. I just needed to reread the main three being soft to each other, so I hope y’all don’t mind if I share part of an unfinished piece here.

this started as part of a smut request for my poor dear patient friend @bigtiddythanos (sorry buddy :’D), but then Plot showed up and I was like “oh shit I can’t post this until after I start the Querida arc,” but that’s taking way longer than I thought it would and I just. really like this part and I think y’all might too. cross my heart I’ll post the full piece one day (smut and all), but in the meantime, here’s this. we start with Hex’s reader being involved (from his perspective), and they’re meant to be the same person he saw in the car in And Absolutely No One’s Dead. everything else, just roll with me here <3 and as always, if I need to tweak any of Hex’s Spanish, someone give me a shout

You’d mentioned wanting some time off lately, and with everything going on, Hector had to agree you needed it. From where he’d been watching you every night from his car in your driveway, or listening from the bushes near your bedroom window, he felt like he’d eavesdropped on your half of more stressful phone calls from home than usual. Dark, attentive eyes had traced your route pacing around your room while you got bad news, or watched you toss your phone to the end of your bed and cover your face with a pillow after. He wasn’t sure what was going on, exactly, but you’d seemed a little quiet when the two of you hung out face-to-face, and despite his careful questions, you hadn’t exactly been open about whatever it was. Your jobs weren’t exactly helping, either - you came home from your waitstaff shifts exhausted and prone to falling asleep on the couch while the two of you watched a movie or played video games, and even your remote work left you vague and absent-minded during your dinner conversations.

So when you quietly suggested you might go to New Orleans for a couple of days to get your head on straight again and just get some space, he’d been more than understanding.

“Of course, Querida,” he’d said, taking your hand on the table at the hole in the wall bar the two of you were haunting that evening. “You hang out as long as you like, take your time. You want me to stop by your place, water your plants and shit?”

“If you don’t mind?” You’d squeezed his hand back, your smile still tired. “I won’t be gone long, a few days tops, I just... I really need a reset, you know?”

“There’s not much a Hurricane or two won’t fix, believe me.” He’d winked at you just to make you smile. “Or make worse, depending,” he added with a joking shrug. He was tracing the calluses starting to form on your hand with his thumb - nothing deep yet, but just enough that he was starting to notice a difference. You were working too hard. You weren’t letting yourself rest enough.

He couldn’t have that.

“God, that’s the last thing I need.” Your smile faded as you used your free hand to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Ugh. I’m sorry, I don’t want to whine about it while we’re out.”

“It’s not whining.” He shook his head, eyes intense on your hesitant face in the low light of the room. “It’s not, I swear. C’mon, you know you can tell me anything, baby.” He pulled your hand gently to his lips, kissing the back of it. “What’s bothering you, huh? Can I do something for you?” His face was suddenly a parody of indignation. “Is it everyone else who’s madly in love with you? Do I need to challenge some assholes to duels, defend what’s mine?” He grinned as you giggled. “Or am I going to have to escalate it to a dance-off?”

“Fuck off,” you laughed at last, and he felt a wave of relief wash over him, your face a perfect beam of light at golden hour. He hadn’t heard that sound in too long, it felt like. Your smile faded just a little bit as you paused. “It’s just family stuff.” You shrugged half-heartedly. “It’s... complicated. Y’know?”

“God, tell me about it,” Hector muttered, taking a sip of his drink with his free hand. It was only a moment later he realized he’d said that out loud, off your slightly confused expression. “Families are just... hard,” he said quickly, shrugging himself. “It’s like, it always feels like you did something wrong when you’re just trying to do anything at all, right?”

“Exactly,” you said, sighing slightly. You hesitated before taking a long sip of the cocktail in front of you, mulling something over. “One of my older relatives is sick, and my folks won’t get off my back about my whole job situation... they really want me to move back in with them,” you explained, your eyes falling to the table.

Hector had to work for a moment to keep his hand from closing around yours too tightly. You couldn’t go home. Not where he couldn’t follow you, keep you close, keep an eye on you. The very thought pulled at his stomach like hooks in the flesh. “But you’re not gonna, yeah? Like... you wouldn’t want to?” He frowned - the most he was going to let this show externally. “Right?” He didn’t think so; for as much as he’d watched you this week, it seemed like that would be the last thing you wanted. But he’d been wrong before...

“No! God, no,” you shook your head at the very idea. “And let one of your circling admirers at the farmer’s market snatch you up?” You smiled, at least. “No way, babe.”

Hex rolled his eyes before shaking his hair out of them. “I promise I have no idea what you’re talking about, mi amor.”

You rolled your eyes in turn, but playfully. “Yeah, because the cute girl who works at the apiary asks everyone to sample honey off her finger.”

“Hey, I told her that couldn’t be good for business,” Hector pointed out. “And anyway, it tasted way too much like her nail polish, you hardly got the honey flavor at all—” He dissolved into laughter as you swatted his shoulder with your napkin.

“As I was saying,” you managed through your own laugh. Hector immediately sat forward slightly, renewing his hold on your hand, and your smile was warm and bright again. “No, I’m not going anywhere. ...Except for this weekend,” you added, as that was rather the point, originally. You looked at him long and slow, something that he swore still made something in his cells feel like they were all set to flash at once. “You gonna be able to keep yourself busy?” you teased.

“Oh, sure,” Hector shrugged. “I just got the negatives from a shoot I just did, I have a few that still need some developing... my cousins might need a hand with some house renovation stuff, ask me to hold things and look pretty. Plenty to do.” He tried his best to keep a straight face. “Might even look up Bee Girl, ask she ever got all the honey off her hands-- seems like a real problem she has, I’m worried about her.”

“You’re the worst, you know that?” you laughed again, clearly not meaning anything of the sort, and he was reminded for the umpteenth time that day how he’d do anything in this world and the next to hear that sound.

He smirked, his eyes going dark with a different kind of hunger. “You really think so?” His voice was just low enough for you to hear, and as he brought the back of your hand to his lips again, he gave the space between your second and third knuckle a subtle kitten lick.

There it was. The gasp you tried to bite back, the way your pupils dilated deliciously just for him. “Don’t tease if you’re not going to follow through, Hex.” You murmured, raising an eyebrow. “You know the rule.”

He returned it with one of his own, his eyes moving between yours and your lips. “You gonna hold me to it, Preciosa?” He asked, resting his chin on his free hand in a mock gesture of innocence.

It was late enough at night that the staff either didn’t notice or was willing to generously look the other way when you dragged Hector by the collar of his shirt into of the bathroom stalls, his hands somehow on your hip and in your hair and everywhere at the same time, and more than willing when your fingers curled in the collar of his flannel shirt and pulled hard downward so his mouth was redirected to your bare neck.

As one hand worked on unbuttoning your shirt while he pinned your hips against the wall with his, he wondered to himself if going a couple of days solo was going to be harder than he thought.

You’d left the next morning from your apartment, after Hex had been more than happy to haunt your bed in his sweatpants (with his hair up in one of your scrunchies) while you packed your weekender bag. He’d only reluctantly dressed when you did (now moving the scrunchie to his wrist instead) and lingered by your car as you were throwing your stuff in the trunk.

“Okay, I think that’s everything.” You walked over, and he leaned down to kiss you one more time. He felt you relax when he reached up to hold your face, enjoying the feeling of blood in your cheeks under his cool palms. “Thank you, baby,” you murmured, your smile soft and sweet as blue hour when at last you broke away. You held up a copy of your house key, showing it to him before sliding it into the chest pocket of his flannel from yesterday. “Guard this with your life.”

“This one and the next,” Hector promised, doing a lazy, loose version of the Boy Scouts salute. He smiled at your giggle and the way you shook your head, probably chalking it up to his occasional spaciness. He’d tell you at some point. Really, he would. It was almost all he could think about lately, if he was being honest with himself

He just... had some stuff to figure out first, with the mantle and everything. Some pros and cons lists. That kind of thing.

He closed your door for you, leaning down to your open window. “Drive safe - you know no one else fucking can around here.” He rolled his eyes before hesitating a moment, trying to seem casual. “Take your time, relax, enjoy yourself — but like, text me when you get there, maybe?” He didn’t like having you out of lens range anymore. He didn’t know how he did it before, but it felt almost unbearable now. “If you get bored, you can… take photos of your hotel room, or something.” He shrugged, trying to keep a straight face as he pretended nonchalance. “Take photos of you in your hotel room, if you want to. Whatever you’re doing, it’s up to you, I’m cool with anything. Or the hot tub. I’m assuming they have a hot tub, yeah?”

“Hex,” you gave him a stare that was somehow both withering and affectionate. He’d really have to get a shot of it sometime, it was quite interesting in terms of contrast. “I haven’t left my driveway yet, babe.”

“Yeah, I know.” He shrugged again, shoving his hair out of his eyes. “Just doing my job. Boyfriend stuff.” Okay, he was well past ‘casual’ at this point. “Just... be safe, but have fun, okay? Call me if you feel like it.” He finally smiled, unable to help it as he leaned forward to kiss your cheek through your window.

“Oh, I’m absolutely going to call you later when I’m one too many hurricanes in. Trust me.” You gave him a wink, and he was relieved to see you look more like yourself. “Love you. Later.”

“Te amo.” Hector blew you a kiss, only heading for his dad’s old Mustang when you’d pulled out and drove off. He tried to ignore the itching ache behind his eyes as he swore he could feel you getting further away, bouncing his leg for a moment at the stop sign at the end of your street. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? He hadn’t had a lead on a new link in his Chain in weeks, and he didn’t want to go hunting for one now, not when he was going to be thinking about you the whole time--

A honk behind him snapped him out of his thoughts, and he flipped off the driver in his rearview mirror reflexively as he made the turn towards the Mortuary, his mood already darkening.

So this was going to be a miserable couple of days. But whatever, it was cool, he could handle it for you.

He could handle anything for you, if you’d let him.

“Handling it” quickly turned into curling on his side on the couch in the living room in his favorite hoodie and sweats again, flipping through the photos on one of his nicer digital cameras with an annoyed haste. The lighting was wrong in this one, the focus wasn’t where he wanted it to be in the next, he’d gotten ethereal ooze on the lens in another and not realized it — it was like all of them had suddenly gained glaring flaws overnight. He couldn’t understand, he had been more proud of this set than he had in a while when he showed it to you last week. True, you still thought the haze and ectoplasm was some radical special effects work on his part, but he’d been delighted to watch you flip through them yourself, his eyes drinking in every detail of your face, tracking where your gaze went on the screen and where it lingered longest…

With an irritated grunt, Hex set the camera on the ground with prejudice (the closest he could come to throwing it like he really wanted to, without putting himself out a couple grand) and rolled towards the back of the couch, pulling his hood over his head to shield his eyes from the artificial light. The itch had turned to a low burning before finally becoming a throbbing ache, and it felt like too many whispers were in his head at once clamoring for attention, begging to be heard, to be put back, to get just one more chance from someone who could actually sense them —

Hector growled, shoving his face hard into the backrest pillow and squeezing his eyes shut, his hearing cutting out for a minute as he tried to forcibly to shield and ground himself by pushing these specters hard away from his bubble. It was okay. It was fine. You were going to be back in two days, and—

He heard a crash from the prep room below and Maxi’s voice in the closest it ever came to a yell under normal circumstances, cussing up a storm. He heard two more crashes - was he throwing something? - and stomping footsteps heading for the basement stairs. Curious, Hector sat up enough to peer over the arm of the couch, looking towards the kitchen door.

The blood-colored aura that surrounded his cousin in his Sight illuminated the doorway before Maxi actually emerged, his black scrubs spattered with fluid that reeked of chemicals and pulling off the safety goggles and mask he wore over his glasses. “Hex, I swear to god,” he grumbled, tossing them to the floor. “If you make this cadaver sit up one more time and bust their mouth stitches screamin’, I’m going to put you in the back of the hearse and drive you there myself. I have services tomorrow, man!” He gestured frustratedly towards the basement. “You wanna explain to some little old lady why her husband of eighty years looks like he made out with a tiny lawn mower?”

“Whatever, bro, you can fix it.” Hector rolled over as he curled back into a ball. “I’m having a shit day, okay? Cut me some slack.” Seeing Maxi’s aura only reminded him that his own - a deep purple he’d long ago come to think of as Home - was dimmer than usual that day, at times flickering with the weird waves of energy that kept sweeping over him. Could this really all be just because you were gone? Did he have some weird psychic flu he didn’t know existed until now? Had he been jinxed and just didn’t realize?

Hector could hear Maxi sigh, and the elastic sound of him pulling off his latex gloves. “Buddy, just go to New Orleans. You’ll feel better. You don’t need to be layin’ around the House miserable for two days if you don’t have to. …And maybe you’ll stop fuckin’ up my restorations,” he added in a mumble.

“They said they needed a reset, Maxi.” Hector grumbled, trying his best not to sound like he was pouting. Because he wasn’t. Really. …Mostly. “I wanna give them that. It’s not like they can get that if I’m just, like, there and lurking.”

“Hex, you don’t even have to tell them you’re there. Or, hell, do, it doesn’t matter! It’s not like you need a written excuse to be there too, the state’s only so big. Tell ‘em you’re shootin’ the Katrina Memorial for a client or somethin’.” Maxi came around the front of the couch, his hands on his hips in a way that reminded Hex inescapably of Tia Mathilde. “Look, what’s keepin’ you here? This isn’t like you.” He was frowning, though more out of concern than actual annoyance, and Hector could feel his cousin’s eyes carefully searching his face. “You never would’ve just sat around mopin’ in the old days.”

“I thought your whole spiel was that I was a heinous dick in the old days.” Hector glared up at Maxi from under his hood like a cornered fox in a crawlspace, trying to ignore how his aura scratched at the sensitive place behind his eyes.

“You were,” Maxi said flatly, staring down at him. “And I hated your guts, but at least you weren’t a sad lump on our couch makin’ me do twice the work for our only steady income.” He glanced at the antique clock on the wall over Hector’s head before glancing back down at him. “Did you eat this morning?”

Hector paused, thinking backwards. “…They didn’t want me to make them breakfast,” he mumbled into his hoodie. “Said they’d get something on the road, it wasn’t worth the trouble. I just kinda came home after they left.” He shrugged, trying to seem indifferent and not as pathetic as that maybe sounded when he said it out loud.

“Well, there’s half the problem right there,” Maxi muttered to no one in particular. He walked off, leaving Hector to trace the pattern of the rug on the floor listlessly with his eyes in attempt to give them somewhat of a break. A few cabinets opening and closing and one microwave beep later, his view of the carpet was suddenly obscured by a plate of cinnamon rolls Hector himself had made a couple days ago shoved in front of his nose. “Sit up, now.”

Hector sighed, but nonetheless shoved himself up into a slouching sit in the middle of the couch. Maxi thrust the plate into Hector’s lap and flopped down on his left, long legs sprawled in front of him. Hector felt eyes on him again and reluctantly picked up a roll, studying it critically for a minute before taking a bite. Maxi only picked one up as Hector chewed, taking a bite himself.

As the warm sticky frosting coated his tongue, the rest of his body seemed to shake itself out of whatever frustrating stupor it had been in, and he was suddenly aware of how hollow his stomach felt. Hex sat up just a little more, devouring the rest of the roll in two bites before he picked up another and bit into that. He was halfway through a third before he swallowed, glancing to Maxi. “Okay. Fine. Maybe that helped, whatever.”

“You’re welcome,” Maxi snorted, still nibbling on his first. But he sprawled a little more so he was leaning slightly against Hex’s shoulder, his arm draped across the back of the couch. After a moment, Hex slid slightly to fit his shoulder under Maxi’s arm, an echo of a time long past.

“…So what’s the actual problem?” Maxi asked at last, licking icing off his thumb.

Hector picked up another cinnamon roll, frowning again as the taste seemed to turn sour on his tongue. “…They didn’t actually invite me along, bro.” He mumbled this like it was a secret he was afraid of having overheard, despite them being the only living people in the room. “I don’t wanna, like… be weird and crowd them, yknow? Especially not… not right now.” He gestured frustratedly in front of them. “If I give them any reason to pull back, I’m fucked.” Just the idea of going backwards with you made him feel slightly sick — having followed you for so long after first sighting you, and then trying to catch your eye in return? Only to lose your daily chats and check-ins and the stupid inside jokes that only made sense to the two of you? The threat gnawed at him deep, and he shivered at the feeling of the oncoming wave, swallowing hard to try to ground himself again.

“Dude, what—?” Maxi sat up a little, watching Hector with a concerned frown —

As the ceiling lamp flickered ominously overhead before sputtering into darkness, a power surge humming through the whole house and knocking lights out as it went.

“Oh, shit.” Maxi looked from the light to Hector, eyes wide in the living room’s late morning dimness. “Okay. I see your point.”

There was the sound of a door flying open on the second floor, and light footsteps with an odd gait marching towards the banister that overlooked the living room.

“Who the fuck,” Rora demanded, leaning over the wooden railing,“was that?” In Hector’s eyes, she looked for a moment like a really pissed green fairy, her energy crackling with irritation. She pushed the heavy magnifying goggles she was wearing onto her head, her hair sticking out around them. “I’m working with a bat skeleton for a commission in here, this is a highly delicate procedure! I can’t just find whole ones lyin’ around anywhere, you know!”

“Sorry,” both men called back in unison. Rora sighed, turning on her heel back to her room and muttering under her breath the whole way.

“…Wait, what are you apologizing for?” Hector turned, raising an eyebrow at Maxi.

Maxi shrugged with a sheepish smile. “Force of habit, really.”

A minute later, the footsteps returned, quickly turning onto the stairs and descending in their strange staccato pattern. Eventually, Rora made her way into the living room, still glowing green for Hector and flouncing irritatedly onto the couch on his other side. She leaned her whole back against his shoulder, snatching a cinnamon roll off the plate in his lap and taking a ravenous bite. “What the fuck is your problem, anyway?”

“…Good mornin’ to you too, Rorabelle,” Maxi glanced at her over his glasses, ducking forward when Rora reached around Hector to try to whack the back of his head at the hated nickname. He sat up again like this was something they did every day. Which it had been, once. A long time ago. “Hex’s Obsession is spendin’ a solo weekend in New Orleans.”

“Mm. Unfortunate.” Rora licked icing off her fingertips. “I’d hate to have that problem. Glad I don’t.”

“Puta.” Hector nudged Rora affectionately between her shoulder blades before taking a strand of her hair and twirling it absently around his finger, watching her specific color of bright green intermingle with his vaguely swirling purple. Rora said nothing in response, but leaned her head back against Hector’s shoulder to stare at the ceiling. Hector tilted his head so his cheek rested against Rora’s skull, his knee knocking against Maxi’s as he at last relaxed a little more. Maxi nudged him back with his leg, the arm he had slung over the back of the couch now almost protectively curled around them both.

For a moment, the three of them could have easily been teenagers again, bored on the couch during a quiet weekend at the House.

Cushioned on both sides by his cousins, Hector thought about how he’d had to go without this - the only soft closeness he’d ever known from the family he grew up with - for decades. How he’d thought it was lost to him forever, with Rora dead and he and Maxi irreconcilable after a bad trip in Oaxaca.

But here they were, patterns broken left and right around them in what had been a house of horrors. Who would have thought the last ones standing would’ve been the generation of fuck-ups, as the rest of the family had called them for so long?

He glanced over at Maxi, wondering if he ever thought about that too. How there had been every reason for it not to be them. How easy it would’ve been for each of them to stay dead or broken or worse.

Maxi’s eyes were half-lidded behind his glasses, his expression the most relaxed Hector had seen him outside of his Final Them’s company. At last, his eyes moved to Hector’s, and a small crooked smile with a tinge of melancholy pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Hector’s question was immediately answered, and returned the half-smile with one of his own before he looked back to Rora’s hair. His smile faded somewhat as the anxious heaviness returned to his stomach, remembering where you were.

“…We don’t know for sure they’re my Obsession, though.” He frowned slightly, the uncertainty gnawing at him again under his ribs. If it wasn’t you, he didn’t know who else it could be, with the aches like this as intense as they were when you left. But then there were the implications of what that meant for you, if you were. What it meant for him, with the mantle in arm’s reach. “I don’t think I’ve left a mark on them. Or at least, I haven’t noticed one.” And he most assuredly would’ve, considering he’d seen quite a lot of you the night before.

“Mine didn’t show up until later, remember?” Maxi stretched idly, popping his neck with a slight wince. “We don’t exactly have a schedule for those.”

Hector made a non-committal noise, eyes still on the soft black of Rora’s hair as she seemed to almost doze on his shoulder in her perfect stillness.

“Look,” Maxi bumped his own shoulder slightly against Hector’s, forcing his attention back to him. “Tell me what it feels like when they’re not around. Like, physically.”

Hector squirmed slightly, trying to put the sensations into words almost making them more pronounced. “…I have, like, this ache behind my eyes, right? It just started as an itch when I was in their driveway - I thought it was allergies,” he explained. “But now it’s almost a… burning?” He blinked experimentally, wincing regretfully immediately after. “Like, not in my eyes themselves, but just like… I don’t know. A weird headache.”

“Try masturbatin’ less.” Rora said without opening her eyes. She was forced to sit up when Hector nudged her hard in retaliation, and she stubbornly curled against his side to face them both, folding her arms. “What? They always used say it’d make you go blind.”

“Thank you, Rora.” Maxi sighed. He looked back to Hector. “…Not gonna lie, though, that’s a new one.” His brow cinched together in thought. “What else?”

“I don’t know, I just feel… sick,” Hex shrugged. “It’s like I can’t focus on anything for shit no matter what it is, my stomach keeps aching but I’m not hungry or nauseous, and I’m just, like…” Hector gesticulated with even more frustration, curling his fingers into claws.

“You’re tired but you don’t want to sleep, you’re hit by random fits of just wantin’ to hack shit to pieces for no reason, and you’re so desperate to see ‘em you’re close to refreshin’ every app they’re on for hours, right?” Maxi drawled, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Hector blinked again (and winced again), a little unnerved to have it described so clearly. It was only when Maxi’s lips pressed together in a grim line that it clicked. “…Fuck,” he groaned, his head falling back against the couch. His hands immediately flew to cover his face, wishing for a moment of blessed darkness. Fuck was an understatement, honestly. Considering it a possibility was one thing, but having it more or less confirmed?

“Sorry, bud.” Maxi mumbled. “…Or congrats, dependin’.” He tilted his head to take his cousin in. “I wasn’t sure which way you were leanin’, these days.”

“Wait, so it is them?” Rora sat up straight, looking between the two. “Is that what’s been knockin’ the lights out?”

“And putting souls back in dead flesh.” Maxi sucked the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. “It’s your powers tryin’ to adjust. It’s like hiccups - comes in waves.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Mine was my hands. The joints just burned like hell for a few days after the first time I told Darlin’ I loved them. As in, really told them.” Maxi flexed the fingers of his left hand reflexively. “Thought I was gettin’ carpal tunnel until my sparks kept makin’ my septuagenarians look about sixty.” He paused for a moment. “…That probably explains all the good reviews I was gettin’ that week, now that I think about it.”

Rora frowned, her hand absently drifting over where her host’s faded Y-incision still lingered on her chest, but said nothing.

“…What the fuck, man.” Hector’s hands fell into his lap. “I thought I just missed them really bad. Fuck.”

“You do.” Maxi said, shrugging sympathetically. “Except it’s amplified, now. You’ve found someone who enhances your gift, more or less. You got used to havin’ them around, got used to a certain level of available energy to tap into, and now when they leave you’re back to where you were and the rest of you notices.”

Hector folded his arms tight across his chest, trying to find some relief in the pressure there. Maxi and Rora seemed to notice this, both of them leaning a little harder against Hector’s sides without a word. It was an old habit the three of them had developed in their youth, after particularly rough days of ‘preparations,’ as Vincent had so delicately termed them - Maxi and Hector often pitted against one another for practice with their own abilities, with Hector sometimes having trouble staying in his own body after, and Rora frequently left alone for hours at a time.

“…It doesn’t have to be what it was,” Maxi reminded him quietly, nudging Hector’s ribs with his elbow. “We know that now, right?”

“You know that.” Hector muttered. “You knew you didn’t want…” He waved a hand listlessly towards the basement. But he did. He had for so long, now. It had been so much of what he used to pull himself up again, every time he’d been forced to run and start over. The idea that there would be a payoff to the agony - the security that came with power, in exchange for decades of blood, sweat, and torment.

Out of the corner of his eye, the energy that usually surrounded Rora in his Sight suddenly burned all the brighter, thrumming with excitement despite her subdued silence. If he was out of the running, and Maxi had abdicated his own eligibility, she had a clear shot to the mantle. She was the only remaining candidate.

But if he wasn’t out of the running, what did that mean for you?

He had to be out, right? The choice was obvious.

…Or was it?

“Fuck.” Hector stood up suddenly, running his hands backwards through his hair so hard his fingers tangled in it and pulled. “Fuck, I need… some air, I dunno.” He had to get out of the House, get out of town — get away from everything. Get so far out in the middle of nowhere he couldn’t hear or see shit that nobody else could, even if just for a little bit.

After a pause, Maxi got to his feet as well, worrying his lip in his teeth. “…I might have somethin’ that could help with that.”

“What died in here?” Rora looked around the garage with her delicate nose deeply wrinkled.

Hector had to agree, resisting the urge to pull his hoodie up over his nose. The garage hadn’t escaped Maxi’s manic cleaning streak: the concrete floor was relatively clean, the walls obviously re-painted a couple years ago at most, and not a single cobweb or hornet’s nest could be seen in the corners of the room. Off to one side was a relatively barren wooden workbench, with tools mounted carefully on wall hooks around it in some organization system that wasn’t immediately obvious by sight alone. Hex could have sworn he remembered a lot more boxes when they were younger - they had seemed piled endlessly high at the time, making fantastic hiding places for Hide and Seek on long summer afternoons (provided the seeker didn’t forget to look for you all the way out here). What boxes remained were carefully sorted into piles, with Maxi’s careful handwriting down the sides.

But there was still a malingering odor of decay, flesh that had aged beyond its mortal limitations - due to water, if his nose was right. Something that had sunk into the cement itself, underneath the layers of paint and bleach he knew someone as careful as his cousin applied liberally. Unlike himself, he knew if Maxi was paranoid about anything, it was getting caught because he’d been messy. Hex had always considered it a drag, really - what was the point of partaking in the beauty of Death if you couldn’t indulge in some artistic viscera?

“You’re bein’ dramatic, it’s not nearly that bad. And to answer your question, it was about two-thirds of your taxidermy from high school,” Maxi shot back as he moved through a set of large, bulky shapes under tarps parked in the middle of the floor. “It flooded in here the summer after you died, and Dad and I ended up chuckin’ a whole Disney movie’s worth of stuffed woodland creatures we didn’t know you had. Never did get the smell out.” He gave her an annoyed look over his glasses. “You were deeply disturbed, you know that? How many different ways can you crucify chipmunks?”

Rora tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Teenage girls need an outlet for their emotions, Maxi Pad. I was havin’ a crisis of faith. And anyway,” she folded her arms. “I only crucified them after they were dead.”

Hector fought to stifle a laugh, but she caught his gaze before he could totally wipe it off his face. The two of them exchanged a smirk, and his heart warmed despite the roiling in his gut. That was the girl he’d known and missed for so long. He still reveled even now in having her back.

“I’m sure Mother would’ve been relieved, if she weren’t catatonic.” Maxi rolled his eyes before walking to a board mounted on the wall next to the fuse box. Hector followed, curious. It wasn’t often they had a need to come out here, with most of their day and night work taking place in the basement enforced by generations of stubborn death magic. He didn’t even know there was still stuff here that wasn’t moldering and twenty years old.

The board was simply a cork board with pushpins inserted at even intervals, each holding a different set of keys with the corresponding label written underneath in black marker. Hex sighted keys for the different gates around the property, one for the sealed door under the abandoned church that led back to the sub-basement, the copy of the key to the cemetery near the property line… and four more underneath, all mysteriously unlabeled.

Maxi picked the second to the right of the unlabeled keys before turning back to Hector. “…So you have to remember,” he began, in his ‘I’m about to tell you something you might hate’ voice he saved for aggravated clients. “I thought you were never comin’ back for a while, there.”

Hector frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I mean,” Maxi rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d just come back from Oaxaca,” he said slowly, with a meaningful eyebrow raise. “And you’d just left this here when we went down, and after… well, everything, I thought, ‘hell, there’s no way he’s comin’ back to get this now, and it’d be a sin to just let it languish’.” He shrugged. “But then I couldn’t bring myself to sell it, either.”

Hector’s brow furrowed and he looked between the keys in Maxi’s hand and Maxi, trying to do time travel math in his head. “…Wait a minute.” He paused, looking at the large objects covered in tarps. “…You don’t mean you still have—“

“I do,” Maxi sighed, walking over to the smaller of the objects and pulling the tarp off. “But you can’t hate me, because I had some adjustments made.”

Hector recognized the lines of the motorcycle immediately - he’d spent hours poring over it in his early twenties, restoring it himself, polishing it obsessively. He’d driven it up here after Vincent died from his mom’s place in Nogales, his first time back stateside in years. After he and Maxi had fallen out for a while, one of his deepest regrets had been leaving it parked in the Mortuary garage.

However, there was a key difference. “You had Baby painted black?!” Hector looked at him, his jaw slack in hurt and betrayal. “Maxi, what the fuck?”

“I know, I know,” Maxi winced, passing him the keys. “I was pretty pissed off and I wasn’t thinkin’ straight, I’m sorry.” To his credit, his aura wobbled around him slightly in what seemed like genuine guilt.

“…Hijo de puta,” Hector muttered, running a hand over the (admittedly obviously well-kept) chassis. “You knew I loved that goddamn teal.” He shot Maxi a look that would’ve been more venomous if he’d had the energy. He frowned, inspecting the bike now with a dissecting gaze. “…These aren’t my original mirrors, either.”

“Yeah, that’s my fault too.” Maxi sighed, folding his arms. “I tried to get them as close as I could, I promise.”

“What, you clip them with the hearse or something?” Hector looked up, annoyed.

“No, I crashed one night comin’ back from New Orleans. I was tailin’ some—“

“You rode Baby?!” Hector’s look of betrayal returned.

Maxi threw his hands up. “Well hell, Hector, what was I supposed to do? Let her sit there and rot?!”

“You can drive a motorcycle?” Rora raised an eyebrow, piping up for the first time in a while. “Well look at you, Maxi, doin’ stuff.”

“I was alive for twenty years after you died, Ror, I learned to do a lot of shit.” Maxi glanced at her before looking back to Hector. “Point is, she still runs like a dream, and I thought maybe she’d help you… sort some stuff out.” He stepped back, his arms folded less defensively and more hesitantly. “Y’know. Get your head on straight.”

Hector stared at Maxi for a long moment before looking back to the bike, exhaling all his frustration with his dumbass goth-adjacent cousin through his nose. His palm ran affectionately over Baby’s hand clutch, and the longer he stood there, the nicer being able to speed down the highway with only the company of the afternoon sun sounded. “…Yeah.”

Maxi brightened, hopeful. “Yeah?”

Hector fumbled with the keys in his left hand, thinking it over before, at last, nodding. “Yeah.” He glanced back to his two cousins. “I’m gonna throw some shit in a bag and drive out for a night. See where I end up.”

“Oh, like it’s even a question.” Rora rolled her eyes. She headed back for the garage door, her shoulder brushing Hector’s as she passed. “Just text someone when you get to New Orleans, okay? So we know we don’t have to switch to the ouija board?”

The two men watched her go before they looked back to each other, alone again. “…Look,” Maxi said at last, trying to smile. “Just go easy on yourself, okay? You don’t… have to decide anythin’ tonight. Or hell, even this week. This month.”

Hector snorted softly. “You knew immediately, didn’t you.” He looked down at the gleaming paint of Baby’s gas tank again, seeing his purple sparkling in the reflection. “It wasn’t even a question when yours showed up.”

“Well… yeah.” Maxi said quietly. “But we’ve always wanted different things, Hex. You know that.”

“But all that stuff you said before,” Hector said, looking up at last. “How you had to be a monster of even thinking about making the trade.” The person you loved more than anything for total power over death itself. The center of your life for the driving force of all lives.

You were worth nothing less to him. It seemed only fair that the price for sacrificing something so good could be something that tarnished what was left of his soul irrevocably.

…But he was so close, now. The closest he’d ever been in his entire life to the one true thing he ever thought he wanted.

Maxi hesitated, clearly torn… before, at last, quietly sighing. “…Wherever you land, Rora, F.T., and I will be here. I might not… understand, totally, dependin’,” he said slowly. “But you can come home.” He met Hector’s gaze evenly, his red nearly opaque in its steadfastness, and Hector knew how much he meant it. “And we’ll figure it out together. Okay?”

Hector felt the corner of his mouth curl upwards. “Man,” he looked away a minute, taking a breath. “When did we get so fucking soft?” He shook his head before looking back to Maxi with a wry grimace. “Our dads would’ve beat us stupid if they could hear us talking about feelings and shit. Like it’s even a question.”

“We wised up to the fact that we didn’t have to fall for the shit our dads did,” Maxi said, and he was so deathly serious about it Hector had to blink.

Maxi shrugged - more rolled his shoulders, as if to shake something off them - as he studied Baby’s glossy black paint a bit too closely. “We saw what they gave up, what it got them. And it wasn’t worth the blood, to say nothin’ of the tears.” When his eyes flicked back to meet his, Hex couldn’t help but be eerily reminded of the twins’s mom again. “If we were already the fuck-ups,” he went on, an echoing wryness appearing in a grim smile. “Why would we bother livin’ up to expectations now?”

Hector stared at Maxi, unsure if the feeling of something being slowly tugged out from under the soles of his feet was from the weird side effects of the Curse or something else. Before he could open his mouth, Maxi had grabbed one of his shoulders and tugged him into an awkward side-hug, all gangly arms and elbows.

“Love you, asshole.” he mumbled.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hex could see the colors of Maxi’s red swirling: the jet of two decades of anger, the softer apple shades of a childhood spend in the same dusty corners of the ancient house. The stalwart burgundy of being stuck together in the the basement on their worst nights of “Preparations.” They were all there, making up the different facets of the blood-colored bubble that wrapped around his own deep purple like a blanket. Like a shield.

Hex felt a laugh bubble up from somewhere in his chest, wrapping his arm around Maxi’s torso and squeezing tightly. “You too, pendejo.”

The two parted after a moment, Hex shaking his hair out of his eyes, Maxi pushing his back away from his eyes. “Call me if... I don’t know,” he shrugged, gesturing loosely to Hector. “You’ll know when to call me.”

“Yeah.” Hex nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets, already making a list in his mind of what he’d need to grab from his room.

“And Rora was right, text us when you get there,” Maxi added, looking back as he started heading back in the direction of the prep room.

“Alright, alright,” Hex rolled his eyes, not unkindly. “...Wish me luck,” he added, somewhat more quietly as he looked back at Baby’s saddlebags.

“You won’t need it,” Maxi said over his shoulder. “You’ll know.”

Hex held out a hand, staring at the unsettling oscillations of his own purple at the edges of his skin.

He could only hope his cousin was right.

(thanks for humoring me, gang <3 if you read this far, I’m sending you a huge hug!)

#morvant mortuary #hector morvant-casares #hector emile morvant-casares #hex morvant-casares #maxi morvant #maximilian vincent morvant #aurore morvant #rora morvant #aurore maria morvant #hector morvant-casares x reader #hector morvant-casares x you #hector and his reader #hector’s querida #diego luna fc #slasher oc #necromancer oc #monsterkisser fics

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morvantmortuary · 2 years

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first of all, omg, that maxi garter ask was so sexy, BUT it did make me wonder oddly enough about like…how the morvants get off in a sense? especially with the way you talked about how maxi’s person would be stuck in their head 24/7 or listening to them get off while spying on them 😳😵‍💫

So sorry this took me eons, nonny. :’D I hope you don’t mind me using it now as a way to kick off the things I’m trying to clear out of my askbox, after y’all have been so kind and patient through my exams.

so, I've been turning this over since you asked - since it's such a very good question, after all - and while I think I've maybe made a couple one-off comments here and there, I don't think I'd really gotten a chance to ponder it in-depth.

(nsf tumblr under the cut. yandere/stalker/possessive behavior from the three serial killer necromancers, surprise surprise)

All the Morvants are fine getting themselves off, to some degree. Maxi and Hex are both fairly comfortable with it, Maxi thinking he was going to die alone in that fucking House for ages because he couldn't stand the thought of bringing someone there he actually liked, Hex because he spent so long in tunnel vision pursuit of his latest favorite prey/next link in his Chain that he got pretty used to seeing people casually just being one more thing that held him up. Rora has a more complicated relationship with it after death, but we'll get to that.

All three of them would usually rather be with a partner than handling things themselves, so to speak, but in a pinch, if it works it works. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

In writing this, it became less a question about how they get off in general and more about the first time they get off to You, specifically, bc you're usually going to be the thing that tempts them to action if you're not around. Although they usually all tend to be around you in some way or another, even if you don't realize it at the time.

Maxi spends weeks after that first afternoon in the cemetery trying to keep his cool. He spends his days working with people in sensitive states of grief, or performing procedures on their late loved ones that have to meet very specific standards, he cannot afford to be distracted. Ever. But the more time the two of you start spending together, the more he finds himself spacing out at odd moments thinking about the way your favorite scent smells on your skin, or the way you playfully nudged him when he made a particularly bad death pun, and how it was some of the first human contact he’s genuinely enjoyed in a while. When the moment you bit your lip when you were thinking about a question he asked you plays over and over in his brain for what feels like hours one day, he realizes just how much he’s actually into you, and it truthfully scares him just a little bit. It’s been a while. He’s gotten used to doing this alone. This could complicate things considerably.

But he has eyes, he knows you're gorgeous in a way that appeals to him in particular. It's not like he didn't look you over once or twice when you weren't looking even the first time you met, as much as he was trying to be a gentleman. Eventually, the more he likes you, he starts thinking about you whenever he's alone. The particular set of your lips, the light in your eyes when you say something clever, the glint of sweat on your collar bone on an especially warm afternoon. The first time you kiss that man, he's done for. He finally cracks when he's in his office later that night and has to hastily jerk off under his desk, just so he can get the way your chest pressed against his in the moment off his mind and finish some fucking paperwork with a clear head. When he can finally think straight, he's annoyed with himself and the literal mess on his hands for letting himself be so impatient, but when you're as starved for affection and touch as he is by that point, obsessing over someone he likes as much as you feels inevitable. And it will be, although he doesn't realize quite how Literally yet.

After that, he tries to only get himself off when he's safely alone in his room - but the thought of you refuses to leave him be. He catches himself looking for you whenever he's running errands in town, hoping for even just a glimpse outside of your next planned get-together. More than once, he makes up a reason to drive past your house, just to see if you're home or busy in your yard or whatever flimsy weird excuse he concocts. He starts getting desperate the more he realizes he really, really likes you: he checks your socials constantly whenever he has a break at the Mortuary, wanting to see what you're doing and who you're with; he combs your goodreads or something similar if you have one to see what books you have in common, or what favorites you mention that he can find later and read himself; he quietly keeps tabs on your spotify once he finds out what it is (to see what mood you might be in, if you're doing okay, all definitely Normal People Stuff). He finds himself straight up laying on the prep table when he's not using it in the embalming room, listening to the music you listened to for ages and trying to retrace what he imagines your thought process to be. He wonders, when he listens to a particularly romantic song, if you’re thinking of him, because he feels like he’s always thinking of you now.

There’s at least once, and he would be mortified if anyone else ever found out, where he can’t help himself and makes himself come while imagining you riding him against the cold flat steel. He scrubs everything down obsessively after and immediately showers in a fit of pique and shame, but there’s some part of him surrounded by steam and soap and the smell of bleach on his hands that still likes the idea.

When he realizes he's In Deep, he realizes early, and he's doing his best to balance indulging in his fantasies/hopes of finally getting you alone, trying to keep his stalking urges under control, and justifying excuses to track you down to himself with trying to stay a reasonable fucking person for you, because he doesn't ever want to scare you off or give you a reason to not trust him, ever. You're the closest he's felt to a home in ages -- if he lost that, he really would go insane. He adores you, he’d do anything for you to the point of pain or death, and it kills him not to know how much you reciprocate.

He spends more and more time between your dates just chasing breadcrumbs of you: he keeps a small list in his phone of things you mention in conversation, either when you’re together or just texting, that he searches as soon as he’s closed the embalming room for the night. Any word of yours is fodder for him to look, to read, to investigate. He has audio versions of your favorite books that he listens to while he’s repairing a shattered skull (saves him from having to hear the guy’s ghost muttering in his ear); he has a playlist of songs and artist you’ve said you liked that he listens to as he does laundry at one in the morning; his search history is a running tab of things you even half-heartedly mention you like. He’s definitely watched at least a season of your favorite show when he can’t sleep (the whole thing, if he liked it too), and whenever he picks up flowers for his services at Della’s (the town’s oldest florist), he gives different ones a quiet sniff when he’s not looking, trying to figure out which ones feature in any scent you wear.

But the longer he spends with you, the more it’s just not enough, until finally, he catches himself standing at your front door with his lockpick when he's sure you're away from your place. He checks your doors, your windows, wanting to make sure you're safe from everyone else, and finally, the darker voices inside him howling in his brain, he walks into your room and immediately snatches up in the t-shirt you slept in last night that you left on your floor this morning. When he forces himself to leave your place, he kidnaps it, fairly certain he hadn't seen you wear it anywhere else before and hoping it won't be missed. He makes himself come multiple times that night with one hand holding it over his nose and mouth like a gag, at this point not even trying to pretend he's being remotely sane about how badly he wants you. It's as deep in him as blood and bone at this point, just as undeniable, essential. He keeps it under his pillow when he sleeps, dreaming of you, tossing and turning for the first time in decades when he doesn’t find you there next to him after all.

If you or his clients think he looks oddly tired, you are kind enough not to mention it to him.

Before you've ever stayed the night with him, he's hidden himself under your bed multiple times - whenever he was worried about you, or hadn't seen you in a few days, whenever your spotify alluded to some storm of sadness you hadn’t told him about. Whenever he craved the nearness of you that he had no right to claim yet. There’s a part of him that doesn’t deserve to be anywhere near you, he knows this. But the dark voice in his head is relentlessly demanding in its clench-toothed growl: Mine.

It was these nights that he learns you crave him just as much, with the sheer number of times he hears you fuck yourself senseless on a toy, or your fingers with a brutal pace he desperately craves to match, whining his name breathlessly into the dark of your room where he cannot answer. He resists the urge until his hands positively burn, trying to allow you this, this one single act for yourself... but the way you plead so sweetly for him, it takes everything in him not to crawl up onto your mattress and pin you down to give you exactly what you’re begging for. He bites his own lip until it bleeds more than once, trying to keep silent as he desperately ruts against his palm until he comes with you in the closest way he can, for now. But he won’t dare touch you until you ask him to outside your room, and even then, he’ll only come back here with you when he’s absolutely sure you’ll have him. It’s only after he ruins two of his lighter pairs of suit pants that he realizes he has to just stick to sweats or jeans when he crashes under your bed, just out of practicality (and not having to explain things to his dry cleaner).

He gets a little bolder after these agonizing nights under your bed about stealing a kiss when the two of you are out, or sliding his hand under your shirt and up your side when you’re making out on your couch, or in the hearse, wherever. He’s still near-reverential of your boundaries, and he’s the one who suggested taking things slow. But if you notice he’s a little needier after you’ve enjoyed a particularly fun fantasy alone, you’re just excited that the two of you seem to have more in common than you first suspected - especially when he pins you just inside the door to your place, pulling your clothes and finally your underwear aside as he kneels in front of you, like you’d been dreaming about the night before. There’s definitely a date or two that ends with his fingers or his tongue on you in a way that makes you whine, and even if you do reciprocate in the moment, when he’s alone in the middle of the night he’s only really thinking about the sounds you made as he makes himself come repeatedly in his dark bedroom.

If you start to notice some clothes seemingly disappearing from your laundry more often - first an old shirt you only wore sometimes, then the one you wore on your most recent date, and finally, weirdly, your second favorite pair of Nice underwear - you chalk it up to forgetfulness or a wonky dryer trap.

Your first time together, once the two of you have been obviously pining for each other more than usual, he cares for you like you’re something achingly precious, giving you everything you’d fantasized about all those nights you’d thought you were alone in your room. He’s half out of his mind from finally getting what he wants, and he’s determined to give you exactly what you want in return, now that he knows how. Knows he can, which he’d been afraid of for a little while - that you would find something in him wanting, the touch of Death too overpowering to find enough foundation for a life. You’re left gasping, near tears with overstimulation from everything he puts you through, and you refuse to let go of each other for the rest of the night. Something in you sings, and you feel at home for the first time in an age.

Maxi sleeps with his arms wrapped around your waist, pressing his chest to your back and keeping his nose buried in your hair. It is the first time he doesn’t toss or turn in a month.

When you’re together, and all of this is out in the open, he still gets himself off sometimes when he catches himself thinking of you. He’s just more inclined, when possible, to seek the real thing for himself - he knows that his imagination isn’t a substitute by a long shot.

Ever the gentleman, he’s more than happy to return the clothes he ‘borrowed’ from you eventually. Except for that first t-shirt - that he saves for the rare nights his nocturnal activities keep him away from you. A little piece of home, just in case.

Hector’s urges aren’t quite so linear. When he first sees you, it could be anywhere in Greymoon: at the weekend market, in the window of the local cafe or diner, or wandering through a little local shop. Maybe even just taking a walk through the cemetery, drawn in by the quiet feeling of company even when you think you’re all alone.

His lens will be his eyes, for a while. He’ll watch you through it like you’re merely a passing spectacle, struck by something about you he cannot name. The sunlight on your hair, the way you smile at whoever you’re talking to. Even the way you look down at your phone is fodder enough for his inner muse, and he wonders what secret joke makes your mouth quirk up like that at the corner. There’s something to you he must unravel, or piece together. He likes the way you look in the center of his frame - you wear it almost like a mantle.

So he starts to follow you before either of you have ever exchanged a word. For a while, it’s quiet. He wants to get a feel for you, see you in your natural habitat. He wants to understand your comings and goings as pieces of the larger intricate choreography that is your life. You are something separate from him still, something entirely ephemeral. You could be as distant as a sunrise, yet more captivating in the fact that you’re alive.

The first time he thinks of you when he’s getting himself off, it’s late at night in his darkroom and he’s more bored and restless than anything. This is just trying to get his brain to shut up, to make himself feel rooted in his skin again after being in the House for too long so he can focus.

It’s only when the thought of you fleetingly crosses his mind - your skin, your lips, the way sunlight at golden hour looks in your eyes - that he feels something so electric pass through him, it only takes a couple more passes of his hand for him to leave a mess quite by accident on the darkroom floor.

Panting, slightly dazed, he wonders what that was all about. It’s been a while since he’s had someone who… inspired that particular reaction, in him. Even as he’s looking for something to clean up the mess, he’s already thinking of what day it is tomorrow - where he usually sees you during this time of the week.

He wants a closer look, now. To see if maybe this would be interesting to chase.

The next day, when you wander in to the cafe for your usual morning cup of coffee, you about jump out of your skin when there’s a particularly bright-eyed man suddenly standing next to you at the counter. He laughs and apologizes immediately, offers to pay for the cup he about made you spill - but there’s a gleam in his dark eyes like he knows something you don’t. A joke he’ll let you in on, eventually.

Nonetheless, he’s charming, he’s more than cute, and by the time you realize you’re running half an hour late for whatever it was you were actually on your way to, he’s more than happily given you his number.

When you text him a couple days later, just to say hi, that’s all he needs. This is a Sign.

Maxi and Hex are both adept at finding people through social media breadcrumbs - it’s been both a necessity and something to do when they’re bored over the years - but Hex is the one who’s been learning how to brute-force a password during his years in Mexico, remotely accessing other people’s stuff when he needs to keep an eye on them. The Internet of Things is everywhere, now, and people are pretty routine creatures when it comes to things like this. He’s weirdly proud when it takes him more than a couple conversations to figure out what one of yours might be, having run through all the basic clues already - he likes that in a person. He drinks in your private data like it’s water, leaving no metaphorical stone unturned. Clearly, your essence called out to him for a reason, he’s determined to find it.

Turns out you take some beautiful photos yourself, when you’re in the mood. He has quite a bit of fun with those, alone in his bedroom on the second floor. On the nights sleep is particularly evasive, he wears himself out thinking of exactly how your thighs would feel wrapped around his back, or resting on his shoulders. It becomes a favorite ritual in the evenings, especially once he gets to know you better in the daylight.

After every outing together - starting simple, just a walk around the weekend farmer’s market, then another coffee at the usual place - he immediately goes home to check what you’re texting your friends about him or what mushy posts you confine to your drafts, what songs you throw on your music app before and after. He grins to himself the first time he sees you search a song he mentioned in conversation, and he starts doing it at least once every time he sees you after, trying to see how many times he leaves an impression.

He makes sure to park the mustang very strategically when he starts watching your windows, only when it’s dark and only when he’s sure he’s mostly obscured by the fixtures of your yard. More than once, as you’ve been getting changed for the night, he’s definitely had to palm himself through his jeans to take the edge off until he couldn’t take it anymore.

The first time he’s the intended recipient of one of your photos, he sees it on his laptop before he actually sees it on his phone, and he’s hooked. He can’t stop staring at it for at least three days, (much to the annoyance of his cousins, when he keeps forgetting to set the fucking dishwasher because he sneaks off to his room immediately after any shared meals). Once they put two and two together, however, they’re both more than fine with him not mooning over your nudes in the kitchen - and grateful their respective bedrooms are on different sides of the House.

The first time he sends you one back (with an admittedly killer angle, damn him), it from somewhere dark, kind of cramped-looking. You just shrug it off and decide he deserves a video, poor baby, being stuck wherever he is on a shoot. Something to help him pass the time while he’s waiting for his time-lapse shot to give him enough contrast to be worth shooting, or whatever.

As you’re filming yourself in a very… compromising position, one hand holding the camera and the other occupied, you’re too busy to notice the way your closet door just slightly cracks open.

By the time you hit send, he’s already trying to catch his breath on your floor with his cock still in his hand, one of your scarves shoved in his mouth to muffle any sounds that might give him away.

Hex is still respectful of your physical boundaries - he’s more than happy to stare at you when you’re not looking, that’s the only line he’ll cross with you in person - but he doesn’t hold out long after that, if you two haven’t fooled around before then. If he gets his way, he invites you to go stargazing after dinner one night in a particularly secluded spot, with a soft blanket and a bottle of wine and - well. You get the picture. But he’s just as happy if the two of you end up back at yours after going shot for shot at dinner, leading to a messy makeout session on your couch before he finally cracks and begs to take your shirt off, please preciosa.

After the two of you have been going out a while, if he wants to get himself off, it’s usually just because he’s restless or bored. He still usually sticks to the dark room or his bedroom - but his new favorite source is less his imagination, and more the collection of photos of you (both knowingly and unknowingly received) that he’s started on his phone. (If you’re around, though, he’ll usually just come find you himself and ask with those eyes of his.)

Rora is the one of the three that holds off the longest after she first encounters you - but when she does see you, for the first time, it feels like a lightning bolt. Wherever you are - in the plant nursery, or the bookstore, or the little rent-a-stall market where she sells her taxidermy - she literally forgets to breathe for a beat.

After so long of being dead, of being fixated on getting back and getting revenge and taking the title that’s rightfully hers with blood in her teeth and hair… she feels something Else. Something she hadn’t felt since she was alive the first time.

She remembers what it is to want something outside yourself. Someone.

She tries to make a point of not staring so long you’ll look her way - she does not do Looking well, not yet - but she’s taken in by your hands. They look… soft. Or, more specifically, like they know how to touch things softly. Gently, that’s the word. She watches the way your lips move when you talk, animated and lively, all the little muscles underneath your skin performing in a way entirely unique to you. She admires the curve of your ear, like a pretty shell of cartilage.

She wonders what it would be like to place a flower behind it. She thinks about what kind of flower would best suit your eyes, and what shape would complement the arch of your brow.

And then she has to not jump half a foot when Maxi and Hex walk up behind her to see if she needs help carrying things out to the car. She shoves whatever she’s holding at them in a hurry, spinning on her heel and heading for the door before either of them can track her gaze.

But even as they drive back to the House on the edge of town - the guys up front and her contented to be chauffeured in the back - she’s twirling a strand of her own hair around her fingers and wondering what yours would feel like instead.

Truthfully, she’s so busy with her plans around the Mortuary (planting her gardens, setting her workshop back up after decades of disuse, figuring out how to be a fucking person twenty years later than she was supposed to be) that you slip her mind, for a bit.

When she sees you again, it’s like lightning striking twice.

She sees you walking around town, just going about your day, but it’s still a revelation to her. She watches you from afar, determined not to let you see her Looking still, but she shadows you quietly - just to see. To get a taste of what it might be like to fit into your own skin, your original skin, like it was made for you. To move seamlessly through the world, as if you didn’t have to think about it. You were just… still part of it.

Admiring your bone structure, she thinks you wear your skin rather well.

She starts thinking of you at random moments throughout her day: when she’s up knuckle-deep in damp potting soil, or removing the delicate entrails of a raccoon, or up wandering around in the middle of the night because after the grave nothing feels dark enough to sleep.

She grasps for the curve and the hook of things - roots, bones, dreams - and wonders what it would be like for your fingers to intertwine with hers.

She starts making excuses to go into Greymoon proper - walking when Maxi’s too busy to drive and Hex is out of the House. She waves off their protests (their not unreasonable concern that someone might recognize her, even with her face on a new skull; their shared secret worry that she might disappear as quickly as she reappeared), too determined to get a glimpse of you to be kept from you by a mere hike down the dirt road that they use as a cut-through back to their place.

She knows she can’t keep staring at you forever, though. Not without you noticing eventually. And indeed, once or twice, she swears she feels your eyes pass over her when she turns her head to take in something in her surroundings. There’s a small part of her that hopes, maybe, you’ll just accept her in your orbit as part of Greymoon - a distant satellite, something that watches but never passes too near.

But, inevitably, you run into each other face to face. There’s plenty of ways it could happen: you finally get up the nerve to approach the beautiful, silent woman you see looming like a graceful specter around town; she finally swallows her nerves and figures if she can transpose her own soul back into her body, she can talk to someone she thinks is lovely; or you two literally bump into each other, coming from around the opposite sides of a building because you lost sight of one another in your silent watching. She does her best to keep herself calm, pretending her small smile is more coy than nervous. She just manages to ask if you’d accompany her for coffee, or lunch, or another trip to the nursery - something to see you, even just for a little while. When you agree, she keeps her response poised, cool, her mother’s lessons back to haunt her.

But all the week leading up to your - visit? gathering? (Not a date, it’s too soon - or is it?) - she finds herself pacing restlessly around the House, looking for things to fix, knots that need undone, hems that need altered and holes that need sewn. There’s something in her just below the surface, she can feel it shifting, pushing through her chest like new shoots.

After the date (is it a date? she’s allowed to call it a date, right? people do that now?), you’re all she thinks about. The way you smiled at her when she made a joke, or the curve of your elbow resting upon the table, the way your hair moved in its particular fashion. The way sunlight plays off your skin like the petals of a rose.

She’s in her garden one afternoon, gazing at one of her perfect blooms, when she finds herself lightly tracing the lip of one - her fingertip sliding down the curve, towards the bell at the end of the stem. She imagines what your lips would feel like if she happened to trace them; she’s had a hard enough time trying to find the right flower to match them as is, but she hopes the texture would be close… right?

She catches herself awash in the scent of her roses, her thighs pressing together as she strokes the blossom until the petals come apart under the pressure of her hand, her eyes sightless and staring somewhere else entirely.

She keeps making up excuses to come find you - both to make it so you don’t have to come out to the House where she died, and because maybe it doesn’t hurt that it gives her an excuse to be out in the world again, in a way. To remember what it was she left behind. What she could have now.

She’s possessive in a different way than the boys - it’s still visceral, when she realizes she wants you all to herself. That she wants to cradle the back of your skull in her hands like it’s something precious, to lavish your hair in love and perfume, to know exactly what you taste like and if it’s anything like nectar. She finds herself having to ask the boys how people work nowadays - where she can wander through your mind, or part of it, and immerse herself in you for at least a little while. But she gets bored with the social media stuff; sure, it’s more than the mixtapes she and her girlfriend passed back and forth back in the day, but it’s so much less tangible.

No, she takes after her twin in how she shows up at your place when she knows you won’t be home. She gets a lay of the land - literally, looking around what portion of a yard you may or may not have. What trees you have, if any, what plants, what grass calls your yard its habitat. She uses a pin from her hair to pick your door’s lock and waltz right in. She takes a look at what plants you have, where they sit in the light, makes a note of what tips she can casually drop into conversation about how to keep them healthy (and maybe gives them a little water while she’s there).

She heads for your bedroom last - wanting to savor that part. She runs her fingertips over the clothes in your closet, takes in the art and posters on your walls, fingers whatever jewelry you might have on a dresser or in a box. She looks for patterns, repeating signs, trying to see what you associate with yourself. How you want to be seen, so she knows how else she might see you. If you wear any fragrance, she pulls the handkerchief she keeps hidden (one of the only traits of her mother’s she found useful since coming back to this side of the veil) and sprays it there. She folds it up before it can dry, wanting it to permeate the entire fabric.

That night, in the white sheets of her bedroom, she holds it to her nose and breathes like she’s preparing to dive, her fingers plunging deeper into herself before greedily circling her own clit. Her fingers, as strange to her as they still are, are no replacement for yours. Her hands don’t stray too much further - the breasts of this body still don’t feel like they’re quite hers, and the lines of the tattoo on her thigh that she never chose still spook her when her hand ghosts over them by accident.

But the thought of your lips on hers, her lips elsewhere, yours lower - those, she can handle. Those make her feel at home in this new skin, even when that’s been denied to her for so long.

Whenever she smells your fragrance on you when she comes to see you, she wonders if you can see the way her fingers twitch needfully, having to look away from you for a moment just to catch her breath again.

The first time the two of you kiss - in her back garden, where she’s invited you out for a glass of her own lavender lemonade - she tastes it on her lips for three days, and does everything she can to keep it on her tongue for the following two nights.

The first time you successfully convince her that she’s safe with you, on your favorite quilt in your room, she relishes every drop she gets of you. She devours you like a woman starved, and when your tongue finally skims her clit in return, she feels the thunder from your last lightning strike at last shake her entire body. The whole of the storm, at last.

Afterwards, no matter how many flowers are around - in your house or her garden - it’s still the scent of you that makes her weak at the knees.

Thanks again for your patience, Nonny - this was exactly the kind of warm re-start I needed! <3 Looking forward to posting more soon :D

If you read this far, I hope you have some fun of your own later :3c

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morvantmortuary · 2 years

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I've had like zero energy the past two days because of my period, and I've been wondering how the Morvants would be with a reader who struggles with it

well first of all, babe, a big solidarity high five from me, bc Omg Same :’D I’ve been on the daily pill since I was a teenager, and Istg my symptoms have only gotten worse. the first two days of my placebo week every month just wipe me the fuck out now, and those were this past monday and tuesday for me and I swear I’ve been at half-battery since ☠️ I’m feeling a bit better today - I got up at a normal person time and have managed to get some stuff done - but I hope if you’re starting to feel a bit better if you’re not quite on your feet again yet 🖤♥️ Fatigue as a symptom can be hard, esp. when lots of people already don’t take PMS super seriously.

The Morvants, however, know bodies can be complicated things, and would be happy to help their sweetheart out when you weren’t feeling well 🥰 (mdni, we get a bit 18+ below the cut)

Maxi would love the excuse to have a slow, sleepy day with you - but Death usually has other plans. If he has decedents to prepare or services to arrange, he’ll have to tend to those, but depending on where you are when you wake up will dictate how his day goes:

If you wake up with him at the Mortuary, he’ll insist you stay there with him so he can take care of you. You’re welcome to spend the day in his bed sleeping as you need to, or working remotely, or whatever you need to do. You can even stay in pajamas all day, he’ll be the last person to judge. Instead he’ll check on you whenever he finishes a client appointment or an embalming, bringing you a snack and something to drink, some pain killers if you’re having cramps or a headache, or ordering delivery for the pair of you from wherever you like. He’ll linger with you as long as he can until he’s called away for work again, fiddling with your hair, adjusting your pillows or the fans in your room.

If you wake up at your house, he’ll still do as much of the above as he can when he can get away - if your neighbors weren’t so used to the hearse in your driveway, they’d be concerned about how much it drives back and forth on these days, as he walks in with your favorite silly little coffee drink or some other treat from town to cheer you up whenever he walks into your room.

When he’s finally off work for the day, his attention is entirely on you. If you haven’t bathed yet that day and want to, he’ll take it upon himself to care for you that way, whether that’s stepping with you into the shower to wash your hair and lather your skin (and get the formaldehyde smell off himself, tbh), or drawing you a bath to let you wallow in the warm water as he rubs your muscles where they ache.

After this, he’s going wherever you want to go in his old joggers and a t-shirt: if you want to just lay in your bed with a hot water bottle and listen to podcasts or watch movies on your laptop, he’ll spend the rest of his evening as your big spoon, idly kissing your neck and shoulders (and muffling soft scoffs if you’re listening to a true crime podcast about cops being fucking incompetent again). He’s content to drift in and out of naps with you, holding you firmly in his gator’s grip and sniffing lightly at your hair as he enjoys your warmth and nearness.

If you’re feeling well enough to hang out on the couch, he’s right there with you. If you want to lay on his chest while the two of you watch creepy YouTube videos or play video games, he’ll absently kiss your forehead every now and again, his hands resting on your body where you aren’t pressed up against him and rubbing circles there when he’s distracted. If you just want to binge a season of whatever new spooky tv show you’re watching together or a bunch of bad horror movies, he’ll lay on you if it won’t make you feel sore, happy to provide some comforting weight (and enjoy the solid thud of your heart beneath his ear) and cuddle you like you deserve.

If you want, he’ll absolutely read to you from an old favorite, or something you’d been meaning to get around to forever but just didn’t have the energy for. His drawl adds something to the book, a dimension you hadn’t considered when you read it alone, and you’re reminded as you listen just how long your beloved has been living in Cajun/Creole country - it gets a little stronger the longer he reads as he relaxes into his words, and you go back later to re-read some passages, smiling to yourself at how the words sounded completely different on his tongue.

He’ll bring you snacks as you desire, cook about any comfort food you ask for (you discover he’s actually really good at pancakes and crepes when you guys opt for breakfast for dinner one night), and build a nest of pillows and blankets for you both if it means you’re comfortable and looked after

We know our boy absolutely has A Thing for period sex, but he obviously won’t ask if he knows you feel exhausted/gross. He’s had partners like that before, he knows it sucks. But the minute your hand tangles a bit too long in his hair, or he feels you grind ever so lightly against his thigh if you were laying on him, he’ll turn to you curiously, his hand sliding over your lower back. “Can I help you with somethin’, baby doll?” He’ll ask innocently enough, eyes wide and soft, but you can see the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as you feel a mirroring one on your own face.

If you tell him yes, he’ll ask you exactly what you want, and give it to you. In spades. He’ll plant soft kisses down your stomach as he moves, pulling your pajama shorts down and shushing you gently as he kisses your inner thighs. “Easy, darlin’,” he murmurs, glancing up at you over his glasses. “You don’t have to do anythin’, just let me take care of you.”

He’ll put your thighs on his shoulders and keep your hips in his grip as he devours you whole, and by the time you’re shaking and out of breath from overstimulation, his mouth is as red as his eyes are now shining. He licks every drop of blood and slick from his face as he looks up at you, still your sweetheart, but something closer to the feral, frightening thing you know that’s hiding inside him. (…If his tongue looks maybe just a touch… longer? Narrower? Than it normally does? You’re willing to chalk that up to the fact that you’re literally seeing stars, holy shit.)

If you prefer something else, he’ll lay you out however you’ll be most comfortable - on your back, or maybe on your stomach - and wet your cunt thoroughly with his own spit and some careful applications of his fingers before he works himself into you, taking his time not to overwhelm you (but unable to resist a light lick of his own lips when you moan at the stretch, the ache of adjusting around him). Slowly, with soft reassurances in your ear - “There you go, pretty, look at you, I knew you could. You’re so good, takin’ all of me like this—“ he’ll pull you so his hips are flush with you, watching you squirm admiringly for a moment before he experimentally rolls them to move in you. “It’s okay, angel,” he murmurs, his thumbs running over the soft skin of your hips. “You relax. Daddy’ll do all the work.” You then only have to lay there and whine for more as he gives you all of him, as slowly or as rough as you want, until you’ve thoroughly soaked his cock as many times as you can manage and he’s filled you with as much as he can give, pressing soft kisses to your panting face as he lovingly fucks his cum further into you, before the two of you at last collapse in an exhausted tangle to cool off before you can cuddle properly.

This always happens when you’re not well - there comes a point whee he lays awake, gazing at you like it will never be enough no matter how long he looks. The monster inside him is only ever silent when you’re this close, when it knows you’re safe at his side and only Hell itself could part you. It has no business being this close to you, but as much as he hates it, he can’t help but agree that this is the most at peace he ever feels. The thing inside him - not quite demon, not quite him, all reaper - would tear the world apart for you, this one or the one beyond.

Hex’s work doesn’t demand as much socially from him, so if he can afford to cancel his latest shoot or cancel whatever plans he was making to stalk his next Chain link, he will. He’ll be happy to either bring you to his place or to come over to yours, armed to the teeth with your favorite junk food, his softest flannel shirt for you to borrow, and scratchy beard kisses wherever you want them.

As much as his first thought to make you feel better is usually to get you moving, he understands that in cases like this, that’s just not going to work. So he’s determined to keep you comfortable: he rubs the muscle balm his mom used to give him after training with Maxi and his dad into your lower back, he rubs your feet if he thinks that would help, he sits behind you while the pair of you watch tv to rub your neck and shoulders.

He keeps you on a steady diet of fruit juice and homemade dishes, a constant deluge of scents of cooking and baking coming from the kitchen of whoever’s house you’re crashing at. It feels like every time you wake up from a nap, he’s standing over you with a new batch of rolls or conchas, or with a new smoothie recipe, or something smothered in cheese. If you really want something greasy and fried from your usual take-out place, he’ll get it for you without complaint, but he always prefers to cook for you when you’re not feeling well. He’s proud to be able to take care of you that way and it dispels the nervous energy he always has just under the surface when you’re not feeling well.

He’s content to lay around wherever you want to lay around - be it your bed, his, or the couch at either person’s house. He’ll be tweaking some photos on his laptop while you scroll through your phone, or he’ll happily hold you between his legs so you can rest against his chest as the two of you take on a season of your shared favorite shitty reality show. (He’s a sucker for Catfish and the Circle - cyber drama always intrigues him, and the wilder episodes will have him cackling in a way you only ever hear when he’s with you or around the twins. The boy was raised on telenovelas, after all.) He might doze off in the middle of your favorite prestige drama or procedural (if he’s not quietly mumbling observations about the camerawork and the lighting to himself), but he mysteriously always keeps up with the plot. If you turn on Great British Baking Show, he’ll wake right back up, I promise. He might even want to make you more snacks after, just to try his hand at some of what he saw.

If you’re napping on the couch or reading quietly, he will take stealth candids on his phone. Lots of them. He loves it when you’re just hanging out with him, casual and in your comfiest clothes. He thinks you’re beautiful - even if you don’t always - and he’ll want to look at this photos later, to admire the light on your skin and the engrossed expression on your face.

If you want to bathe, Hex will happily offer to help - but if you just want to stick to dry shampoo and a washcloth, he’d help with that too, making sure to spray the deeper layers of your hair evenly and get that hard to reach spot between your shoulder blades for you. He’s done that plenty of times himself when he was on the run traveling, he knows sometimes that’s all you need if you just don’t have the energy. He’d always make sure you had fresh pajamas, though, even if it meant you stole a t-shirt and a pair of his worn-out sleep pants for a day or two.

If you need a nap buddy, he’s always down to be a nap buddy. He sleeps a bit more restlessly than most (as happens when you tend to slip a bit more easily Beyond the Veil from your dreams), but even if he can’t be your big spoon the whole time, he’ll sleep with one part of him always in contact with you - be a hand on your thigh, or his shoulder blades against your back, even intertwining his legs with yours. Even if he can’t sleep, he’ll lay there and watch you, taking in the little things about your face: the way your brows knit together and smooth out when you dream, your little sniffles and mumbles in the deepest parts of your cycle - how vulnerable you are, and how much you trust him to let him see you like this.

Period sex isn’t quite as much of a thing for him as it is for Maxi - he has his own... cravings, as it were - but if you ask him, he’s not about to deny you.

This could be anything from sliding his fingers past your waistband and teasing your clit while you watch a bad movie, pretending not to notice as you flinch and whine and writhe in his lap while he makes you come until you’re ready to cry without once pulling away his hand, or on your sides in bed, whispering to you as he fills you while holding one of your thighs on his hip.

“Aww, pobrecita,” he mock-coos at your muffled moan, tilting his head to look at you as he snaps his hips against yours. “You’re just feeling way too much, huh?” He nips your lower lip before you can respond, pressing closer to you and deeper inside in the same movement. “Don’t worry, baby, I’m gonna make you forget all about that...” His hair falls in his eyes, but you don’t miss the way he grins as you whine and cling to the fabric of his shirt, the way his free hand squeezes your ass as he eliminates any possible space left between you two.

He only lets you go when you’re having to bite back a scream, having left a few bites of his own along your collarbone and shoulder earlier. When he does, he smirks. “How’re you feeling now, Querida?” he asks like he doesn’t know, his tone light as he takes his time cleaning you up.

For acting so smug, he really is a big softie. He’ll get you anything you like after before he stretches out next to you, sighing contentedly as he pulls you against him and fits you under his chin. He strokes your back, singing what sounds like a lullaby under his breath as you fall back asleep on a wave of hormones, satisfaction, and exhaustion. You feel a soft kiss to your forehead as your eyes finally close, and his lips linger there like a ghost.

He’s overwhelmed with how much he loves you. He hadn’t believed Maxi when he talked about that dark other self living inside him, how possessive and utterly greedy it became when he found his own Obsession. But he gets it now, and he has to banish that shrieking wraith inside him that wants to take you over just the same, to keep you prisoner to his worst impulses and fears. He never wants you to know about that, just how much of you it would take for himself. It scares him too.

While the boys are sweet, Rora’s the one who will absolutely Get It. “Oh, Petal,” she frowns, taking in your dulled eyes and the bags beneath them. “You too, huh? Don’t worry,” she runs a hand over your hair, affectionate and soothing all at once. “I remember how this works.”

She’ll move a bare-bones version of her workshop into whatever bedroom you make your main crashpad - yours at your house, hers in the Mortuary - tiny portable desk and all. When you want to just lay there, slipping in and out of consciousness or boredly scrolling through your usual apps, she’ll sit off to the side, a silent but constant watchful presence as she works. She knows that sometimes cuddling just doesn’t cut it, and being able to stretch out in a big empty bed alone is the best remedy, but she still wants to be close to you. You’re impressed with just how quickly that woman can taxidermy small rodents. It’s kind of alarming.

Heating pads, ice packs, anti-ache ointments of her own concoction - you want it, she’s got it, and she’s got it in a million combinations she probably tested on herself back in the ‘90s. She keeps you regularly dosed with Motrin (or whatever painkiller is most compatible with anything else you take), giving you your next set pills as soon as is reasonable so they can’t wear off and leave you achey, so you can sleep as much as you need to.

(If you express surprise she isn’t sticking entirely with Natural TreatmentsTM, she snorts. “Cramps are never the time for farmer’s market bullshit, Little Bee. There’s treatments, and then there’s painkillers.” She gives you a withering, knowing glance. “I know which one I’d prefer to have when a linin’ of tissue is tryin’ to expel itself from my body. I’m not about to mess around when it comes to yours.”)

She brings you fruit-infused water from the kitchen with fresh slices floating in it, ones she obviously just cut herself. She’ll have a glass herself in the process, but she’ll watch you like a hawk to make sure you’re staying hydrated, only swapping that out with something caffeinated if she thinks that would help your sleep schedule from getting completely out of whack.

The woman has an entire collection of silk sleep masks you didn’t know about. She’ll pass you a fresh one each day you’re not feeling well, and you luxuriate in the cool smooth fabric against your tired eyes. You wouldn’t have thought to get one of these for yourself, but you’re grateful for her stray flourish of fanciness she only shows on unexpected occasions.

She will take her time showering with you or giving you a bath, if you want one. As much as you know showering can sometimes give her a bit of vertigo in her host body, she’ll focus intently on yours, covering your skin with her favorite English lavender soap and giving your hair whatever it needs to keep it clean and healthy. She spoils you after with sweet-smelling oils, thick creamy lotion, a facemask or just something cooling for your undereyes if you’re feeling up to it. Her hands are firm but tender as she rubs your scalp, your shoulders, your thighs and the backs of your calves - everywhere that can get too tight if you’re stressed, or laying down a lot.

Rora doesn’t have quite the same attention span for bingeing that the boys do - when she was alive, she got told off for watching tv for too long, and she’s still getting used to the whole “everything streaming all the time everywhere” kind of thing. But she’ll sit with you through whatever you feel like watching. While she has patience for all sorts of shows, she perks up during nature documentaries, shows like How It’s Made, or - her favorite - anything involving cold cases or autopsies. If you watch a costume drama, she’ll pretend to only be politely interested for a while, but eventually you’ll hear her softly gasp at an especially pretty dress, or titter or tsk at something happening on screen. When the service finally asks if you’re still watching, she glances at you, holding a pillow to her chest and looking somewhat enchanted. “...Maybe just one more? Y’know, just to make sure the Duke gets what’s comin’ to him,” she’ll ask quietly.

(You finish the rest of the season in a night, and spend the rest of the evening googling whatever you can find out about the upcoming next season as she looms quietly over your shoulder. When you show her the tag for the show on a site like this one or AO3, she’s mesmerized.)

(You open your eyes at one point late that night, aware of her cool, solid presence beside you - still, but with her breathing too shallow to be asleep. You peer over her shoulder to see her browsing the same tag on her phone, screen on minimum brightness as she scrolls with abandon.)

(If she hears you chuckle, she doesn’t say anything. But when you kiss her shoulder and wrap an arm around her waist, she squeezes your hand as it rests on her stomach and finally sets her phone on the bedside table.)

Period sex for Rora is, like many things, a bit complicated - it brings up memories of her own original body, but she’s never not enticed by yours. If you ask, she’ll answer with a kiss, and her cool hands sliding possessively over your frame as she hums low in her throat.

Rora’s fingers are strong and sure despite their aristocratic taper, and she knows exactly the way to work them in you to make you feel like you’re lighting up from the inside. She twists and scissors them in a way that makes just how wet you are extremely audible, her emerald eyes never leaving your face as you come undone repeatedly under her calculated touch.

Or, taking another route, depending on who’s house you’re at she’ll pull out one of your favorite toys - or her old reliable of a spotless hitachi wand if you’re at hers - and apply it mercilessly to your clit with a cool reserve. She observes with a deceptively stoic mask how long it takes your thighs to shake helplessly, for you to try to flinch away when it all becomes too much, and exactly how many soft pitiable whines it takes until you soak the sheets with a softly pink-ish rush of warmth. “That’s okay, daffodil,” she soothes, leaning down to kiss your flushed brow when you mumble a slightly teary embarrassed apology. “They’re just sheets, nothin’ worth gettin’ upset about.” She runs a hand over your hair, and her pale pink mouth quirks in the hint of a smile. “You wanna go again? It’s good for you - it helps, I swear.”

If you ask to make it up to her, by burying your head between her cool thighs and feeling her nimble fingers now curl helplessly in your hair, for once - she won’t refuse. After, she’ll take your face in her hands with a still-dazed expression, and kiss you messily with an open mouth to hide just how much her breath is still shaking.

Rora watches you sleep - it’s no secret. She has problems getting to and staying asleep since she came back to this side of the Veil, and she would sooner shave her own head than get out of bed and risk disturbing you. But sometimes she feels something else watching out of her eyes, taking you in with an avarice that isn’t entirely hers. She and the boys have talked about it since she found you: that urge to keep, to claim, to never let you out of her sight again. To never let you be parted by something as flimsy as the Veil. While the creature in her head coos over you like something more precious than gold, counting your every breath, she knows in her conscious mind that she would bring you back a hundred times if she never had to be without you again, damn the consequences. She has lived too long alone, her and the monster inside her - and neither of them will be denied now.

Sorry this took a while, sweet nonny!! I was feeling a bit worn down myself this week 🖤 I hope you’re feeling better now, and have this for the next time Shark Week decides to throw you out of whack 🥰✨ sending love your way!

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morvantmortuary · 2 years

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alright, today we’re prepping to head back to louisiana tomorrow, so I might be a bit slowER on answering what’s in my inbox while I run around my folks’ place and make sure I’m not forgetting to pack anything vital lmao :’D

in the meantime!! I found this really cute sleepy couples picrew the other day —

https://picrew.me/image_maker/551533

so I killed some time on the ride back from Austin making the Morvants and something close to a blank reader figure for funsies ✨ they didn’t have the blank page white option for a skin tone, so I went with something that’s more of a dark beige-ish so the insert wasn’t just white themselves ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ they also unfortunately didn’t have a beard option, so we’ll say Hex is just freshly shaved lmao

here’s these for your fluff needs on this monday afternoon!!

#and then rarae says #morvant mortuary #maxi morvant #maxi morvant x you #maxi morvant x reader #maxi and his reader #hector morvant-casares #hex morvant-casares #hector morvant-casares x you #hector morvant-casares x reader #hector and his reader #aurore morvant #rora morvant #rora morvant x reader #rora morvant x you #rora and her reader #picrew

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morvantmortuary · 2 years

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Ofc he got one too lmao. This is something more his style that he’d make you: more soft vibes and spooky lofi, but with a couple songs for the much-needed dance break. <3 let me know if anything needs tweaking or if there’s something in any of the songs I missed in the translation that should maybe be brought to my attention :’D

#hector morvant-casares #hector emile morvant-casares #hex morvant-casares #hector and his reader #hector morvant-casares x reader #diego luna fc #hector morvant-casares x you #hector vibes #hex's querida #morvant family playlists #morvant mortuary #monsterkisser fics

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morvantmortuary · 7 months

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sugar high -

(Hector Morvant-Casares x Reader)

summary: Hex invites you along for an afternoon errand.

warnings: brief descriptions of a depressive episode. a shit-ton of fluff. like, syrupy, frothy fluff. I’m not kidding. you watch your teeth.

general: for Spooky Season in the Barrens: apple cider, candy corn, skulls. 🍎💀

I’ll be honest, Hex is not usually my go-to fluff guy, but goddamn if he doesn’t have a whole mushy side when you let him talk a bit.

Any corrections on his Spanish are appreciated - I double-checked everything and tried to stick with Mexican localization, but I’m still learning. :’D

also, I know so much more about the making of calaveras than I did last week. hot damn, those can get involved. any suggestions or needed corrections there (or with any discussion of the holiday) are also appreciated.

reader is as always genderqueer/non-binary (but I stuck to feminine endings for Spanish bc those are what I’m more familiar with, sorry :’D), and I write them as bisexual but that’s not explicitly mentioned here. any tweaks to language so people can have a more seamless experience are always helpful.

okay, hope this helps brighten your day a bit. 🖤

You didn’t even have to look up from your book to know who was calling you, and wasn’t just texting like a normal person.

Without looking up from your page, you reached over and answered with the tap of one finger, then put him on speaker with another. “Who dares?”

“Hey, so, I’m madly in love with you. Do you wanna go out with me? Like, right now, or I’ll die of loneliness?” Hex said it like he was asking about the weather. The mustang’s motor purred in the background, and the faint thud of some dance remix on low drifted through your phone’s speaker like a tinny distant dream.

You smiled, closing your book and setting it beside you on your mattress. “Hmm. That depends.”

“Depends? Ouch. After my very sincere confession?” Hector laughed, making you smile wider. “Depends on what?”

“We-ell.” You stretched the syllable out as you stretched in turn, then collapsed back onto your pillows. “I’m very busy having a lazy afternoon, you see.”

Pale autumn sunlight danced in dappled patterns on your ceiling. You’d successfully managed to change from your pajamas to your comfiest sweats after taking a luxuriously long bath. This was only topped by the fact that you were currently cozy in a bed with a book that had been on your TBR for months, that you’d been swearing you’d get around to, for real this time.

“Is that so?” You heard the click of his turn signal, apparently not given pause by your demurring.

“Yes, and I’ve had it scheduled all week. I simply can’t cancel on myself again,” you explained, waving a hand lazily. “…Unless.”

“Te escucho,” Hex prompted. You heard him tapping on his steering wheel with his index fingers, restless. “Come on, lay it on me.”

“I could only be convinced to cancel on me if you had some really, truly spectacular, showstopping way to sweep me off my feet, that I just had to drop everything for right now.” You fought to keep your tone as serious as possible. “So this better be a really fabulous proposal, whatever comes next. Lots of pressure. Definitely overthink it.”

Hex sucked his teeth audibly, pretending to think. “Damn, I was just gonna ask if you wanted to go grocery shopping with me.”

“I’ll get my jacket.” You slid off your bed, stretching again from where you’d be laying there in a marathon session with your novel. “How close are you?”

He laughed again, low in his throat with that little bit of rasp that felt like his fingers in your hair. A second later, you heard the short beep of a car horn in your driveway.

“Oh, shit. Be right there!” You grabbed your phone off your bed and hustled now for the door to your room.

“Relax, baby, no hurry,” Hector said, his voice echoing slightly in your hallway as you moved. “Maxi just asked me to pick some stuff up for this pre-need thing he’s throwing tomorrow.”

“Yeah?” You slid into your shoes where they were piled by your entry way, and then grabbed your bag for whatever wouldn’t fit in your pockets - charger, headphones, anything you’d want if you headed to his place after. “…What’s a pre-need again?” You topped all this off by pulling on one of Hex’s hoodies that you’d stolen from him ages ago, fitting you comfortably as it did every time. You’d have to sneak it back into his laundry soon, you knew — it was beginning to smell more like you than him.

“Ugh, don’t worry about it.” Hector sighed so loud you could almost hear his eyes rolling. “Basically lots of little old and anxious people start getting antsy and thinking about death in October, because skeletons, so he offers this afternoon thing where he teaches them how to set up all their funeral stuff in advance. Es hella aburrido, which is why he has to offer the free food.”

“Ah. That all makes sense.” You stepped outside and made a point to lock your door. Granted, Hex was the only person you could conceive of who had ever broken in - or who would ever want to break in - but still. Greymoon was a weird town.

One never knew what, exactly, was going to turn up as dusk claimed a larger and larger share of the hours.

You hung up the call as you pulled the passenger door open, leaning over to kiss him before you closed it. “So what all do you serve at a funeral tutorial-thing?”

“Oh, you know— hey,” Hector paused, eyeing your clothes critically before looking at you with theatrical levels of suspicion. “You told me you hadn’t seen that one.”

“What, this?” You feigned innocence, looking down at his hoodie. “Oh, I thought you meant your… other one.” The man had like ten, this wasn’t impossible. “Do you want it back?” You widened your eyes and pouted just the tiniest bit, certain he wouldn’t say no, but wanting to lay it on thick.

“Let me see.” He leaned over abruptly to take an exaggerated sniff of the hood and your hair, making you giggle and try to lean away. “Nah,” he concluded, sitting back up. “That needs another day.”

You were still giggling, adjusting the hood around your shoulders. “Another day for what?”

Hector took the car out of park, looking over his shoulder to pull out of your driveway even though he could do it in his sleep. “It needs time to get that good You smell in there. What is that, anyway? Perfume? Shampoo? Essence of angel?”

“Shut up, corn lord.” You swatted his shoulder, making him smile. “I only wear it as long as it smells like you, anyway.”

“Really? Aw. Sorry about that.” Hector grinned when you laughed again. One of his hands fell to its usual place on your knee as he pulled out onto the main road. “The hell do I smell like, anyway? Film developer and sadness?”

“No.” You intertwined your fingers together and squeezed his hand. “You don’t smell like sadness, Señor Artiste.”

Between Hex’s constant connection to the world after this one, his resulting insomnia, and his… already artistic temperament, you knew he occasionally had to fend off the depression that seemed to run in the Morvant line. Whereas Maxi diverted his restless version into constantly fixing and cleaning, and Rora’s manifested in squalls of anger and verbal venom, Hex’s ennui would lay him out flat for days — occasionally, weeks. You’d spent time before helping him excavate his bed from under piles of unfolded laundry that he’d just been sleeping around, and braiding his hair when he couldn’t find the energy to wash it. You knew he worried about letting you see him like this, and he’d confessed to you once during one of the worse episodes that he was scared it was too much to expect you to handle.

But just like the ghosts he channeled, it would eventually release him from its grip, and he would make a point to be just as sweet to you when it was your turn to deal with your inner demons.

“News to me.” Hector’s smile was a little more subdued now. “So, what, just film developer? Dusty house?”

“No, you smell like… hold on.” You held your free hand to your face, inhaling deeply from your sweater-paw. “You smell like… cinnamon. And coffee with chicory — like there’s any other kind down here.” You took another sniff, taking your time. “And something, like, incense-y? Is that from the viewing room?”

“Oh, nah.” Hex was quiet, and it stretched as you found yourself weirdly waiting for an answer.

He kept his eyes pointedly on the road and cleared his throat. “I keep some of the stuff my ma used to use in my closet. For emergencies.”

You blinked. Hector didn’t bring up that side of the family a lot. He didn’t really bring up either side, if he could avoid it, but definitely not hers. “Your mom burn incense a lot?”

“Yeah. Just for, like… ritual stuff. She was into that sort of thing.” He paused, and when the two of you were stopped at a red light, he lifted his steering hand to smell the hoodie he was currently wearing. “Weird. I’d totally forgotten it was up there.” He held it out and scrutinized it, as if to search for visible traces on the fabric. “Guess I’m just noseblind to it now.” He shrugged, but almost a little too hard. Like he was trying to shake off the idea.

You hesitated as the car pulled forward again, wanting to respect a sensitive topic, but still curious. “…What qualifies as an ‘incense emergency’?”

“Oh, the usual. One of the ghosts in the House gets too full of itself after a seance. Rora fucks up another taxidermy resurrection. Maxi gets a body for restoration that’s been in a car for a week.” He winked at you when you shuddered at the thought. “Any of the very sexy circumstances where you’d rather smell like something burning, or burning something beats something else in supernatural Rock-Paper-Scissors.”

“Yikes. I’ll keep that in mind.” There were a million more questions about it on the tip of your tongue, but you kept them in check as he parked in front of the smaller grocery store in town — the one that had the more unusual finds, depending on the season.

You were always slightly amazed at how he managed to pull the mustang in between some of the ridiculously large trucks that populated most Greymoon parking lots. Somehow, he always found a convenient spot for his little black car. Like magic, if magic could be used for something so mundane.

As the two of you got out, there was still the slightest shadow on his face as he closed his door. “So does that not, like, bother you?” When you gave him a confused look as you closed your own, he nodded to the hoodie. “I’ve had it in my closet forever; it must smell pretty strong.”

“Oh! No.” You circled around and wound your fingers through his again as he locked the car. “I like it, actually.” As the two of you headed inside, you found yourself swinging your hands together like a little kid; you were determined to lighten the mood back up to what it had been. “It’s layered with so much other stuff — your cafe con leche, your detergent, your developer. Your beard oil,” you added, which made him laugh sheepishly as the two of you passed through the automatic doors. “It just smells… I don’t know.” You racked your brain for the word. “Safe? Yeah.” You nodded. “You smell like home to me, you know? Now.�� You wanted to keep talking, distract him from that earlier doubt with your current task. You scanned the aisles. “Do you have a list, or—“

You had to fight not to stumble when you were still walking and realized Hector wasn’t.

When you turned to check on him, he was looking at you with such soft, sincere eyes, you almost forgot the two of you had come to a stop next to a cluster of shopping carts.

Quietly, he lifted your intertwined hands to his mouth, kissing the back of yours with a sweetness that seemed all the more so in his silence.

You couldn’t look away, your own tongue once again tied.

It was one of those moments that he made you feel like you were the only two people left in the world.

“…’Shut up, corn lord,’” he echoed at last, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief as he watched you over your own knuckles.

“You shut up, whatever.” You felt your face grow warm in a way that had nothing to do with the indoor heating against the October chill, and stuck your tongue out at him. “You know what I’m saying.”

“I do. But I still like it when you say it.” He winked at you again, and this time there was a trace of the casual cockiness you’d seen when the two of you had first started flirting.

The difference was that now, you knew it was a front. Hex’s confidence was low key when it was genuine — a quiet, unflappable certainty.

He only played slick when how much he actually cared could overwhelm him entirely.

“I really mean it, Hex,” you protested quietly, squeezing his hand. “You have to know that by now.”

“And take that sweet shit for granted? Qué va.” But he still took his time letting go of you.

He sighed as he had over the phone, back to pretending this was a chore. “Alright, let’s get this over with.” He shoved a hand in a pocket of his own hoodie and pulled out his phone. With a couple of taps, he pulled up what looked like a text chain — you could see “pinche maxi” as the contact, followed by three skull emojis. “Got the list.”

You muffled a laugh, not wanting to be caught snooping. “Basket or cart?”

“The hell are you talking about?” Hector jokingly looked at you like you were crazy, before nodding pointedly at something ahead of you. “This is absolutely a cart situation, Bonita, come on. Eyes on the prize.”

Puzzled, you followed his gaze - and grinned, realizing exactly why he’d picked this store.

The Halloween candy display on the far side of the room was massive… but the stock floor was blessedly deserted.

You and Hex whizzed across the vacant produce section — taking turns balancing on the cart and pushing the other person — with only a brief pause to pick up a pre-cut veggie tray.

“There,” he said, before hastily checking off multiple items on the list.

You looked from the list to the tray, positive you’d seen ‘carrots,’ ‘celery,’ ‘cherry tomatoes’ as separate items. “Yeah, that has those.”

“Maxi’s going to complain and say he could’ve done it all himself,” Hector sighed, placing it carefully in the cart. “But he forgets how fucking picky he gets about setting up the extra chairs and the projector in the parlor, and stuff. That, plus having to cut everything just-so and arrange it on his little crudité board? He wouldn’t have time.”

You shrugged. “He can still put it all on the board if he wants to. It’s not like they’re gonna know.”

“That’s the spirit.” Hector snapped and pointed at you. “Primo needs to learn about artfully half-assing stuff. He takes all this pointless detail shit too seriously.” He paused to turn back and pick up a similarly packaged collection of cut fruit. “See? Boom. He didn’t even have those on the list; I’m just that thoughtful.”

“Clearly.” You couldn’t resist a smile. “Okay, so what else?”

“Cheese,” Hector said, as if this were obvious. “You always gotta feed grief with cheese.”

“But I thought this was for planning their own stuff?”

“It is, but have you seen how expensive shit is lately? They’re going to be grieving their wallets.” Hector pulled the cart behind him towards the dairy section with you balanced behind the handle. “You thought groceries were bad, you should see getting buried.”

“But isn’t your cousin on that whole...” You squinted as you tried to remember, gesturing vaguely. “Somthing-something against funeral poverty?”

“Yeah, doesn’t mean Louisiana isn’t still broke as shit. I swear to god, if it wasn’t for the damn House…” Hector sucked his teeth as he trailed off, staring down at two different cheese plates, then squinted at his phone. “Did he say…? Nah.” Seemingly satisfied, he picked up one of each and set them in the cart.

You raised an eyebrow. “Y’all expecting a big crowd?”

“Oh, hell no. We never get more than a few people at these things.” Hector looked at you, pointing to the plate with the slightly nicer variety. “That one’s for family.” He drew a loop in the air with his finger to rope you into the collective - something that still brought a bubbly warmth to your chest, even after you’d been dating this long. “We’re having that after, let the plebians have the cheap cheese.”

You laughed. “So glad I get to be included in the fancy cheese. I’m honored.”

“Only the fanciest of cheeses for you, mi amor.” Hex leaned up, giving you an obnoxiously loud kiss on the cheek. “Come on, we still need the important stuff.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s—” You were interrupted by your own delighted squeak as Hector rocketed with you and the cart towards the Halloween candy.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d giggled this much while just doing errands with someone. It had to mean something that you could leave your ideal day alone to go out and do something you normally dreaded, but still have more fun than your books could have ever promised.

Hector only just pulled you to a stop before any displays suffered an unfortunate collision, and you hopped off the back of the cart, the two of you sizing up the waiting shelves.

“Maxi said I could get Halloween stuff for this, but he said it had to be ‘tasteful’.” Hector gave the word some lazy finger quotes and rolled his eyes again. “Like I didn’t just see him buy one of those twelve foot skeletons. ‘It’s for the garden out back, Hex, it’s not the same’,” he quoted some little tiff they’d clearly had, doing a surprisingly good impression of his cousin’s accent around his own.

“So we’re definitely serving bleeding eye gumballs and gummy brains then?” you joked.

“I wonder if they still sell those plastic molds of hands.” Hector stroked his beard, pretending to ponder. “We could make ice hands with red food dye to put in the lemonade.”

“Crazy tasteful.” You nodded in agreement. “Or feet molds? Do they make those?”

“Ew, don’t be weird.” Hector gave you a look of fake disgust, making you both laugh before you split apart to browse in earnest.

“What about, like, mini chocolate bars? They’ve got like a million kinds.” You scanned the different shelves for the usual variety packs, finding a plethora of different groupings in brightly colored bags.

“You’d think, but no. Chocolate can melt and smear if people forget about it. And someone always forgets about it,” he added from the other side of the aisle, with a touch of that special exhaustion that comes from dealing with strangers. “And nothing that could’ve been remotely near peanut butter or nuts, Maxi said he needs a new epi-pen for the first aid kit.”

“Sure, fair. Can’t have anyone dying at the meeting about how to plan for dying. So that rules out…” You rotated slowly in place, taking stock of your options. “A lot.”

“Hey, that just makes my job easier.” Hector popped around an end cap, holding up two different versions of those holiday-themed marshmallows that had started solely as bunnies. “Skulls or ghosts?”

“For the thing or for us?”

“The thing.”

“Dude,” you laughed. “Like those little old and-slash-or anxious people won’t flip if we give them ghosts or skulls at a funeral planning seminar? You think they have enough whimsy for that?”

“Come on, it’s like, the whole reason we’re there. They gotta lighten up, man.” Hex rolled his eyes again. “Fine, I’ll just put them in the cart for after. Maxi can’t get mad at me if I bring him some, he loves this kinda shit.”

Your eyes fell on shelf of some old-fashioned candies. “Oh my god, I’m an idiot, this is so obvious.”

“How obvious?” Hector asked from the other side of the shelf.

You grabbed a bag of candy corn, inspecting the ingredients. “Nut-free factory! That’s a bonus!”

“Man, those poor factory workers.”

“Ugh, low hanging fruit.” You rolled your eyes, picking up another bag. “Come here.”

“Make me,” Hector teased, suddenly directly behind you.

“Jesus!” You whirled on the spot, startled at having not heard him sneak that close. “Behave.” You whacked his shoulder lightly with one of the bags you were holding.

“Jesus never behaved, that was like his whole deal.” Hector just plucked the bag from your hand, inspecting it before raising an eyebrow. “Candy corn?”

“What little old person doesn’t like candy corn?” You made an incredulous gesture with your free hand. “And like, these candy pumpkins.” You picked up a bag of the traditional pumpkins with the similar texture. “It’s classic for a reason.”

“Yeah, cultural indoctrination.” Hector smiled. “I can’t believe people actually eat this stuff willingly.”

“Oh, come on, it’s nostalgic as hell,” you said, placing the bags in his waiting hands. “It’s like being a little kid in your costume again.”

“Doesn’t mean it actually tastes good.” He nonetheless held still, tilting his head to look at the bag’s contents. “But sure, he can put them out in little decorative bowls or some shit, he loves those.”

You turned to set a last bag in his hands. “You honestly mean to tell me you don’t like candy corn?”

“I mean, I’ll eat it,” Hector said, sounding resigned. “But for the same reason as when I was small: because it’s there, and because it’s what we have, but not because I actually think it’s any good. Not that one,” he said, nodding to the last one you were holding. “We have enough.”

You frowned at the couple of bags in his hands. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay, so at least there won’t be any leftovers.” You shrugged, then beckoned for him to follow you onto the next aisle.

“Are you kidding? The old people aren’t gonna make a dent in this, candy corn multiples the minute someone turns their back on it.” Hector followed you. “Don’t you know Halloween math?” He continued as you burst into laughter. “The same thing would always happen: Tia Mathilde would buy some candy corn, or those tiny pumpkins, and then the bowl in the kitchen would just keep refilling itself all season. It’d never get any emptier, even when I was sure the twins ate so much they were gonna puke.”

“Maybe she just kept buying more bags?” You looked over your shoulder at him, raising an eyebrow. “Like how it works in the real world?”

“Nope, I’d check the trash whenever the bowl was full again!” Hector shook his head. “You watch, we’ll put this out, and then we’ll still be eating it until…”

You paused, turning once again to find Hector stopped behind you. “Babe?”

Hector didn’t answer, squinting at something on a shelf you’d passed.

“Something jumpscare you?” You walked back to peek over his shoulder.

“Yeah, those.” Hector nodded to a plastic box holding three small decorated sugar skulls.

“Oh, hey! I didn’t know they started selling those here.” You paused, surveying the surrounding products. “I didn’t realize they sold imported anything here, to be honest.”

“Those aren’t imported,” Hector said, nodding at the label. Sure enough, it was one of the generic store holiday brands. “They’ve just realized they can sell them and actually make some money. Check the piping around the eyes,” he gestured loosely with the corner of one of the bags. “There are people who work for months to get the decorative ones right, the legit shit. Even the ones you give kids to eat, they take their time with. That looks like someone put the icing on with their eyes closed.”

“Oh.” You leaned forward, inspecting for yourself. The piped icing to decorate the facial features looked very haphazardly applied, some of it smeared against the plastic during transport. “I see what you mean, yeah.” You glanced back at him. “It’s like, the opposite of artful half-assing. Half-ass art-ing.”

“I don’t think that’s even half an ass’s worth,” Hector said, smiling again when he made you laugh. It faded though as he looked back the store brand calaveras. “And they’re charging how much, for that quality? En esta economía? Hell,” he shook his head. “If that’s what people will pay around here for shitty ones, I should throw a bunch together and sell them at the House. Maybe be able to afford that new lens I want.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to make those,” you said, looking between him and the sad little skulls. “I mean, I should’ve guessed, what don’t you know how to make—“

“I don’t,” Hector said, glancing at you. You giggled, and he grinned. “I’m serious. I mean, in theory, sure: it’s like — what’re those fluffy stiff fuckers — meringues, right? Eggs and sugar? Mold it and wait? But my mom always went down early and bought ‘em from this artist lady she liked. For the ofrenda, and an edible one for me so I’d stop trying to lick the decorative ones when her back was turned.”

You paused in your laughter at that image, hesitant. This was the second time his mom had unexpectedly popped up this visit, and the first time hadn’t been… happy, per se. “Did you guys do that every year?”

“When we lived here? Not always,” he shrugged. “Sometimes she couldn’t get down and back in time, so we’d just leave some extra treats out and hope people coming back to visit would understand. Plus, when Tia Mathilde was in a bad mood, she’d get snippy about what room Ma could set stuff up in. Eventually, she just kept a small ofrenda in her room so she didn’t have to deal with Auntie griping about the marigold petals on the carpet.” He sucked the inside of his cheek for a minute, his eyes distant. “…She always remembered when we lived with her folks, though.” He looked away for a moment, pretending to inspect his sneakers. “But by then I usually spent the day elsewhere. It was kinda crowded. Anyway. Come on, beautiful,” he said, looking back up at you abruptly. “We got veggies to put in the fridge, get my cousin off my back.”

“Yeah, definitely.” You were sure that wasn’t what was actually what had him preoccupied, but you didn’t press. You followed him back to the cart, the two of you heading for check out. Though he was friendly as ever with the giggly (clearly somewhat smitten) cashier, you noticed Hex was subdued again, not even making his usual joke of buying out all the day-old donuts with Maxi’s credit card.

By the time the two of you walked out with your bags, you were scrambling slightly, trying to figure out how to bring him back to the present so he wouldn’t linger too long in his reverie.

As the two of you loaded the groceries into the trunk of the mustang, you spotted it: a little tent set up on the far side of the shopping center, with a handmade sign and two elderly people bundled up in lawn chairs. “Hey.”

“Hm?” Hex looked up from closing the trunk when you tugged his sleeve, eyes refocusing like he was emerging from a daze.

You thumbed towards the cider stand. “You want some?” You smiled, hoping you weren’t being obvious. “My treat?”

“Absolutely not.” Hector shoved his hand in his pocket, quickly producing his cousin’s card once again. “We’re still on a very official mortuary errand, let it be Maxi’s treat.”

“Then shouldn’t we bring him some?” Your smile felt more genuine as Hex took your hand, threading your fingers back together as you crossed the cracked little parking lot. “Since he’s being so kind?”

“Eh, it’s a had-to-be there thing, he knows how it goes.” Hector shrugged a shoulder. “Nothing personal, this is purely business.”

“Ahuh.” You muffled a small laugh. “And Rora? None for her?”

“Nope,” he popped the ‘p’ emphatically. “La Reina made it perfectly clear she didn’t wanna come along. She didn’t help with grocery shopping, so she doesn’t get to reap the rewards of honest work.”

“Damn, you guys are cold-blooded,” you teased, hip-checking him lightly.

“Hey, I warned them fair and square, I didn’t wanna mix business and family.” He spread his free hand in an exaggeratedly helpless gesture. “This is what happens. It’s cut-throat.”

You were still laughing a little when the two of you reached the tent, and you couldn’t miss the rosy-cheeked elderly couple sneaking each other a knowing smile when they greeted you and Hex. A yellow lab sat up from where it had been laying sweetly at their feet, shaking itself and mirroring its people with a panting, tongue-hanging smile of its own.

You watched silently as the cider folks poured you both a full styrofoam cup and chatted with Hex, wondering if they maybe saw themselves in you two. If they had been like you once, feeling like there were only endless unknowns ahead of them, but had finally settled into a gentle present together - from the gentleman’s brief conversation with Hector, one filled with their apple orchard and their dogs, selling homemade cider on crisp afternoons.

As the two of you took your cider (with an extra cinnamon stick for Hex, since he asked the elderly woman with a polite yet roguish smile), you both made sure the lab behind its ears, Hector reminding her in multiple languages that she was a good dog before the two of you took your leave.

That wouldn’t be such a bad forever, you thought to yourself as the older folks waved goodbye. Just the two of you doing something little to make some extra cash, sitting together in the sunlight and chatting about everything and nothing while you waited for people to swing by. Riding home - a shared home, a house for both of you - in his old car, the tired quiet comfortable like a well-loved quilt.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the happy little noise Hector made as you both leaned against the trunk of his car, and you turned to see him enjoying a long sip with both cinnamon sticks still in the cup.

“Good?” you asked, smirking.

“Mmhm.” He pulled the rest away as if to inspect it, licking his lips. “Their spice blend is really killer. Fuck a PSL.”

“That’s why Greymoon never gets a Starbucks, they just know they couldn’t compete.” You took a sip of your own, and unwittingly made a similar noise. The taste that flooded your mouth was immaculately golden, the kind of distilled late afternoon sunshine from the romanticized autumns of years past. “Holy shit, you weren’t kidding.”

“Right?” Hector nodded. “I didn’t think we had any witches around lately, but now I don’t know. Little lady over there might just be hiding a pointy hat at home.”

“Now watch, we’re both going to be magically enthralled to some ancient Apple God when we least expect it.” You took another long sip nonetheless.

“Hey, beats my current thing.” Hector shrugged, downing more of his.

Oh. Right. That.

The small hitch in your soft little idea of forever.

You took another sip, your mind torn in both directions: his mom, which was what you’d been originally trying to distract him from, and now the issue of his necromantic Chain, which you were wondering if you needed distracting from.

“You having flashbacks on me?”

You blinked, looking up to find Hector watching your face. His head was tilted, his small smile looking crooked as he searched your eyes. “Where’d you go, preciosa? You got all thousand-yard stare for a sec.”

“I’m good.” You smiled, trying to prove it. “Just… Fall.” You gestured to the gorgeous day, the drinks in your hands.

“…Ahuh.” Hector said, clearly skeptical. He took one of the cinnamon sticks out of his drink, sticking the end that had been in the cider in his mouth. “Try me anyway?”

You hesitated, not wanting to bog down the moment. “…Why do I get the feeling you did the cinnamon challenge when it was a thing?” you asked instead.

“Nuh-uh,” Hector lied, the way he turned from you slightly to chew on the stick giving him away.

You laughed, immediately picturing the worst. “It didn’t go well, huh?”

“No, because I definitely didn’t do it in a room full of people at a party. What’re you, a cop?” He pointed the stick at you accusingly as you laughed even harder, nearly snorting cider as you went to take another sip. “You got your little FBI man in your phone to go through mine for proof or something? That’s low, that sneaky bastard, he’s supposed to be on my payroll.”

“I love you,” you said through the giggles you were trying to smother.

“Obviously.” Hector threw his hair dramatically over his shoulder, but he couldn’t quite hold the bravado as he looked at you, his gaze softening back into that look from before. “…I love you,” he repeated quietly, his version somehow warmer than the cider in your hand.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, and he slid an arm around your waist as he kissed the top of your skull. You stayed there, enjoying the smell of the fresh cinnamon and the hoodie he was wearing.

“…Earlier,” you spoke just as quietly, afraid to burst this little golden bubble. “When we were inside, you said something about ‘if it weren’t for the damn House.’” You angled your head so you could see his face. “What’d you mean?”

“Oh.” Hector rolled his eyes somewhat, his hand moving your waist to fiddle with a drawstring on your borrowed hoodie. “I just meant we’d be outta here already.”

You blinked, forcing yourself to hold off on the automatic hurt that wanted to leap to the forefront. “‘We?’ Like you and the twins?”

“Eh, if they wanted to, sure,” he said, shrugging. “But we’d find each other again if we needed to, they know that. I meant you and me.” He looked down at you. “I’d take you and we’d move somewhere beautiful, like, tomorrow. Get the fuck outta here, go somewhere with something going on. A real art scene, or at least someplace with actual nightlife, maldita. Or maybe we’d be like those weirdos that live in a van,” he went on. “Move around a bunch of places for a while. Like, we’d live at the beach, until you got tired of the beach, and then we’d try the mountains or something, y’know?”

“Oh, so you’d take me, huh?” Your grin threatened to split your face, it was so hard and so real.

“Obviously,” he said, his bravado back with a wink that made you laugh again. “I’d have to, before you had a chance to think it through.”

“Hey, I might be more game than you think.” You reached up, twirling a lock of his hair around the end of your finger. “What about where you’d want to live, though?”

“That’s the easy part.” He hip-checked you gently, which just pushed you more against his arm as he squeezed you in a hug. “Long as you’re there, I’m good.”

You looked at him for a long moment, pretty sure the warmth in your chest now had nothing to do with the cider or your hoodies in the sunshine. “You wanna head back?” Your hand dropped to tug lightly on his sweatshirt. “So we can put the groceries away before we get completely distracted making out, and so we don’t have an audience?” You glanced out of the corner of your eye at the tent in the distance.

“Yeah, sure babe. One sec.” Hex’s arm supported your back as he dipped you backwards, holding you steady as he made a show of kissing you in front of the grocery store.

It took you two until the lab started barking across the lot to remember you needed to actually get in and start the car.

(perhaps I was the real corn lord all along. :)

if you read this far, I hope you treat yourself to something delicious today 🥰)

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morvantmortuary · 1 year

Text

so it’s mother’s day, again.

as we saw last year (albeit closer to father’s day), the holiday is… a complicated, often alcohol-soaked one at the Morvant house when they tend to celebrate alone. It’s not one anyone is keen to observe for long, even if they still do so out of some sense of obligation (Maxi), as a memorial to a source of torment (Rora), or as a sort of looming monument of guilt (Hex).

…Which is why, once they’d been dating you for a while and you’d gotten to the Parents/Family Meeting Stage, they’d be more than happy to spend it with you instead!

Below are a few possibilities, depending on how you feel about your own mother/maternal figures (grandmothers, aunts, whoever was involved in your life in a major maternal way). Pick your favorite or read for multiple, as always. <3

If you and your Maternal Figure (hear after MaF) get along…

- And they’re still here:

Maxi would love to tag along to any plans the two of you had, if he was welcome. (He’d totally understand if it was the kind of day where boyfriends couldn’t tag along, even if he’d be a little lonely without you.) But he’d be the first to suggest a brunch at the local diner if you were feeling kind of stuck in terms of plans. Brunch is the go-to, sure, but it’s popular for a reason, right? Plus, he knows the waitresses well enough that if he smiles just right, they might pour the bottomless mimosas a little heavier than usual (if y’all drink that is; if not they have some surprisingly great mocktails for such a small town). Catch him going all out with a hand-picked bouquet of flowers for your MaF from Rora’s garden (with her begrudging permission, of course) and his bright red silk waistcoat, which he saves for special occasions. (Though he’d leave his hair loose instead of slicked back at your request, even if he feels it gives him major baby face.) He’d love the opportunity to ask your MaF all about you when you were growing up, and relish being able to finally learn the stories behind some of y’all’s favorite memories or inside jokes (even if they’re definitely ‘had to be there’ moments). But mostly he’d want to give you the chance to enjoy spending time with someone who’s been so dear to you in your life, even if he was kind of a third wheel today. He’d never admit it, but he’d always missed having something like that himself (given… Everything), and even if he only got to participate in it by proxy, it would be enough for him today. He might occasionally stare at the two of you with a wistful little smile, although he’d do his best to hide it with something more cheerful whenever someone looked his way. Neither of you would have to lift a finger the entire time, as he’d make sure your glasses stayed full of whatever you were drinking, open every door you and your MaF happened to encounter, and generally insisting on acting like the old-fashioned gentleman he is. He loves any excuse to make your MaF feel like a queen, and you feel like royalty. He feels he owes the parts of your family that you love the world on a silver platter, for giving him something as precious as you

Hector is way more enthusiastic about celebrating Mother’s Day with you and your mom-person than you would’ve expected, tbh. He has tons of ideas: A picnic in the park in the nice part of town, or a trip to a museum in one of the bigger cities nearby, depending on what y’all liked. If both of those sounded like a little much, he’d finally suggest one of those paint-and-sip classes they occasionally host at the little town market (with non-alcoholic options available, of course), on him. He loves meeting MaFs, tbh — he’s a total Mama’s Boy, as much as he tries to hide it most of the time. He’d love joking around with yours and faux flirting in that saucy way that’s cheek-pinching-ly adorable coming from him. (Ditching his favorite hoodie for a white linen button-down and putting his hair up in a bun, he’d look just that adorable, too.) He’d be content to take a backseat to the two of you having a good time, enjoying the sangria and painting a significantly more abstract version of whatever the set example is while sneaking candid photos of you and your MaF on his phone whenever he got the chance. Afterwards, he’d want to take you both out for coffee somewhere chill, and would sit quietly sipping his own and smirking mischievously as the two of you swapped stories, gossip, or anything else y’all loved to talk about. (You might occasionally see him startle a little whenever his phone buzzed, checking the notification with a slightly hopeful expression… only to have a twitching flash of a frown as he put it in his pocket again. He’d soon be all mysterious smiles again, but it’d be just enough to notice.) If the two of you wanted to go dancing somewhere after, he’d be the first to suggest a spot, and would be delighted to take each of you for a spin around the floor.

Rora normally dread-hates this holiday with a particular venom, but if she knew you had a good relationship with your MaF, she’d maybe try to bite back some of her usual acidic commentary whenever she saw ads or reminders start to pop up in the shops around town. If you were stuck as to what to do with your MaF this year, she would - after a little throat-clearing and hesitant noises - suggest setting up a tea party for the three of you in her back garden. Something informal, she’d stress, no dress code, whatever you both found most comfortable. When you and your MaF arrived at the House that day, though, you’ll find Rora maybe went a little over the top - somehow creating an arch covered in climbing white roses overnight, which led to a small white canopy that shaded an ornate set of vintage garden furniture. Rora would have a variety of teas on the bar cart she’d wheeled outside, both hot and iced, and would have a tray of tiny cakes and cookies at the center of the table (something she’d traded capital-F Favors with her brother and cousin for, containing a sample of both of their favorite recipes since she hated baking herself). She would look stunning in a white lace dress you’d never seen (still carefully hiding the faded Y-incision on her chest), but would look a little bit like a deer in headlights as she showed you both inside. She’d insist on pouring the tea herself and preparing the tiny china plates with treats, and when she finally sat down, her hand would be positively squeezing yours under the table. She’d be doing her best to smile and nod and make conversation on a variety of casual topics, some of which you’d never heard her bring up once when it was just the two of you (“So, do you… enjoy sports?” “Do you watch reality television? I’ve heard it’s very popular now. Lots of shows about Housewives in various cities.” “Do you care for jazz?”). You notice her looking down at her knees every so often, and when you angle your head the right way, you realize she’s looking at the google results for “Topics to Discuss with Mother-in-Law or Equivalent” on her phone. You might need to pep talk her a little when your MaF got up to use the facilities, but eventually she’d loosen up a little, offering to add whiskey to the appropriate tea at some point and finally letting herself relax enough to be herself in front of your family (albeit maybe one less likely to talk about debone-ing roadkill).

- And they’ve passed on:

Maxi would want to spend the day with you however you saw fit. If that was visiting a place of remembrance, such as their grave or where you scattered their ashes, he’d once again be prepared with a bouquet of flowers and a kind hello to whatever part of them remained on this side of the Veil. If it was maybe a restaurant the two of you liked to go to, or a favorite park bench, he’d be delighted to spend as much time as you liked there, reminiscing. If you just wanted to stay home and watch a movie you’d both adored, he’d be right there with your favorite drink and a long, tight hug. He’d be eager to hear everything you wanted to share with him: funny stories, favorite trips, the advice they gave you along the way that got you here. The things the two of you shared that it felt like no one else did, and for a long time, you’d thought no one else would ever share again. Every little bit of your MaF you wanted to wring out of yourself, he’d be determined to hold it for you like a bucket, so you could see yourself reflected in it. He’d want to help you celebrate them the best you could, and would be grateful to whoever this wonderful stranger was that they’d been part of what made you the person he gave his whole heart to. He’d kiss away any tears that might appear, and would keep in mind any particulars you’d mentioned — recipes they made you, favorite things the two of you shared — so he could remember to surprise you with them when he’d felt you needed a reminder that they both loved you, even if your MaF was somewhere you couldn’t see.

Hex would also be down for a chill hang today, curious about - of course - photos you had of the two of you. He’d spend ages with you flipping through old albums, giggling along with you at the many versions of you that had come before, pointing out the similarities he saw between you and your MaF (inherited genetically or just through habit), and listening with a soft smile to the memories you encountered in each photo. If it got late enough, and he’d maybe had a little something to drink, he’d ask quietly if you had a small memento of theirs — jewelry they’d owned, or something they’d worn, or some other kind of heirloom. He’d take it carefully between his palms, rolling it between them with a sort of hazy, far-away gaze. For a long moment, it would almost seem like he’d gone into a trance, but eventually, he would return to this world look up with clearer eyes than before. “…She’s proud of you,” he’d say quietly, with a bittersweet smile. “Of how much you’ve grown. Of who you’re gonna be. And she misses you, too - enough to fill oceans. But you’ll see her again, she knows that.” His smile would become a small smirk. “She thinks you could do better in terms of boyfriends, but, y’know.”

Rora would be… a bit lost, truthfully. She only ever has negative things to say about her own dead mom (not without reason), so she wouldn’t know what it was like to miss a MaF genuinely, and not the version of them you’d hoped they’d be. She might be kind of quiet at first, today, not sure what to say… before, at last, sitting down next to you wherever you were, and holding out a bottle of her favorite elderflower wine. She’d want to hear about what your MaF taught you, what they’d set you on the path to doing, what they couldn’t let you not know. She’d want to know about what it was like to have someone like that who loved you as a seedling of yourself, that you loved in return, even if it was imperfectly done on both sides. She’d just want to listen to you talk, whether it was accompanied by laughter or tears, about the person you missed. She’d be fascinated, drinking it all in, and squirreling it away to remind you of the person who loved you when it felt like they couldn’t be farther away. Eventually, the two of you would just end up laying down wherever you were, with her hand twining into yours at the harder parts. Even if Rora couldn’t conjure your MaF in any meaningful way, it would still feel like she was there in the room with both of you, somehow.

If you and your MaF don’t get along…

- And they’re still here:

Maxi would be happy to run interference for you today. If your MaF was expecting the two of you to make an appearance at some sort of family function, he’d be more than willing to call in that morning on your behalf, explaining you were “sick” (down with a tragic case of Leave-Me-Alone-itis) and simply unable to attend, no ifs, ands, or buts. If she tried to stamp her foot or guilt him into making you both come anyway, he’d keep his usual cheerful customer service smile carefully in place, even over the phone. After he finally got her off the phone (with the most passive aggressive “Well bless your whole heart, you take care now, ma’am” you’ve ever heard in your entire life), he’d suggest the two of you perhaps have at least breakfast and lunch (or brunch!) in your pajamas in bed, courtesy of him. The two of you would spend the day laying around with something delicious within reach at all times (and some homemade food as well, ba dum tssh). If you wanted to talk about some of the harder times with your MaF, he’d be just fine being a listening ear, and willing to share some of his own. But otherwise, he’d be determined to not let you be reminded of her, spending today making you feel loved (while he deleted/hid any frustrating posts/messages/etc. she might be trying to send your way. Fuck that. You don’t need to deal with that.)

Hex would invite you early on in the day to go on a motorcycle ride to New Orleans with him. If you didn’t want to - just wanted to be alone, taking space for yourself - he’d understand. But on some level, he’d hope that the thing he frequently used to clear his own head would maybe help clear yours. Put some literal, physical distance between you and the person who haunted your thoughts today like he was haunted by his own. If you chose to take him up on the offer, he’d take the scenic routes with you, the two of you flying over waterways and through wooded swamps effortlessly. Once you were there, whether it was your first time in the city or your fiftieth, he’d be delighted to take you anywhere you wanted to go, snapping photos of you all the while when you weren’t paying attention. If the two of you ended up at the Morvants’ New Orleans apartment, you could be sure of a romantic evening — anything to keep your mind in the here and now, and off the day. If you wanted to talk a little bit about your MaF, he would of course be a sympathetic ear. He might not be as open with some of his own experiences… those are still complicated. But he’d want you to feel heard, and loved above all.

Should your phone ring at any point that day with that dreaded number, Rora would (if she was sure it wouldn’t upset you) pick it up without hesitation: “No. Fuck off.” and immediately hang up. If your MaF tried calling back, she’d pick up again: “Do you know how easy it is to procure killer bees in this country? Do you know where they prefer to swarm? Because I do, on both counts. Don’t make me show you.” And hang up again. With an annoyed look, she’d toss your phone back on the bed, before glancing at you. “Gardenin’ or drinkin’ or both?” Which would lead inevitably to the pair of you day-drinking and giggling as you took turns smudging each other’s faces with warm dirt, the sun languid on your skin like the drink in your mouth. Some new roses get planted, and some herbs, but the two of you are far more interested in taking blossoms that already exist and tucking them behind one another’s ears, or folding them into one another’s hair. Which leads to each of you wanting to smell the other’s new floral accessories, which then leads to the two of you being perilously close together, breath hazy and eyes lingering, and— The flowers certainly get a show, and it’ll take a couple washes to get all the grass stains out of your clothes, but it’s worth it.

- And they’re not here:

“Don’t you worry about it, darlin’,” Maxi would say, kissing the corner of your mouth reassuringly. “Now, what all should we get into today?”

“Let’s just make today about you and me, huh Querida?” Hex would say, moving some of your hair behind your ear with a wink.

“Well. Good riddance, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Rora would say, resting two fingers under your chin to tilt your face towards her. “Huh, sweet pea?”

…And after a day had been well-spent, doing whatever it is you wanted to do, the three of them would convene in the depths of the Basement That Shouldn’t Be, amidst the half-dead, half-rotted, fully tormented remnants of their family’s centuries of victims.

What they would do is… hard to describe, exactly. It would involve a number of things - a shot of blood from the foresworn, the flesh of the reticent living, the stolen tooth of an enemy. In the flickering candlelight (where was a breeze coming from down here?), the Morvants might not… quite resemble their daylight selves. More like the warped reflections of their mirror selves, from only a few Octobers ago. Nightmares made flesh, skin stretched in ways more commonly seen on the dead. The three of them, separately, were already unorthodox practitioners of their respective arts, so to speak. But combined? They make for a force that would cause any skull to further blanch. And wherever the person who had made your life so hard was, on whatever plane… she would be suffering. Deep, unending suffering. No one who so deeply hurt someone of theirs would ever know peace, on either side of the Veil.

I hope these help anyone who needs a little today, I know this holiday can be one of the harder ones for a lot of reasons. Just know we’re here if you need a necromancer!

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morvantmortuary · 1 year

Text

sweetweirds -

so in our little gc we have a channel where we ask each other questions about our OCs, and my friend @bigtiddythanos recently asked us about weird quirks they adopt with their S/Os when no one else is around. so I wanted to share what I thought the Morvants would pick up once the two of you (or more, I don’t judge) had been dating for a while, just bc I had a lot of fun writing them 🖤

not long, but still putting it under a cut so not to clog things!

Maxi -

Will walk up behind his s/o and set his chin on the top of their head or shoulder, depending, and let out this little huff through his nose like Maggie used to do when she had a nose when he’s curious about what they’re doing/bored/misses them. He won’t hug them if they’re doing something, and he’ll back off if they can’t be distracted, but it’s just how he says hello.

When the two of you are just sitting around, if he’s within range, he might well lean over and just gently grab your arm or your shoulder in his teeth with a muffled “Delicious!”

if you two are cuddling and you try to get up before he wants to, he goes “oh no, rigor mortis!” and hugs you with his arms and legs so you can’t get away, followed by “Oh no, death tickles!” which is self explanatory lmao.

If he’s feeling especially weird and the two of you are definitely not in public (and if he doesn’t run the risk of ruining your makeup, which he views as art), he will totally randomly lick your cheek and say “just re-upping my claim” before walking off like nothing happened.

He also totally bows exaggeratedly whenever he fucks up and drops something or bumps into something or whatever and goes “For my next trick, I will flee into the swamp!”

Hector -

he has sweater paws constantly in his hoodie when the two of you have been going out for a while. he’ll walk up behind you and gently flap you with the ends of his sleeves when he’s bored.

When he wants attention he’ll go “Quiero besitooos~ ;A;” in a sad muppet voice, wandering the house mournfully until he finds you

If the two of you are playfighting (or you say something mushy and it catches him offguard), he does the thing where he pulls his hoodie up and pulls the drawstrings until it scrunches around his face and curls up in a ball.

He’s prone to walking up behind you and dancing as quietly but wildly as he can until you turn around and notice him, and then he’ll ask you whatever he actually came to ask you about.

He’ll also walk up to you sometimes with snacks like chips or something and go “sssh, just trust me” and put it in your mouth before you can see it (but only ever with things he already knows you really like)

Rora -

(Has the hardest time making it to full weird, but when she does, she’s Weird.)

If you’re sitting around reading or on your phone and she walks in, she’ll go “Gasp! A beautiful flower! In the house!” and make a show of sniffing your hair.

Whenever you do something a little bit clumsy, she’ll go “And I must swoon.” in an exaggerated version of her accent, but never in a mean way.

When she’s clumsy, she’s like “And that’s why I was Miss Louisiana.”

She also does the thing where she’ll walk up and lick your face when you two are totally alone/not wearing makeup. “It’s how we used to lay claim to sweets when we were little,” she’d drawl when you finally asked why, which. Explains a lot about the family, you suppose.

When you’re sitting on the couch together doing your own thing (but not something where she could throw you off, like a video game), she’ll go “I wilt!” in a dramatic voice and put her hand to her forehead and fall on top of you, where you must revive her with kisses.

If your hair’s long enough and you’re busy but she just wants to be near you, she’ll stand there and braid tiny strands of it together if it wouldn’t distract you too much.

just a little something I wanted to take the time to share, because I’m enchanted by the idea of those odd little in-jokes/habits that emerge out of a shared language of intimacy 🖤 no I’m not touch-starved I don’t know what you mean

I hope everyone’s having a good saturday so far! (or sunday, depending!)

#maxi vibes #hector vibes #rora vibes #maxi morvant #maximilian vincent morvant #hector morvant-casares #hex morvant-casares #hector emile morvant-casares #rora morvant #aurore morvant #aurore maria morvant #the morvants and their readers #maxi morvant x you #hector morvant-casares x you #rora morvant x you #slasher ocs #southern slasher ocs #necromancer ocs #morvant mortuary

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morvantmortuary · 1 year

Note

aaaa those smut prompts though!!! could you do 11 for miss rora? (id prefer if you used the masc nicknames for an afab reader but thats just my pref!! do whatever works best for you/is most comfortable ☺️)

“Be a good girl/boy for mommy/daddy.”

so I meant to have this up months ago I’m so so sorry!!! to celebrate Rora for international women’s day yesterday, but work got more involved than expected and I ended up being dead to the world as soon as I got home :’D I’m sorry this took so long, but I hope you’ll find it was worth the wait!! 🖤 I had a lot of fun writing it and exploring Rora, she’s so fascinating when it comes to her ideas of intimacy and her emotions.

again, I’m sorry it took so long, but just think of it as being marinated with extra love or something ♥️♥️♥️

light the sky and hold on tight

(Rora Morvant x trans masc!Reader, 18+)

(general heads up: smut, minors dni. arson, references to rora’s past trauma, some light discussion of reader’s past dysphoria - nothing detailed. reader uses he/him pronouns and masc nicknames throughout. fingerfucking, thigh riding. no use of y/n. as always, I’m open to suggestions for any language that needs tweaked to make this more inclusive for all [and for Hex’s Spanish].)

[eta: so... I once Again did the thing where it's too long to post to tumblr, and it doesn't seem to like me trying to break it down into chunks, either :'D so, if you don't mind just hopping over to AO3, you can read the whole thing here, uninterrupted!

thanks again for your patience, nonny! to anyone who reads all the way through, happy belated international women's day, we support Women's Wrongs here at the mortuary!!!]

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morvantmortuary · 1 year

Note

tw//self harm

recently after years of not doing it I’ve fallen back into self harm, i’m full of extreme embarrassment and guilt.

the morvants have been a huge source of comfort for me in trying to cope with this slip, through reading all of the other comfort asks. But I was wondering how they would comfort in this specific situation.

(im sorry if this ask is triggering in anyway thank you for creating such loving and comforting ocs)

oh, oh honey

as someone who’s had some harm-adjacent tendencies before, just know that slips aren’t anything to be ashamed of. it usually only means that something in your current system to get through the day just isn’t able to handle the amount of stress you’re under rn. and even if the slip has been going on for a bit, the holidays aren’t usually a great time for anyone’s mental health. it’s hard for lots of reasons right now, I promise you’re not alone 🖤

just know before I get into writing that a. you’re absolutely not going to feel this way forever. this will pass, and you’ll get back to where you were in the time you need to take to get there. as deep a hole as it feels right now, you’re gonna come out all right 🖤 and b. you don’t need to feel ashamed or embarrassed. this is just you returning temporarily to something that worked before, but it’s not permanent, and progress in this kind of thing isn’t always linear. don’t beat yourself up when you’re already having a hard time, okay?

the rest I’ll put under a cut, just to save space 🖤

the first thing to know is that none of the morvants are going to be mad at you. no one is going to be angry, whether you tell them yourself, or they happen to glimpse a fresh wound, or stumble across something they weren’t meant to see in your bag/room/house etc.

if they see something that makes them concerned, none of them will confront you about it. they’ll wait for a quiet moment where you’re both comfortable and you don’t need to go anywhere anytime soon - maybe just chilling on the couch, or curled up in bed, or sitting together during a lull in the kitchen - and will, calmly and gently, ask if you’re okay. if there’s anything you want or need to talk about. if they can do anything to make you feel safer, or more comfortable talking to them about something… difficult.

when it’s appropriate, they’ll voice their concern - Maxi phrasing it delicately but still clearly, Hex having trouble quite getting the words out for a minute but eventually managing to get the point across, Rora asking you point blank but not meanly.

you only have to explain to the level you want to. they won’t make you justify it to them, they just want to know that they aren’t mistaken in what they think might be happening. no matter why or when, they will still love you.

Maxi’s first concern will be making sure everything is clean and properly bandaged. Even though you’ve possibly tried to handle that yourself to some degree, he’ll still go get his first aid kit from the prep room and insist on taking care of any wounds himself, no matter where they are. He wants to make sure that no matter how deep or what they look like, that they won’t get infected, and that they’ll heal as cleanly as they can. He’s gentle and precise, and might even have some topical lidocaine lying around still so you don’t have to hurt any more than necessary (he’s had plenty of nights where he had to stitch up some much larger wounds on himself, or Hector, and lately even Rora sometimes. he’s an old pro at numbing pain and cleaning up). He’s the perfect person to help you cover anything if you feel self-conscious at all, but first he’ll want to make sure that you’re healthy and comfortable.

if he thinks he won’t upset you, he’ll make a point to press a kiss to each bandage once he has it safely on. just to help them along. (literally, with his brand of necro-magic, but even if he couldn’t do that, he would still want you to feel loved no matter what.)

he’d want to talk, if you were in the right place, about what he could do to help you. what you think your triggers could be, and how he could help minimize them. things he could do to help you if you had the urge again, something to help replace it or circumvent it or at least keep you safe and sterile. (bless his heart, he’d ask if a bite to the spot of your choice - not to draw blood, of course, but just for the feeling - would help at all instead. he’d be willing to volunteer for that, if it made any difference.) he’d want to talk, if you could, about where your feelings had been lately, what was on your mind. he’d be looking for a spot where he could help take something off your plate, something he could do for you to help take some pressure off yourself. He’s a romantic, but one of the ways he shows love is trying to do things his partner doesn’t want to, just to show them that a. he’d do anything for them, and b. he’s here to help you, in whatever ways that entails.

if you didn’t want to talk, that would still be fine. he’d give you carte blanche over what the two of you did that day: what you watched or read or listened to, what you ate, anything for you to feel better. He’d go get anything you wanted, take you anywhere you wanted to go, make you anything you asked for, if it meant you were having an even slightly nicer time in your own head. The entire time, he’d insist on staying close to you - holding your hand, or keeping you in his lap if y’all were hanging out at home, even just sitting with his hip pressed to yours. He would want you to feel secure, safe. There would be kisses to your cheeks, your eyelids, your forehead, the backs of your hands, your shoulders, your neck. He would just want you to know he was there, and he wasn’t going anywhere. You want a human weighted blanket? He would be one, happy to spend the days he didn’t have to work lying on your chest, or keeping you laying on his as he cradled you against his torso, content to feel the beating of your heart through his skin.

when you finally called it a night, he’d keep one arm wrapped firmly around your ribcage as always. in his other hand, with his phone set to the lowest brightness possible, he’d be reading anything he can find about supporting a partner with similar coping mechanisms. he’d defer to you first and foremost - you know your own experience best - but anything he can learn, he’d file away for later. He would want to learn how to be there for you in the ways you needed most.

he would just want to figure out how to make you feel better, if he could. how to let you know that whatever pain you felt, he would carry that weight with you, if it meant you didn’t have to take it out on yourself or carry it alone.

it would be hard for him not to check your wounds every day to make sure they’re healing okay -- he wouldn’t want to keep reminding you of something painful -- but he would want to reassure you (and himself) that you’re going to be fine. and if you ever had another slip, he would want you to know you could tell him, just so he could take care of you after in the same way. He understands things happen. He just wants you to know you don’t have to hide from him.

Hex would flounder a little more - he’s not the best at talking, sometimes, and he keeps his own feelings under a few safe layers of sarcasm and artistic distance between himself and his work. But he would hate the idea of you being in so much pain alone. He would swear to you up and down that you were perfect, beautiful, wonderful, that you could tell him anything and he would still adore you. That he would talk as much or as little as you wanted, he just wanted you to know you could talk to him, and he would never be afraid of what you had to say.

He would want to at least check your scars himself, to clean them and make sure they didn’t hurt. He wouldn’t go as all-in about it with a first aid kit, but he would want to treat you with some soap and warm water, a soft towel and bandaids in cartoon patterns. (“Who wouldn’t want Batman on a cut, c’mon,” he’d tease, gently applying them. “Nothing’s getting past him.”) But before he put those on, he’d offer you a bath, if you wanted to calm down - he’d be happy to draw it for you, to sit and chat with you while you soaked and he would wash your hair. Or if you wanted him to join you, he would sit with you in the warm water, drawing on your skin with the tip of his index finger. He’d be happy to talk if you wanted to talk, or if you didn’t, he would sit there and tell you all the little things he loved about the skin you wore, pointing them out as he went.

He would insist on keeping you as comfortable as possible - he’d want to cook for you himself, if he can make something you’d like. If you still wanted something from out, he’d be willing to go pick it up or have it delivered, but he feels better when he can feed you from his own know-how. He wants to be able to take care of you while doing as much as he can with his own hands, mostly to show you that he won’t let you go without (but also, in the back of his own head, to prove to himself that he can). If he can’t provide the meal itself, he’ll still make sure you don’t go without a snack, a cup of tea, even just some fresh water with fruit in your favorite water bottle. Food is a huge comfort thing for him, so anything he can make you or share with you, you’re going to get. He’ll lay off if you ever told him to, but it’s instinctual to him to feed the people you love in times of need. It’s been a huge love language all his life, so this is him explaining in the loudest possible terms ‘I love you, you never have to be afraid of not being cared for.’

He’s not the best at sitting still. If that’s what you wanted to do, he would busy himself with a book of poetry, or a video game, just something to keep in his hands and keep his brain distracted. But he’d be more likely to ask if you’d maybe want to take a walk or a drive to talk some stuff out. He knows that sometimes, when you’re talking about heavy things, it’s easier to be able to look somewhere else -- out the windshield, down at your feet, up at the sky -- to get things out properly. And he would listen, deeply, drinking your words in, at times maybe pausing for just a little bit longer than feels comfortable when he needs to say something. But he just wants to get it right. He doesn’t want to run the risk of being clumsy with his words when you’re already hurting. His worst fear is saying the wrong thing, anything, that would just make you feel worse. At times, it would be hard for him to start -- there’s a lot of stuff in his past he keeps quiet about, because talking never seemed to change anything. But if he tried to follow something you said with a hushed story from his own life, full of long pauses, it’s just because he’s trying to tell you he understands in his own way. That you don’t ever have to think you’re going through this alone, or that there’s any experience you could have that would scare him away. He’s determined to stay as long as you want him, no matter how bad your days get o how many slips you might have.

Where he feels words aren’t his strong suit, physical reassurance is always going to be a strength of his. If it would help at all, he would stop what he was doing to kiss you whenever you needed it, or swallow you in a hoodie hug that squeezes you down to the soul. He’s always going to want to cuddle, to touch, to lean behind you with his chin on your shoulder and pester you playfully. He would insist on letting you “borrow” clothes of his - his hoodies, sure, but his big flannel shirts, even his t-shirts or jeans or the skinny hair ties he keeps around - just so you know he’s always there.

Rora would probably be the one who understands the most literally of the three. When you finally told her, she would give you one of her sadder, knowing smiles, taking your hand in hers to intertwine your fingers. It would take her a moment to speak, but eventually she’d find her voice, low as always. “In my old body -- my first one,” she’d explain. “I used to be so... angry. At my parents, at the role they expected me to play... at myself, for not bein’ what I was supposed to be,” she’d pause. “I felt like the only thing I could take it out on, and it would actually make a difference. Ruin the little doll my mother wanted. Put that aching gnaw at the back of my skull somewhere real. Things that only make sense when you’re in the moment, and all you can feel is... well, you know.” She’d frown down at her thighs under her skirt. “I forget, sometimes, that they’re not there anymore. That that girl is dead, and I left that body behind. And, as strange as it sounds...” She trails off, hesitating for a moment. “I don’t always know how I feel about that absence.” She’d look at you, knowing you’d understand.

She would kiss the back of your hand, her lips just a touch too cool. “I know what it’s like, petal. When it feels like you have no other way to get it out. Like it’s the only thing to do to get your brain to leave you alone. It’s okay.” She would lean her forehead against yours. “You were in a space where it would’ve felt worse to keep it festerin’ inside. That still happens to me too, sometimes.” She’d smile, surprisingly gentle for her usually sharp features. “We learn other ways to make it go away. You will, too. It’s okay to feel all different ways about it, but you don’t need to be ashamed of nothin’. You’re just a person. But you’ll always be my favorite person,” she’d add, her voice hushed. “So you can tell me when you feel like that. If you feel like it’ll happen again. I’ll be here. I promise.”

Rora, as mentioned before, tends to feel things most strongly in a physical sense. (Two decades of being trapped without a corporeal form will do that.) She’ll want to do whatever it takes to make you feel comfortable in your own skin. She’ll want to take care of your hair, giving it whatever it needs to grow strong, and in the style that you feel most yourself in. This could be anything from adding oil/a mask to your roots, or giving your cut a fresh buzz if it needs it. While she’s not the cook the boys are, she’d want to share with you fresh fruit from her garden, or (if you drink) a wine she’d been saving for a special occasion. Even if it meant just sitting in the sun with you outside amidst the flowers, she would want you to feel connected to your own body again. Anything she could do to help you feel like it wasn’t your enemy, she would be willing to try. This could mean expensive oils or lotions for your skin, or taking the time to rub your feet, your hands, anywhere you might be holding onto some hurt.

If you didn’t mind -- if it wouldn’t upset you -- she’d want to take care of your scars, too. Cleaning them, of course, but also treating them with something like shea butter, wanting to show them as much love as the rest of you. That they were just another part of the mural of your skin, nothing to find shameful, just something else to make sure they got the care they deserved.

She would also, in a perhaps more abstract method, want to get something new into your hands to help you find an outlet for your heavier feelings. She’d surprise you with anything she thought you might like: a calligraphy pen and ink in your favorite color, an embroidery pattern to keep your mind and hands busy, something as ordinary as a sketchpad and pencils, some clippings and supplies to grow some of your favorite flowers from the garden all on your own -- even (if you could stomach it) a beginner version of one of her taxidermy projects. Whatever it was that you felt most at home with, she’d encourage you to bring it to her workshop while she set about her latest project, doing her best to respect your space as you worked (but definitely trying to sneak a peek every so often, as curious as she is). Rora is v much someone who wants to throw herself into the work she loves when she’s feeling in turmoil. She’ll be happy to talk - and to listen to anything you might want to tell her, anything you’d want to get off your chest - but it’s much easier for her to do so with something in your hands.

If none of these appealed to you, she would want you to show her your most favorite ways to hang out and enjoy yourself. She would want to know every little detail about your favorite game, your most loved hobby, the show you watch over and over again, the band you’ve loved since high school. There’s a very high chance it’ll be new to her somehow, but most importantly, she would want to see them through your eyes. She loves you, and because you loved these things, she would love them because they reminded her of you happy. Even if it was completely foreign to her, she’d be determined to try to learn and talk about it with you. Not necessarily as an escape (although it could be that if you needed it), but to find parts of you in the things you loved, so she could remind you of them when you needed it most.

...And of course, with all of them, if it was a person who made you feel this way, then murder is definitely not off the table! You provide a name, they’ll handle the rest, and gladly.

I know this took me a day, but I’ve been thinking about it since you sent it in, hon. I hope any of this helps even a little, and just know that they would all be happy to be there for you on your worst days. So am I. 🖤 we all have to look out for each other, after all.

take care, and thank you for being sweet enough to reach out. we’re all rooting for you, but be gentle with yourself in the meantime.

#maxi morvant #hector morvant-casares #hex morvant-casares #aurore morvant #rora morvant #maxi morvant x you #hector morvant-casares x you #rora morvant x you #the morvants x you #the morvants and their readers #morvant mortuary #to be sorted into the comfort list #self harm cw #gn!reader

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