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pondering-and-wondering · 2 years

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So today (Yesterday) I finished reading The October Arc by @morvantmortuary and I had a whole lot of thoughts so I wrote them all down in a shitty essay so please humor me and read under the cut if you wish. (It’s longer than I expected so :P)

I truly did not think that Maxi and the Morvants would affect me the way they did. I was never a horror junkie, I get spooked very easily, and I get squeamish at almost everything. So imagine my surprise when I see a Slasher oc under the Daniel Bruhl tag. Even better, imagine my surprise when I really, really liked what I read. I was drawn in by Daniel being the face claim, and almost instantaneously tumbled down the stairs of love for this little dweeb and his murderous tendencies. As the story developed, I couldn't help but get more invested. And then even more of the Morvants made themselves known. Much to my surprise, the staircase was much longer than expected and I fell down…again. Both Hector and Rora’s introductions sent chills down my spine, and little did I know how much they would both grow on me. As time went on they became my Obsession. I just couldn’t get them out of my head. I was always wondering what would come next, whether it be tales from The October Arc or just general tidbits about the characters.

Where else to start but the beginning, no? First of all Maxi, and by proxy Rora are Virgo royalty (and as one myself I take lots of pride in sharing that with them). Secondly, there was just something about Maxi that really resonated with me. Not just because he was the perfect boyfriend (demonic attachments aside), but because of his more earthly worries. Expectations have always been a huge thing in my family, and because of where I was born in my family tree, a lot of it was placed on me. A lot of it is still placed on me to this day. There is this weird thing that happens when you are told from day one that your family is more important than everything else and you don't want to disappoint them, and at the same time the things that drive you don't align with what they want. You want to make them happy but at the same time want to be happy yourself. While that wasn't exactly the case with the Morvants, not pursuing engineering is a lot different from not upholding a multigenerational contract with demons, I could still see it and relate to it and it really struck a chord.

Maxi in general is just…wow. What an incredibly written character. It was never hidden from us, the readers, that Maxi was a serial killer. Hell that’s why people gravitated to him I think. But watching the road to our Reader character discovering it was a rush from start to finish and then some. It was the little things at first, knowing where the vibrator was in Tear You Apart, the general stalking business in Hunt You Down (eat you alive). Even when things escalated later in the chapter with the killing of the creep, it all seemed to be typical serial killer business, and I was 100% here for it! Then things started to get spooky. Sacrifices to the already spooky house, ghosts of victims popping up and making a fuss. From this point on the story grew three times bigger in scale with the inclusion of witchcraft and necromancy and holy shit I was invested.

Of course after this came the introductions of Hector and Rora and i was absolutely floored with them. Both Morvants clearly have such a flair for the dramatics, and i remember being hit with the double whammy of learning about both of them back to back. Hector killed one of Reader’s best friends. That was his introduction. My jaw was on the floor as I read it and I was clutching my pearls for heaven's sake. There was no preparation for him, I don't think preparing for that man is even possible. I was almost convinced i was going to hate him until i read more about him. Now he’s my favorite :D. And then there is beloved Rora. Once again, my jaw was on the floor the whole time.The fact that she resurrected herself was most definitely a Girlboss move and knowing her previous taunts to Maxi just made it even more bone chilling . And in my humble opinion, it made her scarier than Hector. Of course, I'm not saying that Hector killing someone on voicemail wasn't scary. But what Rora exuded in that moment was pure power and ability and WOW was it creepy.

There is no trope more impactful to me than flashing back to cute moments when the relationship in the present is in Jeopardy, and Lovesong parts one and two were that and it hit me right in the heart. Of course logically I knew that Reader would stay with Maxi no matter what for story purposes, that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t crying my little eyes out while I read it. The fear of losing someone is terrible, but having that fear when you feel you don’t deserve that person? Having that fear and thinking that they’ll leave you? I think it was the ultimate show of Maxi’s strength. Being vulnerable with people is hard without having an insane family demon agreement saying you have to kill thirteen people minimum. We had seen Reader be vulnerable with Maxi multiple times already, but to see Maxi be that vulnerable with them, and for him to be met with an unrelenting acceptance and love was infectious. When Maxi understood that he would still be loved no matter what I could feel it right in my heart. It weighed heavy in my chest but not in a sad way. It almost felt like it was so saturated with love that it couldn’t take anymore.

And if there is one thing I love and is possibly my favorite thing of all time, it’s found family. Nothing is better than finding family in my eyes, I prefer it to almost anything you could throw in front of me and if I didn't eat up every single bit of it. Things started out rocky of course, i mean killing your cousin’s partner’s friend is not cool at all, but the way everyone came together to protect them because they cared? So good. Even if it was mostly for Maxi’s sake in some instances, just seeing people care about other people can mean so so much. Seeing any love at all means so so much. Even the little things like Rora reviving Magnolia in her own little way. It shows she cares whether she wants to be stoic about it or not.

And ahhh the power of love. It’s so good. I don’t care if anyone thinks it’s cheesy, it’s good shit. The fact that the love that Reader and Macy have is strong enough to deflect very strong dark magic just makes me smile. And that love was so well developed over the course of the October arc that I had absolutely no issues believing it. Sometimes “the power of love” can be overused or used in situations where you just don’t feel there is love there. You’re told so, but don’t feel it. That is absolutely not the case with this. In every single conversation Maxi and Reader had, in every single thing they did, every thought we as readers knew about; you could feel the love pulsing between them. The purest definition of soulmates there could ever be, and with marks to prove it too. I’m saying it a lot but love is such an amazing feeling even through the worst of it and it was felt from the very start.

Love is one of the main feelings I’ve had about this series so far, the Morvants, and the writing as a whole. I haven’t been this invested in an original story for this long in a very long time. Specifically when it comes to reading. It made me cry during a time where I couldn’t cry for whatever reason it was. It brought me comfort when I was barely able to move. If I could buy a hardcover copy of The October Arc and be able to mark it up with annotations and have it physically I would in a heartbeat. So I would like to thank you with the most sincerity Rarae, thank you for sharing these beautiful characters and this beautiful story so far. Thank you for putting all your love into them as it radiates through screens and penetrates the hearts of everyone who reads it. It’s getting kinda late now and I have a busy day tomorrow, but I kinda had to spill my guts or else I wouldn’t be able to sleep. So once again, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

#maxi morvant #hector morvant-casares #rora morvant #morvant mortuary #i apologise if this is incoherent im sleepy

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ocmerunaway · 2 years

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A little playlist for @morvantmortuary ‘s Rora and my baby Sunny. Obviously I lay zero claim to Rora, I just lay claim to Sunny since she’s mine.

#playlist #aurore 'rora' marie morvant #sunny 'rose' sonnshine #original creations

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thecaptainsgingersnap · 2 years

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-OC Creator Bingo 2022-

For @morvantmortuary

Aurore 'Rora' Maria Morvant

Really hope you like it. (Rora has a really cool vibe and I hope I got it right!

#oc creator bingo 2022

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claire-connolly · 2 years

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POV: I’m writing more Claire x @morvantmortuary shenanigans because I have unorganized inspiration :P

So these are just very loose things that I’ve just thought about in passing involving this group of cool cats because I truly don’t know if i have the chops or the energy to write them out fully >:3

- The Trial and Error montage that would be Claire figuring out how to be in the house without a breakdown

Now while I truly believe that Maxi and the Gang would put in their best efforts to make the house as...should we say agreeable? To Claire’s condition? The Vibes in their are likely way too strong and Claire far too sensitive for her to be able to handle the house without her own safe guards up.

Because she can definitely feel that something is up, the day she does come over she just thinks “An extra charmed bracelet or two should do the trick”

it does not.

Claire, currently not at the point where she knows all of what happens in that house assumes its just the intense amount of grief that happens that gets to her. She also certainly feels something or in fact several demonic things poking about, but considering her last experience with the cult and the demon that was draining away at her, she decides that maybe if she ignores it for a while it will leave her alone :D.

She probably spends two weeks working on some sort of solution regarding a protection plan which takes several charmed pieces of jewelry and a few spells, not to mention some extra salt laid down courtesy of Maxi. (She sleeps for two days straight after finally getting everything down pact)

- ahem... CLAIRE MEETING MAGGIE?!?!?!!

I went out earlier today and it just popped into my head how the interaction might go because it just seemed so cute in my head. First off she would just lose all her marbles when she first pops up because she would hear her “purring” and go !!!! “ Oh my stars you have a cat? Why didn’t you tell me?!” and then she sees the bones approaching and she is even more excited?!?!?

I also would assume this happens soon after she finds out more of The Details of why the Morvants and their house feel the way they do. (Which I don’t even know how to explain how much of a mess that probably was) So seeing a skeletal cat wouldn't be so como se dice.... traumatizing.

Claire for as sweet as she is can have alot of trouble dealing with people because of their emotions but animals she just K N O W S (i Kinda sorta decided to give her a little Raven Companion named Beacon who I intend on getting to shortly lmao) because she can feel their emotions she’s really good at tending to them but they arent nearly as loud spiritually as people are so they’re her favorite form of companionship.

Any hoot, because of this i feel that Maggie and Claire have the potential to be the best of friends. She babies that skeleton kitty as much as she can.

-Ahem, THE MORVANTS MEETING BEACON?!??!?

So for some background Beacon is Claire’s little raven buddy. He has always had a tendency to get himself hurt and always manages to find Claire so she can help him recuperate, hence why Claire dubs him Beacon. The latest time he got hurt though he injured his wing really badly and he hasn't been able to fly around like he used to, maybe a couple feet at a time on a good day. Because of this, Claire took him in and he’s not really her pet but they're more like roommates. He’s very temperamental towards people who aren't Claire and has very strong opinions on people and this very much includes the Morvant’s :P

I honestly think his fav would be Hector for no reason other than the raven equivalent of “I like his Moxy.” Whenever/If ever Hector allows he’ll hop onto his shoulder to perch there and hang out with him. If Hector doesn't allow it then he still tries because he’s a little shit and then he’ll get angy and caw aggressively at Hex as if he wasn't the one being difficult.

He’d be scared shitless of Rora fully. He’d be hopping his way to hide in Claire’s hair whenever she comes around because something inside him tells him that she’s not supposed to Be Here currently. He starts off very impolite but after some time he realizes that Claire genuinely cares for her and eventually he warms up to her more. Not nearly as close as he may want to get with Hex but pleasant and not throwing a fit.

I thinkhe’d be most neutral with Maxi. I mean when he first meets all of them he is tugging at Claire’s hair all “DON’T BE HERE ITS DANGEROUS” but after realizing that Claire deems it safe enough for her to be he figures he’ll ride it out. He’ll only travel with Maxi if he explicitly invites him unlike with Hex, but out of everyone he’s the softest with Maxi. If Claire is about Maxi is the one he’ll go to first if he wants a soft cuddle. (This is making me realize i have to write more about Beacon LMAO)

And that’s about all that’s in my silly little brain bye-

#Morvants x Claire Connolly #claire connolly ✨

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morvantmortuary · 5 months

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the night before -

The Morvants have their own Christmas Eve traditions.

warnings: allusions to child death and animal death, some gore, necromancers being creepy and possessive.

(I wanted to get this up earlier tonight, but my sister in law got in and I got distracted visiting, so! consider this a late night bite for the nocturnal crowd 🖤

As always, you can read this for just your favorite, or you can read it as though you’re dating a combination of all three - so long as you don’t mind your bed being very crowded at the end 😜)

All three Morvants share memories of the looming dread the holiday previously inspired:

The skeletal revenants that glowered through the House in the days leading up to the gathering — ritualistically sweeping, dusting, and mopping until their fingers fell off, or their task was complete and they immediately collapsed again into a heap of paper-thin skin and bones (that the boys then had to sweep up themselves and return to the basement).

The continued frustration of Maxi and Hector being constantly shooed out of the kitchen, despite both eagerly wanting to help prepare for the festivities, and being forced to go sit uncomfortably with the other men of the family as they visited before The Night’s Trial. Not to mention the guests of They Who Decide, who lounged around smoking eye-watering cigars and drinking heavily in the parlor while they talked of their grim variations of business.

The fury of a protesting Rora repeatedly being near-dragged back into the kitchen by her mother’s iron grip at her elbow, no matter how often she tried to slip away, or fake cramps or a headache in the later years, because Mathilde insisted it would be Rora’s duty to be hostess of such glittering evenings herself one day.

(Hector, to this day, swears that whatever dish Rora was forced to touch during the cooking process always tasted bitter. Like her anger had seeped into the food itself.

Rora, when asked, would simply say it was a trace amount of the cyanide her mother had caught her trying to slip in when her back was turned.)

The stiff, uncomfortable clothes - starchy old-fashioned suits for the boys, a tulle nightmare-confection for Rora, all with entirely too much ancient lace and in a grim grave-shroud white for the season.

They would be buried in them, after all, if they failed. As Vincent so loved to remind them.

Where other children waited eagerly for Christmas Day, eyes bright with the hope of presents to come, the three little ones all felt dread piling up in the pits of their stomachs like snowdrifts for weeks in advance. Each door of the antique wooden advent calendar revealed another implied threat — behind one, the baby teeth of a long dead relative who had neglected his necromancy studies. Another displayed two desiccated little slips, barely bigger than moth wings: the eyelids of a little girl who wasn’t asleep when Saint Nicholas arrived.

None of them cried when they took turns unveiling each grim reminder. They stopped all that carrying on when they were seven and eight, respectively, even when the occasional wet specimen — already milky white from a century of preservation — made one of them shiver, unsettling their breakfast in their stomach.

The little cabinet of horrors sat on the mantle all the way up to Christmas Eve, Vincent’s recitations of how each souvenir came to reside there echoing in their heads as they went about their Yule preparations.

Maxi would join his father in the embalming room, preparing for his teenage apprenticeship that would be his destiny. He learned how the dead would whisper anything they could still remember, too terrified to remember restraint, and how to salt the wards in the House’s guts that kept madness and death where they belonged.

Hector’s father would take him into what would one day be repurposed as his dark room, where he would study how to make himself a better vessel for the dead (until his mother Esperanza found an excuse to spirit him away, and showed him how redraw the boundaries within his own head).

Rora would be left alone with Mathilde, who would at first be eager for the prospect of time shared with her only daughter… until she sulked and snapped her way through every attempted lesson in the Things A Lady Should Know, be it cooking or sewing or coquetry. When Mathilde at last threw her hands up in disgust, waving Rora away, she would be left to her own devices… as well as her grandfather’s taxidermy diagrams and tools.

The three would study as diligently as each knew how, learning whatever tricks they could that might give them a way to survive the encounter.

At midnight, they snuck into each other’s rooms - a different one every night, so they might avoid any lurking ears or spectral gaze - and traded what little they knew. It was against the rules of the challenge, and if caught, they would all have to pay the price.

But none of them wanted to see the others lost. Especially to the black teeth and sightless eyes of that ancient wretched thing.

Though they had no way of knowing it yet, this would be only the first instance of breaking every rule they were ever forced to learn,

Ten Christmas Eves, they survived.

Every one of them made it out of the midnight maze one way or another, some years by the barest strands of ectoplasm.

Sometimes Saint Nicholas stole a strip of skin, a hank of hair from their scalp — anything it could get its bone-thin hands on, desperate to sate the aching hunger that plagued it. Hector lost one of his back molars the year he turned fifteen, and saw the creature place it right in his own jaw before he fell back through the other side of the dark.

They found each other every time as dawn broke over the cemetery on Christmas Day, wrapping each other in the by-then damp blankets that had been left out for them on the frozen ground, and watching the light push back every scrap of night left to make sure the creature in red couldn’t find its way back out to them again.

Then Hector was taken away to Mexico when he was sixteen.

Rora died the day she turned eighteen.

Hex completed his last run through the midnight maze by himself, and Maxi’s first Christmas Eve not spent fleeing in terror happened in a House where the only voices were those of the dead.

Those years, they all agreed, were the worst.

Christmas Eve with you is so different, for them, it’s surreal.

While Halloween holds his heart, Maxi doesn’t mind Christmas so much anymore. After years of keeping only to the traditional decorations so his late ancestors didn’t complain - red candles, white lights, garlands of dried herbs that had been handed down for generations - he finds he actually enjoys dressing up the House when you’re around.

He lets himself be silly now, hanging black stockings with skulls and crossbones for each of you on the mantle, decorating a tree with peculiar and morbid little ornaments - many of which are now momentos from the odd places the two of you end up together. He insists on watching Nightmare Before Christmas and It’s a Wonderful Life at least once each season, in pajamas with hot cocoa, and he has a whole other repertoire of cookie recipes that he only makes in winter.

(If he holds you a little tighter and kisses your temple during George Bailey’s shouts of delight as he realizes he’s alive again, you don’t notice enough for it to strike you as odd.

You’ll never know how happy you made him to be alive again, too.)

He relishes the hunt for the perfect present, spending all year making notes to himself about the things you want but hesitate to buy yourself, or what you’re still trying to convince yourself you need. He wants to take care of you in any way he can, and if that means giving you permission to let yourself have something, then he’s happy to grant it.

A pattern returns from your more intimate moments, though: he focuses all his attention on you, eager to please, but the minute you show him any attention in return, he’s so overwhelmed he nearly forgets what he wants altogether.

You’re enough.

Every Christmas morning he wakes up in your bed with you, unscathed and unbloodied, unafraid, is more than enough.

Christmas Eve, however, he still insists on the two of you staying at your place.

He frames it more as wanting a break from the House, with all the decorating he’s been up to, and that’s sort of right. But truthfully, it’s because he’s certain he’ll never be able to sleep there on Christmas Eve as long as he’s on this side of the Veil.

At night, after the two of you have finished your last sugary snacks, and he’s held your back against his chest until you slip into a seamless sleep, he still lies awake until he absolutely has to move. He kisses the soft center of your cheek before he does, as if that itself is a spell of protection for the brief time he’s away.

He pads on silent feet to your living room, pausing at your fireplace with a wary glare to ensure his contingency measures are still in place.

The fine strand of silver-coated wire glints in the light, stretched taut across the width of your firebox and deceptively smooth for how sharply razored it actually was.

On your hearth, there are wards and glyphs in an unrecognizable dialect, all written in something the dull color of dried blood.

Subconsciously, he sucks the tip of his index finger as he turns towards your front door, the faint taste of iron filling his mouth.

Toeing into his shoes and sliding on his coat, he steps outside onto your porch as silently as he can manage. When he hears no noise from your bedroom at the creak of the floorboards of the soft squeak of the door hinge, he finally closes the door.

While you sleep, warm in your bed and your sugarplum dreams, he circles your house counter-clockwise seven times, trailing salt behind him as he speaks in a dialect of Louisiana French you’ve never heard from his lips in the daylight.

When he hears the slow, rhythmic ring of distant sleigh bells, he doesn’t stop or hesitate. He keeps one eye on the moon, iris reflecting solid red in the winter light.

He’s not a crying little boy anymore. He can fight back now, and he knows damn well how.

If he speaks the invocation a little louder, a challenge to the listening dark, he doesn’t realize it.

He’d take apart a centuries-old shambling corpse of Theseus of you. In a heartbeat.

When he enters your house again, the salt border over the sparse ice on the ground gleams with a tinge of red like bloody snow.

After checking the fireplace one more time, he finds the most central, load-bearing wall in your house. It has to be this one. No other will do.

He sets his left palm against it, feeling for something… before he sets his right one against it as well, satisfied. He leans his forehead in the space between them, and as his eyes close, the words tumble out of his mouth on an exhaled sigh.

If he’s learned anything in all of this - how the flesh and the sinew of a body calls to him above all else, how blood controls the flow of life, how decay is the purest form of devotion - he knows how to protect you.

And he’ll do it with everything he has, to his last breath.

Then he’d come back and do it again, so long as you were still alive.

The heater in your house kicks on briefly as something seeps deep through the wall, starting and stopping in a perfect imitation of a single human heartbeat.

Satisfied for now, Maxi abandons his shoes and his coat, padding his way silently back towards your room.

When he passes the innocuous milk and cookies waiting on your coffee table, he mutters a curse for the devourer to choke on them, long and hard.

He’ll spend the rest of his night with one of his hands under your heart and the other wrapped around his scalpel.

If he looks a little tired in the morning, when you kiss the edges of the bags under his eyes, he’ll only grin and tell you he was too excited to sleep.

Hector is used to loud, crowded Christmas Eves, whether it’s warm and welcoming with his mother’s family, or cold and cramped with the elite of They Who Decide.

The ones he spends alone with you, however, are always his favorites.

Hex, for not liking to sing too much, is nearly always humming something cheerful under his breath when the two of you are together. He’ll sing quietly along to the remixed and traditional carols from his childhood that he has on a playlist dancing in small, shuffling steps through the kitchen as he prepares his next creation. If it’s a baked good, there might be a few pleading prayers in between verses, oscillating between languages, desperately trying to thwart the curse that causes some of his most beautiful creations to end up frosting-side down on the floor.

If it’s something he’s cooking, though, then whichever of your houses he’s in will be pleasantly warm and delicious-smelling for the rest of the evening, and even a bit into the next day.

When he’s not in the kitchen, then all the man wants is to be warm, and his favorite way to be warm is with you. He’ll spend all his time sprawled across your couch, keeping you next to him with a fuzzy blanket, or tucked into the other half of his hoodie. Being colder than you, he breaks out his collection of fuzzy socks, only sliding one off when he sneaks his toes onto the back of your knee to shock you awake from an afternoon doze.

His presents, while maybe not as obsessive, are still thoughtful. Something that makes him think of you, even if it’s not something you strictly need, per se. It’s also more likely to be something the two of you can share somehow: a movie you both wanted to see, a video game you can tag team on, a bottle of some really lovely mezcal to split after Christmas dinner. Something to give him an excuse to spend more time with you, even though he already loves being attached your side.

He’s going to be here forever. He’ll make sure of that.

He also would insist on spending Christmas Eve at your place — he knows the ghosts in the House very well. They’re family, after all.

But even that doesn’t mean shit on a silent night.

He makes sure to serve your favorite at dinner that night, getting you nice and pleasantly full and sleepy on something delicious. If you drink, he’ll encourage you to imbibe a glass or two, maybe three. Anything that will get you through this evening as quickly and painlessly as possible, to make sure there’s no risk of you waking up.

He couldn’t stand it if that scarlet-suited fucker ruined it for you.

He knows what that’s like.

He’s a restless sleeper, but he lays still with his lips to your shoulder until your breathing settles, and he can watch the gentle little twitches of your deepest dreams. He only moves when he’s sure it won’t disturb you, and even then, he lingers for a moment, caught by the curve of your eyelashes against your cheek. He has to remember to take a photo of that sometime. Capture it against film, so the beauty of it can be seen for long after you’re both gone.

He slips out to your living room, checking the precautions he’s set up for the umpteenth time: the firebox wire is fit in place, and he’s strung its match across the bottom of your bedroom door for good measure.

He can be hard to reach, sometimes, if his soul wanders away from his sleeping body. He’s not about to risk drifting off on the job when it comes to you.

If he’s lucky, he’ll remove it in the morning, and you’ll never be the wiser.

But better safe than sorry.

On the brick floor of the firebox is a thin scattering of terra-cotta colored ash, the scent still heavy on the air as if something beautiful was freshly burned. On the back wall are etchings of the same color: wards, drawn with a smoldering stick of his mother’s incense.

He isn’t sure if the remaining curls of smoke are actually comforting, or if it just smells to him like coming home after a long time away.

Seating himself in the dead center of your couch, he lets his head fall back, his hair spreading across the tops of the cushions. He puts his hands, palm-up, out to either side of him, arms limp like he excepts to fall asleep at any moment.

He listens to the soft sounds of your house, the settling of the floorboard, the winter wind tapping at the windows.

Like the ends of fingers, flesh gnarled away at the tips down to bone…

When he thinks he hears the faintest hint of crunching ice, he closes his eyes, and his chest falls still.

For a few minutes, there’s nothing. Utter silence, muffled by the cold against the glass panes.

His fingers twitch, moving like they themselves are dreaming.

When he opens his eyes again, breathing deep like he’s just come up from under water, both hands are being solidly held.

He sits up, looking to his right — and sees a stranger in a white nightdress.

Her features are pale, her lips blue like she was kissed by frost. Her hair hangs around her face like it’s still faintly damp with clammy sweat, and her eyes are glazed, even when it’s obvious she’s trying to focus on his face.

When he looks to his left, his heart drops.

Seated next to him is a young boy, no older than eight or nine. His clothes look like something out of a period film, patchwork at the knees of his pants and elbows of his jacket like they’ve been darned and re-darned multiple times.

His skin might have been tan, but the full color of it is lost under a disquieting yellow from underneath.

He must have been sick.

When he smiles at Hex, hopeful, one of his teeth is still missing.

Hector sighs, returning the smile somewhat guiltily.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

Quietly, he looks between them, and explains what they need to do. Where they need to stand, and for how long.

What to do if Saint Nicholas tries to talk to them.

They listen, and when he finishes, they sit so still he’s almost afraid they don’t understand.

But as one, they both silently rise to their feet, and turn in opposite directions. The woman exits through the back wall of your house, melting through like water. The boy, holding himself straight and proud with the weight of his new responsibility, marches through the front wall and out onto the porch.

With a quick look over his shoulder, and another smile through the window, he begins to circle your house.

Hector stays until they’ve both covered one counter-clockwise rotation, then rises to his feet. His joints crack a little as he does, and he winces slightly.

Before he heads back to your room, though, he looks over to where the milk and cookies are perched on your coffee table.

He uses both hands to flip it the bird. He put red pepper and cayenne in that shit, he hopes it hurts like hell going down.

Rora has… never been much of one for holidays. Especially not the ones that require being performing for family. She was already reminded every day how much she disappointed them by being something other than the perfect debutante; the holidays only heaped that on in spades.

But you. You are an excellent reminder of the joy that can be found by being alive.

In an attempt to make some cash (the whole ‘being undead’ thing kind of hampering the legal on-boarding process at most companies), Rora would be spending the season harvesting fresh mistletoe and American holly out of the swamp to make her own wreaths and decorations. She figures, having already established herself as a local artisan (to the degree that taxidermy dressed in burlesque gear counted as art — which maybe you would argue for more than her).

She wouldn’t drag you along to come foraging with her - unless you wanted to, in which case, you’d be more than welcome.

But she would be happy to spend the month joining you in whatever holiday traditions you preferred, as long as you didn’t mind her braiding and weaving various forms out of her plants when she did.

You’d sit with your head on her shoulder, your eyes torn between the black and white movie on the screen and the skillful work of her nimble hands. While you wrapped presents or trimmed your own tree, she’d be a chair away, working on her latest projects (until you needed help reaching something on the tree itself, in which case she’d immediately shoo you off the ladder like you were something fragile and take your place).

The only time her hands would stop were when the two of you were getting ready for bed — or when she’d abruptly appear next to you when you were reading or watching something, holding a sprig of fresh mistletoe over your head with a sly smile on her face.

For the holiday, you would find at the end of a silver chain a resin pendant, encasing a smaller sprig of mistletoe.

Rora, at your request, would put it on you immediately, her eyes glowing the same soft green as the leaves inside…

And then immediately bend down and enthusiastically kiss your chest, all over and then some.

She was only human, after all.

Mostly.

She, too, would insist on your house for Christmas Eve.

The House didn’t frighten her. Nothing really frightened her anymore, after being dead for so long.

Save for something happening to you. She would do anything, bend this world and the one beyond to her will, if it meant she could keep you from seeing a tenth of what she’d had to endure.

The mistletoe and holly served a dual purpose, you see. For every so many sprigs and boughs set aside for her little stand at the local flea market, she set one aside for you.

In the winter evenings, when you were busy with your own holiday secrets or blissfully asleep, she would tinker with the branches and the leaves, waiting for them to dry and diminish of their original hue before she infused it with some of her own.

On Christmas Eve, after she’d thoroughly worn you out before bed (she couldn’t cook, but she was always delighted to dine) and laid out milk and cookies both laced with enough cyanide to kill a horse (it wouldn’t work, it was just for her own catharsis), she set to work on her true, intricate design.

Yes, she uses the firebox wire, same as the boys. They’d been using it since they were thirteen, she wasn’t about to abandon tradition. But she also etches her own runes around your mantle, hiding them after with a garland of beautifully arranged plants that seems to nearly glow with just how verdant they are.

When the whole fireplace almost seems alive with fresh greenery, she settles herself on the hearth, pulling on the protective smock she wore over her clothes for all her taxidermy projects.

After a deep breath, and a moment to angle her arm around the firebox wire, she shoves her hand as far up the chimney’s throat as she can manage it.

She grumbles as she searches, wincing at the ash that falls while she moves her hand over the bricks and around the lintel - and nearly smashes what she’s looking for.

Oh-so-carefully, moving as slowly as she can, she frees the pathetic little bundle from its tomb before bringing it back down to her own eye level like she’s holding a handful of diamonds.

It is, in fact, a collection of mouse bones.

Small, sad, discolored from age and long shot of any fur it might have once had in life, the skeleton nearly crumbles apart in Rora’s hand.

She holds it close to her face, poking through it with her index finger as she counts. When she knows for sure she has the skull, and enough limbs for it to work, she folds the tiny remnants into her delicate fingers.

What happens next is hidden by the dark veil of her hair, her own deep green shining between the strands as she whispers something in Latin.

Around her, a breeze gathers in your perfectly still house, tiny whispers seeming to echo off the walls.

When she raises her head again, the scars from her own resurrection are a deep, pulsing green -

But the mouse skeleton is standing upright in her palm, assembled like it hasn’t been in years.

The eyeless little thing looks up at her, and if it had a nose to sniff and ears to twitch, it would.

She smiles at it - a soft one, one she usually only saves for you - and kisses the tip of her finger before pressing it to the tiny arc of the dusty skull.

The mouse, at first surprised despite its featureless face, presses back.

Rora strokes her finger along its spine, watching it shiver its little vertebrae in happiness as she whispers to it.

She holds her hand back to the firebox, and with some gentle urging, the little skeleton skitters onto the bricks again. Glancing back over its tiny scapulae, it eyes her with its empty sockets, before scrabbling its way back up into the chimney from which she pulled it.

Rora stands again, dusting her hands off on her smock before just standing there. Waiting.

Then, just as whispers had filled your house before, a new breeze sweeps along something else: squeaks.

As she listens, the tiny, echoing squeak develops yet another echo. Between your floorboards, she can see the hint of a deep green spark, which in turn seems to split itself in two.

She stares down, watching the green spark divide itself over and over as tiny echoing squeaks grows into a veritable chorus.

When it finally stops dividing itself, she stamps twice on the floorboards, and a mass of something that grows vivid green rattles incessantly in the direction of your chimney.

A small army of skeletal creatures in varying states of assembly squeezes its way out between the cracks in your floor, the pieces throwing themselves into the firebox and up the flue like some sort of horrific reverse vacuum.

Rora supervises until an entire extermination van’s worth seems to have shoved itself up your fireplace, glowing a nuclear green that fills the whole room, before it at last falls deceptively silent.

Smiling like a cat, she steps out of her smock, depositing it behind a chair and out of sight before sauntering her way back to your room.

Let that dead fuck try his luck against her new darlings.

She’d been wondering how well that petrified skin would hold up against thousands of little tiny teeth.

When she crawls back into your bed, you barely even stir when she pulls you close.

You will never know the terrors that lurk in the depths of old magic.This time of year will always be joyous for you.

They will each and all make sure of that.

(if you read this far, I hope your holiday is going swimmingly - or at least, less stressful than theirs. :’D thanks for stopping by and sharing part of it with us! 🥰♥️

merry creepmas to all, and to all a good fright! 🖤⚰️)

#slasher ocs #southern slasher ocs #necromancer ocs #queer horror ocs #original queer horror #christmas at the mortuary #morvant mortuary #maxi morvant #maximilian vincent morvant #hector morvant-casares #hex morvant-casares #hector emile morvant-casares #aurore morvant #rora morvant #aurore marie morvant #daniel brühl fc #diego luna fc #eva green fc #monsterkisser fics

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morvantmortuary · 1 month

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#morvant mortuary #vol. ii: summer #not a screamer this one just didn’t post when I thought it would #original queer horror #queer horror fiction #slasher ocs #southern slasher ocs #necromancer ocs #hector morvant-casares #hector emile morvant-casares #hex morvant-casares #hector and his reader #maxi morvant #maximilian vincent morvant #aurore morvant #aurore marie morvant #rora morvant #possible eye strain

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morvantmortuary · 8 months

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tfw the person who’s destined to drive you fucking insane your entire life and give you the most deeply sustained trauma enters the world on the exact same day you do

it’s the twins’ birthday!! 🖤✨

which also means it’s another anniversary of me posting Maxi’s intro on a whim the week of my own birthday two whole years ago!! man, how time has flown while we’ve been having fun 👻

I want to give huge hugs to everyone who’s still reading after all this time - I’ve been lucky enough to make some wonderful friends on this blog, and with how supportive everyone was from the first post, it’s remained one of my favorite things to write (even if posting has slowed way down lately due to where I am in the grad school process) 🖤 I know I can take a while sometimes, but I genuinely appreciate everyone who takes the time to interact with the Morvants in any way whatsoever. y’all mean the world to me/us 🥰

cheers to another wonderful year, and another spooky season of fun yet to come!! 🎃👻🖤✨💀

#maxi morvant #maximilian vincent morvant #rora morvant #aurore morvant #aurore maria morvant #morvant mortuary #southern slasher ocs #necromancer ocs #slasher ocs #monsterkisser fics #daniel brühl fc #eva green fc #happy birthday baby boy 🖤#happy birthday baby girl 🖤

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morvantmortuary · 4 months

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There’s darkness in this time of year, that much is true.

But there’s also so much light. Especially on days like today, when everything turns itself over anew. The promise that things can actually change is heavy in the air, and no one is immune to the shiny allure of a fresh start.

The Morvants, still a little drunk on adrenaline from having survived this year’s silent night, are thrilled to get to start one more year with you.

(And so is Seth, he’s just had his hands full lately… but we’ll get to that later.)

Anything can happen, after all. There is powerful magic at work now.

All we have to do is decide what we want, and act like it’s already ours.

(this is just to say thanks to everyone who’s still reading and spending time with us. 🖤 2023 was… not my favorite year, for a lot of reasons :’D but I took a lot of comfort in the friends I’ve made here, and the people who were kind enough to chime in when I talked about some of the stuff I had going on were a massive source of support for me this year. thank y’all for everything, most sincerely ♥️♥️♥️

I’m looking forward to spending another year in Greymoon, and another year with you! let’s see what we get up to this time ✨🥂)

#slasher ocs #queer horror ocs #new years day at the mortuary #and then rarae says #morvant mortuary #maxi morvant #hector morvant-casares #hex morvant-casares #aurore morvant #rora morvant #seth sunday #the miraculous mr. sunday #southern slasher ocs #daniel brühl fc #diego luna fc #eva green fc #david dastmalchian oc

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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 · 1 year

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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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