#cleaner solvent

[merlyn-bane]

unfriendly reminder that poppers are not legal for recreational use in the US and the person behind the counter at the sex store has better things to do than explain what plausible deniability is to you like you're five

[qualityproductsbymainlabs]

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[glitter-epoch]

Hiii, always love to see people obsessing over love and deepspace (bc I'm addicted too), can I please request zayne fic about his hands and fingers? Can be suggestive, can be pure smut, up to you lol, ok thanks byee

HIII yes i can!!! i can't believe my first request is a zayne's hands request this feels like a gift. thank you for requesting i hope you like!!!

[ there’s a part 2 now :) ] ☄. *. ⋆ gn! reader | 2.8k words | suggestive, not smut | zayne gives reader stitches but it's deliberately not described in detail/no mentions of needles/blood

“my lunch break ends in fifteen minutes,” zayne had said, staring past your head in thought. “it would be a waste of time to check you in.” 

you stood there in the bustling lobby of akso hospital, one paper-towel-bound hand pressed to the sliced skin over your hipbone, and waited. surely he wasn’t telling you to just leave. you were only friends, so it’s not like he had an obligation to you; but he was your primary care doctor, and...

and. there was, is, an and. you’re not sure what exactly to call it, and zayne is so adonis-like you’re embarrassed to even suggest he might like you.  

“i’m sorry,” you said in earnest, a little surprised by his usual coldness that you’d arrogantly assumed would thaw upon seeing your injury. “i didn’t mean for you to drop everything for me. i should have gone to an urgent care, or something, i just thought since you’re here...” 

zayne looked down from the spot over your head, clearly removed from his pensive mood. his intention to argue with you was clear, but he held his tongue stonily until you finished your rambling. 

“no,” he replied. “you should never go to another doctor. i was just thinking.” 

you blushed like an idiot. “ever?” you mocked. 

“mm,” he murmured, back to thinking again. he brought his forearm to circle the small of your back, not touching, and motioned you forward. “come with me.” 

and now, here you are: sitting on the grey sofa in front of the wall-length window, early afternoon light bleeding white all over zayne’s office. for a few moments, he’s left you alone to gather materials, and you relish in what feels like a small victory. 

i’ve been personally invited to the office.  

not like it’s the first time, though.  

zayne returns with a small kit swallowed by the size of his pale hands; the sleeves of his button-down pinned up to his elbows. you shift, balancing your weight unnaturally on one leg. His eyes snag on you as he grabs his glasses from his desk (far taller than the tabletop, he must lean down to grab those, too). 

“lay down,” zayne commands.  

you blink, glancing around to try to figure out the most convenient position to get into for him to work. by the time he’s come over and sat down on the glass table in front of you, you’re still sitting up. 

“you can put your head on the armrest and your feet that way,” he nods, not a hint of impatience in his deep voice. “i can see you squirming. when you sit up like you are, you’re putting pressure on the wound. it must hurt.” 

“i haven’t even shown you the wound,” you retort, not sure why you’re arguing so much- and swallowing a wince as you turn to prop your head up on the side of the sofa.  

“i see your handywork,” zayne replies. he pulls on a pair of blue latex gloves and they snap quietly against his wrists. he’s clearly careful not to let the noise be too loud. “hm.” 

you frown in place of a (shameful) gulp at the sight of the gloves hugging his hands.  

“is this bad?” you ask. “i’m sorry. i tried not to mess with it too much.” 

zayne pieces through the small kit on the table beside him. even his rummaging is succinct; long fingers deftly parsing through the stack of metal utensils inside. he comes up with two sets of narrow pliers and a cotton round.  

he passes the pliers through his fingers like pencils, balancing them between his knuckles, and pours a solvent that looks like lens cleaner onto the cotton pad. 

“not bad,” he says, eyes on the pliers as he polishes them. “the paper towel is fine. but you got it wet beforehand.” 

“and that’s bad?” 

“you’ll be alright,” he murmurs- or maybe he always sounds like that- and discards the cotton round. the corners of his lips just barely curl. “you won’t die, i suppose.” 

“well, i’d hope not. it’s just a cut.” 

“and what did you do this time?” zayne demands softly, fishing in the kit for what you now realize will be sutures.  

“i had an assignment with xavier and failed to climb a fence.” 

“you impaled yourself, then,” he remarks coldly. “and xavier.” 

he sets a roll of sterile surgical threads on a wider cotton pad and turns his eyes to your midriff, which is still mostly covered by your shirt; wound hiding beneath it.  

“xavier, yeah,” you inhale deeply, mentally preparing for the stitches. “my partner. i’ve mentioned him, i think.” 

“yes, you have,” zayne says. his voice is strained. then he inhales, a whole breath through his nose, mouth closed in stoic secrecy; and nods to your hips. “lift your shirt, please.” 

you’re grateful that he’s given you a task and you don’t have to look him in his eyes after that tiny display of disdain (for your partner? for your hips? hopefully the former?). But as you lift your shirt, the paper towel comes loose. 

“ouch,” you hiss. 

you realize you’re probably stressing him out.  

“it’s not bad,” you add, uncharacteristically hoarse. 

“it’s not,” zayne agrees softly, eyeing the wound with his usual cold stare. his eyes refuse to flicker above or below the cut, which rests just over the shallow ridge of your hipbone, right above the line of your trousers. “but it hurts, i'm sure.” 

you nod. “sure.” 

“sure,” he repeats, almost as if to mock you, almost as if he’s just making sure he heard you right.  

zayne busies himself preparing a cotton round of saline, and in the middle of this, says, 

“you’ll have to unbutton your pants. can you fold the waistband over?” 

your neck is suddenly clammy. “oh. yeah, sure.” 

“if you can’t fold them down far enough, you’ll have to take them off.” 

your eyes blow out like glass. 

zayne, whom you suspected might have been deliberately extending the length of his cotton-round-preparing, is surprisingly the one to smile first. almost wickedly. “i would get you a cover, of course.” 

“oh, how nice of you.” 

he laughs barely, an exhale from his nose. you unbutton your trousers, fabric shifting against metal.  

he inhales at the sound. 

the blue latex over his knuckles catches light from the windows. you watch moments later as he threads the sutures, fascinated by how efficient his hands are. they’re longer than they are wide, and slender, not bear-like; but big nonetheless. and yet his fingers move like knitting needles, never missing a beat, never shaking. “would you like to do it yourself?” zayne asks suddenly. 

his voice is like a hum, always vibrating in his chest. 

you bristle. “god, no.” 

“then why are you staring?”  

you’re hoping he won’t finish on that very word, but he does, and he looks at you with his usual resolve of steel. you decide that no answer is the only good answer, and instead say, 

“okay. good luck. don’t mess up, please.” 

he chuckles and leans over you, the breadth of his sharp shoulders blocking the sun. “i never mess up.”   

the words ‘mess’ and ‘up,’ are foreign on his tongue, like he’d never refer to a mistake so casually, like he’s never made one in his life. he probably hasn’t, you think. 

zayne lifts up the cotton round, which is practically the size of a pea in his hand. “i’m going to clean around it. the solution may sting, but not much. it will be over fast.” 

you nod. “sure.” 

he chuckles again. “sure,” he hums, and then, before he presses down, “here.” 

he swipes the cotton round over your hipbone, startlingly light. goosebumps rise instantly on your flesh. his fingers are icy, even through the gloves; they radiate cold like a lamp radiates heat.  

zayne is kind enough not to mention your instant squirming and moves quickly to start the sutures. 

“this will be fast, too,” he says, looking unwaveringly into your eyes. like he’s trying to will the fear out of you. “not as fast as that, but faster than you’d imagine.” 

you nod. “sure.” 

“there it is again,” he smiles. “sure.” 

you grin incredulously. “i don’t know what else to say. you’re about to stab me.” 

his smile is thin and almost prideful as he grabs his glasses and slips them on. he leans over your hips, then looks up at you; pushing them up the bridge of his nose. 

“aren’t you glad it’s me, at least, and not some stranger?” 

you’re busy inhaling and exhaling like a horse, trying to calm down. “i am glad it’s you, yes.” 

your desperation throws him and his jaw sets like a stone, adam’s-apple bobbing.  

“alright,” zayne says, nearly whispering. “now.” 

he begins the sutures. you gasp, instantly, at first through your nose and then through your mouth; which pops open unwittingly. it’s nearly a whine. 

“i know,” zayne murmurs, leaning back a tiny bit as he works; so his face is visible to you. “i’m sorry.” 

“it’s okay.” 

you bite down hard and screw your eyes shut, but all you do is flinch each time his fingers move. he stops almost instantaneously, like pulling the plug on a treadmill. 

“look at me,” zayne says, deep voice rumbling against your thigh.  

you peel one eye open and then the other. 

“i know it hurts,” he says gently. “but you can’t move. i could seriously hurt you.” 

“sorry, sorry,” you nod. “i know.” 

the pools of his eyes are clear. he’s resolute in his instructions as he speaks, every word confident. 

“breathe the entire time, through every suture. i can work while your stomach moves; i can’t work if you’re flinching away.” 

“okay.” 

his brows lift. “okay?” 

again, you nod. “okay. i’m sorry.” 

“no apologies,” zayne says. 

he presses his hand flat to the side of your belly that’s unharmed, the tips of his long fingers just barely curling around the slope of your waist. you inhale slowly at that, blinking rapidly. his hand is cool as glass.  

you panic, as if he can somehow feel the coil that winds up in your stomach; watching his fingers splayed across your navel.  

“i’m going to try again,” he says. you can feel the words all the way down to his fingertips. then his thumb moves, caressing the skin just over your waistband. “breathe.” 

well, i can’t now. 

“got it,” you grind out. 

“good,” zayne hums. “three, two, one...” 

and it starts again. you bite down, tongue taut to the roof of your mouth. 

“don’t,” zayne warns, stern as ever, but his fingers keep working. “breathe. i can see whether you’re doing it.” 

the coil in your stomach tightens. you peel your eyes open and watch him work, knuckles grazing over the soft, thin flesh that’s been revealed from behind the waistband of your trousers.  

his eyes flash away from your navel as you start to watch. moments later, you’re stunned to see how laser-focused he is, pupils never moving from your cut.  

“do you ever get nervous doing this?” you ask, apt to make the time pass faster by talking. like your mouth isn’t wet just watching him do his job. “are you nervous?” 

“no.” his reply is instant. “i’ve done this hundreds of times.” 

you’re stunned. “i would be nervous.” 

“you are nervous,” zayne murmurs. “close your eyes.” 

the ball of his wrist presses into the juncture of your hipbone.  

“no,” you gasp. too fast. 

zayne’s fingers slow, utensils suspended. he looks up at you, somehow feeling taller still. “no?” 

you shake your head. “i-i don’t like not knowing what you’re going to do next.” 

oh, sure.  

he’s stopped working at this point, watching you like a hawk. “then i’ll tell you what i’m going to do before i do it.” 

“that’s okay,” you exhale. i’m dying. 

zayne’s eyes rove over yours, not unkind, but uncaring about how visible his assessment of you is. clinical, even still. the corners of his lips curl up.  

you’re not sure how it’s possible for your stomach to drop while laying flat on your back, but it does; your ears hot as irons.  

he goes back to work without another word. you’re so embarrassed, you finally shut your eyes and let your head weigh on the armrest until he’s done. 

“alright,” zayne says. “that’s it. don’t move.” 

you keep your eyes shut, nodding. “i really can’t thank you enough, i-” 

“watch.” 

for a moment, you lay there. then you open your eyes, peering down at him, too uncertain to be shocked yet. “what?” 

zayne takes his small kit from the table and places it on your lap. you startle, blink, as he sifts through the contents of it. gloves still on.  

“this is another cleanser,” he hums, his voice uncharacteristically musical. “i’m going to clean around the sutures.” 

you stare incredulously at him. “...okay.” 

he’s not fooled by your aloofness. zayne’s right hand works slow circles with a cotton round around your cut; the other comes down flat to keep the waistband of your trousers from getting in his way. both are cold to the touch; never quite warming.  

your jaws come apart and you barely manage to stop your mouth from falling open as discards the cotton round and takes the corner of your waistband into his hand. 

he buttons your trousers; pulls the zipper up. 

you watch like a fool. then, when he’s done, and you think you’ll have to admit to what you’re thinking, he furrows his brows at your face.  

“did you cut yourself here, too?” he murmurs. 

“where?” you croak. 

zayne shakes his head and slowly peels off the gloves; letting them slide slowly off his fingers. “mm. here.” 

he reaches forward and spreads fingers to cup your temples. one thumb glides over your browbone, low enough that you can see it; four or five times before removing his kit from your hips and leaning back.  

you exhale harshly and move to sit up, wondering if you’ll be able to somehow flee the office without another word. 

“not yet,” zayne says. “lay back again. you don’t have to put your head back; just lean back.” 

and you do it, instantly, because...well, because.  

zayne pulls a rectangular gauze pad with an adhesive border from the small kit. then he leans forward- he'd be positioned between your legs, if you opened them- and pulls your shirt up once more. 

as he presses the bandage over your sutured wound, it seems like even he can’t look at you. but his usually statuesque expression is lifted with amusement, plus something more sinister.  

“you like to watch me work,” he hums. 

his fingers dip under your waistband to smooth the bandage over. 

“shut up,” you bite. 

he leans back and watches you with no further offerings- words or otherwise medically dubious practices- and looks quite pleased. his breath is ragged, though; chest lifting and caving. 

“thank you,” you exhale. your tongue darts out over your lips.  

his pupils are swollen. “sure.” 

you grin, caught off guard by the joke. it sounds ridiculous in his voice.  

“my break will be ending,” zayne says, stony as ever once again as he walks to his desk.  

you stand, smoothing your hair down like something far more scandalous just occurred than stitches. 

“what do i owe you?” you ask. this earns a genuine, icy glare. 

“nothing,” zayne replies, pulling on his white jacket and grabbing his things. “but go to the front desk before you leave. i’m going to call in a prescription ointment for you.” 

you blink at him, thrice. a little dizzy. “oh, wow. thank you.” 

as zayne strides to the door, you think he might genuinely leave you there without another word. but he takes the door handle, and, almost shy, turns over his shoulder and says, 

“i’d like to stay with you, but i can’t. i’ll be working until dinner.” 

“no, no,” you rush, stepping to meet him at the door. “i’m fine. thank you so much, for doing this. i was just thinking.” 

he still can’t look at you, but at that; zayne grins. 

“i’ll call you when i get home,” he says. then, “is that okay?” 

you swallow. “of course.” 

“i want to know how the sutures feel in a couple of hours,” he adds. 

“oh, sure,” you tease. 

his eyes darken, like darts. you’re almost afraid.  

zayne opens the door for you and waits for you to pass by, eyes full of mirth as he looks down at you. “i’m glad i could be of service.” 

he raps his fingers on a clipboard until you look away. you blush feverishly all the way down the hall at how he says ‘service.’ 

☄. *. ⋆

this is not how you do stitches nor how you sterilize utensils. anyways FIRST POST. lol. anon if you or anyone else wants a part 2 of this (nsfw) i wiiiiiill do it lmk

[tightwadspoonies]

The 7-Item Cleaning Kit

So you need to clean your dwelling, and you don't have the resources to buy a cleaner for every occasion.

Well have I got a post for you!

Basically all household cleaning can be done with 6 items and water. And those items are fairly inexpensive.

Rags. Don't buy these. Any piece of cloth you were going to throw away/donate will do. Cut it into manageable sizes and use sewing or fabric glue to make a small hem around the outside. You can wash them in the same load of laundry as everything else (pre-treat very oily rags with soap and water) Scrap paper (paper bags, newsprint, etc...) will work for really dirty things you don't want to wash. Keep a pile going.

Water. Water is a nearly-universal solvent. It won't work on oil, wax, metal scratches on porcelain, or calcium buildup, but it will work pretty much alone (or with a rag and some elbow grease) on everyday dirt.

Soap. If water doesn't work alone, soap and water together usually will. A good rule of thumb is one part soap, one part water, and one part whatever you're trying to dissolve. The only things soap and water won't work on are those metal scratches and calcium buildup.

Melamine Sponge. What will work on metal scratches and calcium buildup without damaging porcelain, you ask? Melamine sponges. That's the generic for a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser and let me tell you they're dirt cheap if you buy non-brand-name.

Broom and Dustpan. These are two things technically I guess but they usually come purchased as one. This will do general duty to sweep your floors, dust your walls and ceilings, and when you tie a large rag to the broom, damp mop too.

Medium or Hard Bristle Brush. This one is useful for loosening caked-on dirt on your floors and upholstery, and getting into tight spaces you can't with a rag.

Blade or Scraper. This can be an old credit card or a razor blade. This is for getting the bulk of gum, wax, mildew, stickers, or other hard-to-clean goo off of things.

Have questions about how to use these items for a specific cleaning project? Send an ask to @tightwadspoonies!

[canonicallyobserving911]

Season 8: Buck DID NOT buy a new couch!

The one in his loft that Timbuktu slept on in 8x5 is the same one Margaret bought for him after the lightning strike in 6x11!

Ok... I've seen some posts about Timbuktu sleeping on Buck's couch (I'm making a separate post about that and all BT scenes in 8x5 because I think I've figured out what the show was trying to do and express but it'll be separate from this one) and some people think Buck bought a couch with Natalia but HE DIDN'T.

Here's the proof.

In 8x5, Tonka Toy was sleeping on Buck's couch but if you take a good look at it, you'll see it's the same one Buck tried sleeping on in 6x12 and it's the one Kameron gave birth on in 6x18. (I put them side by side so they can be seen better.)

In 6x18, Kameron went into labor and Buck helped her deliver her and Connor's baby (I still don't believe the child is biologically related to Buck and I've already done several posts about it) but the point is she's on the same couch Toy Story lays down on in 8x5.

6x18

8x5

It's the same couch and it still has the same blue throw blanket on it. In 6x18, it was behind Kameron's head and in 8x5, Tonsilitis used it as a cover.

Now I think there are three possibilities here since Buck tried to get the couch cleaned at the end of 6x18.

He found some better cleaners and they were able to remove the stains.

He replaced the cushion where the stains were.

He bought the same couch his mother purchased to replace the old one.

I don't think option #3 is the best one because Buck didn't want his mom to buy him one but since she wouldn't listen after he was discharged from the hospital (she never does), he told Maddie to let her do what she wanted.

Option #2 is plausible but because the cushion appears to be attached to and embedded into the back and the sides of it, I don't think that's the right option either.

Option #1 appears to be the best one because stains can be removed from leather with the right type of solvents and cleaning materials.

The point of this post is Buck didn't buy a new couch; he still has his old one which means it's possible the couch theory is still in play. The number of callbacks that have been made to previous seasons since 8x1 aired have been astronomical and I wouldn't put it past Tim and Co. to use it as a point of reference too. Apparently, most of the old OG writers are gone and were replaced but some are still there (TW the one who wrote 8x5 is still there but it's unclear why) so the ideas on how to further retcon or reincorporate old ideas from previous seasons are obviously continued conversations in the writers' room.

Reminder, Buck still hasn't found the right person for himself (EDDIE) so it's likely he'll keep the couch his mother bought until he makes the decision for himself.

After 7x4 aired, in an interview, OS said the couch theory was a season 6 thing but I don't think it's over. If it was, they would have put a NEW COUCH in Buck's loft but they didn't, hence him finding the right couch with Eddie is still the only option.

Just saying.

I've done several posts about Buck's couch and they're linked here, here and here. Also, I did a post about what I believe the destruction of the couch meant and it's linked here and the last one I'll link (it's not the last post I did about the couch) is the one about how no one sat on Buck's couch in 6x13 (linked here).

Eddie's couch is still the right couch for Buck and that's why he still has the old one.

[pancakeke]

idk who this may help, but I've seen people panic a number of times because their phones suddenly stopped charging via micro-usb or usb-c ports.

If this ever happens to any of you and you don't have the money for a new phone, there's a chance your phone has the hardware for wireless charging hidden inside it.

Look up the specs for your phone's model, because if it has wireless charging you can pick up a $10 wireless charging pad from walmart to tide you over while you buy a better one online. Then you can continue using your phone despite its usb-whatever port being out of commission.

Note: wireless charging heats phones up more and degrades phone batteries faster than wired charging, but if other hardware is already failing I think you have to accept that your phone is already living on borrowed time.

Also, be aware of electronic contact cleaner. It looks like compressed air but it's not. This stuff sprays an evaporating solvent to ideally blast away any debris that may be blocking electric contacts.

[materialsscienceandengineering]

Researchers uncover a rapid, efficient and environmentally friendly method for selective lithium recovery using microwave radiation and a readily biodegradable solvent. A microwave-based process boasts 50% recovery rate in 30 seconds. The "white gold" of clean energy, lithium is a key ingredient in batteries large and small, from those powering phones and laptops to grid-scale energy storage systems. Though relatively abundant, the silvery-white metal could soon be in short supply due to a complex sourcing landscape impacted by the electric vehicle (EV) boom, net-zero goals and geopolitical factors. Valued at over $65 billion in 2023, the lithium-ion battery (LIB) global market is expected to grow by over 23% in the next eight years, likely heightening existing challenges in lithium supply.

Read more.

[rokhal]

ANGR Magical Girl AU: Wrong Universe

The Robbie I usually write wakes up in the Ghost Rider Magical Girl AU.

I figured that in Magical Girl AU, Robbie is likely to go to Lisa to ask for help walking in heels (assuming Johnny's tips are less than useful) and Lisa gets so excited at the prospect of Robbie participating in drag and he denies that's what he's doing but refuses to explain so in her desire to be supportive she ends up stalking him so she can cheer for him at his show and ends up finding out that he's a magical girl which somehow makes a lot more sense. She becomes a valuable member of the team because she has social skills. Of a sort.

If anything here contradicts any other ideas anyone else has in the works, MULTIVERSE BAYBEE it's noncanon :) The Sharpie thing is purely a case of Great Minds Think Alike though. I saw that in Moose's fic and was like, twins!

This is way too long 😭

As Robbie scrubbed the brake cleaner off his hands, the axle grease wiped away and so did the black Sharpie he’d hastily scribbled onto his fingernails that morning. His bright pink fingernails. If it was nail polish, the brake cleaner should be taking that off, too; he scrubbed hopefully at his thumbnail but this was as useless as the acetone he’d tried before resorting to Sharpie.

He’d woken up feeling more normal than he had in a long time. The pleasant sensation of a full night’s rest had faded as he’d gotten dressed and made Gabe breakfast. His bad eye was mysteriously back to normal and the scar on his forehead was completely gone, but his goatee was shaved off, he had some kind of jewel embedded in his chest, his fingernails were pink, and. And Gabe wasn’t his Gabe. It was Gabe’s face, and Gabe’s smile, but instead of cartoon and comic book heroes filling his shelves and plastered all over his door, it was sparkly anime girls and Japanese motorcycle riders; he was happier, stronger legs and steadier hands, and he didn’t second-guess Robbie’s every expression and movement or double-check his identity after every time Robbie left his sight. Robbie spent half an hour tossing the bathroom looking for his epilepsy meds before he checked the app on his phone where he tracked expenses and found that this Gabe had been off them for an entire year.

The apartment was mostly the same; same view across Hillrock Lane out the apartment window, same pile of automotive magazines on the coffee table—now with manga mixed in—same thrifted art on the walls. Robbie had wondered if he was still asleep, and dreaming, or better, if the last two years had been a long and vivid nightmare, until he noticed the time and realized that he’d missed Gabe’s bus and was about to be late to work. He’d stuffed a stale tortilla in his mouth and gnawed on it while grabbing a pair of coveralls and helping Gabe into the Charger to get to school. He’d dropped Gabe off and made it all the way to Canelo’s before he realized that he hadn’t heard from Eli all morning.

He stood now under a half-disassembled Chevy Tahoe, scrubbing desperately at his glossy pink fingernails as though with enough solvent and friction he could wipe himself from this world and return to his own body, his own curse, his own Hillrock Heights, his own brother. He simply had no better ideas.

“Reyes!” Canelo barked from across the shop, and he jumped, dropped the can of brake cleaner. “Quit daydreaming!”

Eli would have had a snide comment about how Canelo ought to mind his own fucking business or risk getting disemboweled. Robbie checked the time and added up the hours he was due by the end of the day, for future reference in case Canelo rounded his pay down when it was due next week. If he was still here next week. He couldn’t be stuck here until next week but he didn’t know to do anything but work. Did his other self know anybody here who dealt with interdimensional travel and too-pleasant dreams? He wasn’t a Ghost Rider here, Johnny Blaze wouldn’t have any reason to have met him…

...But he was a something.

What the hell was he now?

He was on the clock, that’s what. He had a job he knew how to do, to provide for a brother he loved, even though neither of them were his, and he would reinstall this truck’s axles and wheel bearings and not get his alternate self fired and then he would, somehow, figure out how to get home. (Dread filled him.) (He hadn’t fantasized about murdering anyone all morning.) (The world felt brighter, his senses more vivid, his flesh and skin snug over his bones, and he could believe for the first time in a long time that he might be safe for others to be around.)

“You alright, son?” Canelo asked from two feet behind him, and Robbie hit his head on the Tahoe’s subframe. It didn’t hurt as much as it probably should have. Canelo was just standing there, frowning a little. “Take five, I’ll get you some ice.”

What the hell, Robbie thought, and no one answered.

Canelo did, indeed, return from the break room with an ice pack. No one else at the shop seemed to think this was unusual. Marty winced at Robbie and patted his own head, mouthing, You okay? and even Ramon grunted sympathetically at him. Robbie retreated to the bathroom where he pressed the ice pack to the starting bruise and stared himself down in the mirror. Without his beard, he looked young and delicate—that’s why he’d grown it. But it wasn’t just the beard; his eyes were brighter, his skin was smoother, the scar through his eyebrow had faded—all the scars on his hands were gone, too, the bashed knuckles and burns and scrapes that were inevitable if you worked with cars all day. He looked tender and undamaged. He looked like someone worth protecting.

He had a terrible thought and whispered, “Talk to me. I’m not doing this on purpose but if I know you’re in here I think I can give you your body back.” He stared uncomfortably into his own eyes, but the back of his mind was silent.

He got out his phone—same PIN as usual—and checked his contacts list. Johnny Blaze was on there, but Johnny Blaze had almost killed him and Eli the first time they’d met; how would Johnny react to some strange, murderous version of Robbie wearing the skin of the Robbie he knew? He couldn’t beat Johnny in a fight in the real world. He didn’t know how to explain himself. There was nothing to do but finish the Tahoe.

The day rolled on, he returned the Tahoe to drivable condition and did a couple tune-ups and oil changes, and he snagged a moment to Sharpie his nails black again. He wasn’t afraid of nail polish—he had black nail polish at home somewhere, eyeliner too—but pink was not his style and was liable to attract the wrong kind of attention, especially with how...how he looked, in this world. (What was he? Was he something that could fight, defend itself? There was no fire waiting under his skin to consume his human weakness.)

He was puzzling over a set of trouble codes from a fifteen-year-old Nissan Maxima when his phone buzzed. If this version of himself worked on the same logic, he’d set it up to mute unknown numbers but programmed in all Gabe’s teachers and therapists. He dug into his pocket under his coveralls and checked it. It was Lisa, saved in his contacts list with a photo he didn’t remember taking: familiar bright hair and smile, raising two fingers in a V in front of one eye while her other hand displayed a river rock with a large hole worn through the center, dangling from a pink ribbon.

This was not a conversation he was ready to have. He ended the call. A minute later, she called again. Robbie walked to the time clock and punched out as he answered. “Uh, what’s up.”

Screeching and howling and buzzing in the background. “Omigod where are you?” Lisa demanded. She sounded out of breath.

“Work,” Robbie said, baffled. “What’s going on, are you okay?”

“What do you mean what’s—” Banging, panting. “Where’s Eli?”

A chill unfurled under his skin, his hand grew numb as he gripped his phone case. “What are you talking about.”

“Did you lock him in the freezer again?” Lisa demanded. What. “I know he’s annoying—”

“That’s one word for it,” Robbie muttered, swallowing bile.

“—but he’s an essential member of the team!”

“What team?”

Lisa paused. “The, the team,” she said hesitantly. “The Guardians of Hillrock Heights. Robbie, you. You know what you do helps people, right?”

He was disappointing her somehow—no, worse, letting her down. “Yeah, of course, I, uh.” Eli existed here, but this Lisa knew about him; obviously this version of Robbie had trusted her more. Or she’d just stalked him and figured it out. “What do you need me to do?”

“Get to the Cecil Hotel,” Lisa panted. “Bring Eli. And stay and talk to me after you transform back.”

Transform. Robbie rubbed the hard pink jewel embedded in his sternum. “Right. Okay.”

He left the time clock and approached Canelo’s office, racking his brain for some excuse—a lie about Gabe? A medical appointment? When he opened the door, Canelo met his eyes and sighed. “Again? Well, go on.” Robbie stared at him. He wasn’t even scowling. “What do you want, a hug? Go do your thing.”

He ran out of the shop and threw himself into the Charger. As he sped out of the parking lot, he almost clipped off one of its mirrors against the security gate. He grabbed his phone and started to search for the Cecil Hotel while making a left turn onto Atlantic Boulevard and almost crashed head-on into an F-250; he couldn’t drive and use his phone at the same time anymore. The phone dropped to the floorboards and he pulled hastily to the side of the road, cursing.

His connection to the Charger was different here, too. Still there, but weaker. Possibly just in his head. He tried to stretch out into it anyway, feeling its vibrations, listening to the loping chug of its idle and the continuous hiss of its supercharger, but his consciousness stayed firmly in his human body.

He heard something clank in the trunk.

Atlantic Boulevard was not a good place for a street fight. Robbie found his phone, pulled up a route to the Cecil, took a detour in an alley behind a warehouse. He hit the gas and slammed the brakes a couple times before shutting down the car and sprinting around the back to pop the trunk, confront this alternate version of his uncle, slam the trunk on his neck while he was still dazed, kill him like this alternate Robbie wasn’t yet sullied enough to do.

There was no washed-up mob henchman wriggling in the Charger’s trunk. Robbie found a couple bags of school supplies, a tool box, and a big first-aid kit, nothing sinister, and then in the shadows, oddly, something pink and shiny—one of this Gabe’s collectibles? A Beanie Baby?

“FUCK,” the pink thing bellowed, and then it unspooled and slipped up over the edge of the trunk, hit the ground with a slap, and slithered away, S-curves glittering in the sun as it struggled against the smooth pavement. Robbie gaped, then chased after it. Him. Eli was making slow progress and Robbie caught up quickly, but he turned on a dime; Robbie headed him off away from a nearby dumpster and danced around him for almost a minute before he had the idea to shrug off his jacket and throw it on Eli’s head. Eli backed out from under it but by this time Robbie had him by the neck. “Look. Revenge is, you don’t got the mindset for it? There’s healing in forgiveness. It makes you more stable. Less prone to violent, emotional outbursts. Kid. Kid! We had our differences, but it was the situation, the close quarters, you know? You’d do the same in my position, I just wanted to live, I had unfinished business! And now, heh, you got a body, I got a body, we can go our separate ways. Kid? Hey?”

Eli was a shimmery pink snake about half-again as long as Robbie’s arm. He had round shining eyes in a hundred shades of rose, and the large scale between them was shaped like a heart. His forked tongue sparkled as it scented the air. His voice was exactly the same.

“You, uh. Look different.”

Robbie had a sinking feeling that stomping the snake’s head under his boot wouldn’t be doing this world’s Robbie any favors. He dangled Eli in one fist at arm’s length—an essential member of the team. “You don’t know what’s going on, either.”

“Believe it or not, I’m not the cause of everything that goes wrong in your life.”

“Lisa wants us at the Cecil Hotel,” Robbie said, returning to the Charger and dumping Eli on the passenger seat. “She requested you by name. We’re gonna take care of whatever’s going on and figure it out from there.”

“The Cecil, huh? Good times.”

“Don’t tell me you killed people there.”

“I won’t.” Eli awkwardly pressed his long narrow body against the door, slowly lifting his head toward the window. Robbie took a hard left and Eli slipped sideways between the seat and the side pillar. “Fuck.”

“Apparently you’re important for some reason.”

“Can you not act like my existence is an imposition for two seconds.”

Robbie slammed his fist into the steering wheel. “You exist because you committed human sacrifice.” Eli slithered out of view behind the passenger seat. Robbie took a breath. “You’re a talking pink snake here. You probably have magic powers.”

“Pink?”

“You color-blind, too?”

Eli was silent for the rest of the drive. Robbie hoped he was figuring out what magic powers he had, otherwise they’d just have to wing it.

Hotel Cecil was a trio of brick buildings spanning half a city block and joined by skywalks. The complex had probably been impressive before the invention of reinforced concrete. No longer a failing hotel for people falling down the ladder of society, it was being converted to affordable housing for people crawling back up. Robbie parked across the street and squinted up at it. He was pretty sure the walls weren’t supposed to be covered in gray goo, but there was a ghost tour or something right there on the sidewalk and none of the tourists were taking pictures. Maybe it was a maintenance thing? An art installation?

“Huh,” Eli said, finally squirming his way up onto the dashboard to take a look.

Robbie texted Lisa: Here.

Her reply was immediate. Fourth floor front building room 73

No emojis. That couldn’t be good. “Any ideas on how to get inside?” Robbie asked.

“Put on your spare coveralls and act pissy.”

Robbie could have thought of that himself, but he had no better ideas. He stomped through the graffitoed doors of the unassuming entryway and through the unexpectedly grand marble halls of the lobby floor, scowling like he’d been called in on his day off to fix a plumbing catastrophe that could have been prevented by routine maintenance the previous week, and glancing up now and again at the pulsing tangle of veins the color of neglected differential fluid that wormed between the ceiling lights and which no one else seemed to notice. Eli wrapped himself around Robbie’s neck like a scarf; uncomfortably close, but better, at least logically, than having him ride along in his thoughts like usual.

“Art nouveau,” Eli commented, peering up an angular gold-and-green wall sconce beside a statue in an alcove whose opening was carved to look like palm leaves and Egyptian columns. “Classy place full of staff who don’t ask stupid questions.”

“Shut up,” Robbie hissed. They reached the pair of elevators that served this part of the complex: just two, and one was out of order. A big brass dial on the top indicated that the elevator was on the eighth floor, and going up. Robbie stabbed the button irritably, then gave up and ran for the stairs.

On the fourth floor, the gray veins were so thick that the ceiling looked a foot lower than it should have been, and the light sconces were mostly covered. Somehow, the light escaped anyway, leaving the carpet brightly lit and the air at shoulder-height and above dim like twilight. Robbie watched a tall man in a business suit strolling down the hall, his entire head vanishing into the pulsing fleshy mass. “Keep your head down, there’s gray magical crap on the ceiling,” Eli informed him.

Robbie felt a moment of glee that Eli couldn’t just look out through his eyes anymore. “I noticed.”

“Try touching it. Left hand.”

Robbie poked one of the ceiling tentacles with his left pinkie finger as he advanced down the hall toward room 73, and cringed as the rock in his chest seemed to shudder in protest. The gray flesh was clammy and yielding, leaving his finger numb as he pulled away. Even if it was invisible, how did anyone walk around with their whole head swimming in this stuff without noticing? What was it doing to the people it enveloped?

He passed room fifty, and noticed that the higher the numbers progressed, the thicker the veins overhead pulsed and the lower they sagged, growing to fill more of the narrow space even as he watched. He crouched low and broke into a run. Room 73 was nearly overtaken; limbs as thick as ventilation ducts sprouted through the walls, heaving and pulsing and moaning, ozone and rot thick in the air. He had to kneel beside the door as he knocked. “Lisa! It’s Robbie. I’m outside.”

“Get in here!” Lisa yelled from within.

“They ain’t changed this lock since ‘98. You can shim it with a credit card.”

Robbie bypassed the latch and shoved the door inward against the mass of shifting tendrils packed against the ceiling. There was barely room to crouch inside; the rust-red carpet shone in the light of fixtures completely swallowed by the strange rot overtaking the hotel. He ducked as a gray coil twisted past his face.“Can you get to the door?”

“Kinda busy!” Lisa grunted. Someone else screamed, inhumanly long and somehow muted, the volume too soft for the cracks of agony in the voice. Robbie leaned down and spotted what looked like a clear space around the hotel bed. He army-crawled toward it. There was something wet and sticky on the floor—not blood, it smelled like solvent. White spray-paint, circling the bed. He dragged himself over the painted lines and got his first look at what Lisa was busy with.

There was a body on top of the blankets, a middle-aged white woman with hollow cheeks and loose skin rising in narrow folds where gray tendrils sank into her from above. Lisa had a broken bottle in one hand and was sawing at the thickest of the tendrils just above where it sank between the motionless woman’s eyes. With another, she held a flat rock with a hole in the center, scowling through it like a lens. From the nest of gray veins on the ceiling, a human figure sagged down, joined to the woman joint by joint with those tendrils. Its mouth was a formless hole, its eyes cold wet pits, its flesh the same sludgy substance as the rest of the hotel’s infestation. Robbie swallowed. “Is she alive?”

“For now,” Lisa said, scraping furiously at the tendril. Robbie noticed with horror that two other tendrils had descended from the ceiling to sink into Lisa’s shoulders; he lunged forward and ripped them away. The rock in his chest shuddered as his hand went numb. “Was it on me?” She turned around and looked at him for the first time. “Omigod, why aren’t you changed?”

Robbie took a deep breath and stared up at the vacant eyes of the abomination on the ceiling. He pulled out the blade on his multitool and joined in cutting the woman free; the gray stuff yielded like flesh to expose a tough stringy black core. “We can wrap her in the blanket and drag her out.” The human shape began to drag one of its hands down toward them, struggling against an unseen force.

Lisa grabbed his wrist. “Robbie, she needs an exorcism. You have to change.” He stared at the river rock that dangled from a long pink ribbon on her neck as she tried to meet his eyes. “She’s got kids who miss her, she’s turning her life around, you gotta help! Come on!”

“I don’t remember what you’re talking about,” Robbie blurted.

“Omigod are you cursed or something?”

The horror on the ceiling reached closer, closer, as black claws unsheathed from half-molded fingers. Then it drew back and tension shuddered through its body; the woman on the bed shuddered in synchrony. Its eyes fixed on the back of Lisa’s neck. It lunged, but Robbie was faster, slicing its wet palm with his knife as he pushed Lisa aside. As it swiped back to retaliate, he instinctively leaned into its path—baiting it with the Rider’s leather skin filled with the Charger’s fire ready to erupt the moment those claws released it to burn his enemy—and screamed as the talons sank into his human shoulder. He could barely feel the wounds through the hollow ache the creature’s touch carried, but the worst pain was the furious hum from the stone in his sternum, rocking and jerking like an engine that had snapped its mounts; he thought his chest would crack open from the force. His hand went limp and the knife dropped and stabbed blade-first into the bed. He punched ineffectually with his good hand as the creature lifted him. New tendrils sprouted from its body, seeking to plug into his own. He was as frightened and angry and frustrated as he’d ever been in his life, and though he was suppressing none of it since this Lisa was already enmeshed in his supernatural bullshit, the transformation wasn’t happening.

Eli slithered down his coveralls and escaped out his pant leg as he struggled. Lisa stared in horror through her river rock. “Eli! Help him!”

“Eh, sure,” Eli said, watching Robbie from the bedcovers while Robbie’s leg went cold and dead. “Rake its eyes! Behind your left shoulder!” Robbie flailed blindly with his working arm, hoping Eli hadn’t gotten his left and right confused.

Lisa stood up and grabbed Robbie by the waist, trying to pull him down. Blood from his shoulder soaked her hair. “What’s wrong with you two? Say the words!”

“What words?”

Lisa groped his chest until her palm pressed against his pink troll-doll gem. “Oh, thank God. Say it: Tie cloth nee, ya toys or chalk!”

“What?!”

“Say it! Tie cloth—”

“Ty glavny, ya tvoy suchok,” Eli interrupted. “Five words, you can do it.”

“Die glovny, a twoy sujock,” Robbie gritted out just before the ceiling monster’s limbs closed around his throat. For an instant, all he knew was aching cold and darkness. Then the stone in his chest sparked and a shockwave erupted through his body, driving away the clammy gray tentacles in a blast of warm pink light. It doesn’t hurt, he thought, shocked. Changing into the Rider in his own world was a cathartic blast of agony as his body cremated itself from within, but this, this was nice. He was weightless in a void of dancing blue-green lights. The pain of talons crushing his shoulder was gone, and so were the low-grade headache he always got about halfway through the work day and the tension in his spine and the knot on his head from banging it into the Tahoe that morning; he tingled all over with the contentment of an hour-long hot shower where he wouldn’t have to pay the heating bill. He stretched out, luxuriating in the feeling, and realized with horror that his body wasn’t there.

I’m hallucinating, he told himself. It was hard to think through the nice bubbly feeling, but he remembered that Lisa was right there trying to stop him from getting eaten, and there was a woman on the bed below who was dying, and he couldn’t see or feel anything but the bright pink gem illuminating the hollow space where his body was supposed to be. He thrashed, but it was like trying to fight the wind with a puff of smoke. He was nothing but thought, and he couldn’t even panic properly.

Solidity returned in jolts and starts: cool fabric twisting around his body and snugging him into shape. Protective gloves, leather boots long enough to save his knees from road rash, body armor, something to guard his forehead. The familiar handles of a pair of body hammers filled his palms, and the world snapped back into place. No time at all seemed to have passed; he was still suspended above the bed by the ceiling monster.

He was not the Rider, but he knew what the Rider would do. He jammed one hand into the mouth of the humanoid sludge stalactite and stabbed the spike of a body hammer through its skull. It moaned, and he stabbed again, flipped himself around, gripped its leg between his knees to anchor himself, and struck for the heart, the throat, all the vital targets that he’d trained himself to avoid whenever he gave in to the urge to beat down local thugs in Hillrock Heights. Black blood spattered into his eyes and trickled up his nose, reeking of mold. Its touch no longer chilled him; his touch seemed to burn it. He beat the creature until it melted away and retreated back into the ceiling, all the veins and coils and tree-root limbs draining away after it. Robbie landed hard on the edge of the bed, bounced, and rolled to his feet. His feet—

“Point your toes!” Lisa yelled, too late. He tripped over his own ankles and crashed face-first into the bedside table.

Whenever the Rider ate shit like this, he’d sink through his own shadow and reappear in the car like he’d meant to do it—not that he was embarrassed, just that he preferred not to take the time to pick himself up. Robbie pried himself up off the floor when he realized that his powers in this world did not include the ability to dissolve into the room’s nicotine-stained carpet. He was wet, disappointingly fleshy, and entirely alone in his head. His protective gloves were doing a poor job, already soaked through with disgustingly organic black slime, and his feet—

He looked down at himself for the first time. He wasn’t wearing protective gloves or work boots or body armor. He had the kind of delicate white cotton gloves that women wore with ballgowns in old movies, and thigh-high go-go boots over tights, and what looked like a women’s ice-dancing costume. The ankles of the high-heeled boots were decorated with pink rhinestones, and so were his white-painted hammers. The worst part was that under the pink satin bow where the gem from his chest had migrated, the black leotard bore the same staple-shaped white stripe as his favorite jacket. This was his ice-dancing costume.

He tried to get his feet under him to stand, but the heels were in the way. Whatever force had undressed him seemed to have a grudge against the stock geometry of the human foot; the boots were so stiff he could barely bend his ankles. When he yanked at them, they didn’t budge. He couldn’t find any fasteners. He was about to grab one of his spiked hammers and try ripping through the leather when he noticed Lisa looking down at him from the bed, holding Eli twined around her forearms like a pet corn snake.

“Get the fuck away from her,” Robbie snarled, lunging on his knees.

Lisa jerked back, carrying Eli with her. “Okay, what is your deal today? I thought you had amnesia, but the way you bashed up that genius loci—are you, like, possessed by your alternate universe evil twin with a goatee?”

“Basically,” Robbie said, retrieving one hammer from under the bed. “Put him down.”

“Hey, looks like we’re friends in this universe, too.” Eli rested his head in the crook of Lisa’s elbow and flicked his tongue at Robbie.

“Rrrrrrrr,” Robbie growled. It sounded ridiculous without the rumble of the Charger’s engine filtering through his throat. He could tackle Lisa and rip Eli away from her, bash his head into the wall—but she’d never trust him after that. “He’s not safe, he used to be a—”

“I know you are, but what am I?” Eli interrupted, and Robbie wavered.

Lisa passed him the box of tissues from the bedside table. “Wipe your face and exorcise Mrs. Sanchez so we can get her out of here.”

Robbie hated that this “change” had left him with a human face to wipe. He struggled to his feet, gripping the mattress for balance. The woman on the bed hadn’t moved; she stared vacantly at the ceiling, black veins spreading from the points on her body where the ceiling-monster’s roots had anchored. She was breathing, at least. Her lips were an unhealthy gray-purple. “Any idea how I do that?” he asked, glaring at Eli.

“Search me, I dunno what trigger words alternate-me picked.”

“You make a cross with your hammers,” Lisa said, demonstrating with her empty fists, “and say something like, eej an owie, sucker?”

“Idi na hui, suka,” Eli corrected her.

Robbie had a bad feeling that all his powers were activated by Russian vulgarities. He took careful crouching steps as he retrieved his other hammer, keeping one hand on the bed or on the wall as much as possible, then crossed his hammers like a priest in a vampire movie and did his best to parrot Eli’s words. There was a rush of wind that set his hair fluttering along with the skirt and pink bows of his leotard, and a fountain of pink sparks erupted from the hammers, right at the comatose woman’s bare face and the flammable-looking bedclothes. He had to separate the hammers, to turn off the power or at least point it in a safer direction, but his body wouldn’t obey him: his spine straightened and his shoulders drew back and his legs stepped wide into a power-stance despite the boots pinning his feet at an unnatural angle; he was spraying hot sparks at a defenseless innocent person and he was posing like he was proud of himself.

The seizure ended and he dropped the hammers and stumbled to the edge of the bed, ready to smother fires with his thin cotton gloves, brush off any burning embers from the woman’s hair. Lisa caught him by the shoulder. “Hey! Hey, look, you did it,” she said, examining the woman through her river rock.

There were no fires or burns. The infected gray-black marks were retreating up from her skin and trickling away into inert slime. “What did I do,” Robbie panted.

“You saved the day!” Lisa said brightly. She lifted her rock to check the ceiling; fresh veins had begun to ripple over the paint in a human outline that mirrored Mrs. Sanchez. “You saved...two thirds of the day. Eli, so your thing.”

Robbie hated that he knew Eli well enough to read from the tension in his sigmoid posture that he was taken aback. “My thing.”

“Bite her!” Lisa said impatiently, watching the ceiling.

“What?”

“His bites heal people.”

“Puta madre.” Eli stared at the woman in...probably disgust. “This is…” He cut himself off, looking up at Lisa. “Just what I’ve always wanted.”

“You are so full of shit,” Robbie hissed. Lisa glared at him, and Robbie glared back. “He is!”

“We don’t have time for this,” Lisa said to Eli, making a strange gripping gesture beside his head. “Hurry up or I’ll do it for you. Manually.”

Eli grudgingly fit his mouth around Mrs. Sanchez’ wrist and wriggled his lips and teeth around with disturbingly more mobility than Robbie had expected a snake to be capable of. Robbie clenched his fists as translucent pink fangs flicked into view before sinking into her wasted skin. Eli’s body glowed, and pink sparks shimmered along her veins, circled over her heart, and flashed twice before vanishing. Mrs. Sanchez opened her eyes and sat bolt upright, staring at Robbie.

“Uh,” Robbie said.

“Oh thank God you’re okay!” Lisa squealed, throwing herself between them and gripping Mrs. Sanchez by the torso. “Ma’am, you just survived a carbon monoxide leak, it’s absolutely imperative that we get you to fresh air, you may still be experiencing visual disturbances, first responders have been called, come on, let’s get you out, don’t worry about your belongings, let’s go. Go. Go.” She half-led, half-wrestled the confused woman out the door. Robbie took two steps after them before his ankles did a death-wobble and dumped him to his knees. “We’ll figure out your amnesia-whatever when I get back,” Lisa assured him. “If the hotel wakes up again…” She mimed bashing something with a hammer. “You got this!”

“I got this,” Robbie whispered to himself, stumbling to the nearest wall for balance.

“He can’t even walk!”

[carlos-in-glasses]

Thank you for the tag @strandnreyes @alrightbuckaroo @jesuisici33 @welcometololaland @rmd-writes @carlos-tk @thisbuildinghasfeelings @three-drink-amy and @paperstorm 🧡

It's 2016 in Flashback Fic and TK has had a rough day. Let's meet his dealer, Spike:

Over by the window, Spike is smoking a joint and staring mournfully at the distant Tribute in Light – two blue beams like endless neon rods piercing into the night sky.

“Can’t believe it’s been fifteen years,” he says, wandering to the couch to pass the joint to TK, who takes a hit and passes it to Dan. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Strand,” he adds, “The [redated], too. Fuck.” He crouches by TK; TK watches as Spike drags at his lip to reveal a missing molar. “Had my tooth knocked out that way.” Spike shakes his head. He’s only twenty-eight, but he seems fifty for all his lived experience. "I do have something that’ll make you feel a lot better, though.”

One charming thing about Spike is how he carts drugs around in one of those old lady red-white-blue bags. He keeps a bed sheet poking out of the half-zipped opening, so it always looks like he’s on his way to the laundromat. He hoists the bag from where he dumped it aside the couch, and from a black sack within, he withdraws a packet of something pale beige.

“Heroin?” TK asks. He’s only half-sure. He hasn’t fucked with heroin before. All sorts of pills, booze, cocaine, concoctions of purple drank, sure – but never heroin or meth, and he’s never huffed solvents or computer cleaner. That shit’ll kill you. 

“With a magic touch of powdered milk,” Spike says eagerly, “I call it Cream. And, ladies, a little bit goes a long way.”

“I’m not injecting shit,” TK says, “I’m on fucking PEP. Last thing I need is an infected needle.”

“Who said anything about injecting?” Dan tuts, “I’m not collapsing my veins.”

Spike cuts the ‘Cream’ on the kitchen counter with his library card and Dan rolls the dollar bills – he’s got a knack. Spike is meticulous, very keen that they don’t overdose. He’s quite thoughtful for a dealer. But then, it’s a smart business investment for his clients to live.

They snort what TK thinks must be exactly the right amount, because they’re all sitting on the kitchen floor now, but it also feels like floating on a warm jet of air. TK has no regrets. He forgets about [redacted]. He doesn’t feel bad at all about what happened to him a couple of nights ago. He doesn’t care that he’s paying for heroin out of the $50 that guy gave him because he thought he was a hooker, and TK accepted the money as a fuck you.

He doesn’t know what it’s going to take to overcome an addiction to this.

Open tag and tags below:

Tagging with no pressure: @eclectic-sassycoweyes @im-overstimulated-and-im-sad @inkweedandlizards @whatsintheboxmh @paperstorm @wandering-night19 @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @heartstringsduet @noxsoulmate @lightningboltreader @orchidscript @freneticfloetry @reyesstrand @never-blooms @lemonlyman-dotcom @ladytessa74 @bonheur-cafe @goodways @herefortarlos @redshirt2 @louis-ii-reyes-strand @inflarescent @fitzherbertssmolder @basilsunrise @mikibwrites @taralaurel @catanisspicy @chicgeekgirl89 @sugdenlovesdingle @theghostofashton @taralaurel @rosedavid @spaghett-onaplate @sanjuwrites @kiloskywalker @liminalmemories21 - if you want to share/ haven't already!

❤️ 🩷 🧡 💛 💚 💙 🩵 💜

[reality-detective]

Let's investigate the 4 chemicals in Palestine Ohio's train derailment and their so-called slow burn operation that our government said was safe.👇

1. VINYL CHLORIDE

A chemical warfare agent in WWII ☠️

Is vinyl chloride harmful to human health?

⚠️Exposure to vinyl chloride may increase a person's risk of developing cancer. Human and animal studies show higher rates of liver, lung and several other types of cancer. Being exposed to vinyl chloride can affect a person's liver, kidney, lung, spleen, nervous system and blood.

How much vinyl chloride cause cancer?

Studies of long-term exposure in animals showed that cancer of the liver and mammary gland may increase at very low levels of vinyl chloride in the air (50 ppm). Lab animals fed low levels of vinyl chloride each day (2 mg/kg/day) during their lifetime had an increased risk of getting liver cancer.

Is vinyl chloride a hazardous waste?

⚠️Vinyl Chloride is hazardous to the environment.

2. ETHYLENE GLYCOL

What is ethylene glycol used in?

DESCRIPTION: Ethylene glycol is a useful industrial compound found in many consumer products. Examples include antifreeze, hydraulic brake fluids, some stamp pad inks, ballpoint pens, solvents, paints, plastics, films, and cosmetics.

How is ethylene glycol harmful to humans?

An overdose of ethylene glycol can damage the brain, lungs, liver, and kidneys. The poisoning causes disturbances in the body's chemistry, including metabolic acidosis (increased acids in the bloodstream and tissues). The disturbances may be severe enough to cause profound shock, organ failure, and death.

How does ethylene glycol affect the brain?

Ethylene glycol (EG) is a toxic alcohol that causes central nervous system depression and multiple metabolic abnormalities including a high anion gap metabolic acidosis (HAGMA), elevated osmolal gap (OG), and acute kidney injury. Few case reports of EG intoxication report brain MRI findings.

Is ethylene glycol a carcinogen?

🚩EPA has not classified ethylene glycol for carcinogenicity. Chronic Effects (Noncancer): The only effects were noted in a study of individuals exposed to low levels of ethylene glycol by inhalation for about a month were throat and upper respiratory tract irritation.

Is ethylene glycol monobutyl ether harmful to humans?

The substance is irritating to the eyes, skin and respiratory tract. The substance may cause effects on the central nervous system, blood, kidneys and liver. A harmful contamination of the air will be reached rather slowly on evaporation of this substance at 20°C.

3. MONOBUTYL ETHER

What is the use of monobutyl ether?

It is used as a solvent in surface coatings in paints; as a coupling agent in metal and household cleaners; as an intermediate in chemical production; and is also found in brake fluids and in printing ink.

Is butyl ether toxic?

⚠️Acute Health Effects☠️

The following acute (short-term) health effects may occur immediately or shortly after exposure to Butyl Ether: * Contact can irritate the skin and eyes. * Repeated or prolonged skin contact may cause rash. Breathing Butyl Ether can irritate the nose and throat causing coughing and wheezing.

Is ether toxic to humans?

⚠️Breathing Diethyl Ether can cause drowsiness, excitement, dizziness, vomiting, irregular breathing, and increased saliva. High exposure can cause unconsciousness and even death.

Is ether a carcinogen?

► Bis(Chloromethyl) Ether is a CARCINOGEN in humans. There may be NO safe level of exposure to a carcinogen, so all contact should be reduced to the lowest possible level.

Combustible. Above 60°C explosive vapour/air mixtures may be formed. NO open flames. Above 60°C use a closed system and ventilation.

4. ETHYLHEXYL ACRYLATE

Is ethylhexyl acrylate toxic?

Like any reactive chemical, 2-Ethylhexyl acrylate can be hazardous if not handled properly. May be harmful if swallowed. Ingestion may cause gastrointestinal irritation or ulceration. Limited dermal contact or vapour concentrations attainable at room temperature are not hazardous on single short duration exposures.

Is Ethylhexyl acrylate copolymer safe?

Although the monomers may be toxic, the levels that would be found in cosmetic formulations are not considered to present a safety risk. Accordingly, these Acrylate Copolymers are considered safe for use in cosmetic formulations when formulated to avoid irritation.

Are acrylates safe?

The International Agency of Research on Cancer as well as the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) have classified acrylates as a possible human carcinogen. Exposure to acrylates has been linked to skin, eye, and throat reactions [1] as well as more serious health consequences such as: Cancer.

Is ethylhexyl harmful for skin?

Ethylhexylglycerin is not safe due to its performance as a contact allergen.

Is ethyl acrylate carcinogenic?

⚠️Cancer Hazard☠️

* Ethyl Acrylate may be a CARCINOGEN in humans since it has been shown to cause stomach cancer in animals.

🚩Spoiler Alert⚠️ It's NOT safe and in fact it is highly toxic☠️

This will affect millions of people and it may flow into the Mississippi river as well. 🤔

[firespirited]

Hi! Thank you for the detailed guides re: glue head treatment with phenoxyethanol, I managed to de-glue 6 dolls by following your instructions :)

Onto my question: is there any information out there about the type of glue in these dolls? I vaguely recall seing resin(?) based adhesive mentioned in a MLP arena post, but that could be wrong/misremembered.

I'm a chemist and I got a bit fixated on trying to figure out the mechanism behind the glue + phenoxyethanol reaction (and maybe help contribute the doll enthusiasts' knowledge pool).

As far as I know: no-ones figured it out. There was a theory that maybe this glue was a two part glue and something was missing from the equation like maybe they got the mix wrong and it was supposed to solidify fast. Something that would explain the disparity in dolls and how some have hard yellow glue that's sticky but not liquid ten years on and others were found in stores with yellow sap-like glue dripping down their necks. It doesn't react with alcohol, acetone or WD40, I use vaseline or mineral oil to remove it from my tools.

Another clue is that it doesn't smell - not even a hint of solvent in the brand new doll packaging. When i first saw the stuff my mind went to dark places (showing my age and class here ^.^;) but whatever might be in the possible mix doesn't end up smelling on the doll or the box. I honestly can say it's not like any other glue i've encountered. It seems to whiten a little when treated.

We don't even know if the surfactant is the chemical that's responsible because results have been from various household cleaners with other ingredients. It's not affected by soap or conditioner so we can maybe rule that out. But we can't rule out something with the PH. I'd love to hear your theories.

[catholic-paladin]

Btw standard gun cleaner/solvent and a piece of scotchbright or cloth work really well to protect, clean, and maintain plate armour and blades.

[ask-a-bot]

Nah, Downpour is honestly kind of shameless. Only reason she was flustered at all was because she was drooling 😂

Hooo boy, my mum read that part about them needing to wash with special solvents to keep clean and healthy, and it send her into a flurry asking all the resident bots how the hell theyve been keeping clean. The Vehicons just use the local drive through car wash, but apparently Monsoon and Downpour haven’t actually had a bath since the war ended!

We all panicked after that, even the Vehicons (who honestly were shocked that a pair of Seeker were so nonchalant about not being clean)

Ewwwww!

To be fair... Nemesis didn't have the best washracks ever. Part of the reason my trine kept our seeker jettisoning habits was because the washracks were ick. If you had the choice of a dirty washrack and somewhere clean and private, what would you choose? I had my first bath after getting stuck on Earth after I moved in with Optimus and Megatron. Even GHOST's limited facilities were better than Nemesis!

Nemesis was a space craft. Of course the resources were limited – the Ark wasn't exactly luxurious either. The diff... fshoosch! Snf. Pine. Snf. The difference was that the Ark crashed on land and we were able to expand and build into the volcano. Megatron didn't have that luxury – you guys had nothing to work with.

And then you destroyed the fragging Space Bridge, so we couldn't even go and freshen up on Cybertron!

Is that what you kept going back and forth between the planets for?

I like to be clean! When I use a washrack, I like to come out afterwards cleaner than I was when I went in; not dirtier!

OK, I understand. Can we use inside voices, please? Megatron is finally recharging.

[phillipfancypants]

On flossing

This post is for people who want to look after their teeth/mouth but can’t bring themselves to change anything due to sensory/adhd/too busy/bad at changing routines.

I’ve never been someone who flossed. I hated when they did it for me at the dentist. My parents didn’t floss when I was growing up and neither did my friends or my sister. Children’s TV told me that only nerds floss.

But now that I’m an adult, when I go to the dentist, they always tell me I have inflamed gums and really I should be worried and I should promise to floss every day from now on etc.

But flossing HURTS. I mean, what is pleasant about slicing open part of your mouth every night for the rest of your life, right? And the dentist says “oh well once you get started, it won’t hurt as much you’ll get used to it” which honestly scares me more—I play guitar and it took ages to build up calluses on my fingers and having those inside my mouth sounds mildly horrifying.

Turns out that none of that is what’s actually going on inside your mouth. And after 15+ years of believing all this, it took ONE dental hygienist to explain why it wasn’t working for me.

Let’s start with gingivitis. You may have heard of it before, maybe been told you have it. Been lectured on how it’s tied to heart disease and low life expectancy and you can prevent it by flossing. But what IS it?

Basically it’s your body trying to protect you. Have you ever heard the statistic that a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human’s? Afaik that’s true, due to a bunch of bacteria we pick up from our varied human diet. And aside from some important gut flora, our immune system does NOT like it when there’s a lot of bacteria around. So what does it do? It sends white blood cells to scope out the threat. The closest battlefront to the action is your gums, so your body sends a bunch if reinforcements to keep the invaders at bay. The only problem is that the bacteria is perfectly happy living in your mouth, and really has very little interest in entering your blood stream. So all these extra white blood cells are gathering at your gums, but none are ever seeing battle and they can never truly eliminate the threat. This causes swelling and inflammation. It’s basically chronic arthritis but in your mouth instead of your joints. And funny enough, when part of your bloodstream is CONSTANTLY fighting a losing battle, that can hurt the rest of your body over time.

Where does flossing come into all of this? Basically the further away you can keep the bacteria from your gums, the better. They want you to floss because it basically scrapes off the bacteria from your teeth right next to your gum line which is the main war zone. If the white blood cells sense that the danger is gone, they leave, and the swelling leaves with them. The “resistance” you build up over time isn’t physical calluses, it’s just that, when all those white blood cells are around, your gums are like a fresh wound. Of course they bleed when you slice them with floss. When they sense the danger is gone, they can leave and that fresh wound can heal to a normal, tougher thickness. No calluses required.

But OP, I still hate flossing and I can never get through the painful first phase.

Lucky for you, there’s a much easier way: mouthwash.

If you’re like me, you probably thought that mouthwash is just for bad breath. So why would you use it if your breath isn’t bad? Well it turns out that they make a bunch of different mouthwashes that specifically target gingivitis bacteria. I use the store brand but name brand works too (just look for “anti-gingivitis” or “antibacterial” on the bottle). I don’t mind the kind with alcohol (it’s cheaper too) but if you get overstimulated by the burning sensation, they make non-alcohol ones too. (Other fun fact my hygienist told me is that the alcohol actually doesn’t do much to kill the bacteria, it’s just there as a solvent to stop the other ingredients from solidifying over time)

After a couple weeks of using mouthwash, I went to floss this morning and for the first time in my life it didn’t hurt. There was still a little bleeding (which I guess will go away with time) but it didn’t hurt! By using mouthwash, I had killed enough bacteria that my mouth could finally heal.

But I guess, the moral of the story is that there is a way to meet the dentist halfway, and you will see improvement. You don’t have to go all or nothing.

If you’re already in the habit of brushing once or twice a day, it only adds 30 seconds to your routine, but to your immune system, it’ll mean the world.

Sorry if this is obvious to some people, or if you’ve heard it before, but I genuinely had no idea how all of this worked until that one hygienist explained it to me. So thank you to him, and I hope this helps someone!

TLDR; use mouthwash even if your breath doesn’t stink