mare bear

This will affect the trout population (a classic)

I’m gonna run away and join the circus

Fuck it, we ball (another classic)

The horrors persist but so do I (a third classic)

I’m gonna run away to Vegas

I’m gonna run away to New York/London/other large city near you

I’m too pretty to have this happen to me

The suffering is endless but so is my swag

#my old phone looks like this on my shelf lmao #im too scared to touch it to throw it away #idk what trash this even goes into when its at this point

The pillow-shaped object here used to be the phone’s battery. It’s not a battery anymore. Now it’s a balloon full of corrosive, pyrophoric chemicals and hydrogen gas and it’s one puncture away from burning your house down. I am 100% serious. You should be scared to touch it.

But you gotta touch it, because you gotta get it out of your house before the pressure builds up to the point where the balloon pops. This isn’t going to happen soon – there is no need to panic – but it will happen eventually.

And, indeed, it doesn’t go in the ordinary trash. You put this in the ordinary trash and you’re gonna set the garbage truck on fire. Don’t do that to the garbage collectors, their job is hard enough already.

The first thing you need to do is get a fireproof container. The most common household item that qualifies as a fireproof container is a cast-iron cookpot with a cast-iron lid – often sold as a “Dutch oven.” Any other cooking container that’s unreactive, has a very high melting point, and has a lid made of the same materials will also work: enameled or stainless steel, Pyrex with glass lid, etc.

However: Do not use a pot with a PTFE-based non-stick coating. If the battery does explode, the fire will probably be hot enough to degrade a PTFE coating, producing toxic smoke. (Not that you should breathe the smoke from the battery fire either, but PTFE breakdown products are worse.) Do not use a pot made of aluminium or copper. The fire might even get hot enough to melt those.

Whatever container you use, you might have to throw away along with the phone, so don’t use your good Dutch oven for this. Go to a thrift store and buy a cheap one.

Once you have the fireproof container:

Gently pick up the phone and put it in the fireproof container. If possible, gently tape the phone to the bottom of the container to prevent it from bouncing around. Don’t put any padding in there, that’ll just make a fire worse if it does happen. Put the lid on and tape it shut.

Put a label on the container, something like “DEFECTIVE LI-ION BATTERY – FIRE HAZARD”.

It is now reasonably safe to move the container around. However, if the battery does explode, the container is very likely to leak smoke and get hot, so keep it in a well-ventilated area and away from things that will be damaged by heat. Don’t leave it exposed to the weather, either.

You need to find either a hazardous waste disposal site, or an e-waste recycler that will accept defective Li-ion batteries. I can’t help with that because I have no idea where you live.

However, your local fire department, if you have one, will probably be happy to help. Call their non-emergency number. Nothing is on fire yet, so this isn’t an emergency, but things that can easily start a fire are still within the fire department’s responsibilities. Tell them you have a phone with a bulging lithium-ion battery, you put it in a fireproof container, and you want to know how to dispose of it safely.

If the fire department tries to tell you this isn’t dangerous or it’s okay to throw it out in the regular trash (with or without fireproof container), hang up on them and write a cranky letter to your local government representatives, then keep looking for a proper disposal site.

i HATE self-censorship for a lot of reasons, but being in crisis work makes it even more frustrating. who are you censoring for? like i am being so fr, WHO are you censoring for? have you even thought it through? people who have been raped know that they have been raped. if someone attempts suicide or is grieving someone who did, saying "sewer slide" isn't going to protect them from any of the feelings. a murder victim's family isn't going to feel better bc you said "unalived" instead of murdered. if anything, it's just extremely invalidating and othering. it's saying "what happened to you is so bad that i won't even say the word," which is NOT trauma-informed care. you are not protecting survivors/victims when you self-censor. the ONLY things you protect when you self-censor are the puritanical ideologies that are being encouraged by rich fascists who want your money and obedience

You’ve borne witness to his combat skills, his trained strength, his intelligence and his ability to think of solutions on the fly, and you aren’t silly enough to ignore how these are all things he has had to suffer for. He carries you up five flights of stairs and across a single plank of scaffold while you squeeze your eyes shut like a kid, and he says, “Hey, we did it,” when you get to the other side, as though you had any part in his rescue. 

“I never thought you’d have to save me again,” you mumble, pouting, but pleased when he sits down in a dusty old loveseat and keeps you firmly in his lap. 

“Mm,” he says, catching hold of your face in a gloved hand. “What are you doing here? I’d love to know.” 

“How should I know?” You wriggle a little in his lap, but stop when he gives you a warning glance. “I woke up here. How long did it take you to find me?”

“Don’t insult me. You’ve been missing less than a day.” He rubs his thumb along the bruise staining your jaw, visibly stressed. “Jeez, they really hate leaving beautiful things as they are.”

“I’m the thing?”

“You’re beautiful,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And rescued, for the most part.”

leon never says anything right away, always taking time to observe before reacting. 

he watches the way you disappear into the bathroom before dates. the faint click of your makeup compacts, the hiss of the hairspray, the soft music you play while getting ready. by the time you step out, you’re smiling at him like it didn’t take you an hour deciding between two identical outfits.

but he notices.

notices the way your lipstick matches the blush on your cheeks. the special occasion earrings you wear only on dates. the perfume that lingers on his jackets, which change depending on the season (he likes the floral one best). 

and, of course, the questions you always ask.

“does this look okay?

“is this shirt too bright?...or not bright enough?”

“will these heels match your shoes?”

leon thought it was ridiculous at first. as if there could ever be a version of you he wouldn’t look at like you hung the stars yourself. 

it finally clicked one day while he was waiting outside your apartment. you were running late which was a rare occasion. when you finally appeared in front of him, you had an embarrassed smile while apologizing about redoing your makeup.

that night at dinner, he caught himself staring. you looked gorgeous, you always did. but he saw how clean your eyeliner was, how smooth your cheeks were, and how kissable your lips looked despite the plate of pasta you devoured. 

the thought of you taking the time and effort to be so beautiful, just for him? that settled in his chest and followed him home.

the next morning, rather than just putting on the first shirt he sees, he pauses. his hand lingers over an old, loose academy shirt before reaching for a black fitted one instead. he remembers the way you gawked at him the first time he wore it, the memory making him chuckle. 

he spends more time fixing his hair, but grows frustrated that it doesn’t move with his fingers dipped in water. that afternoon, he bought a new hair serum. one of the best, at least, that’s what the sales lady said. 

he starts using moisturizer before bed and sunscreen in the morning.

he’s more generous with the cologne that made you bury your face in his neck for a second longer than usual. 

even his workouts change. he still trains because he has to, but maybe he adds one more set. maybe he holds the plank a little longer. maaaaybe he does pushups before he comes to see you. you don’t seem to mind when the sleeves of his shirts began to fit tighter around his arms than they used to.

leon thought it was only fair, and he doesn’t mention any of it.

it wasn’t until one evening when you’re standing behind him in his kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist while he’s washing dishes. your fingers squeezed the taut muscle of his abdomen.

“have you been working out more?”

leon glances over his shoulder, pretending to think about it. “...maybe.”

“maybe?” you giggle, feeling his arms. “your shirts didn’t used to fit like this.”

he dries his hands before turning around to face you. he leans against the counter, pulling you close. 

“you spend a lot of time getting pretty before you see me,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “figured I should put in some work too.”

you blinked. “for me?” 

he could feel his ears heating up. “didn’t seem right letting you be the only one trying.”

the look on your face (and the kisses you smothered him in) made everything worth it.

BONUS

When your legs are hurting and you’ve spent an entire day walking around with someone’s fingers woven between yours—someone who treasures every second of your company like he’s just lucky to be in it—you find you aren’t as eager to get home as you’d imagined. You’d limp the entire night through the dark with Clark if it meant you’d get to keep talking to him. 

But then you remember who you married. Clark would stay up all night with you if you enticed him in conversation.

“Baby,” you say, giving Clark’s hand a swing to make him smile. “Would you marry me?” 

“Again?” He wrinkles his nose, blue eyes a little dark from the squint and the thickness of his brows pinching together, but he’s still smiling, and he’s leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. “Of course I would. Every day of my life, I’d marry you. That was a great day, huh?”

“Yeah.” You lay your face in his arm. “Can I put my wedding dress on when we get home?”

“If you promise not to take it off.”

“I think you’re supposed to take it off.”

Clark laughs and sweeps you up for hugging in the middle of the sidewalk, barely twenty steps from the apartment building, but he just can’t wait. He hugs you and laughs like he’s giddy by your ear. “No, please, it’s too pretty. You can put it on and we can defrost the cake, pretend it’s fresh. I have my suit pressed at the back of the wardrobe.” He frowns at your shock. “What? It’s what I was wearing when you married me. You’re lucky I didn’t put it behind plexiglass.”

You know he’s home ‘cos he leaves his car parked in your spot closest to the house. You have to block him in, and you’re ravenous peering into his car window for any signs of life, but he must be inside. You almost forget your groceries, doubling back in a rush to grab them, and dumping them right at the front door, door still open, Leon waiting perched on the couch with a bouquet of wet-looking flowers on the pillow beside him. 

You don’t give him time to pick them up, or take off his dark jacket. Leon is assuredly, whole-heartedly, lovingly yours, his eyes lit with affection that took months to reveal itself in a second now as you climb onto the couch and wrap your arms around his neck. He’s gotta know how close you are to tears, but he just hefts you like you weigh nothing over his lap and digs his nose into your neck, breathing, squeezing you as tight as he knows you need, even if he’s reluctant to hurt you in a way that could linger. 

“Damn, I missed you,” he says on the tail end of a laugh, squeezing that little bit tighter, encouraging your face right up against his neck until there’s no room to breathe and less to miss him back. 

“I was starting to worry you’d died on me,” you mumble. 

“Not yet,” he promises. There’s a thread of hesitation to his hand where it tumbles down your back—he loves you, but affection is hard for him sometimes, like it might be to a collared dog. You had to earn his trust, and time apart always leaves him tentative. 

You’ve borne witness to his combat skills, his trained strength, his intelligence and his ability to think of solutions on the fly, and you aren’t silly enough to ignore how these are all things he has had to suffer for. He carries you up five flights of stairs and across a single plank of scaffold while you squeeze your eyes shut like a kid, and he says, “Hey, we did it,” when you get to the other side, as though you had any part in his rescue. 

“I never thought you’d have to save me again,” you mumble, pouting, but pleased when he sits down in a dusty old loveseat and keeps you firmly in his lap. 

“Mm,” he says, catching hold of your face in a gloved hand. “What are you doing here? I’d love to know.” 

“How should I know?” You wriggle a little in his lap, but stop when he gives you a warning glance. “I woke up here. How long did it take you to find me?”

“Don’t insult me. You’ve been missing less than a day.” He rubs his thumb along the bruise staining your jaw, visibly stressed. “Jeez, they really hate leaving beautiful things as they are.”

“I’m the thing?”

“You’re beautiful,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And rescued, for the most part.”

For all of my dear AO3 users;

PLEASE stop putting your OC fics with the '/reader' tag.

The amount of fanfics that I see with both the 'original character...' and 'Reader' tags is RIDICULOUS. Mostly because 90% o them are just OC fics.

If the main character has a fucking name and description then it's an Oc, not a reader insert.

Just put one tag or the other, but don't put both just because you want to get more views, if someone wants to read an oc fanfic, I assure you they will search the specific tag.

However, putting both or tagging it as a 'reader' instead of oc causes confusion and honestly, it fucking pisses me off SO BAD.