#i'm trying to buy them at a discount so i'm not wasting a ton of money

[apocalypticdemon]

for all i bang on about consumerism being bad i sure do like to purchase books, huh.

[rivka-kopelman]

Delivery Lemur Logbook : 7

December 32nd, 3431

Rainy night.

Hi I am Delivery Lemur (deliveremur). I stopped at Luzlork to deposit my compost and hopefully get some cheap groceries. There was a great sale on algae cakes here last year (the triangle kind), so I often stop by but never see the same deal. No luck tonight either. I just know if I buy a pack at full price, they'll go on discount tomorrow. The drizzle became a deluge and I got drenched (buy an umbrella). It turned out not to be a wasted trip though: As I'm hurrying back through the port, a voice bubbles up from the submerged side of the amphibious road and gives me a box to deliver. The customer, invisible in the downpour and the gloom, said it was urgent that this parcel get to defense minister Franz Welker right away. “Blub – he will – blub – reward you generously – blub blub.” Good enough for me. Mission accepted.

I hop aboard my ship, trying not to drip water everywhere but tons of rain comes through the hatch with me. I put the parcel down on the counter and start the launch sequence. At its point in orbit right now, the capital is Luzlork's nearest neighbor so I should be able to find this defense minister guy in no time. After dialing in the coordinates, I lean over the sink to start wringing out my fur. The live broadcast of my favorite podcast, 'It's Bullshit: Forever Countdown' comes on.

“Hello everyone ~ This time on It's Bullshit: Forever Countdown we have with us Willy Wows'em, who makes up unsolvable crossword puzzles on his website ~ wwwww.EazyCrozzwords.lmao ~ Willy your number is 50505050505123412341234123400505050505, good luck!”

“One, two, three, hehehe, four, five, six, hehehehehehe...”

Before he gets to 50, I'm faxed by border agents. They say every ship coming into the capital system's airspace has to be searched. I'm asked to power down my engine. The order looks like it was written in crayon. Well, I guess I'll comply. I can probably ask them for directions. I turn my engine off. An antique skiff arrives a minute later and latches on to my airlock.

I'm still in the process of drying off as six human brats stumble aboard, all in pink & white Space Military uniforms. They're armed to the teeth.

“Uh, identification please,” the oldest one said. I give him a limp wet Delivery Lemur business card from my pocket. The kid examines it critically.

“This is wet, I can barely read it. Deli Lender?”

“I'm Delivery Lemur (deliveremur) not Deli Lender,” I explain. I start looking for another business card. “I've got mail for your boss. Do you know where Mr. Welker is?”

“You mean Dad? We don't know. Uh, and we can't tell you.”

My tail's been tracking through all the water on the floor. “Oh jeez.” I whip it back and forth to shake out the drops. I accidentally knock the parcel into the garbage chute. It cycles the thing out into space. We all turn to the porthole and see it floating away. The soldiers start laughing.

“I guess you ar-”

The parcel blows up. Huge explosion.

“Woah!” they shout. Their leader pointed his gun at me and the rest followed suit.

“You're coming with us, Lender!”

So I'm arrested as a terrorist and tied up with painter's tape. The soldiers can't decide what to do with me and bicker petulantly until a little group of battleships arrives at the site of the blast. My captors put a lunchbox over my head so I can't see. I hear a fax machine rumble to life and the brats stop arguing.

“Ahh! Alright, hurry or we're in deep shit.”

The skiff accelerates and we're thrown about by their pilot's clumsy maneuvering.

“Todd you suck haha let me drive!” someone jeers.

“Shut up dork! I'm doing it!”

We finally dock, roughly.

“OK Deli Lender, move your ass!”

Someone prods me out of the skiff and down a steep gangway (Lemurs have great balance, so I don't fall over).

“Who's this?” an adult voice demands. The lunchbox is ripped off my face and I see I'm in a huge hold. I'm encircled by a ragged horde of SM folks with rifles trained on my head. A very fit and imposing human marches up and stands nose-to-nose with me. I recognize her from the news; this is the commander of the SM, Kelly Bookbean. The guy who arrested me hurried to her side and whispered the story of the explosion and my arrest into her ear. Her expression shifts and she signals her troops to lower their weapons.

“Uncuff the lemur,” she commands. The painter's tape around my wrists was already coming off but they made a great show of severing my bonds. “Sergeant, you and your idiot crew get down to the septic line and jog laps until I come get you, understood?”

“Yes sir.” They salute and promptly depart. The commander scribbled something on a tablet and handed it to a runner. “Fax this to the Murderkiller.” He nodded and sprinted off. Bookbean turns to me with a sigh and firmly shakes my hand.

“Welcome. I'm Space Military Commander Bookbean.”

“I am Delivery Lemur (deliveremur).”

“Sorry about this. Some of my warriors don't know a true hero when they see one. Thank you for what you did today.”

Today... What did I do... I was trying to get some cheap algae snacks. “It's what anyone would do, right?”

“Not just anyone would have noticed that the package was rigged to explode, and take immediate action.” Her face fills with emotion. “The defense minister might have been killed today without your quick thinking.”

She's talking about something different, OK. “Ah, well. It is what it is, ya know,” I say. Bookbean's aide comes back and holds up a tablet for her to read.

“Mr. Welker wants to see you,” she said, and ushered me onto a shuttle with no further discussion. I had to hop to keep up with her brisk stride. We launched immediately.

The flagship SMV Murderkiller was easily distinguishable in the fleet guarding the capital, but even that massive thing was dwarfed by the Space Beam cannons. After docking in Murderkiller's underbelly, Bookbean escorted me rapidly through a dozen security scans into a heavily guarded elevator and used a 36-digit password to access Deck X. We came out into a noisy office block where everyone looked like a high-ranking officer. The cubicles were interconnected by canals for aquatic personnel like Tactical Toads and Logistical Lobsters. I spotted my acquaintance Lopcorn nearby with a mop and bucket, being berated by his supervisor.

“You're doing it wrong! Don't mop back and forth, you have to go in a circle, like this!”

“Blub-blub – Commander!” someone yelled. Bookbean halted and frowned down at a catfish in the canal wearing a white clerical collar.

“What?” she demanded brusquely.

“Another Possum Patrol raid – blub – six dead,” sobbed the catfish, pointing to six black bags on the floor. Bookbean bristled. Her shoulders flexed.

“You brought them here? You're out of line, Chaplain Guct.”

“Welker – blub – shall look upon them!” Guct declared. “We are paying the price on the front lines – blub – for your careless leadership – blub! Wave after wave...”

Some of the officers stopped to listen, looking uncomfortable. Bookbean pointed an angry finger at him. “I'll deal with you later,” she promised, then spun and called to the nearest officer. “You. Round up as many troops as you can and go chase down the raiders.” With that, she grabbed my arm and directed me down the hall. “Don't listen to that stupid fish, Delivery Lemur. Mr. Welker got me out of I/V labor when I was an orphan. He's a great man. I used to work in a garbage liquifier under the landfills on Zaxylys. I didn't see the sky for six years. We slept in the vents, even though it was freezing, just to get away from the fumes. Mr. Welker got us all out.”

I'm taken to an adjacent boardroom. It's empty but for two people sitting together at the farthest corner of the table: A sloth and a human. The human was President Gault. She's about fifty. Both her arms are missing. One leg ended at the knee, the other at the hip joint. The brown sloth next to her wore an outsized suit jacket emblazoned with the seal of the Department of Defense. They looked up at me. Bookbean shut the door behind us.

“Yggulazagla ygzaazy lagzalay,” the sloth greeted me quietly in accented Lemurish.

I know some of the sloth language and replied “Yawawya waawa-yaw (deliveremur)”

Franz Welker held a finger to his lips and I saw he had a sleeping human infant in each of his suit pockets. I lowered my voice. “Oh.” Huh.

Welker indicated the chair next to him and I sat. President of the United Galaxies, Jen Gault, inclined her head but said nothing. Her expression said she had already completed her appraisal of me with one glance. It's stuffy in here.

“Delivery Lemur; let me express my gratitude to you for thwarting today's bombing,” said Welker, slowly. Bookbean fell in behind him and stood at attention. “We are relieved that you were not injured during this disturbing incident.”

“Same.”

“Furthermore, we regret the actions of our ignorant troops who arrested you. It was not warranted. The neutrality of Delivery Lemurs throughout history is well-known in civilized society.”

Yes that's the rep you get when you never know wtf is going on I guess. “Ah, no biggie.”

“From whom did you get bomb?” asked the President. Her voice creaked like an old wooden board.

“Uh, a customer.”

“Who? Where?”

“On Luzlork. I couldn't see who it was, they were underwater.”

President Gault and Minister Welker exchanged a look. “What did they say?”

“They said it was urgent that I get it to Mr. Welker ASAP, and that I'd get a big reward,” I recount. “But why would someone try to mail you an explosion?”

“You're not permitted to ask questions,” Gault informed me. “You are a clown. We have a lot of clowns around here. You jettisoned the package when you realized you were in danger. By happenstance, that might have saved my colleague here. We're fortunate you did. On New Year's Day, the Floom Empire will attack the United Galaxies. We'll all die, or Franz will cause the attack to fail.”

I have some questions about that but I remember I'm not supposed to ask anything. The D.minister looked weary. His face sagged.

“If it was merely death, Jen...” he began, but was cut off. The door slid open and a shoebill stork flapped in. His grey feathers were clean but ruffled. His talons were bedecked with jewel-studded gold bangles. It was Felix Rølvag, the finance minister. He perched on the chair across from the president. After him swam anglerfish Scott la Soup, wifi minister, through the canal entrance. This is some kind of major meeting. "Madam President," hailed Rølvag, with forced deference. "Franz." He grinned insolently at Welker. "Minister Rølvag," answered Welker with perfect composure. "Minister la Soup. You have completed your inspection?" "Yes, your strays and orphans gave us a splendid tour," squawked Rølvag, rolling his eyes. "What big long cannons you have. Very impressive. Very very expensive." "Expensive---aye, but---vital," said Scott la Soup in a weird & fucked up voice. The door opened again and a squirrel scampered in, alongside an obese crocodile and menacing ibex; Dr. Anna Siong, Mal McFang, and Zank Zeetlock, representing the departments of health, agriculture, and energy respectively.

Zeetlock's curling black horns and wide glossy eyes freaked me out - but not as much as the next to arrive, Baron Armando el Mago. The justice minister was the tallest human I've ever seen, over 11 feet high, in a tailored silk suit with jade buttons. He was trailed by an entourage of ten Litigation Koalas who were clearly terrified of him. Baron Armando met my gaze and smiled. I looked away. Something is off about that dude. Rølvag sighed. "Berg is last again I suppo-" "OOOOO" someone roared, just as something whooshed past me in a blur that blew away Dr. Siong's stack of notes. Welker's pocket babies woke up and started babbling curiously. A cheetah was about to crash into me but changed direction at the last nanosecond and landed in the next chair. “Oh you childish, unprofessional...” muttered Dr. Siong, frantically gathering up her papers.

Berg Lazerson, Minister of Transportation, doffed his cowboy hat to her with a wink, and addressed the room at large. “Why is there a Delivery Lemur in my seat?” he turned to me. I got a wink too. “You're lucky I'm so agile. See how I fast I turned? A 9/10 landing, I'd say.”

“You ought to look before you leap, Minister Lazerson,” breathed Franz Welker. He procured milk bottles from his baggy sleeves and fed the children. “This lemur doesn't concern you. Deliveremur, why don't you...”

Berg tossed some papers out on the table. He straightened his back and folded his arms.

“Lemurs aside, then. We're here to talk about your weapons project. I'll start. My position hasn't changed, besides thinking you're an even bigger fraud than I knew an hour ago. You want me to reassign 50% of my heavy freighters and 33% of public M.Transit vehicles to shipping scrap metal and reactor mass to your artillery assembly site? In your dreams. Why would I do that? Fax out your dossier on the aliens if you want anyone to help you.”

“You may go,” Welker said to me, his face rigidly calm. I tried to push my chair out from the desk but Berg Lazerson was holding it down with his foot.

“Nah. You don't take orders from him.” Berg stuck out his chin. “Importers, exporters, and shipping entities, including private couriers, are regulated by Commercial Spacefaring Commission, which is regulated by the Civil Aeronautics Administration, which is regulated by me. So -”

“This is a military vessel, Minister. Civilian visitors are under military authority,” Welker said flatly.

“Gragarag garragagra raragar,��� growled crocodile Mal McFang. “Gargagarararar!”

“Do we have time for this?” Demanded Dr. Anna Siong.

“No.” the President decided. “Wifi Minister la Soup, your report.”

“Yes---” the anglerfish buzzed. “We—are--maintaining--the data blackout around possum_patrol_territory, just as_requested... No uploads, no downloads---though, the--service-providers---are--not--happy-with---me-ha-ha.”

“We appreciate your continued assistance,” Welker told him. “I regret putting your department in this position. Put the blame on me; I will take responsibility for the ISP's losses.”

“Ah_no_need, n-no_needdd” stammered la Soup. “A---matter--of public security. The Wi-Fi_Dept is happy-to-help. We will contain the—Possum_Patrol's lies. Just tell_us_what---to---do--next.” Dr. Siong raised her paw. “If I may?” she squeaked. “I have new metrics on the famine. Illnesses relating to malnutrition are up everywhere, even in the capital system. We have scurvy in 3% of galaxy 1 and 17% of galaxy 7 citizens. Rickets is spiking in galaxy 6 like we've never seen before, and-”

“Grarar graagag! Franz Grrrrrrraaa!” McFang snarled.

Welker bowed contritely.

“The soldiers must eat. I ask too much of them to deny them square meals,” he said.

“Rarag gararga Stackland gagraga, grrr gra...”

“That has not escaped our notice.” President Gault assured her.

“Yes. Well. With regard to the most recent funding cuts,” picked up Siong. “I'd like to request our budget be revised before next quarter. You can't ask me to resolve this crisis with pocket change!”

“The President says Space Beams are the top priority,” sighed Rølvag, shrugging expansively. “So Welker gets his way. The treasury I've nurtured so well can sustain his spending until spring. A recession is inevitable, even if we shut down the cannons today. I've made you all aware of my projections...”

“You will continue to handle the expenses as we have agreed,” said Gault.

“Whatever Rølvag tells you, the opposite is true,” the ibex Zank Zeetlock alleged in rumbling monotone. “Triple-check your ledgers, Welker. Rølvag could be skimming trillions right under your nose. Or embedding loopholes in the hastily restructured budget to undermine your entire department. He is not going along with this out of kindness. There is something in it for him.”

Rølvag laughed openly. “That's right. It can't be the expanded authority to make up new taxes, the manufacturing boom, and ironclad tenure. I must be a Floom saboteur.”

Welker's hands slipped and he dropped both bottles of milk to the floor. They broke. The two babies he'd been feeding started crying.

“Oh no, the delegation of infants agrees with you, Zank.” The shoebill quipped, smirking sidelong at the ibex.

Welker was trying to console the young humans. I lifted my tail up to see if any milk landed on it; looks clean. “Kelly, could you...” said Franz.

“I'll get someone to clean it right away,” Kelly Bookbean said, and loped out of the room. Welker was changing the babies' milk-splattered bibs and caps for clean ones. I noticed both of their scalps were disfigured with huge bulging white veins. Zank Zeetlock was furiously castigating Felix Rølvag. Baron Armando's retinue of koalas were staring at the floor uncomfortably.

“That is enough,” cut in Gault. There was silence. The door swung open and Bookbean returned with a hare janitor – Mr. Lopcorn, whom I met on Gallagalla a few weeks ago. The disgraced ex-commander of the S.Military dipped his mop in his yellow bucket and started wiping up the spilled milk.

Berg Lazerson twitched.

“Someone help me out with this mystery,” he began, simmering with anger. His tail stiffened unconsciously. “With the threat of alleged aliens coming to get us, why does Welker demote and denigrate the best commander and fighter of all time?”

“Berggg---- it's more complicated-” la Soup interjected, but Berg talked right over him.

“The Lazerson dynasty has dominated the Land Olympics for a hundred years. Even among cheetahs, we stand alone. I am the greatest son of that line. I finish the hundred-meter dash in under one second,” he proclaimed, and looked to Lopcorn who was still cleaning, giving no sign that he was listening. “I can't even approach this freak. We enlisted at the same time. I thought I'd blow everyone's mind and become the ultimate hero. But when I met this guy, I knew I'd always be in his shadow. So here I am doing this. It's buffoonery for our d.minister to set aside Lopcorn. If he can't beat the aliens, no one can.”

Gault looked ready to spit. Welker just looked exhausted. “You don't know the first thing about the Floom Empire. None of you do.”

“Of course we don't,” cawed Rølvag. “You're the only one who's ever been there.”

Emergency lights flared red. An ear-splitting siren wailed. Holographic warning codes blinked to life everywhere.

Wifi minister la Soup understood it or just panicked and disappeared through the canal.

Commander Bookbean frowned. “Radiation alert! What the hell...” She started typing furiously on her phone.

Rølvag was anxious. “Meltdown?”

“Impossible. The MurderKiller has a brand new reactor enclosure,” said Zank Zeetlock. His phone came to life on the table, with peripheral attachments spinning and flashing and beeping.

“Six sources. Right outside this room.”

“Bad bad bad bad!” chittered Dr. Siong.

“We're evacuating,” Kelly Bookbean decided. She went over to the doors and threw them open.

In the hall outside, the six black body bags stood up. They gurgled and wheezed and stumbled toward the boardroom. Six hairy hideous things tore themselves out of the black plastic; their too-long tails thrashing, their eyes glowing, their jaws dripping with bright foam. Possum Patrol rushed into the boardroom.

“S-s-security!” shrieked Bookbean, her whole frame shaking in horror. A hundred Commando Chameleons detached themselves from the walls and ceiling and sprayed the possums with bullets. It did not injure them. The six nightmares tore through the commandos in a frenzy, splattering them with overwhelming, unbelievable strength. They attacked with tooth and claw, breaking swathes of chameleons into pieces with each cruel lash of their tails. The last line of defenders were breaking and trying to get away. Possum Patrol ravenously smashed through them. The view into the boardroom opened up.

“IT'S HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!” the possum at the front howled. He got a gun and shot. Kelly Bookbean dove in front of Welker and her ribcage popped. Pandemonium swallowed the world. The cheetah Berg grabbed Dr. Siong and pulled her under the table then came back up for me. Litigation Koalas were scrambling in all directions. Rølvag and Zeetlock frantically searched for a way out. Mal McFang lunged onto the table and was bellowing something in crocodilish. Gault hurled herself to the ground. I made myself go numb, like I do. Franz Welker was up but not moving. His lips parted and I saw that his teeth were clenched really hard. The possums converged on him.

With bitter regret in each syllable, Welker said, “All hands, engage.” Instantaneously, six red lumps appeared in Lopcorn's bucket and the possums thudded to the deck, headless. Gore and hot blood covered everything and everyone.

Lopcorn kept cleaning as though uninterrupted, mopping systematically with circular strokes. He went wide around Welker, leaving him in a red puddle. “Save them,” mouthed Bookbean just as she died.

The cabinet ministers were recovering themselves. McFang was helping the President back into her chair.

“How could they have gotten in here?” she rasped.

“Nuclear hearts,” answered Zeetlock. “It's decades-old abandoned technology.”

“No pulse. No body heat. A standard cell scan would read them as corpses,” said breathless Dr. Siong. “They can put themselves into hibernation and self-activate. But that operation severely shortens your lifespan. The original heart is destroyed. They're desperate...”

“They had to be carted in by someone,” Rølvag pointed out. “As long as they were playing dead.”

Oh, this I actually know. I say, “It was the Clerical Catfish, Chaplain Guct.” They seemed startled, like they forgot I was there.

“How do you know that?” demanded Gault.

“I saw him with the body bags on my way in.”

She looked imploringly at Welker who still hadn't moved. “The Catfish are in league with Possum Patrol, as we suspected.”

Welker's eyes were on Lopcorn for a long while before he abruptly looked over at me.

“Yes, yes” he was saying to himself. He took out his phone and when he spoke into it, his voice came through the ship-wide intercom. “This is Welker. Lock down the ship. Detain all Catfish.” He put the phone down. “Guct will have fled, but the effort should be made. Lopcorn, Delivery Lemur, come with me please.”

The sloth led 2 of us past the mass of ripped limbs and bursted guts in the corridor to an empty office. We watched quietly while he wrote down a short message, sealed it in an envelope, and pressed it into my paw. “I have a job for you,” Welker said. “Please take this letter to the library on Planet Clockmarsh.”

His blood-damp paws left gross stains on the envelope. “Uh, okay,” I say apprehensively.

“Lopcorn, I promote you to the rank of private. I am ordering you to escort this Delivery Lemur as bodyguard until the delivery is complete.”

“Yes sir.”

uh end of log 7

[im-not-shouting-im-projecting]

Some Seamster!Quinn Cooper HCs

I didnt intend for this to be this long, but my seamstress heart was inspired. I got kind of carried away, and had to refocus, so I'm going to do another post soon with some advice and anecdotes for wrighting costumers.

For the last couple of months I have been absolutely Obsessed with @poindextears 's Crickets, her SMH post-Waffle Frog OCs, and I have had a lot of headcannons about Quinn Cooper: a theatre kid extrordanare and Hoh icon who talks like he's from 50s and is the boyfreind of Nando (Cricket dman) as we have quite a bit in common. All of Mel's fics are amazing, and I would highly recommend! Give them a read on tumblr or AO3

--

I know Mel has said that Quinn's favorite place is Joanne's, which is completely understandable for someone who doesn't live near actual textile markets... but Joanne's (and similar chain craft/fiberarts supply stores) suck.

Like first of all, on a monetary level... I'm going to start with the assumption that high school Quinn didn't have a large project budget (reasoning: 1. his family is already tight with money, 2. I can't imagine his not-particularly-supportive guardians gave him lots of spending money (esp with theatre fees and materials) 3. I can't imagine he brought in tons of money on the side with a theatre schedule + grades good enough to go to med school + time with his old lady freind + time for sewing)

With that being said: Fabric is expensive. Way more expensive than people expect. Especially if you don't have expensive machinery (like overlock machines) that make cheap synthetic fabrics usable. Also I like to imagine Quinn is in the "fabrics made of plastic are itchy and bad for the enviornment" club like me.

All that is to say: Joanne's is absolutely the worst place that isn't actively upscale to buy fabric (or materials) on a budget.

- The shop's target demographic is stay-at-home white suburban moms who have the time to clip coupons, buy materials on a "when it's on sale" basis as opposed to a "my sister didn't notice the four seperate places I marked my shears 'fabric only' so now I physically cannot continue this project without buying new extra-sharp fabric scissors'" basis, and importantly: can stop by the store every day for a month because discounted items change on a day to day basis, all of which is not particularly conducive to someone a high school kids on a budget.

- Even with all the discounts in existance, the fabrics there are still super expensive and especially for the often lackluster quality (like... they are fine but if I'm paying literally $40/y for enough faux fur to make a big enough "mane" to cover the gap between the cowardly lion's padding and the actor's neck, we shouldnt have to sweep the fur bits off the stage at intermission)

- Additionally if you need a lot of fabric, say enough 7ft squares of heavy mustard yellow fabric for 30 lioness cape/pants? You might just need to run 4 seperate Joanne's out of two different fabrics that were close enough to each other to work

If you are putting in the time and effort to make something complicated,

- Also, and this is probably the most obvious: there just aren't that many options. If you want anything other than a cotton or fleece, than you better hope the single shade they have in the right color works

So I have established: Joanne's = Bad

So how does Quinn factor into all this?

Well first of all I would like to imagine that at some point Quinn helped out in SMH costuming, where they teach him the magic of using something that already exists. Samwell being as liberal as it is, I would like to think that the costuming people are aware of how awful the current state of fabric waste is, and, how his sewing skills are so much better used altering things at thrift shops beginning his journey twords my completeley basess headcannon that he one day adopts some vintage looks

While I think he would be down to adopt some of these practices in his costuming (a la my personal anectode below), I have a feeling that Quinn is one of those people who just likes to make things from scratch. (reasoning: 1 his general personality, but far more importantly, 2 THIS BOY WANTED TO MAKE EVAN HANSEN'S POLO BY HAND, WHY??? WHAT IS THE PURPOSE??? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH TIME THAT TAKES???????? YOU ARE WILLING TO SPEND UPWORDS OF TEN HOURS OF YOUR LIFE ON A MODERN STYLE SHIRT THATS GOING TO BE SEEN 4 TIMES???)

I get it, especially for historical reconstructions, there are people who genuinely love sewing by hand, I love Bernadette Banner as much as the next seamstress, but I honestly don't know how they do it.

I like to think that Quinn would be wandering around some thrift store and out of the corner of his eye notice some curtains and have a vision of frolicking through a meadow like Julie Andrews in cloths made out of a curtain... metaphorically. But he def gets "Do a Dear" stuck in his head every time he wears it

Of course the SMH Costuming crew introduce him to some better places to at least get draping and mock up fabrics, but I think they would also introduce him to an actual fabric store.

Samwell is close enough to Boston that I'm sure there's an actual fabric warehouse within driving distance, so when Quinn can't find a suitable material at his beloved Joanne's, and is understandably skeptical about ordering fabric online, Ford is just like dude, go to the fabric warehouse, so he gives it a try.

Ok his fist thought when he gets there is omg everything is so big. Ok, that's his second thought, his first thought is ugh this smells like the SMH locker room, bc a giant block of concrete with no internal climate control in the New England humidity stuffed to the brim with moisture-holding fabric is def gonna make some kind of funk.

But after that like...

Ok, on the left is your average Joanne's while on the right is your average fabric warehouse

I can totally imagine him physically getting lost. He is tiny, and those places are total mazes, absolutely ginormus, they are all stacked literally 8 feet tall, and all the rows look the same.

Fabric in warehouses is stored for maximum capacity as opposed to places like Joanne's where it is purposely stored in ways that display the whole selection at once. Additionally, while hobbyist bolts face out as much as possible so you can see it at a glance, professional grade bolts face in for protection

...If it's on the shelves at all, the hallmark of a textile warehouse is just dozens of bolts leaning haphazardly in precarious places

This tiny boy is just absolutely surrounded by rows upon rows of fabric, stored in ways that are absolutely not conducive to being looked at easily, and is incredibly frusturated bc Aggghhh I can't look at any of this without moving all of it around, and I can't reach any of it!!!

BUT!

Guess what he has?

Nando to the rescue!

Quinn's big strong dman boyfriend is more than willing to move around and carry the bolts for him and when need be he'll just straight up plop Quinn on his shoulders so he can see the stuff at the top :)

Ok, that's the gist of what I had to say, some other little seamster!Quinn hcs:

his old lady friend taught him the absolute basics, and his wedding gift from her is her 70 year old sewing machine that he first learned to sew on and he treasures that thing FOREVER

bc of his apparent love of hand sewing he is one of those people that swears by genuine leather thimbles, idk why it just feels like him

whenever people compliment his outfit he is just casually like "Oh thanks, I made it" (bc non sewers are always astounded by that and we get to gloat) because I said so

he makes Nando cute crop tops

[tmitransitioning]

I have EDS I'm updating my medical ID and getting an engraved wallet card. Would it be a good idea to put, along with other pertinent info, that I may be binding, or is that a waste of space? I don't bind often, but with my medical conditions binding is less of a good idea so....

i don’t think we have any active mods who have EDS any longer, so i’m just going to answer this here. 

Personally, I tend to err on the side of caution and have TONS of information available to the squad- whatever they might need to know.  You don’t say if you’re dealing with POTS or other types of EDS related conditions, but honestly, if they find “overly tight undershirts” that seem like they’re restricting breathing or circulation, they’re gonna just cut them off (or loosen the clasp, whatever style you have and whatever’s easiest at the time)As far as my medical ID, I have the bare bones on my wrist ID and it’s linked to an electronic record thing ($10 a year) that has everything I want to put in (meds, diagnoses, doctors) THAT I HAVE CONTROL OF, so it’s helpful. My wrist band only has my allergies and to use epi, but my e-record also discloses that i’ve not had “all the surgeries” so they won’t be wasting time if I'm having kidney stone issues and getting surprised about what they find there and is this who we think it is, etc. The info linked to these IDs can be accessed by phonecall or internet with a two-step code on the back, so EMS/ER staff can pull up all the info (and I don’t have to worry about what few details of my record I can keep in my wallet)- and I have more than one ID linked to the same profile (so I can change the style or color and it will still redirect to my own profile without me having to make more than one).   They have a lifetime warranty (my silicone band snapped and they sent me another one, my friend’s kid lost his in a lake and they replaced that too).  (full disclosure, if the link works properly, I added a “you get 5 dollars off for friends link” and if you buy something I'll also get 5 dollars off- but frankly, I don’t think I'll need to buy anything, it’s mostly for the discount for you).  I’m not trying to oversell it, it’s just that this particular product has given chronically ill and disabled me significant peace of mind and regardless of the affiliate link (here’s a link that won’t give me a kickback, btw) I just want to tell everyone.if anyone with EDS has additional thoughts on the binding issue and making that info available to the squad in an emergency

mod mayhem