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kk095 · 3 months ago

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Ella’s OD

The fluorescent lights in Trauma Room One buzzed faintly, casting a glow on our usual team of medical professionals who stood like statues, their faces unreadable. Dr Lindsay stood at the head of the exam table, arms folded, her sharp eyes flicking towards the doorway. Nurse Nancy adjusted her gloves, the faint snap breaking the silence, while Nurse Heather prepared the crash cart nearby, her hands steady despite the silent tension in the room.

In an instant, the stillness shattered as the trauma bay doors flung open with a loud thud. A gurney barreled through, along with two paramedics. One was perched on top of the stretcher, rhythmically compressing the chest of a young lady. “22 year old female!” the paramedic started, breathless but focused, pumping away at the patient’s chest. “Suspected overdose, cardiac arrest for 15 minutes. She’s intubated- no response to multiple doses of Narcan. Seven shocks, two doses of epi on board!” the medic continued.

Twenty two year old Ella’s bare chest caved in hard, her small perky breasts with pierced nipples jiggling slightly in sync with each individual compression. Her fair skin had taken on a ghastly pallor, her colorful tattoo sleeves a stark contrast to her otherwise lifeless appearance. Her green eyes, wide open, stared into nothing, frozen in a gaze of terror that sent a chill through the room. The breathing tube taped firmly in place peeked between her pale lips, and the hiss of the ambu bag punctuated the chaos.

“Let’s transfer her on my count!” Dr Lindsay commanded, stepping towards the gurney. The team moved as one. “One… two… THREE!” With a coordinated heave, they transferred Ella onto the trauma room table. “Nancy, get me a rhythm check!” Dr Lindsay ordered as Nurse Heather connected the defibrillator pads to Ella’s chest. The monitor let out a shrill alarm as it revealed a chaotic ventricular fibrillation pattern. “She’s in v-fib, Linds” Nancy announced, her voice steady despite the grim reading. “Charge to 200!” Lindsay called out, snapping her latex gloves into place. “Everyone… CLEAR!” The team took a step back as Lindsay delivered a shock. Ella’s body was thrown around dramatically by the jolt of electricity, her green eyes still locked in that haunting gaze. “Ok, no change. Heather, resume compressions!” Lindsay barked, her voice sharp. Nancy jumped in without hesitation, her hands working Ella’s fragile frame as the room became a cacophony of beeping monitors, barking orders, and the rhythmic thud of chest compressions.

As the EMS team hurried out, their job done, the doors swung shut behind them, leaving the trauma team to take over the fight for Ella’s life. Nurse Heather stood at Ella’s side, her hands interlocked and pumping firmly on the young woman’s bare chest. The compressions sent tremors through Ella’s thin frame, her green eyes still frozen open, giving the room an eerie, haunting feel. “Charging to 300!” Dr Lindsay announced, her voice cutting through the noise. Her gloved hand hovered over the defibrillator controls as the machine emitted its rising electrical whine. “CLEAR!” she called, stepping back as Heather lifted her hands, and the team momentarily froze. The shock surged through Ella’s torso, causing her body to jerk violently before collapsing ungracefully back onto the table. The heart monitor beeped erratically, showing no change, still in ventricular fibrillation. “Resume compressions!” Lindsay barked without missing a beat. Heather immediately resumed, her palms pressing down rhythmically. Sweat glistened on her brow, but she didn’t falter. At the head of the bed, Nurse Nancy ambu bagged. “Come on sweetie, come on…” Nancy leaned in a little, whispering to the patient, gently stroking Ella’s short, jet black hair with bangs.

The door to the trauma room swung open again, with Dr Sarah and brand new, first year resident Dr Jen entering briskly, both already in yellow gowns and gloves, ready to dive into the chaos. “What do we have?” Dr. Sarah asked, her sharp gaze scanning the room. “22 year old female, suspected overdose.” Lindsay replied quickly, not breaking stride. “She’s been down for 18 minutes and counting, no response to Narcan, nine shocks, three rounds of epi. Still in v-fib.” Relayed Dr Lindsay. Dr. Jen moved to the head of the table, assessing Ella’s pale, motionless face. She adjusted the ambu bag, delivering a few firm breaths through the endotracheal tube. “Good tube placement.” she confirmed, her tone clipped but professional. “Any signs of underlying trauma?” Sarah asked as she grabbed the ultrasound probe from the cart. “None reported by EMS.” Nurse Nancy chimed in as she adjusted the IV line, prepping another dose of epinephrine. “All signs point to an overdose.” Lindsay added. “Let’s confirm in a minute. I’m going to see what her heart’s doing.” Sarah muttered, sliding the ultrasound probe across Ella’s chest. The ultrasound screen displayed a fluttering, twitching heart, no organized contractions. “Damn it.” Sarah shook her head. “Push another round of epi and hit her again at 360. We need to get her out of this rhythm now.” Lindsay ordered, her voice firm. Nancy moved swiftly, injecting the dose into Ella’s IV line as the defibrillator began to charge again. The team exchanged a brief, nervous glance before focusing back on their patient.

Heather’s gloved hands pressed down on Ella’s bare chest with rhythmic precision, each compression forcing her sternum to cave and recoil as it fought against the unnatural motion. The force of Heather’s efforts sent subtle ripples through Ella’s body, making her head bob gently in sync. Her short jet-black hair clung to her pale forehead. At the end of the table, Ella’s bare feet, marked with ink from scattered tattoos, bounced lightly with each downward motion. The movement was unnervingly rhythmic, almost like a puppet on strings. The high pitched whine of the defibrillator charging filled the room, growing louder as the next shock prepared to fire. Nurse Nancy, standing by with the ambu bag, occasionally squeezed it to deliver air into Ella’s lungs, though it felt futile against the relentless tide of chaos. Dr Sarah’s voice cut through the background noise. “Charging to 360!” Heather paused her compressions, lifting her gloved hands and stepping back as Dr Lindsay called out, “Clear!” The shock hit Ella’s chest like a thunderclap, her chest shooting up, her back arching before collapsing back, motionless. Her head lolled to the side, her green eyes staring into the void, still wide open, as though bearing silent witness to the battle raging around her. “No change, still in v-fib.” Dr Jen quickly checked the monitor, seeing the same disorganized rhythm. “Resume compressions” Dr Lindsay ordered, her voice sharp but controlled. Heather immediately resumed, her movements unwavering despite the sweat dripping from her temples. Ella’s head began to bob again, her feet tapping softly against the end of the table, the eerie rhythm matching the relentless beeping of the heart monitor. Dr Sarah exhaled sharply, wiping her brow. “We need to break this rhythm. Let’s prep for amiodarone. Nancy, 300 milligrams IV push.” Nancy nodded, grabbing the vial and syringe from the cart. Meanwhile, Dr Jen leaned over Ella, her voice soft but firm as though addressing the patient directly. “Come on, Ella. Don’t give up on us!”

The room was a whirlwind of controlled chaos as the minutes ticked on. Heather’s hands moved without pause, the rhythmic pressure of her compressions forcing Ella’s chest to yield, each pump a desperate attempt to restart the fragile heart beneath. Nancy prepared the amiodarone, her hands steady despite the mounting pressure. She pulled the syringe from the vial, the liquid gleaming under the harsh lights. “Amiodarone, 300 milligrams.” Dr Lindsay confirmed as Nancy injected the drug into the IV line, her movements swift. Dr Sarah glanced at the monitor, noting the continued, disordered chaos of Ella’s rhythm. “We��ve got to break this.” Sarah shook her head. “resuming compressions…” Heather panted, already positioning herself. “Go ahead.” Lindsay said, her eyes scanning the room for any hint of a shift in the young woman’s condition. With each downward push, Heather’s palms met Ella’s sternum with brutal force, her movements unrelenting. The sound of compressions echoed through the trauma room, filling the space with a macabre rhythm. As the cycle of compressions finished, the defibrillator was recharged once again. The air in the room thickened as everyone held their breath, waiting for the next shock. “Charging to 360.” Dr Lindsay called out. “Everyone… CLEAR!” The shock ripped through the room, the sound of Ella’s body being practically thrown off the table a sharp reminder of how tenuous the battle for her life truly was. Still no change. The monitor continued to display the erratic waves of v-fib, mocking their every attempt. Lindsay’s gaze turned to Nancy. “How long has she been down?” asked the doctor. Nancy’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, and her voice wavered slightly as she spoke. “Twenty six minutes Linds.” Answered Nancy. “We need to make a decision. She’s not responding to anything.” Dr. Jen inhaled sharply, her gaze briefly meeting Dr Sarah’s. “Push another epi.” Lindsay said, her tone sharp, eyes never leaving the monitor. Nancy quickly prepared the next round of epinephrine. The team had already been through so much, and they were running out of time. Their movements, while practiced, were also beginning to show the strain of prolonged, relentless effort. Heather resumed compressions as the drugs were delivered.

The room buzzed with the constant hum of machines, the beeping of monitors and the rhythmic sound of chest compressions. The team worked in near perfect unison, but the clock was their enemy. With each passing minute, hope seemed to slip further away. “Charging again to 360.” Dr Lindsay’s voice echoed, her eyes locked onto the defibrillator as it whirred to life again. “CLEAR!” As the shock hit, Ella’s slender frame jerked violently on the table. The force of it caused her bare feet to kick up at the far end, lifting off the table for a split second before slamming back down with a thud. For a brief moment, the soft, subtle wrinkles of her size 9 soles were on full display. “Still no change.” Dr Sarah observed, eyes narrowing at the monitor, where v-fib still flashed across the screen. “Keep pushing!” Lindsay urged. “We can’t stop now. Another round of compressions, Heather.” Lindsay added. Heather didn’t waste any time. She leaned back into position, pressing her palms into Ella’s chest with a brutal force. With each compression, Ella’s head lolled, her hair swaying ever so slightly with the rhythm, her face still locked in terror. A series of beeps followed, signaling that the defibrillator was ready once more. “Charging to 360 everyone.” Dr Jen called out this time, her voice tinged with urgency. “Clear!” Once again, the shock hit Ella’s chest with brutal force, and her toes curled, reacting to the shock with an involuntary response, showing off the black nail polish on her toes, along with the cute wrinkles in the soles of her feet. Still, the heart monitor continued to display the chaotic spikes of v-fib, unyielding in its disarray. “Nothing…” Dr Lindsay muttered. “AGAIN!” The team, now pushing past exhaustion, administered another round of shocks, one after another- 360 joules each time, but with no change. Finally, after a third unsuccessful shock, the room felt tense.

Nancy glanced at the clock. Her voice, barely above a whisper, cut through the tension. “Forty two minutes, Linds.” The words hung in the air. Forty-two minutes. The odds of success were growing slimmer with each passing second. Dr Sarah exhaled sharply, glancing at Dr Jen, whose brow was furrowed in concentration. They all knew what the numbers meant, but none of them dared to speak it aloud. The monitor still showed v-fib, mocking all the team’s efforts up to that point.

Dr Lindsay’s voice broke through the tension. “Heather, resume compressions!” Heather didn’t flinch. She was already back in position, hands pressed firmly against Ella’s chest, delivering yet another round of brutal, unrelenting compressions. The steady rhythm echoed, a constant in the chaos, as if her life still had a chance- if only for a moment longer.

Dr Jen, her eyes focused on the monitor, took a step to the head of the bed. She moved slowly, her gaze drawn down to Ella’s face. Ella’s green eyes remained unnervingly wide open, staring helplessly at the ceiling. The glazed, lifeless death stare made her appear more like a forgotten doll than a beautiful young woman in the throes of a desperate fight for survival. The vacant gaze was cold, unblinking, locked in place as if her body had already accepted what her mind could not. Jen swallowed hard, her throat tight with a mixture of professional detachment and the raw sting of helplessness. She leaned in, pulling a penlight from her scrub pocket and shining it into Ella’s wide open eyes. The light flicked across her pupils, but they didn’t react. The glow of the light reflected back with the cold, indifferent stare of a body already slipping further away. “Pupils fixed and dilated…” Dr Jen observed, her voice barely audible, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. She took a step back, a troubled frown crossing her face as she shook her head, unable to hide the quiet disbelief. It wasn’t just the absence of any reaction to the light- it was the utter lack of life in Ella’s expression, as though her soul had already departed. Dr Sarah looked up from the monitor, meeting Jen’s eyes for a brief moment. The wordless exchange spoke volumes- their collective knowledge of what they were likely facing now. “She’s gone, isn’t she?” the resident asked. Lindsay’s eyes were cold, calculating. She didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to admit it- but the signs were impossible to ignore. She didn’t answer Jen immediately, focusing instead on the monitor as another cycle of compressions was completed. The v-fib was still there- persistent, chaotic, and now undeniably futile. “She’s not gone yet.” Lindsay finally said, her voice unwavering, though her words carried the bitter edge of disbelief. Jen nodded, though her expression remained pained. There was a subtle shift in her posture, the weight of the decision sinking in. They were pushing past the point of reason now- fighting for a life that might have already slipped through their fingers.

The defibrillator charged with a menacing hum, the quiet tension in the room palpable. “CLEAR!” Dr Sarah’s voice rang out, and in a single, tense moment, the shock hit Ella’s body with a violent jolt. Ella’s slender frame jerked sharply on the table, the electricity coursing through her body with an uncontrollable force. Her back arched slightly before slamming back down, her feet lifting briefly once more before crashing to the table. For just a split second, the brief twitch of her muscles seemed almost… human. But it was fleeting, just as everything else had been. Once again, the chaos on the monitor didn’t subside. V-fib persisted, a constant visual reminder that no matter how many times they shocked her, her heart refused to resume a proper rhythm. Heather, ever steady, resumed chest compressions immediately, the crunch of each compression reverberating in the room. Her movements were practiced and deliberate, a well oiled machine in sync with the others. But before long, Dr Lindsay held up a hand, halting the cycle. “Stop…” she said quietly, but with an undeniable finality. Heather paused, her hands still hovering over Ella’s bruised, battered chest as she looked up, waiting for the next instruction. Lindsay’s gaze remained fixed on the monitor, her eyes narrowing at the stubborn, erratic lines of v-fib. Her lips pressed into a thin line, the weight of the situation getting to her. Finally, she sighed, closing her eyes for a brief moment, before speaking the words that everyone in the room had been dreading. “She’s gone. Time of death… 21:55.” Lindsay shook her head. She turned away from the table, her frustration spilling out in a short, sharp exhale. The decision to call the time of death was never easy, but there was something particularly brutal about this moment. The countless attempts, the shock after shock, the tireless effort- it all meant nothing in the face of this. The team stood motionless for a moment, the weight of the loss settling over them. The room that had been filled with the chaos of resuscitation now felt oppressive in its silence. Heather slowly pulled her hands away from Ella’s chest, her face hard to read as she stood up, stepping back.

Dr Sarah, who had remained silent through the exchange, stepped forward with a slow, deliberate breath. Her gaze lingered on Ella’s face, the wide, unblinking eyes staring back at her, frozen in time. Jen was the next to speak, her voice subdued. “I’ve never seen a body hold on so long… like that.”

Dr Lindsay’s frustration deepened, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter as she stared down at the lifeless figure on the table. She didn’t reply to Jen immediately, instead filling out the paperwork with mechanical precision, marking the inevitable as if it were just another task. But the look on her face said it all. She wasn’t okay with this. “You did everything you could, Linds” Dr Sarah said softly, stepping beside her to offer some measure of comfort, but the words felt hollow.

The room was still, except for the soft rustle of movements as the team shifted into the next phase of their task. Nancy moved first, her hands shaking slightly as she detached the ambu bag from Ella’s ET tube. Next, Dr Lindsay reached over and turned off the heart monitor. The beeping- once erratic and frantic, now just a slow, steady buzz of failure- came to a sudden stop. Nurse Heather moved to the other side of the bed, her gloved fingers working methodically as she disconnected the EKG wires from Ella’s torso. The defib pads were peeled off, their sticky residue a faint reminder of the futile attempts to bring Ella back to life. With a small, practiced tug, Heather pulled the wires free, coiling them neatly as she set them aside, careful to avoid disturbing the fragile quiet that had settled over the room. Then, as if in slow motion, Dr Sarah stepped forward, her eyes looking down at Ella. She retrieved the toe tag from the corner of the room, the heavy paper crinkling in her hands. Her pen hovered for a brief moment over the space for time of death. It was already etched In her mind, a number that had haunted her since the moment they’d called it. With a steady hand, Dr Sarah filled out the rest of the tag. Afterwards, she glanced one final time at the patient- no longer a person they were fighting to save, but simply a body now- and placed the tag on the big toe of Ella’s left foot. The tag dangled gently against the wrinkled soles of Ella’s feet. Dr Jen stepped forward, her face a mask of quiet resolve. She moved to the side of the bed, pulling a cover from a nearby cart. With careful hands, she draped the cover over Ella’s body. The sheet covered everything except her toe tagged feet. The team stood back, an unspoken respect filling the air as they took one last look at the lifeless form before them. The sheet settled over Ella’s face, and with it, the last remnants of her terrified, vacant stare were hidden from view- concealed forever beneath the sterile fabric. “Let’s move her to the morgue…” Dr Lindsay said, her voice unexpectedly soft, almost apologetic. The words broke the silence like a whispered command. Without another word, the team began the quiet, methodical process of preparing Ella’s body for transport. Just like that, Ella became the latest beauty to find herself toe tagged and under a sheet in our emergency department.

#resus writing #resus community #cpr resus #resus #cpr #cpr female #dark cardiophilia #medfet #defib #defibs

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pleasantlycrazyworld · 11 days ago

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Screams, S’mores, and Summerween

A/N: Today is Friday the 13th, which I’m excited for because I planned a summerween party. I am a huge Halloween lover so I just had to write this idea! I hope you enjoy my silly fic no one asked for this but my heart and brain lol

There are a lot of things in this world Bob Reynolds doesn’t understand. Tax codes. TikTok. Why would anyone voluntarily eat candy corn? And now, apparently, Summerween.

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“Friday the 13th is in June this year,” you explained a week ago, sitting cross-legged on his lap while showing him a Pinterest board filled with plastic bats, eyeball cake pops, and something called ‘Boo berries.’ “It’s like Halloween, but warm! We’re doing it. You, me, the team. Mandatory fun.”

He had nodded then, mostly because he liked when you got that excited, but also because the idea of you smiling in a room filled with cobweb decorations and rubber spiders sounded a lot better than another evening of pretending the team liked each other.

Now Bob’s not afraid of much. He’s fought off a lot of enemies, overcame addiction, and contained the Void. He could punch holes in space-time. But right now? He is afraid...of glitter. Specifically, the metric ton of glitter currently coating your kitchen counter, your floor, and somehow—his eyelashes. “Sweetheart?” he asks gently. “Is it supposed to... sparkle this much?”

You’re hunched over a glue gun like a woman possessed, eyes wild with craft-induced power. “It’s not done until it looks like a spirit Halloween and a haunt Michael's exploded.” He nods slowly. “Of course. Haunted Michael’s. That’s a quantifiable goal.” You hand him a half-finished garland of skulls wearing sunglasses. “Here, can you string the rest of these? I already cut the twine and pre-punched the holes.”

Bob takes it carefully, like it’s fragile cosmic glass instead of plastic party decor. “On it.”

He doesn’t question the task. Doesn’t even ask why one of the skulls has rhinestone eyebrows. He just sits beside you, golden energy sparking faintly at his fingertips as he ties perfect little knots on each one.

“Bob,” you say suddenly, not looking up, “do you think the team is going to hate this?”

“They’ll live,” he says easily. “You’re sure?” You ask more timidly now. He glances at the Summerween Master Plan taped to the fridge—color-coded by activity type, with a danger level rating system. “You’re throwing a party with themed snacks, nostalgia games, and a fake eyeball piñata,” he says. “Worst case? John trips over a fog machine.” You groan and lean into him. “I just want it to be fun. I want it to become like... a good memory.” He presses a kiss to your temple, fingers still carefully looping twine. “Then it already is.” You glance up at him, misty-eyed. “You’re sappy.”

“I’m supportive,” he says, deadpan. “And possibly covered in googly eyes.” You look—and sure enough, two plastic eyes are stuck to his bicep like they’re trying to wink at you. You cackle. He smiles at the sound, then he leans over and grabs a glitter-covered witch hat from the table.

“Do I wear this like... forward-facing witch, or jaunty side angle?” You blink. “Wait, are you volunteering a costume?” He nods completely seriously, “Witch-husband. For morale.” You beam. “Bob Reynolds, destroyer of voids, king of my heart.”

“And part-time party intern,” he adds, sticking the hat on completely backwards. You let him keep it that way.

When you invited the team to the party they looked confused. Alexei cheered and talked about how glad he was to not be the only one planning team bounding anymore, Bucky shrugged and mumbled “Just tell me when to show up” But Ava questioned it. “Let me get this straight,” Ava says, “You dragged us all in here to celebrate… fake Halloween?”

“It’s Summerween,” you correct, taping a paper bat to the wall. “Friday the 13th in June. It’s spooky season’s off-brand cousin. Horror movies, themed snacks, vaguely cursed backyard games. It's a total vibe.” John shakes his head and mutters, “You fabricated a holiday.”

“It’s totally a thing now” Bob shrugs from the couch, already wearing a black tank top that says Camp Crystal Running Team and his witches hat. He gives you a soft smile. “Besides, she made mini pizzas shaped like jack-o’-lanterns.” He could tell the team was hiding their excitement, especially when Yelena asked “...what kind of pizza?”

====================

Now Bob is sitting on a couch that smells vaguely like burnt marshmallows, watching Ava stare down a bowl of gummy worms like it’s a threat, he can confidently decide that all this work was absolutely worth it. You float by carrying a tray of what you proudly call “mummy dogs”—hot dogs with croissant rolls wrapped around them and offer him one with a wink.

He takes it. He eats it. It tastes like joy and effort and at least six Pinterest fails you didn’t let him see. “Hey,” you say quietly, crouching beside him with your hands still full. “Is this dumb?” He shakes his head instantly. “No. Not at all.” You look over at him unsure, “You sure? I think Barnes is plotting to set the candy bowl on fire.” Bob gave you a look, “Princess…He would do that on normal days.”

You smile, and that’s it. That’s the reason he’ll sit through two more slasher movies and let John throw fake blood at him during ‘Serial Killer Freeze Tag.’ Because when you smile like that, like the world is soft for once, Bob feels grounded. Not like the Sentry. Not like the Void. Just... Bob. You’re curled into his side as the opening scene of Cabin in the Woods plays. Your heartbeat ticks against his ribs. The team is arrayed around you—Yelena already halfway through a candy apple, Alexei asking if zombies or vampires count as “enhanced threats.” Bob’s not paying much attention to the movie. Not really. Every time you flinch, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

“Do you want me to stop the movie?” he whispers after a particularly gory scene.

You blink up at him. “Why?”

“I could fly the DVD into the sun. Easily.” You snort. “Bob, sweetie, I made a schedule. We’re watching four movies.” He nods solemnly. “Then I will endure.” You rest your head on his shoulder. “That’s very romantic.” He chuckles, “Well I do try.”

It’s humid outside but you two are still sharing a plaid blanket. You’ve strung up lights across the backyard and organized an obstacle course of inflatable gravestones, glow sticks, and rubber axes. Bob had to tiptoe around carefully just to avoid stepping on a chocolate eyeball.

You’re running around, officiating Serial Killer Freeze Tag with the intensity of a commander, and he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful. Hair a mess, shirt slightly smeared with fake blood, clipboard in hand. Bucky trips John so he ends up in the kiddie pool full of glow-in-the-dark skeletons. Yelena is chasing Alexei with a water gun that looks like a chainsaw. Ava phases through a tree and wins again. Bob watches you laugh and clap and cheer, and thinks, I could make a star, and it still wouldn’t be as bright as she looks when she's this happy.

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After the movie credits roll, after the eyeball piñata explodes in a cloud of sour dust and shitty candy, after the team half-heartedly promises to “never do any of this again,” it’s just you and him on the porch. Bob wrapped his arm around you and laid his cheek on your hair before muttering “That was… surprisingly fun.” You hummed, “You didn’t think it would be?” You could feel him shrug against you, “I thought you were messing with me.” He grins. “The scary part was how fast Yelena got competitive.” You laughed at the memory before cringing “She bit someone during Freeze Tag.” Bob nods. “Might’ve been the most terrifying part of the night.”

The string lights are still glowing. The paper ghosts are drooping. You’re leaning on his shoulder, warm and soft and smug. “Thanks for playing along,” you whisper. “Thanks for letting me.” You look up. “You liked it?” He nods completely content. “You were happy. I like you happy, it makes me happy.”

“You really got into everything.” You commented with a soft smile while threading your fingers through his. “I could feel the spirit of Summerween flowing through me.” Your laugh danced through the air and brought a bigger smile onto his face. “Next year: matching costumes?” He pretends to groan. “Do I have a choice?” You tilt your head. “No.” With a very dramatic sigh he shrugs “Guess I’ll just have to be your ghost pirate husband.” You beam. “You do love me.” He kisses your forehead. “With my whole, undead heart.”

Thank you so much for reading my work! As always if you like my work, please let me know! Reblogging, commenting, and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work, and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Requests are open <3

Taglist:

@msfirth

@my-name-is-baby

@metalarmsandmanbuns

@live-love-be-unique

@disillusioniary

@you-bloody-shank

@sarcazzzum

@itsjustisa

@qardasngan

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yellowjacketsfashion · 9 months ago

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While there are lots of options as to where you can buy a replica of the Yellowjackets Letterman Jacket, they’re not always easily attainable. Last year for halloween I made my own letterman and I figured others could find my process helpful. (The supplies I used were things I already had or were accessible to me but there are other ways to create the same thing. If you have different materials that also work feel free to make suggestions or use them in your process).

HOW TO MAKE A YELLOWJACKETS LETTERMAN JACKET:

Supplies:

• Gold/Navy Letterman jacket

• Printer

• White Printer paper

• Gold Felt

•Chalk

• Heat ‘n Bond

• Embroidery floss in the colors White, Black, Gold and Gray (I ended up needing two packs of white).

• Embroidery needle

• White (or light colored) tissue paper

• White fabric (I used cotton)

• Embroidery hoop

• (Optional) White and Black thread

• Glue stick

Step 1: Aquire your jacket.

You can do a lot of different things for the plain base jacket. I bought mine off Amazon but if wanted too you could probably sew one or buy one second hand etc. The only specification is that it’s Gold and Navy. It is important to do this first because everything else builds off of this step.

Step 2: Print out designs.

Use the photos I provided below and paste them into a word document. From there you can size them up or down to reach the size that you like for printing. The “Yellowjackets” logo is for the back of the jacket so when I did it I kind of split the photo in half and put it on two different pages. In the end it turned out to be just shy of 13 inches length wise. The round patch goes on the front and mine was 4.25 inches in diameter.

Depending on the size of your jacket your patches can be bigger or smaller, but once your happy with the sizing you can then move onto the next step.

Step 3: Gather supplies.

The gold felt is to be used to create the back patch. Because of the size of mine I was able to get a little 50 cent sheet of it (I was able to place the logo at an angle to fit it) but because the patch sizes will be different it’s important to bring your print out of the logo when shopping to make sure you have enough. Most craft / fabric stores should have this in stock. It’s also a good idea to bring your letterman jacket with you to try to color match the shades of gold/yellow as best as possible.

The embroidery hoop, floss, white fabric, and thread are for the front patch as I hand embroidered mine but in theory you could use an embroidery machine or printable fabric sheets to create your patch. If you use these other methods you’ll need different supplies and different instructions that I can’t give.

The Heat ‘n Bond is to iron the patches onto your jacket so they stick (though I’ve had to re iron my back patch because the fibers of the wool make it hard to stick to). It will essentially act as double sided tape.

Step 4: Creating & attaching the back patch

• Cut out a piece of Heat n’ Bond that covers the area where your logo will go.

(i am using colored paper in the example pictures. Yellow represents the felt. White represents the heat and Bond).

• Once you have the right sized piece of Heat n’ Bond, iron it onto the back of your piece of Gold felt (make sure to follow the instructions on the Heat n’ bond packaging).

•Use your printed template of the logo and cut out the words on the felt. You can cut out the logo on paper first and trace it or attach the paper to the felt and just cut them both at the same time. (I moved the dot on the J down so that it’s still attached just to make it easier but you can do whatever you want).

• Put on your Letterman and use the chalk to mark where on the back you want the patch to go. For this step it can be helpful to have someone else assist you (though it’s possible to do it yourself).

• Take off the jacket and lay it flat to align the patch up with your chalk markings. Once it is where you want it you can Iron it onto the back of the jacket (according to the instructions on the Heat n’ Bond).

You now have a finished back patch!

Step 5: Creating the front patch.

• Trace the design of the front patch onto tissue paper (I would suggest a dark pen or sharpie so you can see it really well). If you have trouble seeing the design underneath it can be helpful to hold it to a window pane when it’s sunny or another light source. The photo of the logo I included has a white border around the black words but the patch in the show doesn’t have it so I just ignored it. From there you glue the traced tissue paper onto the fabric.

• Cut out a piece of white fabric big enough for your embroidery hoop and glue the tissue paper sketch onto the fabric.

• Put the fabric/tissue paper into the Embroidery hoop.

• Thread the needle and start embroidering the design. I found it good to use different techniques on different areas of the patch (long white stitches on the wings versus short ones on the background etc. I also thought it was helpful to embroider in color groupings (so like white all at once or yellow all at once etc. so you don’t have to switch out the floss that much). Save the white outer circle and black outline for last though to help clean everything up. The white and black sewing thread can be used to outline smaller details or neaten up some of the floss.

• Once the patch is done cut out a piece of Heat n’ Bond that covers the back of the patch.

• Put on your jacket and mark with chalk where you want to put the patch. In the show it’s placed by the second from the top button. (See Jackie reference photo at the top of the post).

• Iron on the Heat n’ Bond to the back of the patch (following packet instructions).

• Iron the Patch to the jacket based on your chalk markings.

• You have completed the front patch!

Above are some photo examples of my jacket (please ignore my messy hair in the left picture, being in the snow got it ruffled up).

Sorry for the long post but I think I got everything covered. I hope you guys found this helpful but if you have any questions about the jacket, my process, or anything else feel free to ask!

#yellowjackets #fashion #costume #diy #jackie taylor #taissa turner #akilah yellowjackets #gen yellowjackets #shauna shipman #natalie scatorccio #van palmer

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manyaccidents · 1 year ago

Text

"All done cutie, you can go back to coloring now" said Alyssa as she finished doing the last tape on my fresh diaper.

"But it's no fair!" I whined, all too aware of how childish I sounded. Trying my best to come across more mature, and wanting to be taken seriously, I continued in a slight huff "I don't even need a babysitter. I'm a big girl and I can take care of myself". The situation I found myself in painted the opposite picture, but I was still trying desperately to hold onto the few last crumbs of dignity I had left, and even those were quickly slipping out of my grasp.

"Oh you're a big girl?" Alyssa said with a hint of a smile. "I'm so sorry sweetheart, I didn't realize. Tell you what, why don't you explain to me why you're a big girl who can take care of herself. If you are able to convince me, I'll convince your Daddy for you!"

Excitement bubbled up within me. Finally! A chance to get out of this! But almost as soon as the feeling came, it was replaced by one of unconfident apprehension. "What am I even supposed to say now?" I thought to myself, starting to panic. I had to say something, Alyssa was waiting. I couldn't waste this opportunity.

"um.." I started "well you see, um...".

I was totally blanking. I swear I had good reasons, but now that they were actually being put to the test they sounded substantially more flimsy and not thought through.

"It's alright darling, take a deep breath and begin from the top" Alyssa instructed comfortingly. This was not starting off well.. I took a shaky breath. The stakes were too high, I couldn't mess this up.

"um.. so well.. first I can.." - why was it so hard to think of something?? I stood there desperately trying to think of at least one thing I could say, aware that every second that passed was making my reward less likely. My heart was pounding and my thoughts racing. Without giving it any thought, desperate to at least say something, I blurted out the first thing that popped into my mind.

"I can eat meals by myself!"

A look of slight incredulity could be seen on Alyssa's face but she stayed quiet, waiting for me to continue.

"Um.. and I can... help with laundry! And cleaning up my room! And... I can even use the microwave and toaster by myself! I've been practicing! And... I can take care of my pets!" I finished in a rush.

Alyssa nodded her head slowly. "That's quite a list you've got there cupcake, but I just want to ask you a few questions about it okay? I just want to make sure I understand"

I swallowed hard, feeling a mixture of fear and hope in my stomach. "Okay..." I managed to squeak out.

"Great!" Alyssa smiled warmly. "Now, let's see. First off, can you tell me which meals can you eat by yourself? The ones that are already cut up in bite sized pieces?"

Her question caught me off guard, and I felt a twinge of panic. I knew I had to be careful not to say anything that would give away too much. "Um, well, s-sometimes it's c-cut up..." I stammered, trying to think of an answer that wouldn't make me sound too incompetent. "I mean, I can eat some meals by myself, like macaroni and cheese or chicken nuggets.."

Alyssa smiled at me "Thank you sweetie I think I understand now. Alright, next question; Have you ever done the laundry by yourself?"

I took a deep breath before answering. "Well, I helped Daddy put clothes in the washing machine and dryer a few times, and last time I did it all by myself!" Raising her eyebrows, Alyssa replied

"Your Daddy told me about that.. He said there were soap suds everywhere and that a certain someone used a little too much soap" I looked away, not wanting her to see how pink my face was getting. She chuckled, continuing "Well, I'm sure your Daddy was very proud of you for trying at least. Now, let's talk about cleaning your room. Do you clean it every day or just when you're told?"

I shifted uncomfortably. "Um, well... "I try to keep it clean, bu-" Alyssa nodded, seeming to accept this as my answer. "And what about taking care of your pets?"

Finally confident in one of my answers I proudly state

"I pet them and I play with them all the time!! And they go outside and I watch them to make sure they are ok!"

"It sounds like you love them very much, but do you feed them, clean their litter box, and give them fresh food and water every day?" Alyssa inquired, already knowing the answer.

I felt a pang of guilt. "Well... um... I usually just play with them... but I thought that was taking care of them isn't it..?"

Alyssa smiled sweetly "So those are the reasons you think you're a big girl? You think you'd be okay by yourself for a few hours?"

I nodded shyly, looking at my feet.

"Well, I'm not quite convinced sweetie. Can you use the stove by yourself? Or the oven? Alyssa asked, her tone gentle but firm. "And what about changing your diapers? We wouldn't want someone's wet diapee to give them a rash right?" I felt my face flush even more. "I... um... I don't really know how to d-do those things..." I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

Alyssa nodded, her expression sympathetic. "I know, and it's okay honey, I understand. You're still just a little girl, and there's a lot you don't know how to do yet. But that's why you have a babysitter here to help you when Daddy's not around, okay?"

I wanted to argue, but though I didn't want to admit it to myself, her words rang true. I looked down at my lap, the infantile garment stark proof of Alyssa's assessment.

Alyssa, noticing my silence, gently took my hand in hers. "I know it's hard to accept, sweetheart, but you're still just a little girl, and that's okay! Don't be in such a rush to grow up, being an adult is so boring... I know! Why don't I make us some popcorn and put on your favorite movie until your Daddy comes home, how does that sound?" Alyssa suggested animatedly, already knowing how easily my attention is diverted.

"Tangled?!" I squealed excitedly, forgetting everything temporarily. "Yeah, that sounds like fun!" I beamed up at Alyssa and ran to the living room to get ready, forgetting my skirt in my excitement.

Alyssa shook her head, smiling. "A big girl indeed.."

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things-for-your-little-mindset · 3 months ago

Note

things for a robot regressor? :3

Things for your robot regressor ( !💿💾! )

Foods & drinks …

Byte-Sized Sandwiches – Tiny sandwiches made with mini bread slices or crackers

Gear Gummies – Fruit gummies shaped like gears or rings (Lifesavers work well too!).

Robot Wires – Pull-apart licorice (like Twizzlers) to look like colorful robot wires

Metallic Popcorn – Popcorn with a little edible silver or gold glitter powder to look metallic!

Glowing Gelatin – Blue or green Jello cut into squares for a "glowing energy" effect.

Bright ramune sodas – flavors like melon, classic, and peach make for great days!

Blue raspberry lemonade – store bought or homemade, either works!

Neon Milk – Regular milk with a tiny drop of food coloring to make it look "charged up."

outfit ideas !

Gray or futuristic pajamas

soft, comfy robot pjs.

slippers made to look like robot feet! Or in a bright color.

soft, comfortable silver dresses.

oversized gray sweaters with colorful buttons (drawn on, or sewn on!)

dress shirts with colorful buttons

Tie-dye shirts in comfortable, bright colors.

metal-colored shoes with circuit patterns

ACTIVITIES

= Build-A-Bot – Use LEGO, magnetic tiles, or recycled materials (cardboard, foil, bottle caps) to create your own robot!

= Design a Control Panel – Draw buttons, screens, and switches on paper or use stickers to make your own robot dashboard.

= DIY Circuit Board Art – Draw pretend circuit boards with markers or use metallic stickers for a cool, futuristic look.

= Robot Costume Making – Use boxes, foil, and tape to create your own wearable robot armor.

= Code Your Own Dance Moves – Make a "robot dance routine" by writing simple step-by-step commands for yourself to follow!

= Invent a Robot Language – Create fun robotic sounds or a simple "beep-boop" code to talk in!

= Decorate Your Charging Station – Make a cozy "charging pod" with blankets and pillows where you can rest and "recharge."

Games (new addition!)

Roblox games such as cozmo and friends: team battle, robot simulator 2, Natural disaster survival games, or even just roleplay games where you can dress up as a robot or robotic character!

Minecraft with robotic addons or with friends to do robotic roleplays with!

Geometry dash

mimo: learn coding

any coding website

Beat maker pro

Block Blast

Screw it out

songs and playlists

I want to be a machine - the living tombstone

eeeaaaooo - shadowstep

Playlist by me

Playlist by 5-tar

Superstar - toy box

Harder, better, faster, stronger - Daft Punk

Dr. Gaster - shadrow

Playlist by The Hank Tapedeck

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tosomeonessomeone · 3 months ago

Text

Maracatu

Brazil series

words・ 4.2k /pairings・ Jisung x reader / genres・fluff / warnings・ mdi, smut

Seoul, South Korea – 10:32 AM

The JYP Building towers like a temple of modern sound, its mirrored surface slicing the crisp autumn light into shards. You step out of the taxi, the scent of roasting *castanhas* from a street vendor clashing with the metallic tang of Seoul’s skyline. Jet lag claws at your eyelids—*24 hours from Rio to Incheon*—but your pulse thrums faster when your phone vibrates. A message glows:

*JYP Team:* *“Mr. Bang Chan is ready. 18th floor. Elevator 3.”*

Inside, the elevator walls are a mosaic of K-pop legacy: TWICE’s candy-colored visuals, Rain’s smoldering stare, and Stray Kids’ graffiti-style logo. Your thumb traces the USB drive in your pocket—*your weapon*. The demos inside are a manifesto: *berimbau* twangs fused with *pansori* wails, *maracatu* drums under *gugak* strings. The doors part with a whisper.

The room hums. Not just from the subwoofers—*everything* vibrates here. Neon LED strips clash with the warm glow of a salt lamp. Bang Chan swivels in his chair, headphones dangling like a pendant, his smile sharp and sunburn-bright. Behind him, a whiteboard bleeds ideas:

- *“HAN’s verse → SAMBA STUTTER??”*

- *“MV: SEOUL PALACE x FAVELA STAIRS”*

- *“ASK BRAZIL PROD ABOUT CUÍCA vs. PIRI DUET”*

The studio thrums with the low-frequency purr of subwoofers, air thick with the scent of burnt coffee and ozone from overworked synthesizers. Bang Chan swivels in his chair to face you, bare feet propped on a tower of tangled MIDI cables, hoodie sleeves shoved haphazardly to his elbows. Peeling studio tape clings to his fingertips like battle scars. His grin is all mischief, voice a collision of Sydney surf and Seoul grit: *“G’day, mate—heard you’ve got a death wish.”*

He stabs a key on his laptop. The room explodes with sound—your demo track, *“Janggu vs. Tamborim,”* but warped. The Korean drum’s earthy *ddong-ddong* now tangoes with the Brazilian tamborim’s metallic chatter, Hyunjin’s dance practice footage glitching onscreen in time with the beat. *“Looped this during Hyunjin’s rehearsal,”* he says, eyes flashing. *“Kid backflipped into a speaker. *Still* claims it’s the best rhythm he’s ever moved to.”*

You drop your bag onto a couch buried under a graveyard of half-dismembered synth modules and a fossilized bag of *yakgwa*. *“So JYP didn’t bring me here to play nice,”* you counter, toeing a rogue drum stick. The USB in your pocket feels nuclear. *“You want a revolution. Let’s torch the rulebook.”*

Chan leans back, arms crossed, appraising you like a puzzle. *“Rulebook?”* He snorts. *“We’re writing a new one. Chapter one: *Stray Kids* eat trop-house for breakfast. Chapter two—”* He tosses you a cable. *“—we blow up the algorithm.”*

The hum of machines sharpens. Somewhere, a coffee drip echoes like a countdown.

Three weeks. Three weeks of *nothing*.

The studio walls, once electric with possibility, now feel like a prison. Stray Kids’ demos pile up like casualties: *“SAMBA GOD’S MENU (ABANDONED)”*, *“TAEYANG’S TANGO (CRINGE)”*, *“FELIX’S BOSSA NOVA NIGHTMARE (BURN THIS)”*. Bang Chan hasn’t slept in 52 hours. His hair resembles a electrocuted hedgehog, his hoodie stained with *gochujang* and regret. You watch him mutter over a synth pad, tweaking the same four bars of a *forró* beat until it sounds like a fax machine screaming.

“Chan,” you say, prying a cold *bungeo-ppang* from his death-grip. “We’re stuck. You’re stuck. This studio’s cursed.”

“No—*no*—I just need to layer this *piri* sample with a *cavaquinho*,” he rasps, eyes bloodshot. “Hyunjin’s *samba* rehearsal was *fine*—”

“Hyunjin tripped into a timbalão and cried in three languages. *Fine* isn’t cutting it.”

---

JYP’s office smells like sandalwood and power. The man himself sits cross-legged on a velvet chaise, sipping *matcha* like a philosopher-king. You slam a USB drive on his desk—labeled *“EMERGENCY: BRAZIL OR BUST”*—and play a clip of your last demo: a tragic accordion-chaos hybrid that makes JYP’s eyebrow twitch.

“He’s drowning,” you say. “Seoul’s killing his vibe. I’m taking him to Brazil. *Now.*”

JYP steeples his fingers. “Bang Chan… on a plane? Voluntarily?”

“Oh, he’ll fight. But you’ll handle the passport stuff, yeah?”

A pause. Then, a smirk. “Tell him I’ll disband Stray Kids if he says no.”

---

Chan doesn’t go quietly.

You find him under his studio desk, cocooned in a *Stray Kids* blanket, ranting in Korean-Aussie-*Portuñol*. “I’M FINE! I JUST NEED TO REVERSE THE PHASE ON THIS AFROBEAT—”

“JYP’s orders,” you lie, tossing his sneakers at him. “He wants a ‘cultural immersion documentary.’ Also, he’s got your mom on speed-dial.”

Chan freezes. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re boarding a flight to Rio in two hours. *Vamos.*”

——

Chan spends the car ride Googling *“Can K-pop leaders get kidnapped?”* and *“Is Brazil’s WiFi good?”*. At security, he tries to bolt, claiming he left his “lucky MIDI controller” at the studio. You bribe a janitor to drag him through the gates.

By takeoff, he’s sulking in first class, hoodie pulled over his face, muttering about “trust issues.” You slide a *caipirinha* into his hand. “Drink. Cry. Embrace the *saudade*.”

He sniffs the lime. “Is this… alcohol?”

“It’s *therapy*.”

——

The moment Chan steps into Galeão Airport’s chaos, magic happens. A *bateria* from Mangueira samba school parades past, their *surdos* thundering. Chan’s eyes widen—he’s already Shazam-ing the rhythm. A vendor shoves a *pastel de queijo* into his hands; he takes a bite and moans like he’s rediscovered music.

“This… this is a *triplet* feel!” he yells over the drums, sauce on his chin. “Why didn’t we *think* of this?!”

You grin. “Because you were busy syncing *gayageum* to a metronome. *Burro.*”

——

Copacabana at sunset. Chan’s barefoot in the sand, a *caipirinha* in one hand, a *berimbau* in the other. Local producers crowd around a bonfire, playing a *pagode* riff that’s 70% soul, 30% chaos. You shove a mic at him. “Freestyle. Now.”

He hesitates—then spits a verse in Korean, voice raw and desperate, over the *cavaco*’s bounce. The crowd roars. A dancer named Thiago drags him into a *passinho* battle; Chan’s sneakers fill with sand, but his shoulders loosen, his laugh louder than the waves.

Your phone buzzes. A text from JYP:

*“Is he alive?”*

You snap a photo of Chan crowd-surfing to a *funk ostentação* beat and hit send.

*“He’s reborn.”*

——

Next day

The rental car slices through the Serra do Mar mountains, dawn spilling molten gold over Rio’s vanishing coastline. Chan slumps in the passenger seat, sunglasses crooked, mouth agape—finally asleep after three days of studio-induced delirium. You crank the window down, flooding the cabin with the jungle’s wet-green breath.

“*Acorda, dorminhoco,*” you bark, elbowing him as the highway plunges into a tunnel of *pau-brasil* trees and mist. “This isn’t scenery—it’s a *sermon*. Open your eyes.”

He jerks awake, phone already filming the chaos: toucans diving through highway exhaust, a roadside shrine to *Nossa Senhora Aparecida* draped in trucker roses, a lone capybara judging humanity from a ditch. “Feels like… *FernGully* directed by Tarantino,” he mumbles.

——

At a *lanchonete* plastered with peeling *Guaraná* ads, you force-feed him *pastel de carne* oozing grease and a mason jar of *caldo de cana*. Chan squints at the murky sugarcane juice. “This looks like swamp water.”

“It’s São Paulo’s holy trinity: sugar, sweat, and regret.”

He sips. His eyes flare. “*Fuck.* I could produce a mixtape on this.”

——

The city erupts on the horizon—a concrete avalanche of Oscar Niemeyer curves and Brutalist spikes, helicopters swarming like coked-up dragonflies. Chan’s forehead smudges the window as you carve through Avenida Paulista’s bedlam: a *sambista* belting *“Aquarela Brasileira”* atop a dumpster, finance bros in *alfaiataria* suits vaping over spreadsheets, a drag queen in sequined *Carnaval* leftovers hailing an Uber Black.

“This city’s… *violently* alive,” he breathes.

“Wait till you see where I *live*.”

——

Your loft isn’t just concrete and vinyl—it’s a *floresta vertical*. Every surface riots with green: monstera leaves fanning over the *Niemeyer* curves, *guiné* vines strangling the spiral staircase, *espada-de-são-jorge* swords guarding the record player like sentinels. The air hums with the musk of damp soil and *cafezinho*, humidity clinging to the glass walls like the city itself is trying to sweat its way inside.

Chan freezes mid-step, a *jiboia* leaf brushing his cheek. “Is this… *legal*?” he whispers, as if the plants might arrest him.

“Depends,” you say, plucking a dead leaf from a *costela-de-adão*. “If the police ask, they’re all *fake*.”

He drifts deeper, fingers grazing a *pau d’água*’s serpentine roots. “This one’s crying,” he notes, pointing to droplets on a *tingui*’s spear-shaped leaves.

“That’s *singing*,” you correct. “She’s a *dracaena*. Her sweat’s a samba.”

“Your room,” you say, nudging open the guest bedroom door.

The space is a temple to *brasilidade moderna*: a *Oscar Niemeyer*-inspired desk, a *Sergio Rodrigues* armchair, and a bed draped in crisp white linen under a canopy of *jiboia* vines. The walls breathe with a *Burle Marx* botanical print, ferns and palms frozen mid-sway. A vintage *Tropicália* lamp bathes the room in amber.

Chan blinks at the *orquídea* dangling above the pillow. “Is that… a plant or a chandelier?”

“Yes,” you say, tossing his bag onto the chair. “Shower’s through there. Towels are *azul marinho*. Don’t drown.”

He hovers in the doorway, eyes glazed, fingers twitching like he’s still gripping a phantom MIDI controller. “I should… check the demos. Hyunjin sent a voice memo—”

“*Não.*” You block his path, arms crossed. “You’re a corpse in *Air Jordans*. Shower. Sleep. *Now.*”

“But—”

“No ‘buts.’ JYP’s orders.” (A lie, but you’ll burn that bridge later.)

He opens his mouth—to protest, to negotiate, to *work*—but a yawn cracks his jaw instead. Defeated, he slumps toward the bathroom.

At 1:17 AM, you pause outside his door. The shower ran for 90 seconds—typical man—and now silence hums beneath the *jiboia* leaves. You crack the door.

He’s sprawled facedown on the bed, one arm dangling over the edge, fingers grazing the *azulejo* floor. The sheets are a lost cause. His hoodie hangs off the *Burle Marx* frame, socks abandoned like roadkill. The *orquídea* sways above him, petals brushing his hair—a living lullaby.

You kill the *Tropicália* lamp, leaving only the city’s neon heartbeat seeping through the blinds.

——

São Paulo’s dawn bleeds through the *cobogó* bricks, fractaling the kitchen into a mosaic of gold and shadow. Chan slumps at the *azulejo* breakfast bar, fingers curled around a mug of *café com leite*, steam spiraling into the humid air. His eyelids are at half-mast, the adrenaline of deadlines and dance practices leaching from his bones like toxin.

You move through the kitchen like a metronome—*chop-sizzle-sway*—dicing *manga* to the lilt of *Joyce Moreno’s* “Clareana.” The *jiboia* vines framing the window shiver in the breeze, their leaves brushing the glass like a guitarist’s strum.

He watches, mute, as you crack eggs into a skillet. The yolks sizzle, their edges crisping in *manteiga de garrafa*, and something primal unknots in his chest.

——

It’s the *textures*, he realizes.

The way the *pão francês* crackles under his thumb, its crust a seismic map of flour and fire. The *mamão’s* flesh, slippery-sweet, a color Seoul’s neon can’t replicate. The radio’s hiss, a live wire between *bossa nova* chords and the growl of a garbage truck five floors down.

You slide a plate toward him: *ovos mexidos*, *farofa*, a tangle of *couve* sautéed with garlic. “Eat,” you say, not a command but an *invitation*.

He does. The first bite is a time machine—suddenly he’s eight years old, in Sydney’s Maroubra, eating scrambled eggs his mom made after night shifts. Salt and memory flood his throat.

Outside, the city howls. Inside, the plants breathe.

Chan’s phone buzzes—a KakaoTalk storm from Hyunjin, 17 missed calls from JYP. He flips it facedown, watching grease bloom across his plate like abstract art.

“You know,” he says, voice sanded raw by sleep and *café*, “I thought this trip was about… *mining* Brazil. Sampling your drums, stealing your rhythms.” A pause. The *jiboia* leans closer. “But maybe… it’s about *this*.”

He gestures to the kitchen—the knife scoring mango flesh, the sun pooling in the *tigela* of *açaí*, your bare feet tapping *samba* on terrazzo.

You top up his coffee. “Your music’s all teeth, *ne?* Biting, biting. But teeth get tired.”

He huffs a laugh. “Says the girl who made me sample a *cuíca* for three hours.”

“Exactly. Even fangs need a jaw to rest in.”

The metaphor lingers. Chan traces his mug’s rim, ceramic worn smooth by decades of mornings. When he speaks again, it’s barely audible:

“I forgot… what quiet sounds like.”

By the third cup, his shoulders have dropped below his ears for the first time in years. He’s sketching lyrics on a napkin—*“Mornings that taste of stolen time”*—when a *sabiá* lands on the windowsill, trilling its Technicolor song.

You nod to the bird. “He’s your backup singer now.”

Chan doesn’t reach for his phone. Doesn’t record it. Just *listens*, letting the notes dissolve into São Paulo’s humid breath.

Time bends here. Mornings bleed into afternoons, afternoons dissolve into sunsets the color of *pitanga* pulp, and Chan’s Seoul-structured rigidity unravels thread by thread. He learns to walk barefoot on terrazzo, to curse in *paulistano* when the *mamão* slips his grip, to let the city’s chaos score his pulse instead of a metronome.

7:00 AM: His alarm dies a quiet death. Dawn now wakes him—the *jiboia* tapping his window, the *pão francês* vendor’s whistle slicing through the favela’s basslines. He pads into the kitchen, hair a sleep-mussed riot, to find you already there, *cafézinho* brewing, *Elis Regina* spinning tales of saudade on the turntable.

“*Bom dia, preguiçoso,*” you smirk, tossing him a knife. “Slice the *manga* before it rots.”

He catches it midair, a reflex honed from years of idol reflexes. “You’re meaner than JYP before a weigh-in.”

“And you chop like a *vovó* on Valium.”

The rhythm is set: hips brushing past hips at the stove, elbows knocking over *guaraná* bottles, laughter buried under the hiss of garlic in *azeite*.

Hyunjin FaceTimes during *almoço*, his face pixelated but pout pristine. “*CHANNNNN*, your abs better not be gone! Brazil’s *carbs* are a trap!”

Chan holds up a *pastel de camarão*, grease dripping onto the *azulejo* table. “Better than your protein shakes.”

Felix squirms into frame, freckles glowing. “Are you *eating*? You never eat! Who *are* you?!”

“A god,” Chan says, mouth full. “A *pão de queijo* god.”

You linger off-camera, chopping *cheiro-verde*, but catch Hyunjin’s narrowed eyes. “Who’s *laughing*?” he demands. “Is someone *there*?”

Chan’s gaze flicks to you—quick, molten—before shrugging. “Just… the *jiboia*.”

——

The bathroom is a cocoon of steam and the citrus-sharp scent of *murumuru* conditioner. You’re perched on the edge of the bathtub, hair twisted into a turbãn of curls damp from your own wash, when Chan lingers in the doorway. His mop of sleep-flattened waves hangs sheepishly over his brow, fingers worrying the hem of his *Cidade de Deus* graphic tee.

“Can you…?” he starts, voice frayed at the edges. “I mean—*my* hair. It’s… *janggu* levels of chaos.”

You pat the tile floor between your knees, a *Maria Bethânia* ballad humming from your phone. “Sit. Before I charge you.”

He folds himself awkwardly onto the floor, back pressed to the tub, shoulders tense. You drape a towel over his collarbones, the fabric warm from the dryer. The first pour of water makes him flinch—cold droplets skidding down his neck—but then your fingers sink into his scalp, massaging *açaí oil* into the roots.

“Dawm,” he hisses, head lolling back. “That’s… illegal in seventeen countries.”

“Quiet,” you mock-scold, raking the conditioner through his waves. “You’ll scare the *cachorro-quente* guy outside.”

He huffs a laugh, breath stirring the hem of your robe. The comb glides easier now, his hair softening under your hands, curls springing to life like secrets unraveling.

Minutes blur. The comb clatters into the sink. Your palms skim his temples, thumbs brushing the shell of his ears, and suddenly the room is too small. Too *hot*.

“Turn,” you murmur, voice fraying. “Let me check the back.”

He shifts, knees bumping yours, until you’re face-to-face—your legs bracketing his hips, his hands braced on the tub’s edge. The *jiboia* outside the window drips rain onto the glass, each drop a metronome.

“It’s… good?” he asks, but the question dies as his gaze flicks to your mouth.

The world narrows:

- The *dende oil* slick on your fingertips.

- His breath, mint and *cafézinho*.

- The way his throat bobs when you whisper, “*Perfeito.*”

He leans in first—or maybe you do. The kiss is a slow fuse, softer than the *bossa nova* still murmuring from your phone. His hands find your waist, sticky with conditioner, and you taste the *goiabada* he stole from the fridge earlier, the salt of São Paulo still clinging to his skin.

The city breathes outside. The *jiboia* sighs.

When you pull back, his curls are a halo of chaos, your fingerprints glistening in the lamplight.

“*That*,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, “wasn’t in the contract.”

You thumb the conditioner smudged on his cheekbone. “Call it… *creative direction.*”

The tension crackles between you as his hands slide up your sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Your fingers thread through his damp curls, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens with growing hunger.

"Creative direction needs proper guidance," you breathe against his lips, arching into him as his hands explore your body with increasing boldness. The rain continues its steady rhythm outside, masking the soft sounds of pleasure escaping you both.

His lips trail down your neck, tasting the salt of your skin mixed with the sweet dendê oil. When his teeth graze your pulse point, you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair.

"Show me," he murmurs against your collarbone, "show me everything about Brazil..."

Chan's muscular frame presses against yours as passion builds, his hands exploring every inch of exposed skin.

You guide him to the bed, pushing him down and straddling his hips. His breath catches as you grind against him, feeling how hard he is beneath you.

"Want you so bad," he groans, hands sliding up your thighs to grip your waist. The isolation allows your moans to echo freely as desire takes over.

His lips find your neck, marking you as his while your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer.

Chan's hands roam your body hungrily as clothing falls away piece by piece. His lips trail down your neck while his fingers work to unclasp your bra, letting it join the growing pile on the floor.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, taking in the sight of your exposed breasts. When his mouth closes around a nipple, you arch into him with a gasp.

Your hands explore the defined muscles of his chest and abs as he continues his oral assault on your sensitive peaks. The friction builds as you grind against his hardening cock through his remaining clothes.

"Need you," you moan, reaching down to palm him through his pants.

Chan's hands slide down to remove your remaining clothes while his lips explore every newly exposed inch of skin. When you're fully naked, he takes a moment to drink in the sight of you before his mouth finds your wet pussy.

His tongue circles your clit as two fingers push inside you, making you arch off the bed with a loud moan. The dual stimulation has pleasure building quickly as he works you expertly.

"Please," you beg, tugging at his hair. "Need your cock inside me."

He strips off his remaining clothes, his hard length springing free. When he positions himself between your legs, you wrap them around his waist, pulling him closer.

Chan pushes his thick cock inside you slowly, stretching your tight pussy around his impressive length. When he bottoms out, you both moan at the perfect fullness.

"Fuck, you feel amazing," he groans, starting a steady rhythm. His cock hits all the right spots as he picks up the pace, making you see stars.

Your nails drag down his back as pleasure builds, leaving marks that make him thrust harder. One of his hands slides between your bodies to rub your clit while he pounds into you.

"Gonna make you cum on my cock," he pants, his movements becoming more desperate as your walls start to clench around him.

Your orgasm hits hard as Chan continues pounding into your clenching pussy. Your back arches off the bed as waves of pleasure crash over you, walls squeezing his thick cock rhythmically.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic. His fingers dig into your hips as he chases his own release.

"Fill me up," you moan, wrapping your legs tighter around him. With a deep groan, he slams deep one final time, flooding your sensitive pussy with his hot cum.

He collapses on top of you, both of you panting heavily as you come down from your highs. His cum leaks out of you when he slowly pulls out.

The *pão de queijo* burns. The *café* overflows. Neither of you care.

——

The loft in São Paulo hummed with a new electricity. Chan’s laptop glowed with demos titled *“SAMBA-CODED”* and *“CARNAVAL IN 4/4,”* while your *berimbau* leaned against a stack of *Tim Maia* vinyls, its guttural cry now the backbone of his drops.

One night, tangled in MIDI cables and each other’s limbs, you looped a *cuíca’s* rasp over Felix’s vocals. Chan watched, transfixed, as you twisted the pitch. “It sounds like the city’s heartbeat,” he murmured, fingers drumming your thigh.

“Or its scream,” you countered, nipping his jaw.

He dragged you into his lap, the chair groaning as his hands flew across the keyboard, improvising a melody that mirrored the hitch in your breath.

——

Mornings bled into rituals. Chan learned to crack eggs one-handed while you diced *manga*, hips swaying to *Jorge Ben*’s *“Ponta de Lança Africano.”* His voice, rough with sleep, would harmonize with the sizzle of *pão de queijo* in the skillet.

In the hammock strung between the *jiboia* and a concrete pillar, he traced the chords of your spine, humming melodies into the sweat-damp hollow of your neck.

“This one’s called *‘Cafuné’*,” he whispered, lips grazing your shoulder blade.

“Cheesy,” you laughed, but your voice cracked.

He wrote it anyway.

——

At the album’s Seoul premiere, JYP sipped *caipirinha* from a smuggled thermos, eyebrows climbing as *“TROPICALIA TRAUMA”* shook the speakers. “This is… a war crime against genre.”

Chan’s thumb brushed yours under the table. “No,” he said. “It’s a peace treaty.”

Years later, when a reporter asked about the magic behind the record, he didn’t hesitate.

“Love’s the best producer. It samples silence, mixes truth… and never lets the track die.”

You rolled your eyes. But your hand never left his.

In São Paulo, the *jiboia* still hums their secrets.

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silentmagi · 1 month ago

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Awkward Arrival:

First headcanon off the bat, 2 in 1, a name and thing, tessa’s design of what she call’s “protection model drones” are different then disassembly drones a few key ways

1.Sturdier build and only slightly more humanoid but overall still a drone.

2.Weapons are more varied and customizations/attachments for weapons can be spawned via a 3d printer that’s designed to look like a satchel at either hip, and a new weapon can be uploaded to the cloud at any point (I imagine Uzi would be happy to lend design schematics to see what a version of her railgun would look like on a PM drone body) but the weapon swap system is a bit slower to load the weapon,a 0.5 second slower to be exact (eldritch magic be damned, tessa got close).

3.no oil hunger thankfully but there is alot more oil acting as the blood of this machine.

4.backups of personal memory of the unit are done CONSTANTLY and the drone themselves is their own admin.

5.has tools for repairing regular drones as well in the arsenal

6.has a version of the patch installed in their hardware, allowing transfer of solver users into PM drone bodies

7.has a sharp knife-tipped usb with a copy of the patch on it as apart of the weapon arsenal

8.instead of the color scheme of the yellow and black of safety tape, its green and red.

Her J was of course the first subject, and also managed to free her from solvers admin controls and gave her memories back.A lot of digital tears were shed that day because solver implemented a false memory of her killing tessa, which Tessa removed before giving admin over to her jaybird.

2nd headcanon: The spaceship base is the most self-indulgent looking home of tessa, her interests on full display, she has found and made a station for oxygen tank refills, there is more futuristic stuff, mainly lots of old food and water producing related tech (thankfully J has watched her and she has a green thumb)

3rd headcanon: Tessa has had to learn how to make ammo and make new weapon designs to deal with dd’s due to the last planet she was on, picked it up from a old weapon smith colony on the same planet(they were the weapon supplier during the solver war)

1 Question: how is cyn feeling amidst all of this as she watches from the back of her own mind?

Awkward Arrival

I love the idea that Tessa would make the Protection Model Drones (PMD), with the Solver's Disassembly Drones (SDD) being inferior knock offs.

Probably would have them based off construction drones to start study, and just add some armor without cutting functionality.

The greater variety would make up for the delay in making a weapon, especially once Uzi gets the greenlight to have some fun making more weapons. She actually is slowed down due to upload speeds.

Probably also took care of the heat problem that caused the oil hunger.

Great idea, cloud back ups every hour, and a full system back up at night.

They are uploaded to the cloud for the weapons under a sub folder.

Excellent touch for them to have that patch, and that it's updated.

File number 00003 is the USB penetration unit.

This is her gift to the universe so the Christmas Colors are thematic.

J needs therapy, Tessa needs therapy, EVERYONE NEEDS THERAPY! No, group therapy is not kissing Tessa, Jaybird, get it together you two... NOT THAT WAY!

I could see her making it an even fancier mansion than her parents could imagine, and every inch is full of her interests and love. J keeps her alive by reminding her to use the food and water machines.

I could see her developing a love of kinetic and beam weapons over ballistic weapons. She gathers all blueprints she can find, no matter what.

1 Answer: Cyn is glad to see the two of them, and hopes that they can stop her, and the monster she has become.

#AU Summaries #Awkward Arrival #Murder Drones #rainofdauwuand0w0

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hmtaxidermy · 3 months ago

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What's different between mounting a bird and mounting a mammal?

Hello!

Quite a lot, actually!

Mammals are, “easier,” requiring less prep work but also needing more finishing work.

Mammals need to be tanned before any work can begin. No bones (with exception to the skull cap of antlered and horned ungulates) are left in a mammal mount. (Not in modern taxidermy, anyway.)

For example, here’s what’s under the skin of a bobcat mount:

Mannequins mimic the entirety of the carcass, sans toes, tail, and ears. Those are reconstructed with clay, earliners, and foam respectively.

The skin is glued to the mannequin with hide paste.

The mount needs to be monitored and tweaked as it dries, as the skin shrinks and pulls away from the face sculpt.

When dried, the skin around the nose, eyes, ears, and lips needs to be painted. The skin changes color after being taxidermied, so everything needs to be painted to match what it was in life. After that, I add a couple glosses to the eyes and nose!

—

Birds on the other hand require a lot of prep work but very little finish work.

Birds are very thin skinned which is a double-edged sword. It makes them very, very susceptible to tearing, but it also means they don’t need to be tanned. Simply coating the skin in Dry Preserve is enough to prevent it from rotting!

Bird skins need to be fleshed with a fleshing machine, which is essentially a wire wheel on a motor. This removes the fat and ensures the Dry Preserve will penetrate the skin fully.

Bird mounts retain the leg and wing bones in the mount. Here’s what��s going on under the skin:

The legs and wings have wires run through them that are then secured to the mannequin. This strengthens the mount and allows me to pose it.

Bird mounts are very customizable because of this! Whereas mammal mannequins come already in the desired pose. Any alterations require cutting into the mannequin and reshaping it.

The legs have to be posed and painted before I can even mount the skin. I have to inject the feet with resin and a preservative to prevent them from shriveling up. Just like the eyes and ears of mammals, the feet change color after drying and need to be painted.

Flying bird mounts need to have their wings “carded” with tape and wire. This ensures they dry exactly as intended.

Mammals need to be brushed, but birds need to be preened. After skinning, fleshing, washing, and mounting, the feathers end up a little disheveled. Taking an hour to carefully move feathers back in place makes a better looking mount.

Birds require very little monitoring as they dry! That thin skin makes them dry out quickly, meaning the skin doesn’t have a chance to pull away from where I set it. Once dry, the feathers are set in position.

—

While birds tend to be more difficult, each mount is unique. Some birds come together easily while some mammals drive me up the wall. Both require a lot of work and practice!

#ask #deer talks #I’ve got six more ducks to mount and then it’s mammal city for a while #stay tuned!#taxidermy #vulture culture #oddities #taxidermist

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sicksweetcreamy · 2 months ago

Text

Kyubey Plush Translated Instructions

Material -Fur (Short Haired) 145 cm Width... 60 cm -Felt (pink) (red) (black) -Cotton -Button (red) 1.3 cm... 12 pieces -Wire (thickness 3mm) (thickness 2mm) -Underlay (any transparent plastic sheet will do) -Stuffed Toy Joint Diameter 3 cm -Cover Button Kit 18mm... 2 pieces -Soft pastel (light pink) -Spray (yellow) -Glue You can make your own original design with a home printer! -Printed Cloth

Mouth and Eye Pattern (copy and scan it to use) -Eyes for iron-on printing (please flip left and right if necessary) -Mouth -Eyes for 18 mm Covered Buttons

How to Make Unless otherwise specified, you can use either backstitching or machine sewing. Basically, sew with front sides facing each other and then turn it right side out for later. 1) Make your stomach Sew [Front Legs (inside)] to [Body (belly)]. Look at the alignment marks and pay attention to the front and back.

2) Back making Sew the Back of the Body [Body Outer]. Leave the opening in the middle unstitched. Look at the marks and pay attention to the front and back.

3) Align the torso Sew (1) and (2) together, leaving a hole for the butt and neck (approximately 8mm or 1 cm for the joint). Open the tips of the front legs to the side, flatten them, and sew (see bottom right).

3a) Detailed diagram of how to sew the front legs [Front legs (back side)] <- -> Spread the tips of the front legs out to the side and flatten them l V [Front legs (back side)] Sew in the shape of a foot. Cut off the excess seam allowance.

4) Making hind legs. Sew the left and right lines of the [Hind Legs (inside)] and [Hind Legs (outside)]. Sew the darts of [Hind Legs (outside)]. Sew on the [soles] of the legs.

5) Sew on the body Pay attention to the direction of the legs and sew the hind legs to the body. Line up the alignment marks and make sure they go straight down.

6) Make a tail Leave the opening and the base where the joint will be attached unsewn, and turn it inside out. Attach a joint at the base of the tail.

7) Make a frame The wire is shaped into a ring and spray painted (yellow). The wire is attached to the cut out transparent file with glue, and passed through the ears.

8) Make triangular ears If you sew the felt and fur together lightly, the fur will float, but this is fine for now.

9) Make floppy ears Turn it inside out, leaving an opening for turning, and insert wire to sew the opening. Color it (the ends with the soft pink pastel), thread the gold ring (attached to the cut out transparent file) through it, and attach the (red) buttons.

Color with soft pastels. Apply a thick layer and shake off any excess powder to get the desired effect.

10) Make the head Sew 6 darts in total and sew the front and back together. Leave a hole for the neck to pass the joint through and an opening for turning. Once sewn, turn it inside out.

11) Combining. If you want to move the head or tail, use joints to connect them to the body. If you can't get hold of joints, sew them together firmly by hand. Look for them in the stuffed animal section of a craft store.

12) Insert the wire Insert wire into the body and tail. Make a circle above the neck so that the head can rest on it. After roughly shaping it, insert wire through the opening and align it.

13) Fill the body, tail, and head with cotton. Use a stick to push the remaining part in. Pack it evenly, avoiding the wire.

14) Sew the opening Seal the back, head and tail.

15) Make eyes Scan the pattern from the magazine and transfer it to the printed fabric, then cut it out. Make a covered button that fits the base. Refer to the package for instructions on how to make a covered button. If you temporarily attach the fabric and base with double sided tape before making it, the center will not shift.

16) Make a mouth Stick the pattern onto the back of the sticker felt and cut out the shape. 17) Add ears, eyes, and mouth and back patterns Bend the triangular ears and sew them to the head so that they are evenly balanced. Sew the drooping ears to the inside of the triangular ears. Sew the eyes on like buttons and stick number 16 on for the mouth. Stick the pattern on the back as well.

Kyubey says: You can use felt for the ear buttons instead. If you make the body out of fleece and the eyes with iron-on printing, it will look like this. If you use a joint, it will move but will be a little wobbly, so if this bothers you, you can sew it on directly without using a joint.

#pmmm #madoka magica #magia record #kyubey

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attemptingwriter · 8 months ago

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Hello!! I was wondering if you'd consider writing a Walter O'Brien (Scorpion) x reader oneshot where reader is also a genius and Walter's partner and has gone 'down the rabbit hole' as they call it at Scorpion (a.k.a. Hyperfocused on some project to the point of forgetting to eat/drink/sleep/interact with the outside world)

Thanks!

Fabric was strewn across the room. Ribbons, scissors, measuring tape, and thread were scattered on the floor. Needles were nestled in (Y/N)'s shirt and would occasionally stab them. But that didn't matter. All that mattered was the mannequin in front of them and the 1750s dress they were trying to recreate.

It started out as a normal day in Scorpion. Walter and his team were working downstairs on a case and (Y/N) was upstairs watching Doctor Who on the TV they convinced Walter to put in. It was about 8:30 that morning when Walter came up the stairs to let (Y/N) know they had been called away to meet Gabe somewhere-(Y/N) couldn't remember where-and gave them a small kiss on the cheek before leaving.

The base was quite except for episode (Y/N) was watching. It was one of their favorites, The Girl In The Fireplace. As they watched, they couldn't help but admire the dress Madame de Pompadour wore every time she was on screen.

It can't be that hard to make a dress like that, (Y/N) thought to themselves. So they got to work. They found a nearby fabric store and rushed over. Searching through the seas of fabric, they couldn't find the right materials for the dress. They finally gave in and asked a worker, who was glad to help. Together they found the right fabric and the right colors. The employee took the fabric to the registers while (Y/N) found a sewing kit, a sewing machine, and a mannequin.

At last they had all that they needed and they went back to Scorpion. They lugged the materials into the base and set them on the floor. (Y/N) rushed upstairs with the fabric, missing the clock that read 11:49 a.m. It took them three trips to get everything upstairs but they weren't ready to stop now.

They grabbed the fabric and scissors and began to cut. Hours went by as (Y/N) cut, sewed, cut again. Carefully placing each piece of fabric and pinning it down. There was blood on the fabrics and some on the scissors from the amount of times (Y/N) had poked themselves with a needle. Tired of losing their pin cushion, they had resorted to sticking them in their pants and shirt. Their laptop was open to almost twenty different websites about what fabric was used in 18th century France, patterns, Doctor Who trivia, how to sew videos and other things (Y/N) thought they might need.

It was 1:24 in morning when Walter and his team came home. They were exhausted from the running and fighting after trying find the missing painting from the local art gallery. The base was quite except for the sound of curses and a sewing machine.

"Is (Y/N) still awake?" Paige asked, looking upstairs.

"Gotta be. Unless someone broke in," Toby said.

Walter started moving towards the staircase. "I'll check it out. Paige, will you heat up some food? I have an idea of what's going on."

Paige nodded and headed towards their makeshift kitchen. Sylvester went with her while Happy and Toby made their way to the couch.

Walter glanced around at the mess covering the entire upstairs area. He looked over at (Y/N), the paused TV show, and smiled. He gently placed a hand on (Y/N)'s shoulder.

They jerked and twirled to face the intruder, wielding a needle for protection. Walter lifted his hands in surrender, the smile not leaving his face.

"Walter! Don't do that!" (Y/N) exclaimed, dropping the needle.

"Sorry, my intention wasn't to scare you. How long have you been working on this?"

(Y/N) looked at clocked. "I.... don't know. I was watching Doctor Who when you left and I wanted to try making Madame de Pompadour's dress so I went shopping and I've been working since."

Walter sighed. "You haven't taken a break." It wasn't a question but (Y/N) nodded.

"Come, Paige is heating up some food and after you eat we can take a shower and go to bed."

"That sounds nice but I just realized I really have to pee so I will join you downstairs shortly." Without waiting for a response, (Y/N) hightailed it to the nearest bathroom while Walter started making his way downstairs.

"Where's (Y/N)?" Happy asked, watching her boss come down without his partner.

"Bathroom. They got stuck in the rabbit hole."

The team nodded in understanding. There had been plenty of times that they got stuck in that hyperfixation and needed someone to pull them out.

(Y/N) came down not too long after and wrapped their arms around their boyfriend. "Thanks for taking care of me."

Walter pulled (Y/N) in closer and pressed a kiss to the top of their head. "I'll always look after you."

#writer #fanfic #scorpion #walter o'brien #walter o'brien x reader #scorpion x reader #scorpion x you #x reader #scorpion tv show

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painted-bees · 2 years ago

Text

August 12, 2008.

Magritte had only ever heard good things about Vancouver's Granville Island and so, naturally, it was the first place she set out to find upon arriving in the city. The Greyhound station her bus pulled into had been only a short walk from the Skytrain that would carry her two minutes to Granville Station. And it was here that Magritte had the good sense to find a nice, unintrusive space to sit cross-legged and lay her old, faithful piano keyboard across her lap.

The instrument, pulled out of its cozy bed from within her large duffel bag, was a well loved Yamaha PSS-270. Its dull, black, plastic body was covered in ancient, disintegrating stickers, and a generous amount of electrical tape served to hold its batteries in place.

With an affectionate press of a button, she woke the machine up from its slumber, selected her choice presets and, with no specific setlist in mind, began to improvise a little tune. Something cute and fun, perhaps a little bit like Donkey Kong’s Stickerbrush Symphony in tempo and progression. Or just…”Stickerbrush Symphony”, wholesale, why the hell not? Improvisation melted seamlessly into the classic video game tunes that were fondly familiar to her.

The beloved instrument cradled in Magritte’s lap had been pulled apart and reassembled more times than she kept track of. But still, it held together and played its charming FM sounds dutifully. A tidy row of silver metal switches, lined up along the side of its body, were left carefully undisturbed as her fingers danced across the yellowed plastic keys. Magritte had learned very early in her busking career that the general public did not appreciate the unpredictable discordinance of a bent circuit as much as she did. And so that row of silver little switches connecting the data lines stood stoically in their ‘on’ position, not allowing for any delightful surprises, but also not deteriorating the synth-chip’s sound into glitchy noise on a bad turn. Perfectly vanilla, perfectly agreeable, endearingly nostalgic.

She had placed an old ball cap upside down infront of her, tossing in a few quarters of her own as a way of inviting more from friendly pockets. Ideally, she’d play an hour or two and leave with enough change to buy a coffee. Not just a Tim’s coffee–no. She wanted a decadent foamy latte from a cute, artsy little cafe she could sit in. She couldn’t bear to walk through the streets of Granville Island without having the spare change to treat herself on an impulse. And so–she’d not leave the train station until the passing public funded her frivolous spending habits.

After all, it was her birthday. She deserved a little gift.

Busking in a transit station was always a bit of a trade-off. It was a bustling place full of foot traffic but the people here were focused on reaching their destination; busy and preoccupied. In a place like this, Magritte had no expectation to captivate loiterers. Not many transit-goers could spare a minute or two to sit and listen while she hammered out her cheap little tunes on cheap little piano keys. And so, when a well worn pair of tan colored, loose-laced Timberlands entered her field of vision, stopping definitively to stand before her, Magritte turned her gaze upward to welcome the listener with a wide, sloppy smile.

Without giving her brain time to register the face she was speaking to, Magritte opened her mouth to chime a cheery greeting. She was cut off faster than she could process his expression.

“You’re in my spot.”

The man’s voice was curt, and the cold annoyance in his tone was mirrored in the expression on his short, square face. Pale blue eyes looked down a sharp, slightly bent nose at her. His narrow lips were pressed narrower still in a stern line, framed by a full, sandy colored beard and moustache. Atop his head, long hair of the same light color was pulled back into a small, tight bun; more slick and tidy, but far less full than the sloppy bun that Magritte’s unruly mane of curly rust colored hair had been wrangled up into.

Her dorky smirk dissolved with a few confused blinks into a slack jaw of nervous apology. “O-oh! I uh-s-sorry!”

Her startled gaze snagged itself on the acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder, and the instrument’s exciting potential made her straighten her back with intent.

She found her smile again. “What if–maybe we could jam? For a few minutes! And then I can scoot on outta here and leave you to it if you want. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the chance to–”

“Do you have a permit?” His tone was unchanged by her eager proposition.

“Huh?” It wasn’t that Magritte didn’t hear him, but she needed a moment to process what was being asked.

“You can’t be here without a permit. Not the stations, not anywhere in Granville either.” The unaccommodating man took a few steps towards her duffel bag and used the top of his foot to lift and slide it away from where she had safely tucked it. “Get a move on.”

Magritte protectively reached out to grab her bag as the man carelessly footed it out of ‘his’ space. And in doing so, she caused her keyboard to slide off her lap, forcing her to clumsily abort her duffel-grabbing effort in favor of clutching her instrument before it could somersault over the edge of her knees and land face-down onto hard ground.

The man, it seemed, was done with words and had already begun moving into the small space that shoving her bag out of the way had created. She felt her face turn hot as she began to gather up her items. Any desire to engage the guy more than she already had was lost along with her nerve.

As she relented to stowing her keyboard back into her duffel bag, an unfamiliar hand shoved a cold, unopened can of Coke in front of her face.

“Here you go.” Another man’s voice. A softer one, this time. Magritte glanced up to meet eyes with the stranger who was offering her a free drink, only to gaze into a pair of red, plastic, star shaped dollar store sunglasses.

He gave the soda can a little shake, prompting her to take it into her hands. “Sorry I took long, I had to give someone directions to the aquarium.”

“Is this…for me?” Holding the can in both hands, Magritte stared at the unopened beverage, unsure what to do with it.

The new stranger leaned onto his back foot. “You said coke, right?”

Before Magritte could stammer out a response, the new stranger turned his attention to the man with the guitar. “‘Ey, Kurtis. You mind, dude?”

The unaccommodating man, ‘Kurtis’, had just started settling in, and looked towards the new stranger with an expression that appeared as perplexed as Magritte herself felt. He turned up both his palms in a slightly contentious gesture. “Didn’t know you were playin’ here again. I’ve had this spot for, like, a year. People don’t usually park here without asking me first.”

“Okay, but you can’t just kick ‘em out like this, man.”

“I didn’t know she was with you–”

“Doesn’t matter,” Magritte’s new best friend replied. “Sixty minutes. It’s not a long time to wait if you gotta wait.”

Magritte, who had been watching Kurtis’ confidence slowly drain from his body with each passing second, turned to examine the cut of her spontaneous new accomplice. His hair was a shade or two darker than Kurtis’, and trimmed much, much shorter, with longer locks in front that fell in straight tufts over the tops of his ears and just past his thick, blocky eyebrows. His eyes remained obscured by the cheap plastic shades, and their childish novelty paired strangely with the well trimmed goatee that fanned out from under his lip to define the curve of his somewhat long but gentle chin. And he had with him a rectangular instrument case of…some variety. Not big enough for a guitar, not small enough for a flute. It didn’t give away the shape of the instrument inside, but the black oxford cloth and gold colored metallic detailings of its exterior gave it a classy, charming look she had not seen for an instrument case before. It was cute. Magritte wondered if such a style was available for portable keyboards.

His hands, which wore white fingerless driving gloves, cracked open his can of sprite, and he took a casual sip while waiting for Kurtis to, “Get a move on.”

Relenting, Kurtis shuffled away from the spot he had been deliberately crowding Magritte out of. With a snort and a nod of his head towards her, Kurtis said, “Can’t exactly play Paganini on a Portasound, Raf. What’s on your setlist?”

Raf brandished a lopsided smirk and jutted his chin in the direction of Magritte’s upturned hat on the ground. “Put a toonie down and I’ll show you.”

“Fuck off.” Kurtis’s scoff was accompanied by a laugh–one that sounded surprisingly genuine to Magritte's ear. “I came here to earn change, not spend it. But I’m curious to hear how the Ephrem Classical pairs with Toy Piano.”

Raf let out a low groan that could have been mistaken for a growl. Moving into the corner that Kurtis had surrendered, he unslung his instrument off his shoulder with a shrug. “There’s plenty you can play on just forty-nine keys.”

Being very confident about this fact, Magritte couldn’t help but provide her insight on the matter. With an enthusiastic lean-in, she interjected, “Yeah, like Kirby’s Dreamland!”

Raf’s head flinched in her direction almost imperceptibly, and if she had caught the subtle downward twitch of his eyebrows that betrayed a pang of confusion, she might have felt a bite of embarrassment. But instead, she heard him agree. “Like…Kirby’s Dreamland, yeah.”

He turned to look over his shoulder at her, his sunglasses mercifully hiding the bafflement in his eyes. Magritte beamed gleefully back up at him.

“Well, have fun.” Kurtis levelled a stern yet somewhat pleading glance at Raf.” I’ll be back here in an hour. Don’t let anyone else move in if you leave early, please.”

Raf simply shrugged and sipped loudly from his can of sprite in response.

As Magritte watched Kurtis disappear into the foot traffic, she began to tentatively scoot back towards where she had previously sat. “I didn’t mind giving that guy his spot back, he was just kinda–”

“A dick. Nah, I saw that. S’why I stepped in.” Raf had carefully set his instrument case down, and was in the process of zipping it open.

Leaning slightly to get a peek at what he was playing, Magritte said, “Thanks for the pop, by the way! I can pay you back after. If uh–you’re actually gonna stick around and jam with me.”

He pulled his instrument out of its protective cradle; a pale varnished wooden violin. “Don’t worry about it.”

Inside the carrying case, Magritte noticed two bows neatly stowed. The bowstrings on the bow Raf selected was a standard white color, but the strings on the one he left in the case were an eye-catching red.

“Truth be told,” tucking the chin rest of the violin beneath his chin, he played one string, and then two experimentally, “I don’t really play anymore.” His fingers closed around one of the tuning knobs at the head of the violin, but if he had tweaked it at all, it wasn't perceptible. “So it’s gonna be pretty rough. But uh…gotta commit to the bit, I guess.”

Magritte took the moment to open her soda and enjoy a refreshing sip. “What kinda music do you normally play?”

“Classical,” he replied almost too quickly. “You?”

Magritte hesitated for a second. She should have had an easy answer for this by now, but all she could manage was, “a bit of everything. Anything, really!”

Raf ran his bow over the strings again to hear their tune before turning to look at her. “Yeah?” His eyebrows were raised, and his smirk favored one side of his face; an expression Magritte interpreted as incredulous. He fidgeted with a tiny, lone knob on the violin's body where the strings ended.

“Y-yeah! I, um…” Settling her keyboard back into her lap, she turned it on. “You can just play whatever, and I can fill it in. I can improvise, I think.”

Raf paused and stared down at Magritte’s little Portasound with a sigh much heavier than he intended. The thing was lacking, not just in keys, but in sound. It was a struggle to think of something he could play that she’d be able to accompany. The titles which did come to mind where…overplayed and would have to be simplified considerably to suit the keyboard's limitations. Weighing it in his mind, however, he decided that ‘simple’ may benefit not just the limited range of her instrument, but of her musical skill as well.

He ran the bow over his strings to measure their tune one last time before tentatively, very slowly playing the first few crystalline notes of Für Elise. He felt a tension he didn’t know he was holding melt off his shoulders as he watched Magritte’s face light up. She curled over her little piano in a hurry to play his accompaniment. She knew this one.

She picked a soft, more ambient sound from the keyboard’s voicebank, electing to quietly cushion the violin’s notes rather than chafe against them. It was…difficult. Her little yamaha and its quaint library of FM chip sounds did not get along nicely with ‘real instruments’ that were being played ‘straight’. It wanted to be weird and annoying, just like her. But the notes Raf played, while simple, were extremely clear in tone; neat and tidy. The bow did not once stutter on the rough strings, it glided with practised ease. And with a great deal of restraint.

This guy…he was playing beneath his skill level. For her sake, presumably. Like a gentleman.

As Raf brought Für Elise to a close with the last, steady draw of his bow, Magritte swapped her soft, ambient voicing out with an annoying music box sound, and began hammering out a choice section from the 3rd movement of Appassionata. Her fingers slammed the keys harder than was necessary, solely because she enjoyed the percussive sound it added to each obnoxious, feverish note.

Lowering his violin, Raf watched Magritte’s fingers flutter furiously across the mini keys with respectable precision. Holding both the bow and the neck of his violin in one hand, his free hand reached up to remove his sunglasses and he rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. A humbled snort escaped through his nose. “Yeah, okay.”

“Play any song.” Magritte slowed her fingers to a stop without completing the movement. “Even if I don’t know it, even if it goes beyond the range of my little piano, I can improvise something nice for it, I promise!”

Fitting his sunglasses back on, Raf let out a tentative hum. “I’m not much of an improviser–”

“You don’t have to improvise anything! Play whatever you want, however you wanna play it. I will improvise around whatever you give me!” Magritte’s voice had risen to an excited shout, and instinctively, she withdrew into herself just a little bit, as if making herself smaller would also make her voice smaller, too. “It’s my favorite thing to do. It’s a lot of fun.”

His incredulous smirk returned, but this time his brow furrowed slightly, encouragingly, under his growing sense of intrigue.

“It’s–” Magritte held up both hands haltingly, “it’s probably not gonna be like how you know it should be. Just…so you know. It might even be…bad? In some parts? But-! Mostly it’ll be neat! I promise!”

“Neat…” Raf brought the violin up once again to rest under his chin. “Neat’s cool. Alright, let’s see, then.”

As though he had been inspired by Magritte’s aggressive interpretation of Appassionata, he began with a series of fast, chirpy, clean notes of his own. A wholly different song, but Magritte recognized this one too. She had most often heard it as a phone ringtone, but she couldn’t recall who composed it nor what the song was titled. She provided a jaunty, equally bouncy accompaniment that she’d have described as ‘percussive’. The violin’s unwavering confidence was a delight for Magritte’s deft little fingers to dance around. He never fell out of tempo, and she was able to punctuate his notes with hers in perfect time. Maintaining synchrony for the entire length of the fast paced composition filled her with such satisfying joy, she had failed to properly appreciate an obvious fact about her musical accomplice until he brought the song to a close; he was a skilled musician.

Staring up at him from her spot on the floor, Magritte’s wide eyes almost sparkled with delight. “You’re like…Concert hall good, aren’t you? Are you part of the local orchestra? Or at least like–aspiring to be?”

Raf’s gaze hung on her as both his jaw and posture slackened. “Uh…”

She didn’t give him enough time to respond, hitting him with another question. “What was the title of that song? I just know it as one of the Nokia ringtones.”

“P–” Raf’s stunned silence cracked with a laugh that sprang forth from his chest and took him by surprise almost as much as Magritte’s line of questioning had. “Paganini. It’s–it’s Paganini, Caprice number…number 24.” The response was punctuated with warm chuckling. “Or, you know, that one phone ringtone, yeah.” He smirked at her for a moment longer, studying her for any sign that she was putting him on. “How do you…accompany me that well, on that little machine, and not even know the song?”

Magritte waved her hands in front of her. “No, no, I knew the song! I’ve heard it before, I just didn’t know what it was called.”

“Yeah, alright.” He snorted one last incredulous laugh and brought his violin back up for another song.

Magritte stopped him before he could settle on his next pick. “Do you play professionally? I mean, it sounds like it but, like–”

“No.” Before Magritte could inquire further, the first notes of their next song filled the space between them, drawn out of his violin with long, purposeful strokes of his bow.

The next several songs, Raf played seamlessly one into the other–without pausing for conversation. That was just as well for Magritte. It had been ages since she was given the chance to play music with someone, and never had she played with someone who was so…solid? Consistent? The real deal. Usually, she had to avoid getting carried away when playing with another person. It was very easy for her to close her eyes and get taken to places that her musical partners could not follow along with. But with Raf, she was finding herself challenged to keep up with him. Most of the songs he had chosen, she had not heard before. And so she needed to keep an attentive ear out if she wanted to pick out repeated phrases, and predict melodic trajectories.

Finally, they arrived at the end of an especially eclectic piece, and Raf did not immediately follow through into another composition. Instead he lowered his bow, and Magritte took her opening to converse again.

“I really liked that one. It was super janky, in a fun way.”

“Yeah,” Raf said. “I was always fond of it, too.”

“I liked the plucky bits. Did you write it?”

“Did I–” Raf palmed both his bow and violin in one hand, and massaged his eyes and browline with the other. “No, some guy named Ravel did. Tzigane, that one’s called.”

Magritte chewed the inside of her cheek. “R-right.”

He furrowed his eyebrows at her. “You knew that one, though.”

“I didn’t.”

“...You just let me solo the first four minutes based on vibes?”

“I thought I missed the bus on it.”

“The actual composition has no accompaniment until about half way through, so…bravo.”

“Wait, really?” Magritte leaned forward eagerly. “Did I play the accompaniment correctly, too?”

“Not even close.”

“Drat.” She slumped.

“Was good, though.” Raf picked up his sprite from where he had placed it, on the ground next to his case, and drained the last bit of its contents.

Magritte perked up again. “Yeah!?”

He held the lip of the empty can between his teeth as he began tucking his violin back into its carrying case. “Mmhm.”

Magritte watched him pack up for a moment longer than it should have taken her to realise, “Wait, you’re leaving already?”

Raf zipped his instrument safely away before removing the empty soda can from his mouth. “Yeah, I gotta get going. But look,” He bent over to collect Magritte’s upturned ball cap off the ground. The few quarters she had started with now had a generous handful of friends with them; more quarters, some loonies, a few toonies and–

Magritte accepted the hat when Raf handed it to her, and pulled a crisp twenty dollar bill out of it. “W-who left this!? I wasn’t even paying attention, I should have said thanks!”

“A mystery.” He slung his violin case over his shoulder.

Magritte urged him to wait, fluttering a hand at him. “Half of this is yours!”

“Nah.” He favored her with a smile. “Genuinely, this was a treat in itself. It’s been a long time since I’ve played for fun like this. It…was fun.” That last part sounded as though it came as a surprise to him.

Frowning, Magritte pleaded with him. “Okay, okay but–okay. Lemme treat you to a coffee then, at least? If you’re in no real hurry.”

Raf paused to regard her with a measuring stare. He then sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his black denim hoodie jacket, waiting for Magritte to stow her keyboard away into her bag.

Zipping the duffel closed, she hoisted it with effort over her shoulder and beamed up at her new friendly acquaintance. “If you know any cute, cozy coffee places with a real decadent latte, I’m open to suggestions!”

“There are…a few.”

“I’m Magritte, by the way!” She extended her hand out to him.

With slight hesitation, Raf shook it. “Rafael.”

As the two of them began to make their way out of the station together, he dared to ask, “Are you here visiting, or..?”

“Oh!” She bounced on the balls of her feet, “I just came in from Calgary like…two hours ago. Ideally, I’d like to stay until the spring, but that’s gonna depend on things.”

“Calgary?”

“Yeah! I was in Edmonton before that, and in Winnipeg before that–but that was mostly a fever dream. I wasn’t there long. Montreal before that, though, was nice..!” She talked the entire walk, and he was content to quietly listen. part ii

#meet cute?#meet cute.#unedited...sorry about that lmao #Hi-Note #rafael #magritte

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mysewingadventures · 9 months ago

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Making the ✨Lioncourt Gown✨ (Part 3/4)

It has been a little longer than I had hoped for since my last update but I've made some progress! The tape has finally arrived.

But for context - I am trying to make this:

into a (semi) historically accurate 1790s women's redingote and it's probably my favorite project so far. Anyways, here's what I did since my last update.

The tape arrived, but it was a little too light (it was basically white, I'd wanted it to be sort of beige/champagne) so I decided to dunk it into some coffee and hope for the best. It did work somewhat, stained it a pretty champagne color. It's still on the lighter side, but I'm okay with it. It may look white in some pictures though. Unfortunately, I completely forgot to take pictures of my dyeing process. Just imagine a tupperware full of instant coffee and some white tape in it haha. It's also thicker than I would have liked it to be but it was the thinnest one available, and I'm pretty glad it's thick-ish because with how difficult it is to sew it, I don't want to imagine my struggle with an even thinner tape.

I'd already prepped the color panels, so I applied the tape and used my sewing machine to sew them really close to the edges. A very time-consuming but weirdly therapeutic process. I started with the bodice and then went on to do the sleeves.

The sleeves seem to have black cuffs in the original picture, so I added some of that satin fabric to the sleeves.

Next, I attached the sleeves to the bodice. I can't help myself, I have to say it again: I hate sleeves. I hate sewing them, I especially hate attaching them, because they never turn out the way I want them to. This time again, I had to add little pleats to the tops because the armscye was too small for the sleeves, but since it's going to be covered by the collar anyways, I just pleated them. Redingote sleeves may have been pleated sometimes, it's hard to tell from the pictures of extant garments because of the huge collar, but it was a trend a bit earlier so it may have carried over to the redingotes.

I'm sorry about the cat fur in this picture I lost my lint roller I promise I'll find it.

When I was done with the sleeves, I attached the Lioncourt label to the inside of the bodice-

and went to work on the collar. I've put off making it as long as possible because I didn't really know how to attach it to the bodice, but I think I've figured out a way. I'd made the back neckline without any seam allowance, so I found an old scrap piece of black cotton bias tape and used that to hem the raw edge.

Then I draped some of my mockup fabric to figure out the correct shape of the collar and after some trial and error (cutting it out a total of three? or four times), I was finally happy with the shape and cut it out of the navy cotton twill.

I cut out two pieces of each so it would be sturdier, machine-stitched along the neckline part, turned it inside out, pressed it with an iron and applied the red tape. I seem to have forgotten to take a picture of the tape application process, but I then also applied the red tape to the entire bodice.

And here's the entire bodice so far (the collar is not attached yet so it looks a bit wonky):

On a side note, upon rewatching the scene in which Lestat wears this outfit, I noticed that the back also had the colored panels. However, I feel like it's colorful enough as it is, and frankly, I don't have enough satin and tape left to do it, so I'm just going to leave it. I like it better this way.

Anyways, I'm really excited to finish this up soon, but I also ran out of red tape so I'll have to find some time to go to the sewing store to get some more. And I'm not entirely sure if I'm going to do an actual button closure in the front or if I'm going to fake it. The satin is extremely prone to fraying and I'm scared to add button holes to it, even though I'd planned to add them over the horizontal stripes. I'm going to have to find some fabric scraps and see how the fabric behaves, and if it frays I'm going to have to fake it with some hooks on the inside of the bodice. I hope it's going to look good either way!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4|

#fashion history #historical fashion #iwtv #interview with the vampire #lestat de lioncourt #amc iwtv #sewing #redingote #georgian fashion #18th century #18th century fashion #18th century dress #1790s #1790s fashion #georgian #fashion

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scrollsfromarebornrealm · 1 month ago

Text

Code Black [heavensward]

[CW: Blood, medical activity]

Some time after Riven and the others leave with Lucia for Dravania...

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Code Black: Serious physical threat against staff or violence intended with weapons against staff that requires an armed response.

note: Code Black was first adopted into the emergency code system from the colony's relationship with Ishgard. The unfortunate tendency for assassinations and violence among the nobility of that city-state often meant that houses of healing would be caught in the crossfire between warring families.

Introduction to Surgery, pg 101

------------

The evening was passing far too quietly for Mathye's liking. A head cold, a sprained ankle, a broken arm, a panicking parent over the color of their newborn's poop—and then, nothing else. Not that the lack of patients wasn't unwelcome, it gave the staff time to handle the administrative tasks that just seemed to keep piling up. And for a change, they were actually pleasant ones. Aymeric's current control over Ishgard's government had permitted the Lord High Commander to cut though the rat's nest of red tape that had been holding up Hospitalier medical supplies.

"So…all we need is to keep feeding these things levin-crystals?" A nurse ventured, examining the small army of metallic cylinders that had been placed on a table. The Ironworks had finally been able to perfect (for the moment) a variant of an Allagan machine that could clean medical instruments. An autoclave, it was called.

"Fire." Mathye corrected. "Levin-crystals power them. Fire-crystals and water to create the steam they use to clean."

"Can't believe there's things not even soap and water can't kill." One of the night guards mused.

"I'd like something that cuts down on all the laundry." A junior nurse said wistfully. Then she 'eeped' as her senior glares at her and pointed to a nearby door. The younger woman's shoulders slumped, and she dutifully left the room. Mathye arched an eyebrow, witnessing the exchange.

"Punishment detail for Belinda again?" He asked.

"I caught her practicing the kiss of life with that fool she calls her man in the back stairwell." Nurse Genevieve replied sternly. She was a veritable battle-axe of a Duskwight, and one of the Hospitalier's oldest nurses. She'd shown up shortly after Mathye had started to take shifts at the infirmary, declaring that she would be his Head Nurse whenever he was on duty. Mathye, fresh from training and with years of personal experience in the military (along with stories from his grandfather) immediately complied. Only fools turned down veteran nurses.

And only fools dared to get involved in nurse training. Mathye attempted to look innocent as Genevieve fixed him with a glare.

"No comment." He said.

"Mmm-hmm." Genevieve hummed. Then her lips quirked into a smile as Mathye picked up one of the autoclaves and presented it to her. The boy was one of the few who had the balls to go toe-to-toe with her on occasion, and praise Halone he'd been trained well in hand and herb. He behaved around the nurses, had the common sense to skirt-chase elsewhere, always said please when he could, and made sure to always say his thank-yous to the staff. He at least had a good bedside manner for the children who came in, and for some of the civilian adults.

Correction. He at least acted like he had a good bedside manner for the civilian adults. When it came to the military folk, all bets were off.

"Am I to take charge of these infernal machines then?"

"You know better than I where they're needed." Mathye answered. He was rewarded with another smile from the older woman.

"Set the heathen machine down, I'll get to it. And you should be resting." Genevieve had been one of the nurses monitoring Mathye during the surgeries for his leg. Didn't matter than he'd been cleared for active duty, she could see that the younger hyur was still tiring easily. And she'd bet that his newest mantle-Warrior of Light—was also settling uneasy on him. Mathye had basically shot from infamous obscurity to honored hero overnight. It helped that he had his little brother by his side (also a Warrior of Light) and for all his grumping and snarling he'd taken to the Lady Riven as a friend, but while he was in her infirmary, Genevieve would make sure Mathye Bishop would take care of himself.

"I'm fine." Mathye countered, a bit more crossly than intended. Genevieve and everyone else had been fussing about his leg, he was fine. Better than fine actually, he was damn near pain-free. Yes, it was still aching every so often and he hadn't fully gotten the stamina built up yet for the amount of energy he was using to walk with his new limb, but he wasn't in constant pain. And Hrist was calm and adjusting to the new leg, and she wasn't hurting either. A gentle brush of scales on the back of his neck and a lick to one ear indicated his inner dragon's approval of his current situation.

"This is resting. I could have gone to Dravania with the others." He almost had, but Augustine and Riven had both…well, verbally beaten him down. And as he was just back on an even keel with Augustine, and Mathye wasn't keen on fighting with his little brother again. There were also how things were in Ishgard at the moment…

Someone had to stay behind and watch things. Though Mathye wasn't sure of his status of Warrior of Light or 'annoying ass borderline heretical priest' was keeping him safe from the roving packs of angry and hurt Ishgardians. It was coming in useful to protect his fellow-clerics, he'd already let it be known that while he was on duty any man or woman of the cloth could seek him out for healing or a place to hide. And he'd already verbally flayed (and physically beaten) a few bullies targeting novices. (Genevieve didn't need to know that part. Nor Augustine. Or Riven. Or Reinhardt.)

He also wasn't going to look at Genevieve right now.

"Healer Bishop."

"Oh Halone." The guard cracked as the sounds of muffled snickering from the rest of the present staff could be heard. But before anything else could be said, a woman's scream split the air.

'AAAAAIIIEEEEE!!'

"Code Black! Someone help!! Code Black!!"

Mathye and Genevieve immediately bolted as one for the room's exit, the guard's hand flying to his sword as he followed behind them. Out in the hallway healers were rushing into patient rooms, some assisting the ward's more mobile charges to safety, before slamming the doors shut. The sound of locks clicking and bolts falling could be heard, and at a gesture from Genevieve, the main lights were extinguished. In a matter of seconds the ward was empty…but not the main reception area. That was crowded with bodies, primarily Temple Knights and—

Mathye froze. Dimly he was aware of a cry from Genevieve, and inside his mind Hrist flared to life, uttering a scream of alarm.

Oh my gods.

Aymeric de Borel was in the reception room. On a stretcher, pale, blood-soaked, and with a knife sticking out of his abdomen. Next to him, Count Fortemps—also with blood on his clothes. Fear and shock iced through Mathye—this was a Code Black that he had no frame of reference to deal with—

No.

Focus. Work the problem first, freak out later.

"Room Four!!" He bellowed, Hrist bleeding into his voice and amplifying the volume. The command snapped Genevieve out of the paralysis she'd been in, along with the other orderlies. Moving as a unit, they took the stretcher from the Temple Knights, hurrying back into the now-lit hallway. Mathye started to follow them, pausing briefly to take in the room.

"If you are not authorized medical personnel you are not coming in! Get word to House Fortemps and the Second Commander, and lock down the building!"

"Like hells you're keeping us from him!" One of the Temple Knights snarled. Then he backed up as the night guard and his fellows charged in front of Mathye, swords at the ready.

"Try it!" He snapped.

"Get Count Fortemps to Room Seven!"

"He's fine! He saw the whole thing!"

"I'm alright! I'm not leaving!" Edmont had found his voice in the midst of the chaos. He stood his ground as Mathye stopped, glaring at him. Then the younger man gestured.

"Five minutes, then you're going under guard in a waiting room." He snapped, starting to follow the stretcher once more. Edmont hobbled after him as fast as possible, watching as the healer snatched a fresh apron from a nearby orderly. Genevieve was already ahead of the pair, freshly garbled and helping to place the semi-conscious Aymeric on the surgery table. The Lord High Commander's skin was still pale, and his eyelids fluttered.

"Stay here." Mathye ordered, pointing at the doorframe of the surgical room. "And tell me what happened."

"We were walking in Lower Foundation, and a man approached us. He stumbled into Ser Aymeric, like he'd tripped." Gods, he'd forgotten how fast such things could happen, Edmont thought.

"They pulled apart, all seemed to be well, and then we saw the knife." Mathye nodded, hurrying into the room. Edmont watched, fingers tightening around his cane.

It will be alright. It would be fine. Mathye Bishop was one of the best healers in the city, and a Warrior of Light in his own right. It wouldn't be Haurchenfaunt again.

As if he had helped back then anyway. A nasty little voice whispered into the count's mind. Edmont set his jaw, forcing the wicked thought from him. He'd seen what killed his son. Had witnessed similiar injuries when he himself had been an active-duty solider. There were things beyond the realm of mortal man to fix. Warriors of Light included.

"What else?" The shouted question jolted Edmont back to reality. Mathye was looking over at him.

"A-Artoirel caught the attacker, and I called for help. I kept pressure on him until the Temple Knights came, and nobody else attempted anything on the way here." Mathye felt relief snake through him at those words, that was one worry off the table. If Aymeric hadn't been attacked again en route to the infirmary, that meant that there probably wouldn't be anyone looking to finish the job. Technically.

"Go with them." He ordered to the guards that had appeared behind Edmont. "And somebody shut the door!"

"No! I-" Edmont protested, then went silent as sense caught up with him. Right now he was a liability—not to mention an open target if the ward was attacked. Not even healing-halls were safe in Ishgard, as they'd been dragged constantly into the wars of the nobility—attacks and assassination attempts. His part was done for the moment, and he needed to let the healers do their job. Clutching his cane once more, he turned and faced his impromptu bodyguards. Behind him, the door slammed shut.

With Edmont out of the way, Mathye turned his attention to the table. Genevieve was leading the effort to remove the Lord High Commander's armor and clothing.

"How is he?"

"In and out of consciousness." Genevieve reported, making room for Mathye at Aymeric's side. "As far as we can see, there's no other injuries save for the knife, no blood loss from any other locations." Years of experience was whispering to the Duskwight that Halone had possibly smiled on the Lord High Commander. His skin color wasn't good, but it wasn't the hue that that indicated internal bleeding. And the knife sticking out of his abdomen, well, she'd wait on Mathye, but—

"Putting my hand on him." Mathye declared. Genevieve watched as the hyur rested a hand on the Lord Commander's bare chest, his eyes unfocusing. The orderlies paused as well, and the room itself seemed to hold it's collective breath…

To Mathye's eyes, Aymeric was now the living web of systems that kept his body functional. Immediately he was bombarded with what had gone wrong. Nerves screaming in pain, white-hot flashes of agony. Blood rushing out, but now starting to clot—and the blade itself… Mathye directed his attention to the injury, feeling the body's reaction to the foreign invader…

There. Here was the knife, sunk deep into fat and muscle. And yet…

Holy shit.

Somehow, the blade hadn't struck any organs, nor the major blood vessels. It was parked a little too close to Aymeric's intestines for Mathye's liking—and had it been jarred or moved there certainly would have been more damage. The armor had done it's job—blocking most of the hit while the layer of fat over Aymeric's abdominal muscles had done the rest. The hyur forced himself out of the trance, blinking.

"He's alright." Genevieve and the others sagged in relief. Some orderlies whispered prayers of thanksgiving, while others marked themselves with holy gestures. Mathye licked his lips.

"I need gloves and a mask." He ordered. "But he's alright. The knife's not hit anything major. I'll remove it and staunch the bleeding while you lot get the rest of the armor off."

"Gloves and mask!" Genevieve ordered, and another nurse hurried up. "Do you want a blood bottle going?"

"Yes." Mathye let the nurse slip the cloth over his fingers. "He's already been typed. See if one of the Temple Knights is a match." Bowing his head, he felt the tug of the strings as the nurse secured the fabric. Relief was snaking through his body, but he couldn't let himself relax just yet. Gut wounds were still dangerous, no matter the depth of the injury.

"Give him a needle of the poppy-tincture to sleep and dull the pain. I don't want him reacting when I remove this and start cleaning the wound."

"Do you want one of us to check if House Fortemps or the Second Commander's shown up yet?" A orderly asked.

"Yes. If the Second Commander's here, tell him he has command of the lockdown." Mathye exchanged places with another nurse, flexing his fingers as he surveyed the knife. One nurse was carefully injecting Aymeric with a needle containing clear liquid, while another was removing a fabric-wrapped item from a nearby cabinet, glass clinking. Genevieve had come up alongside him with a tray.

"Shall I remove the knife?" She asked, her voice low. Mathye shook his head.

"I can do it." He replied.

Halone, please guide my hands. He prayed. And please, let Riven and the others get back here. Fast.

#ffxiv #wol riven #mathye bishop #ffxiv heavensward #heavensward #aymeric de borel

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