ethereal, almost ghostly

Morgan Cortez. 28. Hybrid (werewolf & water nymph). Owner of Oddities Inn.

[morgancortez]

@greywyatt​

Date: 1-1-2021 Time: 6:35 AM Location: Oddities Inn Status: closed with @morgancortez​

Grey was always early to work at the Inn, to have a small chat with Morgan if there was the time or to get right to work if there wasn’t. This morning he was even earlier with two to-go coffee cups in his hands. He went inside and set them on the desk, leaning on the wall while he waited for Morgan.

The moment he saw her, he straightened his stane and said, “Hey, kid. Were you there last night? Are you okay?”

She didn’t intend to ditch Ingrid so early in the morning, but the radio had been going off about everything from the festival last night and Morgan couldn’t very well sit tight if her family’s legacy was a wreck. The women had kissed goodbye, and then Morgan was jogging down the road, bursting through the front door with some alarm. “Why was this unlocked-- Oh, it was you. I thought someone broke in,” she said with a breath of relief, closing the door behind her and leaning her back against it. What would she have done if they were? She wasn’t much of a fighter, but still, she would have tried. “Me? No, I was with Ingrid, we stayed home. What happened? They were talking about ghosts walking around, is this for real? Did I seriously miss the fucking ghosts?” she asked, incredulous.

[morgancortez]

@ceciliamercer​

Not sure what to expect, really. Morgan’s not the punching type, but it wouldn’t exactly be undeserved. So Cece is braced, lips pinned together in the midst of this breathless reunion with her cousin. She wants to choke something out, some sort of greeting, some sort of apology, but she doesn’t get the chance. Not when arms wrap around her with such fierce tightness that it almost aches, her hands grasping the back other girl’s shirt without a second thought, leaning into the embrace wholeheartedly. “Hey, Mimi,” she finally murmurs, her cheek against the top of her baby cousin’s head, feeling sorrier than she has in a long while. Letting it resonate, anyway, which is new. And stopped, quickly, the older woman laughing instead, though it’s weak. “Uh, yeah. Sure am.” They separate then, and Cecilia can breathe easier, thanks to the lack of restraining arms and the distance. How long has it been since she’s been embraced like that? No time for that now. “Oh. Oh, yeah, yeah, that’s fine. If it’s available, uh, yeah. That’d be great.” She shrugs, trying to imagine then just what her room looks like nowadays. Stupid to think it would be the same after all these years, those well-loved books maybe just covered in a bit of dust. No, of course they’d renovated. She can see traces of it everywhere, so surely her room had been no exception. Knowing her mother, her room was probably the first thing to be overhauled. After all, they certainly hadn’t parted on good terms. Something she’ll have to answer for later – or now, actually. Now, it would seem, considering the look on Morgan’s face. “I’m sorry, uh…” There it is, paired with a useless stutter. “Um, my phone broke, and you know, I don’t have numbers memorized, so when I got a new one, I just…” She shrugs, head shaking. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Um…” Not to pivot the conversation, but her eyes have been darting around, her focus derailed as she searches for a face that looks so much like her own. Probably even more so nowadays, as Cecilia has kept on aging and her mother has, inevitably, not. “Did you… did you tell my mom? That I was coming? Does she know I’m here? I’m sort of surprised she didn’t plow me down in the driveway.”

Morgan finds it amusing to meet the woman who has, until this point, always seemed like the put together elder cousin of her youth. A bit like meeting one’s hero, and though this isn’t the first time she’s spoken to Cece since she’s left, the feeling is the same. The image of her in Morgan’s head fading the more her cousin continues on almost awkwardly, leaving behind the very real person that her cousin is. She rolls her eyes with some fondness and some exasperation. “Why wouldn’t it be available? There isn’t enough people staying here for it to be an issue, and I try to make accommodations otherwise before I let people inside. Be grateful, I’ve even kept it clean.” In some much as she can, on top of all the other rooms. Cece’s room is the least used, so she only steps in once in a while to ensure the dust bunnies aren’t clouding up every piece of it. “Your bookshelf broke during some troubles the other year so I had to move all your books into boxes. Didn’t know where else to put them.” And, well, she didn’t have the heart to rearrange anything too badly, not when this was a room even Lettie had refused to touch. She turns back to her cousin with her eyebrows arched. “What? That’s such a poor excuse, you could have sent a postcard, or an email, or something. But, fine, keep your secrets. You’re here, that’s enough for me.” She can’t hold onto her anger, when the relief is so palpable that Morgan can feel a physical weight lifting off her shoulders. A short-lived one as Cece looks around, and Morgan feels a blow of grief to her chest so strong that she turns her back on her cousin for a moment. “She wouldn’t do something like that. Come here, we should talk somewhere else,” she says after a pause, gesturing for her to follow her into the kitchen. She waits for Cece to sit before starting the kettle on the stove, wanting tea, wanting something to do. Wanting to put it off for as long as necessary. She doesn’t turn on the stove, hands resting flat on the counter until she finds the strength to turn back to her cousin and sink into the seat next to her. “Have you kept track of the news from here? It hasn’t been peaceful in town, they’ve had one issue after another, and I didn’t even know about it until I came back either,” she starts, eyes glued to the table. “In June of 2019, something happened. People were just going crazy, everyone said it was like their magic was going haywire. Lettie, she... I’m so sorry, Cece. She died. I don’t know how, none of us do, but she’s gone, I tried to tell you. I...” She falters, because she doesn’t know what else to say and her babble is useless.

[florenncepugh]

jeanine mason for genlux magazine (2018), photographed by randy tran [x]

[morgancortez]

@ceciliamercer​

Date: January 16th 2021 Time: 3:30 pm Location: Oddities Inn

@morgancortez​

It’s different. That fact, arguably, shouldn’t shock her. After all, of course it is. It’s been sixteen years since she stormed out that front door. But something seems… off. Maybe it’s just how her heart resides somewhere in her throat, so difficult to swallow around though she tries her best, like a reckless teenager sneaking through the back window again, braced for punishment. This time, though, more than a decade of dread trails her. What will she receive? Punishment, maybe, but she is grown now. She can leave, just as she had before. Deep down, she knows it wouldn’t be quite so easy. But she can only hope that her mother’s reception is joyful. Even if she doesn’t deserve it. Cece exhales as she steps from the car, taking a long look at the entryway before she approaches the door. She’d warned her cousin a few hours ago about her incoming arrival. A few hours for years of absence. It’s not enough, and she knows that, but what more can she do? Walk in, it seems. And she does, the smell of the place taking her breath away. The same. So completely, unbelievably the same. The scent of fresh paint cuts through it, a new reddish color on some of the walls, but so much of it is exactly as she remembers. Homely and whole and wrought with ghosts. She’s mired in nostalgia for a moment then, setting her bags down beside herself, her exhale trembling. Cece is quick to right herself upon hearing footsteps, though, the pounding of her heart starting its raucous rhythm again as she calls out: “Hello?”

Several hours should be long enough to come up with a plan, and she’s no closer to finding something to say when she hears the low click of the inn’s front door closing. It’s not another person, she has no bookings scheduled until tomorrow, and strangers aren’t likely to walk in. Morgan hesitates, fingers on her lips, wishing for a moment she had been able to call someone like Ingrid, who was the type of no nonsense that she might have known what to say. She almost does so now, before she remembers Ingrid has also lost a parent, and she doesn’t deserve to be dragged into... well, whatever would be happening the next couple days. She starts at the greeting, and then pauses to inhale deeply. Cece’s scent hits her, and she commits it to memory, if only because she has a dreadful feeling that she won’t see her again. After all, what brings Cece back to Lethe isn’t her, and it isn’t the inn, and it isn’t whatever sent her running initially, it was for her mother, or so Morgan assumes. She’s putting it off, and she tries to channel the bravery of the other women in her family as she hurries into the room. “Cece,” she breathes, heart pounding, wishing her cousins hadn’t all chosen to come out of the wood-works and yet, beyond that, relieved beyond measure to see them. This thought in mind propels her forward, and she slings her arms around Cece’s neck, holding onto tight to her cousin, who is no longer the teenager that Morgan remembers leaving, not anymore than Morgan was the scrawny kid left behind. She trembles, and then heaves a sigh, leaning back, hands on Cece’s shoulders. “You’re alive!” Too close to what she can’t say yet, and Morgan steps away. Her eyes flicker to the bags, and she frowns. “Your room is still here, but it was repainted and some of the furniture was replaced - it got damaged a while ago. Do you want it? Someone can put your bags in it.” She’s helping out one of the residents by letting their elder son play bag boy for discount on one of the rooms, but he isn’t in sight just yet. Back to Cece’s face and the relief gone, replaced with an annoyance, stronger for the worry that’s been hitting her in the hours since Cece called her. “I’ve been trying to get in contact with you for so long. Where have you been, and what’s the point in giving me your phone number if you don’t answer it?”

[ingridgagnon]

troubled track | ingrid & morgan

[morgancortez]

@ingridgagnon​

The comment on her appearance might be a good thing, actually. It disarms her for a moment, at least, making way for something akin to a smirk. Still a little too tense, a little too fleeting, but something. “At least I’m consistent then, huh?” Morgan’s foot upon hers makes Ingrid sigh, setting down her coffee in order to right her hunched posture, though her jaw still clenches hard. “Meyer wasn’t into that shit anymore and Mira wasn’t about to step in so somehow good ol’ Maksim took charge. Can’t say I paid much attention but, you know, a knife between the ribs will sort of catch your focus.” Her words are muttered at best. Not that she can’t handle her own fight if one starts, because she sure as hell can, but she’s also not in the mood to pick something in the middle of a cafe. A cafe that watches her with a collective reproach when her voice does eventually raise, but Morgan wields a returning glare that gets the eyes off her back. Gives Ingrid time to decompress again, unclenching her jaw, though her foot picks up its drumming once more. Morgan’s frustration echoes her own, and Ingrid nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. Plus I did put you through something. Don’t think I don’t remember you screaming, ‘cause I do. I’m not trying to risk that again.” What does she care about death, really? Just a bout of darkness, the way she sees it. No, what she cares about is the fact that Morgan doesn’t deserve any more loss. And sure as hell not like that. “Nothing they’re giving me, anyway, but who knows if that means a lead doesn’t exist. Could just be trying to cover their tracks. Not like I’m not going to sit there and let them do it. Not sure where else to go, though. The council, maybe. I dunno. Maksim told me to go fuck myself, basically. In dumbass bureaucrat terms.” Summary concluded, a sip of coffee drank, and a huff of frustration exhaled, Ingrid finally gets the chance to look at Morgan rightfully. She looks weary, and Ingrid feels a pang of guilt then, knowing the depositing of this news likely doesn’t help. So she listens instead, giving a measured nod. “You know my offer still stands. That money from my dad isn’t doing much anymore unless I want, I don’t know, a third floor on the shop. And you won’t be indebted to me. But I know that’s probably not what you want.” That delivery is punctuated with a shrug, far from offended. Morgan deserves some independence, and if money will rob her of that, it’s not worth it. “Cece still not answering your calls?” Seems like this cousin has some shit to own up to, but really, that’s none of Ingrid’s business. Not wanting to stray back to the meeting, she goes on. “You think she’d want a part in it if she did come back? The inn, I mean.”

Her expression tightens with worry, and the memories of that night: a fire flickers in her peripheral, and when she turns, a tad startled, its only a woman in a hideous orange shirt. Not the fire, and not the blood. “You remember that? I almost hoped you didn’t remember any of it.” Her voice is pitched low, well-aware that this is the last place either of them want to have this conversation. It isn’t one she wants to talk about anywhere, in truth, but her eyes stay on Ingrid’s face, trying to find steadiness in the face she knows so well. She remembers screaming, and the ache in her throat when she was sitting in the hospital later, and all of it is secondary to Ingrid’s own aches from the night.  The fear is Morgan’s, but most of its Ingrid’s, and the pain is most certainly hers. “You’d be better at the job than him,” she says with a grimace, even if she imagines leading is the last thing Ingrid wants to do. “You’ve got the knowledge, and the experience in a way, and you care. That’s clearly more than Maksim will ever be capable of doing if he’s not going to even help you -- and they have to have some lead. Its been...” She counts back the days, and grimaces at the way time flies. Between the fire, and the damages, and her family being the mess it is, and then her and Ingrid - the best thing by far -- she hasn’t kept well enough track of days. “Long enough,” Morgan concludes, still frowning.

It loosens at the offer, and she huffs a laugh, a grateful smile appearing as the amusement ends. “Your money is yours, you might not want something now but who knows, maybe you’ll find a motorcycle to drool over by next Christmas, or a new house, or something,” she tells her, soft, pairing it with a squeeze of Ingrid’s hand across the table, touched by the offer. The money is something holding over Ingrid’s head, and much as Morgan would like to ease its burden, she can’t imagine trading one person’s money for another. No, she dug her own grave, she’ll find the ladder out, too. Morgan huffs again, but no laughter comes with it and she leans back in her chair, arms moving to cross over her chest in thought. “She isn’t, I don’t know why. It’s been, god, it’s been over a year now and she still hasn’t hit me with anything? If it wasn’t Cece, I would think she had died.” But, no, of all the people in her family, Cece might be the one she thought would end up in a grave first, she’s sturdy in a way Morgan didn’t appreciate until she, too, became a hybrid. Or whatever it is being a hybrid means for someone like her. “I don’t know,” she admits, truthfully. “I think she liked it here, but can she handle the memories? I don’t want her to let this place go, its our home.” And if Cece won’t keep it, then Morgan will, even if she finds the weight of it heavier than she anticipated. Lettie, after all, made it look effortless.

[ingridgagnon]

troubled track | ingrid & morgan

[morgancortez]

@ingridgagnon​

Date: December 16th 2020 Time: 10:19 am Location: Ground Up Café

Listen: it’s not like she meant to come storming into the cafe looking like smoke’s about to come out of her ears. Really. Not the intention, not at all. But there’s no avoiding it. Not right now, as she clenches her jaw so tight it feels like it could snap in on itself. The barista is practically shaking in his boots at the sight of her and Ingrid is bound toward ordering anyhow when she spots Morgan. Sitting with an expression that seems to be either alarm or concern (or, knowing Morg, both) and already with two cups of coffee in hand. It’s enough to make Ingrid deflate, or at least check herself, exhaling before muttering a gruff apology to the employee in question. She then settles onto the stool across from Morgan — though settling may be a strong word. A foot taps, hands clench and unclench, and nostrils flare. “Such bullshit, Morg — thank you.” She’s not so uncouth as to not be grateful for the coffee. Even if caffeine may be the last thing she needs right now. All the same, she takes a sip, then runs a hand down her jaw before continuing. “It is such bullshit. Says he doesn’t know a thing. Which, of course, why would he tell the truth? But he’s not even going to save the skin of his own people? I’m not his closest fuckin’ crony, I get that, but he’s gonna let me die for that? Forget me, huh, what about Clark? Says it’s ‘a most unfortunate tragedy,’ and he wishes he knew. If he thinks I believe that fuckin’ garbage—” It’s only then that she realizes that her voice has risen, that eyes are on her again. With a clearing of her throat, Ingrid settles further down in her seat, waiting for eyes to be averted before she continues, softer now. “I don’t wanna feel like I’m bound to go through that shit again. Hell, I don’t wanna put you through that shit again. I just… I can’t fuckin’ take this sitting down. I can’t. But no one’s gonna help me, it seems. Everyone’s forgotten but me. You and me.” Foot still drumming, Ingrid gives her head one last vehement shake before looking to Morgan fully. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to — I’m not trying to yell at you. Sure isn’t your fault. I just…” A shrug, a sip of coffee, and she tries to mind her manners. “How, uh… how’s your morning, anyway? Better than mine?”

@morgancortez​

The cafe doesn't fall silent at the opening door, but the barista has this strange look on their face and its answer enough on who entered. Morgan spins in her seat, coffee cups in hand, eyes widening at the look on Ingrid's face. "You look like hell," she comments simply, sliding the cup over to her. She remembers how Ingrid likes it, and it might be a tad cold, but it's better than tackling this conversation with nothing at all. Her booted foot stretches out, nudging Ingrid's gently to halt the tempting, though it doesn't stop her jaw, or the flicker in her eyes, or the angry jitters. Her own eyes narrow with distaste. "I don't recall this man being here when I left. Is he a new person? Where are the Lowell's?" The politics of Lethe drift over her head, never important enough to warrant another look. It isn't like the politics of the nation which she watches out of obligation when voting season calls, but Lethe asks nothing from them except obedience really. Eyes are on them, but Morgan tosses her hair and raises her brow, meeting them one by one until they drift away. "Hey, you aren't putting me through anything, I want to be part of this. You almost died -- and we didn’t even find who did it!” she says, sharpness slipping free where fear couldn’t. When she blinks sometimes, she still sees Ingrid’s ashen face and her fingers twitch on the coffee cup, a sign of distress that she hides by taking a gulp of her lukewarm drink. It helps, but only some and Morgan settles it down to be ignored. “They have no leads at all? Nothing to help us? Damn it. But, look, I don’t care if it is just you and I who remember, you aren’t going at this alone, we’re going to find this guy,” she promises. The question warrants a shrug, because her morning is... as most mornings in Lethe: watch the inn, watch her mother, watch over her shoulder, watch over Ingrid’s, too. Its a long line of wariness that makes sleep elusive sometimes, but she doesn’t want to touch on that. Instead, she supplies, “I’m trying to pay back Isaac. He lent money for the repairs to the inn during... all of this, in exchange for like a partnership? The inn isn’t mine to share though and I can’t imagine Cece wanting to share with someone she doesn’t know.” If she ever comes back. “The bank was a lot less eventful than your meeting.” 

[ingridgagnon]

voodoo child | ingrid & morgan

[morgancortez]

@ingridgagnon​

It’s the sort of thing worth being embarrassed over, really. A schoolgirl crush to say the least, and a deeply unrequited one at that. Until now. Until Morgan says words she hadn’t even imagined in her dreams. Embarrassment will come later, maybe. But honesty comes now, as Ingrid nods quietly in response to Morgan’s questions. “Long time before that, yeah.” After the night in the alleyway that had seemed like the end of all things. Except it wasn’t, and Morgan had proven that. Morgan, who dropped everything to be by her side. Still not sure how she deserved that – how she deserves this, cradling Morgan’s hands like she does. Kissing her like she does. That’s even more of a fantasy fulfilled, as hands on her waist pull her forward, providing so many electrifying points of contact, her own hands exploring even after they part for air. Tracing cheekbone and jaw, their contours imagined but never before touched. Impossible. Until now. Until a laugh comes from her at Morgan’s repeated affection, and she nods, unbothered by how their noses bump. Ingrid’s sure she could say it until the end of time, or at least all night, if she allows herself to start. So she simply nods, quickly placated by another kiss. The stuff of dreams. She allows herself to be guided, then, even the loss of some proximity seems painful. Sitting across from Morgan never is, though, especially when her fingers are being tinkered with. “Don’t apologize.” She’s quick to admonish, her head shaking. “It wasn’t fair for me to feel that way, so I kept it to myself. You know me. Never, uh, never forward with feelings.” 

Until now. Until her lips press to Morgan’s knuckles, another action she’d barely even allowed herself to contemplate before. “Half a year, though. That’s… that’s something.” She’s bound toward something else, too, more words she’ll probably be flustered over later, when there’s the sound of glass shattering outside. Raucous laughter follows it, so it’s not all that troublesome, but still, Ingrid sighs. “Never a dull moment, huh? Oughta get that – hey.” She shakes her head as Morgan moves to stand. “Probably stupid drunks. I’ll clean it up, cut some more people off. Don’t worry about it.” She’s quick to depart, despite her glance back over her shoulder. Just as quick to return, though she’d made a request in the midst of her beeline back to the kitchen. “All good. C’mon.” Ingrid guides the party’s hostess to the dance floor rather than returning to the bar, her smile revived when her request is fulfilled. She drops Morgan’s hand only to hold out her own again as the lights of the party shift, changing the mood alongside the slow song she’d asked of the DJ. “Dance with me?”

Morgan blinks, processing, trying to pinpoint the moment she figured it out herself, but it seemed like such a gradual thing, something that came with no eureka moment for her to point as the beginning. When she came to Lethe, certainly, and found Ingrid waiting for her, arms open, without judgment for the things Morgan had done. She blinks again, mouth open to protest, fingers tightening around Ingrid’s in protest. If Ingrid isn’t allowed to feel this way to her, Morgan doesn’t know who can, but its silenced by the kiss Ingrid presses against her knuckles. A sweet thing, so terribly soft for Ingrid, and more telling than any words, really. “Well, good,” she says, and it’s lame, but she has so many feelings and so little way to think of how to explain them. The shattering glass is almost a welcome distraction, one that draws her to her feet for only half a second, grip on Ingrid’s hand slipping to her disappointment. “They know how to interrupt a moment,” she agrees, lips quirking, glancing back at Ingrid in surprise for a moment. Only a moment, and then Morgan is smiling, head tilted, calling to her as she leaves: “Try not to break anything if you have to fight them.”

She’s putting away the cake, because it’s something she thinks the two of them can eat later, when the party is over and they are done playing hostess for people they don’t even know, when Ingrid returns. “What, did someone rip their costume again? You can’t keep laughing at people for it, the last lady was nearly naked and I thought her friend would blow up-- Oh.” She stares, wide-eyed and surprised, and the lights are changing, slowly, the music softer. It’s a night of surprises, but a pleasant one. Her lips curve again, the smile soft, and she twines their fingers together and steps closer to her. “That question will always be a yes,” she tells her, fingers sliding from her hand down her arm slowly, enjoying the feel of the soft skin beneath, before her arms are wrapped around Ingrid’s neck, sighing. Ingrid is taller than her, but not by much and she almost presses a kiss against her cheek. Almost, and stops a breath away with a glance around. But what does it matter, really, if someone else sees? Ingrid loves her, that doesn’t change just because the two are in public. Her eyes return to Ingrid’s, and she lets them stay there, melting into her touch. “Suppose I’ll be able to get dances out of you once in a while then. It comes with the territory, you dance with me and I’ll follow you wherever.“ She isn’t hard to please, really, and it’s hard to think with this new weightlessness, to know this thing with Ingrid is more than she’s ever dreamed.

[morgancortez]

I. BASIC

FULL NAME: Morgan Mariposa Cortez NICKNAME(S): Morgie, Morg, Mor. DATE OF BIRTH: December 13, 1991 NATIONALITY: Cuban-American OCCUPATION: Owner @ Oddities Inn / previously lead actress for TV show Ghostly Hijinks RELIGION: Non-practicing Christian GENDER IDENTITY: Cisgender Female ORIENTATION: Pansexual ETHNICITY: Cuban, Mexican, English, Irish SPECIES: Water Nymph / Triggered Werewolf

II. APPEARANCE

FACE CLAIM: Jeanine Mason HEIGHT: 5′4 WEIGHT: 120 lbs HAIR COLOR: Black EYE COLOR: Dark Brown DOMINANT HAND: Right SCARS: A thin one diagonal across her collarbone from a car accident back in about 2018 TATTOOS: A sleeve a bit like this one (florals, leaves, names/dates of family members, etc inside). PIERCINGS: Three in each ear.

III. BACKGROUND

HOMETOWN: Lethe, Washington, USA CURRENT RESIDENCE: Lethe, Washington, USA FINANCIAL STATUS: Middle Class EDUCATION LEVEL: Bachelor of History

IV. RELATIONSHIPS

FATHER: Eduardo Cortez (deceased) MOTHER: Mariposa Elise Rigby SIBLINGS: N/A FAMILY: Cecilia Mercer (paternal cousin, hybrid), Phoebe Rigby (maternal cousin, nymph), Leticia ‘Lettie’ Mercer (paternal ancestor, nymph turned lich, deceased), Isaac Dawson (family friend, fae), Wyatt Grey (friend, lamia) ROMANCE: Ingrid Gagnon (girlfriend, werewolf)

V. PERSONALITY

MYERS-BRIGGS: ESTP ENNEATYPE: Type 1, the Reformer MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral TEMPERAMENT: Sanguine HOGWARTS HOUSE: Gryffindor ELEMENT: Water SIN: Pride VIRTUE: Temperance QUALITIES: Adventurous, Curious, Energetic, Observant, Playful FLAWS: Bizarre, Careless, Emotional, Impulsive, Irresponsible SPOKEN LANGUAGES: English, Spanish FEAR(S): being left behind or forgotten, getting lost in the woods, losing control

VI. FAVORITES

COLORS: Red MUSIC: Halsey, Lord Huron, Ellie Goulding, Bastille AUTHORS: C.S Lewis, Jane Austen, Naomi Novik, Nikita Gill MOVIES: Narnia, Wonder Woman, National Treasure, Matilda SEASON: Spring BEVERAGES: Dr. Pepper, Strawberry Lemonade FOOD: green apples, red velvet cake, beef stew, tamales ANIMALS: Horses. Cats. Butterflies.

[morgancortez]

@phoeberigby​

Their childhoods were at different times, but Mariposa still raised both of them as her own daughters. Phoebe was young enough when she arrived at Mariposa’s door that she had more memories of her as her mother than of her own parents. They were the ones who had seemed like distant relatives. And Morgan only was engrained in her life as her little sister, not her baby cousin. “It could be, and they want to keep a little bit of routine to keep her calm, I bet.” Phoebe mused as she glanced towards the room where Mariposa waited for them. Her own insides were churning with anxiety and everything else, but on the outside she struggled to remain clam and be the strong shoulder for Morgan. She was the one who was freaking out in a very external way and Phoebe had to help her, to calm her down. Squeezing her hands in a tender movement, she kept Morgan close, feeling a large urge to just sweep her in for a hug. She had this odd feeling to try and wake herself from this nightmare. Mariposa might not remember them? Phoebe felt a stab of anxiety twist into her heart. Could she handle the woman who raised her not to even recognize her? Morgan pulled her out of her thoughts and she blinked away the suspiciously wet feeling eyes. No, she wouldn’t cry. She had to remain strong. “Okay… she might not remember us.” She tried to collect her thoughts and did her best to not have her voice waver. “It’s alright, we will take what we get. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine.” But who was she really trying to convince? 

Looking at Phoebe is a stark reminder of how much has changed in the last couple of years. Once upon a time, she felt like the younger sister to both of her cousins, and she could be easily calmed by their presence. Now? Now she isn’t jittery, but she doesn’t feel calm entirely, though she doesn’t blame that on Phoebe’s years long absence or Cece’s years long silence, but it doesn’t help. She nods, smoothing her hair away from her face. “You’re right. A routine might be good for her,” she admits, and she pinpoints the reason for the churning in her stomach. Her cousin deserves to know, deserves to see, but doesn’t Mariposa Cortez deserve a daughter who is strong enough to protect her too? Morgan squares her shoulders, and she looks at her cousin, a measure of grief smacking her in the stomach at the pain in Phoebe’s eyes. She isn’t young enough to miss it, and she feels a knot of guilt, knowing what she’s about to say next. “Are you sticking around? I mean, after all this, or are you leaving again? I don’t want to hurt her next time if you’re not here.” Will she leave now that she knows? Morgan hesitates on bringing them into the room, the idea of routine swirling in her head. Phoebe will be a support -- but a support to Morgan, who has to be a big girl enough to do what’s best for her mother. She waits a moment, and then her hand lifts to her cousin’s shoulder, squeezing it. “We’ll get through this. If she doesn’t remember, at least we do?” Its ends as a question, despite the attempt she makes at sounding sure.

[ingridgagnon]

voodoo child | ingrid & morgan

[morgancortez]

@ingridgagnon​

So she hadn’t been dreaming. That’s what Morgan’s statement affirms, and Ingrid finds herself exhaling in relief. It’d been one hell of a question to ask, and she’d been braced for a denial, a rejection. To be laughed at, though she knows that’s not Morgan’s style. It’s reassuring. Yet even this, this not acceptance yet not denial… it’s not enough. So in the quiet of a frightened pause, Ingrid allows herself to push forward, toward the truth: “Tell me what?” Morgan looks anxious, Ingrid can see that much, and so she doesn’t like pushing into it. But she needs this answer. She gets it, alright. And it’s not like they haven’t said this before. This is different, though. Morgan’s wide eyes say as much, as do her trembling fingers. Ingrid almost hates to know she’s the cause of that sort of anxiousness, but the words preceding it had been sweet enough to let her forget. Instead, she reassures in the ways she knows Morgan will take it best: her fingers twine with Morgan’s without hesitation, and she keeps the eye contact steady and sure. She’s been certain of this for longer than she cares to admit. Since before fiancés and lost parents and businesses owned. But she’d never expected reciprocation. That’s Morgan, though. Always subverting her expectations. “Hey – hey.” Firm but soft, her words sever Morgan’s. When she’s got a firm hold on her gaze, Ingrid takes a moment to just nod. How she wishes she could go back in time. Tell herself from a decade ago that she’d end up here. Like this. 

“Shit.” That’s not a negative, no. Far from it. Just… a remark on her own surprise. “Morgan, I…” Her lips pin together, the words hard to come by, even if she feels it. And so her gaze simply searches her friend’s again, and she nods once more. “Yeah. Yeah, me too. For, uh, for a long time. And I didn’t remember, actually. Or well, I thought, you know, I must’ve made it up. But if I had remembered, um…” Her hand drops Morgan’s and she takes steps to close the small space between them, her own exhale shaky. Ingrid’s fingers lift then, tracing a gentle line from shoulder to neck, taking her time. How lucky she is, to touch Morgan like this. It doesn’t escape her. She’s slow with it, as much to savor as to give Morgan the chance to push her away. To change her mind. But she doesn’t, even as Ingrid’s palm cups her jaw in the way only dreams have allowed before. “If I’d remembered, I would’ve done this much sooner.” And she kisses her, slow and careful, the light in the kitchen impossibly bright. Illuminating it all. But Morgan deserves to hear the fact of the matter, doesn’t she? The thought occurs to Ingrid only once her fingers are in the other girl’s hair, once they’ve pulled away for air. Maybe it’s their proximity that gives her the nerve. “I love you, too, Morgan. Of course I love you.”

Her life is going to change in the next several seconds, be it for something good or bad, its too soon to say. She hasn’t had to put her heart on the line in years, and she forgets how nerve-wracking it is to talk about things like feelings, to take the risk that someone might send her packing. Ingrid, though, is looking at her, and she takes strength in her presence. Their eyes stay locked, and she speaks the words into existence. I love you, and she thinks the look on Ingrid’s face is priceless, thinks that somebody she’ll be able to look back on it with something like fond laughter. Morgan swallows back a jumble of messy explanations, holding tight to her fingers, and she laughs, more shakily than she likes to admit, as Ingrid swears. She can’t worry, not when the hand holding hers is steady, and sure, and Ingrid hasn’t been one to sit on something when it needs to be said. Ingrid doesn’t make her wait, doesn’t make her work for it, and her apprehension dissolves, forgotten, as Ingrid moves closer to her. The hand on hers is gone, but the touch isn’t, and she shivers as the touch, shoulders relaxing, sinking into the feeling of something she’s only imagined. “Before you were hurt? Before I came back?” she asks softly.

There’s a space between them, a last gap to bridge, and Morgan steps into it. No more hesitating, no more worrying. Morgan loves her, and Ingrid loves her, and nothing else matters. Ingrid kisses her first, and she can’t help smiling against her lips, hands finding their way to rest lightly on Ingrid’s waist. Her fingers brush against the exposed skin, but she is lost in the kiss, in the way Ingrid holds onto her. Lost more as her hands slide into her hair, as the kiss deepens, and her head is spinning when they break apart. Morgan doesn’t pull away, and she can’t help the wide smile on her face. “I love you,” she repeats, smile wider still. Morgan bumps her nose into Ingrid’s gently as she sighs. More honesty, and she draws back a little, linking their hands again, and she kisses her once more, briefly, relieved she has an excuse to do it. She isn’t sure what to label them, but as she brings them over to the chairs around the table, she doesn’t mind. She laughs abruptly, shaking her head at her own obliviousness. “All this time and I didn’t notice, I’m sorry.” Morgan plays with her fingers. “You have far more patience than I ever gave you credit, I didn’t even last half a year knowing this. I thought I would blurt it out on accident half a dozen times.”

[ingridgagnon]

voodoo child | ingrid & morgan

[morgancortez]

@ingridgagnon​

Ingrid would like to think she’s hard to surprise. Don’t have any expectations for people and they can’t let you down, right? But that philosophy only works for so long. It’s near impossible to hold up with someone she’s known for as long as she’s known Morgan. Blame that for her surprise, then, as Morgan subverts her expectations entirely, pressing warm lips to her cheek seemingly without a second thought. The sort of thing that makes Ingrid have to swallow hard, blinking. “Glad you, um, glad you like it.” She finally nods, her smile wavering thanks to the force of surprise more than anything else. A brow raise is all she manages at Morgan’s announcement, and Ingrid watches her go quietly, fingertips raising to her own cheek. Well, shit. Isn’t that something. A conclusion has just been drawn when Morgan returns, and Ingrid’s smile is wider now at the sight of the cake. “Shit, Morg. Thank you. You didn’t have to do this for me,” the temporary bartender shakes her head, but she’s smiling still. “C’mon. We should share, but there’s no knife behind the bar. Figured, you know, for the best.” Ingrid nods back toward the kitchen, bringing the small cake there. She’s intent on just going about her business and cutting it in half for them to split, but her free hand has wandered to her cheek again, and she sighs. No, she’s got to ask. Stupid as it may be. “You did that before.” Ingrid turns back to her friend, blinking against her own words. “No, uh, shit. Not what I meant. I meant, um…” Fingers against her own cheek for another moment before they fall, a heavy exhale preceding more sensible words. “I was thinkin’ maybe I was… I dunno, seeing things. They had me all on all sorts of stuff to help with the whole knife between the ribs thing, so I was sure I was dreaming or something. But now I think… maybe I wasn’t.” Unusually wordy for her, but this is the sort of thing she doesn’t typically say. Stalling done, Ingrid finally gets to her point, the cake still between them and the party raging in the next room. “Morgan, if I’m making shit up, you can laugh at me… but did you kiss me that night in the emergency room?”

Morgan doesn’t want to share any of this with someone else. Not the cake, which only matters in that it brings something soft to Ingrid’s face when she sees it, but the time with Ingrid in general. Its been a month since the situation at Ingrid’s shop, and the fire, and the near death, and it still makes Morgan shiver to think about it. She doesn’t want to waste anymore time -- and yet she’s said nothing about the kiss. Nor has Ingrid, though she doesn’t know if her friend even remembers, and she knows what Ingrid is asking before she even finishes speaking. The cake is on the counter, momentarily ignored, and Morgan chews on her lip. “I can explain,” she blurts out, fingers finding a path through her hair, messing up the carefully arranged curls in her worry. Ingrid calls it a dream, and not a nightmare, but Morgan feels like she’s reading into it. “I, uh, I thought you were going to die in there, and I wouldn’t have had the chance to tell you.” She feels like Ingrid: single sentences, and long pauses, and stumbling words uncharacteristic to Morgan, but Ingrid, at least, might know how to say the things stuck in Morgan’s throat. “I wouldn’t have a chance to tell you that I love you.” Morgan moves around the table to stand next to her, one of her hands drifting down to Ingrid’s, and though she shakes, she finds it easier to speak now that the first part is over. How much lighter she feels to say it! To have it out in the open, like she is no longer a balloon a hair too full. No more cutting off her words at the last second, worrying about which one is too much. She takes a breath, and continues. “So I kissed you, it was the only thing I could think of to do. Then you were okay and I didn’t think you remembered. You had so many other things going on, it didn’t seem right to talk about it, and then I didn’t know how to say it when you were better. I mean, no matter what, you’re my best friend, I’ll take that over anything,” she ends, taking in the look on Ingrid’s face and bringing her words to an abrupt halt.

[ltbelanna]

Jeanine Mason at the New York Comic Con, Oct. 2019

[morgancortez]

@phoeberigby​

Morgan had never felt like a cousin to Phoebe, she always had seen the younger woman as more of a sister to her. This was only further helped by the fact that Mariposa, Morgan’s mother pretty much raised Phoebe as a daughter herself. So when Morgan was born, Phoebe had always made sure to spend a lot of time in Lethe raising the little girl who was like a sister to her. She hadn’t thought she would have seen Morgan so soon though from the last time, but the bad news of Mariposa was what called her back to Lethe. She held a brown paper bag full of some groceries she picked up that morning as she entered the inn. “She’s here right now?” Phoebe asked and glanced around the main lobby area. But, it was the frantic tone of Morgan that made her turn back to the younger woman. “Hey, Mo, you need to breathe. It’s going to be okay.” She smiled softly, setting the bag down and walking over to take her hands in her own and squeezed them. This was a lot for Phoebe to walk into, she hadn’t expected the call from Morgan to let her know that Mariposa was sick, really sick. Mariposa should have had more decades, maybe even centuries under her belt. It was a lot for both of them to see their mother like this. “Take a breath, we can do this, okay? Have you seen her yet? It’s good someone is with her to help us. Is she doing okay today?” 

Phoebe’s arrival is a weight off her shoulders, and she forgets how much her cousin has that power until she’s back. A cousin, but more a sister than anything, closer than any of their other cousins by a great degree, and Morgan nods her head at the question, mute for a moment, and then the words tumble out. “Right now. They came earlier than I thought, I’m not sure why, maybe this is her lunch time?” Her own is a little closer to the afternoon, she still considered eleven to be a late breakfast, and she doesn’t normally care about the distinction, but she’s worried. Worried enough that Phoebe grabbing her hands makes her flinch in surprise before she follows her instructions, taking in a deep breath and letting it out. Between this and planning for the Halloween party, Morgan has a headache, and she’s relieved that Phoebe can take charge in bits and pieces. “I said hi? No, I definitely said hi, and then they took her into the other room to get settled in and let me know what to expect, or what I should be optimistic about and what I should let go,” she babbles, to avoid what they’ve told her, and she takes a breath, squeezing Phoebe’s hands hard. “She might not remember too much of us, and we’re not supposed to prod her? Just... go with what she offers us. Are you going to be okay for this?” She asks, sudden concern in her voice, realizing that in all of her cousin comforting her, she hasn’t returned the favor very well.

[ingridgagnon]

voodoo child | ingrid & morgan

[morgancortez]

@ingridgagnon​

Date: October 31st 2020 Time: 8:10 pm Location: Oddities Inn

After sunset, the party launches into full swing. The official commencement of the festivities seems to have eased the furrow in Morgan’s brow that was starting to look like a permanent attachment over the last few days. Watching their valiant hostess on the dance floor, Ingrid finds herself mirroring her smile, even from her position behind the bar. Dancing and schmoozing isn’t exactly her style, but cutting people off brings her a degree of joy. Wouldn’t want Morgan to have to deal with the booze anyway, so she’s here. She needs the host’s attention, though… and gets it by giving a small wave as one song segues into the next. When Morgan approaches, Ingrid puts her palms up as if in surrender. “Listen. I know it was my birthday, not yours, but this day is practically your Christmas. So I figured…” She reaches under the bar for a moment, pulling out a black-wrapped box with a hand-folded bow. “A present.” The small box is slid across the bar, and Ingrid appraises Morgan’s expression as she opens it. A proper spirit box wasn’t a cheap purchase. Or maybe she’d just been scammed. But it’d seemed worthwhile. “It’s a – well, you know what it is. Anyway, uh, I found it online. Not sure if it’s any good or whatever, but I figured while that douchebag still has your gear… it’s better than nothing.” It’s punctuated with a noncommittal shrug, despite how important as this feels. “Happy Halloween.”

@morgancortez​

Morgan pouts a little, thinking of the many failed cake experiments and the fact that she didn’t finish any of them in time for Ingrid’s actual birthday, and then lights up at the sight of a present. “Oh my god,” she murmurs, lifting the spirit box out and weighing it in her palms. Its not the same one from her own work, but she hardly expects Ingrid to dole out that sort of money on a one-off gift for her friend, partner, something. Still, it strikes a chord in Morgan, and a wave of heat shoots up her cheeks, a smile shortly following it. “Its perfect! I was starting to miss some of it. I love running this place, and planning the events, and dragging you along to all of it, too, but this... Well, I just like it, so thank you,” she finishes, a little lamely, but no less genuine, setting it down on the counter and leaning forward to press a thankful, impulsive kiss against her cheek. “Happy Halloween, and I know I’m a little late, but I have something for you, too!” She tucks the box under the bar once more and disappears into the kitchen, returning with a small on which sits a cake. Bourbon based, something she hopes Ingrid will like more than a regular one. A soft smile is on her lips as she scans Ingrid’s face. “You’ll like this cake, and don’t worry, I won’t sing happy birthday to you in front of everyone. But happy birthday, Ingrid.”

[morgancortez]

greywyatt‌:

Grey gave a small snort of agreement; clearly, she was right. The fire had been horrible, overwhelmingly destructive. He knew someone had died, but he wasn’t sure who it had been. He paused before pulling back enough to study her face as she spoke. “Is she alright? Are you okay?” He watched as she stepped away and held her elbows before leading the way inside. He followed her quietly, already guessing the answer to his question. No. She wasn’t. She was at the very least worried and shaken up. “But she’s alright?” he asked her, guessing that however Ingrid was was a direct indication to how Morgan was so it was important enough to make certain. “Not going to be too messed up from it? She in the hospital?” He slid his own hands into his jeans pockets. “Nothing happened to me at all. Introverted hermit that I am I was barely outside during the event at all. Just got worried about you.”

She shook her head sharply, dark hair smacking her in the face, and she closed the door behind them with a heavy sigh. “I’m fine, nothing happened to me. I mean a little singed, but I’ll live. Guess the perks of being part werewolf are the fast healing,” she said slowly, a little mechanically, wiggling her hands, where the fire had left small burns across her skin when she made the foolish dash inside. They crossed the entrance hall, moving into the kitchen and she set about making tea, swearing quietly when she dropped a teacup onto the counter. It shattered, and Morgan stooped, picking up the chunks. “She’ll be okay, I think? Yeah, she will, I mean, they didn’t stab her with silver so she won’t die.” She had to stop, her heart thudding a little too hard, fear trying to claw up her throat as it had been trying since she sat in that waiting room. Like all those times, she swallowed it back, and looked up at him with a measure of relief at his words. “Being a hermit worked out, I’m happy someone got through this unscathed. And Charlie?”

[morgancortez]

Date: October 20, 2020 Time: 11:10am Location: Oddities Inn

@phoeberigby​

Phoebe might have been her cousin on paper, but their youth had been spent more like sisters than not under the watchful eye of Morgan’s mother. It was the reason she didn’t flinch when the bell announced a visitor to the inn, and why she offered a half-smile to her cousin. “They brought her here earlier, they thought it would be nice for her to spend an afternoon with us,” she explained quietly, loading up a tray with tea that she didn’t even like for a mother that might not even remember that she loved it. The inn was suspiciously quiet, like the people inside knew something tentative was happening in the den. “Do you need a second? Do I look alright? She’s not going to care, but...” Morgan huffed, frustrated by her inability to articulate the troublesome feelings in her chest. She set the tray down with a smack, rubbing her face. “Okay. Okay. I’m sorry, I probably should have spent more time explaining things on the phone.” They had met for lunch during the parade, before all the madness of it had struck, and again the other week, discussing Mariposa and her illness, and the fact that the care facility she brought her to was easing her into normalcy as best they could. Phoebe was a part of that normalcy, at least in Morgan’s book. “Its lunch so maybe only an hour. They have someone with her, I can’t remember if its a doctor or what, but they are there in case she gets... antsy I guess? We’ve got this. Its just lunch.”

[morgancortez]

Waking Up | Isaac & Morgan

[morgancortez]

isaacsdawson‌:

Isaac wrinkled his nose at his cousin as soon as she tried to minimize her needs, though by now he should be used to that reaction from her. Didn’t mean he had to validate it though. “Uh no, I did have to come. You’re my cousin, more like my sister, so it matters to me when you’re upset.” With that he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and gave her a quick hug, only to get barraged with a question about Ollie and a look of horror once she sees the dark marks that haven’t yet faded from his wrist. Isaac isn’t too concerned if they will, he isn’t vain, but he doesn’t fancy explaining them to everyone he knows for the near future either. The easier of the two first, he thinks. “Ollie is currently asleep in the bed of his ‘not boyfriend’ Adam, according to Adam himself. He got a little beaten up when the crowds went full riot, so Adam fixed him up for me.” Isaac said drily, hand going to rub at his wrist as if he could still feel fangs dug into it. Before Morgan could ask again, he held up a hand for a moment to put words together, then began to explain. “She was jumped on her way home. I think by some goons that belong to Katherine Irving’s brother. I don’t think she would have made it back home, she was drained so dry, so I…let her feed on me. It’s not a big deal, Morgan.” He shrugged, then nodded at her. “How’s Ingrid?”

She shouldn’t be so surprised, half of Isaac’s personality was worrying about his family and the other half was something a little scary, something she saw in only brief flickers. With the talk of Ollie being hurt during the parade, and Riley being attacked, Morgan could see the fire lit behind his eyes, dulled only by his concern. For them, and for her. “You can’t turn your back on any of us for a second without us getting into trouble,” she said quietly, a smile turning up the corner of her lips. No one was dead, and that was a victory wasn’t it? Given how tired she was, and how tired he looked, it didn’t feel like one. Not yet. “Katherine Irving has a brother? We’ve never seen anything from him before, and if he’s attacking Riley of all people, they must not be close.” The council family wasn’t the type of history that Morgan enjoyed studying, but she knew enough vague details about it to know that Riley and Katherine were related in the same way Odette and Katherine were. The last of his words tugged at her brain, coming to the forefront, and her eyes widened. “Isaac, that was dangerous, she could have hurt you badly! And then where would you be, where would she be?” She ran a hand through her hair, trying to expel the nervous energy following her like a shadow since she left the hospital that morning. “She... I think she’ll be okay, they told me there was no silver, and that’s a good thing. Werewolves heal fast when they aren’t hybrids.” A slow blush spread across her cheeks, and she pressed a hand to her face. “I, um, might have kissed her.”