#Classified Information and State Secrets

[onlytiktoks]

[youthchronical]

Fact-Checking Trump’s Justice Dept. Speech on Crime, Immigration and His Cases

President Trump repeated a number of well-trodden falsehoods on Friday in a grievance-fueled speech at the Justice Department, veering from prepared remarks to single out lawyers and prosecutors and assail the criminal investigations into him. His remarks, billed as a policy address, were wide-ranging, touching on immigration, crime and the price of eggs. Here’s a fact-check. His legal…

[courseyoulovemeyoudontknowme]

A Beautiful Mind (2001, Ron Howard)

18/06/2024

[liahaslosthermind]

~𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭~ Part 1

Part 1 of The Spy Master's Secret Find more ACOTAR works here! Summary: The Inner Circle has questions they need answered, too bad the one person they rely on for secret information is also the one who doesn't want to answer it. Warnings: Swearing, Cas and Rhysand fight, mention of *that* Solstice conversation, but I actually write Rhys as not an asshole in this one

Part 2 out now!

“It would certainly be me!” Nesta yelled, her voice joining the many that were arguing in the Inner Circle. 

Her mate let out a bellowing laugh, finding the statement ridiculous. She wouldn’t have been as pissed, had he not doubled over when realizing how very serious she was. 

“Nesta, don’t be ridiculous. You could be attached to him for 100 years straight and it still wouldn’t hold a candle to either me nor Cassian.” Rhysand stated, the air of superiority around him while making such a statement caused a shoe to fly at his head.

“Don’t be an ass, Rhys.” 

“Of course, Ferye, Darling.” The High Lord slumped down a little at that. 

The argument had been going on for far too long and after far too many drinks consumed, there wasn’t a resolution in sight.

“Well, now that we have established Nesta is out of the running, does anyone want to nominate themselves? Or will it only be Rhys and I?” Cassian asked.

Everyone was silent, minus Nesta who was angrily huffing at both her mate and his brother’s arrogance. 

“Good. Now, Rhysand, tell me what in Prythian has possessed you to think he would ever pick you over me?”

“What! Cas, you cannot actually be serious enough to think it would be yo-”

“If I remember correctly, one Solstice night a few years ago dethroned you forever.”

“That is not fair and you know it! Plus, we have made up tenfold.”

“Doesn’t matter, its about principles.”

“Please! Cassian, what the fuck do you know about principles?”

“Oh, I’ll show you principles alright-” Was all the General said before he promptly tackled Rhysand to the ground. 

Everyone else in the room just rolled their eyes. It seemed the fight would never end. 

“What am I looking at?” Lucian asked as he walked in on the brawl, noting how Amren and Mor were in the corner exchanging money for the bets they had already placed on the two Illyrians still fighting on the ground. 

“Cassian called himself Azriel’s best friend.” Elain explained as she moved over slightly on the couch, beckoning her mate forward. 

“I thought he was?” Lucian replied.

“Thank you!... I knew- I liked… you, Vanserra” Cassian managed to get out while Rhysand tried and failed to put him in a headlock. 

“I still think it's me.” Nesta grumbled. 

“I don’t understand why you all can’t ask Azriel himself?” Gwyn pitched in. 

The two brothers stopped their fighting as everyone looked to the priestess. 

Clearly, the thought hadn’t crossed anyones’ mind.

They all slowly turned to the Shadowsinger, who had been sitting in the chair by the corner of the room, shadows dancing around him, clearly enjoying the show as much as he was. 

“Come on, boy. Put the two most powerful idiots in Prythian out of their misery.” Amren said commanded 

The rest of the Inner Circle waited impatiently for Azriel’s response, which he purposefully took a pause before answering to torture them.

“Cassian, Rhysand, you both are my brothers. But I wouldn’t classify either of you as my best friend.” He finally responded. “What the fuck?” “Are you serious?” They yelled over each other.

“Ha! I knew it had to be m-” Nesta was cut off by the hand Azriel raised, pausing her thought. 

“Nesta, you are a very dear friend of mine. I appreciate our friendship very much… but it isn’t you either.”

The tension building from everyone’s anticipation was almost suffocating. 

The Spy Master opened his mouth then, deciding better of it, closed it. Getting out of his chair and walking to the door without a word. 

“Hold on!” Rhysand yelled and the House of Wind shut the door in front of Azriel, as if it too wanted to hear his answer.

Unamused, Azriel turned around to the sea of expectant faces.

“Azriel. You don’t think your… shadows are your best friend, right?” Cassian asked, a pitying tone in his voice.

Az’s shoulders shook with silent laughter at the string of curses his shadows sent at the General, even if Cassian couldn’t hear them.

“No, I don’t. But they don’t appreciate the tone, Cas.” Azriel answered as he watched his shadows menacingly circle Cassian. Finally deciding to put everyone out of their misery, he replied: 

“None of you know her.” 

Before walking into the shadows, escaping the shouts of vulgarity that filled the room at his nonresponse.

A/n: Do y'all want a part 2?

Update: Read part 2 here!

[owoeyeoseroghokijawft]

There's a fox in the chicken coop! Investigation reveals US Agency for International Development provides non-military related funds to Ukraine

The picture shows the USAID headquarters in Washington, DC. (Photo: Reuters)

[Voice of Hope, February 26, 2025] (Voice of Hope reporter Chen Wenyun compiled) Investigators revealed to the North American Epoch Times that officials of the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) repeatedly refused investigators from the Senate #DOGE Caucus Chair, Senator Joni Erns (Joni Erns) working group to review documents related to US tax funds allegedly used to help #Ukraine resist Russian invasion.

When investigators were finally allowed to view the documents, they were "stored in a highly secure room at USAID headquarters and strictly monitored," even though "nothing shared by USAID was confidential."

During the investigation, Ernst discovered that USAID's multi-million dollar project "exists in secret funds to put millions of American taxpayers' money into Ukraine for questionable purposes unrelated to our national interests."

“Funds that should have been used to ease the war-torn country’s economic woes were instead used for unimportant activities, such as sending Ukrainian models and designers to New York, London Fashion Week, Paris Fashion Week and the South by Southwest Festival in Austin, Texas,” investigators said.

One of the secret funds provided $114,000 to purchase a “high-end limited edition furniture line” and another $91,000 to fund a “trade mission for a Scandinavian-style furniture line.”

Investigators found that USAID also provided $148,000 in grants to “a pickle maker,” $255,000 to “an organic tea and coffee producer,” $104,000 to “an artisanal fruit tea company,” and $89,000 in support to “a Ukrainian vineyard.”

USAID also provided $300,000 each to a dog collar manufacturer and a company that sells pet tracking apps, $161,000 to "a modern knitwear supplier," $126,000 to "a photographer for a fashion design publication," and $84,000 in support to "a luxury bridal brand."

Ernst first began investigating USAID in November 2023, when he wrote a letter to then-USAID Administrator Samantha Power.

“I firmly support providing weapons and ammunition to Ukrainian militants to fight Putin,” Ernst told Power, “but I am not willing to spend nearly $25 billion of hard-earned U.S. taxpayer dollars on so-called economic aid to Ukraine, including subsidies for overseas businesses like a ‘luxury contemporary knit fashion store’ in Kyiv.”

In a Feb. 4 letter to U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio, Ernst said that “USAID has deliberately abused a system designed to protect the security of our nation’s classified information in order to limit congressional oversight of public information.”

Rubio replaced Power as acting administrator of USAID earlier this month. Most of the agency’s employees are on administrative leave, and layoffs are underway that could eliminate as many as 2,000 positions within the agency.

The Epoch Times obtained information about Ernst’s investigation the same day the House DOGE subcommittee prepared to hold a hearing focused on how USAID officials allocated at least $122 million in U.S. tax dollars to multiple organizations operating in the Middle East with documented ties to Hamas, Hezbollah, and al-Qaeda terrorist groups.

Gregg Roman, executive director of the Middle East Forum (MEF), told The Epoch Times on Tuesday (25th) that he would testify before the hearing panel that “there is a fox in the henhouse of our foreign aid system!”

Roman said, “This problem started under the Obama administration, intensified under the Biden administration, and now requires immediate action to stop the dangerous mismanagement and deadly ethical chaos.” “We are not just talking about waste, fraud, and abuse, this is a national security issue. Every dollar misused destabilizes conflict zones and endangers American lives.”

MEF investigators confirmed the evidence of terrorist links through U.S. government documents, USAID records, and other public sources of information.

The House DOGE Subcommittee, chaired by Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene, is part of the House Oversight and Accountability Committee, chaired by Rep. James Comer. The House DOGE Panel, like the Senate DOGE Panel, was created in response to President Trump’s creation of the Department of Government Effectiveness (DOGE), led by Tesla CEO Elon Musk.

DOGE is conducting a forensic audit of federal spending across all federal departments and agencies. One of the first agencies to be reviewed is USAID.

“The revelations that the DOGE team uncovered together with USAID are shocking, but this is just the tip of the iceberg!” Greene said in a statement announcing the hearing on Wednesday (26th).

[theonion]

Staunchly defending his decision to share sensitive military data in messages to his wife, Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth told reporters Monday, “There are no state secrets in a healthy relationship.” “Communication is key in every strong marriage, and that includes communication about airstrikes on foreign adversaries,” said the Pentagon chief, who called the mere idea of withholding classified information from one’s spouse “toxic” and “unhealthy.” 

Full Story

[qqueenofhades]

I really really REALLY need to see more people makimg the connection between trump and his russian handlers tbh.......like i know we've somehow gone through the looking glass of putin apologia but that piece abt the NYT you just posted, the bots, the interference: in the bag for trump? Yes. But i dont believe its due to his or even republican power or popularity or forcefulness.......this is a man with so much debt and kompromat thats only getting worse!! Not to sound kwazy BUT WE ARE BEING FULLY INFLITRATED and at the risk of conspiracizing i think the russians are ALSO behind the Times's demise along with so many other information centers etc. Like i KNOW these leftists love him but like. Wouldnt they care a LITTLE abt being manipulated like this???

Trump is 100% an active, willing, and eager Russian agent. That's not even paranoid conspiracy theory, that's just the only reasonable interpretation of the facts:

NOT TO MENTION that in the next two years after the Helsinki conference where Trump kowtowed to Putin in every way, the CIA admitted to losing huge and unusually high numbers of classified informants around the world (not CIA agents, but people secretly working for the American government in often-hostile countries):

Once again, this all happened when Trump was in office, when he was actively handing over CIA intel to the Kremlin against the wishes of the entire national security establishment, and which other experts have suggested was directly as a result of Trump handing over the identities of American informants to Russia, including those stationed in Russia itself:

Now, I could go on, but you get the point. Not to mention that Trump just lost a major UK-based lawsuit against Christopher Steele, the former MI6 agent who was the first to provide documents linking Trump to Russia in the controversial "Steele dossier":

And now: Trump is deeply in hock for hundreds of millions in legal fees and punitive judgments that are only increasing by the day, he somehow just came up with $90 million to appeal the judgment against E. Jean Carroll (nobody knows where he got this money either), and Russian state TV spends all their time openly salivating for Trump's return to the presidency (so he can hand over Ukraine and the rest of NATO and, as he literally said, "let Russia do whatever the hell they want.") I know we're largely numb to all the awful treasonous shit that Trump does, but like. This isn't a conspiracy theory, this is just what's going on in plain sight, and while the Online Leftists have recently become so stupid that I honestly can't tell if it's just terminal brainworms or active Russian psyops, it's strongly indicated that it is in fact a mix of both:

So, like. Just some food for thought.

[theivorybilledwoodpecker]

The Washington Post reported that administration officials informed Congress of the 100 foreign military sales to Israel in a classified briefing. Few details are known of the sales, because keeping each one small meant their contents remained secret, but they are reported to have included precision-guided munitions, small diameter bombs, bunker busters, small arms and other lethal aid. The Arms Export Control Act makes significant exceptions for arms sales to close allies – a limit of $25m for ‘major defense equipment’, defined as big-ticket items that require a lot of research and development, but the limit rises to $100m for other “defense articles” like bombs. “This doesn’t just seem like an attempt to avoid technical compliance with US arms export law, it’s an extremely troubling way to avoid transparency and accountability on a high-profile issue,” Ari Tolany, director of the security assistance monitor at the Centre for International Policy thinktank, said. She added that, in exploiting the loophole, the Biden administration was following the steps of its predecessor. “They’re very much borrowing from the Trump playbook to dodge congressional oversight,” Tolany said. The state department office of the inspector general found that between 2017 and 2019, the Trump administration had made 4,221 below-threshold arms transfers to Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, worth an estimated total of $11.2bn.

[incognit0slut]

Much Ado About Nothing (Act III, Scene V: The Temporary Bliss)

Your fleeting moment of happiness is quickly overshadowed as old wounds from the past resurface.

Part warning: (18+) fingering, protected sex (because helping him roll down a condom is hot), and, unfortunately, angst Words: 4.8k A/n: so this is the last part of Act III: The Deception, you might want to prepare yourself as we get closer to the truth

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

You were a coward. A fool. A mess. You didn’t know what to label yourself anymore, or if there were even words to describe the way you felt. But you did know one thing—you didn't have the strength to confront Spencer, you couldn't even see his face without feeling sick. So you did what you did best.

You avoided him. Plain and simple.

It was actually easier than you had expected. After that dreadful weekend, there seemed to be enough cases to distract you. You traveled across the state, one week in a new place, and another in a different city. By the end of the month, you hardly thought about him at all. Your friends seemed to be unaware of the underlying tension between you, and even if they did notice, they surprisingly kept their thoughts to themselves—everyone except Derek who teasingly pointed out that you seemed more focused on your work than usual.

You had shrugged off his comment with a forced laugh, brushing it off as if it was just a harmless observation. You told yourself that you were fine, that you had everything under control. But despite your efforts to stay distracted, the reality was different. The moment the plane landed back in Quantico, you knew you would have to face him again, especially when Emily suggested to hit the bar.

Her reason was to blow off steam after a gruesome few weeks, which was followed by a chorus of agreements from the team. Now you were left with no more excuses. Your eyes drifted toward him, his gaze slowly met yours, and that was how you found yourself in the same dingy, low-lit bar the team always gravitated to an hour later.

The familiar murmur of conversation and clinking of glasses greeted you as you entered the place. While the others settled to their usual spot in the corner, you quickly made a bee-line towards the bar. The bartender, a tall man with a slightly overgrown beard and sharp blue eyes, looked up as you approached.

He was cute, in a rugged, rough-around-the-edges kind of way. You would normally find yourself attracted to these types of men—confident, approachable, and with a certain easygoing charm. But apparently, your heart had other ideas, preferring a certain someone with a genius-level IQ with warm brown eyes.

“Hey, you're back," he greeted you, nodding his head. "Haven’t seen you in a while."

You leaned over the bar. "It's been a busy month."

"Where did you go off to this time?"

"Chicago."

He whistled softly. "Chicago, huh? Must have been a big one to send you all the way there." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “What did the bad guy do this time?”

You gave a small, secretive smile. "You know I can't talk about that. That's classified information."

The corner of his lips turned into a wide grin. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He picked up a glass and began wiping it down. “So, what’ll it be tonight? Your usual Margarita?”

You hesitated, shaking your head.

"Sex on the beach?"

Normally, you'd ask for either—you preferred something light and tangy, a drink that was strong enough to take the edge off without overwhelming you. But tonight was different. Tonight, you needed something with more kick.

“Give me a shot of tequila—no, make it two.”

A frown briefly crossed his face. “Are you sure?”

No.

“Yes,” you insisted. “I need something stronger tonight.”

The man studied your face for a moment before he nodded, pouring two generous shots in front of you. He turned to grab lime wedges from the small fridge under the counter but stopped abruptly when he noticed you’d already downed one of the shots.

"Wow, you weren't kidding.”

The strong liquor burned your throat. “That is disgusting.”

“That’s why you need this to chase it,” he said, sliding the lime wedge and a pinch of salt towards you. “Here.”

You purposely ignored him and brought the second glass to your lips, feeling the burn even before you swallowed.

“Here, take it.”

“No, I’m fine.” You pushed the now empty glass toward him, making a face. “Pour me another one.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh, come on! I’m here with the gang!” You gestured toward the corner where the team was sitting. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

He hesitated, glancing over your shoulder and then back at you. “Fine, but this is the last one,” he said, reluctantly pouring another shot.

You gave him a quick nod, grabbing the shot and lifting it to your lips, steeling yourself for the burn. Just as you were about to drink, you felt a firm hand on your wrist. Your body tensed, not because of the sudden interruption, but because you felt another hand resting at your back before it slowly slid across, settling just at the soft curve of your waist.

You didn’t have to turn your head to know who it was. His smell was unmistakable—clean, with a hint of soap and the faintest trace of coffee.

“I think you’ve had enough.”

You watched as Spencer took the glass from your grip, settling it on the counter. Your brows knit together in confusion. “What are you doing?”

But instead of answering you, his eyes were focused intently on the bartender. “You shouldn’t have given her another glass.”

The bartender’s eyes widened slightly, and he held up his hands. “Hey, she asked for it.”

You nodded along. “To be fair, he did offer me Sex on the Beach.”

That didn’t seem to help. Spencer’s grip tightened on your waist, and you could feel him pulling you slightly closer to him. “That’s not funny. We need to get you some water.”

“Reid, it’s just two shots—”

He cut you off, turning back to the bartender. “Can she get a glass of water?”

The bartender nodded, quickly grabbing a glass and filling it with water. He handed it to Spencer, who then turned his attention back to you. “Drink this, please.”

“Seriously, I’m fine,” you protested.

He placed the glass in your hand. “Drink it.”

“Two shots,” you argued, finally facing him. “It’s not a big deal. I’ve drunk a lot worse than this.”

“I'm aware.”

“Then why does it bother you so much?”

He went quiet for a moment, his eyes drifting between you, the glass of water, then back to you.

“Because I don’t like being the reason you’re drinking something you hate in the first place.”

You quickly downed the cool water. How could you even answer that? Your skin suddenly felt hot, and your palms grew clammy as he kept his hand on your waist. You looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

“It’s not because of you,” you said, shrugging as you set the glass down.

"Isn't it, though? Why else would you be reacting this way?"

“Maybe I just like tequila now. Did you ever think of that?”

“You hate tequila," he replied as if it was common knowledge.

“Yeah, well, maybe I’ve developed a taste for it.”

“So you’ve suddenly decided you like something you’ve been avoiding for years?”

“Maybe I’m trying new things,” you shot back, your tone sharp. “Maybe you should try it too.”

There was a moment of silence as he considered your words. "I am trying new things."

You felt him tug you slightly, letting your body fall against his. Your heart sped up as you stared up at him. Even in the dim light of the bar, his brown eyes seemed to catch the faint glow, looking lighter and more intense than usual. You watched as his gaze drifted slowly to your lips.

"Reid..."

"Hmm?"

"What are you doing?"

His expression softened as he looked back at you, his hand still resting lightly on your waist. "I'm trying to play the perfect boyfriend."

"So this is all an act?"

This was it, the moment of truth, the point where everything could change. He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. “No,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing against your hip.

Your hand fell to his chest, fingers pressing lightly to feel the rapid beat of his heart. It was pounding, just as fast as yours.

"Spencer..."

He let out a sigh—a sound that seemed to carry both relief and a touch of disbelief as it left his lips. "I thought I'd never hear you call me that again."

He was right. Ever since you drifted apart, calling him Reid felt safer, like a barrier that kept things distant and professional. Spencer was too personal, too intimate for the walls you had built around yourself. But now, standing so close, it felt like the past and present were colliding, making everything more confusing.

Your finger played with the knot of his tie, absentmindedly tracing the pattern. "You're making this more complicated."

He nodded. "I know."

"We're supposed to break this off."

"I know."

"We're supposed to stick to the plan."

He opened his mouth, then closed it, struggling for a moment before replying, “If that's what you want, then we'll go through it. But...”

You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. "But what?"

"But I need to know if it’s really what you want." His voice faltered slightly. "If you want me to leave, I will."

His question hung in the air like a thick fog, making it hard for you to think clearly. It was a simple choice, wasn't it? Stick to the plan, keep up the fake dating, and finally break it off. No mess, no complications. But why, then, did the thought of him leaving feel like a heavy weight in your chest?

You caught him nervously trailing his bottom lip with his tongue—a habit of his when he was deep in thought. The simple gesture made you feel an unexpected pull, and before you knew it, you found yourself pressing closer to him.

“Spence,” you murmured. “You’re making this really hard.”

“I don’t want to make it hard,” he said quietly. “I-I just I need to know where we stand.”

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. The words felt heavy on your tongue, but you knew you needed to say them.

"I want you to leave," you started, watching as his expression shifted, a hint of pain flickering in his eyes as he slowly pulled away. But before he could step back, you tugged on his tie, pulling him back towards you. "But I'm leaving with you."

His eyes widened slightly. "What do you mean?"

And suddenly, a wave of embarrassment washed over you, and you looked away. "What I'm trying to say is... that—well..."

"Well?"

Your gaze focused somewhere beyond his shoulder, finding it easier to speak without meeting his eyes. "I want to finish what we started that morning."

He blinked, processing your words. "You mean... when we..."

"Yeah."

You noticed his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. "Oh." He leaned in slightly, his hand moving to rest on the small of your back. "How drunk are you right now?"

You couldn't help but let a laugh escape your lips, finally looking back at him. "I had two shots!"

His expression softened, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You know what this means, right?"

"What?"

"If we…" He trailed off, clearing his throat before continuing, "If we do this, it'll change everything."

You smoothed down his shirt, your fingers lingering on the fabric. "I know."

"And you still want that?"

"I do."

He took a deep breath, searching your eyes for any hesitation. "And you want to leave... right now?"

"Look, if you don't want to—"

He quickly cut you off, shaking his head with a slight, nervous chuckle. “No, I do. I just… I want to make sure you do too.”

"I wouldn't be saying this if I didn't mean it."

His eyes softened. “You’re right,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting in a hesitant smile that looked almost like a grimace. “Okay. Okay. We’re doing this.”

Seeing him easily flustered was always amusing for you, and this time was no different. "Come on," you urged him, taking his hand in yours. "Let's get out of here."

"Wait, shouldn't we tell them we're leaving?"

You glanced back at your friends. "And tell them what? That we're going to have sex?"

He almost tripped over his own feet. "Well, when you put it that way…"

You squeezed his hand and flashed him a smile over your shoulder as you started toward the exit. With a quick, eager step, he followed behind.

Spencer’s apartment was just as you remembered—deep green walls, warm lighting, bookshelves lining every corner. But you barely had a moment to register your surroundings before he had his face buried in your neck.

His lips found the sensitive spot below your ear. Your fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt as his mouth trailed a wet path down your throat, and you had to push against his chest slightly because he was pressing you too hard against the door. For a man who spent most of his time buried in books, he seemed to have an unexpected strength that took you by surprise.

“Hey, hey,” you murmured, a soft giggle escaping as you tilted your head to look at him. “Slow down.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes before leaning down again, his hands coming up to cup your face as he kissed you.

His lips were hot against yours, moving with an eager, almost desperate need. He sucked gently on your lower lip, pulling it into his mouth before releasing it with a soft, audible pop. The sudden absence of his mouth left your skin tingling, only to be followed by the gentle graze of his teeth, a playful nip that made you gasp and clutch his shirt tighter.

You felt lightheaded, melting under his touch as his tongue teased the seam of your lips, coaxing them open as his tongue teased the seam of your lips, coaxing them open. You let him in willingly, your tongue meeting his eagerly. The sensation left you feeling hot and dizzy, your entire body craving for more of his taste. It was as if his kiss was an intoxicating drug, leaving you utterly addicted. Even when he pulled away slightly to catch his breath, you grabbed him again, pressing your lips firmly against his.

Spencer sighed with pleasure as he held the back of your head, his fingers splaying against your scalp. You weren't sure how long you stayed like that, lost in the way his lips moved against yours, but the instant you felt his growing bulge brush your hip, you gently pushed him away.

A thin, glistening string of saliva followed you, and you reached up to wipe it from his mouth with a quick, almost embarrassed swipe. His breath came in ragged gasps as he looked down at you, his eyes wide in surprise.

"Sorry, I-I got carried away," he mumbled, letting his hand trail down your spine. "We don't have to do this if you don't want to."

You looked up at him, your eyes searching his. "You thought I pushed you away because I want us to stop?"

"Uh... maybe? I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"No, Spencer," you said softly, reaching up to loosen the knot of his tie. "I pushed you away because I need you to take me to your bed."

He watched intently as you pulled off his tie, and when you pushed his suit jacket off his shoulders, his hands fell to his sides.

"Are you going to watch me undress you, or are you going to help?"

A slow smile spread across his face as he shrugged off the jacket completely, his hands moving to the buttons of his shirt. "I think I can manage that."

He started to unbutton his shirt, his fingers brushing against yours. The moment the last button was undone, he let the shirt fall to the floor with a soft rustle. Your palm glided over his chest as you took in his bare skin. You expected his body to be lean—he had long limbs, after all—but you didn't expect the subtle, defined muscles beneath your touch.

"Spencer, have you been working out?"

You could tell he was embarrassed by the way he shifted his gaze from you. "Morgan convinced me to stay in shape," he admitted with a shy smile. "He insists it's part of the job."

You plant a kiss right above his heart. "Well, it's definitely working."

The warmth of your lips seemed to ease his embarrassment, and he let out a soft sigh, his hands coming up to caress your back. You glanced up at him again. "Will you take me to your bed now?"

He quickly nodded and guided you towards his bedroom. Once inside, you pushed him down onto the edge of his bed. His hands roamed across your body as you slipped between his legs, slowly unbuttoning your blouse. The front of the fabric fell away and his gaze followed every movement, his hands eagerly helping you slide it off your shoulders.

Your bra came off next, the straps sliding down your arms as you tossed it aside. His eyes swept over you with admiration as he licked his lips, his gaze lingering on the exposed curve of your body. He pulled you closer, his hands gripping your waist as he pressed a series of hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone and down to the swell of your breasts.

When he wrapped his lips around your nipple, a sharp, electrifying pleasure shot through you. His tongue flicked and teased, alternating between gentle suckles and soft nibbles that made you gasp and arch into his touch. You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him to you as he continued his ministrations, moving from one breast to the other.

The hand on your back slid lower, his fingers finding the waistband of your pants. You felt him unbutton them, the fabric loosening around your hips. With a firm but gentle tug, he slipped your pants down your legs, followed closely by your panties, until both garments pooled around your feet.

His hand began running up your leg, fingers slipping between your thighs. He let go of your nipple and looked up at you with those brown eyes that seemed to gleam under the light. “Can I touch you?”

You brushed his hair back gently from his forehead. “You’ve touched me before.”

“I want to hear you say it.” 

You felt his fingertips brush so lightly over your clit and you nodded. “Yes,” you breathed out, “You can touch me.”

All you could do was sigh as his fingers moved again. He was so gentle, so careful, sliding his fingers up and down your folds, spreading your arousal with each teasing stroke. His eyes never left your face, watching every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, drinking in the way your lips parted and your breath hitched with each touch.

"Th—That feels good," you cooed, your eyes fluttering low but not completely shut, wanting to see him as he worked over you. He followed your gaze where his fingers continued their exploration, gently pulling back the soft flesh to expose your clit. He traced light, feathery strokes over the sensitive skin and the motion left your legs shaking, nearly losing balance if he weren't holding you against him.

He grabbed the back of your thigh. “Put your leg up here.”

You complied and rested your feet on the bed, giving more access. The new position allowed him to press his fingers more deeply against your clit, his fingers moving in a steady rhythm. You were trembling, mind numb from the way he was touching you, and you almost couldn’t take it when he dipped his middle finger inside your cunt.

"God, Spencer,” you gasped, dropping a hand to the wrist that was nestled between your legs, nails digging into his skin. He slipped another finger inside you, and your eyes screwed shut this time. You could feel his fingers curling inside you, seeking, then finding, the tender spot that made you cry out in pleasure.

Everything became a blur after that. His fingers continued to thrust into you, and with each movement, you grew wetter, the slick sounds of your arousal echoing throughout his room. You clung to his shoulders for support, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he pressed soft kisses across your chest. His thumb then brushed against your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure in gentle circles.

"I'm…” Your eyes fluttered open when his mouth latched onto your hard nipple. “I'm gonna come... if you... keep doing that..." 

You weren't even sure why you were warning him, but you couldn’t stop yourself as your hips rolled against his hands. His thumb circled your clit faster in response, and the world around you began to spin. You gasped his name, the sound escaping your lips in a desperate, breathless moan.

When his teeth softly grazed your sensitive nipple, you finally snapped. Wave after wave of orgasm bliss rolled through your body, the pulse of pleasure sending your thighs trembling as he held you through all of it. It's all too much, too intense, and you were left completely spent, shaking, breathless, and needing to lay down immediately.

Spencer caught you as you collapsed on top of him, the force of your weight pushing him onto his back. You stayed like that for a moment, trying to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling rapidly against his. But it didn't last long when you felt his bulge press right between your thighs. Without thinking, you found yourself rolling your hips.

He let out a sharp gasp, his hands gripping your hips tightly as you moved against him. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the hardness of his erection pressing against you through the fabric of his pants as your face hovered above his, lips barely touching.

"So when are you going to fuck me?"

He bucked his hips against you. "I-I... I have a condom in my drawer."

His words made you falter. Why does he have a condom?

It was stupid, really, you knew why contraception was necessary. But the thought of him having an active sexual life with someone else after you had drifted apart stung deeply. It wasn’t technically your business, but knowing that he might have been with others hurt, especially when the last man you had been close to was him.

"Spence... why do you have a condom?"

You hated how small your voice sounded.

He gently brushed a strand of your hair behind your ear, his eyes searching yours as he weighed his words before letting out a sigh. "After… after that night, when we—almost… I just wanted to be prepared. I didn't know if… if we'd ever…"

You slowly relaxed. "So you haven't used any?"

He shook his head. "No, I haven't."

Your heart swelled at his words. You leaned in and kissed him softly, a sudden rush of affection washing over you. "Well, I think it's time we put it to use," you whispered against his lips, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of your mouth. "Where did you put it?"

"Bottom drawer, on the left."

You pulled away to reach over to his drawer, hearing the sound of his belt buckle unlatching behind you. Your eyes briefly flashed towards the book sitting on the nightstand, a glimpse of its cover catching your attention. But you didn’t dwell on it, you were too focused on rummaging through his things until your fingers brushed against the familiar texture of the wrapper.

He was completely naked as you turned to face him again, your eyes catching his cock resting perfectly against his stomach as he leaned back against the pillows. You crawled over to him and leaned down, placing a soft kiss on his bulging tip.

He let out a sharp hiss. "I-I don't think I can last long if you do that."

You smiled and straightened yourself, your fingers delicately tearing open the wrapper. You could feel his eyes on you, half-lidded with desire, his focus narrowing to the way your fingers brushed against his skin. His body tensed, and his breathing grew heavier, as you slowly slid the condom down his length.

The thin latex felt almost invisible under your fingertips, allowing the heat radiating from his body to seep through. He couldn't take his eyes off you, mesmerized by the way your fingers glided over him so effortlessly. Your touch was firm yet gentle, and when you finally reached the base, you gave him a final, possessive squeeze.

Spencer let out a shaky breath, his hands finding your hips as you positioned yourself over him. You hovered above his tip, teasingly brushing it against your entrance before slowly sinking down. You paused halfway, adjusting to his size, feeling lightheaded as he stretched you regardless of how wet you were. It was overwhelming, but the numbness was exactly the kind of rush you were seeking.

And finally, with a deep breath, you let gravity pull you down, taking him all the way in.

You both gasped at the sensation, the intense fullness causing your muscles to clench around him. His grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh as he steadied you. Then, slowly, you began to move, lifting yourself slightly before sinking back down.

Your breaths synchronized, shallow and quick, as you found a steady rhythm. Spencer’s hands guided you, his palms pressing firmly on your hips before trailing back to your ass, squeezing the soft flesh. You held onto his jaw as you leaned in, your lips meeting in a heated, breathless kiss. His tongue slid into your mouth and your brain turned to mush.

He kissed you hungrily while your hips continued to rise and fall, each movement driving him deeper inside you. You felt his hands roam your body, one sliding up your back to pull you closer, while the other remained on your ass, encouraging you. You moaned into his mouth, the sensation of his lips and his cock brushing your tight, inner walls making you tremble with pleasure.

You pulled back slightly, resting your forehead against his. "S-Spence..."

He nipped at your bottom lip, casually biting and pulling it between his teeth. "Mhm?"

You didn’t know why you had called out his name, only that you needed to. It was more of a reflex than anything else, a desperate need to connect as your pace quickened. He let out a low, throaty sound of pleasure as your walls clenched around him. And that was when you heard your name on his lips. It was soft, but it was enough to drive you to the edge. You rolled your hips urgently, trying to chase that familiar, blissful sensation but your thighs started to burn, your movements slowing down a little. He sensed your struggle and tightened his hands on your waist.

His fingers dug harshly into the tender skin of your sides, his hips bucking up to meet yours with force. His thrusts suddenly became more relentless, each powerful push driving him deeper inside you. The slick, wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your cunt filled the air, the squelch of your joined body punctuating with each thrust.

The pleasure built within you, coiling tighter and tighter until it was all-consuming. Finally, with one last, powerful thrust, you were both pushed over the edge. Your body convulsed with the force of your orgasm at the same time he spilled into you. His head fell back against the pillows, his eyes squeezed shut as your fingers dug into his shoulders, riding out every wave of your climax.

It took a few more minutes before you felt his body relax. You did the same, collapsing on top of him as he is hands softened their grip on you, gently caressing your back.

"Are you… okay?" You simply nodded, too tired to find your own voice. His thumb brushed your side. “Are you sure?”

You nodded again, snuggling yourself closer, feeling the weight of your body pressing down on him. He kissed the top of your head.

“I know you’re making yourself comfortable, but I really need to go to the bathroom.”

You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. “Would it bother you if I peed at the same time you clean yourself?”

The smile that spread across his face lit up his features. “Of course not.”

You pressed a soft kiss to his chest before reluctantly rolling off him. Spencer slid off the bed and reached for your hand, helping you up. You both moved to the bathroom, where Spencer headed for the sink to wash up while you made your way to the toilet.

As you sat there, you thought about how surprisingly natural this felt—almost as if you had done this before. The way he naturally kissed your cheek before exiting the bathroom didn’t feel awkward or out of place, it was oddly comforting. When you finally finished, he was already waiting for you in comfortable clothes. He stretched out his hand, and when you took it, he pulled you close. “Are you hungry?”

You found yourself nodding. “I could eat something.”

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll make us some sandwiches, I think I have enough stuff in the fridge,” he suggested, and then added somewhat sheepishly, “I also, um, put some fresh clothes out for you to use. I hope that’s okay.”

Your heart might burst at how adorable he was. “Thank you, Spence. That’s really sweet.”

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze before heading to the kitchen. You picked up the clothes he had laid out for you—a soft t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, but as you held them, your gaze drifted back to the book sitting on his nightstand. Curiosity got the better of you, and you picked up the book, studying the cover.

The Narrative of John Smith.

You opened it, noticing the handwritten quote on the first page.

“Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone, we find it with another.” —Thomas Merton—

A sudden feeling of nausea hit you, as if you’d been punched in the gut. You flipped through the pages, trying to steady your breathing. It wasn’t the softness of the paper that greeted you as you slipped onto the next page, but the sharp edges of something hard brushing against your fingertips. You carefully pulled out what seemed to be a photograph, your heart sinking as you realized whose it was… Because right in your hand, Maeve was smiling back at you.

Maeve.

Maeve. Donovan.

Everything suddenly came crashing back, the past shooting straight to your heart. The memories, the pain, the confusion—it all flooded your mind in an instant. You remembered why you and Spencer had drifted apart, why that night had changed everything. The woman staring back at you was the reason you had shut yourself off from him in the first place.

No, it wasn’t all her fault—you’d be a heartless fool to blame a dead woman for something she couldn’t control. But she had consumed his mind. The presence she held in his life was enough to end the friendship you once had. And now, holding the photograph, you felt an overwhelming tightness in your chest that made it hard to breathe. The walls seemed to close in, the room feeling too small.

You needed to get out of here.

You quickly pulled on your clothes, the fabric feeling suffocating as you hurriedly dressed. Your movements were frantic, driven by a need to escape. You dashed out of his room, but Spencer was already standing by the bedroom door.

"I was just about to call you, the food is—hey, what's wrong?"

You walked past him, the pain constricting your chest so tightly that you could barely breathe, let alone speak. “I… I need to go,” you stammered out over your shoulder.

Spencer's face fell as he saw the distress in your eyes, his hands reaching out to stop you as you headed for the front door. He turned you to face him, and the moment he saw the tears threatening to spill, his own expression crumpled in worry.

"What happened?" he asked softly, his hands gently cupping your face. You flinched and shoved him away.

“Don’t touch me.”

You noticed the hurt in his eyes, but you barely looked at him, trying to control your own emotions. Your mind was a whirlwind of confusion. You felt the lingering warmth from the post-orgasmic rush, the serotonin still buzzing in your veins, but at the same time, the gut-wrenching pain was consuming you. The fleeting sensation you’d felt moments ago seemed like a cruel mockery now, as your heart twisted with every beat.

“You’re really leaving?”

You slowly nodded, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Just like that, after tonight?”

You remained silent, your mouth shut tight. Then you heard him mutter something under his breath, barely audible but unmistakable.

“That’s what you always do, isn’t it?”

Your eyes snapped to him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

There was a heavy silence, a beat of rising tension as his eyes narrowed at you. “You run away when things get hard.”

You stared back at him in surprise. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“Yes,” he said sharply. “Every time we get to a point where we might actually resolve something, you disappear.”

Was that really how he saw you? Someone who ran away at the first sign of trouble? The thought was a bitter pill, one that left a heavy, sour taste in your mouth.

“That’s not fair,” you protested, shaking your head as you felt the sting of tears at the corner of your eyes.

“Well, you know what’s not fair?” His voice suddenly turned a pitch higher, each word cutting through the air. “Pulling me into this—this whole fake relationship thing and then running away when it starts to mean something real.”

“What?” The accusation stung, a sharp jab to your already fragile heart. “You think this was easy for me? You think I didn’t have doubts?”

"I think you dragged me into this and now you’re scared because it’s not just a game anymore," he pressed, his eyes flashing with frustration as he stepped closer. “Every time l show that l actually care, you run away.”

“I don’t run away.”

“Yes, you do. You always bail on me,” he argued, his tone growing sharper with each word. “Just like that morning, just like now, and just like that night—”

You finally had enough.

"Don’t you dare bring that up!” You snapped. “You don’t get to use that against me. You know exactly why I had to leave!”

Spencer flinched as if he was struck. The impact of your words hit him hard, and you could see the hurt and realization dawning in his eyes. His posture sagged, the tension in his shoulders melting away as the anger drained from his face. “I know, I know,” he whispered, the regret clear in his voice. “I-I’m sorry.”

Your heart ached, the pain of old wounds reopening. The memories of that night, the way you felt invisible and helpless—it all came crashing back. You shook your head, taking a step back, needing to put distance between you. “No, I can’t do this right now.”

You turned away, desperate to escape. The walls felt like they were closing in, your chest tightening with every breath.

“Wait,” he called after you. “I’m sorry. Please… I don’t… stay, please.”

You paused slightly, but you couldn’t let yourself give in. Not when every painful memory from that night seemed to claw its way back to the surface. Not when the fear of getting hurt again loomed so large. Not when you knew if you turned back now, you might never find the strength to walk away again.

“We should end this whole thing,” you said quietly, each word feeling like a knife twisting in your heart. “I’ll tell Hotch first thing in the morning.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. The reality of what you had said sank in, and for a moment, it felt like time itself had frozen. His face fell, a look of utter devastation crossed his features as his eyes searched yours, trying to grasp at the fragments of what was left. He opened his mouth to speak, but you couldn’t bear to face him any longer.

You slowly reached for the door, wrenching it open before stepping into the cold night. You left him standing there, watching helplessly as you walked away for what felt like the hundredth time.

[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? 🤣

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

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[magicalmanhattanproject]

admins better pray cellbit and tubbo don't interact anytime soon bc like goddamn tubbo is Powerful at this. like cellbit is an absolutely phenomenal investigator but he is weaker at interrogation bc everyone knows that he's an investigator and that he's talking to you because he wants information

meanwhile tubbo rocks up to you and starts chattering like a silly goofy guy and before you know it you've admitted to 15 different state secrets because he's asking casual, chill questions and interpreting answers and hahaha oops you might be in a bit of trouble with [classified]

[youthchronical]

Trump Administration Opens Leak Investigations

The Trump administration has opened its first known investigations into what it called “politically motivated leaks,” fulfilling promises to pursue the sources of stories involving national security revelations. Tulsi Gabbard, the director of national intelligence, announced the investigations in a statement on Friday. Among the accusations, she said The Washington Post had published leaked…

[annievrse]

who's gonna know you like me?

dazai x fem!reader —ᡣ𐭩 fic summary: when a notorious gifted, george orwell, shows up in yokohama, you and dazai are sent to detain him. c/w: idiots in love ig, she/her pronouns, torture, blood, mutilation of a limb, kidnapping, dazai calls reader bella' w/c: 3.7k a/n: maybe this was a dream i had, maybe it wasn't, but what i do know is that i had to write this asap...

"I would thank you for helping us, Dazai," Ango Sakaguchi states. "But you owe me."

The brunette next to you rolls his eyes but continues walking down the long hallway of the complex. "Anything for a dear friend."

You're sure Ango can detect the obvious sarcasm in Dazai's voice, but he doesn't say anything. You look up at your coworker. Dazai's eyes don't stray from the end of the hallway, but you know there's humour in his gaze.

Dazai's fingers brush your knuckles as the three of you turn the corner. The sudden zip of electricity up your arm makes you pull away before he notices anything.

"So," you start, shaking your thoughts of Dazai. "What's this guy's ability?"

Ango side-eyes you. "Classified."

Rolling your eyes, you bump shoulders with Dazai to prompt him to help you. "C'mon Ango. If my shadows are restraining this guy, I wanna know why."

Ango only sighs and takes his glasses off. A faint scowl twists his expression. You guess Ango's stalling when he cleans his glasses with a cloth from his pocket before sliding them back onto his nose.

"His ability is 'Big Brother'."

You nod, urging him to go on. When he doesn't, you flick your hand out. "And..."

You're not expecting the voice from your left. "Wherever he looks will suffer the demand he thinks."

Tilting your head, you think it through. Whatever he looks at will suffer the demand he thinks of... You hold back a shiver. President Fukuzawa gave no details when he sent you with Dazai.

"I don't want to know how you obtained that information, Dazai, but if you go telling unauthorised personnel—"

"Relax, Sakaguchi," Dazai laughs, though the sound is strained. "Your secret's safe with me."

An alarm sounds as the door you've stopped in front of opens. Dazai almost stumbles to a stop, running into your shoulder before rubbing the spot with his hand. Your lips twist into a smile, and you try to suppress the clear fondness you have for him in front of Ango.

"Before we enter," Ango's voice is stern, and if he notices the casual intimacy between you and Dazai, he doesn't say anything. "I need to warn you of this man. He is extremely powerful."

Dazai sighs. "Why isn't he in the prison then?"

Ango's expression doesn't change. "He broke out."

Your eyebrows fly to your hairline as you glance at Dazai, who, unlike you, doesn't give away his surprise. "You're kidding."

Ango turns toward you. "Orwell is dangerous. Be careful."

Dazai nods, not taking Ango's warning seriously—or he already knows what Orwell's capable of. The thought scares you.

"Return to base immediately after arriving at the location of the sighting, even if you don't find him. We'll need to do medical checks."

You open your mouth to ask about the checks but are interrupted when four men in combat gear appear in the doorway.

"Escort them to location 6846," Ango's monotone voice makes you glance at Dazai. He looks down at you and winks. "Report to headquarters every minute on the minute."

And then you're whisked away into the back of an armoured truck.

The bench you sit on in the rear of the truck is cold, and Dazai is close next to you; the side of his thigh warms yours, and you almost forget you're about to undergo the most challenging mission of your career.

"Agents 0345 and 0543 have reached location 6846."

The truck slows to a stop, and you inhale sharply to calm your racing heart. Warm hands enclose your shaking ones.

"Just nervous," You say offhandedly, but Dazai sees right through you.

"You'll be great," Dazai whispers, ignoring your excuse while watching the guards exit the truck. "You always are."

Your ears heat up at the subtle compliment, and you nod.

At the guard's gesture, you jump out of the truck and find yourself in front of an abandoned warehouse. The sun sets behind the building, cloaking you and the rest of the team in a murky orange.

"Boring," You mutter, eyeing the decrepit building. "I was hoping for an infiltration or a raid."

Dazai laughs darkly next to you. "It's never boring with you, bella'. Now, check the perimeter, would you?"

Suppressing a smile, you close your eyes. Sheets of darkness surround the building, making it impossible for anyone inside or out to see through.

You scrunch your nose. "I've got three heartbeats inside."

The armoured guards murmur around you, most likely commenting about your ability, maybe one updating Ango, but you block them out.

Retracting your shadows, you turn to Dazai. "Plan?"

Dazai pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue before walking straight for the warehouse; you follow.

"Top or bottom level?"

You listen to your shadows swirling around you. "Top."

Dazai nods once, squinting at the upstairs windows. He reaches behind him and flips his coat to the side. A handgun sits tucked into the waistband of his pants. He draws it, clicks the safety off and returns it to its place.

Instead of speaking, Dazai points to the open doorway to the left of the building. Upon closer inspection, you see a staircase beside the entrance and nod in understanding.

Before you leave, Dazai pulls you in by the waist, his grip firm. He presses his lips to your forehead. "Be careful."

You give him a deadpan look. "You be careful. I don't need you dying on me today."

"Never gonna happen."

Breaking off from him, you sneak inside and up the stairs, sending your shadows ahead. The heartbeats remain where they are.

The building is falling apart. The concrete stairs wobble under your feet, and dust falls from the ceiling. Without brushing it from your hair, you arrive at the top step. You're unphased by the prominent tripwire that is strung before your feet. Rolling your eyes, you step over it.

There's no sound when you peer around the corners of the numerous rooms for potential traps. A sudden intake of air has you spinning around. A man dressed in black stands in the middle of the hallway.

He draws his gun and aims for you, his trigger finger fast. The bullet aimed at your head hits the floor five feet away from you, your shadows retreating behind you.

"Wha—"

Darkness sweeps his feet from under him, and the gun goes clattering into another room.

"You're just human," You mumble, standing over him. Your mind is going a million miles an hour at the fact. The man shakes, and you kick his face to knock him out. You don't kill humans.

Turning around, you continue checking rooms. Entering the last doorway, your shoulders drop in disappointment.

"Really?" You groan, sighing. Your shadows didn't tell you about his presence—you swear they love him more than you despite dying out when he touches you.

Despite memorising his outline, finding Dazai standing there with a smirk and a hand around the wrist of who you assume is Orwell surprises you.

"How did you even get up here?" You look for potential entry points but come up empty-handed.

Dazai shrugs. "I never reveal my secrets in front of an enemy. But I'll tell you all about it later."

Orwell growls, and if it's because he just realised his ability doesn't work or something else, you don't know. But when you look at his other hand, or lack of it, you see why.

A pool of crimson sits directly under Orwell's mutilated arm, cut at the elbow. His arm drips blood steadily onto the floor, and the sight makes you nauseous.

Despite knowing Dazai's Port Mafia history and his capabilities to his core, you don't wish to figure out how or when he did this to Orwell. But the severed limb is nowhere to be seen, and there are no traces of blood on Dazai's bandages.

You clench your jaw and look away from it. Your gaze meets Dazai's, and he seems almost apologetic. Swallowing, you step further into the room.

"Don't look at her," Dazai says, his tone causing shivers down your spine. He walks in front of Orwell, fingers tight on the other man's wrist. He crouches down. "Look at me. I'm who you're after. Don't drag her into your fucked up shit."

The admission surprises you, and you circle the room to get a better look at what's going on. Orwell looks at you and giggles.

"How did you know? Hm?" Dazai mutters, head tilted. Orwell grunts, trying to rip his wrist from Dazai's hold, but it doesn't move.

"Me?" Orwell laughs bitterly. "The entire underworld knows."

Dazai curses lowly and glances at you. You're frozen in your spot, your shadows swirling around. Then he stands.

"Get up."

Orwell glares at Dazai and remains seated. his eyes are trained on you, and you wonder what Dazai was asking about. What does the entire underworld know about?

Dazai sighs, pulling his wrist. Orwell stumbles up, dripping blood wherever he goes. You send your shadows to wrap around Orwell's chest, thighs, and eyes.

"Shadow user," He mumbles, giggling. "You'd pay a special price where I'm from."

Disgust ripples through you, so you tighten your shadows until he yelps. Dazai yanks him forward and out of the room. You're close behind, avoiding the splatters of blood on the concrete floor.

Down the stairs and out into the open night, your shadows don't waver their hold on him, and neither does Dazai.

Stopping suddenly, you turn your head to the left.

There were three heartbeats.

"Stop!" You yell. Before you, everyone freezes, including Dazai, whose eyes widen.

Your name leaves his lips in an urgency you haven't heard before, and you assume he's just realised what you have.

Instead, there's a dull thwack to the back of your head, and your neck snaps forward as you fall over. Stars dot your fading vision, and there's an ache behind your eyes. The last thing you hear is Orwell's hysterical laughter and Dazai calling your name.

The moment you're conscious, you feel nauseous. "Wha—"

"Quiet."

You squeeze your eyes tighter; the light directed at your face feels brighter than the sun. You move your hands and feet to discern if you're restrained—you are. Mentally rolling your eyes, you shift in the hard metal seat you've been attached to.

Your shadows whisper about Dazai. They seem excited, which, in turn, gives you hope. Dumb, stupid hope.

"Water?" You choke out, voice scratchy against your dry throat.

"What'ya say?"

"Water. Do you have any water?"

A grumbling laugh echoes, and you're in another abandoned warehouse. Typical. Your hope wavers slightly.

When the man's footsteps come closer, you open your eyes into slits to gauge him through the light, and then you're suddenly soaked head to toe in ice-cold water. You gasp sharply and breathe heavily in shock.

"There's ya fuckin' water."

You're still hyperventilating and maybe shivering, but your eyes fly open. The brightness of the lamp hurts. "That was fucking rude."

The man disappears behind the light again. "You're a feisty one."

"Why am I here?" You decide to just go for it. Your shadows are dimmed, but you can feel one delicately swirling around your chained hands.

"You're one special lady, did you know that?" The man exclaims.

"Why don't you just kill me?" You spit, squinting. The silence that follows your question is unnerving.

Before you can ask again, the man giggles and says your name. "It's fun to play, don't you think?"

You scrunch your nose in disgust and try looking to your right. Your muscles burn as you do so, but you can see the night sky through the window in the ceiling. How does he know your name?

"You saw what I wanted you to see," He says. "Isn't that cool?"

You furrow your eyebrows and run through everything that happened earlier. Pushing Dazai's disturbed expression from your mind, you deduce a timeline.

The warehouse. Three heartbeats. Dazai. Blood.

Three heartbeats.

The realisation pours over you like the ice water, chilling you to the bone. You're breathless when the words leave your lips. "You're Orwell."

The light swings away from your eyes, and the face of the man you'd restrained with your shadows in the other warehouse appears in front of you. "Surprise!"

Dread claws at your chest. You're unsure whether you're shivering from the water still clinging to your hair or from pure, unguarded fear. If this is the real criminal you've been tasked with finding and detaining, then who's the other guy? What happened to Dazai?

The thought of him leaves you troubled.

"Who was the other guy? The one you forced your face on?"

"You're smart," The real Orwell hums. It was a human."

You curse. You don't begin to think about Dazai's torture of the man.

"And now that you're here," He continues. "Dazai will show up any second—"

How he knows you and Dazai's names doesn't scratch the surface of your questions. Amid Orwell's rambling, you feel the chains loosen around your wrists. The sound is muffled by your shadows as the metal lowers to the ground, and then you feel the chains on your ankles weaken.

"—we're gonna have so much fun! You and me." His eyes are wild when he looks at you, but you feel no coercion in your mind or body.

And then he frowns. You avoid looking at him directly, but you fear the worst when his forehead creases. He's staring at your feet, and your heart stops.

"I was gonna unchain you, but it seems you've already done it for me."

You leap from the chair and direct your shadows at his face to cover his eyes. He can't force you to do things if he can't see you.

But then you go rigid and know he's got ahold of you. You feel your body walk toward him; your movements are awkward. The voice at the back of your head is screaming for release from his claws, but there's nothing you can do except for what Orwell forces.

Your arms are thrown to the side, and your legs move in ways you don't think they ever have. He's making you dance.

"All we need is some music and an audience, and we've got a performance!"

His maniacal laughs echo in the large room, and despite your fear, disgust, and hatred, your face remains neutral.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and Orwell forces your mouth into a grin. "And she can smile! Such a pretty smile for a pretty girl."

Your shadows are nowhere to be found, you're sure they were forced back when Orwell took over your mind.

He rushes toward you, his face close to yours. His breath is acrid, and you try and tear your head away, to no avail.

"Now for questions!"

It's not your usual torture technique, but when your body crumples on the floor and pain shoots up your spine, Orwell is done with the act.

"Who sent you and Dazai to my hideout? Who ratted me out?" He growls, kneeling before you.

Your lips move before you can stop them. "The Government."

Orwell hums, standing and walking around you in a circle. Your back aches and there's an uncomfortable grasp around your lungs.

"Is it true you're involved with Dazai in a different way than just being in the agency together?"

The question throws you, and so does the way he asks it. But, like the other question, you answer before you're aware of what you're saying.

"Yes."

Orwell hums. The answer satisfies him, but you don't know why.

"Is he your boyfriend?"

The question makes you shrink with unease. "No."

"That's something Dostoyevsky got wrong," He whispers. The name raises alarm bells in your mind, but you can't speak.

"Does Dazai know what Dostoyevsky's up to?"

"No."

"Maybe you're hopeless after all."

When he's not looking at you, you can move the tips of your fingers. The longer he has his mind on something else, the more you gain feeling back into your body. His clutch on your windpipe eases, and you can finally breathe steadily. Where your hand lays on the floor, darkness stirs.

"Dostoyevsky said to remove the hopeless ones—"

Before he can finish, there's an explosion outside the warehouse. It's only a split second, but your shadows whisper about the explosion when Orwell's focus on you completely detaches.

Dazai, Dazai, Dazai...

The edges of your vision become blurry, and you go to swat away the growing darkness before Orwell can see you falling back—but he's the one who's forcing you to pass out.

Dazai feels his knees weaken when he sees you on the floor. Anger rises within him, and when he spots Orwell's hunched body in the corner, he makes a beeline for him.

"What the fuck did you do to her?"

Orwell turns from where he's loading a rifle. His fingers tinker with the bullets, but they keep slipping from his grip. Dazai's smile is feral, and he tilts his head like a predator observing its prey.

"I thought I asked you a question," He sings. "And I don't want to ask it again."

Dazai knows Orwell is trying to control him, but the commands are hopeless. Orwell then turns his attention to you, who still lies unconscious in the middle of the room. A sick grin breaks across his face, and then he's making your body writhe on the floor.

Dazai grabs his wrist, twisting it with a strength he'd never used since he left the Port Mafia—that Dazai is dead, or he was. He can never seem to control his emotions around you.

Trying a different approach, Dazai states the obvious. "You tricked us."

Orwell's expression lights up, and he laughs, forgetting about his broken wrist, and, by extension, you. "I did! Wasn't it great?"

Dazai raises an eyebrow and digs in his back pocket for his folding knife with his other hand. "It was. But I like what I'm gonna do to you more."

When Orwell was hired by Fyodor Dostoyevsky to take out Osamu Dazai, he was aware of the man's ability but not his dark specialities. For what he did to you, Orwell will never see it coming.

And as Dazai goes to work on the man, carving and gauging, he only thinks of avenging you. Blood paints his beige coat, and he thinks it a shame that something this dirty has to ruin your favourite jacket of his.

The screams of the gifted make his blood sing, and he knows, somewhere deep in his dark and twisted heart, that you'd do the same for him.

Your limbs tingle as you wake. A sound close to a whimper escapes you, and you realise you're no longer on the concrete but in someone's lap.

You open your eyes slightly. A familiar jaw and brown hair come into focus. His hands are secure around your waist and under your head.

"Hey," Dazai mutters your name, it sounds nice coming from his lips. "I've got you, you're safe."

It takes you a moment to realise this isn't a dream—only because of the smell of rot violating your senses.

"You're okay." You're sure Dazai's saying it more to himself than you. "He didn't do anything to you, did he?"

You've never seen such concern in Dazai's eyes before. You shake your head, blinking away the bleariness.

You think of what happened earlier, and the memory makes you cringe and laugh awkwardly. "He made me dance."

Dazai makes a noise at the back of his throat. He doesn't seem to think it's funny. He moves his hand from your waist to your face.

"Where's the other guy?" You ask, liking the feel of his skin on yours.

"I killed him." His bluntness causes you to come to your senses faster.

"Why?"

"I didn't like how he looked at you," Dazai's brown eyes meet yours. "And I thought he was the real one when you disappeared. Thought it was all his fault."

Sighing, you reach your palm to his cheek. His skin is softer than the last time you touched his face, or maybe you're still hazy, but the feeling is comforting. You swear his cheeks turn pink when you smile at him, but you forget it when the sound of footsteps is racing toward you.

"Dazai," A familiar voice calls, and you can't place it until your name follows soon after.

Ango is breathless when he stops before you. "Are you okay?"

Dazai nods, and you smile. "All good, Ango."

Ango rubs his forehead. "Good, good..."

You grab Dazai's hand, and he immediately squeezes your fingers.

"Orwell has been detained, he's being transported to Meursault now."

"But he escaped," You state, brain still a little fuzzy.

"He did," Ango says. "But we've taken... extra measures this time."

You don't miss how Ango glances at Dazai; you can guess what he did to Orwell.

You groan. "You did not."

Dazai stares at you with a softness only reserved for you. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it, bella'."

So you don't.

"Make sure you're at headquarters in half an hour," Ango mumbles.

Dazai says nothing and watches him return to the truck. You call his name softly.

"I was scared," You whisper.

Dazai sighs. "So was I."

You sit up, swallowing your shock at his blunt honesty, and take his face in your hands. "Thank you."

Dazai shakes his head. "Don't thank me. I'd put myself through anything to save you, you know that."

"He asked me about you," You blurt, watching closely for his reaction.

Dazai goes stiff. "Who?"

"Orwell."

Dazai swears. "About what?"

"Dostoyevsky."

"Shit," He helps you stand. Once on your feet, Dazai wraps an arm around your shoulder. You lean into him.

"That's bad, isn't it?"

Dazai doesn't answer your question. "It means they're aware you mean something to me."

The statement brings warmth to your chest, but then you remember what the fake Orwell said to Dazai.

The entire underworld knows.

"Oh, guess I'm famous," You comment plainly. You tried to make it a joke, but there's little to joke about when your life's in danger.

Dazai laughs bitterly, fingers dancing on your shoulder. "Just means I gotta keep an eye on you at all times."

"You wanna stay over tonight, don't you?" When you get outside, the horizon beams with morning light. "Or, this morning..."

Dazai presses his lips to your hair. "You know me so well, bella'."

[1americanconservative]

@WallStreetApes

Let me get this straight, Democrats lost their mind over Elon Musk and DOGE having access to American’s data

BUT

A PRIVATE Democrat law firm FUNDED BY GEORGE SOROS called Perkins Coie has access to classified information and security clearances

Over $22 MILLION in George Soros linked payments: -

$5 million: Direct donation to Perkins Coie’s political law practice prior to 2016, reportedly for funding lawsuits challenging state election laws.

- $3 million: Sole donation to the Immigrant Voters Win PAC, set up by Perkins Coie lawyer Jonathan Berkon, linked to Soros’s support for immigrant voting initiatives.

- $1.7 million: Donation to the Philadelphia Justice & Public Safety PAC (registered at Perkins Coie’s D.C. office) to support Larry Krasner’s 2017 DA campaign.

- $9.5 million: Donation to Priorities USA (a Democratic-aligned super PAC that has retained Perkins Coie), linked to Soros’s broader election influence efforts

- $1 million: Contribution from Alex Soros (George Soros’s son) to Priorities USA, also noted in posts found on X, potentially tied to Perkins Coie’s legal services.

AND IT GETS WORSE

Mike Davis, “The commander in chief, the president and the president alone gets to decide who has access to classified information. So if the president of the United States doesn't want Perkins Coie or any other law firm or person to have access to classified information, that is his absolute right”

This law firm Perkins Coie is responsible for

- Making up the Russian collusion hoax back in 2016

- They then ran to the FISA court and got an illegal spy warrant

- Lied to the FISA court, got an illegal spy warrant on then presidential candidate Donald Trump

- They continued to spy on President Donald Trump when he was the president of the United States

- They colluded with intel agencies and law enforcement to make up crossfire hurricane (With our nation's most classified secrets because they politicized and weaponized crossfire hurricane, which is the biggest scandal in American history.)

- They continued the lawfare against president Trump after he left office, the four indictments for non-crimes

- They tried to throw him off the ballot under a bogus theory under the constitution

- They underfunded Trump's secret service protection and tried to take off its head

- They were also directly involved with Barack Obama’s birth certificate

“So this law firm has proven that it can't be trusted”

https://x.com/i/status/1898256113151144237

[emberfrostlovesloki]

National Anthem [Hotch X Reader]

Photo Credits: Left (@adropofacid) Center (@hannahs-quirky-moments) Right (@pedroscowgirl)

Prompt: When the reader goes AWOL, the BAU has to figure out way she is leaking government secrets, and if she’s working with a group of terrorists taking out soldiers seemingly out of the blue.  

Pairing: Aaron x Non!BAU-Reader. The reader uses she/her pronouns. 

Category: Hurt / Angst - No Happy Ending 

Word Count: 6.4K 

Content Warnings: Kidnapping, Drug Overdose [Reader], Death [Reader], Mention of sex, guns, language. If I missed anything, please let me know. 

A/N: Hi all! I hope you are all doing very well! Here is a fic that I have been thinking about for a long time. I want to note that I don’t know a lot about the army or its command structure, so if I got something wrong, I’m sorry. I love a good bit of angst, and I hope it delivers for you. The title is based on the Lana Del Rey song of the same name. I hope that you enjoy this fic, and if you do, please like, share, and comment. Love Levi - ❤️ 

List with all stories 

y/n = your name 

y/l/n = your last name 

y/e/c = your eye color 

The DOD building had so much more extra security than the Quantico Office that even Aaron thought it was a bit over the top. As he and Emily got through the fifth and final chcheckpointthey were scanned over one last tmtimend met by a stern-looking general who had the nametag Harrow on. He greeted the two agents and said, “Follow me. I’m happy the BAU is involved in this case, because right now we’re stymied, so having a new set of eyes on this will be helpful.” Hotch nodded and replied, “We’ll do what we can to help, Sir.” As they walked down the long tiled hallways Emily shot Aaron a look that said, “That wasn’t a thanks for being, that was a fix this shit, talk.” Hotch caught the drift and nodded, ing back, “It is, but we don’t say anything about it.” Em nodded back in understanding. The trio got to a secured door, and General Harrow opened and ushered Hotch and Prentiss inside. The room was large with maps and charts on the wall as well as a printout of the city of Chicago on top of the long table. There were three other people in the room who stood when the Agents and the General entered the room. General Harrow made quick introductions by saying, “Agents Hotchner and Prentiss, this is Brigadier General Pabts, Officer Keen, and Lieutenant Blake. I’ll let General Pabts tell you about our current sensitive situation. thereTherealso folders holding the highly classified information as well.  

Pabts motioned Hotch and Emily to sit, which everyone did before he clicked a slideshow, and the face of a young woman in army marine fatigues appeared on the wall. The older man stated, “Officer y/n, y/l/n. She’s been enlisted in the Marines for years and is a dedicated officer. She disappeared two weeks ago, and we believe she’s been kidnapped by a foreign group who is torturing her for information, which is being leaked on sites online.” Aaron gave a nod in understanding as Pabts continued, “Not only are classified documents being leaked, but because of those leaks, a highly skilled sniper seems to be targeting those in the documents. Five decorated army men have been unceremoniously gunned down in the dead of day and I’m sick and tired of seeing my people get hurt and killed for serving this country.” The man’s moment of anger was ignored by everyone in the room as Lieutenant stepped in and said, “I was Offcer yOfficer CO on our mission in Chicago. There had been rumors of the terrorist organization setting down roots in IlliniosIllinoiswere trying to get ahead of the group. We had an elite squad of both Marines and Army on an undercover mission. A week into the mission had names and a location. On our first scouting mission to the location was whe, y/n/n disappeared. Officer Keen was the last to see Officer y/l/n before she disappeared. So either we have an AWOL officer or one that’s being tortured this moment for information - neither of those is are good option for us. Now. Officer Keen, please describe your last encounter with Officer y/l/n.” 

Officer Keen swallowed nervously before saying, “Officer y/l/n and I were scouting an alley. She seemed anxious. More anxious than normal, but we were getting close to where the terrorist cell was, and she was taking point, so I would have been nervous too. We reached an alley that had ladder access to the roof of the building we were scouting. y/n took the ladder route, and I took the street. I expected to meet her again before we got to the building, but she never showed. As it turned out, the building was a ruse. There were signs that the terrorist cell had been there, but they’d left the day before or so. It was only ten minutes before I realized that y/n wasn’t showing up. The unit all started looking, but we couldn’t find y/n anywhere. There weren’t signs of a struggle apart from some blood that was DNA matched to Officer y/n on the top of the roof and down to the street below, but from there the trace went cold.” 

General Harrow looked at Aaron and Emily and said, “Now you understand the circumstances and severity of what we’re dealing with. I’ll leave you both with General Pabts, Officer Keen, and Lieutenant Blake as you read over the information in those folders. If you have any questions, feel free to ask them anything. We’re hoping to have you and your team at Scott Air Force Base in Illinois by the end of the day.” General Harrow didn’t have to say, “Do I make myself clear?” to be understood. This was an order that the BAU would follow. Hotchner stood and shook the General’s hand and said, “My team will be there by the end of the day, Sir.” Harrow nodded once more and then left the room, not even acknowledging Emily’s presence. Aaron sat back down and didn’t even open the file before asking his first question: “Can my team and I see the leaked documents that have been causing the L.D.S.K.?” Lieutenant Blake asked, “L.D.S.K., Sir?” Emily tried not to sigh and said, “Long Distance Serial Killer. There are only two known cases dealing with L.D.S.K.s, but it looks like we might be dealing with three now.” Blake nodded and said, “Understood. Unfortunately, we can’t share those classified documents with you. They’ve been rescrubbed from the web, nd the fewer people who know about that information, he better for the country it will be.” Aaron’s jaw tightened, and he said, “I understand this is a matter of national security, Sir, but how are we supposed to work out the motivation of the sniper, or unsub as the BAU calls them, if we don’t have that information.” Bl? Ke didn’t budge, this was now a power play between the FBI and the DOD, where bad blood was thick. Blake continued, ���Your unit is all about looking at trends and finding patterns. We have five dead army men in those folders looking for justice. See if you can link those patterns together.” Hotch chose not to respond to the taunt, instead, he and Emily opened their files and started reading. 

After three hours of reading and asking tense questions, Emily and Hotch got out of the stifling room with their files and more information about the Marines and y/n’s unit than they may have wanted. The duo was about to walk out of the building when Officer Keen found them in the hallway. She approached and in a quiet voice stated, “Please find y/n. She was my friend.” Emily looked at the younger woman in front of her and, with sympathy, said, “We’re going to do our best.” As soon as they had their things back and were in the car, Aaron called Morgan and said, “Get the team ready to fly now. We’re headed to Chicago. Wheel’s up in thirty.” 

On the jet, the team was more together than normal as Hotch and Em briefed them on the case so far. After hearing the details, Rossi stated, “I think we should split up into two teams. Morgan, JJ, and I can take the L.D.S.K. aspect. That will leave Aaron, Emily, and Spencer on the missing soldier.” Hotch nodded in agreement and said, “Sounds good. I’m going to give Penelope a call and see if she can find those files.” Hotch dialed Garcia and said, “Garcia, you’re on speaker. Do you think you could track down some files for me? They’re DOD and they’ve been scrubbed from the net.” There was a long pause before Penelope said, “Are you telling me to break into the DOD firewall, Hotch?” Aaron sighed and said, “I’m saying having these files will make our jobs easier and save more lives.” There was the sound of frantic typing before Pen said, “Got it. This might take longer than usual, but I’ll find your files. Please fax me the relevant data.” Hotch nodded and replied, “And Garcia, don’t get caught,” before he hung up the call and moved to the back of the plane to fax the documents that Penelope would need to do her job. 

Arriving at the Military base was like moving into another world, one that didn’t jive with the BAU. Commander Rambart showed the team the room that was for their use and the bunks that they would be staying in. The younger man looked at Reid and Morgan as he said, “This isn’t the Hilton like you’re used to, but it will have to work for you folks.” After that, the man left the team to their own devices. Morgan looked at Aaron and asked, “Is there some bad blood between the army and the BAU that I don’t understand?” Hotch sighed, setting his duffle bag on his lower bunk before saying, “It’s the army, Morgan, they have bad blood with everyone. And let’s not forget that we’re stepping on their toes, they can’t be too happy about that.” Derek nodded, setting up his stuff above Hotch, and replied, “Noted. Stay away from the army brats.” 

In the evidence room, the team regrouped, and with Rossi’s team working their angle, and Aaron looking for y/n. Hotch turned to Reid and asked, “Assuming that Officer y/l/n was taken, how many routes are there on and off of the roof she was on?” Reid looked at the map and ran some calculations in his head in a millisecond before saying, “There are three viable routes, but if y/n was carried or knocked out on the roof then I’d say there’s only one, and given that she was injured, it’s possible that was the scenario. If not, why wouldn’t she have screamed?” Hotch nodded along and said, “Are we going to go and check out the scene? I can also call Garcia and see if y/n’s phone has pinged anywhere since the day she was supposedly taken.” Hotch nodded and replied, “Sounds like a plan. I think having boots on the ground is the best option for us to start with. We’re looking for any sign that y/l/n is alive, see if she left any clues on how to find her. Anything.” Prentiss and Spencer nodded and headed out the door with Aaron at the front of the pack. 

Rossi turned to Derek and said, “JJ and I will start looking at the profiles of the victims. How about you go down to the evidence and see if the bullet fragments can tell us anything. Morgan nodded and said, “Good luck with those files. Hotch told me they were heavy reading.” Just as Morgan left the room, he overheard Dave say to JJ, “Great, heavy reading and our super iededic reader is off on a team I assigned him to.” Derek chuckled and pushed open the door and moved through the long building, and outside. As he walked through the compound, he passed a group of trainees doing pushups and jumping jacks in the hot evening sun. The drill sergeant's voice calling out numbers and insults to the recruits on the ground. As he passed the people, Morgan was happy he was where he was, and not in their position. It was a bit of a trek to the evidence building on the other side of the base, but Morgan got there in good time. He checked in with the officer at the front desk, showing the young woman with slicked back hair his credentials before he was swiped into the next level of the building. Morgan was directed to go down the hallway, take a left, and right, and it was the door at the end of the hallway. Derek followed the directions and entered a large room that had three tables at the front end and a shooting range on the other side of the room. Morgan stood alone for a second before another person entered the room. It was another young, attractive officer with a name tag of J. Palacios. The woman nodded at Derek and said, “I was told you were here to look at the evidence from the recent shootings. Am I correct?” Morgan smiled and replied, “Yes, Ma’am.” Ms. Palacios looked unamused and replied, “Save your Ma’ams for someone else, I have a job to do here, and your little team is just getting in my way, so put on some gloves. I’ll show you what we have so far, and you can be on your merry way.” Derek soberly nodded before moving to put on some gloves. 

It was golden hour by the time Hotch, Prentiss, and Reid got to the rooftop where y/n had allegedly been taken. Thankfully it h, it hadn’t rained since y/n went missing, and the blood stains were still visible on the roof. Spencer and Aaron quickly started examining the blood splatter pattern to see if it looked like a bullet wound or a knife wound at had been used to inflict the bleeding. Reid followed the blood splatter to the edge of the roof and motioned Hotch and Emily over. Once at the genius’s side, Spence said, “Officer y/n wasn’t unconscious or carried off the roof. She must have been ambushed, injured, but left the roof using her own strength.” Prentiss looked and Reid and asked, “Why do you think that?” Spencer frowned and said, “Well, if I were trying to get someone unconscious off a roof, I’d use the safety ladder, not the option where you have to jump to a different roof and then down to the ground.” Hotch nodded and said, “There’s something about the blood pattern that’s off t, oo. Like the bleeding was controlled, I doubt Officer y/l/n was patched up on the roof by her abductors.” Emily looked at the pair and said, “You think Officer y/l/n went AWOL, don’t you?” Aaron crossed his arms over his chest and said, “I don’t know that, I just think that her abductors would have asked for a ransom already, the facts just seem off. Emily looked at the distance that y/n would have had to jump and couldn’t fault Hotch or Spencer with how they were thinking. No matter what, when she looked at it, the facts weren’t adding up. 

Rossi closed the file he was finished with and opened the next one and said, ‘Well they didn’t redact that all of those who have been killed so far were all on the same base at the same time in Iraq two years ago, the question is, what kind of mission where they running.” JJ looked up from her file and replied, “Well, that’s what we hope Garcia can find. It didn’t seem like anything special was happening at the base during the stint the victims were there, so it must have been a pretty top-secret clearance mission. No wonder the DOD didn’t want that information out in the public. Rossi tapped his foot under the table and said, “These people didn’t seem to have that high of a clearance, unless they were undercover, or had altered military identities? I mean, why kill a random technician, two officers, and one general? I mean, the general makes sense, but how are the other three involved?” JJ gave Rossi the “I have no clue face” and buried herself back in her current reading. 

“You’re saying the gun was 3D printed?” Derek asked Officer Palacios. The woman nodded and said, “You’ve seen the target patterns under the microscope. Bullet patterns from known gun manufacturers would have had a positive ID by now, but there was no known barrel pattern that was recognizable. This is becoming a bigger and bigger problem with 3D printing. You can print anything, and it becomes untraceable.” Morgan nodded along and said, “Well, that makes things more interesting. The bullets were generic too, so there’s nothing to go off of there either,” Officer Palacios nodded and said, “I told you there was nothing here for you. So, are we done here?” Derek put up his hands and replied, “I guess so. Thank you for your time.” Derek was disappointed with his findings because he had hoped to find out some kind of information, like a gun manufacturer or a serial number. 

Without much to go off of t, he team met that night for dinner at the canteen. Halfway through the meal, he got a call from Penelope. He stood and took it in the hallway, saying, “Talk to me, Gacia.” Penelope smiled and said, “Well I’ve got something for you pulled from the depths of the surveillance state.” Aaron looked around the empty hallway and said, “Don’t say stuff like that too loud around here, Garcia, I don’t want to be thrown in jail if I can avoid it.” Penelope laughed and said, “Well I’ve sent you the files that I have, you should be warned, it’s not pretty information. I understand why the DOD wanted this gone.” Hotch nodded and ended the call with, “Thank Garcia, you’re a life lifesaverven that information, Aaron moved back to the canteen and motioned for his team to follow him back to their sleeping bunks. The team piled around Aaron as he pulled open his laptop and opened the encrypted files that Penelope had sent in encrypted files. There were multiple documents, but one video was also attached. Hotch opened the file, nd the BAU watched a video footage from a drone following a flow flying bomber plane making multiple passes over a poor-looking neighborhood and dropping multiple bombs. There was no sound to the video, but the flashes on the screen indicated that the explosives had hit their mark. There were a few seconds where the video cut out, and then the after-effects of the bombs were shown from a high altitude. What had been a neighborhood before was now a smoldering pile of rubble and ash. 

“Shit,” Derek muttered. Hotch shook his head and said, “I’m going to print these documents, I need us to look over them with a fine-tooth comb. If you notice anything about anyone related to this case, tell me. Where did this happen, why, and when?” The team nodded and settled down for a long night of reading. By 3:00 AM, the team had a lot more information. So far, they knew that all of the men and women who had been killed so far had been on the bombing mission in some way. The mission itself was called Operation Bright Burn, and it was supposed to take out a sect of the terrorist cell that had allegedly taken y/n hostage. However, from the documents Garcia has sent, it turned out to all have been a huge mistake. The terrorist cell was nowhere near the neighborhood that had been bombed, and 25 civilians had been killed, including ten women and seven children. There were only two other people who could be targets. How y/n was involved was still unknown.  

As the other team members continued reading and writing down information from the files, Rossi motioned for Aaron to join him by the door. Dave and Hotch huddled, and Rossi said, “That video footage is terrible news for the State Department and DOD. No wonder the government had it buried.” Hotch nodded and replied, “It’s even worse than Desert Storm. That footage could radicalize thousands of people abroad and here nationally. Rossi didn’t mince his words when he said, “I mean it’s fucked. No matter what, we have to keep this under wraps.” Aaron nodded and said, “I’m going to go talk to the staff sergeant about keeping the other possible targets at safe houses, we don’t have time to lose, you go tell the team how iimportan tit is that none of this information leaves this room.” 

The night slowly bled into dawn. The team just had a few hours of sleep when the men were woken up with a harsh knock on their door. Morgan and Hotch were the first to the door, and a nervous-looking officer stated, “Agents, Commander Payne wants to see you at central command immediately.” Hotch nodded and said, “We’ll be there in five minutes.” Everyone else in the room had heard the conversation at the door and quickly changed. Spencer moved next door to knock on the women’s room to let them know to get up as well. Harried and worn, the BAU arrived in central command, where Commander Payne and a few other high-ranking officers were standing stiffly around a large screen. The BAU didn’t need the full breakdown of what was happening, but they got it anyway, as Commander Payne stated, “Officer Crimps has been taken hostage by the terrorist organization and is demanding 500,000 dollars for his return. They will call back in ten minutes for an answer.” Hotch looked at his team, nd they all understood. Officer Crimps was the pilot flying the bomber plane for Operation Bright Burn. The TV seems to show live video footage of the officer tied to a chair in a nondescript room. Aaron took point as usual and said, “Let me speak with the terrorists. I have hostage negotiation experience. Payne didn’t look happy, but after some convincing, he was the one to pick up after the five minutes had elapsed. 

The first thing Aaron asked was, “Who am I speaking with?” to which the voice on the other end of the line replied, “It does not matter. What matters is the innocent blood that was spilled, and how much you are willing to pay to not have more be shed.” Aaron anxiously tapped his finger on the table as the call was trying to be traced by Penelope on a secure line. He needed to keep whoever he was speaking to talking for at least two minutes. Thinking of another option, Hotch asked, “Before we talk about your ransom offer, I’d like confirmation that Officer y/l/n is alive. We won’t talk money until that fact is made clear.” There was a beat of silence before the man on the other end of the line said, “We know of no y/l/n. We only have the man you see on television. Meet us at the West shipping port in twenty-four hours, come alone and with our money, or this man dies. And he will die with the whole world watching.” With that last sentence, the line went dead. Hotch quickly changed to the line with Penelope on it and put her on speaker phone: “Garcia, were you able to trace the call?” After the sounds of frantic typing, Penelope responded, “No. There were at least a dozen layers of encryption and rerouting on that call. Whoever these people are, they have high tech. I’m sorry, Hotch. I’ll keep trying.” Disappointed again, Aaron thanked Garcia and hung up. 

Before Hotch could get a word in, Commander Payne looked at the other men in the BAU and also the BAU and said, “So Officer y/l/n went AWOL. We spent time and money on a target who’s a deserting son of a bitch while another officer’s life if being threatened. Rossi stepped in and said, “There still might be a correlation between the cases. Maybe y/n was leaking the classified documents to the terrorists.” That suggestion made Payne so mad that he slammed the tabletop top saying, “If that’s true, I will rain fire on y/l/n’s head like the plagues in the Bible.” Morgan moved forward and said, “Commander, can you share the live video footage with our team. We might be able to get to Officer Crimp before we have to think about the ransom if we can analyze the footage, but the sooner we can do that, the better chances we have.” Commander Payne looked Morgan up and down before nodding his head and saying, “You can have it, now, if you don’t mind, I need to make a call to the Pentagon hostage negotiation.” When Commander Payne and the other men had stepped out of the room, Aaron let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in. He looked at Derek and said, “Good thinking to get them out of the room, now we can really strategize.” Emily added, “And now that they’re gone, we don’t have to pretend that we don’t actually know what’s going on.” 

The team took the next three hours looking at every shot of the video the terrorists had sent, listening to every cadence of the call with no avail. Just as the team was losing hope, Gacia called. Derek picked up and said, “Talk to us, Baby girl.” Penelope's smile was audible through the phone as she said, “I have something for my people.” Rossi leaned forward and asked, “Did you manage to get the track and trace?” There was a pause before Penelope said, “No, but I do have a location on Officer y/l/n. And I know she’s the one who’s been leaking the documents. Hotch seemed to sag with relief, hearing some information, and asked, “Is she working with the terrorists?” Garcia replied, “No, oh actually. The terrorists were willing to pay y/n to join them, and she wholeheartedly refused. In her message to them, she was highly offended that they would even ask. It’s so strange. Here she goes leaking all this sensitive information, which led to the deaths of three men in the military, but she’s offended to be associated with terrorists? Make it make sense.” To Aaron, however, it was starting to make sense. He replied, “She’s acting on a level of extreme moral consciousness. One that almost verges on delusion. To her, sharing the information goes above any law, any order, and religion. The question we have to ask ourselves is what pushed her to this point.” There was a brief pause before Hotch pulled himself together and said, “Thanks for the information, Penelope. We’ll keep you updated on the case,” and then he hung up the phone. 

“We hit the location hard and hot. I plan on blowing Officer y/l/n to hell.” Commander Payne said it with such confidence, and Aaron had to put on his most authoritative voice as he said, “Absolutely not. The DOD sent me and my team to figure out this case, and if you want to see Officer Crimps alive, I need to speak to Officer y/n.” Payne wheeled on Aaron and said, “Now wait a minute. I’m the commanding officer in this situation, and Officer y/n is under my jurisdiction.” Hotch let out a breath through his nose and replied, “Well, the DOD is in charge of the army, and they sent me and my team here to help you and your officers. So, would you like to waste more time while I call someone over at the Department of Defense, or can we get to officer y/l/n’s location?” 

The car ride over was tense; Rossi and Derek talked about the best way to handle the situation on the ground. Commander Payne had ordered snipers to surround the cheap motel where Officer y/n was holed up. It was decided that Aaron would go in with Emily following behind, but not so that she would be seen. The team didn’t want y/n to feel cornered. “So we think this is PTSD from what Officer y/l/n saw while she was stationed abroad? Or just watching the footage that she leaked?” Ask Spencer. Hotch looked into the review mirror to look at Reid before saying, “Something set her off. We can’t know what that means yet, but I intend to find out. And I intend to get y/l/n out of that building alive.” Rossi chipped in, “That’s going to be hard with Commander trigger happy on our ass.” The fact that no one laughed to commented back at Dave meant that he was right. 

The cars were parked a block away from the cheap motel that y/n was hiding in. The SUV and not-so-inconspicuous military HUM-V parked in another motel that might as well have a sign that read, “affairs happen here,” printed on their marquee. Hotch and Commander Payne had a private conversation that the rest of the BAU were not privy to. Finally, Aaron walked back to this group and said, “Payne’s giving Emily and me an hour, but he has his snipers ready to shoot if Officer y/n tries to make a run for it. That’s the best I can do. The clock just started, so, Em, let's get going. While I’m talking to Officer y/n, I want the rest of you to get more information. Scout out possible exits, see when y/n checked into the motel, all of that.” Rossi and Derek nodded that they’d take care of what Aaron had said, so Hotch and Prentiss turned on their heels and quickly jogged in the direction of the motel. 

The motel was old and dilapidated. It reeked of mold, peeling wallpaper, and stains the occupants didn’t want to think too much about. Penelope had forwarded y/n’s room number along with the name of the motel - The Lucky Star - which sounded more like a casino than a place for people to sleep. The outdoor stairs to the second floor looked rusted and ready to crumble, but thankfully, they didn’t make a noise as the agent duo moved up them. Emily stayed at the top of the stairs, while Aaron crouched forward and walked to room 215. He stayed lower than the peephole and knocked on the door before moving back behind the wall. There was a moment before a voice replied, “I didn’t ask for any cleaning services, and if you’re soliciting, I’ll call management. Now go away.” Aaron waited a beat before replying, “This isn’t housekeeping. My name is Agent Aaron Hotchner from the Behavior Analysis Unit. I just want to talk.” Y/n replied through the door, “I’m done talking, and I’m done watching. I’m finally doing something for once in my life, Agent, and you can’t stop me.” Aaron nodded, trying to think of an angle to work as he bought time saying, “I understand why you feel like you have to do this, y/n.” Hotch could hear that sigh through the door as y/n responded, “How could you possibly know why I’m doing this? And even if you did, it doesn’t matter, you can’t undo what I’ve done. The internet is forever. The whole world will see what the U.S. Government is willing to do to innocent people in the name of freedom.” 

Hotch remembered that y/n was driven by moral obligation as he said, “Those terrorists. The ones that offered you a job? They have Officer Crimps. They plan to kill him unless we can find him first. You can help us with that. No one else has to die.” Y/n replied, “Crimps isn’t innocent. He has blood on his hands, too. Not that I want him to die, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make if I can get the last of this information out to the public. My last service to my country.” Just as y/n finished speaking, there was a loud blaring noise and the sound of a megaphone attached to speakers as Commander Payne’s voice echoed through the room and outdoor hallway: “This is Commander Payne of the U.S. Army. Officer y/l/n you have thirty minutes to surrender yourself to court martial. If you don’t come out willingly, we will see that you are taken by force. The second option will not be a fun experience for you. I promise you that.” Aaron cursed under his breath. He had been promised a full hour to talk to y/n. To get her to come willingly, the commander was forcing his hand. 

There were some sounds from inside the room, and Aaron began to panic. Just as he was about to kick open the door, he could he it unlock from the inside. Hotch stopped just in time to not kick in an open door like Derek might have. Sensing something might be off, Aaron pulled out his gun and moved to the door. It only took a light push for the door to swing inward. Aaron didn’t charge in. There was a room with a ghastly green carpet and wallpaper from the eighties. The bed was covered in papers and multiple laptops and monitors. There was a desk with a chair that looked like it was about to fall apart. However, y/n was nowhere to be seen. And if she had moved to the balcony, Commander Payne would have said something already. That left the small closet to the left of the door, or what had to be the bathroom on the right. Aaron crept into the room and opened the shallow closet, and felt inside with his right hand. It was empty. Before Aaron could call out, there was a voice from behind the bathroom door, “In here, Agent Hotchner. I’m unarmed.” Hotch furrowed his brow, It sounded like y/n was having a hard time talking. No matter what Officer y/l/n said, Aaron was still cautious and kept his gun in front of him as he opened the bathroom door. The fluorescent tube was flickering on the yellowing tiled floor. The shade covering the light of the sink was covered in dust with bugs trapped inside. Officer y/n was draped over the toilet. She was breathing fast, and sweat covered her face and arms. It was pooling at the pits of her arms. 

Hotch quickly holstered his weapon, realizing that y/n wasn’t going to be a threat to him. Aaron moved to his knees in the small space next to y/n, who was starting to spasm involuntarily. Leaning above her, Aaron looked into y/n’s y/e/c eyes and asked, “What’d you take, Officer y/l/n?” y/n coughed and turned her head to vomit into the toilet. She didn’t really make it, but that didn’t seem to bother her. Y/n handed an empty pill bottle to Aaron and said, “I’m not really an officer anymore, Agent Hotchner. You don’t need to keep up the formality.” Hotch looked at the title on the bottle, Duloxetine. Y/n was overdosing, and he said, “We need to get you medical attention, fast.” Y/n shook her head and said, “Please, don’t. I… I’m ready. I can’t live the rest of my life in a military prison., Just let me go.” Hotch knew that wasn’t how justice worked. However, he knew that time was precious, and he asked, “Why do it? You swore an oath to your country? What made you a traitor?” Y/n looked at Aaron with thanks in her eyes, which were turning glassy. She knew Agent Hotchner was giving her more time, time to die. So she stated with struggle, “Crimps and I were fucking. It gets boring being at an outpost all the time with nothing to do.” Y/n coughed and said, “One night he seemed more excited than usual. As we were fucking he told me he’d ran a mission early that day. That he’d killed a lot of people, and some of them were civilians. He was gleeful about it. Something in me just snapped that night. Can you imagine going down on a woman and saying you’d killed innocent people while doing that?” 

Aaron nodded no, and moved his hand to brush some spittle from the corner of y/n’s mouth as he said, “No. I can’t. I’m sorry.” Y/n shook her head slightly as the tremors in her body got worse. “I had to let the world know., I’ve done such horrible things in the name of this country, and I’m ashamed. I’m trying not to be scared.” Hotch cupped y/n’s face as tears streamed down her cheek and into his hands. He knew the pain must be horrible as he said, “I know. You’re being very brave. But no one else has to die. Tell me where Crimps is being held. Please.” Y/n closed her eyes, every breath a pain as she whispered, “22 West Westlake Ave. Unit 110.” Y/n took one last breath before saying, “Tell my family I’m sorry.” With that,t y/n gave out a cry and seized until she went rigid and her breathing stopped. Aaron did what he could, but by the time the ambulance and the Army came storming in, y/n had passed to wherever she was destined to go next. 

There was no time to grieve or think, and Aaron, his team, and the Army moved onto the terrorists’ location to save Crimps, who had a few broken bones but was going to be okay with some rest and leave. It was late when Aaron made the call to break the news to y/n’s family. Hotch was tired, emotional. He could feel the anticipation on the other end of the phone as he stated, “Y/n wanted to let you know that… that she loved you.” Just as he heard the tears begin on the other end of the line, he slipped to phone over to JJ to continue the rest of the difficult conversation. Aaron slipped out the back door, the base's head command. Standing in the dark, Aaron leaned against the wall and let out a breath. He was alone for only a few minutes before Rossi also exited the building and asked, “Hard day?” Aaron looked over to his friend with tired eyes, saying, “They’ll bury the victims this weekend with pomp and circumstance. Men who were all involved in the killing of innocents. Officer Crimps will be a hero. And Officer y/l/n? What does she get? Nothing but a dishonorable discharge even in death. She was trying to show people the ugly truth that can never be seen.” Rossi sighed and said, “They don’t pay us to think about things like that, Aaron. Just remember, you did what you could today. And you were there for y/n when she probably needed someone the most.” Hotch gave a slight nod, and Rossi patted his arm before returning inside.

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[lovelycreativecrafts]

Secret Reveal | Miles x Female Reader

Word Cout: 1,165

Synopsis: Miles's girlfriend finds out his identity.

Warnings: Panic Attack

Author Notes: My Requests are now OPEN!! Feel free to send me some. I would love that. There is one Spanish phrase in this short story. I used Google Translate for it so it may be inaccurate. If you liked the short fanfic, please like, reblog, and comment your thoughts. I hope you all have a blessed day.

Spanish Words:

Mi Amor = My Love

I knocked on the front door and I waited for someone to answer. The door opened and I smiled at Miles’s mother. 

“Oh, come on in Miles told me that you guys were doing movie night today.” Miles’s mother opened the door further and I entered. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Morales.” 

“Of course. Miles isn’t home yet but you can wait in his room if you would like. You already know where it’s at right?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” I headed toward Miles’s room in the back. 

Me and Miles have been dating for a short while. So, I was a little surprised when he asked to do a movie night with me at his house. Does that mean he wants me to spend the night at his place?  

I stopped in front of Miles's room door. Maybe, he has something planned? I sighed. I shouldn’t overthink it. 

I placed my hand on the doorknob and opened the door. My eyes widened as they made contact with the famous Spider-Man. Spider-Man stood there frozen while his hands were inside of Miles’s drawer. My heart raced inside my chest and I quickly took in a breath but before I could scream, Spider-Man shot his webs at me and the door. He closed the door and pulled me against his chest. He quickly wrapped one of his arms around me and pressed his hand against my mouth. 

“Shhh, please don’t scream. I promise it’s not what it looks like.” Spider-Man whispered. 

I pushed against his chest as I tried to get out of his grip. Why is he holding me like this? I continued to struggle against him but his hold only got tighter. 

“Hey, I promise I’ll let you go. If you promise not to scream, okay?” 

His voice sounds familiar. Spider-Man looked into my eyes and I quickly nodded. 

He slowly removed his hand away from my mouth and unwrapped his arm around my waist. I took a step back and wrapped my arms around myself. 

“What are you doing in my boyfriend’s room?” I looked up at Spider-Man.

Spider-Man’s eyes widened, “Well-uh-you know-um-That’s classified information.” 

I frowned. Why would he be searching in Miles’s drawers? Did something happen to him?

I glanced down at my hands as they began to shake. My heart also began to beat faster than before. It’s not happening again, is it? No, I’m just still shaken up by Spider-Man’s appearance. 

“Right, so-uh I’m going to go. I’ll see you around.” Spider-Man opened the window but before he could leave, I quickly grabbed his wrist. 

“Wait, what’s going on?”

“I told that’s classi-”

“Did something happen to him?” My chest began to tighten 

“There’s nothing to worry about.” 

I tried to take in deep breaths but they came out shaky, “You say that but you were here for a reason right? Where is he? Is he hurt somewhere?” 

“Look, I’m sure you’ll find your answers once I leave.” 

My heart dropped, “Is . . . Is he dead?” 

“What?!” 

I brought my hand toward my chest as it began to squeeze tighter, and my breathing became uneven. My eyes began to burn and Spider-Man quickly moved away from the door and faced me. 

“Hey, calm down.” He placed his hands on my shoulders. “You need to control your breathing.” 

I looked toward the ground as tears blurred my vision. Is Miles really gone? What will I do? How will I tell his parents? 

Spider-Man continued to talk to me but his words fell on death's ears. The only person that could help me out of this state was Miles. I am nothing without him. I am a burden. I don’t even know why he likes me. 

Spider-Man removed his hands from my shoulders and placed them on the sides of my face. He quickly tilted my head up and my eyes widened. 

“Miles?” I questioned. My ears began to open up as I saw Miles standing in front of me in Spider-Man’s costume. 

“Yes. It’s me. I’m here and perfectly fine. I promise.” Miles reassured. 

“But-,” My voice caught in my throat as I continued to hyperventilate. 

“Shh, it’s okay.” Miles removed one of his hands away from my face. He gently took one of my hands and placed it on his stomach. 

“Just breathe, okay.” Miles took in a deep breath. 

His stomach expanded underneath the palm of my hand and I tried to follow. 

Miles’s thumb caressed my cheek as he stared into my eyes, “You’re doing great, mi amor.” 

After a short while, the tightness in my chest began to release and I regained control over my breathing. I walked closer to Miles, wrapped my arms around his waist, and placed my head into his chest. 

“Thank you,” I whispered. 

Miles chuckled, “You don’t have to thank me. It’s what I’m supposed to do.” Miles wrapped his arms around me. 

“So you’re Spider-Man?” 

Miles stiffened, “Yeah . . . how do you feel about that?” 

“I’m not really sure yet but at the moment I’m . . . relieved.”

Miles relaxed and tightened his arms around me, “Then at the moment, I’m glad.” 

My mind traveled to my earlier thoughts, “Miles, am I a burden to you?” 

Miles quickly pulled slightly away and looked down at me, “What? Of course not. Why would you ask that?” 

I looked off to the side, “It’s just that you’re constantly helping me with my school work, my passions, and even now with my . . . constant personal problems. But I do nothing to help you. I’m like a leech constantly taking blood.”

“You know, you shouldn’t think of yourself like that. You also do a lot for me too. You may not do things for me physically but you do emotionally. You constantly remind me of who I am, reassure me when I have doubts, and are my biggest supporter.” 

I looked back up at him, “But what about when you had to reveal your secret because of my issues? If I weren’t crazy then none of this would’ve happened.”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you my secret the moment I confessed to you. It was eating away at me for a long time now. It may not have been revealed the way I wanted it to but I’m now glad it’s a weight lifted off of my shoulders.” 

“But I’m-,” Miles cut me off by placing his forehead onto mine. 

“You’re my girlfriend. And as your boyfriend, I’m not going to allow you to say any more negative things about yourself especially when they're not true. I didn’t fall for you just because you’re pretty or because you’ll help me with school or being Spider-Man but I fell for you because you complete me. You’re like my home, my anchor, mi amor. You could never be a burden because you constantly fill me with love.” 

Heat crawled up my cheeks as Miles’s eyes seemed to sparkle as he revealed his feelings to me. I opened my mouth, “I . . . I love you too, Miles.”