#c;leila

[hakucho-art]

Pwetty boy

[weirdlookindog]

Island of Lost Souls (1932) - Trade ad

[mariocki]

Doctor X (1932)

"If you ask me, I think Dr. Xavier is using very unethical methods."

"Necessity has no ethics, sir."

[muertarte]

@amonstrousdream replied to your post “[pm] Everything is awful and falling apart I...”:

[pm] I didn't get it right, I'm not a mother, I think she thinks I hate her or think she's bad and I don't, I don't, I see pain and I want to help her [...] [...] Aria and Cass got into an incident last night... with a slayer. Aria got hurt bad, Cass burned the slayer and didn't let up- I went to go check on her and [...] and it went bad.

​[pm] Is Aria okay? Where is she? I need to come home. Have been gone too long.

How did it go bad? Did Cass kill the slayer?

[creepynostalgy]

Charles Laughton and Kathleen Burke in Island Of Lost Souls (1932)

[kadavernagh]

TIMING: Current, right after The Party Stops LOCATION: The Party Thrifter PARTIES: Regan and Metzli SUMMARY: Thinking Leila is dead, Regan dials in Metzli to help – along with paramedics, who are sure to complicate matters. CONTENT WARNINGS: Manipulation (compelling)

The turtleneck was nowhere to be seen, but Regan found it hard to care. Hadn’t she just unleashed more terror, sewn more destruction than the sweater ever could have? And she couldn’t leave like her body urged her to; bolting was in her best interest as a human-banshee-nothing-something. But not as Regan, a doctor. She couldn’t when Leila was perfectly still. Dead still. Regan dragged her to one of the few square feet not coated in shards of glass, inside what remained of The Party Thrifter. Sparkling liquid oozed and beaded around Leila’s cuts, her shirt soaking it up and looking more like a child’s crafts project than a soiled, bloodsoaked shirt rolled or snipped off someone in the ED. Above them, the old skeleton of the store complained, shedding dust, but it seemed sturdy enough for now, and Regan wasn’t sure she had the strength to safely transport Leila over all the rubble. She coughed into her sleeve, throat itching and hoarse, and noticed how sliced up her own arm was.

She would have taken the turtleneck over this. Regan had done what she could for Leila’s wounds in the moment, staunching the substance that acted like blood, but there was no ignoring that Leila had no heartbeat, not even the slow, soldiering drum of a banshee. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Regan felt it, the strange death that rolled off Leila in awful waves; they discussed it, too. But face to face with something that defied so many years of her experience and education, Regan’s mounting panic was like the glass cutting her anew. Leila was dead. She was, wasn’t she? Had Regan killed her? Had she– or was this the case before, or– that slow heart of hers wasn’t so slow anymore; it was squeezed by a fist in her chest with enough force to send it up her esophagus.

Maybe her panic would have dissipated if she could rouse Leila. But shaking her didn’t work. A measured yell didn’t, either (and actually made the store rock again). Her last resort – a sternal rub – also yielded no results. First responders would arrive and proclaim Leila dead at the scene. The scene. That was what this had become. And even if Regan didn’t call them now, they would arrive. So it was better to call them, she had decided. With shaking hands, she found her phone shattered beyond use, and ended up using Leila’s… but not before contacting someone who she thought, in this one instance, might be more helpful here than even the EMTs.

I killed her. I think I killed her. Metzli, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to do. Her heart– I can’t feel her heart beating. She isn’t breathing. There’s something… coming out of her. I have her at the store. I stopped the– whatever is– the bleeding. But she isn’t breathing. She’s 

And the phone blinked off, damaged or drained, it didn’t matter which. Someone would show up here first. First responders, or Metzli. And with every beat of her own heart, her preference changed. She stayed hunched over Leila, fingers pressed tightly to a balled up shirt soaking up more glitter. It reminded her of what happened with Elias in Ireland, which was difficult to shake. “I know you can’t hear me. Or maybe if you’re dead you… can.” If Regan closed her eyes and reached into what Leila was, who she was, would she extract the last moments of Leila’s life for her to witness? The thought was too painful right now – maybe for the sake of her conscience more than her affections for Leila, though both were acutely felt. “Someone is coming, okay? Doctors… good ones, better ones. EMTs. Metzli.”

—

There was something strange that happened when panic yielded a type of calm. It was an illusion, not quite calm, but the sensation was similar enough to not arouse behavior that would hinder necessary progress. Metzli felt that calm, heavy like a warm blanket, and slammed their car door, watching as the scenery blurred past with each calculated twitch of their steering wheel. 

Faster. 

They felt the pedal reach the floor, mind wandering at who might be hurt and how they were going to ease Leila's mind as they took care of whoever was hurt. Or dead. Metzli wondered, was it someone she cared about that she accidentally hurt? Was it an intruder and they were human? There were tools in the trunk if they needed to get rid of the body, which was by some miracle because Metzli had just disposed of another criminal. Perhaps it was meant to be, they thought. Shaking their speculations away, they saw Leila's store come into view—or what was left of it. 

The tires screeched to a halt, and that's when the panic truly came for Metzli, movements now erratic as the world tilted and they stumbled inside the wreckage. “Leila?! Lei…!” Her name lodged in their throat at the sight of her limp body, hardly registering Regan hovering over her while they made their way to her. “Amor? What…” Kneeling down, Metzli cupped her face, tears brimming until their vision blurred. She couldn't be dead. She was just unconscious. That's all. That's all. Metzli took a breath, voice cracking as they asked, “What happened?!” 

—

As Metzli ran over and through what remained of the store (felt before seen), relief didn’t come. Did that mean Regan had really wanted the paramedics to arrive first, because it was familiar and made sense when she really needed things to? Or was she just– was it because she’d have to explain– “Over here. I have her. Leila. But she’s– she isn’t–” There was a word, one she never honeyed, because how could it be made any sweeter? But now Regan choked as it came out, not twisted for anyone’s easier consumption, but difficult to get her tongue to agree with. “She’s dead. Medically. If she were anyone other than– I would pronounce her dead right now. Her heart isn’t beating, and I’ve tried to resuscitate, but it didn’t– and she was already cold like she’s been dead for hours. And she told me before, that she’s not– I heard a rib fracture. I– she’s always felt– so I don’t know. How could I not know?” But she did know what her grandmother always said about hope: it was a fool’s notion. 

When she was human – as human as she had ever been and ever would be – Regan’s mouth frequently ran as quickly as her pulse. That version of her had known a kind of anxiety she refused to invite anymore. Even before she had become something of a banshee, a trained doctor’s equanimity had smoothed out her once-common tension in the face of an emergency. Now she was never anxious. She was good in a crisis, everyone would agree, capable and focused. So it was strange that she was recalling that child, teen, human, as her chest tightened in a noose and her mouth dashed ahead of her in a way she should have controlled and refused. This was more than an emergency – it was something horrible she was responsible for, even if Leila wasn’t dead in the way Regan understood. This was more than a conversation with next of kin. And her ability to ignore what was happening in her head and her heart diminished by the day. It was cruel that it was both the cause of what happened here, and the reason she was only along for the ride that her body was taking her on.

Just as Regan hadn’t faltered in accepting what she had done to her grandmother (pushing her, not killing her, obviously), she would be truthful to Metzli, swallowing down her guilt; it became glass piercing her inside to match her skin. “I was helping her. Here. Today. Or she was helping me, I suppose that’s more accurate. I’ve been working at the Apple Store, which I told you about, but I don’t know if it’s my calling, I don’t even know how to tell if I like– right, I was here. There was a turtleneck, the one that… I don’t know if it’s full of mice anymore. The turtleneck, with the knife. It attacked us, went after me, and Leila, and my lungs were– I haven’t been– and I screamed, and I couldn’t stop, and the store came apart, and– and now Leila’s dead. Or something like– I serve death and I don’t, I can’t tell if–” Regan’s voice cracked like the storefront windows, moisture seeping from her like plasma from a crying wound. Twice now, had she stayed by the side of someone she cared about, as her own actions led to their near fatal injuries– or worse.

She left Metzli to judge her. If Regan could stand – to, and in general – she would await the first responders and pour her lungs to them in the form of a confession rather than a scream. Because no matter how tightly she was clutching to being human, a banshee had done this. Because banshees screamed. This time, at a turtleneck. A screech that took on a life of its own like a kite in a storm she couldn’t reel back. But thinking about what that scream was, and what it wasn’t – the realization made Regan’s entire body freeze in place. If this was relief, she didn’t recognize it. But something that felt like hope did spread. “I didn’t scream for her death.”

—

Had it been anyone else, Regan surely would've been reprimanded. Possibly even attacked. She didn't have control of her scream and while Metzli knew it was deadly for her to lack such a thing, they couldn't find it in themself to be angry or cruel. For one, Leila was likely only unconscious after such a cacophony of noise and dangerous debris attacking her. And second, Metzli had been in her position before. 

The vampire had destroyed countless families and used their lives to lengthen their own. What Regan had done was an accident and she was displaying more remorse than Metzli ever had when blood painted their hand and face. She was rallying it in her chest and pressing it into Leila's chest in hopes of undoing her failure, but Metzli shook their head. This was no failure, not in the way she thought. There was still time to make it right. 

“Regan,” Metzli carefully placed a gentle hand on the banshee’s shoulder and requested her attention. “Leila is undead like me. She will be okay.” They paused for a beat, scanning her body and seeing the wound Regan had stemmed. “She is hurt and if people come to check her, it will be bad. We have to move her.” They squeezed Regan's shoulder and softened their gaze, brows furrowing together. “It will be okay. We will make it okay. Do you understand?”

—

If someone had gravely hurt Jade – intentionally or not – Regan couldn’t predict how she would respond, if she would turn someone else’s destruction back on them, if her oath could withhold the deluge. Even her body might respond differently than her intentions. But regardless, she didn’t think it would be like this. The more Metzli saw, the closer they got, the calmer they seemed. How? Regan just told them that Leila was dead. They had seen death many times, Regan knew (even caused it, which she chose not to think about), but this was Leila. They had something special, something Regan had only come to understand the depth of for herself over the last year. 

Metzli… was saying it would be okay. Regan jostled at the contact, but Metzli’s words were reaching her, tugging at that tiny strand of hope. Regan hadn’t screamed for Leila’s death. Leila told her about her physiology. She felt too cold for any algor mortis Regan was familiar with. And the substance that came out of her body…

Regan swallowed and tasted salt. “But she’s dead. I know she is. I– as a doctor–” Not that it would take a genius to fail to find a pulse. “Leila is dead.” Did I kill her? The question grew as wobbly as the store had been.

A choice she never wanted had landed on her. But already bearing the weight of responsibility, she had to make it. Regan stared at the gentle hand on her shoulder. Metzli only had one, and it was being used to plead for her help.

Never, in Regan’s exceptionally sane mind nine years ago, would she have allowed a body or patient to be moved away from first responders. Sure, she was possessive of her decedents (paramedics often destroyed or degraded evidence in their futile attempt to bring back the dead), but if there was any chance someone might be helped, Regan would do no harm. This felt like harm, obscuring Leila from the medical attention that was on the way. It felt like harm running away from being questioned. And didn’t it all – everything in front of her now – feel like harm, because it was harm? Who would she trust in this? Metzli, who just spoke the word undead (familiar but illogical) and was encouraging something that went against the very grain of who she was, or her duty to humanity? And common sense that still lashed against her growing tower of strange experiences, trying to whip it over? She wanted to believe in Metzli and her homicide record of zero (she had pushed). What if that was wrong? She had not needed to be a doctor for the worms of Terramoist; she and Emilio had healed after the simulation attacked them. She could try to be one thing; she could work at Apple. She had seen Cass as a clandestine patient, but Cass was different; Cass was fae. This clashed with more than sense; it rammed against her ideals.

Again, Regan’s body responded in a way her mind never would have allowed. Regan shrank, smaller than a banshee should ever be, her eyes focusing and unfocusing on the sea of broken glass, sparkles, and blood. A banshee had done that. Maybe a human could heal. For better or worse, she grappled for what she knew, and for Leila in turn.

“She needs medical attention. If her heart can even– she needs to go to the hospital. We are not moving her until the paramedics arrive.” And in that was a challenge, to the friend who was showing unearned kindness right now, and to a life where she was capable of accepting two things at once that had just eluded her.

—

“Regan.” Metzli said again, a little more firmly that time. Though they were still calm, the idea of a medical team pronouncing Leila dead would only lead to problems. Somewhere, very far away, that was already done, the final piece of her past life buried by a tree. Metzli wouldn't let Regan's willful ignorance get in the way. They just hoped they wouldn't have to use force. So again, they tried to reason with their friend, hoping she'd listen. 

Though they doubted she would. 

“She died a long time ago. She is like me. Look.” Impatience trickled into their fingers and Metzli wrapped them around Regan's wrist to force her to look for their pulse. She would find nothing. “What will hospital say if they see her blood? It sparkles like glitter. That is her blood right there. They cannot see her.” They pressed her hand harder into Metzli's throat, growing more passionate as urgency coated the situation. “What will they do when they see no heartbeat? What if she wakes up and cannot leave?” 

With a trembled breath, Metzli leaned forward and pleaded, “Help me.”

—

Regan’s hand made contact with skin that was colder than her own. It was something that used to happen every day, had happened here with Leila only minutes ago, but this time it was Metzli’s flesh, and they were animated, alive, their eyes full of desperation and so many other emotions Regan hadn’t added back into her vocabulary (Was fear one? She shivered at the thought.)

She waited for a pulse. One of her own beats thumped impatiently. Two. Ten. There was nothing in Metzli’s wrist. Metzli seemed to know she didn’t trust that finding, and soon her fingers searched for silent carotids and waited once more. Undead. Jade spoke the word daily. They talked about vampires all the time, though less frequently lately, a veil of discomfort having settled over the subject (from both of them, Regan had assessed). Regan had seen a spawn, hulking and vicious, saw it turn to dust before her eyes as Jade drove a stake past its sternum. She believed it. There was little sacrifice needed to eventually accept it as fact. But… she also knew Jade had tried to go after Metzli in the past, erroneously. Like usual, she shuffled that thought away in the most remote filing cabinet of her mind, like the ones in the morgue that held autopsy reports from the 60s and 70s that weren’t even digitized. Except, her hand to Metzli’s neck, that file wouldn’t let itself be jammed back where it belonged. Regan yanked her hand away, because there was no squashing down the realization so long as it remained there. It trembled fiercely against her lap, inverted, impossible, perverse pseudo death dribbling across each of her fingertips like a poison.

Regan’s breath and lips were just as shaky. Her words were nonexistent, unformed, at first, when she opened her mouth. Her jaw just hung there as if dislocated. Regan’s eyes scanned past Metzli, landing on Leila’s unconscious body (she did believe that much now, about this being an injury and not a homicide; the death felt wrong). “No. No. Stop it. You are not dead,” Regan said, her voice found, and quickly hardening like bricks slotted into a wall, higher and sturdier each second, “That is not blood. I don’t know what pathology is responsible for why you… for why both of you are like this. You’re atypical, I understand that. I am even willing to believe you’re both much older than you appear. But you are no cadaver, and neither is– was– is Leila. But she is my responsibility.” In more ways than one. “She remains under my care until the paramedics arrive, and if you try to remove her, I will protect her with my life.” Regan’s eyes darkened on Metzli now, bottomless black, barbed wire atop her walls. “So you can explain this to them. But she stays.”

—

Regan wasn't budging, standing firmly on her ground and allowing nothing to cause her to waver. Her medical ethics were going to make things worse, and as Leila's partner, Metzli had to do something. Anything. Which meant possibly going against their morals to get away from hers. 

Metzli gritted their teeth, fangs sharpening and eyes turning red. “Please do not make me do this.” But Regan continued, cementing herself between the exit and Metzli. Guilt built up in the corners of their eyes, streaming down their cheeks while they grappled with what they had to do. There was no other choice, and they had to believe that. Because Metzli wasn't evil. They wouldn't become the people they had spent the entirety of their newfound life trying to prove wrong. Monsters could be good. Even if they took away someone's free will, it was okay so long as it was for the right reasons, and protecting Leila was the right reason. 

It was. 

“I am sorry.” The vampire whispered, feeling a connection between them and Regan, like a radio signal being picked up and locked. “You will let me take Leila and you will not stop me.” Metzli wrapped their arm around Leila's torso and carefully lifted her over their shoulder before standing up fully. 

“You will not tell authorities she was hurt. No one is here but you.” It felt awful to lie, but morality had no place between a banshee and death's mockery. The abomination swallowed past the barbed lump in their throat and crept away slowly. “I will check on you later.”

—

Any other day, seeing Metzli’s normally-kind eyes glow red, and their canines lengthen past their lips would have made Regan uncertain, at the least. More likely, there’d be screaming; something would have been likely to break. But here in this already-broken store, guarding a patient she cared greatly for and owed everything to, little more than a flicker of doubt spread across Regan’s face. Her eyes hid most of it, and it quickly became just another thing – the lack of a pulse, the glittering not-blood – that Regan had given up on today, trading it for a certainty she knew she could believe in.

Did this mean Metzli was going to try to take Leila? Regan slid even closer to Leila, turning to block off the store’s exit (ignoring the fact her screaming had created several more). Regan’s lungs swirled back to life, vibrating inside her chest, and she wasn’t sure she actually had any more control over them now than she did earlier. She nodded, slightly, a quick jerk warning Metzli to listen to her. She wanted them to stay here, too. For Leila, for the responders they were so concerned about. The strange, vague threat made Regan certain this was not going to be easy. “I said it first,” because that seemed important, “I understand that you’re doing what you believe is best for Leila, but as a medical professional, you need to listen to me. We wait for the responders. Back away, or I will make you.” How, Regan wasn’t sure. She wasn’t going to harm Metzli, right? Maybe a headache. Her lungs squeezed with other ideas. 

She barely had time to process the confusion of Metzli’s apology before her attention, every iota of it, was whipped to Metzli. More powerful than the pull of death, Regan couldn’t shake herself away, and the urge to even do that dissolved before she fully realized she needed to. Metzli’s words poured straight into her, fixing her brain like they were formalin. Something in the back of her mind, her last struggling neurons, shot the word like Cliodhna into her consciousness. Then that froze, too. She talked, apparently. “Take Leila, I will not stop you.” Regan’s body went limp, and she stepped aside, still looking only at Metzli. Her voice droned, but it didn’t concern her. “I will not tell the authorities she was hurt. I’m the only one here.”

Regan stood, unmoving, as she watched Metzli struggle somewhat to support Leila with one arm, but they managed. (Shouldn’t she help? No. She would not. Why? Because Leila should stay here. Then why was she letting them leave? Because she wouldn’t stop Metzli. Why? Because. Why? Because.) As the strange death that surrounded Metzli and Leila grew fainter to her senses, a new kind of wrongness exploded in her mind. Even the sirens she heard blaring in the distance lacked their aural appeal. She knew they were headed here, and when the paramedics arrived, she also knew exactly what she would tell them. Or rather, what she wouldn’t tell them. She was the only one here, anyway. Why? Because. 

[ariadnewhitlock]

@amonstrousdream replied to your post “[pm] Sweet Girl- question for you. I may or may...”:

[pm] You wouldn’t be stealing anything. Especially since I tailored it specifically for you. I found one very close to your measurements and just… fixed it.

​[pm] If you're super sure. You really tailored it for me? [ user is emotional ] I love you.

[...]

Not just because of that. I just love you.

[fearhims3lf]

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @amonstrousdream @fearhims3lf

SUMMARY: Late at night, Mateo runs into Leila and decides to cause a little trouble. Little does he know that what he's poking is a fresh wound.

WARNINGS: Car Accident (mention), Child Death (mention), Sibling Death (mention)

There was always something ethereal about visiting the astral. One moment at home, and the next, you're some amorphous being in the middle of sparkling night until you conjure the will necessary to become tangible. Mateo always enjoyed that travel, the moments of silence as he hunted for his food, only occasionally being interrupted by a fellow mare. 

It was rare that Mateo ever bothered to exchange pleasantries, mostly offering an acknowledging grunt, but he spotted someone familiar and couldn't help himself. The woman–Leila, he recalled– who had threatened him all those months ago. A smile painted on his face and he slinked his way to her. 

He wondered if he could instigate a petty squabble, hoping to make himself feel just a little better than he had the last few weeks. Maybe it was pathetic and unfair, but breakups sucked. Sue him. “Oh hey, ma.” Mateo greeted Leila with a mischievous smile. “Haven't seen you around here in a while.”

The astral had lost its wonder.

Once, Leila had thought there to be something strangely beautiful about the place between waking and dreaming. One could simply become a part of the universe- a mote of night and stardust that floated through the cosmos. It was quiet, and beautiful, and rare. Rare to be a part of something so vast, rare to be able to see the world as it truly was: a structure of thoughts and memories grafted upon physical constructs. 

It was grief that ripped the wonderment away from the astral. Worry for the living that dimmed the stars, fear of more death that turned the beauty of that other world to ashes. Now it was a place with a purpose: Leila would find the nightmares that happened without the interference of a mare to try to dispel them, and to create nightmares when she absolutely needed- solely for survival, solely on those who caused pain in the waking world. There wasn’t much time for the latter, though. Not between her endless worrying for Metzli, Ariadne, Eleanor, and every other person in the godforsaken town who had wound their way into her heart like ivy. 

She had been scanning the seemingly endless horizon of dark, muted purples and blues, looking for the shimmer of a dream already laced with fear, when she heard an unfortunately familiar voice. Hey, ma. The simple greeting was enough to set her teeth on edge. Of all the mares left in Wicked’s Rest, why did it have to be Mateo to find her in the astral? At best, it was a needlessly irritating interaction. At worst, it reminded the mare of what she lost. Of who she lost. 

Leila didn’t even deign to look in his direction as she spoke. “What do you want, Mateo?”

A knowing smirk weaved its way onto his face, the tinge of irritation in Leila's voice already filling him with a sense of victory. He was only two sentences in, and she was already done with him. It was becoming a common theme in Mateo's life, but at least it came with humor that time around. 

“Bet you react that way to all the cool guys.” He chuckled, sauntering a bit closer. “Didn't really feel like being a blob tonight. How is it my fault that you had the same idea?” Mateo arched a brow, deciding to poke the bear a little further. What was she gonna do anyway? He could dodge away and disappear in an instant before she even fully reacted. The opportunity was staring him in the face, and Mateo was nothing if not impulsive.

“Maybe I should go bug that rock girl again. As a treat.” Not that he'd actually act on it, but Leila didn't have to know that. She just needed to react for his satisfaction. 

It was so strange to feel so hollowed out by a few words. 

Once, the mention of Cass from the other mare’s mouth would have turned her into the monster she was supposed to be, furious in a way she could never get a hold of. Leila would have stood vigil for a lifetime to keep Mateo from lurking in the girl’s dreams. But Cass was gone now. Her little body was buried beneath the dirt in a greedy cave, cased in a tomb of igneous rock and cave formations, too close to the man who had taught her love was something you had to suffer for, that you only but never, ever deserved in return.

His words were an unintentional blow to the gut. The air felt as if it was sucked right out of her lungs. The dark, star-dulled space of the astral felt like it was pressing in on her. As if she, too, should be buried alive. Payment for her failure.

Leila opened her mouth to say something, anything, but none came out. Rather, a low, mournful whimper rose in her chest. 

There was supposed to be anger, explosive and dangerous, and all around too powerful to stand against. Mateo was fully prepared for that outcome, readying his stance to leap back home, but nothing came. Nothing but a pitiful, yet earth-shattering sound. It caught in Leila’s throat like barbs, entangling itself inside with a violent sorrow. 

“Shit.” Mateo hissed, taking a step back. He knew that look too well. “I…” The words wouldn’t come out. He knew he had fucked up. Royally. But it was his mess, and he wasn’t going to just leave it there now. Mateo was many things, but he wasn’t a monster. Not like that anyway. Not when his softer nature tended to make itself known at a time like that.

“I’m sorry. Is she…” Dead? He wanted to ask, but thought better of it. “I’m sorry.” He said again, head falling shamefully. “That wasn’t fair.”

The astral was a strange place to feel like you were falling apart. 

The grief came like a riptide, pulling Leila down into the undertow until down was up and up was down, until there was nothing but the hollow, aching, horrible feeling of guilt without end. Of loss without relief. It wasn’t Mateo’s fault- after all, how could he have known what had become of Cass? But the resulting sorrow did not change. If she were not in that place between the waking and dreaming world, the mare might have curled in on herself, might have sunk to the ground while her heart broke and broke and broke again. But there, in the astral, she simply wished to close her eyes and disappear. If she were some bit of nothing lost in the endless astral, then she couldn’t fail those she loved. If she were nothing, then maybe everything wouldn’t hurt so much. 

The words seemed to come from another, far away world. I’m sorry. A strangled sob wracked her body as the mare tried to keep it all in and tucked away. But Mateo wasn’t someone she needed to stay strong for. So Leila crumbled. “She’s gone…” The words were hardly audible, as if saying them hurt just as much. Not as if. It did hurt just as much. Maybe more. The truth always hurt more…

“She’s dead.”

He could see Nancy and Veronica so clearly in place of Leila. Mothers without children to care for after a horrible tragedy, faces marred with the consequences of another’s actions. It was likely to plant deeply. Rooting itself so far down until its soil festered with the poison of grief, never to host another harvest. Mateo had seen that look before, more than once, and he still faltered in that moment. He still struggled to do more than just stand there dumbly and repeat himself over and over again.

“I’m sorry.”

It was like he was 20 again, attending a funeral for cousins that would always be that age and that he would never see again. Only Mateo didn’t know Cass the same way he knew his relatives. He was just a man that didn’t know how to offer anything more than a few words that wouldn’t bring Leila’s loved one back. She was gone, and she’d stay that way. Mateo wondered how much guilt the other mare had. Not only was she alive, but she would far outlive any life Cass would have had. He couldn’t imagine the pain she must feel as a mother. Parents weren’t supposed to bury their young.

“How long ago was this?”

“August- um… August seventeenth?” She knew the date. It wasn’t a question- it was a fact carved in stone, an end date for a life that should have gone on far after it. But Leila hadn’t really let herself get washed away in the tide of that pain before. For over a month she had forced herself to stay as sturdy as stone. For the sake of Metzli and Ariadne and all others in her life who had loved the girl who was now lost to them, she had remained (as best she could) a shelter. But wind and rain made even the strongest mountains erode away. She had known the cracks were there, but she had not known to the extent they had grown…

She disgusted herself, if she was being truly honest. 

The fact of the matter was that Leila could have done more. Tried more. She could have gone every day to the entrance of the cave and called for Cass. She could have done more than bring comics and food- like those would have done any good in battling the monster of a man who had wormed his way into that girl’s brain. She could have tried harder. It was true! But she had mildly, sheepishly, stupidly done as Cass had requested: she had given her space. She had left her alone. But in doing that, she left the girl alone with the monster that ultimately killed her. She should have done more. 

The man's shoulders slumped down with the weight of Leila's voice. Her wounds were still so fresh, and Mateo came barging in with a grief of his own that was miniscule in comparison. Time would pass and he'd be able to let go, but for Leila, she may very well become a prisoner of her loss, unable to move. Mateo felt horrible for what he'd done, and there wasn't much else to do but sit with her in between her tears. It wasn't like he had any experience with being a parent. Much less one who'd lost their child. 

“Um,” Awkwardly, Mateo stepped a little closer and laid a careful hand on Leila's shoulder. His thumb brushed over it in what he thought to be a soothing pattern, though he guessed he'd find out if it was if Leila didn't react poorly. “I don't know much–well anything at all about this stuff, but…” He shrugged and inhaled deeply, “My cousins lost their boys in a wreck. My cousin–he was a brother to one of them–he, uh, he was driving and they had smoked pot like they usually did together. He lost control of the car.” The memory stung the corner of Mateo's eyes and he sniffled, recalling the moment his cousin Diana called him to tell him the news. It was his birthday, and he had been expecting her to call him to sing as she usually did. 

Obviously, that wasn't the case. 

“He killed his brother and his cousin that night, and nobody blamed him. Maybe at first, when the news struck, but like, it was raining, you know? They hydroplaned and he got seriously hurt too. I don't know…I-I…” Mateo sighed, squeezing Leila's shoulder before retreating his hand. “I guess what I'm trying to say is, if you feel guilty at all, I hope it goes away. ‘Cause I mean, you didn't kill her. You didn't cause it. And if no one can blame my cousin, then I don't think anyone can blame you.”

Some people said that memories were a gift. Others, that the time spent with a person was a treasure once that person had gone. Still others that the one that had been lost would not want those they loved to mourn them. These sentiments were concocted for the living, by the living, when the discomfort grief caused was too much for some to bear. Grief had become a constant, painful companion for Leila, but it was one that she quietly shouldered. It dug its claws and teeth into her, marring every thought of Cass that fluttered through her mind with the reminder that she was dead and gone and buried and would not come home, and that those who loved her were now doomed to an eternity without. But what good would her pain do for those who had, seemingly, suffered more? Metzli and Ariadne, who had been there at the cave and watched it crumble in on the girl, who had lost a daughter and a sister respectively. Van, who she did not know as well, but the mare knew cared deeply for Cass, too. She was responsible for holding herself together and caring for those who survived. She had not been there. It was atonement for her own failure.

It was strange, then, to have a man she hardly knew and (for a time) had greatly disliked because he had fed upon the mind of a girl she considered her own… rest a gentle hand on her shoulder and offer soft words that did not wish to dissipate her pain, but rather to make the pain feel less isolating. He didn’t tell her not to feel guilty. He didn’t tell her not to feel sad. Simply that he hoped the pain eased. 

A breath rattled by tears shook her frame as she looked up at Mateo. “I could have done more,” She should have done more. “She told me to leave her alone, I should have-” The words caught in her throat, a broken silence filling in infinite blanks of the end of that sentence. “How… how are things like us supposed to move on forever when it means losing the people you love?”’

Mateo rolled his shoulders and considered what Leila said for a few beats. Doing more and doing enough weren't exactly the same, but loss had a way of muddling a person's mind too much to think clearly. As a person from the outside, looking in, it was easier for Mateo to come up with an unbiased take. He didn't care enough about Leila to lie. 

"You did what any good parent would do. You listened. You heard what they said and actually listened.” Which was more than what Mateo could say about his own parents. They still wouldn't shut up about his mistakes and how he abandoned the family to pursue selfishness. Not once had they considered that it would make Mateo happy, and they never asked how he felt. In his book, Leila did the right thing, and her only mistake was loving too hard. And that couldn't really be a mistake, could it?

“Death is inevitable, even for us. We just have more chances than others.” Living that long was a terrifying concept when Junior first told Mateo, but the chance to be more intrigued him too much to really think about it. Wyatt and Xóchitl would never live as long as him, but he made his decision and had to live with it. There were things that made it easier, though. Especially when Mateo felt an existential crisis on the horizon. “You go on loving them as hard and long as you can. So when it's their time, they never have to question if they were loved. Seems to me that Cass probably didn't.” 

You go on loving them. 

It seemed so simple an answer. Too simple, perhaps. The tears kept coming with no abandon, finally finding release after keeping them locked inside for someone else’s perceived benefit. You go on loving them. Why wouldn’t she love them? Why would the pain make her stop loving? Leila whimpered, swallowing hard as she tried to collect herself. Loss was inevitable, she realized. The life of a creature who could outrun death was punctuated by the loss of the ones who could not run forever, who would be taken by the hand by death and led somewhere her soul might never see. 

She wasn’t thinking when she reached out for the other mare’s hand. Wasn’t thinking as she squeezed it tight in her own, as if he had become the only life raft she could hold on to. To go on loving was all Leila knew how to do. It was a fatal flaw- she loved and loved and loved, and somehow it never felt like she had done enough. It felt as if she had failed a little, somehow, every day. But to stop loving was to accept failure… Cass had called her her mother in that last letter. Did she know? The mare wondered. Did she know how loved she was, how loved she still was?

The mare was silent for a time, the only sounds escaping her shaky breaths and quiet sobs. Eventually, her shoulders stilled in their heaving, her breathing steadied slightly. Leila lifted her gaze to Mateo. There was still pain there. So much pain. But gratitude as well. A little relief. 

“Thank you…”

Leila's touch came as a surprise, the sensation desperate and full of mourning. It left an icy weight in Mateo, growing heavier with the intensity of her squeeze. As awkward and uncomfortable as he felt though, Mateo didn't let go. He stood there, listening to the way Cass's death echoed in Leila's lungs, and didn't dare move until she was ready. Stable enough to keep from falling apart completely. 

When the storm finally settled, and the havoc met the man's gaze, a little bit of rain of Mateo's own had misted over his expression. He couldn't help it. He never could. His brothers always said he was wuss for always tearing up when his mother did, but he never cared. And he still didn't. Because Mateo never wanted to be a person that believed sympathy to be a weakness. It took a lot of strength to allow someone else's pain to seep into you, even if it was a fraction of the original size. 

“No problem, ma. No problem.” His voice was a soft whisper, only a slight tremble lying beneath it. “Why don't we go get a shake or a drink or something? On me. The least I can do.” Squeezing Leila's hand gently, Mateo offered a warm smile and softly tugged her toward him in an attempt to nudge her into a decision. “I'm not taking no for an answer.”

She hadn’t expected Mateo to care. Frankly, Leila would have thought that after their initial encounter, the other mare would have left her to her tears. It’s probably what she would have deserved, too, for punching him like she had. Not that she would have changed what she did. She would do- would have done- anything for Cass. Which was perhaps what made the pain of her absence all the more potent… Leila had done what Cass wanted her to do, and it didn’t matter in the end because her daughter was still gone. But Mateo stayed. He stayed. He didn’t pull away from her grasp while she fell apart at the seams in a way she hadn’t in months.  

It was a kindness she did not believe she could have ever deserved. 

His voice was soft as he coaxed her away from the place she sat, fixed in her grief. The storm had passed for the moment. A shaky hand smeared away luminescent tears that stubbornly rolled down her cheeks, and a weak, half-hearted laugh barked out of her as Mateo tugged at her arm like an eager child. “Alright… alright. A shake or a drink…” 

Yes, that ancient voice in her mind sighed as she followed her fellow mare along through that dim-starred world. It was certainly a kindness she did not deserve.

[banisheed]

@amonstrousdream replied to your post “[pm] Hi Hello Dr Siobhan, sorry to bother you, but...”:

[pm] No, you don't, which is why I was concerned. Friend. Right. Friends of friends. [user has a small internal crisis] I am not having goo troubles, but I'm making sure none of my friends or friends of friends know that I have resources if THEY happen to have goo troubles.

​[pm] You mustn't worry over my knees. They are quite wonderful knees. Have I said this already?

Is "friend" not the correct label?

What resources are these? Do you have some sort of goo-hoover?

[iomadachd]

@ifyoucatchacriminal liked for a starter with Neal & Leila

"Two questions, and I promise they're related. One, do I look like a stressed out college student during Finals Week? Two, would you like to get your hands on a Matisse and Renoir?"

[two-braincells-in-total]

*in jail*

Emma: So, who do we call?

Atlas: I'd call Jett but I feel safer in jail

Emma: Should we call Kai?

Atlas:

Emma:

Both: Amelia it is

Credits to @highladyofterrasen7 who did it for the TCP characters

[fourspiceblend]

I love how every hall of forms gives us units who would really appreciate the most recent skills that aren't in the pool yet, so even if you get a forma you're not really making the most out of it since you won't get their optimal kit anyway. Like yeah I get that they want us to still spend orbs on fodder but this just devalues forma souls as a whole. And like. Do they want us to spend money on forma souls or not?? Anyway HoF is still a good mode gameplay wise but the actual point of the mode is pointless every time this happens

[weirdlookindog]

Island of Lost Souls (1932) - Spanish heralds

[honeysmokedham]

@amonstrousdream

[pm] Don't worry about it, it's alright. Believe me, I have been there. It's always hard when you realize what's going on...

[pm] If you are alone, how did you find out what you were? And everything else?

[muertarte]

TIMING: Halloween

PARTIES: @amonstrousdream @bookofbolden @muertarte

SUMMARY: Leila, Eleanor, and Metzli celebrate their first Halloween together and dress up as the Scooby-Doo gang!

WARNINGS: None!

“Do I have to wear this?” Metzli slouched petulantly as they grumbled in their Scooby-Doo costume. The head bounced forward and nudged Leila in the face while she was busy finishing up the zipper. “I can just be vampire. See?” Letting their vampiric features fade into their face, Metzli snapped their teeth playfully. “No one will know.” 

A small smile tugged at their face, bigger than usual. Because despite how ridiculous they felt, there was a warm and pleasant sensation enveloping their chest at the sight of Leila and Eleanor wearing costumes too. Metzli had never had the opportunity to celebrate silly things like Halloween, and never saw themself as the type to participate even if they had the chance, but there was something about being a part of a celebration with people you loved. They even got Fluffy in on it. He was somewhere in the house, dressed up as Scrappy-Doo. 

“So…” Their eyes scanned over to the giant bowls of candy by the door, along with three drinks Metzli had prepared for everyone to sip on. Hot chocolate with a dash of this creamy alcohol. They could have treats too, couldn't they? “I just…give this candy?”

The Scooby Doo head was certainly something.

If Leila was being completely honest, she had only been vaguely familiar with the cartoon about meddling kids and a talking dog that solved mysteries. But Ellie had suggested the costume idea, she had damn near cackled with laughter, and now there she was, zipping her fiancée into Scooby Dooby Doo while she stood on tiptoe in the perfectly purple pumps she’s managed to find for her own Daphne ensemble. 

“You could, but then it would just be Ellie and I that match…” The mare hummed as she adjusted the suit so it would sit properly atop Metzli’s head. She was trying so desperately to keep her grin at a non-shit-eating level, but the snap of teeth and fangs paired with the bobbling dog head was… Well… amusing to say the least. The corner of Leila’s mouth tugged up in a small grin. To stifle it’s growth, she planted a quick kiss on Metzli’s cheek, careful to avoid the cartoon dog head that had seemingly swallowed them whole. 

“That’s exactly it. The children come up, they say trick or treat- or sometimes they don’t but that’s okay- and we give them candy and compliment their costumes.” It wasn’t a tradition she had ever been able to take part in during life- it hadn’t really been a thing, then. But the mare loved a good excuse to dress up and play pretend more than most- and what was Halloween but a night to dress up and play a bit of pretend?

Eleanor stared at herself through her phone camera and fidgeted with her bangs until they fell just right. She was still shocked that Metzli and Leila had agreed to go with her costume suggestion but excited nonetheless since Scooby Doo had been one of her favorite cartoons growing up. Unfortunately she’d never had a group to actually dress up with and trick-or-treating as Velma alone was too pathetic for her to even consider so her inner child glowed with happiness that the time had finally come - it really was a simple thing but to her it made all the difference.

“You being a vampire on Halloween would be like me dressing up as Sylvia Plath or Jane Austen,” which Eleanor had of course done many years in the past, “A writer dressing up as a writer, a vampire as a vampire… it takes the fun out of it. Part of the appeal of the holiday is that you get to be something or someone you’re not.” She adjusted her glasses before putting her phone away to focus on Leila as she finished getting Metzli into costume. “For the record, I think we look great. I may be biased though.”

While Halloween had never necessarily been Eleanor’s favorite holiday she enjoyed the creativity people put into their costumes and admired the dedication. “It’s also really important that we’re known as the house that gives out the good candy because kids go to school and talk about which houses to hit up or avoid the next year. It’s a whole thing, they take it very seriously.”

“Good candy?” There were so many rules to the holiday. Metzli usually loved rules, but these weren't the kind that they could easily understand. There was no logic or reason behind them. At least, not to Metzli. What did costumes and candy and carving pumpkins have to do with the thinning of the veil? 

Offerings, maybe, but they decided they didn't really care when they saw Leila and Eleanor fully dressed. Their face immediately felt warm. 

“Um, I…” Metzli blinked several times, trying to focus, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. Their back straightened, “I-I…is this the good candy?” They snatched up the bowl and presented it to the candy experts. It was filled with full sized bars and packages. Metzli figured the more expensive, the better, but they needed confirmation before opening the door. 

“I can confirm there is such a thing as good candy, and we are definitely going to be the house that has the most of it.” If there was one thing that a mare was good for, it was having a nose for finding the best candy within a ten mile radius. Leila had used looking for sweets as a means of distracting herself from less happy things. The result: bags on bags of the best chocolate and sugary confection money could buy. King sized sweets where she could get them. Every child would leave with more candy than they could probably imagine. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Leila spied Eleanor’s phone raising up up up to take a picture of the pair. She couldn’t help but wink at the Velma Dinkly-fied version of the author she’d come to care for so much. “We do look great.” More importantly, it seemed to bringing a little sparkle of joy back into their world.

The door knocked and all eyes swiveled in the direction of the noise. Trick or Treaters. “That’s the good candy, yes- and I have lots extra if we run out, somehow… so don’t worry too much.”

Eleanor felt the trick-or-treaters before the knock came at the door and the overwhelming excitement and curiosity made her smile. She would have a fantastic time since she got to be with the two people she’d grown closest to and would be greeted by happy candy fiends throughout the night. A nice change of pace was needed for the three of them, they deserved it. Most of her time had gone to feeling hopelessly lost without having a project to obsess over and keep her mind busy while she knew the pair in front of her were still grieving their loss. A fun, carefree night was something they could all use.

She quickly snapped her picture and hoped that it hadn’t turned out blurry in her haste and glanced into the bowl. “I can confirm that that is the best candy you could have gotten, well done. We’ll be popular for sure. Also, the fact that we’re actually handing out the candy and not just leaving the bowl on the porch with a ‘take one’ sign is a plus.” Eleanor nodded approvingly and made her way to the door. “Hopefully our Scrappy Doo will decide to grace us with his presence before the night is up, I think he really pulls the whole look together.” She smiled at both of them before opening the door to greet the children on the other side.

The door opened and Metzli sucked in a hasty breath. Not leaving the bowl on the porch was supposed to be a plus, but it felt more like a negative as the door opened to reveal people. But they weren't just any people. They were children. Excited ones. Ones that would surely eat too much sugar that night and keel over from a crash much like the kind that Metzli witnesses with Leila and Eleanor. 

Trick or treat!

Children exclaimed and jumped up in celebration and all the vampire could do was stare for a few moments. They all looked happy and excited and full of wonder. One was dressed as a bear, and another as batman, while a child hidden in the back had a costume that was clearly a homemade dinosaur. 

Metzli remained frozen in their own wonder, smiling faintly. Is that what childhood was supposed to be like? Was that what Cass missed out on? They swallowed harshly and shook their head to move past the thought, kneeling down to offer the bowl. “Take one. Each. Please.”

The door opened, the tiny voices of children rang out from the other side of the door, and Leila’s heart ached. A bear, a Batman, and a dinosaur stared into the foyer with sparkling, expectant eyes, waiting for their well-earned payment of candy. Just visible over the tops of their little heads, waiting at the edge of the path, stood the parents. Watching their children enjoy one of those utterly wonderful childhood moments. 

Cass would have loved the Batman… 

It hurt a little, knowing Cass wouldn’t be sharing in the silly evening. In addition, there was another ache. She wouldn’t be one of those parents, making whatever costumes her child could dream up. Leila forced the thoughts past as she watched Metzli kneel down before three wide eyed children. They saw the bowl of the large candy bars, and looked back up at the vampire like they had met their new god. Peals of excited squealing rang out as little hands reached for candy bars they could barely hold, followed by tiny thank you’s. It was good to see this. Good for Metzli. Good for them all, probably… 

Eleanor smiled as Metzli interacted with the children and peered around the door to get a better look at the costumes. She wished that Metzli and Leila could have felt what she did radiating from their tiny guests because she knew that it would have helped lift their spirits even more. She hadn’t checked in on them like she should have, something she felt guilty about, but she knew that things hadn’t gotten easier for them; maybe it wasn’t the right time to bring it up though so she would ask them how they were feeling at a more appropriate time.

She laughed as the children grabbed their candy and stashed it into their buckets and bags. “You did great, they loved you. I think the parents found you amusing too.” Eleanor lightly touched Metzli’s arm and looked to Leila with raised eyebrows. “I didn’t think we’d actually get them into the costume. Good thing we did though, I think it’s going to be a hit. I would have never guessed that giving out candy might be just as much fun as receiving it.”

The youngest of the three stared a little longer while the other two retreated to show their parents what they had been given. She seemed a little bewildered by the giant head on top of Metzli's, and they gave it a few experimental wiggles in response. 

A flurry of giggles escaped her and Metzli smiled in response, leaning just a bit further to boop her head with the snout of the costume. She couldn't have been no older than three. “Happy Halloween.” Metzli wobbled the head again, earning them a final giggle before the little bear scurried off to her parents. They watched, eyes misted with a mixture of delight and grief, but overall they felt warm. 

“Maybe this is not so bad.” Leaning into Eleanor's touch, Metzli carefully tilted their head to place a gentle kiss on Leila's lips. They hummed with delight, planting an equally soft kiss to Eleanor's and closing the door with their foot. “Do not forget the hot chocolate. It is champurrado. Better than regular kind.” 

Simple little things. A little child’s giggles so bright that they chased all shadows away. The soft sound of Metzli’s voice. The spark in Eleanor’s eyes. The silliness of the costumes. These were all such simple, little things, and yet each one was so precious, so utterly perfect. Each moment burned through the dark ache in Leila’s chest. Soft. Warm. Like a candle fighting its way through the dark. 

A gentle kiss pulled her from her endless circle of dreamy thoughts. In a lazy motion, the mare looped one arm around each of their waists, pulling them closer. Just for one night, she thought, everything could be bright again. Just with those simple little things that filled the moments of the evening.

It was a good night, the first truly enjoyable night that Eleanor had had in a long while and she hoped that more good things were to come not only for herself but for Metzli and Leila as well. As much as she didn’t think it was fair that they had been put through so much undeserved hardship she couldn’t deny that the time they spent together could more than make up for it. Silly costumes, hot chocolate, and candy might not solve their problems but that didn’t mean it couldn’t help distract them for a little while.

Eleanor smiled in response to Metzli and wrapped an arm around Leila. It would be a good night, one that they would look back on fondly for years to come and she would refuse to ruin it by allowing her mind to wander into that dark place it liked to go sometimes. She was with the people she loved and nothing was more important than that.

[camyfilms]

THE BIG HOUSE 1930

And remember, this prison does not give a man a yellow streak, but if he has one, it brings it out.