#field service engineer

[mripetctnerd]

This video from the Medical Imaging Source YouTube Channel shows the step-by-step procedure for loading CT scanner software on GE Lightspeed CT systems. An inside look at the job of a CT scanner repair technician (FSE)

[zytes]

ozone

[hellothetutorshelp-blog]

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[projectsforce]

Electrical Contractor Software: How Automated Scheduling Transforms Electrician Businesses

Discover how automated scheduling revolutionizes the lives of electrical contractors! This feature, embedded within electrical contractor software, optimizes planning and boosts operational efficiency. With parameters set by users, it's a game-changer for managing daily tasks and maximizing revenue. Explore how this scalable solution adapts to your evolving needs over time.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How lock-in hurts design

Berliners: Otherland has added a second date (Jan 28) for my book-talk after the first one sold out - book now!

If you've ever read about design, you've probably encountered the idea of "paving the desire path." A "desire path" is an erosion path created by people departing from the official walkway and taking their own route. The story goes that smart campus planners don't fight the desire paths laid down by students; they pave them, formalizing the route that their constituents have voted for with their feet.

Desire paths aren't always great (Wikipedia notes that "desire paths sometimes cut through sensitive habitats and exclusion zones, threatening wildlife and park security"), but in the context of design, a desire path is a way that users communicate with designers, creating a feedback loop between those two groups. The designers make a product, the users use it in ways that surprise the designer, and the designer integrates all that into a new revision of the product.

This method is widely heralded as a means of "co-innovating" between users and companies. Designers who practice the method are lauded for their humility, their willingness to learn from their users. Tech history is strewn with examples of successful paved desire-paths.

Take John Deere. While today the company is notorious for its war on its customers (via its opposition to right to repair), Deere was once a leader in co-innovation, dispatching roving field engineers to visit farms and learn how farmers had modified their tractors. The best of these modifications would then be worked into the next round of tractor designs, in a virtuous cycle:

https://securityledger.com/2019/03/opinion-my-grandfathers-john-deere-would-support-our-right-to-repair/

But this pattern is even more pronounced in the digital world, because it's much easier to update a digital service than it is to update all the tractors in the field, especially if that service is cloud-based, meaning you can modify the back-end everyone is instantly updated. The most celebrated example of this co-creation is Twitter, whose users created a host of its core features.

Retweets, for example, were a user creation. Users who saw something they liked on the service would type "RT" and paste the text and the link into a new tweet composition window. Same for quote-tweets: users copied the URL for a tweet and pasted it in below their own commentary. Twitter designers observed this user innovation and formalized it, turning it into part of Twitter's core feature-set.

Companies are obsessed with discovering digital desire paths. They pay fortunes for analytics software to produce maps of how their users interact with their services, run focus groups, even embed sneaky screen-recording software into their web-pages:

https://www.wired.com/story/the-dark-side-of-replay-sessions-that-record-your-every-move-online/

This relentless surveillance of users is pursued in the name of making things better for them: let us spy on you and we'll figure out where your pain-points and friction are coming from, and remove those. We all win!

But this impulse is a world apart from the humility and respect implied by co-innovation. The constant, nonconsensual observation of users has more to do with controlling users than learning from them.

That is, after all, the ethos of modern technology: the more control a company can exert over its users ,the more value it can transfer from those users to its shareholders. That's the key to enshittification, the ubiquitous platform decay that has degraded virtually all the technology we use, making it worse every day:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

When you are seeking to control users, the desire paths they create are all too frequently a means to wrestling control back from you. Take advertising: every time a service makes its ads more obnoxious and invasive, it creates an incentive for its users to search for "how do I install an ad-blocker":

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/adblocking-how-about-nah

More than half of all web-users have installed ad-blockers. It's the largest consumer boycott in human history:

https://doc.searls.com/2023/11/11/how-is-the-worlds-biggest-boycott-doing/

But zero app users have installed ad-blockers, because reverse-engineering an app requires that you bypass its encryption, triggering liability under Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. This law provides for a $500,000 fine and a 5-year prison sentence for "circumvention" of access controls:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/12/youre-holding-it-wrong/#if-dishwashers-were-iphones

Beyond that, modifying an app creates liability under copyright, trademark, patent, trade secrets, noncompete, nondisclosure and so on. It's what Jay Freeman calls "felony contempt of business model":

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

This is why services are so horny to drive you to install their app rather using their websites: they are trying to get you to do something that, given your druthers, you would prefer not to do. They want to force you to exit through the gift shop, you want to carve a desire path straight to the parking lot. Apps let them mobilize the law to literally criminalize those desire paths.

An app is just a web-page wrapped in enough IP to make it a felony to block ads in it (or do anything else that wrestles value back from a company). Apps are web-pages where everything not forbidden is mandatory.

Seen in this light, an app is a way to wage war on desire paths, to abandon the cooperative model for co-innovation in favor of the adversarial model of user control and extraction.

Corporate apologists like to claim that the proliferation of apps proves that users like them. Neoliberal economists love the idea that business as usual represents a "revealed preference." This is an intellectually unserious tautology: "you do this, so you must like it":

https://boingboing.net/2024/01/22/hp-ceo-says-customers-are-a-bad-investment-unless-they-can-be-made-to-buy-companys-drm-ink-cartridges.html

Calling an action where no alternatives are permissible a "preference" or a "choice" is a cheap trick – especially when considered against the "preferences" that reveal themselves when a real choice is possible. Take commercial surveillance: when Apple gave Ios users a choice about being spied on – a one-click opt of of app-based surveillance – 96% of users choice no spying:

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2021/05/96-of-us-users-opt-out-of-app-tracking-in-ios-14-5-analytics-find/

But then Apple started spying on those very same users that had opted out of spying by Facebook and other Apple competitors:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Neoclassical economists aren't just obsessed with revealed preferences – they also love to bandy about the idea of "moral hazard": economic arrangements that tempt people to be dishonest. This is typically applied to the public ("consumers" in the contemptuous parlance of econospeak). But apps are pure moral hazard – for corporations. The ability to prohibit desire paths – and literally imprison rivals who help your users thwart those prohibitions – is too tempting for companies to resist.

The fact that the majority of web users block ads reveals a strong preference for not being spied on ("users just want relevant ads" is such an obvious lie that doesn't merit any serious discussion):

https://www.iccl.ie/news/82-of-the-irish-public-wants-big-techs-toxic-algorithms-switched-off/

Giant companies attained their scale by learning from their users, not by thwarting them. The person using technology always knows something about what they need to do and how they want to do it that the designers can never anticipate. This is especially true of people who are unlike those designers – people who live on the other side of the world, or the other side of the economic divide, or whose bodies don't work the way that the designers' bodies do:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/20/benevolent-dictators/#felony-contempt-of-business-model

Apps – and other technologies that are locked down so their users can be locked in – are the height of technological arrogance. They embody a belief that users are to be told, not heard. If a user wants to do something that the designer didn't anticipate, that's the user's fault:

https://www.wired.com/2010/06/iphone-4-holding-it-wrong/

Corporate enthusiasm for prohibiting you from reconfiguring the tools you use to suit your needs is a declaration of the end of history. "Sure," John Deere execs say, "we once learned from farmers by observing how they modified their tractors. But today's farmers are so much stupider and we are so much smarter that we have nothing to learn from them anymore."

Spying on your users to control them is a poor substitute asking your users their permission to learn from them. Without technological self-determination, preferences can't be revealed. Without the right to seize the means of computation, the desire paths never emerge, leaving designers in the dark about what users really want.

Our policymakers swear loyalty to "innovation" but when corporations ask for the right to decide who can innovate and how, they fall all over themselves to create laws that let companies punish users for the crime of contempt of business-model.

I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/24/everything-not-mandatory/#is-prohibited

Image: Belem (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Desire_path_%2819811581366%29.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[rabotimagines]

I come here to offer an idea

Imagine being an older con, and you call one of them a good boy with a caress of some kind(e.i their lower back, their cheek, etc) and watch their souls ascend and become one with the allspark.

Now you have a duckling following you cause the hot dilf hit on them

ANON IVE ALREADY HAD THAT EXACT THOUGHT PROCESS!! I just hadn't written it. But I will because others have had the same idea as me. Literally whenever there's some type of "How did you accidentally discover you had a kink?" thread the most common one is always people saying a friend or coworker called them "Good boy/Girl" and they got light headed immediately.

I did let it slip in a little bit with Skywarps petname part. But let's do some others for fun/lean into it a bit more.

"Praise" Older! GN BOT Reader x Bumblebee, Bluestreak, Perceptor, Skywarp, Astrotrain, Blitzwing

Summary: You call him "Good boy" after he'd done something for you.

G1 characters: Bumblebee, Bluestreak, Perceptor, Skywarp, Astrotrain, Blitzwing

Warnings: G1 Blitzwing being G1 Blitzwing (a menace.)

Genre/Theme: The bots get flustered and mildly horny

Pronouns: You, Your, Yours

Bumblebee probably should have expected it considering- well, all of you. But he's woefully unprepared when you praise him with a "Good boy." You smiled at him, and your em field brushed lightly against his helm right next to where your servo was petting his helm. Bumblebee stops, and his optics widen. Thankfully, you just moved on to other things, so you didn't see Bumblebee stopping where he was to process what just happened.

Bumblebees spark is suddenly humming so loud in his chassis he's worried it's audible. His optics are burning so bright he has to reboot them fully. Finally, Bumblebee can't help laughing light at the fuzzy feeling in his chassis before clearing his vocalizor roughly. He even slams his fist into his own chassis to make sure his engine doesn't stall.

Bumblebee knew exactly what the feeling in his frame was. And he's trying not to get even more embarrassed when he realizes exactly how horny he just got from the very short exchange with you. Yeah- okay. New thing to be aware of when interacting with you. You teasing him like that gets his engine purring. Cool. Bumblebee can do this. He's totally not gonna be thinking about that the next time he self services. Nooooo absolutely not....

Bumblebee can't help thinking what else he could be doing for you to call him. "Good boy."

-

You smile at Bluestreak and nod in acknowledgment. "Baby blue." Bluestreaks wings flutter when you address him with your nickname for him, and he hands you the datapad you wanted. Bluestreaks talking about what he had to do to get it to work, and in the middle of it, you just start moving to leave. Bluestreaks worried for a moment before the back of your servo is brushing up against his cheek.

It's very light but it's accompanied by your hot em field. "Good boy." And then you're leaving- thank Primus because that means you don't see Bluestreaks wings practically shoot upwards. Blustreaks mouth audibly clicks shut, and his glossia feels like It suddenly weighs way too much, and he can't say anything- His optics are burning so bright he can feel them tinting the color on his faceplate cobalt.

Bluestreak pushes his servos over the lower half of his face in mortification when he realizes he's feeling very hot and bothered by the exchange. Oh, Primus, no! You were his superior officer! Bluestreak couldn't think about you like that! But you were so nice to him- and charming and your em field was so touchy- oh, Bluestreaks not gonna be able to be normal about this!

Bluestreak tries to be normal, but every time he sees your faceplate now all he can think about is if you'd call him a "good boy" again...

-

Perceptor offered to do something quick for you, so you didn't have to find someone else to do it. He had the time after all. He's standing next to you when he jolts lightly when he feels your servo on the small of his back. Perceptor glances to your faceplate to see a smile on your derma. "Good boy." Your servo slides away from his back when you move to leave, and Perceptor is stuck staring at the direction you walked off in.

Oh, that's... oh no. Perceptor has to cycle his optics twice before what happened actually, registers and his optics brighten near immediately. Perceptor has to clear his vocalizor since it suddenly feels as if he's got a mild obstruction in his intake. Perceptor then rapidly soothes down his own puffed up plating sheepishly. He's now very glad it was only you and him in the room. Well, his emotional response made sense to a degree. Positive reinforcement was known to have its benefits...

Perceptor then registers the interest in his array and his optics snap wide. Oh, there's something wrong with him! Well, he knows it's not that far out there- it would be a dichotomy when considering common interface interests after all but Primus- Perceptor could not have gotten this worked up over one phrase and one little, albeit very nice, touch- Perceptor can feel the ghost of your servo still on his lower back. The plating felt warm still- Perceptor finally just sighed and scrubbed a servo over his faceplate.

Perceptors processor is now just occasionally wondering the chances of if you'd call him "good boy" again for another favor. And he has to scold his apparently rather perverted processor more than once.

-

Skywarp already knows that he can get you to call him "Good boy" and he already knows he needs to do everything he can to get that rush and phrase one more time! Skywarp wants every little brush of affection you'd give him. The words, your expressions, your em field, and sometimes rarely physical attention when he got lucky. So he's waiting for it to slip out of your mouth again. But he's not really ready for it, though, after you all get your afts kicked by the slagging Autobots.

Skywarp does not want to get his medical attention from Hook- he does not! It's gonna suck! He's fighting Hook until you come outta nowhere and physically force him to lay flat on the medical slab. "Skywarp- behave." Skywarp looks up at you and debates fighting you before slacking against the medical slab. "Good boy." The phrase makes his plating fluff. And you just climb off of him and leave him with Hook. Skywarps too busy thinking about what just happened to even really care too much about Hook.

It's not till after Hook kicks him out that Skywarp realizes he got horny about it. Skywarp did think you were hot. He also liked you flirting with him. You were easy self-service material, really. But now? Yeah, your frame hunched over his own while you call him "good boy." That was gonna be his go too self service fantasy for a hot klick.

Skywarp could totally let himself want some more of you, right?

-

Astrotrains just glad he got stuck with you for the day. He'd take you over any of the other high command since you were the most mellow. Astrotrain would take your dumb little names over worrying about injury from his other bosses. So he's not exactly prepared when your servo is on his arm after he'd done his job like he was supposed to. Astrotrains helm snaps to the side only to be met with you smiling. "Good boy." Your warm em field brushes along the side of his frame before you just up and leave.

Astrotrain's spark does something- glitches? Frag- he didn't know, but he's staring at where you'd walked off like you hadn't just done that slag. His chassis hot and the plating on his arm feeling warm due to the lingering touch of your em field. Astrotrain clamps his plating back down on himself tight when he realizes it slightly fluffed up. Astrotrain then forces his wings to flick back down since they'd flicked upwards due to his shock.

His wings shoot right back up when Astrotrain comprehends the heat in his array. Slag okay no- no no no. Astrotrain was not- he will not have sexual thoughts about one of his bosses. He's not going to. No. Apparently, his sparkdamned frame did not care if he indulged it because he still was very horny over his little exchange with you. And now occasionally just remembering it when he sees you- slag it all.

Astrotrain at least accepts the fact that he's slightly attracted to you. In the end, he's just glad it's you and not any of the other decepticon high command.

-

Blitzwing had his stupid task, and you had pointed out how he was totally smarter than it, and how he could definitely handle it easy. And yeah! He could, and he did. Then you're near him, and you smile, and Blitzwing kinda just thinks you'll use your crummy names. Blitzwing thinks he might be able to actually land a hit on you for it this time if he just- Then your servo is on his pauldron but you're smiling- "Good boy" Blitzwing stopped thinking when the phrase rolled out. You then turned and went off to go make sure the dumbaft coneheads were on task.

Blitzwings wings are twitching, and he's doesn't know what the slag that was- but he sure as frag knows he liked it. He liked it a lot, actually. A rush he usually only gets on the battlefield settles down in his chassis, and the point of entry was his pauldron where you'd touched him. Both Blitzwings jet engines and even his tank engine rev and the sound is loud and rough. A wide grin that shows his denta curls on his derma.

Blitzwing knew sparkdamn well what else he was feeling and he's not about to pretend he doesn't just now wanna grab you and use you like a toy- Blitzwing bites his top denta down on his own fist when he remembers he hasn't even managed to land a hit on you for your stupid little name game you played with all of them. You were a high rank for a reason- you weren't a puny pushover.

Blitzwing doesn't know if he should flirt or threaten you the next time he can- so naturally, he does both.

[tinystepsforward]

autocrattic (more matt shenanigans, not tumblr this time)

I am almost definitely not the right person for this writeup, but I'm closer than most people on here, so here goes! This is all open-source tech drama, and I take my time laying out the context, but the short version is: Matt tried to extort another company, who immediately posted receipts, and now he's refusing to log off again. The long version is... long.

If you don't need software context, scroll down/find the "ok tony that's enough. tell me what's actually happening" heading, or just go read the pink sections. Or look at this PDF.

the background

So. Matt's original Good Idea was starting WordPress with fellow developer Mike Little in 2003, which is free and open-source software (FOSS) that was originally just for blogging, but now powers lots of websites that do other things. In particular, Automattic acquired WooCommerce a long time ago, which is free online store software you can run on WordPress.

FOSS is... interesting. It's a world that ultimately is powered by people who believe deeply that information and resources should be free, but often have massive blind spots (for example, Wikipedia's consistently had issues with bias, since no amount of "anyone can edit" will overcome systemic bias in terms of who has time to edit or is not going to be driven away by the existing contributor culture). As with anything else that people spend thousands of hours doing online, there's drama. As with anything else that's technically free but can be monetized, there are:

Heaps of companies and solo developers who profit off WordPress themes, plugins, hosting, and other services;

Conflicts between volunteer contributors and for-profit contributors;

Annoying founders who get way too much credit for everything the project has become.

the WordPress ecosystem

A project as heavily used as WordPress (some double-digit percentage of the Internet uses WP. I refuse to believe it's the 43% that Matt claims it is, but it's a pretty large chunk) can't survive just on the spare hours of volunteers, especially in an increasingly monetised world where its users demand functional software, are less and less tech or FOSS literate, and its contributors have no fucking time to build things for that userbase.

Matt runs Automattic, which is a privately-traded, for-profit company. The free software is run by the WordPress Foundation, which is technically completely separate (wordpress.org). The main products Automattic offers are WordPress-related: WordPress.com, a host which was designed to be beginner-friendly; Jetpack, a suite of plugins which extend WordPress in a whole bunch of ways that may or may not make sense as one big product; WooCommerce, which I've already mentioned. There's also WordPress VIP, which is the fancy bespoke five-digit-plus option for enterprise customers. And there's Tumblr, if Matt ever succeeds in putting it on WordPress. (Every Tumblr or WordPress dev I know thinks that's fucking ridiculous and impossible. Automattic's hiring for it anyway.)

Automattic devotes a chunk of its employees toward developing Core, which is what people in the WordPress space call WordPress.org, the free software. This is part of an initiative called Five for the Future — 5% of your company's profits off WordPress should go back into making the project better. Many other companies don't do this.

There are lots of other companies in the space. GoDaddy, for example, barely gives back in any way (and also sucks). WP Engine is the company this drama is about. They don't really contribute to Core. They offer relatively expensive WordPress hosting, as well as providing a series of other WordPress-related products like LocalWP (local site development software), Advanced Custom Fields (the easiest way to set up advanced taxonomies and other fields when making new types of posts. If you don't know what this means don't worry about it), etc.

Anyway. Lots of strong personalities. Lots of for-profit companies. Lots of them getting invested in, or bought by, private equity firms.

Matt being Matt, tech being tech

As was said repeatedly when Matt was flipping out about Tumblr, all of the stuff happening at Automattic is pretty normal tech company behaviour. Shit gets worse. People get less for their money. WordPress.com used to be a really good place for people starting out with a website who didn't need "real" WordPress — for $48 a year on the Personal plan, you had really limited features (no plugins or other customisable extensions), but you had a simple website with good SEO that was pretty secure, relatively easy to use, and 24-hour access to Happiness Engineers (HEs for short. Bad job title. This was my job) who could walk you through everything no matter how bad at tech you were. Then Personal plan users got moved from chat to emails only. Emails started being responded to by contractors who didn't know as much as HEs did and certainly didn't get paid half as well. Then came AI, and the mandate for HEs to try to upsell everyone things they didn't necessarily need. (This is the point at which I quit.)

But as was said then as well, most tech CEOs don't publicly get into this kind of shitfight with their users. They're horrid tyrants, but they don't do it this publicly.

ok tony that's enough. tell me what's actually happening

WordCamp US, one of the biggest WordPress industry events of the year, is the backdrop for all this. It just finished.

There are.... a lot of posts by Matt across multiple platforms because, as always, he can't log off. But here's the broad strokes.

Sep 17

Matt publishes a wanky blog post about companies that profit off open source without giving back. It targets a specific company, WP Engine.

Compare the Five For the Future pages from Automattic and WP Engine, two companies that are roughly the same size with revenue in the ballpark of half a billion. These pledges are just a proxy and aren’t perfectly accurate, but as I write this, Automattic has 3,786 hours per week (not even counting me!), and WP Engine has 47 hours. WP Engine has good people, some of whom are listed on that page, but the company is controlled by Silver Lake, a private equity firm with $102 billion in assets under management. Silver Lake doesn’t give a dang about your Open Source ideals. It just wants a return on capital. So it’s at this point that I ask everyone in the WordPress community to vote with your wallet. Who are you giving your money to? Someone who’s going to nourish the ecosystem, or someone who’s going to frack every bit of value out of it until it withers?

(It's worth noting here that Automattic is funded in part by BlackRock, who Wikipedia calls "the world's largest asset manager".)

Sep 20 (WCUS final day)

WP Engine puts out a blog post detailing their contributions to WordPress.

Matt devotes his keynote/closing speech to slamming WP Engine.

He also implies people inside WP Engine are sending him information.

For the people sending me stuff from inside companies, please do not do it on your work device. Use a personal phone, Signal with disappearing messages, etc. I have a bunch of journalists happy to connect you with as well. #wcus — Twitter I know private equity and investors can be brutal (read the book Barbarians at the Gate). Please let me know if any employee faces firing or retaliation for speaking up about their company's participation (or lack thereof) in WordPress. We'll make sure it's a big public deal and that you get support. — Tumblr

Matt also puts out an offer live at WordCamp US:

“If anyone of you gets in trouble for speaking up in favor of WordPress and/or open source, reach out to me. I’ll do my best to help you find a new job.” — source tweet, RTed by Matt

He also puts up a poll asking the community if WP Engine should be allowed back at WordCamps.

Sep 21

Matt writes a blog post on the WordPress.org blog (the official project blog!): WP Engine is not WordPress.

He opens this blog post by claiming his mom was confused and thought WP Engine was official.

The blog post goes on about how WP Engine disabled post revisions (which is a pretty normal thing to do when you need to free up some resources), therefore being not "real" WordPress. (As I said earlier, WordPress.com disables most features for Personal and Premium plans. Or whatever those plans are called, they've been renamed like 12 times in the last few years. But that's a different complaint.)

Sep 22: More bullshit on Twitter. Matt makes a Reddit post on r/Wordpress about WP Engine that promptly gets deleted. Writeups start to come out:

Search Engine Journal: WordPress Co-Founder Mullenweg Sparks Backlash

TechCrunch: Matt Mullenweg calls WP Engine a ‘cancer to WordPress’ and urges community to switch providers

Sep 23 onward

Okay, time zones mean I can't effectively sequence the rest of this.

Matt defends himself on Reddit, casually mentioning that WP Engine is now suing him.

Also here's a decent writeup from someone involved with the community that may be of interest.

WP Engine drops the full PDF of their cease and desist, which includes screenshots of Matt apparently threatening them via text.

Twitter link | Direct PDF link

This PDF includes some truly fucked texts where Matt appears to be trying to get WP Engine to pay him money unless they want him to tell his audience at WCUS that they're evil.

Matt, after saying he's been sued and can't talk about it, hosts a Twitter Space and talks about it for a couple hours.

He also continues to post on Reddit, Twitter, and on the Core contributor Slack.

Here's a comment where he says WP Engine could have avoided this by paying Automattic 8% of their revenue.

Another, 20 hours ago, where he says he's being downvoted by "trolls, probably WPE employees"

At some point, Matt updates the WordPress Foundation trademark policy. I am 90% sure this was him — it's not legalese and makes no fucking sense to single out WP Engine.

Old text: The abbreviation “WP” is not covered by the WordPress trademarks and you are free to use it in any way you see fit. New text: The abbreviation “WP” is not covered by the WordPress trademarks, but please don’t use it in a way that confuses people. For example, many people think WP Engine is “WordPress Engine” and officially associated with WordPress, which it’s not. They have never once even donated to the WordPress Foundation, despite making billions of revenue on top of WordPress.

Sep 25: Automattic puts up their own legal response.

anyway this fucking sucks

This is bigger than anything Matt's done before. I'm so worried about my friends who're still there. The internal ramifications have... been not great so far, including that Matt's naturally being extra gung-ho about "you're either for me or against me and if you're against me then don't bother working your two weeks".

Despite everything, I like WordPress. (If you dig into this, you'll see plenty of people commenting about blocks or Gutenberg or React other things they hate. Unlike many of the old FOSSheads, I actually also think Gutenberg/the block editor was a good idea, even if it was poorly implemented.)

I think that the original mission — to make it so anyone can spin up a website that's easy enough to use and blog with — is a good thing. I think, despite all the ways being part of FOSS communities since my early teens has led to all kinds of racist, homophobic and sexual harm for me and for many other people, that free and open-source software is important.

So many people were already burning out of the project. Matt has been doing this for so long that those with long memories can recite all the ways he's wrecked shit back a decade or more. Most of us are exhausted and need to make money to live. The world is worse than it ever was.

Social media sucks worse and worse, and this was a world in which people missed old webrings, old blogs, RSS readers, the world where you curated your own whimsical, unpaid corner of the Internet. I started actually actively using my own WordPress blog this year, and I've really enjoyed it.

And people don't want to deal with any of this.

The thing is, Matt's right about one thing: capital is ruining free open-source software. What he's wrong about is everything else: the idea that WordPress.com isn't enshittifying (or confusing) at a much higher rate than WP Engine, the idea that WP Engine or Silver Lake are the only big players in the field, the notion that he's part of the solution and not part of the problem.

But he's started a battle where there are no winners but the lawyers who get paid to duke it out, and all the volunteers who've survived this long in an ecosystem increasingly dominated by big money are giving up and leaving.

Anyway if you got this far, consider donating to someone on gazafunds.com. It'll take much less time than reading this did.

[abdmusab]

From the heart of war, suffering, and destruction, where there is no place for hope, I carry within me a great responsibility and an unwavering determination.

I am Musab, a student in the field of Medical Equipment Engineering, striving to develop my skills in order to become an active contributor to saving lives, despite the difficult circumstances I live in Gaza. In addition to my studies, I dedicate my time to volunteering in hospitals that are suffering from severe shortages in human resources and equipment.

Despite the daily challenges I face. However, like many others, I need support to continue on my path, both in my studies and in providing my services to the community under these harsh conditions

Any financial assistance could make the difference between continuing my humanitarian mission or having to stop. I do not seek personal gain alone; I also seek to help the wounded and the sick in these difficult times.Your support could be the key for me to continue my journey in humanitarian service at the highest level of competence.

[pellucid-constellations]

You car breaks down while you’re driving through the countryside, spinning off into a field, and the hot rugged farmer James helps you out 👀

Pairing: Farmer!Bucky x Reader

Word count: 600

Warnings: Nothing but we got some tension here hehe

a/n: This was funnnn 👀 I'm having a little drabble spree on my blog!! Thank you for the request!! <3

____________________________________________

"Uh, you alright?"

Your responding scream was undignified and far too loud for the empty roads and accompanying farmland. You clutched at your chest and heaved breath into your lungs, stabilizing yourself with a hand on the hood of your useless car.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you," the man offered, an apologetic smile lighting up the small cab of his old truck.

Rather than answering, you continued to stare and attempted to answer, your mouth opening with no words to follow. It was hot out, and your business casual was far too stuffy for the weather. The man in the truck had on what you were pretty sure was an actual, authentic cowboy hat, his shoulders covered in a thin flannel and the bed of his truck loaded with hay.

"Sorry, honey, but you're kinda on my land. Can I... help you with somethin'?"

That got your brain working. After a few missteps, you pointed towards your car and braced yourself against the warm breeze ruffling your clothes. "My car broke down. I have no idea how to fix it, and I don't have service to call a tow truck. I'm so sorry for being on your land, please don't shoot me."

The man chuckled lightly, looking you up and down before yanking his truck into park and swinging the door open. It squeaked as he pushed it, his boots clicking against the dirt.

"Shoot you," he murmured to himself. "I'm not gonna shoot you. Who in their right mind would shoot you?"

"Um, thank you?" you stammered, stepping to the side as the man popped the hood of your car and leaned over the engine. You played with your fingers as he looked it over, unsure what you were supposed to offer. "It started making a weird noise and shaking. And then it just... died. Again, really sorry for being on your land. I'm not really... from here."

The man looked to the side and scanned your body once more, taking in the slacks and blouse. "You don't say."

"I was traveling for work. My directions were on 'avoid freeways' and I didn't realize like an idiot."

The man hummed slightly before leaning back with his hands on his hips. "Lucky me, then." A half smile framed by a sun-kissed face. "Look, I'm not much good with cars, but this is an old one, and I can tell you got a lot of erosion. I have a mechanic buddy down the road that could take a look at it."

"Really?" you perked up, a hopeful smile matching your clasped hands.

The man mirrored you with a slight upturn of his mouth, something soft in his eyes that you weren't sure was always present. He looked rugged and hard-pressed to find a laugh, but he was also helping you and had been nothing but nice, so it wasn't as if you could judge.

"Really. He owes me a favor."

"And you'd use that favor on this?"

"Pretty girl like you? It'd be my duty as a man." He flicked the rim of his hat back an inch.

You pressed your lips into a tight line to hide the growing smile. The heat of the summer was still pressing down on your shoulders as you held out your hand and offered your name. He was quick to take it.

"James," he replied, calloused fingers clasped in yours. "But you can call me Bucky."

[ghostlyferrettarot]

🩰🍰The 10th House in

the Signs🍰🩰

❗️All the observations in this post are based on personal experience and research, it's completely fine if it doesn't resonate with everyone❗️

✨️Paid Services ✨️ (Natal charts and tarot readings) Open!

🫧Join my Patreon for exclusive content!🫧

🍰If you like my work you can support me through Ko-fi. Thank you!🍰

🩰Masterlist🩰

🍰The 10th House in Aries: indicates that you are a very ambitious person who has unlimited strength when it comes to pursuing success. If you have the 10th House in this position, you are a charismatic leader.

🍰The 10th House in Taurus: reveals a practical personality. You prefer stability and security, rather than excessive ambition. For you, success in life means work ethic, financial stability, and a career in which you feel comfortable.

🍰The 10th House in Gemini: can indicate that you have a great ability to communicate and adapt to the working world, which will allow you to excel in careers related to education, communications, or writing.

🍰The 10th House in Cancer: tells us that your connection to home and family is your main source of motivation when facing the working world. You are likely to do well in careers related to health care, education, or home management.

🍰The 10th House in Leo: reveals a very charismatic personality. If you have this position in your birth chart, you are very likely to be attracted to careers related to politics or entertainment.

🍰The 10th House in Virgo: means that you have a more critical view of what work means, as well as a strong sense of duty. The careers that might most attract your attention are related to accounting or management, although you might also be interested in the field of research.

🍰The 10th House in Libra: reveals that you are a person who is good at cooperating and negotiating. As for your inclinations, you will be attracted to careers related to aesthetic matters, fashion or justice.

🍰The 10th House in Scorpio: indicates that you have a strong determination, as well as a great desire for power. You may be attracted to careers such as psychology or other branches of science that study the mind.

🍰The 10th House in Sagittarius: may indicate that you have an open mind and a great innate curiosity. You are likely to be drawn to careers that allow you to travel and help you explore the world.

🍰The 10th House in Capricorn: reveals great ambition, although in a more practical perspective than in other cases. The careers that attract you are those that will take you to the top, related to fields such as finance or engineering.

🍰The 10th House in Aquarius: indicates that you have an innovative mind, and that you value the concept of community. You may be interested in very different careers, as long as they allow you to feel that you are doing your bit to make the world a better place.

🍰The 10th House in Pisces: reveals a sensitive and creative personality. The careers that will attract you the most are those related to music or any other artistic expression.

[gunsandspaceships]

MCU Timeline: Captain America: The First Avenger

March 10, 1917 - James Buchanan Barnes is born.

August 15, 1917 - Howard Anthony Stark is born.

July 4, 1918 - Steven Grant Rogers is born.

April 9, 1919 - Margaret "Peggy" Carter is born.

Why 1919 (deleted scene from The Avengers) and not 1921 (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.), as stated in Wikipedia: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. is not canon for the MCU (events of the show take place in another universe, where Peggy was born in a different year and had a different background).

1934-1936 - young Peggy serves as a nurse in the British Air Force.

1936-1940 - Peggy serves in the Special Air Service.

1940:

Peggy joins the Strategic Scientific Reserve.

Howard founds Stark Industries and becomes its CEO.

May 1941 - Steven Rogers attends a Dodgers vs The Phillies baseball game at Ebbets Field, Brooklyn.

March 1942 - Red Skull invades Norway and extracts the Tesseract.

1942/1943 - The Allies receive a gift from Wakanda: Vibranium. It is given to the SSR's Head Engineer - Howard Stark.

1943:

June 14:

13:50 - Steve gets his last 4F.

And his last beating in the alley a couple of hours later.

Evening - he and Bucky go to the "World Exposition of Tomorrow", where Howard demonstrates his (almost) flying car. Steve meets Dr. Erskine and gets a (falsified) 1A.

June 15:

Sergeant James Barnes heads to Europe with the 107th Infantry Regiment.

Candidate Rogers begins his trial week for Project Rebirth at Camp Lehigh in NJ.

June 21 - Dr. Erskine makes his choice and informs Rogers. They talk about it, about the serum and HYDRA.

June 22, morning - Steve becomes a super soldier. Erskine is killed. The last vial of serum is destroyed.

June 23:

Rogers is offered a position in the USO theater (to help sell war bonds) and receives a (fake) rank of captain.

Night - SSR (including Peggy and Howard) is being retasked to fight HYDRA and goes to London, UK.

July-October - Captain America's US tour (over 200 performances).

November 3rd:

Captain America show in Italy.

Night - Steve goes behind the lines to a HYDRA camp in Austria to rescue Bucky with the help of Peggy and Howard.

November 5th - he returns with 400 (CATFA) or 163 (CATWS) liberated soldiers.

A couple of days later - SSR in London. Based on the locations of HYDRA bases remembered by Rogers, they develop a plan to combat HYDRA. Steve puts together a team.

Marvel Studios' mistake: the medals and badges Steve wears don't make any sense at this particular moment. He simply had neither the time nor the opportunity to earn the Combat Infantry Badge, or the Presidential Unit Citation Badge, nor could he receive the American Defense Service Medal.

Next day, 8 am- Steve meets with Howard and receives his vibranium shield.

1944:

November 1943 - November 1944 - Howling Commandos destroy HYDRA weapons factories.

December 1944 - January 1945 - attack on the train with Dr. Zola. Bucky falls from the train from a great height and is declared killed in action. Zola is captured.

1945:

Soon after, early January - the Valkyrie is finished and ready to attack major US cities. SSR receives information about the location of HYDRA's main base in the Alps and heads there.

Next day - SSR attacks HYDRA's main base. Red Skull teleports to Vormir. The Tesseract is lost in the Arctic Ocean. Crash of the Valkyrie. Steve goes into suspended animation.

After January 1945 - Howard Stark leads expeditions to find Rogers. He finds the Tesseract, but not Captain.

March 23, 1945 - Case №17 is opened. James Barnes "joined" the HYDRA branch in the USSR.

May 8, 1945 - VE-Day.

Spring-Summer 1945 - Howard is involved in the Manhattan Project.

1946:

December 1945/January 1946 - Peggy is assigned to the SSR office in New York.

March 1946 - events of "Agent Carter" one-shot.

2012:

Early 2012 - 67 years later, Steve Rogers is found frozen but alive.

April 2012 - Rogers wakes up in the S.H.I.E.L.D. recovery room in New York City.

MCU Timeline: The Infinity Saga

[alpaca-clouds]

The Technology We Have Already

Today I want to talk about one Solarpunk-thingie, that kinda annoys me - and has to do with a lot with how real-life politians deal with talking about technology and especially energy technologies.

And this is the following fact:

We already have the technology! This is not some SciFi shit!

See, the issue within the politics tends to be, that a lot of folks go: "Oh, yeah, we would LOVE to go renewable. But right it is not possible! Once the technology gets there, we will totally go 100% renewable!"

And basically a lot of Solarpunks online are also waiting for the technology to get there. Again, there is sadly a big group of folks who technically love the aesthetics of Solarpunk and also generally the idea of a Solarpunk future, but do not engage with it over it. And they usually will also wait for technology to get there.

But it already is.

Let me talk about it.

We can produce enough renewable energy

In a way I get it. If you are not working in any fields related to this - and do not follow science news - you might just not know how fast the renewable energy field is moving right now. 10 years ago, yes, a lot of countries would have been able to go 100% renewable, but not all. It depended basically on the climate and environment. Partly because the photovoltaic (what most people call solar, but us engineers use solar for something a bit different) cells were just not as efficient in certain climates. And while the mix of wind and hydro power could do A LOT for many countries, it could not for all.

However, that was mainly before China really pulled all the stops for their research. No, it is not only China, but holy shit, China's research in terms of photovoltaic is insane. If you follow this, you basically will see a new breakthrough - often from China - every couple months. And by now, the efficiency of photovoltaic is insane. Sure, it might not make sense as the only source of energy in places were you basically do not get any sunlight for half the year, but outside of that? It is so darn good.

Other than that, we are really darn good with wind energy (which to my opinion is still the best way of producing energy) and hydro energy.

Don't get me wrong: We can totally improve those things further and further. But we can absolutely power the world on renewables right now. We do not need fossile fuels right now!

We can build climate-friendly transport!

I will remind y'all once more: Electric cars are definitely better than gas powered cars, for those people and situations in which cars are needed. (Read: For emergency services, certain forms of service work who need to transport stuff outside of the rail network, and probably also some people who live very isolated for certain reasons.) However, they are still cars and suck for this reason, if you do not REALLY need them.

Still, we are fucking good by now in building electric cars and for those scenarios where they are needed. Heck, by now in my city pretty much all public transport runs electric, including the busses. And no, they are not tram busses.

And yeah, turns out, we figured out how to build railways more than 200 years ago, and we figured out how to electricize them in 1881. Yes. 1881. 18 in the front. Almost 150 years ago. Sure, back then we were not that good with it, but we managed to build one for intracity transport that worked - and worked for long.

Yes, admittedly, there are some forms of transport that right now we might indeed need fossil fuels for. Right now, we have no method to fly planes and helicopters in a way that is both mass-producable and renewable. And the same is with transcontinental transport via the ocean.

Yeah, sure. We can technically just go fully low tech and just sail. That works. Heck, while it is about half as quick as modern ways to transport over the ocean, it is feasible. However, we just cannot move the amounts of cargo we might need to move with sailing. There are people figuring this out (partly through creating much better sails that work for MUCH BIGGER ships) but yeah, we are not there yet.

Still, a) a lot of the intercontinental stuff we technically do not need to transport (most of it is using cheap quasi-slave labor to save money), and b) that should not stop us from just doing sustainable on-land transport which we can do.

We also know how to build a better society

Now, a lot of the folks going for the Solarpunk aesthetics rather than philosophy are quite often very mistrustful of both anarchism and communism - or heck, just socialism. They often have drunken the capitalist cool-aid of capitalism being the "only system that works". But here is the thing: It doesn't.

Sure, there are versions of capitalism that would work a whole lot better than the Chicago-flavored one, but it will never really work - especially in regards to saving the environment. I talked about that a lot before.

But here is the thing. We know how it works better. We know how to build a better society. We know how to make economics work better. We know how to make better schools. We know how to build better cities. We know how to prevent at least a lot of wars. We know how to make society safer for kids. We know how to make healthier families. We know how to make medicine as a system work better. We know it all.

Heck, we have known how to make schools that are better in every way since the early 20th century - so more than a hundred years. This proposed school system since has been proofen time and time again in studies to be better for kids, and better in terms of education. But do we use them? No.

Again, politicians love to go: "We would love to change things, but we do not have a better system." But it is not true. We know how to do it better.

Same with the police and prison and stuff. We know how to do it better.

But right now, a) a lot of the stuff works in the favor of those who hold most power (aka the billionaires), b) a lot of people just do not like the idea of changing stuff majorly (which makes politicians who want change unpopular), and c) politicians also would need to fund the change - and that is going to be hard.

So, yeah. Change would be hard.

But it is not because we do not know how to do better.

And I really just wish people would stop propagating this idea that we do not know better. We do. But folks right now profit from things staying the same. And it sucks.

[13lunarstar]

Talents in Navamsha

The D-9 Divisional Chart, or Navamsha Chart, is the second most important chart after the Rasi or D-1 chart. It reveals our potential and certain patterns that characterise our inner world, which typically evolve over a lifetime. With the help of the Navamsha chart, we can also identify our innate talents - these are reflected in the Trikona houses (1, 5, 9) and the planets located there. Any planet placed in one of these houses indicates capabilities and talents carried over from past lives, as well as the areas of life that are naturally preferred for one's activities.

Besides planets located in Trikona houses, it is important to analyse their placement in the Rasi (D-1) Chart, too. And of course, we need to pay attention to the signs of the Trikona houses as well as their rulers.

HOUSES IN NAVAMSHA CHART DESCRIBE...

The first house - The planets in the 1st house of the Navamsha chart reveal the skills, talents, and preferences that are inherent to a person from early childhood, essentially from birth. These often manifest as unconscious abilities, yet people still identify with them on a deep level. Interestingly, individuals may not even recognise these traits as special, assuming them to be average or ordinary simply because they come so naturally.

The fifth house - The planets in the 5th house of the Namasha chart will tell about those talents, which require some personal efforts.

The ninth house -The 9th house planets in Navamsha chart reveal the true direction, skills, and talents that help a person live in harmony with the world and fulfill their life mission.

PLANETS IN NAVAMSHA TRIKONA HOUSES (1,5,9):

Sun: bestows a gift to make an impression, inspire, manage, protect, and unite. Areas where to implement these talents: business, politics, social work, medicine and healing, protection of public order

Moon: talents in pedagogy, psychology, caregiving, the arts and writing. Areas where to implement these talents: charity, social work, childcare, artistic fields, psychology (especially in roles involving or supporting women)

Mars: natural skill in management, sports, martial arts, cooking, mechanics, electrical work, and engineering. Areas where to implement these talents: business (particularly oriented toward men, such as automotive, shipping, or barbering), restaurants, maintenance services, engineering, industrial design, and architecture.

Mercury: gives sharp intellect, eloquence, and talents in public speaking, writing, acting, teaching, and commerce. Areas where to implement these talents: business, trade, accounting, education, journalism, medicine, creative and technical writing and scientific research

Jupiter: grants innate wisdom, reason, and talent for teaching, coaching, and guiding others. Areas for applying these talents: education, writing, life coaching, psychology, medicine, law, jurisprudence, and banking.

Venus: bestows a natural talent for charm, aesthetic expression, and the ability to bring beauty into the world through art, decoration, and refinement. This placement often indicates artistic gifts in painting, music, design, and performance (dance, singing, etc.) It supports success in fields related to the beauty and entertainment industries. Areas for applying these talents: arts, sewing, beauty industry, entertainment, acting, makeup, design, and businesses aimed at or involving women.

Saturn: gives wisdom beyond one's years, natural talents in self-discipline, resilience, and endurance. It grants a strong capacity for long-term planning and working within structured systems. People with Saturn in trikona (1,5,9) houses often possess a karmic affinity for supporting the elderly or those in need of stability and care. Areas for applying these talents: social work, management, work with the elderly, construction, architecture, working with metals, building materials, antiques, or anything aged and worn that requires repair, restoration, or preservation.

Rahu:grants a broad perspective, a unique and unconventional mindset, and strong abilities in learning foreign languages and adapting to new environments. It bestows talents in psychology, entertainment, and innovative thinking. Individuals with this placement often stand out for their originality and can serve as both innovators and provocateurs, challenging norms and opening new paths. Areas for applying these talents: IT, social media, advertising, psychology, esoteric studies (including astrology), innovation-driven fields.

Ketu: grants strong intuition, deep knowledge in psychology, religion, esoteric studies (including astrology). Talents in maths, programming, IT. Afflicted Ketu can give thievish tendencies. Areas for applying these talents: psychology, IT, research, esoteric studies, hairdressing (Ketu is known for cutting abilities).

[buckets-and-trees]

Red, White & True: Boston & New York [14/17]

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 9.1k (yes, another long one!) Summary: On the eve of the election, nerves and emotions are high, but so are your hopes for the future as a tight race becomes impossibly tighter when so many people doubted a third candidate could make a deep run. Regardless of how things turn out, you're ready to face the fact that your life will never be the same again.

Content/Warnings: political/campaign policy and discussions, marriage of political convenience, slow burn, really the slowest burn, strangers to lovers, EXPLICIT SMUT finally (vaginal fingering, cock stroking, breast play, vaginal intercourse)

Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.

Author Notes: I missed getting a Friday posting out, but that's because these two had a lot to do and say in this chapter. To be honest, if I cut out all of the side characters and political plot, we'd shave down significantly, but that's part of your story with Steve, too.

Previous Chapter | Series

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[NOVEMBER 1 - LATE EVENING - COLUMBUS TO BOSTON]

The campaign plane hums around you, a cocoon of noise both soothing and maddening. You've been staring at the same paragraph in your briefing notes for ten minutes, the words blurring together as exhaustion tugs at the edges of your consciousness. Fourteen states in thirteen days. It shouldn't be possible, and yet here you are, somehow still standing—or rather, sitting—in the final stretch of the most grueling marathon of your life.

Two weeks. Two weeks of campaign schedules that have kept you and Steve apart more than together, crisscrossing the country like stars with intersecting orbits—occasionally aligning for campaign appearances together before spinning away again to cover more territory. 

You glance at your watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Your motorcade was delayed in traffic, so you didn’t make it to the tarmac to board the plane to see Steve before his intelligence briefing started, and now it has already run twenty minutes longer than scheduled. The private meeting area at the front of the plane has been sealed off, transformed into a temporary SCIF—Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—for the classified briefing, with Secret Service agents positioned like sentinels outside the door.

You make a conscious effort not to glare at the agents - it’s not their fault, they’re only doing their job. But inside you feel very huffy, knowing the precious hours together before landing in Boston are dwindling by the second.

You return your gaze to the briefing book in your lap, silently mouthing the words to force your tired brain to absorb them. Tomorrow's schedule in Boston includes a visit to a community health center in Roxbury, followed by meetings with healthcare advocates—you need to know these statistics cold. But the numbers swim before your eyes as the plane encounters a pocket of turbulence, jostling you in your seat.

Across the aisle, Sam catches your eye. He's been watching you fidget for the past half hour, his expression knowing as always.

"He'll be out soon," Sam says, his voice low enough that only you can hear it over the drone of the engines.

You sigh, closing the briefing book. "How can you tell?"

“I can’t, I’m just trying to make you feel better,” he replies with a wink. 

“It’s only working a little bit,” you say. 

Sophia is on his other side, and you smile a little, seeing that she’s managed to nod off, her head resting on Sam’s shoulder. She’s worked herself to the bone every day of the campaign, and she’s become such a rock to you. A rock and a trusted friend. 

So has Sam. So have so many of the campaign staff, the lot of you walking through fire day in and day out together for this brilliantly mad quest to try and get Steve elected. 

"Speaking of making me feel better," you say, suddenly struck by something you've been meaning to say for weeks, "I never properly thanked you." 

Sam raises an eyebrow. "For what?" 

"For all the interference you ran with my mom while she was on the campaign trail with us a couple of weeks ago." You lean forward slightly, lowering your voice even more. "You and Sophia did a lot to make her feel comfortable in this whole scene. She adored you, but I know you also took advantage of opportunities to shift her perspective on Steve and our whole arrangement.”

Sam's expression softens, a smile warming his features. "Your mom's great. She cares about you a lot - her worries were normal." 

You smile wider. “You did the same with me, too, the day before I married Steve. And you did it with Steve and Bucky for me back in September. You see people and you build bridges between people.”

Sam's smile turns slightly embarrassed, but his eyes hold yours steadily. "Just part of the service," he jokes, but then grows more serious. "Everyone deserves a chance to understand each other. Especially people who matter to each other." 

"Well, thank you," you say simply. 

"You're welcome." Sam shifts, careful not to disturb Sophia. "Besides, your mom was right about some things. This whole arrangement was crazy." 

You laugh softly. "Was?" 

"Is," he corrects with a grin. "But it's working out better than any of us could have predicted, isn't it?" 

Before you can answer, the door at the front of the plane opens. Steve emerges, followed by a somber-looking woman in a dark suit whom you recognize as Maria Hill. 

You straighten in your seat, drinking in the sight of Steve after three days apart. He looks tired—more than tired, something about his expression unsettles you immediately. There's a tightness around his eyes, a gravity to his movements that wasn't there when you spoke over FaceTime this morning. 

Steve's gaze finds yours immediately. His expression softens, but the tension doesn't fully leave his features. He exchanges a few final words with Maria, their heads bent close together, her voice too low for you to hear over the drone of the engines. 

You watch as Steve nods once, decisively, before Maria turns and heads toward the rear of the plane where some of the intelligence staff are seated. Steve makes his way down the aisle toward you, stopping briefly to speak with Jake and Elspeth. 

When he finally reaches you, the knot of concern in your chest tightens. Up close, the strain around his eyes is more pronounced, the set of his jaw rigid.

"Hi," you say softly as he slides into the seat beside you. 

"Hi," Steve replies, his voice low and slightly rough, as if he's been talking for hours. His hand finds yours immediately, fingers interlacing with a gentle pressure that feels almost desperate in its need for connection. 

You search his face. "What's wrong?" 

Most of the staff are either working, sleeping, or wearing noise-canceling headphones, but he still lowers his voice to a near whisper. "Nothing immediate. Just... concerning intelligence." 

The muscles in your stomach tighten. Since Steve became a serious contender in the presidential race, he's been receiving regular intelligence briefings—a tradition for major party candidates to ensure a smooth transition should they win. You've grown accustomed to the routine, to the way he emerges from these meetings with a thoughtful, typically troubled expression. Most of the information he’s given in those meetings is also highly sensitive if not outright classified. 

You take his hand in both of yours, bringing it to rest in your lap. "Is it something you can talk about?" you ask, keeping your voice equally low.

Steve lets out a long, slow breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as you hold his hand. His thumb traces gentle circles on your skin, a grounding gesture that seems as much for his benefit as for yours. 

"I can't discuss the details," he says after a moment, his voice barely audible over the engines. "But there are situations developing that will need immediate attention after the election." His eyes meet yours, troubled and deep. "No matter who wins."

You nod, understanding the weight behind his words. Steve has always carried the burdens of leadership differently than others—not as opportunities or challenges, but as sacred obligations to the people counting on him.

"Is there anything I can do?" you ask, knowing there likely isn't but needing to offer anyway. 

"There is," Steve says, his voice softening as he shifts closer to you. "Just be here." 

He leans back in his seat, his eyes closing briefly as he draws a deep breath. When they open again, there's something vulnerable in his gaze that makes your chest ache. 

"I've missed you," he admits quietly. "These past three days felt like three weeks." 

"I know," you whisper, squeezing his hand. "The swing through Wisconsin, Illinois, and Indiana was productive, but every event I kept thinking of what you would say, how you would handle it."

A small smile touches his lips. "And how did hypothetical me do?" 

"Not nearly as well as real me," you tease, drawing the laugh from him you'd hoped for. "But you would have been proud. Polling suggests we gained ground with suburban women in all three states."

Steve's smile broadens, some of the tension leaving his face. "I am proud. Especially of that interview you did in Indianapolis." His hand finds the nape of your neck, fingers gently massaging the tension there. 

You lean into his touch, your eyes briefly closing at the relief his fingers bring to muscles knotted from days of campaign stress. 

"I just answered honestly," you say, remembering the local news interview that had unexpectedly gone viral after you'd spoken candidly about healthcare access in rural communities. 

"That's what made it powerful," Steve says. His voice drops even lower, meant only for you. "Two days left. Can you believe it?"

You shake your head, still processing the whirlwind that has been your life since that fateful meeting with Pepper Potts in May. "Sometimes it feels like we've been campaigning forever. Other times, I can't believe how quickly it's all happened." 

Steve's eyes hold yours, something profound shifting in their blue depths. "I keep thinking about where we were six months ago. How impossible this all seemed." His voice is a gentle rumble that vibrates through you. "Now we're two days from potentially—" 

"Don't," you whisper, pressing a finger lightly to his lips. "No jinxing it." 

He smiles against your finger, then captures your hand and kisses your palm. "Superstitious now?" 

"Cautiously optimistic," you correct, feeling the familiar flutter in your chest that his touch evokes. 

The plane encounters another patch of turbulence, more pronounced this time. Steve's arm instinctively wraps around your shoulders, steadying you as the aircraft shudders. You lean into him, and the turbulence settles. 

"That's what I like to hear," Steve murmurs, his arm remaining around you even after the turbulence passes. "Cautiously optimistic is exactly where we need to be." 

You rest your head against his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of him—that perfect blend of clean cotton, subtle cologne, and something that is uniquely Steve. Despite the exhaustion dragging at your limbs, despite the worry you'd seen etched in his features moments ago, this closeness grounds you in a way nothing else can. And once again, as the two of you quietly converse, tucked comfortably into one another, you fight but are unable to keep from falling asleep in his arms. 

You wake to gentle pressure against your temple—Steve's lips brushing a kiss there, his breath warm against your skin. 

"We're starting our descent," he murmurs. "You've been out for about an hour." 

Blinking away sleep, you straighten in your seat, embarrassed. "I didn't mean to—" 

"You needed it," Steve says, his hand still resting comfortably on your knee. Through the window, you can see the scattered constellation of Boston's lights growing larger below. 

"Did you sleep at all?" you ask, noting the lingering tension around his eyes. 

He shakes his head. "Too much on my mind." 

You reach up to smooth a strand of hair that's fallen across his forehead. "The briefing?" 

"That. The polls. Tomorrow's schedule.”

"The usual campaign insomnia," you say with understanding, your fingers lingering at his temple where you can feel the tension gathered there. 

"Something like that," he agrees, but there's a note in his voice that tells you it's more than just pre-election jitters. 

The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing your imminent arrival. Around you, the campaign staff begin to stir, gathering materials, checking phones that had been silenced during the flight. You deplane and the team piles into a dozen vehicles waiting on the tarmac to take you all directly to the hotel to catch the limited amount of sleep you’ll be afforded before things start back up in the morning. 

[NOVEMBER 2 - BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS]

Morning arrives too soon, the pale November light filtering through the hotel curtains you forgot to fully close. For a moment, you lie perfectly still, orienting yourself in yet another unfamiliar room. Boston. The final day before the election.

The other side of the bed is empty. Though everything between you and Steve has changed, deepened, and grown, you are still dancing around sharing a room and a bed. After that night you asked him to stay with you in Tucson, your mom had come for those next few days on the campaign, and then your itineraries had split you up geographically, but even on the nights of overlap, there seemed to be this half-spoken avoidance. You have been hesitant of exploring the intimacy and domesticity of sleeping together routinely in this environment. There are so many things you and Steve have said to each other and about each other, but there are still things that have been left unsaid, and the endless circuit of the campaign cycle didn’t seem like the place to say any of it. 

The digital clock reads 5:47, and though you’re annoyed you’ve woken up before your scheduled 6am start to the day, you are glad for the precious few minutes of sleepy solitude you still have. You allow yourself the luxury of stretching, muscles protesting after weeks of constant movement and too little rest. The sheets smell of hotel laundry—a scent that has become almost as familiar as your old home.

Your phone vibrates on the nightstand. A text from Steve: Good morning. Couldn't sleep, went for a run. Briefing and breakfast at 7?

You smile at his predictability—yo’ve heard about his runs, and even on the precipice of potentially becoming the next president, Steve Rogers seeks clarity in the rhythm of his feet against pavement. You don’t expect it to change, regardless of how the election results go. You type back: Yes to breakfast. Coffee already necessary. Be safe.

The three dots appear immediately, then: Always am. Sleep well?

Better than expected, but not long enough, you reply honestly. Hotel pillows are growing on me.

Dangerous adaptation, he responds with a laughing emoji. Then, a moment later: Going to catch sunrise over Boston Harbor. Wish you were here.

The simple sentiment warms you more than it should. Six months ago, such casual intimacy between you would have been unimaginable. Now it feels as natural as breathing. 

Bed better than running, you send back.

His response is immediate: Debatable. Will bring you coffee when I get back.

You smile, setting your phone down and pulling yourself reluctantly from the warmth of the bed. The hotel room is elegant but impersonal, like all the others you've occupied during this campaign—luxury without personality, comfort without home. You've become an expert at navigating unfamiliar bathrooms in the dark, at finding the light switches and remembering which side of the bed you chose the night before. 

The shower helps clear the fog of too little sleep. As the hot water cascades over your shoulders, you mentally rehearse today's schedule: the community health center visit, lunch with healthcare advocates, an afternoon rally at Boston University, and then the massive evening event at Faneuil Hall. The final push before Election Day. 

By the time you emerge from the bathroom, wrapped in the hotel's plush robe, your phone is lighting up with notifications. Campaign updates, news alerts, text messages from Sam about last-minute scheduling changes. The bubble of morning solitude pops, reality rushing in with the force of a breaking dam. 

You dress quickly in the outfit laid out the night before—a carefully selected ensemble that projects both approachability and professionalism. The campaign's messaging team has fine-tuned every visual element of these final appearances, down to the color of your scarf, which matches the campaign's signature blue. 

A soft knock at the door comes just as you're fastening your watch. Through the peephole, you see Steve, looking refreshed despite the early hour, a cardboard tray holding two coffee cups in one hand. 

"Morning," he says when you open the door, his smile warming his tired eyes. He's showered and changed since his run, dressed in a navy suit that makes his eyes even more blue. "Coffee as promised."

"You're a lifesaver," you murmur, accepting the cup he offers. "How was the harbor?" you ask, stepping out into the hall to walk down to breakfast with him.

"Peaceful. Water was like glass. Sun coming up behind the city." He pauses, something wistful crossing his features. "Made me wish I had my sketchbook."

You take a long sip of coffee, savoring the perfect blend—he remembers exactly how you like it. "When this is all over, we should come back. You can sketch all day if you want." 

Steve's smile deepens, creating those little crinkles around his eyes that you've grown to love. "I'll hold you to that." 

The two of you walk in comfortable silence down the rest of the hallway to the elevator, Secret Service agents quietly flanking you. Steve's presence beside you is solid, reassuring. In the mirrored walls of the elevator, you catch glimpses of yourselves—a little tired, a little worn, but standing tall. The potential First Couple. The thought still feels surreal.

"Sleep well?" he asks softly as the elevator descends. 

"You already asked me that," you remind him with a smile. 

"I know. Just checking if your answer changes in person." His hand finds the small of your back as the doors open, a gentle, protective gesture that's become second nature. 

Another hotel conference room has been transformed into another campaign outpost, screens displaying polling data and schedules lining the walls. Campaign staff mill about, some already deep in conversation, others nursing coffee with the glazed look of people running on fumes and determination. 

Sam spots you first, raising his coffee cup in greeting from where he's huddled with Sophia, Bucky and Jake. You're about to head their way when you notice a familiar figure standing near the breakfast buffet—Maria Hill, the same intelligence officer from the plane. She's not alone. A man in an impeccable dark suit stands beside her, his posture military-straight, his expression grave as he surveys the room with calculated precision.

Steve's hand tenses almost imperceptibly against your back. You glance up at him, catching the slight hardening of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes. 

"What is it?" you ask quietly. 

"Agent Calloway," Steve acknowledges with a slight nod, his voice carefully neutral despite the tension you feel radiating through his palm against your back. "I wasn't expecting to see you in Boston." 

The man—Agent Calloway—turns toward you both, his weathered face revealing nothing as he approaches with measured steps. He's older than Maria, perhaps in his mid-fifties, with close-cropped greying hair and eyes that seem to catalog every detail of the room in continuous sweeps. 

"Captain Rogers," he says, extending a hand to Steve. "I’ve been assigned to personally oversee the enhanced security protocols for these final campaign events." His handshake is brief, then his attention shifts to you with professional efficiency. "Ma'am," he says with a respectful nod.

You return the greeting, a sense of unease creeping up your spine. Enhanced security protocols. The words are heavy, unexpected. Should you be more worried?

You offer what you hope is a polite smile, but Calloway's steel-gray eyes catch the flicker of worry that crosses your face. His expression softens marginally—the change so subtle you might have missed it if you weren't studying him so intently. 

"Please don't be concerned, ma'am," he says, his voice dropping to a more conversational tone. "Enhanced protocols are standard procedure for the final days before an election. The heightened visibility, larger crowds—it's all part of the calculus." 

You nod, attempting to look reassured, but you can feel Steve's body beside yours, taut as a bowstring. 

"Standard procedure," Steve repeats, the words measured and careful. His face maintains the pleasant, diplomatic expression he's perfected during the campaign, but you know the mask. “It seems a bit unnece–”

“Captain Rogers,” Calloway interrupts, “sir, let me stop you right there. My men and women and I are more than aware of your capability to defend yourself. They assigned me because I’m the one who will take the least amount of pushback from you. We know you’re an Avenger. Should anything happen, we would not be surprised to have you fighting and defending alongside us.” 

You don’t even have to look, you can feel the frown emanating from Steve. You keep your eyes on Calloway’s face. 

“Our responsibility is to keep an eye on everyone and everything to keep you and the public safe. Your responsibility right now is to campaign. If elected, it will be to lead the American people. That’s why we’re here. Let us do our job so you can do yours.”

“This old man is retired anyway,” Sam chimes in, stepping up next to Steve and clapping him on the back, jostling him on purpose to loosen him up. 

The tension in Steve's shoulders doesn't fully dissipate, but his expression softens at Sam's intervention. He nods once at Calloway, conceding the point without quite relinquishing his concern. 

"I appreciate the dedication," Steve says, his voice measured. "Just make sure your team keeps my staff safe - I’m no more important than them."

"Consider it done," Calloway responds with crisp efficiency. "We've been briefed on all locations and have advance teams in place. They will monitor and update throughout the day.”

Maria Hill approaches, tablet in hand. "If you have a moment, Captain, there are some logistics we should review before your first event." Her tone is professional, but you catch the subtle urgency beneath. 

Steve's eyes meet yours, a silent communication passing between you. "I'll catch up with you," he says, his hand squeezing yours briefly before following Maria and Calloway to a quieter corner of the room. 

Sam stays beside you, his presence steady and reassuring. "Don't worry," he says quietly as you both watch Steve step away. "Extra security is normal for the final push." 

"Is it?" you ask, unable to keep the doubt from your voice. 

"Yes," Sam insists, then adds with a half-smile, "though having Hill still on site for national security and intelligence updates is... possibly not."

You turn to face him fully. "Sam." 

He meets your gaze, “I’m genuinely not concerned yet - I’m alert, but not concerned. Bucky agrees, he thinks whatever situation is developing is probably serious, but that Maria’s staying close more out of a personal sense of duty than any real safety concern.”

You frown. “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

“No. I’ve been around these heroes for years, and I know sometimes they try and save us regular folk from bad news, but in the end that never helps. I don’t think Bucky will hold back with you, and I don’t think Steve would intentionally either, but I can definitely promise I’ll bullshit you now and then, but I’ll always be straight with you when it matters.”

You nod, finding comfort in Sam's directness. "Thank you. I appreciate that." 

"Come on," Sam says, guiding you toward the breakfast buffet. "You need to eat something. Big day ahead." 

You follow him, but your eyes drift back to Steve, who's now leaning over a tablet with Maria and Calloway, his brow furrowed in concentration. The three of them speak in low voices, their expressions grave. The knot of unease in your stomach tightens. 

"He's concerned," you murmur, more to yourself than to Sam. 

"He's always concerned," Sam counters gently. "It's his default setting. Has been since I met him." 

You smile despite yourself. "I've noticed." 

Sophia waves you over to a table where she's sitting with Bucky and Jake, campaign materials spread between their plates. As you approach, you notice the dark circles under Sophia's eyes, the slight tremor in Jake's hand as he lifts his coffee cup. Everyone is feeling the weight of these final hours.

"Morning," Jake greets you, sliding a folder across the table. "Final numbers from last night's polling.”

"How's it looking?" you ask, opening the folder as you settle into a chair next to Sophia. 

"It's tight," Jake says. "The national polls still have Monroe up by two, but within the margin of error." 

"The battleground states are where it matters," Sophia adds, tapping a spreadsheet with her pen. "Pennsylvania and Michigan are looking good, but Wisconsin and Arizona are razor-thin with Steve biting on both their heels." 

You nod, scanning the numbers. Your stomach churns with a familiar mixture of hope and anxiety that has become your constant companion these last weeks. The race is close—closer than any of you had anticipated when this journey began. 

"Florida's polling is all over the place," Bucky says, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Depending on which poll you believe, Steve, Monroe, or Peterson take the sunshine state, and it skews the board no matter which way it goes.”

“So, basically, we’re doing well, but no one knows how well?” you ask.

"It's an election," Jake says with a wry smile. "No one ever really knows until the votes are counted." 

Bucky leans forward, his metal hand tapping lightly on the table. "What matters is that we're competitive everywhere we need to be. Six months ago, no one thought an independent candidate could seriously contend. Now..." His voice trails off as his eyes drift to where Steve is still deep in conversation with Maria and Calloway. 

"Now we've got them scared," Sophia finishes, a fierce pride in her voice.

[NOVEMBER 2 - EVENING - NEW YORK CITY]

You and Steve are put into a car with Jake and Lisa once you touchdown in New York, getting off the campaign plane for the final time. Your campaign manager and press secretary want to use the short ride from La Guardia to the hotel in Midtown Manhattan to review final notes before the morning. 

"The itinerary is straightforward," Jake says, scrolling through his tablet. "Early breakfast with the New York campaign volunteers at 6 AM, radio morning shows from 6:30 to 7, then straight to your polling place in Brooklyn by 7:30. We want the images of you two voting to hit the morning news cycles."

"After that," Lisa continues, "it's a series of get-out-the-vote stops across the city. We'll hit all five boroughs by mid-afternoon.”

“Then we have a break for the two of you until dinner and a final event in Central Park at 7 PM, which should give us prime placement for the evening news for all time zones," Jake says. “It should hopefully pull in some undecided voters - the ones who are debating whether to go home after work or go to the polls, and those are the voters likely to sway to you.”

Steve nods, his thumb absently stroking the back of your hand where it rests between you on the seat. "And the rest of the night?"

"We've secured the Grand Ballroom at the Plaza for the watch party," Lisa says. "Doors open to supporters at seven, but we don't expect either of you to make an appearance until at least nine, when the first results start coming in."

“This is why we’ve got the afternoon siesta for the two of you,” Jake says, his tone straightforward, logical, leaving no space to argue, “you’ll both need to be public-ready.”

"And if it's a long night?" you ask, voicing the question that's been weighing on all of you. With such a tight race, a definitive result by the end of the night is far from guaranteed. 

Jake and Lisa exchange glances. "We have contingency plans," Lisa answers. “The event in Central Park will continue through the night as long as it’s viable. If there’s any need for a public address, we want you to make it to the crowd outdoors in the park.”

“Absolutely,” Steve nods, “it’ll be a cold, long night for them, and if there’s something to be said, I want to be able to show them how much they’re appreciated.” 

The car glides through late-night New York traffic, the city lights reflecting off rain-slicked streets. You feel the weight of tomorrow pressing down—the culmination of months of exhausting work, of speeches and handshakes and strategy sessions. Of a marriage that began as strategy and transformed into something neither of you could have predicted. 

"What about security?" Steve asks, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. 

Jake nods, his expression serious. "Calloway's team has coordinated with NYPD, FBI, and Homeland. The security presence will be significant but as unobtrusive as possible. We don't want to alarm voters or create bottlenecks at polling places."

The car slows as it approaches The Plaza Hotel, the familiar choreography of arrival unfolding once more. Secret Service agents radio ahead, confirming positions. 

Even though your home is in New York - the new home you have yet to truly live in yet with Steve in Brooklyn - you’re staying at The Plaza Hotel since it will be campaign headquarters for the next 36 hours, ready to go in the morning immediately with the campaign staff. 

The SUV pulls to a stop under the elegant awning of The Plaza, its golden lights glowing against the darkness. Immediately, the flurry of your arrival begins—Secret Service agents materializing from seemingly nowhere, forming a protective perimeter as hotel staff stand at attention near the entrance. Despite the late hour, a small crowd of reporters and curious onlookers has gathered behind barricades, camera flashes punctuating the darkness like artificial lightning.

"Ready?" Steve asks quietly.

“Let’s do this.” You nod, summoning a smile that feels genuine despite your exhaustion. This is the final push—one more night, one more day, and then whatever comes next. 

The moment the car door opens, the world rushes in—the cool November air carrying the scent of rain and the city, the sounds of late night traffic, the frenzied murmur of voices. Steve exits first, turning to offer you his hand. Camera flashes explode like silent lightning around you and Steve.

"Captain Rogers! How are you feeling about tomorrow?" "Any response to Senator Monroe's latest polling numbers?" "Are you confident about your chances?"

Steve offers a practiced wave and a warm smile that somehow manages to convey both confidence and humility. "We're focused on getting out the vote tomorrow," he calls to the reporters, his voice carrying just enough to be heard without seeming to shout. "Every American deserves to have their voice heard in this election."

His hand finds the small of your back, guiding you forward with practiced ease as the two of you navigate the gauntlet of questions and flashing cameras. The Secret Service forms a protective bubble around you, not pushing or shoving but somehow creating space through sheer presence. You've become accustomed to this dance—the careful balance of accessibility and security, of warmth and vigilance. 

The Plaza's ornate lobby envelops you in sudden quiet, the thick carpets and soaring ceilings absorbing the chaos that swirls just outside its revolving doors. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over marble floors, transforming the space into something from another era—a pocket of gilded elegance that has somehow survived the city's constant reinvention. 

The advance campaign staff move with practiced efficiency, checking in with each other in hushed tones. Several nod respectfully as you and Steve pass, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion and determination. These are the people who have sacrificed sleep, stability, and sometimes sanity to bring this improbable campaign to the precipice of possible victory. 

Amidst the quiet bustle, you spot Eric, your logistics coordinator. When she sees you, Eric breaks away from the hotel staff, his efficiency on display even at this late hour. He's been with the campaign since June, and his ability to coordinate the movement of hundreds of people across the country with military precision has been invaluable. 

"Captain Rogers, Mrs. Rogers," he greets you both with a quick nod. "Everything's set for tomorrow. Your rooms are ready—you’re on the fifteenth floor. The campaign staff is distributed across the fourteenth and fifteenth."

He hands each of you a key card in a small Plaza-emblazoned envelope. "I've had your luggage sent up. The 6 AM breakfast meeting will be in the Grand Ballroom. We've converted the Edwardian Room into our command center—all the polling data will be coming in there throughout the day tomorrow." 

"Thank you, Eric. For everything." The simple words feel inadequate for the months of meticulous planning he's orchestrated, transforming the logistical nightmare of a presidential campaign into something almost manageable.

"Just doing my job," he replies with characteristic modesty, but his tired eyes brighten at the recognition. "Oh, and Mrs. Potts called. She's arriving early tomorrow morning. She'll meet you directly at the breakfast event."

Steve nods, his hand still resting gently at the small of your back, like it’s always belonged there. "Perfect.”

Jake checks his watch and stifles a yawn. "It's almost eleven. We made good time. You two head up, Lisa and I will help Eric marshal the rest of the troops as they arrive.”

You suspect Steve agrees because then he can hold you to going up as well, and he always tries to take care of you and the rest of his team. The two of you cross the lobby to the elevators, and it’s only a few moments before one arrives. Two Secret Service agents file in with you. As the lift ascends, the subtle vibration beneath your feet seems to harmonize with the nervous flutter in your chest.

Your fingers fidget with the edge of your sleeve, a small tell that you've never quite managed to control when anticipation takes hold. Steve notices—of course he notices. Those observant blue eyes miss nothing, especially when it comes to you. 

"Hey," Steve's voice is gentle as his hand covers yours, stilling the restless movement. "You okay?"

You look up to find his eyes studying you with that particular intensity that always makes your heart skip—the look that sees past practiced smiles and campaign-ready expressions to the truth underneath.

"I'm fine," you say automatically, then catch yourself. After everything you've been through together, the practiced deflections feel wrong. "Actually, I'm a little nervous." 

His brow furrows slightly, concern deepening the blue of his eyes. "About tomorrow?" 

"No. Well, yes, of course about tomorrow, but that's not—" You pause as the elevator slows, the display indicating you've reached the fifteenth floor. The doors slide open to reveal an elegantly appointed hallway, its rich carpeting muffling the sound as the Secret Service agents step out first, performing their customary sweep.

"All clear, sir," one of them says, positioning himself discreetly near the elevator bank while the other advances down the hallway, you and Steve following behind. 

You watch the numbers of the doors as you pass, then stop when you get to room 1518. “This is me,” you say. 

He frowns briefly, looking at the number on his key card envelope. “Mine says 1518, too.”

“Mhmm,” you nod, looking up at him through your lashes.

The realization settles over Steve's face, his expression shifting from confusion to understanding. "Oh," he says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I see." 

You hand your key card to the agent, who taps it to the door and enters to do a security sweep. 

"I asked Sophia to arrange it with Eric," you admit, heat rising to your cheeks despite your best efforts. "I thought… for our last night before everything changes one way or another, I just want to be with you."

Steve's expression softens and he steps closer, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

"That’s what you were nervous about?" he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear. "Asking me to stay with you tonight?"

You nod, feeling shy despite the months of growing intimacy between you. "We've been dancing around it. But tonight..."

Steve's hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. He doesn’t say anything, the way he looks at your face, you don’t need him to. Reassurance and longing are written and reflected there. 

A moment later, the agent steps out of the room. “All clear. We’ll be monitoring the floor.”

“Thank you, Roberts,” Steve says without looking away from you. 

You enter first, and the door swings open to reveal a spacious suite, elegantly appointed in the Plaza's signature style—cream walls, gold accents, plush furnishings in muted tones. Your luggage sits neatly arranged near the closet, and a small bouquet of fresh flowers brightens the writing desk.

Steve follows right behind you, the door closing behind him with a gentle thud that seems to seal you both away from the world outside. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the sudden privacy after days of constant company and scrutiny creating a bubble of stillness around you.

"So," Steve says.

The word hangs between you, heavy with unspoken anticipation. You turn to face him fully, taking in the sight of him—this man who has somehow become the center of your universe in the span of a few tumultuous months. The lines of fatigue around his eyes only enhance the intensity of his gaze as it locks with yours.

"So," you echo, a small smile playing at your lips. "Here we are." 

"Here we are," he agrees, his voice a low rumble that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance until mere inches separate you. "The night before everything changes." 

You reach up, fingers gently tugging to loosen his tie. "Everything's already changed, Steve. Whatever happens tomorrow..."

"We face it together," he finishes, capturing your hand where it rests against his chest. His fingers envelop yours, warm and steady. "Just like we promised."

The weight of tomorrow presses against the edges of your consciousness, but here, in this moment, there is only Steve—his presence solid and real before you. The campaign, the election, the world waiting beyond these walls—all of it recedes as you lean into him. 

"I'm glad you arranged this," he murmurs, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. "Us tonight." 

"I've wanted to for weeks," you admit. "But everything's been so intense, and there never seemed to be the right moment to..." 

"I know." His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone, his touch gentle yet grounding. "And I’ve never wanted to assume or rush, but I've wanted it too." 

Your eyes drift closed as he leans forward, his breath warm against your lips just before they meet yours. The kiss is gentle at first, but as his arms encircle you, drawing you closer against the solid warmth of his chest, something shifts—urgency bleeding into tenderness, months of carefully banked desire kindling into something more demanding. 

Your fingers thread through his hair, fusing him to you as the kiss deepens. His hands span your waist, lifting you effortlessly until your feet barely touch the ground. The sensation of being suspended, weightless in his embrace, sends a thrill through you that has nothing to do with the campaign or tomorrow's uncertainties.

When you finally break apart, both breathless, Steve rests his forehead against yours. His eyes, when they open, are darkened with desire but still impossibly blue. His eyes hold yours, a universe of emotion swirling in their blue depths. He shrugs off his suit coat, you slip out of your coat, and Steve takes both and drapes them over a nearby armchair. Then Steve steps close to you again, his hands moving to frame your face, his touch reverent as his thumbs trace the curve of your cheekbones.

"I've been hungry for this moment," he confesses, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you where your bodies press together. "Being alone with you. Really alone."

"Me, too," you confess, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw and his well-trimmed beard. 

His smile in response is both tender and knowing, a silent acknowledgment of the journey that brought you here—from strangers to hesitant allies to something neither of you could have anticipated. His hands slide up your back, pulling you impossibly closer as his lips find yours again.

This kiss is different—deeper, unhurried yet purposeful. The careful restraint that's defined so much of your relationship begins to unravel with each passing second. His lips move against yours with increasing urgency, and you respond in kind, your body arching into his as if drawn by some invisible force.

Steve guides you backward through the suite with what feels like a dancer's grace, each step purposeful yet fluid. The world narrows to the points where your bodies connect—his hand at the small of your back, his chest against yours, his lips moving with increasing urgency against your own. The sitting room passes in a blur of cream and gold, furniture mere obstacles to navigate around as you drift through the space in this intimate waltz.

Your fingers work at his tie again, tugging the knot loose with fumbling eagerness. The silk slides free with a whisper against cotton, and you let it fall, forgotten, somewhere behind you. His mouth never leaves yours as you move together, his breath mingling with your own in the narrow space between kisses. Your shoulder bumps gently against a doorframe—the threshold to the bedroom—and Steve's arm tightens around you, steadying you against him.

"I've got you," he murmurs against your lips, the words more breath than sound. 

You feel the familiar pressure of his hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the doorway and into the bedroom. The soft glow of city lights filters through the sheer curtains, painting the room in muted blues and golds. 

Your fingers, trembling slightly with anticipation, move to the buttons of his crisp white shirt. The first button slips free easily, revealing a triangle of warm skin at his throat that you caress briefly before continuing your task. The second proves more challenging as Steve's kisses grow more insistent, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes focusing on anything else nearly impossible. You manage the third button just as the back of your knees meet the edge of the bed. 

At some point between the sitting room and the bedroom, Steve had evidently unzipped your dress, because now he quickly pushes the fabric down over your shoulders, and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet. He turns you around in his arms, pulling you flush against him. Without missing a beat, his left hand comes up to collar your throat and turn your head to the side so he can continue devouring your lips with his own. His other hand slides over the roundness of your stomach and down into your panties, no hesitation

His fingers slide against you, finding you already wet and ready for him. You gasp against his mouth at the contact, your body arching into his touch. Steve's lips trail from yours to the sensitive spot just below your ear, his breath hot on your skin, and his beard scratching pleasantly against your neck.

"I've wanted this for so long," he whispers, his voice rough with desire. "Wanted you." 

You reach back, fingers threading through his hair as his thumb circles your most sensitive spot with exquisite precision. Your legs tremble, and he tightens his arm across your chest, supporting your weight as pleasure builds with each deliberate stroke.

"Steve," you breathe, the word half plea, half prayer. 

He turns you in his arms once more, then pushes you back onto the mattress. He’s quick to follow, hovering over you as you both slither further up the bed, capturing your mouth in that kiss that's constant hunger and heat. 

His shirt hangs open now, and you push it from his shoulders, murmuring, “Too many clothes,” desperate to feel his skin against yours. He shrugs it off, chuckling against your lips. 

"I agree," he murmurs, his hands moving to unclasp your bra with surprising dexterity. As he tosses it aside, his eyes darken with appreciation, taking in the sight of you beneath him. "God, you're beautiful." 

His palm cups your breast, thumb brushing across the sensitive peak as he lowers his head to press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. You arch into his touch, fingers working at his belt buckle with growing urgency. The metal clinks as it comes free, and Steve shifts to help you push his pants down his hips. 

The bed cradles you as Steve's weight settles over you, his body a perfect counterbalance of power and restraint. Every touch feels like a revelation, each kiss deeper than the last. His hands trace the curves of your body with reverence, as if mapping territories both familiar and new. 

"You're beautiful," he whispers against your collarbone, his lips tracking a slow path downward. "So beautiful." 

Your fingers explore the broad expanse of his shoulders, feeling the play of muscles beneath warm skin as he moves. When his mouth closes over your breast, a soft gasp escapes you, your back arching into the sensation. His beard creates a delicious friction against your sensitive skin, the contrast between softness and roughness heightening every sensation. 

He sucks and lavishes your nipple with attention that makes your head spin before moving his mouth to your other breast and delivering more of the dizzying pleasure. Only when he has you squirming beneath him is he satisfied. He moves back up your body, and his mouth captures yours again.

Your hands slide over the muscled planes of his chest, marveling at the contrast between the softness of his skin and the hardness of the body beneath. When your fingers trace the defined ridges of his abdomen, following the trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Steve shivers beneath your touch, his breath catching as your fingers dip below the elastic of his boxers. The hardness of him strains against the fabric, his physical desire for you manifested plainly. You trace the length of him through the cotton, reveling in the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes darken to midnight as they hold yours.

"I need you," you whisper, emboldened by the naked want in his gaze. "All of you." 

The words act like a catalyst. Steve moves with sudden purpose, stripping away the last barriers between you until there's nothing but skin against skin, heat against heat. His weight settles partially on you, one strong thigh slipping between yours as he claims your mouth again. You’re sure you’re going to forget to breathe, the way this man - your husband - kisses you in this moment. 

His hand skims down your side, tracing the curve of your hip before sliding between your bodies. When his fingers find your folds again, you gasp against his mouth, your body arching into his touch. He explores you with gentle thoroughness, learning what makes your breath catch, what draws those soft moans from deep in your throat.

"Steve," you breathe, his name a plea as tension coils tighter within you. "Please." 

He understands what you're asking for, positioning himself between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your entrance. His eyes find yours, intense and questioning even now. 

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice rough with need but still so careful, so considerate. 

In answer, you wrap your legs around his hips, drawing him closer. The first slow push of him entering you draws a moan from both your lips, the sensation of fullness, of completeness, overwhelming in its intensity. He moves with deliberate control, giving you time to adjust to him, his forehead pressed against yours. 

"Yes," you whisper, tracing his cheekbone with trembling fingers. "I've never been more sure of anything." 

Steve's eyes hold yours as he begins to move, setting a rhythm that quickly has you both breathing hard. The world narrows to this—to the perfect friction where your bodies join, to the sound of his breath against your ear, to the weight of him above you, anchoring you against the rising tide of pleasure. 

His pace quickens, driven by your encouraging moans and the way your hips rise to meet each thrust. One of his hands slides beneath you, tilting your hips at an angle that has you gasping his name, your nails digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders. 

"Steve," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips as pleasure builds within you, coiling tighter with each movement of his hips against yours.

"Let go," he murmurs against your throat, his voice strained with the effort of control. "I've got you." 

His mouth captures yours again and again, each kiss deeper than the last, as if he's trying to memorize the taste of you. 

The exquisite tension builds and builds until it finally breaks like a wave crashing against shore, pleasure radiating outward from where your bodies join. Your back arches off the bed as you cry out, fingers gripping Steve's shoulders as if he's the only solid thing in a world suddenly turned liquid with sensation. He follows you moments later, his rhythm faltering as his release claims him, your name a reverent whisper against your throat. 

For several heartbeats, neither of you moves, bodies still joined, breaths mingling in the narrow space between your faces. Steve's weight is carefully balanced on his forearms, his body a warm shelter above yours. When he lifts his head to look at you, the tenderness in his gaze makes your chest ache with an emotion too vast to name. 

"Hey," he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead with gentle fingers. 

"Hey yourself," you reply, voice slightly hoarse. 

As the aftershocks subside, Steve gathers you close, rolling to his side and bringing you with him. Your head finds the perfect resting place against his chest, where you can hear the gradual slowing of his heartbeat. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine as the world slowly expands beyond the two of you once more.

"That was..." you begin, struggling to find words adequate for what just transpired between you.

"Worth waiting for," Steve finishes, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Though I've been thinking about it since that night in Tucson."

You smile against his skin. "Only since Tucson?”

His chuckle vibrates through his chest and into yours, a warm sound that wraps around you like a blanket. "Maybe before," he admits, his fingers still tracing gentle patterns on your skin. "Maybe since that day in the garden at the DAR headquarters when you told me what you really thought about my speech."

"That long?" you ask, tilting your head to look up at him, finding his expression soft with memory. That had been a sweltering hot afternoon in mid-July - long before you thought he viewed you as more than an ally. 

"You surprised me," Steve says simply. "Not many people do that anymore." 

You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him properly, drinking in the sight of him relaxed and unguarded in the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. "For me it was the hospital visit in Chicago."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Really? That early?"

"Not consciously," you admit, tracing the line of his collarbone with your fingertip. Chicago had been the very tail end of June. "But looking back, that's when everything started to shift. You were so you, even when no one was watching."

Steve captures your wandering hand, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to your palm. “I love you,” he declares for the first time, no restraint, voice firm and warm. 

Your heart skips a beat, but you’re quick to respond in kind, grinning when you say, “I love you, too,” your face splitting into a wide grin. 

The moment hangs between you, weightless and perfect. Steve's smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in that way that makes your heart flutter. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly across your skin.

“I love you,” he says again.

You settle back against him, content in the circle of his arms as the sounds of the city filter in through the windows—distant sirens, the occasional car horn, the ambient hum that is uniquely New York. Tomorrow looms beyond this moment, with all its uncertainties and possibilities, but here, now, there is only this—the steady rhythm of Steve's heart beneath your ear, the warmth of his body, the love you’ve been building together finally spoken aloud. 

"I've been thinking about this," he confesses, his voice still thick with emotion. "About tonight. About us. About what happens after tomorrow."

You flatten your palm over his chest, anchoring yourself against the tide of feelings his words evoke. "What do you think happens? After tomorrow?"

He’s quiet for a moment, and you wait. "I don't know what happens with the election. But I know what I want to happen with us."

Your heart beats faster, a flutter of anticipation rising in your chest. "Tell me."

Steve takes a breath, his hands sliding up and down your back, caressing your body with gentle reverence. "I want us to continue building our life together. The real one I feel like we’ve been nurturing—not just for the cameras or the campaign. I want mornings and evenings and all the moments in between."

The raw honesty in his voice catches at something deep inside you. This is Steve—the man beneath the mantle. 

"I want that too," you whisper, the words feeling like a promise. "All of it." 

His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer against the solid warmth of his chest. Outside, the city continues its nighttime symphony, but in this room, in this bed, time seems suspended—a perfect bubble of peace before tomorrow's storm. 

"No matter what happens with the election," Steve murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "this—us—is real. It's the most real thing in my life." 

You lift your head to look at him, taking in the sincerity etched across his features, the vulnerability in his eyes that he shows to so few. "Mine too." 

His smile in response warms you from the inside out. His hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw with tender precision. "Get some sleep," he whispers. 

“You first,” you tease. 

He laughs softly before kissing you once more before you both drift off. 

next part: Election Day in New York, part 1

Did I include links for rooms at The Plaza, including the room type I decided I wanted you and Steve to spend the night together in? Yes. Yes, I did.

DID YOU ALSO GET TO FINALLY HAVE SEX WITH YOUR FANTASTIC HUSBAND? YES! THE THING WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! SLOWEST BURN OF ALL TIME, but I knew from the very beginning that I wanted your first time to be on the eve of the election, and even as the story gained more plot and put more and more chapters and developments between where we started and getting to this night, I'm so glad I stuck to that part of the original plan.

....can you believe I thought this story was only going to be six or seven chapters? 🤣

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[jinuaei]

I love the EM field idea so much, imagine how much Tarn would shake shudder and breathlessly plead to please you, all because he felt your tiny EM field and it read as horny to him.

And he’s trying to prove he is your best devotee, the only one who can service and please you, just let him have a taste-

Oughhh he'd treat you so well just to get the chance to hit it. He might me from Cybertron but best believe he would actively learn how humans court each other.

He's so delusional that if your EM field even shows just an ounce of affection, he'd think that you are willing to fuck him. Of course, he waits for you to initiate it but he's left heartbroken when you don't pull him in in what you humans call a 'kiss' and fuck him silly until he's breathless and panting.

After that he'd try harder and harder but the end of the day he's on his back, laid down on his berth, spilling transfluid all over his chassis thinking it's a waste that you weren't there to witness his display of devotion.

But I think he'd finally be so pent up one day that he'd demand you to interface with him, so he walks up to you, with only one thought in his mind, confident that you will be swayed by his dominance and masculinity... Before he kneels before you, burying his helm on your stomach, pleading, begging to please please please—! Let him taste you! he wants it so badly–! Let him finally worship your divine body, with fervor and adoration, and show you how much he loves you.

The rumbling of his engine almost drowns out his pleading, yet he continues to beg and beg and beg until you finally say yes.