#ch: layla

[winxclubsource]

[blindmagdalena]

Eat Your Ego, Honey ( Homelander x OC )

ongoing series. words to date: 49k. 18+ main themes: dark romance, stalking, sex work, unhealthy relationships, alcohol, codependency, trauma bonding, rough sex. see AO3 for detailed tags.

summary: Layla Alden is an escort who specializes in the marriage of sex and emotional intimacy. In an effort to protect herself in an inherently hazardous industry, she enforces a strict ‘No Supes’ policy. Homelander doesn't take no for an answer, and insists that she take him on as a client. She's quickly caught up in the maelstrom of his life, forcing them both to confront feelings of obsession, danger, love, trauma, sex, and how the entanglement of all of those things have shaped their lives.

Homelander is an enigma. One moment he is moving with sexual prowess, eager and confident in himself, and the next he is subdued, utterly entranced by nothing more than a bare-handed touch. He shows all the trappings of a man who has had plenty of sex, but very little intimacy.

AO3 Link | Spotify Playlist

Tumblr Chapter Index:

Chapter One: Company

Chapter Two: It Will Come Back

Chapter Three: Stalker's Tango

Chapter Four: One Way Or Another

Chapter Five: You're Mine

Chapter Six: Gods & Monsters

Chapter Seven: Middle of the Night

Chapter Eight: I Found Love

[daughter-of-melpomene]

🌈 + Layla Dupreti

Thanks so much for this ask!! Gonna tag @dancingsunflowers-ocs since she’s my Star Trek moot. <3

I associate Layla with the colour grey!!

send me 🌈 + an oc and i’ll make a moodboard using a colour i associate with them!!

[tothedevilsshow]

it has been a long time since she's met another witch. she had kept herself secluded here in this small corner, the darkness ever growing around her. she had kept herself isolated after the death of her grandparents. eager for her revenge. the curse had driven them to their graves, had driven every man she cared about away, the curse had made her this twisted shell of a woman. she hated other witches, the ones who refused to honor the goddess who dwelled in the lake. the only true source of power. couldn't they all see that? she's not entirely sure why she allowed elayne here. the leader of a coven, very powerful. she sits there, a woman very sure of herself but there's fear in her doll like eyes. she looks like a little doll, doesn't she? she's not a small woman but layla looks down at her. her brow lifted as she hears her plea. a glisten of tears sparks in her own eyes. death. she can already taste it on the air. a dark ugly thing all around this woman. this woman who seemed to be the type that would fight death with her own two hands if she had to. but right now her main concern was her babies. they hadn't moved. and layla could shed a tear for their innocence.

she rubs her hands together before she approaches her. before reaching her them out to settle them on the woman's stomach. not very big yet. the little ones must not be that far into development. a shame to lose them so soon. "you're right." she says, looking at the woman's face. "they're not moving. and nor will they ever." she withdraws, moving back towards the fire. she stands straight backed, looking at the flickering flame. she intakes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "but my mother was once told the same about me.." she slowly turns her gaze to meet her's. waiting for the inevitable question that statement would bring. - @agoldenlily

[xradiant]

Her question sparked far too much inside of him and he loathed the thought that rushed through the back of his head. He didn't want to think about that time. He didn't want to let those memories come back to him, as small as they were. He remembered flickers, shades of what had happened. Flashing lights from cars, the cold hard asphalt underneath his body as he slid his eyes opened to watch the gray state of the world around him. There had been beings everywhere and they had screeched inside his head loudly and then there had been so much pain. A blistering amount of pain threading through his body. He still didn't know what had happened, what it was that he had gone through and what it was that had entered his body. Fourteen minutes was too long and fourteen minutes was far too long to get back. "I can't remember." He answered stiffly, glancing at her and watching the green of her eyes. She was beautiful. So unlike anyone else that he had known before. Did he love her? He did in spite of himself. He knew that he shouldn't allow her to get close. He knew that he shouldn't have allowed this but what was he to do? Keep himself locked away in the cold? He knew better than to attempt it. He was someone that craved loved and much desired to be with someone else. "Stillborn?" He questioned with a furrow of his brows as he looked down at her. "What happened then? Did you just start breathing again?"

@tothedevilsshow xxx

[plague-of-insomnia]

I hope you get more spoons soon. Thank you for the translations, as always I appreciate it. There is so many interesting things going on that are going to have wide reaching implications to the story at large, such as if the bizarre dolls have death scyths. Watch out Sebastian. Having said all that my biggest take away is everyone be looking fine especially William. Though special shout out to Ron and Undertaker lol. Wishing you a good day or night.

Hi anon :). Sorry for the delay in replying. Definitely have been short on spoons lately :(.

Especially after last chapter (ch 192?) where Will says he’ll take Layla back to HQ, and the fact that reapers apparently can’t see/sense souls, etc, I really hope we get some more insight into the reaper organization.

It definitely seems as if UT’s ultimate goal is to create an artificial soul/a bizarre doll that’s indistinguishable from a living person. After all, Layla wasn’t even under suspicion by Ron…. So he’s pretty damn close.

Maybe UT’s ultimate goal is to “overthrow” the whole reaper thing, and I’m curious if we’ll get some of his backstory. Perhaps more about his prior relationship (or lack there of) with Othello.

And then there’s the whole Doll as a BD thing to tackle and whether or not/and how the past incident with the circus troupe will have an affect on Snake and Finny et Al….

So lots and lots of good stuff. But I’m gonna really miss seeing Bard every week. I’ve been spoiled 💔💔

[wildeinsp]

[litearra]

❛ i'm here for business — not pleasure. ❜

arched brow, lips pursed at the statement. still, she is intrigued, not sure what kind of business @lingeringscars meant to get into at a bar. been bartending since before she turned twenty-one - thank god for her fake id.     ❝ if not for pleasure what can i get you for your business then? ❞     playfully wriggling her brows before gesturing to the bottles behind her.

[scribare-archive]

@lingeringscars : i have nowhere else to go.

sharing a dorm could become a little stuffy, a little too crowded sometimes, even if she absolutely adores her new roommate. spending the weekend at her fathers house however, it was a good change of phase. provided some privacy, and even if it was off campus : it wasn't too far away, her father being one of the teachers. didn't expect visitors here however, not for herself, maybe for her dad. but opening the front door, she comes face to face with layla. bright surprised smile upon features, soon morph into one more of concern as she takes her in : taking a step to the side and opening the door up wider so she can get through.     ❝   of course, come on inside.   ❞      voice is soft while eyes stick to her, brows furrow slighly. ❝   do you want to talk about it ?   ❞

[perotovar]

into the beat of the night (ch 1) "transmission"

gif by me, moodboard by the lovely @sp00kymulderr ♥

pairing: frankie morales/nb!oc (they/them) rating: T (for now) chapter warnings: discussions of sexuality/gender (frankie doesn't understand some things and may use language that would be harmful, but it's not intentional), limited knowledge of the military, goth stereotypes abound, mentions of drug addiction/recovery, swearing, cute shit word count: 2.7k dividers by @saradika

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series summary: frankie morales thought he had himself figured out by now. he liked both men and women, had dated both in the past. but when someone that challenges what he thinks that means comes into his life, in an unlikely place, he truly learns who he is, and more importantly, who he loves.

series masterlist

a/n - i can't thank y'all enough for giving my fic a chance! i'm really nervous about posting it since i haven't properly written anything in years, but i've had some lovely cheerleaders (@scenaaario - who is also my lovely beta, i want to kiss you on the mouth for making this fic sound like i wanted it to ♥♥ - @undercoverpena @mrsquill and @kedsandtubesocks i love you guys ♥) along the way that gave me the motivation to post this little story. comments and reblogs are super appreciated! i'd love to hear what y'all think <3

In 1994, the U.S. adopted “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” as the official federal policy on military service by lesbian, gay and bisexual individuals. It was officially repealed in 2011. Seventeen years. For seventeen years, LGBTQ folks, Frankie included, had to hide. At least, he felt he needed to.

He knew he was bisexual when he and his childhood best friend Mateo were in their sophomore year of high school. Frankie and all the other boys started to hit puberty the year before and things were changing: facial hair was slowly growing, voices were dropping.  Mateo started to develop a little faster than Frankie did. Frankie really liked how Mateo was developing. It was a little weird, because they’d been best friends since they were still wearing underoos, but Frankie started to feel things whenever he hung out with Mateo. Things he normally only felt whenever Alana in third period flipped her hair over her shoulder, or whenever Charlotte in fifth period stretched before she started writing and her sweater pulled over her chest a little too much.

Frankie didn’t know what to do with this information or these feelings. He didn’t have a word for any of it, so he just never said anything. He had a couple girlfriends throughout high school, and to anyone who cared to think on it, would see that Frankie was like any other straight, high school boy.

In 1994, Francisco Morales joined the military. He was nineteen. It was never his plan growing up to join, but his dad always wanted him to. When he didn’t have his own plan after high school, he figured it was a safe bet since he had family in the service. While there, he worked his way up in the ranks and eventually met his brothers: Santiago, Benny, Will, and Tom. They would die for each other, had signed up to do so, in fact. He’d grown closest to Santiago, and it was the first time since he was 15 that he got those feelings again. He pushed them to the side, though, because that’s when she came into his life. He didn’t need those feelings getting in the way.

Frankie’s bisexuality really only came into his life a couple of times. His first girlfriend in the military, Layla, was also bisexual and that’s when he learned what the word was and that it also applied to him. She only ever told him since Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was in full swing. Of course he kept her secret, because she also kept his.

The only one of his group of brothers that didn’t know about his sexuality was Tom. He didn’t feel comfortable enough to tell him, and the others agreed it was best to keep it quiet. Santiago was the first one to know, then Will, and finally Benny. Ben was Ben about it when he found out. He immediately hugged Frankie and excitedly suggested they go to a gay bar instead of their usual hang out. It made Frankie laugh and Will smacked Ben on the back of the head. (They did end up going to a couple of gay bars from time to time. Frankie only went home with a guy once and the guys gave him a lot of shit for it, asking for details. Santiago gave him a smile and patted him on the back and said, “I’m glad you’re finally here, hermano.”)

Frankie had one man he’d consider a “boyfriend” in his life. After he left the military and after DADT was repealed, he went on a bit of a binge. He started hooking up with people more often, despite his introverted nature. He was always careful, safe, and eventually kept to one man for a couple years, before an especially messy breakup.  They were both pilots in the military, but were based in different states; Frankie in Florida, and Jackson in Kentucky. They bonded quickly after meeting at a nightclub in Nashville. Neither one of them remembers why they were there, but they made it a point to see each other frequently, each of them taking turns flying out to see the other.

The breakup happened after Jackson found Frankie’s stash for the last time. The military affected everyone differently. For Frankie, his coke addiction is what got him through the sleepless nights. Jackson had found Frankie one too many times leaned over the back of a toilet and snorting god knows what. Jackson had his own problems with drugs and felt that Frankie ignored them in search of his next fix. Addiction had completely taken over Frankie’s life for the better part of five years. Frankie hated Jackson for leaving him when he most needed him, and lashed out, accusing Jackson of only ever wanting to fuck. That broke Jackson, as he thought about how deeply he loved Frankie. Gay marriage was legalized a year later, and had things panned out differently, they might still be together. He doesn’t blame Jackson for leaving anymore.

Frankie’s daughter, Marisol, changed everything. She was the love of his life, and he would do anything for her. After going back to his days of sleeping around after Jackson left, he met Maya. He kept telling her that he would get clean and go to therapy while she was pregnant, but not until he held his little Marisol in his arms for the first time did he commit to both. He and Maya never planned on being together officially, and decided co-parenting would be their best option. 

He’d been clean and sober for two years by the time Santi told him about the Colombia job. He hadn’t flown, or been allowed to in that time, and was pretty content to never do so again. Every time he got in the pilot’s seat, it would take him to terrible places. But Santi was his best friend, so he took the job. He relapsed when he got home, after Tom. He never blamed Santi for it. He gave Frankie a choice, and where he could’ve said no, he didn’t.

Which brings him to where he is now, two years after Colombia. He’d crossed the street and stood in line for the entrance. He hadn’t been to this nightclub in a while. He looked up at the sign for the club, and raised an eyebrow. The Night Owl. That… isn’t what it was called last time. Was it sold? Apparently, it had recently undergone a rebranding, with new owners, and a slightly… different clientele. 

The best way he could describe it now was that it was a goth club. Frankie had never personally been to this sort of club, not really being a fan of the music or subculture, but never had a negative opinion either. He stuck out like a sore thumb when he entered, the bouncer giving him a once over and chuckling, but letting him in anyway. 

He made his way over to the bar and had a seat, taking in his surroundings and started people watching. He planned on going out tonight, and possibly go home with someone. A club is a club, so he decided to stick around and see what all the fuss was about. 

The walls shook with the heavy bass and beats of the music. It wasn’t like anything he’d heard before. His nostrils filled with the scent of clove cigarettes and hairspray. Everywhere he looked, someone completely decked out in teased hair and black clothing caught his attention. He smiled softly at all the variations in people’s style, wondering how long it took for all of them to get ready in the morning.

The bartender, a large man with heavy eye makeup and a lot of chains and spikes, came up to him and smirked. He felt a presence behind him and when Frankie finally faced forward again, he startled a little, not expecting such an imposing figure to be giving him a staredown.

“What’ll you be havin’, stripes?”

“Stripes?”

The bartender, who had a patch sewed onto his denim vest that read “Viper”, rolled his eyes and gestured vaguely to Frankie’s whole self. “You mean to tell me you’re not military?”

Frankie blinked a couple times and huffed a laugh. “Ex-military, yeah. Is that… okay?”

Viper gave him a long look, eyes slightly narrowed, and pointed to one of the many tattoos on his arm, up high on his shoulder. It was an old one, a little faded, but Frankie recognized it as the stripes given to Sergeant Majors.  “I left after this. Got injured,” he said.

“Sorry to hear that.”

Viper shrugged and reached under the bar, cleaning a glass. “I’m not. So what’re you havin’?”

Frankie thought about it for a second. “I’ll probably regret this, but surprise me.”

An amused look crossed Viper’s features, but he nodded and started mixing a drink for him. Frankie noticed all the ingredients used; lager beer, hard cider, and some kind of syrup. He raised a brow and picked up the glass as Viper slid it across the bar for him. Frankie gave him a look as if to say, ‘Is this safe?’ despite having just watched Viper make it. The bartender chuckled and just gestured for him to give it a try.

Frankie took a deep breath and gulped down a drink. A little foam was stuck to his mustache when he lowered the glass from his face. “Not bad. What is it?” Frankie asked.

“Snakebite. Kind of a staple around here,” Viper hummed, cleaning a different glass.

Frankie chuckled at the name. Of course that’s what it was called. 

Viper was pulled away when a pretty girl with big, teased hair and dark makeup came up to the bar. Frankie took the opportunity to look around the place again.

The music was best described as “dark” and “broody”, unsurprisingly, with slow tempos and even lower vocals. Everyone on the dancefloor was slowly swaying back and forth and, once in a while, would move their arms in ethereal shapes. 

Frankie remembered seeing one of the younger teachers at Marisol’s daycare wearing a t-shirt with a band logo that looked like a bundle of sticks. He tried figuring out what it said once, but was too afraid to ask, so he still doesn’t know. He doesn’t think she’d be at this kind of club.

“You’re new. Bit like a zoo your first time here, I bet.”

Frankie startled, putting his hand over his heart and turned to look at who was talking. Someone had sat next to him and was grinning, taking a sip from their own drink; something dark red and a little cloudy. He blinked a couple times and took in their features; big green eyes rimmed with dark lines, two different nose piercings, and black lipstick. Their hair was long and straight, dark, and with the right side in front of their ear shaved completely. He couldn’t quite figure out if who he was talking to was male or female, the androgyny of their look very clear.

“Uhh, hello?” They waved their hand, full of rings and black nail polish, in front of his face and chuckled quietly. “Oh! Maybe–” They cut themselves off and started making a bunch of symbols and shapes with their fingers and hands.

Frankie blinked and started laughing softly. “I’m not deaf! Sorry,” he grinned. “You just startled me, that's all.”

“Oh!” The stranger laughed, too, putting a hand on his right knee in a friendly gesture. He looked down at the hand and smiled, his heart skipping a beat. Even if he didn’t know very much about them, he couldn’t deny it; they were very pretty.

He removed his cap and ran his fingers through the unruly curls for a second before putting the hat back on. “Sorry,” he repeated, shaking his head slightly. “Yeah, it’s my first time here. I didn’t realize the club had changed owners.”

“It did?” They asked, tilting their head to the left slightly. 

“Yeah, it was a– Uh, last time I was here, it was a… different kind of club,” Frankie mumbled. 

The stranger’s eyes twinkled mischievously, the smirk still present on their lips. “What kind of club? Are you secretly into some really heavy BDSM type stuff?” They wiggled their eyebrows.

Frankie had started taking a drink of his Snakebite again and nearly choked on it at the stranger’s teasing. He coughed a couple times, a wide grin on his face. “No! Nothing like that,” he chuckled.

The stranger snapped their ring-clad fingers like they were hoping he’d say otherwise and slumped their shoulders in disappointment. “Damn…”

Frankie’s cheeks warmed at the insinuation, but laughed, convinced they were just joking with him. He cleared his throat and continued, “Y-Yeah, uh, I wasn’t expecting this kind of… group, when I came by. Although, the name of the place probably should’ve warned me.”

“What kind of group?” The stranger grinned, watching his handsome features change from thoughtful to concerned.

Frankie panicked, worried he’d somehow offended them, and cleared his throat again. “N-Not that there’s anything wrong with– Um! I don’t, actually… know,” he tapered off, looking down as he scratched the back of his neck nervously.

The stranger snorted and waved him off. “I’m fucking with you,” they laughed. “I know what you mean. When I heard a new club opened up closer to my apartment, I got pretty excited. No more hour-long drives to the nearest one, y’know?”

Frankie nodded, their low, smooth voice captivating him the longer they spoke.

“Oh! Meant to say this before, but my name’s River,” they smiled and held their hand out to him to shake.

“Frankie,” he answered, holding his own hand out to return the gesture. But River beat him to it, and gripped his long, thick fingers in their own hand and kissed the back of his softly.

Frankie blushed like mad, eyes widening slightly. No one had ever kissed his hand before. He kept his eyes downcast, his hand still securely in River’s grasp.

River tilted their head, brows furrowed in concern before letting go of his hand. “Sorry, was that–?”

“No! N-No, um…” Frankie smiled shyly, tugging at a loose curl behind his ear. “It was fine– Nice, actually.”

River grinned as if they had clocked him immediately. “Well, Frankie, it was very nice meeting you. Will I see you here again?” They asked, looking him up and down.

Frankie found himself nodding before he could say or do anything else. “Y-Yeah, absolutely. Um, how–?”

“My song just came on, and I simply must dance to it. Later,” River winked, stood, and leaned over to kiss Frankie’s cheek as they slipped something into the front pocket of his flannel shirt.

River was gone before Frankie could ask anything else, his eyes following after them as they reached the dancefloor. He watched them dance for a few minutes before he was brought out of it by someone clearing their throat behind him. He spun around and saw Viper, the bartender, leaning toward him and giving him a look.

“You gonna pay for these drinks?” He grumbled, motioning toward Frankie’s Snakebite and whatever River was drinking.

He followed Viper’s tattooed finger and cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Sorry,” he mumbled, pulling his wallet out and putting a couple bills on the bar. Viper nodded in thanks and Frankie took that as his cue to leave.

As he stood, he looked toward the dancefloor again in the hopes of seeing River one last time. When he didn’t, he tried to shake himself off and made his way toward the entrance. The bouncer gave him a look and Frankie just shrugged as he exited the club. The cool night air hit his still-warm cheeks, making him feel like he came back to reality. 

“Oh, right,” he mumbled to himself and reached into his front pocket and pulled out a little scrap of paper. A phone number with two cute little devil horns drawn on either side and a little, ‘text me?’ written down beneath it.

Frankie smiled to himself and rubbed the ink on the paper with his thumb.

[blackbutlerfanweek]

Black Butler Week 2024

This week (July 19 - 25) is to commemorate and connect with our love for the Black Butler series and its fans! Each day will have an associated prompt for creators to base their work off of! BB Week will be hosted across multiple platforms! Works may contain spoilers so keep this in mind when perusing both the tag and the blog.

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[boydepartment]

MY ONLY LOVE: Jake Sim x Reader: Ch. 15

description- y/n is an upcoming soloist in belift, she was previously in a disbanded group and the company decided to give her a chance. one day she runs into ex-boyfriend, jake sim, in the canteen. it was awkward and embarrassing and for weeks she tries to avoid him. you can’t avoid people forever though, especially when the company who gave her a chance tells her she has to fake date her ex boyfriend publicly.

genre- exes to lovers, fake dating, idol AU, romcom, fluff, comfort

includes- enhypen, y/n (obviously), bahiyyih (kep1er), hikaru (kep1er), p1 harmony, different idol cameos (i.e probably mark lee, bangchan, new jeans, etc)

WRITTEN CHAPTER- 500+ WORDS

“YOU TAKE WALKS TOO?”

when you got to jakes house, arriving with him, you were taken back by his mom putting you in a bone crushing hug.

“Y/N! DARLING!” she laughed as she wrapped her arms around you, layla got up from her dog bed and started to wiggle at the commotion.

“hi again mrs. sim!” you hugged her back and knelt down to pet layla.

“she remembers you!” mrs. sim smiled down at you and the dog. jake just stood there awkwardly at this interaction, it was difficult to take in you guessed. i mean, it’s not everday that your ex girlfriend from trainee days is in your home again, and now she’s your fake girlfriend.

“and you! you need to try to come home more often!” jake’s mom hugged him after that and let you both farther in the house.

it was just as you remembered it, the family portraits, old trophies from school, even the décor was the same. it shouldn’t be surprising to you, it was more homey than surprising.

you and jake sat at the table as his mom started giving you life updates about the sim family, it was really nice to be around familiarity. you didn’t get that often anymore. what really scared you was that this felt right.

“sooo jaeyun told me about the contract.” she flipped around and leaned against the counter, “is it going okay? they aren’t being weird towards either of you right?”

jake’s mom always looked out for you when you were a trainee and it was refreshing that she was still looking out for you even now, “yeah… i am okay, the only really bad thing was the whole group drama and the fansign…”

from the corner of your eye you saw jake tense up. in fact anytime the fansign was brought up he seemed to become tense.

“i know honey, jaeyun was telling me that some stuff like that was going on with you.” she sighed and handed you a cup of water. you thanked her and took a sip, jake was silent and his ears were pink.

“jaeyun it is not embarrassing that you made sure she was okay!” his mom had a shit eating grin on her face, you couldn’t help but smile behind your cup.

jake blushed harder and groans throwing his head back, “mom stop! you don’t need to tell her!”

his mom started laughing, “anyways, i will leave you two be for a bit alright?” at that she walks off to another room of the house.

“so you kept tabs on me?” you asked, smiling. jake side eyes you and you start laughing.

“its not funny! i just wanted to make sure you were doing okay but i was too shy to approach you! i thought you hated me so anytime something bad would happen to you i would go walking because i was always so stressed because-“

you were smiling and jake stopped talking, embarrassed, “you take walks too? when you’re stressed?”

jake nodded silently

“maybe we should start taking walks together then.” you smiled at him, “if that’s okay.”

“YES- i mean yes, yeah that’s cool. we can do that!”

you took another sip of your water, “good, i’m glad. we should visit here more often too…”

jake’s mouth dropped before he smiled, “sounds good y/n… sounds good…”

___

MASTERLIST

taglist- open :)

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a/n: i am sorry this chapter took forever and the fact it is short af

[blindmagdalena]

Eat Your Ego, Honey ( Ch 8 )

homelander x oc 18+  escort services, sex work, voyeurism, stalking, Homelander in general. see ao3 link for detailed tags. chapter index. check out the playlist!

chapter summary: After the disastrous spectacle that was Homelander's birthday celebration, America's "disgraced" hero is forced to reconcile with the demons in his head, and what that means for Layla, the woman standing precariously in their path.

additional tags: unhealthy/codependent dynamics, threats of violence, themes of abuse, canon deviation. 🖤

Sleep is a scarcity. Homelander fades in and out of consciousness, but he never truly rests. It’s strange to sleep somewhere he can't see the comfort of his own gaze endlessly mirrored back at him. Those mirrors make the world so much bigger, but for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t mind how small it is. What would normally be a dark, claustrophobic thing is now a great deal safer than the open expanse of a stage.

Layla’s warmth and the faint weight of her arm around him is the only thing that keeps him somewhat tethered. Her heartbeat is a steady metronome against his back, her breaths warmly ghosting over his neck and shoulder. It’s been hours, but it feels too soon when the covers move on his skin as she readjusts in her sleep, pulling her arm from him. He lifts the blanket and rolls to face her. 

She’s turned away from him, her dark hair fanned out in a wild splay on the pillow beneath her. Light from the unsleeping city spills in through the window, illuminating her figure. It’s strange to see her sleeping in day clothes and not the sleepwear he’s used to seeing her in. She didn’t have the time to change tonight. She was too busy taking him back into her arms, into her bed, into her life. He brushes his knuckles down between her shoulder blades, the disheveled silk of her blouse soft beneath his fingers.

He’ll find out why Starlight’s scent is lingering on her when she wakes.

Sliding closer to her, he flattens his palm over her hip and noses at the line of her throat, inhaling deeply, chasing the scent beneath shampoo and lotion until he finds what’s simply her. Her wine flush has followed her into sleep, her skin warmer than usual. She responds to his touch with a sleepy sigh of pleasure. Even now, the sound of her voice does so much to quiet the storm in his heart. He screws his eyes shut and buries his face into the soft tresses of her hair, gritting his teeth against the urge to squeeze too tight. 

The urge to keep. 

The urge to break it all apart and let the storm rage. Instead, he keeps himself perfectly still, trying to swallow the thrumming energy coiling in his tense muscles. End this, the darkness in him hisses, tempting him. How many days has he resisted the urge to reach out, not with his hands but with this thing inside him, and ruin everything? Everyone? A flash of crimson is all it would take to cleave this world in half.

But he can’t afford to. Not then, not now.

The only way he made it out of the cold isolation of the lab, far away from the bad room, was by convincing the staff, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was good. He was their perfect man-made hero. Logically, he knows they can’t ever put him back in the bad room. He’d never let them. It doesn’t stop the nightmares.

He folds in on himself, doing his best to forget that he even has power to wield against others—a whim as sharp as glass. Now, just as then, he orders his body and mind to still, to calm.

If Layla had stayed yesterday morning, things would have been different. His tightly controlled grip on her hip flexes minutely. How can she sleep so deeply knowing that she’s ruined him?

What was she doing with Starlight?

The inkling of a deeper betrayal slithers into his mind. He slides his hand up the length of her torso, traversing the familiar scape of her body, and into her hair, coiling his fingers into a gentle fist of it. One twist is all it would take to quiet her soothing voice forever. Would hair ever feel the same to him again, or would it start to smell like burning tears and cornea? The stench of grief hits him so suddenly that his eyes sting with it, and he recoils from Layla like he himself has been burned.

Has she been scheming against him all along, too?

Fucked. He’s so completely and entirely fucked.

He exhales harshly, curling his hand into a tight fist and biting into the meaty curve just below his thumb, muffling a tearful keen. He can’t think back to that morning without reliving how horribly it went wrong, and how the dominos just continued to fall until he was losing his senses in front of the entire world.

Those moments on stage play over and over in his mind, but each instance of them grows more warped than the last. He’s starting to forget what he really said, conflating memories with nightmares. How much of himself did he really let slip? How ugly does the world think him to be now? 

He can see the headlines now.

Homelander: America’s Fallen Hero

Homelander: Vought’s Poster Boy Throws a Tantrum

Homelander: Deranged Freak Snaps On Stage

He’s spiraling worse than he did during Stormfront’s smear campaign against him. It isn’t just dissenting opinions and slander—he’s finally given them real ammunition to use against him. The question is: how much, and how will he refute it? He needs to be able to recover from this.

His voice of reason is treacherously quiet. Nothing but the dreadful echo of I warned you.

With his thoughts twisting in on themselves like a pit of angry, writhing snakes, he finds it impossible to stay still any longer. His whole body is plagued with a restlessness that turns into agony. Carefully, he extracts himself from Layla’s side and slips out of her bed. He needs to see it for himself. He needs to understand the degree of damage that’s been done to him.

Stepping out into her living room, Homelander picks up the remote for her television and flips it on, dropping the volume to such a miniscule level that he’ll be the only one to hear it. He lowers himself down onto the couch and stares, watching his body move and speak, seemingly puppeteered by someone other than himself, operating in ways he’s never seen himself behave in front of a camera before.

“I’m done being persecuted for my strength–”

Erratic.

“Persecuted for my strength–”

Unhinged.

“Persecuted–”

Alive.

If they want to take us down, we’re going to take every last one of them down with us.

The sky is just barely beginning to turn with dawn’s light when Layla wakes to a chill that rolls up her spine. Her bed feels colder than it has any right to, and as the fractured events of last night spill back into her mind, it doesn’t take her long to figure out why. 

Homelander—who knows if he’ll accept that name yet—is nowhere to be seen.

Her temples throb with the aftermath of emptying a hefty bottle of wine as she lifts herself from bed, running her hands through her hair, breaking apart the tangles with her fingers.

The breadcrumb trail of Homelander’s suit leading from her balcony to her bed tells her that he hasn’t left. The image of him streaking through the sky in the nude does occur to her, though. Straightening her borrowed blouse and tucking it back into the waist of her skirt, she steps lightly through the dark of her apartment, head on a swivel, until she spots her quarry.

Reclined on her couch, Homelander paints an image somewhere between a renaissance painting and a billboard for depression, his body illuminated by the flashing light of the television. His expression is morose, his hand sitting on the couch next to him at an angle, the remote tilted in his loose grasp. As she approaches, he begins tapping on the volume until his own recorded voice fills the empty space between them.

It’s his tirade from last night.

“Hey, babe,” he drawls from the couch, voice pitched low and despondent. The way he pops each consonant makes the pet name sound downright derogatory. “So, what’s the verdict?” He asks, lazily gesturing to the television with the remote. “Is it everything you thought it would be?” His gaze slides from the screen to her, his head lolling to the side with it.

Any concern or lingering sleepiness in her face is swiftly replaced with bewilderment. “Excuse me?”

“‘Excuse me?’” He mocks, pitching his voice up condescendingly. Her expression hardens as he stands, the remote bouncing along the couch cushions where he tosses it. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not playing anything with you,” she responds tersely. She’s never been a morning person. Compound that with the ache in her skull and the naked pain in the neck standing in front of her, she’s not feeling her usual bounty of patience. Last night, he was a weepy, sopping mess. Now she doesn’t know what to expect from the tight line of his shoulders, or the agitated curl of his upper lip. “I have no idea what it is you think you’re picking at.”

“Since when are you and Starlight pals, then?” He hisses through his teeth.

Shit. Annie. She never sent that text.

“Since yesterday,” she answers, her calm stretched thin. “She saw me at the elevator. She offered a shower and a change of clothes. That’s all.” She doesn’t find it necessary to explain why Starlight might have offered such a thing. He knows exactly how she looked when she left his penthouse, bruised and disheveled.

The memory looks to serve as a crisp slap, some level of clarity filtering into the incensed glaze of his eyes. His grip flexes, and he bares his teeth in an animalistic flash of frustration. He isn’t willing to accept fault for that yet.

“Stop fucking lying to me!” He snaps, the sudden jump in volume startling her. He advances on her sharply, halting her step backwards with an iron grip, his palm against her throat, his thumb and index finger notching perfectly behind the curve of her jaw below her ears. The contact is minimal, and yet the strength in those two fingers alone is more than enough to hold her firmly in place. 

“You’re all the fucking same! Agendas, lies, all of you trying to control me, use me, and you—you’re exactly the fucking same. You’ve taken everything from me,” he snarls. Despite his fervor, his grip remains remarkably controlled. Sometimes it’s as if his mind and his body are two independent entities: one an unstable, emotionally malnourished psyche, and the other a finely tuned weapon.

The human mind wants dangerous things to be ugly, but even now, Homelander’s twisted, angry expression is not an ugly thing. Though adrenaline surges the thrum of her heart, it isn’t laden with the fear any reasonable person would have. The thrill coursing through her isn’t rooted in some comfort that he won’t hurt her. It’s the knowledge that he—more devastating than any man she’s ever known—absolutely will if not handled correctly.

It’s like holding a thundering storm in her bare hands.

Layla stares wide-eyed and astonished, so thoroughly unaware of what he’s accusing her of that she struggles to speak around the hard lump in her throat. He leans closer yet, clutching her with all the same strength, tenderness and menace of the ocean cradling a ship.

“I killed her,” he whispers, the words passing between them like a confession to God himself. He’s so near, she could rest her forehead against his if she wanted. “I killed her for lying to me. I’ll kill you, too.”

Madelyn Stillwell. The name returns to her like a ghost, the hairs at the back of her neck prickling. Or was it Stormfront? The unnamed mother of his child? One was the victim of a domestic terrorist, one committed suicide, and the third is yet undetermined. All of them are apparent casualties of Homelander’s turbulent presence in their lives. Is she to be the fourth in a string of tragedies? Rage swells so suddenly in her heart that she almost chokes on the fire of it. What right does he have to interrogate her and  threaten her?

“Are you glad?” She asks, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hand holding his wrist in turn. “Are you glad to have killed her?”

His expression flips as if he’s been struck, crinkled brows shooting up. “What?”

“Will you be glad to have killed me?” She asks tightly, her nails biting ineffectual crescents into his titanium flesh. Her tone is sharp and no longer meant to soothe. She speaks to cut. “Or will you just be even more alone?”

Like hers, his eyes turn glassy. “No,” he says softly. She doesn’t know if that’s an answer or a plea.

“Let me go,” she tells him firmly, fighting to hold onto the fires of her own indignant anger. His abrupt flashes of softness and vulnerability compromise her resolve.

“Go where, Layla?” He snaps, suddenly loud again. His broken desperation and seething anger make his voice reedy. “Where the fuck could you go that I wouldn’t still feel you? Kill you, fuck you, love you; you’re in my fucking head!”

You’re all the fucking same!

She isn’t dead, but he’s treating her like a ghost nonetheless. As if she’s already one of the many specters haunting him.

“You love me?” She asks him, snatching that precarious lifeline out of the messy slurry of his words. She’s not sure that he knows the meaning of it. 

Does she?

The tension in Homelander’s face goes slack, stricken to hear those words fall from her lips. His mouth opens and closes as he tries and fails to form the right words. It’s too vulnerable to say yes, and too complicated to say no. Ultimately, he can’t bear to answer first.

“Do you love me?” He asks, defensive, as if she were the one who brought the terrifying gravity of love into the equation in the first place. The weight of it turns her tongue to lead.

There’s an adolescent sense of fumbling in this moment that would be endearing if he were not clutching her jaw with inhuman strength, the whispered promise of her death hanging over them like a creaky guillotine. In another life, this could have been a very sweet confession.

“Do you?” He prompts her again, desperate. He cups the back of her head with his other hand, taking a step closer. His chest bumps her forearms where she has them tightly braced, hands clamped tightly over his wrist. It’s a meager barrier to uphold, but she does so steadfastly. His hold on her is suffocating, his agonized ocean eyes filling up her vision. He’s larger than life, leaving space for little else in her life ever since he crashed into it.

Even when he’s gone, she is consumed by him like a fever that refuses to be sweated out. When her career first began, she knew well enough not to entertain superhumans. It wasn’t a bias she held against them per se, but the opposite: she knew from the start that she would become intoxicated on the danger of them. Homelander is the epitome of everything she’s ever been too afraid to let herself love. He’s the first person to ever be enough of a risk to scare her, and enough of a reward to satiate her. She can feel her destruction lurking in him just as plainly as her parents found their own in their shared thrill seeking.

“I want to,” she whispers, a secret she’s denied even to herself until now. “But you’re making it so fucking hard.”

He exhales roughly, something like hope softening the tension in his expression before he screws his eyes shut, another wave of agony contorting his features. His forehead thumps gently against hers. “I don’t know—I don’t know how else to be. I don’t know how. I don’t know how to make it easy.”

Finally, he releases her jaw from the snare of his grip, only to take either side of her face between his hands, pulling away to look at her. He’s always been younger than her in a multitude of ways, but in this moment, the agonized youth in his eyes takes her breath away. “I was—I was made to be loved. I was supposed to be everyone’s hero. They poked and prodded me, manufactured me in a-a fucking lab to be perfect, but no one—”

Layla’s eyes widen, her heart seized. What?

Homelander bares his teeth like a wounded animal, breath hissing in and out of his clenched teeth as tears roll down his cheeks. “But no one does, no one fucking does, no one loves me,” he says through his teeth, nearly choking on the words. “I don’t understand how to make it easy, Layla,” he sobs, hands shaking on either side of her face. She can’t tell if it’s from sheer emotion, or the restraint it takes not to crush her between them.

“So just—tell me what I need to do, please,” he begs her, devastatingly beautiful in the same way the sprawling webbing of a shattered mirror is. “Tell me how to be easy to love.”

Breathless, Layla stands there with her heart bleeding so freely, so painfully, that she swears there’s warm blood soaking onto the pristine white blouse she wears.

There is a monster in Homelander. At times, she can feel the claws of it in his grip on her. Hear it growling in her ear. When it comes to handling monsters, banishment is always the remedy. Slay the beast, free the man. Homelander’s monster is not so easily felled, nor is she certain it should be. He was not born with sharp teeth and claws. From what she’s gathered, they were filed into fine points long before he was a man.

People like to think of the monster within them as an outside force. Corruption, propaganda, the devil. Layla has spent enough time in bed with people’s deviance to know better. The proverbial devil is not outside of humanity, but embedded deep within It cannot be safely extracted any more than a beating heart can.

But corruption isn’t a heart—it’s a stomach. 

It craves and yearns, it twists and aches and growls when hungry. Just as Eve ate of the apple, humans take bites of sin to satiate their monster. Like people, monsters come in a wide variety of shapes, temperaments, and cravings. Some beasts can be satisfied with a nibble here and there. Others require more. Some never learned how to know when they’re full.

After all he has been deprived of, Homelander may never be truly satisfied, but does that mean he doesn’t deserve to be fed at all?

No, Layla thinks. It doesn’t.

Both of their faces are streaked wet with tears as they hold one another’s gazes. Gingerly, she brings her own hands up to cup his face, wiping his tears with her thumbs. “Okay,” she whispers, afraid her own voice of reason will hear her. “Okay, my darling.”

Relief helps smooth the crease between his brows, but it doesn’t dissipate entirely. “Say it,” he urges her, the hands still upon her face giving the faintest nudge. “Say you love me.”

“I love you,” she says, teary and quiet, but with conviction. She leans in, and he allows her to, no longer holding her firmly in place for fear that she might suddenly vanish. “I love you,” she says again, a promise that ghosts his lips. He shudders. “I love you. You’re in my head,” she says, echoing his own words back at him. Her lips brush against his in a not-quite kiss. “You were from the start.”

He exhales a pained, keening sound, pushing his fingers into her hair and pulling her deep into a feverish kiss. His hunger for her is voracious, and his desire is a force she might not withstand—not by virtue of its violence, but because of its sheer magnitude. He kisses her fiercely, one arm slipping around her middle to keep her body from bowing under the weight of his love.

“I love you, too,” he breathes, the relief in his voice palpable. She takes the air of it into her lungs like it might save her. “I love you so fucking much.”

It’s dangerous, she knows, to trick herself into believing she can satiate his mountainous hunger. Danger is like an ice bath, though. You grow accustomed to the bite of it.

Morning light creeps slowly into Layla’s condo. Homelander trails her as closely as her own shadow, breathing in against the crook of her neck while she cooks breakfast. He’s partially dressed in his undershirt and underwear, his suit folded neatly upon her vanity for the time being. It’s nice to feel his arms around her without the obstructive padding of his suit. Without the bulk of it, she fits more closely against him, his superhuman warmth like a particularly cuddly space heater pressed against her back.

“One egg or two?” She asks him, plucking one from the container on the counter.

“Mmm… Two,” he says, the deliberation making it sound more like a trivia answer than a preference.

She cracks four eggs into the pan, one at a time. “Over easy, medium, hard…?”

He grins against her neck, and she gives his hand at her hip a playful little swat with the back of her silicone spatula. “I dunno,” he says, nuzzling her. “However you like it.”

“Have you never had eggs before?” She asks, looking back at him. 

He’s got his chin propped up on her shoulder. His gaze flickers up from the sizzling pan to meet hers. “Just scrambled.”

…I was made… manufactured in a fucking lab…

She swallows a small lump in her throat, turning back to the eggs. She flips them all over easy and plates them with the toast. When she takes the toast off of the plates and begins slicing them into strips, Homelander makes an inquisitive noise.

“You’ll see,” she says cryptically, shooing him to the table as she plates their breakfasts and carries them to the table.

Homelander sits, and she sets his plate down in front of him. She sits on the adjoining corner to his, but within seconds he has a grip on her seat. The chair legs groan as he slides her closer to him, smiling at her look of surprise. “That’s better,” he says, his knee bumping hers.

He’d likely prefer she be in his lap. There’s always a lingering sense that she’s never quite close enough, even when they’re pressed tightly against one another. He might not be satisfied until he finds a way to open her up and crawl inside.

Huffing a small laugh, she gestures to his plate. “Use the toast sticks to break the yolk,” she tells him, and then demonstrates on her own meal, jabbing a piece of toast into the soft yellow yolk, coating it properly before taking a bite.

Blinking, Homelander does the same. He hums appreciatively, nodding with a mouthful of food.

“My gramma insisted that all food tastes better when it’s dipped. She always made my breakfasts this way,” she explains, her smile tinged with bittersweet nostalgia. “I can’t remember the last time I did it for myself.” 

Silence follows. She glances up to find Homelander staring intently at his plate, a cut of toast pinched between his fingers, dripping yolk back down onto the egg. Layla takes a breath to speak, but that inhale is all it takes to snap him from his thoughts, his sharp blue eyes meeting hers.

“Ryan would like this, I think,” he says. She can tell he’s working to keep his voice conversational.

“Ryan?” She echoes, though it clicks a second after she says it.

“My son,” he confirms, clearing his throat gently. She shares his trepidation as he enters this particular topic of conversation, considering the fallout the last time it was broached. He dips the toast again and takes another bite, seemingly buying time with deliberate chews.

Layla bites her tongue, choking back her own knee-jerk response. She likes children just fine, in theory. She’s had very little practical experience. Still, words of unbidden advice bubble up on her tongue as if she’s an expert. She wants to tell Homelander to go to the boy, talk to him. He told her that she had taken everything from him, presumably referring to his very public meltdown, but that isn’t true in a number of ways. He has a son out there somewhere, confused and without either of his parents.

It sets a sympathetic churn in her gut. Grieving her own parents as a child made an adult of her far too soon. She may not have raised any children herself, but she can speak as a child who was left behind.

“He’s nine. He’s strong,” Homelander continues tentatively. “I mean, really strong. Strong like me,” he says, pride underlining each word, driving out the hesitance. “He’s so much like me. I never thought I’d see it, but he’s real. He’s—” he breaks into a small, incredulous laugh. “—He’s a miracle. A real, born miracle.”

Unlike you, she surmises from his tone. He said that Vought had made him. The world has been rocked by the revelation that supes are the result of Vought’s pharmaceutical ventures, but the way Homelander talks of his son makes him sound different. An exception to that fact, somehow.

“You should go to him,” she encourages, still holding onto a level of cautiousness on the matter. “I was left behind by my parents. I don’t wish it on anyone.”

“I didn’t leave him behind,” Homelander corrects sharply. She was right to tread lightly. “He left me,” he says, though he doesn’t speak with anger so much as he does woundedness. He’s never expressed anything but love—bordering on reverence—for his son, and yet he has completely roadblocked himself from reaching out.

It’s complicated, he told her before.

“He’s nine. It’s not his job to uncomplicate things or bridge the gap,” she says as gently as she can muster, though even she can hear the weariness in her own voice. “It’s yours. He needs you to be the adult, to help the world make sense. It’s one thing to give him space, but you can’t abandon him.”

At first, there is a flash of petulant defiance in Homelander’s eyes, obvious in the tight set of his jaw. To Layla’s relief, however, it fades into quiet consideration. He looks back down to his half-finished plate.

“You can’t take personally what anyone, much less a child, does out of grief,” she says softly, reaching out to put her hand atop his where it rests on the table. “Ryan needs wisdom. Support. People who love him. He needs his father.”

He looks up at her with a level of vulnerability in those ocean blue eyes that never fails to pull her into the depths. “You think so?”

“I know so,” she says firmly. To this day, she can’t imagine what she wouldn’t do for just one more day with her own father. 

Slowly, the wateriness of his gaze becomes a sparkle. Homelander smiles. He has as many smiles as an ice cream shop has flavors, and this one says he’s just had an idea.

“What?” Layla asks after a beat, an edge of suspicion to her tone.

“Nothing,” he says placatingly. His smile shifts. She knows that flavor of smile. That one means he’s lying. “Just relieved is all. Could I use your phone?”

It’s a wonder the ease with which Homelander glides from mood to mood, as if he puts each one neatly in a box before he takes out the next one. Layla only hesitates for a second before she nods, sliding out of her chair to go and fetch her cellphone. She still needs to text Annie.

“Jesus,” she says softly, staring at her screen with a deep crease in her brow.

“What?” Homelander asks, leaning in his seat.

She has thirty missed calls, and about as many text messages.

THIS IS ASHLEY BARRET. HAVE YOU SEEN HOMELANDER? IF YOU KNOW WHERE HOMELANDER IS, PLEASE CONTACT ME. PLEASE CONTACT ME IF YOU KNOW WHERE HOMELANDER IS. MISS ALDEN PLEASE CONTACT ME AND ONLY ME IF YOU HAVE SEEN HOMELANDER. IF YOU CAN PLEASE INFORM HOMELANDER HE IS UP.

Ashley Barret. Layla recalls the name from Homelander’s initial booking. She had been the one to handle the details and arrange payment.

“Ashley Barret is very desperate to find you,” she says, reading the texts as she walks back towards him. “She says that you’re… up.” She stops at the table, looking at him. “What does that mean?”

The chair legs scrape audibly against the floor when Homelander stands up. “Give me that,” he says, taking the phone from her outstretched hand. His expression pinches tightly as he scrolls through the messages, lips parted. “I’m… up,” he says slowly, processing the words that mean nothing to Layla. With a tap, she hears a dial tone. Homelander holds the phone to his ear.

“Miss Alden–” answers a feminine voice immediately.

“What do you mean I’m up?” Homelander interrupts, a harshness to his voice that Layla doesn’t expect to hear outside of an argument.

“21 points with your base,” Ashley says breathlessly.

Homelander’s expression softens, becoming wonder-like. “What did you say?”

“21 points. They loved your speech!”

He looks at Layla, familiar glassiness returning to his eyes. He lifts his loose hand, which curls slowly into a fist, as if he’s taking hold of something precious, some nebulous concept of grace he had thought lost. 

“A massive 44% uptick with white males in the Rust Belt.”

“Yes,” Homelander hisses through his teeth, pumping his fist triumphantly. “Fuck yes! Yes!” With that same hand, he suddenly takes hold of the back of Layla’s neck, pulling her into a deep kiss. Her noise of surprise is muffled against his lips, his tongue a slick demand on hers.

“They’re saying you’re confident and unapologetic!” Ashley’s voice continues to prattle from the phone, though Layla’s finding it hard to pay attention with the way Homelander’s taking a fistful of her hair, bowing her back, kissing her hungrily. “That you’re not afraid to be yourself!”

He outright moans against her lips. She breaks away from him with a gasp, hand pressed against her chest. “Should I give you a moment alone with Ashley?” She asks breathlessly, only half-joking. The man is absolutely alight against her, heat radiating in his touches. The news trips an alarm bell somewhere in the back of Layla’s mind, but she’s struggling to process it in the wake of his voraciousness.

“Christ, no,” he says. The phone hits the ground with a clatter, Ashley’s confused voice continuing distantly on the line. He cups both sides of Layla’s face and pulls her back in, exhaling a pleased little growl against her lips. “Did you hear? They love me. They fucking love me,” he says between kisses, breathless and downright giddy.

Drawing back, he strokes her cheeks tenderly with his thumbs, his smile broad, eyes shining with relief, joy, and something Layla can’t quite place, though it causes a small knot to form in her gut.

“They want me to be myself.”

[daughter-of-melpomene]

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆… 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐊 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐀 𝐃𝐔𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐈

❝ Layla Dupreti had been a ghost since she was only a small child - her family’s own little shadow girl, her father used to joke, always walking around their little house with perfectly silent steps since she was able to take steps at all. It wasn’t something she had ever consciously tried to do, though she found her skill did improve when she focused; she had just been born that way, sure-footed as a cat and with feet just as padded and quiet.

And this was a skill that certainly came in handy, with Layla and her family living the way they did. Part of a human settlement on a backwater planet too small and inconsequential for the United Federation of Planets to care about, the Dupretis grew up, and raised their children, in fear of the violent gangs that ran rampant through the settlement’s various villages and cities, grabbing power wherever they could get it and showing no mercy for anyone who stood in their way. Often whichever gang was in control of her small village at the moment would hoard goods and supplies for themselves, forcing the villagers to pay large amounts of money simply for the things they needed to survive, but with Layla’s gift for silent sneaking, she was usually able to snatch enough supplies to keep her and her family afloat, all without anyone dangerous ever discovering her thieving.

So it was not retribution for her stealing that left Layla an orphan at the tender age of fourteen. No, the way in which the young girl lost her parents was much more pointless than that - during a siege of power over the village from a larger gang, with a fearsome reputation for cruelty, the little home that Layla had lived in all her life was burnt down, her parents both slaughtered while trying to run away from the fire. She had returned home from school that day to the burnt remains of the only home she’d ever known, forced to bury her parents by herself in shallow, unmarked graves, before going straight to the nearest starship port and stowing away on it, leaving the world full of violence behind her.

From there, Layla began to advertise herself as the perfect spy and thief, renting out her skills to whomever had the funds to pay for them - often working for rival organizations at the same time, spending the majority of her days crouched in the shadows with her face obscured and her trusty twin knifes, the payment for one of her first ever jobs, strapped to her sides. Though she concealed her true name and identity very carefully - referring to herself solely as the Shadow, an agonizing reminder to herself of her father’s nickname and the pain she had run from years ago - she quickly gained a reputation as the most talented thief in the galaxy, and eventually began to be approached by bigger and more powerful organizations. Those groups paid better than any “employers” Layla had had prior to them… but they were also more dangerous, the implications of what would happen if Layla refused the work they offered more severe.

This was how Layla eventually finds herself with perhaps the least desirable job of her career: stowing away on the USS Enterprise and making off with the cargo they were carrying, which happens to be medicine the ship is ferrying to a planet like the one Layla had used to call home, tiny and poor and in desperate need of it. Layla wants perhaps nothing less than to do what has been requested of her, but the crime syndicate who makes the job offer makes it very clear what will happen if the Shadow refuses. So she grits her teeth, takes half her payment in advance, and sneaks into the Enterprise’s cargo hold when they stop to pick up the object of her thievery.

And then she gets caught.

Found and pulled from the shadows on a job for the first time in her life, Layla fully expects to be kept prisoner on the starship and hauled before a judge. She doesn’t expect James Kirk, the Enterprise’s captain, to take pity on her, and to make her an offer: she will not be reported as a thief to the Starfleet authorities, as long as she agrees to stay aboard the Enterprise and serve as a yeoman. Having spent so much of her life hidden in dark corners, Layla doesn’t exactly adore the idea of spending every day around so many people, but faced with a choice between agreeing to this deal or going to prison for the rest of her life, she would - and does - choose the former without hesitation.

Now serving as a yeoman on the ship she had previously intended to burgle, Layla finds that she has never been in an environment such as this… and she can’t quite decide if that’s a good thing or not. With the exception of the ship’s doctor, a man whose cantankerous attitude she can appreciate, and half-Vulcan first officer, everyone on the ship is so cheerful and friendly, seeming to completely forgive Layla’s past attempted offence and seek to be friends with her - especially the Enterprise’s navigation officer, who continues to throw flirtatious comments at Layla no matter how often she puts one of her knives to his throat.

Layla isn’t quite sure what to make of the direction her life has taken. But she has gone from being a nameless lost soul of a thief who spends her time crouched in the darkness to having friends who genuinely want to know the person behind her inner walls, a found family full of sun-bright souls, and potentially, a boyfriend (if Sulu can ever man up enough to ask her out properly), so she supposes it’s more positive than negative.

It would, however, be a lot better if Kirk and Spock’s escapades wouldn’t threaten them all with death every other week. ❞

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[dulcemaiden]

Lord Canopus, revealed

So, we have received confirmation in ch. 204 that Doll is Lord Canopus, as many in the fandom have theorized. I personally believed this too, not because Vega was most likely Layla/Al (and canopus was the only left), but because her personality fits with the japanese chart about blood type personalities. By now we know these canopus/Types B: Lizzie, Doll, Redmond, Lau, Bard, Wolfram, and all the corgi class students like Mabel and Ginny.

"Type B blood people are creative, cheerful, independent, laid-back, and adventurous. They are quick thinkers and spontaneous, as well as passionate and strong-willed. They do things at their own pace, and mostly end up going their own way because they are not good at follow orders, so they are known too as the "rule-breakers". They are honest and caring at heart, and make friends easily because they are loyal and non-pretentious. On the other hand, their negative traits include being “wild,” selfish, unforgiving, irresponsible and unpredictable. When type B blood people focus on something, they put their all into it, and they are unlikely to let go, even if the goal seems unachievable or impractical."

There are interesting things in the symbolism of canopus too:

Canopus was the helmsman of the Argo Navis, the ship of Jason and the Argonauts, who served King Menelaus. Canopus is described as a handsome young man who was loved by a egyptian prophetess, but never reciprocated her feelings. While visiting the Egyptian coast, Canopus was bitten by a serpent and died, and Menelaus then built a monument to his memory on the shore where this happened, around which the town of Canopus later grew up. In this town was worshipped the egiptian god Osiris, under a peculiar form: that of a vase with a human head. Osiris is a god who is in among other things, the Lord of the afterlife, the dead, resurrection and life in ancient Egyptian religion).

Osiris is the name of the group/company Undertaker was supposedly working with on his bizarre doll/resurrection project during the Campania arc. It is curious too the way Canopus died (it will implicate Doll's fate in the future?... although for now I see it unlikely).

About Doll's role in the plot, I don't think she will be killed (in this arc), because I think our Ciel will see her again, it would be a poor choice on Yana's part to reintroduce Doll just to kill her off so quickly, what would be the point then? And we still don't know why Undertaker revived her either. The "Stars" require a lot of work and huge amount of resources to function properly, and her blood type is rare (not as rare as Sirius but still rare), so why Undertaker gave her such preferential treatment is a mystery. I don't think he has revived her just to mortify OCiel, there must be another reason.

And some things start to make sense now, just at this part. I don't think the relationship between RCiel and Doll is good at all, since RCiel wouldn't tolerate someone who hold such a big grudge against his brother, and Doll wouldn't like the idea of dealing with the brother of the one who killed her and her family. So it makes sense not to mention Canopus as a candidate for his butler.

Besides, the butler of RCiel would need to be a fighter, and unlike Lizzie, strength in combat doesn't seem to be Doll's strong point, who also seems to be in a delicate state. Polaris fought AGNI and won, Layla(Al) almost beat Ronald if it wasn't for William's intervention, but Doll just walk and collapse? Like with RCiel, that could be because of a low blood supply.

What will happen now?

Regarding what will happen next, I was somehow expecting a confrontation between Doll and Finnian, but in her current state that seems impossible, since she probably can barely move, so the whole conflict will happen between Finny and Snake.

Doll is an important part of Snake's character. She is the first person who reached out for him, and in his memories she is the most prominent figure of his "circus family". The worst thing is that Snake has been serving loyally to the one who ordered her death, and him forgiving OCiel after finding out seems unlikely. There are inocent children involved too, so the situation is really complicated. It will all depends on what are Snake's priorities and loyalty, but I wonder if he will bear with the idea of killing Doll, I highly doubt it (I hope he and Finny save the kids though).

On the other hand, I expect Finnian not to die and return to OCiel and Sebastian, but he could learn from Doll the truth about Sebastian's nature. At first obviously not believing her words, but the seed of doubt would be planted, as he could remember Sebastian's strange behavior in the Emerald Witch arc. Finnian could confirm this later, causing a huge conflict between the servants and Sebastian, who would want to protect their master from him, and complicating things for our Ciel.

In addition, we must consider that Meyrin and Bard have already achieved 2 victories for OCiel, will this be the occasion where RCiel will win a game?

[xradiant]

He actually liked the look on her face, the way that she leaned towards him and how her eyes glinted with - what was that? Excitement? It seemed that way. Dorian usually was laughed at when he mentioned his career or it was always telling him that things like that were nothing but lies. Layla, however, well he found that she was actually pretty fascinating. He usually didn't think that way about many people but her? Well - was there a spell in the works? He wasn't sure. "I can do that." Dorian stated with a small nod of his head. "Or rather…I've tried to. Sometimes they would rather ignore me. Maybe they don't like my face." He shrugged his shoulders as he held her eyes. Or was she trying to bait him into wanting her story? "Is that possible? For ghosts to hate someone that tries to contact them?"

@tothedevilsshow xxx