concept excerpt: hector valentino airnesto condicionado human/slasher au x morvant mortuary crossover
aka what happens when I take my adorable newest hyperfixation and put him in the southern gothic world of my OCs. you can see their date everything au here and read more about them in my pinned ✨
warnings for discussions of parent terminal illness and death, voyeurism, stalking, implied masturbation with stolen underwear, brief scene of embalming.
thanks to @grappel-writes for humoring me and talking through motives for our mutual blorbo 🖤
Hector Valentino Ernesto Carasquillo is not a monster, per se. Not really. Not compared to the guys he installs the cameras for, good god. He's just... someone with a certain penchant for staying unnoticed, with a day job as a repair guy. An ability to work in claustrophobic spaces without breaking a sweat since he specializes in HVACs. A knack for certain types of surveillance technology that he picked up all on his own. All very valuable skills, in certain lines of work. All highly sought after, if someone is motivated enough. And the people who contact him tend to be very motivated indeed.
He's not proud of it -- it's not at all what he'd pictured for himself, in a more optimistic time -- but it pays the rent and more besides. His mom's medical bills, god bless her, weren't cheap. He was able to keep her comfortable in her last days, and for that, he’s always been reasonably able to sleep at night… so long as he kept his nose in his notebooks, and out of the business of the people who use his particular tor server instance to place their orders.
It's not like he’s naive. He knows full well what kinds of awful shit the cameras he places could potentially be used for. For this, he has his stipulations, the last shreds of his soul he’s not willing to sell: nothing to do with kids or families; anything to with sorority or fraternity houses costs an extra five grand, no negotiating; and he doesn’t do public locker rooms — that’s amateur hour. It’s an insult to the abilities he’s honed. He’s gotten enough of a reputation now that if you contact Valentine for something, it better be worth his time, and you better have the money.
Hospitals, offices, podiatrist clinics? Those are his bread and butter. Retirement communities? Not his taste, but he can do that.
Once or twice he’s gotten requests for the offices of public officials, and those were a challenge. But it was worth it for the self-satisfaction alone — and the added bonus of keeping him ahead of his rent for nearly a year.
His rules at least keep the garden variety pervs to a minimum. They might have helped cover chemotherapy treatments, but now that his mom’s in a better place, he doesn’t need to rely on them quite as heavily. But the money’s too good to give up entirely, especially nowadays. Especially if he ever wants to go back to art school, like he promised his mom when he did what an only son does and dropped out to take care of the woman who’d raised him alone.
He keeps meaning to re-enroll. Really. He can’t count how many times he’s logged back in to sign up for classes.
He’s just waiting for… something. More distance from his mom’s death, so all his work isn’t just about her and his own grief. More money in his savings account before he stops working full time.
He’s maybe waiting to feel alive again, but it would take him admitting that to himself to also admit that he’s not sure if it’s ever going to happen.
So when he gets an odd request from a Mr. Sunday (via an unexpected phone call, as if he’s trying to prove a point, rather than ordering through the dark web like a normal person), he goes through the motions of fulfilling it as usual. One series of cameras for a private home, single resident — okay, so probably just someone’s stalker, or an ex-spouse looking for more dirt for the divorce. A pain to set up, but he could do it in his sleep, and once it’s on he can charge for data storage/system upkeep. easy money.
The other is a series of cameras for… a family-run mortuary, in some little town he’s never heard of.
Not the first time he’s gotten a request for one of these, but they still unsettle him more than most.
Still, money’s money, and inflation is inflation. he preps his gear and sets the date.
The job, however, goes south faster than ice melts in this Louisiana summer.
He recognizes your car when he pulls his van up outside the address — your address. He knows you. You’re that person from his monthly book club who actually knows what they’re fucking talking about. The one who gives him that winning smile when he quietly backs up your points, or chats with him sometimes over the bad library coffee. The one he keeps meaning to work up the nerve to ask out, someday, eventually, when he feels like he actually has a life worth talking to someone about again. A life worth sharing.
The fuck does some sleazeball guy like Sunday want with you?
He finds out fast when the prick has the audacity to come over and flirt with you, while he’s snuck into your attic without you knowing. He can hear the guy making you laugh through the fucking vents, all charm and smarmy lines — he recognizes the voice that placed the order.
What’s worse, the smug son of a bitch even makes eye contact with him through the vent slats in your bedroom while he’s setting up a camera. as if he’s checking to make sure it got done. The insult to his professional pride would be enough to piss him off, but having him set up in your home is salt in the wound.
He doesn’t know who you know or what you’ve done to end up somehow involved with this guy, but fuck a contract. He has to find some way to warn you. Until then, he’ll keep an eye on you himself, to make sure whatever con Sunday’s trying to pull can be mitigated quickly.
You don’t deserve that. He can have enough of a spine to put it between you and this guy’s designs on you, at least.
The mortuary install doesn’t improve matters. Not only is the building fucking ancient and sprawling, making it a backbreaking effort to infiltrate and traverse, but the entire time he’s in there something feels… off. Like he’s being watched, despite being in parts of the house no other living thing should be. He hears sounds in the crawlspaces that almost felt in his ears like fragments of words, whimpers, whispers.
In the chilly space above one of the rooms, he thinks he smells his mother’s perfume — before the radiation turned it rancid on her skin.
Something - dust, or asbestos, or even a spider - falls just right between his shoulder blades to make him remember her fingertips. The way she had to gently tap him on the back when he got taller than her all too soon.
He’s trying to wipe the grit out of his eyes (that’s what it had to be, making them water like that) when in a tiny burst from his tablet, through the speakers, he hears it: a recording of her voice he couldn’t remember making. One he can’t find in the tablet’s memory or in the cloud storage connected to it afterwards that night, no matter what he searches.
‘Go home, mijo,’ she whispers. ‘Get away from these people.’
He about jumps out of his skin at that, nearly dropping his own very expensive equipment to the boards he’s treading.
When he checks the vent nearest him, trying to determine if he’s been detected, all he sees is a man in multiple layers of plastic PPE standing stock-still over a cadaver, an enormous needle-like object attached to a machine poised above the abdomen.
For oceans of time crammed in mere minutes, neither of them moves, as though one were waiting to see if the other would acknowledge them first.
When the man in the plastic mask drives the object into the body’s stomach, Hector makes his break for his exit.
He doesn’t breathe again until he makes it back to his van parked near the empty side of the property and locks the doors.
When the tablet shows him all cameras inside are active and broadcasting, he wonders briefly what he would’ve done if they hadn’t been. If he’d be brave enough to go back inside. To sit in those shadows again, his back to something he couldn’t name as he fiddled with some switches.
Driving away, he’s grateful he would never have to know.
Or so he thinks.
—
It’s only three weeks before Sunday was beginning to suspect interference. The cameras always seem to glitch when you’re changing, or whenever you look truly vulnerable. (If Hector has noticed that you’ve been crying more often since you started seeing this Sunday guy, there’s nothing he could do about it. not really. Not outside the odd bunch of local wildflowers that turn up on your doorstep, or your spotify shuffling to quiet, yearning melodies that you know aren’t on your playlist. Nothing that truly makes a difference.
Maybe he’s gotten in the bad habit of sitting parked across the street from your house whenever he knows Sunday should be leaving, but that’s just to check on you. To make sure that rat bastard, whatever he was doing, hasn’t gotten away with it.
If he’s started getting out of his car to sit by your bedroom window, hidden behind your crepe myrtle bushes outside, then that’s purely to make sure you’re really, truly okay. Not at all because he loves hearing your laugh when you watch tv, or your excitement when you talk on video chat with your friends, or when you sing along to your music, or your pensive expression when you’re reading that month’s book late at night on your bed—)
But if it takes that long for Sunday to catch on, then it only takes a couple days more for a manila envelope to show up in his always-empty mailbox. From there, it only takes another forty five minutes to have the contents of that envelope spread across his own kitchen table:
Photos. Real, physical printed photos. Of him.
Of him across the street from your house. Of him outside your window. of him at home, with one or two things that he may have maybe possibly slipped out of your laundry hamper when you’re out with Sunday.
Of what he does with them after, thinking he’s alone in the dark with the guilt of it.
Alongside these, a note in a precise, flowing handwriting:
"Tomorrow, 8 sharp, or they get these and more.”
Followed by an address that, one websearch later, turns out to belong to a tiny twenty-four hour diner not far from the mortuary Sunday asked him to bug.
So, of course, he goes. he goes early, even, trying to see if he can pick out his blackmailer from the camouflage of his mom’s old car, something other than his van. He half-suspects it's Sunday himself — he’s the only one who knows about Hector’s moonlighting, after all, he’s the one who placed the order. He’s the quickest connection between Hector and you.
But the person who sets off alarm bells in his brain isn’t his erstwhile employer. It's the pale guy in the glasses and suit who parks a hearse outside the diner and walks in, accompanied by an even paler woman in a wide-brimmed sun hat that hides most of her face, and a white dress that hides most of her body, and finally a dark-haired guy in a hoodie and sneakers —
With a professional-grade film camera, hanging prominently on a strap around his neck. like he wants it to be seen.
The three of them are sitting on one side of a table at the very back of the place, and when Hector sits down across from them, his hands itch for charcoal and good quality paper. The three of them have such distinct faces, all cheekbones and sunken eyes, clearly related despite how differently they each wear that same haunted look. Like they all grew up starved for sunlight.
The men are seated on either side of the woman, but she looks the least interested in being here, stirring her iced tea with barely a glance in Hector’s direction. “This him?” she says to her glass, and at first Hector can’t be sure who she’s talking to.
The man in glasses takes one look at Hector and sighs, pulling out a pack of nicotine gum from a pocket inside his suit jacket. “Yeah, that’s the guy from our vents.”
The man in the hoodie jerks his chin at the gum. “I thought you quit.”
“So did I,” Glasses guy says, but there’s more resignation than anything else. He gives Hector a grim smile as he pops a piece in his mouth. “You know, dependin’ how long you were up there, you could’ve been exposed to a good deal of formaldehyde.”
Hector shrugs at this. “Not the worst hazard I’ve run into.”
“You do that a lot?” Hoodie guy says. “Put cameras over embalming rooms for creeps?”
Hector feels a shudder run down his spine at the memory of the trocar plunging into the cadaver’s stomach. “No,” he says simply. “Not often.”
“Yeah?” Hoodie guy pulls a photo out of his pockets, holding it up like it’s a playing card and this is a trick. “What about in their house?”
It’s a photo of you at the book club meeting just last weekend, shot through the library window. The angle is such that it catches you while you’re looking at the ceiling, clearly choosing your words...
And Hector is seated next to you, his expression doing nothing to conceal just how you make him feel.
He goes to reach for it without thinking, his face threatening to overheat, and the whole table shifts.
tTe woman in the middle looks up to watch him, green eyes cat-like and curious now. This close to her, Hector can see the strange scar tissue running all along her jawline that the hat brim was hiding before.
Glasses guy sits forward in his chair, looking between Hector and the photo. When Hector looks his way, sheepish, he winces like he knows exactly what Hector’s feeling.
Hoodie guy leans back, the photo still between his fingers and a smug grin on his face. “That’s what I thought.”
“You don’t understand,” Hector says quickly. he takes a breath, trying to keep his voice from shifting too high with concern. “The guy that hired me - Sunday - he’s doing something to them. I don’t know what.” He feels as crazy as he’s sure he looks when he says this. “But it’s making them… sick. Depressed. Something.”
At the name, all three of them exchange a dark look. Like Hector’s let something vicious into the room even by speaking it.
“I’m just trying to help them,” Hector pleads. “You have to believe me.”
A long pause. more exchanged glances. A silent conversation.
The woman, at last, looks back to Hector. “What are you willing to do to protect them?” she asks, her voice low.
“Anything.” Hector speaks without hesitation, for once in his life.
“Anything?” Glasses guy repeats, peering owlishly at Hector over said frames.
Hector leans towards them across the table. “Whatever it takes. Whatever I have to do. I don’t care.” He shakes his head. “There’s nothing that scares me anymore, not after what I’ve seen. What I know people do to each other.” A bitter taste fills his mouth. “It just can’t happen to them. I won’t let it. I refuse.”
Another pause.
One by one, each of his blackmailers rests the index finger of their left hand on the tabletop.
He doesn’t realize they’ve voted on something until Glasses guy reads the back of the box of nicotine gum again before shrugging and popping a second piece in his mouth.
“Maxi Morvant,” he says with a crooked half-smile. he tucks the gum back into his suit jacket once again, then nods to the woman next to him. “Rora.” He adds in a mumble, like it’s a secret: “My sister.”
Rora nods to hoodie guy on her other side. “And this is our Hector. Our cousin.”
Hector stares at his counterpart, with his long glossy hair and hunger-pang good looks, and hates him immediately.
The other Hector smirks. “Hex is fine.” He gives Hector a lingering once-over, and his body isn’t sure whether to blush or clench his fists. “Saves us any… confusion.”
Hector decides he really hates Hex.
“Alright, Valentine,” Hex says the name like a taunt, and Hector’s blood runs cold.
Hex slides the library photo across the table so it’s right in front of him, like it’s nothing, like he’s got a hundred of them printed out somewhere.
“Tell us about your friend, there.”
Hector stares at you like a man asked to explain what beauty is to a martian.
They stay until it’s dark outside, planning your rescue from the creature in a man's skin that's stealing your life from you breath by breath.
(I don't know that this individual story with my OCs is going to much further than this snippet, but I might make a post of just Hector and his reader in this AU later on
if you've read this far, I hope your next ominous meeting in a diner goes well 🖤)
summary: Seth Sunday issues a challenge to the Morvants. it doesn’t go as anyone anticipated.
warnings: some gore, necromancer violence, someone gets struck by lightning, implied deception of the reader, Seth kind of looks down on the reader for being human but it makes sense in context, oral sex (enby receiving), penetrative sex, not so much size kink as resistance kink, implied dacryphilia on Seth’s part, implied that he’s using the reader to some degree for Reasons
general: reader is plus size and non-binary and uses they/them, but Seth uses decidedly feminine nicknames. just FYI. if any language can be tweaked for a more seamless experience otherwise, I’m always down to hear it.
here it is, our boy’s first real outing! cheers to all the other Dastmalchian-face lovers out there, we deserve the best and more.
best accompanied by this playlist, should you so desire.
eta May 2025: here it is in full, all in one piece with the epilogue. I was sitting here trying to decide if I wanted to re-upload everything in chronological order, but then I remembered the one nonny who was kind enough to say before the scrape that they wanted to read 'storm warning' on ao3 but their invite was taking forever.
to whoever that nonny was: I love you, I'm sorry I didn't get to respond before the scrape happened, and this is for you babe 🖤
Standing at the edge of the graveyard, Seth Sunday watched the dusk soak up the inky black of the thunderhead rolling in. It was out of season for so early in the year, but that was the point.
He had a rule about first impressions: it was gauche not to start as he intended to go on. Especially when he was going against the house.
Especially the House on the far side of the cemetery.
Rolling his shoulders, he took a long breath through his nose and exhaled between his lips. All the air down here was wet; it made summoning quicker but made the whole process heavier. A lot more weight to have to balance along the column of his spine.
Not to mention, he could have all the humidity in the world, but being in someone else’s home court like he was right now still posed a challenge.
One more deep breath, and a stretch of his scapulae like a swimmer about to slice through water.
Then he fixed his eyes on the door on the House’s back porch - an anchor point for what was about to happen - and took his first step across the cemetery’s threshold.
He actually smiled as a sudden pressure caused his ears to pop, the surrounding sounds of the outside world suddenly smothered by an unseen layer of gauze. The air rippled just enough to be perceptible from the spectral tripwire he’d set off, ruffling the patches of grass that had grown long at the bases of crumbling mausoleums.
Tucking his hands into the pockets of his black duster coat, he whistled an old showtune nobody remembered anymore as he continued towards the middle of the churchyard, his pace a leisurely stroll.
At the dead center in the crossing of the two main paths through, he stopped, still whistling and kicking absently at some stones there with the toe of his freshly shined dress shoe.
He only looked up when he heard the echo of squeaking old hinges.
In the gloaming dark, the door on the House’s back porch seemed to have opened on its own. Any lights that might have been in the windows had all gone dark, leaving it looking abandoned and somehow older than its already impressive years.
Lips still pursed to whistle, Seth was riveted as a tall, perfectly shadowed figure emerged, two eye-level pinpricks of a bright amethyst visible from clear across the cemetery and through the treeline. It settled itself on one side of the porch, leaning on the railing with its elbows as if simply contemplating the view.
Another figure emerged from the endless black that was the doorway, this one with gleaming eyes of emerald. Its gaze never wavered from him as it moved to the other side of the porch, then climbed up to perch on the railing itself.
To Seth’s curiosity and mild delight, it kicked its dangling feet as it watched him, as though eager for the show he was about to give.
Finally — At last, he thought, inhaling without realizing it — a third shadowed figure appeared, slightly taller than the first. Seth could’ve mistaken the deep crimson light that stared at him for the glare off a gator’s eyes in the night, the nasty big lizard sizing him up from its filthy swamp.
This third figure leaned against a column near the porch’s low stairs, casual, as if waiting to greet an expected guest coming up the drive.
The muffling gauze from the graveyard suddenly spread over the whole property, as the distant calls of night birds and the gentle chirring of insects hushed out bit by bit. Like something had come along and drank all the sound from the world.
For what felt like ages but must have only been a minute, the three figures watched Seth — unmoving, unblinking. Frozen perfectly in place with the growing silence.
The air itself seemed to press closer around him, growing somehow denser with the beginning crackles of… something.
He had to move now, or they were going to use all that Something up before he could.
Seth let out one last whistle — two quick notes, a “yoo-hoo!” of an opening salvo — then raised his tensed right hand straight up over his head.
When he snapped his fingers, a thunderbolt taller than God shot down from the sky not more than fifty feet in front of him, bathing the entire cemetery in blue-white light as it made contact with the ground.
When the thunder finally caught up with the light, it shook the earth hard enough that he could hear the kitchen windows rattling from all the way over here.
And with that, his challenge was officially set.
As the light began to fade, his vision studded through with bright-blue afterburn, he gave a theatrical bow from the waist - his left hand pressed to his chest bashfully, his right flourishing out to his side.
…More silence.
Seth frowned at his shoes, waiting a tick. He was used to more. Maybe a ‘holy shit!’ or an ‘oh fuck what was that?’, at least.
Still nothing.
With an insulted scoff, Seth raised his head long enough to see that the porch was empty —
But didn’t stand quick enough to block the punch that cracked hard into the side of his face.
Seth fought to right himself even as he stumbled, his left eye suddenly crawling with deep red sparks which seemed to swarm onto the site of the strike. He hissed as their gathering burned like a brand, and when he hastily reached up to wipe them away, the hiss became a yelp of pain as his own skin blistered and cracked. His nose was suddenly filled with the familiar scent of putrefaction, and he rounded on his would-be attacker —
Only to have to step back fast to avoid some sort of howling creature springing at his eyes.
Seth instinctively grabbed the thing that was lunging at him and immediately yelped again, realizing he’d just shoved his palms between two powerful jaws and all the teeth they contained. The leathery desiccated skull of an alligator was trying to snap itself around his head, its spine clattering loudly as it wriggled in his grasp. Bony limbs much longer than a regular gator’s — what were those? Big cat? Something with claws - were kicking at him, also reeking of decay, and it took him a minute to realize they were part of the thing he was trying to keep from ripping him to pieces.
The entire creature glowed with an eerie green that made it almost look radioactive, highlighting what thin strips of dried flesh still clung to the various mishmashed parts. When its cleft back hoof (hoof?) stomped down hard on the delicate metatarsals of his foot, Seth cried out in both rage and pain, and finally yanked hard enough to pull and snap the creature’s jaws apart entirely.
The green glow immediately vanished from the bones, and the whole thing seemed to lose whatever force enchanted it, clattering at his feet like a taxidermist’s scrap pile.
He slammed the mandibles to the dirt in frustration, whirling again to find who’d sicced the thing on him with a raised fist of his own and a sudden lash of rain ripped from the clouds themselves —
Only to feel a cold that penetrated deep beneath his sleeve suddenly lock itself around his wrist, chilling him to the very bone… which was a tricky feat indeed, considering how much it took for him to feel temperature.
Over the growing gale, he was aware of a low, panicked murmuring filling his ears, voices overlapping with pleas and moans of terror and questions in languages he couldn’t pin down. There was a flurry of movement in his peripheral vision before his other wrist was similarly captured, and both were yanked to the absolute limit of his arms while barely avoiding dislocation. As he snapped his head left and right to find the attacker, all he could make out was a thick mist — one that somehow managed to cluster densely together into almost a shadow, despite the winds of his storm escalating with his rage.
The force of it whipped the lush treeline between the House and the cemetery into a flailing frenzy, and though he couldn’t yet pull down another show-stopper bolt, a smaller strike got perilously close to where he saw a figure wreathed in green watching some distance away.
There was a shriek of surprise — The Resurrectionist, he realized, the sister — and for a moment, the ghosts’ hold on his wrists faltered. He saw another figure closer by, the amethyst eyes, spinning to find the source of the sound. As he did, whatever motion he’d been doing to bring his deceased assistants to this side of the Veil was incomplete, and they almost immediately began to flicker.
Seth yanked his arms free, only realizing they’d had him off the ground when he landed on ungainly feet. He straightened again, beginning the gesture to concentrate the gathering, frothing static into something sharp and focused —
Only to get punched on the other side of his jaw by a figure out of his eyeline.
This strike knocked Seth sideways, and the red-eyed figure flung himself after, seizing his falling form in a messy lunge that took them both to the cemetery soil.
Seth’s howl was less surprise and more fury that this fucking bayou bastard had pushed him into the dirt, especially when this coat was dry-clean only in this podunk little town. He shoved his hand upward against his assailant, meaning to hook his fingers under a lip and tear a cheek, but was unable to find his mark amid the repeated punches to his skull and throat.
The Reaper Seth had heard so much about was straddling his torso, one hand clenched around his throat. The other fist was absolutely pummeling him, each blow gleaming an aortic crimson around the skin and leaving a caustic, burning sensation with whatever part of his face it landed on. Seth did his best to keep his groans to a minimum, to buck and twist and try to dump his assailant into the dirt next to him for some proper reciprocation, but found the Reaper a tricky man to unseat.
Apparently unsatisfied with merely beating the shit out of him, Seth felt the fist suddenly yank his hair and pull his skull straight up off the ground, only to smash it back down against the ancient packed earth. He did this a few times, punctuating each lift of Seth’s skull with a snarl:
“Get.” Crunch.
“Away.” Crunch.
“From.” Crunch.
“Us.”
The red eyes filled his vision, and Seth felt his breath catch in his throat — not in fear, but in wonder.
Where he had thought about tearing the Reaper’s face, the use of its own magic seemed to have done that already — he was gazing into the face of something distinctly Not Alive, the flesh of his cheeks now mere strings of sinew holding the lower mandible to the skull. The same red of his eyes filtered through the gaps, and between them, Seth could see a black tongue, forked, that tensed and writhed like a snake.
The two were practically nose to rotting nose, the stench of decay inescapable now. Seth had to fight the urge not to gag.
“What,” he managed, smirking as much as his wounded, burning face would allow. “Happened to ‘Southern Hospitality,’ huh?”
“You arrogant motherfucker,” The Reaper hissed through rotten teeth, his voice layered with something Else. A feeling Seth recognized from his own time at the crossroads: the instinctive twist of terror in his gut and all the hair on his body standing on end, his body screaming on an existential level to run away. “You of all people should know to leave well enough alone. You have no idea what you’re askin’ for.”
“Why?” Seth cocked a brow as best he could, ignoring how his heart was hammering under his sternum. It was here, staring him in the face. The one he’d been hunting for ages, right here, in the fetid flesh. He swallowed hard, summoning his nerve. “Scared of a little competition?”
At his side, out of the Reaper’s sight, he stretched his index and middle fingers, his thumb spreading parallel to them as far as it could. Above them, the rain lashed harder, leaving them both soaked as the uneven sacred ground began to flood around them.
The Reaper grabbed both his lapels, dragging his head and shoulders roughly upward. “Listen to me, you fucking idiot, it’s not a competition. I am warnin’ you, you don’t want this.”
Seth felt a manic laugh escape his lips before he could stop it. “What’s the matter, Lifer? You don’t want to give it up? The seat of power you don’t even use?” He practically spat it into the necromancer’s face, his voice acrid with venom. “I could do so much more, and all I need is to take it. Why not make it easy for me?”
Something akin to surprise flashed across the Reaper’s expression, and after a moment, he did something that made Seth’s stomach sink:
He laughed back.
“You don’t even know, do you?” It said. It grabbed his throat, slamming him hard back to the ground. “It’s not me anymore, dipshit. You’re tryin’ to take it from someone who don’t even have it.”
Seth blinked. This… was not what he’d been told. “The seat is vacant,” he managed, around the torrent of rain that was still soaking them both. He could feel the water creeping up his neck, the tepid muddy grit inching towards his ears. “You haven’t filled it.”
“I’m not even in line,” the Reaper snarled.
“Way to pick the wrong fight, pendejo!” The Summoner taunted from where he stood, still hiding the Ressurectionist behind a newly summoned ghost horde.
Seth took a minute to process this before shrugging slightly under the Reaper’s knees. Fair enough.
A good performer can always improvise, after all.
Searching as best he could through his lashes, Seth sighted the green and purple glow of the Reaper’s compatriots not far away, one standing protectively in front of the other and summoning new spectral figures to their side. He inhaled, committing the spot to memory.
The Reaper’s face changed again, its red eyes widening as he shook his head. It looked, for a second, like he was trying to shake loose the influence of the thing inside him. “Listen to me,” it said, looking down into Seth’s face. “If They put you up to this, if They’re tryin’ to start shit, you can’t listen to Them.” Something was happening to his voice, a layer peeling back to sound more… human? What was this, some sort of trick? “Listen to me, man, They’re not lookin’ out for you, They don’t give a shit about any of us. They’re just tryin’ to make a useful fool out of you so They can—”
Seth felt what showman’s composure he’d managed to keep finally crack, his grin spasming into a snarl of his own. “How about you shut your hick mouth, and we’ll see who’s the fool?”
As he exhaled, he snapped his stretched fingers, and the energy coursing through the thunderheads above them slid into formation.
Small bolts of blue-white light dropped into the cemetery, providing him with enough of a distraction to push the Reaper off and regain the high ground.
After that, the other two rushed forward, and as Seth felt his own fingers began to crack and change, the gloves came off.
—
The night-time thunder crashing overhead drowned out the crunch and engine of the sleek black rental car that pulled up to your place, coming to a stop within sight of your dark bedroom window.
Once he had the damn thing in park, Seth allowed himself to slump slightly over the steering wheel and let out a frustrated growl.
Those nepo baby little shits. Those spoiled cheating brats, those know-nothing walking corpses —
“FUCK!” Seth reeled back and punched the wheel hard, then immediately cursed himself for his haste. He winced as he scanned your window again, immensely grateful he hadn’t accidentally blared his horn. He couldn’t risk catching your attention too soon.
You couldn’t see him now.
Not like this.
Using a hand whose fingers were still slightly too long, too inky black at the tips with crooked nails, he tilted the rearview mirror towards his own face. After a moment’s hesitation, he carefully lifted off the sunglasses perched haphazardly on the bruised bridge of his nose, despite it being almost midnight.
His eyes were perfect pitch black, looking almost like holes in his skull, which was currently clearly visible under his damaged skin.
“That bespectacled little pissant,” he hissed through teeth that were still too sharp, too pointed. He prodded with a finger at the blistered, ruined skin of his face, covered in the remnants of punches that had sucked the life from it and left him near-mummified.
Indeed, he felt the tip of a claw threaten to puncture the thin flap and rip the side of his face open with little effort.
“Oh, I’m going to hang him outside that ugly house by his own tie, and watch the maggots eat him before he can scab over,” he muttered to himself, looking down to survey the rest of the damage.
Having already shed his ruined coat, his suit jacket was torn, nearly shredded at parts of the sleeves from the massive teeth. “After I steal his sister’s pretty face, and wear it while I strangle her with her own hair.”
He winced in obvious pain as he pulled the jacket off, gasping and having to stop for a moment as he tried to pull it over his left shoulder. “And the Summoner.” He gritted his teeth as he examined his wrists, bruised black and blue now. “I’m gonna kill him first,” he went on, his tone deceptively cheerful. “I’m going to take his head and put it in a box, and tie it up with a bow, and mail it to his dear mamita, and then I’m going to put his ghost in an antique doll, and I’m going to stick it that in front of the girl’s corpse so he can watch it putrefy in real time.”
He let out a long, slow breath through his nose, closing his eyes as he rested his right hand against his wonky shoulder. He muffled the soft whimper that threatened to escape as he adjusted his grip, and then, with a sickening crunch, shoved his torso hard into the frame of the car until the joint popped back into its socket.
He forced the brief, anguished yell that emerged back into speech. “—AAAand then.” The words caught in his teeth, which were still not quite human. “I’ll set it in front of the boy’s, so he can watch me skin that twiggy nerd alive every time he re-generates an epidermis. Forever.”
He was panting now, swallowing the wave of too-warm spit that heralded his body wanting to puke from the pain. “And then I think I’ll take all their hearts and eyes,” he went on, scrunching his eyes closed as he felt his nails retracting slowly back into his fingertips. “And just make a pretty little wet specimen display for their living room mantle.” His teeth were retracting into his gums to their previous shape, flesh shredded and bloody as the bones ground against each other. His temples throbbed, white hot ice picks pressing hard into his skull as it re-shaped itself into something human. “And They Who will say ‘Oh, Sunday, we love what you’ve done with Maxi’s old place, it’s so chic now,’ and I’ll say ‘What, this old thing? Oh, you know I’m but a dilettante, thank you ever so kindly. Please, sit down, let me have my decapitated Morvant corpse-servants take your coats. Please don’t mind them dripping gangrene everywhere, they’re so silly and stupid that way.’” He spat a tooth into his own hand, a fragment of the dead nerve still clinging to one of the roots.
It had been a long time since a fight had dragged his own Provided Form out of him, leaving his human glamor in such disarray. But the Morvants, as much as he absolutely loathed to admit it, had given as good as they’d gotten.
Until he’d dropped one last show-stopper bolt on the Summoner, that is.
He glowered into his rearview mirror, remembering how he and the Resurrectionist had been going tooth and nail, her pulling with her own magic like she was trying to yank his bones out through muscle and sinew, until he’d realized another consciousness was trying to push in on his own. A feeling of something trying to sneak into his skull while he was distracted, already feeling phantom fingers crawling up his arm to slip into his hand like a skin glove.
It was almost clever. Distracting him so their Veil-walker could slip unnoticed past his mental defenses. He found himself nearly admiring the other man’s audacity.
Unfortunately for that idiot, Seth had been keeping a bolt locked and loaded for his big finale, waiting for just the right time. He hadn’t meant for the fight to end, but he’d needed to make sure no one could creep into his head through a back door, use his own storm against him. It might have meant his finisher was less flashy, but you know, if that’s what it took.
But when he’d turned back after to finish what they’d started, the Resurrectionist had only screamed, like he’d dropped it on her instead. She tore herself from him, running to where the Summoner had simply dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
Perplexed, Seth had turned from her just in time to see the Reaper racing towards them, and braced himself to avenge his own beating —
But the other man had passed by the opportunity to fight anew, also running to where the woman was now bent over the limp form in the dirt.
The two were murmuring quickly, the lights of their magic beginning to flicker, and the Resurrectionist making a sound like… crying? Was she actually crying? This was a challenge of combat, what did she expect?
“—Pulse,” he had just barely heard the Reaper say. “Come on, back inside.”
He’d lifted the man with surprising ease, despite their nearly equal height, and the two remaining Morvants began — Retreating?
Were they seriously running? Was he seeing this?
These were the necromancer darlings of They Who Provide? Their perfect death-wielding machines he’d heard so much about?
It’d taken him a full minute before he’d realized they really were just leaving him standing there.
“…Hey. Hey!” Seth had called after them, taking a couple stunned steps after.
Neither of them had looked back, continuing to make their way back towards the House — where he knew for sure he couldn’t follow. Not unless he’d wanted to risk the Ritual backfiring on him, and all this being for naught.
“HEY!” he’d shouted that time, his patience quickly wearing thin.
The two had barely paused, glancing only partially over their shoulders to look at him.
“What the hell are you doing? We’re not done here!” Seth called. “I challenged you! You owe me a fight to the finish!” He’d had to restrain himself from stamping his foot, though the urge was strong.
“Shut up,” The Resurrectionist scoffed, choked with furious tears. They’d advanced again, leaving his chosen field of play in a clear violation of the Code —
And a direct insult to his standing as a fellow practitioner.
His nails curled into the leather of his steering wheel at the memory, leaving deep gashes in the material. Though he shouldn’t be surprised, he supposed, when they’d just had it handed to them at birth. They had never had to earn it, like he had.
“GET BACK HERE,” Seth had yelled, losing his temper at last. “HOW DARE YOU! GET BACK HERE AND FINISH THIS!”
The Reaper had whirled on him then, the two necromancers standing at the edge of the tree line with the Summoner’s limp body in his arms. The red in his eyes was fading, and for the first time, Seth saw the brown-burgundy iris underneath.
In a voice that was entirely human, he’d sneered, “You’re not worth the dirt it’d take to bury you.”
Before Seth could respond, they’d disappeared through the thickest part of the trees, and the invisible bubble over the cemetery burst. The world around them had had no knowledge of the storm, and the birds and bugs continued to chirp and chirr, having seen nothing more than a few flashes of light and heard nothing more than some muffled rumbled.
Though they’d scattered to the winds when Seth had let loose a shriek, all wordless fury and frustration let loose into the pitch-black night sky.
Sitting here now, hunched over his steering wheel and trying his best not to vomit, he was more sore that he’d let slip that moment of weakness than he was about his body trying to shape itself into something resembling a living man again.
So they’d flagrantly abandoned an official challenge to their dominion. He’d known they tended to flaunt things in They Who Provide’s faces, but this was simply beyond the pale.
At this point, getting rid of them would be like pruning a stunted branch from an illustrious tree. And he’d bloom in their place as a healthy graft, bringing fruit to bear once more.
…Or something. Whatever, the metaphor was there, he was going to kill them all and take what they’d never deserved to begin with.
But first, he knew it would take something special to put those three in the ground where they belonged. And right now, he desperately needed to just get back to his usual self.
But that was what he had you for, didn’t he?
He dug a cell phone out from a niche in his dashboard, having to squint against the noxious bright light of the screen as he sought your last conversation. He loathed these little omnipresent rectangles, truth be told, but he was grateful for them at moments like these, where he couldn’t bear to be seen.
Beat the hell out of having to find a payphone, anyway.
When he hit the call button, he could see a soft pinpoint of light begin to glow in the dark of your room. He could always depend on you to keep your phone close at hand.
It took you a few rings to answer, and your voice was sweetly sleepy when you finally did. “Hello?”
“Aw, cupcake,” Seth cooed, his voice completely at odds with his ragged appearance. “I’m sorry, sweetness, did I wake you from a good dream?”
He saw the little light you used on your bedside table click on, the room bathed in a gentle luminescence that barely penetrated the dark. “Nothing special,” you said quickly, and he smirked a little as he heard you clear your throat to sound more awake. “Nothing I don’t mind being interrupted by you, anyway.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, pretending to pout for effect. “I couldn’t bear to bother my baby if they’re tired.”
But he knew you. You would say yes.
You were always so sweet. So pliant to his every little suggestion.
It really made things easier than he’d expected.
“No, not at all,” you insisted, muffling a yawn as you did so. “Are you nearby?”
“Closer than you think.” Seth got out of the car, closing the door to punctuate his point.
“Oh!” He heard the hurried rustling of your sheets on the other end. “I’m sorry babe, I didn’t hear you pull up, I’ll be—”
“No, no, no, angel, don’t trouble yourself,” he cooed again, eyes on your window as he headed for your porch. “You’re right where I want you. Trust me.”
“…Oh.” The sound was softer this time than your previous squeak of surprise. “Are you sure? I mean — I could get up and make some coffee—”
“Perish the thought. You stay right there and don’t move a muscle,” he said, an edge of a command creeping into his tone. “I’ll show myself in.”
He heard a breathy exhale on your end, and the sound of you settling back onto your mattress. “…Okay,” you managed at last, when you must have realized you hadn’t spoken for a minute. “I’ll be… right here.”
Seth smirked again, despite the way it hurt his face. “That’s a good doll.” He nudged the flower pots on your porch aimlessly around with his shoe, enough to make it sound like he was finding your spare key. “Tell you what — keep the lights off for me, hmm?”
“Um — sure.” A pause. “You’ll find your way in okay?” A bit of concern crept in to your voice. It was cute, how you still thought he was human. He wasn’t sure at this point if you genuinely didn’t know yet, or if you were just explaining things away as misunderstandings, odd coincidences.
Either suited him just fine.
“Call it my first trick of the night.” He couldn’t help a painful grin at the way he heard you swallow. “See you soon.”
He hung up, then gestured lazily with his fingers so the lock undid itself. No one in a town this small used deadbolts. It was… quaint.
He let himself in as he promised he would, kicking off his shoes and folding up his frayed suit jacket to place on your front table. If you noticed it before he left, he’d make up a story. It wouldn’t be difficult.
You were so trusting, so generous of heart, he almost felt bad about how easily you took him at his word.
…Almost.
He gestured again to lock the door behind him — this was a private party, after all — and turned, stepping into and through the shadows of your house -
To appear just outside your bedroom door.
It’d be too quick, logically, for him to have walked all that way in just a few seconds. But you were sweet, forgiving. You might just think you’d spaced out, lost track of time.
At any rate, it wasn’t his concern what you thought.
He nudged your door open, letting the squeak of the hinges announce him as he lingered in the doorway.
In the dark, he saw you bolt up where you were waiting for him on top of your covers - how sweet of you, to be so convenient, and in one of his ‘borrowed’ t-shirts too. “Seth?” You did, indeed, sound surprised. Maybe you were more awake than he thought.
“Hi, doll.” He took his time walking in, letting you hear each step as he crossed your room (careful to avoid the discarded dirty laundry on your floor as he did so). He unbuttoned the top of his shirt for the first time since he’d put it on that day, the ache beginning to return to his cheekbones and his shoulders. He was going to be greedy, he could already tell. “You have a good day?”
“Fine. Pretty ordinary — my coworkers are sniping at each other, as usual, but they left me out of it.” You moved as he moved, spooky action at a distance or whatever it was called, drawing your legs closer on your bed to make room for him. “How about you?”
“Ugh.” He let himself tip forward onto your mattress, climbing up with his elbows so he laid there on his stomach. “A nightmare.”
“Aww, no.” You instinctively reached forward to card your fingers through his hair, and he hoped that whatever blood might be congealed there, you just thought it was pomade. “I’m so sorry, babe - what happened?”
“Mmf.” He let himself crawl again to rest his chin on your bare thighs, and didn’t miss the soft inhale you tried to hide. “New collaborators didn’t really want to… collaborate, as it were. It was a very frustrating rehearsal.”
“That sucks,” you said, all sympathy. It was so funny how such a benign phrase now would’ve scandalized his mother a century ago. You said it without thought or pause. “Do you have to work with them? Can’t you just tell them to fuck off, and hire someone else to work with?”
As you continued to stroke his hair, one hand reached towards his face — he caught it just in time, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Mmno,” he mumbled. “I need them, if I’m going to take my act in this new direction.” He held your arm, kissing the bones at the base of your hand and up your wrist. “But at the end of the day, I get to come home to you, so who cares about them?”
He felt you shift slightly, shy; he’d train you out of that yet. If he was going to keep you, there would be no shyness when he acknowledged that claim.
When everything was ready, he’d make sure you wore it like the crown that it was.
“Come here,” he said, cutting off any further protest.
Like the good little creature you were, you moved closer immediately, lying back on your mattress like he preferred. Underwear already gone, though he wouldn’t have minded doing that himself.
He sat up on his knees, discarding his shirt and the bloody undershirt beneath it. Part of him acknowledged it didn’t make much sense, keeping around a human consort when there were plenty of eligible practitioners among They Who Decide. Possibly someone from the River family, the Guillemettes, would’ve made a more strategic choice.
They who kept the river under their thumb controlled most of the country, after all.
But as he pulled you closer to him, gripping a plush thigh with each hand and pushing them apart, he disliked the idea of having to… get comfortable with someone else, all over again.
You were just how he wanted you, save for that lingering doubt in yourself. Eager to please, not jaded or cynical…
And sweet, he thought, as he pressed a kiss to the inside of each thigh. Almost too sweet. You were starting to become an indulgence, a habit.
He snaked the very tip of his tongue along your slit, listening for your telltale gasp, the way you twitched hard underneath him. He held your thighs even tighter as he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, before using the flat of his tongue to part them.
“Seth—”
You were already so wet, he wondered if he’d interrupted a particularly scrumptious dream when he’d called. As his tongue slowly grazed your clit, he could already feel you soaking down the line of his jaw, searing the skin further.
It was too soon to pull from you, but his wounds were thirsty, waiting.
Poor thing, you were going to have a hell of a time getting up in the morning.
“Oh, god.”
He pulled you flush against his mouth so you had no room to escape or try to wriggle free, and he pushed your thighs onto his shoulders, circling your clit to make you squirm against his face. He loved when you couldn’t take it, when you tried to move because you felt it too much. It made such a mess, and it was all the more fun to hold you down until you tearfully begged for mercy.
Your hands curled into his hair as you gasped, stuttering nonsense as you tried not to buck against his face. He let your clit press against the bridge of his nose for a moment as he slipped his tongue inside you - still a bit longer than it should have been in a human, but he was counting on you being too distracted to notice.
He heard you whining, your resolve dissolving as you ground yourself against him, and he met your movements with his own, lapping at the center of you.
Already, he could feel something tightening in him like a stringed instrument, followed by the sharp ache of things preparing to knit themselves back together.
“Come on, doll,” Seth whispered against your cunt, laving your clit again with a new desperation. He needed you to come for this to work, but you were also so close, he could taste it on you. “I got you. Just let go.”
You audibly moaned, and he shoved his tongue against your clit, moving your hips hard against his face with his hands to encourage you to ride it out.
“Oh, fuck.” Your nails dug into his scalp, but you followed his bidding, dragging yourself against his tongue as the sounds filled your empty room. At last, with a shudder and pulling his hair to the point where it ached, you came undone with a sound like a sob of his name.
There it was. He took the energy you gave, the light under your skin scattering into his as he pulled it down like a black hole. Flickers of white sparks found the parts of him that needed it most: The skin of his face was sealing itself closed again as he drank you down, feeling your hips jerk more harshly against his mouth, and he felt his wrists as he held you begin to melt the bruises underneath the skin.
Just the one would’ve been enough to put him back together, but he was as greedy as he thought he’d be, lapping at you well after it became overstimulating and your sobs continued. He wanted more, he couldn’t help himself. You just made him feel so good.
“Seth, please,” you whimpered, and he was happy to oblige, roughly manipulating your body so he could move underneath you and fall onto his back. He was less afraid of you seeing him now that his face was fixing itself — his less visible wounds would take longer, but he could power through those.
He set you on his ribs as he reached down to undo his belt, and you ground yourself down on his torso impatiently, soaking the skin there. He hissed through gritted teeth as you rode a bruise you couldn’t see, but if anything, he angled to better position you on top of it, loving the way your mouth fell open as the pain seared him from within.
Before he could ditch the rest of his clothes, you took the opportunity, pulling the offending garments away leave his cock leaking against his stomach.
You straddled it before he could move, grinding the heat of you against it, soaking it with the remnants of your first orgasm that he hadn’t managed to lick away. He couldn’t help a groan, his hands falling to your hips and squishing the flesh there covetously between his long fingers, until he knew there would be marks there the next day.
He secretly loved the idea of you walking around with his hands on you underneath your clothes, going about your day while he continued to cling to what was his. As his own jaw fell open from his tip pressing against you, he planted a spell on your skin, making it so tomorrow you would abruptly be transported to exactly this moment whenever your clothes brushed the marks. And a little something on his end, too, so he would feel it in his gut whenever you had to relive it in front of whoever else was in the room.
He already couldn’t wait to hear about it when you got home from work. He’d have to fight not to grin like a cat that got the cream the whole time.
His hands still guiding your hips, you began to settle onto him, having to stop every so often to breathe and try to relax so you could slide further down.
Even if he wasn’t a bit of an outlier - which he was, he’d gathered that through word of mouth over the last century or so - you were just so delicate. It was almost precious, how you had to breathe deep before you could keep him in you. How he had to coax and kiss and plead while your lip trembled and your voice hitched, so he could have you from the inside out.
He hoped he ruined you for other people. It was selfish. He could own that.
But he salivated over the idea that after all the fussing and whispers and pushing, anything less than him would leave you achingly empty.
“You’re doing so well, doll,” he murmured, tracing the skin of your ribs, watching you bite your lip and tears threaten at your lashes as your body fought to hold him in. “Come on, angelface, you can take more. I know you can.”
“I’ve told you, you’re big for me,” you protested, the tears creeping into your voice now. “It takes - ah- time.”
“I know, precious, but you’re such a sweetheart to be so… accommodating.” He pushed himself up so he could wrap his arms around your waist, kissing lightly at your shoulders, along your collarbone. He rolled his hips against yours, which caused an open-mouthed whimper to escape you. “Please, I just want to give a good doll what they deserve. Make sure they have sweet dreams.”
You took another breath, your hands sliding up his chest and resting on his shoulders. He kissed up one side of your neck as he felt you try to relax around him, push yourself down further onto his shaft.
He lingered there, kissing your pulse, the soft skin above your chest, letting you take your time. He traced a fingertip up and down the column of your spine, gathering the small beads of sweat he found there and rubbing them into the tooth marks that creature had left in his fingers.
He felt the wounds close as you shifted in his lap, and he had to fight not to let his hips move against the feeling. He didn’t want to hurt you so much that it wasn’t fun anymore, after all.
“…Do you want help?” he asked after a moment, using his nose to push your hair away so he could nuzzle your cheek. “Just a little?”
You were panting slightly, and for a brief second, he wondered if he’d played his hand too early and worn you out —
But then you nodded, and he grinned.
He took your chin in his hand, turning your head to shove his tongue in your mouth, make sure you could taste yourself. You were ravenous, your nails already catching at his shoulders, his upper arms. You were receptive, he could work with that.
He manhandled you again as he moved to his knees, pushing you back against your mattress but keeping your hips parallel. He returned your thighs to his shoulders, leaving you nearly bent double underneath him. “Okay?”
You nodded mutely, and he settled his hips against yours, enjoying the push there of your flesh against his pelvic bone.
“Alright, we’re going to go slow,” he soothed. He kept almost nose to nose with you, pushing his hips up and into yours, having to bite his lip to muffle a moan at the resistance.
He heard you hiss underneath him, felt you writhe against it, your mouth falling open again with soft little pants.
He pushed into you with an aching slowness even as you began to whine, only stopping when your hand suddenly came to rest against his chest — your agreed upon signal. He had to mask his frustration, almost teeth-gnashingly close to being all the way inside the heat of your tight cunt.
“Good hurt or bad hurt?” he whispered, his dark eyes searching your face even as yours were squeezed closed. When you looked like that, it could go either way, and both left him with a certain kind of hunger.
You caught your breath, your eyes eventually opening to meet his, and you nodded once. “Good,” you said, your voice only a touch unsteady.
He grinned, and the lightning outside made it flash in the dark. “That’s my baby.” He kissed the corner of your mouth. “Hang in there for me, we’re so close.”
You nodded, taking another deep breath, and your hands settled again between his shoulder blades. “Come on,” you urged, tentatively rocking your hips against his.
Well. If you insisted.
Seth pushed you back into a full mating press, slamming his hips against yours to at last have you completely. He heard you cry out, but felt your nails dig into his skin, your legs lock around his hips even as they shook.
Bracing himself against your mattress, he didn’t bother to hold back, feeling the way your cunt drooled and coated him down to the base even as you repeated his name as a plea, then as a sob.
But your hips moved against his, you were just as greedy, and he felt himself grinning at just how feral you felt in turn.
He was pleasantly surprised, even, when you shoved your hands hard enough against his chest to push him over. You moved with him so you were on top again, your hands pinning him now as you rode him into the mattress.
Seth actually laughed through his groan, and he watched with wide eyes as you fucked yourself on him, your voice less a sob now and bordering on a breathless cry.
He watched you come again, and your nails digging into his chest were what sent him over. He fucked his own orgasm up into you as you shivered, coming down from yours, and when you finally collapsed onto the mattress next to him, he made a point to push you onto your back to pin you beneath him. He ground against you with the last of his aftershocks, licking the sweat from your neck, kissing your swollen lips with a marked greed.
It was only then that you made a noise of concern, pulling back slightly to reach up between you. “Is that blood?” You swiped your hand against his lip, finding the last remnant of the cut there from earlier. You looked at him, eyes wide. “Seth, did you get hurt?”
He laughed, pushing his damp hair out of his eyes as he looked at your sweet face. “No, angel, don’t worry. I just bit it earlier, when I got frustrated during rehearsal.”
You frowned, tracing the spot again with your finger. “Are you sure you can’t work with someone who, like… gets your vision?” Your eyes met his, and he’d almost swear his chest fluttered. You were so keen to take his side, it was adorable. “Is it worth trying to make it work with jerks who can’t appreciate you?”
“Oh, doll face.” Seth chuckled, kissing your forehead, the tip of your nose, your mouth in slow succession. He lingered a while on the last, enjoying the taste of you on your own lips, the way you echoed the orgasm he gave you back to him.
You bit down on his, reopening the wound, and he didn’t miss how your eyes glinted in another lightning flash from the window.
There was a fierceness in you yet, and he would be the one to pull it into the open.
He pulled away, his tongue grazing the wound as he saw you lick the blood of your lower lip. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.” He kissed your forehead again, then brought you down to the mattress with him, running a hand over your hair. “They’ll see it my way. I can promise you that.”
You were sleeping on his chest only minutes after, drained in more ways than one.
In the dark of your room, he decided having a human consort as a new necromancer would just be something that They Who Provide would have to accept.
If the Morvants could flout the rules, he didn’t see why he couldn’t break just one, after all.
Epilogue:
Down the second darkest hallway on the second floor, and in the furthest bedroom, Rora was curled in a out-of-place wingback chair that sported the telltale bleached white fabric of Mathilde’s sick room. It had clearly been dragged from there and shoved, with no small difficulty, into the corner closest to the head of the antique wooden bed –
Where Hector had lain in the center, in clean pajamas and perfectly motionless, for the last seventy-two hours. Breathing, but only just, eyes closed to the world.
That uncomfortable too-comfortable look of someone on the precipice of the Veil.
Standing guard next to him was an IV stand that Maxi had hustled up from the old séance room in the sub-basement, the metal part semi-rusty with disuse. Two bags of fluids were rigged to a hastily-set port in his elbow, now nearly empty, but with regular alarms on Maxi’s phone to come and change them out.
In her hand, Rora scolled through a phone of her own that she still barely wanted to touch, looking through her own history of search engine queries:
Hit by lightning no hospital
Cardiorespiratory arrest symptoms
Barotrauma definition
Acoustic injury definition
Intracranial hemorrhage definition
Keraunoparalysis definition
Dyspnea definition
Hit by lightning direct strike coma
Hit by lightning direct strike coma how long
Hit by lightning direct strike coma how long NO AI
She was typing yet another - Fucking hit by lightning direct strike no hospital coma goddammit - when Hector sitting bolt upright and sucking in as much air as his lungs could hold made her drop the phone entirely.
“Oh, shit!” She threw herself out of the chair and onto the mattress, holding him upright while he sputtered and coughed.
“Just breathe,” she begged, resting his back against her chest and doing her best not to squeeze him against her heart like she wanted to. “Just breathe, Hex, breathe for me.”
“I– Que?” Hector looked over his shoulder in her direction, speaking in between hacking coughs.
“Breathe,” Rora repeated, squeezing his shoulders.
“Ow, what?” Hex winced, shrugging her off a little and turning further to see her– but then suddenly seizing the sheets and leaning hard to his left. “What the fuck, why am I dizzy?”
“I don’t know, hold on,” Rora jumped to her feet, trying to support him before he leaned too far and fell off.
“Girl, oh my god, quit mumbling and help me, would you?” Hector was beginning to sound a bit frantic, continuing to fall sideways despite trying to right himself. “Holy shit, why do I feel weird? What’s wrong with gravity?”
“Goddammit, Hex, hold still!” Rora was crouching next to him to keep him away from the floor, trying to push him back onto the mattress even as he keeled over. “Sit up, will you?”
“No, you shut up!” Hector said, hurt creeping into his voice. “I already feel like I got hit by a fucking truck, don’t tell me to shut up!”
“I’m not– just– MAXI!” Rora yelled towards the door, trying to pull Hector back onto the mattress even as Hector winced.
“What fucking taxi?!” Hector moaned. “We’re inside, I know because the room keeps spinning!”
The sudden rushing of feet up two flights of stairs served as a soundtrack to the two dangerously teetering and un-teetering towards the edge of the bed, Rora trying to keep Hector still even as he was seemingly drawn towards the floor, mumbling in English and Spanish that he felt sick and wanted off the ride.
When the door flung itself open, Maxi was out of breath and in his embalming scrubs, with his mask, gloves, and face shield in a trail on the floor behind him. “Okay, I’m here, what’s happ–”
He paused, analyzing the strange pulling backwards and forwards of the other two. “Are you… throttlin’ him slowly?”
“Would you help me?!” Rora snapped, glaring at him. “He keeps falling over!”
“Okay, okay, one sec!” Maxi ran over to Hector’s other side, helping support him from there. “Like this?”
“Nope, no, don’t like it,” Hector shook his head, sounding miserable and making a sound like he was about to be sick. “Down, would like to get down please.”
“Buddy, you’re in bed,” Maxi said gently, keeping Hector’s shoulder propped against his chest. “Where else you wanna go?”
“Flat.” Hector fell forward some more, trying to get there himself. “I wanna be flat.”
“Oh, so he can hear you fine,” Rora grumbled.
“What?” Hector turned to look at her, then made another retching sound. “No, stop talking, make me stop moving first.”
“We’re not moving!” The twins said in unison, shooting each other a perplexed look from either side of their cousin.
“Well, somebody either make it stop, or give me the good drugs so I don’t care about it anymore!” Hector snapped.
After some quick geometry of moving bodies, and trying to find a direction that didn’t make him want to puke, Hector was laying flat on his bed with his head facing the left side of the mattress, one ear pressed against a hot water bottle that Maxi had run to fetch from the now only semi-haunted bathroom between their bedrooms.
The twins were seated on the floor on either side of his head, Rora holding an antique porcelain washbasin that was now entirely for being sick in, and Maxi flipping through his own phone with a slight frown.
“…Yeah, bud, I think he blew clear through your eardrum,” he said at last, looking back around at Hector. “But I might be able to get it to fix itself, if you can lay still for a few days.”
“Cool,” Hector mumbled, looking sick and annoyed at the same time. “Perfecto. Love that for me.”
“Could be worse,” Rora said, shooting Hector a dark look. “We thought you were dead for a hot minute there.”
“Girl, I thought I was dead. Abuelita thought I was dead, too, I was over there all of a sudden with the white light and shit and she was like ‘Mais la, child, it’s not your time, you!’” Hector said, in an oddly accurate impression of their Cajun grandmere despite his own accent. “God. Who the fuck drops a whole fucking lightning bolt on somebody?” he went on, frowning as he nuzzled his head further into the warm container before adopting an expression eerily close to Seth’s. “He’s all 'Ooh, look at me, I can summon the weather, I can prove all the conservative nutjobs right and act real smug about it with my stupid hair.’”
“He does have stupid hair,” Rora agreed, she and Maxi nodding.
“Too much product,” Maxi added, wrinkling his nose. “It looks like he’s keepin’ things in it. Like toothpicks, or mints, or spare change.”
At this, Rora snorted, elbowing her brother.
“I can’t believe I got my ass handed to me by a guy who still wears too much hair gel in 2025,” Hector groaned in frustration, lightly punching the mattress.
“No, that was pomade,” Maxi said, looking around. “Historically, it precedes gel by–”
“Don’t care,” Hector and Rora said in perfect unison, at which Maxi only rolled his eyes.
“Hey man, you’re the one who got your ass beat by a fuckin’ stage magician,” he pointed out, nudging the side of Hex’s head as gently as he could.
“Hijo de puta, you’re right,” Hector said, shaking his head as much as he could while Rora burst into a wild cackle. “I knew he had a weird vibe, I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Ugh, fuck, that just makes it worse.”
“'For my next trick, I will hand this man his own ass by zapping him like a fucking bug,’” Rora said in an impression of their foe’s dulcet tones, which caused Maxi to burst into a manic giggle.
“You watch,” Maxi added, barely managing to get the words out. “He’s gonna be out there on the front lawn like 'Is this your card?’ before he slaps you with it.”
“Hey, fuck you both,” Hector said, with no real venom in it as the twins broke down laughing again. “He was just taking out the only real competition; at least he’s smart enough to do that.”
“Bitch, please, you wish,” Rora said, but also with no real conviction.
For a moment, the three of them sat in silence – Rora leaning her head on the mattress, Maxi staring up at the ceiling, Hex moving his head as best he could to lay equidistant between them without spiraling all over again.
“…So that’s a new problem, I guess,” Hex said quietly, breaking the silence after a long pause.
“Fuck 'im,” Maxi said, just as quiet. He kept his gaze on the ceiling, though some exhaustion was beginning to creep into the corners of his eyes. “People before us dealt with assholes like that back when.”
“Look at you, being all historical about it,” Rora said, lifting her head just enough to see her brother around her cousin. “Normally, you hate doing what anyone else did.”
“Yeah, well.” Maxi shrugged, then turned to look at his cousin and his sister. “We got enough goin’ on without some showboatin’ asshole comin’ in to make a mess. If we have precedent to put his ass on the backburner, I say we take it.”
Rora shrugged back, playing with a bit of Hector’s hair. “Fair.”
Maxi sighed, long and tired, before turning his eyes specifically to Hector between them. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“He’s not allowed to not be okay,” Rora mumbled, twirling the strand of hair around her finger now. “He knows that.”
Hector smirked at Maxi, shrugging. “You heard the lady.” He still winced even at the slight movement, resettling on the hot water bottle. “So, what else did that asshole do to me?”
“Not much, from what I can tell.” Maxi sighed, getting to his feet with a crack of his knees and his own wince.
“Old,” Hector said, pointing a finger at Maxi from where he lay.
“Old,” Rora agreed with a nod.
“Man, shut up, you’re older than me.” Maxi reached down, swatting Hector so gently it barely counted. He looked at Hector’s IV bags, sighing again. “I gotta change those out just to make sure you stay hydrated, maybe keep you on 'em another day or two. We’ll see how your ear’s doin’ after three.” He put his hands on his hips, looking around as though cataloguing what needed doing in the room… before looking down at Hector’s shirt. “You might look and see if you, like… have any marks or anything.”
“What, you didn’t look when you were taking my clothes off?” Hector joked, looking up at him.
“Your clothes were practically smolderin’, I was just tryin’ to make sure your ass wasn’t burnt to a crisp,” Maxi said with a frown.
Hector lay there a moment, thinking, before looking back to Maxi and hopefully opening his mouth to ask a question.
“Fuck, yes, fine, I’ll go put some bacon on,” Maxi sighed, turning and heading for the door. “I hate that I knew what you were thinkin’.”
“Ooh, good idea,” Rora said, sitting up to watch him leave. “I’m ravenous.”
Hector turned to look at her, slowly and carefully not to set himself off again. “What, you haven’t eaten?”
“No, dumbass,” Rora said, nudging him just as gently. “Someone had to sit here and make sure you were still breathing.”
“Oh, please,” Hector rolled his eyes – or tried to, before he realized it would be a bad idea. “I can handle a little lightning, I’m tougher than that.”
“Sure.” Rora rolled hers in return, laying her head back down next to his on the edge of the mattress. “Just don’t make it a habit. I don’t need you lightin’ up like a Christmas tree whenever we get too close to magnets, or somethin’.”
Hector chuckled, wincing despite himself. “That is not at all how any of that works.”
“Shut up,” Rora mumbled, but grinned still. “You’re annoying enough with the powers you have, that’s what I’m saying.”
“Yeah, that’s totally what you meant.” Hector stuck his tongue out at her, then paused, laying there for a moment as he seemed to think something through.
“…Do you want me to check for you?” Rora asked, sounding almost bored by the idea.
“Just my shirt,” Hex said, frowning. “I don’t know how far I can tilt my head without feeling gross again.”
“Yeah, okay. Hold on.” Rora stood up, her own knees popping loudly. “Hush,” she said immediately, cutting off Hector’s smirk with a glare.
There was an awkward moment while she knelt on the bed next to him, rolling up the hem of his shirt to check his stomach while he stared at the ceiling –
…And then a pause, while she rolled it up further.
“What?” Hector said, his gaze immediately finding hers.
Rora sat there with her lips pursed. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”
Hector groaned, closing his eyes. “Is it gnarly?”
“No,” Rora said, snapping a photo with her phone.
She held it where Hector could see it comfortably, and for a moment, he stared, his eyes roving over the image.
“…Fuck,” he mumbled at last, his brow furrowed. “That looks sick as hell. Goddammit.”
“And the guy you got it from totally sucks,” Rora agreed, nodding. “Sorry, Hexie.”
“Fuck,” Hector repeated, staring at the ceiling again – only to look confused when he heard Rora’s phone make a 'sent message’ whooshing sound. “Wait, what’d you do with that–”
A second later, Rora received a text, and she checked it instantly. “'Unfortunately, it does in fact look sick as hell,’” she read in a monotone, then showed him the message itself.
Hector squinted at it, then sighed. “Maxi’s only saying that because now he’s not the only one with a scar.”
Rora received another message, and read aloud, “'And I’m not just saying that because I’m the only one with a chest scar.’” She looked down at Hector, shrugging. “Take that as you will.”
“Fuck.” Hector picked up his pillow, covering his face with it. “I fucking hate that fucking weather boy."
if you made it this far, I hope your next thunderstorm is an exceptionally pleasant one. <3
summary: Seth Sunday issues a challenge to the Morvants. it doesn't go as anyone anticipated.
warnings: some gore, necromancer violence, someone gets struck by lightning, implied deception of the reader, Seth kind of looks down on the reader for being human but it makes sense in context, oral sex (enby receiving), penetrative sex, not so much size kink as resistance kink, implied dacryphilia on Seth's part, implied that he’s using the reader to some degree for Reasons
general: I wanted to have this ready for valentine's day, but when I think about it, Seth honestly would probably prefer having this be posted on a sunday lmao.
reader is plus size and non-binary and uses they/them, but Seth uses decidedly feminine nicknames. just FYI. if any language can be tweaked for a more seamless experience otherwise, I'm always down to hear it.
here it is, our boy's first real outing! cheers to all the other Dastmalchian-face lovers out there, we deserve the best and more.
best accompanied by this playlist, should you so desire.
Standing at the edge of the graveyard, Seth Sunday watched the dusk soak up the inky black of the thunderhead rolling in. It was out of season for so early in the year, but that was the point.
He had a rule about first impressions: it was gauche not to start as he intended to go on. Especially when he was going against the house.
Especially the House on the far side of the cemetery.
Rolling his shoulders, he took a long breath through his nose and exhaled between his lips. All the air down here was wet; it made summoning quicker but made the whole process heavier. A lot more weight to have to balance along the column of his spine.
Not to mention, he could have all the humidity in the world, but being in someone else’s home court like he was right now still posed a challenge.
One more deep breath, and a stretch of his scapulae like a swimmer about to slice through water.
Then he fixed his eyes on the door on the House’s back porch - an anchor point for what was about to happen - and took his first step across the cemetery’s threshold.
He actually smiled as a sudden pressure caused his ears to pop, the surrounding sounds of the outside world suddenly smothered by an unseen layer of gauze. The air rippled just enough to be perceptible from the spectral tripwire he’d set off, ruffling the patches of grass that had grown long at the bases of crumbling mausoleums.
Tucking his hands into the pockets of his black duster coat, he whistled an old showtune nobody remembered anymore as he continued towards the middle of the churchyard, his pace a leisurely stroll.
At the dead center in the crossing of the two main paths through, he stopped, still whistling and kicking absently at some stones there with the toe of his freshly shined dress shoe.
He only looked up when he heard the echo of squeaking old hinges.
In the gloaming dark, the door on the House’s back porch seemed to have opened on its own. Any lights that might have been in the windows had all gone dark, leaving it looking abandoned and somehow older than its already impressive years.
Lips still pursed to whistle, Seth was riveted as a tall, perfectly shadowed figure emerged, two eye-level pinpricks of a bright amethyst visible from clear across the cemetery and through the treeline. It settled itself on one side of the porch, leaning on the railing with its elbows as if simply contemplating the view.
Another figure emerged from the endless black that was the doorway, this one with gleaming eyes of emerald. Its gaze never wavered from him as it moved to the other side of the porch, then climbed up to perch on the railing itself.
To Seth’s curiosity and mild delight, it kicked its dangling feet as it watched him, as though eager for the show he was about to give.
Finally — At last, he thought, inhaling without realizing it — a third shadowed figure appeared, slightly taller than the first. Seth could’ve mistaken the deep crimson light that stared at him for the glare off a gator’s eyes in the night, the nasty big lizard sizing him up from its filthy swamp.
This third figure leaned against a column near the porch’s low stairs, casual, as if waiting to greet an expected guest coming up the drive.
The muffling gauze from the graveyard suddenly spread over the whole property, as the distant calls of night birds and the gentle chirring of insects hushed out bit by bit. Like something had come along and drank all the sound from the world.
For what felt like ages but must have only been a minute, the three figures watched Seth — unmoving, unblinking. Frozen perfectly in place with the growing silence.
The air itself seemed to press closer around him, growing somehow denser with the beginning crackles of… something.
He had to move now, or they were going to use all that Something up before he could.
Seth let out one last whistle — two quick notes, a “yoo-hoo!” of an opening salvo — then raised his tensed right hand straight up over his head.
When he snapped his fingers, a thunderbolt taller than God shot down from the sky not more than fifty feet in front of him, bathing the entire cemetery in blue-white light as it made contact with the ground.
When the thunder finally caught up with the light, it shook the earth hard enough that he could hear the kitchen windows rattling from all the way over here.
And with that, his challenge was officially set.
you can read the rest here, at AO3. I’m probably telling on myself again with this one, but whatever life is short lmao.
if you make it all the way through, I hope your next thunderstorm is an exceptionally thrilling one 🖤
CALLER OF STORMS, THE WIND WHISPERER, THE MAGICIAN
HE IS HERE
HE IS
…tiny
the tiny!Morvants are…
less than thrilled.
there was of course a meeting about how, exactly, to cope with your worst enemy who wants you dead moving into your pint-sized living space
and eventually, a compromise was reached:
but then, of course, Seth asserted that this wasn’t exactly fair, and it was three against one (plus maggie)
…so a second compromise was reached.
…it is fair, even if it does make travel just slightly inconvenient ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
but everyone’s been hiding in my work bag while I schlep my dissertation stuff back and forth to campus, so it’s going okay for now!
taking the coffin ita bag back to my folks’ for the holidays though might be… kinda cramped.
credit again to NoizFoxy on etsy, now going by NoizLuna! I reached out to her back in September to see if she would be willing making one more tiny plush in the same style as the other three, and she was super kind and agreed. she changed fabric suppliers, so really the only difference is that he’s just slightly fuzzier than the morvants 🥰
he’s been here for about a month now, but I’ve been waiting for things to calm down enough with my diss chapter that I could spend some time doing a photoshoot.
…and working on an accompanying piece, besides:
anyway!! if you read this far, I appreciate it ∠( ᐛ 」∠) 🖤 as always!!
author is Rarae/Rae, 30s, bi & non-binary/genderqueer (they/them). personal is @raraeavesmoriendi
minors still dni
I do not consent for any of these to be copy/pasted/transferred/translated/etc. to any site other than where these originally appear without my express permission, aka Not at All.
podfic is fine and welcome, if that’s a thing you’d want to do for any reason.
I don't do in-character asks very much anymore due to a work/dissertation balance, but you're still welcome to send them if you like -- there's nothing to say they won't spark something!!
obligatory dark fic content disclaimer
reader note: I generally view my Reader characters as non-binary, like myself, but they wear dresses for disguises sometimes and are referred to by some characters with fem pet names, so I mark them as fem just so they don’t trigger anyone other non-binary person’s dysphoria. Gender is a fuck, idk. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
(all the dividers used on this blog are by Daisy at @firefly-graphics, just fyi!)
Morvant Mortuary Vol. I 2025 - 2026 Rewrite
(The main story arc, formerly called The October Arc. Currently undergoing rewrites and updates after a few years, masterlist will be updated accordingly.)
The Morvant Comfort Masterlist
(A collection of soft asks about the Morvants taking care of their beloved Reader. Ranging from heavy topics to light and fluffy preference posts.)
Morvant Mortuary Playlists
(All playlists I’ve posted having to do with characters, AUs, arc plots, and anything else I can come up with an excuse to post one for lol)
Art Tag
(Art of various types done by really kind, talented people!!)
Maximilian “Maxi” Vincent Morvant:
Info sheet here. | Post-October Arc info sheet here.
maxi morvant dating headcanons (18+)
maxi reacting to being bitten affectionately
maxi and the grade school field trip
maxi and kids
maxi and disney movies
maxi’s secret love of musicals
we don’t fight fair (18+)
maxi totally wears sock garters and shirt stays (18+)
if maxi had a youtube channel
maxi’s first bi panic
hearse maintenance
our strange duet (18+)
if I die young
let me dirty up your mind (18+)
paint the town red (18+)
general tags: maxi morvant/maximilan vincent morvant
aesthetic tag: maxi vibes
Hector “Hex” Emile Morvant-Casares:
Info sheet here. | Post-October Arc info sheet here.
hector morvant-casares dating headcanons (18+)
no mistakes, know the stakes (18+)
hector’s motives
hector dessert preferences
hex and Just Dance
hex giving magnolia a plastic bolillo to play with
hector preferences: harshest thing someone ever said, last thing he cried over, who he’d apologize to
no confíes en mi (18+)
hex preference ask: childhood tv shows, tattoos/piercings, people he hates
sugar high
general tags: hector morvant-casares/hector emile morvant-casares
aesthetic tag: hector vibes
(the late) Aurore “Rora” Marie Morvant:
Info sheet here. | Post-October Arc info sheet here.
rora morvant dating headcanons (18+)
rora being seduced by her s/o for the first time (18+)
rora and her nightmares
5 songs that fit rora
rora’s tell when she’s lying
light the sky and hold on tight (18+)
general tags: rora morvant/aurore maria morvant
aesthetic tag: rora vibes
The Miraculous Seth Sunday:
“you can call me seth. all my friends do.” (intro post)
seth sunday dating hcs (18+)
storm warning (18+)
general tags: seth sunday/the miraculous mr. sunday
aesthetic tag: seth vibes
Morvant Mortuary (The House, Greymoon, The Family Reunited):
the fam and their s/o expressing interest in their occupation
the fam and planning holiday gifts
Scooby Doo and the Haunted Mortuary
describing the Morvants’ voices
...and now their singing voices!
the Morvants and leaving hickies (mdni, 18+)
cozy winter preference asks
The Morvants Are All Bi (more commentary than anything)
fam ask: a secret they’ll take to their grave, hallucinations
fam ask: what you’d say to utterly destroy them
fam preference ask: them at school, them w/ animals, favorite insults
the Morvants and a lonely childhood (ft. friends of the family)
the fam and their pajama preferences
how the Morvants get off when they first get obsessed with you (18+, mdni)
Greymoon Knows (sorta)
the Morvants each reacting to an unexpected hug
sweetweirds
skinnydipping in the summer with their readers
least to most likely to dance to Hot to Go in public
