#… He thinks he’ll finally get to fuck you after a particularly nasty bout of teasing that’s had both of you borderline crazy; but

[saturnsorbits]

Thinking about deliberately making Sero get hard in his hero suit at literally THE worst times.

That thing is skin-fucking-tight, he’s not hiding shit in there.

And then, you get to sit back and watch as he squirms trying and failing to cover himself as the pretty little news castor tries to ask him about hero stats when the only things he can think about are your lips and tits and oh-fuck, he’s gonna ruin another fucking suit, isn’t he?

#saturnsays #It’s a game. #You’re not dating or anything; haven’t even fucked; but whenever the opportunity arises you’re getting each other hot and bothered… #The game was to see who could cover it up better… #But; now there’s something a little more personal than just that going on. #Maybe it was that time he pinned you to a wall and kissed you stupid before that big meeting with your new side-kicks? #Or when he slipped a hand into his pocket only for his fingers to meet wet lace when he was live on TV talking about crime ratings. #… He thinks he’ll finally get to fuck you after a particularly nasty bout of teasing that’s had both of you borderline crazy; but #when he gets you alone in one of those fancy offices in the agency you snap the zip on his suit so he can’t get out of it… #and force him to grind against you to get off instead. #You don’t even help him out of the suit afterwards. He has to ask Kirishima; with his tail between his legs; to cut the damn thing off. #And now; he’s planning his revenge. Because if he came in his fucking pants then; you bet it’s your fucking turn next.

[thefactsofthematter]

🥺can you write a sprace piece with spot taking care of race? 👉👈

yessir!!!! a little bit of hurt/comfort, taking care of each other after a fight 🥺

1.4k; sprace, canon era; warning for a (non-fatal) knife wound and various other minor injuries

- 

"Stop, I can— I can do it myself, Spot. Okay? I don't need your help."

Race is stubbornly trying to pull off his own undershirt, as they sit in Spot's room, following a bit of a rumble with some boys from another borough. He can't move his left arm too well right now, so he's trying to wiggle out of the shirt one-handed, and the fabric keeps catching on the rather large cut on his abdomen.

"One of those Woodside boys caught you with a knife, Racer." Spot reaches out to try and help. "Just let me—"

"No!" Race squirms away. "I can do it! Worry about cleaning up your own busted lip, how bout."

Race is so goddamn prideful. He always has been. He doesn't want help from anyone, and he hates for it to even seem like he can't do anything and everything for himself.

The boys they fought with today were taunting him— they'd called him Spot's "lap dog," and acted as if he couldn't hold his own without Spot backing him up. They'd joked about Race being a suck-up to the king of Brooklyn and not being loyal to any one borough... it was fucked up and mean, and Spot and Race soaked the guys together. However, despite winning the fight, it was inevitable to come away with some injuries of their own.

"You throw your shoulder out?" Spot asks, deciding to let Race have his moment for now. "I'm gonna have one sucker of a black eye. I can feel it."

Race shrugs with one shoulder, a dead giveaway that the other one is hurting too to move.

"It'll be sore for a minute. Not that bad, though." He finally manages to pull his shirt most of the way off, but it gets stuck on his head, since he can't really lift his left arm to pull it all the way. "Damn it."

Spot laughs quietly, but it dies in his throat when he gets an eyeful of the huge gash right next to Race's belly button. That's a nasty cut.

"I know you can do it yourself, but ain't it easier if I just give you a hand?" he sighs. A glare from Race, through the threadbare fabric of his shirt, but no actual objection. "Please let me help you, Racer."

He scoots over across the floor to help whether it's wanted or not. Rather than protest, Race just leans forward to let Spot pull the bloody undershirt off, wincing as his sore shoulder is jostled a little.

"There you go," Spot continues, being as gentle as humanly possible with every touch. He tosses the shirt aside. "Now, can have a look at that cut? I think you're done bleeding... let me clean it up for you."

Race reaches down to prod at the wound, and his face screws up in pain when he pokes it a little too hard, but he immediately schools his expression back into something indifferent and neutral.

"Doesn't seem that bad," he mumbles. "I can do it myself."

Spot catches Race's hand in his own, almost by instinct.

"You're gonna make yourself bleed out if you keep poking it like that! Lookit— you nearly opened it right back up." He gives Race what he hopes is an earnest and caring look... though he's never been good with emotions. "Just relax, okay? I know you can do it, but I wanna help you anyways. What kinda boyfriend would I be if I just sat here doin' nothing when you're a bloody mess?"

Race bites down on his inner lip and drops his eyes to their connected hands. They don't use that boyfriend word very often... it feels bigger and grander than what they are. They're just a couple of boys who like each other a lot— they don't typically put a label on it.

"Just be careful," Race sighs. "Don't get too handsy with me."

Spot rolls his eyes.

"Very funny. You wanna lie down? Might be more comfy that way." He reaches for the ruined shirt they just pulled off. "I'm gonna use this for a rag, I'll go wet it in the washbasin. Don't go nowhere."

He pushes himself onto his feet as Race tries to make himself comfortable on the floor. Spot's got his own little room in the attic of his lodging house, but the nearest bathroom is down on the next floor.

He's back in a flash, to find Race laying there with his good arm draped over his eyes in a ridiculously dramatic fashion. Typical.

"Hanging in there, tough guy?" he asks with a giggle.

"Ain't dead yet," Race replies. "He barely scraped me, anyhow."

"Right..." Spot chuckles, as he sits down on the floor next to Race. "Just hardly grazed you."

Spot is as careful as possible, but Race still hisses in pain as soon as the rag makes contact. He keeps his arm draped over his face— probably to avoid looking down.

It's not as bad as Spot had expected. Once most of the blood is wiped away, it's not a particularly deep cut. It might leave a cool scar, and it'll be uncomfortable for at least a few days, but that'll likely be the extent of the damage.

"You almost done?" Race grumbles, after a while. "I think you're just takin' your sweet time so you can get an eyeful of me, you animal."

It would be a lie for Spot to say he hadn't spent a moment or two marvelling over how Race's pale torso seems to stretch on for miles... but he'll vehemently deny it anyways.

"I'm here helping you, outta the goodness of my heart! What kinda man do you take me for?"

"Oh, you're a man now, huh?" Race finally moves his arm, just to give Spot a look. "Turned sixteen and now you think you're all grown up?"

"Oh, hush," Spot groans. He's not even a full year older than Race, but he still constantly gets teased for being old. He finishes patching Race up, still being as delicate as he can. "There you go. All good." He pauses. "Wanna stay the night?"

Race's eyes close as he lets out a deep sigh. What a day they've had.

"Yeah," he says, after a moment. He almost sounds as if he's trying to rationalize the decision to himself. "It's late. I'm tired. Your bed's comfier than mine, too."

It's not like Spot would let him leave anyways— it's already dark, and the weather's been getting cool lately. It's a long walk home, and the shortcut goes through some not-so-safe areas. Spot would like to keep Race safely tucked into his bed tonight, thank you very much.

"Alright, then," Spot says, and then he scoops his arms underneath Race's thin frame and picks him up. He might be tall, but Race is ridiculously light— he's got a quick metabolism, a small appetite, and an insistence on making sure younger kids get fed before he does. "Let's get you to bed now."

Spot has tried this maneuver before— Race always screeches and protests and flails his legs until Spot puts him back down. Tonight, though, in some miraculous turn of events, he just laughs softly and puts his good arm around Spot's shoulders to help balance himself.

"I can walk just fine, you know," Race says, though there's no hint of actual annoyance behind it— just a fondness that he expresses through teasing quips. "This is ridiculous."

"It sure is," Spot agrees, before carefully laying Race down on his bed. "You need anything? A cup of water? An extra blanket? I think I could find one if you wanted it."

Race just stares up at him with an expression that's almost... soft. He's exhausted, and his messed-up shoulder and the cut on his abdomen must be aching horribly, but he just smiles a little at Spot, like he's perfectly content to be here.

"I don't need nothin' more but you," he finally says, decisive and final. "Get your ass in bed."

And so Spot does. He's so, so careful to not bump or move Race in a way that might hurt him, but he climbs into the little bed and then kisses him long and hard.

"I love you," he whispers once he pulls away, and Race snorts, amused.

"Sap," Race teases, but then after a moment, his voice goes all gentle and he adds, "I love you more."

And while the two of them may have been screwed out of a lot of good things in life— parents, an education, a normal childhood— at least they have this love. Sometimes, Spot feels as if this really is all he needs.

#the SOFTEST boys #racetrack higgins #spot conlon #sprace #newsies #my writing #i still haven’t figured out the tag list situation so reblogs are v much appreciated so that more ppl see this!

[dat-fandom-losertown]

The Drift Between Us

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

Chapter 4: Beginnings of Adaptation

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

Hank Anderson x Connor and Gavin Reed x RK900

Pacific Rim AU

Warnings: Anxiety similar to mine, a lot of swearing all thanks to Hank

Word Count: 8,921

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

Previous <~> Masterlist <~> Next

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

    Ritch knows even before he tries to wake Connor up for breakfast that it won’t work. After a day as bad as yesterday, the twin rarely comes out of his room the next day, and if he does it’s late in the afternoon at the earliest. Yet Ritch still always tries because he knows Connor will appreciate his effort of not just leaving him behind when he becomes active again.

    He is aware that Connor is only more used to dealing with hunger and thirst because he occasionally feels the irrational need to punish himself like this for no reason. He understands needing alone time to recharge after stressful events, but Connor needs to at least eat or drink something instead of letting himself slowly deteriorate. Ritch idly wonders how many times Connor has gone longer than two days without food for one incomprehensible reason or another.

    He thought his brother might not run into this problem when they were finally away from Amanda, though.

    Although, to be fair, a portion of Connor’s situation this time is Ritch’s own fault. He’s not too prideful to admit that to himself. To Connor or anyone else, probably, but not to himself. He just thought that since Amanda wasn’t here, his brother would get steered down the wrong path or overwhelmed or both, so Ritch tried to step in and guide him in her place, and tried to be a bit more gentle than she was while doing so. That was obviously the wrong move to make or he did something else wrong, and it didn’t help that he went and hounded him down after a while, too, he realizes now. He’ll remember that for the future.

   He still doesn’t want Connor near Mr. Anderson, but he’ll try to be more gentle and subtle about it from now on. He’ll also try to fix the relationship with Simon and the others that he and his twin undoubtedly made at least awkward again. It won’t be too far out of Ritch’s way to do so, since he plans on continuing his friendship with that group, and he played a large part in this mess, so it’s only right that he tries to correct things. Plus, it’ll be easier for Connor to find another partner if he’s on good terms with Markus and crew since they could possibly introduce him to new people in the future.

    That, and Ritch really doesn’t trust Mr. Anderson with Connor at all. He’s a grumpy, short-tempered alcoholic who can barely get out of bed before the later part of lunch, and Ritch thinks his brother can’t quite see this due to the rose-tinted memories of when he was a decorated pilot on the television.

    Either way, nothing can be done about any of that at the moment, especially considering breakfast hasn’t even quite started yet, and Ritch has a mission for himself. He is heading to where he may be able to find Luther and Chloe so he can alert them of Connor’s absence today. Maybe he’ll try waking up Connor at lunch and hope that he’ll actually get up since he no longer has to stress about Amanda’s reaction to him being late. Or maybe he’ll be practically comatose for longer than a day because Amanda doesn’t have any extra work waiting for him tomorrow for slacking off today…

    “...well, we’ll just have to apologize again today, then, won’t we?”

    Isn’t that North? Judging by where the voices are coming from, they’re headed to breakfast and will pass Ritch if he backtracks to the main hallway. That’s exactly what he does.

    “Again, I don’t think that’s the right way to go about things,” Markus reasons, “He obviously doesn’t want to be reminded about whatever he was thinking about yesterday, and apologizing for it today will only make him think about it again.”

    “Yes, but I think just looking at us will remind him of yesterday, anyway.” Simon points out.

    “I think Simon’s right.” Ritch calls, stepping out to intercept the small group.

    “Oh, hey Ritch…” Josh greets nervously. Ritch elects to ignore it.

    “The best thing to do in this case is to act as if last night never happened at all. He’ll be awkward for the first bit of time, but he should go back to normal eventually.”

    “We’re really sorry–”

    “There’s no reason to apologize, Simon.” Ritch interrupts in a manner that he hopes seems kind, “You guys were just curious and concerned for him, and I had already made it stressful enough beforehand. I’m sure that if I hadn’t pushed him as far as I did, he wouldn’t have reacted quite this way when you guys asked your questions.”

    There’s a brief awkward pause where no one knows what to say, so Ritch decides to continue on.

    “I guess just… From now on, if you have any questions, you can always come to me. We grew up together after all.”

    “Oh, sweet. So were you guys ever ordered to kill each other or something, then?”

    –the punches come and come and don’t stop or slow–

    “North!”

    –where did he go where is he where is he whERE IS–

    “What? He said we could ask him! And quite frankly, I don’t believe Connor!”

    North’s last comment properly snaps him out of it. Ritch takes in a deep breath and holds it. Forcing himself to stay away from those thoughts, he mentally addresses the fact that North essentially called Connor a liar. While his brother may be a surprisingly good liar, he absolutely hates doing it. He, like Ritch, very much prefers to find loopholes within the question or lightly exaggerates or understates the truth.

    “That doesn’t mean you get to ask him too! If it was sensitive to Connor, it probably is for him too! Why don’t you use your head for once, North!”

    Jesus… Were they that blunt with Connor? No wonder why he’s the way he is right now. He had it worse than I did. He finally releases his breath, finally calmed down enough.

    “Ritch? Are you okay?” Markus asks, taking a step forward with an expression of pure concern.

    “Probably.” He answers too fast.

    “Probably?” Markus tilts his head slightly.

    “It’d be best if you avoided any questions of that type indefinitely, because even Connor and I avoid discussing such things with each other. And if there are any other questions that any of you feel may be risky to ask, it’d be best to ask me about it first.” Josh and Simon are just about to apologise when Ritch cuts them off. “But to answer your question, North, the event we don’t speak of didn’t end with us against each other. Amanda knew better than to break laws like that.” Most of the time, anyway, he doesn’t add.

    “Oh. Sorry ‘bout that.” She seems genuinely regretful.

    “I appreciate it, just please don’t be so blunt with Connor. He picks up hints easily, even when you don’t know you’re giving them. He probably won’t be in class today, so I can’t show you his little tells of his attentiveness. It’s actually quite fascinating if psychology and sociology are things you enjoy.” Ritch takes a deep breath to fully dispel the lingering nerves. “Anyhow, I was on my way to let Luther and Chloe know that Connor won’t be in class.” He takes everyone’s nods as a polite dismissal from the conversation, so he turns and starts walking away. “I’ll see you guys at breakfast in a bit?” he calls over his shoulder.

    Josh replies with forced enthusiasm, “Yeah! We’ll see you then!”

    This time, Ritch doesn’t stop until he finds Luther in his office preparing for the day. He found Chloe several minutes before him, but she seemed busy and he didn’t want to bother her with a small message such as this since she has other responsibilities. He suspects she only sticks around Luther for the first week or so to help with evaluations.

    When he gives the instructor a brief rundown of what kind of state Connor is in and pointedly doesn’t mention why, Ritch expects him to insist that Connor comes down anyway since they can’t take “mental days” if they become real pilots. Instead, Luther completely understands and even goes as far as to write a personal note to Connor, explaining that he should take whatever time necessary to get back to normal and they’ll find time for him to take the initial evaluations.

    With a quick farewell and a shocked yet genuine thank you, Ritch heads back to his room with the paper in hand. On his way back, he runs into Gavin again, but easily dodges the asshole’s attempt at tripping him. He ignores Gavin’s taunts and swears behind him just as easily while he walks on. Ritch is learning how to handle that mess of a human relatively quickly, he thinks. Maybe one day he’ll figure out how to trip Gavin back with little to no repercussions.

    He opens the door to his shared bunker easily and finds Connor asleep on his bunk, just as expected. He lays Luther’s note near his pillow so he’ll see it whenever he wakes up instead of trying to wake him up to read it now. He also takes his own blanket and lays it on top of the one his brother has himself wrapped up in, knowing he likes to feel like a tightly wrapped burrito when going through a mood dip. Connor doesn’t even shift in his sleep. Ritch then gets down and starts playing relaxing ambiance sounds on the small speakers he brought with him, hoping that Connor will return to normal faster if he does.

    This is the one time he’ll cottle his brother like this, and it’s really only because this reaction is more than reasonable for the memory that was brought up this time. That, and he did play a part in bringing Connor down to this. Otherwise, Ritch would leave him to do his own thing. Not because he doesn’t care, quite the contrary, actually. It’s because he knows that there are harder, tougher times coming in the relatively near future, and he needs Connor to be ready for it, to be able to pick himself up in case Ritch is gone on a separate mission– or gone for a much worse reason– and can’t be there to help. He very highly doubts Connor will ask for help from anyone, and he also doubts that Connor’s future partner will know how to properly help him through these episodes. Hell, even Ritch barely knows how to anymore.

    Therefore, Ritch just waits patiently each time and hopes that his twin is learning how to bring himself out of these dips in an easier and faster way each time he’s tortured with them.

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

    The first dinner Hank spends without that Connor character coming to sit at his table, he thinks nothing of it. The young adult probably found some friends finally and is sitting with them. Hank makes the note to come to lunch early the next day to find out which group to avoid, since there’s no doubt Connor has already started spreading new rumors or nasty truths within that group. Even if he hasn’t, he wants to spare the sickeningly polite guy the mandatory greeting and small talk with Hank if they ever pass or run into each other, and the poor kid doesn’t need any teasing from his new friends.

    Hank ends up waking up much earlier than he wanted to the next morning thanks to a particularly nasty nightmare. Cranky and exhausted, yet unable to go back to sleep with the horrors waiting behind his eyelids, Hank forces himself up and downs a beer or few to ease the pain and to maybe hopefully get back to sleep. It doesn’t work. He ends up being the fifth person to breakfast, which thoroughly shocks the military equivalent of high school lunch ladies. Deciding that since he’s up this early anyway, he may as well wait to see which group has Connor in it now.

    Hank waits and waits and watches the entrance closely but subtly, yet he never spots the kid. He easily finds his brother, who is still hanging around his group of friends that Connor mentioned, but there’s no Connor. He’s one of the last people to leave breakfast that morning.

    Now, Hank is in no way attached to Connor whatsoever, but anyone would start becoming concerned when the person who refused to leave them alone at mealtimes suddenly disappears. That’s exactly how Hank explains his strange sense of confusion at the young man’s vanishing act, anyway. That lunch is spent pointedly not thinking about houdini number two and focusing on enjoying the peace and quiet again. He definitely doesn’t keep an eye on the door at almost all times to try and find the young adult, either. That would be borderline creepy and way out of character, even for a guy as nosey and curious as Hank can be sometimes.

    He gets to dinner that evening his usual time, right in the middle when people are too invested with their own meals and friends to pay Hank any mind, but the line is already pretty much gone. He gets his food, sits down, then starts eating. Still no Connor, but it’s not his problem anymore. It wasn’t his problem to begin with, actually.

    The next day goes smoothly. Lunch/breakfast is normal, and he gets dinner just fine. It only becomes less fine after he starts eating, though. He barely gets three bites into his meatballs when some asshat decides to sit in front of him.

    It’s the fuckin’ light version of Connor from the hallway yesterday, whatever the fuck his name is.

    He wouldn’t have been able to hold back the growl of annoyance even if he wanted to. “The fuck do you want?”

    “Have you asked Connor any questions? Or brought up any topics to speak about with him?”

    What in the fresh hell? “Do I look like the type of guy who likes to buddy up to people? He just kinda sits there–” Hank gestures to Connor’s spot “–and fidgets the whole damn time.”

    Frosty the Glareman studies Hank for a few long moments. He must find something– or the absence of something– that makes him finally shake his head slowly and back off.

    “No, you don’t. I apologize for taking up your time then, Mr. Anderson. Have a good day.”

    The only way Hank could describe his current emotion is “???”. He has absolutely no clue what just happened or why it had to happen in the first place, and now he’s just going to up and leave just as quickly as he sat down?

     “What? That’s it? I don’t even get to know why it was so important to ask me that?”

    The young man hesitates. “Connor’s just been in a mood dip recently, as I call it. I know that he doesn’t dislike being around you, so I was simply clarifying that you didn’t accidentally worsen this dip. I’ll let you get back to your dinner, now. Good evening.”

    A mood dip? What the fuck does that mean?

    Hank thinks he gets that answer during lunch the next day.

    “Holy shit, you look like a walkin’ corpse.” Hank comments upon seeing Connor limp towards his seat on the other side of the table. “The fuck happened to you?”

    His skin is pale, he has dark bags under his eyes, but his eyes themselves, while shiny, aren’t red, so he probably hasn’t been crying recently. His normally styled hair is in complete disarray. He didn’t even take the time to put on his normal T-shirt with cargo pants and boots, instead opting for a tank top, sweatpants, and slip on shoes. Every single one of Connor’s movements are slow and sluggish, and every single one shows off some kind of bandage, scab, or bruise on his arms, shoulders, and neck area.

    All in all, he looks like someone who might’ve been in too much pain to properly sleep. Although, that wouldn’t make sense with what Connor Lite told him yesterday and the kind of questions he asked. Curiouser and curiouser, indeed.

    “I was just reminded of something unpleasant, is all. I shouldn’t even be affected by it, yet here I am.” Connor drops in his chair like a sack of potatoes. “Very affected and very drained.”

    Then it finally properly clicks, what Connor version two meant by being in a mood, and why he came to Hank of all people to ask if he had anything to do with it. The poor kid probably hasn’t been up due to pain, but nightmares instead. Hank can’t stop himself from empathising with him, having just had that particularly nasty one just the night before.

    “Well, you should get some fuckin’ sleep. Leavin’ the lights on help sometimes.”

    Connor’s brows furrow in confusion before he slowly looks up at Hank, tilting his head in the process.

    “I wasn’t kidding when I said you look like a walking corpse.” Hank states with pointedly raised eyebrows, not especially emotionally invested in what’s happening anymore. He turns to his food, instead.

    “I have been sleeping.”

    “Bullshit, but suit yourself.”

    “I think all I did was sleep and try to sleep for the past 16 hours.”

    Hank, a hypocrite who adores calling people out on their bullshit and proving them wrong, turns to face Connor, resting his elbow on the table and leaning on it.

    “16 hours, huh? So what’dya do for the other 24 then? Hm?”

    He watches Connor freeze for half a second before relaxing again with one of the most forced laughs Hank has ever heard. The panic doesn’t truly leave his eyes either.

   “Ha ha, very funny. Ritch used to try to do that to me too.”

    Hank . “Why is this funny? You literally disappeared for an entire day and a half then suddenly showed up again.” Hank brings his full attention back to his food with an annoyed shake of his head. “I thought you finally found some actual friends or somethin’. Damn.”

    “...I missed another day…”

    Hank barely catches that comment, since it was said under Connor’s breath, but it’s got enough emotion in it to make him want to look back over at the other mess of a human being at this table. He ends up giving in and doing it.

    And a mess he is. Connor’s frozen with wide eyes that see through the table, his food seemingly forgotten in front of him. It’s extremely unsettling to see him completely still for a change. Just a few days ago, Hank would have prayed to the god he doesn’t believe in to make it stop, but stillness in this fashion screams “wrong” so much that it’s almost worse than the light, rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the table. Not that he’s gotten used to them, just that that would be more comfortable than the current tense inactivity.

    “I missed an entire day of evaluations.” Connor says a bit louder.

    That seems to spark something in the injured man because he abruptly goes straight as a board and starts frantically looking for something. It’s not until he catches what Connor’s muttering under his breath “...what time is it? What’s the date? Where’s the time? A clock? I need a clock–”

    “It’s just past noon on the 17th.” Hank huffs an answer, immediately changing his mind on the stillness versus movement. Thankfully, Connor stops.

    “Oh shit.” he whispers, Hank barely hearing it, “Oh shit oh shit oh shit I’m currently skipping evaluations, shit.” Connor quickly stands, somehow looking both more alert and more exhausted than ever before. “I am so fucked, oh no.” He grabs his untouched tray and gets up to walk away.

    Hank may not like very many people, but he knows no good can come from not eating for at least 48 hours. He doesn’t think he would even let Gavin Reed, the selfish asshole, leave without trying to get something in his gut if the guy was in a position and mindset similar to Connor’s.

    “Hey hey hey, woah.” Hank sits up straight and puts his hands on the table, making it look like he’s about to get up from his seat even though he has no real plans to, “You have to sit down and eat. You’re going to starve yourse–”

    “I’ll be fine.” the trainee interrupts, not stopping. “I’ve gone longer without food. I just need a water bottle and I’ll be fine.”

    “You will do no such thing.” Connor 2.0 appears, blocking the other’s way with a stern frown. “Mr. Anderson is right, you’re going to sit down and you’re going to eat.”

    “Ritch,” Ah! That’s what his name was, “I’m not in the mood to play your games. I have things that need to be done so move out of my way.” Connor tries to sidestep Ritch, but he blocks him again.

    “I’ve already informed Luther that you were going to be out of commission until further notice. Did you not get his note?”

    “Yes I did, but it’s not him I’m worried about. There are higher ups that are watching us and I can’t afford to miss any more–”

    “Connor.” Ritch growls, it even takes Hank off guard for half a moment. He’s mildly impressed. “You will sit and you will eat, or so help me Markus and I will pin you down while Simon spoon feeds you. I don’t care if you’ve lasted longer without food before. You didn’t really have a choice then. You will not start doing this again. I refuse it.”

    Upon seeing Connor’s returning glare, Hank quickly changes his opinion of him from being the polite fool to someone who could easily hold his own when needed. Well, he still is too much of a people pleaser, but at least he doesn’t seem to take any shits when he really doesn’t want to.

    “Ritch, move–”

    “Your brother’s right, Connor.” Hank stares Connor down. The older man has thankfully been desensitized to death glares over the past few years, otherwise he would have been in trouble just now. “And I promise you that if Luther understands, then so does anyone else watching. He’s probably the most strict with these rules since he’s ‘passionate’ about his job or some bullshit like that. Now sit the fuck down ‘cause you’re making me tense with all this nonsense and I already haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

    Connor glances between the two of them before huffing and sitting back in his usual seat. Ritch sends a warning glare at Connor– which the latter retaliates with a huff and a slight eye roll– then nods at Hank and retreats back to his table. Before he can even sit down, though, Hanks’s own table starts being slightly jostled. One glance towards Connor proves it’s him and his damn leg bouncing again. Although, as much as Hank wants to snap at him to stop, even he can recognise that Connor needs people to be less harsh with him right now.

    “Connor, you’re leg’s bouncing.”

    No response.

    “Connor.” Hank tries again louder.

    Connor starts muttering to himself then puts his head in his hands, his fingers combing through his own hair in an unconscious way. Hank can’t help but empathize with the poor guy. Hank’s been in a similar state of mind before, but not when he was this young. Actually, now that Hank’s thinking about it, he may still have the stuff that helped him all that time ago, just out of reluctance to clean his bunker.

    “Connor!”

    The young man jumps and turns his head to Hank so fast the older man wonders if he got any sort of whiplash. Connor’s eyes suddenly widen and he goes mostly still and refocuses his attention on his food tray almost robotically.

    “Right, right. Food. No fidgeting. Have to eat. Need calories to train.” Connor takes a breath, shakes his head as if physically clearing the thoughts in his head, then says under his breath, “Real jaeger pilots aren’t like this. I was trained to be better. Stupid stupid stupid…”

    This is an entire level or two worse than Hank originally thought, but he’s pretty sure the things he has could still help. What surprises Hank the most is that he’s actually almost wanting to help this guy out just for the sake of it. Although, he rationalises, it’s probably because Hank had been in a mindset similar to his at one point in time, and can remember exactly how it felt to be that overwhelmed and in over his head. What he can’t rationalise, is the proud feeling at being able to maybe make this guy’s day easier.

    All he knows is this guy obviously doesn’t have any friends to lean on yet, and Hank’s gonna do something to maybe make this easier on him.

    ...Hank was kind of hoping that if he restated it he could bullshit a reason for doing it in the first place. Apparently not. Going with the old “blindly following his gut” thing, now, huh? Whatever. He’s deciding to not care anymore right now.

    He heaves a sigh, interrupting Connor’s uninterpretable muttering. “Alright, take whatever food may be appetizing to you later and let’s go.” He stands up and starts taking his mostly empty tray to where it belongs, throwing out the trash on it.

    “Go? Go where? If I’m gonna leave I’m going to go class–”

    “Well why don’t you just shut up and just follow me. Unless you don’t want anything that could maybe possibly help with this–” he gestures to Connor, “–fuckin’ disaster you are right now.”

    Connor gets up quickly at that, “Things like that exist? Really?” He starts stuffing the pre-packaged items of his lunch into his pockets

    “You live under a rock or something?” Hank is already losing his patience. This is a mistake.

    “Well, my– uh… My trainer, I guess you could call her, didn’t really like that I was limited, and she didn’t like us getting help for something we could fix on our own even more ‘cause we aren’t weak. And we didn’t really have a social life or anything growing up, either, ‘cause we’ve always been kept busy..” Connor takes a deep breath, “So yeah, I guess I have lived under a rock until recently.”

    Whoever this bitch is, she sounds like a down right asshole. Hell, even Gavin wouldn’t go that far with anyone and he’s him. When Hank says as much to Connor as they travel through the reinforced halls, Connor splutters.

    “She– I– Well–” He finally gives up with a sigh. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

    Hank doesn’t give a response.

    The rest of the trip is spent in silence, and by the time they make it to Hank’s bunker, the small portion of food Connor brought with him is gone. That’s a good sign at least. Really good. Hank puts in the code to his door and cracks it open, then turns to the anxious man (even though he’s hiding it really well now, Hank can still see the signs of it) behind him.

    “If I give these to you, you have to promise to try to find other people to hang out with. Got it? I ain’t friend material.”

    “I beg to differ, but if it will put you more at ease then I will try harder to find other people who will put up with me.” As if on cue, his foot starts tapping and he starts picking at his fingers less-than-subtly.

    “Try harder? You’ve already been trying?”

    Connor shuffles a bit in place, “Yes, but I’m not good at making friends like Ritch is. I’ve always either made a fool of myself or blended into the background.” He looks up sharply. “Which is okay! I’m used to doing things on my own by now. And now I’m talking too much again, I apologize.” he lowers his eyes again.

    “Huh. Well, you better come inside so that asshat Reed doesn’t see you hangin’ around here and decide to try an’ pick a fight.” Hank says as he opens the door to his room, waving Connor in. It’s not like he has anything to hide, it’s just his dirty clothes and the empty bottles of various alcohol bottles all over the floor.

    He immediately shuts the door once Connor fully enters. Ignoring the other man, Hank gets straight to trying to find his old weighted blanket and stress ball. He’s been wanting to get rid of them anyway, and if they can help a possible future comrade, then good. Hank pauses in his search when he hears a bit of shuffling and turns to Connor… who is neatly moving all of the empty bottles on his floor into a pile in the corner of the room.

    “What’re you doing?” There’s no anger in his tone, only pure confusion.

    Connor freezes, then immediately drops the two bottles he had in his hands as if he didn’t realise what he was doing.

    “I’m sorry, Mr. Anderson,” he straightens up, “I just didn’t want the bottles to break and have you cut your feet, but this is your room and I shouldn’t have touched it. It’s my bad, sorry.” his fidgeting is getting worse again.

    “Cleaning an alcoholic’s empty bottles off of his floor is hardly something to apologise for. Just wonderin’ why you felt the need to.” Hank returns to his search, just looking for the stress ball now, with the blanket folded on the floor by his feet. “You aren’t my maid or anythin’.”

    “Oh. It’s just a habit, I suppose.”

    Hank kneels down to better search the bottom drawer, “Habit? You one of those losers with the squeaky clean rooms growin’ up?”

    A moment passes in silence, then Connor speaks with a cautious tone in his voice. “Is it not normal to have a clean room as a child?”

    “Uh, not really.” Hank finally pulls out the dull-from-age stress ball and puts it on top of the navy blue blanket that may or may not have a few visible stains on it. Probably from where his old dog drooled or chewed something on it years ago and Hank gave up trying to wash the slobber out. God, he fuckin’ misses Sumo.

   “Oh. Um…”

    Connor looks like he wants to ask something but is hesitating, and Hank is officially running out of patience. He wants this man out of his room as soon as possible. Yes, Hank’s being somewhat bipolar recently, but can you blame him? This has been a rollercoaster of week so far, and he’s willing to bet that next week won’t be much different. He tried to go with the flow, but now he just wants his regularly scheduled life back please and thank you.

    “What?” Hank finally snaps.

    “Uh– What kind of things do people use to make their spaces cluttered? Like, pleasantly cluttered.” Connor rushes out.

    What in the? “I’m sorry?”

    Connor looks down at his hands, which he’s tightly wringing together, “Like, do normal people actually hang papers on the wall with tacks that make holes everywhere? It seems inconvenient to use when there are other, non-damaging methods of hanging things up.”

    Did he really not have any normal friends growing up? What the hell.

    “Well, uh, it was just me and Ritch for as long as I can remember, so…” Shit, he must’ve said that out loud. “Oh! But there was this one kid named Ross we were acquainted with when we were eight years old and he was nice. It’s probably why he got adopted almost immediately. I hope he’s happy now.” Connor finishes genuinely with a small smile on his face. It disappears quickly though, “And I’m talking a lot again. I apologize.”

    “Why the fuck do you do that?”

    “I don’t know. I just answer a question and then it reminds me of something else and I guess I haven’t learned how–”

    “No no, not the talking itself. Why are you fucking constantly apologizing for talking a bit more after answering a question? It’s kinda more annoying than the talking itself.”

    Connor freezes. “Oh. Oh…” He looks around, obviously caught off guard. “Uh, only friends talk to each other as freely as I tend to want to talk to people. Or that’s how I’ve grown up being taught, anyway. And you’ve implied plenty of times that you’re not interested in becoming friends, even though I personally think you would make an adequate friend, but I digress again.”

    How the hell does Hank respond to this?

    First thing to unpack, when this guy said that he didn’t have a social life earlier, he literally meant that he didn’t to the extent that he didn’t even realise messy rooms were a thing. Messy rooms of all things! That’s like, the most iconic part of being a teenager! And if he didn’t even know that, then that means he didn’t have any social medias or a TV growing up either, because that fact is literally all over every type of media there is.

    That also brings up the point that whoever raised him did a real shit job at it, because who the hell believes people can only talk amicably to friends? How the fuck does someone make friends if they’re not allowed to talk freely with other people until the friendship title has been officially earned?

    Hank’s sure he could go on bashing this so-called “parental figure” Connor had growing up, but he doesn’t particularly want to spend any more time thinking about it right now. If he did, that would mean he actively cares about the kid, when in reality he’s just concerned about how little he knows and how little help he’s been getting for his very real problems, just as any half-decent human being would.

    Secondly (Or is this thirdly? Hank’s lost count already), this poor, misguided kid thinks he of all people would make an acceptable friend. What. The. Hell. He understood Connor doesn’t really get certain social clues even before all this ‘being sheltered’ shit spilled today, but Hank thought he was better than this. What part of Hank’s old, unkept, very-out-of-shape self mixed with scowls, growls, groans, and complaints told Connor “Hey, this old man wouldn’t be horrible to befriend!”. Even with the fact that he used to look up to Hank during his old jaeger years, the young man should have realised after the two days of sitting with him that it wasn’t worth it.

    “Why are you so convinced I’d make a good friend?” is all Hank says out loud.

    Connor looks surprised by that, then quickly turns his head away in obvious contemplation. He looks back a moment or two later with a kind determination Hank hasn’t seen since Jeffery last told him that he’d try his best to help Hank. Hell, even his best friend and copilot of many years couldn’t put up with his shit anymore. What makes this trainee think he could?

    “I’m gonna give you the long, blunt truth because you seem like the one person around here that I don’t have to sugarcoat or say anything gently for. If I start talking too much, just tell me to shut up.” He takes a breath, then, when Hank says nothing, he continues determinedly. “I think you’re lonely without realizing it. I know I was before I got here and was forced to be around a lot of people. And it might be a lot of self-projecting onto the first person I’ve regularly hung around, but I think it’s true for you, even if you don’t know or believe it.

    “You already know that I used to follow your work as a jaeger pilot– you, Marshal Fowler, and the Gerund brothers were my inspiration and motivation, really– and I also know that you don’t really have any friends left because you’ve changed so much since then and they always expected you to go back to your old self, even though that’s impossible.” He pauses briefly, visibly contemplating how to word something. “People keep accusing me of wanting to ‘fix’ or ‘change’ you, but I honestly don’t. Well, it’d be better for you altogether if you drank less, but I can’t control what you do and I won’t try to. You’re a grown man who can take care of himself, and even if you couldn’t, it’d probably be hypocritical of me to lecture you about healthy coping mechanisms.

    “I mean, honestly, I’m just looking for someone to sit down with and not have to worry about watching every little thing I say during conversations so people don’t get any more nosy than they already are. Plus, it just gets exhausting being around the other people around here because I’m so used to being able to sink into the background and be forgotten when I want, and the people around here won’t let me. And from what I’ve gathered, you don’t like the people here for a similar reason; they either completely ignore you or won’t leave you alone.” Connor takes a breath. When Hank doesn’t say anything because he’s too busy processing what’s been said so far, Connor presses on, less confident this time.

    “I know a friendship can’t thrive upon disliking the presence of other people by itself, but I feel like it could maybe start one. I don’t know what you were like before, and quite frankly I don’t really care. People change all the time, and that version of you is in the past, for better or for worse. You just have to make do with what and who you are now.” The younger man looks down to his feet. ”I don’t know about you, but I hate it when people start treating me differently when they find out about my… previous lifestyle and unique experiences, growing up.” He shrugs and looks up to Hank.

    “You don’t. You’re the only one who hasn’t and doesn’t expect anything special out of me in return. And I try to make it a habit to not treat people differently either. Unless, of course, they’re a cold-blooded murderer or something, then yea, I probably would treat them a bit differently, but I’m pretty sure you aren’t, so…” Connor finishes with a small, awkward smile.

    Well if that wasn’t a speech and a half… Hank feels like he’s been saying this constantly these past few days, but once again, what the actual fucking hell. Connor has spent just about two days total with Hank, and yet he clearly understands him more than even most of the coworkers he’s had for years. He doesn’t know whether to be disappointed in his group of acquaintances as well as his therapists, impressed that Connor doesn’t have his head up his ass like almost everyone else, or worried that Connor’s already correctly guessed this much about him in almost no time.

    Hank decides he feels a mixture of all three, plus a weird sense of concern for the man in front of him. He spoke like he has personally experienced horrors, and his two day disappearance just because he was– how’d he word it? “Reminded of something unpleasant”?– proves that he probably has. If Hank has figured anything out about Connor these past few days, it’s that he greatly downplays any and everything pertaining to himself. For fuck’s sake, this guy had no concerns over being beaten almost to a pulp by his own brother. Yet, then again, said brother wasn’t looking too hot himself, either…

   What exactly happened to him during his– how old was he? 26? That almost sounds right– 26 years of existence that he would so clearly understand the mentality of someone who’s been through hell and back?

   Hank holds out his arms to give Connor the weighted blanket and stress ball and opens his mouth to briefly explain what they are. He doesn’t have a single clue why the next question comes out of his mouth instead.

   “How old are you again?”

   To be fair, Connor looks about as surprised as Hank feels right now. “Nearly 23 years old.”

   Twenty-fuckin’-three. This guy standing in front of him, who looks like the biggest brown-nosing pushover, but can pack a very mean and very solid punch and can conjure up a glare so harsh and deadly it could make some grown-ass-men cower. Connor, who made it into this training program with very little effort and could– and probably will– skyrocket to the top of his class if what Jeffery briefly said about him and his twin the other day is true, is only fucking 23 years old. 

    On top of that, didn’t Connor mention an orphanage and a stepmother? If that’s the case, then it means his original family is long gone and he wasn’t adopted out until after he turned at least eight. That’s fifteen years ago… around five to ten years after the kaijus started coming, right when permanent defenses finally started becoming a necessary integration to all shorelines and not just the rich ones. The chances of him having lost his family during those first waves are extremely high.

    God damn, Connor really didn’t have a childhood, did he? Fuckin’ hell, that’s just downright depressing. Even though Hank had it rough growing up, he could still say that he had plenty of time to fuck around as a kid.

    Well, Connor was right about one of many things, Hank isn’t going to be giving him any special treatment beyond this mother fucking stress ball and heavy-ass blanket, that’s for sure. He’s got a reputation of being an asshole to keep up, after all. He doesn’t want people to think that just anyone can come up and talk to him or ask him for and about stuff now, would he? Hank has made that mistake only once in the past few years.

    “Alright, fucker, you got me. Whoopty doo.” Hank starts sarcastically. “Just don’t spread whatever you think of me around too much, I got enough problems to deal with as it is.”

    “Yes, of course Mr. Anderson. I don’t very much like it when rumors spread about me, so I won’t be doing anything of the sort for as long as I can help it, and never when involving you.” Hank can almost imagine him as a puppy with how easily and happily Connor’s agreeing with him.

    “And I wasn’t kidding when I said you needed to find other friends.”

    “And I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d try harder to make them.” A pause. “And I won’t force you into an acquaintanceship with me either. If you really dislike me hanging around, then I can always find another private place to sit during meals.”

    Hank opens his mouth to confirm that he does, indeed, dislike Connor’s presence, finally given a way to get rid of the main disturbance in his life recently. Yet, he finds he can’t. Looking past the fidgeting and essay answers to most questions asked, Hank surprisingly hasn’t found much else to truly hate about him. A lot of said answers seem rehearsed and robotic or sarcastic, but Hank can tell he’s been genuine, or at least has been trying to be. That, and while most people who are open books normally come off as in-your-face and annoying, Connor’s an open book in a way that he doesn’t broadcast anything, but doesn’t try to hide much when asked by someone he’s comfortable with, either. Hank can tell this because he used to know someone exactly like this and can already see the patterns.

    Those types of people generally make the best pilots, in his experience.

    In the end, Hank just silently holds out the blanket in his arms again instead of saying anything. Connor glances back and forth between the other’s face and the blanket in his arms, and hesitantly reaches out as if Hank’s going to snatch it away from him at the last moment. Hank begins explaining what they are, seeing that Connor probably has no fucking clue what these actually are and what they’re meant for.

    “This is a weighted blanket. The box and company will tell you it’s supposed to make you feel safe or like someone’s hugging you or some shit like that, but honestly it just feels like someone laid a flexible mattress over you or something, which can kinda feel nice when you’re having a bad day for some weird reason. I dunno how to fucking explain this shit so just take it.” He does. Hank points to the squishy ball on top of the blanket. “That thing is a stress ball. You squish it, pull it, throw it, do whatever the fuck you want with it. It’s designed to not break unless you’re purposefully trying to. It never really did shit for me, but you fidget all the god-damned time so it’ll probably do somethin’ for you. You’re welcome.” Hank huffs the last part, having to put minimal effort into seeming grumpy, as opposed to no effort, for the first time in ages.

    Connor looks at the old, tattered blanket and ancient, somewhat stretched-out stress ball (from the amount of times Hank hurled it at the walls in sudden bursts of rage) like it was the best thing in the whole damned world. He shifts the blanket onto one arm as if it weighed the same as an average throw blanket and not 15 pounds (around 7 kg), give or take, and uses his now free hand to give the stress ball a test squish. All in all, Connor really shouldn’t have that amazed and grateful look on his face for two old and very used items.

    “Thank you very much, Mr. Anderson. I greatly appreciate this. Thank you.” He looks up from his stuff to Hank, “I’ll take care of them and bring them back in the same condition you gave them to me in.”

    “Give them back?– Connor.” he deadpans, “I’m fuckin’ giving these to you. Permanently. I’ve been needing to get rid of them anyway, and you sure as hell could use them if what happened before is even somewhat a normal thing that happens.”

    That was probably the wrong thing to say, Hank realises a tad too late.

    Connor’s changes from gracious and happy to anxious yet calculating in the blink of an eye.

    “I still need to catch up on evaluations.” He starts stepping backwards, somehow expertly avoiding anything he could trip on despite not actually being able to see them. “Thank you very much for these Mr. Anderson, but I’ve really got to go. I have a lot I need to do. A lot. So thank you, I’ll get out of your hair now.” Connor opens the door. “Goodbye.” And he’s gone.

                     ...why does his room seem so quiet and cluttered now?

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

    Ritch releases a large, mental sigh of relief when Connor enters the room during their current written evaluation. When he watched Connor blindly follow Mr. Anderson out of the food court area before actually eating anything earlier, it took both Josh and North gently holding him back and talking him down so he wouldn’t hunt down the pair. He’s glad they succeeded in calming him down, though, because whatever Mr. Anderson said or did very obviously calmed Connor down, and judging by the empty wrapper sticking out of his pocket, he even got his stubborn brother to eat something.

    Maybe Hank isn’t too much of an incompetent asshole after all. Yes, he’s still obviously constantly grumpy and drinks way too much alcohol, but maybe one half of the rumors and stories aren’t quite true. Either that or maybe Connor simply latched onto him much faster that Ritch originally thought, and is now somehow charming the old man into not despising him by using his stupid puppy eyes. It’s likely a mixture of both, now that he’s thinking about it.

    No one can quite interpret what’s being said between Luther, Chloe, and Connor, but seeing his brother’s pleading expression along with the instructors’ stern ones with undertones of concern, they’re most definitely making him wait until tomorrow to continue evaluations. He still looks like a complete wreck, after all, with his sleeping clothes still on and disastrous mop of hair.

    Ritch forces himself back to the boring and simple exam even though he finished a few minutes ago. He even purposefully marked a few of the questions wrong just as he and Connor planned, but he’s currently waiting for at least two other people to finish before he turns his in. Connor then quietly leaves with a pleasant farewell to the two instructors, and the room is plunged back into silence once more.

    Precisely 24 minutes later, Ritch can’t take sitting in the silence with nothing to do any longer while his brother is off doing who knows what right now. Plus, he’s pretty sure Luther and Chloe have booth figured out by now that he hasn’t actually been writing anything down for a while. He gets up and is the first one to turn the evaluation in. Ritch most certainly does not think about how Amanda would be disappointed in him for not being able to sit still for any longer because Amanda no longer has any control over his life. What is she going to do? Somehow hack into the cameras, see him giving in, then fly all the way over here just to punish him for being weak?

    Ritch also does not think about how that doesn’t sound completely outlandish and bizarre for some of Amanda’s standards. That woman is frightening when she wants to be.

    Instead, Ritch focuses on how, upon entering his bunker, he hears the shower running in their little bathroom. That means Connor is officially out of his funk. This is significant because the event he was directly reminded of normally causes the worst dips by far. The last time someone asked about it, he refused to come out of his room for just over four days, and Ritch had to smuggle snack foods and water bottles into their shared room (where it wasn’t allowed due to carpeting and bedding) just to keep him from starving and dehydrating.

    Maybe Ritch was right to begin with, maybe being away from that environment really is helping Connor after all. He truly is a talented and smart guy, Amanda just didn’t particularly like how he puts his heart on his sleeve, since that could get him or others hurt. Ritch wants to believe that she didn’t mean to break Connor like this, but another part whispers that she may have purposefully broken both of them long ago in order to make them soldiers; that they had just found different ways of coping and played different roles in the games she called ”training”.

    Connor will show her. He doesn’t believe it now, but he’s quite strong in his own way. What kind of person can say they’ve been through what Connor has and still remain so reluctant to become bitter and reclusive. Hank can’t, that’s for sure. Even Ritch can’t quite say he can, either. It’s only because of Connor’s constant desire for genuine friendship and connection that Ritch had even tried talking to Markus and the group in the first place. If his brother had no part in what Ritch thinks and how he behaves, he would spend most if not all of his free time in their room.

    Connor doesn’t realise, let alone believe it now, but it takes a special kind of bravery to put oneself out there, especially when one’s mind constantly screams every imperfection about themselves like Connor’s seems to do.

    Ritch calmly places the sleeping oil his brother uses to remain unconscious during his mood dips back where it belongs. He doesn’t think that Connor knows that he knows he uses it, but there’s no way Ritch wouldn’t have after all these years of sharing a room and storage space with him. Plus, the amount of times he’s had to hide these little bottles from Amanda to save Connor’s forgetful ass when he leaves it out is far too many. Now Ritch only puts it away out of habit, and some part of him knows that it will likely put Connor more at ease knowing the bottle was hidden away for one reason or another, away from where anyone could see it.

    Ritch also notes the… well loved ball and the stained blanket placed on the desk. He wonders if Mr. Anderson had anything to do with those, since Luther would have given any gifts at the same time as the note he wrote for Connor the other day, and these are clearly a new addition to the room. If the older man actually did have anything to do with those, then he’ll have to thank him at some point in the near future.

    Maybe, just maybe, Connor is right. Maybe Hank Anderson really isn’t as horrible and unpredictable as people say, and maybe Connor really isn’t looking to bring him back to how he was during his “glory” days.

    Maybe… Maybe he won’t get between the two of them for now. Just for now.

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

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A/N: Heyo guys! Another chapter out, whoot whoot!! So, I don’t have much to say except this chapter was kind of boring, but it’s a stepping stone for what’s to come in the future so please bear with me 😅 Next chapter will feature Gavin and Ritch!! (even though it may still be kinda dull compared to the last chapter 😅) I feel like I’ve been focusing on Connor a lot since the beginning of this fic, but that’s only because that’s how it has to work out in my evil master plans Mwahaha!

Anyway, The next thing I’ll be posting is actually the first chapter of a Hankcon fic I had planned, Cat Out of the Bag, and that will be coming very soon! I already have more than half of it written! Thank you for reading and leaving comments! I may not respond to everyone, but I read everything! Y’all are the best 💖

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