#prep work secondary

[it-grrl]

I had my last day at the bar tonight, really felt like the [temporary] end of my "Jackie Daytona, normal human Bar[fry cook]" era. It's been a good place to not worry to hard about shit and I desperately wish my last week there was more productive but unfortunately the water heater shit the bed and broke my boss' heart Tuesday.

[berryfairyluvr]

Hi! I love your writing and would like to request Caleb and princess treatment please 💝

caleb and his princess treatment

pairings: bf!caleb/husband!caleb x fem!reader

warnings: suggestive, slight hinting of jealousy?, mentions of pregnancy

a/n: you’re very sweet, thank you for the request!! i hope it’s to your liking <3

As far back as you could remember, Caleb had always treated you with the utmost care, tending to your needs in any way he could.

During your secondary school years, Caleb decided he would make not only his own lunch, but yours too. You’d always been a picky eater and he couldn’t trust you to feed yourself if the cafeteria didn’t have enough foods that interested you. After finally moving in together as a couple— he picked up the old habit and began making your lunches for work too.

Growing up, you and Caleb often took the public transportation to and from school or town. On extra crowded days when you could only find one empty seat he’d always give it to you.

He had always been the looming overprotective presence in your life, like the time he told the entirety of the school basketball team that you were “off limits.”

And of course he picks you up from the Association in his sports car, leaning against the sleek vehicle with a cheesy grin and deep dimples, aviator shades perched on his nose. “Well hello girlfriend..” which later became his personal favorite, “Hello wife..” Followed by wrapping a lengthy arm around your waist the other around your shoulders, kissing your flushed face.

Insists on carrying you if your feet hurt, you’re sleepy, or it’s even remotely inconvenient for you to walk. Bonus: bridal style all the time.

He talks about you like you’re his entire world (because you are)—casually, without shame. “Yeah, my girlfriend made this.” “MC said that once, it stuck with me.” “She’s smarter than me, actually.”

You try to help him clean up or fix something? He gently turns you around, plants you on the nearest seat, and kisses your forehead. “Let me take care of it, baby.” “Nuh-uh Pips, just sit here and look pretty for me, yeah?”

One of his love languages has always been acts of service— taking note of every little detail of your daily routines so he can find a way to make them easier for you without question.

His clothes? Pfft no, they’re our clothes. Whatever he owns he considers yours as well, emphasis on the clothing. He even buys things for himself based on how he pictures you in them eventually..

As cringey as it sounds, this man will hand feed you like a baby. Whether you’re working overtime from home or gaming he’s making sure you’re getting your meals.

Studying or working together proved to be challenging when he couldn’t tear his eyes off your figure or halt his lingering touches of affection which proved to be quite the distraction.

You're not just loved—you’re revered. He never lets you forget how special you are to him. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. Let me prove it every day."

For some blissfully, wonderful, unknown reason, this man is always on his knees before you, for you. Whether it’s to tie your shoelaces or to praise his most favorite, sacred part of your- (whaaaatt ?? who said that ??)

You send ONE moderately risqué photo his way and he’s blowing up your phone like the dozens of ships he explodes with the fleet.

You knew him to be protective and caring before but when you’re expecting his first child it’s a different story. He spends the whole first month of your first trimester researching beneficial recipes for expecting mothers and their babies. “I’ll set aside time to meal prep each meal for you daily, it’ll be great Pips.”

When your newborn arrives, Caleb insists on waking up with you for each and every night shift of feedings and diaper changes. The dark circles under your eyes tug at his heart strings as he urges you back to bed as soon as you’re done with the baby. “My little copilot wants to be around mommy all the time too, hm?” He rocks your newborn back to sleep with a yawn of his own.

Gaming at his desk while you're dozing in and out of sleep from the couch he can't help but check on you, even if it's mid match. “You good, baby? Need anything? Water? Snack? A nap on me instead of the couch?” He's just glad to have you near and willing to do anything to keep you close.

He's always carrying your things for you, literally everything. When the two of you would walk home from school your backpack was always slung over his shoulder, it didn't matter that he had his own backpack and his basketball bag. That quickly became the norm for everything, shopping bags, leftovers from the hotpot place, your luggage when visiting him in Skyhaven.. The list goes on, you weren't allowed to carry anything on his watch. It was no use protesting anymore, you'd just be met with a dimpled smirk and kiss to your cheek.

Don't even try to leave or go to sleep without giving him his last kiss of the day. "EXCUSE ME. Where do you think you're going without my goodbye kiss?" He'd steal a few extra and say it was just for safety precautions.

He loves complimenting you all day, everyday. He loves the reactions you give him, would do just about anything for them.

read zayne’s version here

read sylus' version here

requests open ❤︎

[forsaken-headcanons]

Hii first time submitting please don't execute me :3 This game has rotted my brain I swear oops didn't mean to ramble sorry :(((

Tw// mentions hunger + mentions of skinning animals

The survivors/killers get food from winning matches (being bland pizza) and they used to ration it (007n7 would also duplicate it but the more he'd do that the less good to eat it'd become) but after a really bad streak and everyone starving they made a cycle which is Farm/hunt/prepare/cook

Farming - they were able to get a really small garden going, Builderman made a UV light as well. There's not much sunlight and a water filter (which is also how they get clean water to drink and clean) there's a sub task with this which is being a scarecrow. I think it explains itself (whoever does the least work or smth gets put up as it. It's often 7n7 due to public voting) TT is the one most common working for reasons

Hunting - Someone gets voted and gets kicked out of the campgrounds to hunt animals (or fish but that's 2X2) and (very rarely) cake monsters to bring back. Guest is the most commonly sent out for once more, obvious reasons while Chance is banned (they'd come back screaming and running) and Two time brought

Prep - Making the food actually safe to eat. Shedletsky is scarily good at skinning animals (Brighteyes taught him, she's a lot better tho she's not there thankfully) though he's rarely given this task and Chance also once had this but the second he was given a rabbit he ran (Noob didn't know :[ they apologised afterwards) though he does clean the vegetables often. Everyone does this task a lot since everyone can do it.

Cooking - Self explainatory. Elliot does this the most if not always while 007n7 is secondary and Desukkar and Shedletsky are tied at third. Everyone else rarely does and Two time is BANNED .

Meanwhile the killers eat raw meat as 1x (the only chef) rarely cooks because their cabin is a wreck and Jason keeps bringing animals (or sometimes an unlucky survivor somehow even if they're on the other side of the lake) to eat! Delicious (John does not care, the kids are crying, mafioso is going insane and Noli is very close to murder and everyone else also is mostly unhappy)

- 👑 Anon (That's available right?? Anyways hiiii)

Interesting. I love how the survivors worked out a system to farm and produce food that's better than bland and boring pizza, while the killers are struggling and fighting for their lives.

[reallyromealone]

Can you do (whatever characters you like) x male omega reader?

I don’t care what character(s) get put x reader.

Plot: Toman was in a meeting talking about god knows what when reader begins to enter pre-heat. Chaos insues

Title: atypical courting

Fandom: Tokyo revengers

Characters: Toman + others

Fic type: smut

Pairings: all x reader

Warnings: male reader, reader insert, omegaverse, nsfw, smut, Omega male reader, group sex, double penetration

Notes: I just added everyone in here, it's all post story version's but crime ✨

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

He's known them most of his life, Mikey coming to his dad's bakery almost daily and witnessing (name) beat the crap out of a thief trying to rob them, immediately asking him to join Toman even if he was an Omega.

That was ten years ago, and here he was.

On top of the world.

Being a Toman executive wasn't easy, especially as (name) secondary gender but he made it work as he kept a constant supply of suppressants to keep his heat at bay, refusing to be seen in a moment of weakness by the other Toman executives.

(Name) And the others always had... Tension between them, not hostile not but more so sexual, they had for a very long time and neither parties actually handed it from the occasional light pass to a grope, a game of cat and mouse.

Mikey, hanma and Kisaki were one of the worst ones with their infatuation, obsessed with him without ever doing anything.

(Name) Was annoyed as he sat in the meeting, he called in sick for a reason and nooo! He had to be here to hear about god damn taxable buildings they needed to check up on! (Name) Was prepping for his upcoming heat, his preheat would hit any day now and he just didn't want to be here when it happened.

He couldn't afford to be vulnerable with people present.

"(Name), you good? Yer' sweatin' fucking buckets" Baji barked out as everyone turned to look at (name) who was barely present as a sweet smell filtered through the room, the smell of preheat.

"Why did you come if you were in preheat?!" Kisaki yelled and (name) hissed back at him "I TRIED AND YOU WERE LIKE NO EXCUSES! THIS IS IMPORTANT!" he did not care that he was yelling at a Toman vp, his stomach cramping and headache forming as he shakily stood "I'll bring you home" chifuyu and mitsuya said in a synchronized tone before glaring at one another "I'm fine, I'll just go home" (name) grunted as he stood, shaking slightly as he walked out of the room but he didn't get too far as the Toman executives be worked with daily flanked his side's, the Haitani brothers just behind him as hanma wrapped his arm around his waist.

"Back off!" (Name) Hissed at them "I'm a grown man, I can handle myself" he glared and removed Hanmas hand and the specticalled man smiled at the other as if he were an angry kitten "you have an alpha to care for you?" Draken said seriously and (name) looked cross "that's none of any of your business" (name) moved faster down the hall and towards the elevator, pushing them back with little effect as they towered over and got in, (name)s headache and cramp being particularly hard and a pained whine escaped his lips "you haven't had a heat in a while, what has it been a year? Since you had one?" Kisaki said to the other while pulling him closer from behind "we all know you don't have friends outside of Toman"

"And we know you want us as much as we want you" Muto finally pipped up as Mikey pulled him closer, hips touching each other and the smell of pharamones made (name) hazy "let us treat you good... Be our pack Omega" Mikey commanded softly, watching (name) sway slightly before the short blond lifted him effortlessly "just... Just don't claim me..." He whispered, thankful he was wearing his collar today as they all grinned.

(Name) Didn't know whose cock was where as he was double penetrated, when one cock thrusted in the other thrusted out as someone's cock was in his mouth, jerking off others as he was surrounded by alphas and cocks as he was touched and most of all filled to he brim.

"Alphaaa~" if (name) were even slightly coherent he would be horrified at the fact he was pulling his boss closer with his ankles around the blonds neck as he jerked off smileys cock that was right by his lips, moving to take it in his mouth with a soft hum.

"God, we should have made you ours forever ago.." pah said drained, having had the soul sucked from him via (name)s tight ass "you think he would be a house Omega? Bare foot?" Angry asked curiously as he too recovered and Draken snorted "he would rip out our eyes for even suggesting that"

It was true, despite being cock drunk and needy now, they knew he was too work driven to even think of that, he wasn't a house Omega who would sit all docile for them.

They literally saw him beat the shit out of a lower employee for losing a cargo box of drugs.

So that said enough.

"I'm just happy we don't have to dance around each other... I wanted so many times to take him in my office" Koko said and Sanzu grunted in agreement "I once saw him climb the lounge kitchen counter and his ass was at face level, took everything not to shove my face in his plush ass" Sanzu was almost hard thinking about it but (name) fucked him out of commission for at least a day.

It had only been five hours and the Omega is just getting exhausted as he let the there's do as they pleased to him, eyes barely staying open as he took what was given.

(Name) Woke up sore, real sore as he sat up to see bodies all over the room, chatting or sleeping as the Omega processed what happened "you need another knot baby?" Baji asked as he chugged a water bottle as Angry looked at (name) curiously as poor (name) processed what took place, cum leaking from his ass as he shakily got out of Draken and Kakuchos hold "what... Fuck... Ow" (name)s hips and ass hurt as he nearly fell over, caught by smiley who snickered at the other man's pain "what did you all go to town on me?!"

"Yuuup" the pink haired twin said kissing his cheek with a cackle "I need a shower..." (Name) Grumbled as he stumbled to the washroom with a hard limp, kicking out any horny alphas that tried to join him.

(Name) Soaked in the bath as he thought about what transpired... He just fucked all his co-workers.

And his bosses!

Oh god he got railed by Mikey and Draken at once.

Memories flooded back as he remembered everything they said to him, everything he did!

He practically attacked Kisaki for his dick!

He didn't hear the washroom door open as mitsuya walked in dressed in nice clothes, a to go bag in one hand and clothes in the other "you haven't eaten since last night" mitsuya chuckled as he crouched before (name) "we got you some breakfast" he said as (name) looked confused "why?"

"You're the pack Omega, gotta keep you taken care of"

"I'm no--""-- we aren't asking you to quit, we just want you and we know you wanted in our pack... To stubborn to admit it"

(Name) Flushed as he didn't deny it and looked at the food they got him, his favorites all present as the Alpha tried to feed him "you have wet hands, you might drop a chopstick"

After the bath, Mikey tried to demand (name) live with one of them preferably him but (name) shut that shit down "I am not going to be your back and call fuck toy " he grumbled and Mikey glared but the pout proved his harmlessness at that moment.

"Next time, in not letting you all rail me back to back"

"No promises"

[dailyadventureprompts]

So I've been reading Triangle Agency...

For those not in the know: Triangle Agency is a new weird/corporate horror TTRPG heavily inspired by things like the X files, Delta Green, and Control. You work as agents for the titular organization which sends you out to stabilize reality by dealing with various paranatural Anomalies.

Don't think of this as a review, until I sit down at a table and play this system over a few sessions I won't be able to tell you how well it actually works. What I can tell you is what the game is trying to accomplish with its storytelling and mechanics, and what it's trying to do is interesting.

Unlike a lot of TTRPGs I've read, triangle agency is not interested in giving you a system that you can use to tell whatever story you want. Instead I can compare it to a tabletop version of a choice heavy videogame like Disco Elysium or Bg3: where engaging with the story/mechanics will lead you to one of the endings the authors prepared for you. This is not to say the system is inflexible, that you can't put your own spin on it, GMs can design missions however they want, and player choice is a major focus, but as long as you're playing the game you're furthering the meta story.

As such, this might be the first game that I'd consider running out of the box with only pre-prepped adventures, which is shocking considering how much of a homebrewer I am. Instead, I'd be interested in putting a group of players in this game and just seeing what it does to them, though it'd have to be a very specific group of players than my regular ol gaming group.

The ideal Triangle Agency player is one that's got a primary focus on storytelling over mechanics, who're interested in making big narrative swings happen as a result of their choices. They also need to be comfortable with improv storytelling, as the primary means of interacting with the game requires a quick " what if" session to justify how you're moulding reality into a new shape:

Where another game might have you roll your character's strength for something as simple as kicking down a locked door, Triangle Agency has your party brainstorming a reason why the door would be weak enough for you to kick down in the first place: IE the building has a termite problem, and the hinges were subject to poor storage conditions by the contractor who installed the door. Then you roll. If you succeed, the door is knocked down, the building has a termite problem and has *always* had a termite problem, and an entire human being, Gary the negligent contractor, has been spoken into existence. You are likely to meet him on your next mission.

In many ways this is explicitly like Blades in the Dark's flashback mechanic, except made an explicit part of the game world. Your characters have the same reality distorting abilities of the Anomalies they're hunting, and they have to be careful lest they delete whole swaths of their life trying to angle for a better roll.

This is where we get into Triangle Agency's focus on character, and the secondary requirement that players be the type to get invested in their eldritch business blorbo as they are subjected to various corporate horrors™. This is a game interested in change whether it manifests as choice, trauma, or metamorphosis, and the ante for these interactions is your player/characters investment in the world. Part of this is with your character's contacts, NPCs who are as essential to an agent's build as their anomalous superpowers or their job with the Agency. To give extra weight to these relationships, each one is portrayed by another player at the table, which I thought was an ingenious way to not only take the burden off the GM, but also to give players more screen time even when their primary agent is off stage.

That leads me to the genius primary progression mechanic: The choice between whether to spend time with your Agent's contacts, focus on their Agency job, or delve into the eldritch truth of their powers, and how to split their finite time off between them. Here we get player choice, story, and mechanics all tied together in a neat little package as progression along any of these tracks unlock new abilities while also revealing more and more of the game's secrets. Possibilities for the game's story open up/are blocked off specifically with how the players choose to personally spend their XP, and if that's not a feat of game design ( or more aptly, craft) I don't know what is.

Final Thoughts: Despite having a delightful time reading the rulebook/optional mission pack (Seriously, the vibes are stellar) I don't know if I'm actually going to get to play Triangle Agency at any point in the near future. I think getting the most out of this game depends so much on finding the right playgroup for it and then pouring in enough time to unlock one of the endings. I'd want to see the mechanism of it's story/mechanics/drama play out, but doing so is one heck of a commitment.

However, if you've got a group full of storytellers that are up for the challenge and you're looking for something substantial to play next, I don't think I could recommend it enough.

I'm also going to be keeping my eyes out for longform actual plays of this one, I'd love to see what a group of performers could do with this.

[mohabbotein]

casual

˙⟡ mohan x abbot (but it's really just abbot Thinking), wc: 1.1k

over the years, jack has become very good at just lingering. staff room? he’s in the corner, watching over the tables in the middle. nursing station? he’s pretending to mull over a patient’s chart on the workstation, listening in on ellis and shen as they compete against each other on words with friends. hell, even the roof has become a place to people-watch, amongst other contemplations.

today, during the once-in-a-lifetime day shift he picked up, he finds himself off his game, unable to resist being in the middle of it all.

“you sure you don’t want a ride?” he swings by the nursing station, hoping to appear more relaxed than he feels. 

samira looks up at him through her lashes and he almost flinches at the juvenile flip of his stomach. 

he watches her mull over it, considering she just rejected trinity’s offer. “actually, i think i might take you up on that.” her eyes dart back to the computer screen. 

he feels slightly uncertain when he can’t read her in this exact moment, because she’s always been someone he could read. he’s more cautious as time goes on. gone are the days of running red lights. is his age showing?

“done deal,” he nods with finality, swallowing hard. “your carriage will await you at exactly,” he checks his wrist, “2100.” 

“i’ll put on my best ballgown,” she smiles shyly, dimples peeking out. 

his muscles relax slightly as the corner of his lip lifts, turning away from the nursing station with some peace in mind. on his way to 8 north, he thinks maybe day shift wouldn’t actually be as bad as he once thought it was. today was definitely a blessing in disguise, serendipity, a stroke of luck even - 

“abbot,” robby’s voice rings through the crowded space. “9 west.” 

fuck. he inhales sharply, his stroll speeding up to a light brisk walk. he’s tempted to funnel his optimism down a black hole, but because he’s been actively working on cognitive reframing, he reminds himself that this slight-jog to 9 west definitely counts towards his 30 minutes of moderate intensity exercise per AHA recommendations. 

“talk to me.” jack gloves up, pushing his way through the glass door. “keep it quick, i got a sweet ride waiting for me.” 

“hot date tonight?” robby responds distractedly. he isn’t serious, jack knows this, but he feels himself getting slightly defensive. 

a beat later, he finally quips, “you wouldn’t know anything about that.”  

langdon has just about successfully intubated the unconscious patient in front of him. “50 year old male presenting with suspected cardiac tamponade secondary to hemorrhagic pericardial effusion. BP and sats dropping, currently hemodynamically unstable.” 

“STEMI,” robby adds only mildly helpfully, before turning out to oversee the case next door. jack can vaguely pick out samira’s voice giving report to robby. 

jack curses himself again for being so optimistic, then shifts that thought to gratitude because the workup is essentially already done. sure, he’s likely going to be late to samira, but that’s fine, she’ll understand, and if she doesn’t, that’s okay too - 

he sighs. maybe he’s flying too close to the sun, literally and figuratively. icarus reincarnated.

jack moves to the computer, scanning the patient’s chart. “prep for thoracotomy,” he says, reviewing the listed allergies with a quick squint of his eyes. “get garcia in here. did we consult cards?” 

“already here,” she says with the voice of a commander in the army. jack fleetingly wonders what it would’ve been like to serve with her. 

“relax, soldier,” langdon murmurs. “you’ll wake your sedated patient up if you keep yelling like that.” 

garcia snorts. “what was that? i couldn’t hear you over the consult you put in this morning, for me.”

“yeah,” langdon snips, “for surgery. that’s what you do, right?” 

“alright, let’s not get too excited about a thoracotomy,” abbot mutters. 

robby’s told him about langdon and garcia, how it reminds him of jack and walsh. jack has usually adamantly begged to differ, but he’s starting to see what robby means. 

his thoughts briefly drift back to samira’s voice as he watches langdon make the first incision. he wipes it all out of his mind - samira, robby, langdon and garcia, icarus - as the fluid begins to drain into the catheter.

it’s almost 9:30 pm when jack finishes stabilizing the patient, not to mention the extensive charting that follows. 

night shift has almost fully taken over, except for him and … possibly dana, if he looked hard enough. he’s decidedly not in a rush, considering he’s quite late for his date with samira. he managed to shoot her a text sometime in the thick of it, but it was pathetically disheartening to see ‘no prob’ pop up on his screen in response. 

he feels like he’s caught in this weird dance with her, one where he hasn’t quite stepped on her toes just yet. he’s not a good dancer - possibly more cut out for boxing - so it’s inevitably going to happen, but instead of just going for it, he finds himself hesitating more than ever. 

he leans back in his rolly chair, neck craning over to shen. “question,” he starts tentatively, “if you’re seeing someone, is it better to play it cool these days?” he fights to urge to ask what ‘the kids’ are doing nowadays.

shen’s eyebrows comically lift. “old man’s got it going on. you finally get on the apps?”

“be serious.” jack clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “the app would probably shut down if they got someone like this,” he gestures to himself dramatically, “on there.” 

“yeah, glitching out wondering what an oldie’s doing on there.” shen pauses. “being upfront is probably refreshing these days. nobody really does old school anymore. FWB, that type of thing.” 

jack hums to himself, realizing he can’t contribute much else without giving himself away. it’s too late to mull over today, and who knows when he’ll see samira next? should he pick up another day shift?

he shakes his head in resignation. dayshift was usually a once-in-a-lifetime event, and he’s already done it twice-this-year. 

nothing’s going quite like it usually does. 

it’s a little after 10 pm when he sees samira lingering outside the ER entrance, her back to him as she sways left to right.  

he - his heart - pauses. he tries not to read too much into it (both samira and his heart). 

a moment after relishing in the silence, he finally asks, “what’re you doing here, dr. mohan?” a loose grin toying on his lips. 

she turns, and there are those familiar dimples again. she’s changed into something arguably more comfortable than sweat stained scrubs, hair billowing over her shoulders. 

“heard you had a sweet ride waiting for you, wanted to see what that was all about.” 

he blinks at her, pressing his lips together into a small smile before nodding slowly. “yeah, yeah i think we can arrange for that.” 

“maybe something to eat too?” 

“oh, i know just the place.” 

he’s relieved to realize that maybe it’s not as casual as he thought it was.

[izzyhandsdeservedbetter]

TREMORS

Title: Tremors  

—

ME AND THE EXTREMELY LOVELY @ghost-inthemirror HAVE BEEN WORKING ON THIS FOR AGES, I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY!!

SUMMARY: Aaron has been stuck in the hospital for hours, even days when an earthquake hits. he ends up on the news.

---

Aaron Minyard had been in the operating room for twenty-four straight hours. His hands ached, his back screamed in protest, and his vision blurred at the edges from exhaustion. The bright surgical lights overhead burned into his retinas, but he didn’t dare look away. Not now. Not when the patient on the table was still fighting.  

The woman—early forties, no prior medical history—had come in with a catastrophic brain bleed. A ruptured aneurysm, the scans had shown, massive and treacherous. The kind of case that made even seasoned neurosurgeons hesitate. The kind most people didn’t walk away from.  

But Aaron wasn’t most people.  

He had taken the case without hesitation, barking orders at his team, prepping for surgery within minutes of her arrival. The first six hours had been a grueling battle—clipping the aneurysm, controlling the bleed, stabilizing her vitals. Then came the swelling. Then the secondary complications. Then the moments where her heart rate plummeted, where her oxygen levels dipped dangerously low, where Aaron had to make split-second decisions that meant the difference between life and death.  

And now, twenty-four hours later, he was still standing there, his gloves slick with sweat and saline, his body running on sheer stubbornness and caffeine.  

“Pressure’s stabilizing,” the anesthesiologist murmured, voice hoarse from the long hours.  

Aaron didn’t respond. His entire world had narrowed to the delicate vessels under his microscope, to the steady rhythm of the monitors, to the faint but persistent pulse beneath his fingertips.  

One more suture. One more check.  

His scrub nurse, Emily, handed him the final clip without a word. She’d been with him the entire time, anticipating his needs before he even voiced them. The rest of the team had rotated out in shifts, but she and Aaron had stayed.  

He placed the last clip. Held his breath.  

The monitors continued their steady beeping. No spikes. No crashes.  

She was stable.  

Aaron exhaled, long and slow, his shoulders finally sagging under the weight of exhaustion. He stepped back from the table, rolling his stiff neck, and blinked hard against the dryness in his eyes.  

“Time?” he rasped.  

“7:48 AM,” Emily said. She sounded as drained as he felt.  

A full day. A full day of fighting, of refusing to let death win.  

And somehow, against all odds, they had.  

Aaron peeled off his gloves, his hands trembling slightly from fatigue. He glanced at the patient—alive, stable, her brain no longer under siege. She wasn’t out of the woods yet. There would be ICU monitoring, possible complications, a long recovery ahead.  

But she had made it through the surgery.  

That was enough.  

“Good job, everyone,” Aaron said, his voice rough. The team murmured their acknowledgments, too tired for anything more.  

As he pushed through the OR doors, the bright lights of the hallway nearly blinded him. He leaned against the wall for a moment, just breathing, just existing.  

Twenty-four hours.  

And she was alive.  

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a quiet voice whispered that it was worth it.  

Aaron closed his eyes, just for a second, and let himself believe it.  

Then he straightened, rolled his shoulders back, and walked toward the waiting room to deliver the news.

Then the earthquake hit.

The ER was chaos incarnate. Patients flooded in on stretchers, bleeding, screaming, some already half-gone. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and iron, the sounds of monitors beeping erratically, nurses shouting stats, and the ever-present hum of desperation.  

Aaron Minyard moved like a ghost between the wounded—quick, precise, untouchable. He didn’t stop, not even when his scrub shirt stuck to his back with sweat, not when his hands began to ache from the strain of sutures and compressions. He barked orders, adjusted IVs, reset bones, and intubated patients with the same detached efficiency that made him one of the best trauma surgeons in the state.  

Hours blurred. His feet burned. His vision tunneled.  

And then the critical cases started rolling in—the ones that needed the OR now.  

Ten hours. Twelve. Fifteen.  

One surgery bled into the next. His hands never faltered.  

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered exhaustion, but it didn’t matter. The scalpel was an extension of his will, the sutures a reflex. He worked until his body threatened mutiny, until the edges of his vision darkened with more than fatigue.  

But there was no stopping.  

Not yet.  

---

The patient was crashing.  

The monitor screamed its flatline alarm, and the younger doctor at Aaron’s side—Dr. Chen, fresh out of residency—immediately reached for the crash cart, hands already moving to start compressions.  

Aaron’s arm shot out, fingers locking around Chen’s wrist like a vice.  

"Don’t."  

Chen blinked, startled. "But—"  

Aaron’s free hand pointed to the chart clipped to the bed.  

DNR.  

Do Not Resuscitate.  

Chen’s face twisted—conflict, guilt, the instinct to fight death warring with the reality of the patient’s choice. Aaron didn’t let go until he was sure Chen wouldn’t move.  

Silence settled over them, heavy and suffocating. The monitor’s unbroken tone filled the space where a heartbeat should have been.  

Aaron exhaled.  

And then he moved on to the next patient.  

---

The first earthquake had been bad enough.  

The hospital had barely stabilized when the second warning came—another quake, bigger, imminent. The order went out: Evacuate. Now.  

Aaron’s shift had ended twelve hours ago.  

He was still there.  

He helped wheel patients out, barking directions to nurses and orderlies, prioritizing who needed to move first. The ICU patients were the hardest—ventilators, monitors, lines that couldn’t be disconnected without risk.  

"Dr. Minyard, you need to go," a nurse said, voice strained.  

Aaron didn’t even look up as he adjusted an oxygen tank. "I’ll go when they’re all out."  

The ground trembled beneath them—a warning.  

He kept working.  

Because that’s what he did.  

That’s what he was.  

And he wouldn’t stop until the job was done.  

---  

The news had been playing in the background, white noise to fill the silence of the car as Andrew drove, Neil half-asleep in the passenger seat beside him. They were on their way back to Palmetto, another exhausting away game behind them, another stretch of highway ahead. The Foxes had won—barely—and all Andrew wanted was to get back, shower, and maybe sleep for a week.  

Then the broadcast cut to breaking news.  

Earthquake in California. Magnitude 6.3. Widespread damage reported in Los Angeles.  

Neil sat up, blinking at the screen. Andrew didn’t react, not visibly, but his fingers tightened imperceptibly around the steering wheel.  

Aaron was supposed to be in Boston.  

That was the only thought that registered. Aaron was supposed to be in Boston, at a medical conference, far from the West Coast. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near this.  

But then the camera feed shifted, shaky and chaotic, the reporter’s voice barely audible over the sirens and shouting. The screen showed a hospital—no, what was left of one. Part of the building had collapsed, ambulances lining the streets, people covered in dust and blood stumbling through the wreckage.  

And then—  

A blur of movement, a sharp yell.  

“MOVE!”  

The camera jerked, refocusing just in time to catch a familiar figure shoving past the reporter, his blond hair streaked with blood, his scrubs torn and dirty.  

Aaron.  

Andrew’s breath stopped.  

Aaron wasn’t supposed to be there.  

But he was.  

---  

The camera didn’t stop following him.  

Aaron moved like a man possessed, darting between patients, barking orders at nurses, his hands steady even as his voice cracked with exhaustion. He didn’t seem to notice the camera at first, too focused on the woman bleeding out in front of him, on the child screaming for her mother, on the old man struggling to breathe.  

But after twenty minutes—twenty relentless, brutal minutes—Aaron finally turned, his eyes sharp despite the dark circles beneath them.  

“If you’re going to film, then stay there.” He pointed to a corner of the ER, where the reporters wouldn’t be in the way. “Don’t get in the way. Don’t touch anything. And if you see someone who needs help, yell for a nurse.”  

And then he was gone again, vanishing into the sea of patients.  

The camera didn’t leave him after that.  

---  

Inside the hospital was chaos.  

The benches where the reporters had been directed were the only stable ground in a world of movement—nurses sprinting between beds, doctors shouting over the din, patients crying, praying, dying. The camera panned across the room, catching glimpses of Aaron in the fray—stitching a wound here, stabilizing a fracture there, his hands never still.  

And then the ground shook.  

A minor tremor, but enough to send panic rippling through the room. The nurses moved instantly, ducking beside beds, dragging patients to the floor. Aaron was in the middle of wrapping a teenage girl’s leg when it hit—without hesitation, he threw himself over her, shielding her with his body as debris rained from the ceiling.  

The camera shook, the reporter’s voice rising in alarm, but Aaron didn’t flinch. The second the tremor passed, he was moving again, checking the girl over before shoving her gently beneath a nearby table.  

“Stay there.”  

His hands flew over her leg, wrapping the bandage in a tight heel lock—fast, efficient, perfect. The girl stared up at him, wide-eyed, but Aaron was already turning, already scanning the room for the next crisis.  

Another tremor hit.  

This one was stronger.  

Aaron was halfway across the room, helping a nurse push a bed carrying a critical patient, when the ground lurched. The bed jerked sideways, Aaron’s feet slipping out from under him. He hit the ground hard, the nurse beside him tumbling as well.  

For one terrifying second, the camera lost him in the chaos.  

Then—  

Aaron was back on his knees, one hand braced against the bed, the other pressing hard against the patient’s bleeding wound. The nurse scrambled up, resuming CPR, oxygen mask pressed tight over the patient’s mouth. Aaron didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, even as the hospital groaned around them.  

“Doorframe—now!”  

Together, they shoved the bed against the nearest sturdy structure, bracing for impact. The ceiling held. Barely.  

Aaron didn’t pause to breathe.  

---  

Andrew’s phone was in his hand before he realized he’d grabbed it.  

He dialed.  

Once.  

Twice.  

Three times.  

No answer.  

Aaron’s phone rang and rang and rang, the sound grating against Andrew’s nerves like a physical thing. He hung up. Dialed again.  

Nothing.  

Neil was watching him, silent, but Andrew didn’t care. He dialed again.  

Still nothing.  

Fifteen hours.  

That was how far they were from California. Fifteen fucking hours, and Andrew couldn’t do anything but sit here, useless, while Aaron—  

The camera caught him again, blood smeared across his cheek, his hands steady as he stitched a wound. Alive. Working.  

Not answering his goddamn phone.  

Andrew exhaled, slow, controlled.  

He hated this.  

He hated waiting.  

He hated feeling powerless.  

But there was nothing he could do.  

Nothing except watch.  

And hope.

The evacuation order came without warning.  

One moment, the hospital was chaos—doctors shouting, nurses scrambling, patients being stabilized—and the next, a voice crackled over the intercom, calm but urgent.  

“Attention all staff. Immediate evacuation of the building is required. Repeat: immediate evacuation.”  

The camera, still fixed on the corner Aaron had directed them to, caught the split-second pause—the way every head in the ER snapped up, the way the air seemed to freeze.  

And then—  

Movement.  

Not toward the exits.  

Up the halls.  

Aaron was the first to move, sprinting past the camera without hesitation, a group of nurses and doctors right behind him. The reporter gasped, the camera jerking as they tried to follow, but the medical staff was already disappearing into the stairwell.  

They weren’t running out.  

They were running deeper in.  

---  

The next time the camera caught them, they were rolling out beds—IV poles still attached, monitors beeping, elderly patients clutched in the arms of nurses who moved with practiced urgency.  

But Aaron wasn’t with them.  

Not yet.  

When he finally reappeared, he was at the back of another group, his arms full—not with equipment, not with charts, but with babies. Tiny, fragile newborns swaddled in blankets, their tiny faces scrunched in protest against the noise and movement. The nurses beside him carried more, some in incubators, some cradled against their chests.  

The ICU had been cleared.  

And then—  

Before anyone could process it—  

Aaron was handing off the last infant to a waiting nurse, turning on his heel, and running back inside.  

The reporter’s voice cracked over the feed.  

“They’re going back in—folks, the doctors and nurses are still evacuating patients, but they’re not leaving anyone behind—”  

Then—  

A new alarm.  

A code red.  

Fire.  

---  

The elevators weren’t working.  

The camera caught the exact moment the news reached Aaron—his head snapping up, his jaw tightening. Someone shouted something about floor three, about a woman in labor, about no way to get her down.  

Aaron didn’t hesitate.  

He was moving before the words fully registered, barking orders at security—block the lower staircases, use the physical therapy mats, make a barrier—and then he was gone again, taking the stairs two at a time.  

Neil, watching from the car, remembered suddenly, vividly—Aaron had always been fast. Faster than him, back then, when it came to protecting Andrew.  

And now—  

Now he was running toward fire.  

---  

The next time Aaron appeared, he looked worse.  

His coat was streaked with soot, the edges singed, his shoes blackened with scorch marks. A nurse shoved a fresh coat into his hands, and he changed without breaking stride, already moving toward the next crisis—a code blue somewhere in the sea of patients.  

Andrew’s fingers twitched against his phone.  

Still no answer.  

Still nothing.  

---  

By the time the hospital was mostly cleared, Aaron looked like hell.  

His hair was matted with sweat and dust, his scrubs stained with blood and ash, but his voice was steady as he approached the reporters.  

“You need to move. It’s not safe here anymore.”  

The reporter stammered something about documenting the evacuation, but Aaron cut her off.  

“Is there anyone left inside?”  

A pause. Then—  

“Floor three. The head nurse is still up there with a woman in labor—they can’t get her down.”  

Aaron was already turning.  

---  

The woman was in a wheelchair when they finally got her out, her face pale with pain, the head nurse supporting her as they navigated the makeshift ramp—physical therapy mats stacked and secured into a slope, just stable enough to roll her down.  

Aaron was at the front, guiding them, his grip firm on the handles.  

And then—  

The long, grueling process of loading patients into ambulances began.  

Critical patients first.  

Then the ICU babies, the newborns, their tiny cries muffled against the chests of nurses who refused to let them go.  

Then the surgical cases.  

Then the elderly.  

Then the injured.  

Aaron was everywhere—checking IV lines, adjusting oxygen masks, barking orders when needed, his voice hoarse but unwavering.  

And then—  

When the worst was over—  

He was passing out water bottles, energy bars, anything he could grab, handing them first to patients, then to the reporters, then to the nurses and doctors who had been working just as long as he had.  

Andrew noticed, with a sharp twist in his chest, that Aaron didn’t eat.  

He drank water—gulped it down like a man dying of thirst—but the protein bar meant for him ended up in the hands of a trembling elderly man who hadn’t eaten in hours.  

---  

The Foxes were watching.  

All of them.  

Some in silence, some with muttered curses, some with hands pressed over their mouths.  

Kevin’s knuckles were white around his phone.  

Nicky had cried three times already.  

Renee hadn’t looked away from the screen once.  

And Andrew—  

Andrew didn’t move.  

Didn’t breathe.  

Didn’t blink.  

Because Aaron still wasn’t answering his fucking phone.  

And there was nothing Andrew could do but watch.  

---  

The aftershock hit just as the last ambulance pulled away.  

The ground trembled, the hospital groaning ominously, but the patients were safe.  

Aaron, standing in the middle of the wreckage, finally stopped moving.  

For the first time since the camera had caught him—since the world had fallen apart around him—he looked tired.  

Exhausted.  

Hollow.  

But alive.  

Alive.  

Andrew exhaled.  

And dialed again.

__

The last ambulance pulled away, sirens wailing into the distance, carrying the final critical patient to safety.  

And then—  

Like marionettes with their strings cut—  

The doctors and nurses collapsed.  

Some sat heavily on the hospital steps, legs giving out beneath them. Others simply dropped where they stood, sprawling onto the pavement, chests heaving. A few leaned against each other, arms slung over shoulders, foreheads pressed together in silent relief.  

Aaron was one of them.  

One second, he was standing, directing the last of the transport vans. The next, his knees buckled—so fast that Andrew, watching from the car, flinched, thinking he’d collapsed.  

But no.  

Aaron just—  

Sat down.  

Hard.  

His legs shook violently beneath him, muscles finally giving out after hours of relentless motion. He didn’t even try to catch himself, just let gravity take him, landing heavily on the steps with a ragged exhale. His hands, usually so steady, trembled where they braced against the concrete.  

Around him, the others were celebrating—laughing, crying, hugging each other in sheer exhaustion and relief. Someone let out a whoop, half-hysterical, and a few nurses clapped weakly, grinning through tears.  

But Aaron didn’t join in.  

He just—  

Bowed his head.  

Breathing.  

Just breathing.  

---  

Andrew didn’t look away.  

Not when another doctor—a woman with dark hair pulled into a messy bun—dropped down beside Aaron, nudging him with her shoulder. Not when Aaron finally lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed, lashes damp.  

Not when he wiped his face with the back of his hand, quick and rough, like he was angry at himself for the tears.  

The woman said something, too low for the camera to catch. Aaron huffed—not quite a laugh, but something close—and shook his head.  

Then he reached for the water bottle she offered and drank like he’d been dying of thirst.  

---  

The reporter, after a moment of hesitation, approached the group.  

“Is it—alright if we ask a few questions now?”  

One of the nurses, mouth full of sandwich, waved a hand in permission. The reporter didn’t ask them to stand, didn’t ask them to stop eating—just crouched nearby, voice gentle.  

“You all just evacuated an entire hospital under impossible conditions. How does it feel?”  

The nurse swallowed hard, then grinned, exhausted but triumphant.  

“Like we fucking won.”  

A weak cheer went up from the others.  

The reporter smiled, then glanced toward Aaron, who was now on his feet again, already coordinating the next wave of transport for the remaining staff.  

“Who was the doctor leading the evacuation earlier? The one who directed everyone—patients, nurses, even security?”  

The nurse followed her gaze, then snorted.  

“Oh, that’s Doctor Aaron Minyard. Best trauma surgeon in the state. Maybe the country.”  

Andrew’s chest tightened.  

“He must be exhausted,” the reporter murmured.  

Another doctor—this one older, with salt-and-pepper hair—joined the conversation, shaking his head.  

“Exhausted? Try dead on his feet. I’m glad as hell he was here—we’d have lost way more people without him—but god, I feel guilty.”  

The reporter blinked. “Guilty?”  

“Kid hasn’t sat down in three days,” the older doctor said, rubbing his face. “He was off this weekend. Came in the second the earthquake warning hit. Been here ever since. Flitting from one crisis to the next like a man possessed.”  

A younger nurse nodded, adding, “He kept rotating the rest of us out to rest, made sure no one was stuck without relief for too long. But he never stopped.”  

The reporter’s expression shifted—something like awe creeping in.  

“That’s… incredible.”  

The first nurse smirked. “Oh, this isn’t even the first time. Six months ago, there was that flood upstate? He drove two hours through the storm to get there and help. Showed up soaked to the bone and immediately started triaging patients.”  

Another doctor chimed in. “And last year, when that multi-car pileup happened on the freeway? He worked for eighteen hours straight before anyone realized he hadn’t taken a single break.”  

The reporter spoke “Why was he even here? he is officially employed in Boston and it’s not the closest ride..” A nurse smiled “Well you see, we had a patient with a brain bleed, she wasn’t able to be moved, and he’s the best neurosurgeon we have, so he was called down, and well he stayed for the earthquake too. He’s a great one, that boy. We called him on one of the few days he has off once, and he came down without issue.”

The stories kept coming—each one layering over the last, painting a picture of a man who did not stop, who did not quit, no matter how impossible the situation.  

Andrew listened.  

Oh. Oh

Aaron was different from Andrew, he had always known this, but he hadn’t realized just how much of Aaron was purely good. He gave pieces of himself away every day. He knew Aaron was a good doctor but to be a doctor of this scale? Andrew- Andrew felt, he felt it burn through him.

And—  

For the first time in years—  

He let himself feel it.  

Pride.  

Raw and fierce and aching.  

---  

The camera panned back to Aaron, now standing near a transport van, scarfing down a protein bar between orders. He looked wrecked—hair sticking up in every direction, scrubs wrinkled and stained, dark circles bruising his eyes.  

But he was moving.  

Still.  

Always.  

The Foxes were silent in their various corners of the world, all eyes glued to the screen.  

Kevin’s jaw was clenched tight.  

Nicky had tears streaming down his face.

Renee’s fingers were laced together in prayer.  

Neil—  

Neil glanced at Andrew, just once, and said “He hasn’t slept in three days. We should have known, he was never one for taking care of himself.” 

Andrew didn’t look back.  

His phone was still in his hand.  

Still silent.  

Still unanswered.  

But—  

Aaron was alive.  

Aaron was fighting.  

And for now, that was enough.  

---  

The reporter, emboldened by the stories, finally called out to Aaron directly.  

“Doctor Minyard! A word?”  

Aaron turned, blinking like he’d forgotten the cameras were even there. Then he shook his head, gesturing to the van.  

“No time. We’ve got three more hospitals to reinforce. EVERYONE, STAND UP. GET MOVING, THERE ARE STILL INJURED IN OTHER HOSPITALS. WE HAVE WORK TO DO, THANK YOU ALL FOR STANDING BY ME, DO IT ONCE MORE PLEASE.”  

And just like that—  

He was gone again. The rest of the hospital staff standing up, laughing off the adrenaline and following. 

The Foxes kept watching.  

Andrew kept waiting.  

And somewhere, in the heart of the chaos, Aaron kept running.

__

Andrew didn’t sleep.  

Not when the news finally cut away from the hospital, shifting to broader coverage of the earthquake’s aftermath. 

Not when Neil, exhausted from the game and the hours of tense silence, finally dozed off in the passenger seat. Not when they pulled into Palmetto’s parking lot in the dead of night, the campus quiet and still around them.  

He didn’t sleep because his phone never rang.  

Aaron hadn’t called.  

Hadn’t texted.  

Hadn’t so much as glanced at his phone since the moment the earthquake hit.  

Andrew knew, logically, that Aaron had been busy. That he had been elbows-deep in blood and broken bones and screaming patients for three straight days. That he hadn’t had the luxury of checking his messages, let alone responding to them.  

But logic didn’t stop the tightness in Andrew’s chest.  

Didn’t stop the way his fingers twitched around the steering wheel, itching for a cigarette he wouldn’t let himself smoke.  

Didn’t stop the quiet, gnawing fear that had settled in his ribs like a second heartbeat.  

---  

He left Neil in the dorm with a muttered “Don’t wait up” and took the car again.  

Aaron’s apartment was a four-hour drive from Palmetto.  

Andrew made it in three.  

---  

The apartment was dark when he arrived, the windows unlit, the door locked.  

Andrew didn’t knock.  

He didn’t announce himself.  

He just pulled out the spare key Aaron had given him years ago—“In case I get drunk and lock myself out”—and let himself in.  

The silence inside was thick, suffocating.  

No TV. No music. No sound of movement.  

Just—  

Breathing.  

Slow. Steady.  

Andrew followed it down the hall, past the kitchen (dishes piled in the sink, an empty protein bar wrapper on the counter), past the living room (a discarded hospital badge on the coffee table, scrubs thrown haphazardly over the couch), to the living room.  

The door was slightly ajar.  

Andrew pushed it open.  

---  

Aaron was asleep.  

Not passed out. Not unconscious.  

Just—  

Asleep.  

Deeply, violently asleep.  

He was still half-dressed in the same scrubs from the hospital, though someone (probably a nurse) had at least gotten him out of the ruined coat. His shoes were kicked off near the foot of the couch, one sock missing. His hair was a disaster, sticking up in every direction, still faintly streaked with dust and soot.  

One arm was flung over his face, blocking out the dim light from the hallway. The other was curled loosely against his chest, fingers twitching occasionally, as if even in sleep, his body was remembering the motions of sutures and compressions.  

Andrew stood there for a long moment.  

Just—  

Looking.  

Taking in the rise and fall of Aaron’s chest. The way his brow furrowed slightly, even in sleep. The way his lips were chapped, cracked from dehydration.  

Alive.  

Here.  

Safe.  

Andrew exhaled.  

Then he turned and walked back to the living room.  

---  

He didn’t leave.  

He didn’t sleep, either.  

He just—  

Stayed.  

Sat on Aaron’s couch, flipping through channels on mute, keeping one ear tuned to the living room.  

Waiting.  

---  

Aaron didn’t wake up.  

Not after six hours.  

Not after twelve.  

Not after twenty.  

Andrew checked on him periodically—pushing the door open just enough to see the steady rhythm of his breathing, the occasional shift of his limbs.  

But Aaron didn’t stir.  

Didn’t so much as groan.  

Just slept like the dead, his body finally, finally giving in to the exhaustion it had been fighting for days.  

---  

By the third day, Andrew was starting to get annoyed.  

Not worried.  

Annoyed.  

Because surely, surely, no one needed that much sleep.  

Surely, at some point, Aaron’s stomach would wake him up, or his bladder, or something.  

But no.  

Aaron slept like a man who had forgotten what a couch or bed was.  

Andrew scowled.  

Then he got up and went to the kitchen.  

---  

He didn’t cook.  

Not really.  

But he could make coffee.  

Could order food.  

So he did.  

Then he waited.  

---  

The food arrived.  

The coffee brewed.  

Aaron still didn’t wake up.  

Andrew stared at the living room door.  

Then—  

Fine.  

Fine.  

He’d wake him up.  

---  

Aaron didn’t react when Andrew flicked on the light.  

Didn’t react when Andrew nudged the couch with his knee.  

Didn’t react when Andrew said, flat and unimpressed, “You’ve been asleep for seventy-two hours.”  

Andrew narrowed his eyes.  

Then he reached out and flicked Aaron’s forehead.  

Hard.  

---  

Aaron’s face scrunched up.  

He made a noise—something between a groan and a whine—and swatted weakly at Andrew’s hand.  

“F’ck off,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.  

Andrew flicked him again.  

Aaron groaned louder, dragging his arm away from his face to squint up at Andrew. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils blown wide with exhaustion, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and irritation.  

“The hell—?”  

“You’re alive,” Andrew said.  

Aaron blinked.  

Then—  

“No shit,” he grumbled, rolling onto his side like he was going back to sleep.  

Andrew grabbed his shoulder and shook him.  

“Up.”  

Aaron groaned again, batting at him halfheartedly. “Andrew, I swear to god—”  

“You haven’t eaten in three days.”  

“I don’t care—”  

“You will when you pass out in the shower.”  

Aaron glared at him, but there was no real heat behind it. Just exhaustion, bone-deep and all-consuming.  

Andrew held his gaze.  

Then—  

Aaron sighed.  

“Fine.”  

---  

He didn’t so much get up as he did flop upright, moving like every muscle in his body was protesting. His hair was even worse now, sticking up in every direction, and there was a crease from the pillowcase pressed into his cheek.  

Andrew tossed him a bottle of water.  

Aaron caught it on reflex, then stared at it like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.  

Andrew raised an eyebrow.  

Aaron scowled.  

Then he cracked it open and drank like he’d been stranded in a desert.  

---  

The food was cold by the time Aaron shuffled out of the living room, but he didn’t seem to care. He just collapsed onto the couch, grabbed the nearest container, and started shoveling fried rice into his mouth like he was afraid it would disappear if he didn’t eat fast enough.  

Andrew watched him, unimpressed.  

“You look like shit.”  

Aaron flipped him off without looking up.  

Andrew smirked.  

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out Aaron’s phone—left on the kitchen counter, dead for who-knows-how-long—and tossed it at him.  

Aaron caught it, blinking.  

“You charged it?”  

Andrew shrugged.  

Aaron stared at him for a second, something unreadable flickering in his expression.  

Then he turned the phone on.  

---  

The screen lit up with notifications.  

Missed calls (27)  

Text messages (48)  

Voicemails (12)  

Aaron’s brow furrowed as he scrolled through them—Nicky’s frantic “CALL ME” texts, Kevin’s “Are you alive?”, Neil’s “Andrew’s pacing.”  

Then—  

Andrew’s calls.  

One after another after another.  

No messages.  

Just calls.  

Aaron’s throat worked.  

He didn’t say anything.  

Andrew didn’t either.  

---  

Eventually, Aaron set the phone aside and went back to eating.  

Andrew leaned back against the couch, watching the muted TV.  

The silence between them wasn’t comfortable.  

But it wasn’t uncomfortable, either.  

It just was.  

And for now—  

That was enough.

The Foxes won their next Exy game by a landslide.  

Andrew, as usual, was the immovable force in goal—unstoppable, unshakable, a wall of pure defiance that the other team couldn’t crack no matter how hard they tried. The stands roared his name, cameras flashed, and reporters swarmed the second the final buzzer sounded.  

Andrew hated interviews.  

But today, for once, he didn’t immediately vanish into the locker room.  

Instead, he stood there, sweat-damp and indifferent, as a perky sports journalist shoved a microphone in his face.  

“Andrew Minyard! Another incredible performance tonight! What’s it like being one of the most feared goalkeepers in collegiate Exy? How does it feel to know so many young people look up to you?”  

Andrew stared at her.  

Then—  

“No idea.”  

The reporter blinked. “I—sorry?”  

Andrew tilted his head, just slightly, his expression as blank as ever.  

“You’re asking the wrong Minyard.”  

A beat of silence.  

Then—  

“I’m just Doctor Aaron Minyard’s brother. You want a role model? Look up my baby twin.”  

The reporter’s mouth dropped open.  

The crowd erupted.  

And somewhere in California, Aaron’s phone exploded with notifications.  

---  

Aaron’s Phone:  

Nicky: ANDREW JUST CALLED YOU HIS “BABY TWIN” ON LIVE TV  

Kevin: I’m going to vomit.  

Neil: He’s been planning that for days.  

Aaron: what the FUCK  

Aaron: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK  

Aaron: ANDREW.  

Aaron: ANSWER ME YOU LITTLE SHIT  

Andrew: No.  

Aaron: I HATE YOU  

Aaron: I’M DISOWNING YOU  

Aaron: THIS IS THE WORST THING YOU’VE EVER DONE  

Andrew: You’re welcome.  

---  

Meanwhile, at the hospital—  

Aaron’s coworkers were losing it.  

The clip had gone viral within minutes—Andrew’s deadpan delivery, the way he’d so casually dropped Aaron’s name like it was common knowledge, the sheer audacity of it all.  

And Aaron—  

Aaron was mortified.  

Or at least, he tried to be.  

But the second he walked into the break room and saw half the staff watching the clip on repeat, someone squealed, and—  

“ANDREW MINYARD'S BABY TWIN!”  

Aaron flipped them off.  

But—  

But he was smiling.  

Not just a smirk, not just a half-assed twitch of his lips.  

A real, full, ear-to-ear grin.  

One of the nurses gasped.  

“Oh my god—someone take a picture, he’s happy—”  

Aaron tried to scowl.  

It didn’t work.  

---  

The photo hit social media within the hour.  

Aaron, in his scrubs, caught mid-laugh, his cheeks pink with embarrassment, his eyes crinkled at the corners.  

The caption?  

“Doctor Aaron Minyard, national treasure and apparently someone’s ‘baby twin’ (@andrewminyard we owe you our lives).”  

The internet lost its mind.  

Comments flooded in by the thousands—  

“I would let this man perform open-heart surgery on me with a plastic spoon.”  

“Why is he so hot while also looking like a disgruntled kitten?”  

“Andrew Minyard is a menace and I love him.”  

“Someone check on Aaron, I think he’s short-circuiting.”  

Aaron, meanwhile, had given up on dignity entirely and was hiding in the on-call room, texting Andrew with the fury of a man betrayed.  

Aaron: I CAN’T SHOW MY FACE IN PUBLIC AGAIN  

Andrew: Good. Stay inside where it’s safe.  

Aaron: I HOPE YOU CHOKE  

Andrew: Love you too, baby twin.  

Aaron threw his phone across the room.  

(Then immediately picked it back up when it buzzed again.)  

---  

By the end of the week, “Doctor Aaron Minyard” was trending in three countries.  

The hospital’s PR department was delighted.  

Andrew’s smugness was unbearable.  

And Aaron—  

Well.  

Aaron was never going to live this down.  

But if he secretly saved every article, every tweet, every stupid meme that called him a hero—  

No one had to know.  

Least of all Andrew.

__

The internet had officially crowned Aaron Minyard as its newest unsung hero, and the Foxes—scattered across the country but forever connected—had thoughts. Lots of them. And, of course, they had to document every single one.  

The first video to surface was Dan’s.  

The clip opened with her sprawled on the couch, phone in hand, recording lazily as the news played in the background. Matt wandered into frame holding a bowl of popcorn, nodding at the screen where footage of the earthquake’s aftermath was rolling.  

“Damn, that shit looks tough as hell on them doctors,” Matt muttered, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Thank fuck ours ain’t there—”  

Then—Aaron appeared on screen again.  

Matt froze.  

The bowl of popcorn hit the floor with a crash, kernels scattering everywhere as he lunged forward, planting himself directly in front of the TV.  

“IS THAT AARON FUCKING MINYARD?!”  

Dan, behind the camera, was shaking with silent laughter, her shoulders trembling as Matt’s voice climbed several octaves.  

“MY MAN! MY TINY ROOMIE! HOMIE, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING THERE?! WASN’T YOU IN BOSTON?!” He whirled toward Dan, eyes wide. 

“WOMAN, TELL ME THIS MAN DID NOT DRIVE TO CALIFORNIA AFTER HEARING ABOUT THE EARTHQUAKE. HE DONE THAT SHIT FOR THE FLOOD TOO—GOOD GOD! SOMEONE PLEASE GET HIM OUT! HE SAVING LIVES—WHO GON’ SAVE MY ROOMIE?! IM FUCKING CALLING KEVIN—”  

The video cut off as Dan dissolved into full-bodied laughter, Matt already yanking his phone out of his pocket with the urgency of a man on a mission.  

---  

Next came Nicky’s reaction—filmed by Erik, because Nicky was incapable of coherent thought the second he realized what was happening.  

The scene was peaceful at first—Nicky and Erik sitting on a balcony, golden sunset spilling over them, drinks in hand. The news played softly in the background, ignored in favor of Nicky sighing contentedly.  

“This is the life,” Nicky mused, stretching his arms behind his head. “I just wonder what my babies are up—”  

Then—Aaron’s voice crackled through the TV.  

Nicky whipped around so fast Erik nearly dropped the camera.  

“What the fuck??”  

The screen showed Aaron, covered in dust, barking orders at a group of nurses. The headline beneath him read: DOCTORS WORKING AROUND THE CLOCK IN EARTHQUAKE AFTERMATH.  

Nicky’s face went through approximately twelve emotions in three seconds before landing on horrified realization.  

“WHAT THE FUCK?! WHY IS MY CHILD—”  

Erik, ever the calm one, tried to interject. “Cousin—”  

Nicky was already on his feet, rushing inside like the TV might bite him. “ERIK! WHY IS MY SECOND CHILD—”  

Erik tried again. “Cousin.”  

Nicky screeched. “—TELL ME HE DID NOT FUCKING DRIVE THERE—”  

The camera shook as Erik followed him inside, Nicky already ranting in rapid-fire German, hands flailing wildly.  

---  

Allison’s contribution was, predictably, the most dramatic.  

The video opened with her flipping the camera to her own face, flawless even under a face mask, one eyebrow arched.  

“No, because tell me why I’m having a girls’ night, and then I’ll see—”  

She turned the camera toward the TV, where the news was playing. On the floor in front of it, Renee and Katelyn sat frozen, face masks on, mouths hanging open in perfect unison.  

The screen showed Aaron—again—this time carrying a newborn out of the hospital, his expression focused, his movements steady despite the chaos around him.  

Allison’s voice went sharp.  

“AARON FUCKING MINYARD IN AN AREA THAT’S HAVING EARTHQUAKES. WHEN HE’S SUPPOSED TO BE IN FUCKING BOSTON—”  

Katelyn dropped her Dorito.  

Renee, ever the voice of reason, murmured, “He’s going to be okay.”  

Allison scoffed. “Oh, he’ll be okay—but I won’t be, because I’m about to have an aneurysm—”  

Katelyn, still staring at the screen, whispered, “He’s so cool.”  

Allison groaned and threw a pillow at her.  

---  

The final video was Neil’s.  

No yelling. No dramatics. Just—quiet.  

The clip opened with Neil smiling softly at the camera, his expression warm, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Then, without a word, he flipped the camera around—to Andrew.  

Andrew, who never showed emotion in public.  

Andrew, who was watching the news with an expression so openly proud it was almost startling.  

The screen showed Aaron again—this time coordinating the transport of doctors, listening as his colleagues praised him to the reporters.  

And Andrew—  

Andrew smiled.  

Not the tiny, barely-there smirk he usually allowed. Not the sharp, mocking grin he used as a weapon.  

A real smile. Small, but there. His eyes lit up, his shoulders relaxed, and for once, he looked—  

Happy.  

Neil didn’t say a word.  

He didn’t have to.  

---  

The compilation went viral within hours.  

Comments flooded in:  

“The way Matt YEETED that popcorn—”  

“Nicky’s German panic is my favorite genre of content.”  

“Allison’s ‘I’m about to have an aneurysm’ is a MOOD.”  

“Andrew Minyard smiling??? I’m sobbing.”  

And, of course—  

“Aaron Minyard, accidentally famous, definitely exhausted, and absolutely never living this down.”  

Aaron, when he finally saw the videos, sent one text to the group chat:  

“I hate all of you.”  

Andrew’s response was immediate:  

“No, you don’t.”  

Aaron didn’t argue.  

The final viral video in the Foxes' reaction saga wasn’t even filmed by one of them—it was captured by some poor soul from an opposing Exy team, clearly unaware they were about to document a moment of pure, unadulterated Kevin Day intensity. The clip opened in a locker room or some pre-game waiting area, the space quiet despite the handful of players milling around. 

The camera panned to the TV mounted on the wall, where the news was playing—specifically, the now-iconic footage of Aaron shielding that teenage girl during the aftershock, or later, him and that nurse bracing the critical patient’s bed under a doorframe after falling. 

The camera then flipped to show Kevin standing rigidly in front of the screen, his expression sharp, his posture coiled tight like a spring. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

 Just watched. Someone off-screen whispered, "Training is going to be hell for the next three hours." Another voice, hushed and resigned, answered, "Kevin’s gonna kick our asses." A third player groaned, "I’m gonna have to trust-fall onto the toilet after this." 

The video ended there, but the implication was clear—Kevin had been inspired, and his team was about to suffer for it.  

The internet, of course, lost its collective mind over this. Who was Aaron Minyard? Sure, he was Andrew’s twin, but the way the Foxes talked about him, the way they reacted to him—this wasn’t just some random doctor. This was family. And so, the Foxes, never ones to miss an opportunity to embarrass each other, started digging through their old videos.  

Dan was the first to post—a clip from their college days, Aaron sitting on the floor of the girls’ dorm, face mask slathered on, looking utterly unimpressed as Allison and Katelyn painted his nails a glittery gold. The camera shook with Dan’s laughter as Aaron deadpanned, "I was invited but not told it’s a girls’ night." Allison, without looking up from his nails, retorted, "You’re pretty enough to qualify." Aaron flipped her off, but he didn’t move.  

Next came Neil’s contribution—a short, chaotic video of Aaron and Andrew side by side on a couch, controllers in hand, completely absorbed in some fighting game. Andrew’s expression was as blank as ever, but Aaron’s brow was furrowed in concentration, his fingers moving lightning-fast. The moment Andrew’s character landed the final hit, Aaron threw his controller onto the couch and shoved him. Andrew didn’t even flinch. The caption read: "Best of three. (They played seven.)"  

Nicky, ever the sentimentalist, posted a gem—Kevin and Aaron sprawled on Aaron’s bed, a laptop between them, paused on some historically inaccurate medical drama. Kevin was mid-rant, "That’s not how you treat a compound fracture—" and Aaron, grinning, interrupted in a terrible British accent, "Ah, yes, Doctor, let me just leech the infection away—" They both burst into laughter, Kevin shoving at him halfheartedly.  

Then there was the infamous argument clip—Neil and Aaron in the middle of some heated debate about Exy stats, Aaron gesturing emphatically at his laptop screen while Neil scowled. The moment Aaron pointed at something definitively, Neil’s face twisted in reluctant acceptance. Aaron, without missing a beat, turned to the camera (probably held by Andrew), made direct eye contact, and rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. The caption simply read: "He was right. It was awful."  

But the pièce de résistance was the dancing video. Filmed at some Foxes’ party, the footage was shaky, the music loud, the lighting terrible—but there, in the middle of the chaos, was Aaron, drink in hand, completely lost in the music. He wasn’t a good dancer. At all. But he was committed, and the Foxes around him were losing it. Nicky was howling with laughter, Matt was clapping, and even Andrew, lurking in the background, looked amused. The caption, courtesy of Nicky, read: "The man who would one day save lives once attempted to murder rhythm. We love him anyway."  

The internet collectively lost it. This was the same man who had carried babies out of a collapsing hospital? The same guy who had stitched up wounds mid-earthquake? The same unshakable doctor who had become a national symbol of resilience?  

Yes.  

Yes, he was.  

And the Foxes wouldn’t have it any other way.  

Aaron, when he finally saw the influx of old videos resurfacing, sent a single text to the group chat: "I’m deleting all of your numbers."  

Andrew’s reply was instant: "Liar."  

Aaron felt his cheeks flush.  

__

It started with one picture.  

Then two.  

Then suddenly, the Foxes’ social media feeds were flooded with a very specific, very incriminating collection of images—Aaron Minyard, fast asleep in the most random places, and almost always using another Fox as a pillow.  

The first one was posted by Nicky—a throwback from their college days, Aaron slumped over the common room couch, dead to the world, with Kevin half-trapped under him. Kevin, clearly awake, had the resigned expression of a man who had accepted his fate. Nicky’s caption read: "When your study buddy falls asleep mid-lecture and you’re too nice to shove him off (also he drools)."  

Then came Allison’s contribution—a photo of Aaron passed out on the floor of the girls’ dorm, head pillowed on Renee’s lap, while Katelyn painted a tiny flower on his cheek with eyeliner. The caption was simple: "Beauty sleep and beauty makeover. Win-win."  

Matt posted one from a team party—Aaron curled into a corner of the booth, head lolling onto Dan’s shoulder, while she grinned at the camera and gave a thumbs-up. "He claimed he ‘wasn’t tired.’ Lasted ten minutes."  

But the real kicker?  

The picture of Aaron awake—and letting Neil cuddle him.  

---  

Neil wasn’t the type to post much, but when he did, it was devastating.  

The photo was recent—taken during one of the Foxes’ rare reunions, when they’d all crammed into someone’s living room, too many bodies and not enough space. Aaron was sitting on the couch, clearly mid-conversation with someone off-camera, when Neil—exhausted from travel or just feeling bold—had flopped sideways onto him, tucking his head against Aaron’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.  

And Aaron—  

Aaron had let him.  

He wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t even pretending to be. He was just… sitting there. Letting Neil use him as a human pillow, his expression caught somewhere between resigned and fond.  

The caption was a single, smug emoji: 😌  

The internet exploded.  

Because this was the same Aaron Minyard who had once glared at Neil like he was contemplating murder every time he walked into a room. The same Aaron who had grumbled about Neil dating Andrew, who had side-eyed him for years, who had taken so damn long to warm up to him.  

And now?  

Now he was letting Neil cuddle him.  

Voluntarily.  

Without complaint.  

The Foxes’ group chat lit up.  

Nicky: HOLY SHIT  

Dan: IS THIS REAL LIFE  

Allison: I need a fucking frame for this  

Matt: Aaron. Aaron. Explain yourself.  

Aaron’s response was immediate: "Fuck off."  

Andrew’s was even faster: "Told you he liked you."  

Neil, ever the little shit, replied: "He snuggled back."  

Aaron left the chat.  

(He came back five minutes later to send a single middle-finger emoji.)  

---  

The pictures kept coming.  

Kevin posted one from their med school days—Aaron asleep at a library table, face smushed into an open textbook, Kevin sitting beside him with the most done expression imaginable. "He insisted he could pull an all-nighter."  

Renee shared a sweet one—Aaron dozing on the bus after an away game, head resting against the window, Neil also asleep on his other side, Andrew watching them both with an unreadable look.  

But the best one—the one that really broke the internet—was the Andrew and Aaron pic.  

It was old. Really old. From before the Foxes, before Exy, back when they were still figuring out how to be brothers. Aaron was maybe sixteen, sprawled across a bed, dead asleep, with Andrew curled into his side, his face tucked against Aaron’s shoulder. Andrew was asleep too, his expression softer than anyone had ever seen it.  

No one knew who took it. No one knew how it got leaked.  

But the second it surfaced, the Foxes lost it.  

Nicky: I’M SOBBING  

Dan: THEY WERE BABIES  

Allison: Andrew MINYARD??? CUDDLING???  

Neil: [sent a single heart emoji]  

Andrew didn’t comment.  

Aaron didn’t either.  

But someone—someone—edited the photo to put a tiny crown on Aaron’s head and the caption "Pillow King," and that was the version that went viral.  

---  

Aaron, when confronted with the sheer volume of evidence against him, sent one final text to the group:  

"I’m burning all of your houses down."  

Andrew’s reply was instant: "You’d miss us."  

Aaron wanted to argue (he didn’t)

—

The internet had long since accepted that Aaron Minyard was a man of many contradictions—stoic doctor by day, unwilling cuddle victim by night, and, as it turned out, an extremely entertaining disaster when caught off guard. The Foxes, being the menaces they were, made sure the world knew it.  

The first video was posted by Andrew, and it was gold.  

The scene was simple—Kevin and Aaron standing in the living room of what looked like Nicky’s apartment, a karaoke machine set up in the background. Aaron was holding the microphone, clearing his throat like he was preparing for some serious performance, while Kevin stood beside him, scrolling through the song list with the focus of a man about to deliver a masterpiece. The second Aaron opened his mouth to sing the first note, Kevin blasted in with full, unshakable confidence—on a completely different song.  

Aaron’s voice died instantly. His face went blank for half a second. Then—  

He folded.  

Not just a laugh, not just a snort—a full-body collapse, knees buckling as he crouched down, one hand braced on the floor, the other clutching his stomach, howling with laughter. Kevin, oblivious, kept singing like he was performing at the goddamn Grammys, not even noticing Aaron had completely malfunctioned beside him.  

The camera shook slightly—Andrew’s silent laughter evident in the way the frame trembled. The video ended with Aaron still wheezing on the floor, Kevin hitting the high note with zero shame.  

The caption?  

"They’re professionals."  

---  

Andrew’s second video was even better.  

Filmed from a hidden corner of the couch, the camera was angled toward the kitchen, where Aaron was cooking, humming softly under his breath. It was a rare, peaceful moment—Aaron’s voice was quiet but steady, his movements relaxed as he stirred whatever was in the pan.  

Then Kevin walked in.  

Aaron, too focused on his cooking, didn’t notice. Kevin, ever the menace, didn’t announce himself—just appeared directly behind Aaron, leaning in like he was about to inspect the food.  

Aaron turned.  

Saw Kevin.  

Yelped.  

And whacked him over the head with the empty pan.  

The metallic clang echoed through the room. Kevin staggered back, clutching his forehead, looking betrayed. Aaron, pan still raised, looked equally horrified.  

The camera shook violently—Andrew’s silent laughter turning the footage into a blurry mess.  

The caption this time?  

"He just wanted to help."  

---  

Neil’s first contribution was devastating in its softness.  

The video was clearly taken on the Foxes’ team bus, the steady hum of the engine in the background. Aaron, exhausted from whatever hell Kevin had put them through that day, was slumped in his seat, fighting a losing battle against sleep. His head kept dipping forward, only for him to jerk awake, blink blearily, and repeat the process.  

Andrew, by some miracle (or, more likely, by design), was sitting next to him.  

The moment Aaron’s head dropped for the fifth time, Andrew reached over, gently guiding his brother’s head onto his shoulder. Aaron, too tired to protest, just melted into the contact, his breathing evening out almost instantly.  

Andrew didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Just sat there, letting Aaron use him as a pillow, his expression as blank as ever—but the careful way he held still spoke volumes.  

Nicky, sitting across from them, was visibly emotional, his hands clasped over his mouth like he was about to burst into tears.  

The caption?  

"No comment."  

---  

Neil’s second video was worse.  

It was a quiet scene—Kevin and Aaron sitting at a library table, books and notes spread out between them. Kevin was talking, his voice low but animated, hands gesturing emphatically as he clearly went on some passionate tangent about history or medicine or whatever hyperfixation had grabbed him that day.  

But Aaron wasn’t even pretending to listen.  

No, he was just—staring.  

At Kevin.  

With complete adoration.  

His chin was propped on his hand, his eyes soft, his mouth curled into a tiny, fond smile as Kevin yapped away, completely oblivious to the way Aaron was looking at him like he’d hung the damn stars.  

The caption?  

"He’s so smart."  

---  

The internet, predictably, lost it.  

Comments flooded in:  

"KEVIN SINGING OVER AARON HAS ME SCREAMING."  

"Andrew’s silent laughter is the best kind of laughter."  

"Aaron hitting Kevin with a pan is the most sibling thing I’ve ever seen."  

"Andrew letting Aaron sleep on him??? I’m sobbing."  

"THE WAY AARON LOOKS AT KEVIN??? THEY’RE IN LOVE."  

—

The video started with the hospital staff gathered in the break room, lights dimmed, a cake on the table with "THANK YOU, DR. MINYARD" written in bold letters. The camera shook slightly as someone whispered, "He's coming, he's coming—"  

The door swung open.  

Aaron stepped inside, looking exhausted but alert, his usual neutral expression in place as he scanned the room. Then—  

"SURPRIIIIISE!! THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING YOU DID FOR US!!!"  

The room erupted in cheers, applause, a few whistles. The camera caught the exact moment Aaron froze—just for a second—before his shoulders relaxed, his sharp gaze softening around the edges.  

He didn’t smile. Not outright. But his voice, when he spoke, was quiet, almost disbelieving.  

"...You didn’t have to do this."  

A nurse near the front laughed. "Yeah, we did."  

The camera zoomed in as Aaron exhaled, running a hand through his hair—still slightly messy from another long shift. His eyes flickered over the crowd, lingering on faces he’d worked beside for days without rest, people who had followed his lead without question when the world was falling apart.  

"I just did my job," he muttered.  

"Bullshit," someone called out, and the room laughed.  

Aaron’s lips twitched—almost a smile. Then he shook his head, voice dropping to something warm, something grateful.  

"...Thank you. For this. For everything."  

The camera caught it all—the way his fingers tightened around the edge of the table like he was steadying himself, the way his eyes shined just a little too much under the fluorescent lights, the way the staff beamed at him like he’d hung the moon.  

And when someone shoved a slice of cake into his hands, Aaron didn’t protest.  

He just took it.  

And for once—  

He stayed.  

---  

The video went viral within hours.  

Comments flooded in:  

"THE WAY HIS VOICE WENT— I’M NOT OKAY."  

"He’s so humble it hurts."  

"The staff adoring him??? The respect??? I’m emotional."  

The Foxes, of course, had thoughts.  

Nicky’s Instagram Story: The video, zoomed in on Aaron’s face, captioned "MY BABY DESERVES THE WORLD."  

Neil’s Tweet: "Aaron Minyard: ‘I just did my job.’ Also Aaron Minyard: literally carried babies out of a collapsing hospital."  

Andrew’s Contribution: A screenshot of Aaron holding the cake, his expression almost soft. No caption.  

(But he liked every single post about it.)  

---  

Aaron, when asked about it later, just shrugged.  

"It was... nice."  

-----

It started with Andrew’s post—a simple, devastating photo of Aaron passed out in bed, still in his scrubs, one arm flung over his face like even in sleep, he was trying to block out the world. His hair was a disaster, his socks were mismatched, and the blankets were barely pulled over him, like he’d face-planted the second he got home. The caption read: "He slept for 3 days. Would’ve slept more if I didn’t wake him up to check if he was actually dead."  

The internet cooed.  

—

Then came the second post—a short video of Aaron curled up in a dining chair, finally showered and in soft clothes, his hair still damp, his knees pulled to his chest as he shoveled food into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in years. His cheeks were stuffed like a squirrel’s, and when Andrew huffed from behind the camera—clearly laughing at him—Aaron’s head snapped up, his glare lethal. The caption? "Finally having his first real meal in almost a week."  

Comments flooded in: "HE’S SO SMALL." "The way Andrew laughs at him?? I’m emotional." "This man survived an earthquake and then hibernated like a bear. Legend."  

Then the hospital staff confirmed that Aaron was the only doctor who got two full weeks off after the disaster—no protests, no pages, just unanimous "he deserves it" from every nurse, intern, and fellow surgeon. The internet lost it over that, too—partly because it highlighted how brutal first responders had it, and partly because no one could argue Aaron hadn’t earned every second of that break.  

---  

Then Matt dropped the real bombshell—a video of Neil and Aaron sitting on the benches by the court, still in full gear but their rackets abandoned on the ground, deep in what was clearly some serious gossip. Their expressions were identical—raised eyebrows, sharp smirks, the kind of silent judgment that could wither souls. Then Jack walked into frame, said something the camera didn’t catch, and—  

Neil and Aaron turned in unison, looked him up and down with identical disgust, and went back to their conversation without a word.  

Matt’s caption? "If these two ever actually got along, it’d be over for us all. God is fair."  

The internet exploded.  

"WAIT. AARON PLAYED EXY??"  

"HOLD ON. HE WAS A FOX??"  

"THAT’S WHY HE AND NEIL HAVE THE SAME RESTING BITCH FACE."  

Old team photos resurfaced—Aaron in Fox gear, 5 on his back, his expression as unimpressed as ever. Game footage followed, clips of him as starting backliner, fast and ruthless, shutting down strikers with the same precision he now used in surgery.  

Then came the academic bombshell: Aaron had balanced Exy on a sports scholarship with premed, volunteering, and shadowing Abby—all at the same time.  

The internet short-circuited.  

"HE WAS BUILT DIFFERENT."  

"HOW IS HE REAL."  

"ANDREW MINYARD’S TWIN WAS A FOX THIS WHOLE TIME??"  

---  

The Foxes, of course, had proof of Aaron’s chaos.  

Nicky posted a throwback of Aaron asleep on a textbook in the library, a highlighter still clutched in his hand.  

Dan shared a video of him arguing with Kevin over anatomy diagrams mid-practice, still in gear, sweat dripping down his face.  

Allison’s contribution? A photo of Aaron mid-yawn, slumped over a cafeteria table, a "Congrats, Future Dr. Minyard!" balloon tied to his chair.  

But the best was Matt’s dorm photo—their tiny, messy room, Aaron on his bed with headphones on, laptop balanced on his knees, typing furiously. The wall behind him was covered in Post-its, the desk buried under textbooks and scattered papers. The caption? "Tiny roomie. Big brain."  

The internet wept.  

"HE WAS LIVING LIKE THIS??"  

"BRO HOW."  

"ANDREW MINYARD SHARED A DORM WITH HIM?? NO WONDER THEY’RE LIKE THAT."  

---  

Aaron, when asked for comment, just sighed.  

"I hate all of you."  

Andrew’s reply? "Liar."  

(And if Aaron may have saved every single post to his phone—well. That was between him and his dignity.)

—

The video started with Katelyn propping her phone up on a stack of textbooks in Abby’s office, the camera capturing her and Aaron slumped over their respective laptops, surrounded by papers, highlighters, and half-empty coffee cups. Both of them looked like they hadn’t slept in days, dark circles under their eyes, hair messy from running hands through it too many times. Katelyn rubbed her temples before turning to the camera with a dead smile.  

"Hey, so. What time did practice end for us today?"  

Aaron didn’t even look up, just sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "1 to 5 PM."  

Katelyn nodded, her smile cracking. "Did we have lab after that?"  

Aaron finally lifted his head, his expression flat. "Till 7 fucking PM."  

Katelyn inhaled deeply. "And where are we right now?"  

Aaron deadpanned at the camera. "Abby’s office after shadowing her for the past two hours. It’s 9 PM."  

Katelyn’s face twisted in mock devastation, her voice barely above a whisper. "And what else do we have to do?"  

Aaron groaned, dropping his forehead onto the desk with a loud thunk. "Volunteer shift at the uni hospital till 1 AM."  

Katelyn set the camera down, elbows on the desk, fingers tugging at her hair as Aaron continued gently banging his head against the wood. Her voice cracked, hysterical but hushed. "Does that mean we got an extension for the neuro and biochem papers due tomorrow?"  

Aaron shot upright, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. "NO. WE DIDN’T. WE HAVE TWO PAPERS AND A LAB REPORT." He let go, spinning his chair out of frame, but his voice carried back, rising in despair. "IT’S NOT EVEN A MAJOR PART OF OUR GRADE. I’M GOING CRAZY."  

Katelyn pulled the camera close, her expression pure exhaustion and rage. "I will forever despise Neil 'math major' Josten, Kevin 'history major' Day, and Dan 'English literature major' Wilds for making us practice THREE. TIMES. A. DAY." Each word was punctuated by her slamming her palm on the desk. "WHY. DO WE HAVE PRACTICE AT 6 AM, 12 PM—DURING LUNCH—AND THEN 4 PM IMMEDIATELY AFTER CLASSES."  

Aaron’s voice floated back into frame, darkly amused. "If I hear anything about me slacking off one more time, I’m going to burst a vein."  

Katelyn let out a tiny, muffled scream—just as the Foxes group chat notification went off. She grabbed her phone, eyes widening in horror. "Oh my fucking god, they want to extend practice by an hour tomorrow." She turned to the camera, pleading. "Wymack. COACH. PLEASE stop this madness. PLEASE—"  

Aaron reappeared, leaning into frame, his expression murderous. "Kevin Day, Dan Wilds, and Neil Josten—one day, I’m going to assassinate you. I fucking swear—"  

The door swung open. Abby stood there, eyebrows raised. The video cut off on Katelyn and Aaron’s startled faces, caught mid-rant.  

---  

The Foxes, upon seeing the video, had thoughts.  

Neil’s reply: "You chose premed."  

Kevin’s reply: "Discipline is necessary for excellence."  

Dan’s reply: "You literally signed up for this."  

Aaron and Katelyn’s responses were immediate and identical: "FUCK. YOU."  

But the video was just the beginning. Over the years, Katelyn and Aaron had documented their shared suffering in a series of increasingly unhinged posts.  

There was the break room video, where they sat with their lunch in front of the camera after six brutal hours of rounds, looking like zombies. The second they took their first bites, both their pagers went off simultaneously. The way their faces dropped was almost comical, and yet, they dropped their plates onto the table and rushed out the room without hesitation,k leaving the phone to drop screen-first onto the table. 

Then there was Aaron’s post of Katelyn in scrubs, laughing as she tried (and failed) to properly scrub out by pinching and folding her gloves. Instead, she somehow got her hands stuck in them, flailing helplessly while Aaron wheezed in the background.  

Another hallway video, shot late at night when the hospital was quiet. They passed by a nook where a patient watcher sat, monitoring high-risk cases. Katelyn sighed dreamily. "God, the things I’d do to be a watcher." Aaron nodded solemnly. "Best job in the hospital. Wasted my time in med school."  

And then there was the escape footage—Katelyn and Aaron sprinting through the halls after being told they could leave early, their laughter echoing as they practically ripped off their scrubs. "I have never scrubbed out so fast in my life," Katelyn gasped. They burst out of the building, squinting in the sudden sunlight, their dark circles glaringly obvious. Aaron threw his arms up. "Oh my god, we’re gone. We’re free." Katelyn grinned. "I’m going to eat a fucking salad and sleep."  

---  

Despite not dating, Katelyn and Aaron had an entire album of photos and videos labeled "That’s my uni wife." (Yes, even Aaron was wife.)  

There was Aaron asleep on a textbook, Katelyn doodling glasses on his face.  

Katelyn mid-mental breakdown, Aaron handing her a coffee with a sticky note that read "Don’t cry. We’re almost dead."  

The two of them passed out in the library, using each other as pillows, a "Do Not Disturb: Future Doctors At Work" sign taped to the table.  

The Foxes, upon realizing just how much hell they’d put their premed teammates through, had the decency to feel a little bad.  

(Nicky: "I told you they were suffering!")  

(Andrew: "They chose this.")  

(Neil: "…Okay, maybe we could’ve eased up on the 6 AM practices.")  

Aaron and Katelyn’s response?  

"TOO LATE. WE’RE TRAUMATIZED."  

---  

Years later, long after they’d hung up their Exy gear, the videos still resurfaced regularly—usually whenever a new batch of Foxes complained about their schedules.  

Wymack, gruff as ever, would just point at the screen where Aaron and Katelyn’s sleep-deprived faces stared back.  

"You think you have it bad? These two survived Exy, premed, and each other. Suck it up."  

And if Aaron and Katelyn, now full-fledged doctors, still sent each other memes about those days with captions like "Remember when we almost died?"—  

Well.  

That was between them and their shared trauma.

Another video opened with Aaron standing in front of his bed, bleach spray in one hand, disinfectant wipes in the other, his expression caught somewhere between deeply disturbed and profoundly annoyed. The camera panned over the bed—clearly well-used, with visible indentations where he’d collapsed onto it for three days straight in his filthy, post-earthquake scrubs.  

A heavy sigh.  

Then—action.  

Aaron went to war with that mattress. Spraying, scrubbing, flipping pillows like they’d personally betrayed him. The camera cut to him stepping back, arms crossed, staring at his handiwork with narrowed eyes.  

Cut.  

The next shot was just—No bed, the mattress and bed-frame missing.  

Gone. Vanished.  

The frame lingered on the empty space for a dramatic second before cutting to Aaron hauling in a brand-new bed-frame and mattress, one after the other, looking both triumphant and exhausted as he wrestled them into place.  

The caption?  

"He said there wasn’t any other option since he slept on it for 3 days in his scrubs."  

---  

Foxes Group Chat:  

Nicky: "AARON. BRO. JUST STEAM CLEAN IT."  

Aaron: "NO."  

Andrew: "He’s right. Burn it all."  

Neil: "…I’ve seen him sleep in worse."  

Aaron: "NEIL. NEIL. DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE."  

Twitter Comments:  

"The way he LOOKED at that bed like it offended him—"  

"Aaron Minyard: trauma surgeon, disaster bisexual, bed executioner."  

"Andrew’s ‘burn it all’ energy is infectious."  

---  

The internet had seen a lot of Aaron Minyard—hero doctor, reluctant cuddle victim, accidental karaoke star, and professional Kevin Day admirer. But nothing could have prepared the world for the photo.  

The one Aaron posted.  

No warning. No caption. Just a single, devastating image:  

Aaron and Kevin, mid-kiss.  

Not some staged, posed, Instagram-perfect moment. No, this was real—Kevin caught mid-laugh, his hands tangled in Aaron’s shirt, Aaron’s fingers curled around the back of Kevin’s neck, pulling him in like he’d been waiting forever to do it. The kind of kiss that looked like it had been building for years, messy and perfect and theirs.  

The internet broke.  

---  

The Foxes’ Group Chat:  

Nicky: HOLY SHIT  

Dan: I JUST SCREAMED SO LOUD MY NEIGHBORS CALLED THE COPS  

Allison: ABOUT DAMN TIME  

Matt: AARON MINYARD??? POSTING THAT WITH NO WARNING???  

Neil: [sent a single heart-eyes emoji]  

Andrew: Finally.  

Aaron didn’t reply.  

He didn’t have to.  

The photo said everything.  

---  

Kevin’s reaction was even better.  

He didn’t repost it.  

He didn’t comment.  

He just liked it.  

And then changed his profile picture to the same photo.  

---  

The Foxes, of course, had thoughts.  

Nicky’s Instagram Story: A zoomed-in screenshot of the photo, captioned "MY BABIES FINALLY."  

Allison’s Tweet: "Aaron Minyard, certified disaster bisexual, just ended homophobia with a single photo. Congrats to the happy idiots."  

Dan’s Reply to a Fan Asking If She Saw It Coming: "Oh, absolutely. The way they looked at each other? Painfully obvious."  

Neil’s Contribution: A throwback video of Kevin and Aaron bickering over Exy stats, Aaron rolling his eyes before smiling at Kevin like he was the sun. The caption? "Told you."  

---  

The internet, naturally, lost its collective mind.  

Comments flooded in:  

"THE WAY AARON HOLDS HIM??? I’M DECEASED."  

"Kevin’s smile in this photo is illegal."  

"This is the best way they could’ve come out. No speech. No drama. Just this."  

"Andrew’s ‘Finally.’ SENT ME."  

---  

Aaron, when asked why he posted it, just shrugged.  

"Seemed like the right time."  

Kevin, when asked the same question, smirked, "He finally stopped overthinking it."  

Andrew, when Neil asked if he’d known they were going to do it, just said:  

"They’ve been dating for two years."  

The Foxes exploded.  

---  

Aaron didn’t post much after that.  

But he didn’t have to.  

That one photo said everything.  

(And if he may have set it as his lock screen—well. That was between him and Kevin.)

—

Nicky had promised he wouldn’t cry.  

He’d said it with absolute confidence—“I’m not gonna be that guy, okay? I’m gonna hold it together. I’m gonna be cool.”  

He was, in fact, not cool.  

The second Aaron and Kevin stepped into view under the flower arch, Nicky’s phone was already recording, his hands shaking, his breath hitching in his chest. The sunlight filtered through the trees, casting golden streaks over the two of them—Kevin in his sharp navy suit, Aaron in crisp white, both of them looking at each other like they couldn’t believe this was real.  

And then—  

They kissed.  

Not the quick, polite kiss some couples did at weddings. No, this was the kind of kiss that made the entire audience melt—Kevin’s hands cradling Aaron’s face like he was something precious, Aaron’s fingers tangled in Kevin’s lapels, pulling him in like he never wanted to let go. It was soft and sweet and so full of love that Nicky audibly sobbed behind the camera.  

The video shook as he tried to steady it, but the moment was perfect anyway.  

Then—  

The camera panned.  

To Andrew.  

Andrew, who never showed emotion in public.  

Andrew, who was standing stiffly beside Neil, his jaw clenched, his eyes suspiciously bright.  

Andrew, who was very subtly trying to wipe his face without anyone noticing.  

Neil, the little shit, leaned over and dabbed at Andrew’s cheek with a tissue, which earned him an elbow to the ribs—but Andrew didn’t actually shove him away.  

The camera shook again—Nicky was laughing through his tears now.  

Then it swung to Wymack and Abby.  

And oh.  

Oh no.  

Wymack, gruff, no-nonsense Wymack, was full-on weeping, his arm around Abby, who was also crying, her face buried in a handkerchief.  

Nicky’s voice, wobbly with tears, whispered off-camera:  

“They raised them. Oh my god.”  

The camera swung back to Aaron and Kevin, who were now grinning at each other, foreheads pressed together, looking so stupidly happy it made Nicky’s chest ache.  

The video ended with Nicky full-on ugly-crying, the audio cutting off with a choked “I LOVE THEM SO MUCH.”  

---  

The second Nicky posted the video, the internet collapsed.  

Comments poured in:  

“ANDREW MINYARD CRYING??? I’M NOT OKAY.”  

“Oh, Andrew meant it when he said Aaron was his baby twin fr…I’m not okay-”

“WYMACK AND ABBY SOBBING IS THE MOST PRECIOUS THING I’VE EVER SEEN.”  

“Nicky filming through his own tears is peak older cousin energy.”  

“THE WAY KEVIN HOLDS AARON’S FACE??? I’M DECEASED.”  

The Foxes, of course, immediately made it worse.  

Dan’s Instagram Story: A screenshot of Andrew wiping his eyes, captioned “PROOF OF FEELINGS.”  

Allison’s Tweet: “Aaron Minyard, in white? Kevin Day, looking at him like he’s the sun? I’m furious this is so perfect.”  

Neil’s Contribution: A photo of Wymack and Abby hugging Aaron and Kevin after the ceremony, all four of them teary-eyed. The caption? “Parents.”  

Matt’s Reply: “I’m not crying, you’re crying.”  

---  

When Aaron finally saw the video, he groaned.  

“Nicky.”  

Kevin, leaning over his shoulder, smirked.  

“I like it.”  

Aaron elbowed him.  

“Of course you do.”  

But he didn’t tell Nicky to take it down.  

(And if he may have saved it to his phone and watched it more than once—well. That was between him and Kevin.)  

---  

When asked (by Neil) if he actually cried, Andrew just said:  

“No.”  

Neil, grinning, held up the video as proof.  

Andrew shoved him off the couch.  

(But he didn’t deny it.)  

---  

And so, the internet officially declared Kevaaron’s wedding the softest, most emotional Foxes content to ever exist.  

Nicky, still emotionally compromised, posted one final message:  

“I told you they were soulmates.”  

No one argued.

[stickdoodlefriend]

What I think each Batfamily member eats in a day:

Bruce: anything Alfred prepares. Something super dense in protein and fats that follows his detailed nutrition plan to support his vigilante activities. Taste is secondary. He burnt off his tastebuds years ago during a training exercise.

Jason: Diners or takeout. Balances it with a fruit. He knows the best places in Gotham where it's cheap and filling where he can eat his weight's worth of food and no one is glancing at his laptop where he is definitely NOT orchestrating any illegal activities. He does know how to cook a few basic things like eggs but he's got things to do and he'll cook when he has peace. Except. It's him so he doesn't do peace. Now if you throw him in the tundra or a difficult terrain? He'll be able to find something and grill it to cook it properly but otherwise, he's not going to bother.

Tim: he lives in a houseboat. He never considered the kitchen in his renovation and now the stove got replaced with a Bunsen burner to test samples he found on a crime site so he has no place to cook anymore. The cupboards are just makeshift armory and have like first aid kits, menus for takeout even though the delivery driver has sworn not to waddle in the middle of the marina with Tim's noisy neighbors and Tim's sketchy house that just looks slightly off to a civilian but Tim tips well so what can the poor lad do. There's only one cupboard dedicated to food and it's Zesti cans, Dick's nutrition drinks because Dick swears by them, and dog treats for strays and to bribe Titus. I don't think he ever learnt how to cook but he will figure it out if ever ends up in that situation where he needs to.

Stephanie: ramen with veggies and eggs thrown in for nutrition, Mac and cheese, anything basic with a skillet. She had to take care of herself when Crystal couldn't and her father didn't. She is highly self sufficient so she learns by watching Barbara or any YouTube tutorials for nutrition packed foods that taste good and are easy to make.

Cass: a pan to her is better as weapon to take down a mob. Food though is a rare indulgence she gets to keep so she goes to different places to try out different dishes. She doesn't cook but she likes to watch Steph hum while she's cooking and her body sways-dances contentedly to 90s punk rock.

Dick: whenever he gets time, he meal preps the quickest meals ever. Stuffs everything he made in the freezer for like three-six months if not longer because he'll forget. Is it probably expired? Maybe, but his stomach has withstood much worse. He'll have a bunch of nutrition bars and those meal replacement nutrition drinks stocked. He's used to cooking in bulk and the lesson in cooking is: if it tastes bad, you aren't adding enough herbs and spices. Luckily for him, he can store dried herbs and spices in airtight containers and use them for months.

Duke: home cooked meals with food that ISN'T seasoned by a former MI6 British butler. These are family meals made with love and care. He is living his life.

Damian: when he first came to Gotham, he ate whatever Alfred made though he did complain like a fussy kid. He still eats everything and values the high nutrition density but he will sneak in extra pepper and salt and make requests occasionally for halwa to sate his sweet tooth.

Barbara: no one taught her how to cook and she and her father ate takeout while he went through his case files and she listened on the police scanner and called in the tip lines to help solve cases pre-batgirl. She learnt how to cook during college because surviving on a diet of just pizza and ramen wasn't sustainable as Batgirl and she values being able to do things for herself. After becoming Oracle, she pushed harder to learn how to cook very well but even if she knows how to cook now, she is still bad at avoiding takeout (if she's not forgetting meals in favor of working that is).

[markrosewater]

Have you made a DTW about Cognitive Load and Offloading in the context of Magic? You've made a great Psychology episode but I'm wondering how much could be said about things that add to a player's decision-making and how they offload new information. What have you learned making mechanics like The Initiative or Max Speed that impose new game requirements on players? Why is Arcane Denial's secondary effect of drawing cards forgotten so often? How do you evaluate complexity during vision?

It's a good topic, just one that will probably require a lot of prep work. I'll add it to the "short list".

[twstfanblog]

~Manhwa AU- A Fairytale Do-Over~ Pt 4

A/N: GUESS WHAT!? Manhwa AU is back! I've gotten a new writing process that I've been trying out and it's been working wonders for me so far. So, as a treat, I thought I should finally give you guys the AU you were actually waiting on Word Count: 3.8K Pairings: Azul & His Parents, Political Marriage Crewel x Crowley Warnings: Children bullying, Mild description of an injured child, Google translate Prev / Next

“Pull her harder!”

“Sir-”

“Harder I say!”

“No!”

Dire stood in the doorway of his daughter's room, dressed for the long journey ahead of them.

Going from one side of the empire to the other in one day was technically possible. Though technically, the Northern and Southern tips of the empire were much further than the general public thought about. To make it from the Crowley Duchy to the Mostro Beach Front was nearly a full day's journey. So, to get there in time for the Ashengrotto’s dinner party, leaving time for Divus to prim and prep himself and their daughter, the Crowley family left their estate before the sun came up.

Normally, the two would have everything packed and simply scoop their sleeping child into the carriage With them. But, today —tonight? — Yuu was already awake and seemingly waiting for them. Sitting up in her bed as she firmly stated she would not be going to the dinner party.

Which is how things have escalated to this moment. Bernadette and Annette trying to pull Yuu from the post of her bedframe under Divus's orders. The two maids being shoved to the side as Divus gripped Yuu by her ankles and tugged.

“Puppy, remove yourself from that post this INSTANT-”

“Noooooo! I'm not going!”

“Excuse you-”

“Divus. Enough.”

Sound stilled. Divus and Yuu both looking over their shoulders in wide-eyed surprised at the man’s serious tone.

Sputtering, Divus let go of one ankle to gesture to Yuu, “You can't simply cave to her tantrums! This dinner party was RSVPed MONTHS AGO!”

Walking closer, Dire easily removed Divus's hand from Yuu's leg, scoping their child in one arm as he placed her back onto the covers of her bed, “She's clearly unwilling to attend. Lord only knows what she'd be like in the carriage…This isn't a fight you will win, Divus.

“...BUT-”

“Divus.” Dire sends Yuu a concerned look, stepping closer to his husband and speaking in a hushed tone, “We both know she's been…unsociable since her nightmare. Maybe she simply feels safer being home for now. She only stopped bursting into tears a week ago…”

“...” Divus wanted to fight, to bite and bark as he normally did, but instead stomped toward Yuu's closet, “Fine! I'll set some outfits aside for her, since we'll be gone the next few days…” He had quickly pulled out nearly a dozen dresses, choices for the days in their absence. Turning back to Yuu, he pets her hair softly, almost sighing out, “Be good for Bernadette and Anette, puppy.”

“Yes, daddy…”

Dire walks close as Divus all but flies out of the room, angry that Yuu's dinner outfit will be going to waste, kneeling before her seat on her bed, “My darling, I have an assignment for you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I want you to get all of your homework done before we come back from the party.”

Yuu’s expression sours, nose matching Divus’s in how it scrunched, “But that's not due for another four days!”

Dire stands, shrugging his shoulders and pinching Yuu's cheek teasingly, “Well, if you make a fuss, you will have to pay the price. Have your homework done when we get back and I'll make sure your papa doesn’t get to punish you for a whole week.”

“...Promise?”

“...” He could only smile, seeing a bit of his mischievous daughter finally poking through the haze of confusion and sorrow she had become recently, “Promise, my darling.”

The Southern district was a secondary crown jewel of the empire behind the capital. Pristine white buildings with their cool-toned shingled tops mimicked the sea in both the day and night. Cafés, clothing stores, toy shops, and every type business gathered in its sand boarded location. The southern district was an area made for the populace not afraid to drop their coins.

The Ashengrotto family played a small but important part in its success. The family trade was that of lawyers, generations of nobility putting their minds to use for the greater good of the kingdom in building fair guidelines for trade with their nautical neighbors. And while the current head of house kept true to his empirical duties, he had recently taken interest in the culinary scene. A change brought on by his second wife, a lovely woman from the sea who had opened a restaurant when coming to land.

She was a merfolk, uncommon but not rare to their empire, who originally had her own underwater eatery not far from their coast. A chance meeting, as she had returned a lost crate to the Asim harbor and refused to allow anyone to touch it that was not Sir Ashengrotto himself. From there, it was simply love at first sight.

And while the move had seemed exciting, he and his mother were so happy in their new family, Azul had come to feel like land was a never ending nightmare. He wasn't popular in the sea as far as he could remember, though his mother was such a marvel at parties and her own restaurant, land wasn't much different. While one of his playmates was almost as antisocial as him, the other was a torture to be around. 

Yuu Crowley was the meanest child Azul had ever known, he's sure of it. She'd pinch his cheeks and pat his stomach every time they had tea parties. He'd be dragged around at parties, forced away from the other noble children and kept to her own devices. He's sure at some point she'd give him a bald spot from how she'd tug on his hair at random times. His playdates with Yuu were mostly him trying to escape her, unable to understand why his parents thought the girl's attacks against him were ‘cute’.

Azul sat at the vanity in his bedroom, allowing the butlers to fuss over his hair and bowtie as he pondered. Maybe he could fake sick and hold up in his room for the night, Yuu had recently been ill as well if his memory serves. Surely her fathers wouldn't want to risk her being infected again so quickly after recovering. 

He sighs as he thinks it over, ‘No…she'd surely insist that all was well and he needed to have company. That her own brush with sickness made her less likely to catch anything.’ The thought bounced around his head, a loud taunt to him as none of his plans to avoid the girl ever worked. Yuu was persistent, and frighteningly strong for a girl her age, even by merfolk standards. While Azuls talents were in evasion and his own quick mind, even he wasn't able to fight against someone strong enough to physically lift him over her head…

The butlers pulled back, allowing him to see his purple and pearl detailed outfit, the centerpiece of a seashell brooch over his bowtie.

“What say you, young master? Down right dapper if I do think myself!” The oldest butler speaks, his mouth hidden by the salt and peppered moustache.

Azul may have still found the land to be confusing and torturous, but it was never by anyone in the Ashengrotto household. He and his mother were welcomed and basically pampered since they had entered the manor. He gives the team around him his best smile, adjusting his glasses in mimicky of his step father, “I would have to agree with you, Barcel. Some of your finest work.”

Primed and dressed, looking out the windows to the seaside cradling the setting sun as he made his way to the kitchens. Gently opening the door, he poofed his cheeks at the sight before yelling, “Mama! The party starts in an hour!”

His mother pauses in her taste testing, eyes wide as they take him in only to turn toward the clock against the wall. Seeing the time she flings the spoon back to the chef and moves her way through the kitchen, “Dannatu! Grazzi, tesoro meu.” She takes a moment to wipe her hands on her apron, bending down to pinch his cheeks gently, “Ah! You look so handsome. I can’t wait for you to dazzle everyone at the party.”

“Please go get ready. It'd do no good for the hostess to be late for her own party, mama.”

She waves her hands at him playfully, standing up and sashaying down the hall to her no doubt furious team of maids, “It's as Divus calls it, me tesoro, fashionably late!”

Her laughter does nothing to ease the pit in his stomach at the reminder of what his night was to become.

His mother just barely made it to his stepfather's side to greet the guests with them. Each of them in seafoams and purples with different types of shells, his stepfather in helmets, his mother in westletraps, and his bowtie proudly holding its moonshell.

The greeting stage was always quick. Everyone normally hungry from travel, eager to try his mother's new menu items, or simply network. He bows in sync with his stepfather to each guest, the older man keeping a gentle hand to the back of his neck in silent parental claim. Azul does his best to smile and wave to the other noble children, feeling defeated and crushed each time they avert their eyes and give him tense bows and curtises in return.

Azul wasn't sure if he ever had other playmates; his first memories on land a haze to him now. But he does clearly remember the night Yuu Crowley punched another child so hard they spat blood as they wailed. No other noble child had dared to approach him since. He's sure she was punished, seeing how he didn't see her for the entire rest of the season outside of traveling to the Crowley estate for her birthday party. He wonders if life on land would really be so bad if he had someone to speak to other than the violent Crowley Heiress and the ever-withdrawn Shroud Dukeling.

He felt himself tense seeing the midnight in motion carriage of the Crowley family. He held his breath as the door was opened, Divus and Dire exiting it hand in hand. As the door was closed behind them, he could physically taste the confusion in himself and his parents.

The couple walked up the stairs, Divus instantly smiling and greeting his mother with two kisses above her cheeks. Though briefly startled, she kissed his cheeks in turn, hands gripping his gloved ones, “Where is the cucciola?”

Azul watches the second the smile turns strained on Divus's face, but before he could speak, Dire had but in while still shaking his father's hand.

“Ah! She is still a bit under the weather. Though the Southern District is warmer, we didn't feel comfortable making her travel.”

“I see…”

The conversation faded to the background for Azul, eyes widening at the news. Yuu was still sick, she wasn't there.

He tired to hide his smile, almost bouncing on his feet and waving his hands at his side before looking up to his mother, “May I be excused from greeting!?” He only realized he had yelled when the four adults turned to him stunned. Clearing his throat, he moved into a more calm stance, arms folded behind his back and chin held parallel to the ground, “Please?”

His parents share a brief look before his step father smiles, gesturing further inside, “Of course, son. Do well to not fill up on the hor'dourves.”

“Understood, I will see you both at the dining table.” Azul was barely out of the entryway before he broke out into a sprint.

The main dining hall was comfortably packed, noblemen and commoner business partners loitering around with glasses of champagne and small tea plates of food. He felt nervous, bubbles filling his chest at finally being able to network as all grand and true nobles do. He just had to…

There. 

Tucked into a corner, hovering and sitting on multiple couches, where most of the children he had greeted at the door. He brushed off his coat, tightening his bowtie the way Barcel had shown him ages ago before making his way over to the children.

At his approach, they all looked briefly panicked, each physically turning away and whispering before going silent. He didn't let it deter him, walking with a quicker pace and chin held high. Standing in front of them, he could feel the smile on his cheeks hurting, “Hello. We haven't spoken often, but I am Azul Lee Ashengrotto. It's a pleasure to meet you all.”

The silence in response hurt, but he didn’t let it stop him. He stepped closer, bending at the waist to whisper, “It's ok. I know you all didn't talk to me because Yuu was here. She didn't come tonight.”

The news made the children all blink at him in surprise, tense postures relaxing as they looked toward him. A few whisper, though one girl openly starts to look around for the Crowley heiress.

Smiling, Azul gestures to the space around, “I know! Finally, we can all have civil conversations without-”

A boy laughs, sharp and nasal as he looks down his nose at Azul, “So the Crowley girl finally dropped the dead weight?”

…

Azul’s smile stopped hurting, his cheeks loosing tension as the pain started to grow in his chest, “Huh…?”

A girl snickers behind her fan, turning away from him as she speaks to another child beside her, “Is it dead weight? I think the better term is blubber.”

The group of them laugh, loud and cold as Azul slowly feels every bit of happiness recede into him, “I…W-what?”

“Ugh. Nothing going for you, huh? Fat, common blooded, and slow? Really, what does Sir Ashengrotto see in you?”

“He- My stepfather is nice to me!”

“Yes, just that.” The first boy steps closer to him, a hand poking him hard in his chest with each word he speaks, “Step. Father.” He pulls back, arms crossed over his chest, “Did you really think we'd bother with the son of some common woman? You're basically a pitied bastard.”

Another girl whispers loudly to the one with the fan, the two of them semi hidden behind the accessory, “Did you hear how proudly he said his middle name? As if carrying ‘Lee’ in one's name is something to be proud of.” The two snicker, the laughter only growing louder as Azul’s eyes snap toward them.

“T-this is my home and my mother's party. Show some respect!”

Another boy steps forward, nearly stomping on Azul’s shoe, “Huh!? Says the common blooded stray who was adopted because his mother wouldn't say yes unless he could come. You're a burden.” 

“Stupid too. Poor thing really didn't notice the Crowley girl was the only one who wanted to play with him. Boohoo. Wah~.”

Each child took their turns, insulting him, his mother, his blood, his face, his body. Anything and everything about him deemed unworthy and pitiful, finally free to rip him apart in his very home. Azul looked down, eyes burning as he tucked his chin to his chest.

“Ah! Look he's gonna cry!”

The laughter that followed was the nail in his coffin. Azul turned on his heel, barely keeping his balance and ran from them with tears poking through his lashes. He run into more than a few dresses, scratchy lace and overly perfumed skirts clouding his senses before the thick scent of the sea brought him to his mother. He slammed into the back of her dress, hands clutching the fabric and pearls as he cried into it.

“Oh, me tesoro, what's wrong?”

He didn't want to say, he didn't want to make things hard for her again. His mother was happier on land, more successful, a man loved her here. He couldn't…he couldn't be a burden to her and the thought made him cry harder.

Above him he heard his parents speaking before smelling lemon and rosemary, two strong hands gripping him and pulling him upwards. He curls just as hard into his step father as he did his mother's skirts, letting the older man pat his back comfortingly.

“You don't need to tell us now. Let's get you upstairs and we'll have the staff bring you dinner there.”

“...” He sniffles, pulling his eyes away from his stepfather's suit in fear he'd cry ink into the light fabric, “Okay…”

“I love you, son.”

“Ti vogghiu beni, tesoro meu”

Azul loved them too, with everything his hearts could hold. But now he wasn't sure how to feel. Alone, bullied, furious, abandoned. He couldn't help but wonder if Yuu had thought he was useless and pitiful too, or did she only feel that way about him now? Was torment at her hands truly the only happiness he could find among his peers? A happiness that was seeming to slip through his fingers

Tightening the grip he held on his father's suit, Azul manages to give his mother a watery smile, one that doesn't ease the worry in her eyes, “I love you, too…”

Dire And Divus returned to their estate later than normal. Walking into the manor both exhausted late in the night two days later. While the dinner had proceeded normally, Dire taking note of the empty seat to the left of the Lady Ashengrotto, it was after the meal that had ruined Divus's carefully crafted timeline.

The Lady Ashengrotto was a pleasant woman, friendly, charismatic charm oozing like the ink she held in her true form. She was also big — in both body and emotion — a fact that made her a threat when her emotions went too far in one direction, becoming prone to manhandling. Dire had truly feared he would have been thrown from the office window more than once as the couple questioned them on Yuu's whereabouts.

They stayed true to their agreed lie, Yuu was sick. She was weak in body to the point she did not wish to travel in any capacity and what kind of monsters would they be to force her to?

While the Sir Ashengrotto was willing to take their words, his wife was in a fit for most of the night, rounding back from tantrums to questioning them again and again. It was only by pure luck of Sir Ashengrotto calming his wife enough to point out that Azul would love to be tucked into bed after the night he no doubt had. She was quick to flee the room, Dire and Divus not far behind after hasty spoken goodbyes.

Now standing in their entryway, Divus could barely mumble a good night toward Dire before making a path toward their bedroom, Bernadette and Anette each keeping him steady.

Dire turned to the maid who took his hat and coat, “Is our child in her room?”

She nods, the floor length coat tucked neatly in her coats as she cursties, “Yes, sir. She had her dinner and tried to stay up to greet you both. But when it got too late we made sure she was sent to bed.”

“Perfect. And her work?”

“Managed to finish the last of it just after lunch.”

“Hm….” He nods, dismissing the maid and walking toward his office. Though it was more common for nobles to hire private tutors for their children, Dire and Divus had elected to other methods. Yuu would self study, completing worksheets that were sent off to off seasoned and retired tutors to be graded. He would review her work himself before sending it off of course, learning from Yuu’s moments of vengeance against him as she wrote a message on her work to ‘Please send help’. 

Opening the folder, he chuckles at seeing his daughter's angry scribbles acting as a cover page. The fountain pen she was gifted was beautiful, she just couldn't hold the damn thing without nearly emptying it out in one big ink blot at least once when using it. As normal her writing became more confident as she went further. And the longer he looked, the more he feared he had hit another dead end.

Then he pulled out her math homework. He loved his daughter, but math was not her strongest subject by far. Her work was normally long, the girl managing to work herself in circles before coming to the wrong answer. But before him — though still peppered with wrong answers— was neat lines of math work. Looking closer, he recognized the method, a shorthand used for its ease by merchants. A method that Yuu should have no knowledge of at this stage of her schooling. He places that sheet to the side, electing to rewrite the homework copying Yuu's script. It'd be easy to lie as to why it was a copy should the teacher ask. Yuu was unfortunately subject to more than a few extensions due to ink blotted papers.

He wasn't sure what lie he could think of if they saw she had seemingly learned an intermediate method all on her own.

He and Divus had spoken on the ride home, each with their own concerns about their child. It wasn't hard to see she was isolating herself, slowly but surely cutting off her friend group with little explanation than tears. And neither could bear to see her cry.

Divus worried for her studies. She and Azul meeting monthly in the capital library to overlook their homework and correct whatever the other got wrong acting as the scene of their playdates. Though from the sea, Azul was more than capable with math and Yuu was easing him through surface life by explaining its history to him in more understandable terms. Both sets of parents fearing for the effects breaking their bond could mean for the other.

With a sigh, Crowley picked up his quill and penned a letter. They could try in the morning to convince Yuu to not reject Azul as she had Malleus. But from how hard she had fought them before, Dire was sure she had already made up her mind. And while it was less than ideal, Crowley had to find a new study partner for his child.

Ortho's room was dark, a part of Idia liked it that way. Their hair gave off soft lighting, leaving them floating in the dark untouched by bad things. Sitting at his brother’s bedside, Idia tinkered away silently. Turning the final screw on his project, he smiled and moved to place his tools back into their box before returning to Ortho’s side. Setting the machine on his brother’s side table, Idia gently patted his brother’s small chest, “Ortho, it's ready. Wake up.”

Dark bagged eyes slowly blink open, raspy breathes behind an oxygen mask turning to a weak smile as his eyes focused on matching topaz.

He turns, hand hovering over the machine as he looked to his brother, “Ready?”

The grunt Ortho lets out almost sounds painful, but he nods with as much excitement as he can.

Idia presses a button on his creation, neon blue and yellow projected stars filling up every corner of the room. With each speck of light, it only felt more and more that they were floating above it, safe and untouched in the vacuum of space. He smiles, watching as Ortho's dull eyes brighten and scan around the room in awe. Reaching over, he holds his brother's hand in his, ignoring the way the cold limb twitches under his touch, reconnected nerves still tender and fighting their way to healing.

“When you're all better, we can go stargazing again…I promise.”

[slowcatsisland]

Black Leg Sanji; Physical Characteristics Headcanons

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

His hair was naturally straight but over the course of his time of his Baratie, Zeff has noticed that his hair is more fluffier and wavier than when he first met Sanji.

Some of the small baby hairs he has at the back of his neck curl specifically to his right.

When he’s missing Zeff he’ll put small braids in his hair. They are normally on the side of his head with his eye covered more in the back. He normally does this but once Robin offered to help him and he blushed so hard he couldn’t even respond- he just nodded his head with a smile.

His natural smell is something like cleaning supplies if that makes sense? Like, it’s very faint, it smells clean or like a type of alternative spring water? It stems from the mutations in his DNA.

He also doesn’t have a strong natural musk smell either, you can only smell his armpits and his feet..if ur close enough that is

His scent now though is primarily cigarettes, seafood, and his cologne. His cologne is rather strong because he gets worried that the cigarette smell isn’t attractive to women (He carries mints bc of this). His cologne smells woody and lavender ish. (He got it from Zeff)

BUT he also smells like whatever he cooked that day, especially if the prep took a long time. So the only constant in his scent is the smell of cigarettes

Honestly I thought he had deep brown eyes and looked like a baby doe before it kinda became canon ish that he had blue eyes lol but it makes more sense for him to have blue eyes bc of Sora

His eyes are a grey blue and the blue pops out more when he cries

His outside eyes kinda slant down more to the side of this temples idk how to describe it but ykwim

He’s tried shaving the swirl of his eyebrows, it doesn’t work

I love love love the headcanon that the end of Sanji’s swirl forms a heart <3

His nose is kinda prominent in his face (kinda like his LA Taz Skylar but different) . It looks like what you call a ‘greek nose’. His bridge used to be very straight and it could still be considered straight but it’s been broken by his siblings before so it’s a little larger than it used to be yk? Sora used to kiss up his nose bridge when he would cry around her

Actually I think we all agree Sanji has more of a hooked/curve nose than anything else. Secondary nose for him is a straight, sturdy one

His bottom lip is actually pretty full, and he has a habit of chewing on it that swells it slightly and darkens the color too. His lips curls really easily into a smirky, snazzy smile yk? Like-

Dimple on his cheek……dimple….

His face gets flushed so easily when he’s flustered or embarrassed. Zoro has caught him off guard so many times and it always ends up with Sanji yelling with a pink face

He shaves his face pretty well but his hair doesn’t grow that fast anywhere on him so he could go for a solid couple of days without looking unkempt

Edit: I read a line of another person’s post talking about Sanji having red blotches along mainly his face but also his arms, upper back/shoulder area and hands from being sunburned while stranded on the rock with Zeff and I-

His smoke puffs sometimes form hearts. It just happens

He generally has good posture until he’s by himself and he hunches and slouches his shoulders horribly when he relaxes. His good posture stems from Germa, Zeff, and his desire to attract women. When he’s scared because his past (nightmares, talk of Germa, etc) his posture worsens.

He has a good amount of scars from his childhood but his skin fades very easily.

His worst scars are from lightning (Niji, Enel)

His body is more of a vertical rectangle shape. More toned. His legs are the most ripped part of him (obvi) so it sets him up nicely in clothes because his frame never becomes imposing.

He is so so warm like he’s constantly producing heat and when it’s cold he can warm you up so quick just by hugging you (kinda goes into his ability to create fire)

He is extremely flexible. His back is the least flexible part of him tho ykwim?

I’ve read a theory before that all the Germa kids have the ‘6’ tattooed on their thighs.

I’ve also read a fic before about Sanji having the number 3 tattooed/engraved in his skin that he didn’t know about bc it was on his back or smth until I think Chopper told him

Just thought I’d put that out there..

His hands are literally beautiful. His nails are almost always as short as they can be (bc chef) but they don’t have any scarring at all. He’s also one of those ppl with longer fingers and it helps a lot when he’s cooking’s

He has hips trust!! Yes he uses a belt but only bc it looks good I swear he doesn’t need it he has hips (crying emoji)

His leg muscles are terrifying to look at like they are sooo defined. And big. Def has a clear line that separates his thigh muscles from his quad yk? He can also flex his calve muscles really well.

Bro also has a pretty booty. But it’s all hard and all muscle so not much giggling happens back there lolll

He has ugly feet. I mean the structure is good and if they got broke/bunion they go back to how they were (Germa genes)

He doesn’t take care of them at all. Not even after fighting unless they hurt really, really badly/got injured. Everyday tasks also put stress on his feet because of his dress shoes but he doesn’t prioritize it at all. He’s got lots of blisters and red sore spots.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I might make this a series this was fun

Mwah 😽

[teaboot]

I'm Singaporean, I just saw the posts about schools in Canada vs Korea and now I'm kinda curious how things vary within this half of Asia.

Looking at your questions for the Korean asker, dyeing your hair isn't allowed but how strict the teachers will be about it probably depends on school. My secondary school (age 13-16) had one teacher who made a classmate with (presumably naturally) lighter brown hair dye it black, which was hilarious. If necessary for explanation, it was a Christian school with pretty strict rules on grooming no one had the energy to follow leading up to graduation.

We have uniforms up until you finish secondary school, then it depends on where you go. You have to buy them yourself unless you're on financial assistance or getting some kind of government subsidy, in which case I'm not sure how it works exactly.

And now the actual asking part of this ask: do y'all split math up into different subjects and if so, why??

Kids had to dye their hair to match as a group? What the fuck???? What the hell does hair matter???? Then again... bra straps and shorts don't matter either, and those are restricted everywhere, so maybe school is just dumb everywhere.

And math!!! Not super sure what you mean, but until about grade 10 here in BC all math is taught in one math class that's just "math". In grade 10 you can take precalculus or... the other one? And the idea is that Precalculus is for students going into university and the other one was for students going into trades. You NEEDED precalculus to go on to higher learning, is what we were told.

"Math" was just all math. Multiplication, geometry, algebra, etc.

"Precalculus" was all the basic skills meant to prep for calculus used in STEM stuff- polynomials, trigonometry, more algebra, that junk.

I failed it hard two times but passed the government exam so they weren't allowed to fail me again.

Also I'm good at math so they can kiss my ass now 👍

[cyberapid]

Loved your view on Carrier instincts from Ratchet's point of view. I would love to see a part 2, Sire instincts from Optimus' point of view if possible.

Thank you so much!! I hope this is ok! I love the idea and had like three different drafts before I settled with this lmao.

Wasn’t sure how I wanted to handle sire protocol but I’m kinda satisfied? I thought like overprotective and kinda clingy would be interesting.

Little hurt/comfort and a lot longer

Pt.1 Pt.2

•-•-•

This was a simple retrieval that really only required two bots if all went well, get past the miners undetected, retrieve as much energon as possible, sabotage what you can, and get out. Ratchet had emphasised, excessively, the undetected part much to the annoyance of the small bots given the task.

Once the two were gone Optimus had occupied himself in Ratchet's makeshift med bay, much to the older bots annoyance, by picking up some of the broken equipment littered about but a black servo had smacked his own away. Looking down he’d met Ratchet's fierce glare, “Optimus I can barely think with your racket. Also, stop touching my things. I may need them,” he abruptly turns with a dramatic vent, continuing to track the signal of the two bots within the mines; Audials alert in case a quick exit is necessary.

The prime settled to instead linger behind his bonded, arms wrapped around his middle and servos held firm on cold metal. They watched the monitor as the two blinking bots made their way slowly through twisted corridors, avoiding working Decipticons. There was no real need to continually watch with Ratchet, their very capable Medic, on the job but something within Optimus’ processor made even entertaining the idea painful so he settled with being Ratchet’s secondary optics.

“Are you ill? I swear you’ve been clingier than normal,” Ratchet’s tone is twisted with frustration as he attempts to escape the others grip and get a better look up at him but firm, larger servos keep him in place while attempting to stay focused despite the movement, “are your brain circuits. fried, Optimus? Let me go!” Annoyance bursts through their shared bond as the medic attempts to free himself, uselessly.

The bickering pulls all attention away from the computer as the bonded pair complain and soothe respectively, missing the sudden company that surrounded the two spies. They miss the visual but Acree’s voice pulls them away from each other and back towards the monitor. “We’ve been spotted. Bee’s on the sabotage part already so just keep the bridge ready,”

Ratchet is quickly turned back to his monitor answering the femme, “Groundbridge is locked onto your coordinates and ready when you are,” anxiety fills the shared bond from his mates side and parts of this leak into the connection with their youngling, disrupting the usual contentment that flows through. Optimus feels his spark twist and anger flow through his processor, he attempts to cut the feeling off before it reaches his connection to his family but the sudden stiffness under his servos tells him he didn’t block the connection quick enough

“Open the Bridge, I’ll assist.” His request is met with a fuzzy scoff as his mate turns to him,

“Absolutely not. They’ve almost completed the mission and your being there will only make it worse,” anger flares further and he feels the involuntary twitch of his digit; deep in the logical side of his processor he knows his dear friend is correct but any logic he might of had is squashed by the fear that overwhelms him, consumes him. Something will happen to his creation and he stood by doing nothing.

The sudden anguish that fills their bond with the young boy startles them both from the intense stare off they’d engaged in, “scrap, Bee got hit! Open the bridge now I’m grabbing him. Bee put th-“ her comm is cut short but the two bots are quick to jump to action, a silent understanding as ratchet pulls himself away from groundbridge controls and off to prep med bay while Optimus takes over and activates the bridge.

The familiar whirl of the groundbridge echoes through the base along with the clanging from the medbay, Bulkhead's heavy steps alert the Prime to his entrance.

The Wrecker stands at the edge of the groundbridge's opening, in a tense observation, “should I head in and help em?” Anything their leader had to say is interrupted by Ratchet loudly exclaiming,

“Primus, no! I’ve said this twice now, you two will only jeopardize their exit. We don’t know how close they are or if the mines are large enough to house either of you,” he continues to chastise Bulkhead as Optimus turns his attention back to the portal, awaiting the sound of fleeing pedes. It takes far too long and his plating crawls at the sound of scraping metal that comes from the bridge.

The pain is searing to have to stand and make sure they clear the bridge before powering down the machine, he fights every instinct telling himself to forget the bridge and rush to his injured creation; to sooth his fears. He’d failed, again to protect what is his, what relies on him.

Then he failed to be the first to offer comfort as the white and orange mech rushes towards Acree who’s struggling to hold Bee up, who’s unable to walk with one pede as the other is non operational, spilling far too much energon from busted cabling.

He relieves the smaller scout of his creations form and transfers him onto the awaiting medical berth with care not to irritate any wounds further. Optimus is quick to trail behind him once the bridge is secured, narrowly avoiding stepping Raf thanks to Bulkhead who, as gently as possible, grabs the boy out of the way.

A quiet buzz sounds from Bumblebees intake at the sight of his creators and he sends pulses of joy through their bond which Optimus returns in large quantities to make up for his bondeds neglect of it, who instead focuses on the care of the scouts leg. A sudden shrill sound pulls him from flooding the bond with comfort, “Ratchet! Careful!”

The offended mech looks up from his work and lets out a distorted guffaw, “excuse me? You really have shorted your circuits!” Anger explodes from both sides of their shared bond.

A sudden squeeze of his servo kills any further complaints he has, instead he looks down at his creation who whirls sadly. A steady rumble leaves his intake in an attempt to sooth him and it appears to work as his optics dim, a sated calm pulses through the three way bond, and his engine lulls to a calm rumble. The calm allows Ratchet to work quickly and without interruption.

Silence settles into the silo and Optimus finds himself sparing a glance at his bonded who’s taken to working silently; A sturdy wall between their connection, “Ratchet-“

“Not now” his answer is short and his helm doesn’t raise from the damaged leg of their sparkling, experienced hands working for an amount of time Prime isn’t sure of but he knows it drags on far too long— leaving him with stirring remorseful thoughts.

•-•

Every person or bot has retired for the night or left the silo leaving the bonded pair and an unconscious, but stable, Bee. They haven’t spoken since the short outburst between them with Ratchet busying himself cleaning the mess left in medbay and Optimus watching over the resting bot.

He’d had time to mull over his actions leaving a nasty churn in his tanks, “my dear friend?” Ratchets shoulders tense up and his vents stall out as the equipment he’d been gently pushing into size order clatter to the ground,

“What,”

“I owe you an apology,” he reaches his free servo out to the other mech, expectantly, “please.” There’s a loud sigh as Ratchet accepts his hand and walks closer, settling himself in front of Optimus and beside the Berth for just a moment before an clattering sounds throughout the silo and the medic finds himself uncomfortably sat on the primes lap,

“What was that!” His servo collided with the side of Optimus’ helm reflexively before panicking and checking the slight dent as the other laughs. “Why would you do that! It’s hardly an apology,”

“Yes, you’re correct. I do apologize though, I was out of line for reprimanding you. Especially when you are far more experienced than I am in that field,” there’s a faint hum that leads into a purr from the mech above him— the walls that had been built up come down and contentment eases through their bond. The medic turns to look at their creation, free servo running over scraped yellow plating,

“I need to run diagnostics on you, your demeanour change is strange,”

[meowzilla93]

Love Language with the Boys!!

I feel like its quite self explanatory in the games but I wanted to explore more into it so

Here is the primary and secondary Love Languages the Boys have!

Derek Suarez

Primary  - Acts of Service!

This boy loves and needs someone to just make his life even a fraction easier

You need someone on your side boo? We got you!

Lets start the day

Are you a night owl and sleep in? Well, you made sure to make some snacks and prepare his workout drinks in the fridge the night before – gotta make sure muscle man is eating right and getting his protein

Early bird like he is? Sweet! If you both go to the gym you pack his bag for him as he is getting dressed, or maybe you’ll go ahead and make a quick breakfast for the two of you to get some energy before a work out

Not going to the gym? No issues! You give him a kiss on the cheek and hand him his protein shake as he leaves, then whilst he is gone you can start prepping a good after workout breakfast for him to come back to

Has he got work or meetings he needs to go to afterwards? You could make sure his clothes are ready to go, or maybe the papers he was reading through the night before are packed away into his bag

You’ve got the day off work? Maybe we plan a nice dinner surprise with his favourite meal

Or you order in cause it’s a Friday and its game night (GO TEAM SUAREZ) and you both aren’t getting much sleep that night

Oh you noticed his favourite protein powder is running out? Better put an order in and top it up before he notices (of course he notices, he is absolutely touched!)

Poor boy has gotten sick? You just know he doesn’t want to let that slow him down

Guess what you are doing?

You are one step away from strapping him down to that bed (kinky, but not really HE IS SICK) but he finally relents, so you get to nurse him now

Mama Suarez has told you his favourite go to home remedies to get better, and you make it all! Tea, soups, hot chocolate, you name it

He is going to know what it means to be taken care of

You have Dereks Day! But its not once a year, its once a month

He needs to have one day every 30 days where its just about him and letting him let loose

The Boardwalk is always a winner, but sometimes its just a picnic, or go to the water park, or go to the movies. Whatever he wants to do, its getting done

Secondary – Words of Affirmation!

I swear this man, LIKE ALL THE OTHERS, doesn’t understand when we compliment him or anything

So guess what guys

Daily Affirmation Texts

He really needs these ones

Just a reminder of how amazing he is, that he is kicking goals (pun intended)

That we are so happy to be with him

Just remind him that he matters, because baby, you really do!

Cove Holden

Primary – Quality Time!

So we know how much Cove loves just spending time with us

Its his favourite hobby, pastime, memory, you name it

Oh our favourite resident merman has a new fish?

You are sitting down and letting that man gush about it, telling you all about its species and what the care is going to be for it

You don’t even have to say anything, just sitting there and listening to him is all that matters

Hard day at work?

He just needs to vent to you, same thing. You could even provide tips (im talking like, hit them in the kneecaps advice) to him just to get him to smile and laugh about it

Some think that Quality Time means you need to give each other attention all the time, but not for you two

All he wants is to be in your presence, and you don’t even have to be doing the same thing

You guys have aced Parallel Play

The most important thing is making sure you are within each others vision and you Gucci

He is reading, you could be watching something on your phone

He is cleaning the fish tank, you could be there just listening to music and maybe doing a hobby of your own

He just wants your presence

BE IN HIS PRESENCE

Any time away is torture to him, every Step in the game literally explains that

Secondary – Gift Giving!

Remember how excited he gets over the orange shell? The poppy? The fudges? The windchime?

This man is so ecstatic that you thought of him WHEN HE WASN’T EVEN THERE

And you are giving him something that he would like, and you did it unprompted

Prepare for waterworks

Listen, sometimes you just need to leave it on his pillow to come back to

You got up earlier than him (shocker that one) cause of work, so as you are quietly bustling around getting ready, you leave him a little letter or a present on the pillow next to him

When he finally wakes up and sees it, there are tears, and then there is an urgent call coming your way

Because of course he needs to thank you for it!

Just be prepared that you will get gifts too. That’s his way of showing his love and care too

Baxter Ward

Primary – Physical Touch!

Look, I swear this one is so obvious, but in case it isn’t I will go into HEAVY DETAIL OF WHAT HE LIKES

See he loves being in your presence all the time, but it simply isn’t enough

He needs some part of him touching you, even in a minute way, he just needs it

Driving? You are holding hands, this is a rule

Walking? Holding hands or he has your arm draped on his all gentlemanly like

Sitting together at a function? Somehow you have contact

You could be holding each others hand on the table

Or simply linking fingers, even just the pinky finger (YOU MJST BE TOUCHING)

Linked ankles underneath the table

Pressed up next to each other so your thighs or shoulders are touching whilst talking to others

Home alone and you are sitting on the couch together?

Position A: he is laying his head in your lap, you will brush your fingers through his hair that is the LAW

You could always give him a small head massage, he would love you even more for it

Position B: leaning against each other, watching a movie, he will have his arm wrapped around you and holding you in close, you could hold his hand as well

Position C: You are lying on him. Oh he will be brushing you hair, but say you don’t like that, he is content holding you hand instead

Oh this man is a sucker for hand holding (have you read anything above)

But you know what would make him weak?

Giving him a hand massage. Or just caressing his hand, feeling his fingers, brushing them across his palm. The lot of it

Can say the same about his neck and head; you could just be caressing him, admiring him and his skin and softness and he would 100% be lulled to sleep by it

Or, if you do it the right way, something else entirely would be on the menu (play prawn-hu- gets shot)

He is making dinner for you? Gently hug him from behind

Come home from work? A hug and a kiss is required for this tired man

Is there music playing? Oh a dance is required. Doesn’t have to be fancy, just a chance to hold onto you and sway is enough for him

Kisses – lord this man would accept a kiss any where

Hands, cheeks, chin, nose, shoulders, legs (alright we need to get back on track)

But forehead touches are supreme

Sharing a hug, foreheads pressed together, just being in each other space?

His heart couldn’t be more full

Bedtimes? You would consider yourself lucky if you can untangle yourself from him

You are 100% wrapped up in a Baxter Burrito and you aren’t escaping

But if that’s not your thing, don’t worry he is respectful of that

At this point as long as he can feel your body heat and movement in the bed, he will be content

After all he gets all the touches during the waking hours

Secondary – I Feel like this is almost two, cause He does need Words of Affirmation even though he doesn’t believe in it half the time, but also Quality Time is a big hitter for him...

With Baxter, because he is emotionally stunted, there is only so far you can provide him in words of affirmation before he just doesn’t listen anymore

So these ones need to happen sporadically, and during very important moments

Like when he is really beating himself up, rather than tell him he is wrong, you just need to flip the conversation to be positive

Sometimes you do just need to give him time to process what has happened and let him come back to you to talk, and that’s when you can gently re-affirm the positives with him

Quality Time just links in with Physical Touch

He loves being with you, and just plain talking with you

If you are long distance, he just wants to make every moment count, over the phone or in person

And if you do that back to him, well then you are just the more remarkable person ever

Don’t need to be doing anything fancy, voice calling is just fine

Going for a walk and chatting

Trying a new restaurant when you are both together again

DANCING COME ON

Thank you for reading my TED talk.

A small part of me is sad that Coves is so little, but honestly mans gets so much screen time, the other boys deserve a chance to shine!

cough I do not have a favourite cough

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Stay With Me: Part 2

The sirens were a dull roar behind you. Your vision blurred, the fluorescent ceiling lights above you streaking like comets every time the rig hit a bump. Kelly was at your side, one hand gripping yours, the other bracing the stretcher rail like he could somehow anchor you to this world.

You blinked up at him, groggy.

“Kelly…” you mumbled, voice raspy. “I don’t feel too hot.”

His eyes locked on yours instantly. “Hey. Stay with me, babe. We’re almost there.”

But something shifted. You blinked again—slow, heavy. Your body slackened slightly against the stretcher.

“Y/N?” he said quickly, squeezing your hand. “Talk to me.”

Your eyes rolled back.

“Unresponsive!” Brett called from the monitor. “BP’s dropping—she’s hypotensive. 84 over 56. HR’s 134 and thready. Oxygen sat’s at 88% on non-rebreather.”

Stella, already gloved up in the back bench seat, moved fast. “She’s deteriorating—get a second IV line in. Start a 500cc bolus of NS wide open.”

“I’m on it,” Brett said, spiking the bag.

Kelly’s jaw clenched. “What’s happening?”

“She’s crashing,” Stella said, keeping her tone clinical but urgent. “Likely intracranial—blunt force trauma plus submersion. She's compensating, but barely. Pupils are sluggish.”

“She needs a trauma team ready,” Brett added. She pulled the portable radio from her shoulder. “Kim! Call Med—tell them we have a trauma patient coming in with GCS 6, unresponsive after initial recovery. Head trauma, LOC, declining BP, possible TBI with aspiration.”

Chicago PD’s Kim Burgess crackled back over radio: “Copy. I’ll alert Sharon and get the trauma bay ready.”

Jay Halstead, following in a patrol SUV, heard everything. His grip tightened on the wheel.

Stella placed a hand gently on Kelly’s back. “She’s tough, Kelly. You know that.”

He didn’t respond. He was staring at your face—ashen now, lashes trembling faintly, lips pale under the oxygen mask. The monitor beeped faster, a chaotic rhythm of instability.

“I can’t lose her,” he muttered. “Not like this.”

“You’re not going to,” Stella said, voice firmer now. “We’ve got perfusion starting. Second line’s in. She’s still in sinus tachy—no V-tach yet.”

Kelly pressed his lips to your forehead briefly.

“You hang on, okay? You do not get to check out on me now.”

They blew through the ER doors full-tilt.

“Twenty-nine-year-old female,” Brett shouted. “Post-blunt trauma to occipital region with secondary LOC, submerged in cold water. Regained consciousness en route, re-lost. Now unresponsive. GCS 6. Hypotensive. HR 142. Sat’s 86%.”

Dr. Ethan Choi and Maggie Lockwood were already waiting with the trauma team.

“Let’s go—get her to Trauma 2! Full neuro workup, CT stat. Draw CBC, CMP, lactic, and blood cultures. Page Neuro and start high-flow O₂ at 15L.”

Severide tried to follow. Maggie stopped him gently.

“They’ve got her, Kelly.”

He looked like he might explode.

So Stella stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm. “We’ll wait. Together.”

“Sluggish response to painful stimuli. Pupils unequal—right more dilated than left.” “She’s posturing—decorticate flexion.” “Prep for RSI. She’s agitated in apnea intervals—we need to protect the airway.” “BP’s holding at 90 systolic with fluid. Starting levophed if MAP drops below 60.

Matt Casey came running down the hall just in time to see Severide standing frozen, soaked to the bone and covered in blood.

“What happened?” he demanded. “They said she went under, but she was fine—Jay said she came back up!”

Kelly didn’t look at him.

“She said she didn’t feel good,” he said hollowly. “Then she just… dropped.”

Casey’s face crumpled. “She’s all I have, man. Please tell me she’s gonna be okay.”

“I don’t know,” Severide admitted, his voice a broken whisper. “I don’t know.”

The trauma team worked with relentless precision.

“Intubation complete. Tube placement confirmed with end-tidal CO₂ and bilateral breath sounds.” “She’s tachycardic—HR 148. BP’s 82 over 44. Sat’s holding at 91% on 100% FiO₂ via ventilator.” “Neuro exam’s worsening—GCS 5, unequal pupils. Prep for CT head, stat.” “Bolus another 500cc of NS and start norepinephrine—5 mcg/min, titrate to maintain MAP over 65.”

Dr. Choi leaned over the bedside, checking your pupils again. “We need to rule out a subdural hematoma or cerebral edema. She’s decompensating.”

“Portable chest X-ray shows right basilar infiltrate—possible aspiration pneumonia,” one of the residents added. “Temp’s climbing—she’s febrile at 101.9°F.”

“She’s circling the drain,” the trauma fellow muttered under his breath. “Let’s move.”

Radiology Suite Non-Contrast Head CT

The scan began with a mechanical whirr. You lay perfectly still, ventilated and unconscious, forehead bruised, IV lines snaking in every direction.

On the screen, the radiologist frowned.

“There. Temporal lobe. 2.4 cm hematoma. Midline shift—4 millimeters. Early signs of uncal herniation. We need Neuro in the loop. Now.”

Waiting Room

The entire firehouse team was there now — Squad 3, Truck 81, Ambo 61. Jay Halstead paced by the doors, arms crossed, while Stella Kidd and Sylvie Brett sat quietly beside Kelly and Matt.

Casey sat stiffly in a plastic chair, face pale, hands knotted together.

Severide hadn’t moved.

Jay turned sharply when Maggie stepped in with a clipboard and an update.

“She’s intubated and stable on a ventilator,” Maggie said calmly. “They found a temporal lobe subdural hematoma with midline shift, plus pulmonary infiltration consistent with aspiration. Neuro’s being consulted now. She’s febrile and trending toward septic, likely from fluid in the lungs. But she’s holding, barely.”

Jay blinked. “Okay, wait—back up. What does that mean?”

Stella stepped in gently, glancing at Maggie for permission before translating.

“It means she has bleeding in her brain that’s pushing things out of alignment. The brain’s shifting—dangerously. That’s what’s messing with her responsiveness. She’s also fighting an infection from inhaling water into her lungs. And her blood pressure’s tanking because of it.”

Jay swallowed hard, then nodded slowly.

Matt buried his head in his hands.

Severide stared down at the floor, lips tight.

“She’s going to the OR?” he finally asked, voice low.

Maggie nodded. “Neurosurgery is reviewing her scans now. They may opt for a craniotomy to relieve the pressure. We’re also starting broad-spectrum IV antibiotics—Vancomycin and Zosyn. And she’s on Levophed to keep her pressure up.”

“Is she going to make it?” Matt asked softly.

Maggie didn’t answer.

CT Recovery Bay

You lay pale and still under blankets, a Bair Hugger draped over your chest in a fight to keep your core temperature up.

“BP’s 78/40—Levophed up to 10 mcg/min.” “Temp is 102.2. Tachycardic—HR 156.” “SpO₂ holding at 93%. CXR shows worsening infiltrates. Get her to the ICU once we clear the OR decision.”

One of the nurses looked up. “We’ve got movement.”

Your eyelids fluttered—just briefly. Then your body tensed on the bed. Seizure activity.

“Code Neuro! Full seizure protocol. Push Ativan—4 mg IVP. Prep loading dose Keppra!”

The machines wailed again as your body convulsed under the straps.

Dr. Abrams, the neurosurgeon, met with the waiting crew.

“She’s seizing now. The midline shift’s worsening. We’re prepping the OR for decompressive craniotomy and hematoma evacuation.”

Severide stood instantly. “Then do it. What are we waiting for?”

Abrams nodded. “We’re moving fast. But you all need to understand — if the pressure doesn’t reverse or the bleed expands…”

“Just save her,” Casey said, voice cracking.

Jay turned to the wall and punched it. Stella flinched.

Brett gripped Severide’s arm as he sat back down, burying his face in his hands.

And in that hallway—filled with heroes used to running into fire—they were powerless.

[aching-tummies]

Stress, Bad food...Semester going out with a bang in my tummy...

It's nearing the end of the academic semester where I am. My 2 workplaces are all jockeying, demanding more of my time…and here I am just trying to find time to finish the semester strong.

What's the point of paying for all of this if I flunk out, right? Unfortunately, I have 3 professors, each with less than 2 years of post-secondary 'instructing' under their belts…and none of them have any clue what is going on. Literally, one of them has a buddy that is a professor in a completely different program--think, my instructor is a philosophy course…their buddy is something in the math field. Unfortunately, my professor decides that 'post-secondary' is all the same, so when they're scrambling for something to grade us with, they literally have just "borrowed" material and assignments from the buddy in another field. This is a philosophy course…and we're being graded on calculus. Not these specific disciplines, but similar situation (some IRL friends know my situation and how I bitch about incompetent professors…so…changing details slightly to avoid the possibility of IRL people likening my complaints and finding this. Also, Tuition's going up by about $200 per course next semester. RIP lunch money, I barely knew you.

On top of all of that, I have also managed to catch the eye of a stalker. I tend to stay late on-campus to get my academic work done because there are too many people in my home to allow me to concentrate. If I go home, I'm helping with dinner prep or expected to pick up after younger members of the household--so I often stay on-campus until long after the sun goes down. At least 3 nights a week, this one guy will follow me on transit and while walking back home. Literally, he waits for a bus going east and mine goes west of campus, and yet every time I get to my stop and see him across the street, he'll eventually cross the road to board my bus--directly behind me. He also gets off at my stop, even when I deliberately get off a few stops before or after my real stop. I've managed to lose him by ducking into one of the nearby establishments on my way home, so I haven't led him to my home (yet?). On more than one occasion, I've had to rely on the help of strangers. e.g. if I know I'm passing a guy that looks trustworthy, or even a beat cop out on patrol. I'll make a show of being uncomfortable, shifting my bag or gripping my keys tightly, Every time, the dude follows me up until I do something to shake him off, or I get authorities involved if we're passing a police officer on patrol. I'll make a show of being wary in front of the cop, or I'll outright tell 'em someone has been following me. So far, that's deterred the stalker from following me all the way home. Stalker literally does a 180 and I've clocked him getting on a different bus after back-tracking the 3-10 blocks they followed me on.

With everything going on, I think it's safe to say that I am stressed? Stress tends to do nasty things to my tummy. It's like my guts are tied in knots and refuse to digest at all.

Stalker started roughly 4 weeks ago (when I started noticing him) and final assignments and exam schedule wasn't released until 2 days ago. Si U was stressing over an assignment that wasn't even announced yet

Today, I stayed so late to finish assignments that the only food option left open when I started to feel hungry was a place specializing in spicy, overly greasy, barely-edible burgers that look like they hit their best before date 10 years ago. I went, got the least offensive-looking thing on the menu, and ate. It's been 9 hours and my stomach is still letting out sickly rumbles. I feel bloated, as though I spent all day cramming sweets and empty calories into my face (I did not). The greasy barely-a-burger has been churning around in my gus all day. My intestines clearly are not accepting it, because I ve spent the last 9 hours feeling like my stomach and my intestines are playing hot-potato with sludge. There's a bloated, queasiness around my diaphragm, and my tummy has been letting out sickly rumbles for hours now. You know those onomatopoeia that are just 'grrr' with the occasional capital letter mixed in? That's my tummy right now. If you were standing on the other side of the room, you'd hear it too. It's a sickly, pathetic little growl with the occasional wet-sounding gurgle shaking things up as my stomach and intestines argue about what direction to send the slop.

Also, I'm not a fan of gas-related stuff. I still am not, but the gas generated by that burger was insane. The last bus failed to show after the late-night burger, so I walked back to where I was staying for the night--about a 50 minute walk. I actually had to stop a couple of times throughout the walk to 'de-gas' myself because my entire digestive tract felt like it was hooked up to a pump--the pressure was intense and it was fighting to get out of me from both ends.

I fell asleep typing this, so I'm just now finishing it up. I got about 5 hours of shut-eye and woke up to a sickly shuddering in my intestines. It's a lot less noisy than it was last night--last night, the sickly growls and whines from my guts were constant--firing off literally with only 3-30 seconds between them. And the sounds got more loud and sickly-sounding every time I put a hand on my belly or gave it a little rub.

I'm pausing occasionally to give it a bit of a rub as I finish writing this. No audible sounds (yet) since waking, but there've been a few sickly twinges from my lower belly. Something is stirring and quaking, and I'm about 98% sure I'm going to have a spontaneous, intense stomach ache when my stomach wakes up more fully and finds the remnants of whatever it struggled with all of last night. The other 2% is wary about the idea of throwing up. The quaking is too low to feel like vomit…but considering how sickly my guts felt all of last night…it wouldn't be surprising if the barely-a-burger gave me food poisoning or whatever and my guts have decided a total clean-out is in order.

I've been stressed for weeks due to this semester and the 3 incompetent professors (we've been notified by administration that the professors are under review, and the gossip mill is strongly leaning toward the idea of these 3 no longer being employed next semester). All this stress and all the extra work I've put in to grasp concepts/material on my own time/research has finally caught up with me, I guess. I've been dealing with low-key stomach upsets all semester…but this one just feels different. More intense, more sickly, more longer-lasting. It's like my guts finally decided to call it quits.

Honestly…I've never considered the idea of going to a masseuse or whatever. I'm kind of touch-adverse? Like…I grew up in a household that was never big on practicing physical affection--hugs and kisses just weren't a thing in my house (family was good, we just did not do that sort of thing). All that being said, I've been watching a few of those belly-massage videos and "asmr" and kind of want to try the experience someday. Considering how sickly my tummy feels right now…how backed-up, clogged up, and sickly it feels from a combination of stress and the grosser kind of fast food…honestly really tempted to find a masseuse to help me manually un-clog my poor, sickly belly. I probably won't do it because I'm still kinda touch-adverse in real life, and it's not like I'd be able to afford such a thing on a student's budget. I know, stranger-danger and such is a thing as well, so I probably wouldn't do it…but those videos of people with this interest meeting up at a hotel or whatever else to indulge…honestly, kind of wishing for such a scenario 'cuz it might mean a low-cost way of getting someone else's hands on my tummy and letting it be their concern for a bit.

So…what would you do? Stress and bad food are wreaking havoc on a poor little tummy. You all know I crave a bit of a sadistic attention. Where would you touch? What kind of pressure? Send me your best responses.