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blindmagdalena · 2 years ago

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Eat Your Ego, Honey (CH4)

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

Homelander’s session was a disaster. Layla sits in the aftermath of it, still collecting herself a good twenty minutes after Homelander has departed. Perched on the couch, she buries her face in her hands and takes several deep breaths. Now that she’s alone, she can finally process everything that happened. She can feel the furious beat of her heart in her throat, and her legs ache. Shifting sideways, she leans down to slip off the shoes. In doing so, she catches a glimpse of her calves, where she can already see distinct hand-shaped bruises forming. Her stomach flips. Delicately, she traces the outline of blossoming purple along her skin.

He’s replaced the bruise on her neck that had only just faded.

With a sharp inhale, Layla stands up. She needs to change her clothes, and get herself out of this mindset. Tears well up in her eyes in the wake of her adrenaline fading, burning as she blinks them away. She’s hyper-aware of the feel of the bruises as she walks barefoot to her closet, slipping out of her dress with practiced ease. She hangs it up, and reaches for a linen sweater and a soft pair of pants.

Over and over, Layla replays the session in her mind as she dresses, pinpointing the moment everything changed. She’s established and enforced boundaries with him before, but never has his response to them been so visceral. Something different happened today, but try as she might, Layla can’t figure out what it was. There must have been an internal trigger. “I’m not like lots of people,” he had snarled. “Do you understand that? I’m a god, and I don’t need your fucking pity.”

She had tried to humanize him, to allow him space for this vulnerability, but today she’s learned that John is so lost to the mantle of Homelander, to the weight of his powers, that he is convinced he is above such things. It doesn’t matter that he wept against her. The second it was over, he wanted her to forget it ever happened. Layla can’t forget. Looking at the dress now, it’s still spotted wet with his tears. This doesn’t feel like a man in love with his delusions. This feels like a man trapped by them. Who told you that you have to be a god? Who won’t let you be a man?

That was the moment Layla knew she needed to see the suit stripped away. The bruises on her legs were unintended, that much she is certain of. It was as if with the flip of a switch, he went from present to wholly gone, not hearing a word she said. When he did come back to himself, he let go of her immediately, and apologized in a voice so small, she barely heard it. He wore his shame clearly, self-hatred wet in his eyes. She remembers bringing him into her arms before she could reconsider. Layla knows herself better than to think of that act of comfort as an entirely altruistic one. The truth of the matter is that she enjoys both his vulnerability and his unpredictability. More and more, taming a man like Homelander is proving to be a power trip like none other. One moment he’s utterly wrapped around her finger, and the next it’s as though she’s freefalling.

Homelander is rekindling a fire in Layla that she thought long since safely fed and satiated by her line of work, and she can't bring herself to smother the embers. Distantly, the logical side of her brain screams at her that this is madness. The dull ache in her calves calls for a restraining order, not a date. Homelander is a literal walking red flag; he wears it proudly as a cape. Yet Layla’s mind is left buzzing, drowning out that shrill cry of reason.

Lying down on the couch, she wonders what he’ll wear instead of the suit.

Layla spends most of the following week talking herself in and out of the date. Up until this point, she hasn’t needed to consider the scope of John as a whole, or her actual compatibility with him. He was a client, and all that mattered was that she treated him as such. Whoever they were in the world outside of that relationship didn’t matter. Suddenly, it could very much matter. He isn’t just John, he’s America’s Homelander. Her grandmother must be rolling in her urn. They were never a particularly patriotic family, to put it lightly. She calls Jason, who’s no help at all.

“If you want to go, then go. If you don’t want to go, don’t go.” He doesn’t know what to do with her mix of exasperation and stubbornness any more than she does. She knew even as she was speaking to him that she was being irrational. She feels like she’s going insane over the whole situation. A significant part of her agony is knowing that if she could just tell Jason who it was, the details of their relationship, or if he could see the faded bruises on her legs, she’s certain that he would tell her no, absolutely not. What she cannot figure out about herself is why she’s looking for someone else to tell her “no.” She’s lived her entire life on her own terms, but there’s something about Homelander that makes her question her capacity to make rational decisions. He’s enthralling even in her thoughts, and he’s slipping into her fantasies more and more each night.

Every time she convinces herself it’s a terrible idea spurred on by mindless infatuation, Layla picks up her phone. Every single time, she hesitates, and ultimately sets it back down. Tomorrow, she tells herself. I’ll sleep on it, and I’ll know by tomorrow. Soon enough, too many tomorrows have come and gone. It’s Friday evening, and Layla is in the back of a polished black car sent to her apartment. She’s out of time, and on her way to Vought International. It’s a chilly night, so she’s opted for a coat and pantyhose, but otherwise she’s dressed precisely the way Homelander last saw her. She drums her fingers on her thighs, once more wondering if and how he’ll uphold his end of the bargain. Layla leans closer to the window, peering up at Vought Tower. The top of the tower disappears into the haze of the night sky, too tall for her to see. She’s always considered all one hundred floors of the tower to be something of an eyesore, an out of place advertisement thrust into the skyline of the city. But up close she can at least admit it’s an impressive feat of architecture. Ugly all the same, but impressive.

The car pulls around a side road that curves into a courtyard, stopping at a security check. The headquarters of a multibillion dollar corporation hardly screamed date night romance, but John had been insistent it would offer them a spectacular view, and the privacy he required in order to meet her demands. He assured her that the food would be good, promising the best steak that New York has to offer. Once they make it through security, the drive up the courtyard is slow. The pace allows her to admire what little greenery they have tucked behind the building, which is admittedly more than she expected. The finely trimmed hedges and manicured flower beds are unfortunately broken up by gaudy bronze statues of Vought’s golden age heroes: imposing metallic faces with meticulously carved eyes that seem to follow her as she passes them, lit only by the harsh white spotlights below them. It gives the whole place an eerie, artificial atmosphere, particularly in the dark of the evening. It feels more like a graveyard than a garden.

However, much of that falls away when the car pulls up to the private entrance, and Layla sees a sleek silhouette cut out against the fluorescent hall lights. There stands Homelander not in his star-spangled usual, but in a well fitted suit. At first she thinks it black, but as he approaches the vehicle the light catches it in such a way that she realizes it’s a deep navy with black accents. The black bowtie at his neck reminds her of old Hollywood, a look that would have given even Cary Grant a run for his money. I’ll be damned, she thinks, smiling broadly. The car door swings open, and Homelander extends a rare ungloved hand to her. Slipping her hand into his, she allows him to effortlessly draw her up out of the vehicle. Though Homelander returns her smile, she can see the tension at the corners of his mouth. It reminds her of the tight way he’s been smiling for the cameras for the last several weeks, and not at all of their usual comfortable exchanges during sessions.

“You look very handsome,” she tells him, reaching up to smooth her fingers along one of the lapels of his jacket. He’s a good deal more slender than the supe suit makes him appear. His shoulders are less broad without the protruding pauldrons. His torso is ridiculously bulging. Still, he is by no means a slight man. Truth be told, she finds the figure he cuts in a formal suit far more appealing. His hair is also styled more softly, looser, as if no longer needing to compensate for the bulk of the suit. Where normally she would expect him to preen under the compliment, Homelander rolls his shoulders subtly, clearing his throat. She wonders how long it’s been since anyone new (or anyone at all) saw him in anything other than his Homelander suit.

He gives her hand a subtle squeeze, and suit or no suit, there is no doubt that the power that thrums in his body is wholly his. “Thank you,” he says, closing the car door behind her. He signals the driver off with a flick of his wrist. “And you look… radiant,” he says, regaining some of his usual composure once he’s able to shift the focus onto her. His smile thins slyly as he draws her nearer. “Looks like I’ll have to warm you up again,” he said, giving her jacket a playful little tug. “Surely it won’t be as cold inside,” Layla responds, glancing over to the double doorway. “We won’t be eating inside tonight. Still, you won’t be needing it,” he responds, slipping a hand beneath her coat, settling it on her hip. Even against the night air, the press of his hand is warm as ever. The heat of him seeping through the fabric of her dress.

Layla looks up at him, expression pinching incredulously. “It’s freezing out.” “Relax,” he purrs, closing the slight gap between them with a small step. “You trust me?” She hums with a purse of her lips, wrinkling her nose at him. “Tentatively. The ice is thin.” Homelander’s smile broadens. “Good enough for me.” With that, he scoops Layla up into his arms, startling a soft noise from her. Before she can ask what would necessitate him carrying her to dinner, her stomach flips the way it does when going down a hill in a car; a sudden shift in her gravity. Looking down, she sees the pavement she was just standing on, growing more and more distant, along with the flowerbeds and statues. Inhaling sharply, Layla grabs a tight hold of his jacket, the other arm curling around his neck. Her heart leaps in her chest, pumping a surge of adrenaline through her as the ground grows more distant, and the sickly thrill of danger climbs higher. “W-wait, hold on–”

“Relax,” Homelander says again, a laugh bubbling up beneath it. “I’m not gonna drop you, alright? I’m a professional. Just breathe,” he tells her, which she’s sure is easy for him to say. The higher they climb, the more the world below them looks surreal, like the most realistic toy city she’s ever seen. “Not long to floor eighty-eight.” “Eighty-eight?” Layla echoes incredulously, her heart skipping a beat. “Look at me,” Homelander murmurs, his voice warm in her ear. She turns sharper than she means to, staring up at him with wide eyes. Once again, unbalancing her helps him recover much of his confidence. He may not have a suit to scream superhero! but flying her to the top of a one hundred storey building is certainly one way to do it. “Atta girl, see? Safer than a plane,” he says, throwing in a little wink. He chuckles at that, and she feels as though he’s making another one of those jokes she’s not privy to.

“I would have been just as impressed if you had carried me up a hundred flights of stairs instead, you know,” Layla says, flexing her grip around his neck, her stomach flipping wildly. The ground is still fading away, and when she chances a glance up, she sees they still have a long way to go. Homelander is moving slowly enough that the breeze is gentle, but the air is only growing colder and thinner as they climb. Homelander scoffs a little laugh. “I don’t believe that.” Taking in a slow breath, Layla looks out across the city. While it had been dark on the ground, from here she can see the remnants of the sunset creeping across the edges of the horizon. Above the haze and light pollution, she can even make out stars twinkling in the night sky. Not even her high rise apartment allowed her enough altitude to stargaze in the city. It’s beautiful. A tapestry of rich blues and purples dotted with constellations stretching in every direction. She can’t remember the last time she really saw the sky.

“Okay,” she relents, resting her head on his chest, gaze lazily flitting over the star-dusted sky. “Maybe not as impressed.” He hums at that, his own stare focused solely on her, smirking his satisfaction. Layla looks up at him, and the way he waggles his brows at her makes her laugh. ”But you don’t need to look so pleased with yourself,” she says, tentatively releasing her grip on his jacket to poke the corner of his mouth, where that smirk of his sits proud. “I’m drifting freely above the finest city in the greatest country in the world, holding a beautiful woman in my arms. What’s not to be pleased about?” Homelander counters, leaning into her touch. Layla opens her palm to allow for the way he pushes into it, turning a playful little gesture into something more intimate, her hand cupped to the side of his face. His words would make her roll her eyes if he didn’t speak them with such earnestness. There is so much about him that would fall flatter than roadkill on paper, if it wasn’t for the specific kind of charisma he carries. It has captured her more than she cares to admit. When she expects to hear irony in his voice, oftentimes she is met with a sincerity that she rarely sees in men of his age and status.

The air has grown thin. Layla feels light and fuzzy in this moment, warm in his arms despite the chill of the night. Their breaths mingle visibly in the cold. The impulse to kiss him strikes her, and she follows it without a thought, her thumb stroking his cheek. The edges of his smirk soften against her lips as he kisses her back slowly, unhurried, but with no less passion. Just the way she taught him. What she had initially intended to be a brief press of her lips stretches into coaxing movements, deepening with each passing second. Layla pushes her hand up into his hair, cupping the back of his head, encouraging him with a pleased little noise. Homelander’s hand tightens at her waist, under her legs. Despite the fact he’s currently flying her nearly a hundred feet directly into the air, the eager way he follows her lead as she kisses him gives her a sense of control over him that eases the drumming of her heart.

Layla falls so deeply into the kiss that she nearly misses the gentle jostle of their landing. When she opens her eyes, she’s met with a row of hanging lights, dangling prettily from a white fabric tent set up over a patio. It’s upheld by sturdy wooden beams, with a single dining table between them. Truth be told, it’s far from what Layla had expected. The singular square table is rather small, making for a much more intimate setting than she had anticipated. “It’s warm,” she says, more thinking aloud than speaking to Homelander, who hums approvingly. “State of the art outdoor conditioning. Four regulators, one in each corner. They circulate warm air, and keep the cold out. Something about creating pressure,” he says dismissively, setting Layla down on her feet. Placing his hands on her shoulders and giving a slight squeeze, he asks slyly, “May I take your coat?”

Smiling over her shoulder at him, Layla lifts her hands to unbutton her jacket, allowing him to slide it off her arms. She feels the tips of his fingers graze her bare arms, his own hands pleasantly ungloved. “Thank you,” she says, watching him fold the garment over his forearm. He offers her his other arm, and she takes it for the walk to the table. “You’re quite the romantic, aren’t you?” She asks, taking note of the bouquet of roses set at the table, and the smattering of tealights lit all around it. Instead of being set across the table from each other, the chairs were set opposite one another at the same corner. Homelander looks pleased at that, following her eye to the table setting. “Ahh, well, maybe a little.” In addition to the flowers, there are two dishes sitting under silver cloches, though only one of the two is paired with a glass of red wine, the bottle not far away. She sits down, and Homelander drapes her coat on the back of her chair, sliding it in under her. He moves to take the seat next to her, unbuttoning the bottom of his jacket as he sits.

“Hope it’s all to your liking. Prepared fresh from the kitchens,” he says, reaching out to the silver cloche set over her plate. Lifting it off, he reveals a gorgeously plated beef filet. It’s sat atop potato puree and asparagus, with what looks to be roasted fennel on top. Layla can smell the butter and thyme immediately. She smiles, closing her eyes as she inhales it. “Smells incredible,” she says, unfolding the cloth napkin to place on her lap. She had assumed as much when he had inquired about her preference between well done, medium and rare, but this was an admittedly more delicate presentation than she expected. “You don’t drink?” She asks, reaching for the wine glass next to her plate. “No, no. Not for me. Never really acquired the taste for it. Plus, it, uhh, doesn’t do much for me. I’d have to drink the whole winery for a good buzz,” Homelander explains, absently rubbing his hands up and down his thighs. When was the last time he wore a pair of pants that weren’t made of padded material with an NIJ protection level? “Touché,” Layla responds, bringing the glass to her lips. She inhales first, and then takes a sip. It’s delicious, rich and subtly fruity, but not enough to overpower the meal. Glancing at the bottle, she recognizes the label: it’s a vintage Saint Émilion, easily worth a couple hundred dollars. She gives an approving hum. “More for me, I suppose,” she says playfully, setting the glass down. “All yours,” he agrees. His smile is gradually becoming less tight, though his posture is not. He’s sitting straight with his hands on his thighs, nervous in a way she hasn’t seen him before. “Not trying to get me drunk, are you?” She asks, quirking her brow.

He huffs a laugh, leaning back in his chair, seemingly eased by the banter. “You an easy drunk?” “Not in the least. It’ll take more than one bottle,” she shoots back, smiling as she takes a sip. “Well, there’s plenty more where that came from,” he says, interlacing his hands in his lap.

“Careful, I can become quite an expensive date,” she says slyly, cutting herself a bite of the filet. Clearly he was one to splurge. “And an even more expensive fuck,” Homelander adds without missing a beat, his tone a touch lower. The two of them sit in a dense silence while Layla chews her bite, taken aback. Homelander takes in her expression, and as he does, she can see the gears turning in his head. Some of that tension creeps back into the line of his shoulders as he realizes he may have spoken something that should have been kept a thought. He sits up straight. “Which… is to say–” he begins, trying to recover, but stops himself when Layla starts to laugh. “It’s okay,” she says, finishing her glass in a final sip. “You’re right. I’m a very expensive fuck,” she says, licking her lips. His gaze drops to her lips, following the movement with the precision of a stalking predator. He swallows visibly, eventually smiling in return. “That’s the lifestyle I chose for myself. You’re doing well in keeping up,” she says, giving her empty glass a pointed little tap. He takes the hint and picks up the bottle to refill her glass. “Why did you choose it?” He asks, setting the bottle back down. “Your lifestyle. Your… occupation.”

An inevitable question, but one that remains no less complicated to answer, regardless of how many times it comes up.

Layla gives a contemplative hum. “I’m good at it,” she says, absently running her fingers up and down the stem of her glass. “Better than I ever was in an office. Happier, too. I work when I want, I charge what I want, and I love who I want.” Homelander makes a skeptical little noise. “You don’t love those other guys, though.” Other guys. He’s specific about that, she notes. She decides not to address it for now, nor the fact that not all of her clients are even ‘guys.’ Layla takes a slow breath, and then a sip of her drink, formulating her answer. “I started escorting because I knew I would meet people like me. People who felt incapable of finding intimate connection the way everyone around them did.” She may not be drunk, but the wine has certainly helped loosen her lips. ”I have total control of who can enjoy my time, my affection, for how long, and in exchange they show me the parts of themselves they don’t want the world to see. There is true intimacy in that.” She tilts her head slightly, gauging his response. He, after all, is one such person. His posture has changed completely: he’s leaning in now, with his forearm braced on the table. She continues, “Just because it’s paid for doesn’t mean it isn’t real. I build relationships with the people I want to build relationships with.” “Don’t you think that’s dangerous?” He asks, a lilt to his voice that Layla has difficulty parsing. “Selling people on the idea that you really do love them?” “I don’t say these things to my clients. You’re my date,” she counters, taking a bite of her meal. He straightens up slightly at that, as if he’s been praised. “But no, I don’t. I do my job, and I do it well. I take precautions.”

“Precautions,” Homelander echoes. “Because it’s dangerous.” “You’re not going to tell me anything about my profession I don’t already know,” she says, amused. “I’ve been doing this for years.” “What do your parents think of it?” Layla considers him a moment. “They died when I was young,” she says. No sense in dragging that out any more than it needs to be. “My grandparents raised me, but they passed, oh… About eleven years ago.”

“How did they die?” He asks immediately, brows slightly furrowed.

She could almost laugh. While on the one hand it’s a tactless approach, it’s also refreshing. Oftentimes, that answer means a handful of empty condolences for a bunch of people the person never knew, people who died decades ago, and Layla comforting them through the discomfort associated with death and grief. Homelander didn’t even blink.

“My grandparents passed peacefully within a year of each other,” she says, swirling her wine. “She went first, and I think he just… didn’t want to be here without her,” she says, pursing her lips slightly. “My parents, on the other hand, they had a–let’s say it was a flare for the dramatic,” she says, her smile turning a little wry. “They were junkies.” Homelander’s brows lift. “Drugs?” “No, no. They were addicts, but it wasn’t for drugs. They were adrenaline junkies. It’s how they met. Skydiving,” she says, finishing off her second glass. This time, Homelander refills it without prompt. The gesture makes her smile, and she tips her glass in thanks. “They slowed down for a bit after they had me, but not for long. Eventually they started performing for crowds. You know, stunts. Motorcycles, jumps, demolition derbies. Whatever thrilled them.” “So, what… Blew up in a freak accident?” He asks, shifting to rest his hand on his thigh. This time, Layla does laugh. There’s something liberating about his irreverence. He’s not treating the subject with the kid gloves that everyone else does, and it’s clear he doesn’t expect her to, either. “More or less. They planned this… insane jump. Fitted my dad’s Pontiac with a homemade rocket. They were supposed to clear a jump over a building set for demolition, but the rocket malfunctioned. It didn’t engage until they were nearly off the ramp, and ended up just… flying them straight into the side of the building.” Looking over at Homelander, Layla cocks her head. She half expects him to laugh, crack a joke or make some reference, but he’s just watching her. She sips her drink. “You tell that story pretty straight,” he says at last. She gives a small shrug. “It’s been a long time.” He nods, tapping his middle finger on the table. “Real Thelma and Louise of them.” There it is, Layla muses. “I never knew two people more in love than my parents. They were happiest when they were risking their lives together. Can’t think of a more fitting way for two people to go out,” she says, and though she means it, even she can hear the emptiness sinking into the tone of her voice. She takes a long final drink from her wine, setting the empty glass aside. “How old were you?” He asks. He moves to refill her glass, but she lifts a hand to stop him, shaking her head subtly. He sets the bottle back down. “Twelve.” She chooses not to elaborate, despite the flood of memories that come with the answer. Homelander hums. “Really took after ‘em, huh?” Layla blinks, immediately disarmed. “I–excuse me?”

He looks surprised by her surprise. “I mean… C’mon. Sure, you’re not strapping rockets to your car or throwing yourself out of planes, but you’re not working a desk job, either. You said it yourself. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know,” he says, echoing her word for word. “You work a dangerous job, and you like it.” She can say with confidence that the last thing she expected to happen tonight was for him to start psychoanalyzing her. She huffs an incredulous little laugh, suddenly wishing she hadn’t stopped him from refilling her glass.

“That’s not the same thing,” she dismisses, smiling despite the nagging unease it dredges up somewhere in the back of her mind. “Besides, you’re hardly one to talk about occupational hazards. What made you choose to become a hero?” It’s not her most skillful conversational redirect, but she’s also three glasses deep in a very good wine. “I didn’t,” he answers plainly, his demeanor shifting alongside the direction of the conversation. Layla’s smile falters. “What?” “I didn’t choose it,” he says, voice duller yet. “It was chosen for me. I mean, c’mon. What else was I gonna be? A desk jockey? Hahah, nope.” He sucks a pitchy noise through his teeth. “Like Jesus on the cross… It was written in stone,” he says, tapping his fingers on a roll atop the table. “But do you like it?” She leans towards him, brows pinched. “Being a hero. Do you like it?” He pulls a strange face, looking as if no one’s ever asked him that before. He clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable with the direction her question threatens to take them. “What’s not to like? America loves me.” The words sound stale from his mouth. Layla can’t fault him for them, though. She’s seen glimpses of how important Homelander is to John’s identity, seen firsthand the way praise and adoration can undo him behind closed doors. It comes as no surprise that it’s something he needs to believe. It makes something in her ache for him. Layla shifts closer yet, and gently settles her hand atop his on the table, bringing the percussive tapping of his fingers to a halt. He looks at her sharply, though the set of his gaze softens. His eyes look wider, more vulnerable. Perhaps he forgot he was without his gloves, or he just wasn’t expecting the contact. Either way, it brings him back to her. She squeezes his hand. “It’s okay,” she says, her thumb stroking back and forth. “It’s okay. It’s just us. You don’t need to do that.” You don’t need to pretend. Homelander now wears the kind of surprise Layla might expect to see if she’d slapped him. He stares with his lips parted, a thought half-formed on them. He lifts his other hand over hers, fingertips brushing along the back of her hand, skating up to her wrist, light as a feather as he holds her gaze. Then next thing Layla knows, his grip on her wrist tightens and he’s pulling her body up against his. With a gentle effortlessness that only his strength could allow for, he brings them both to their feet, his other hand moving to the small of her back. The sudden rise is disorienting, but the kiss is so warm and fervent that she can’t help the little moan that escapes her. He takes the opportunity to slip his tongue between her lips, letting go of her wrist in favor of cupping both sides of her face. He always kisses her with such urgency, holding tight, like she may disappear if he doesn’t.

It feels incredible to match his pace, to kiss him as hungrily as he kisses her without the nagging call to slow him down, to maintain his expectations. She falls into it without reserve, free of the rigid pretense of their sessions. She can’t blame it on the wine, she’s been thinking about this for weeks. He pushes his hands further back into her hair, still kissing her like he expects her to stop him at any second, desperate to taste what he can before it’s gone.

He moves against her with such a force, it causes her back to arch, head tipping all the way back. He takes one hand from her hair to slip around her waist instead, bringing her body back against his. She puts her own hands on his shoulders, gripping him tight and pulling him in turn. He makes sweet, starved noises against her lips when she slips her hand up into his hair, cupping the back of his head. Homelander is the first to pull away, though he doesn’t go far. He kisses the corner of her mouth, her jaw, down the line of her throat. He moves his hands to her hips to hold her steady while he takes full advantage of the plunging neckline of the dress he chose for her. “Come home with me,” he says between kisses, voice thin, ravenous. Her heart skips a beat. Say no. “Yes.” Chapter Five.

#homelander x oc #homelander fanfiction #eat your ego #my writing #absolutely busted my ass to finally finish this!!!#the good news is that ch5 is already half done and i'll be posting that at the end of the week #i know my ask box is busted right now lol i'm gonna try to get to that this week too #but i really wanted to get some wips done and writing has been h a r d lately #so apologies all around

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