#ceramic coating kit

[thedetailingmafia]

Which is better PPF or ceramic coating?

Ceramic coating is a liquid polymer that is applied to a car's exterior to protect it from various environmental factors such as UV rays, dirt, and water

Car owners are always on the lookout for ways to protect their vehicle’s exterior from the harsh elements and keep it looking new for as long as possible. Two popular options that have emerged in recent years are Paint Protection Film (PPF) and Ceramic Coating. Both offer unique features and benefits, making it difficult to determine which one is better. In this blog, we will compare PPF and…

[insightcracker]

CERAKOTE Ceramic Trim Coat Kit – Restore Your Vehicle’s Trim with Long-Lasting Protection

Meta Description: Revitalize your vehicle’s faded trim with the CERAKOTE Ceramic Trim Coat Kit. Achieve professional-level results with long-lasting ceramic protection that keeps your trim looking new. Maintaining your vehicle’s exterior can be a challenge, especially when plastic trim starts to fade over time. The CERAKOTE Ceramic Trim Coat Kit is a game-changing solution designed to restore…

[carautofinesse]

https://justpaste.it/b4wew

Are you looking for car detailing products for your brand new car? This article delves into the costs, pros, and cons of ceramic coating. Whether you are a car enthusiast or a professional detailer, this write-up will provide valuable insights to help you gain information about investing in this innovative car exterior cleaner.

[beyondexcellentdetailing1]

Auto Paint Correction Cincinnati

Auto paint correction Cincinnati is the process of restoring the appearance of a vehicle's paint to its original condition, or as close as possible, by removing or minimizing scratches, swirl marks, oxidation, and other imperfections. This process is typically done using various techniques, such as machine polishing or wet sanding, and requires specialized tools and expertise.

Paint correction Cincinnati is typically done to improve the appearance of a car, but it can also be done to prepare a car for detailing or to enhance its resale value. It is important to note that paint correction should only be performed by a trained professional, as improper techniques or tools can further damage the paint and lead to costly repairs.

The process of auto paint correction Cincinnati can take several hours or even days, depending on the severity of the imperfections and the size of the vehicle. However, when done correctly, it can produce dramatic results and restore the original shine and depth of the paint.

[washnwhips]

This kit is great for those who want to wash their cars but do not have all day. Starting off with Silverstone Car Shampoo for a good cleaning, Hockenheim Insect Remover for the front bumpers or heavy build-up, Pit Stop Glass Cleaner for spotless windows, and Daytona Tire Shine for the cherry on top.

For more information, visit us at: https://washnwhips.com/products/exterior-car-wash-kit

[sseanettles]

nothing grows in corpses (in the earth of me)

dream x hob gadling | mature | Finally cross-posting my take on the fandom classic of the show progresses as the comics do, even to The Wake. Until Death resurrects Morpheus and forces the choice of "redemption" upon him instead of suicide. It goes...horribly. No good. Very bad. Instead of learning the lesson, Morpheus (in his infinite wisdom) opts instead for a highly effective existence strike until one day Hob Gadling stumbles upon his ghastly handiwork and immediately decides that this just won't do. Man Who Refuses To Die vs. Man Who Refuses To Live: fight.

Dead Dove, Do Not Eat for the following: graphic depictions of starvation, illness, suicidal ideation, self-harm, blood and gore, loss of autonomy, etc. etc. This is some classic old world whump, folks! But I promise it's also supremely healing in the end.

CH. 7: two minutes | 5.8 k | AO3 link | prev part | next part

(or: the one where Hob finally starts processing some things.)

Gwen made her way to him on soft, silent feet, dragging their impressively equipped first aid kit closer along the counter as she went. Her hands smoothed across the span of his aching shoulders, and she hugged him as close to her as she could while he remained submerged past his elbows into the rancid bath, keeping Morpheus’ head above water.

She kissed his bleeding, disheveled head, and Hob cried harder.

“I’ve got you,” she promised in a whisper. “And we’ve got this. Yeah?” Hob took deep, shuddering breaths and nodded in sloppy silence. “Come on, then. Let’s get this done while he’s out.”

They pulled apart, she rolled up her sleeves, and they set to work.

With every layer they pulled from his skin, with every coat they scrubbed away, Hob’s outrage and grief deepened. Those once silken black locks broke apart in his hands in the way the hair of the starved and decaying always did, like brittle straw gummed together with grit and sweat. His beard, still such a strange sight to behold, was no better, and Gwen treated both with as much gentleness as she could, working first shampoo and then conditioner through both in a few ginger rinses. Hob, meanwhile, set to cutting away Morpheus’ clothes, cleaning away what was revealed and doing his best to keep track of what was months-soiled skin versus wounds. Eventually, the water grew too dark to see through, and they drained the bath, rinsing out the ceramic as best as they could before filling it back up with another round of hot water. They repeated the process, drained and filled and drained the tub again, and now Hob was satisfied that they could see the damage clearly. It was time to take inventory, to clean and treat as best as they could, and tidy him up.

There were pressure ulcers to his right hip, knee, and ankle from the long months spent pressed onto his increasingly boney side, and another to his tailbone. All were gnarly and deep and angry, draining all sorts of colors and fluids and smells, and Hob gritted his teeth against the bile at the back of his throat as he dabbed nearly a full tube of antibiotic cream into the wound beds and gently packed the ones on his hip and tailbone first with damp gauze and then taped more dry gauze over them. His knee and ankle were not yet as bad, and he wrapped them heavily in gauze after drowning the beds in ointment, hoping it would be enough. His skin was both raw and calloused from the repeated cycles of sun and cold; his hands and feet especially were frost-bitten and gnawed, and bug and vermin bites peppered his skin in scabs and cuts. Hob and Gwen finished the last of the antibiotics and two packs of Band-Aids, going through and covering what needed to be covered while leaving the rest open to the air. Bruises mottled every bony protrusion of his body, pooled in the spans of him that had been pressed to the ground for months on end, and Hob swore that in the past hour, he could’ve counted all two hundred and six bones beneath the emaciated, sunken skin before him. Morpheus’ eyes were shadowed hollows, his cheeks as narrow as a skull’s. His left wrist purpled and swelled as best as it could manage, betraying the likely fracture beneath.

But the worst damage was the fresh wound to his gut. Gwen bowed out as Hob prepared to tend to the mangled skin, and he couldn’t blame her in the slightest. The rats had ravaged the flesh along what had otherwise been a rather precise, blade-like incision, like a knife strike, until the muscle and sinew had been exposed. The wound continued to ooze blood in a steady throb, and Hob had known what that meant, even in the alley with the fleeting glance of the wound he’d managed.

He looked to the fondue candle lit beside him and the waiting butter and carving knives that glowed hot in its flame.

Not yet. He couldn’t do that just yet.

He put off the inevitable, opting instead to pull out a pair of surgical scissors and his shaving kit. It was an old school thing, a blade wielded with lather. No electronics here, not today, and he adjusted the lay of the thick, cloud-soft towels around Morpheus’ body before he set to the ragged mass of hair atop his head. Painstakingly, stroke by stroke, he scraped away the wiry beard until that once-familiar face emerged beneath, and he swore under his breath as, on each curving pass, he nicked the sunken skin and opened a small, oozing wound. He was, typically, a master at this. He had just never shaved a corpse before. He tended to the wounds both new and old revealed by his ministrations and then set to his hair, trimming away the matts and the hopeless tangles and the bits that he was frankly worried were beginning to mold. What remained was far shorter than it had been, shorter than Morpheus’ styling of the 1600s and certainly not as thick and full and healthy. This was patchy, downright threadbare in some places. But his scalp would heal, and the hair would grow back. That, Hob knew, too, to be fact.

He dampened a towel and gently massaged Morpheus’ head, dabbed and wiped until he had carried away every clipped lock and errant strand that he could manage.

Until there remained only that haunting, waiting wound.

“Oh,” Hob sighed, rocking back on his heels, and peered into his stranger’s lifeless face. “Forgive me for this, my friend.”

In the hall, sat on the floor against the wall, Gwen flinched as a startled, pained wail echoed from the bathroom. She bowed her head to her hand, pinning the length of her forearm between her forehead and knee, and the piteous sound faded beneath the low, comforting rumble of Robbie’s voice, his gentle hushing lulling the slam of bone on porcelain back to silence. Her phone sat in her trembling hand, screen open. Her thumb hovered over the dial icon.

This was all kinds of fucked. This was beyond what they could handle, beyond what she knew how to fix, beyond what Robbie could….

She thought of him, soaked through in foul water, stuck on his knees beside a corpse that wouldn’t die as he sobbed into his own arm and struggled to hold them all together.

All she had to do was press. If she pressed, those three little digits would make all of this go away.

I think he’s like me.

She darkened her phone screen, let her head thump against the wall, and dashed her hand against her nose and eyes.

“Oh, Robbie,” she whispered and watched the shadows move beneath the door. “What did you get us into?”

“You’re doin’ so good, mate,” Hob murmured, sweat beading his forehead as he knotted off the last pass of the sutures and snipped the thread off as close to the skin as he could. Morpheus’ knees jerked up into his thighs as he did, and Hob shifted his weight atop him in the tub until he settled once more within restless unconsciousness. “Almost there. So good.”

He tossed the needle aside to join the bloodied carving and butter knives on the floor, with their red-stained, rag-wrapped hilts. The rest of the care went quickly: dabbing a swath of surgical glue between the sutures, letting it dry while once again slathering the shit out of the rat bites with antibiotic ointment, and then covering everything in more of the gauze and tape until finally they were done. Hob rocked back on his heels and rested the backs of his bloodied hands against his forehead. He closed his eyes. Breathed.

“Okay,” he whispered after a long time. “Okay, okay, okay, okay….”

Morpheus groaned beneath him in his tenuous unconsciousness and began to shift uncomfortably in the tub. Hob’s respite was over.

“Gwen?” he called at that same low, cautious volume and began the process of raising his aching body from its cramped kneel and climbing from the tub. The hinges creaked, and her grip materialized at his elbows, steadying him as he returned to the safety of the tile.

“You okay?”

“Better than he is,” Hob tried to smile. It only came off as ghoulish, and he scrubbed the inside of his arm across his face only to groan as his effort to keep himself slightly less dirty was decidedly less than successful. “But the artery’s cauterized. He’s stitched and glued up. Nothing more to do now.”

The exhaustion that lined his face, the grimness to his normally indomitable spirit, the thousand-yard stare encroaching in his eyes…it all filled Gwen with a mounting disquiet. This was not the Robbie she knew. But there was a tense, aching feeling in her chest that also told her this wasn’t someone new. This man before her felt old—much, much older than she could comprehend. Hob let out another heavy sigh and cleared his throat, looking everywhere but at her and his dead friend.

“Let’s get him to the sofa,” he said and touched a bone-tired, bloody, filthy hand to her hip as he made to turn to the tub. “Bed’s all ready, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said and caught his wrist with a gentle hand. “Hey. Come here.”

Hob hesitated but then leaned forward with a sudden wetness in his eyes, a collapsing of his shoulders. And Gwen closed her eyes as he pressed a long, tender kiss to her forehead. She leaned into him in turn and put a hand on his chest, her fingers playing in reflex with his hair where it peaked from the top of his damp shirt.

“I know I don’t say it enough,” he murmured, pressing his temple to hers. “But I love you. And thank you.”

Gwen pulled back with a sigh and turned to their waiting guest. “Tell me that again when we finally go to sleep tonight.”

“…Yeah.”

“Has he been out there since the funeral?” she asked as they wrapped Morpheus in more towels and awkwardly hefted his boney, lanky form between them.

“I don’t think so,” Hob grunted and shifted his grip as Gwen helped balance his Stranger’s weight in his arms. “I think it was since the Faire.”

“Your dream? The happy ending one?” Gwen asked and adjusted the hang of Morpheus’ legs over her boyfriend’s arm. He nodded. “Rob, that was still—”

“I know.” Hob let out a careful breath and took quick stock of their situation. This limp-boned bridal carry was as good as they were going to get, and he nodded Gwen toward the open door. “After you.”

They repeated their guarded shuffle in reverse, returning to the living room they had rushed through an hour ago, and Hob relievedly set Morpheus’ fragile weight to rest upon the sofa bed. It was one of those newer models, a fancier thing with a mattress that was actually decent and deep, plush pillows to boot; Hob was never more thankful for that splurge of a purchase than now. He positioned the pillows and cushions carefully, supporting his Stranger’s limbs and taking care to keep his elbows and heels lifted off the bed while tilting him to the left just far enough that the wounds on his back and hip stayed clear. As he worked, Gwen hurried to the dryer and fetched a bundle of Robbie’s old clothes, muttering a relieved thanks to the universe when she found they were still slightly warm. They’d been planning to donate them after the end of term, to pass their surplus along to the less fortunate in the spirit of the season.

She didn’t think they were going to find anyone less fortunate than this.

When she got back to the living room, Robbie was shaking out a thermometer, watching his friend with grim eyes, and he shook his head as he saw the gifts she bore.

“Don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“His fever’s that bad?” she asked, dumping the clothes on the bed anyway while he headed for their bedroom. “But the rest of him—”

He indicated the thermometer as he set it on the coffee table along his way and didn’t break pace. “Forty.”

“40 C?” she gaped and snatched up the glass and mercury to confirm for herself. “There’s no fucking way, he was ice—”

“His body’s trying to save the important bits,” Robbie called back. “Brain, heart, lungs. Arms and legs are useless when you’re trying not to die on the cellular level, so the heart stops trying to pump blood to them.” He hurried back into the room, a pair of boxers and spare T-shirt in hand. “Everything south of the lungs goes next, but frankly his lungs are already dead, too.” Gwen watched him carefully, unmoving at the foot of the bed with the thermometer still in her hands as he set to the careful work of dressing their guest. He moved with the practiced ease of a father dressing his child, with the swiftness of a clinically steady hand that wouldn’t have wavered even under mortar fire. It was such an incongruent shift, so bizarre a combination, that she almost missed the bitter mutter under his breath. “Only reason he’s still breathing through pneumonia like this is ‘cause he’s like me.”

He settled Morpheus’ head once more upon the pillows, the shirt pulled down and the boxers tugged into place, and reached for Gwen’s pile. She watched him pick out mis-matching socks and mitts, watched him fit them onto the man’s frostbitten feet and hands, watched him drape cardigans and pullovers along his extremities.

“Could you grab some extra pillowcases and fetch the ice packs in the freezer, love?” he asked as he worked, and Gwen blinked.

“What?”

“Need to cool his core down while I warm up the edges of him. Shouldn’t take too long.”

“You and I are going to have a long conversation later about how you know all of this,” she said but moved to do as he asked.

He watched her go, waiting until she was engrossed in the linen closet to whisper his private reply. “Maybe someday, love.”

He added a couple more pillows behind Morpheus’ head, stuffing them down to his shoulders until he was propped up a bit more. The rattling breaths eased just a bit, and Hob allowed himself to pause. His tired gaze pulled to the ceiling.

“One…” he counted as he inhaled, massaging the knuckles of his hands with dull fingers, “…two…three…four….” He exhaled and shut his eyes. “…Four…three…two….”

Their utility bill this month was going to be especially horrid. Already with the change in seasons he’d been expecting a higher price tag, but this was going to put them in the red. He’d make arrangements to dip into his special savings to cover them this time, but—

Thud went the freezer door.

He opened his eyes and stopped counting.

“Here,” Gwen said softly, handing him half of the ice packs in her hands.

COLD, Morpheus startled. Cold, cold, COLD where there hadn’t been cold moments before—he had been warm again, after so long. He wanted the warmth back, no, he wanted the cold, that was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? The cold, he wanted to lose himself to the numbness, and he hurt. Everything in him hurt, his gut throbbed, his hands and feet were on fire like a million sticks of fire-brand needles. His skull was in a vise and exploding from the inside at the same time. His throat felt glass-shredded; every breath crackled like stepping on a shattered mirror, driving the sharp, mislaid edges further into the walls of his ribs—

Something dripped into his eyes, something wet and viscous, and he mewled, tossing his head and trying to push away his abuser’s hands only to yelp as his left wrist shrieked in pain. He blinked, trying to clear whatever it was they had put in his eyes. It burned, it hurt, it….

Hob’s gentle face loomed above him, a little clearer than it had been, fuzzy and haloed by the warm yellow lights of his flat as if Morpheus were looking at him through fogged glass.

(Or through ophthalmic ointment.)

He looked, he thought, like the angels in church windows….

Luminous beings of iron and glass, forged by mortal hands long gone yet beheld and living still.

Hob shifted, drawing closer, and a bloom of petals and butterflies burst from the flare of light that peeked from behind his head as he moved. It was a madman’s halo, a druid’s blessing, and it flooded Morpheus’ sight alongside a faint, nonsensical humming that pirouetted like ribbons of sound across his bleary eyes to settle in his ears.

“You’ve got a bad fever, my friend,” Hob murmured above him, adjusting the warmth that settled his limbs like grave earth even as he applied more searing cold to his chest and neck and head. “I’m trying to cool you down while warming the rest of you…you’re burned and frozen up all at once.” Calluses like Brillo pads, skin as soft as well-worn leather touched his cheeks, his neck, his chest as he was repositioned like a doll. The scent of cologne came with it, of laundry detergent and cleanliness…. The roles of lordling to the street urchin, it seemed, had finally switched, three hundred-odd years down the line. It made his gut turn. “Trust you to get yourself in a complicated fix like this, eh? Good news is, I’ve got some stuff now to make it feel better faster. Isn’t humanity grand like that?”

Those hands finally pulled away, finally left him alone. Come back, he wanted to beg. Stay away, he yearned to cry.

The butterflies continued to dance and flit. They split apart into fish and frogs and dandelion puffs that sparked into falling embers as they caught the lights overhead…like bursts of slow-falling glitter that burned and glowed like the coals of a dying universe.

His little sister’s fingers played in his hair, and her little hums grew louder.

“Are you singing to him?” Hob asked as he rifled through the first aid kit for some ibuprofen and Theraflu and proceeded to crush the former and mix both into a cup of steaming water. Slippery elm, marshmallow root, wild cherry bark, cinnamon bark, orange peel, licorice…modern medicine was a godsend, and Hob wouldn’t go back to the Dark Ages for anything. But the old remedies still had their uses, and folks nowadays were nice enough to mix them all up into a single tea for you.

Gwen looked up from where she sat by Morpheus’ head, adjusting the pillows to prepare him for his medicine. “What?”

“Singing,” Hob repeated. The spoon clanked a touch nervously against the cup walls, and he glanced back at her. “We’re lucky he’s out,” he added with a wry, deprecating sort of laugh and a nervous smile. “Don’t know what he’d do if someone started singing lullabies to him like a child.”

Gwen’s stare shifted from blank to concerned.

“I…I wasn’t singing, Rob.”

“You weren’t?” Hob finished mixing his concoction and carried it carefully over, the ceramic just shy of scalding against his palms. “Could’ve sworn I heard you humming.”

“Don’t you go cracking on me, too,” she warned, barely joking. “I’m already at my limit.”

“I’ll do my best,” he huffed and settled on the bed opposite her, balancing the cup carefully in his hands. “Okay, let’s get him sat up, tip his head back a bit. Try to wake him up some more….”

His sister’s hands cradled Morpheus’ skull, shifting him up, tipping him back, and his world swam.

Delirium, stop, he wanted to protest, but words had only just reformed as a concept in his blood-starved brain.

“Hey,” a voice that was not Delirium’s said at his head. It was American, but not like Corinthian’s voice was American. This one was warm in its melodies, blunt but kind, like the hands that moved with it. “We don’t know each other, but I’m Gwen. Sorry to meet like this….”

Gwen. Someone who was not Gadling, and yet who Gadling trusted to be with him.

Something deep in his gut twisted and burned, and his inflamed heart ached.

“I’m gonna help Robbie lift your head up,” she explained above him. Robbie. The ache deepened. The touch of her hands froze his burning skull like the ice packs, and Hob’s hand landed on his shoulder like a heavy anchor. Too much. Too much, too much, too much—too little. “You really think he’s gonna be able to swallow like this?”

Swallow.

Morpheus ground his teeth until the ache in his jaws turned to knifing, bone-splitting pain. He could hear Hob hiss above him, felt dull, powerful fingers massage into the trembling muscles of his jaw, and he redoubled his efforts to clamp down as his muscles and nerves began to burn under the man’s precise ministrations. His breath rattled through his teeth, gurgled in his throat. No. No, he would not open his mouth, would not cooperate, would not—

The hands stilled at the angle of his jaw, their fingers’ pressure as firm as ever, and commanded Morpheus’ efforts to stop.

“My friend,” Hob said with all the even, gentle calm of a father, “open your eyes.”

He would not cooperate. He refused.

The hands did not leave.

Millimeter by millimeter, hating himself for every step of his surrender, Morpheus opened his eyes.

“There you are,” Hob smiled, his face bloody with the mauling Morpheus had dealt him. Those warm, callused thumbs smoothed across his blade-sharp cheekbones. “My friend, you are very sick. Now, we can sit here and do nothing,” he admitted, “and you’ll heal in time. It’ll take near a century, but it will happen. But parts of you will heal wrong. You won’t be able to eat or drink properly for probably another hundred years, and your lungs are gonna be all kinds of crap.” He paused, just to be sure his warning was heard, to be certain it sank into Morpheus’ thick skull. “If you’re hell bent on sufferin’ like that, we can do it. I’ll be here, every step of the way.” In the face of that most sincere promise, Morpheus’ cage of a chest hitched on its next inhale, rattled more sharply, more deeply. His eyes shone, and Hob swallowed past the lump in his throat at the yearning that glimmered there. “But I don’t think you’ll like it very much in practice.”

You know nothing of what I can handle, Robert Gadling, Morpheus wanted to hiss.

I don’t want this pain, his heart cried. Please, make it stop. Help me make it stop.

Hob seemed to hear both replies. The sadness in his tired, closed-lipped smile grew, even as the understanding in his eyes deepened, and Morpheus’ treacherous heart stuttered to a near stop as Hob leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his burning forehead. It was a gentle thing, all chaste ceremony and solemn duty—as a knight kissed the hand of his lord. Morpheus’ eyes flinched shut at the soft, bearded touch. His chest, it hurt, it ached; it welled with such a force of feeling that he wanted to split apart with it, to let its flowers and mosses and fungi spill and grow and creep from the cracks of him, to pour from his ruptures and caverns.

Delirium’s fingers crept into his hair again, playing with the shortened locks with all her childhood wonder. Hob pulled away and carefully took up his mug once more.

“Would you drink this, my friend?”

No! Morpheus’ treacherous mind shrieked, gnashing fang-like teeth and glaring with obsidian-black eyes. How dare you—

Hob’s eyes shone in the low lights, twin hearths so steadfastly tended, and the grief finally fractured through that doggedly hopeful, wistful smile of his. Stained glass…like oh so many fragments of stained glass…

“If not for yourself, then…” Hob swallowed and went for broke, “…then, would you drink it for me?”

A long, tenuous silence filled the void between them. Morpheus’ half-blind eyes stared into his with the emptiest of intentions for so long that Hob was just about to give up when it happened. It was a small thing, almost impossible to notice—and Gwen, in fact, missed it altogether—but not to Hob. He knew his Stranger, inside and out. He knew him as he knew his own hands, he….

He’d known his Stranger for seven nights.

Seven nights could be a lifetime, if you knew how to spend the hours right.

Morpheus’s gaze slipped just a touch, first to Hob’s mouth and then to the cup in his hands, and after a painful swallow that took several tries to complete, his own split, desert-dry lips parted by the barest degree.

Hob could have cried.

“Thank you, my friend,” he smiled and tried not to let his relieved tears fall. “Thank you.”

He nodded to Gwen, and she gently supported Morpheus’ head, looking all the while as if she could drop him and leap across the room at a split second’s warning. It was probably for the best, he had to admit. Given how Morpheus had reacted to the heat of the bath, he doubted that the sensation of the tea passing down his throat and into his stomach, nor the taste of the medication both bitter and sickly sweet at the same time, with its undissolved grit suspended throughout would be tolerated.

It went about as well as expected.

Fifteen minutes, three cups of dosed tea, and two new shirts later, the deed was done. Hob hunched at Morpheus’ side, both of them exhausted, and he leaned against the arm of the sofa as he sat on the mattress edge and quietly hummed the aimless melody that Gwen swore up and down she had not been singing. His hand laid heavily upon Morpheus’ chest, a grounding weight upon his sternum that soothed the burn of the hot water that still lingered there in throbbing echo. Morpheus himself drifted, mired in a senseless space that was not quite sleep and not yet oblivion as he faded into the warmth and cold that alternated along his starved form. Delirium continued to sing somewhere in that cavernous nothing, her echoing voice mixing with a man’s, and her little colorful delights continued to blossom and bloom within the inky dark nothing that lulled him away. For her part, Gwen tinkered about in the kitchen, and she served herself first: a reheated bowl of last night’s soup with a chunk of French bread dunked into the purée of squash and spices. She took her time with eating. God knew she’d earned it, and it didn’t take a genius to tell that Robbie wasn’t quite back to himself, yet.

As for their house guest? Forget it.

Hob didn’t notice her eventual return until a bowl was tapping his shoulder, and he smiled his tired thanks to her as he accepted the heavy dish. It was warm to the touch, as if it had been sitting out in the sun it was colored after, and it smelled truly heavenly. He brought his soup-soaked bread to his lips, his stomach growling like a starved dog.

It was 1689, and he was crashing into a table on limbs fueled by naught but rats and rot, surrounded by feasting masses who sneered at him like he was worth less than the shit on their shoes.

The hunger died.

Gwen sighed and set her own bowl aside in a clatter as her idiot of a man slowly lowered his bread back to his dish, untouched.

“Robbie.” Exasperation outweighed fondness. “You have to eat, too. He’s in no state—”

Hob shifted closer to his friend, his hip pressing to Morpheus’, his knee tapping his ribs, and touched the back of his crooked fingers to the man’s gaunt cheek.

“My friend?”

Those half-shut eyes flickered but did not blink back to wakefulness.

“Robbie, he’s not—”

He raised his voice a bit louder.

“Hey.” He was not desperate. He just knew how this felt. He was worried; he was stubborn. But he was not desperate. If he got his Stranger to eat, the worst was over. If he got him to eat, right here, right now, this was easy to fix. He just needed someone to care for him. Simple as that. Nothing more.

Gwen’s eyes on him said otherwise.

“Stranger,” he pressed. “Y’did so well with the medicine, mate, why don’t we just try—”

“Robbie, this won’t go well,” she warned and moved too late to snatch the bowl from his relentless hands. “Just stop, you’ve done enough—”

The bread touched Morpheus’ lips, and he jerked, blinking as if startled from a deep reverie that landed him right back in the unpleasant present. The jerk turned to a retch, to a balk, and Hob flinched, Gwen’s hands pulling him away to his feet, as his friend tossed his head and batted helplessly at his mouth to banish the taste of food. The careful layers of heat and cold mismatched, their grounding weight upset, and that soothing equilibrium they’d so carefully attained shattered. Gwen tugged at Hob still, not unkind in her persistence, and did not relent until he took first one step, then another, and finally a third and backed away from Morpheus completely.

The stranger sagged into his makeshift hospital bed, his breaths coming fast and light, and his eyes drifted back to their half-shut, half-dazed stare into nowhere. The bowl of soup sat, cooling, in Hob’s grip.

Gwen’s hands held him fast like iron, one to his arm, one to his chest, daring him to try again.

“You cannot fix this in a night,” she said lowly. “No matter how badly you want to.”

“He’s gotta eat,” Hob tried miserably, and Gwen pushed him back another step.

“Robbie.” He glared at the refused offering in his hands with gritted teeth and burning eyes. “Let the meds kick in. Let him feel safe.” She paused and let him catch his breath through the tumult of emotions no doubt making a wreck of his insides. “I’m not stupid, you know.”

Hob frowned.

“What?”

Gwen swallowed as he met her eyes, his confusion deepening to something tinged with ancient distrust. But she did not waver. “You’ve been here before,” she said softly and pressed a little harder against his heart. “Except I get the feeling you were the one in the street, not the one with warmth and food to spare.”

His chest stuttered and stilled. The shine in his eyes brightened.

“But your friend isn’t you.” She spoke carefully, measuredly, never once blinking to ensure Robbie listened close. “Don’t get caught up trying to fix old wounds, Rob. They’re already scars.”

Morpheus wheezed on the sofa. Hob flinched at the sound and forced himself to breathe and be, with his healthy lungs and whole skin and eyes that could still weep and blink.

“Can you do that?” Gwen whispered.

Hob buried a hand midway through his hair, nails digging into Morpheus’ wounds, and bowed his head with a groaning exhale. The soup stared back at him.

“Rob. Can you do that?”

He nodded. When he pulled away, Gwen let him go, and she watched with some measure of relief as he poked at the soup in his hands, moving the purée about with aimless passes of his spoon. He just needed to eat. He would eat, and he’d feel a bit better, clearer-headed, and then they could—

Though the hearth crackled and popped on unchanged, Hob swore it guttered down to embers with the cold realization that swept over him like a rage.

“I could’ve—I would’ve shown—”

Grave dark, knowing, scheming eyes watched Hob Gadling from the shadows that lengthened like opening wings, and the tidal wave crashed over him, crest outrunning the trough until the weight of it cracked down on his head like a wine bottle.

“I know.”

That. Fucking. Bitch.

His restraint, unlike the wine bottle in that 1835 bar fight, shattered.

The spoon crossed the room like a hurled blade to smash two wine glasses in the dish rack and struck the wall in a cacophony of destruction. An almighty ring deafened his ears. His chest heaved like a furnace bellows, and his arm tensed to hurl the bowl after the spoon—

“ROBERT!”

The ring dulled. It lowered and waned and slowed until it was the throb of a furious pulse in his ears, in his temples, his throat…

All that preening, all that cocking about, that snide little voice in the darkest part of him grinned. Nothing more than a low-born animal, after all.

Robert Gadling squeezed his eyes as tightly shut as he could manage. And the bowl settled upon the granite island with such care that it didn’t even make a sound on landing.

“I’m sorry.” His whisper was as hoarsely raw as if he had been screaming. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know you’re upset, but that is no excuse—”

“I know,” he nodded and massaged his temples, his eyes. “You’re right, I know. I’m truly, truly sorry, Guinevere.”

His heart still pounded its war-drum in his ears.

She had known what she was doing. All that time, Death had sat there, watching him in that fake pub, toying with him, putting the chisel to him and striking it just so with her words until he was on the verge of breaking…all that time, and she had known the truth. She had known.

She had looked him in the face, beheld his heartache, soothed his grief.

And all the while, she had been nothing but a maestro admiring her creation.

He braced one hand on the island and leaned his weight into it, the other digging into his hip as he continued to breathe at a frighteningly even pace. His expression cooled into marble and steel, as unreadable as an unwritten page.

“Love,” he began, and Gwen shivered as she watched his shoulders shift and square. The coldness of his face spread to the rest of his normally warm, welcoming frame. “I need you to lock yourself in our room. Don’t come out ‘til I let you know it’s safe.”

A long silence seeped into the once lovely home, filling it like the worsening storm outside.

“What are you gonna do?” she whispered.

Hob took one last breath. The rage tempered and refined within a blademaster’s forge, and he took the weathered hilt in his practiced, calloused palm. His racing heart slowed to a gallows’ march. He tried not to dwell too long on the notion that this air in his lungs might very well be some of his last.

Outside, the snow fell in a consuming, endless cold.

“I’m calling his family.”

[bikebound]

Flying Triple: 1996 BMW K75 by @blackcyclesaustralia. Sporting @jaxgarageau billet top yoke with forks lowered by @x.x.x.rated.suspension, billet subframe and shock linkage kit, @carmans_auto_trimmers saddle, @popbangclassics rewire, handmade overflow tank and radiator shrouds, ceramic-coated header, @helperformance lines, Audi Nardo grey paint mixed with bronze, and much more. Full story today on BikeBound.com. ⚡️Link in Bio⚡️ https://instagr.am/p/CsOMRwUupnR/

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Hurt

(Vee asked for a continuation of this piece I had requested of Taron helping homeless AU! Jameson after he was badly injured)

-

CW: Description of wounds, runaway whumpee, reluctant caretaker, defiant/angry whumpee, some pet whump references

He'd made it to the alley near the guy's restaurant, figuring he could ask for some bandages or something - there's a good first aid kit, there. The guy's helped patch him up before.

But sometime before he could knock on the back door, he'd stopped being able to get back up when he fell down. The cold of the gravel and broken pavement in the alley had felt good against overheated skin, and he'd stopped trying to stand.

Then there had been a touch, and some sound, but Jameson hadn't been able to track it. He slipped in and out, bright flashes of pain, the sting of something over his stomach that made him flinch, murmured curses or apologies. In and out, dark and light. At some point he coughed and the pain was so bad he stopped remembering how to breathe.

There'd been some water sipped through a straw, he thinks now. There's a light somewhere above him, shining through his closed eyelids. A warm blanket.

And voices.

"Well, he's stitched up," He hears one voice say. A woman. He can't find the energy to open his eyes to see who it is. "I'll give Dr. Masood a ride back home. He'll live, Taron, but I can't take him."

"You can't?"

"No, and I'm so sorry. I know you're attached to this one, but I'm just not able to right now."

"Nat, I really need-... you're sure you can't, at least for a while? I don't know what to do. I can't keep him."

Jameson doesn't dare move even enough that they might realize he's awake. The disappointment in the man's voice, how he sounds genuinely depressed that whoever this woman is won't just take the inconveniently hurt little runaway off his hands... that... that hurts. Jameson didn't realize he could still be hurt that way, by someone not wanting him.

Huh.

That's... that fucking sucks. That hurts in a way he doesn't have a ready defense for. He'd thought the guy maybe kind of got along with him, a little.

"Nat, please. Please."

Jesus, he's begging someone to take Jameson off his hands? Tough strong scarred motherfucker so tired of dealing with Jameson's shit that he'll beg someone just to cart him away?

Jameson's teeth grind together. His side aches, where the knife had slid in when they took his warm coat, when he fought them trying to keep it.

His eyes burn.

Don't cry, he thinks. You don't cry anymore. You won't cry ever again. This is what people are like. Shouldn't have ever kept coming here. What, you think a runaway pet gets to make a fucking friend? Stupid piece of shit cotton-brained motherfucker, dry the fucking waterworks and get up off the fucking cot.

But his body won't move.

"I... Look. I just. I'll ask around and see who can maybe take him on. Do you have any idea who he was before? Designation?"

There's a pause. "Does that matter? For what you-... what you do?"

"Not for me, but... some of the others only take certain types. It's... it's a fight I'll never stop having. But if you have any idea, that might help?"

"No, I don't-... that's. No, I don't know. He just needs somewhere to go... and it just. It can't keep being here."

Don't cry don't cry don't cry don't cry don't cry-

They walk away, out of earshot. Jameson lays there, breathing as carefully and evenly as he can. Eventually, he finds his legs answer him when he wants them to move. He can still hear their voices, but farther away. They're not between him and that back door back into the alley.

Clinking of ceramic tells him someone's drinking coffee. It gives him cover to swing his legs over to the side and slowly force himself to sit up. Fuck, it hurts like hell. His side is a line of bright fire burning over the stitched-up wound. There's a shirt, one of the guy's. It's way too big but Jameson pulls it on anyway, drowning in the fabric. LIke wearing Nanda's old shirts sometimes, just so he could smell him when his master was away.

No.

He won't go down that road. Not now.

Getting pants on is harder, but he manages it. His own pants, stiff with dried blood, but fuck it. Fuck it all the fuck to hell. If Taron wants to get rid of him so badly, he'll make it easy for everyone involved and fuck right off on his own two feet.

Granted, his feet don't want to hold him. He has to balance against the wall, while his knees buckle and the world swims and the pains takes his breath so far away his lungs are screaming before he can inhale again.

But it's just one step after another. One hand on the wall, one foot maybe dragging a little, but he's been in pain since Brute, and he can keep being in pain forever if he has to. He was made to take the pain, after all, right from the start. Not pain like this, but... but he can handle it. He can take it.

And maybe this time he'll fucking learn his lesson. No one wants a scarred-up piece of shit runaway slut around. He's been bumming shit off this guy for too long already. This is just his sign that he's worn out his welcome.

He has to learn to stop wanting to be... wanted.

It's the hardest bit of his training to lose.

Everyone's just a different kind of shit, in the end. Everyone will hurt you, unless you learn how to stop being hurt. Stop being anything but a wall so thick that nothing can break through it, no one can break it down.

Pain rolling up his side, nauseating and throbbing, he turns the doorknob as quietly as he can. And still he hears the guy's voice say, "Wait a second-"

He tells himself not to pause.

But he does.

"If you don't want me around," He says without looking at him, voice rougher than usual and thready-thin from the pain, "Just fucking tell me, man. No hard feelings, yeah? See you around."

"What-"

Jameson nearly falls right down the steps, but somehow keeps himself balanced until he's walking as fast as he can with a limp down the alley, wondering how far he can get before his legs give out beneath him.

He grinds his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

“Wait!”

Just keep walking.

Don't look back.

Don't let it hurt.

Don't you dare fucking cry.

Not this time.

Not again.

[lmanblog]

POINTS!! ANOTHER TOMMY! HELLO!! AND HELLO TO MODS TUBBO AND WILBUR!!

I’m a Tommy fictive (if you can’t tell LOL) and I stumbled across this blog and I was like WOAH !! I’m doing a Big Important Dinner tonight for the system and I was wondering if I could maybe get a care kit? If you guys are cool with that!!

For like, specific themes, I really like stuff reminiscent of my brothers Techno and Wilbur, and I LOVE fidget toys like pick pallets and the little wiggly animals! I also love plushies especially raccoons and foxes :D!! Thank you for lookin at my request, I hope your day goes great!!

-📀🧭anon

HI KING HELLO!! I CANT FORMAT IT WELL RIGHT NOW BECAUSE I AM IN THE MIDDLE OF A PUBLIC SPACE EHKP BUT IM GONNA FUCKIN DO THIS ANYWAY WE BALL

BUTT heres links to cool shit! (+ GOOD LUCKN WITH DINNER)

RACOCON

CUSTOMCOMPASSES

MINECRAFT FOX MUFG (BECAUSE WHY NOT SPICE IT UP FROM PLUSHIES)

SILLY RACCOON FIDGET TOY

A CHEAP CROWN THAT REMINDS ME OF THE BLADE

A BLUE CLOAK JACKET!! THAT REMINDS ME OF WHEN WE WERE HIdING FROM GREEN BOY WITH TH BLADE

FUC K MGIE STARTING BY E BYE BE SHANAN D

[prep4tomoro]

Preserving Eggs Long-Term:

As a new chicken owner (since May 2023), I recently discovered that I cannot eat all of the eggs my chickens are laying, even after those I sell or give away. Hence this post on preserving eggs long term. Even if you're not a chicken owner, sometimes it's good to buy [anything] in bulk to delay paying increased food prices. So, here goes with some ideas to preserve eggs up to a year. I will update this posting as I find new resources:

Freeze Dried: My favorite breakfast always includes eggs but, in a camping (or bug-out) situation, they can be heavy, space-consuming and create a potentially messy situation. Several commercial freeze-dried options are available but are costly. While a bit time-consuming, DIY Freeze-Dried Eggs can be a cheaper alternative. Reference Link

Freezing Raw: Eggs should not be frozen in the shell, but can be out of the shell. Crack a single raw egg into each slot of an ice cube (or muffin tin) tray. Pre-scramble it or leave as is depending on your future use. Freeze in the tray, then pop out and put each egg in a zip-lock bag to keep frozen and free up the ice cube tray for another purpose. OR, just break an egg (or eggs) directly into the zip-lock bag then freeze. To use, simply leave each frozen egg sitting at room temp in a bowl to defrost. Freeze for up to 3 months or as long as 1 year. Reference Link 1 Reference Link 2

Freezing Cooked: Freezing cooked eggs can be more difficult. The texture and quality of eggs can suffer if you're not careful. The best way to freeze cooked eggs is by folding them into other ingredients (recipes) that will hold up well in cold temps; the moisture from the ice formed when freezing certain egg dishes can actually help the eggs taste better when they're reheated. Reference Link

Hard Boiled: Hard-boiled eggs, placed in vinegar/brine, can be preserved up to 3 months, if closed in an airtight "canning" jar, preferably made of glass or ceramic, not in metal. Refrigerated hard boiled eggs, still in the shell, will last about 1 week; unpeeled, about 3 days. Peeled or unpeeled, they will last only two hours at room temperature. [Reference 1] [Reference 2] Fresh/Raw: Straight from the chicken or other bird (not the store), fresh eggs, unwashed and in the shell, can be preserved much longer than any other preservation method. Fresh, unwashed eggs will have a room temperature shelf-life of about 2 to 4 weeks while refrigerated eggs will last 3 to 6 months. Eggs that are preserved with a mineral oil coating can last from 6 months to 1 year. Eggs preserved with the water glassing method (pickling lime water) can last 1 to 2 years. [Reference 4] [Reference 5] [Reference 6]

Egg Safety Tips: Always rinse eggs, under fresh warm running water, before use. Don't soak eggs except to hard boil. Wash hands, with soap and warm water, after handling eggs.

Related Links: Preserve Fresh Eggs Without Refrigeration Ways to Preserve Eggs (Safely) Cook a Raw Egg in its Shell in Campfire Ashes About Chickens and Eggs

[11-Cs Basic Emergency Kit] [14-Point Emergency Preps Checklist] [Immediate Steps to Take When Disaster Strikes] [Learn to be More Self-Sufficient] [The Ultimate Preparation] [P4T Main Menu]

This blog is partially funded by Affiliate Program Links and Private Donations. Thank you for your support.

[candy-applers]

A bloody surprise

Fandom? : Mcyt/Hermitcraft

Pairings: Grian x reader, Scar x reader, Grain x Scar, Grian x Scar x reader

Reader: Gender neutral

Warning: Mentions of falling, injury, and shattered glass/ceramics

-~-

The wind whipped in your ears, as laughter rippled through the air. Your wing flapped in sync, both carrying the frightened man. You share a look with your love, one that your other lover does not like. 

‘I know what you both are about to do, and don’t do it-’

Just as the man finished his sentence, you and your lover let go of the man’s arms, letting him free fall, as he did not have wings nor an elytra equipped. Grian and you share a laugh as you watch your lover, Scar, freefall with a look of pure terror and fear, one you both found slightly funny. 

‘Shall we catch him?’

Grian would ask, as you put a finger on your chin as if deep in thought. You’d reply no, and then laugh. 

‘Come on, lets go get him, before he actually “falls”’ 

You both dive in sync, wings flapping up before tucking in to gain falling speed, faces drived toward the earth of the server. Scar had his arms flailing around, making it quite hard to get a hand, both you and Grian manage to get an arm each, wings opening up suddenly and catching the wind. As you glide down, you and Grian joke about how scar reacted.

‘How would you feel if I dropped you thousands of feet out of the air!’

Scar exclaimed, adrenaline evident in his voice and the way his pupils were blown wide. 

‘Love, we have wings, and it's honestly fun to watch your reactions'

You giggle as scar stares at you, mouth agape, as Grian tries to hold in his laughter. 

~~~

You stretch out your back, wing unfurling along with your stretch. You can hear slight giggles from behind you. Folding your wings back in, you turn to look at your partners, who are trying (and significantly failing) to hold in their laughter. You look at the confused until scar speaks up, after controlling his laughter (while Grian is just letting his laughter loose) 

“Love, you have twigs, two of them, sticking out of your hair’ He starts to giggle again.

You roll your eyes, shaking out the twigs, hearing them clatter at your feet. You relish in the laughter your hear, cherishing this moment.

~~~

Your sobs rack your body, breath hard to catch. You couldn’t believe they’d do this, as you continue to sob, you remember how it happened…

~~~

‘Loves?’ You call out, confused at the lack of response. Usually either scar or Grian would be there to greet you, and tell you about their day, what they built, how many times scar died, and on, and on, but today, no one was there to greet you, along with no signs of life. 

You brush it off, thinking they went out for a one on one date, but it confused you because they'd normally leave a note or message you on your communicator. You shrug off your coat, wings thankful for the release of confinement. You loiter around the house, occasionally cleaning up a small mess or two, such as: putting the books away, putting the pillows back on the couch, etc. You still can’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, so eventually you caved, getting ready to go out and search for your partners. 

Just as you are about to walk towards the door to head out, the door swung open, and two bodies tumbled in. You stood there stuned, confusion coursing through you, until it set in, these two bodies, who were battered and bruised, those were Grian and Scar. 

You scream.

~~~

This brings you back to now, your tears cloud your eyes, as you scramble towards your loves, both slowly losing life. You set Grian’s head on your lap, while you fumble with the first aid kit to get the supplies out. You hear a slight noise, a cough, and it's coming from Scar. You freeze, and slowly turn your head towards him. He sits his arm up, using that to push his body off the floor. 

‘Hey, lay back down!’ You slowly (and very carefully) set Grian's head on the floor, and quickly get up to go help him.

‘No..’ his voice comes out as a whisper, it breaks your heart to hear him like that, struggling and in pain.

‘Scar, I need you to lay back down, please’ Scar looks up at you with half lidded eyes, pain written all over his face, he struggles to get up, ignoring your words from earlier, and you rush over to him. You wrap and arm around your neck, putting your other hand on his waist to help with his balance. You walk him over to the lounge, where you drop his body over one of the couches. He groans, as you lift his injured leg and prop it up with a pillow, as well as keeping his head elevated. You hear a wince, and turn over to see grian struggling to balance himself on a chair that he was next to. 

‘Gods Grian!’ You rush over to help him to the other couch, elevating his head, legs, and one of his arms. 

~~~

For the next few hours, you rush back and forth between Grain and Scar, tending to their wounds (Some worse than others) and giving them healing posts every now and then. Your mind raced with questions and scenarios as to why and how this happened. Was it an act of aggression, was it an accident, did Doc’s experiment get loose? It all raced through your brain, dampening your mood. A crash breaks your trance, so you turn to  see Grian’s mug, that of which you had next to him, was shattered on the floor, water that was spilled mixed with the ceramic pieces from the mug. It was then and there, you realized that your life was going to change…

Hey! Author here! I just want to say that this was not proof read, so please point out any mistakes, and feel free to give constructive criticism.

~Candy

[thedetailingmafia]

How do you apply ceramic coating to a bike?

A ceramic coating car is a liquid polymer applied to the exterior of a vehicle or other surface to protect it from environmental contaminants and UV rays.

Ceramic coating has become increasingly popular in recent years as a way to protect the paintwork of vehicles. When it comes to motorcycles, the process of applying a ceramic coating is similar to that of cars, but with a few differences. In this article, we will explore how to apply ceramic coating to a bike and the steps involved in the process. Process to apply ceramic coating to a bike Step…

[guardian-of-gotham]

@who-is-muses

When Harvey opened the door to his office on the first day of his new job, the first thing to greet him was a range of smells similar to a buffet table all set for Sunday brunch at a nice diner. The next thing to greet him was the sight of his best friend of several years, Bruce Wayne, turning towards the door in surprise after having lost track of time while obsessing over the smallest, perfectionistic details he wanted to get right before the other man arrived.

"Harvey?" Bruce glanced at the clock above the door, confirming that it was in fact time for his friend's shift to start soon. "Shit. Um... Surprise!?" Despite his own self-consciousness regarding his preparations, everything looked immaculate and over the top. Tea lights set atop miniature scales of justice were strewn about the room, safely distanced from anything flammable, of course, and a pair of detachable sconces containing a pot of algerian ivy were hung on the two side walls. Behind his friend's new desk was a large, round blackboard with "Congratulations Harvey!" written on it in an elegant font, and framing the whole thing was a giant golden laurel wreath. Off to the side was the true center of attention, though: a banquet cart supporting a larger set of scales, each tray laden with an assortment of food.

On the left, the dishes included grits and eggs with fried bologna, creamy mushroom and brie croissant sandwiches, bananas foster belgian waffles, cinnamon rolls, tahitian vanilla bean souffle with salted caramel anglaise, bourbon pecan cream cheese stuffed french toast, and buttermilk biscuits with sides of butter and sausage gravy. Underneath the tray, there was a chafing fuel can to keep everything warm. Such a thing wasn't present under the right tray, though, which contained chilled or room temperature foods, like chocolate-dipped strawberries, banana slices with a chocolate peanut butter ganache dipping sauce, coffee crumb cake, white chocolate raspberry scones, and a bowl of fresh raspberries and sliced strawberries with whipped cream. To the side of that tray, there was also a bucket of ice containing a bottle of Dom Perignon dated the year of Harvey's birth and a few pitchers of various juices. Meanwhile, the warmed tray had beside it a pot of coffee, a thermal carafe containing steamed milk, a tin of hot cocoa mix, a few jars of various syrups and toppings, and a ceramic cup containing a recently-made salted caramel latte with a laurel wreath drawn in the foam on top, a design which Bruce had spent months perfecting each time he made himself coffee at his own office.

Speaking of Bruce, the man himself looked nowhere near as elegant as everything he'd set up. Having gotten no sleep at all between the previous night's patrol and the extensive time spent in the kitchen this morning, his eyes were accented with a prominent pair of dark circles. He was sweaty and disheveled from running around to get everything done in time, leaving several strands of his otherwise slicked-back hair hanging in front of his face. To keep from over-heating, his shirt was only half-buttoned with the sleeves rolled up, and while his suit jacket hung neatly from the coat rack at the door, his tie hung loosely over his shoulders. He'd hoped to have the time to make himself look more presentable before Harvey arrived, but instead, he quite literally appeared to be a hot mess.

"Oh, um, these are for you!" Bruce blurted suddenly, stepping aside to reveal an ornate glass vase containing a bouquet of red and blue pansies on Harvey's desk. His new position also revealed a lock-picking kit he'd set aside there earlier, as well as a microwave and mini fridge tied up with red ribbon next to some filing cabinets against the back wall, but he was too tired and nervous about his friend's reaction to comment on, or even pay attention to any of that. A fiery pink haze spread across his cheeks as that nervousness shifted to embarrassment over the dawning realization that he'd likely overdone things.

"This isn't too much, is it?"

[carautofinesse]

Auto Finesse is one of the UK’s leading providers of car detailing products, featuring bestsellers like the Avalanche and Lavish Snow Foam duo or the Imperial acid-free wheel cleaner. With a strong commercial clientele of car detailing companies already, Auto Finesse’s Pro Collection will now be available in professional sizes and enable bulk buyers to enjoy optimal savings.

[prtgautoapp]

Detailing with Ceramic Coating: What You Need to Know

You're likely like most car lovers, always on the lookout for ways to improve your car's appearance. A ceramic coating is one of the best options to achieve this. We will be discussing what ceramic coating is and how it works as well as the benefits it offers. You can also learn the basics of ceramic coating detailing so your car looks amazing.

A ceramic coating is a thin, clear film that is applied to the car's exterior. It is composed of organic materials that are bonded at the molecular level. It creates a protective, durable barrier on the car's surface. Ceramic coatings are available for paint, glass, metal, and plastic.

Ceramic coating protects your car from chemicals, UV rays, and tree sap. Ceramic coating makes it easier to maintain your car's shine and prevents it from looking old. Ceramic coatings can also increase your car's resale price.

Before you start learning about ceramic coating detailing, here are some things to remember. First, you will need to buy a high-quality ceramic coating kit. The kits usually include the ceramic coating, instructions, and a sprayer/applicator. Before applying the coating, make sure you read all instructions.

Next, wash and dry the car. After your car has been cleaned, you can apply the ceramic coating. For the best results, make sure you follow the manufacturer's directions.

After you have applied the ceramic coating Allentown, it is necessary to wait for it to cure. This can take between 24 hours and several days depending on the type of coating used and environmental conditions. Your car is ready for the road once the curing process has been completed.

Car detailing Allentown with ceramic coating is an excellent way to transform your car. You can achieve incredible results with a little effort and time. You will be a blessing to your car!

Prestige Auto Appearance, LLC 3826 Broadway Allentown, PA 18104 610-628-4249 https://www.prestigeaa.com/

[cardetailingstgeorge]

ClearBra® Inc Window Tint - Clear Protection Film

Welcome to the ClearBra® Inc Window Tint - Clear Protection Film Utah. We are a leading St. George car detailing service company. Clearbra® Paint Protection Window tint Paint Correction Ceramic Coatings. The “Original” ClearBra® is the leader in paint protection film. We are the leading window tinting service in Saint George. Our headquarter is in Salt Lake City Utah. With over 28 years and over 30,000 vehicles covered in the industry, we can customize our film to cover any car with a professional installation. We also carry thousands of custom-cut kits in our database for the do-it-yourselfer. If you would like to protect the painted surface of your Car, Truck, Van, SUV, Boat, or Motorcycle from road debris, The Original ClearBra® has the solution for you. The Original CLEARBRA® can provide protection to cover the hood, fenders, mirrors, full front bumper, rocker panels, rear trunk, roof & a-pillars, headlights, window tinting and much more. There are a lot of options when it comes to a vehicle, such as headlight washers on bumpers, sport packages with different lower spoilers and exact coverage just to name a few. With our professional custom installations we use raw materials instead of pre-cut kits. We hand lay raw material onto total panels, which allows us to wrap the panel’s edges to produce truly stunning results with no visible edges or seams.