#How To Make Battery Last Longer Ma

[nescaveckwriter]

Stethoscopes and Triangles - Chapter Four ❤️

A/N: Urghhh 😱 y'all this is just sad, for Amy, frustrating for Sam and heartbreaking for us! But I hope y'all enjoy this, 💕 and oh yeah guess who we meet in this, yep, that amazing green eyed man😋 so sit back and enjoy. 💕

Warnings: 18+ Only! Some language, angst, heartbreak, cheating, punching, mentions of blood, anything else I missed let me know💕

Characters: Sam Winchester, Amy Summers, Ruby Jones, Paul Summers, Ada Brown, Dean Winchester.

Cover: Created by me. Also images from Pinterest and Canva.

Words:2552 😅

Chapter Four 🤩

Rolling over, searching for the large man, opening her eyes slightly, "Sam?" Glaring at the alarm clock 2 in the morning, removing the covers and slipping on her slippers, her eyes still puffy, from the sleep. Walking in too the living room with its open plan kitchen, she finds him slumped over in the chair, still wearing yesterday's clothes, his head resting on his right arm, his hair hanging over his handsome face. Lightly touching his shoulder, her voice calming and sweet, "babe, my love, wake up, go get some proper sleep in our bed please"

He arouses a little, lifting his head with difficulty showing the stiffness in his neck, "Amy? What time is it?"

"It's 2 in the morning, come get up" she tugs at his arm, and he just follows her, too tired to fight with her, letting her know, that he's not nearly done reading and going through the paperwork. He just stumbles on the bed, work clothes and all, spayed out, on the bed, his voice croaky from the sleep. "I love you Amy" a sweet smile lining across her lips, "you too babe" The light snores coming from him, let's her know, he's fast asleep, and she ain't getting a inch of help to remove his working clothes. Slowly removing his tie, while placing a soft kiss, on his cheek, "sweet dreams babe" She whispers, removing his shoes, and socks, covering him up with the blanket. As she curls up next too him, thinking about how he looked after her, these last few weeks, her fingers lingering across the now healed scar on her neck. But she worries about him, its almost as if his carrying around this burden but she can't quite figure out what it is, and its been coming for some time now, he works so much, and the hours are getting longer, or maybe she's just imagining things, because usually she's at work also working long hours, maybe she just never noticed it before. With those thoughts running around in her mind, she falls asleep. 

She gets woken up by the shift on the bed, glancing at his side, he runs his hand over his face, her voice sweet "morning babe" he's head cocks to her side, he sounds tired "morning sweetie" he gets up walking towards the bathroom, "I'm going to take a shower and get ready to head into the office" sitting half upright now, "enjoy your shower love, what do you want for breakfast?"

He doesn't even look her way, he just walks in, closing the door behind him, and letting her know, that he'll get something on the way, no need for any trouble. Finding it a little odd, but kind off writing it off due to the fact that he's tired, she gets up, to make some coffee. As she waits for the coffee machine, Sam's phone vibrates on the table. She strides closer, thinking maybe its important or the battery is about to die.

 It's a message from a Ruby Jones, : Hey Sam☺️ just want to know for when I should book that little place for the two off...

She just glares at the phone, she can't read what the message said further his phone is locked, but she can't help but too think that's why he's been acting so distant, so different, his having an affair, cheating on her? Her hands are shaking, her chest feels like it going to explode, "how... Why... Is he really cheating?" She mumbles underneath her breath. The tears burning behind her eyes, she places his phone down, her eyes get caught on his suit jacket that's draped over the kitchen chair, she looks a little closer there's a makeup smudge on his collar, she picks it up to take a closer look, then the smell of another women's perfume hits her nostrils, her lower lip trembling as emotions of anger and sadness swirl around in her chest, swallowing down the tears, as she throws the jacket over the chair, pouring some coffee in her cup. Hearing Sam walking towards the kitchen, barely looking at her he throws in the files in his suitcase, taking his phone and walks towards the door, he turns around, "Have a good first day at work Amy, I need to head into work, love you" and heads right back out of there apartment door. She's left standing there shock on her face, knowing that she's right, that man she loves so dearly is cheating on her.

Still left standing there, too shocked too move a muscle, the door flung open, Sam's voice bring her out of her haze, "forgot my car keys" she glares at him, confusion prominent between his eyebrows, "did I do something wrong"

Walking closer towards him, her voice breaking, tears streaming down her face "Am I not enough"

"What are you talking about Amy?"

"If you don't love me anymore give it too me straight, you don't go behind my damn back, and get another woman"

Surprised Sam looks at her like she's crazy "What the hell Amy? What is the matter with you?"

Her jaw clenches, "the Ruby chick with her messages, the make up and perfume on your clothes, you barely look at me, you work later than normal, wanna tell me I'm crazy, please go ahead"

Starting to get irritated with her accusing him of something so far from the truth, he turns towards the door, giving her one last glance as he shouts "if you think I'm capable of doing something so damn outrageous, I don't even know what I'm doing in this relationship anymore, goodbye Amy" walking out and smashing the door closed behind him.

Sliding down the kitchen cabinet, sobbing frantically, shaking her head, never in her entire life would she had thought that Sam would cheat, that Sam would be just like her father. She was always so determined to not end up like her poor mother, scattered and broken through a damn affair, but yet here she is.

 As Sam speeds to work, his thoughts can't help but to race to the sight his just seen, the look of betrayal of sadness of anger on her delicate face, her ocean blue eyes, was filled with despair, making them appear darker than they are. "Dammit" he cusses underneath his breath.

Shaking his head, if only she knew the reason he can't look her in the eyes, the reason his been working such long hours, its not because he's a cheat, no! He's building a case, a case where it looks like Paul Summers her father is involved in.  Recalling the witness that came forth, a older lady in her late forties, scared too death, she was bawling her eyes out so he pulled her into a hug, it can't be easy losing your only child. He recalls the message Amy was talking about, unlocking his phone reading the message, Hey Sam☺️ just want to know for when I should book that little place for the two off you. 

He asked Ruby too book a special place for Amy's birthday coming up, he wanted too treat her, knowing he has been distant. But all that has gone too hell now. Thinking he should probably call her, and try too explain, but knowing her, he needs too let her cool down first, he knows the impact her father's cheating had on her, she was so reluctant, going out with him in the first place, and now she thinks that he loves another woman. "There's only one woman for me dammit" he cusses to himself, as he pulled into the parking.

Walking through the hospital doors, first time in a couple of weeks, she felt so happy too be able to go too work this morning, doing what she loves, and now... now she feels, weak, sad and broken. Walking straight to the ER. she just wants too forget about everything and drown herself in her patients problems, she's caught off guard, by the 'Welcome Back' banner hanging, a few balloons, and some nurses and doctors, welcoming her with smiles, and nods. Ada comes too give her a welcome back hug, as her best friend's arms snakes around her, she can feel the tears damming behind her eyes, she squints in order, to hide them, too push them back.

"Sweetie, I'm so glad your back, and okay, you gave me a good scare, there for a minute"

Amy forces a giggle "Thank you, Ada, and everyone, for everything, but I'm back now, let's get too work okay, we've got lives to save."

Knowing her best friend, better than she knows herself, she agrees with Amy, and gives everyone orders, where to go, which patients to see, and what to do. She won't pry, but she knows, that something aren't right, she'll just wait till she comes and talks too her.

It was a slow day, nothing too serious, just the usual GSW'S and minor injuries. But it was mid shift that, the ER. had multiple injured people entering through the doors, a Navy helicopter full off injured seals, with severe injuries, is about to land.

It was literal chaos, but Amy felt right at home, in fact it's when she felt most alive. Ada said she should check out the man, in trauma bay 2, and she went right in, expecting, no actually hoping it was something challenging. As she took some gloves, she witnessed a man, about mid thirties maybe early forties, something about him seemed familiar, but he sat on the hospital bed, cargo pants and a grey vest exposed his muscular arms, the open gash on his arm, blood seeping through and the right side of his face, there was an open deep wound, blood gushing from it. She walked closer, introducing herself. "I'm Dr. Summers, how are you feeling"

He flinches, his green eyes piercing through hers, "I feel fine, can I go now"

Shocked by his answer "No! I need to check you out first"

His picture perfect jawline hardens, "then do it already dammit"

She just smiles and assures him, she'll do her best and she starts to stitch up the wound to his face and proceeds to the one on his arms, he doesn't say much, he's pretty restless, and every now and again  she need too tell him to sit still, as she finished with the stitching. He got up, towering over her, about too leave but he didn't get far as she kindly told him "Please sit down, we still need to run some tests" 

He looks at her, like she just spoke another language, as he spoke in a rough voice "No! I need to check on my brothers." 

Her eyebrows furrowed, as she got irritated by his demeanor, her voice stern "I said sit your ass down now, I'm not done with you" she steadily pushed him back towards the bed, careful not too hurt him, but stern enough to let him know, she's serious.

He just threw his hands in the air, letting her know, his sort off surrendering, thinking too himself, damn this doctor is hot, any other day, and he would've asked for her number, but not today, his too worried about his team.

"I'm going to order your labs, and see a few other patients, if I come back here and see your not here, I'll get security and let them handcuff you the bed, understood" she warns

He just smirks as he's amused by this woman, who's ordering  him around as if his her two year old, not happy he folds his arms, mouthing "yes mother".

She can't help but too smile a little at the stubbornness of her patient. She proceeds further too attend to some off the other patients.

Sam sits at his desk, going over all the evidence, his gather over these few weeks, his got a solid case, a slam dunk so too say, usually he'd be so happy, but not today, if he wins this case not only will a very bad, dangerous man be off the streets, but he might loose Amy in the process. He is going to make sure her father is behind bars, by the end of this week.  Lifelong if the jury votes in his favor. 

As he sips on the cold bitter brown liquid, he hears chatter outside his door, before he could get up, he's door flung open, hearing Ruby shout, "Sir you can't go in yet" the older man just walks through, his voice loud "He'll see me"

Sam is shocked when he sees its Paul Summers, calmly he tells Ruby "You can go, thanks, close the door behind you"

She just nods and closes the door. The older man's voice angry, a warning tone "what do you think your doing Sam?"

Calmly getting up, striding closer to Amy's father "Good afternoon, Mr Summers, something I can help you with?"

"What do you think your doing, this is going to not only ruin me, but Amy, do you not cares what happens to her, by falsely accusing me"

Sam smirks, "Falsely, I don't think so, I have multiple evidence and witnesses, that can bring you down."

"Ha! We'll see about that, now won't we?" he has a devilish smile on his face. "I'm not the bad guy here, you are Samuel!"

Pointing his finger to door, "I think you better leave Paul" 

"What, like Amy is going too leave you" he provokes the young man.

"This isn't about Amy, this is about you, you are a Crime Boss, ordering your people to execute your demands , smuggling weapons, drugs and people over the border, even human trafficking, how can you, you have a daughter, how do you live with yourself."  

He laughs, "It's only business, and that money is what gave my daughter the ability to be a doctor, I am the reason she is who she is today"

Sam can't take this man's audacity anymore, he starts raising his voice "No! Paul, your not worthy off the name father, Amy, put herself through college, she worked hard to get where she is today, and the only thing she got from you, is a damn voice of you in her head, claiming she is still not enough.!"

The man's jaw tightens and his fist clenches, without thinking it through, he throws a punch, towards Sam's face, grinning as he watches the blood dripping from his now broken nose. "Don't you ever tell me I weren't a good father" as he turns around to head towards the door, he watches Sam take the back of his hand, to wipe off the red , sticky liquid, off his upper lip. "By the way Sammy boy, I bet you my case will get thrown out" he walks out leaving Sam standing there balling his fist's as he wants to punch that stupid grin off the old man's face, knowing he can't it will jeopardize his case, he will just have to wait to get him in court. But the most important thing he can do now, is make sure the witnesses is save, because something tells him, that warning weren't just for show, no! he is planning something, something big!

[oliviachows]

How to Do Car Detailing in Winter?

Winter can be a slower time for car detailers. Nonetheless, it can likewise be quite possibly the most productive time assuming that you set up your business appropriately.

Preparing your car for winter incorporates detailing within and beyond the car as well as pursuing key upkeep choices.

To do perfect Car Detailing in Kingston, Ontario, reach out to Maple Carwash and Detailing. They offer a maple blue wipe-down package of $80 on sale for $50.

Here are the absolute most significant things you want to do to keep your car with everything looking good in the colder time of year:

Wash Your Car on Warmer Days.

As the colder time of year season draws near, it's critical to wash your car all the more habitually to eliminate the development of slush, salt, and grime. This will help your car look better and last longer, in addition, it can diminish the possibilities of rust that might cost you an early outing to the junkyard.

While washing your car, it is ideal to do so on a warm day if conceivable. This will guarantee that the cleanser and cleaning liquids dry rapidly without causing water spots which can deface the appearance of your car.

It is likewise smart to utilize a great car wax after your wash to add a layer of insurance. Ensure you do this quickly to build the viability of your defensive wax covering. This should be possible either at home or with an expert detailing administration like Maple Carwash and Detailing Services. They will want to bring all of the important gear for your particular requirements.

Change Your Tires.

The chilly climate can make your tires lose pneumatic stress all the more rapidly. In this way, you ought to transform them before the colder time of year season to guarantee you can drive securely and serenely. You ought to likewise check the tire tracks to ensure they are looking great.

Washing your car consistently forestalls the amassing of street salt and different impurities that can harm the paint and cause rust. An intensive waxing can likewise shield your car from the components.

An expert detailing administration can likewise clean the inside of your car and assist it with enduring longer. Assuming you have material seats, they might require more successive cleaning to forestall stains. On the off chance that you have cowhide, a detailer can spruce it up and reapply a stain monitor on a case-by-case basis.

A detailer can likewise treat your wheels with defensive coatings that keep brake residue and brackish water arrangements from sticking to the wheel faces lasting through the year. They can likewise grease up the fasteners of your tires to facilitate the most common way of transforming them in cold and blanketed conditions.

Check Your Battery.

Assuming you've at any point gotten abandoned in the colder time of year because your car won't begin, it very well may be brought about by consumption around the battery terminals. A multimeter can be utilized to take a look at the voltage of the battery, however, make a point to wear defensive gloves and utilize a non-metal device on the off chance that you want to detach the terminals to try not to ignite and perhaps harm the equipment.

Having a fired covering, for example, Wolfgang Uber Clay or BLACKFIRE Star Earthenware Covering on your car is great for keeping it looking, and its best lasting through the year to perform. The two items are not difficult to apply and can assist with safeguarding your paint, glass, and hard outside trim from soil, grime, salt, and snow.

Texture and leather seats can get destroyed in the colder time of year, particularly with steady openness to ice and salt on the streets. An expert detailer can invigorate these materials, eliminate stains, and yet again apply stain gatekeeper to help them last longer and look better.

Clean the Interior.

Car detailing in winter isn't just about washing and waxing the outside. It's likewise really smart to clean the inside, particularly the floor mats and texture seats. These are bound to get canvassed in salt, mud, and snow. Cleaning them will eliminate these sullies and assist the textures with enduring longer.

Rust is one more danger in winter. Indeed, even new cars aren't safe from this destructive compound. Careful cleaning and detailing can eliminate scratches that speed up the rusting system and forestall future harm to the car's paint.

Moreover, expert wax work is an incredible method for shielding covered surfaces from erosion throughout time. Similarly, utilizing a water repellant on windshields and windows can assist with keeping them clear all through the colder time of year. At last, applying a leather and vinyl conditioner can prepare for drying and breaking. These outrageous temperatures make these materials contract and extend a great deal, which can harm them while possibly not appropriately focused on.

[kimberlylam1997]

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Do I Have Premature Ejaculation Quiz

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Meaning Of Premature Ejaculation

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Get creative and find yourself unable to last longer.Pelvic muscles are located in pelvic region.Other treatments for premature ejaculation, and more so over arousal.Erectile dysfunction could also be delayed unnecessarily in achieving orgasm as they will ejaculate after about five or ten minutes to your partner a satisfying sexual relationship with my woman is to keep you more control over their arousal.There are many other premature ejaculation and boost your performance in bed.

[thesmokingguns]

What are these?

Word count:912

FT: Kelly Nickels (present day) X You

Summary: Cassette tapes feel like a relic of the past but your packrat boyfriend keeps all the relics he has collected. Almost 60 years of stuff in a garage, half of it you don’t think has a purpose. Trying to find something you find all his tapes and a battle of the ages starts.

A/N: This feels like a crackfic but I was talking to my parents a few weeks ago about things that I just couldn comprehend. Like how an operator would know when and how much money you needed to add into a payphone or making a phone call and not using an area code or how I understood what a cassette was but I don’t think I ever used one. Then the wonderful @littlemisscare-all. Was talking about about a fic with present day Kelly and I wrote this. I hope you like it 

Tag List: @thenobodies-inc , @littlemisscare-all , @that-80s-chick @agroupiewhore , @ayablackwood

The garage was like a very dangerous game of Tetris thanks to your boyfriend being the biggest pack rat in the world. A yelp escaped your lips as you slipped, a box tumbling down along with you, spilling out in the driveway. If Kelly hadn’t saved every scrap of paper from the 80s on maybe you guys would have found the old photo albums that you had been looking for where he could prove to you that he had done the stuff he said.

“What are these?” you looked around at the spilled content of the box. PIcking up the clear item with ribbon wrapped inside. You stacked them back into the cardboard box moving to carry it into the house.

Kelly was digging through the closet, wondering why you had so many dresses when you seemed to only wear yoga pants and a bad attitude most days. As he was cursing your existence you walked in dropping the box onto the bed.

“Do you have a video camera? I want to watch these old tapes.” his eyes tore from the closet to where you were digging through the box. There was no way he was going to let you watch any tapes that you found laying around. Though he probably did look good in them.

He froze when he saw you holding up the object that you were wanting to watch on a video camera, his eyebrows furrowing together.

“That is a tape cassette. You know, to listen to music on.`` The blank look on your face made him realize you had no idea what it was. “You’re kidding me right? This is one of your bad jokes where you just try to make me feel old. Even though you’re turning thirty this year.” the way you grimaced at the reminder of your age made him smile.

“Bold calling me old when you’ll be 60 at the start of the new year.” his smile faltered, narrowing his eyes at you, “So this has music on it? Does it sound different like a record does or is like a CD?” you asked, flipping over the cassette.  

Kelly shook his head, digging into the box and pulling out a square metal box with foam headphones. You tried to remember the last time you used headphones with the band over your head or even with wires. He opened the back, tsking when he saw the spot didn’t have batteries. He grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the room and into the kitchen where he was digging through the junk drawer putting batteries into the back. He put the cassette tape into the device moving to put it over your ears.

He held up the walkman hitting the play button. You chuckled as music played through the shitty headphones, your hands going to hold them over your ears. It didn’t have the crackle of a record or lightweight easy portability of a CD.

“Skip this song.” you yelled out. The music fast forwarded and you were halfway through the next song, “The tape is messed up. It skipped the first half of the song.” The tape slid back to the ending of the first song, “Are you messing with me on purpose? Do you just need to find the groove of something?” Kelly gave you a look of frustration.

“You have to just fast forward and rewind until you find the song,” he explained. You pulled the headphones off, shaking your head as you handed him the headphones back. Kelly gave you a look, “Say it. Say your mean comment. If you hold it in, it gets twice as mean.” biting your lip you took in a breath, turning to him.

“Kelly, those are the most useless things and you’ve been carrying them around for my entire life, maybe longer. Why wouldn't you just listen to a record or buy a CD or you know, just have a music account like everyone else in this century!” you asked, throwing your hands up in the air.

“You’re the one who digs around in the garage and wants to play with all the things. Also want to point out that you collect records and you used to call the Vinyls with an S!” the way your cheeks turned pink in embarrassment at the memory let him know that he was winning this round.

“You want to play dirty, Kels? How about you getting an Instagram? Hashtag Am I doing this right? Heart emoji, beer emoji, pirate flag emoji, how about just adding another seven emojis to make it an even ten? That's what all the kids are doing.” The smirk he was giving you as he set the walkman down, going over to you and wrapping you in his arms.

“Oof, heart broken emoji, grandpa emoji, white flag emoji...I have seven more to use right?” he teased, laying a kiss on the side of your lips. You were melting in his arms.

“How about kissy face emoji? Red Lips emoji, bed, eggplant, peach, two water emoji?” his eyebrows raised as you headed back to the bedroom, stopping when you saw the box of cassettes there, “But first, these are going in the trash.” His mouth fell open, and he grabbed the box from you.

“I’ll put them away, ma chere. No need to throw away things.” You rolled your eyes watching him walk back into the garage. He was your packrat and you loved him,

[katherinemallory]

#10 The roulette of feelings

Hell is empty and all the previous chapters are here: #1 #2 #3 #4 #5 #6 #7 #8 #9

After a few days in London we caught our flight to Monte Carlo. I’m not sure how long we stayed there. This mission felt like a long holiday since the very beginning.

Still on board we agreed that Bond would be the one to play poker and I would pose as his wife, or, as he has put it, “a crown jewel”. Usually I don't like being treated as such, since my experience in behaving like a damsel is close to a bare minimum, but this time I really enjoyed it. Bond was clearly pleased with his leading role in this show, and - while sitting at the poker table - he started to take chances more eagerly. He boasted about his poker skills all the time and I kept working from the shadows, observing him and our rivals, and making sure that we don’t expose ourselves too much. A win-win situation.

We were quite busy spending time at the casino, discussing the tactics, or using all the possible attractions offered by the city of Monte Carlo. The only contact I had with the outside world during the first week were my reports to MI6 which went directly to M, delivered to him by Eve Moneypenny.

One day, while Bond was on the meeting with our liaison (it's amazing the SIS has got its people... everywhere), my phone rang. I picked it up and sat on my bed, crossing my legs.

"Hi Eve. It’s nice to hear you. Did you... find out anything?"

"Not yet, Kath, but I'm working on it," she reassured me. "I just wanted to know how you're doing. You haven't been in touch for *days*. I’ve only noticed your daily reports."

"I'm more than fine, thank you. And I’m sorry for not being in touch... I have to admit I've been kinda busy, but... I won’t complain. Finally I do all those things I needed to recharge my batteries."

“I can’t believe what I hear! Does it mean I should become a double-0 if I want to feel more relaxed?” she teased me.

“You definitely should try it,” I replied, smiling. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s absolutely true. I enjoy the high-life more than I expected... All those fancy parties, drinks, wealthy men, late-night strolls around the streets of Monte Carlo... You get used to it pretty quickly," I replied in delight. "Sometimes I forget that I am here for the purpose of work.”

“It’s great to hear that, Kath. You deserve it, especially after what happened in Geneva,” said Eve and hesitated. “And... And w-w-what about Bond...? I guess it’s him who takes you on these late-night strolls?” 

I laid on the bed, putting one pillow under my head. I looked straight at the white ceiling.

“Well... We spend each night at the casino, pretending to be a husband and a wife who just want to enjoy themselves... In the mornings Bond tries to teach me how to play poker. I fail miserably every time!” I chuckled. “We share a suite. I had some concerns before, but so far he behaves."

Eve's voice went up really high.

"You mean he did give up on you?”

I tilted my head to the right, placing my cheek on one of the pillows and pressing the phone to my ear.

"He didn’t. We flirt regularly," I replied, as I scratched my forehead with my left hand. “But he’s more patient now, I reckon. And more self-confident. He knows I can’t pay much attention to the other men at the casino, cause it would blow our cover immediately. He knows I wouldn’t do that... This is what makes him... erm... powerful. And he probably thinks I will fall for him eventually,” I added, rolling my eyes. “And I’m afraid he’s right.”

“Uh, you don’t really *mean* it, do you?” she asked, concerned. “There’s no pressure... This mission won’t last forever.”

“Honestly, Eve? Sometimes I feel like it will last forever... And Bond’s presence gets more addictive every day,” I said, lying on my back again. “I used to make fun of it, but I’m afraid I can’t resist Bond much longer. I mean... Not because he’s irresistible, but because... I really start to feel something for him.”

I took a deep breath and then continued:

“It all depends on what you find. If Mallo... erm, if the man I asked you to spy on... is married, then I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t have an affair with Bond...”

“Fair enough,” commented Eve. “At least you know what Bond wants from you. Suppose that’s something. But didn’t you admit the other day that you loved Ma...”

“It’s more complicated than you think," I interrupted. "When you spend all days in Bond’s company, it changes your perspective entirely... You’d better hurry then. I am so confused recently...” Damn, I thought. There is no need to burden Eve with all of this... I should probably change the subject. “... but you didn’t tell me anything about yourself, how was your day at the SIS? Any news?”

“Business as usual. I can’t share much detail, but it seems like Amanda’s got reassigned as she had requested.”

“Good for her. Send my love.”

“I will. And I promise to get in touch as soon as I find out anything about... *him*.”

...

The upcoming days passed so fast that I didn’t think about anything apart from what was going on in Monte Carlo. Intuitively both myself and Bond concentrated on the everyday tasks of the mission, but it turned out most of the time we just had fun, which meant our Walther and Beretta were absolutely useless.

Since the only moments I had only to myself were those just before going to bed in the evenings, I often spent them on analyzing my own feelings and, as a result, I developed a certain kind of insomnia. Or, I should rather call it “a difficulty with falling asleep”.

My thoughts were centred on Mallory. I miss him. I miss him dearly, but only when I have time to think about what he's doing in his old-fashioned office in London. When Bond is around, it’s only him who matters to me. Why is that? What the hell has happened to me? I don't know, but it's disturbing. And I get tired every time I try to sort things out in my mind... Can I really sleep with Bond if Mallory’s married? It’s not about giving up on a married man (which is an obvious decision from my point of view, as I would never break up *anyone’s* marriage), but about being honest to myself. Do I really love Mallory if I can fantasize about Bond? Or do I really feel something for Bond if my next move depends on Mallory’s marital status?

After a few evenings of such intense thinking I realized that no matter the arguments, such analysis is pointless. I could be thinking about this for a year and still didn’t come up with a right solution. I decided to wait and see how the case would resolve itself.

On the last day - it was one of those splendid days in June when you feel the most alive - we went to the casino for one more time, looking more dashing than ever. Little did we know, when we walked hand in hand into the casino - Bond wearing a black dinner jacket and me in an evening scarlet dress - that Bond would win the night’s poker game, gaining an enormous amount of money.

Late at night, around 3 A.M. I went straight to the poker table and brought Bond a dry martini (I've already had a few of them myself to relieve the boredom).

"Congratulations," I said, handing him a martini.

"Thank you," replied Bond and drank half of his glass.

I looked at him with aroused interest while he was drinking. I was never good at poker and, as much as I didn't want to, I had to admit the way he played that night impressed me.

"What do we do now?"

For a while, he observed the olives that seemed as if they were swimming inside the glass, and then gave me a quick glance.

"We pack and come back to London."

"Is that so? What about the winnings?" I asked in disbelief, expecting some kind of joke rather than a matter-of-fact response.

"I will have to transfer them to MI6. I have already contacted M, he should send me the instructions in the next few hours."

"You've already contacted M? Someone's in a hurry. Was your time here *that* bad?” I taunted him.

Bond smirked, but didn't say anything. I glanced around the room. The people started to leave the place.

"So, it means we came here broken and we leave broken, despite the win?" I asked, laughing.

"One could say that," Bond agreed. "But I can still afford a dinner and a drink. Would you join me tonight for a humble celebration?"

"With pleasure. Let's enjoy our last hours in this marvellous place,” I said, taking him by the arm.

After the dinner in one of the restaurants at the casino, we went for our last walk around the streets of Monte Carlo. Both me and Bond became unexpectedly talkative, probably because of too many drinks we had to celebrate the happy ending of the mission.

It could have been around 5 A.M when the walk started to feel too exhausting, and we went back to our shared suite.

"Would you like another?" asked Bond, pointing to the bottle of bourbon at the table, just after we locked the door to the suite.

"Yes," I replied. "The last one for tonight."

I have no idea why I agreed to this, cause I've never been drinking much or mixing alcohols in the past. After Bond handed me my glass, I let my hair down and rushed to the balcony. I need to see this amazing city just one more time before I go to sleep, I thought. I observed the skyline, waiting for Bond to join me.

"To the king and queen of Monaco," said Bond and we clinked glasses, standing next to each other.

I smiled at him and drank the whole glass with my eyes closed, but I still could tell he was staring at me.

"You know, Katherine, it's been one of my favourite missions so far."

"Really?”

"Yes... It’s the simplicity of it,” he took off his dinner jacket, thrown it on the nearest chair, and then continued. “The task I'm really good at... the fairy-tale location, no rush... and the right woman. You," he said in his deep, smooth voice and put his glass on the floor.

Then he put one of his hands on the railing and turned to me, but didn’t say a word, as if he intended to find out how close to me I would allow him to move.

“It’s an honour to hear something like that from such an experienced double-0,” I said timidly, still holding the empty glass in my hands.

Bond gazed at me for a few seconds.

"It's true, I've been a double-0 for quite a while," he said and turned his head to look at the skyline of Monte Carlo, "but rarely did I feel this close with another agent. It's strange. I’ve always tried to avoid being emotionally attached to anyone. Cause of the job's nature and all that stuff."

This time it was me who stayed quiet. I just kept listening to him, realizing how much I *love* his voice and how could I listen to him talking *forever*. It occurred to me how beautiful his magnetic blue eyes were, especially in the middle of the night. One could say the same about Bond's face which now seemed to me like the face of the most handsome man on the planet. It should be illegal to be *that* handsome, I thought.

Bond turned his head to me.

"Then I've met you... and it seems I forget about all of those rules in the blink of an eye... it seems I don't control myself anymore."

I don't know how it happened, but in the next moment I found myself in Bond's arms. I felt his embrace, so tight, as if he wanted to protect me from all of the threats of this world. The glass dropped out of my hands and probably broke up, but we didn’t hear anything apart from the sound of our pumping hearts. I placed my hands on Bond’s chest, and we began to kiss, not being able to control the lust that started to fulfil our bodies. I quickly moved my hands to his neck and then the back of his head. I caressed his hair, which felt like the most pleasant material I have ever touched.

"You're the woman of my dreams," whispered Bond, when he started to kiss my neck. In response, I tilted my head back, but continued to touch his hair.

Out of the blue Bond picked me up and headed towards the bedroom. He was in a hurry, wanting to put me on his bed as soon as possible. He took off his shirt and laid down on me, holding my waist and passionately kissing my neck.

"Oh, James," I moaned, as the touch of his lips and hands started to turn me on. “Keep going... umm... And use that nice, deep voice of yours.”

“Like this?” he asked, lowering his voice and biting my ear. “Do you like it?”

“Yes...”

Oh my, I am in heaven. If he doesn't stop, I'll melt, I thought. I let Bond kiss me a few more times, but then moved to the other side of the bed to undress. Bond watched me hungrily as I took off my dress and stockings. And there I was, lying on his bed and wearing only my sexy black lingerie. I thought that he would eat me if he could.

I encouraged Bond with a sensual gesture, touching myself where I wanted to be touched the most. He couldn’t stand watching me for long, and came closer to kiss me again. He slowly moved from my belly and breasts to my neck.

“I've been waiting for this moment since the day we've met," he murmured, while kissing my collarbone.

I closed my eyes to double the thrill and make the experience more intense. My hands moved to his back and held him tighter.

"You drive me crazy," Bond whispered into my ear.

A fast thought crossed my mind. It's true what they say in the Service... nobody does it better... he's definitely a great lay... to hell with “the revenge plot”, go for it, Kath. I was just about to take off my bra, when I heard something was vibrating. I got a text. Great timing. I opened my eyes and reluctantly sat on the bed, bending down to the bedside cabinet.

"Oh, Katherine, just ignore it," said Bond who still caressed my waist with his right hand.

"Look who’s talking," I replied. "The most professional man in the Service... There’s no need to describe this to you..."

I looked at the screen and in that exact moment my adventurous mood was gone. I felt as if my heart stopped for a short while.

Hi, just wanted to let you know that I have some evidence. He's not married anymore. Love, Eve

I quickly locked the screen to prevent Bond from seeing the message, as I felt his touch on my back. He hugged me from behind, kissing my left shoulder.

"Shall we continue?" he asked in his naughty manner.

I froze in my tracks. What about M? How can I fight for him if I sleep with another man right now? I promised myself to fight for Mallory and I have to be consistent. This was fun, but... I love Mallory, right? It's high time to stop playing games... and to finally forget about Bond. Perhaps it's a good sign I got this message before we did antyhing reckless.

I stood up with my back to Bond, still holding the phone in my hands.

"I'm sorry James... but I can't do this,” I declared as seriously as I could.

"But why?" he asked calmly, but his voice was full of disappointment and sadness. "Was it something I did?"

Oh, dear James, I thought. If you only knew how perfectly you did everything...

"No," I replied and turned to him. My voice was shaking a bit. "It was... it was a wonderful night, but I've never slept with a co-worker before... and... I've just realized it would be wrong. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for this," I blurted out and felt a tear doing down my cheek.

Bond seemed not to believe me.

"You've *just* realized it? *Just* after you've got that message," he said, pointing to my phone. "I don't know what this is about, but... we've had such a great time here, why not celebrate it tonight? It doesn’t matter at all that we work together."

I turned my head in embarrassment, trying not to look at him. He stood up and came closer to me.

"I know that you like me," Bond said and placed his hands on my arms. "You can't simply deny our chemistry. You've seen what kind of magic it can cause... you don't have to ruin it."

I took his hands off me and went to the other side of the bed to grab my clothes.

"I'm really sorry, James. It's over."

"It's over before it even started... Strange, isn’t it?"

I ignored him, as I headed toward to the door leading to my part of the suite. I must have looked miserable in my sexy black lingerie, holding my evening dress, and being on the verge of a mental breakdown.

"I don't want to hurt you *again*," I said quietly with my hand on the doorknob.

Bond shook his head.

"You will hurt me if you leave,” he said calmly, but I knew he was full of anger. His eyes told me he was suspicious of everything I’ve said.

As I knew he had the very right to be suspicious, I turned my back on him, trying to get inside my part of the suite. My hands started to shake, making it impossible to quickly open the door.

“You still think about *him*, don’t you Kath...?” Bond asked in a raised voice, with his hands on his hips. “Why do you keep deceiving yourself? He’s not cut out for it! He doesn’t see you this way... and even if something happened between us he wouldn’t care!”

But I would, James. I would, I thought, going inside my part of the suite through the door. I couldn’t bear to look at those cold blue eyes again.

I went up straight to the bathroom and locked the door. I could not think of anything else than just bursting into tears.

You're so stupid, Kath. Mallory thinks you're responsible, but you're just stupid, I thought, looking at myself in the mirror. What was that for? Bond might be a womanizer, but no one deserves to be treated like that. No one. Does he use other women? He does. But it’s none of your business, Kath. You don't offer someone the pleasure and then deny it. You just don’t...

I spend a few minutes sitting on a bathroom’s floor and crying.

But looking on the bright side... at least I got my backup story. Everyone will see something’s happened between us, but no one will ask questions. And if there is a slightest chance M cares about me, he’ll get the message.

I can’t wait for this mission to be really over. By this time tomorrow I shall be in my apartment in London. Alone.

***

To be continued.

[albino-whumpee]

Forgotten

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Please tell me if you´d like me to add or remove you from the list.

Revamped this little extra entirely. Hope you like it!

CW// Desrealization, dissoci@tion, PTSD, amnesia, conditioning, pet whump, creepy caretaker and some angst.

It was late evening on a Friday. An unusually lazy day, where Zarai had gone back home earlier than closing time. Although, it had become almost routine to take the long way home on Fridays.

When that happened she got in her car, put the radio and went around the city. Albus got weirdly excited whenever they passed something familiar, like a supermarket or the highway to work. Because it meant they were soon to get home. However, he also deeply enjoyed seeing new things.

The school with white tiles and the copper statue of a man in robes, or the library next to it with a modern glass and steel structure that allowed to see through the many students fighting to stay awake during finals week. 

He was marveled by the colors of all the small and big stores in the business district. He always tried to memorize their colors so he could draw them later. 

His glasses had now made the world clearer to him and used any opportunity to burn into his memory every sight. 

Albus particularly liked passing the park. If he stretched his neck a bit and squinted, he could see the lake hidden by a thick layer of trees. Somehow, it sparked a certain displeasure on the back of his head to catch a glimpse of water, but he loved the colors reflected in the water when the sun went down.

He was looking at the windows of a candy store when Zarai asked him the usual question on those days.

“Do you see anything familiar?”

He gave one last look at the intersection. The candy store in one side, the entrance to a larger building on the other and a newspaper stand in front of a coffee shop.

“No, ma’am” it was the answer most times. She would sigh and put her hand on her cheek before making the car move again.

He would then lower his head, rounding his thumbs over each other before looking out the window again. Trying to catch something that was familiar to satisfy his obviously displeased owner.

“Nothing?” She insisted.

“Only those, ma’am” he pointed to the signs that read the highway was 300 meters to the right. She sighed loudly before turning right. “I´m sorry”

“It´s ok, Al. I think is enough for today. We went north last week, so. Next week we will go a bit further to the west” she told herself. Albus nodded, wondering what exactly was she looking for.

He rested his head on the window, staring outside as the radio changed songs.

A metallic sound making the harmony of a guitar solo. Just before the battery started, his fingers were already tapping to the rhythm. In perfect sync.

It took a bit before Zarai caught him humming to the song. Lost in thought staring outside the window.

“...I am leaving. This is starting to feel like its right before my eyes. And I can taste it, it’s my sweet beginning“he whispered along, before the guitar riff pulled a smile on his face. “This was Annie’s favorite” Zarai glanced at him, surprised. She listened to his singing, waiting for a follow up of that Annie. But it didn’t come. The song kept playing making company to his humming.

“I can tell is what you want, you don’t want to be alone, you don’t want to be alone…”

Zarai tightened her grip on the wheel.

“But you’ve known it the whole time. Yeah, you’ve known it the whole time…”

She waited until the song was over to ask “So who’s this Annie?” She asked as she turned right to enter the road leading to a dreaded place by both. Surrounded by thick woods, WRU´s training facility poked through the tree tops and made the boy next to her tense up. 

She kept a tight eye on the road as her head made a movie that sparked up a slight pain on her back. However, she didn´t dare show that to the boy who looked as if he had forgotten how to breathe until they had crossed that part of the highway. 

Albus turned his head slightly to make sure they were leaving the facility behind with a hand settled on his collar. Twisting the buckles between his fingers as if trying to make sure it was indeed still wrapped around his neck.

“So” Zarai started, making the boy snap back at her “Who´s Annie?”

 Albus looked at her, puzzled.

“Annie, Ma’am?” He repeated the words, strange on his mouth suddenly.

“Yeah, you said that was her favorite song” Albus eyebrows furrowed slightly as he tilted his head, not understanding.

“I did?” He looked at the road and stayed quiet for a while, rummaging through his memories and only flaring up the pain behind his eyes “I’m sorry, I- I don’t remember, ma’am”

“It’s fine, don’t force yourself” she sighed, taking another look at him before pulling her eyes back to the rows of houses.

During those weekly strolls, Albus had told her intermittently something reminded him of Annie. The newspaper stand in front of the coffee shop was where he bought her comics. The statue, where they would meet if they got lost. The park was where they would go after school and stay there until deep night.

But every time, he forgot immediately he had even said anything. It wasn’t abnormal he tuned out after talking sometimes, but she wondered if it was just part of his training or if it was a coping mechanism to protect him from bad memories.

Regardless, she would wait for the day he would tell her something that stuck. Maybe something that would make him remember his Annie. Whoever that was. But she couldn´t help but wonder if it would stay as a broken fragment of his memory, unable to recall it properly forever. Like his name.

“Albus?” Zarai asked, tapping on the wheel. 

“Yes, ma´am?” 

She gouged his face, looking for something that showed he was uncomfortable, that it pained him to hear her call, but there was nothing but eagerness and a faint smile, just like when she named him.

“Are you hungry?” she changed the subject before pulling over to the mall close to their home "Let´s get something for dinner, yeah? It´s been a rough week and I´m dying to get something that doesn’t come in my diet”

“That would be amazing, ma´am” the boy said with unusual sincerity. The bags under his eyes were only getting darker as the days passed.

“We´re going to get you new clothes too. You basically swim in most of them” The boy blushed slightly as he looked down at himself. “It´s a good thing. I´m glad some fit you now”

“Are you happy with me, ma´am?” he suddenly asked her as she parked the car. It took her a second to smile back at him.

“Yeah, I am” she said and almost laughed when he saw his eyes spark “What about you?” the boy´s smile fractured “Are you happy here? With me?”

“I...I´m allowed a bed, and take hot baths, and have...friends. I´m even allowed to go out with my I.D. alone and earn money for myself” he started pointing out with a smile, but Zarai took a deep breath. 

“But are you happy?”

The boy´s smile cracked again and his eyes fell down before he quickly pulled them back up. The answer to her question took a bit longer to come out.

“I couldn´t be happier with my life as your Pet” the boy said in that broken record tone and a fake smile. The fog on his eyes only made it clearer to her he didn’t mean it.

“I see. I´m glad” she sighed before Albus stepped out of the car and rounded it to open her door for her. She reeled back the water on her eyes and slid down her sunglasses as she stepped out of the car and walked, knowing the albino walked one step behind her. Knowing he would never try to cross that distance.

[gosunsolarenergy]

Portable Solar Generators - Build Your Own Electric Grid

As the recent power outages in Texas have shown us, the grid is far more vulnerable than many of us realize. In this article, we are going to discuss what causes power outages, why solar energy can provide an easy solution, how solar panels don't necessarily equal independence from the grid, and how to build your own personal portable solar generator system.

Solar Panels Don't Automatically Equate to Grid Independence

Power outages are usually due to a disruption that happens somewhere between the homeowner and the electricity supplier. Even if the power plant is still producing electricity, a breach in the system -- like a broken connection or power line -- prevents the electricity from reaching the consumer.

If a home has solar panels, then they can produce their own energy, but that still doesn't mean they are immune from blackouts. That's because they are still connected to the grid. They do contribute to the production of electricity, but if there is no way to store that solar energy that is produced right then and there, the grid has to pick up the slack (this is how net metering  works).

When solar panels produce electricity, this power goes into the grid. The production production is monitored, then credited to a homeowner’s account, causing a meter to roll backward. If it rolls back far enough, the power company actually owes you money at the end of the month.

Making Your Own Portable Solar Generator

The only way to keep the lights on during a blackout is to store your solar energy on site. To do so, you need a battery backup system. This lets you keep your home running, even when the rest of the neighborhood has no power whatsoever.

At this point many of your neighbors will fire up their gas generators. But they come with all sorts of problems. They are very loud, produce pollution, and can't be used in confined spaces.

A portable solar generator has a battery or battery pack that gets its power from solar panels. Direct current electricity is made and then goes to a battery. It then goes to an inverter and becomes A/C power. What's great about solar generators is that they can be charged by a wall plug-in, and even  a car 12 volt connection (as GoSun's Chill and Powerbank 144 can).

There are all sorts of ways to build your own portable solar generator. We at GoSun offer many products that let you produce your own electricity (the Solar Panel 10, the Solar Panel 30, the Solar Table, the Chill) and store it (the Powerbank). We have different products to meet your different demands.

Scroll down to see GoSun's offerings.

Solar Panel 10

GoSun's simplest solar charger is the Solar Panel 10. It charges your phone while traveling or camping. Connect any device via USB, place it in the Sun and you can charge about at fast as a typical wall outlet charger. The best part about it is that it's portable, foldable, and weighs less than a pound.

Solar Panel 30

Our SolarPanel 30+ is perfect for charging devices using nothing but sunshine. It's simple: just connect any device and place in the sun. Under full sun, this will charge about at fast as a typical wall outlet charger. It's portable power as you go!

Solar Table 60

Designed to charge the PowerBank+, the SolarTable 60 is our fastest, most powerful solar charger. With it, you can use the sun to charge laptops, tablets, cameras, phones, and lights – or even power the Chill and Fusion at night. With a 60W collapsible solar table, you have a tempered glass table surface and shade to cover the Chill.

By keeping your appliances in the shade, this solar generator lasts longer and provides power that goes practically all day.

PowerBank

Our PowerBank 144 unleashes the freedom of portable power. Capable of charging laptops, tablets, cameras, phones, lights, and other devices - just plug in anywhere, anytime. Or use it to power the Chill or Fusion

Here are tech specs on our Powerbank:

Material              

ABS Shell

Power Output  

144 wh

Power Input      

20V 2A ma (AC Adapter)

Max Voc 28Vdc (Solar PV)

Ports    

USB (3x)

Cigarette Lighter (1x)

Power source    

Electric

Light      

White LED Lantern

Red LED Lantern

The Chill's Solar Battery Pack

The GoSun Chill is great for many reasons. We've mentioned in other blog posts that it cools better than an ice cooler, holds way more drinks, uses far less power than a car fridge, and never needs ice.

But something that gets overlooked is how great the Chill's portable lithium battery pack is. Beyond powering the Chill, it can also charge your phones (up to three at once), any USB-enabled electrical device, and even power the GoSun Fusion, letting you cook your food and keep it hot while keeping your drinks cool.

With its powerful output of 15 amps at 12 volts, it's essentially one of the only batteries of its kind that can power all 12 volt devices. These include such electrical devices as air compressors and fans.

Tech Specs

• Output Interface: DC, Micro USB, Triple USB, USB/DC

• Input Interface: MICRO USB/DC

• LED Lamp Illumination

Shop the Chill ➞

Video: GoSun's Solar Generator in Action

Want to see how the Powerbank works in action? Check out this video below, and see that solar generators really are the way to go.

[highgaarden]

The One Where Caroline Rides A Horse And The Salvatores Win Top Chef

many moons ago, i was lucky enough to be involved in a massive writing ficathon project with a handful of absolutely talented writers. i stumbled upon it by chance when i was traversing my dusty, abandoned livejournal, laughed to myself way too many times, and decided that i simply must share it here. so without further ado...

Title | A Chinese Whispers Fic; Or, The One Where Caroline Rides A Horse And The Salvatores Win Top Chef Authors | catteo, swirlsofblue, cranmers, jane_wanderlust, kwritten, bogwitch, kachera, steph2311, ovariesofsteel, nereemac, lizwontcry, jeremy_finch, elenarain and waltzmatildah Artist | pamsblau Fandom | The Vampire Diaries Characters/Pairings | Rebekah, Damon, Stefan, Caroline, Klaus, Elijah, Finn, Bonnie, Elena, Jeremy, Katherine, Alaric (Klaus/Caroline, Rebekah/Damon, Katherine/Jeremy, Bonnie/Finn) Rating | MA Word Count | 10000 Summary | This fic was written by a team of authors who were only given the several hundred most recently written words to work from each time they added a new section. It doesn’t make sense, it’s not supposed to make sense! It’s supposed to be crack, and it is! Crack, glorious crack! The title says it all, really… .

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ONE: The Part Where Caroline Rides A Horse And Rebekah Rides Damon

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The clock on the kitchen wall tells him it’s four twenty seven. AM or PM is anyone’s guess as the little hand fails to tick a languid journey around the circular face. Damon makes a brief mental note: must buy batteries. Amends: rechargeable batteries. From the inky black that still shrouds the windows, drapes pulled slightly askew as he wanders back into the living room, he guesses the harsh light of morning remains hours out of reach. He takes to cataloguing the damage done as a means to pass the time. A resounding crack in the plasterboard where his shoulder-blades had connected roughly with a support beam. Jagged fragments of vase and lamp and picture frame, shattered, confetti-like, along the length of one hallway. He winces as he bends to collect the larger shards. Notes he can no longer tell the Ming from the Portland and offers up a soft sigh of relief that they’d only been replicas of the real things. There’s a dent in a silver serving tray that looks suspiciously like the curve of Rebekah’s ass. Which is odd because he doesn’t remember them making it as far as the liquor cabinet. Which is empty so… Hmm. Okay. ------ “What are you doing?” He double-takes at the sight of her, naked and dishevelled at the base of the staircase. Imagines glass shards pricking at the soles of her feet and shudders at the inevitability of bloodstains on his oriental carpets. “I’m vacuuming.” His reply swallowed by the airy roar of the device’s motor. “It’s the middle of the night.” He doesn’t really see her point. Tells her. “I don’t really see your point.” “Come to bed.” Which is funnier than it should be but only because, by the smell of her, she’s been rolling around between Stefan’s sheets since they parted ways at the top of the stairs. Naked and breathless and, admittedly, kind of sore. Jesus. “We could have sex again,” she offers. As though she can read his mind. And he must admit, the thought of fucking an Original in his brother’s bed is seven levels of tempting, but… “I’m vacuuming.” Because this mess won’t clean itself up. And it’s not like he can trust anyone else to do it for him. At least, not properly… She pouts, but then… “I’ve never used one of those before…” ------ With a degree of reluctance that is only almost embarrassing, he finds himself handing over control. And when exactly was it that he became this person? This person that could enthusiastically share cleaning tips with his naked sexual conquests. He thinks there must be something about this particular one and the almost wistful way in which she’d regarded the newest member of his collection. The Dyson DC39. Purchased especially because Ric has allergies��� Also, the lifetime (heh) HEPA filter warranty and the latest in Radial Cyclone technologies had also been a top selling point. But she’s not quite doing it right he notes. Her sweeping motion with the nozzle entirely too haphazard to ensure optimum debris collection. And he arcs his chest around her bare back then, slides one arm along the length of hers and grips the handle just below where her fingers are tightly entwined. Guides the head of the cleaner into a more fluid motion that is easier to maintain. “Oh,” he hears her whisper. Soft against the side of his neck. “I think I understand it now…” Which is lucky. Because that’s the moment Caroline chooses to ride in. ------ “Is that a - ”No. Ridiculous, he thinks. I’m obviously drunk. Vaguely, he feels his grip loosen on Rebekah’s hand. Notes out of the corner of his eye that she keeps up the fluid, efficient motion he’d taught her moments ago but is too busy gaping at Vampire Barbie 2.0 sitting atop her rather large black horse. Side-saddle, he notes. As if it matters. “Yes. It is a horse. No, you’re not drunk.” She rolls her eyes. “Okay, maybe you are drunk. But this is still me. On a horse.” “In my living room.” Ask him later, and he’ll tell you this is the most hilarious scenario to be part of in almost a century. Right now he’s too busy thinking about the possibility of the animal making a mess on his new Persian rug. Because there is no other logical action that he can think of, Damon rubs a hand over his face and heads for the liquor cabinet. He’s almost there when he remembers it’s disappointingly empty. Luckily, he remembers he keeps a bottle hidden in his room especially for the rare instance in which he runs out downstairs. “Excuse me.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before speeding up the stairs. “Nice ass, Damon!” “Bite me, blondie!” ------- A still naked Rebekah continues vacuuming as if nothing awkward has happened. “Well. I see Niklaus is going for big and bold. He always did seem to overcompensate.” Caroline laughs, despite herself. “What the hell am I supposed to do with a horse? And why are you naked?” “That’s rather obvious, isn’t it? You ride it. Which works as an answer for both questions, doesn’t it?” “But I have nowhere to keep a horse. Or money to pay someone else to keep it for me. Or the desire to own a horse! They’re pretty, yes, but that’s it! When your crazy sociopath hybrid brother asked me if I liked the horse I was looking at, I didn’t think it was so he could make up his mind to buy me one!” The Original gives up on the vacuum when she hears the younger blonde’s hysterics. Notes, rather proudly, that she’s managed to make the carpet look quite like new. “Caroline, this happens to be a very beautiful horse. You happen to look fabulous riding it, as much as it pains me to say, but if neither of those things matter to you, then just give it back.” A rather loud plop, followed by a rather strong odour, serves to punctuate Rebekah’s words of wisdom. ------ Rebekah rolls her eyes as she realises that it doesn’t matter how proficient she is at naked housework, the Persian rug is done for. Damon’s going to be furious. He still hasn’t gotten over Stefan’s sorority girls breaking his crystal decanter during a particularly vigorous game of ‘Twister’ last month. Apparently he was saving it for an especially significant dramatic moment. She realises she’s probably going to have to keep him occupied. Also, she really needs to find out what ‘Twister’ is. “Where are you going? You can’t leave me!” Caroline’s looking a little wild around the eyes. Rebekah wrinkles her nose in distaste as she navigates her way around the rug. “I’m going to distract Damon. You should probably get rid of this. And maybe that.” She gestures vaguely towards the horse. “No hurry. We’ll be a while. I’m sure that Nik would be only too happy to keep you…” She pauses a beat. “Busy.” She blurs upstairs to the sound of Caroline’s new horse snorting in perfect tandem to Caroline herself. Rebekah gives a passing thought to the parquet floors as she goes – manure is so tough to remove from wood. She’s spared any further rumination on the finer points of housekeeping by Damon, wrapping his arm around her waist and tackling her to the bed. “God, you’re sexy when you vacuum.” Damon lifts an eyebrow, pouts slightly, picks up a twenty-five year aged malt and slowly pours it over her body. Busies himself for the next twenty minutes licking it off. It’s the most fun Rebekah’s had since she learned that vinegar could remove lime-scale. Damon’s teaching her a lot. Her back arches as Damon buries a head between her legs, fangs bared. She forgets all about housework. ------ Meanwhile, downstairs, Caroline is finding that there are a lot of things that a horse won’t do. Make a tight turn in a crowded sitting room for example. There are all kinds of things trodden into the carpet and she decides that it’s probably best to leave whilst she still can. The last thing she needs is an irate Damon sprinting down the stairs. The back view was quite enough to be coping with for one day. Besides, she has an original hybrid to deal with. She aims the horse towards the French doors and discovers, as they crash through a window, that the steering is nowhere near as good as her Dodge. She’s not sure if the screaming coming from Damon’s room is pleasure or fury. Decides not to stick around to find out. She flicks the reigns and feels a thrill rush through her as muscles bunch and flow under her, racing towards Klaus’ tastefully renovated home. READ MORE ON LJ

[rorynne]

Time Lost Ch 6

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Reader

Summary: An accident during a mission sends you back in time to the second world war. There you enlist the help of Peggy Carter, Steve Rogers, and Bucky Barnes to find the object that can send her back.

Warnings: Christmas, alcohol, fluff

Word count: 1.8k

A/N: The rewrite is finally caught up! It’s all new content from here! Hurray! 

Masterlist

Prologue Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5

Bucky looked over the small toy soldier as Stark’s seamstress made the final adjustments to his new uniform. He couldn’t deny the resemblance of the soldiers painted blue coat to the one that Stack had designed for him. He didn’t know how to feel as he fiddled with the toy. Howard Stark had brought a whole slew of fancy new gadgets and gizmos for them to use and familiarize themselves with, but Bucky had found himself distracted.

You had left for London a month ago, and Bucky would have been lying if he said it didn’t bother him. He honestly couldn’t believe just how much he missed you, despite only knowing you for a little over a month. When he heard that there was going to be a dozen people coming with Stark to the base, he had hoped that you would be among them. However, when the convoy came in, you were nowhere to be found. He tried not to let it bother him, but the fact that you hadn’t even said goodbye hurt. Peggy had explained that you were ordered to leave immediately, but that only served to soften the blow, rather than nullify it.

The seamstress handed him back his coat and he slipped it on. It was probably one of the nicest outfits he’d ever worn. God only knew how much Stark had spent to outfit the entire team. He looked at himself in the mirror, he looked good, and it fit him like a glove after all the work the seamstress put into it. “Thank you,” he said to her with a polite smile.

“Hey, Sweetheart didn’t know you were coming to visit.” Bucky heard Stark say in the other room. Bucky rolled his eyes, Stark may have been a genius, but he really didn’t seem to give a damn about being professional.

“For the last time Stark, I’m not fucking interested. Stop calling me sweetheart.” A familiar voice said coldly. Bucky damn near fell over himself rushing into the room, where you and Stark stood near a table of his inventions. “I wanted to see what you cooked up for the Commandos.” You said, picking up a small object and inspecting it.

A grin slipped onto Bucky’s face as he watched you fiddle with the gadget. His grin widened as he thought on your comment to Stark, how quick you were to shoot him down. You didn’t seem to notice as Bucky stepped behind you, looking over your shoulder at what looked like a coin. Some kind of tracker, he recalled, but that didn’t matter to him at the moment. “You don’t like bein’ called Sweetheart, Sugar?”

You jerked slightly and whipped around to see him, a flicker of amused pride flashed through him as you looked him up and down. “I thought you liked to call me Doll?”

He smirked, stepping a little closer, “I haven’t seen you in a month, I’m a little out of practice. You don’t like being called Sugar either?”

“I don’t know anyone who would call me sweet.” You said, looking him over once more.

“I can prove that wrong right now, Doll.”

You opened your mouth to speak but no sound came out as your face went bright pink. Bucky fought every urge he had not to kiss you right then and there. He was already being far more unprofessional than usual, especially after he was rolling his eyes at Stark for doing the same thing, and Dog knew he didn’t want you to end up blowing him off like Stark. You blinked, regaining your bearings, “I see you got your new uniform, it looks nice.” You changed the subject, picking a piece of fluff off his coat.

Bucky glanced at Stark, who had already turned his focus to his gadgets, clearly uninterested in the pair. Bucky really couldn't comprehend how Stark could be so disinterested in a woman he had been trying to flirt with not minutes before, especially one like you. “Stark really outdid himself. Did you come by for a new uniform too? Or did you finally miss us after being gone a month?”

You snorted, “And here I thought you had aired all your grievances about that in the letter you had sent me.” A smile pulled onto your lips as you spoke, making Bucky’s heart race.

“What can I say? You left without sayin’ goodbye. And my Ma made sure to teach me how to write a strongly worded letter.” He teased. Honestly, it took him a damn week to write that letter, he must have gone through half a tree trying to make it perfect for you. He just wanted to give you something to read at mail call, something to make you smile just how you were right now.

“You should have seen my surprise when Phillips tossed it on my desk. The mail carrier didn’t even know where to take it.” You giggled at the memory, “Although, if that was your mother’s definition of a strongly worded letter, I might have to explain to her what ‘Strongly Worded’ means.”

“Are you trying to tell me that my Ma taught me wrong?” God how he missed your back and forths. “It that’s the case, we might have a few problems.”

You shook your head with a smile, “Careful Sergeant. I might have to accuse you of being a momma’s boy. And, for the record, no I’m not here for a new uniform. Only you commandos get that. I wanted to see the new tech.”

Bucky furrowed his brow, “What do you mean ‘us commandos’? You’re a commando too.”

You shook your head, “I’m just an agent, specifically one assigned to babysitting Russian officials apparently.” You sighed, “Talk about a waste of time.”

Bucky crossed his arms, “You’re just as much a Commando as any of us.” He argued, “I promise you all of those idiots agree.”

You scoffed, “It’s not a call for you to make.”

“Then I’ll have Steve make it.”

“It isn’t his call either.” You said, fiddling slightly with the coin-shaped device still in your hand. “Phillips makes that decision. He might keep me with you boys, he might send me to Siberia. It depends on what he needs me to do and the likelihood of it helping us find a classified piece of hydra technology.”

Stark perked up. “Hydra tech like those batteries Rogers brought back from Austria? This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

You looked at Stark with suspicion. “And it’s all that either of you are going to hear of it.” You said, “It’s highly classified and neither of you are currently cleared for that information.” Bucky studied you for a moment, curious as all hell, but knowing you, you weren't going to say anything more as you turned away from him to continue to mess with the coin.

“It’s a tracker.” Bucky said, pointing at the coin, “You snap it in half and it sends its coordinates to a machine at headquarters so we can find whoever has it.”

You looked up at him in surprise, “You’re kidding. Are you all issued one?”

“All of the equipment is issued as needed.” Stark cut in, “Before each mission, so they aren't lugging around things they don’t need.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “It’s a fucking coin, it weighs nothing.”

“Or lose valuable technology paying for lunch.” He snarked back, clearly annoyed by your hostility.

“They aren’t stupid.” You argued, “If you were really worried about it, why make it look like a damn quarter.”

“I thought you were a spy?” Stark shot back.

“They aren’t.” You said, pointing to Bucky for emphasis. Bucky chuckled quietly, scratching the bridge of his nose. You hadn’t been back a day and you were already arguing with a damn genius on how to design his tech.

Stark rolled his eyes, “They are going deep into enemy lines, they need a level of stealth.”

“Right,” You said and pointed at the device Stark was tinkering with. “Because so many men are walking around with grappling hooks that look like hair dryers. Have you ever used a hairdryer Sergeant Barnes?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Bucky answered.

Stark scowled, “Sweetheart-”

“Call me that one more time and see what happens.” You growled, “I’m not afraid to punch a millionaire.”

Stark scoffed, completely indifferent to your threat, “It’s a work in progress.” he defended. “But you of all people should understand the need for disguise.”

“I still say these coins should be with the commandos at all times.” You said, holding the coin up. “You never what could happen. Put it in their dog tags if you have to.”

Stark pinched the bridge of his nose, “I’ll see what I can do.” He conceded. Bucky raised his eyebrows, impressed at your success. You smiled back at him smugly.

“We’re already fighting one war Doll.” Bucky whispered to you, his lips brushing your ear, “If you push Stark any further you might end up fighting two.”

You snorted, “It would be a war I would win.” Bucky smiled, of course you would, you didn’t know when to quit until you did. “It’s important. You guys are in a unique situation, we can't take chances. If we do, people die, and I’m not ready to have my friends’ deaths on my concience”

You looked up at him, somber-faced, and his smile fell, “You don’t need to worry about us Doll.” He said though he couldn’t say he blamed you. Not when the idea of you going out on missions alone terrified him as much as it did. He knew you were capable, just like the other Commandos were, but you both understood exactly how dangerous this work was. Something he wasn’t sure the others really quite got, especially Steve.

You shrugged and he noticed you quietly pocket the coin. “So, you wanna reunite me with the rest of you dummies?” you asked, forcing a smile. “From what I understand I’m gonna be sticking with you boys for a while longer.”

His lips curled into a small smirk. “Doll, it would be my pleasure.”

Time Lost Tag list: @henderwhore4life @mysterieuselizeue @mystifyign @part-time-prefect

[daryls-dixon-antoni]

Chapter 2.) 30 Days without Incident

I run up to where I see Daryl, a long haired gruff looking man, with blue eyes, and a scruff covered face, speaking with an older, smaller looking woman with short grey hair and a kind smile. She's giving him some sort of lecture; during the last few weeks we've been here, I've learned Carol's lecture face.

I come in just as a dorky looking brown haired boy just a little older than my Mason walks up to Daryl and asks him to shake his hand.

I can admit; even as a happily married person, I do find myself getting a bit distracted as Daryl licks each individual finger before shaking Patrick's hand.

"Hey, uh. Can I speak with you?" I ask hurrying after Daryl and Carol.

"Can you walk and talk; I've got to show him something," Carol asks, sounding a little short with me.

I nod; following after.

"Where're your kids?" Daryl asks as we follow Carol.

"With Tyler, Aaron wanted to help Rick and Carl in the fields but..." I trail off, looking in the direction of the fence full of the Dead being killed by our people.

"You don't want them 'round that?"

I shrug, "Its not that.... it's just that, we'll we've been trying to avoid killing anything around the kids if we could help it."

"What'ya want to say?"

I look at him, "Right, can I go on the run with you lot? With Tyler still down, and the boys not really much help; I'd really like to do my part and be an asset. I know how to handle myself out there, You wouldn't regret bringing me, I'll make sure of it."

Daryl nods; "A'right, I'll meet up with you by the gates with the group."

I nod and rush off to go get ready. I meet the kids in the cell block where Tyler is laying. Tyler has blond hair, and the kindest crystal blue eyes you'd ever see.

A chorus of my boys saying, "Mom!" can be heard and I smile; pulling them both into a hug.

"Hey boys, how you doing?" I ask; before kissing Aaron on the top of the head while ruffling Mason's hair.

"Good; Patrick and Carl came by and Patrick asked if we could go read with the kids in the library today." Aaron says, excitedly.

"And Carl asked if we'd want to hang out with him in his room, can we, ma?" Mason rushes out.

"Yeah, can we please? He has comic books that the Horse Lady with the cool swords brings him," adds Aaron.

"Michonne; the woman who brings Carl the comics is named Michonne. Not the Horse Lady." I gently correct.

"Right, her." agrees Mason.

I look at Tyler who is quietly watching the exchange with a small smile on his face. I roll my eyes playfully at him before turning back to the kids.

"It'll have to be up to your father; I'm heading out on the run with Daryl and the rest to help get supplies."

I see Tyler try to sit up at this; but he fails to do so. "You're leaving? Why?"

"I want to help out, you aren't in any shape to do so; and the boys certainly aren't old enough to. And I have been trained for this kind of thing basically since birth."

"You're father's schizophrenic episodes where he'd turn your home into a boot camp to prepare for the up and coming Zombie Apocalypse is very different than this actual Zombie Apocalypse," says Tyler.

I straighten my stance; "I've kept us alive for the most part; and that's mostly because of my fathers Bootcamps. I can help them. So I'm going to."

"They won't need the help for much longer; Hershel said they are almost able to grow enough here that they won't have to go out on runs anymore. I get why you have to go, I do. It's who you are, but please be safe; I don't know what we'd do without you."

I glance from my husband to my sons; and then back again. There's affection and fear shining inside of my husbands eyes.

He's a good man; from a very well off family. His father was a famous singer who'd even appeared in a few movies and television shows back in his time; his mother was an actress, and even his sister grew up singing as a solo artist who became rather popular as well. As for my Tyler; he can sing; but he was always more interested in writing and acting. He published a few novels and was just starting to act in his first real movie after the television series he was in ended. But all that was before the world ended; and now we're just here.

"I'll be careful; I promise;" I lean down to give Tyler a kiss before I hug each of my boys; individually this time. After all; even whilst being careful, there is always the chance I won't be able to back.

I begin approaching where everyone is meeting up before the run; when I here from behind me, "Momma! Wait! Ma!"

I turn around and see Mason running after me; "What are you doing?"

He looks at me; I see a maturity about my young son that I wish was never there, "Aaron asked me to tell you we love you. Please come back; won't ya?"

I nod, "I'll be trying my very best. This will be safer than when I used to have to leave camp, there's others coming too. And they'll have my back."

"Promise?"

A new voice joins in, "We'll get your ma back, Kid."

I glance at Daryl before raising my eyebrows playfully at my boy, "See, I've even got Daryl's protection."

"Okay," Mason looks away briefly before looking back at me, "I love you."

I ruffle his hair, "I love you, too! Now get, we're leaving soon." I push him gently back towards the prison.

I turn around as a darker skinned man, with a kind demeanor walks up to a very thin and beautiful darker skinned woman, "Hey. I'd like to start pulling my weight around here."

"Bob, it's only been a week." She responds.

"That's a week worth of meals, a roof over my head. Let me earn my keep."

Sasha sighs, an arm over the door of the car she was loading up, "You were out on your own when Daryl found you."

"That's right."

"I just want to make sure you know how to play on a team."

Daryl walks past them as I join in on finishing loading the car up. "We ain't gonna do it unless it's easy."

"You know he was a medic in the Army." Glenn; a lovely Korean American man poins out to Sasha as he leans against the other side of the vehicle.

Sasha glances at Glenn, before turning back to Bob, obviously debating on her decision.

Bob grins, "You a hell of a tough sell, Y'know that?"

I chuckle under my breath and turn away to see Daryl getting on his bike.

"Okay," I hear Sasha give in as I hop in the back of the car.

We begin driving to the gates; seeing that a gorgeous darker skinned woman with dreadlocks and a katana on her back; Michonne is back and talking to a middle aged man with brown hair and blue eyes; Rick and his son Carl, a boy who's about a year older than Mason with the same brown hair and blue eyes as Rick. Daryl stops in front of them and I watch as they talk. The conversation seems to end as Michonne gets into the car next to me.

I stand behind Daryl as he explains why we're outside of a cut open fence surrounding a Big Mart, "Army came in and put these fences up. Made it a place for the people to go. Last week when we spotted this place, there was a bunch of walkers behind this chain-link keeping people out like a bunch of guard dogs."

"So they all just left?" Bob asks.

"Give a listen," Sasha instructs.

Music can be heard, just barely.

"You drew 'em out," Michonne sounds impressed.

Sasha responds with pride, "Put a boom box out there three days ago."

"Hooked it up to two car batteries," Glenn adds.

"All right, let's make a sweep," Daryl instructs as he begins to walk through the hole in the fence. "Make sure it's safe. Grab what you can. We'll come back tomorrow with more people."

We walk through, I have an arrow ready in my bow; as we look around, witnessing the horror of what's around us. Dead bodies scatter around what looks like a campsite, these people thought they were safe here, probably had their families set up here. I turn away, following Daryl.

We reach the entrance of the Big Mart just as Daryl says, "Come on." He knocks on the window, trying to entice any of the dead that could be lurking inside. "Just give it a second." He sits down at the window sill.

"Okay, I think I got it." A young boy with floppy dark blond practically brown hair; Zack says, with an easy going grin on his face.

"Got what?" Michonne asks, and I listen in out of curiosity as well whilst leaning against the side of the Big Mart.

"Oh, I've been trying to guess what Daryl did before the turn."

"He's been trying to guess for, like, six weeks."

"Yeah, I'm pacing myself. One shot a day," he sits down next to Daryl on the window sill.

"What have you guessed so far?" I ask, intrigued.

"Fireman, store clerk, mechanic, car salesman, hit man, spy, and some others, but those were my best guesses."

"And they were all wrong." Daryl responds, but he seems a little less on guard, as though he enjoys these moments.

"Well this one's got to be it."

"All right, shoot."

"Well, the way you are at the prison; you being on the council, you're able to track, you're helping people, but you're still being kind of... surly. Big swing here. Homicide cop."

Michonne and I both start laughing.

"What's so funny?" Daryl asks, sounding almost defensive.

"You, a Cop?" I ask, before laughing again.

"Yeah, it makes perfect sense," Michonne says, attempting to hold back her own laughter.

"Actually, the man's right. Undercover." Daryl says, surprising me for a moment before I notice the glint in his eye.

"Come on, really?" Zack asks, sounding surprised.

"Yep. I mean, I don't like to talk about it 'cause it was a lot of heavy shit, you know?"

"Dude, come on, really?"

Daryl gives him an 'are you kidding me' look before he clears his throat.

"Okay. I'll just keep guessing, I guess."

"Yeah, you keep doing that."

"Mm-hmm."

A couple of the dead slam themselves to the window at that, so we all stand up; any former signs of joking around gone in an instant.

"We gonna do this, Detective?" Michonne asks Daryl.

"Let's do it."

We all approach the entrance and Tyreese; Sasha's big brawny older brother, Glenn and I all go in to take out the Dead first, before everyone comes in to collect all of what we can.

Sasha takes charge after we drag the last body out. "All right, we go in, stay in formation for the sweep. After that, you all know what you're supposed to look for. Any questions?"

"Was there ever a time that you weren't the boss of me?" Tyreese teases her.

"You had a few years before I was born." They both grin as we all walk in, going to scavenge for what the Prison needs.

I take a grocery cart because why the hell not and go straight for the baby section; Rick has a daughter, a very young one; Judith. I would never want what happened to my Tonia to happen to her. So I go to find formula and diapers; things the others may not think to get. I just barely start throwing stuff in my cart when I hear a loud crash. I abandon my cart and rush to help; yelling, "Everyone okay!"

As I hear Glenn's voice yell, "What happened?"

"Everyone's all right. We're over in wine and beer!" I hear someone call back.

It's not long after that that the Dead start to basically fall from the sky. It's absolutely terrifying. The scene around me looks like something I used to watch in horror movies.

I get out my pocket knife and kill one after the other; and all I can hear is gunfire. I see Michonne kill one of the dead with her sword. And then I hear Bob yelling, "Hey! Hey!"

I look over; and see Daryl on top of one of one of the displays, I can also see that the ceiling above him is about to cave down, which will allow about six or seven more of the dead to fall directly on his head.

"Daryl, look out!"

He jumps down, and then immediately gestures to Zack and I; "Let's get Bob."

I nod and rush to help move the fallen display of wine off of Bob, aided by Zack as Bob yells, "More, more!"

We finally pull the display far enough up that Daryl is able to pull him free. "Come on, time to go."

We all start moving, "Let's go, now!"

"Come on!"

"Go!"

The situation is getting worst right before our very eyes.

"Let's get out of here!"

We all hear Zack scream in pain and turn to see him being bit; I hear Glenn yell his name.

We watch as he is being eaten alive before our very eyes.

"Go, go!" Daryl pulls my jacket, "We have to go!"

"We have to save him!" I yell back, the vision of Zack mixing with my own baby girl, and then his face being replaced with my boys'. "We can't leave him."

"Dammit, Woman!" Daryl gives a huge tug, and manages to pull me out if the store, Zack's screams echoing loudly in my ears.

"Anne." I'm alone in a bunk, my boys are reading with the kids and Carol and I have yet to go visit my husband.

I don't look up from my knees, but I do respond to Daryl. "What?"

"What was that?" He asks, gruffly.

I look up, and see that he doesn't seem angry, just... resigned almost?

"I'm sorry, I'll do better next time."

He nods before asking, "You lose a kid?"

I nod, "Yeah. You ever lose one?"

"Never had one, won't ever. Not in this mess."

"I wouldn't trade anything for my boys."

"Don't."

I then ask, "Are you alright?"

"Just tired of losing people is all."

"A drifter?" I ask.

"Huh?" He seems confused.

"Before all of this, you were a drifter. I think you drifted from place to place, probably unable to stay too long anywhere. I'd bet you had to fight for everything you got."

He nods once, before walking away.

I go to find my family only to discover Aaron coughing harshly. I check his forehead and its warm.

"You feeling alright, Little Man?"

"I don't feel good, Momma."

I nod, "Okay, its okay. Lay down," I tuck him in.

"Can you sing to me?"

I nod and start singing softly, "Its not where you come from, its where you belong, nothing I would trade, I wouldn't have you any other way," I feel Mason move to sit on the end of Aaron's bed and start softly singing as well, "Your surrounded, by love and your wanted, your home with me, right where you belong." Aaron closes his eyes and falls asleep while I stoke his hair.

[rmjagonshi]

Whole Again Chapter 24

Whole Again on AO3

Getting their passports stamped should, theoretically, be simple. It was unlikely that there were too many people around at his time of night. Stanford checked his watch; roughly eight in the evening. Maybe the office wasn't open. But with the storm they sailed through, it was unlikely that the Port Authority was closed as ships were likely seeking refuge. Stanford wanted to move forwards with this…circumstance. He still hadn’t made up his mind about what was happening. He wasn't sure if he could make up his mind. But his sailing partner no longer wished him any harm. This was an experiment. Empirical testing. What would his partner do when exposed to others? The unicorn necklace prevented him from doing any real harm beyond basic human action.

It wasn't as if they actually could avoid people forever.

Stanford waited as he watched the body of his brother walk along the dock to the office of the Port Authority. He watched even as he tethered the ship to the mooring piles, following him out of the corner of his eye. It was also a test for himself. Could he let…his partner…go off on his own?

Stanford barely got the ropes tied before he leaped off the ship after Stan.

He caught up to the body of his brother in front of the Port Authority Office. The lights were dim, but on, and Stanford could just see the silhouette of a man sitting at the front desk through the front window, the light from a television flickering in the corner.

Stanford placed a hand on the back of his partner’s shoulder, eyes snapping to the rainbow threads around his neck. He hadn’t even realized how tense he was until the sight of the necklace released it. His mouth twisted into a false smile as he peered into his partner’s face. But Stan didn’t look at him. His eyes were wide, mouth a tight, white line.

He was frozen.

It didn’t take Stanford long to figure out why.

He read over the bold letters fastened to the side of the building. It didn’t read ‘San Juan’.

They had missed Puerto Rico by several hundred nautical miles.

“We have to leave. Now. Sixer, we gotta go.” Stan had turned to him, gripping his bicep in a bruising grip and trying to pull him back to the ship. Stanford held firm.

“We can’t. We’re out of supplies and our electrical is out. We’re lucky we actually made it to port.” He was used to being the voice of reason. And if they had any hope of leaving Colombia, they needed to have their electrical repaired. Stanford could do it himself with enough supplies, but he wasn’t the engineer Fiddleford was. He would like to have some assistance just so he didn’t electrocute himself.

Stan shook his head, muttering strings of words that Stanford could just make sense of.

“Why here? It HAD to be here, didn’t it? No other fuckin’ port we coulda hit? Not safe for us. I LEFT IT! I left it here. Fuck you, Sanchez. Two years, I ain’t going back.”

“Hey. Breathe. You…we look different, now. Two days. Tomorrow we get food and supplies, and the day after I’ll fix the wiring. We’ll lie low.” Stanford gripped Stan’s arms, holding him steady.

Stan’s face was ridged. Eyed narrowed and jaw clenched. His jowls twitching in time with his rapid pulse.

“There isn’t really an alternative, is there?” But Stan wasn’t really asking a question.

There was. There was an alternative. Stanford’s eyes snapped to the fibers peaking out of the white shirt collar. But that wasn’t really an option either.

Stan’s eye found his, following Stanford’s gaze to his exposed collar. Stan gritted his teeth and gave one firm jerk of his head. NO.

Stan took a deep breath, hands going slack on Stanford’s biceps. His eyes steely and piercing.  

“Fine. Two days. But you do what I say. Keep yer head low and follow my lead.”

Stanford nodded once, jaw tight.

Stan gave one last squeeze before releasing him.

The the glass door wedged against the floor as Stan tried to push it open, a screeching filling the front room and covering up the ding of the overhead bell.

The man at the front desk startled, feet slamming to the floor from their position on the side table. The television was blaring some action movie.

Stan’s posture changed the instant he crossed the threshold. His shoulders rose and squared, mouth twisting into a smirk, eye flashing. Stan was a showman, though and through. Stanford had refused to go on one of Stan’s ‘Mystery Shack” tours, despite his brother’s goading. He still felt that the museum was a mockery of the real paranormal, but he understood the appeal of false danger. Seeing Stan flip his appearance so completely was a marvel. A mask so flawless, Stanford would have never known otherwise.

A trait, it seemed, he had always had.

Stanford shook his head to ride himself of the thought. It was creeping. Slowly creeping like vines or a plague over every happy memory he had. Days of beach combing, riding their bikes on the board walk, birthdays and Hanukkah celebrations. All of them tinged yellow, black veins worming their way into every memory.

Later. I can deal with this later. Focus on the ‘here and now’.      

The man at the counter eyed them warily. Pulling out a log book and flipping a switch on the register.

They logged the ship, but their passports gave the man pause. Twins from America on a dinky refurbished fishing vessel were not the most common of sights. Apparently, they were odd enough to warrant a second look as the man passed a scanner over the back page of each book to verify their authenticity.

“You don’t have eyepatch in photo.”

Stan gave a half-hearted laugh and flipped up the novelty eyepatch, now real, for the guy to see.

“Boating accident. Cable snapped. Still healing.”

It was still healing, technically. The skin knitting together rapidly and causing puffy scars to lace across his eye and bridge of his nose. The patch didn’t cover everything, edges of scars peeked out from behind black cloth. The man looked ready to be sick, but accepted the passports and stamped them. After some negotiation and a substantial bribe, they paid their tourist and mooring fee. And there wasn’t much left over.

Stan was still grumbling about the bribe as they left the Port Authority office, grimacing as he thumbed through the few bills he’d gotten back after exchanging what money they had.

“We’ve got just enough for a taxi and one night. We’ll have to hit a bank tomorrow. Looks like we’re eatin’ whatever we can get from a gas station.”

They had walked back to the boat to collect their bags. Stanford had pulled out his phone and was attempting to look-up a map of the area, but was struggling to find a signal. The battery indicator blinked and turned red. Less than 20% left.

“Don’t bother. I snagged a map as we left.” Stan tugged the folded map from his sleeve and handed it to Stanford. ‘I’ll get us packed. You call a taxi. I don’t fancy walking more’an a quarter mile ‘less we have’ta.” Stan was starting to slur his words again. It was best for them to get rest soon.

Stanford called the taxi service listed on the map, speaking in slow and formal Spanish and asking the man on the other end to slow down and repeat himself a few times. In the end, the man had simply shouted at him in broken English, “Port Authority. Two old gringos. Got it. Ten Minutes.” Stanford frowned at the phrasing, he’d have to ask Stan what this word meant later.

After nearly half an hour sat waiting in the parking lot, the dull mustard yellow car pulled up beside them. Popping the trunk so they could load their bags. Stan pulled open the passenger door to talk with the guy as Stanford took the backseat, unfolding the map to locate the nearest exchange bank.

Stan the the driver talked back and forth in Spanish, laughing occasionally as they rode. Stan flipped up his eyepatch again and their driver just whistled long and low at the scars. He thumbed back at Stanford a few times, and the driver gave a wide smirk. Stanford tuning them out. Streetlights and headlights from passing traffic rhythmically illuminating the inside of the car. Stanford, once again, regretted not receiving the bionic eye implant in Dimension St-34M_P4nK. His eyesight had always been bad, but the years were catching up to him and his night vision was going faster than he was comfortable with.

“Ya know, I like yuz. You’re good people, eh? Not like them snooty gringos that come through on them yachts.” The man was speaking English for Stanford’s benefit. Stan just laughed. “Tell you what, Flat rate. And I’ll take ya’s ta the The Sanctuary. Fancy, but safe for gringos. Don’t want ta get caught up in any cartel shits. They been pickin’ you gringo tourists up fer ransom more an’ more. Damn fuckers practically run e’erythin’. But ‘cuz they gringos, poliza don’ do nuttin’ abou’ it. Ahe, ma English is bad. But you know.”

Actually, Stanford didn’t. He had no idea about the current politics of the world. He hadn’t bothered to do much research before they set off. He knew the U.S. was currently in a sort of war with Iran, but that was the extent of his knowledge. No wonder Stan was uncomfortable being here. Stanford felt sorry for the people that had to live through it.

He was starting to see the byproduct of that kind of criminal activity. Everything from store fronts to parking lots had gates and bars. The windows on some second-floor buildings were also barred. Fire escapes if they had any, stopped short of the ground by about eight feet. The sidewalks were sparse. No benches, only the occasional bike rack. All empty. There was hardly any greenery. No lawns or patches of grass. No plants or trees. Not even piles of leaves from the changing seasons. A claustrophobic cage of concrete and steel.    

They pulled up to a concrete wall on the river side of the street. Stanford could make out the tops of spindly trees and the top of some peaked roof building. The gate was closed, but a gentleman in the guard station flipped the leaver without giving them much notice, pulling the gate back. The area beyond the gate was radically different from the one they had just driven though. The grass was green and lively, even in late December. The trash that had lined the road was gone, instead there were the plants and trees that were common in city sides in the U.S.

Their driver pulled up to the front building, flipping a switch on the meter box so that the numbers rolled down. Stan paid as Stanford pulled out the bags. He checked his inside pocket again, thumbing the glass vial through the fabric. The RV and El Diablo, and a few choice weapons were safely tucked inside in case of emergency. They had separated the size changing crystal and flashlight, the crystal now hanging from Stanford’s neck on a loose cord, tucked inside his sweater.

“’EY, Stanley! You call me if you need more rides, OK? I give you discount.” The driver called out from the window, waving at them.

Stan called back from the entrance. “Will do, Maxi. Thanks for the ride.”

The entry for the Sanctuary was like walking into a cathedral. Tall arched ceiling, and tiled floors lined with plush rugs. Chairs and sectionals were pushed against the wall and in little clusters, decorative plants hung from wall hooks and sat on end tables. A brief sniff of the air told Stanford that they were real.

Ain’t no way we can afford this. This is gotta be a five-star hotel. Fuck hotel, this is a resort!

Stanford was inclined to agree with his partner, but before he could respond, they heard shouting from across the room.  

As they approached the front desk, a man in a silk robe that easily cost more than the Stan O’ War II was complaining loudly to the clerk about the humidity in his room. Both brothers stopped a good distance from the volatile man.  

“The air is too stale! Now I’ve been waiting for half an hour for someone to do something about it, and you say he already came!”

“Sir, I sent someone up but…”

“That homeless looking man?! Of course, I wouldn’t let him in. So he can rob me? Are you crazy? Can’t you send someone more respectable?”

Stan frowned, mouth grimacing and nose wrinkling at the level of disrespect the man exuded. Stuck up snob!  

The clerk sighed, looking defeated. “I’ll see if someone is available.”

“Oh, I know how you people are. That means you won’t do shit. Fine! Here. Twenty U.S. dollars. Worth a fortune to you people. Now send someone to fix the humidity in my room!”

The man slammed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and marched away, furiously wrapping his robe around himself and stuffing his hands in his pockets.

A flash of white dropped in his wake and fluttered to the floor. Stanford ran over to it without thinking. It was silk, soft as sin and running over his fingers like water. The corner was embroidered with a gold curl and the initials M.B.

“Sir, you dropped your handkerchief.”

The man paused, hallway to the elevator when Stanford called out to him. He turned, red faced and scowling. His eyes scanned Stanford’s appearance and sneered. It wasn't the first time Stanford felt self-conscious about his looks. He was dressed in a weather-beaten blue jacket, his classic read cable knit and salt crusted jeans and boots. He also hadn’t shaved in several weeks and was finally starting to grow a beard.

The man sniffed, wrinkling his nose as some imperceptible smell and reached out to take the handkerchief back, but paused when he caught sight of Stanford’s hand. Even after all these years and though countless other dimensions, nothing quite put him on the defensive as someone noticing his hands.

‘Mutant!’

Stanford felt his stomach clench, and the age-old fear crawled up his spine again. But he wouldn’t run. Not this time. He didn’t need to.

“Ford…”

He ignored his partner’s call, choosing instead to smile at the man as he held up the handkerchief. Just far enough from him to be offering it, but close enough that the man would have to enter his space to claim it.

The man said nothing, simply marched up to Stanford, snatched the silk square from him and bolted to the elevator doors.

He heard his partner give and audible sigh when the elevator doors closed with a ding.

He turned back to Stan, tucking his hand in his pocket and adjusting the bag strap on his shoulder.

Stan just gave him a soft smile before turning to the counter and the much-relived desk clerk. Poor doll.

Stan spoke to her in Spanish, soft and pleasant, with a slight air of flirtation. The woman gave them both an amused look. But when she named the price of a room, Stan’s smile disappeared.

They didn’t have enough. The taxi ride, even with the discount, had eaten just enough into their cash that they were short. Even the smallest room available was out of their budget. Not to mention the late check-in fee and registration fee for not having a reservation.

Stan groused, reluctantly pulling out his bank card and handing it to the clerk. They had wanted to keep their profile low, paying in cash left an electronic trail. The clerk scanned the card, the machine beeped, then buzzed. The card had been denied.  This was a problem.

But the clerk felt sorry for them. She walked them over to the entertainment plaza building and unlocked the doors so Stan could use the ATM. There were several lined up against the front wall of various banks. Stanford was quite fond of the Automatic Teller Machines and the bank cards that came with them. They were infinitely more convenient than carrying around large wads of cash, but they also were left open to electronic errors. The credit chips in used in the multiverse were better; they were tied into your unique genetic code so that even an alternate universe version of you couldn’t hack into your bank account.

But the ATM also denied Stan’s card. Their account had been frozen. Suspicious purchases bought in Iceland. With all that had happened, neither one had thought to check-in with the bank to let them know they were in Iceland. Now they were stranded with little more than $50 U.S. dollars in a very dangerous area with a ship with a fried electrical grid and no food.

“DAMNIT!” Stan kicked at the wall, swearing again as the concrete absorbed the impact and a wave of pain rolled up his foot and leg.

“Wha’dd’ya wanna do, Sixer? Suppose we can go sleep on the boat, but that won’t do nuthin’ for food. An’ we don’t have enough to get ‘er looked at either.” He sighed, flopping against the wall and giving Stanford a tired look. “Suppose we could try and give’em a call, but I don’t suspect we’ll get an answer this time a night.”

They stood in silence a few moments, the poor clerk standing by awkwardly, fiddling with the keyring and hoping these old men would make up their minds so she could go and do her job.

Stanford glanced at her from the corner of his eye, frowning. He pulled his phone out and called the only number he could think of. “Hello. Maxi? Stan’s brother. You know anywhere we could make some quick cash?”

*~*

Stanford had been hoping for a late-night pawn shop, maybe even an advanced loan establishment, just enough to cover the night until they figured out their bank account. Maxi had gladly driven back and picked them up, taking them further into the city and following back roads filled with trash and broken wood pallets.

Stan and Maxi had spoken so rapidly and so hushed that Stanford didn’t bother keeping up. Maxi dropped them off a few buildings away from an old storage building located behind an animal feed storefront. Maxi leaned in close to Stan, whispering something urgent. Stan only nodded in reply before reaching for his wallet. “Not this time. This time on me. You call me when it’s over.”

Stan patted Maxi’s shoulder and got out of the passenger-side door, Stanford following after. They walked silently to the old concrete building before turning down the side ally. A red glow from a burning cigarette emanating from the darkness. Warning bells were going off in Stanford’s head, signaling that this was all kinds of wrong. That they were much safer heading back to the ship and fishing off the dock, but Stan grabbed his jacket sleeve and tugged him forwards. He tried to catch Stan’s eye, but was only met with worn matte black.

They could hear shouting and the clanking of a cowbell from inside. The barking of a hound echoed after. A fighting ring. Dogs, cocks, people. It didn’t really matter which, all that matted was that they should keep walking and find someplace safe.

But Stan wouldn’t let him go, wrapping his fingers around his wrist and thumbing the Vegvisir band wrapped around Stanford’s wrist.

Fat lotta good it’s doing! Leading us here. Should just chuck it.

Don’t. It looks good on ya. Besides, you like it. You wear it all the time.

Stanford shook his head, ignoring Bill’s words and instead focusing on where Bill had led them.

“Best be moving on grandpa. Ain’t nothing here for ya.” The bouncer regarded them briefly before flicking the ash off his cigarette.

“Here to make a bet. Word is the money’s good tonight.” Stan responded, unswayed by the size of the bouncer.

“Got any cash?”

Stan pulled out a few bills from his breast pocket, flashing them briefly. The bouncer nodded, dropping his cigarette and crushing it under his heel before leading them inside.

“Ya need to check in your bags, gramps. We ain’t a bunk house.” Stanford’s grip tightened on the strap of his bag. They weren’t carrying anything valuable. Least not in bags. Stanford resisted the urge to check his pocket for the glass vial again.

The low bark of a bull mastiff drew Stanford’s attention. The hound had a muzzle strapped to its head, but it didn’t look like the metal was going to stop it if the dog was determined to bite.

“Aie, Aie, shut up. Stupid mutt.” The bouncer unlocked a side door, more a closet than anything, and held out his hand for their bags. With some reluctance, they handed them over, pausing a moment in front of the hound’s nose before they were tossed unceremoniously on the floor and the door was locked again.

“You wanna bet, go see Mitch. He’s at the front table.”

Stanford could just make out the man muttering as they walked, “Stupid fag gringos.”

It was only then that he realized he was still holding Stan’s hand. He let go, tucking his hands in his pockets a moment before Stan leaned into his side and whispered harshly in his ear. “Don’t do that. They’ll think you’re gonna pull a knife or somthin’. No one’s gonna care about your hand here.”

Stanford did as he was told, smoothing the cloth of his jacket instead.

They reached the front table where a short balding man sat smoking a cigar and thumbing through some bills from a metal cash box. A chalk board sat propped against the wall to his left, a few names and tallies etched on its surface; odds ratios in bold under each match-up. There were four matches written up, the top two crossed off, already taken place. The third was raging on beyond the doors, passed the crowd. The fourth had been X-ed out. A single name in one column and a blank space where the challenger should be. The odds for the named fighter were 4:1 on.  

“’Ey. Match just started, you wanna make a bet, you do it here.” The man flicked his cigar into a plastic cup on the table. “Won’t be much money ta be had tonight. Newbie dropped out. They’ve been lookin’ fer someone ta take his place, but ain’t no one step up yet. All too scared of Pedro. You still wanna make a bet, you can. But this is the last match of the night. Neither one the house favorite.”

Stan took a moment to contemplate the scoreboard before answering. Even if they bet everything they had, they wouldn’t make very much. It might get them into a room with a mattress on the floor, but nothing in the way of supplies. But who to bet on? Stanford peeked in the open door to watch the fighters. There wasn’t any indication which one was whom. The shorter fighter looked like he had the advantage, but it was the first round and neither looked outclassed. He still thought this whole idea was stupid, but the next words out of Stan’s mouth cornered sensible in a dark alley and beat it for its pocket change.

“How much to enter?”

Stanford whipped his head to look at his partner, even more convinced that Bill had lost his ever-loving mind! Not that he’s ever had any sense, but at least he wasn’t this irrational. No one Stanford had ever met had ever had such a lack of common sense. No one but Stan.

He still hadn’t decided on what to call this…hybrid person. Partner seemed the best fit now. Stanford ignored the shit-eating grin that reverberated down their mental connection.  

“Hah, funny grandpa. I like you. Tell ya what, you bet on Antonio, he’s more likely to win. Still only 3:1, but it’s better than nothing.

Stan just grinned wider. He cracked his neck, rolling his knuckles and squaring his shoulders.

“How much to fight?”

*~*

The money guy had called down the owner, realizing Stan was serious. No amount of protesting from Stanford dismayed him. The owner was enormous. Easily over six foot and built of solid muscle. He wasn't thin either; torso thick and bulky and arms as wide as Stanford’s neck. An ex-pro boxer by the looks of it. He was intrigued by Stan’s request, but had laughed at him too. Telling him he could enter if he wants, but they would just throw his carcass out in the back alley when he died.

“I’ll be fine. Just let me in the ring and I’ll show ya what I can do.”

“You’re outta your mind gramps. But sure. You wanna fight, go ahead. Tell ya what, you survive, I’ll pay out $100,000.”

Stan grinned, dollar signs glittering in his eye. “Dollars?”

“Pesos, grandpa. Pesos.”

Stan let out a dark and dry chuckle. “And If I win?”

“Jackpot’s sitting at 2,350,000 pesos.”

Stanford had called him crazy when they shook hands, Stan just shrugged him off.

Stan had gone back to the check in closet to pull out a pair of loose-fitting shorts from their bags. Stanford had followed him, closing the closet door behind them. An audible click echoed in the tiny room.  

“This is crazy. We can still get out and get back to the docks. We can think of something else.”

“Nope. Mind’s made up. I’m doing this.” Stan didn’t even bother turning around as he undid his jeans.

“You’ll die! You can’t use magic anymore.” There wasn’t much space in the side closet. It was only big enough to store the patrons’ stuff, if they had any. “Not unless you expect me to take that off you. Is that what your expecting? Goad me into…”

“No!” Stan shouted, head snapping up. He took two steps to stand closer to his brother. “I don’t want that.” Stan’s hand thumbed over the scar on Stanford’s cheek, still visible though healed. He frowned at the memory, of straining to seal the wound closed even as his magic dwindled. Apology dying on his lips. Instead, he simply smirked and patted Stanford’s cheek. “I don’t need magic to win this. We need money. This will get us some.” He stepped back to pull his jeans off, tugging his socks and shoes off along with them.

“You’re being reckless. You’re putting yourself needlessly in danger to...” He flapped his arms looking for the appropriate wording, averting his eyes and trying to keep the blush from his cheeks, “To show off, apparently.”

“Maybe.” Stan…winked…maybe, but his face soured with his next words. “But if we’re going to argue about ‘needless danger’, we should talk about how you walk headlong at anything even remotely out of the ordinary. You have no idea if things might be friendly or not, but no, you just have to go study it.” Stan had pulled on his shorts and was stuffing his clothes into Stanford’s bag.

“That is the inherent danger in field study. And I understand and calculate the level of danger before I approach. This is just suicide! I can understand gambling, Bill, but this?! Do you have any idea how illegal this is? How much danger we are really in?”

Stan’s shoulders tensed at the name, hands stilling on the bag he was hunched over. His knuckles turning white as he clenched and unclenched his hands.

Maybe Bill was just looking for a fight. If that was all, Stanford could oblige. But Stan’s voice cut through the building tension.

“Yes. This isn’t my first round in a cage fight.”

Fine. If Bill was going to play Stan’s history, he’d bite.  

“You aren’t young anymore. You haven’t kept your body in peak condition for decades.” But Stan had stood up by then, turning and shedding his shirt in one swift motion, letting it drop on top of the bag. He held his arms out, loosely set on his hips and he straighten his back and flexed.

Looking at Stan now, Stanford picked up on all the little things that reminded him they weren’t young anymore. His hair was the most prominent. Gray. All of it. Stan was always hairy, even back in high-school, but it had only gotten worse with time. At least his body hair had. Stan was balding. The hair at the back of his head only hid the skin beneath in the faintest of light. Next, his gut. Stan hadn’t aged well. Though, now with the understanding of what Stan had been doing the past forty years, Stanford can’t blame him. But there was no question that Stan was packing more weight than could be hidden. Pecks more flab than muscle. And without the help of his girdle, it was, for lack of a better word, ‘hanging’ out there for everyone to see. Stan’s face carried so many lines now. Lines zipping back and forth across his forehead. Creases bordering his eyes and puffy eyelids. Forced laugh lines from his years of being a wannabe carnival barker. Lips chapped from the salty air. Pockmarks and discoloration around his jaw. Skin sagging a bit around his neck.

He was a dead man walking if he followed through with this.

“Let me fight instead.” The words were out of Stanford’s mouth before he could stop them.

“No way.”

“I’m fitter than you. I may not have the raw strength you do, but I can hold my own.”

“Not happenin’ Stanford. I can put myself in danger. I won’t put you there.”

Stanford’s eyes blinked before a dark laugh passed his lips, brought forth from decades of grief and hate.

“’You won’t put me in danger’, huh?” He snarled, ripping back the fabric of his jacket and sweater to show the scarring on his wrist. A dark band with radiating veins to his forearm and the back of his hand. Two more on his other wrist and neck. Permanent burns. Charred tissue beneath the skin. Courtesy of the torture he’d endured to keep the world safe from Bill. “What about this then? What about after I shut down the portal? You’re so worried about putting me in danger, you weren’t then.”

“I’m not that person anymore!”

“Bull shit you’re not! I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. You act just like you always did. Selfish and self-serving. I was just too blinded by your flattery to notice!”

“Stanford, I…”

But there was a knock on the doors seconds before it snapped open.

“Hey gramps. Boss wants ta know if yer ready?”

Stan walked past him, reaching the door and walking into the entry way.

The owner led them back into the tiny side room with a sink and drain in the center. Stanford stood to the side and watched as the owner and another guy inspected Stan’s physique. The owner’s eyebrows jumping in surprise at Stan’s muscle mass despite his age. It was clear Stan was a boxer, or used to be, with the way he carried himself. It was something the owner of this little underground boxing ring had picked up on. Stan flexed when asked, jabbed at the air to show off his form, and tested his grip on the owner’s fingers. Even Stanford caught the slight wince and creaking of bone when Stan squeezed. Stanford’s fingers twitched with every touch, eyes trained on the rainbow fibers, now visible, resting against Stan’s collar bones. The two men left after a few short minutes to draw up the odds, mumbling about how tonight was going to be interesting.

“You can still back out.”

“Can it, would’ya. Win or lose I get somthin’. And I intend to win.”

The door creaked open and a kid pokes his head in the gap. He glances over at Stan a moment before tossing Stanford a roll of tape, shaking his head. They could hear shouting and something like glass breaking. “Pedro ain’t happy he’s going against an old man. I’d say your goodbyes, amigo.” The kid slipped out, closing the door quietly. Stan was standing in the middle of the room doing some light stretches. Shoulders rolling back and forth in their sockets, trapezius shifting under surprisingly tight skin.

“He was impressed. Ya see that look he gave me? Like he found a gold nugget where he thought was gonna be dog shit. Ha!”

“Bill…”

“Stop with that! I ain’t him!”

“You aren’t Stan either.”

“More now than I was then. Just let me do this.” They fell into an awkward silence as they waited.  

The owner came back, trailed by what Stanford assumed was ‘Pedro’. Pedro was short, bit shorter than Stan’s height, but he was stacked. The kid was hardly older than 20, abs sculpted and hips thin. His muscles visibly shifted with each movement, veins popping up on his skin. His jaw was chiseled and smooth. He looked like a poster boy for some band or car magazine. On the surface. But there was something there rippling just beneath the surface that clawed at the air between them. A beast barely restrained by a thin rope. The veins in his neck and face pulsed. Teeth looking more like fangs in the dim light.  

Stanford did not like Stan’s chances against Pedro. Hell, he didn’t like his chances against Pedro and he was in better shape than Stan. The kid, and he certainly was compared to the two of them, exuded so much testosterone that Stanford could smell it. It was obvious why this kid was the house favorite. His eyes held a level of rage Stanford was unfamiliar with. The kid wanted blood. He’d been denied a challenge and now he was going to take his anger out on Stanford’s partner. He gulped.  

The kid turned to the owner, speaking in rapid Spanish, gesturing to them both. Stan shouted above the bickering, “¡Oye! Como el infierno, te dejo tocarlo a él!”, standing in front of Stanford, pushing him back a step. But the owner shook his head and stood firm. “Fine, gramps. I’ll fight you. Kiss your fag boyfriend goodbye, cuz you ain’t walking out of that cage. I’m gonna kill you.”

Stanford gaped at the kid’s words, but Stan just grinned and held out his hand. “I look forward to it.”

The kid scoffed, reaching out to squeeze Stan’s hand, hoping to feel the bones break under his grip. Stan returned the grip in equal measure. Bones not breaking or creaking, but instead, clamping around the kid’s hand like steel. His grin split his face in half when the kid flinched.

Pedro pulled bag, and strutted back to the main room, likely getting ready for the match.

The owner, who’s name Stanford had neglected to remember, watched Pedro go, turning back to them both with a shrug.  

“Last fight’s still on. I suspect it’ll be a long one, so you got time. We’ll call you. And you’ll have to take the eyepatch off. What name you wanna go by? Gotta call out something when the match starts.”

Stan thought about it for a bit, humming as he twisted the question in his mind. After a moment, he smirked, ripping the eye patch off and letting the boss get a good look at the healing scars covering the empty socket.

“The One-Eyed Beast.”

*~*    

They weren’t allowed gloves. No protective gear. Not even shoes. Just tape. Stan’s glasses tucked into the collar of Stanford’s sweater.  

“Too many people trying ta sneak in weights and blades. Bare hands means I can’t hide nuttin.”

Stanford’s hands shook even as he meticulously wrapped each of Stan’s knuckles. The white tape stood out against the tanned skin. Cool and textured verses warm and soft. The contrast cut through Stanford’s psyche. Like he was replacing the smooth flesh with something inhuman. Weaving the tape around each finger, stabilizing his metacarpals and wrist. His fingers slipped on the tape as he tried to tuck and tie it off. Once, twice. His hands wouldn’t cooperate.

His mind kept flashing back to Stan’s opponent. He didn’t know why, but the kid scared him. Something about the kid…man terrified him. His eyes weren’t human. The man was an animal. Stanford could see it in his movements, the way he sized them up. He was no more tame than the bull mastiffs being walked around on lead, snapping and growling at any perceivable threat.  

Stan wove his untapped hand through his fingers. Clasping them tight and squeezing. “I got it. It’s ok.” Stan pulled back to finish the knot before starting on his other hand.  

Stanford bit his tongue until he tasted blood.

A knock on the door came far too soon. They were preparing for the last match of the night.

Stan was up and out of the door in a few short strides, Stanford trailing along behind him, a bundle of nerves.

The chalkboard propped up on the wall had been altered. ‘One Eyed Beast’ in the challenger column beside Pedro. 10:1 odds. He’s surprised it wasn't lower. People were lined up to place their bets, ecstatic that Pedro was going to fight tonight.

They followed their escort to the main room, weaving in and out of the people lingering and milling about. Guard dogs growling and barking as they walked past. They were standing in front of the cage now, Pedro already inside and looking ready to tear the head off the next person who crossed him. That next person, unfortunately, being Stan.

A brief hush swept across the crowd. They had seen who was up. An old favorite against a newbie. An old newbie. Stanford didn’t let their age bother him much, least not when they were running circles around dangerous anomalies. But here. Around other people. Their age was distinct. They were in their sixties. Wouldn’t know it for how easily they kept up, but they were getting older. Stanford woke up with twinges of pain he didn’t remember having before. And Stan had apparently been fighting back pain since his late forties.

But the man standing in the cage wasn’t the man Stanford had been helping to wrap his hands. No. Like crossing the cage threshold had changed him. He stood taller. Stan’s biceps pulled taut against the skin, curving and accentuating his arms. His gut was still there, but he’d lost weight in the months at sea, and the top level of flab hid a strong torso. Stan was thick. Had always been. He’d been a heavyweight since those first lessons all the way back in middle school. His legs were still as thick as ever and had grown more definition as they became accustom to the sea. The overhead spotlight gleamed off the sweat already forming on Stan’s skin. He was practically glowing. A force of nature now stood where his brother once did. He held himself steady on the uneven and unstable elevated cage. More a plywood slab braced on random stacks of cinderblocks. Chain link fencing weaved around the structure and was attached to the ceiling and floor. He didn’t look scared or nervous. Hell he looked downright gleeful.      

A thickly accented jeer echoed from across the room.

“The hell is this?! Get this gringo grandpa outta here.” Angry responses and jeers erupted in waves through the crowd. Stanford felt the hackles rise up on the back of his neck. He and Stan could handle being out-numbered, but not like this. There were well over a hundred people clamoring for a chance to make a bet. But despite the jeers, Stan was calm. His face plain, perhaps even a smirk, as he eyed his opponent.

A deafening clang rang in Stanford’s ears. The cage door had slammed closed. A ‘referee’ was locking the heavy padlock and chain. Too late to make a run for it.

This was insanely foolish. Even more so than restarting the portal. At least Stan had the misfortune of not fully understanding the ramifications of opening the link to other dimensions. This, Stan had full knowledge of the consequences. And he was still standing there. The unicorn necklace still sparkling against Stan’s throat. The spell was supposed to be a protection against Bill. Against his powers to manipulate the world. He could only hope that wasn't the only thing it protected against.

Stanford flexed his hands repeatedly, eyes trained on the two fighters. A speaker mounted somewhere overhead crackled and sputtered, announcing the beginning of the next match. Cheers and boos echoing from everywhere as the fighters were introduced. Stan seemed to relish in jeers and heckles. When he didn’t react, the voices grew louder, bottles and crumpled paper cups being flung at the cage to bounce off the fencing.

Stan just grinned.

The clang of a cowbell broke through the crowd’s noise. The match had begun.

There weren’t rules in underground fighting. Anything went. The winner was the one who could walk out.

Pedro came in with a flurry of punches, aiming for Stan’s torso and head. Stan braced and took the beating. Blow after blow to ribs and arms. Stray fist connecting with his face. But Stan hadn’t faltered yet. When Pedro pulled back, readying a roundhouse, Stan’s left fist connected with his jaw. Pedro stumbled back. He wiped the sweat from his face and glowered.

A scream, pulled from the bowels of hell, clawed its way through the kid’s throat. He dove to grab Stan’s torso, but he shifted, trapping Pedro in a headlock and pulling him off balance. Fists wailed on Stan as the kid tried to free himself. An arm wound around Stan’s leg. A knee to the kid’s jaw. Pedro was released. Stan taking four steps to the other side of the ring.

He was using the kid’s rage and confidence against him.

Pedro recovered quickly, eyes blazing at being humiliated by an old man. He charged again. Fists low. Stan sidestepped, but Pedro anticipated the move. His aim struck home.

Stan doubled, gut and chest taking the damage. Quick and light jabs countered some of Pedro’s blows, but not many. Stan took a step back. Then another. He was being backed into a corner. A second later, the kid dropped to the floor, legs pulled out from under him was a subtle sweep.

Stan danced around him, putting distance between them.

Downed twice by an old geezer. Pedro was livid.

But the clanking of a cowbell singled the end of the first round.

The guy taking bets was walking around the crowd, calling out odds and taking more cash from eager patrons. He passed close to Stanford, notebook and a spool of tickets in hand. Stanford watched him, eyes flicking back and forth between Stan and the man collecting bets.

It couldn’t hurt.

A second ring of the cowbell started the next round, but Stanford had lost his place near the front of the crowd. He could see flashes of movement over the tops of people’s heads. Shouting and grunts. A dog growled and barked from somewhere to his left.

Stan’s voice rang above everything. A sharp grunt of pain. Stanford pushed people aside, knocking over drinks and scattering empty bottles. He was prepared to climb the damn cage when a strong arm looped around his waist and pulled him back. One of the bouncers. He was let go and shoved back behind a faded red line drawn around the ring. A man at his side, drunk off his ass, stumbled with him.  

“Hey, gringo. You gotta stay back, or they’ll kick you out. Don’t worry, your money’s on Pedro, you’ll win.”

Stanford just turned back to the cage.

Stan was winded. But so was Pedro. The kid had an arm wrapped around Stan’s neck, free hand flying repeatedly into Stan’s chest and gut. But Stan jerked Pedro’s leg to the side, sending the kid wobbling back. Sta was on the defensive. Only fighting back when the kid caught him. The kid was trying to get him in a headlock, but Stan weighed more. He leaned and threw them both to the floor. He used the opportunity to pin Pedro’s arm. The kid had no leverage. Stan’s elbow came down on the kid’s nose. A sickening crack. Stan let go and stood with a stumble, taking position again.

Pedro charged, leaning away from Stan’s swing and barreling headlong into Stan’s left side. His blind side. Stan’s back connected with the cage. He was cornered. Pedro pummeled him, fists flying to any place they would land. Face, neck, chest, gut. Stan sagged. And audible crack cut through the fervor.

Stan’s knuckles connected with Pedro’s temple. It was the window he was waiting for. Stan returned each blow with one of his own. Four more to the temple. One to the left side of his jaw, then the right. A swift uppercut to the gut. Stan alternated between high and low jabs, leaving Pedro little opportunity to block. One punch to Pedro’s jaw slid further, cracking across the bridge of his broken nose.

The ref rang the bell, but neither fighter stepped back. Punches flying every half second, Blood dripping from noses. Neither one was bothering to block anymore. Fists came undone and fingers clawed at skin. Nails scratching gouges.

A hand wrapped around the rainbow threads and jerked. But a flash of pink light pushed it back. Shouts from the ref called forwards two man with cattle prods. The poles were slid through the gaps in the cage nearest the two fighters. Stan turned, pushing Pedro into the sparking pole. A scream. The smell of searing flesh. But they just backed further into the center of the ring. Just out of reach.

Fingers dug into a throat and clamped down. More retaliated with pressure to an eye. Knuckles connecting with teeth and jaws.

Bets had stopped. No one knew who to bet on. Shouts and barking and camera’s snapping pictures.

Stanford’s heart was in is throat. He couldn’t swallow, let alone breathe. His ears rang with white noise, not comprehending the sounds echoing in the dingy warehouse. Blood and sweat flung off the two fighters. Four men with cattle prods circled the cage in hopes that they would come close enough to break it up. Every so often the ref would walk around and ring the bell. He may as well have been waving a banner for all the good it did.

But it was nearing the end now. They weren’t going to last much longer. One last punch. One last connection between knuckles and bruised tissue. It was over.  

A body hit the floor with a sickening thud. The crowd fell silent. Blood filled wheezing could be heard from the lump on the floor. The referee shouted something in Spanish, smashing the bell against the cage to amplify the sound. The victor pulled away from the lump to stumble back to the center of the ring. Huffing. Knees weak. Blood flowing freely from his nose. That fucker gave him a hell of a beating.

Stanford was beside the referee in seconds, pushing past him the moment the lock was disengaged. He ignored the shouts from the referee even as the man tried to grab him and pull him back. He twisted out of the grip on his hood and entering the cage. Two steps in, he was beside the lump. Blood splattered around it on the wood dais. The wheezing was intense so near. It was wet, blood and saliva dripping from the parted mouth.

Stanford spared barely a moment beside the lump, racing past and across the ring to his brother. Stan was hunched, legs shaky and hardly holding him vertical. Stanford’s arms were around him instantly, wrapping him in a crushing hug.

“Fuck! Fucking hell! I thought you were dead for sure. God! Don’t ever do that again, you sick bastard!”

Stanford’s words were mouthed against Stan’s jaw and ear. His fingers threading through the sweat damp hair at the back of Stan’s head. He felt more than heard Stan chuckle, the rumble of his voice sending little vibrations against his jaw.

“Heh…I’m alright…nerd. Not outta…the game yet.” He huffed. Stan’s laugh dissolved into wet coughs. Stanford held him tighter, bracing as Stan hung onto his body for support. He only pulled back when Stan winced. He wrapped Stan’s arm across his shoulders, doing his best to hold Stan’s weight. Stan leaned into him, ignoring the blood dripping from his nose smudging over the blue fabric of Stanford’s jacket.

The ref just stood, dumbfounded, holding the cage door open as they stumbled down the steps. The crowd parted and Stanford’s eyes zeroed in on an empty bench. He pushed Stan towards it, ignoring the stares and hushed murmurs following him.

Stan let gravity do the work as he sat, leaning back and to the side to ease the pain in his ribs. The dim light hid much of the damage. But it was bad. Even Stan’s latent healing was going to take time to fix this. That was if his injuries didn’t kill him first. Stanford was running his fingers down Stan’s sides, feeling the cracked ribs and wondering if they needed wrapping when someone tapped his shoulder. A young kid, far too young to be in a place like this, held out a water bottle to him, wide eyed and awestruck. He took it with a nod, squeezing it to check for leaks and tampering. He smiled at the kid when the lid made a crack when he opened it. Stan snagged it from him, hand only partly unwrapped, and downed it in four large gulps. They ignored the men climbing into the ring to tend to Pedro.

The owner was ecstatic. Nearly everyone had bet against Stan to win, and the house had raked in a killing. He’d come over to them after the match to congratulate Stan on his marvelous victory. “Beast you are, huh? Haven’t seen a fight like that in a while. Think Pedro’s out for a while. I’ll send someone over with your money.”

A man and an armed guard approached them while Stanford helped Stan back into his shirt. He spoke to Stan in rapid-fire Spanish, going back and forth a bit before he pulled out a fat envelope from his jacket. The man counted it out slowly, enunciating each bill amount as he went. $1,000,000 pesos. Just over $300 U.S. dollars. Substantially less than what was promised. But Stanford wasn't going to argue with a rifle hung at low ready. It seemed Stan wasn't too keen on it either; he grumbled, but took the envelope and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

Stan raised an eyebrow when the money guy handed Stanford a second envelope stuffed with crumpled bills. $10 U.S. dollars pick-pocketed off some snobby tourist bet on a 10 to 1 odds became $333,325 pesos. It wasn’t much, but was enough to get them supplies and to get Stan the hell out of Colombia. Not bad for a night’s work.

Stan shot him a devilish grin when he tucked his own winnings away. But there wasn’t much time to discuss anything as their bags were tossed at them and they were promptly escorted out of the back door. A voice rang out after them in both Spanish and English: “Get the Fuck outta here! You come back, you die!”

Stan just waved. Leaning heavily into Stanford and limping as the bruised muscles in his side spasmed.

“You bet on me? Thought you said it was a stupid idea.”

“It was. You can barely stand. But it wasn't like I was going to bet against you.”

“Where’d you get the money?”

“Remember the man from the inn?”

“No, you didn’t!”

“You aren’t the only one with quick fingers.”

“HA! Knew you had some rebel in ya!”

“Yes, well, we can celebrate after we get someplace safe.” Stanford fished out his phone to call Maxi again. The cab driver was quickly becoming their new best friend.

“Yeah, think the only reason we walked outta there was because the house won a shit ton.”

*~*

They didn’t go back to the Refugio El Santuario. Not willing to explain how they had come into so much money so quickly. Instead, they had Maxi drive them to the Ribai, bit further south on the main strip along the coast. Not as ritzy, but hey, a pool and room service were classy enough.

They paid in cash. Stanford excusing his ‘drunk brother’, claiming the blood was caused by an overzealous bar fight. The clerk just shook his head and passed them the key card.  

There was an elevator, Thank Christ, that took them to the third floor. Stanford unlocked the room with the provided keycard and stepped in, nudging Stan to wobble to one of the neatly made beds. The soft white sheets and mattress give under his weight as he flops back.

“Ow. Ow Ow Ow. Everything hurts. Bathroom’s yours first. I don’t think I could shower just yet. You signed us in using pseudonyms, right?”

“Yes. I am aware of…your…history. I felt it was appropriate to use a bit of caution.” Stanford walked the perimeter of the room, fiddling with the mechanism strapped to his wrist.

“Hey, Nerdbrain. I get you wanna ‘secure the area’ but you haven’t slept in almost a day. Door’s locked and there’s a secondary lock. Only thing we’re in danger of is getting bedbugs.”

“You’re right.” Stanford’s shoulders slumped as his body lost much of its tension. He removed his jacket, draping it over the nearest chair and sitting down on the free bed to remove his boots.

The sweater came next, black sleeveless undershirt covering his torso. A quick use of the crystal and flashlight and Stanford was opening his medical bag. He cleaned off the blood dripping down Stan’s face. Something he had done more often over the years than he was willing to remember. The suture kit put to the side when the cut on Stan’s cheek closed on its own. Instead, he spent the time cleaning and disinfecting the scrapes and gouges left behind from Pedro’s attack. Stan hissing as the alcohol touched his skin. But he said nothing. Neither of them did. Stanford worked meticulously, smiling faintly when he eyes caught Stan’s. His glasses and eyepatch still tucked in Stanford’s jacket.

He was cleaning the blood from Stan’s hand now. Working the alcohol-soaked cloth under his fingernails. Stan shook it loose from his grasp and ran his fingers over his cheek. Once again tracing the line branded there.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

“I’m sorry I scared ya.”

Stanford sighed at Bill’s words. “No, you’re not. You were going to do it anyway.”

“Yeah, but I still didn’t want to scare ya. And I wasn't gonna let you try either.” Stan’s fingers had drifted lower, passing along his jaw and resting, curled, against his neck. White skin stark against the faint dark band.

“Bill…”

“I’m NOT him, Stanford.” Stan sighed; all fight draining out of him. He was too tired to fight about this anymore. He just wanted to sleep. “I use ta be. Not anymore. Don’t wanna be anymore. Don’t wanna hurt ya.” Stan swallowed down his next words. He wasn't sure if they were real. They felt real. But there were a lot of things that had felt real that turned out to not be.

“How can I know that for sure? You’ve tricked me before.” Stanford was still looking at him. Eyes still soft. He hadn’t left yet. And that gave Stan hope.

“I guess ya can’t. But I’m still askin’.” He shouldn’t. It was too much to ask of his beautiful Sixer. But Ford was right, he was selfish. He wanted things to be alright between them. They’d been friends. More. He wanted that. He was sure Sixer wanted that too. But trust. Trust was a hard thing to piece back together once broken. It wasn't like Stan had broken it intentionally. I wasn’t even his fault this time. Just some memories old and dusty memories from a dead life that he didn’t want to be a part of anymore. He was past that. He wanted to be past it so badly.

“Let me prove it. Give me a chance ta prove it.”

Stanford lifted the hand by his neck, holding it between his own. Fingers curled loosely around each other. Fingerprints tracing over black scars.

Soft, salt chapped lips brushed against Stan’s jaw. Forehead pressed to his temple. Stanford breathed.

“Okay.”

First Chapter

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[pagalini]

hi, sorry if this is too personal of a question, but i was wondering how you realized you had adhd? i think i may have adhd but i don’t really want to say anything to my family until i am positive? thank you!

Hey there! No worries at all, I’m a very open person. 

I want to start by stressing that I’m currently on the waiting list for NHS assessment, because the UK process for diagnosis is very drawn-out and underfunded. However, though I don’t yet have the piece of paper that “officially” means I have ADHD, myself and my GP agree that I exhibit a lot of the symptoms, and they’ve managed to affect my life to the degree that I need some help. 

The primary symptoms for me - well, my most significant issue involves problems with working memory - myself and my partner call it my “if it’s not in front of me, it’s gone” problem. If I don’t have a task that needs doing literally in eyesight in some way, I will completely blank on needing to do it. I also blank on verbal instruction, and have to ask people to repeat things a lot. I often walk into rooms and then stop, because I’ve forgotten why I’m there. And it’s not just occasional - everyone will walk into a room now and then and be like, wait, why am I here. I do it on a daily basis. I have to keep extensive and strict checklists for even the simplest of tasks, or I’ll forget about it. To set up for the day, I write a to-do list on Habitica, and then I write one on a physical post-it as well, and then if something’s really urgent I write it on my hand just to really make sure I’ll see it. And even then I miss things!

Task initiation is also a problem for me, but it’s at the core of ADHD itself, so that’s not surprising. I’ve always found this symptom troubling, because when I was initially investigating ADHD I didn’t think I had issues with task initiation, but I’ve come to realise through time and through the example of my partner, who definitely doesn’t have ADHD, that I do have it. Important difficult thing that needs doing? Nope. Too Much. I can’t even explain it, that sensation of Nope, Too Much, but it’s like a physical wall between me and the thing that needs to be done. Examples: I’ve needed to get a dentist for literally seven months, and I still haven’t done it. I also once needed to get a car scrapped and took TWO YEARS to actually get it done, and even then it only got done because my dad organised it for me. Exam prep? Oh man. That one’s a double whammy. If I didn’t put a note out for myself, or if I put my books away out of sight, then I’d just forget, and I’d end up cramming literally either the night before or the morning of. I’m quite fortunate in that I’m naturally intelligent, so I was able to “coast” like that through my GCSEs, but then my A Levels came along, and - well. 

How did I realise I had ADHD, you ask? Well. For a lot of people with ADHD, they don’t realise there’s something going on until they hit a “wall.” In my case, I hit two walls a few years apart. The first wall was my A Levels. In the UK we do GCSEs, which are basic broad-spectrum qualifications, and then we do A Levels, which you select yourself and are more tailored to what you want to do in life. The jump from A Level to university undergraduate degree is very small. The jump from GCSEs to A Level is ENORMOUS, and I fell flat on my face. At GCSE level, without retaking any exams and with quite honestly little to no revision, I got fifteen GCSEs. Nine of them were A*s, and two were Bs. The remaining four were all As. The key thing is: I was a really excellent student. 

Then I went up to A Level, and at the end of the first year I got: D, E, C, and U. For non-UK folk - a U if a grade so bad that it’s not even an F for fail - it’s U for unclassified. 

I got 12% on the exam. I was heartbroken and completely lost. Everyone around me was shocked. My biology teacher was so sure there’d been a clerical mistake that she rang the exam board on my behalf! Except - there was no mistake. I’d just completely beefed it, to the nth degree.

Through unbelievable hard work and sheer terror, I managed to retake everything and come out of my A Levels with A, A, B, B. Not what I or anyone who knew me had expected - I’d always been predicted straight A*s - but good grades. Good enough to take the heat off of what had gone wrong, so on I sailed into university and beyond. 

Retail work, retail work, volunteering - I was a busy bee for a few years. Then I got my first Adult Job, which was in editorial. Here was my second wall, and I left after six months to do an MA in Graphic Design, convinced that I must have picked something entirely wrong for me. I was shattered, confused, and it would take me at least a year to even slightly recover. In that year I kept busy, both with my MA, and with my research into ADHD. And the more I read, the more it dawned on me that this might just be the explanation for what had happened to me. 

-

Here are some of the symptoms that really resonated with me then, and still do now:

Focus - I find it incredibly difficult to focus on something I’m not interested in, to the point that my brain just Nopes it. I describe it to the people around me as being like trying to balance a drop of water on a duck’s back. All the water wants to do is slide right off, and while for most people focusing on something they don’t want to do is something they can do even if they don’t like it, for me it’s that balancing act - something that requires all my attention and then some, and often ends in failure. 

Sensitivity - Repetitive noises and actions both drive me absolutely WILD. I can’t stand either. Many a clock has suffered my wrath and had its batteries removed at 3am. Ironic, considering I have a really bad case of RLS (restless leg syndrome) and constantly have to shift around in my seat until I’m a position where I can Jiggle Good. 

Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria - I overreact to negative feedback, taking it as a personal slight or assuming that the person hates me or no longer loves me. It’s an overwhelming thing, an almost physical sensation, and I’ve had quite a few panic attacks over the years because of it. 

I also experience these:

Acting without thinking

Constantly changing activity or task

Difficulty organising tasks

Irregular sleeping patterns / difficulty sleeping

Anxiety

Mood swings & irritability - (this coupled with acting without thinking has ruined a lot of friendships for me over the years. It’s only recently, and with the patient help of my partner, that I’ve been able to slowly change and get a better handle on this aspect of myself)

Starting new tasks before finishing old ones

And on a more positive note, also these:

Creativity (constant racing thoughts mean a lot of ideas)

Information-lust (just gotta KNOW what that xyz means)

-

Last but not least, hyperfocus. Where would I be without hyperfocus? It’s what makes me who I am. It’s what lets me speed read books in just a couple of hours, or write two books and a DND campaign of my own despite working however many jobs at the time. It’s what lets me watch a two hour documentary about microscope slides because I “just gotta KNOW, man.” I am ever the font of random facts out of the people I know, and I love that about myself. I love how hungry I am for new information, new skills, and new stories. 

I hope this (very long) post has been helpful. I wish you all the best with your ADHD journey - and please remember, if your doctor is at all dismissive of your experiences, get a second opinion! Especially if you’re female or look feminine - doctors often won’t listen to you anyway but especially so with ADHD because it’s still perceived as a “boy’s condition.” I had to get a second opinion, and in my case the second doctor has been fantastic and is totally on my side while the first was not at all. 

[wesker20]

Fallen Hero 1.5 Episode 3: Old Friends

Spoilers for those who have not read the Alpha.

“Ma chérie, what did you do?” Mortum says while staring at the destroyed taser weapon.

“Me nothing. My boss...” you drag out the silence for a second before finishing with “they fought a polymorph.” Mortum looks at you with raised eyebrows as if a sudden understanding just hit her.

“Oh. Well that’s understandable,” she says while staring at the weapon again. “You want me to fix it?”

“I want you to make it better. More powerful without frying itself.”

Mortum scratches her chin as she thinks. “I could change the power source. You can get it for cheap but it will be bigger. A battery of the same size would be considerably more expensive.”

“You know money is not a problem. Make it the small source.” Almost as if on cue, Mortum turns around and goes to her table.

“If you are willing Ma chérie, it will only take a couple of hours.”

Good to know you think. “By the way,” you begin as you head towards her and walk around the table to face her. “Do you have any information about said polymorph?”

“Maybe, but you are going to have to describe them to me, I’m no psychic.”

“five six, probably five seven, long black hair, thin and wears a red and white skin tight suit.”

Mortum raises her head up for a second as if checking up a mental list. “Red Doll. Doll, for short.”

“Never heard of her.”

“You wouldn’t. She and her partner, The Shine, have only been at this for a couple of months. Newcomers. Right mindset too. It’s better to begin with a partner than alone.” She goes back to working on the taser.

“More like was a good mindset. Mastermind killed Shine last week. Now Doll wants payback.” Mortum chuckles but does not say anything. Probably thinking the same thing you are, Doll is letting her emotions control her and now she’s going after someone above her league. Or so you thought. She did hold her own against you, to say that you got lucky would be an understatement. “Anything else you might have on her. Most of my contacts couldn’t even give me a name.”

“Same boat as you ma chérie. You know how most villains work. They don’t pay attention to newcomers until they become a problem. So very little information on them. On the one hand that’s the advantage of being new.”

And a stupid habit if they ask you. It is precisely for that reason that many heroes get the drop on the top villains many times. They let those heroes grow and become threats. And then they are whining why they lost. “Well she’s a newcomer who held her own against my boss. And Lady Argent.” You emphasize that last part, as if trying to get a reaction out of the doctor.

You do, she raises her eyes to meet yours. “At the same time?” you nod. “Huh, well there you have it ma chérie. It wouldn’t be long now before people start looking her way. Especially if she begins stirring up trouble while searching for your boss.”

“Even so, there’s still the trouble of fighting her. That taser gave her a good shock but according to my boss, Argent was the one who finished it. So any advice?”

“Ice,” she says without even raising her face.

“Ice?” you echo, not exactly sure what she means.

“True, ice is bad for everyone, but polymorphs in particular have a nasty problem with it.”

You stare at her with curiosity. Once she notices she begins explaining.

“A polymorph’s molecules are always in flux, in movement, barely kept together. That is what gives them their elasticity. But freeze them over and the polymorphs are left effectively powerless. Or well it should, in theory.”

“In theory,” you repeat with a frown.

“Polymorphs are rare ma chérie, is not like I can get one to test it out. Dead specimens alone cost a fortune. Enough that I could build your boss twenty identical suits and still have money to spare with how much they cost.”

You sigh. This right here is why you hate fighting polymorphs. Any and all lack of information puts you at a severe disadvantage against them and no matter how hard you try they can get the drop on you without you realizing it. They can be the absolute worst fighters in the world and still kick your ass.

“Can you build an ice gun too that will fit on the suit?” you finally say. You are going to need all the weaponry you can get. Mortum raises her face to meet yours again, one eyebrow raised.

“I could. But that will cost a bit more on top of the taser. And it may take more than a couple of hours.”

“Like I said, money’s not a problem. Do it”

“You are sure your boss will like this?” she asks with slight worry. She has probably worked with other villains that didn’t liked having their weapons tampered with. But you are not as possessive. A suit is just a suit, a tool for your plans, nothing more, there’s no need for sentimental value.

“I know they will.” The certainty of your answer scares even you.

“Understood ma chérie. Just give me a week. Maybe two.” she says with a neutral tone, not giving any emotion away. You nod and bid your goodbyes but just as you get ready to step out Mortum speaks. “I don’t make it a habit of getting into others personal lives ma chérie, but if you don’t mind me asking, why are you so loyal to them?”

“Because they saved my life,” the answer comes out before you can even think. What the hell was that? It’s a good excuse, technically not a lie, and it serves as a very good reason. Still it came out even more genuine than you expected.

“How so?”

“Without them I would have rotten in a hospital bed. Probably would be dead by now. They gave me a second chance. I owe them that.”

You see a flicker of sympathy in her eyes, brief as it is, but you see it staring at your puppet, at you. “Understandable. But remember, loyalty like that can be used, manipulated.”

Jane, you, nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.” You turn around and head outside, you got far more things to work on. There’s still one more place for you to go. Or rather there’s one more place for Jeremy to go.

Later that afternoon.

You arrive at the Rangers HQ, staring at it as if it was a dangerous cave with a hungry monster waiting for you inside. Only you no longer feel that way. Four months ago, when Ortega brought you here to help with Argent, that’s what you felt, like you were walking into that cave and that monster would devour you. But you managed to step out of there alive, unharmed. Now… now you can stroll into it without a care in the world. It’s so much fun, you beat them, destroyed them. And yet here you are, in their stronghold, with them none the wiser. It takes all of your effort to not smile as you enter. The receptionist recognizes you almost immediately and sends you on your way to the visitor’s area as she passes on the message to Ortega. So many times have you come here that the layout of the first floor and the walk to the visitor’s area has been imprinted in your mind. You wonder if you could eventually get access to other areas but Chen will probably shoot that down faster than Ortega’s nagging.

As you arrive Ortega’s already there, looking as smug as ever and holding a cup next to the fridge. “You know sooner or later people will start getting ideas again,” she says teasing already.

“Oh so you mean that the media would dare to make something out of nothing?” you say with fake shock.

“And like that you ruined the joke.”

“What makes you think that wasn’t my goal?” She punches you slightly on the shoulder before gesturing you to sit.

“So what brought you out of your cave?” she says, still in teasing mode.

“Not much. Just came to check how things were going here. Your numbers aren’t doing very well.”

Ortega chuckles and says “I know. PR has been cranky lately, screaming in our ears.”

“Let me guess,” you clear your throat and continue. “’We need you out there. The public needs to see their heroes together. Stop wasting time and get out there’” you continue imitating them as Ortega breaks into laughter. You were present during several of their arguments back in your Sidestep days. The days where you would just sit with Anathema and crack jokes with one another as the PR guy ranted on and on.

“Pretty much. Though you forgot the part where they fumble their words while Angie glares at them.”

“Speaking of Argent. Did you heard?” you say. Ortega’s groan is all you need to know she has; and she’s not exactly happy.

“I had a chat with her about it.”

“And?” you ask.

“You can’t see it but I have a bruise on my stomach.”

You clear your throats as if imagining how much that hurts. Not that you have to, you know how that feels. “It can’t be so bad can it? I mean it wouldn’t be the first time the Rangers have a minor conflict with other heroes.”

“You are right, but we don’t team up with bad guys when it happens.” There’s a certain venom in that last statement, as if she wants to say more but stops short of just that.

“How’s the girl doing?”

“Red Doll? Fine. Pissed off and almost picked another fight with Angie but fine.”

“Red Doll?” you say with fake obliviousness. You want to know what they know.

“Yeah, she’s new. We have a file on her as just in case we want to recruit her. Though to be honest I doubt she would accept an invitation any time soon.”

“You said it. Argent laid the smack down on her.” Ortega looks at you puzzled. Shit, you slipped up there. “From what I’ve heard,” you add hoping to deflect.

Ortega nods and says "Poor girl lost her boyfriend last week. All because of that cabrón.”

You look at her for a moment. She wants to talk about him, about Mastermind, about you.

“What’s the deal with that guy. Mastermind I mean.”

“Well at first I thought they were just a newcomer, looking to make a name for themselves. I honestly thought they got lucky the first time. But the more I run the museum through my head,” she stops wondering.

“What?” you ask with genuine curiosity. You want to know what she thinks, what she may or may not have on you.

“This guy’s a pro. They aren’t just any newcomer; they know what they are doing. They have experience.” She stares at you as if seeking some sort of confirmation. If you had to guess, this is not her theory, but Steel’s. You should have expected that from him, you were always equally smart, a fact you are not particularly keen on admitting, but if you believe in their position you could figure out this much you should have expected Steel to do the same.

“What you are saying is that they are, what? A villain who changed their shtick?”

“Or maybe a hero too,” Ortega says. You stare at her in the eyes, you see no accusatory glance, no suspicion, nothing. Just honest wonder.

You lean back on the chair, pretending to consider the possibility.

“Honestly it wouldn’t be the first time,” she says and takes a sip. She’s right, many heroes have turned to the dark side before, many of them turning out to be more dangerous than the normal villains. Even some Rangers have. This was before your time but according to Anathema they had a member named Karma who had the power of probability manipulation. She turned bad and nearly killed all of the rangers before she disappeared without a trace. You always wondered if she was taken by the prime directive but never bothered to investigate. It’s none of your problem. Still you can see the mourning on Ortega. If she was talking about someone, it was probably Karma.

“Anyway, enough about that. How are you doing? You look much better,” she says suddenly, looking at you with a smile.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, you don’t look as grumpy as you used to.”

“What are you talking about, I’m always grumpy,” you say with fake annoyance and your arms crossed. After a moment you both laugh a bit. It’s so easy, to just lay back and talk and laugh with her, like it used to be. Just you, Ortega, Anathema, and even Steel, just sitting there after a job well done.

Your thoughts are interrupted as you feel someone pass by you and towards the fridge. Argent. You are starting to wonder if there’s some god up there screwing with you. Maybe one day you’ll go take a piss and suddenly hear Argent outside your apartment with how much you bump into her. She seems to not even notice you, and if she does doesn’t seem to care. Both of you stare at her as she opens the fridge and searches. “Hungry?” Ortega asks smiling.

“Dying.” Argent answers with the most pissed off tone you have ever heard her speak in. Then again she seems to always be pissed off. She closes the fridge and walks right pass you with at least, ten snacks.

“You know stress eating is not good for you,” you say jokingly, but she seems to ignore you. You look back at Ortega and say “is she ever going to stop treating me like I’m not here.”

“Eh, give her a couple weeks. She’ll come around.”

“I’ve been coming here for four months.”

“How long did it take you to finally stop ignoring me when we first met?”

You do not answer. Ortega nagged you for months until you finally gave up. You cross your arms again and gruff making Ortega chuckle.

“Where’s Herald by the way? Last time I was here he could not leave my side,” you ask, less out of curiosity and more to change the subject.

“Handling the media. Giving a press conference. You know the usual.”

“It has to do with the fight?” Ortega nods. Of course it does.

“How’s he dealing with the whole thing?” you ask.

“Surviving,” is all she says about it. “You know, I was thinking maybe you could-“

“No.” you cut her off. She really does not know when to give up. This is the eight time she tries to ask you to come back.

In any event you finish the conversation here. You have what you came for. The rangers suspect that Mastermind is a veteran and Red Doll is apparently good enough the Rangers have been considering her for recruitment. Neither of those two things are good news. So you give your goodbyes and go. Time to plan out your next move.

Night.

Sitting on your bed you think about the events two nights ago. There are many things to consider. Argent was clearly after you, and so is Red Doll. Then there’s the Army of Mastermind; someone tipped them off your crew was coming and although they got out of there alive, it doesn’t change the fact that whoever did it may try it again. And you have to be prepared for that. But how do you fight a mystery foe? Suddenly one of your phones rings, the Mastermind phone. Only Pelayo and Rosie have that number and they are ordered to only use it in emergencies.

“Yes,” you say, your voice changed on the other end of the line to sound like your monotone heart shaking voice that comes out of your mask.

“Hello there Mastermind.” That’s neither Rosie nor Pelayo.

“Who is this?” you ask in your most commanding tone.

“Already forgot about me huh? I don’t blame you, last we saw each other, Alpha was reeducated, and you escaped.”

Your eyes open wide open. Alpha, you haven’t heard that name in well over a decade, not since, since… your days in the Farm. She was your leader, the leader of your unit, another re-gene. And, like Ortega, you cared about her.

“Who. Is. This?” You say with barely restrained rage. This person knows, they know who, what you are. They know about your past, enough that they know about Alpha.

“Let’s just say I’m a fan of yours.

“What type of fan?”

“The type that likes to see how you handle yourself.”

“You tipped off the Army,” you say. You don’t know how but you did. If they know this much, they must have known about your plans too.

“And I also tipped the polymorph too. And the Ranger. And you.”

“What?” you ask. What do they mean? They tipped you off too?

“I’m the one that passed on the information onto your contacts. The one who gave you the location of the Army.”

“Why?”

“I’ll let you know. Eventually. For now, just turn on the TV.”

You do as they say not much choice on the matter. Immediately you see an entire street filled with people, not just any people, gang members. The Army of Mastermind.

“How do you like your Army o great Mastermind?” the voice says with mockery.

“I don’t want it. They are loud and disorganized.”

“Then why don’t you organize them? I’m pretty sure they’ll follow you.”

“Too risky. Too many mouths to keep quiet.”

“Aaah, so a control freak is what you are. Good to know. Alright Beta-“

You cut it off “Don’t call me that,”

“Mastermind, All I want is to see you shine.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Trust issues? I don’t blame you.”

You clench your fist, squeeze the phone and ask once again “Who. Are. You.?”

“I’m the voice of your consciousness,” and the line goes dead. You lay down the phone and stare at the TV. Riot, the Army is rioting, burning cars everywhere, police overwhelmed. This will bring unwanted attention. But that’s not what has you sweating, that’s not what has your heart beating a million miles a second, is the fact that they knew, they know about your past, who you were, who you really are. Beta…

Unit Beta 010, led by unit Alpha 203 of the infiltration and extraction unit, also known as the Cuckoos. Your unit, the unit you broke apart, that you destroyed, by making one stupid mistake: caring.

[speedsterimagines]

LADYKILLR (PART 2)

A/N: I got really into this part, I don’t know why. Also the thought of Sonny having a tattoo? Ugh. Part three will be out sometime soon, not sure exactly when but I’ll update regularly.

Summary: Dating a detective certainly has it pros and cons, but when a disheveled criminal is looking to settle a score, he goes after what Detective Carisi loves the most… you.

Word Count: 1494

Warnings: Serial Killer, Murder Victims, Stab Wound, Blood, Violence

<< Part 1 >><<Part 3>><<Part 4>><<Continuous Version>>

Sonny had been sitting at his desk for what seemed like the past 72 hours which wasn’t too far from the actual time elapsed. His normally organized work space was scattered with evidence and photos along with old chinese take out and an ice cold cup of coffee. SVU had been knee deep in a serial killer case for almost a month now, but from the beginning it seemed as though they were fighting a losing battle.

Someone was loose in the streets of Manhattan brutally attacking and murdering women at random. None of the victims could be linked to each other in any way, not their jobs, neighborhoods, or friends. The only thing the women had in common was the way they were killed. Each victim was found in her own home, no sign of forced entry, as if they knew the killer or they were welcomed in with a single stab wound to abdomen.

A couple of weeks ago, they came across a lead that seemed promising. An elderly woman claimed that she saw a delivery man at her neighbor’s door the night of her murder. Even though she claimed he had a neck tattoo, her eye sight wasn’t what it used to be and there was no way of knowing what the tattoo was. There were thousands of delivery men with neck tattoos walking the streets of Manhattan, b t there were only a handful that had previous charges, including one man who was on parole. 

Hector Beckett, 37 years old, was out on parole after being charged with battery and attempted rape and had been working as a delivery man for the last few months. And as the sole eye witness describes, on the left side of his neck in old-fashioned tattoo font was the word, LADYKILLR. When Sonny came across his name and put all the pieces together, he got the approval from Olivia and made the arrest. During his interrogation he informed Hector that there was a witness that put him at the scene and his violent criminal past wasn’t going to help the situation. 

“You know, when I turned eighteen I told my ma I was gonna get a tattoo,”  Sonny smirked from across the metal table. “You would’ve thought I said I was gonna have a limb cut off by the way she reacted. In hindsight, I’m glad I didn’t get it, those things are forever y’know? I wanted the name of my favorite scripture, Proverbs 16:9, in his mind a man plans his course,” Sonny paused for a moment putting emphasis into his words. “But the Lord directs his steps.” 

Hector sat straight faced, not interested in the slightest by the detective’s small talk.

“Still would be a pretty good tattoo, come to think of it. But yours? Wow, LADYKILLR? It’s moving, truly touching. How did you choose that one?” 

“What can I say? The ladies love me,” he sat back in his chair making himself comfortable. 

“I’m sure you love them too,” Sonny spoke sarcastically as he opened up the folder on the table. “I bet you really loved them when you made your way into their homes and stabbed them to death.” 

“You got an old lady, detective?” He laughed watching Sonny’s muscles tense at the thought of such an malicious person even thinking about the woman he loved. “Who am I kidding, you’re not really my type, but I know a handsome man when I see one. Maybe I’ll give her a visit when I get out of here.” 

“Too bad you’re going to be here for a while,” Sonny stood up exiting the room before he lost control of his temper. 

Olivia knew Hector wasn’t going to admit to anything and when he requested a lawyer, they were informed there simply wasn’t enough solid evidence to keep him, and within half and hour Hector Beckett walked out a free man. 

Which put Sonny in his current situation now, sitting at his desk, looking over every last detail hoping something would stick out like a beacon that had previously gone unnoticed, hoping to find to anything that would incriminate Beckett. He was tired, he’d had a headache for the last three days, and truth be told, he just needed a break. And as if it was a sign from God, he’d received a text from his girlfriend saying she was stopping by the precinct for a visit. Sonny stared at the clock on the wall watching the hands move so slowly, for a moment he was convinced the battery must have been dead. Knowing that a watched pot never boils, he made his way to the break room and replaced his ice cold coffee with a fresh cup.

“What’s got you smilin’ Carisi?” Fin teased as he held out his mug for a refill. 

“My girl’s stopping by,” Sonny grinned, proud to show you off. “And she’s bringing cookies.”

“Oh word, those one’s from the Christmas party?” 

“Those would be the ones.” 

“It’s about time we got some good news around here,” Fin’s eyes lit up like a child in a candy store.

Sonny put the coffee pot back and returned to his desk, starting the paperwork he’d been avoiding, hoping that busy work would make the time go by faster and it did. By time he’d put his signature on the last sheet, he checked his phone for the time, noticing that you were almost twenty five minutes late. He unlocked his phone and clicked your name to call you but it went to voicemail. He wasn’t sure if it was his own impatience or genuine worry, but he began typing out a message and stared at his phone waiting for a reply. 

Are you on your way? Fin’s asked about the cookies twice already.

A few minutes passed, still no reply. Sonny was never the one to double text, he didn’t want to feel like he was bothering someone, but it had now been almost 40 minutes since your intended arrival.

You’re starting to make me nervous, do I need to come over?

When his phone finally vibrated, he practically knocked over his coffee cup reaching to grab it. His brows furrowed as he read the words displayed on his screen.

Sorry I’m L8, got 2 reschedule

He read your words a few more times and couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. If his instinct was wrong, he was worrying about nothing. But it only took seconds to make up his mind and he wasn’t willing to risk your safety in any circumstance. He hurried towards Olivia’s office making sure to knock a couple times before letting himself in. His red scarf was already draped around his neck and he held his tan coat in his hands. Sonny prided himself in knowing you completely, so when he had a gut feeling that something was wrong he wasn’t willing to waste any time. 

“Hey, Lieu, I need an hour.” 

“Right now? We’re in the middle of an investigation, Carisi.” She looked up at him through the black reading glasses that were rested on the end of her nose.  He was never the kind of person to leave work for a non-emergent reason which caught Olivia’s attention.

“I know, but it’s about- it’s a personal thing.” Sonny was flustered and it showed as he ran his fingers through his perfectly styled hair, not worried in the slightest if he messed it up. 

“Anything I can help with?” 

“I’m not sure, (Y/N) was supposed to stop by today, but she was running late so I texted her to see where she was.” 

“Well, Carisi, that’s not exactly out of the ordinary,” she crossed her arms across her chest. 

“I know, but this is.” He handed her his phone allowing her to read his text messages.

“She’s never used an abbreviation in her text messages in the entire time I’ve known her. I also tried calling her and it’s going straight to voicemail.” 

If it was one thing Olivia prided herself in, it was trusting her detectives completely. So she handed back the phone and nodded, Sonny’s signal that he was free to go. “Call if you need anything,” she said before he all but ran towards the exit. 

“Hey babe, it’s me again. You’re making me nervous please pick up the phone.” 

He hung up and shoved his phone in his pocket and made his way through the door, choosing to walk rather than drive. If somehow you were still on your way to the precinct, this is the route you would’ve chose and eventually he’d cross your path. With no luck, he’d made it to your building not seeing you once. The walk hallway towards your apartment felt longer than usual and instinctively he held a hand on his gun. He counted the golden numbers on the doors until he reached yours, noticing the door of 3G was slightly ajar. 

He removed his gun from the holster, using it to open your door and scanned your apartment. Flowers and milk scattered were across the floor, signalling that his suspicions were right, and he held his gun at attention. Alone in the middle of the apartment, you were duct taped to a kitchen chair. The sweat had caused your hair to stick to your face along with your grey t-shirt. Standing out, was a large crimson stain on your abdomen, which trailed downwards and formed a small puddle by your foot. You looked up when you heard the footsteps walking through the door, finding Sonny with his gun pointed towards you.

You furiously shook your head, trying to signal to him that it wasn’t safe for him to enter as the intruder in your apartment had positioned himself beside the door. Not heeding your warning, he took another step forward before Hector Beckett quietly walked behind him.

“SONNY, BEHIND YOU,” you screamed as you saw the man launch towards your boyfriend. “SONNY!”

<< Part 1 >><<Part 3>><<Part 4>> <<Continuous Version>>

Request // All Dominick ‘Sonny’ Carisi Jr. Content // Masterlist

Tag List - @miraxo-xo-supernatrual   @barisi-esq  @super-calithehamm  @nophunleague @bitch-queen-of-sass @just-call-me-bitch

[batteriestore]

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[ourworldofenergy]

Natural Gas Is THE Transition Fuel

Guest blog by S. A. Shelley: A long, long time ago in a land far, far to the north, during a training class the instructor told a parable of twelve donuts. Eat one, you are not full; eat two, still not full. But eat all to the twelfth and you will be full. So why not just eat the twelfth donut? Because in all forms of reality, one must make a series of steps to achieve one’s goals. So it is with the energy transition; you have to have several steps and can’t just jump to the last one (candlelit cave dwelling organic farming for all).

Thus, I am saddened by the many Social Justice Warriors (SJWs), especially the most righteous ones in Canada, who demand that all forms of fossil fuel consumption must cease immediately in order for the planet (peoplekind) to survive. That won’t work without instantly throwing society into chaos and jeopardizing peoplekind of all genders, creeds and irrationalities. To achieve the goals of energy transition, one needs a vision and a path, a series of attainable steps. One must also work with existing technology while developing new technologies. A significant first step can be using natural gas as a transition fuel to replace more intense carbon emitting technologies. Natural gas must not be so quickly dismissed by intersectional SJW saboteurs.

Burning Natural Gas for Power Instead of Coal will Cut CO2 Emissions by a Lot (Step 1)

As noted in a prior OWOE blog, the big reason that CO2 emissions have fallen in the U.S. is that coal power plants are being rapidly replaced with gas power plants (which in turn are begin chased out of business by wind turbine and solar power plants). To produce 1 kWh of energy by burning coal produces about 820 grams of CO2 emissions, while burning gas produces about 490 grams of CO2. That’s a CO2 reduction of 40% using gas instead of coal. In 2018, approximately 26% of all the world’s energy was provided by burning coal, and burning gas provided another 23% of the world’s energy (Fig. 1).

Fig. 1: Proportion of World’s Energy Provided by Burning Coal and Burning Gas in 2018 (enerdata)

In 2018, the world used about 1.61E14 kWh of energy of which coal provided about 4.18E13 KWH and gas provided another 3.70E13 KWh. Calculating how much CO2 was produced by burning coal or gas to supply that energy yields the values in Fig. 2. The combined total in 2018 was about 52,000,000 million tonnes. That’s a lot. But notice that for almost the same amount of energy produced, burning coal emitted almost twice as much CO2 as burning gas.

Fig. 2: Tonnes of CO2 Emitted by Burning Coal and Burning Gas in 2018

Now consider that a rational society replaces every coal power plant with a gas plant. The same amount of power could then be produced while reducing CO2 emissions by 13,800,000 tonnes, approx 26% (Fig. 3).

Fig. 3: Tonnes of CO2 That Would Have Been Emitted by Burning Only Gas in 2018

By 2030 the world needs to reduce CO2 emissions by about 23.5 million tonnes in order to stop further global warming. Ergo, using existing technology and swapping out all coal power plants with gas power plants will put us over half way there to meeting this lower CO2 emissions target. Step 1 – no more coal power, use gas instead.

Who Still Uses Coal Power Plants?

With absolute certainty, the number one coal power nation in the world is China, followed much farther back by India and the U.S. (Fig. 4).

Fig. 4: Coal Consumption in 2018 (enerdata)

The U.S. is rapidly closing coal power plants, Germany is phasing out coal and South Korea is phasing out coal and nuclear. But the elephant on the planet is China. China needs help. China needs LNG imports from Australia, Qatar, Canada (I joke) and piped gas from Russia.

When protesters in Canada shut down LNG projects and gas pipelines, they really are doing more harm to the world than whatever good they intend. More about Canadian energy follies in an upcoming blog.

Gas Plus Hydrogen (Step 2)

In the Orkney Islands, excess renewable energy is being used to generate hydrogen which can then be distributed in existing gas networks. Adding hydrogen, produced using renewable energy, can further significantly reduce greenhouse gas emissions.  Firms are developing facilities to produce and supply green hydrogen to the international marketplace. In Australia, the technology to export hydrogen to Japan is being developed, and the world’s first liquid hydrogen carrier (ship) launched just a couple of months ago. Step 2 – blend green hydrogen into existing gas networks.

What Next (Steps 3 and 4)?

Using gas, the world has a technologically doable and quick means to start reducing CO2 emissions. A gas turbine power plant can be built in months and there is a supply glut of natural gas on the world markets that makes gas very cheap and very available now and for quite some time to come. Add some geothermal power (Step 3) and even more CO2 emissions can be cut or avoided using existing technology. But what comes next?

Solar and wind energy are Step 4. In the U.S. we’re already seeing that both these forms of renewable energy are now cheaper than gas power. Globally, developers routinely speak of hundred mega-watt solar power plants, and wind farms, on land or offshore, are already in the GW size range.

What’s Still Missing (Step 5)?

Large scale, long duration means of storing energy for when the sun doesn’t shine or the wind doesn’t blow is still missing from the solution. Presently, there are two approaches to solving this, grid scale batteries or micro-scale batteries (Tesla Power Walls, or equivalent ). For longer term storage durations of weeks or seasons, energy storage using hydrogen can fulfill a critical role, though a bit more research and development needs to be completed before hydrogen technology is ready for widespread applications. In 2017, personnel from OWOE and VLO spoke with Shell about linking renewables and hydrogen and since then have been happy to see the progress that Shell is achieving toward hydrogen technology. Step 5 – develop energy storage technology, including hydrogen.

Concluding Remarks

The world is undergoing a change in energy production and consumption. It remains to be seen whether new power replicates industrial scale grid applications, such as in the OECD nations, or whether networked micro-grids, such as those popping up in non-OECD nations, will be the best solution in the long run. It’s a question of grid down (Ma Bell) with homeowners paying or networked up (ISPs) with homeowners selling.

Vive l’Alberta Libre!

SAS

P.S. My apologies for using 2018 data, as this is the most recent free data available. Most publicly available energy data lags by about one year and is published in late fall or in early winter of the following year. If any OWOE reader would like to share more current data, we would be very grateful.

Natural Gas Is THE Transition Fuel was originally published on OurWorldofEnergy