#cool ppe

[monstyra]

look i thought there would b more excuses in there to draw cool scifi armor okay enviro suits dont count

[shadybug]

thinking abt aliens showing affection towards each other again and getting rly sappy about it

[mefilas]

did not realize their height difference is this severe. the worms in my brain are duking it out over this as we speak

[hyenagurl]

im a male director. im so smart. and bold and edgy. look at my movie where my female lead is a prostitute. sorry, sex worker. because having sex with men for money is work. sex work is WORK just like any job… but its also super luxurious and cool and a little sexy. look how sexy this prostitute - sorry, i mean escort, i mean sex worker is. isnt she so hot and sexy? this is a job for sexy hot women. hot, legal, middle class women who are sooo cool and soooo empowered, theyre are the real face of sex work. which is work, and just like any other job. no trafficking or exploitation of poor women or underage girls here. because its a JOB. a luxurious sexy job like any other, its WORK and a LEGITIMATE JOB and - what do you mean, OSHA regulations and PPE?

[sunflw3rbouquet]

doctor! doctor! - hc

zayne x doctor!male reader

overview: zayne and his doctor boyfriend hc! notes: condensing the medical career bc this is fiction and lighthearted (i didn't wanna be logical), not lore compliant (reader is a doctor), cute boyfriends, unedited again bc of time, reader cooks, title from zb1! tw: mentions of being a doctor!

…sun✰ ive been on lads for over a month now and zayne is the loml

✰as much as the two of you would like to pretend your relationship was some interesting office romance, it truly didn’t start like that ✰you went to the same med school, that was the only reason you knew each other. ✰zayne was a 3rd year while you were a 1st year,  ✰you had mutual friends, which allowed you to meet decently often ✰you didn’t get together until you were a 2nd year and he was a 4th year, but you’ve been together ever since! ✰he was the one to ask you out, mostly because he hates being in the dark about important things, like your feelings for each other ✰however, he couldn’t have chosen a worse time if he tried

y/n had just finished his first cadaver dissection of his second year of med school. he had been standing up for almost the whole day, his back aching as he finished the last dissection. the doctor watching the students' work dismissed them, instructing them on the work they had to complete before their next class.

the students talked calmly as they excited, a slouch forming in y/n’s posture as he walked to the biohazard trash can. he took off his ppe, sweat drenching the area under his gloves and chest. the cool air of the restroom took the edge off the heat. the bathroom was on the opposite side of the hallway, y/n shutting the door to the surgery room behind him before entering in the restroom. after approaching the sink, he splashed water on his face, his black undershirt covered in sweat stains. he looked as bad as he felt, the 8 plus hour surgery a monster on his body.

as he exited the restroom he was met with zayne standing outside, a look of subtle panic etching the man’s usually stoic face. “can we talk, y/n?” zayne asked, blinking once after he finished the sentence. y/n thought he could hear the smallest quiver in his voice while he spoke.

“can it wait a bit? i just finished my dissection-“ y/n asked, zayne running a hand through his hair, glasses falling down his face. he was wearing a pair of grey, cotton scrubs, his hospital id hanging from the pocket in his pants. purple bags lived right under his tear ducts, but not only were they not as noticeable as other students’, they somehow made him look more attractive.

“it’s urgent.” zayne had lost the fear that rested in his voice, his hand moving to push up his silver glasses that had fallen down his nose. taking a deep breath, y/n pushed his hair back, sighing. 

“fine.”

y/n expected for zayne to say something, but there was silence. unbearable, loud silence. he looked at the man, waiting for the words to leave his lips. y/n’s eyebrow raised, lips pressing into a straight line.

“would you like to go on a date with me?” zayne asked, his eyes glimmering with the smallest bits of emotion. y/n’s jaw almost dropped, eyes widening.

“i would love to, oh my god.” he spoke, zayne’s hand trailing to find y/n’s. 

“are you free wednesday?” “for you, i am.”

✰like the snow melting on a sunny, spring day, zayne warmed up almost the instant they got together ✰his indifferent expressions turned into bright smiles, and his awkward posture turned into comfortable and relaxed affection ✰zayne is a cuddle bug. entirely. ✰long shifts and tiring days drain every cent of energy from his body, and now that you’re boyfriends, there’s something to replenish his energy!

the clock read 3:37.

y/n had finished his shower, damp hair resting on the pillow of his full bed as he waited for zayne to finish washing up. the two were home late for different reasons: y/n had finished another dissection and was writing multiple essays, while zayne was in the final stretch of his shift.

every second that ticked by made y/n want to close his eyes even more. it was exhausting staying up. it was exhausting working every day. he wished for a break more than he wished for the sun to shine bright on a cold day and for a glass of water when he was thirsty. 

and then zayne entered the room.

water dripped from his short bangs, pajamas hanging loosely on his body as he practically limped to the bed because of the sore muscles in his legs and back. but this zayne, this tired, wrecked, zayne, made everything worth it.

“my bloods going to start clotting if i keep only standing and sitting all day.” zayne muttered, sitting down on the bed before pulling the covers on top of him. y/n laughed, moving closer so he was next to zayne’s side.

“you’re going to get a cold if you fall asleep with wet hair.” y/n spoke, adjusting zayne so he was sitting up, stealing the damp towel from his hands to dry the man’s hair. zayne scoffed, moving his hands to rest on y/n’s thigh. 

“that’s not real, you know?” y/n rolled his eyes, rubbing his head a little harder, just to let zayne know he meant to tease him.

“i’m just trying to be a caring boyfriend, stop going all doctor on me.” y/n pouted, shifting once more so he now sat on zayne’s lap. zayne smiled, his hands wrapping around his boyfriend’s waist as a smile creeped onto his face.

“oh, i see. carry on then, handsome boyfriend.” zayne smiled proudly. y/n let out a scoff, pressing a soft kiss to zayne’s cheek. “finish drying my hair, i feel a cold coming.” y/n stopped his movement of drying the man’s hair, looking at his face. he cocked his eyebrow, zayne’s lips pursing. the man let out a fake cough, doe eyes sparkling as he looked at y/n.

it took all of the strength in y/n’s body to not give in to the man. but sadly, he still gave in to him. he leaned forward, a pressing a kiss to his lips happily. “i love you, now sit still so i can dry your hair.” y/n muttered, zayne breaking into a smile, any traces of that “cold” gone.

✰residency was truly when the “office romance” started  ✰due to the opening of the deepspace tunnel all those years ago, linkon city’s medical program had condensed substantially, meaning zayne was already out of residency and a cardio surgeon by the time y/n was a first year resident at akso hospital ✰long glances at each other when walking through the halls turned into lingering touches when you visited him in his office in the second you were alone ✰somehow, seeing zayne at work but not being able to engage with him was harder than seeing him a little a home

y/n sat on the couch in zayne’s office, his arms grazing the floor as they moved back and forth.

“you’re so mean, zayne.” y/n pouted, his eyes looking up from the piece of the floor he was touching to see zayne sitting at his desk. zayne was looking at the files on his desk, sifting through papers until a certain section caught his eye, causing his eyebrows to furrow. there was no response to y/n’s statement, much to y/n’s dislike. “you see! you’re ignoring me. i finally have a break while you do and you just ignore your boyfriend of 2 years.”

with a sigh, zayne picked up his head from the papers he was processing. he changed his gaze to meet with y/n’s. “how am i mean?” he asked, a smile appearing on his lips. the new attention made a heat run to y/n’s face.

“you’re.” he started, his words failing to come out smoothly. y/n coughed to clear his throat, a smile appearing on his lips. “you’re ignoring your boyfriend when he’s busy and came to see you.” zayne stood up from his desk and walked over to the couch. he leaned down, his hand reaching out to caress y/n’s head.

“i’m sorry. i might not have patients, but i have things to read and charts to do. it doesn’t mean i don’t love you.” he whispered, zayne’s fingers caressing through the strands of y/n’s hair. “i’ll pay attention to you now, i finished my work.” y/n leaned into his touch, nodding happily.

“i know you don’t hate me. i like teasing you.” y/n said, adjusting his position on the couch so zayne could sit down comfortably, y/n resting on his chest.

“you didn’t say it back.” zayne spoke, y/n’s hands mindlessly playing with zayne’s long fingers. he caressed the scars on the knuckles while zayne held him tightly. 

“what did i not say back?” y/n asked, looking up from zayne’s hand after zayne’s arms squished him once more. zayne sighed, his fingers breaking from y/n’s grasp to squish the man’s cheeks.

“you didn’t tell me you loved me after i said it.” there was almost a pout in zayne’s voice. was he really that upset?

“i love you sooooo much, my zayne! don’t forget that.” y/n said, his head leaning back to see zayne. with a smile, zayne responded back quietly. their lips inched closer together, contact happening for only a millisecond before there was a knock at zayne’s off.

y/n jumped off the couch in fear at the noise, hitting zayne’s chin. he ran to the chair in front of zayne’s desk, zayne rubbing his face while calling the person in to enter his office. “i have the information you requested, dr. zayne.” the resident said, entering in while zayne walked to his desk. “oh, hi y/n.” y/n nervously waved back to the resident, a small smile on his face.

couldn’t y/n have zayne to himself for a moment?

✰with the increasing of wanderers in linkon city, positions in the hospital were rearranged once more, and y/n was now in the upper levels as a thoracic surgeon ✰this change also corresponded with the couple’s 4th year anniversary! ✰now that y/n was not a resident, the couple could finally be public in the hospital ✰it was the flip of a switch: one day zayne and y/n acted like normal coworkers, then the next, they were walking to lunch holding hands, comfortably chatting

the change was amazing. being with his boyfriend in public was amazing. zayne’s hand was laced with y/n’s, a soft smile on the latter’s face as zayne talked about his morning.

“the resident i was talking to you about did really good on their rounds this morning. i think they’re flourishing into a confident doctor.” zayne’s voice was steady, his gaze matched with y/n’s. “oh, and the patient who had a cardiac tamponade is recovering well. they should be discharged by the end of the week.” y/n listened to zayne, nodding his head every so often to show he was listening.

zayne’s monologue continued as they walked to the cafeteria, sitting down at a table that caught a majority of the light from the large windows. staff and patients walked around the area, some sneaking glances at the two affectionate doctors.

“i brought two different options, so take whichever you want.” y/n said, opening his lunch kit to reveal two glass containers, one with cold noodles and one with an omelet leftover from breakfast. zayne reached for the cold noodles, opening the lid. he grabbed the two spoons and chopsticks, handing one of each to y/n.

“have some, these are the ones you made. they’re really good.” zayne said, already digging in to the meal. y/n smiled, taking a spoonful of the broth before trying the noodles.

“woah, these are good. i only made them for your lunch while i was at home two days ago, so i haven’t tried them.” y/n spoke, zayne’s expression one full of happiness.

“i love you. if i didn’t tell you that today. and this is not because of the cold noodles, but it’s a little because of that.” zayne rambled, y/n pecking his cheek.

“i love you too. let’s eat quick, because then we can go outside on a walk before we have to go to work again.” y/n spoke as he pulled away, zayne nodding.

the couple ate their lunch, zayne packing up in lightning speed before reaching for y/n’s hand. the two made their way to the outdoor garden, a smile on y/n’s face as he rested his head on zayne’s shoulder. the conversation between them had gone quiet, the silence allowing them to enjoy the presence of one another. the springtime had caused flowers to bloom in the hospital grounds, zayne picking a pink buttercup from the grass and handing it y/n, repeating the process until the man had a bouquet and they both had flowers tucked behind their ears.

they could get used to this.

✰in the present, y/n and zayne are both attendings at akso hospital! ✰all of that worked had finally paid off (and all of that money) ✰the matched level of seniority allowed y/n and zayne to have a more synced schedule, which gives you more time together ✰7 years had passed since the couple had gotten together, and they couldn’t be happier ✰they held hands in between surgeries, instructed residents together, and were stuck at the hip whenever they weren’t needed for something emergent ✰they were the model couple of the hospital (so much so that the hospital wanted to use them in promotional material) ✰there are two things zayne loves in this world: y/n and his job, so having them together all the time might have just made him the happiest man alive

y/n’s couch was soft. zayne had picked it out himself, grumbling about how he “regretted the couch he bought for the own office” and he “wanted to make sure his boyfriend was comfortable”. y/n didn’t fully believe this answer.

especially paired with the fact that zayne was now always in his office.

“did you buy this couch specifically so you could bother me while i’m working?” y/n asked, staring at his boyfriend as zayne flopped onto the couch. 

“no, i bought it because it’s soft and you never-” he said, y/n cutting him off, his hand mimicking zayne’s mouth.

“get enough rest! you stay here when you’re on call instead of coming home to ME to cuddle.” y/n mocked, his lips forming the same pout zayne makes when giving the same speech. a weak laugh escaped zayne’s lips at the mockery, y/n cooing. “did i embarrass you?” he asked, getting up from his seat to lay himself over zayne’s spread out body.

“ouch. and no, i’m not embarrassed, i’m happy you know me so well.” zayne said, his nose touching y/n’s. their eyes held each other in a tight gaze for what could have been nothing more than a second before y/n felt zayne’s lips on his on, gentle moving back and forth, waiting for y/n’s to kiss him back.

y/n responded back, a conversation without words reverberating between the two.

i love you.

i love you even though i’m tired every day. 

i love you even though work is hard and scary.

i love you for you, and everything you are to me.

i love you.

there was a knock of the door of y/n’s office, y/n pulling away for a moment to respond to the person. “i’m busy! if it’s not an emergency, come back later!” zayne barely let y/n’s response ring before he laughed, connecting their lips again. they were in their rightful place. with each other, loving each other, holding each other.

nothing in the world could top it.

✰happiness couldn’t describe all the feelings that zayne felt about y/n (and vice versa) ✰y/n made him so happy, in fact, that there’s a box containing a ring with a big, glittering diamond sitting inside zayne’s desk right now

my handsome man, zayne <32708 words

[thatonegreyghost]

Ok, I keep seeing hot takes about this, so I'm gonna pitch in my two cents: both Jayce and Viktor know how to follow safety compliance rules.

Jayce grew up in a forge. He would absolutely know how to be compliant with safety rules. His first memory is probably somebody lecturing him on the signs of heatstroke. Not only is he capable of being safe, he probably also has a pretty good habdle on when it's ok to disregard that. Does he need eye protection to retrofit this handle? Well, that depends on the tool he's using. Does he need gloves to handle that piece of steel? Well, that depends on what he's doing with it. He knows how to be safe around dangerous tools.

Viktor, conversely, grew up in Zaun. Everything is jerry-rigged down there. He can tell an electrical outlet is failing just by looking at it. He walks into the lab one day and knows they have a gas leak immediately. Viktor has grown up around poorly maintained structures, he would know an equipment failure on sight. And, because he knows that danger so intimately, he also knows when to GTFO.

That being said.. just because they *can* doesn't mean they do.

Jayce has, more than once, shocked himself on a live wire because "I don't need gloves, the voltage is too low to do lasting damage". Viktor has cut himself on sharp metal because "I'm not going to be handling it for that long, it's be a waste to put on a bunch of protection". Both of them have numerous burns, cuts, bruises, and bumps from just grabbing things they're not supposed to. PPE who? They're just gonna be moving the hot metal really fast, it's mostly cooled anyway, it won't be that bad!

[strid3rofthen0rth]

There's our dining table profile. Just add black resin. It's really that simple, trust me😉

I was going to cut it and get it in the form tonight, but I was wearing sneakers to work in the shop instead of proper boots, like an asshole, and dropped the corner of one of those on my big toe.

Idiot. It's already black and throbbing. Gonna lose the nail... for the umpteenth time. So I quit for the night because of idiocy and pussitude.

Beginning stages of a river table

1. Build a form out of melamine and sheathing tape that doesn't stick to resin.

2. Yoink a bunch of walnut slabs out of your stash and pick a couple that fit the client's basic dimensions and style.

3. Sit in a lawn chair with a beer and ponder how to best align them against each other for a long time. Only one beer, even though it's the end of a long shop day, because of the next step.

4. Climb onto the garage roof to get good pictures of both sides of each, so you can flip and rotate them a bajillion times in the computer, with a rectangle the size of the table overlayed.

Huge savings on the back and knees to flip and rotate slabs digitally for an hour until you like the look, instead of physically.

[covidsafecosplay]

Welcome to Covid-Safe Cosplay!

This blog was founded for cosplayers who want to show off their passion and hard work, but can't attend conventions or other cosplay events due to COVID-19 and other accessibility concerns. As fun as cons and fandom are, it's just not worth the risk for plenty of disabled and immunocompromised people, and it feels crappy to be left behind while the rest of the cosplay and fandom world moves on.

Here you will find posts about cosplay, COVID-19 news and advocacy, health and safety, incorporating mobility and other aids into costumes, crafting advice, tutorials, book reviews, and more! If it relates to COVID-19 safety or accessibility in fandom and cosplay, I want to talk about it!

This is also a place to spotlight cosplayers and their hard work! If you have a sweet cosplay to show off but you can't make it to a con, show it off via the submission box or using the tag #CovidSafeCosplay! To those of you masking up for events, or making cool character-themed PPE, we want to see you, too! Let's show the cosplay community that masking for crowded indoor events is still important! Let no disabled cosplayer be left behind!

We also have a Discord server, which you can join at this link!

(Blog admin: @renthony, they/them)

[kastlequill]

iv/v. ‘til my pulse loses time: pulsus alternans

pairing: kyle gaz garrick x f!reader word count: 2.3k synopsis: the fourth and final time you save gaz tags: whumptober, angst, gunshot wounds, feelings realization, medic!reader, 4+1, no y/n warnings: near death experiences, war ao3: read here ← prev | next →

IV.

As a medic, you could only do so much. 

Stitching together sliced skin, surgically removing bullets from traumatized flesh, administering first aid in the field—all within your skill range. Hell, even resuscitating a still-warm, newly-dead body was possible on special occasions. But you were neither God nor Death, so you couldn’t breathe life into the expired corpse of a friend, nor was it your place to hold a scalpel to the jugular of a foe. 

These mortal limitations weren’t to blame for the horrors that would unfold during the coming hours, however. The true crime committed there was your complacency. 

You had grown accustomed to setting broken noses and relaxing muscle spasms, to staring into dilated pupils and realigning dislocated joints. With every passing day of relative calm, your worries gradually waned; and with every successful surgery, your easy confidence grew. Not one soldier had coded on your operating table, and not one soldier had succumbed to their injuries whilst under your care. 

A random Thursday brought about the end of your pristine record. 

Getting paged for an emergency surgery in the dead of night wasn’t anything new; sleep was a luxury few could afford out here, medics least of all. The days when you struggled waking to the sound of your pager were now a tiny speck in the rearview mirror of your professional career. 

So the pager itself wasn’t the reason you were currently attempting to shove your trembling feet into a pair of boots, not bothering to untie the laces, ignoring the way your heel uncomfortably rubbed against the firm backend material. Rather, you were sprinting to the medbay because of the three chilling words you’d read on its display:

Bravo. Critical. STAT. 

Once you arrived, shit really started to hit the fan. 

The place looked as though a bomb had gone off. Two nurses were situating a limp masculine figure onto a gurney, skillfully sticking electrodes along his chest and hooking the wires up to a nearby monitor-on-wheels to display his vital signs. Meanwhile, three technicians tried to restrain a hulking mass of skull-faced muscle. Not far behind was the familiar mohawk of the Scotsman, with whom Captain Price was solemnly exchanging words. Which left one key member of the Bravo Team unaccounted for:

Gaz. Kyle.

You swallowed the panic that threatened to make itself known. Losing your cool would accomplish nothing except disrupt your focus and double the stakes. 

“Report,” you demanded, rushing to the PPE station to don a pair of surgical gloves and tighten a mask around your face. 

Next to you, the lead nurse grabbed hold of Gaz’s forearm and inserted a needle into his most prominent vein. “27-year-old male admitted six minutes ago with BP of 63/47, unconscious. Almost finished setting up the IV line.”

“He got lit up. Five shots made contact by our count,” Ghost interjected, voice gruff and posture unapologetically looming. “Maybe more.”

Too preoccupied with analyzing your patient’s current state and authorizing the nurse to administer a milligram of epinephrine, the words registered as little more than white noise, reduced to ‘five shots’. You cradled the nape of Gaz’s neck, carefully leaning him forward to hike up the bottom edge of his blood-soaked, tattered shirt. Trained eyes searched for exit wounds marring the expanse of his back and isolated a lone hole in his right shoulder before lowering him. 

“What happened?”

The captain rubbed a hand down his face, and you couldn’t help noticing how tired the man seemed. “Exfil went sideways. Gaz got the worst of it, I’m afraid. Nasty hit to the shoulder, see, but ’least that one went straight through. The others, not so much. Four points of entry across his abdomen—”

You unclipped a penlight from your coat pocket and shined it into the fallen soldier’s eyes, gently lifting his lids with your thumb. The size of his pupils remained unchanged, unresponsive to the stimulus.

“—no exits.”

That earned a grimace from you; always did, always would. One of your first interactions with Gaz involved you excising a bullet from his leg, but abdominal gunshot wounds were plenty worse. The fact several small pellets of lethal lead were still inside him, possibly embedded in organs vital for sustaining life, spelled disaster.

Fingertips pressed against the cold skin of his inner wrists, you were dismayed to feel his pulse hasten yet gradually lose strength. Your pinched gaze lifted in supplication to the heart monitor, desperation verging on belief, praying a merciful god might will the EKG line to stabilize. 

Instead, it went flat. 

A flurry of frantic alerts pouring from the monitor drowned out any and all other sounds. The grand scale of the universe seemed obsolete as each of your five senses honed in on this singular instance. 

“Code Blue!” you yelled, recovering fast. Someone reached to cut open Gaz’s shirt while you situated your right palm on the center of his chest and covered it with your left, fingers clasping the hand beneath. “Starting chest compressions at approximately zero one-hundred hours. Charge the defibrillator to 200 joules for the initial shock.”

Above him, elbows locked and pressure severe, you initiated CPR. Trying your damnedest to mute the surrounding whirlwind of chaos, to not be shaken by the sight of Gaz so motionless, so unlike the suave SAS sergeant who had burrowed into the cavity of your being. 

Two paddles emerged from your peripheral and settled firmly under his left pec and to the right of his sternum. “200 joules. Clear!”

You stepped back, arms raised, watching his torso jerk off the gurney in tandem with a spike in the EKG. His body then dropped onto the padding below, and the line descended to null once again. 

The current coursing through him had barely subsided when you resumed delivering compressions. His ribs began to crack during the second set, but you kept the same pace and depth for the full two-minutes. 

What did a few broken ribs matter if it meant he’d return to his brothers-in-arms? 

To you?

“300 joules. Clear!”

Like a dormant spore reawakened by a drop in defenses, fear unfurled within your gut, its noxious fumes suffocating you from the inside-out. The defibrillator capped at 360 joules, and if that wasn’t enough to restart the electrical activity of his heart, then—

A nearly inaudible blip from the monitor broke through your train of thought before it had the chance to spiral any further. The blip morphed into a series of beeps, which slowly but surely climbed to a less-concerning rate. 

Your shoulders slackened, caving inward as your lungs expelled a heavy sigh of relief. 

Gaz was alive. In critical condition and soon to be rushed into emergency surgery, yes, but alive. Which was more than could be said five minutes ago.

Thinking the worst had passed, Ghost crowded around the bed, jostling several of your colleagues in the process of attempting to catch a better look at his incapacitated teammate. He paid no heed to the toes on which he stepped, or the shoulders with which his own collided.

When it came to men like the 141, relinquishing even an inch of authority was as good as allowing them to take over the whole damn lot. True, they might be used to calling the shots out in a warzone, but, here, you had the final say. 

“I won’t have your lieutenant scaring my staff shitless, Captain,” was your one and only warning. “Handle him, or I will.”

The other sergeant, Soap, had the decency to appear chastised, ducking his head a tad. In different circumstances, you‘d even appreciate the fierce loyalty on display for the man you both regarded highly. 

Just not when it came at the expense of properly doing your job.

“We’ll take it from here.”

Based on the slight laxing of their stances, there would be no further protests. Regardless, no amount of posturing or glaring would’ve deterred you; at this point, anything unrelated to Gaz had no hope of receiving even a morsel of your attention. 

Two technicians seized the gurney and rolled it in the direction of the operating room, the lead nurse with her portable monitor trailing close behind. You followed your team to the sinks, where you then scrubbed and scrubbed until you were finally ready to cross the threshold into the sterile field. 

There, everything awaited you; a metal tray, a fresh set of surgical tools, and two units of B-negative blood hanging from a transfusion stand. At the middle of the OR was Gaz, resting on the table, covered in green drapes, illuminated by bright overhead lights. And as you stared down at him, at the dewy breaths fogging up his oxygen mask, a comforting sign of life, you found yourself confronted by a terrifying realization:

All that stood between you and someday loving this man was time. 

The surgery, to its credit, went relatively smoothly. Meaning, the patient didn’t go into hemorrhagic shock on your table, and you managed to dig out the four bullets still lodged in his viscera. One lodged between his lower left ribs, though luckily not deep enough to damage the vital organs beneath; another two along his intestinal tract; and the last mere centimeters from his mildly-lacerated liver. 

It hadn’t been pretty, but Sergeant Garrick would survive with only scars to remind him of the moment he died and crawled back to the land of the living. 

“Alright,” the strain in your voice bringing hours of inner turmoil to the surface, “good work, everyone. Let’s sew him shut and reset shop for tomorrow morning.”

You vomited the moment you stepped outside the infirmary. 

The wave of nausea that accompanied the night’s must had you doubling over and gripping both knees to support yourself against the force of the retching. With no food in your stomach to purge, there was just the sting of acid rushing up your esophagus and then clear liquid dribbling down your chin. It shouldn’t have gone on for as long as it did, but each time you recalled how the sergeant’s usually rich and lively complexion had looked so ashen in the fluorescence of the OR, that sick feeling returned with a vengeance. 

When the chain-puking finally abated, you straightened your spine and wiped the grime off your mouth with the back of your hand. Not yet an hour prior, that same hand had held a scalpel to the hole-ridden flesh of the man whose smile could easily give way to your own, even on worser days. Days like today. 

Only this time, he couldn’t take the pain away. This time, it was your turn to ease his ache.

You swiveled around until your body faced the medtent, gravel crackling and crunching beneath your boots at the sudden movement. As if they had a mind of their own, your feet carried you right back to him, one in front of the other in a quick, almost frenzied succession. 

Inside, the lights had dimmed to a faint glow. A heart monitor hooked up to electrodes on his chest translated rhythmic contractions into a steady stream of beeps, and the sound echoed through your mind like a macabre metronome. He laid unmoving on a cot, exactly how you’d left him; Sergeant Garrick wasn’t the type to disobey an order, whether consciously or unconsciously received, not even in his sleep.

Then maybe I should’ve ordered him not to get shot up full of lead, you mused with a wry, half-hearted chuckle. Or fall out of helicopters.

No, it’d be wrong to ask of him the impossible. Selfish to demand he treat his body as more than an enlisted weapon, unfair to make him swear never to show up half-dead at your door again. In the same vein as asking you to take lunch breaks longer than five minutes, to not work yourself to the bone despite the omnipresent queue of wounded men and women in need of medical attention. Not unreasonable requests, just unrealistic for occupations built on too much blood and too little time. 

So while you couldn’t very well expect the man to compromise the job to which he’d dedicated the whole of his existence, you could control your proximity to said man. A comet was best admired from afar, where its flaming tail looked beautiful rather than damning, and where its inevitable dissolution occurred beyond your field of view.

You needed to put an end to this thing while it was still in your power to do so. You needed to nip whatever feelings you carried for Kyle Garrick in the bud, lest they bloomed beyond management. 

But that could wait. For now, he was simply an indisposed soldier requiring your medical oversight—no more, no less. He was Sergeant Garrick of the 141, not the man capable of turning faulty moments into fond memories and easy shifts into emotional shit-shows. Just a patient entering the next stage of his recovery.

And there wasn’t any harm in holding a recovering patient’s hand, you reasoned.  

With that, you dragged a foldable plastic chair to rest beside him, settled down into the uncomfortable stiffness of its seat, and gently reached for his bandaged fist. Carefully extending his fingers, gently grazing your palm against his. Familiarizing yourself with the callouses there, the skin that had torn open and grown back thicker, stronger time after time until, one day, it could bear the very worst of the world without demanding ichor be spilled. Memorizing the feeling of warmth and weight, tracing the loops and whorls etched into his fingertips, never to again be found in another. 

No harm at all. 

tbc.

[wayemd]

I want to have a cool title for this but frankly it’s just my obsession with Etho consuming me.

Small ramble below cut.

Guys please go read @boxmakerr ‘s Fallen Stars series I beg of you. This doodle is based on her Etho and the injuries he sustains to canonize his face scars.

I’ve written myself about Etho’s injuries (shameless self promo for my AO3… here).

I think that in the Minecraft world, I hc his injuries to be caused by redstone activation and exposure, because we KNOW my man doesn’t use PPE. In my oneshot, I wrote about it being an accidental scrape that was exposed to active redstone (which burned the flesh and soft tissue).

In a modern/real world au, I am not sure. Box did an awesome job in her fic incorporating it into the story. When I wrote a modern fic, I straight up didn’t give him the scar. (Well.. not yet. Ehe. Still more to come.)

Anyways if you read this: hi thanks. Take care.

[ratgrrrrl]

Wonderful skater girl

So this has been what's preoccupying my thoughts lately. Here’s my iwatex oc!

Her whole story is that she's from the Heliopause and has been trained to be a soldier since she was young but after landing on Vertumna she decides she wants a career change, and becomes the colony's first delivery woman!

[seat-safety-switch]

There is some true magic happening nowadays in the tiny island nation of Japan. Even as their rural areas slide towards extinction, the urban heart of the country has never seen more construction. Being a construction worker over there introduces you to a ridiculous subculture: construction fashion. Construction magazines. Construction labour unions. And specialized, bad-ass tools.

Makita, those blue-green monsters, have released something incredible. When you buy your bento lunches from the local convenience store, they cool off on the way back to the jobsite. If you bought a whole bunch of them to share with your coworkers – say, you’re the newbie and they would rather have you do that than handle any actual tools – that food is gonna be ice cold by the time you figure out how to get your PPE back on and climb up to where all the senpais are at.

What did Makita make? A 40-volt, lithum-ion-powered, eight-hundred-watt portable bento microwave for the jobsite. The purity of vision required to force such a thing into being makes me want to cry. Even just saying those words out loud is emotional. By the standards of ridiculous construction-site battery tools, this makes the Milwaukee Bluetooth speaker look like a dollar-store essential. It even comes with a shoulder strap, so the aforementioned newbie can still carry the rest of your tools for you while you’re walking the field.

Now, am I saying all these nice things about the Makita microwave so that they’ll send me a free one? Maybe. Am I saying all these nice things so that they’ll send me their new cordless angle grinder instead? Yes, very much so. That thing seems like it would be the perfect tool to cut through this ankle bracelet.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

I’m not 100% sure you’re still taking these, but if you aren’t I hope you’ll maybe save this one for a rainy day?

I’m loving the trans!Eddie stuff so 🧜🏻‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️🧜🏼‍♂️. And then I am *always* jonesing for some throuple stuff so take some 🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼 too!

I always am! I just update my key when things change.

And thank you so much! Glad you're excited for these.

99 for 🧜🏼‍♂️:

---

“Sorry!” Buck blurts. “Sorry, that’s… That’s not the right way to ask that. I mean, like, are you secretly wanting to be she/her or-”

“No,” Eddie cuts him off, smirking a little. “The opposite direction. I started transitioning as a pretty young teenager.”

“Oh! Okay, cool,” Buck says. 

“Cool?” Eddie asks warily.

“Yeah, totally, man,” Buck shrugs. “Does not change a thing for me. Just, uh… I just don’t want to say the wrong thing. But I’ll do research!”

“Research?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah! So you don’t have to answer any questions I have. Like, I don’t want to put that on you. I’ll figure it out, a-and you just… I mean if there’s anything you want me to know, then-”

“Buck,” Eddie raises a hand to cut him off. 

Buck shuts his mouth.

“That’s super kind,” Eddie says. “You can ask me questions, though. I think… I mean I have a lot for you.”

“That’s fair,” Buck replies. “Uh, I’ll try to answer them. I’m… I’m new to this mermaid business. I don’t know how it works always.”

“Mermaid?” Eddie asks. “Don’t you mean merman? Or was I right, but in the wrong direction?”

“Oh my god, merman,” Buck gasps. “I forgot that was an option. You’re right. Merman.”

Eddie shivers a little. “Okay, um… Maybe we can exchange questions out of the water?”

“Yeah!” Buck agrees. “Yeah totally. Just, uh… You’ll have to give me a minute. It’s harder to shift back than to shift to.” 

Eddie nods. “No worries. I’ve got time.”

🌊

They sit on the stony beach, a few feet of space between them. Eddie is sort of curled tight into himself, sopping wet. Buck is stretched out, leaning back on his hands, tail still fully out. As much as Eddie tries to not - and it’s clear he’s trying not to - he keeps staring at it. At the gills on Buck’s chest and neck. The webbing on his fingers. Buck can’t blame him. He’s an anomaly. Unfortunately - he thought he might not be. 

“Who goes first?” Buck asks. “Questions wise?”

“Uh, me?” Eddie asks. “Then we go… Back and forth?”

“Yeah,” Buck nods. “Okay.”

Fair to let Eddie start. There are way more pressing questions. Eddie is just a normal person, after all. Buck is a creature. 

“Okay, uh… You said you’re new at this?” Eddie asks. “How did it happen?”

Yeah, Buck sort of figured he’d ask this. Of course he’d be curious. Want to know. Only problem is, Buck hates thinking about that night. The cold. The dark. The sea on fire. Dead people bobbing in the waves. And Bobby… Almost losing Bobby. It makes him sick to think about, even before what happened. 

“There was a… A really bad call,” Buck says. “In January. I was only five months on the job. A plane went down in the water. Right off El Segundo Beach.”

“Is this where you almost drowned?” Eddie asks. 

Buck raises an eyebrow, confused how he would know that.

“Sorry,” Eddie says. “Hen mentioned that you did.”

---

102 for 🔼:

---

It’s a long, terrifying call. Eddie isn’t often scared on calls. Very few things are as frightening as what he saw in the army. The earthquake was nerve-wracking, mostly because he was worried about his son. The tsunami was horrific for similar reasons. The day of the ladder truck bombing, Eddie had been scared for Buck. Today? Today he’s scared for everyone. Mostly for Bobby, but for everyone. 

Radioactive waste is on fire. The air is sort of poison, right? The turnouts and other PPE they have doesn’t feel like enough. Eddie’s skin crawls, even though nothing has happened to him. This would be the worst time ever to get radiation sickness. 

Bobby has to stay in the tunnel longer than the rest of them. They’re all sort of freaked out. He has to be officially decontaminated and everything. Eddie and Chim are scared, but it’s nothing compared to the look of horror in Buck’s eyes. Eddie wants to take his hand. Squeeze it reassuringly. Hold and tell him it’ll be okay. But he can’t. Not here. So instead, he makes like he’s clapping Buck on the shoulder, and lets his hand linger for a second. 

Buck looks at him. Wide-eyed and tight-jawed. 

“He’s going to be okay,” Eddie says. 

He’s not sure where the confidence comes from. He doesn’t really feel it. All he knows is, despite everything Bobby and Buck just went through with each other, Buck is the person who will worry for him most. There’s a dynamic there that’s different than with anyone else on the team.

“I hope so,” Buck says weakly. “He has to be.”

They take him to the hospital after. The victims are being transferred by another station’s RA unit. It’s not until Bobby has called Athena and been admitted that any of them bother looking at their phones. 

“Whoa,” Chim says. “Lots of missed calls from Maddie.”

“Same,” Buck says. “And from Shannon.”

“Shannon?” Eddie asks, looking at his phone. “Oh, shit. Me too.”

“Aren’t they together today?” Chim asks. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Fuck.”

He calls Shannon back as quickly as possible. A billion things are spinning in his head. Is Shannon okay? Is Chris okay? Is the baby okay? Maddie was a nurse. If there is some kind of emergency, Eddie is glad she’s with them. Terrified, but glad. 

The call picks up after a few rings.

“Eddie? Oh thank god.” 

It’s not Shannon. It’s Maddie. On Shannon’s phone. 

“What’s going on?” Eddie asks, panicked. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s good. You need to get to the hospital, though,” Maddie says. “Shannon-”

“Which hospital? I’m at the hospital.” Eddie blurts. 

“Southern California,” Maddie says. “She’s in labor, and it’s progressing quickly, okay? You don’t have a lot of time.”

Labor? She’s in labor? His daughter is… About to be born? Today?

“Eddie?” Maddie asks when he’s silent for a beat.

“I’m coming,” Eddie says. “I’m coming. I’ll be there. Can you tell her I’m on my way?”

He’s at Cedars. Fifteen minutes away if traffic isn’t bad. Traffic is bad, because of the shutdowns the tunnel fires caused. Shit. 

“I’ll tell her. And I’ll keep you updated on progress. It’s moving really fast.”

The complete opposite of last time. Shannon must either be elated or completely freaking out. Maybe both? 

“Thanks, Maddie.”

They end the call and Eddie explains the situation to Buck and Chim. 

“Take the engine,” Chim says. “I’ll stay with Bobby.”

[theknightlywolfe]

I like how the practical, ventilation/filtration and eye protection, are worked into the aesthetic.

Plague masks?

[watermelinoe]

sex work is work so it's not concerning for little girls to say they want to be sex workers when they grow up. you can take them to the brothel on "take your kid to work day." you can have strippers come to talk to the elementary school class about how cool stripping is. teenage girls can get a summer or after school job doing sex work just to get some experience. oh, and men, you should be okay with being "serviced" by an experienced middle aged man, because sex work is work, so it shouldn't matter who's providing the service, right? but this work involves bodily fluids so everyone will be wearing ppe, that's okay with you, right? it's just like any other job!

[possiblyunhinged]

People can write as eloquently as they like about the state of British politics right now. However, it'd be more honest to point out that we have been run into the ground by narcissistic little pricks who, even if they were capable of basic human empathy (which they're not), would rather pander to their rich mates in the hopes they get a shred of validation so they can silence the voice in their heads for a sweet, brief moment than even attempt to make lives better for those struggling.

In fact, worse than neglect, they would rather paint those suffering most as antagonists to the country's economic prospects... As opposed to, I don't know, spending billions of pounds on PPE that isn't fit for purpose, contracts for your mates' companies, and track and trace. Also, there are legal battles, party food mid-pandemic, and Priti Patel's very expensive trips to nail salons.

Reality does not matter to them or their voters. It doesn't matter to Sunak. It doesn't matter to Farage. Their whole lives are a popularity contest, and frankly, if you want to be rated by fascist pricks with 3 strands of hair and gout whose lives never got better after they left school, then cool... you found your demographic, lads.

They claim to be the beacons of facts and logic, yet the reality is they aren't capable of dealing with either. When they are nothing more than useful idiots, frankly.

Honestly, I'm going to come out of this general election a more unkind, intolerant, and aggy woman because I am DONE my friends xoxo