#Pool Management Washington

[connorsui]

Through Crossfire

Johnny “Soap” Mactavish x fem! Reader

Synopsis: In the heat of battle, Johnny finds himself faced with his worst nightmare, but his heart is torn between completing the mission and protecting the woman he’s come to care for deeply.

Genre/warnings: Hurt-comfort, violence, blood and injury, protective Johnny, Fluff and angst, battlefield tension, soft moments, Johnny lowkey wanna save you but stuff be hard …

note: I was watching the battle of Washington during my break, and I couldn't stop to imagine the reader and Johnny in that scenario

w.c: 1.3k

The sound of gunfire ripped through the air, the crack of bullets against concrete deafening as you and Soap took cover behind a crumbling wall. The mission had gone south fast, and the enemy forces had you pinned. Your heart pounded in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you tried to focus on the next move. But just as you shifted to peer around the corner, everything went wrong.

A sharp pain exploded through your side, the sudden sting of a bullet piercing your flesh. You gasped, stumbling backward and pressing a hand to your wound as blood seeped between your fingers. Before you could even process the pain, Soap was there, dropping the enemy soldier with precision before turning to you, panic flashing in his blue eyes.

“Lass, you with me?” His voice was rough, laced with urgency as he knelt beside you, his hands already finding the wound. “Where are ye hurt? Talk to me.”

His fingers pressed against your side, applying pressure as he glanced over his shoulder to check for any more hostiles. The battle raged on around you, but all you could focus on was the heat of his body as he crouched beside you, his eyes flicking between your face and the wound.

“I’m fine,” you managed to grit out, though the pain in your voice betrayed you. Soap’s brow furrowed, clearly not convinced. He ripped a piece of fabric from his sleeve, quickly wrapping it around your torso to stop the bleeding, the movement rough but efficient.

“Don’t lie to me, love,” he murmured, his Scottish accent thick with concern. “Yer bleedin’ too much for that.”

His eyes softened for a moment, thumb brushing over your cheek when he noticed the tears pooling in your eyes. It wasn’t often that you broke down on the battlefield, but the combination of pain and fear was threatening to overwhelm you. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin as he whispered, “Stay with me, aye? Yer doin’ just fine.”

Despite the chaos around you, Soap’s touch was gentle, the comfort of his presence enough to keep you grounded. His body positioned itself between yours and the oncoming fire, shielding you as he fired back at the enemy, his focus split between taking them down and keeping you alive.

The world around you blurred, the sound of his voice the only thing anchoring you to reality. He kept murmuring to you, his voice low and soothing, though you couldn’t catch all the words. Every few seconds, his eyes would dart back to you, scanning your face, ensuring you were still conscious.

“I’ve got you,” he promised, his hand slipping to your back, rubbing slow circles in an attempt to ease your pain. His other hand gripped his sniper rifle tightly, his eyes never straying too far from the battlefield.

“Stay awake, lass,” he urged softly, his thumb brushing along your cheek as your eyelids fluttered. “I’m not losing ye out here.”

His steady tone grounded you, and you tried to focus on his voice. The pain was unbearable, but somehow, the way he touched you—the way his thumb brushed lightly over your skin—kept you tethered to the present.

When the fighting finally subsided, Soap wasted no time in scooping you into his arms. Despite the urgency of the situation, he cradled you gently, holding you close as he sprinted toward the evac point. His breath was heavy, his heart pounding in sync with yours as he carried you through the wreckage, never letting go.

Every time you winced, he mumbled reassurances into your ear, his voice low and soothing. “It’s alright, I’ve got ye… Yer gonna be just fine.”

Once inside the helicopter, Soap’s composure began to crack. The medics took over, but his hand never left you—whether it was resting on your shoulder, your forearm, or the top of your head, he couldn’t stop touching you. His jaw was tight, eyes locked on your face as if he needed the reassurance that you were still there, still breathing.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the chopper blades. His thumb stroked your cheek, wiping away the smudge of dirt and blood. “I’m here, and you’re alright.”

Your vision swam, consciousness slipping in and out as the adrenaline began to fade. You could feel Soap’s grip tighten as you blinked up at him, your hand weakly reaching for his. His face, normally so confident and cocky, was etched with worry, his blue eyes searching yours for any sign of recognition.

“(Y/N)? Stay with me, aye? Don’t you close yer eyes yet.”

But then the world tilted, and you felt yourself slipping into darkness.

The sound of Soap’s voice pulled you from the haze, your eyes fluttering open to find him hovering over you. His face was pale, his lips set in a tight line as he shook you gently, his voice sharp with panic.

“Wake up! C’mon, stay with me!” His hand gripped yours, holding on as if he could physically keep you from fading away.

Your eyelids felt heavy, but you forced them open, blinking up at him as the pain in your side flared up again. You could see the relief wash over him when you finally met his gaze, his shoulders sagging as he exhaled a shaky breath.

“Good girl,” he muttered, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “That’s it. Just stay awake for me.”

The medics were working on you now, cleaning and bandaging your wound as Soap sat beside you, his hand never leaving yours. He didn’t say much, just sat in silence, his body pressed close to yours as the helicopter carried you both away from the battlefield. His eyes, usually so full of life and mischief, were focused solely on you, watching every movement, every breath.

When the medics finally patched you up, Soap relaxed, though his hand remained firmly in place. He shifted closer, his head resting lightly against yours as exhaustion started to weigh him down. You could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, his presence a constant comfort in the chaos of the day.

As the helicopter soared through the sky, Soap’s hand moved from your arm to your shoulder, then back to your hand, his touch never far. It wasn’t clear whether he was doing it for your comfort or his own, but either way, you were grateful for it.

When you finally landed back at base, Soap refused to leave your side, insisting on staying with you through the night. He settled beside you, his head resting lightly on top of yours as you drifted off into a fitful sleep, his steady presence the only thing keeping the nightmares at bay.

The base was quiet, the distant sounds of soldiers moving in the background as you rested. Soap stayed awake, watching over you even after the medics had assured him you were stable. He couldn’t bring himself to sleep, not when the image of you bleeding out on the battlefield still haunted his thoughts.

As the quiet settled around you both, Soap’s grip on your hand never wavered. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but they still found yours, watching you carefully. After a long silence, he finally spoke, his voice low and rough from the day's chaos.

“Don’t scare me like that again, yeah?” His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a small hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though the worry in his eyes was still clear.

You managed a tired smile in return, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll try… no promises.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Aye, figured as much.”

But even in the lighthearted exchange, there was an unspoken promise between you, something far stronger than words could ever capture. In the end, that was all either of you needed.

I need johnny as my guard ...with a bow on his head

[gallusrostromegalus]

How does trash pickup, Recycling centers, &/or Hazardous Material Disposal work for Soul Society in AEIWAM? Is there a Kido-based ritual to break things down into Reishi? Are there Tech Repair Shops?

Sewage in Soul Society works really well but very dangerously because those fucking idiots built the city directly on top of an active supervolcano.

Let me back up:

There isn't a good consensus on how big the Seireitei is (Yoruichi says it takes 10 days to walk 1/4th of the way around the circumference, but whether that's her speed, the average person's or how long a patrol group takes is unclear), Or any real maps of the place, but it's generally agreed that

the city is LARGE. Yoruichi says it would take her and the kids ten days to walk to the next gate 1/4th of the way around the city. Maybe that's 8 hours average human walking speed minus 'trying to herd a bunch of teenagers' but that's still a long trip!

Even before the Seki-Seki stone wall was put up, the city was pretty much circular.

Unlike pretty much every real city, there's no river running through it. Where are they getting their water?

There is a Small but substantial and TOTALLY ISOLATED mountain in the middle of the city made of apparently hard-to-mine rock. A Lonely Mountain, one might even say.

The only visible natural sources of water I've seen evidence of are hot springs in both the Yoruichi/Urahara Super Secret Training Ground/Love Nest and the first division grounds.

Soul Society is run by jackasses and if there's a stupid way to do things, that's the way they're doing them.

In fact, the Soul Society as a whole is almost suspiciously Amestris-shaped, but instead of nefarious alchemy, it's negligent civil engineering

...all this leads me to believe that Seireitei is built DIRECTLY ON TOP OF the caldera of an enormous supervolcano. The city gets it's water from the aquifer of rainwater that's collected in the underground cracks and fissures of the Caldera, and the seki-seki stone wall is set up around the really convenient geographic barrier made by the rim of the caldera.

"Hey!" I hear some of you nerds objecting "Aren't calderas usually concave? Seireitei is convex, if anything!"

You're right! Most Calderas are concave! But they will absolutely fill in with sand and dirt over the true floor of the caldera over time and develop Mounts like the thing at the central part of the city and start to rise WHEN THEY'RE ON THE VERGE OF A CATASTROPHIC ERUPTION.

So yeah! The Gotei-13 has an almost infinite supply of hot water, and probably less than a century to figure out what to do before The Big Kaboom.

Anyway, back at sewage:

There's been a city where the Seireitei is since time immemorial, and even though it's done the istanbul-not-constantinopple shuffle a few times, very little of the actual infrastructure has changed. Empires rise and fall but the desire paths stay the same.

This is especially true in Seireitei, because unlike very nearly every major IRL Municipality, it doesn't have a river running through it, something that usually necessitates Sewer updates By Force. But compared to a river which is constantly moving around in it's bed, a volcanic aquifer doesn't move much until it moves a whole fucking lot real fast, so the undercity of the Seireitei has really had time to... Develop isn't quite the right word.

"Ferment" is closer.

Above-ground waste management is the provenance of the actual local city government- yes, there is a Mayor of the Seireitei that the Gotei-13 has to pay property taxes to. Yamamoto maintains a lot of goodwill with the Mayor by dint of sentencing ill-behaved shinigami to shore up the municipal labor pool, and by knowing the mayor's family for the last millennium. So you'll see Shinigami doing things like trash collection and street-sweeping, but they're just there on probation.

-But nobody wanted to deal with the undercity. It's got a soul of it's own. Washington DC, which is less than 500 years old as a city and on top of a swamp, has an undercity that goes down over half a mile. Imagine how deep the sunken buildings, abandoned secret tunnels, and sewer system of a city that's millenia old, not sitting on actual mud and constantly subjected to high levels of magical background radiation might develop.

An Appetite, for one thing.

The 11th likes to talk a big game, but the reason the 4th is in charge of sewer maintenance is because the only people with the guts for it were people who got degrees rummaging in the guts of living people. Sewer maintenance really is a lot like abdominal surgery, if you were able to walk around inside the patient.

It was Retsu Unohana's idea, actually. Chigiri was a battle medic and aged rapidly for a shinigami. She was old when the court guard finally went from "Yamamoto and his gang of assholes" to "A for-real governing body". Her successor, Kirinji was more interested in traumatic injury recovery than preventative medicine, for obvious reasons- his triage was constantly full of combat casualties and early kido experiment victims Blood Loss was still his #1 Killer.

But Retsu had been reincarnated in and spent her youth in South 80, in the utterly undeveloped conditions there, and held deep, personal grudges with Dysentery and Cholera. For all his talk of healing waters, Kirinji had no sense of the importance of water sanitation, and it was a continuous point of contention between them for her apprenticeship.

"FINE!" He shouted one day after a particularly nasty row. "IF IT'S SO GODDAMN IMPORTANT TO YOU, YOU HANDLE IT! FORM NOW ON, YOU'RE IN CHARGE OF SEWAGE, SLUDGE QUEEN!"

She made her first descent the next morning.

She did not return for six weeks, and Kirinji almost thought he'd resloved that particular problem when she reappeared from the depths, a changed woman. That long in the darkness, alongside the buried secrets and skeletons of the city, with the horrors that did not dare brave the sunlight- it would change anyone, and most would come up looking at least mildly haunted.

Retsu Unohana is not most.

She looks radiant, almost like The Kenpachi again, covered in the horrors of the underground as she used to be covered in blood. She thrives on a challenge, and excels at the art of purification, and now, she has been given the single greatest challenge of purification in history. There is something beautiful and terrible in her eyes as she explains that it does down at least five miles, look at this, she thinks it's from the neolithic era, and there are incredible boneyards of thousands of skeletons, and fungi the likes of which she's never seen before- She is ecstatic- a creature kept in captivity, finally released into it's natural habitat.

It's hardly a surprise, if you consider Minazuki. Stingrays are benthic creatures, right at the bottom of the river, deep in the muck and decay.

It's been a little over eight hundred years into her tenure as a medic, and she has tamed much of the beast. The upper levels are well-mapped and have been made clean and well-lit, enough that even the civilian sanitation forces of the city can regularly enter and work in them without any particular unease. Infant and preventable disease mortality has dropped astronomically. Nobody's had cholera since the 1800's . While they have other jobs, all members of the 4th division are required to take at least one tour in the depths of the undercity.

Horrors still lurk in the depths.

They're pretty sure they lost Tokagero Kenpachi chasing one of those, shortly before Unohana became captain, and she's been reluctant to let other divisions assist since then. The Fourth Division's Fourth Seat, rumored to be the unluckiest post in the entire Gotei-13, is permanently stationed underground, and she loves it that way.

It's only recently that the 11th has been allowed to come along on descents, after Zaraki vanished for two days and then emerged victorious from a manhole in the 5th division with a tentacled horror she'd been tracking for decades that lived at least three miles down. He apologized- he had meant to come up in the 4th to present it's corpse to her directly, but well, you know what his sense of direction is like. Anyway, I saw it scuttling around in the rain aquifers and we don't need it tracking literal shit into the water supply so I went after is and d'ya think maybe I can take the lads down sometime? They' get lazy between deployments and you have a triage up here to manage.

Charmed, she agreed.

---

Hm. I just re-read that ask and it's actually about dry waste managment.

Sorry. I got very excited about the sewers.

I am now about to get worse about trash.

I don't think they have plastic in soul society- given how bug-themed the 12th division is, I'm pretty sure the casing on Rukia's soul pager is made of Chitin, and if you break it, it bleeds. Also it makes people with shellfish allergies break out in hives.

Since pretty much all the waste in Soul Society is either recyclable or organic matter, I think those trash pits Yumichika and Ganju were fooling around with are really more like Kido-enhanced composting centers. All waste goes into them and the bottom of the pit is pulled out in a tray, like with a vermiculture tower, if the worms were eighteen and a half feet long and hungry enough to swallow anything that falls in the pit, because Mayuri is incapable of making anything that is not at least slightly awful.

The compost is then shaken out for any spare glass or metal that made it into the compost and that's sent off to the 12th division forges to be recycled. it's baked to kill any dangerous pathogens and Giant Garbage Worm Eggs so they don't breach containment, and measured for nitrogen, phosphorus and other important plant nutrient content. Based on it's composition, it's then shipped out to farmers in the upper districts of the rukongai because "Free, A+ grade fertilizer if y'all don't start revolutions, pay your taxes and give us first dibs on crops" is an amazing incentive for rural farmers to not start backing the local warlords.

It was 12th division founder Uhin Zenjohji who came up wth the scheme- he remembered the lengths upper-district farmers were willing to go through to make sure their land remained fertile, what kind of demand Nitrogen was in, and the ravages of phosphorous runnoff, so he could kill two birds with one clod of shit by supplying farmers with 'free' fertilizer that kept them loyal to the court and was tailored to that area's nutritional needs and watershed capacity.

The fact that it kept a lot of swamp and waterway areas pristine so he could indulge his birdwatching hobby was a nice benefit too :).

NORMALLY, those pits are covered, clearly marked, and usually the site of a major traffic jam because that's the local collection point, but when Ichigo and friends arrived, Aizen had whipped everyone into believing they were being invaded by an elite force of super-assassins and not like. 4 high schoolers and a furry. All the street signs and markings came down, civilians shuttered themselves inside, and generally made the Seireitei as difficult to navigate as possible.

I wonder how much Zaraki's rotten sense of direction was exacerbated by that.

ANYWAY! That's my thoughts on trash! Deep undercity horrors and giant compost worms over an active volcano!

[wardenparker]

Hummingbird Has Landed, ch 3

Marcus Pike x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

After the debacle of his failed engagement and relocating to Washington to take charge of his task force, newly minted Special Agent Marcus Pike is ready to get back out into the dating pool once more. A slew of bad dates has him feeling a little down, and he takes an old friend up on an invitation to get away and get his head on straight. Imagine his surprise when he finds not only fresh air, but his soulmate as well - hiding in plain sight but in the unlikeliest of places.

Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 11.1k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: occasional mention of American politics, pregnant character, food/alcohol consumption, mentions of clothing/regulated dressing for occasions, mentions of therapy because we believe in self care here, reader is in a previous relationship, love triangle* Disagreeing amongst partners, disappointments, unexpected turns, denial of feelings, unwanted revelations. Summary: It's Valentine's Day and no one's date seems to be going quite the way they expected. Notes: Apologies for the posting delay, my lovelies! Please enjoy 💖

Ch1 ~ Ch 2

When you still haven't heard from Marcus the next day, you're really pretending not to be bothered by it. You go about your work as usual, take care of your guests, manage a few nibbles of lunch, and work through the Valentine's check-ins with Malachi to make sure that everything goes smoothly. The whole day is chaotic and the inn is completely sold out, and yet you can't stop glancing down at your phone to see if you've gotten a text back.

You've just slipped into the kitchen after your shift to see Sydney after her spa-and-afternoon-tea date when the restaurant's hostess on duty comes in with a reservation slip to add to the board. The restaurant is basically fully booked now, with a few last minute cancellations and reservations working themselves out throughout the day, and a part of you wishes you could just stay here tonight and keep working, but you promised Sam. And you promised your mother's office that there would be social media updates tonight. This date might as well be public, so there is no backing out now.

“Hey babe!” Sydney grins as she looks up from the cake she is decorating, the piping bag in her hand full of dark chocolate buttercream. “Checking in before going to get ready?”

“Yup. Just came in to say hi and check the last minute reservations.” You take the slip from Sydney’s hostess with a flourish to tack it up on the board, and immediately make some sort of inhuman squawking noise that has your best friend whirling around in the kitchen.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” She demands, rushing over to the board. From the noise you made, it’s either incredibly good or incredibly bad.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Not technically, anyway. But you hand over the slip with obvious discomfort — or maybe a tinge of something else deeper and darker — on your face. “It’s…I guess…Marcus has a date tonight.”

“What? Oh…” she takes the slip and reads it, frowning slightly as she looks up to see you fidgeting and looking away from the paper. “Well, um, I guess that means he will be here and it’s good that you are going out with Sam.”

The frown that has formed on your face cuts deep, and you put down the empty mug you had grabbed to pour yourself a late afternoon cup of coffee with a slam. “Of course it’s a good thing.” You state unequivocally, not wanting to deal with or admit to the burning feeling in your chest. “He’s my boyfriend. It’s a very good thing.”

Sydney doesn’t comment, just pins the reservation to the allotted slot: 7 pm for two. There’s a note on the reservation to have a bottle of champagne brought to the table with dessert, so she’s not sure what to make of that. It seems unlikely that he’s taking his mother or sister out for a romantic meal.

“I have to get changed.” Comes the unnecessary announcement as you pace a little square around the corner of the kitchen only to end up facing Sydney again. “I just wanted to say hi, and I hope you and Juan had a good day.” Before this…intrusion into your thoughts, you had wanted to know everything. Every single thing they ate at tea and did at the spa. Now you feel like throwing up from pure discomfort.

“We did.” It seems wrong to rub it in your face right now, since you seem to be having some sort of reaction to the idea that Marcus would book a date here. She has to wonder if there’s meaning behind it, or if he had just imagined bringing someone here because it was a wonderful little place. The dining room of the restaurant is intimate, perfect for romance, especially tonight with the lights lower and the decor that had been brought out for the holiday.

“Good. I—okay. I’m going to go up, then. Malachi has a full reservation book and there’s an extra bellhop on tonight for the full house.” Sweeping out of the room is probably an overstatement, but you certainly move fast enough that Agent Bailey has to hop to in order to keep up with you as you head for the back stairs. Suddenly you have all the nervous energy in the world to walk all the way up to your apartment instead of taking the elevator.

“Okay…bye.” Sydney calls out, eyes wide at the dramatic exit and she pulls out her phone to send a quick text to her husband.

You might have tried a little harder than was strictly necessary to look good tonight. Not because Marcus might see you — that doesn’t make any sense — but to try to shut up all the whirling thoughts in your head about your loyalties and your attachments. You’ve been with Sam for almost a full year. It’s eleven months next week. And he deserves your complete attention. So if he gets you in your best little black dress and the earrings he gave you for your last birthday? That’s good, too.

Sam is nothing if not punctual, actually showing up fifteen minutes before you needed to leave. One of his office aides had run out to get you some flowers, now in hand, and he smiles widely when he sees you. “Wow.” He hums, whistling appreciatively. “I feel underdressed.” He jokes, wearing a smart suit like he normally does.

“You haven’t been underdressed since the day you were born.” Sam is perpetually put together, so you have definitely stepped up your game from the jeans and cheeky blouses that would normally have been good date clothes in the past. “Hi honey.”

“Hey, sweetheart.” He offers you the flowers with a smile. “You look incredible. These are only half as beautiful as you.”

“Thank you, honey.” The large bouquet is all red and pink buds, clearly done up for the holiday, and you let the day’s earlier tension roll off your shoulders as you inhale the sweet scent. “Let me put these in the vase in my office and we can get going?” Upstairs in your place they’re beautiful, but downstairs means anyone who sticks their head in your office will see them.

“Of course.” He nods and looks towards Agent Bailey. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Agent Bailey.” He tells her politely. “Would you mind following us to the restaurant tonight?”

“No surprise stops, Congressman?” Following behind isn’t unusual, but Bailey still had to do her job. Any unexpected additions to the night just complicate matters.

His smile tightens slightly. “Just the itinerary you have planned out.” He comments, slightly irked that he has to have plans approved through the Secret Service. It’s not exactly his idea of pleasant.

“Ready to go?” It only takes a moment to get your flowers in water, and you reach for Sam’s hand. After spending your time getting ready reminding yourself to focus on your relationship and stop being so wishy-washy, you’re trying to put your best everything forward for tonight.

“Absolutely.” Sam smiles broadly, his shoulders rolling back and he puffs his chest out proudly. “Let’s go get romantic.”

The restaurant that was picked out is small and welcoming, a  homespun but upscale bistro owned by a couple from New Orleans that moved up to Maryland sometime during the raising of their children. You had read the website while you were getting ready for tonight. The place boasts an impressive menu and a fan favorite étouffée, as well as an entire family working every aspect of the restaurant. From what you can tell, it looks like a perfect date spot. When you pull up it’s brimming over with people, too, which makes you even more excited. Busy means tasty, of course.

“Well this looks promising.” Sam comments, looking over at you. “What did you say the menu was?” He hadn’t really paid attention to where it was, just that you had said it was a good choice for a dinner out and photographs. You know how to work PR from your mother’s campaign, something he admires.

“New American through a New Orleans lens.” That’s what the website had said, and you could swear you already hear jazz pouring out the front door.

“Interesting.” He doesn’t particularly care for spicy foods, his stomach never agrees with it, but he trusts your judgement. “It’s perfect for the photographer and I’m assuming there’s some heartwarming backstory to the place?”

“Family owned and family run.” You can practically hear the silent commentary in his head, and you touch his arm as he holds the door for you. “I read the reviews in advance. Not everything is spicy. Don’t worry.”

“You know me too well.” He throws you a grateful look and leans forward to open the door for you to enter the bistro.

“Good evening.” The hostess at the front of the restaurant knows exactly who you are, just like everyone working tonight does. Just like their entire family does. Getting a visit from the Secret Service and having a discreetly placed photographer arrive just a little while ago gives the whole night an extra flare of the unbelievable. With two menus in her hand, she smiles a shaky, bright grin. “Please come right this way.”

Sam’s hand is on your back, knowing that a lot of eyes are turning from the staff to the patrons. It’s expected when your significant other is a recognizable face. He doesn’t miss that they put you and him at a table in the middle of the room.

There are small vases of red carnations on every table, and candles, and neat purple tablecloths that look like they have been given a little extra pressing for the occasion. You thank the girl politely and smile, not thrilled to have all eyes on you but already knowing that there is nothing you can do about it.

Sam is the one to pull out your chair and help you sit down before he pulls his own chair out. “Shall we order a bottle of wine?” He asks. “Or would that not look good?”

“How about a half bottle?” You suggest, showing him the part of drinks menu that lists half bottles. “Celebratory but responsible.”

“Perfect.” Same agrees, knowing. It wouldn’t be a positive image to have drinking and driving be recorded.

“Whatever you want to choose.” He’s pickier than you are in general, and definitely about wine, so it’s up to him.

He smiles at you in gratitude and immediately dives into the wine list to see what they have available.

“Oysters Rockefeller to start?” As a Maryland boy he loves seafood, and there’s some sort of odd determination in your mind to prove to yourself that your focus is entirely on Sam.

“Absolutely.” He agrees while wholeheartedly and when your server approaches, he finds in a polite smile to give them.

He orders the wine and your appetizer, and beams a smile at the flustered waitress before the two of you are left — sort of — alone again. Agent Bailey has gone to sit with the designated White House photographer at a separate, discreet table. It leaves the two of you to pretend that this is just as normal a date night as any other. “So,” you hum, looking over the menu. “How was work?”

“It was good.” He had kept his office hours short today, like most of the House, so he could get out on time. Plenty of other members had plans or just didn’t show up at all today. “Worked on the bill I want to introduce.”

“How close are you to having the draft done?” The House Judiciary Committee has been an important posting for him, and though you can’t claim to understand the nuance of every single detail of the bill he has been working on, you know that it is a big offering to make from such a new member of the committee.

“First draft is almost complete.” He tells you proudly. “Only a few more hours of work to be honest. My team has been working hard on it.”

“The first bill you’re sponsoring yourself is a big deal. I’m glad you’re proud of it.” Given how much of his work is paperwork and legal-ease, it’s good to have something tangible to work on and be proud of. Certainly not everyone who works in the government can say the same.

“Thank you.” He smiles, leaning back as the waiter comes back with the glasses of wine. “Hopefully it’s just the first of many.”

"I hope so, too." He has high hopes for his career, and you know he'll work hard for it. There's just the tiny voice in the back of your head reminding you that he might not value your success as highly that is bothering you. Still, you raise your glass to him and smile. "Happy Valentine's Day."

“Happy Valentine’s Day, darling.” Sam smiles and taps his glass to yours before taking a sip. “Have you given any thought to my proposal?”

“I thought we could talk about it tonight?” The mention of a proposal specifically makes you shiver in a way you didn’t know you could shiver, but here you are. “Starting with…the logistics of it all.”

He admires the practicality of your statement and nods. “What are your concerns?” He can hear that you have them and hopes that the two of you can come to some kind of agreement. He’s negotiated a lot in his position and knows there is always give and take for things to work.

“I…” He’s practical. Pragmatic. And you know that. It’s something that you have always said you liked about him because it balances against your tendency to dream. “I want to move forward. Take another step.” In your impulse, you reach across the table and take his hand. “But I’m not sure I’m ready yet. So I’d like to do it slowly.”

“Maybe a drawer for when you stay over?” He offers, lifting a brow. “Space for a toothbrush?”

“That’s kind of what I was thinking, yeah.” A relieved smile spreads, glad to see that he isn’t upset at your still moving slowly in this relationship. Moving too fast in the past is what you blame some very serious relationship failures on. “Maybe try to see each other more than just once a week? Work permitting, of course. I know we’re both busy.”

“That was kind of the point of moving in together.” Sam reminds you, although he’s not put out by it. “Maybe we can, but you will have to spend less time at the inn.” He hums. “You are always there. You even live there.”

"I know." That's on you, and you know it. But you still shift in your seat like you've been called to the principle's office. "I have to cut back on late nights. Malachi is more than capable of running the place any time of day and the new night manager is doing really well."

Sam nods, it’s a conversation that he’s had with you several times but nothing has changed so far. “I understand being passionate about your work.” He reminds you with a smile, reaching for your hand. “But I also want you to be passionate about other things too.” He squeezes your fingers. “Maybe kids, one day?”

"You know I want kids." That is never something that you have hemmed or hawed about. Wanting a marriage and a family is something you were pretty up front about. "Kids, a dog, the whole white picket fence thing."

“I know.” It’s a good thing too, because he wants the same thing. Although he knows that can’t really happen if you are running yourself ragged at the inn. “Just wanted to make sure that was still the case.” He jokes.

"It is." Your fingers squeeze his gently. "I haven't changed my mind about what I want."

“That’s good.” Sam smiles and feels a little better about the fact you aren’t jumping at the chance to move in with him. He had expected less resistance if he was honest with himself.

"So the next time I come over I'll bring some things to keep at your place?" A little bag of work clothes and duplicate toiletries at his house sounds positively quaint, but very sweet.

“If that’s what you want.” He agrees, leaning back again when the waiter comes with the appetizer. “Are you still planning on staying tonight?”

You pause long enough to thank the waiter and for both of you to order your entrees and have a sip of your wine after the waiter goes again. "Of course I was planning on it. It's what we talked about. But...I felt like packing a bag to bring over tonight felt a little...presumptuous? I didn't want to jinx it."

“Nothing presumptuous about it.” Sam disagrees with a smile, knowing he would have loved if you had started bringing things over. “But we will do things on your schedule, as long as our end goal is the same.”

End goal. That part still bags at you a little and you still aren’t sure if you’re overreacting. Marcus seemed to agree with us, and so did Sydney…and it’s making you wonder. But will it ruin the night to make a fuss over it? There’s really no way to tell. “I want to make sure we’re on the same page about all of it.” You decide, making sure there is no worry or waver in your voice as you reach for an oyster. It’s just a conversation. Just a conversation with your boyfriend. No big deal. Just clearing the air.

“Good.” There’s a moment’s pause where the two of you start to split the appetizer, each of you tasting it and Sam hums in approval. “I say we live together for at least a year.” He looks up at you. “What do you think?”

“At least a year before what?” The clarification seems important, since the two of you seem to have slightly different expectations. It’s slight, but it’s there.

Sam chuckles slightly. “Before the next step?” He asks playfully, shrugging slightly.

“That makes sense.” But not knowing exactly what he meant makes you feel a little foolish, so you huff a laugh and have another sip of wine. “Of course. That makes perfect sense.”

“You seem off tonight.” Sam tilts his head curiously. “Fight with Sydney? Never thought I would see that.”

“No, god no, nothing like that.” A fight with Sydney is about the farthest thing from the truth. The trouble is…you can’t really tell Sam the truth. It would be a ticking time bomb in the middle of your relationship. To not only think that you might have met your soulmate but to suddenly find yourself caring immensely about what that could mean? Hell, even being attracted to him? It would be a disaster. And you can’t blame him because you would feel exactly the same way if Sam came to you after meeting the girl that the universe says is his perfect match. Instead? All you can really do is make an excuse. “I haven’t really been feeling myself for the past few days.” That is very much true. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t let it affect tonight.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Sam’s brows pull down. “Do we need to ask them to box up our meals? The photographer can take their photos now and we can go home if you aren’t up for a night out.” Despite his own views of how the night would go, he would never drag you around if you’d rather be in bed sleeping.

It’s sweet of him to offer, but you know he would be disappointed. And, unfortunately, no amount of sleep is going to pull you out of the Marcus-shaped funk you have found yourself in. No, sleep won’t help. And tonight is supposed to be about you and Sam, so it’s going to be. “That’s okay,” you assure him, shaking your head and promising yourself that the smile on your face won’t falter again tonight. “I’d rather spend tonight celebrating with you.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” He’s giving you a doubtful look, but he doesn’t call the waiter over. “Maybe it’s just that you need a night away.” He suggests. “I have a late morning scheduled so we can sleep in.”

“Unfortunately, I have an early morning.” You bite your lip, knowing he’ll hate that. “We have a big event tomorrow night and they’re showing up early in the day. Early bird check in, venue set up, all of it.”

Sam is quiet for a minute and then looks down at his plate again. “Well, I guess that can’t be helped.”

"It's all hands on deck right away." And suddenly you feel horribly guilty about it, even though it's your job. It's something you do out of love and a deep passion for the industry that you've chosen to work in. But a morning of just sleeping in sounds so nice.

“You don’t need to explain.” It’s not like you would change your plans anyway, but it definitely sours the idea he had for the next morning. “You have priorities.”

“Yes, I do. Just like you would if you had a day full of meetings to handle.” He sounds cold, and it bothers you so much more than you would have thought. Like you’d had disappointed your parents with a bad grade on your report card instead of telling your partner than you’re anticipating a demanding work day. “I would support you if that was the case, so I don’t understand why you seem so upset with me.”

“Because we had talked about it.” Sam reminds you. “Two days ago.” He clenches his jaw and takes a breath before releasing it. “You’re right, you have work and it’s important.” He agrees. “Forget I said anything.”

“We did talk about it two days ago. And we talked about me staying over, but not about doing anything the next day. Because I told you weeks ago when this group booked their party that it was going to be a big deal.” Barely managing not to drop your fork in the table, your eyes drop to your lap and you can feel the pressure of disappointment driving at the backs of your eyes like fire and you have to take a deep breath to steady yourself. “I feel like we haven’t been communicating as well as we used to.”

“After we talked about you staying over, I asked if you wanted to have a lazy morning and you said ‘sounds good’.” Sam realizes you had told him about the booking. “We got our signals crossed. It happens. We will need to work on it.”

“Yeah.” You nod, quietly sitting back in your chair again while being very aware of the pairs of eyes that have all turned to witness the First Daughter argue with her boyfriend over their romantic Valentine’s dinner. Fuck. Mom’s going to kill me. “Yeah,” you agree with a vague nod of your head. “We’re just a little off. We’ll work on it.”

“It’s okay.” Sam promises with a smile, reaching out and taking your hand again. He doesn’t want you to be photographed looking unhappy, because then rumors would fly. Public figures aren’t allowed to have bad moments. “We will make the best of tonight.” He tells you. “Or…we can go back to your apartment if you’d prefer?” He offers. “That way you can sleep a little longer?”

"You normally hate staying at my apartment." The water pressure is better at his house, you'll give him that. And the bed is bigger. But the breakfast at your place is far superior every single time.

“I know, but I also know that you have an early morning and I would like to compromise.” He offers.

His hand fits around yours, anchoring you to the table and to him, and you remind yourself to breath. A miscommunication isn't an argument. And even if it is, an argument isn't the end of the world. "I would really like that," you agree, squeezing his hand just a touch. Trying to show him silently how much you appreciate that he's willing to bend a little for you. It has never bothered you that you go to him — stay at his place, attend his work and social events, usually let him pick restaurants for dates as well. But it's nice to feel a little give in your direction as well.

“Alright, then it’s settled.” He nods quickly and smiles at you. “We will have to swing by my house to pick up a change of clothes though.”

"We can do that." You'll tell Agent Bailey after dinner, and the message will get relayed. It will all be fine. Whatever is causing this gap between you and Sam, you'll figure it out. Starting with a little bit of compromise. "And tonight we'll clean out a drawer for you at my place. We'll each have a drawer."

It’s on the tip if his tongue to refuse, to remind you he doesn’t like staying at your place. It’s too busy and he likes privacy in his home, not people coming and going at all times. “It’s a plan.” He decides to say instead, happy that the meal is coming out.

The restaurant is busy tonight, full up with reservations for dates and girls’ nights out. Tables are packed full and the kitchen is bustling, but Malachi sits calmly at the reception desk making sure that all of the inn’s reservations for the night are being taken care of to the best of his ability. The less you have to worry about tomorrow with that incoming party, the better.

Marcus smiles as he walks up to the desk, guiding Vanessa up with a warm hand on her lower back. He hadn’t wanted to be alone, especially on Valentine’s Day, so he had once again tried one of the dating apps. Tinder Without Marks was kind of the opposite of Mate Marks and he appreciated that. There wasn’t any emphasis on tattoos or scars, just on personalities. He had been talking to Vanessa since you had bailed on his offer of dinner and tonight was the first date. “Reservation for Pike.” He greets Malachi warmly.

"Special Agent Pike!" Malachi was not going to forget that face or those shoulders anytime soon, and he smiles genuinely for what seems like the first time all night. Holidays are always a lot of extra running around. "Reservation for the restaurant tonight?" He would have noticed the name if the FBI agent had reserved a room at the inn. He definitely would have noticed that.

“Yes.” Marcus nods and smiles. “How are you Malachi?” He remembers the concierge’s name and greets him like a friend. “I knew that coming here would be a fantastic treat.”

“And…Miss D’Amario.” When the concierge’s eyes light on the woman beside Special Agent Pike, he nearly bursts out laughing. This is going to be the biggest gossip amongst the staff. Multiple staffs. “Does chef know to expect you? Or should I let her know?”

Marcus tilts his head and looks at Vanessa. “I didn’t realize you’ve been here before.” He had told her where he had made reservations, but she hadn’t said. “Do you come often?”

“Once or twice.” She admits with a sheepish smile as Malachi comes out from behind the desk to escort them into the restaurant. “Usually just to run errands. My boss…he comes here a lot.”

“Interesting coincidence.” Marcus muses as the two of them follow Malachi. “You never actually said who you worked for.” He reminds her.

She hadn’t. That’s true. Because on a dating website all kinds of information can get taken out of context or photoshopped into other things. All she had said before now is that she works on Capitol Hill. “Congressman Chase.” She tells her date, a little more secure in handing this information over after having looked into him and agreeing to this dinner. A girl can never be too careful, after all. “I’m the senior aide in his office.”

To his credit, Marcus doesn’t freeze, although his eyes blow wide. He can hear Malachi snicker quietly, although the agent isn’t sure why. Even though he doesn’t have anything against the congressman, the knowledge that she is his senior aide dulls the excitement of the date almost immediately. “I met him just the other day.” Marcus admits. “My friend and former colleague is the event planner here.”

“You know Juan?” Vanessa seems to ease immediately, the tension of meeting a stranger off the Internet soothing with the knowledge that Juan Badillo is an excellent judge of character. “Okay. So you know who owns the inn, then. And why I’m running errands here fairly often.” She smiles when Marcus pulls out her chair for her and thanks him before sitting. “I’ve always wanted to try the restaurant but never have a chance.”

Marcus smiles and nods, even though he’s not exactly sure how this dynamic would work. “Then it’s a good thing I got reservations here.” He tells her and picks up the menu. “Do you want some wine? I think I would like some.”

“That sounds great.” She nods happily, not catching the change in his demeanor even in the last few seconds.

He’s still not going to be rude. Vanessa is a lovely woman, and he shouldn’t feel guilty for being here on a date with her. Not even if you know her and she works for your boyfriend. “Are you a red, white or rosé kind of woman?” He asks, scanning the selections and looking back up at her.

“Usually white. But if you like red I’m happy to try something new.” Vanessa is happy to let Marcus take the lead, not feeling strong enough one way or the other to have a preference.

“There’s a wonderful Prosecco on the menu.” Marcus offers, lifting his brows. “It’s Valentine’s Day after all, and we aren’t alone. We should celebrate.”

"Perfect." Her smile spreads again and she sits back, looking over the menu and regarding the man across from her. "So what department of the FBI are you in? We haven't really talked about work yet."

“Art Crimes.” He supplies wondering where you and Sam are. A discreet glance around the restaurant was a relief and a disappointment not to come up with you. “I’m actually the head of the department.”

"So...is that forgeries and thieves? Like in caper movies?" Vanessa sounds suitably impressed even though it isn't the part of FBI work that gets glorified on tv or in movies. "I didn't know that was a whole department on its own. You must have a lot of responsibility."

“It’s a lot of paperwork.” Marcus admits. “Although I’m sure you have plenty yourself.” He chuckles. “I wish that it was like the movies, or that show White Collar that was on a few years ago. I could use a Neal Caffery sometimes.”

"Oh, I don't think I've ever seen it. I guess I have a little homework to do." On whatever the show is, plus on art as a whole. Art class or art history...museums in general aren't really Vanessa's thing. It just never seemed very practical. "Paperwork is okay when there's a rhythm to it. Sometimes I even turn on music quietly in the office while I'm copying and filing. It's really helpful even though it's kind of a no-no."

“Why would that be a no-no?” He wonders if Sam is a stick in the mud. “Most of the time, I encourage my team to listen to music, it helps engage your mind.”

"We try not to have anything on in the office that could interfere with being understood on the phone," she explains, like it's some kind of party line or sage advice that has been handed down to her. "Staying on message is important. And it's hard to stay on message if you can't be heard."

“And what’s your message?” He asks, finding it slightly intense, but he’s not the politician.

"Right now, our message is about serving our community. Working to bring business into our district without threatening existing small businesses, and making sure that we take safety standards into account." Obviously very proud of her work, Vanessa sits up straight in her chair and folds her hands in her lap with the air of someone being interviewed. "The Congressman is paving his own path and we're all on board for the ride."

“I see.” He can approve of such a message, admire it even. The congressman is obviously working for the best of his district and there is something noble about that. “That’s a good message to have.”

“It really is.” When Vanessa nods, it’s eager. “He’s on the fast track to the White House. It’s a privilege to get to work for him now.”

“A fast track, you say?” Marcus works so hard to keep from frowning, not liking the way that it makes it seem as if you are a steppingstone for Sam. Even though that shouldn’t bother him as much as it does.

“Absolutely.” She pauses long enough for the waiter to return for their drink order and explain the beautiful Valentine’s prix fixe menu before leaving them be again for a few minutes. “Congressman Chase has seven more years to be the youngest president ever elected, and he can do it.”

“That’s a lofty ambition.” Marcus agrees, wondering how much of dating the current president’s daughter is included in those plans for the White House.

“It’s going to be great.” She laughs, not the least self-conscious, but shrugs her shoulders. “I like my job a lot. Sorry if I get carried away a little.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Marcus waves that away, although he’s sure he sees hero worship in Vanessa’s eyes, and perhaps a crush on her boss. Nothing wrong with that unless they are being inappropriate and he can’t see the congressman doing that with his ambitions. Some congressmen, sure, but not Sam. “I wish a lot more people enjoyed their jobs like that.”

“It makes hard work worth it,” she agrees, though she does demure and tuck a stray hair behind her ear. “You…must love art? To be so involved with those crimes specifically?”

“I have come to really appreciate it.” Marcus tells her. “I never really stopped to look and think about much art before, but some weekends, I enjoy going through the museums for pleasure and not trying to research a piece.”

"DC is a very good place if you like museums." Even if she's not very big on them herself, she knows that to be absolutely true. It's where she ends up bringing family whenever they visit, so she has seen quite a few of the Smithsonian museums by now. She'd just rather be at a game.

“They are nice. Especially if a game gets rained out.” Marcus agrees, leaning back when the waiter comes back with the first course. “Thank you.” He hums and looks up at Vanessa. “This looks amazing.”

“It really does.” Vanessa looks as delighted as Marcus does and she offers him a sincere smile. “I’m very glad you decided to ask me out tonight.”

“I am too.” He smiles at her even if he feels guilty that he’s not as glad has he had been before he realized the connection to Sam Chase and therefore….you. He picks up his Prosecco and holds it up. “To positive first dates.”

“Absolutely.” Their glasses make lovely clink as they tap together and Vanessa smiles again, very glad that she decided to take this step to try to get over the crush she has on her boss.

“Looks like the inn is fairly packed tonight.” Sam hums as he pulls into the employee only portion of the oyster shell parking lot. He’s not upset for you business-wise, but he wished there weren’t so many people there.

“The night manager had the idea to keep our sitting room open for some live music, and it seems like people have stayed. It must have been a success.” The rooms aren’t sold out tonight because there are early check-ins for that party in the morning, but managing to keep people in house and engaged is a huge deal.

“Interesting concept.” Sam’s not really sure if that would attract the kind of clientele that you want here, but he’s a politician, not an inn owner. “Hopefully not too late?” He asks, wondering if it will be noisy into the late night. That’s not romantic.

“It should be over soon,” you promise him, seeing that your watch reads almost eleven o’clock.

“Good.” Once out of the car, he rushes around the hood and wraps his arm around your waist. “I don’t want them to interrupt our plans for tonight.”

“Nothing’s going to interrupt us.” Heading for the back door, you can pop right into the elevator to head upstairs without having to interrupt anything that’s going on or get sidetracked by Malachi. You just want to take a peak into the sitting room but that’s all. “And you can sleep in, in the morning after I’ve tired you out.”

"Is that a promise?" Sam asks playfully, allowing you to lead him away from the elevator and down the hall.

"Absolutely." The rest of the date had smoothed out, being a relatively quiet and pleasant night Now that you're back at the inn with a bag of Sam's things to stash away in your bureau, you're feeling a little bit flirtier and more upbeat. "And when you come downstairs after you finally drag that excellent butt out of bed, I'll have Syd make you some breakfast."

“I do love her breakfasts.” Sam groans, smirking at you playfully. “So you are planning on wearing me out completely?” He squeezes your waist and looks ahead towards the music.

"I'd say you deserve a night of intensely deep sleep, and I intend to make sure you get it." There is a little line waiting for the elevator as guests start to go up to their rooms for the night, so you hang back with Sam and look toward the sitting room instead. The music coming through is atmospheric and sweet and you are right about to lean your head on Sam's chest while you wait — when you spot someone unexpected in the sitting room.

Marcus had decided that just because Vanessa works for Sam doesn’t mean that he can’t have a nice night with her. The music had sounded lovely floating from the sitting room and he had asked if she wanted to stay. Now, they are dancing and he hasn’t thought about you in at least five minutes.

It's not exactly a gasp, but you end up trying to swallow whatever noise of surprise you were going to make when you spotted Marcus with his date in the the other room — and instead of keeping your reaction to yourself you end up choking on your own damn spit and coughing hard enough to worry Sam.

“Are you alright?” Sam pats your back and leans in with a worried look on his face while you wave him away. “What’s—” he glances around the room and immediately stiffens. “What is he doing with Vanessa?” He asks, his voice bristled with a slight anger he can’t shake.

"Vanessa?" You hadn't even seen who he was with, just choked at the sight of Marcus enjoying a quiet, romantic moment with another woman — something which you know shouldn't bother you but it had been a whole five minutes since the last time you thought about him so apparently that is your maximum. "Like your aide Vanessa?"

“How does he know her?” Sam ignores the question, staring holes into the FBI agent that is currently slow dancing with said aide and making her beam up at him in a way that has Sam wanting to drag her away from him.

"I don't know." He's practically fuming, and your forehead furrows as you turn your eyes back from the couple in the other room to Sam beside you. "Why does it matter?"

“I find it funny—” his tone definitely says otherwise, “that this man just magically shows up, gets invited to a game night and is now cozying up to my top aide.” Sam knows that he’s already been tagged by the DNC as a rising star, his own seat on the council is indicative of that, and now there’s this FBI that is showing up everywhere.

"He's friends with Juan." The defense in your voice is impossible to miss, and you cross your arms defiantly over your chest like you're waiting for him to pick a fight. "Maybe they were introduced by a mutual friend? Met in a coffee shop? Found each other on a dating app? Who knows?"

“And they just happened to book your inn as a date?” He scoffs slightly, unable to believe that fanciful tale and narrows his eyes as Marcus twirls Vanessa around and pulls her back against him.

"Why don't you go interrupt them and find out if you're so curious?" This has taken a very deep turn for the worse, and you can only be glad that the last guests waiting for the elevator near you have gone up so you're more or less alone now. Of course Agent Bailey is nearby, but she never comments.

“No.” He wants to. That’s the problem, and he knows it’s not a good move. Frowning, he turns away from the dancing couple. “Let’s go upstairs. The music is horrible.”

It's not. At all. But this isn't about the music and both of you know that silently even if it isn't said out loud. Sam jams his thumb in the 'Up' button for the elevator again but you say nothing, glancing back at the sitting room one more time to wonder if Sam is upset about the date that is happening for the same reason you are. And if he is...what does that mean for the two of you?

Once upstairs, Sam steps out of the elevator and sighs. “Can we just have the apartment to ourselves?” He directs his question to Agent Bailey, not looking at you.

There are certain protocols that have to be upheld, and Agent Bailey looks to you before starting them. “Ma’am?”

In your mind it’s awfully rude, knowing that asking her to sit in the hallway means hours and hours of uncomfortable sitting, but you also know that Sam is…in less than a good mood right now. And while you’re cranky too, you would rather try to smooth things over if you can. “If…you wouldn’t mind?”

“Please stay here.” Bailey directs you both. She’ll do a sweep of the apartment to make sure no one is waiting for you, and then she’ll take a chair into the hallway. She won’t say so, but she doesn’t mind not hearing a fight if it happens. Or the makeup sex. Neither one is her favorite.

Once you two are alone, Sam sets his bag down, aware that the mood of the evening is ruined and it’s his fault. “Do you want me to leave?” He asks, not even sure if he wants to stay at this point. Especially if Vanessa and that agent will also be spending the night under this roof. He’s not happy to see his best aide here, and usually he’s always happy to see her.

“Can you explain to me why you’re so upset?” It’s definitely uncomfortable, this tension that hangs in the air now, and you try not to let your eyes drop to the right before going back to him. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just surprised. He’s the one who got mad.

“It’s— I’m not—” There’s not a rational reason why he’s upset, and logically he knows this. “I don’t like the fact this man seems to be everywhere.” You had told him about meeting Marcus at the market and it seems as if he’s suddenly everywhere when a few weeks ago, no one knew this man was even in the area. “Strange in my eyes.”

“It’s just a coincidence.” That’s what you’ve told yourself, anyway. It has nothing at all — nothing whatsoever — to do with the universe putting you into situations where you’ll bump into each other. Not at all. “The Secret Service did a background check on him. He’s totally clear.”

“Then I guess I’m just overreacting.” Sam sighs and wipes a hand down his face. “I should go.” He knows that if he stays, the night won’t proceed like it was planned and he’s better off going home. You don’t seem too happy with him. “Unless you want me to stay?”

What you want, and what you should do, and what seems like the healthiest decision for your mental health all are different things. You should tell him to stay, brush it off, and try to salvage the evening. You want to go downstairs and interrupt that damn date to find out if Marcus Pike is as good a dancer as he seemed to be in the small space of the sitting room. But what’s best for your mental health? Is probably neither of those things. “Maybe I can come over this weekend and we can try to have a less stressful night at your place instead?”

Sam is silent for a moment and then nods. Understanding that something has fundamentally shifted in your relationship and trying to figure out what that might mean for the future. “Sounds good.” He agrees and looks at his bag before picking it up. “I’m sorry about how the night ended.”

“So am I.” The air between you feels different. Colder or heavier or just more tense, but you won’t back down just for the comfort of having him next to you in bed tonight. That isn’t fair to either of you.

Instead of a romantic kiss, Sam leans in and presses his lips to your cheek. “I’ll text you when I get home.” He promises, stepping back and frowning slightly before nodding. He had honestly expected you to change your mind, but he won’t beg to stay, knowing it’s not the best idea.

“Get home safe.” A long moment passes with thick air hanging between you before Sam nods again and opens the door, stepping out of your apartment and back in to the elevator. “It’s just us tonight,” you tell Agent Bailey, who comes back into the room the moment she hears the door. “The Congressman has gone home for the night.” And of referring to him by his title instead of his name isn’t a big fucking clue to you right then and there, it should be.

It’s not surprising, given the way the evening has turned sour, but it’s not her place to say anything. “Very well.” She nods. “If you need anything, let me know.” She intends to stay outside and let you sulk if you need to. She hadn’t missed ’the Congressman’ title instead of Sam.

“You can stay inside.” Banishing your Secret Service detail to the hallway is one more thing that rubbed you the wrong way. “I’m just going to go to bed. But the coffee you like…the vanilla caramel one? It in the cupboard above the coffee maker. Any time you want to make some.”

“Thank you.” The couch you don’t mind her sitting on is a lot more comfortable than the chair in hallway and she appreciates that you don’t mind her using the bathroom either. “Is there anything you need before you go to bed?”

“No.” You’re too afraid to ask if you did wrong by letting Sam go home, so you don’t even consider it. “Tomorrow’s an early morning. Agent Sisson coming to relieve you early?”

“Five.” She nods. “If you need to be up earlier, I will be here.”

"I won't be up until after that." Unless you can't sleep, which is a serious possibility considering how poorly the night went and how half of your thoughts are currently downstairs in the sitting room. "So I'll see you tomorrow, Agent Bailey."

“Goodnight, ma’am.” It’s best to keep things formal, although she feels bad that your evening did not end up like it was supposed to. And incredibly interested in the reaction of the congressman to Marcus Pike’s presence.

"Good night." Going to your room alone isn't what you wanted for tonight, but it feels like it's for the best. All you can do now is hope that you sleep.

The next morning is a flurry of activity, but Sydney notices that you aren’t rushing in from the parking lot when you come into the kitchen, looking like you didn’t get much sleep last night. “Good morning sunshine.” She teases, reaching for the coffee pot to pour you a cup.

Teasing barely earns her a grumble in return, but you gratefully accept the cup of coffee she pours you and turn to doctor it immediately. “That early check-in group should be here in a half hour.”

“I already have a breakfast spread ready for them.” She motions to the counter and the baskets she has already started filling with baked goods. The bowl of fresh fruit is inside a hollowed-out watermelon. “I couldn’t sleep.” She explains. “Indigestion.”

“There’s a joke in there about swallowing too much cum, but I’m too tired to make it.” You huff though, trying for a smile for your best friend. “It looks great, Syd. Thank you for working so hard.”

She sees through you instantly and frowns, moving around the counter and wiping her hands on the ever present rag tucked into the pocket of her chef’s jacket. “What’s wrong?” She asks, feeling your forehead and looking like an over anxious mother hen worrying over her baby. “Are you not feeling good? Juan, Malachi and I can handle this if you need us to.”

“Not a chance.” Considering you never take sick days even when you’re actually sick, there is no way you would make your team handle a big event without you. “It’s nothing. I just…had a bad night. That’s all.”

“Everything alright?” She frowns, tutting at your stubbornness and moving over to the espresso machine to give you a shot to help boost you up.

“Sam and I had a little…series of tiffs,” you admit with a sigh. There is a pan of her fresh baked broscia nearby and the Sicilian brioche-style bread is calming to you to be crammed full with jam and butter so you grab one still warm. “We got into it at the restaurant over me having to be at work early today and then again later when he flipped out about Marcus being here on his date.”

“Marcus?” Her head whips around and she gives you an utterly confused look. “One, why was he here? Two, why was Sam upset about that?”

“He must have stayed after dinner. For the musician that Malachi brought in.” Sam had been cranky about it, but you thought the singer at the piano had been lovely. “He…uh…Marcus, that is…did you see who his date was? When they came in for dinner last night?”

“I didn’t see, it was crazy in the kitchen, but Malachi told me that it was Vanessa.” She huffs. “How the hell do they know each other?”

“I don’t know. But the same question made Sam so upset that he ended up leaving my apartment last night instead of staying over.” The best you can do is shrug your shoulders. Because as much as it bothers you? You know why it does. There’s no mystery there, only guilt. “He thinks there’s something suspicious about Marcus, apparently.”

“Something suspicious about Marcus Pike?” She chokes out, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it. “The FBI agent? The man who was an Eagle Scout?” She and Juan had pulled that nugget of information out of him at game night.

“Because apparently, he’s ‘suddenly everywhere’ when none of us had seen him before.” Jam and butter join your bread roll and you sigh a little at the comfort of it. “I think it’s just confirmation bias. Like we probably were in the same places as him before, we just didn’t know to look for him.”

“Well…Juan would have recognized him.” Syd reminds you. “So that’s not exactly true, but I understand what you mean.” She sighs and hesitates for a moment. “Do you think it’s him or because he was with Vanessa?” She knows the other woman has a crush on Sam, it’s obvious from the hero worship stars in her eyes when she’s around. She knows Sam isn’t the type to cheat, but maybe there’s some feelings there that are repressed.

“I feel like that didn’t help.” Coffee and a little breakfast is helping. You can think a little straighter even if you don’t like the thoughts. “I know Vanessa has a thing for him. It’s not subtle. But before now I didn’t think there was cause for concern the other way.”

“It could be that Sam thinks that Vanessa could give away information that he could use if Marcus wanted to cause problems between you and Sam.” She rationalizes. “Slightly conspiracy theorist in my mind, but I could see how it could be construed.” Sydney enjoys playing Devil’s advocate, even if she likes Marcus and doesn’t think he is angling for anything.

“Before last week, I didn’t think there were problems between me and Sam.” It’s disconcerting to realize, as you stand here and talk through it with your best friend, that your relationship has not been as steady as you once thought. “Now? I don’t know.”

“Other than his overreaction, what makes you think that?” She asks, aware that you’ve been a little edgy lately but every relationship has ups and downs at times.

“He seems…really agitated lately. Much more upset than usual about having an agent around. Last night he wanted Agent Bailey to sit out in the hall while we slept, how does that make sense? And making comments about the future of our relationship to other people?” To Vanessa’s parents, now that you think about it. It sometimes slips your mind that his most trustworthy aide is also the only daughter of one of his largest donors. “Everything just feels on edge.”

“Have you talked about all this? Like really sat down and talked?” She frowns, not liking what she is hearing, although it could just be a case of miscommunication.

“Before now there hasn’t really been a reason.” Or at least, there hasn’t been such an obvious compilation of reasons. “And considering he never texted me back when he got home last night, now I’m wondering if he’ll be willing to sit down and hash things out.”

“I’m sorry.” She slides the shot of espresso over and reaches for your hand. “I like Sam, but if it doesn’t work out, it’s better to find out now, than down the road.”

“With the whole soulmate thing and now this kind of…weird accumulation of things?” You shake your head and just sort of shrug awkwardly. “I feel discouraged in a way that I really wasn’t expecting.”

“I’m sorry.” Immediately feeling guilty, Sydney’s shoulders drop and she bites her lip. “I shouldn’t have teased you about finding out what kind of hummingbird tattoo he has.” She hadn’t expected it to cause so many problems, or for you to be so resistant to it. Before Sam, you would have demanded to see the tattoo right away just to disprove the soulmate theory. “What can I do to help you?”

“Honey, you’re growing a literal human. You have enough to deal with.” It’s disheartening, and confusing, and frankly you’re shocked that you’re so willing to throw up your hands. That’s not like you at all.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t and won’t be there for my best friend.” She argues, frowning at you. “Your shit is my shit, remember? I’ll be expecting you to do a rotation getting up with the baby.” She jokes, wanting you to laugh a little.

"If we still lived together, I absolutely would." Being in this apartment upstairs is actually the first time you've ever lived alone — taking over the role of caretaker for the inn when Sydney moved out of the apartment you had been renting in Old Town to buy a house with her soulmate. "At this point I feel like I'm between a rock and a hard place...and one of those blockages is purely made up of how confused I am over...just feeling like I want to throw in the towel instead of working things out. That's not who I am. Or not who I have been."

“Honey, sometimes you just…don’t want to work things out. That doesn’t make you a failure.” She hums. “You might just realize that you have different goals.”

"But why do I feel that way?" There's only a few bites of your bun left and you know that today is going to be a peckish day. You tend to nibble when you're worried. "Is it just because I'm having doubts? And why am I even having doubts? It's...soulmates never mattered to me before this."

“Maybe it’s because of the man and not the soulmate aspect?” She probes gently. “Let me ask you this….if you weren’t in a relationship with Sam, would you be interested in Marcus. Even without the soulmate possibility?”

"I—" It feels dirty. A kind of guilt you really don't like and makes your skin crawl. But this isn't a situation you're going to lie about. Not when you're literally asking your best friend for help. "I mean...probably. Yeah."

“Then you should step back. From Marcus or Sam, that decision is yours. But some space might be needed to figure out what you are feeling.” Syd suggests.

"All the social media shit from our date last night is going to go viral really fast if anyone gets a whiff that we've broken up." Just as astonishing as the idea that you would even consider ending things, it's alarming how fast your heart knows the right decision to make. Or at least what you perceive as right in this moment. "It's going to be a shitshow..."

Sydney doesn’t comment on the fact that it seems like you’ve made up your mind, just humming. “Take it slow. It doesn’t have to be some kind of announcement.”

"The last thing I want is to have to make an announcement." The end of your coffee cup comes all too soon, and you fill it up again with a sigh. This morning is going to be a lot for many different reasons. "Syd...you would stop me if you thought I was making the wrong choice, right?"

“I would definitely try to talk to you.” She promises. “I like Sam, I really do, but if you don’t see yourself marrying him, well—” she shrugs. “Just give yourself a week, how about that?”

"Have I really reached the point in my life where it's not worth staying with someone that I don't see myself marrying?" That is a fairly rude awakening because of how honest it is, and you stifle a groan in one hand. "You're right, and I know you're right. But the State Dinner for the Spanish royal visit is in just over a week. The last thing I want is to have to go to that alone."

“To make it fair, give yourself that time.” She tells you. “Give him an honest try and if you still can’t see it, then you have your answer because Sam is the type to want marriage.”

"I want to get married, too." You always have. Ever since you were little. You reveled in family weddings and dreaming in your own big day. You had even talked to Marcus about it at the market. But whenever the future comes up with Sam, it ends up feeling tense now. "I just...it's a lot to even think about, Syd. You and Juan just...you're so good together. I don't think I'll ever get that lucky."

“I think you will.” She encourages. “My relationship with Juan isn’t without work.” She reminds you. “We still have to communicate and work through issues.”

"But it's worth it because you love each other so much." The sentence is out of your mouth before you have a chance to really sit on what you're saying, and just seconds after you hear yourself say it, your shoulders fall in defeat. "Oh...fuck..."

“What is it?” She asks, frowning at the way you just seemed to deflate.

"It's worth it for you and Juan to work through your issues because you love each other so much." Repeating the phrase makes it hurt all the more, because you didn't realize until this exact moment that it doesn't apply to you. At least, not anymore. "I...don't think I feel the same way..."

“Oh honey.” Her expression softens and she is immediately around the counter again, this time pulling you in for a big hug.

"I'm okay," you insist, through very obvious tears that announce the contrary. "I'm okay." You have to be. You have work to do, and you can't greet a large family party here to announce and celebrate an engagement with runny mascara. "I...have to be okay."

“Listen.” She lets you go and takes your shoulder to look you in the eyes. “You are going upstairs. Ahhh.” She stops you when you start to protest. “Take ten minutes, take an hour, take all day, but take some time to yourself before you start running around dealing with the very obvious results of love.” She tells you. “I can get them started with food and then Juan can take over to take them to the venue.” She shakes her head, huffing when you open your mouth again. “No, I’m not listening. Now go.”

"I'll be back in ten minutes." The best thing you can do for yourself today is keep busy, but she's right that you need to have a clear head for things to go well. "I just...I didn't know this was going to happen today. Or ever."

“I know, babe.” She squeezes you again and sighs. “But I’m here for you. Completely.”

"Thank you, love." Squeezing her tight against you as much as you can, you steal your second coffee away with you from the kitchen and head back upstairs with Agent Sisson following behind.

Sydney sighs as she looks at the door you disappear through for a moment before turning back to her work. The best way she can help you right now, is to make sure the incoming clients are happy.

Walking out through the back hall, you clutch your mug of coffee and try to hang onto a thread of dignity until you get back upstairs. There are more tears pressing at the back of your eyes and you absolutely do not want them shed in public. The elevator is in use, apparently, and you jam your finger in the button a second time for good measure before blowing out a sigh. What a great fucking Valentine’s last night turned out to be, and what a terrible fucking day this is looking like…

The little toiletry kits provided in the rooms are a godsend and both Marcus and Vanessa quickly clean up after the alarm had woken them. “Can’t believe we drank so much and we don’t have hangovers.” Marcus hums, riding the elevator down to get a quick breakfast with his Valentine’s date. They had ended up finishing a bottle and then having another few glasses while dancing. Feeling too drunk to safely get home, the night manager had agreed to let them take one of the rooms on the promise they would check out early. He has been grateful and eagerly agreed. “How about you?”

“Normally I would say I’m still drunk,” Vanessa admits with a sheepish laugh. “But I’m okay. I think it’s just a miracle and I’m not in the habit of questioning those. Though I could use some breakfast.”

“I’ll get you fed and then get you home so you won’t be late to work.” Marcus promises. He will be late, but he had already told his team to come in late, so it’s just paperwork that he’s missing.

“In case no one has ever told you before, you are a consummate caretaker.” It makes a girl like Vanessa feel very special, who spend her working hours caring for someone else and her downtime making sure to live up to her parents’ expectations, and while Marcus Pike isn’t quite her dream man — he’s handsome and sweet and she would be stupid to ignore that.

"I like to make sure people are happy and safe around me." Marcus shrugs off the praise with a small grin. "I took you from your house, it's only right I deliver you back to it." He hums as the elevator stops and dings before the doors open. "Now to get you fed."

When the elevator doors slide open in front of you, the most unwelcome sight in the world is waiting. The vision of Marcus Pike and Vanessa D’Amario in the same clothing you saw them wearing last night, looking refreshed and giddy huddled together in one corner of the elevator car makes you want to turn on your heel and flee back into the kitchen. And you probably would, if you weren’t rooted to the spot in shock and trying to remember how to breathe.

Vanessa murmurs your name in surprise. "I—I didn't expect to see you here this morning!" Her eyes dart around, almost nervously as she expects Sam to pop up. "I—uh, is Congressman Chase here?" She asks, "I thought— he said that you had a date." Normally dates between you and Sam included sleepovers.

“He’s not here.” You won’t invite questions by giving extra information, but when your feet remember how to work, you step out of the way to let them off the elevator. “I—um—I was just headed upstairs.” Sam is going to be in a very foul mood if he’s coming off a bad night and Vanessa walks in looking freshly fucked, and that almost makes you sob all over again. “N—nice to see you, Vanessa. Marcus.”

Marcus can't even do more than just nod and lift his hand and wave slightly, feeling foolish as he watches the doors slide closed and your eyes meet his in a kind of silent agony. "Well," Vanessa giggles and Marcus can't help the way that he swallows guiltily, like he's done something wrong. "I guess that's one way for my boss to learn I had a date."

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

HHL: @haileymorelikestupid @anoverwhelmingdin @storiesofthefandomlovers @missladym1981 @babeincolor @storiesofthefandomlovers

My Masterlist!

[radiansjort]

BEST PARTS OF 2024 OLYMPICS (as someone in the US)

all the buzz around the cardboard beds. idk why the whole idea is so funny 💀

lebron hoisting that flag like george washington crossing the delaware. him and coco were perfect picks for flag bearers fr

POMMEL HORSE GUY. mr clark kent who got picked for the men’s gymnastics team JUST FOR THAT ONE EVENT, showed up, served cunt, and ensured us their first men’s gym medal in 16 years. stephen nedoroscik you will forever be iconic. (the whole team really— i also love seeing fred richards’ parents reactions LMAO)

THE USA WOMENS RUGBY TEAM 🗣️ being down 5 with 7 seconds left to go COAST TO COAST TO SCORE AND WIN THE BRONZE FOR THE FIRST US WOMENS MEDAL IN RUGBY!!! also ilona maher you will forever be iconic. 

flavia saraiva falling in warmups and being like ok bet, slaps a band aid on her black eye and goes out to help brazil win their FIRST MEDAL IN WOMENS GYM OHHH YEAHHH

GUATEMALA EARNED THEIR SECOND MEDAL EVER 🔥🔥🔥‼️‼️GRACIAS JEAN PIERRE BROL CARDENAS 🗣️🗣️🇬🇹🇬🇹🇬🇹🥉LOS CHAPINES FTW ‼️(if it weren’t for the new bib number rule instead of a shootout we could’ve gotten higher but i digress 😔)

THE WOMENS GYMNASTICS TEAM EATS ONCE AGAIN. 🐐🐐🐐

kim yeji’s AURA???!??? she came out there and shot with her hand in her pocket like she graduated from the university of servington, which she did, all while holding her daughters toy elephant 🥹

suni lee’s, simone biles’, and brody malone’s comeback stories were all so heartwarming to see, especially rebeca andrade’s coming back after THREE ACL TEARS?!!?

henrik christiansen (aka muffin guy) is literally so funny 😭🙏 bro actually has SO. MANY. tiktoks about the olympics village chocolate muffins and i give all credit to him for the fact we have the recipe now 😋

GUATEMALA WINNING ITS FIRST GOLD 🥇🥇🥇 ADRIANA RUANO 🐐🐐 PRIMER BRONCE Y AHORA ORO 🥉🥇🇬🇹🇬🇹🇬🇹🔥🔥🔥‼️‼️‼️🗣️🗣️🗣️

that turkish guy who just came out there in a t shirt and rawdogged the olympics 😭😭 imagine doing the shooting event with no eyewear, no ear covers, and just eyeballing it and winning SILVER??? bro is a hit man tryna not be suspicious by winning gold 🤨🤨

snoop dogg just chilling?? bro is participating in trials, trading pins, going to like every event and cheering, wearing FULL equestrian gear with martha stewart 😭? watching skateboarding finals w tony hawk? my guy is on the side quest of all side quests

katie ledecky my GOAT 🐐. i always love seeing her as the only swimmer on screen!! she lowkey has time to get out of the pool, do some interviews, get a snack, and come back to watch second place finish fr 

i do not usually watch cycling but i got so sad when remco evenepoel’s bike broke down BUT he had such a. huge lead he STILL MANAGED TO WIN GOLD!!! 🔥🔥

loving all the countries making history with their first medals!! julian alfred (st. lucia) and thea lafond (dominica) SHOWING UP FR!! also a lot of countries got their first medals in gymnastics specifically like kaylia neymour (algeria), carlos yulo (philippines), ángel barajas (colombia), etc. LIKE OKAYY THE GYMNASTS ARE NOT HERE TO PLAY

all the noah lyles haters been real quiet after he won gold in 100m 🤫🤫

the french pole vaulter who LOST because his peanits was too big. LIKE??!!?? sure you have a big wiener but at the cost of LOSING THE OLYMPCIS LMFAOOO

the women’s balance beam podium was so cute 😭😭 the two italians, alice d’amato and manila esposito, biting their medals together, and zhou yaqin from china looks over and does it too 🥹

armand duplantis hit the turkish hitman celly after breaking the pole vaulting wr AGAIN and winning gold 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨 tuff. he actually built different cuz tell me why he’s broken the wr LIKE EIGHT TIMES IN A ROW???

YEAHH BRAZIL BEAT FRANCE AND SPAIN EVEN WHEN THE REFS WERE TRYING SOOO HARD TO MAKE EM LOSE ‼️ like they were NOT slick we could tell 🤨

bro the figure skaters from beijing 2022 FINALLY getting their medals like??? i really took two years for the IOC to investigate? okay. AT LEAST THEYRE FINALLY GETTING THE BAG H 🗣️🗣️

imane khelif getting a gold despite ALL THE SHIT BEING THROWN AT HER‼️ she faced all these brain dead critics yet came out to win it, and saying without her haters the win wouldn’t have been so satisfying??? QUEEN SHIT 👑👑

women’s soccer SLAYED SO HARD. like i’ve seen enough build the alyssa naeher statue. that shootout against sweden awakened that dawg in her and she LOCKED IN. 

men’s and women’s basketball wins over france 🔥 imagine being the host country and both ur basketball teams go to the gold medal match just TO LOSE TO THE SAME COUNTRY LLL

usa winning the most medals 🔥💪 they not like U.S. fr 

shoutout to that guy who tried to climb the eiffel tower without ropes at the closing ceremony 😔✊ arrested before he could achieve greatness 🕊️🕊️🕊️

[swiftsmlb]

dating jordan poole includes..

jordan poole x fem!reader

mentions of sexual activities.

you were the wizards social media manager.

that meant that you had to make videos with jordan once he got traded to washington.

the both of you became best friends, until jordan asked you out one night.

you of course said yes.

and the two of you never went back.

and people around you didn’t mind the two of you dating, as long as you kept it professional.

jordan is such a sweetheart.

he loves and cares about you so much!

jordan loves to gift you flowers.

it’s his thing!

jordan also loves to spoil you.

he hates seeing you pay for things.

jordan will get the both of you matching outfits and or shoes.

off-season trips!

jordan also loves to take photos of you. and the both of you together!

the both of you supporting one another, through thick and thin.

helping him when he’s sore.

jordan getting you a necklace with his initials on it.

sex with jordan >>

jordan treats you so well during sex.

he’ll put you first. make sure anything he wants to do is okay with you.

he’ll keep repeating how beautiful you are during sex.

“you’re perfect baby.”

nicknames like: baby, princess, love.

your relationship is private. from the public eye.

but everyone knows the both of you are dating.

jordan just loves you so much.

[hugheses]

love your scholarship 🥸

do you know anything about their school/college days - ie if they liked school/had favourite subjects/took particular classes? if Quinn and Luke declared majors at mich?

also if they’ve ever said what they read? think I read that Jack says he likes to read (sports books maybe?) in his spare time and one in of Ellen’s interviews she talks about reading (to them?) and somewhere else about how she was super involved in their academics

The teacher in me is fascinated!

quinn was enrolled in the school of kinesiology and majoring in sports management.

in 2021 he said

If you weren’t a hockey player, what else might you be doing? — Veronica X. I don’t know, I love golf. I’d probably be golfing a lot. I’d be in school somewhere … I’d be a senior right now so I’d probably be getting my degree in the next couple of weeks. Maybe business or sport management? That’s what I was looking at at Michigan for two years.

luke's intended major was also sports management. he was taking a business management class and fumbled his part on a group project when he signed with the devils. he took a greek sports history class and talked about how he doesn't love school but he likes history here (worth listening to imo) and he also enjoyed history of college athletics. luke actually took an online college class before officially starting at umich

"I'm taking an online chemistry class to get it off my plate. I wake-up and do two hours of that and then I go and work out with [trainer] Brian Gallivan and then I skate and then just chill by the pool and hang out. It's been nice."

here's a snippet from quinn about books

Hughes has become an avid reader to expand his knowledge and make better use of downtime. He recently completed “The Boys in the Boat” historical epic that was made into a movie directed by George Clooney. “I buried it, it’s done,” Hughes proudly stated Tuesday after practice. “I finished it three weeks ago. Great book. Page turner. I’m reading ‘Moneyball’ now.” “Boys in the Boat” is a riveting and true account of how the Depression-era University of Washington junior varsity rowing team stunned the world by overcoming immense odds to capture gold at the 1936 Olympics in Berlin. Joe Rantz was a driving force for the eight-man crew. A strong rower with an unshakeable disposition sounds a lot like the driven Hughes. “I thought Joe was just a hard worker who did his job and was a quiet guy,” said Hughes. “He appreciated everything that came his way. He pretty much raised himself from the age of 10 and was a very outdoors person.”

he apparently is "reading a book almost weekly to try to improve his brain" and he also was spotted reading Stay Sane in an Insane World: How to Control the Controllables and Thrive

jack likes reading sports books as said here, specifically Eleven Rings: The Soul of Success and Three-Ring Circus: Kobe, Shaq, Phil, and the Crazy Years of the Lakers Dynasty. The Mamba Mentality: How I Play was on his reading list in high school. he also talks about books here

Craig: The other thing that (Williams) said was reading. He said you’re asking for book recs. We’re looking for book recs. We’re big readers. Jack: Yeah, you guys got any? I dunno. (I’m tired of) everything on my phone, social media, things like that — and I never went to college, so you gotta get smarter somehow. Craig: Are you a fiction guy? Are you a self-improvement guy? What do you find yourself gravitating towards? Jack: I read a lot of sports books. “Eleven Rings,” by Phil Jackson. Also, “Greenlights” by Matthew McConaughey. Those are my favorite ones I’ve read recently. It’s important. We’ve got a lot of down time on the road, so it’s good stuff.

as for ellen, she said this in the cammi & aj podcast

So for me, you do things that you enjoy or you- you teach them things that you feel like you can teach them, Right. So it's kind of a slight on me that I wasn't more worldly and wanting to take them to museums. Or maybe like I felt like I had do those things because like, ‘Oh my God, what am I teaching them?’ But you tend to do the things that you - you're trying to find activities. Jimmy was off coaching a lot, I had three young boys that were really close in age. So what do I know? What can I do to pass time and keep them active? It was kicking a soccer ball. It was throwing a ball, it was doing rollerblading, it was passing the puck, it was taking them skating. So for me, those were mommy and me activities, right? And then every once in a while I'd be like, you know, I'd be like, ‘uh, we got to do Kumon, we gotta do like - we gotta read.’ You know, academics was really important to me because I felt like I was so driven the other way that like, I didn’t want to miss out on the other. So for us, it was never this grandiose plan, and I'm sure you guys were the same way. It was more like, ‘be the best at whatever it is you're doing, work your hardest at whatever it is you're doing.’ Working the hardest didn't mean scoring the most goals. It was playing the right way, whatever it is, being a great teammate and working really, really hard and we always felt like the other would come.

other potentially interesting notes, jack was an honor roll student in 8th grade, and quinn agreed he was the best at school when they were younger, so it's funny he's the one who didn't end up going to college. ellen's brother is actually the president of denison university and they have some pretty academic cousins also.

[bits-and-babs]

𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄

pairing: captain john price x f!reader ('raven')

summary: john calls you in the middle of the night.

warnings: [ 1k words ] reader answers a phone call where john is fucking another woman, jealous!reader ,mutual desire hatred, (f) masturbation voyeurism in the weirdest sense

notes: i’m disgusting for this one <33

Price's name illuminates your phone screen in the pitch-blackness of your bedroom, trusty blackout curtains impeding the lambent street lights of Washington from pouring through the glass. The digital clock in the upper-right corner of your mobile reads 03:49. 

Panic capsizes your stomach, and you fumble as you scoop the trilling device into your hands. You're sobered from the intoxication of deep sleep almost instantaneously; the timing of this call is too early to possibly be anything less than urgent. John is in Amsterdam, searching for intel to pinpoint Hassan and the centre of Al Mazrah's terrorist regime. The grave chirrup blaring from the speakers in your hand convinces you he must have something. 

Punching the green phone icon, you bring the vibrating rectangle to your ear and speak before the audio even reaches your eardrums. "What do you have for me, Price?"

You expect the sound of a breathless John having escaped a gunfight in order to bring back invaluable information that would bring the U.R.A's terrorist cell to its knees. These would have been entirely rational, standard grounds for a phone call this early in the morning from his secure phone line. 

It isn't that. Or anything close. 

"Fuck, John- don't stop, please don't stop-" 

You stall, frozen to the bed despite the hot flush that pools sweat over your skin. It all plays over the speaker; the stranger's mewls of bliss, heavy slaps of skin, and grunts that are unmistakably John's. It makes your heart pummel your rib cage, its pulse so insistent that you can hear its rhythmic thump as clearly as John's steady thrusts.

It's devastating, a fierce surge of something ugly prickling sharp and hot in your stomach. It's as though Price had jammed the smouldering end of one of his cigars into your gut lining, the embers catching the fibrous tissue of your insides and sparking a wildfire. So why, despite the searing jealousy that blazed through your body, did you feel your cunt clench at the sound of his voice.

"That's it, mmm. Good girl, spread those legs for me– yes." Price's voice is thick, whispy like the smoke he exhaled into the microphone while you called orders that saved lives. It soaks into you, infects your mind like his husked syllables and the needy pulse in your clit that they wrought is contagious. It certainly sounds like it; the poor girl beneath him wails like he's just set her ablaze. 

"Hngggghhh–"

It's wholly inappropriate of you. Immoral, licentious. You should be yelling something down the phone in warning that the stupid man had somehow managed to butt-dial you and hanging up the phone, and yet–

Your fingers sink low, dip between your folds and skirt over your clit. Trembling, you press the button for the loudspeaker, unable to persuade your wandering hands to cease their wicked path. He sounds divine, utterly wrecked, as he sinks low and long into this mystery woman's cunt. Heavy, shaky breaths that trail off into a guttural groan.

You can almost smell him– the malt of his breath, the scent of tobacco clinging to his skin like it's seeped into your pillow after a day of meetings with him, the acrid smell caught in your hair and leeching into the threads of your bedding when you lay your head down to sleep. 

"Chief." 

The infinite circle you drew on your clit abruptly ceases as the sound of John's address to you. His voice is tight, unease thick on his accented tongue. 

"C-Captain Price," you cringe at the thickness with which you say his name; like it was trying to betray your fingers slowly sinking into your weeping cunt as you answered him. If the wet sound of your pussy didn't give it away already, that is. 

"Callin' was a mistake," John rumbles, the weighted silence in the background telling you he'd noticed his phone alight and had stumbled into the bathroom to explain what you'd heard away. He couldn't. You'd heard it, and you were fucking yourself to it. 

"Why are you-... Sleeping with someone when you should be working?" You attempt to reprimand him, to do the bare minimum requirement of your job, but your thumb presses ardently against your clit, and it comes out sounding far more like a jilted lover having caught her boyfriend balls deep in another woman– while actively getting off on it. 

There's a silence, long and drawn out. Your mind fills it for you, images of Price's face buried between your thighs and curling his tongue around your clit and drinking you down as though you tasted far finer than the decades-old whiskey collection he almost indisputably possessed. 

A breath. A wet squelch of your cunt as you bury your fingers knuckle deep inside your fluttering walls. 

"I suppose I should be askin' why you're touchin' yourself to the sound of me 'sleeping with someone', Station Chief." 

The confirmation that he knows makes your cunt bear down on your fingers desperately. You're intoxicated by it, the second-hand smoke in your pillowcase, the images of him fucking this poor girl into the mattress and the lilt in his voice as he calls you out on your salacious decision to finger yourself to it all. You're going to cum-

"I could re-pport you for this-" you stumble over your words, almost slur them as static bliss prickles against your clit while you twirl your fingertip over the bundle of nerves.  

"We both know you won't," he speaks with an air of authority reserved for those under his command. It leans you over the edge, dangles you above the precipice as you feel yourself crest. "You have your fingers in your pussy, Chief, don't lie to me." 

You want to say no, negative Captain, but when you open your mouth to speak, something detonates inside you. It sears through you, obliterates your insides with its ruinous path as you sob out some mixture of his name and a curse, your toes curling beneath the bedsheets. 

“Mmm. Couldn’t lie if you tried.” 

The dial tone sings for you, then, piercing the afterglow of your orgasm and ringing in your ears. 

Fuck. He knew-

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[winters8child]

It´s been a long, long time

Chapter 52

Living in the Avengers Tower had countless advantages: a state-of-the-art medical center, an extensive library filled with rare volumes, a private home cinema with plush seats, and a vast pool that sparkled under ambient lighting. After my workouts, I made it a ritual to swim a few laps, letting the water soothe my muscles while classical music floated through the air from hidden speakers.

One evening, as I floated on my back, the water cradling me gently, I heard someone clear their throat, pulling me out of my tranquil state. I turned my head to see Natasha crouching at the edge of the pool, her expression serious yet triumphant. "Sorry for interrupting, but I got it," she announced, her voice steady.

My heart skipped a beat as I swam swiftly over to her. "Really? All of them?" I asked, my voice barely concealing my astonishment. Natasha nodded, a satisfied smile spreading across her face. "Every single person who jumped ship and went into hiding when Hydra blew up."

I climbed out of the pool, the cool air hitting my wet skin as I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around myself. Water dripped from my hair, leaving a trail on the sleek tiles. Natasha waited patiently, her eyes following my movements. "I put the files on your desk," she said, her tone softer now. She hesitated momentarily before continuing, "I'm not sure what you're planning to do, but I assume it's dangerous... so I'm in."

I shook my head, trying to sound convincing. "No, I'm not planning anything..." But Natasha saw right through me. She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. "I'm assuming you're not telling Steve either."

I had no idea how she always managed to read me so well, but she was right. I was planning to go after everyone who thought they had gotten away with what they had done to Bucky. I knew Steve would disapprove, but he wouldn't find out—he was too busy with his own search for him.

I knew Natasha could be discreet, and having her help would make things a lot easier, so I relented. "Fine, you can come, but we won't tell anyone. Agreed?"

She squinted her eyes, studying me for a moment before nodding. "Fine, I won't tell," she agreed, though her expression remained skeptical. We decided we would decide on our first target when Steve and Sam were in Washington next week.

Later that night, as I returned to my room, I noticed a folded piece of paper lying in front of the door. I glanced around, trying to see who might have left it, but the hallway was empty. Carefully, I picked up the paper.

The note read: "Meet me at the Captain America exhibit tomorrow at 8 a.m. Come alone." It was signed with the initials "JBB." My eyes widened in shock. This had to be from Bucky.

I slipped into my room, pressing my back against the door as I stared at the small, creased paper in my hand. It had been almost a month since Bucky vanished without a word, and now he wanted to meet. And why did he insist on meeting alone? Had he regained his memories? Was this some sort of trap?

A whirlwind of questions stormed through my mind, each one more pressing than the last. The only way to find answers was to go to the exhibit tomorrow. As I examined the note again, my mind raced with a mix of hope and trepidation.

"You seem stressed. Everything alright?" Steve's voice broke through my thoughts as he emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped low around his hips. The sight of his still-damp chest caught me off guard, and I jumped, inadvertently dropping the note.

My gaze was momentarily fixed on the droplets of water glistening on his skin. Steve raked his fingers through his wet hair, sending a few stray drops cascading onto the floor. His eyes then fell to the note lying on the ground.

In a rush, I bent down, snatched up the note, and slipped it into my back pocket, my movements quick and furtive. I straightened up, forcing a casual smile as I met Steve's concerned gaze.

I decided I would tell him about the note after the meetup. I didn't want to risk scaring Bucky away by showing up with Steve.

"You look freaked out," Steve remarked, walking over to me. As he approached, the clean scent of soap filled my nostrils, mingling with the faint warmth of his skin. He looked down at me, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity.

I splayed my fingers on his bare stomach, feeling the warmth and firmness of his skin through the thin towel. Gently, I pushed him back a step, trying to create a bit of distance. "Yeah, I’m good," I said, striving to keep my voice steady and composed. Despite my efforts, I could feel my heart racing, betraying my calm facade.

“So, about next week,” Steve said, towel in hand as he dried his hair, his movements methodical and deliberate. “I think you should come with us to Washington. I believe we’d have a better chance of finding him if you’re with us.”

The suggestion hit me like a bolt of lightning. “I can’t,” I blurted out, the words escaping before I had a chance to reconsider. Steve’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at my abrupt response.

He set the towel aside and placed his hands on his hips, his gaze intense and probing. “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice tinged with confusion and concern. “I thought you’d want to find him just as much as I do.”

His eyes bore into me, and I could feel the weight of his scrutiny. I knew I couldn’t reveal the truth—that I was planning to track down the remaining Hydra operatives who had slipped through the cracks.

“Camping,” I blurted out, cringing inwardly as the lie left my mouth. “I go camping with Nat.” Even as the words escaped me, I could tell how flimsy they sounded. I quickly tried to salvage the situation. “It’s more like survival training,” I added, hoping to lend it some credibility, but Steve’s skeptical expression didn’t waver.

He narrowed his eyes, studying me with an intensity that made me squirm. “You couldn’t do that any other week?” he asked, his tone edged with suspicion. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly as if he were struggling to reconcile my explanation with his gut feeling that something was off.

“Nat is a busy woman,” I said, trying to sound as earnest as possible. “That’s the only week she has available for me, and it’s important to me... I really should learn how to... survive, you know?” As the words tumbled out, I felt like I was digging myself deeper into a hole.

Steve’s eyes remained fixed on me, his expression a blend of confusion and resignation. After a moment, he simply shrugged, the gesture conveying a mix of acceptance and reluctant understanding. “Okay,” he said, his voice flat. He turned and began to get dressed, the rustle of fabric punctuating the silence that followed.

The next morning, I slipped out of the room before dawn, making my way to catch the early bus that would take me to the museum. The Captain America exhibit was eerily quiet at this hour, with only the faint shuffling of feet from a group of kids and their teacher breaking the stillness.

I found myself standing before the glass case that housed the uniforms of the Howling Commandos. Steve’s old suit was prominently displayed in the center, surrounded by the relics of a bygone era. It felt like a lifetime had passed since I called these men my friends. As I gazed at the display, a wave of nostalgia and grief overcame me, and I felt tears well up in my eyes. The memories of camaraderie and loss were as vivid as ever.

“Hey,” came Bucky’s voice from behind, pulling me abruptly from my reverie. I quickly dabbed at my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to hide the evidence of my emotions. Turning around, I saw him standing there, his face partially obscured by a baseball cap and his shoulders hunched under a brown jacket.

“Hey,” I replied, my voice betraying a hint of nervousness as I crossed my arms, trying to appear casual despite the storm of feelings inside me. The air between us crackled with unspoken tension, and I took a deep breath, bracing myself for whatever was to come.

"Thank you for coming," Bucky said, his voice tinged with the same nervousness I felt. He looked as unsettled as I was, his eyes darting around as if searching for the right words. I nodded, unable to find the right words myself. My mind was a whirlwind of questions, and I didn’t know where to begin.

"I just wanted to see you... I'm leaving..." Bucky's voice faltered as he took a hesitant step closer.

"What do you mean you’re leaving? Where to?" I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper, though the urgency in it was unmistakable.

"To Europe... maybe Romania," he replied matter-of-factly, his tone carrying a weight of finality that left me reeling. I stood there, overwhelmed, my mouth slightly agape as I tried to process his words.

"I need a new beginning... but not here," he continued, his voice trembling slightly. "Not all of Hydra is dead. They can’t find me... or they’ll just wipe me again." The despair in his voice was palpable, and the vulnerability he was showing cut through me like a knife.

"You can’t just leave. We just got you back..." My voice trembled, and I clenched my fists, trying to hold onto my composure. The weight of his decision felt almost unbearable.

Bucky reached out and grabbed my arms, his gaze intense and unyielding as it locked onto mine. "Come with me," he pleaded, his voice urgent. One of his hands moved gently to caress my face, his touch both reassuring and heartbreaking.

I pulled away, shaking my head in disbelief. "I can’t just pack up everything and move to Romania with you... What about Steve?" I asked the question hanging heavily between us.

Without responding, Bucky took my hand and led me into a secluded corner of the exhibit, away from the curious eyes of the few early visitors. The quiet space felt like a cocoon, amplifying the gravity of our conversation. "I love you," he said, his voice firm yet tender. "And I know you love me. That’s all I remember, and it’s all I need to remember. We can leave all of this behind."

His words, raw and earnest, hung in the air, and the desperate longing in his eyes made my heart ache. The idea of leaving everything behind to start anew with him was both tempting and terrifying, and I was caught in the tumult of emotions that swirled within me.

I took a step back, my heart heavy with the weight of my decision. "Bucky, I can’t... I do love you, and I always will, but I’m with Steve now."

His shoulders slumped, and he took a step back, his gaze falling to the floor as if the weight of the world was too much to bear. The silence between us grew thick, palpable.

"He’s looking for you," I said, my voice wavering as I searched his eyes for any sign of understanding or hope.

Bucky’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and resignation. "Then tell him to stop looking," he snapped, his voice tinged with anger and sadness. Without another word, he turned and walked away, the echoes of his footsteps fading as he disappeared into the shadows of the exhibit.

Next Chapter

[sam-winchesters-my-bf55]

Can you write a Ethan Nestor x reader where reader is starting a death metal band and does vocals. And Ethan is just so impressed. Maybe Mark, Ethan and Sean go to their first concert. And it’s the first time any of them are hearing their music. They knew it was metal, but they didn’t expect the beautiful guttural vocals that the reader produces? I don’t know i thought it’d be fun.

Wicked

A/n: this kinda deviated from the smaller details of your ask, I'm so sorry!! I'm so excited to write for Ethan! Thanks for being the first person to send in an Ethan ask!!!!

"Aren't you touring soon with the band?" Ethan asked, his eyebrows furrowed. "Yeah, we have some concerts around a few states in a couple months. I'm so happy we were on the billboard just a few days ago!!" "I saw that! I'm so proud of you guys!" You two hugged, squeezing the other tightly. "Say, we have a few seats left, would you wanna come with some of your friends?" "Fuck yeah i want to come!! How many friends can I bring?" "I think I can get away with it if you bring two people, no more then that though!" "Of course!!"

As the months leading up to your 'tour' passed, you became increasingly more excited. The band, called 'The wicked fury', released two singles that were now on the songlist! You told Ethan to not listen to them yet, you wanted him to be surprised. He agreed and you promised him it was gonna be good.

And here it was: the start of your tour.

You had preformed a couple shows in Washington and had moved down to LA for four or so shows.

You were able to snag three extra tickets to your third LA show. Naturally, Ethan picked Mark and Sean to go with him, since they all wanted to meet up and make a bunch of content together anyway. You had a bunch of extra room in the bus, so you invited them all to come on the bus, and they all agreed. All the way there, Ethan was a ball of energy about how much fun the show was gonna be. The three of them got into playful banter multiple times about how much they wanted Ethan to shut the fuck up. Laughing at their antics as you got ready for the show, you started to get kinda nervous about the guys not liking your music. You knew there was no reason to feel this way, they all enjoyed music similar to yours, there was just a part of you that thought maybe they wouldn't enjoy the show.

As you arrived, you told the guys to follow you so they could get to there seats first. As you walked into the venue, you showed them where to sit. A security guard gave them shit, until he realized they were with you. He apologized profusely until you reassured him. He was just doing his job, everything was fine.

After soundcheck, the guys all cheered wildly, making you laugh. You were so glad to have Sean and Mark as your friends, and you were glad to be able to call Ethan yours.

You saw from behind the curtain how fans by the hundreds pooled into the venue. Your band mates were laughing about something as you walked over to them, asking them one final question before you all went on stage. "Ready guys?" "Fuck yeah" "yep!" "This is gonna be fucking awesome!" Then you heard a manager in your earpiece, signaling you guys to come on. You all stood and walked on stage.

During the performance, Ethan , Sean, and Mark couldn't believe how amazing your vocals sounded. (You may have been working extra hard on sounding good) They were all left in awe the entire show. None of them had heard the bands music before, and they were very, very pleasantly surprised. After every song, Ethan and Mark and Sean were the ones to cheer the loudest, and they were screaming the lyrics to the choruses.

You all left that concert with sore throats, but it was worth it in the end.

[tearfallpixie]

Oblivious - Chapter 8: Spring Awakening

Tags: @nerdraging4point0 @thesazzb @synthetic-wasp-570 @circle-with-me @beaker1636 @itsjustemily @witchyweeb34 @agravemisstake @cookiesupplier @cncohshit @faceless-mirror @nonamessblog @yournecessaryevil @black-damask1999

@lyschko666 @vinyardmauro @skulliecadaver-blog @some-daniela @latenightmusiclover

“Hey, Chris?” I looked up from the text on my phone to the singer who was laying peacefully behind me on the couch. Since we got home from Washington things just seemed to make a little more sense and I fell comfortably into the new dynamic that I had between my two boyfriends. I was currently wrapped in Chris’ arms as I laid next to him, feeling kind of bad rousing him from his sleep as he slowly opened his heavy eyes.

“What’s up pumpkin?” He murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of my neck where his head was currently tucked away from the evening sun.

“My boss, Michael is throwing this spring barbeque next weekend and I wanted to know if you wanted to be my plus one.” His eyes opened fully, and he nodded with a massive grin.

“I would love to. Have you told Rick?”

“He does not like those sorts of events. You can at least put up with them. Also, I don’t trust Ricky to not murder my boss.” That made the singer laugh.

“That’s true. He really hates your boss.” He smirked. “So what kind of party is it?”

“Just a garden party at his place. He did say you can bring a suite if you want though because he has a pool.” I giggled as Chris crinkled his nose at that. He never liked swimming much and preferred to keep his legs covered, making them a hazard to society with how pale they were.

“No thanks. I’ll just be the intimidating tattooed boyfriend that everyone hates.” He snickered.

“Well, I don’t hate you so that has to count for something.”

“That counts for everything.” He whispered, pulling me back into him. I snuggled under his chin and sighed happily. I was truly the luckiest girl in the world.

~~~~

“You ready?” I groaned, and brushed my hands down the dress I was wearing to smooth out the wrinkles. I was currently at my place getting ready and Ricky was hanging out with me before Chris came to pick me up.

“Nooo.” I whined. I didn’t want to go to the barbeque, but I had already been told I was required to show up. “Why do I have to go again?”

“Because your boss made it a mandatory party. Stupid if you ask me.” Rick grumbled. I twirled around and curtsied in front of him.

“How do I look?”

“Beautiful as always.” He murmured, standing from my bed and coming over to me. He took me into his arms and pressed a kiss to my lips as another set of footsteps was heard approaching down the hall. A purple haired singer poked his head around the door frame and smiled.

“Afternoon pumpkin. We should leave soon.” He spoke.

 “Oh, I know. Rick’s harassing me about it. I just finished.” I skipped over to him and gave him a kiss as well.

“Take care of her. I don’t trust her boss.” The guitarist muttered.

“We know.” Chris and I said in sync. I hugged him one more time and left the house. We drove to my bosses place which was in the rich part of town and I was in awe of all the massive houses. No surprise to me my bosses place was the biggest house tucked at the back of the neighborhood. “This will be such a joy.” I muttered.

“Just think about how much I’ll piss them off. It will make it all worth it.” We got out of the car and walked up to double doors where my boss’s wife Kelly was waiting.

“Casey! You look beautiful dear.” She gushed. I stepped up and kissed her cheek before moving back and allowing Chris to shake her hand. I had always liked Michael’s wife because she always managed to keep her husband in check.

“Kelly, this is my boyfriend, Chris.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Everyone is out back. Can I get you a drink?” Neither of us drank and while hanging out with my coworkers I didn’t want to get intoxicated anyway.

“I’ll just take a coke if you have it.” Chris told her.

“I’ll do the same.” We followed her into the kitchen where she got into the fridge and pulled out two cans of coke and handed them to us.

“I’ll be floating around so if you need something come find me.” She waved before bouncing off to greet more guests. Chris glanced around and shuddered.

“Lets go outside before I vomit because of this christian live laugh love shit.” He mumbled, placing a firm hand on my lower back. I let out a giggle and let him guide me into the back yard where everyone was waiting.

“Ah, Casey. I was wondering if you were going to show up.” Michael snarked.

“You made it a mandatory, Mr. Johnstone.” I said as cheerfully as I could muster.

“And who is this that you brought?” He asked, sizing up Chris and failing. I felt Chris stand a little straighter behind me and his hand grip my hip tightly as he reached out with his other one to shake my boss’s hand.

“This is my boyfriend. Chris Cerulli. He’s the singer for the band Motionless in White.” I introduced them. I glanced up to see that both of them were having a stare down with each other as they shook hands.

“Oh, you’re that weird local emo band, aren’t you? The ones that have been trying to hard since you were in high school?” Michael said snippily.

“We’re pretty famous now. Got a world tour coming up in a few months.” I knew for a fact that if I didn’t split them up, there was going to be a cat fight soon.

“Chris honey. Why don’t I introduce you to everyone else.” I tried desperately.

“Yeah, why don’t you.” He grumbled. “It was a pleasure meeting you Mr. Johnstone.” I grabbed his arm and towed him around to the other side of the pool to keep them apart.

“Maybe I should have brought Ricky instead.” I giggled, watching him glare down my boss.

“He was being an ass to you!” He complained. I put my hands on his arms and rubbed them softly as he leaned into the touch.

“Chris, I’m use to it. Its fine.” I reassured him. I glanced around and couldn’t see where my boss had disappeared to through all the people that had arrived.

“You shouldn’t have to be use to it!” He snarled.

“Come on. I’ll let you meet some of the people I do like.” That was how we spent the next hour. I introduced him to some people, we ate some of the barbecue provided and found some seats in the shade with my friends where we chatted for a little bit.

“Hey, I’m going to grab a drink. I’ll be right back baby.” I murmured to Chris. He squeezed my hand before letting me go, turning back to my friends who were interrogating him on the band and what it was like touring all the time. I made my way into the kitchen which was empty and dug into the fridge to grab a new can of coke. I didn’t hear the footsteps of someone joining me until hands grabbed my hips and press their hips into mine. “Chris what are you doing?” I giggled, standing back up to lean into his chest but when I felt the person was a lot shorter, I jumped away. “What the fuck!” I snapped, turning to see Michael.

“Come on baby. That man can’t possibly please you properly. Let me show you what a real man can do.” He purred and I had to hold back a gag. I glanced out the window to see Chris lost in conversation with my friends but he glanced over just in time to see the destress on my face. His face hardened and he quickly excused himself to make his way to me.

“Don’t talk about him that way. You have a wife psycho!” I growled. He advanced on me again and pinned me to the counter, taking my hands in his so I couldn’t fight back.

“She doesn’t have to know.” He pressed up against me again and I could feel his hard member grind into my stomach.

“Get off!” I cried, jerking against his grip.

“Hey! Let go of her!” Chris snarled. He grabbed Michael by the neck and pulled him back, clocking him across the jaw with his fist and sending him flying into the table. I curled in on myself and sank to the floor, sobbing as Kelly came over and wrapped her arms around me. She looked disgusted as she stared at her husband lying on the floor. A crowd had now gathered around the door, having heard the commotion and watched as Chris picked my boss up and shoved him back outside. “She’s never fucking returning to work for you again. If you so much as contact her I will end you.” He hissed. He punched him one more time and sent Michael flying back into the pool.

“Kelly, I’m so sorry.” I whimpered.

“I do not blame you sweetheart. He’s always been a bit off but I never expected this.” She whispered. She helped me to my feet as Chris came back and took me into his arms gently. His hand was a bit bloody but he didn’t seem to care.

“Did he do anything?” He asked.

“I’m ok.” I shook my head, clinging to his arms. “Your hand-”

“Unimportant. What did he do to you?” He ordered.

“Just pinned me to counter. Nothing else. He implied- but its over.” I pulled his hand away and glanced at it but he lifted my chin to look back at him.

“Don’t worry about me baby. We’re leaving. And you are quitting. I will not allow anymore ‘im fine’s’ or ‘I can handle it’. You are done.” He demanded and I nodded. I couldn’t stand looking at Michael anymore. Plus I knew the moment Chris told Ricky (because there was no getting out of that one) Ricky wouldn’t allow me to go back either. 

“Can we go home please?” I begged.

“Yeah, lets go pumpkin.” He wrapped a protective arm around me and guided me through the crowd of people who were still watching the scene. They parted like a wave and allowed us by, no one daring to say a word.

[sisterspooky1013]

Gaslight, Chapter 25/48

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

Just outside Washington, D.C.

It’s quiet other than the hush of the waves. No shrieking gulls, no laughing children, no tinny boom boxes polluting the scenery with pop music. The beach at night has always felt special to her, like walking through an empty movie set.

She’s not alone. He’s right beside her on the sand, his long legs stretched out and his bare toes glowing under the moonlight. His suit jacket is draped over her legs, his arm wrapped around her shoulders to keep her warm. Her little black cocktail dress was fitting for a movie premier, but the tailored jacket she paired it with provides little protection against the gusting winds pushing in from the ocean. Every time she shivers he tugs her a little bit closer, so she shivers again on purpose just for an excuse to lean heavily into the warm, solid mass of his torso.

He sighs. A heavy, dramatic sigh that could mean a lot of things, but she’s hoping it’s contentment. Because that’s how she feels, being here with him like this. Thousands of miles from everything that keeps them apart, from all the reasons it will never work.

“Hm?” she asks him with a nudge.

She sees him shake his head in her periphery, and she tilts her face up to look at him. His eyes are on the ocean, on the black, endless horizon. When he turns his face toward hers, the tip of his nose brushes the tip of hers and he smiles, then does it again. It’s so close, so intimate, that it makes her heart ache and her eyes water.

“I wish….” he starts, but stops himself. He doesn’t need to say it; she knows.

“I do too,” she says softly.

“Do you think…are LA rules the same as Vegas rules?” he asks, his tone a touch lighter.

“As in what happens here…”

“Stays here,” he finishes.

“Sure. Maybe. I guess that can be true of anywhere, if you decide that it is,” she posits, her belly twisting into knots.

“Vegas rules?” he asks, the most loaded proposition in so few words.

She nods, and he kisses her, and she no longer cares about the cold.

-

She allows herself to cry in the shower. Under the needle-sharp spray of the water, turned up as hot as it will go, she cries for the lives she’s lost, both those that belonged to her and those that she was forced into. She cries because she has no one to call, because she wonders if Cal got any sleep and if he’s managing the kids okay. She cries because she doesn’t know what to do next, or how to reach Mulder, or whether he is the same person she remembers him to be. When she’s done crying, when she feels wrung out and devoid of any emotion at all, she dresses and packs her things, checks out of the motel, and climbs back into Tiffany’s car.

She heads toward the Capitol campus, passing by landmarks that are familiar to any American, even those who have never visited. The early summer weather is still comfortably warm, and throngs of tourists clog every sidewalk around the White House, Lincoln Memorial, and Reflecting Pool. On Pennsylvania Avenue, she pulls onto a side street and watches the entrance to the Hoover building as suited federal employees filter in and out. Going inside feels far too risky, and likely with very little to gain, but the longer she watches the door, the tighter the pit in her chest becomes.

“That’s pretty good, Scully.”

“Better than you expected, or better than you hoped?”

“Well…I’ll let you know once we get past the easy part.”

She rubs the side of her head above her ear in an effort to relieve the dull throb that seems to have taken up residence there. When she starts to become nervous that someone might notice how long she’s been watching the building, she pulls away.

She drives aimlessly up and down streets both residential and industrial, occasionally feeling a flash of recognition when she sees the name of a business or a landmark. She feels such a flash outside a sandwich shop called Tito’s, and has the realization that she hasn’t eaten anything since sometime the day before. She parks in the lot of the strip mall and enters the shop, and a small bell above the door signals her arrival to a young man who emerges from behind a curtain.

“Welcome to Tito’s, what can I get for you?” he asks blandly, and she quickly peruses the menu before making a selection and paying with cash.

As the young man assembles her sandwich, she looks around the rest of the small shop. It’s somewhat of a hole in the wall, though very clean and well kept, and every sign is branded with Pepsi advertisements. There are a few other customers sitting around the dozen or so tables making conversation over their meals, including a young couple that are seated on the same side of the table whispering in one another’s ears.

“Fuck!” someone yells, and Dana whips her head around to see a man standing beside a table covered with soda, his lap bearing a large wet spot.

“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry,” his companion is saying as they dash over to the condiment area and grab a pile of napkins.

“Turkey and swiss for Dana,” the young man who took her order calls out, and she takes the paper sack from his outstretched hand.

Her head throbs and she rushes back out to the car, memories flooding her mind like a cresting river.

“You gonna eat that?”

“Yes, I am. In about three hours, most likely.”

He gives her a little impish grin and leans forward, placing his index and middle fingers on the table top and walking them slowly towards the remains of her lunch.

“Mulder, no,” she says in a playfully stern voice.

“Come on, you know you’re going to leave it in the fridge until the janitor tosses it,” he argues, now inches from her food.

She slaps his hand and he startles, knocking her water over as he snatches his arm back. It runs over the edge of the table and she gasps as the icy beverage soaks the entirety of her lap.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Mulder says urgently, moving to sit beside her and blotting at the tops of her thighs with two useless napkins. “Sorry, Scully,” he adds with a cringe.

“It’s okay; it was an accident,” she says with a resigned sigh. “Seems par for the day.”

He regards her with a somewhat wounded look.

“You’re having a bad day?” he asks, seeming surprised by the idea.

“No, it’s fine,” she says, her favorite platitude. “Just somewhat of a series of unfortunate events. My heat went out last night and the super said it might be a few days before he gets it working, and then my electric blanket decided now is the ideal time to break, and—it’s fine.”

“Your heat isn’t working? It’s thirty-five degrees outside, Scully,” he says with offense.

“It’s fine, Mulder—”

“It’s not fine. Come stay with me until your super gets it fixed,” he says, and she balks.

“No, I don’t want to put you out, Mulder. I have a space heater, it’s really fine,” she insists.

“Scully,” he says sternly, not at all playful, and she turns to look at him. “Please come stay with me. I want you to,” he says with great sincerity, and she feels a pang of affection and gratitude.

“Okay,” she agrees, and his mouth breaks out into a wide grin. “Thank you.”

She eats her sandwich behind the steering wheel in the car, wishing more than anything that Mulder were there to take the other half. She wraps it up and stuffs it in the glove box, then resumes her aimless driving. Her head is killing her and she decides to find a place where she can buy some Tylenol. She’s passing through a residential area en route to a major thoroughfare when a small white house catches her eye.

It’s nondescript for the most part. There are bars on the windows and a small sign advertising a security system posted in the front yard. The grass is cut and the flowerbeds are neat, though empty. It’s the kind of home that offers absolutely no information about its occupants, aside from their concern over intruders, and yet it feels familiar to her in a way that makes her head throb.

She parks on the curb and cautiously makes her way down the front walk and onto the small covered porch. There’s a “no soliciting” sign hung neatly beside the doorbell, and no welcome mat. She says a quick prayer and then reaches out and presses the button. A minute passes, and she’s considering whether to ring again when a staticky voice erupts from a speaker mounted above the door.

“How may we help you, miss?” asks the soft voice, and she looks around until she locates a camera in the eaves of the entryway.

“My name is Dana R—Scully,” she says, looking directly into the lens. “I think that I might know you, and…I need help. Please.”

She’s trying to strike the right balance between making clear that she’s in distress, but not coming across as though she’ll cause any trouble.

“Who sent you here?” the voice asks, and a smaller voice that sounds further away interjects with, “Let her in, she’s hot!”

“No one sent me,” she says, trying not to beg. “I…it’s hard to explain, but I think we used to know each other. We just can’t remember it.”

She winces at her own poor communication skills, and a loud thwack sounds from the door, followed by a series of smaller clicks and pops. She steps back and eventually the door opens a few inches, revealing the face of a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair and generous sideburns. He gives her a quick once-over from head to foot, and then another face appears above his. This man is quite a bit taller than the first, with stringy blond hair and square-rimmed glasses.

“You’re not with the government are you?” the blond man asks, and she shakes her head, though she’s not sure if that’s an entirely accurate response. “You wearing a wire?” he adds, and the look of genuine confusion on her face must be all the answer he needs, because the door swings open wider and the two men move aside to allow her entry.

The interior of the home is dimly lit and cluttered with computer equipment, though it smells clean. A third man joins them in the entryway, his suit and neatly trimmed goatee in stark contrast to his comparatively bedraggled friends.

“You believe we know one another?” he asks, and she recognizes the soft tenor of his voice from the speaker outside.

“I believe we did, yes,” she says carefully, her eyes roving around the great room and taking in news clippings and articles pinned to every wall, and electronics on nearly every surface that she couldn’t even begin to identify.

“Would you like to come in and tell us what you need help with?” the kind man asks, gesturing to a seating area with an outstretched arm.

Dana nods and crosses the room, perching nervously on the edge of an armchair. Whatever this place is, and whoever these people are, she can only hope that she is safe and among friends. The three men sit shoulder to shoulder on a couch perpendicular to her chair, the kind man in the middle and Sideburns closest to her.

“I think I’d remember meeting you,” Sideburns says with just an edge of innuendo—enough to let her know that it’s meant to be taken as commentary on her appearance, but not enough to make her feel unsafe.

“What is this place?” she asks, still taking in the overwhelming amount of tech and gadgets in the room. When none of the men respond, she looks back to the couch and sees them exchanging significant looks.

“Miss,” the kind man says with a placating smile, “I hope that we can help you, but we’d feel much more comfortable if you could tell us who you are before we disclose any of our personal information.”

She almost laughs at the irony of it, like being asked to provide ID in order to obtain ID.

“My name is Dana Scully,” she begins, her eyes trained on her hands, which are fidgeting in her lap. “And while I realize this sounds completely implausible and maybe a bit crazy, I believe that I’ve had my memory erased.” She pauses, giving them an opportunity to ask questions. She steals a glance at the men and they’re all watching her expectantly, surprised but not disbelieving. “I believe that we knew each other prior to this happening to me, and I desperately need some help…”

To her frustration and embarrassment, her throat tightens and her eyes sting. Tears will not lend to her credibility. Tears will not improve her situation. She pulls in a slow breath through her nose and lets it out of her mouth raggedly, and the three men exchange looks.

“Not to sound doubtful,” Sideburns says gently, “but if that were true, wouldn’t we recognize you?”

They’re not going to believe her, she can already tell. A fresh swell of hopelessness makes her shoulders sag with defeat.

“Again,” she says hoarsely, “I know this sounds implausible, but I believe that you’ve also had your memory erased,” she tries.

Eyebrows lift. More significant looks. But they aren’t laughing at her. They aren’t showing her the door.

“Even if it were possible, why would someone want to erase your memory, or ours?” the blond man asks.

“I’m not entirely sure,” she tells him. “I know that it had to do with my job, and a man I worked with. I believe we witnessed something, or obtained information that we weren’t supposed to have. Something important enough to whoever these people are that they were willing to go to great lengths to ensure that we didn’t remember it.”

“How do you know all this?” says the kind man.

She takes a deep breath before she begins.

“Two months ago, I woke up in the hospital after sustaining a head injury. I was diagnosed with retrograde amnesia that seemed to have wiped out my entire memory after some point in 1992. I learned that I had a husband and children, a home, a job, none of which I remembered. I tried to reacclimate to my life the best I could, but as time wore on I felt as though something wasn’t right. I kept having these dreams, these memories…I was eventually contacted by a man who gave me information about what was done to me, and why. I learned that my husband and children are strangers, decoys meant to distract me from the truth. And when the people who did this realized that I was remembering, they came for me.”

The uncomfortable silence makes her heart race, and she can’t bring herself to look at their faces. She stares at the coffee table, on which is a stack of newsletters titled The Lone Gunmen.

“That’s quite a story,” Sideburns says with melancholy in his voice.

“I know it sounds crazy,” she says quietly.

“It’s not that we don’t believe you, miss,” says the kind one, “but it would be helpful if you had some kind of evidence or proof. And I also can’t help but wonder what kind of assistance we could possibly offer you.”

Proof. She has the Numerol in her bag, but unless they have access to a lab and the scientific acumen to understand how anomalous the chemical composition of the pills are, that won’t help. The metal chip that Tiffany removed from her neck is back in Ellicott City. She feels a sudden burst of adrenaline as a realization pops into her head.

“Were you vaccinated against the Manatua Virus?” she asks the three of them.

“Yes, of course,” says the kind one.

“Then I believe that the proof is in you, at the base of your neck,” she says confidently. “A small metal chip was inserted subcutaneously at the time of your vaccination, and it somehow impedes your memory recall.”

“A chip?” repeats the blond one. “Like a computer chip?”

“I think so. I don’t know what its composition is or how it works, but I know that if it’s removed, you’re able to recall previously inaccessible memories. That’s what’s happening to me, and that’s what happened to my husband.”

“Why would we be involved in this?” the kind one asks uncomfortably.

“I don’t know,” she answers. “Perhaps solely because you knew me, and the man I worked with. There may be more to it than that, but I don’t have that information yet.”

“How do we know any of this is true?” Sideburns asks, doubt creeping into his voice for the first time.

“If you’ll allow me to remove your chip, you may remember it for yourself,” she suggests.

The three men sit back in their seats, looking at one another and then at her. She can only hope that their curiosity wins out over their skepticism.

-

It’s when she has Sideburns’ neck sliced open and is prodding around his soft tissue with a pair of tweezers that it comes to her. This time it’s not a violent jolt, not a proverbial anvil crashing into her working memory. It just slips out, like a song lyric you didn’t realize you still knew.

“Hold still, Frohike,” she murmurs, and the formerly squirming man freezes in his seat.

“How did you know his name?” the kind man asks, and now she freezes too.

When she looks up from the red gash in Frohike’s neck, she sees the world with new eyes. She sees Byers watching her intently, and Langly gaping at her. She sees Frohike’s apron hanging from a hook in the kitchen, and a half full bottle of tequila that she remembers helping the men drink on a particularly rowdy poker night. For the first time in months, she feels oriented in space and time. It’s like she’s been driving around, lost, and suddenly spots a familiar landmark. Oh, I know where I am now.

“You’re friends of Mulder’s,” she says, somewhat vacantly, her hands still poised over Frohike’s neck. “You all met at a convention in 1989, and he introduced me to you shortly after he and I started working together.”

“The computer and electronics convention?” Langly asks uncomfortably.

“Yes, I think so.”

“We met at that convention,” Frohike confirms, “but I don’t remember anyone named Mulder.”

Dana turns back to the surgical site and continues her exploration of Frohike’s neck.

“You will. Soon,” she says confidently. Within minutes, Frohike is freed of his chip.

Langly goes next, and then Byers. After taking some time to work through their shock at discovering they’ve been unwittingly carrying tracking devices around in their bodies for who knows how long, Frohike puts the chips under a microscope and they take turns examining the cross-hatch of metallic ridges that bear no identifying information. Next, he pours them each two fingers of scotch as Dana retells as much as she can recall from what Alex shared: the Spurious Project, the virus, the Numerol.

“I don’t take any medication at all,” Langly says, shaking his head.

“I’m not sure what the role of the medication is yet. Perhaps it wasn’t needed at your level of involvement,” Dana posits, the warmth in her belly soothing her frayed nerves.

“Dana, you’re talking about a nationally orchestrated mass effort to alter the memories of the American people, every man, woman and child,” Byers says gravely.

“I know it sounds implausible—”

“It doesn’t sound implausible at all,” he interrupts. “And the presence of those chips in our necks right where you said they’d be is evidence of that. I know that our government is capable of something like this, but what I find perplexing is that they’d go to such great effort just to eliminate the risk of two individuals sharing state secrets.”

“Seems like it would have been easier to just kill you,” Langly comments, and Byers shoots him a look.

“I know. Someone wanted us alive, but I don’t yet know who, or why,” Dana says. “But thank you for believing me.”

“Of course we believe you,” Frohike says, as though it should be obvious. “But now the question is: what next?”

Dana heaves a sigh.

“I need to find Mulder and somehow bring him along. I’m not sure if he’s remembering as well, but he certainly didn’t appear to be when I saw him.”

“I didn’t find any results for Mulder on the internet, even when I searched the dark web. What did you say he told you his name was? Spender?” Langly says as he pushes off against the floor and rolls his chair over to a computer.

“Jeff Spender, yes. And he said he lives in Philadelphia.”

A couple minutes pass in comfortable silence, the tick of the keys on Langly’s computer and the clink of ice in their glasses set over the constant hum of the machinery.

“This your guy?” he asks, rolling away so Dana can get closer to the computer screen.

Seeing his face is as much a relief as it is painful. It’s a professional headshot taken in a studio, and he’s wearing a charcoal suit and glasses, his hair combed to one side. He’s smiling, and the way it pushes his hooded eyes into little crescents makes her chest ache so acutely she brings one hand up and lays it over her heart.

“Yes,” she whispers, then moves to read the bio just beneath the photo.

Jeffrey Spender, MSW, LFMT, is a licensed therapist working with individuals and couples. A graduate of Oxford University, Mr. Spender specializes in supporting adults through major life transitions such as death, divorce, job loss, and retirement. Call for a free consultation today.

“Could you print that for me?” she asks, hoping that they’ll assume she’s after the bio and not the photo. “What about the Spurious Project, can you find anything on that?”

“That kind of information won’t be accessible on any mainstream sources,” Langly tells her, pulling back up to the computer and printing off the page. “We may be able to hack into whatever database it’s housed in, but we’ll need some time. Do you have any idea which branch of government is involved? CIA, DOJ, DOD?”

“No,” Dana says. “But we can assume there’s some level of involvement with the FBI, right? Doesn’t that seem likely?”

“Could be,” Frohike says with a nod. “We’ll do a little funky poaching and hopefully we’ll at least have a lead by tomorrow. Should we try to contact Mulder, or Spender, or whoever the heck this guy is?”

Dana looks at the sheet of paper in her hands, at Mulder’s smiling face. What she wouldn’t give to have him here, to have him remember her.

“Not yet,” she says regretfully. “I think we need more information first. More proof.”

“Where are you staying, Dana? Do you have a cell phone number where we can reach you when we have more information?” Byers asks.

“I’ll probably get a motel; that’s what I did last night. I left my cell phone at home so it couldn’t be used to track my location,” she says.

“Do you have a car?”

“Yes, sort of. A friend let me take her car when I left the hospital. She’ll come looking for it in a few days, though.”

Byers gives Frohike a pointed look.

“Give me an hour. I’ll call Ricky and get you all set up. We gotta ditch the car asap, and if you were thinking about calling home, don’t,” Frohike says sternly.

Dana glances at her watch. It’s almost 6:00. Cal would just be getting home with the kids and starting dinner.

“I haven’t, and I won’t,” she says with a heavy heart. “Set up with what, if I might ask?”

Frohike holds his hands out in front of him, palms facing her, and wiggles his fingers for effect.

“The works.”

-

The fake ID they gave her says her name is Melanie Newsome, a resident of Annapolis. She calls Byers from the burner cell phone Ricky provided her with to let him know when she’s made it all the way into the safehouse and locked the doors behind her.

It’s a one-bedroom apartment in a sparsely populated building. The few other residents she passed in the hall on her way up kept their eyes on the floor, and she wonders if everyone here is hiding from something. The apartment itself is modest but covers the essentials, including a couch in the living room, a mattress on the floor in the bedroom, basic toiletries, linens, and a small set of cookware and dishes in the kitchen. The most indulgent furnishing is a stereo with an eight-disc CD changer and detachable speakers, not unlike the one her mother owns. From the small balcony, she can see the pinking horizon as the sun slowly descends behind the city skyline.

She feels wrung out and emotionally exhausted, so she showers and gets into bed even though it’s still quite early. Minutes tick by, and she listens to the sounds of the city with raw nerves as she tries to relax enough to sleep. Every snick of a door opening, every padded footfall in the hallway, every voice echoing against the pavement outside, delivers a spike of cortisol that sends her heart thrumming. Finally, she abandons the bed for the couch, which somehow feels more secure. There is no TV to distract herself with, so she puts the Sam Cooke CD into the changer and gives the other songs on the album a listen, allowing his smooth voice to drown out the din of the world around her. Her mind drifts, and she nestles against the back of the couch as though it were a warm body, letting herself imagine that it’s him.

Darling you send me, honest you do.

Tagging @today-in-fic

[wardenparker]

Hummingbird Has Landed, ch 11

Marcus Pike x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

After the debacle of his failed engagement and relocating to Washington to take charge of his task force, newly minted Special Agent Marcus Pike is ready to get back out into the dating pool once more. A slew of bad dates has him feeling a little down, and he takes an old friend up on an invitation to get away and get his head on straight. Imagine his surprise when he finds not only fresh air, but his soulmate as well - hiding in plain sight but in the unlikeliest of places.

Rating: E for Explicit! 18+ Word Count: 14.9k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: occasional mention of American politics, pregnant character, food/alcohol consumption, mentions of clothing/regulated dressing for occasions, mentions of therapy because we believe in self care here, reader is in a previous relationship, love triangle, reader is mentioned as turning 30 during the course of the story, dom/sub dynamics* Fingering, shower sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, Marcus Pike the Breeding Kink King, a dash of dirty talk, the tiniest whiff of roleplay, sexual activity in a public place, cum eating. False accusations of cheating, gossip rags being gossipy, descriptions of getting a tattoo (needle mention). Summary: The end of your trip to Texas comes with a few surprises, and a meeting with your mother goes far better than expected. But good things do not guarantee paradise forever. Notes: Hi my lovelies! I do apologize for the spotty posting timeline lately. My health has been inconsistent to say the very least and continues to be unpredictable. Thank you for bearing with me and always being so incredibly supportive. I'm certain that I missed fixing some errors in this chapter, but I blame the migraine I've have for the last 10 days. Enjoy this week's chapter!

Ch1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8 ~ Ch 9 ~ Ch 10

The last night you and Marcus are in Texas comes after an afternoon-long barbecue that somehow manages to outdo every barbecue of every previous day. You're pretty sure that you've been nibbling constantly since sunrise but rather than being overwhelmed, you're just sorry that you're going to have to leave tomorrow and not see most of these people again for a long time.

The water in Marcus's hand is for you and he comes over to drop a kiss on your lips as he presses it into your hand. "Band is starting at seven." He tells you. "Do you want to shower beforehand?"

"Probably should." There's mischievousness in your agreement, though, and you tuck a smirk in the corner of your mouth as you take the water from him. "I saved my cutest top for tonight. To be the very best groupie I can be."

"Oh really?" He chuckles at how eager you have been to meet his old bandmates. "I like groupies." He smirks, wrapping his arm around you and tugging you close. "Really like them."

"Do you want to show me how much?" You ask, letting that smirk loose but keeping your voice very quiet even when you bat your eyelashes at him.

"I can do that while we shower." He groans wickedly, winking at you. "Unless you want to save that for after the show?"

"No need to save," you assure him easily, drinking down half of the glass of cold water he brought you and letting your grin grow wider. "There will be hours in between. We can do both."

"Insatiable." He grins back and you, wrinkling his nose slightly and proud about that fact. "I love it."

"C'mon." Grabbing his hand, you head for the house with a bitten back grin. Back inside and upstairs to his room – now appropriately defiled by the fact that you're in that Early Relationship Honeymoon Period and horny as hell – to add his childhood bathroom to the list of places you've fucked on this property.

Marcus smirks when there’s a number of suggestive whistles that ring out. Everyone here aware of how eager the two of you are and he gives a halfhearted wave before disappearing. You might be embarrassed if you cared at all, but his cousins have been nothing but welcoming and accepting. They all seem to share the opinion that Marcus has waited too long to meet his match and you are more than happy to be the one that they have welcomed as their cousin – or nephew or son's – perfect match.

“I love them all, but I need to get you alone.” Marcus huffs as he practically races over to the stairs.

"Alone, naked, and wet, I hope." You're on the stairs just ahead of him, the advantage of one or two steps meaning your ass is right in his face as you hustle up to the second floor.

"How wet you are depends on how good of a job I do turning you on." He can't help himself, reaching out and slapping your ass, something you love if your delighted giggle is anything to go by. "How wet are you?"

“Wet enough that if you even touch me over my clothes, I’m going to moan,” you admit, glancing back at him when you reach the top of the stairs.

"Promises, promises." Marcus reaches out and cups your pussy from behind, jumping up the last two steps to press close to you. "Fuck, I love you." He growls into your ear as he rubs your clit.

“Oh fuck—” Maybe it’s more of a whine than a groan but the arousal in your voice is unmistakable. Pressed between Marcus and the wall, your hips rock to get as much pressure and friction from his hand as absolutely possible. “I—I love you too, baby. Fuck.”

"Shower." He orders softly, pulling away from you reluctantly. He knows he can't fuck you in the hallway and his cock is already pressing against his shorts.

Since the discovery of your interest in a more submissive role sexually, you and Marcus have been enjoying playing with the dynamic. Soft orders for things that he knows will bring you both pleasure. Seeing how well you follow his instructions while he’s inside of you in any way. Right now you move with long strides to get to the shower as quickly as possible, already shedding your clothes along the way.

Smirking as he watches the rushed strip show, Marcus pulls his own shirt over his head. He's never had someone so enthusiastic for his touch and it's honestly its own kind of high. Plenty of women wanted him, but not with the hunger that you constantly display. He can only hope that it never changes. "So sexy." He huffs, unbuttoning his shorts to step out of them as he follows you.

“Oh yeah?” As soon as the water is on, you glance back over your shoulder and throw him the most tantalizing glance you can possibly summon. “Come and show me how much.”

“Fuck.” He hisses and immediately rushes forward to crowd into the shower with you, pressing kisses to your back as he folds in closer to you.

Marcus might be testing the waters with how dominant he’s comfortable being, but he still likes it when you show him how much you want him. When you hum at the feeling of his hands on your skin or moan deep in your throat at the perfect kiss. He even loves moments like these, when you whimper at the way his large hands spread over your body to hold you as close to him as you can possibly be without him being inside you.

“Love you.” He whispers into your skin, not wanting you to forget it in the two seconds since he has said it last.

“I love you, too.” Pressed into that little space together, you twist your head around to kiss him and then lean forward against the wall. There aren’t too many comfortable ways to fuck standing up under falling water, but having him press into you from behind is good no matter where you are.

His hands slide over your body and one sinks between your thighs. Immediately parting enough for his hands with a quickness than has him smiling. “You like when I finger you?” He teases. “Rub your sensitive little clit for you?”

“I like every way you touch me.” Your hips roll as if to prove it, searching for the right angle to get his thick fingers to sink inside of you.

“Greedy.” He chuckles softly. “That’s what you are.” He doesn’t pull his hand away, giving you what you want as two fingers slip inside you. “My greedy girl.”

“Can’t blame me for getting addicted.” You moan, forehead pressed against the tile, when his fingers scissor open inside you. “You feel so fucking good baby.”

“You feel better.” He groans quickly, working you open as the hot water rushes over you.

“Made just for you, baby.” If there was ever anyone you could truly feel that about, it’s Marcus. The way he seems to make you feel complete in ways you didn’t know you needed or even wanted is uncanny and beautiful. And the way he fills you to bursting is just as fantastic.

Marcus worships you with small kisses as his fingers move inside you, groaning in your ear about how good you feel. The thick length of him pressed against your ass. “Marcus—” His name is a whine and a prayer with every long stroke of his fingers. “Please, baby. Please fuck me.”

“I’m going to.” He promises, grinding against your ass as he continues to finger you. “Too bad you still have your birth control.” He moans in your ear. “Dreamed about you pregnant last night. Nice and round with my baby.”

“Fuck.” If anyone had suggested pregnancy or breeding or any of those fertility-related kinks to you before Marcus, you might have laughed them out of your bedroom. But in a few short weeks, you’ve got from wanting children but not looking forward to being pregnant — all the way to getting wet at the thought of starting to swell with Marcus’s baby. The impulse to promise you’ll stop taking it tomorrow is right on the tip of your tongue but you know it’s just a touch too soon. “Yeah?” You breathe instead. “You woke up hard to the thought of fucking me full of your baby?”

“Why do you think I was ravenous this morning?” He asks, chuckling at how he had woken you up. He had been a little embarrassed by the dream, so he hadn’t mentioned it at the time, but realized later that it was dumb to keep it from you. “When you’re ready, I’m going to be feral.”

“We need to start building that house now.” You insist, suddenly possessed of a whole new set of reasons to be eager for more privacy.

He chuckles as he nibbles on your shoulder, moving to the hollow of your neck. “Yeah? You want to paint a nursery right away baby?”

“We’re gonna have to if you keep growling about getting me pregnant.” Something which you apparently find far sexier than you anticipated, if the way your cunt throbs and pulses around his fingers is any indication.

"You love the idea." He challenges softly, humming against your pulse. "It's not my fault you're so perfect I can see the future we have in store."

“I love the idea so much I’m ready to say let’s just buy a house.” The throaty laugh you let out burns into a long moan when he curls his fingers inside you. “Need you, baby.”

"Never want you to say that I don't give you what you want." He pushes your feet apart, careful not to let you slip on the slick tile and pulls his fingers out of you to immediately replace them with his cock. A smooth transition planned to keep you from missing the fullness.

There is more freedom here, at least where volume is concerned, and when your moan bounces off the tile it is music to Marcus's ears. The utterly satisfying fullness of having him inside you is indescribable, even if you have tried to find the words several times talking to Syd. Sharp, powerful strokes will work you both up to your peak quickly, letting you enjoy the water that burns as hot as your skin as he pounds into you.

Marcus has learned that going harder is needed sometimes. It’s something that both of you enjoy and lose yourselves in, always making sure that you are still with him with filthy sweet praises in your ear. “My perfect princess.” He groans. “Taking me so well.”

It’s so much filthier coming from such a sweet, unassuming man like Marcus, and he presses you into the wall with a firmness that leaves absolutely no room for questioning. You are his. He is yours. And anything you moan to each other in the throes of passion is fair game. Filth, praise, and everything in between is welcome as your hips slap against your ass and your throat strangled around the endless cries of pleasure.

It’s never been this good. It’s cliched to even think it, but it’s true. He can barely even breathe when you are surrounding him. Drowning in you happily. “Fuck, I love you.” He promises. His hands squeeze and caress before sinking back between your thighs to rub your clit while he continues to fuck you at a frantic pace.

“Love you so — fuck! — so fucking much.” You practically claw at the wall of the shower when the calloused pads of his fingers find your swollen clit and press in on tight circles. Perfect little circles. “So close baby, so fucking close.”

“That’s it.” He groans. “Want you to cum. Want you to soak me. Need it.” He dips his hips lower and changes the angle that he shreds up inside you.

“Fuck—fuck—can’t wait until you’re fucking me full of your babies, oh god—” He’s already an expert at tearing you apart and putting you back together, and this time will be no exception. Your legs shake with it and your belly tightens, coiling at the base of your spine tightening as pleasure rips through you.

“That’s it, fuck, so good, Princess.” He hisses in pleasure. “Cum for me. Fuck, you feel so good squeezing my cock. I love it.” It only takes two or three more sharp snaps of his hips before you’re calling his name, sure that if anyone else is in the house right now they can definitely hear you but too overcome with pleasure and too full of him to care.

When you cum, it’s like your entire soul melt with his. Your heartbeats align and for a split second, Marcus can’t tell where you end and he begins. Perfectly fused together in ecstasy. As soon as you tighten around him, his thrusts ease, still moving but helping you float down from the precipice. “Good girl, fuck baby, you are so good to me.” He pants in your ear. “So good. Giving me everything, aren’t you? Yeah, you are, I can feel it.”

“Fill me up, baby.” Your legs may be rubber at this point but that sensation of his cum painting your inner walls is worth holding out for. It has you rocking your hips back even more than you need to ride the aftershocks of your own orgasm, hoping to bring him to his.

He loves when you say that. Groaning your name as his pace picks back up. The slap of his hips not quite as sharp, but insistent. “Gonna, fuck baby, gonna fill you up.” He moans in your ear. “Drip me all night.”

From the way his hips start to stutter you know he’s close, and you grind back against him with a low moan. “Gonna be dripping your cum while I meet all your friends.”

“Just the way I want you.” He groans, kissing your shoulder and moaning as he pushes deep, throbbing inside you as he fills you up.

There’s nothing but the sound of running water and panting breath for a minute or two as you both collect yourselves, arms wrapped around each other in the best way you can manage while he’s still inside you and you’re leaning on the shower wall. “I love you so fucking much.” You murmur, giggling softly at the giddy feeling still coursing through your veins.

“I love you too.” He whispers, smiling against your shoulder as the soft aftershocks continue to squeeze him as he softens inside you. “Addicted to everything about you.”

“Glad we agree about that.” It isn’t elegant but you twist around and manage to place a kiss on his jaw. “So…breeding kink, huh?”

“Yeah.” He chuckles sheepishly as he slowly pulls out of you. “Sorry. I know that took you by surprise.”

“Not in a bad way.” You promise him, fully turning around now, to put your arms around him before you both have to clean up. “Surprising but…potentially shared?”

“When it actually happens is still one hundred percent up to you.” He assures you, wanting you to know he would never pressure you, no matter how much he dreams about the future. “But shared, huh?”

“Surprise,” you tease, reaching for a washcloth.

“Every day is an adventure with you.” He chuckles and steals another kiss before he turns his attention to getting ready for tonight.

You’re right on time despite taking an overlong shower, arriving at the club in downtown Dallas in time to see a group of his old friends gathered at the bar.

“Hey.” A carefree grin lights up his face, reunited with old friends and their spouses. The band is about to leave to get on stage so it’s quick backslaps and promises to catch up later after he introduces you proudly. They disappear and it seems like all the other crowd around you to all talk about Marcus.

It’s much the same as it was with his cousins. Quick questions about you — or the occasional “That’s why I recognize you!” — but mostly wanting to tell stories about young Marcus in the olden days, teasing their old friend and gauging your reaction to their stories to decide if you’re good enough for him. You don’t mind of course. Your friends would have done the same if they hadn’t already met Marcus before you got together.

“Hey now.” Marcus pouts and protests but it’s all in good fun. He’s enjoying the stories; taking him back down memory lane. He hugs you tighter to him as he laughs at a college age story, where he had imbibed a little too much and made a fool of himself.

“Everyone got drunk and dumb in college at least once, didn’t they?” You hug his side and grin at him while his friends tease and chatter. “And I’m sure you weren’t the only college student in the world to skateboard across campus in boxers and a cowboy hat. I’m just impressed you didn’t fall off the board more if you were drunk.”

“Hammered.” He confirms with a laugh. “Honestly, I don’t know if I would have felt anything that night.”

“All the better that you didn’t get hurt then,” you laugh with him, enjoying these glimpses into the Marcus of the past. “Though I think we should recreate the look. For posterity.”

“Bachelor party.” He grins, leaning in and kissing you on the nose. “One of those boring co-ed ones where the couple is disgusting and can’t be apart for even one night of debauchery.”

“Cause we’re gross in love.” The smile on your face is blinding, lighting you up from the inside out as you beam at him.

“Yes we are.” He agrees, unable to stop himself from kissing you again, as his friends groan playfully around you both.

“Yeah, yeah.” Marcus’s old college roommate huffs good naturedly and rolls his eyes. This is the guy Marcus had lived with before he moved off campus to live with Lara and he’s always known Marcus Pike to be exceptionally lucky in love. “Lucky bastard.”

“I am.” He agrees with a small nod. “I’m honestly surprised that you aren’t already engaged.” One of his closest college study partners snickers as she shoots you a grin. “He always was rushing into things headfirst.”

“Don’t think he didn’t give me a ring right away,” you joke, holding up the shimmering promise ring on your hand. “But we want to keep our heads on straight, so it’s a promise for now and an engagement a little bit into the future.”

“There’s the Marcus we know and love.” She giggles, taking your hand and admiring the ring. “Honey, it’s gorgeous.”

“Isn’t it?” The little heart-shaped diamonds wink and shine in the dim lighting of the club and you can’t help but smile proudly. “I told him he set a dangerous precedent with this one. If the promise ring is this beautiful then the engagement ring has to be, too.”

“Knowing Marcus, it’s perfectly designed to set with your promise ring.” She guesses, grinning wildly when he shuffles guiltily. “I knew it!” She throws her arm around his shoulder and smacks a playful kiss on his cheek. “Atta boy!”

“You did not buy it already!” You gasp in shock, giggling with unrestrained joy at the embarrassment and glee on his face.

“It’s safe.” He promises, shrugging slightly. “I didn’t want to risk them not having the perfect mate when I came back.”

“You’re incorrigibly sweet.” The idea that he’d gone so out of his way makes you melt on the spot, with warmth in your cheeks and a fluttering extra beat of your heart. “And I love you.”

His group of friends cheers when you kiss this time. For all the shit they give him, they are all thrill Marcus has found his sweet soulmate. Right then, the lights dim and everyone turns towards the stage. “Marcus Pike.” His eyes widen when the lead singer says his name. “Report to the stage. There is a bass waiting to be played.”

“Oh fuck yes!” When you squeal with absolute pure excitement you grab his side and practically cackle with glee. Even Agent Bailey is smirking in her plain clothes. “Go, baby! Go!”

“Oh my Gooooood.” Marcus groans as he’s practically shoved towards the stage and he shakes his head, pointing his finger at the band. “I hate you guys.” He moans, even as he shuffles closer, but they just grin.

“Best night ever!” You call back, grinning from ear to ear as you make your way to the front with his friends.

“This is going to be amazing.” Hooking her arm through yours, Stephanie grins at you. “Have you ever heard Marcus sing?”

“No.” And you pout about it for about two seconds before the glint returns to your eyes. “He always demurs and says he’s not that great but I know he’s being humble.”

Marcus shrugs out of his leather jacket and winds the strap of the bass around his neck and back to quickly strum a chord before adjusting the tension to his liking. “I’m going to hurt all of you.” He huffs, even if he’s grinning out at you.

“You fucking love us.” The lead singer, his old friend Leo, reminds him with a shit-eating grin.

Marcus rolls his eyes and huffs, not even able to deny it. “Which songs are we doing?” He asks instead.

“Set list is next to your pedal,” Leo tells him, grin only growing bolder when Marcus doesn’t deny anything. He knows his old friend misses playing. They’ve talked about it. Hence this silly little stunt. “Just like riding a bike, right Pike?”

He snorts and looks out at the crowd, his eyes automatically finding you and he smiles. “Yeah.” He scoffs. “If riding a bike means embarrassing the shit out of yourself in front of your soulmate.”

“It absolutely fucking does, dude.” Leo laughs, slapping Marcus on the back before he steps up to the mic to hype up the already excited crowd.

Marcus winks at you from the stage and looks at the lineup. Most of them are songs that they performed when he was in the band and quite a few that he knows Leo knows he knows. Apparently this wasn’t just a last minute deal. As Leo introduces the band, Marcus starts the bass chords for the first song.

It’s not the night you were planning — swaying to the music with Marcus with a cold beer in your hand while his friends played. This is infinitely better. Marcus is in his element up on that stage, showing off and playing to the crowd and making sure he finds your eyes every so often. Surrounded by friends and an enthusiastic audience, you could see Marcus enjoying many more nights like this. It makes you all the more glad that his friends decided to surprise him.

The crowd is a mix of older and younger people, the songs favorites and he enjoys the energy of the people singing along. Finally finished and sweating, in desperate need of a beer, he grins when you clap and yell.

"You are absolutely incredible." The second he hops down off the stage; you're practically jumping into his arms to give him a kiss. "And I never, ever want to hear anything about your singing voice again. That might be the sexiest singing ever."

He laughs, catching you easily and spinning you around. “Think you might be a little biased, Princess.” He teases, feeling euphoric and like he could do anything tonight.

"So?" The giggle that bubbles out of you is nothing short of adrenaline-infused joy. "I'm still right."

“Shit.” The laughter is infectious and he joins you. “I need a beer.” He admits, squeezing you close.

"Allow me." You insist, and when he makes a face you hold up a hand, still grinning. "Groupie's privilege."

“Groupie, huh?” He chuckles again and slides his hand down to your ass. “You have someone in mind?”

"Yeah," you poke his side and laugh, wiggling the fingers of your other hand in his face. "The one wearing the ring."

“Ring?” He glances at your hand and smirks. “That’s a pretty ring baby, but I could do better.” He flirts. “Dump that guy and run away with me. I’ve gotta sweet van and I know how to treat a lady.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"You think you can do better for me than my soulmate?" Batting your eyelashes back at him and half playing along, you tug Marcus toward the bar to get him his drink. "He's pretty amazing."

“I know I can.” He snorts, grinning at your playful banter. “You’ve never been with a musician baby.”

"Hmmm." An amused hum barely smothers your grin and laughter. "I have heard that bassists are experts with their fingering."

“Then you know.” He nods as you both slide up to the bar and Marcus orders a draft. He turns back to you. “My fingers are magic, baby.” He promises. “I can take you to the stars.”

It's too hard for you not to giggle at that, leaning into his side there at the bar. "I did know that already, though."

He breaks the character he was putting on and winks at you. “I was merely playing my favorite instrument.” He leans in and whispers in your ear. “Your pussy.”

"Marcus." Your tone is very false in its admonishment, and you're still grinning when you swat at his arm. "You can play her any time you like."

“Now?” He arches a brow in challenge.

You should have known he would jump on it, and you tilt your head at him with a wide-eyed expression. "I mean...not here but..." Glancing around the room proves that there is little cover to be found, and you bite your lip. "Bathroom?"

Marcus smirks and nods to the bartender when he sets his drink down. “Come on.” He takes your hand and drags you away, unable to even drink his beer in his haste to make you cum.

Practically able to feel the heaviness of Agent Bailey's eyes tracking you across the club, you can't bring yourself to care. Not when the promise of his hands on you is so close you can already feel it.

Normally, Marcus would never do this. Not now. But somehow, being with his own friends and playing, seems to have tapped into the wilder side he had exposed when he was younger. Not thinking like an FBI agent at this moment.

The club has two single-occupant bathrooms in a back hallway, and Marcus shoves open the door to the nearest one to tug you inside. "Holy shit." You're giggling again, bubbling over with it. "We're so lucky Agent Bailey trusts you."

“Amazing what a background check and a security clearance will get you.” He jokes as he pulls you to him, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss. He knows he can’t be in here too long with you, it would be rude, but he has to touch you right now. You are just adoring him too much.

It's almost too bad you wore jeans tonight, but you had wanted to keep that feeling of fullness after the shower and truth be told the denim inseam still managed to give you a little stimulation on the way out here tonight. Now Marcus pops the top button open with eager fingers and you whimper softly, biting back the sound so no one in the hall outside hears you.

“Gotta be quiet, Princess.” He coos, smirking at your already lust blown eyes. “Can’t let anyone know you’re fucking a musician in a bathroom, can you?”

You’ve never done anything like this before and he knows that, but with wide eyes and the shivering desire to obey, you nod your head and bite back a needy whine. His hand slides down your panties, finding you slick with new desire and the remnants of his cum covering your lips. He groans your name in your ear and immediately pushes two fingers deep inside you.

It takes effort not to cry out. Not to whimper or moan or keen his name at the sharp, sweet intrusion of two thick fingers deep in your pussy. The vaguely taboo tint of doing something sexual in a public place only makes it better — a surprising feeling that you’ll have to bite for later — and you bury your face in the crook of Marcus’s neck, knowing that it will muffle the little bit of sound that you simply can’t swallow in your own throat. He doesn’t draw it out, doesn’t tease you. Just pumping his fingers deep and twisting his wrist to rub your clit as he tries to see how fast he can make you cum for him.

It’s like being sent up in a rocket, where all you can do is lean back against the sink in the little bathroom and hold on tight. He knows your body, knows how to make you see stars without breaking much of a sweat, and the adrenaline from playing on stage that’s still coursing through him keeps the pace of his fingers thrusting inside you at an almost punishing speed that feels amazing.

It’s like his playing a song with your body. The soft whimper echoing the timing of the beat of his fingers. Kissing along your neck as he pants against your skin. Already throbbing in his pants, but this is for you. “Good girl, baby. You’re so sweet for me.” He groans quietly.

There's not really much you're doing for him right now except keeping quiet and spreading your legs so he can dive inside you, but you'll fix that later. You'll lay him out on his bed and worship him for as long as he will let you. Right now your back arches and you have to let go of your white knuckle hold on the counter in order to tug him closer, pouring the moan that you want to let loose into a kiss instead.

He feels when you let go. Your moan muffled by your tongue as your walls soak his fingers in their pulsing grip. Feeling your heartbeat through the sensitive walls of your pussy. It’s so good and he loves that you are enjoying yourself as the bar music plays loudly.

"Fucking hell..." When you can finally breathe again you look up him with a hazy smile. "I'm gonna give you the best blow job of your life later on," you promise him with a grin.

He smirks as he pulls his wet fingers out of your fluttering cunt and holds them up to the dim light of the bathroom. They are shiny with your slick and he reaches out to your lips. “Open.” He orders.

That was not at all the response you were expecting, but somehow it far sexier because of that, and even though you've just cum you can feel your pussy fluttering at what he wants you to do. It only takes a second before you open your mouth, letting him put his fingers heavily on your tongue before you obediently clean them of any trace of your slick.

Marcus groans quietly, cock twitching in his pants and all he really wants to do is bend you over the sink to fuck you this time, but he can’t. You pop his fingers out of his mouth and he hisses at your innocent look. “Good girl.” His voice is raspy and dripping with lust.

"I feel like I should start calling you something." Leaning up, you steal a kiss and then rebutton your jeans so the two of you can wash up and go back out to his friends. "But I don't know if you wanted to be that kind of dom."

Marcus chuckles as he watches you in the mirror. “So you’re telling me you want a red room in our new house, hm?”

"I'm not gonna be mad about it if you want one," you answer innocently. "I just had the very intense urge to call you...'daddy' a second ago, but I didn't know if you'd like it. That's all."

Marcus has never been in a situation where someone would call him daddy so he has to think about it. “Only one way to find out.” He decides, patting you on the ass as you move out from the sink so he can wash his hands.

"I guess we'll give it a try later then." The air dryer in the bathroom is loud enough to drown out any other conversation, so you finish cleaning up and steal yet another kiss before dragging him back out into the club feeling like you're living on Cloud Nine.

Everyone in the group knows what happened when the two of you disappeared. At least to some degree. They might not believe that it was only an orgasm for you, but the grins are wide and Marcus snorts at the whistling and clapping from the guys. You brush it off with burning hot cheeks and a grin and go to get fresh drinks from the bar. Tonight has been pretty fucking perfect in every way you can think of. The best possible way to say goodbye for now to Texas, although you know you'll be back as often as you can be.

Marcus accepts this beer quickly, feeling parched and he winks at you before he takes a sip. “I think she might want me to find a band in D.C.” he teases.

"Oh, ya think?" Stephanie snorts, leaning into Leo's side when he comes over to join you at a high-top table.

"Actually..." Leo smirks, looking down at his soulmate before he glances up and around the group. "The guys know this already but...there was a big reason we were glad Pike showed up tonight." He tips his beer toward Marcus in salute. "Tonight was the last Dallas show we might ever play."

“Really?” Marcus frowns instantly, looking around to the group. “You guys are gonna stop playing?”

"We're moving in about a month." Leo announces. His arm winds around Stephanie proudly and he squeezes her tight to his side. "Steph got an amazing job at George Washington Hospital. So we're actually moving to DC."

“What?” Marcus sputters and starts beaming. “That’s great!”

"I'm really excited," she admits, smiling even bigger and brighter than Marcus is. "So maybe you won't have to find a new band after all."

“Well, we’d still have to find other members.” He look at the guys. “Until you come out to visit.”

"Maybe we'll all move East." Their drummer, Clark, jokes. He takes a sip of his whiskey and leans on the table. "Y'all know anyone that needs an electrician or a carpenter? I could be persuaded."

“We’re gonna be building a house.” Marcus snorts. “You’re hired.” He’s joking, because he would never make that decision without you, but it’s interesting to think about. Clark is the best damn carpenter he knows.

"Actually..." Tilting your head to look at Marcus beside you, you shrug your shoulders a little and have a sip of your drink. "There's some work that needs to get done at the inn, too. I've been putting it off because my electrician retired last year and finding a new guy is a pain."

His brows lift in surprise and Clark smirks. “Really, tell me about it.” He encourages.

"It's a historical property," you clarify right away, knowing that that scares some people off. Which is fine with you, really. If they aren't comfortable working on historical structures, you're not going to work with them anyway. "Of course things have been updated, but the structure is colonial so it does require a little bit of tender loving care."

“That’s awesome.” Clark snorts. “I love historic structures. Have you rewired the entire building or are you having to replace as you uncover issues?” He asks. “Code has changed so much since knob and tube. And that’s recent in a historic home, depending on how historic.”

"I've only owned the property for a few years, so we're having to play catch up from the previous owner." His enthusiasm is met with plenty of your own, and you look back at Marcus with a wide grin. "You just watch how fast I adopt all your friends. I was not exaggerating about that being what my family does."

Marcus laughs and leans back. “Adopt away, babe.” He encourages you. “You’ll get sick of them quickly.” He teases, laughing again when they all shoot him a finger.

Two days after touching back down in DC, the early morning meeting that you have with your mother and the communications staffer whose job it is to wrangle all things concerning the First Kids means that you’re up and moving before Marcus. You’re essentially having breakfast at the White House, which is less cozy than having coffee and muffins with your soulmate, but this meeting is important. You really do have things to talk to your mother about.

The staffers show you to the less formal dining rooms in the apartment, a rare time the president allows business to be conducted here, but it’s important that you feel comfortable.

The family dining room in the White House residence is still beautiful, and honestly you prefer it to the larger state dining room. The smaller and more casual room makes it easier to convince yourself that it’s just a normal breakfast with your mother today. Agent Bailey blends into the background here, noticeably more relaxed when she is around other agents and not working solo. It’s a good morning for both of you, and you move to the sideboard in the room to make yourself a cup of coffee while you wait for your mother to come in.

The communications staffer comes in and greets you warmly, laying out folders by the plates. “Your mother should be here in a few minutes. She was just in a briefing.”

“How are you, Annette?” The senior staffer that’s joining you is a woman that you’ve known for years. She was also on your mother’s staff in Pennsylvania and she is a good friend of the family after so many years working side by side.

“I’m doing well, how about you?” She asks politely and gives you a warm smile. “Your mother told me about your soulmate, I’m so thrilled for you.”

“That’s so sweet of you, thank you.” There’s going to be a lot more talk about Marcus as this goes on if your mother and Annette accept your proposal, but for now you sip your coffee and smile. “The adjustment to DC hasn’t been too bad for you? Everything’s been okay?” A little small talk before your mother comes in and breakfast gets served is actually nice. With everyone being so busy you feel like there are people you haven’t gotten to talk to in ages.

“It’s always crazy, but we are adjusting well.” She smiles. “Brad isn’t too fond of the traffic, but who is?” She snorts. “I keep threatening to steal a diplomatic plate.” She jokes.

"I'll nab them for you," you promise her, sitting back with your coffee and smiling at the way your promise ring glints in the room's lighting. "They can't fire me from being First Daughter."

She laughs, knowing that you are completely joking but it would be funny to see the headlines. “I’ll expect one then.” She teases, picking up her own coffee to sip.

It takes a few more minutes before your mother comes in, but you and Annette sit and chat and pour second (or third, in your case) cups of coffee.

“I’m sorry, Birdie, Annette.” Your mother rushes over to drop a kiss on your head and throw her arms around her friend’s shoulders briefly. “That took longer than I expected.”

“Everything okay?” You’re wildly aware that there is plenty that your mother deals with that you do not have the security clearance to know about, but that isn’t what you’re asking. You’re asking if your mother herself is okay.

“Yes.” She rolls her eyes. “But I wish that people would stop trying to impress me with long winded reports going over every minute detail.” She huffs with a laugh. “My favorite briefing is from DIA Agent York. He gives me the bare bones information and it’s over in less than five minutes.”

“Would he consider it a blessing or a curse to be out on the State dinner guest lists in appreciation for his speedy briefings?” You ask, practically snorting a laugh at breakfast is served.

“Knowing the kind of man he is, a curse.” She snorts, appreciating your joke but also because she would never willingly let a man like Dave York around her family unless he was protecting them.

“Well, it’s nice to know that the chaos around here is just normal chaos.” The smile you offer your mother is fully understanding. The inn is your own beautiful area of normalized chaos.

“Of course. Thank you for coming.” She acknowledges that her life, her career isn’t the center of her children’s lives and she doesn’t take for granted when they make time for it outside the normal Friday night dinners. “I appreciate it.”

“Of course, Mom.” An early morning meeting is a small sacrifice to make, especially when Marcus exhausted you last night trying out a sexy little card game you’d had stashed away since Syd’s bachelorette party a couple of years ago. It’s safe to say he liked the suggestions the game came up with. “There’s coffee, amazing food, and my favourite Mom, why wouldn’t I come? Although Marcus’s mother is pretty great. Solid second place in the Best Mom Ever competition.”

“I wanted to ask you how your week in Texas went.” She admits, pouring her own cup of coffee. It’s her third cup of the day so far, but she’s also been up since four.

“Honestly?” You pause when a staff member sets a plate of hot food in front of each of the three of you and a large platter of pastries and fruit in the center of the table. The chorus of Thank you’s is in unison. “It was fantastic. His parents are great, I got along pretty well with most of his cousins, and even met a bunch of his friends from college. It was…” you grin at The admission forming on your lips. “It was really wonderful. His parents are planning on coming up to visit us here this summer.”

“That’s wonderful.” Your mother lights up and she nods. “We will have to have a family dinner.” She suggests. “Here? Personal tour of the White House? Do you think that would be something they would enjoy? I know his father would probably enjoy a game while he’s here as well.”

“Marcus has season tickets to the Nationals so we’re definitely planning on seeing a game.” The omelets that have been set out in front of you are steaming and you dig in to your plate without hesitation. “I was going to ask you about a tour for them so thank you for jumping on that. And I know they would love to meet you guys. A family dinner would be really great.”

“Marcus is wonderful and I can guarantee that it’s a reflection of his parents.” Your mother hums. “And as your soulmate, I think it’s important that everyone meets and gets along.”

“I know his parents already said they wouldn’t be offended if you were too busy, but I do want you guys to meet.” Donna and Matthew Pike had sworn that they would completely understand if they didn’t see hide or hair of your parents during the trip, but that hadn’t sat well with you. Your parents have always made time for the important things in their kids’ lives no matter how busy they were.

“Absolutely not.” Your mother sounds offended by the idea. “There is no reason, barring a world catastrophe, where we should meet his parents at your engagement party or some other event. “No, if they want to have something low key, we don’t have to meet here. But I am eager to meet them.” She shoots you a grin. “Diplomacy can wait for one evening.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t pass up the chance to have dinner at the White House.” The grin you send your mother is beaming and appreciative. “That’s a bragging right not everyone gets. There will be plenty of informal meals in the future.”

“Then I will try to make sure that the chef makes something that will measure up to the amazing food Sydney will be plying them with.” If it wouldn’t hurt your business, your mother would have hired her to be the White House chef in a heartbeat.

“I will carry that compliment back to her on a silver platter.” Now that all three of you are eating — devouring — your breakfasts, you don’t mind getting into things. Of course your mother doesn’t have all day for this meeting, but you expect to be sitting here with Annette for at least a little while. “So, before I put my two cents in, what kind of social media and press presence were you thinking you might wrangle me into?” You’re curious, after all. Since Junie has a clear passion and Alex is handsome and personable, whatever route they chose for you was bound to be a little different.

“Well, I was hoping that we could show how small businesses are vital for our economy.” Your mother looks over at Annette who is nodding. “You are a small business owner and you work with others as well.”

“Okay.” You nod, mumbling the word as you finish a bite of food. “So highlighting the small businesses we work with? Making visible visits to other small businesses? That kind of thing?”

“I know that you utilize some of the local merchants for your supplies.” Your mother nods. “Maybe some clips of you with them? We can do a voice over with the message we want to sent.”

“I’ll compile a list of who we have good relationships with and you let me know who you want to have footage of?” It’s a big plug for the businesses that you do actual work with, so you can’t imagine any of them objecting. “Patronizing your local small businesses is a message I’m happy to get behind.”

“Corporations have garnered too much power in the country.” Your mother agrees. “We need to find a balance between them and a simpler time where everyone shopped local.”

“Alright, that’s easy enough.” Although you’re sure that other complications will arise in time, agreeing to this plan is at least something you’re glad to do. “Anything else?”

A look is exchanged between Annette and your mother. A pause that should be concerning. “It’s about…your soulmate.” She begins.

“What about him?” You frown instantly, not liking the tone that has been chosen for this thought.

“I was hoping that you might sit for an interview.” Annette is the one who voices it. “For the Love is Love legislation that your mother is trying to get passed.

“Oh!” The hesitation in their voices is nothing to do with Marcus, really, and you relax measurably. “Yes. We can definitely do that. And actually?” Looking between your mother and Annette, wondering what they’ll think of this idea coming from you of all people. “I think I can do you one bigger than that.”

“What do you have in mind, young lady?” Your mother almost smirks at the idea that you are suggesting something.

“I know I’m not the kid you expect this from.” The look on her face says that loud and clear and you completely understand why. “But Marcus and I talked it over, and we thought we would see what you thought about a First Family love story. From engagement to wedding to building a house.”

As a career politician, it’s been a rare time where your mother has been speechless, but she just gapes at you, her mouth slightly ajar in shock. “I— are you sure?”

"I mean we're not offering to have a White House photographer follow us around every second of every day, but we know that things are going to get said about us no matter what. Our family are public figures, and Marcus grew up with a father in the spotlight. We figured that getting ahead of the narrative and giving people honest glances into who we are was a hell of a lot better than people just speculating wildly."

“That is an amazingly gracious idea.” She can understand that you are going out on a huge limb and that is so appreciated. “Are you sure you would be comfortable with that scope?”

"We've talked through it," you tell her, knowing that it's probably unbelievable for her to hear this coming from you. "And I'm more confident when I have Marcus with me. I feel better able to handle the extra sets of eyes on my life. So...I thought it made sense not to waste that."

“I think that would be incredible.” She reaches out for your hand. “Only what you will give us though. No more.” Your father had reminded her right before leaving for her briefing that you are her daughter and probably the most private out of the three children. You don’t crave the spotlight at all.

"Marcus thought we could start with the engagement," you tell her, knowing that this is a big leap for you and trying not to be nervous about it. "But I think I should put something on my social media about him being my soulmate first. Maybe some photos from a date with a small announcement?"

“It will mitigate any issues that might spring up.” She doesn’t mention how there has been chatter about the congressman being unhappy about the demise of your relationship. That’s not your concern.

"Our favorite restaurant is family-owned, and we can pick something to do afterward that is still small business or community oriented." That shouldn't be too awfully hard, considering the DC area is always crawling with choices for things to do. You're spoiled for it, really.

“Whatever you think would be best.” She smiles at you. “While I would normally have one million ideas, I think it’s better if this is organically from you.”

“I know Marcus already has my engagement ring hidden away somewhere.” A fact which makes your cheeks burn and your smile turn a little dopey. “But I don’t know anything else as far as that goes. Is it okay if I give him your email so he can touch base with you, Annette?”

“Absolutely!” Annette agrees immediately, while your mother looks impressed that your soulmate has already bought your engagement ring. More importantly is your reaction to that information, you look dreamy eyed and she couldn’t be more happy for you. “I must applaud Marcus for thinking ahead.” Your mother hums, taking a small sip of her coffee to hide her smile.

“We’re both thinking ahead.” A fact which gives you no end of pleasure. The flight back from Dallas had been spent in dreams and future plans, cuddled together looking out the window and making up a list of big and small things you wanted for your future together. “We’re starting to plot out what we want for our house, too. That’s the timeline that’s going to take the longest.”

“Your house?” You had mentioned it before, but your mother ticks her head to the side curiously.

“We’re going to build,” you explain, reaching for a scone from the plate of pastries on the table. “Since the land that the inn is on is more than enough and I own all of it, we’re going to use a portion at the back of the acreage to build a house.”

“That sounds like an adventure.” She’s always known you enjoy doing things your way and it’s refreshing to see that apparently your soulmate understands how much of your being is invested in the inn.

“It’s going to feel like a mansion after sharing my apartment in the inn.” After a little discussion, Marcus had decided that he would rather share the smaller space with you while the house is being built and sublet his current place to Clark — ensuring that his friend can have the new start in DC that he wants. “But we’re excited. It’s a whole lot of planning and big steps forward all at once, and for once I really have a partner who’s on the same page as me.”

“That’s the most important thing.” She knows this from experience. There is absolutely no way she would be the current president if your father hadn’t been on the same page as her as far was what their lives might look like. It’s something she’s always wanted for all of you.

“So…I know it’s more than you were going to ask of me.” Which you appreciate. Your mother recognizing and honoring your boundaries is something she had to work on a lot when you were in your teens and twenties. You look at up her and crack a small, bashful grin. “But it seemed a shame to waste the opportunity for something as uplifting and positive as a White House wedding.”

“A White House wedding?” Your mother’s gasp is surprised, honestly believing you would never even entertain an idea like that. “Are you- you’re joking right? It’s not April Fools Day. That was days ago.”

“I am not joking.” Although you can definitely see why she would be shocked. This is not a decision that you made quickly or easily — or alone. “But I do have an ulterior motive,” you admit, wanting there to be full transparency. “I am hoping that a super-secure and publicly documented White House wedding is a trade off for letting us go on our honeymoon alone.”

She doesn’t even glance at Annette. “Absolutely.” Your mother immediately insists. “There is no way I would want any kind of publicity for your honeymoon. You don’t even have to negotiate for that.” It’s honestly alarming that you think she might want you to do something for her political career on your honeymoon.

“Oh, that isn’t what I meant,” you clarify immediately, seeing naked distress in your mother’s face when she’s normally so good at staying neutral. “I meant…without my Secret Service detail. Give Agent Bailey and Agent Sisson a few weeks off while we go overseas. Marcus is very well trained and definitely enough to keep just two of us safe.”

Her expression eases slightly, relieved that’s not what you are talking about and she nods. “I think that will be entirely appropriate.”

“I’m optimistic that we can make sure this works for everyone.” Sitting in your seat in the family dining room, you lean back with a little extra confidence — bolstered by the fact that you know Marcus is with you every step of the way, just like your family. “Make this happy, and exciting, and something to look forward to.”

“Whatever you want.” Your mother agrees. “Whenever you want.” She adds. “I don’t want you pushing up plans for us, sweetheart.”

“We said we wanted to get started on the house before we get engaged,” you tell your mother, though you have to appreciate her insistence here. Plenty of other parents would hack the timeline if they were in her shoes. “So it will depend on how quickly we start in on those plans.”

“And Marcus wants to stay at the inn while you build?” She asks, lifting a brow in surprise. While she has seen your little apartment and thinks that it’s darling, Sam had always insisted it was too small to share space for even more than a day.

“We talked it through and he feels like it’s more important for me to be close to the inn than for his commute to be shorter. He’s going to sublet his current place to a friend that wants to move up from Texas and then the friend can take over the lease when it comes up. We’ll have a little less space than we would if we stayed in his apartment, but we don’t mind close quarters.” A fact which you will not look bashful about right now…no not at all…

“That’s a very solid plan that you have laid out.” Annette compliments. “It seems like you and your soulmate have made a lot of plans.”

“Right now I’d call it our favorite hobby.” Second favorite, but you’re not talking about your sex life in front of your mother…

The president snorts and rolls her eyes as she reaches for another scoop of fruit. “Sure.”

“Anyway.” Forcibly getting the conversation back on track seems like a smart idea. “Annette is my point person, then?”

“Yes.” Your mother takes the hint with a small smile. “I reasoned you would be more comfortable with her than any of the new staff.”

“And I appreciate that.” You offer both your mother and Annette a grateful smile. “Especially since this is going to involve my soulmate, I’m very glad to have someone that I know and trust working with us.”

“I am eager to meet him.” She hadn’t been present at the state dinner, she had been sick, but from what she can tell she will like him.

“Why don’t you come by the inn and have dinner with us sometime in the next week or two?” You suggest, figuring that would be nicer than a formal sit up in an imposing setting. “Something casual for the first time you meet? So we can all relax a little.”

“That sounds perfect.” Annette knows the value of an informal meeting. It often creates a better mood for the entire interaction.

"Awesome." Having everything moving in a comfortable direction is as much as you could ask from this meeting, and it's nice to see your mother semi-relaxed at the start of a workday. "Well, I'm sure you have eighty-seven things to do today Mom, so I won't keep you."

She winces apologetically and looks at her watch. “I’m actually about three minutes late for a cabinet meeting.” She admits, standing up to move over and kiss your forehead again. “Are you and Marcus coming to dinner on Friday?”

"We'll be there with bells on," you promise her. "Go get to your meeting. I love you, and tell Dad I love him too."

“I will, sweetheart.” She promises. “Annette, I will see you later. Take your time finishing breakfast.”

The unfortunate truth is that the dinner with Annette might be necessary sooner rather than later. Within a bare twenty-four hours of the White House Easter Egg Roll and the official photos that refer to Marcus Pike as your soulmate, the commentary on social media and in online tabloids begins.

Marcus frowns as he opens the new story. It’s not uncommon for articles to be inflammatory, he knows that from the state dinner, but this is all but calling you a cheating liar. “Fuck.” He growls, eyes narrowing on the wording from the ‘anonymous source’.

"What's wrong?" Your nose is stuck in the schedule for next week while dinner is in the oven and you sit with Marcus in the living room, but you glance up when he sounds unhappy.

Marcus sighs and turns his phone towards you so you can read the headline. “I hate to accuse anyone, but this fucking sounds like your favorite congressman ex.”

"Sounds more like your ex, if you ask me." Vanessa might look sweet and innocent, but she can be cutthroat and single-minded in her goals when she sets herself to it. Something she learned from her justice father. "Think they're getting their jollies going after us together?"

“Shit- you think?” He ended things on a good note with Vanessa. Actually, she broke up with him, why would she smear his name?

"I don't know what her motive would be besides trying to get under Sam, but I wouldn't be surprised by it." Leaning forward to read the beginning of the article on his phone, you still frown. "I knew somebody was going to try saying we cheated, but damn."

“We know the truth.” Marcus frowns as he rereads the article. “This seems to imply that we are lying about being soulmates.” He looks over to you with a small grin. “That’s proven easily enough.”

"Hmm." That does make you smile, and you look up at him from behind your laptop. "Are you thinking we should stage a little photo on my social media as a response?"

“Absolutely.” He’s not thrilled about the tattoo you both share, but it’s solid evidence of your connection. “Your reputation won’t even tarnish a little.”

"I'm sure I'll get some snide comments about the kind of tattoo we share, but that's on me." You shrug at the truth of it. "I definitely should have gotten it somewhere else."

He laughs and shrugs. “Doesn’t make a difference now.” He reminds you. “It’s on both of our skin, so it’s proof. You’ve had it for years and so have I. Should we post new pictures and old ones with the tattoos?”

"We can do a little album on my Instagram." The suggestion is a welcome one, but it does mean you push your laptop away and set it on the coffee table to snuggle a little closer to him. "You have old photos with the tattoo in them?"

“I do.” Marcus chuckles. “But….” He shrugs. “They were taken by my ex-wife. She’s not in them.” He assures you.

“That’s fine.” Frankly, if Lara gets involved in the conversation it will just reinforce the fact that Marcus has had your marks for a very long time. “I can bribe Agent Sisson to be our photographer for a photo that has both of us in it.”

“And how do we want to casually set up pictures of our lower backs?” He asks with a grin.

“There’s nothing casual about what we’re doing.” You tuck yourself into his side and grin. “This is answering a call out.”

“To address any unfounded and untrue rumors….” He captions with a snort. “Straightforward. I like it.”

"If we wanted to do this casually, I would just say we should go take some pool pictures." You glance up at him, seeing what he thinks of that. "Violating my mom's no bikini rule for a good cause."

“I like bikini’s.” He agrees immediately, his eyes darkening slightly with lust.

"Oh yeah?" The smirk on your face is nearly instant. "Like we should take a tropical vacation level of like?"

“Like you need to book one immediately.” He huffs. “Texas didn’t count as a vacation.”

"Of course it did!" The fact that he's getting all bent out of shape imagining you in a bikini when he sees you naked on a daily basis is adorably, quite frankly. "And you can't even claim it wasn't sexy. We nearly broke that bed."

“Of course we did.” He laughs. “It’s old and we are horny.” He teases, biting his lip as he pulls you close. “But in a bikini, it’s so much less clothing to take off you.”

"You wouldn't even have to take it off." He's getting ideas and you turn your face up to smirk at him, fully encouraging those ideas to take form. "Just shove it aside. Nothing else needed."

“Fuck.” He hisses, clenching his jaw and imagining fucking you on a beach somewhere.

"Gonna keep that imagine in the spank bank, babe?" You can't help but tease him a little, knowing that you would be reacting exactly the same way if it was Marcus teasing you. But you started it this time so you get to tease.

“Fuck yes, I am.” He snorts. “We would get arrested. But it would be worth it.”

"There's a private beach where we could get away with it somewhere." Leaning up to press a kiss to Marcus's cheek, you're still grinning. "Good to know it's on the fantasy list, though."

“Very high up there.” Marcus admits with no shame. Just the freedom to explore these ideas with you is amazing, even if they are never acted on.

"I think..." The only thing that keeps you from shifting into his lap is the kitchen timer going off from the oven. Instead of climbing on to him you just climb off the couch to get to the baked pasta you put together right before Marcus got home from work. "That maybe we should do half the honeymoon in Paris and the other half on the Riviera? Get some swimsuit time in?"

“I like the way you think.” Marcus chuckles quietly, nodding. “How long are we talking? A few days in each place? A week?”

"A week each?" You pull him up from the couch to come to the kitchen with you. There's still a table to set and wine to pour, and all that good stuff. "Two weeks in France sounds like magic."

“I agree.” He grins and grabs the bottle of wine you had set out. It’s become a routine to have a glass with dinner and he enjoys the selection the inn has, although it annoys you that he insists on paying you for the wine.

"A big, beautiful wedding. Two weeks in Paris. A lovely house for us to move into." Every time you think through the plans you're starting to make for the future, they sound better and better.

“That sounds perfect to me.” Marcus admits, smiling softly at the idea. “Have you thought about the style ideas I sent you?”

"I was showing your Pinterest board to Syd on our lunch today." The collection of Dutch Colonial, Queen Anne, Georgian, and Federal style houses that Marcus had put together to share with you is full of so many ideas that you had lost track of time in the kitchen and was almost late to interview a new member of the housekeeping staff. "She likes the Queen Anne style Victorians, of course."

“Of course she does.” Marcus grins as he lifts a brow. “Which one of those were you most interested in?” He doesn’t really mind what architectural style your home is in, as long as you are happy with the result.

Having decided that the edge of the property where you planned to build was far enough from the inn and her out buildings that you didn’t need to be loyal to the colonial structures, you have a little more freedom to choose what you build. “I think I like the Georgian houses you sent me best,” you tell him, setting down two plates of baked pasta in the table at your customary seats. “It complements the colonial style without being obsessive about matching, and it’s not overly complicated.”

“That’s a good choice, and it still fits with the overall theme of the property.” Marcus agrees. “However…one thing I think is a must in our new house.”

“What’s that?” The two of you settle down and pick up your forks, comfortable in the relative quiet of the apartment while Agent Bailey takes one of her occasional walks around the grounds.

“We have to have an elevator in our house.” He’s gotten used to the elevator at the inn and can’t imagine living without one now.

“Non-negotiable?” You tease, knowing that on the nights he goes to the gym after work he groans his way into the apartment on principle. “Noted. You will have your elevator.”

“Thank God.” He dramatically moans and tosses his head back. “Getting older sucks. You’ll see.” He teases about the age gap, but it’s only seven years. “Heartburn is about to start.”

“I was more thinking of our kids,” you admit quietly, poking your fork into a big bite of sausage and zucchini and pasta together. “What if one of them needs the house to be accessible?”

“That thought had crossed my mind.” Marcus agrees. “But we will pray that all our children will be healthy, prepare in case they are not.”

“No matter what, they’ll be cared for and loved.” That, at least, you can both guarantee.

“Plus it will be easier when someone undoubtably breaks a leg.” Marcus snorts, laughing slightly. “It seemed like it was a contest in my family who would break a bone first every year.”

“Kids are gonna be clumsy,” you joke, pointing your fork at him in teasing accusation. “Got it.”

“But they will make up for it with good looks and charm.” He grins back at you and winks.

First Princess Cheating Scandal is the headline splashed across the tabloid on the magazine rack, and your hand twitches before reaching for it. This is the bullshit you absolutely hate about being in the public eye, and now that they’ve started coming for Marcus you hate it even more. The article inside claims that you faked your matching marks — including your scars, which is possible but extremely far fetched — and that you’ve been sleeping together since at least the night of the State dinner.

With another one of those dinners on the horizon and the weariness in your bones over now spending multiple weeks of time on this stupid non-issue, you pay for the magazine and continue on to the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building with it shoved in your purse. Agent Bailey’s advice had been to let it roll off your shoulders because people are always going to gossip, but as much as you’d like to do that it’s possible this might affect your mother’s image. Or your business. Your previously fully booked inn has had multiple cancelled reservations since this whole thing started.

So you walk on, with the little treats you made in a container in your purse and Marcus’s favorite midafternoon coffee order from the shop around the corner to surprise him at the office.

Marcus is pouring over a case when you knock on his office door. He doesn’t keep it closed, preferring to let his team come to him whenever. To feel like they can. Looking up, he sees you and immediately smiles. “Birdie.” He almost said Princess, but since the beginning of this entire ���scandal’ non-scandal thing, it’s kind of soured the nickname. Immediately abandoning the file, he stands up and rushes around to give you a kiss. “This is a welcomed surprise.”

“I did a little baking with Syd this afternoon and the results were so good that I couldn’t wait to share.” The kiss is a comforting balm, even if it’s short, and you hold up the cup in your left hand. “And I brought your coffee.”

He groans in appreciation, of both the baked goods and the caffeine. “I was just about to get another cup from the break room, but this is better. His hand slides around your back and he rubs it soothingly, seeing the pinch of upset around your eyes but he wants you to talk to him naturally. “Want to come inside? Share it with me?”

You nod and step inside, your own cup from the coffeeshop clutched in your other hand. It’s herbal tea, though. Caffeine didn’t seem like a good idea when you’re already anxious. “Agent Bailey is in the bullpen, I hope you don’t mind.” Now that you’re in a relationship with a well-trained and fully competent federal agent, your Secret Service detail tends to be a bit more relaxed about giving you space.

“Not at all.” Marcus insists, guiding you over to the little couch in his office. “Rodriguez will show her where the donuts are.” He snickers.

��So…” he sits down beside you and you pull a small container of Madeleines out of your oversized purse to offer to him, but the magazine is sitting just underneath and it makes your eyebrows pinch together all over again. “We walked past a news stand on the way here and…saw a new headline.”

“Oh no.” Marcus sighs, he takes the container but sets them aside to give you his full attention. “Bad?”

“Not great.” With a resigned sigh, you pull the magazine out of your bag and hand it over for Marcus to inspect. Under the headline is the now-famous shot of the two of you dancing together and the article inside includes a paparazzi shot of the two of you grocery shopping alongside one torn from your social media of a date night.

He winces at the headline and huffs, opens it, flipping to the article and skimming it. “I want to really get this ‘anonymous source’ into a fucking interrogation room.” He growls, growing more and more upset at the outright lies that are being insinuated. “But it’s fucking hard to be sleeping with you when security from Vanessa’s building has me showing up on a timestamped tape.”

“Agent Bailey was less than thrilled with the accusation that she would lie about anything out of loyalty. You might have to fight her for that interrogation.” Shaking your head as he puts down the magazine, you’re craving his warmth and security enough that you lean in on the couch beside him. “I had an idea, but I don’t know if you’ll like it,” you admit quietly.

“What is it?” He wraps his arm around your shoulder and pulls you close, wanting to protect you from all this. He feels guilty, like you would be better off if your connection hadn’t been acted on.

“It’s….a little dramatic.” You can admit that, too. Although at this point you feel like a dramatic response isn’t uncalled for.

It might be necessary, in Marcus’s opinion. He nods and hums while waiting for you to continue.

“How would you feel about having another tattoo?” The question is posed carefully, quietly, but you had been considering it all the way over and bandied it back and forth with Agent Bailey during your walk. While extreme, it would certainly put all doubts to rest to share a video of you getting a new tattoo and having it appear just seconds after being finished, fully formed on Marcus’s skin.

“No gang or face tattoos.” Marcus jokes, shrugging slightly. “I’ve got no problem if you want to get a tattoo, sweetheart.” He decides. “But I don’t want you to do that simply to prove that we are soulmates. We don’t owe anyone anything.”

“I know it’s not owed.” That thought had never even crossed your mind, actually. “But I want this put to rest and something small that we decide on together would be a nice mark to share under almost any circumstance.” Shrugging a little, you take a sip of your tea and sit back. “It’s just a thought. Obviously I’m not going to just go off and do this on my own. That’s the opposite of the point of it.”

“No, I’m not opposed to it.” Marcus protests softly. “I just want to make sure it’s not from a place of insecurity.”

“Even if we weren’t soulmates, I would think it was sweet to have matching tattoos,” you tell him honestly, savoring the quiet comfort of the moment when your mind was chaotic just a half hour ago.

“What kind are you thinking of?” He asks softly, smiling as you lean against him. He enjoys the warmth of moment. The quiet comfort of you with him.

“I haven’t come up with anything brilliant.” Or even anything original. You had mostly been waiting to talk to him about it. “But something small, that’s reasonably discreet? Behind the ear or on the ankle or something like that? Even the wrist, so you could cover it with your watch when you want. I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

“What about a little flower?” Marcus offers. “Behind the ear. I can cover that with my hair if I need to, and it can be your favorite bloom.”

“That sounds completely adorable.” The smile you have for him is beaming, feeling the way your heart bursts at his absolute acceptance and support. The love that radiates off him even in something as simple as knowing how much you love flowers.

“I thought you would like that.” He admits, tapping just behind your ear. “And you are so sensitive when I kiss right here. Especially when I’m inside you.”

“That’s mostly because you’re inside me.” Even though your cheeks burn with it and you slide down a little against his side, you’re still beaming at him. “If we’re going for things that enhance sensitivity then maybe I’ll have to look into piercings,” you tease.

“Don’t tease.” He pouts, twitching under the proper suit. “I can’t think about those kinds of things and be expected to work.”

“Oh, would you like if I had secret piercings?” You raise one eyebrow in interest, surprised to hear such an enthusiastic response to the passing idea.

“Piercings are hot.” Marcus would never deny that. “If you wanted to get some, I would support you completely. Enthusiastically.” He teases with a grin.

You hum at him, intrigued enough by the thought to actually heavily consider it, just imagining his face seeing them and how eager he would be to play with them. “That would be a very personal gift for my soulmate.”

Yes it would be. Marcus hums, trying and failing to hide a small smirk. “Personal is good.” He agrees, “but don’t feel like that’s something I have to have. If you want it, that’s one thing.”

"It's something to think about." It's no secret to him that you like things that mark you as his – your soulmate marks, of course, but your promise ring and occasionally wearing a piece of his clothing as well. Piercings might be something only he would see, but that just makes it all the more meaningful.

“Hmmmmmm.” He chuckles and nods his head. “It is. But I don’t think you came all the way down here to just fill my head with dirty thoughts.”

"I came down to surprise you with coffee and tell you that I love you." When he cocks his head slightly, you end up grinning. "I might have a little date night planned for you tonight. The caffeine has ulterior motives."

"Oh really?" He perks up, smiling slightly as he looks over at you in utter surprise. "So I need to make sure I'm home on time tonight?"

"Actually?" His delight is gratifying, and you squeeze his arm gently at your waist. "I'm taking you right from here. Our night is in the city."

"Kidnapping me, hmmm?" He grins widens and he bites his lip. "What does Agent Bailey think of such activities?"

"Oh, she helped me plan it." And she seemed to have fun with it, too, which made the little diversion even better. "Even made our dinner reservation for us."

"Wow." Marcus makes an impressed face. "That was a plot twist I didn't expect." he laughs. "Am I allowed to know any details or just show up and look pretty?"

"Just be your handsome self when I come back at five to pick you up." You stretch up to kiss his cheek, glad that he seems to be looking forward to tonight and hadn't been looking forward to just going home. "I'm going to scoot home, finish some paperwork, and get all dolled up for you."

"Bring me back an outfit?" Marcus asks, turning pleading eyes on you. "It can be another suit, I just want to freshen up too. Look my best."

"I'll bring something devastating but understated." That isn't hard considering Marcus's wardrobe is extremely well curated, but you still like to pay him the compliment as you pull yourself back to standing. "I'll be back in a couple of hours, babe."

He can’t help but grin a little more, your compliment making his shoulders lift confidently. “I’ll see you soon.” He promises, pressing his lips to yours in the office where there’s privacy, although he will walk you to the elevator.

"I love you." That is for the privacy of his office too, but only because it comes with such a doe-eyed look from you that it's nearly obscene.

“I love you too, Hummingbird.” He promises, the same sappy look in his eyes as he turns to guide you out of the office. His hand rests on your lower back, over the tattoo.

Unfortunately, no date night photos or other positive presence on your social media is enough to combat the now growing accusation and rumors surrounding your soulmate status. It's only two weeks after first presenting the idea to Marcus that you're both sitting in a tattoo studio with the artist that did a beautiful flower tattoo for Sydney's sister AnnaLeigh.

Marcus had asked Juan to come and film the entire thing, so it couldn’t be said that it was spliced together. Although he was sure that comment was coming. Some people couldn’t be pleased no matter what, they didn’t want to believe there was an innocent reason for them being together.

The simple design would not take long to ink into your skin, and the artist helped Juan set up two chairs so that both you and Marcus could be in the shot to capture the instant the finished tattoo appears on Marcus’s skin. The entire video would be shared on your social media, audio included, so you had had to work up the nerve to even just chat with Marcus on camera. Sharing another mark with him isn’t stressful at all, it’s letting the public so deeply into your personal life that is.

“I like the design.” Marcus sits down on the other side of you and takes your hand. “You should have let me do the tattoo this time.” He jokes. “I don’t know what it feels like.”

“We can switch if you want to?” You’re nervous, and he knows it. Not for getting the tattoo, but from everything that has been going on.

“That’s up to you, sweetheart. Whatever you want to do.” Marcus wouldn’t take this experience from you if you want it.

“It’s small,” the artist assures you, seeing anxiety in her clients. “And behind the ear doesn’t hurt very much for most people. I had one woman nearly fall asleep on the table because she liked the humming and the soft vibrations.”

Marcus can handle a little bit of pain. You know that. A tattoo is nothing compared to broken limbs or the incident when he was undercover and was shot — which had sent you in a flurry of cooing and coddling for about three days when he first told you about it. Tattooing is the kind of pain that some people find pleasurable, so you squeeze his hand and nod. “Why don’t you give it a shot? You might decide you like it and we’ll end up here all over again.”

“Is that alright with you?” Marcus asks the tattoo artist, knowing they might not appreciate a change of clientele.

“Fine with me.” She nods as she sets up her tray. “I have both of your information on file and believe it or not this happens a lot. Soulmates come in with a design they’ve chosen but they’ll change their mind at the last minute about which one of them will actually being sitting for it.”

Marcus chuckles and turns you both so he can sit down in the chair. “We’ll both be wearing it anyway.” He agrees. “So I don’t mind experiencing it.”

“I’ve never been shot but I guarantee it hurts less.” You move to let him sit in the artist’s chair and situate yourself by his side.

Marcus chuckles as the tattoo artists eyes widen. “I’m a federal agent.” He explains quietly. “It was just a flesh wound, but she thinks it’s impressive.”

“It is impressive!” And you’re just going to keep telling him so over and over until he caves, but right now you just throw a pout at him to make him laugh.

Marcus gives you the laugh and turns his head to the side, staring at you. “Still not as impressive as you are beautiful.” He murmurs softly, although the video picks it up.

“I love you, too.” The bashfulness in it is only because you weren’t expecting that kind of compliment right now — as the artist about to permanently ink Marcus’s skin is making sure she has everything she needs on her tray. You lean into his side and tip back your head, nothing but pure love in your eyes right before they slip shut at the brief press of your lips to his.

Marcus hums, an automatic sound that comes out of him when you kiss him. Excited that you are as free with your kisses as he is, it’s liberating to indulge whenever the urge strikes you. When you pull back, he grins. “Now I’m ready.”

"Go ahead and lean forward." Sitting down on her stool, the artist beckons Juan over with the camera for the best angle to watch the action and still have you in the shot. "And here goes nothing."

The first touch of the needle nearly makes Marcus jump. He barely resists the urge and then laughs quietly, trying not to move too much. “This is kind of ticklish.” He admits.

"Then it already hurts less than the one I got," you tease, glad that the experience isn't painful for him. Watching him giggle about it and knowing it's being filmed is downright endearing.

“I’m sorry.” Marcus apologizes, even though he has nothing to be sorry for. “I wish your experience was better.” He snorts after he says it. “Maybe not, or I might be covered in ink.”

"It wasn't bad, but it was definitely more than a tickle." The grin you shoot him, though, is knowing. "If you end up liking this so much tonight, we might be covered in ink because of you instead."

“Only areas that can be respectfully covered.” He teases you, sending you a wink as the artist continues to carefully work behind his ear.

"Sounds like a plan," you toss him a smirk in return and the set of you grow quiet after another round of low laughter, so the only sound in the room becomes the resilient buzz of the artist's needle.

Marcus could probably fall asleep if the noise didn’t vibrate in his head. He smiles at you, squeezing your hand gently. “After this, we will have to go get that cream to keep it clean.”

"We can get a Tattoo Goo kit before we leave the shop." His hand is in yours and you squeeze it reassuringly. "It's going to be tender for a bit, but it won't take too long to heal."

“I’m sure you will be completely cuddly as I heal.” He snickers quietly.

"I think having a cuddly girlfriend is mandatory for the healing process," you tell him seriously. At this point you've completely forgotten Juan is here for any other reason besides moral support. Forgotten about the phone in his hands being a camera and the fact that this video will become public for the world to see. This is just a moment between you and your soulmate. And a sweet one, at that.

“You should have seen me when the scar from your appendix showed up.” He snorts. “I was upset that my soulmate was hurt.”

“We were kids.” Sure he’s older than you, but you were so young when you had appendicitis. “Did it really worry you that much?”

“Yeah.” Marcus admits, not ashamed of that in the least. “Not knowing what happened, I kept imagining horrible things. Waited for other scars to possibly show up for at least a week.”

“If you had scarred from your broken leg or when you hurt your shoulder, I probably would have felt the same way.” It’s less of an admission from you and more of a confirmation, telling him in no uncertain terms how much you have always cared about his well-being. “Which is still your gunshot wound is such a big deal.” One of your fingers digs into his arm playfully. “That scared the crap out of me.”

“Well, now if I get shot, you can baby me right away.” He teases. “And tell the plastic surgeon to make the scar invisible.”

"I don't mind wearing your scars." The thought comes out quieter than you mean for it to, holding Marcus's hand tightly in yours. "I'm proud of you. And proud to wear your marks, no matter how many of them there are."

“Hopefully not too many more.” He hopes, smiling at you. “But I’m proud to wear your marks too, Hummingbird.”

The session doesn’t last too much longer. Marcus has a high pain tolerance but the tattoo mainly just tickles him, making him grin and laugh as he chats with you and with the artist for the last few minutes. When she pronounces him done and stands back, there is a moment of silence before the permanence of the piece takes hold on him and transfers instantly to your skin.

A sharp intake of breath at the momentary pain is how you know it has happened, and you glance over at Marcus — and Juan with your phone — just absolutely beaming with happiness. “Does it look as good on me as it does on him?”

Marcus inspects the area, forgetting the camera is even on and recording. He leans in and presses a kiss to the tattoo. “It looks even better, Princess.” He promises with a smile.

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

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My Masterlist!

[idolatrybarbie]

main masterlist | series masterlist | read on ao3

pairings: francisco "frankie" morales x f!reader, marcus pike & f!reader

word count: 5.4k

rating & summary: mature - 18+ only! | Francisco didn’t seem to like you very much. Maybe it was the direct approach you took—not everybody loves being confronted with allegations of terrorism. Or maybe it’s just you.

tags: angst, dark themes, the United States government comes with its own warning, emotional abuse, toxic friendship dynamics, misogyny, grief, discussed past violence.

You wake in a pool of your own sweat. The alarm clock next to you says it’s two o’clock in the morning despite unruly sun shining in through the curtains. Someone has taken a power drill to the soft spot between your temple and left ear. Your skull throbs, throat dry as bone. It takes a moment, cheek squished into the pillow, for you to remember where you are. The blackout curtains of your shoe box apartment would never let the sun in to wake you; hell, there is no sun in New York in the first place.

The memories come in an quick onslaught. Brief flashes of the past two days flit through your mind: D.C. and the White House. Marcus’ intern. All of those flight logs. The shitty little town of Lubbock, Texas.

Looking for a sign? This is it!

Everything clicks. Your curtains wouldn’t dare let a sliver of UV rays pass through the glass of any window, but these aren’t your curtains. This isn’t your apartment and this is not New York. This is a motel—another one—in the unincorporated township of Posey. The Palm Tree Lodge, or something to that affect. Dirty, cheap. You’d managed to haggle the front desk manager into letting you book per night instead of their usual by the hour.

You could go home. Francisco Morales made it clear that he does not want to speak to you. You should go home. Tuck tail and drive to your parents’ place, confess your sins and have them console or confront you. You should call Marcus and tell him you’ve failed. 

Ultimately, you don’t do any of these things. After a long shower, you get in the two-hundred-dollar-a-day truck you’re renting and drive back to where you know Morales lives. It’s faster from the motel than the airport. Pushing the engine and speeding down back roads, you make the drive in twenty minutes. When you pull up to the trailer again, you realize that he’s not there. The truck with the half-crumpled grill isn’t parked out back. No one answers the door when you knock, no signs of life past the old blinds covering every window. Francisco is gone—for the day or forever, you don’t know.

You should be in a cushy Washington hotel room paid for by the company card, writing up story notes to send back to the Post this afternoon. Really, you should be anywhere but here. And yet here you are. You decide, plopping your ass down on the shaded steps up to the trailer’s door, that here is where you’ll stay. He’ll either come back or he won’t. For this, you’ve got the time to wait.

Francisco didn’t seem to like you very much. Maybe it was the direct approach you took—not everybody loves being confronted with allegations of terrorism. Or maybe it’s just you.

Begrudgingly, Mr. Morales let you in.

“What do you think you’re doing, showing up here?” he’d asked.

You couldn’t help but scoff. “Trying to help you. If you’d just let me explain.”

“I’m gonna need you to explain how you found me in the first place,” Francisco said.

“Mr. Morales, I understand that you want your privacy—”

“I don’t think you do. If you did, you wouldn’t show up here talking about… What? Extradition? The U.S. government? All this bullshit?”

“Respectfully sir, none of this is bullshit,” you said. “This is very real. This is serious.”

“If the government wants to come arrest me, they can do it themselves. They don’t have to hire some hussy to lure me out first,” he said.

“Excuse me? Is that what you think this is?” you asked.

“Tell me you’re not wearing a wire,” Francisco said.

“I’m not, Mr. Morales. I came here to help you, if you would listen to me. For the third time.”

He remains standing near the door, ready to see you out. He doesn’t believe you.

“Oh for fuck’s sake—” You started picking at the buttons along the front of your shirt. Sleeves rolled to the elbow, you huffed as the fabric fell open, revealing skin as you went. Clavicle, chest, then bra…but no wire to be seen.

Francisco stared at you, brain seemingly catching up with his eyes. You rolled yours, up to the ceiling and back down again.

“You believe me now?” you asked.

He only shook his head. “No.”

Maybe it’s a bit of both.

The weather is boiling once again. The shade that covers two-thirds of your body does nothing to mitigate the humidity. The collar of your shirt sticks to your skin, the grey fabric damp with sweat. It’s comfortable, the oldest item of clothing you still own. Your first big girl purchase after moving out of the house. The Rice University crest has faded with washing and time, the bottom hem threadbare, but you hold onto it. The shirt has too many memories attached to throw it away.

Rice is where you met Marcus. After declining offers from Northwestern and Duke, you showed up on campus totally lost. You thought staying in-state would minimize the lifestyle whiplash, but Houston was a world away from the town you once called home. Marcus had found you, kind of like finding a box of puppies abandoned in the rain. He befriended you and showed you the ropes of adulthood, already a junior in your freshman year.

When he moved three hours away to pursue law at Baylor, your world changed. Marcus said he would visit as much as possible, making good on the promise. Every long weekend, stat holiday, and sometimes just because, his ‘93 Honda Accord would pull up outside your pack rat apartment. He guided you when your parents couldn’t, never having gone to college themselves. He was there when no one else was. When he didn’t have to be. You’ve owed him a lot longer than you realized.

That’s where the unending trust in your relationship comes from. Marcus is good. He’s always had you. Why would that change now?

Something has changed, though. You can feel it. Could feel it on the phone that first time months ago, his voice a little too smooth; lines rehearsed.

Time goes hand-in-hand with change. It’s no shock that Marcus is a little different than you remember. But between the cold shoulder and the subtle manipulation, it doesn’t sit quite right. You’ve started waiting for the other shoe to drop—something you’ve never felt in this friendship before. Locked in a staring contest, the two of you seem to be waiting each other out.

You hope you’re wrong. You hope you blink first. You’re scared of what you will see if you don’t.

The burst of an exhaust pipe rips you from sun-addled daydreams. Eyes open, you watch as a familiar blue pickup pulls in next to yours. Francisco Morales flies out of the vehicle, stalking over. You stand from your place in front of his trailer.

“The hell do you think you’re doing here?” he asks, pointing a finger in front of your face.

“Sunbathing,” you deadpan. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“I told you to get lost.” He makes his way back to his vehicle, pulling a toolbox out of the truck bed.

“And lost I am, Mr. Morales,” you say to the open air. “Lost on why you won’t let me help you.”

“You think your funny,” Francisco says, toolbox swinging by his side.

He bypasses you at his steps, walking up to the door. He shoves a hand in his back pocket, keys jingling when he pulls them out. Seeing an opportunity, you take it, rushing up with tinny footsteps to grab them from his fingers. Francisco spins on his heel, trying to crowd you against nothing as you step away.

“Give those back. Right now.”

You eye the toolbox held in his grasp, the way his fingers flex tight around the handle. He’s resisting an urge that, given his military training, must be hardwired.

“Or what? You going to bash my brains in?” you ask. “I’m trying to keep you out of prison but if you want in so bad, go ahead.”

The muscles in his jaw tense. The toolbox falls to the dirt and gravel with a clatter, tools spilling out on the ground. Francisco says, “You have thirty seconds.”

“I’ve obtained documents—federal U.S. documents—that detail your upcoming indictment and potential extradition to Colombia, Mr. Morales. Whatever you may or may not have done, the government is convinced that you’re guilty. They’re set to hang you. All of you. I’m trying to make sure that doesn’t happen. Please. Let me help you. Let me do the right thing.” Seven seconds to spare.

Francisco’s face is stone, unreadable as he stares at you. With the sun behind him, you see the contrasting light and dark browns in strands of his hair. This man can’t go to prison if only for the fact that he’s too pretty. Still, he seems stubborn as a mule. When he opens his mouth to speak, you brace yourself for another rejection.

“It’s Frankie,” he says.

You blink at him. “Pardon?”

“Not Mr. Morales. Call me Frankie.”

“Frankie, is that a yes?” you ask.

He looks at his shoes, worn and muddy, then back at you. “Yes.”

“Okay, so—”

“Come back this time tomorrow,” Frankie says.

“Are you serious?”

“You wanna help me? Do the right thing?” he asks sarcastically. “Come back tomorrow.”

Then he steps forward, taking his keys from you before turning towards the door. Frankie walks up the steps, turns the key in the lock and disappears into the trailer. You stare at his door for a moment longer, sighing to yourself. You let yourself float back to the car, functioning on autopilot as you hold the steering wheel and drive back to the motel.

Limbs heavy with sunshine, you roll into bed. Part of you wants to call Marcus and gush about the success. You want to hear him tell you that you did a good job. That you’re good, just like him. Something holds you back from reaching for the phone. The sense that he could dismiss you; stay toeing the company line as he tells you that he can’t discuss this on a call.

No, it doesn’t quite feel that way. Disappointment doesn’t catch in your throat as you stare at his contact on your screen. A kernel of something else has lodged itself in your gut, throwing everything off. It’s an overreaction, surely…but you can’t shake the feeling.

You drift in and out of sleep. Strange dreams dance behind your eyelids between intermittent hours of pausing black. Nothing is discernible from anything else, all of it blending into one mess. Your heart pounds when you sit up next, eyes wide in the dark. Deep breaths calm your body, bringing your heartbeat back to something within the territory of normal. You can’t shake the adrenaline coursing through your veins, hands clenched tight at your sides.

You haven’t felt anything that strongly since the arrest. Six years ago, in the events before the courthouse and the lawyer: a federal officer holding you at gunpoint, your own weapons a cup of coffee and a very incriminating file folder; getting on your knees outside of a yoga studio—or was it a convenience store? You can’t quite remember. The memory has been dissected and rearranged too many times for proper examination.

Ever since, you have never been alone again. At first it was real, the ankle monitor on your left side winking at you every so often. The device was constant reminder that you were always being watched. Supervised release, they called it. Reporting to your federal probation officer, you were ordered to never step foot outside of Kendall County for the next two years. No alcohol, recreational substances, or access to any type of computers. Apparently, supposedly committing treason by accessing a government database meant you couldn’t text anyone for the rest of your days.

It certainly felt like your life would end there. Two years. 730 days that never got easier. The looks of shame from your mom started to subside around day 457. Dad was easier to come around, figuring you needed someone in your corner. He helped you get a job working at the local library, completely analog in their systems. The two of you traded off the duties of cooking every week.

The first person you called when it was over was Marcus. Of course. Your best friend, the man who saved you. He had to be the first call.

Despite all odds, he’d answered. You’ve never cried so hard. All you could do was thank him over and over. Between the tears, he managed to tell you about Teresa Lisbon.

You never really saw him as you pieced your life back together, but it always felt like he was there. The position at the library evolved into a spot at the Boerne Star, then at the KSAT station as a scriptwriter. Phone calls were few and far between with Marcus Pike. He was busy in Houston catching forgers and thieves. It always puzzled you, the art obsession. You remembered Marcus in school. He’d wanted to change the world. But this must have been his way of doing that. 

When you told him that you were taking a job in New York, he sounded so…disappointed. There was no other way to put it. You thought he would be proud. After life spun out of your control, you had finally managed to make it somewhere. But his words were placating, trying to conceal the let down with the usual script of excitement. You hung up the phone before Marcus could finish saying goodbye.

Nothing bad has to happen these days for you to lose touch with someone. Maybe that was a lie.

Even with Marcus’ absence in your life, you could never shake the sense of being watched. You figured that was a result of the probation. Once you come to accept those kinds of conditions, they never leave. Even if no one else is watching, you certainly are. Right now, you’re waiting on the moment that you catch yourself.

The Lodge and the room you’re staying in can only be described with the word grime. You can feel the filth on your hands that isn’t visible to the naked eye. The back of the sink is coated in a thin layer of dust each morning, regardless of the toilet paper wipe-down you give it. The only saving grace is the shower; a constant, even-pressured flow of temperate water to take your mind off the past and present.

You should be thinking about Francisco—Frankie. What you’re even doing out here. After months of fishing, you have finally caught him. The question is, what are you going to do with the man they call Catfish?

Ultimately, you start with what you do best: asking questions. But when you get to his place and he lets you in, willingly this time, he can’t seem to answer even the first one.

“Frankie, it’s a simple question. Are you innocent?” you ask him again.

The man meets you with uncomfortable silence, foot tapping lightly against the peeling floor.

“This is the part where you say yes.”

He simply hums, giving you a sniff of his nose. Frankie’s lips stay shut.

“You need to answer the questions if I’m going to help you,” you say, this side of exasperated. The two of you have been sat here for twenty minutes, semi-silently going back and forth over this one question. You have no clue how he’s going to manage the entire list you have prepared.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” he finally says.

“Yes or no,” you say. “And the answer’s yes…” Frankie’s jaw twitches as he clenches his teeth. A tell. “The answer is yes, right?”

Another sniffle. You sigh. Clearly this is going nowhere.

“Okay, let’s try a different question. When did you meet Will Miller?”

“No.”

“How am I—” You stop yourself, hearing the strong tone as words burst forth. Pause, readjust. Restart. “How am I supposed to help you if I don’t know anything?”

Frankie sucks his teeth. “There’s a lot I can’t tell you.”

“Then what am I doing here?”

“You tell me,” he says.

“Why do you want me here?” you ask. Frankie meets your gaze before glancing away, the corner of his left eye twitching.

There it is. His body betrays him with each question you ask, bit by bit. He wants you here. Something has led him to allowing you in this space, to let you take up his wasted time.

“Tell me about yourself.” It’s not a question. Men like this, like Frankie, don’t respond to questions. They follow orders and meet demands.

“I’m fourty-two. Five foot eleven, 210 pounds. I like long walks on the beach and candle-lit dinners, and—”

You stand from your seat at his crappy dinner table.

“Shit, wait. Okay,” Frankie says. You don’t look at him, organizing your notes to slip them back into your purse. “I said okay.”

“You’re done with the bullshit games, then?” you ask.

Frankie sighs silently, his chest caving in slightly.

“We grew up in Raymondville. Poorest family on the block, not that that’s sayin’ much. My mother, me, and my little brother. She worked nights as an attendant at the Valley View Inn. Sometimes she’d come home with those, uh…the hotcakes from McDonald’s. You knew it was gonna be a good day when Mom came home with breakfast. My brother always asked her where they got those tiny pads of butter—if they kept hundreds of little containers in the back, like the big tub of margarine we had in the fridge. And she’d always say, descuida, mis pollitos.” Frankie swallows. “Anyway. She’s dead, so.”

Jesus. It really is all or nothing with him.

You say, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s fine. You know, people die,” he says. “Cancer, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“That’s how she died. I figured you might ask. They said they found it a little too late.”

You don’t know what else to say. There’s something plain and aching on his face, an open window to all the hurt Frankie holds over this. It makes you feel bad. Terrible, really. Your mind hitches to the track of what could have been done to make this better. Who could’ve stepped in? Who could have saved this family?

It’s exactly what you want. What you need. This right here? This pain, spun the right way, might just save his life. His buddies too, if they’re lucky. You pretend to scribble something down, clearing your throat before moving onto the next question.

You leave shortly after that, getting through twelve of the fifty questions. Crude notes on his childhood, family life, and a few answers dipping into his time in the military litter your notepad. The experience isn’t exactly Frankie opening up. You’re prying him apart, bit by bit. There’s no guarantee of a pearl waiting for you when everything is said and done; you don’t even know when that will be.

Back at the motel after a criminally long shower, you lie awake in bed. Sleep won’t come no matter how hard you try. At this point, you’ve given up.

Something isn’t sitting quite right. The refusal to spare you even a word, then sliding right into a deeply personal admission is…strange. That’s not how people work. Well, normal people. You’ve known for a while now that these men are not exactly the most well-adjusted folks. Replaying the day in your head, the interaction puzzles you.

You dial Marcus despite your better judgement. He answers on the fourth ring.

“How do you know if someone’s guilty?”

“Jesus,” he says, voice thick with sleep. You hear shuffling on the other end. “It’s four o’clock in the morning.”

“What about it?”

“A little early, don’t you think?” Marcus asks.

“Think of it as returning the favour,” you say. Then, “So, how do you?”

“How do you what?”

You sigh, frustrated, ready to hang up already. “In your line of work as a professional narc—how do you, Marcus Pike, know when a suspect is guilty?”

“My gut.”

“Oh, come on,” you sigh.

“I’m serious,” Marcus says.

“So they teach bowel movements at the academy? Makes a lot of sense, actually.”

“Very funny. I don’t know, uh…usually you’ve got evidence against them.”

“Let’s say it’s circumstantial. Or you don’t know what it is,” you say.

“Like, it’s classified?” Marcus asks. For a moment, all you can hear is his breathing. “What’s this about?”

“Nothing, just ans—”

“Is this about…” he trails off, dodging the unintentional self-incrimination attempt. “Is this about that thing from breakfast?”

“Answer the question,” you say.

“You first.”

“Marcus.”

“If you’re going in blind, you want to observe the behaviour of the suspect. If they’re dodging questions, how they react to pertinent details or things tangentially related to the crime they’re suspected of.”

“What about…manipulation?”

“We see it all the time. Trying to appeal to your better nature, justifying the crimes without directly linking themselves,” Marcus says.

“And?”

“Telling you what you want to hear. Sometimes guys will answer one half of the question but not the other, or something to that effect. A smaller sacrifice to keep the bigger deal under wraps.”

Shit.

“Are you okay?” Marcus asks.

You didn’t realize you mumbled that out loud. “Fine. Sorry to bug you so early.”

“Wait, wait. Hold on. Seriously. Is this about that pilot?”

“I thought—”

“Don’t worry about it. Just answer the question,” he says.

“There’s something off. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it,” you tell him.

Marcus sighs. “Want me to look into it?”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” you say.

“You’re not. Consider it done. I’ll let you know if there’s anything later on. Alright?”

You’ve missed this. Missed him. Marcus who helps you, protects you, uplifts you. The one guy who can always get you out of a jam; always has a solution. All of your uncertainty melts away at his question. Marcus is your best friend. He loves you.

“Alright.”

When you pull up to Frankie’s place again, he’s waiting on you. His works boots are scuffed with mud, a shiner bluer than the moon gracing the skin around his right eye. Getting out of your truck, you try to school any look of worry off your face. A neutral mask takes the place where gaping concern should be as you greet him with a quick hello.

“You wanna come in then?” he asks, shielding his face from the sun.

You follow him inside, setting your purse down and pulling out your notepad once again. Frankie hasn’t sat at the table with you quite yet. He stands at his fridge, fishing something out. He comes away from the tall appliance with a clear plastic pitcher of something liquid, vaguely foggy yellow.

“Would you like something to drink?”

Looking up from your notes, you pause to stare at him. It’s the first nice thing he’s done so far in this…working relationship. It takes a moment for your mouth to catch up to your brain.

“Uh, sure,” you say dumbly.

He pours out two mugs of something, both emblazoned with a fiery racing logo. Walking closer to you, he hands you the taller one. You take it with both hands, fingers clutching the ceramic like it’s some sort of precious artifact. Sipping slowly, the drink washes sugar onto your tongue, followed by a wave of mild tang. Lemonade.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Frankie says.

“So I figured we would start where we left off,” you say.

A beat passes where neither of you speak. Then Frankie says, “Can I ask you a question?”

Narrowing your eyes, you say, “Shoot.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Why are you trying to help me?” he asks. “Most people look at the things I’ve supposedly done, and then they look at me. Doesn’t usually end up that they feel like helpin’ out.”

“I’m not like most people,” you say.

“That’s pretty clear,” Frankie says.

This moment of whatever ends at that. You delve back into your list of softball questions, writing down brief notes on his answers. Anything here could be good to mine for an article. Background on his family, the shallow waters you’ve broached about the service.

You ask, “What’s life like now?”

Frankie seems to almost flinch, giving you a bit of a double take. “Life now?” he repeats.

“Yeah. What’s the day-to-day of Francisco Morales?”

“Get up around four—except for the days you’re coming around. Shit, shave, brush my teeth. Uh…I usually get to work at six, get off at eight.”

“So it’s dark when you leave and dusk when you get home?” you ask.

Frankie hums, considering this. “Yeah, I guess so.”

You write that down, eyebrows pinching as you swallow down the gloom that rises in your throat. From what you have so far, even if he was guilty, a part of you can’t really blame him. The hand he’s been dealt is dog shit. All those things he’s done for this country, supposedly so great, and this is the life he has to show for it?

For any other profession, being such an expert in his field would have awarded him a comfortable existence. A nice house in some plain, cushy suburb. Two-point-five kids and a dog, a wife. Maybe a divorce, considering his general demeanour, but still. He deserved that life. He deserved a choice. From what you’ve pieced together, it wasn’t an option. Not sustainably.

Finally, you can’t help yourself. “Can I ask what happened to your eye?”

“It’s nothing,” he shrugs. “Little altercation with the neighbour. It won’t be happening again.”

Looking out his side window, you’re only now noticing the lack of the dainty little RV that’s usually parked a few spots away. The body was striped pink and green, faded with sunshine and age. It reminded you of a grandmother’s doily, especially in contrast to the mired trailer of Frankie’s that sat so close by. You can’t imagine anyone living in that thing to have wanted to hurt a fly.

“You get into it with granny over her shortbread recipe?” you ask, laughing lightly.

“The granny’s punkass grandson, actually,” Frankie informs you. “Said some stupid shit. Had no idea what he was talking about, so I set him straight.”

You hum. “Right.”

“If you don’t like my way of doing things, you can leave,” he says, motioning to the door.

The tonal shift gives you whiplash. “I didn’t—” you stop yourself as your phone buzzes, pulling your attention away from him. You slip it off the table, quickly reading the notification.

A message from Marcus. Call me ASAP.

You look up at Frankie again. He’s watching you expectantly.

“Well?” he asks.

“Clearly you’re upset,” you say. “Maybe I should come back another day.”

You’re confused and, you hate to admit, a little hurt. Just when you start to see some progress here, Frankie rips it away. Quietly, you pack up your things and turn to leave. You’re waiting for that sudden epiphany, that movie star moment when he’s supposed to realize what an ass he is and hastily apologize. It doesn’t come, and you let the screen door slam shut behind you.

Standing by the door to the truck, you call Marcus.

“Hey, what’s up?” you ask.

“I found some new information,” he says.

“Alright. Anything good?”

“Where are you right now?”

“Just leaving the Morales place.” You pull open the driver’s side door, tossing your purse into the passenger seat. “What’d you find?”

“You should get out of there first,” Marcus says.

“Just tell me, god. The suspense is killer.”

He says your name, snapping you out of your lackadaisical daydream. “He’s guilty.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve got security camera images from the drug lord that they supposedly shot and robbed. They’re all here. All five of ‘em.”

You freeze. “You're sure?"

"Certain."

"How could I have missed this?” you ask.

“You didn’t miss anything. Highly classified. I’m even breaking a few too many rules for the department’s liking right now looking at it myself,” Marcus says. “They buried the good stuff, kid. I’m assuming so they had it in their arsenal should this thing go to trial. To stop fuckers like us from doing what we’re trying to do.”

“And what is that exactly?”

Your whole world comes crashing down in one phone call. How sad.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. You thought you were doing the right thing,” he says. “Just…get out of there. Come home.”

Home. That sounds like exactly what you need, ego bruised and hope shattered. All of this work, and for what? Another mistake. You’re still the same fuck up you’ve always been.

“Hey!” you hear a deep voice call from behind you. Turning, you watch Frankie descend from the porch of his trailer, holding something.

“What was that?” Marcus’ voice seems so out of place here.

“I’ll call you back,” you mumble into the speaker.

Hanging up before Pike can get another word in, Frankie’s walking up to you now.

“You forgot this,” he says, presenting you with a pen.

“Thanks.” You pluck it from between his fingers, manner cool and reserved.

“Look, I’m sorry. I need to stop doing that,” Frankie says. Here comes the movie moment. “D’you wanna come back inside?”

Here, you’re at a crossroads. Two paths lay before you, distinctly forked down the middle. Go to Marcus… Or stay with Frankie.

There’s that familiar warmth that doesn’t seem to always welcome you anymore, but when he does, it’s a refuge from everything else. But when it’s cold, it’s freezing—Marcus can ice you out oh-so-easily these days. Then Frankie, an uncertain tiptoe around a test of rusty nails. On the other side is a sweetness that you’ve only seem a glimpse of, a sadness you can feel in your chest. Something tells you that’s a rabbit hole you’re never leaving if you decide to drop down.

The decision is unfortunately yours. You hope Marcus can forgive you.

You slam the truck door shut with your elbow. Pointing the tip of the pen at Frankie, you stare him down. “You have to stop being such an ass. It’s not doing you any favours.”

That manages to pull a laugh out of him, breathy and garbled in its tired reluctance. He looks like a man who hasn’t laughed in a long time.

Back inside his crowded home, you bypass the chair and sit right on the edge of the table. Feet dangling, you set your purse down where your seat usually is.

"I've got a question for you," you say.

"Isn't that your job? You've got about a million of 'em," Frankie says.

Ignoring the dig, you press on. "You did it, right?”

"Excuse me?"

"What they say you did. The heist, the money, the murder. That all happened?" you ask further.

Frankie looks away, jaw clenching under muscle. He'll need to work on his poker face. "You saw the files, surveillance photos. You know what it says."

"If you think I'm the type to blindly trust the United States government, you are sorely mistaken," you say. "The files say one thing—they tell one narrative, give me certain thoughts. I wanna hear it from you."

That seems to pique his interest. "Certain thoughts...such as?"

You kill his line of questioning as quickly as it blooms. "It doesn't matter what I think. What matters is if you're guilty. So I'll ask again: did you do it?"

You know he did. Hell, in all likelihood, he knows that you know. This is a test. A simple regimen of pass or fail to see if you should even keep going with this.

"Yes," Frankie says. He doesn't look at you, almost like he can't. The word falls from his mouth like a tooth on a string; you've slammed the door shut and yanked it from him.

"Good," you say. He raises an eyebrow. "Getting you to admit it now will be easier to maneuver in the story. And in court."

"I don't understand."

"If you're going to prison, it should be here," you say. "Not because you deserve it. But because over there, you’ll die." 

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

June 3, 2024

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

JUN 04, 2024

The fallout from the New York jury’s conviction of Donald Trump on 34 felony counts last Thursday, May 30, continues. Trump’s team continues to insist that the guilty verdict will help him, but that’s nonsensical on its face: if guilty verdicts are so helpful, why has he moved heaven and earth to keep the many other cases against him from going to trial? And why are he and House speaker Mike Johnson (R-LA) calling for the Supreme Court to overturn the convictions? 

As political consultant Stuart Stevens put it: “I worked in five presidential races and helped elect Republican governors or Senators in over half the country. I have never heard anything more transparently desperate than a party trying to spin that there is some non-MAGA pool of voters who can't wait to vote for a convicted felon.”

On Friday, Morning Consult conducted a poll to gauge how voters were reacting to the guilty verdict. It showed that 54% of registered voters approved of it, while only 34% disapproved. Perhaps worse for Trump was that 49% of Independents and 15% of Republicans thought he should end his campaign. A Reuters/Ipsos poll found that 10% of registered Republican voters and 25% of Independents said that his conviction made it less likely that they would vote for him for president. 

Then, on Saturday, there was what Danny Westneat of the Seattle Times called a plot twist. It turns out the state of Washington has a law on the books that prevents felons from running for office. But because a candidate has to be certified to be on a ballot before they can be challenged, the issue can’t be resolved until Trump officially becomes the Republican Party’s presidential nominee at the July convention. Westneat asked, “Republicans: You sure you want to go down this road?”

On Sunday, Trump appeared on Fox and Friends for his first interview since his conviction. The interview was heavily edited, suggesting his comments were problematic in some way, but what was there was still bad enough. He repeated his plans to fire generals who refuse to do his bidding and to deport immigrants by using local police to round them up. Notably, considering his own looming sentencing, he claimed he never said “lock her up” about Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, a claim that reporters on social media promptly shredded with video clips of him doing exactly that. 

Media figures are puncturing Trump’s image. The verdict buried a story by The Apprentice producer Bill Pruitt, who is now free of a nondisclosure agreement, explaining how he and others created an illusion that Trump was a successful businessman and alleging that Trump used the n-word on set. On Saturday, an image circulated on social media of Trump leaving Trump Tower and waving as if to a crowd, but there was no one there.

Also on Saturday, top sports talk host Colin Cowherd pushed back on the idea that the trial was rigged, telling his listeners: “If everybody in your circle is a felon, maybe it’s not rigged. Maybe the world isn’t against you.” “Donald Trump is now a felon,” Cowherd said. “His campaign chairman was a felon. So is his deputy campaign manager, his personal lawyer, his chief strategist, his National Security Adviser, his Trade Advisor, his Foreign Policy Adviser, his campaign fixer, and his company CFO. They’re all felons. Judged by the company you keep. It’s a cabal of convicts.”

Cowherd went on: “[Trump’s] trying to sell me an America that doesn’t exist.” “Stop trying to sell me on ‘everything’s rigged, the country’s falling into the sea, the economy’s terrible,’” he continued. “The America that I live in is imperfect. But compared to the rest of the world, I think we’re doing okay.”

This morning, Robert Faturechi, Justin Elliott, and Alex Mierjeski of ProPublica reported that Trump’s businesses and campaign committees have funneled significant financial benefits to at least nine witnesses in the criminal campaigns against Trump, often at crucial moments in the legal proceedings. The pay of one campaign aide doubled; another got a $2 million severance package that barred him from cooperating with law enforcement. The daughter of one of the campaign’s top officials was hired onto the staff and is now the fourth-highest-paid employee, with a salary of $222,000. Payments to the companies of certain witnesses dramatically increased.

Faturechi, Elliott, and Mierjeski note that it is not uncommon for bosses to find themselves defendants, complicating their relationship with employees who might have witnessed alleged crimes. In such cases, lawyers advise the defendant not to provide any unusual benefits or penalties, to avoid the appearance of witness tampering.

Trump’s attorney, David Warrington, sent ProPublica a cease-and-desist letter saying that if the outlet and its reporters “continue their reckless campaign of defamation, President Trump will evaluate all legal remedies.” He demanded that ProPublica kill the article, keeping it from publication.

And then, this afternoon, U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York Damian Williams, along with the U.S. Department of Labor and the State Department, unsealed an indictment charging Weidong Guan, also known as Bill Guan, the chief financial officer of the global news outlet The Epoch Times, with using the outlet to launder at least $67 million. The Epoch Times is affiliated with the ultraconservative Chinese anticommunist religious group Falun Gong and supports Donald Trump and other right-wing U.S. politicians with both press and cash. It was a major promoter of Dinesh D’Souza’s film 2000 Mules that claimed the 2020 presidential election was stolen. A voter depicted in that film sued for defamation, and just last week the distributor settled with the plaintiff, issued an apology, and stopped distributing the film.

The allegation that The Epoch Times is a money-laundering operation comes on top of yesterday’s story by Joseph Menn in the Washington Post, reporting that the editor of another media site that pushes disinformation from both the far right and the far left, The Grayzone, has worked for Russia’s Sputnik as well as taken money from Iranian government-owned media. One of the people who retweets Grayzone stories is Senator Mike Lee (R-UT).

In the middle of all this bad news for MAGA Republicans, it felt like desperation today when the House Oversight Select Subcommittee on the Coronavirus Pandemic tried to resurrect Covid conspiracy theories against Dr. Anthony Fauci. Fauci was director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases (NIAID) from 1984 to 2022, serving under seven presidents. President George W. Bush awarded him the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian award in the U.S., for his work on combating the global AIDS epidemic. 

Fauci’s position as NIAID director put him at the center of U.S. attempts to grapple with Covid-19, and for his work on developing a vaccine, Trump awarded him a presidential commendation. But first QAnon and then MAGA Republicans centered him as a villain who either started or covered up the pandemic, or forced people to mask or to get vaccines they told their supporters were unnecessary or even dangerous. QAnon conspiracy theorist Ivan Raiklin and convicted January 6 rioter Brandon Fellows were seated behind Fauci today; Fellows made pouty faces when Fauci was describing the death threats he, his wife, and his daughters have endured. 

Video creator and political commentator Michael McWhorter noted that Raiklin has made dramatic threats of violence against those he considers members of “the Deep State” and that he should have been nowhere near Fauci. McWhorter also noted that the two men were likely invited to the hearing and that it would be useful to know who invited them.  

Committee member Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-GA), who has skipped seven of the last ten hearings and who has expressed sympathy for QAnon in the past, attacked Fauci by saying he should be prosecuted: “You know what this committee should be doing? We should be writing a criminal referral because you should be prosecuted for crimes against humanity,” she said. “You belong in prison, Dr. Fauci.” For all the nastiness, the hearing turned up nothing.

Later, Greene told Manu Raju of CNN that Speaker Johnson should shut down the government over the Trump verdict and prosecutions. “We're literally a banana republic. So what does it matter funding the government? The American people don't give a sh*t.” 

While MAGA Republicans are insisting that a Manhattan jury’s conviction of Trump means that President Joe Biden has weaponized the Department of Justice and that they must take revenge, the trial of Biden’s son Hunter on federal gun charges, brought by a Trump-appointed U.S. attorney whom Biden kept on, started today. Former top Justice Department prosecutor Andrew Weissmann noted that Biden is “living the rule of law…in the most personal way. He is not telling DOJ to stand down…. He is not pardoning his son…. He is living what it means to have a rule of law in this country…. If you want to know if he believes it, you can actually see what is happening with his own son.”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[unhinged-summer-fun]

foreplay (long time)

Written for Danktober 2022 Day 9: Praise Kink, Nest, International Beer & Pizza Day

Alpha!Marcus Moreno x Omega!F!Reader (22+ only)

Summary: (Omegaverse) When you think about it, this had been a very long time coming.

Warnings: Heat/mating cycles consistent with omegaverse or Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, horny af, depictions of grief and sadness

Word Count: 7,153

[full danktober list here]

There's a lot to be said about the new leadership at Heroics headquarters. While the roll-out was still technically happening, and would be happening until Missy Moreno turned 21, you were helping with the transition of power and leadership training for the Junior Heroics around site. As such, you had the pleasure of working fairly close to Marcus Moreno himself.

The perks started with simply knowing Marcus Moreno. He was very different in person than he was in all of the interviews and press conferences you'd seen, way more awkward and goofy than the PSAs made him out to be. He made you feel taken care of, listened to and appreciated no matter your status.

Some days, though, you could see that persona of Leader of the Heroics, Marcus Moreno, shining through. When some extreme threat needed his involvement, his jaw would set, the glasses would get put away, and a pair of shining silver swords would come flying through the air into his hands.

His break from the field had ultimately ended when Missy had stated her intent to be involved in leadership, and not just in a way to appease the Ogimans. In her own words, she stated that there are superheroes walking around every day, and only very few of them end up having special powers after helping out. The one thing they all shared, and that she shared with them, was that they wanted to help where they could, too. And where she couldn't, she wanted to show the powered-heroes how to practice that everywhere, not just on TV.

There hadn't been a dry eye in that press room, Marcus included.

But now that Missy had turned 16 and was starting to take on more responsibilities as she asked for them, Marcus' pool of daily tasks was dwindling down to very few in number. A full retirement was on the horizon, expected to arrive well before Missy turned 21. He'd turned his focus to the inner workings of the Heroics, the culture and community structure of and for heroes. In less-than-polite circles, you'd heard they call him HR-cus Moreno.

But you really appreciated it, especially his new initiatives in preventing workplace harassment. Luckily the kids tended to handle themselves, and rarely needed intervention, but the adults were downright terrible, sometimes.

Being an omega, your status in the HR files was listed publicly as Undisclosed, but someone had seen a bottle of your suppressants roll out of your purse one day and the jig was up. It wasn't like you hadn't gone through the same teasing in high school and college, but you were pissed that you'd managed to make it two years at Heroics Headquarters without anyone but your direct superiors knowing. Now, eight years on, you were still met with little bits of teasing and jokes about your status.

Of course, that meant Marcus knew. He knew before, as your boss when he was training you in rewriting the leadership manual and policies, but you definitely knew he heard it through the gossip mill, because there was a sharp drop-off in the jokes about a month after the incident.

He had no issues with your designation, because he was a good man and a good alpha. Your leave requests covering predicted heat cycles were typically approved within fifteen seconds of submission, and every off-site doctor's appointment followed in the same manner. There were times you could tell he wanted to ask you questions about yourself, but omegas sharing their experiences tended to be quite taboo in a work setting.

Once, though, on a day trip up to Washington, Marcus had let himself ask if you wanted to seek a mate. You were surprised by the question, but relieved that he finally said something instead of just watching you all the time. You liked the attention, but you also liked his voice. You'd told him the truth, the legal benefits are nice, but pretty much everyone I thought was the one did their best to prove that they weren't, after a while.

You had intentionally avoided looking at the soft, faded scar on his neck from his late ex-wife. Their split had come just before her death, and it was no wonder Marcus wanted to take Missy and run for the suburban hills, just to avoid the constant reminder of a broken bond.

You didn't like to look at it, because it reminded you of hearing his wretched sobs coming from inside the office after the funeral. Those cries kept you up at night for weeks, and still haunted you when you looked at the spot that once meant her fading back into just him.

He asked you things here and there, checking in with you in a way you were sure he didn't even realize. After losing his mate, the only one he had left to protect was Missy, and when she proved herself to be more than capable of doing that herself, that left him with idle hands. But you were there. You weren't in his pack, and you certainly weren't in the running for a potential mate to him, but you were there for him to protect. It was difficult not to be completely flustered by the thought.

"Friday brainfog?" a friendly voice came from near your desk. Marcus stood in his usual plainclothes, hands in his pockets and charming as ever. You smiled up at him, shaking your thoughts from the past.

"I suppose. It's been a long week."

"You have any weekend plans?"

You started to shake your head, but realized that oh. "One of my neighbors set me up on a blind date in a few days."

Marcus was always very in-control of his abilities both as a superhero and an alpha, but sometimes, when he was surprised enough, you could sense his emotions and opinion just from being nearby, even with all the suppressants. When you told him you were going on a date with someone, the sour tang of jealous alpha fell on your tongue, the taste of stale beer and lemon rind. Beneath that, a cough-medicine-flavored despair filled your nose.

You swore up and down that this was just normal for you, an omega thing, not a superpowers thing, but Marcus always met you with a saccharine smile like he knew something you didn't.

But now, you knew something he didn't: Marcus didn't want you to go on a date.

The emotions reeled themselves back in just as fast as you'd sensed them, and Marcus showed none of what he felt on his face. You wondered how to respond: to what you knew, or to what he wanted you to know?

"That sounds dangerous in this day and age. Could be anyone waiting for you." He sounded a little less personable than he usually was with you, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed down what you're sure is what he'd wanted to say about your date.

"I'm debating not going," you said, almost breathlessly. Was it true? Yes. You already had your mind on another partner for a very long time, and preferred hopeless pining over him to trying to catch up a stranger with where they'll never be able to surpass Marcus. "I told her I…"

You realized you had a few people in an audience around you, just straight-up eavesdropping on your conversation. This tended to happen more and more recently, whispers around corners where you'd hear your name or Marcus' in the same sentence. The urge to know was tempting, but for the sake of your sanity, you never pursued it.

"I had an agenda I wanted to ask you about in my office, do you have a minute or is there somewhere you need to be?" he asked, catching your drift all without letting on that he knew about the onlookers, too. You simply nodded and followed him away from your desk. When the heavy soundproofed doors shut behind you, you let out a sigh.

Marcus' office was something of a haven for you to be in. He'd been in the same room for more than two decades, since he took over from his mother. Her office was still kept functional, but nobody had filled the space out of respect for her. You suspected Marcus' office would be left the same way, when he retired.

It was full of dark brown leather furniture and well-crafted sensors displaying news bulletins and status reports from various agencies. He loved to tinker with them, tried to get them to work almost-analog in a digital world. His computer hardly saw any use, and you giggled to yourself often over his hunt-and-peck typing technique.

What's more, it smelled so much like him you nearly swooned the first time he'd brought you in here. "Want a drink?" he asked, surprising you.

"At work?" you said, incredulous.

He shrugged. "Missy's out of town for a soccer tournament from today until next Friday. Did you know she's her team manager?"

"That's amazing," you said. He's only told you this three times a day since she got the position. His care and affection for her made your heart feel all gooey and soft. Oh no, a week? "I'm sure she'll miss you, Marcus."

"Oh, I know, doesn't make the missing any easier," he sighed. "Anyway. I'm having a drink. Why don't you want to go on a date?"

You startled. He'd gone from reacting so moody and downtrodden to some kind of bloodhound in a heartbeat. "I think I'll take that drink, actually," you laughed. "And I dunno. It was just something I'd said to her once after—" Oh god, the truth is so inappropriate. "After my usual cycle partner got married two months ago."

There's some clatter of glass from where Marcus was making drinks, but nothing that sounded like it broke, so you didn't worry about it. Still, he took his time digesting your answer. "I'm sorry, that sounds difficult," he calls back. "Were you with them long?"

"Yeah, we met each other in college and stuck together. Movement in numbers is safer for omega women."

Another clatter.

"Oh."

Now you were worried. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, just—" he laughed, a little too high pitched to be anything but hysterical. "For some reason, I thought this was a romantic partner you had, someone like, with. You just flipped my expectations around is all."

You didn't understand where this was coming from. You'd never talked to him about a romantic partner, and whenever he asked about your social life, you would tell him about the shenanigans your dying potted plants were getting up to. "Is the date to find a partner for your next cycle? May I ask?"

He sounded nervous, holding two crystal glasses of whiskey in his hands. His eyebrows were pulled close, like he'd realized he was talking around the foot he'd shoved in his mouth. It was adorable. He waited for your reaction quietly.

"It was, yeah." You felt a little confident, answering the questions that part of you had been screaming for someone to be interested in asking. "It feels like too much work to build up trust so quickly, in…" you checked the date on the clock. "Less than a week." You'd be going into pre-heat anytime now, and you were at least a little glad to have the weekend to do things before the heat left you useless in your apartment.

"So you'll go through it alone?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm but failing. He sounded horrified that you'd even consider going it alone. "Isn't that dangerous for unmated omegas?"

You shrugged. "Not really dangerous, but it's not my first rodeo." Your parents had both been betas, and had no idea how to handle your designation appearing when it did. As such, most of your support on that end had come from colorful, embarrassing pamphlets and a rather traumatizing mandatory video to watch in high school. "It's uncomfortable but I've got suppressants to help with the worst of it."

He still looked rather anxious at the prospect of you being by yourself for your heat. You supposed it was his alpha instincts coming out, and your gut reaction to soothe him was your own instincts responding. You sipped the whiskey to let the burn across your tongue ground you. "Do you—?" You cut yourself off, realizing you felt maybe a bit too comfortable with him, too familiar with asking questions about biology and cycles.

"Ask," he said, eyes pleading. Could it be that he felt that same loneliness you did? Reaching out to someone just to talk?

"Do you still have cycles?" you asked. "I heard the science is pretty unclear about what happens to you when there's interference in a mating bond." You kept your eyes on his. You didn't look at the mark.

But Marcus seemed to be rather unbothered by the mention of his previous mate. "For the first two years, I was in a near-constant depressive state. Part of it was general grief, mourning, feelings of failure as a husband and a partner, but part of it was a biological depression from losing my mate. After I started seeing a therapist, things started getting… I'm not sure, clearer for me. It was a lot of things that led to that, though.

"I focused on being a good and available father to Missy, providing for her, giving her the life I thought she needed. Obviously, she knew what she needed all along," he laughed. "But after we moved out of the other house, somewhere new where it didn't smell like grief all the time, didn't smell like a failed marriage. Only I could smell that, thank god, but it was… it was almost like living a haunted house, inside a haunted house. I was haunted, my house was haunted, and there was nothing there left for us. After we moved out, therapy started working better, cycles came back, things got easier.

"Though, I haven't said this to anyone, they've been a little off recently since Missy took over. It's definitely not a pack-challenge thing, I was worried about that at first, but it's more of… I'm not sure."

"Everything feels off because she's getting closer to having a pack of her own?" you suggested. He blinked in surprise.

"Yes. I see the beginnings of it in her friends, in the Junior Heroics. They look up to her, love her, they want to help her. I'm, I couldn't be more proud of her, but I just wonder where I fit into her life, going forward." He averted his gaze to the glass in his hand, melancholy.

Impulsiveness pulled your hand to his knee. "You're always going to be her dad. She'll always need you to do that. But didn't you start to need your mom for different things as you got older, too?"

He looked slowly from your hand to your face, and you almost pulled it back, if it weren't for the warm smile he gave you. "Never thought of it that way," he admitted sheepishly. "Suppose I still hear the echoes of where I went wrong with Marissa, when I feel Missy pulling away."

It was a bomb of a confession to make, and you squeezed his knee as hard as you could in support. "I'm glad you're happy now, Marcus. And you know how to protect yourself from ghosts when you need to." You gave him an encouraging smile.

“How the hell have we not talked like this the whole time? It feels like I’ve known you for years—"

“You have known me for years.”

“I felt that even when I met you.”

It was an admission you weren’t expecting. But just from knowing Marcus, it’s something he’s wanted to say to you for a long time. Your heart raced in your chest, hope taking wing.

“I’m very glad I know you, Marcus Moreno,” you said, words failing just as you were given the chance to tell him how much he meant to you.

He looked like he wanted to say more, then something like sadness crossed his expression, and he looked away. “Do you ever wish things were different?”

You frowned, confused. “Not always.”

He shook his head. “Don’t mind me, I’m talking out my ass, it’s stupid.”

You wanted to press him for more, but then it turned out he actually did have questions about an agenda for a meeting with the city council next month, and you only could think of one thing you wished to be different. You wanted to know what Marcus wanted.

Cancelling the date was easy enough. You weren’t feeling too good coming back from work that day, and it was easy enough for your neighbor to buy the excuse you were going to make anyway. You were running a slight fever, and couldn’t focus on anything, from dinner to choosing a show to wind down with.

You got a text from Marcus at around 8pm.

MM: Would you happen to be available right now?

Another text came in a second later.

MM: I got home and immediately left, it felt too empty.

You could commiserate. Before your thumb could even tap out a reply, two others came in.

MM: I’m a few blocks from your apartment, and I ordered way too much pizza even for me.

MM: If this is too forward, please tell me. But I want to get to know you better if you’ll let me.

Your heart did flips in tandem with your stomach, butterflies lovestruck against a windshield. That could have been the fever, though.

Me: Where’s the party?

MM: Seven Hands.

You knew the place. You never really went unless you knew it was on someone else’s dime, but with Marcus’ salary, it should have been expected that he’d like Seven Hands. You looked down at yourself, grimacing when you saw you hadn’t changed out of your work clothes. In fact, you were sitting in a gigantic pile of what looked like all the blankets and sweaters in your house. You didn’t remember doing this much laundry. Feeling bold, you tapped out a reply.

Me: I’ll be there in 10. Don’t eat it all without me. ;)

You could worry about the laundry later.

Seven Hands was predictably popular when you arrived, what with it being a Friday night in the summer. Marcus had sure picked a place to be lonely tonight. You were wearing a comfy tee shirt that you hoped wasn’t too dressed down for the others. But mostly for Marcus. Would he like what you were wearing? You’d seen him wear anything from tactical gear to tank tops, but he had only ever seen you in business clothes, like all the other civilian agents at Heroics HQ.

Marcus texted you the moment you walked in, looking a little lost and avoiding the gaze of the people standing at the hosts podium.

MM: Ask for Wayne Watkins.

You approached and stammered out the name to a hostess, whose eyes lit up with excitement and immediately started walking away. Following, you didn’t notice the turning heads as you walked by, some kind of curiosity piquing their interests.

Marcus slid out from a booth situated around a corner from the main dining room, effectively out of sight from anyone that could recognize him. He wore some dark wash blue jeans and a pristine white tee-shirt that probably cost more than the ones you could get in a pack of five. As expected, he wore his usual watch communicator, but on his other hand, you saw a woven leather cord that stuck out in your mind. But you had little time to ruminate on it before he was sweeping you into a hug.

Fuck, Alpha, you smell so good.

You vaguely registered the thought that flew by, and focused on keeping your chill about recognizing him as Alpha.

It wasn’t that you were against the idea of having a mate. You’d daydreamed here and there, but it had all been formless, colorless imagination until a few years ago.

Marcus had used his Voice in the middle of an attack on HQ a couple months before the Ogima takeover. He was still well and truly out of the field, and with all the front-facing Heroics off on a high-profile mission, a group of villains had broken in through the training rooms. The incident ended by Marcus tapping into the intercom for the whole building and ordering the intruders to stand down.

He had pulled you into his office the moment the first alarm had gone up, his hand hot around your wrist as he nearly slammed his fist into the all-comm button. The way your body shook down to the smallest atom at the sound of his voice had been forever engrained in your memory.

Of course, Marcus had gone to extreme lengths to apologize to all civilians on site that had been affected by his Voice. You’d been the first, and he never really stopped apologizing to you after you assured him that you were fine.

Since then, your daydreams of happily ever after had featured him prominently in the lead role.

So maybe you weren’t giving away too much, just more of the same as it had ever been, repressed pining and all. However, when you pulled back from the sudden embrace, he had a slight tilt to his head, and a questioning curve to his lips. You broke away before you focused too hard on his mouth, sliding into the booth.

It was cozy, and like everything else in the place, well made. The promised “too much” pizza sat in the place of honor at the center of table, looking like it had been freshly made moments ago. Marcus must have waited until he knew you were coming.

He sat near you, nearer than he would normally allow in the office, but near enough that you could smell the cologne he wore in his off time. Occasionally you’d smell the ghost of it here and there in his office, but always several weeks old by that point. It was a deep musk scent, some bright citrus and herb that evoked the countryside, if you were speeding through it in a Maserati.

He just smelled really good to you, is all. No biggie.

“So, the empty nest hitting you harder than you thought?” You asked, sharing a sympathetic smile when he sighed and hung his head a bit. For some reason the nest comment made Marcus look at you blankly, like he was waiting for a punchline. Panic continued your little speech. “We don’t have to talk about it, if you’re just looking for a time-waster.”

“Spending time with you is never a waste,” he says loftily, pulling you a slice and setting it on the plate before you.

Alpha is feeding me.

Oh, shut up, hindbrain.

“The feeling’s mutual.”

The waitress came back around and asked if you wanted anything to drink. Marcus waited on you, letting you set the boundary.

“Can’t have pizza without beer,” you said. “Marcus?”

He nodded and ordered what he thought looked best off the drink menu. When you were alone again, he asked, “Are you feeling okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah, just a little tired. Might have a fever but it’s fine. Oh god, should I have come out? Am I sick? Will I get you sick?” You panicked until Marcus set a heavy, grounding hand on your shoulder, thumb tracing the collar of your shirt.

“It’s okay, you won’t get me sick,” he assured you. Of course. Heroics have the best medical care in the world. They perform miracles, even on someone named Miracle Guy. “When did you start to not feel good? Was it at work?”

You shook your head, trying to think. “I don’t know,” you murmured. “Just kinda happened.”

“Maybe that’s a sign you should eat. Feed a cold, or so I’m told.”

“Feed a cold, starve a fever, smother a heat, burn a rut.” The old adage came out faster than you could think to stay quiet. Your face flushed hotly and you saw the tips of Marcus’ ears go pink.

The pizza was both of your main focus for a while after that, each of you thinking very hard about not thinking of the other during a cycle. The beers arrived none too soon as well, a good start to forgetting how awkward you made things.

Before you could try to make amends for that, your mouth once again got the better of you. “Do you think you’ll ever take another mate?”

Marcus sucked in a breath and looked over at you. He had his hands curled slightly into fists, skin stretched white over his knuckles. The first thought you had was that you may have offended him. The second was that he would never tell you if you had. The third was, what’s that look in his eyes mean?

His eyes were normally very dark, but sometimes you caught the sun in them, and could see the depth to them. Now, though, in the slightly dim and intimate atmosphere of the restaurant, the ever-shrinking space between your knees and his, and some half-baked heartfelt confessions shared across what you considered to be the most romantic food of all time, he looked different than you’d ever seen him be.

He was breathing through his mouth, lips slightly open and revealing just a hint of his teeth. His eyes were black in a way you thought only existed in books, stories of alpha desire and the forms it could take. He looked at you like you were his last meal, and he’d spend eternity devouring you bite by bite. “I’ve considered it,” he said, his voice rasping over something hot and dark, like coals or the aftermath of a wildfire.

“Yeah?” You couldn’t help the way your voice pitched up higher in the presence of this new Marcus. Even to your own ears you sounded needy and weak.

“Yeah.”

“W-would you spend a cycle with them first before doing um. Mate things? Or are you a wait til marriage kinda guy?”

He barked out a surprised laugh, blinking a few times until his eyes went back to normal. “Definitely not a wait til marriage guy. I like sex. Like, I really really like sex. Call it letting my alpha drive, but I don’t like being alone for my rut. I wouldn’t want my mate being alone for her heat either.”

The specificity with which he chose his words had your mouth going dry and your thighs pressing tightly together. There was no mistaking his meaning.

“I understand that’s a lot of trust to ask for. I’d never take that which isn’t granted enthusiastically.”

“I know,” you breathed.

“Eat some more pizza,” he said, gesturing to your plate. You obeyed, though you didn’t feel particularly compelled to do so. After finishing another slice while he just watched you, he looked you in the eye and said, “Good girl.”

It was like all the air in the room had been sucked out, though the fire erupting through your veins roared vivaciously. You knew this feeling. But that was impossible, you didn’t… that’s next week, right?

“Marcus,” you whimpered. “I think my heat started.”

“I think the same thing. Could smell it on you when you walked in.”

You started to whine anxiously at being out in public, away from your nest, from the comforts of home. You hadn’t prepared, hadn’t gathered what you needed to go it alone.

“I’ve gotta get back,” you said weakly. Marcus nodded.

“We can leave through a back entrance. It’s where I parked. Do you feel comfortable with me driving you home?”

He was very aware of his position, his authority. His alpha instincts and abilities weren’t caused by one, neither did they effect the other. He was simply a very powerful man, inside and out. His mother had been extremely serious about controlling himself and his alpha side growing up, and how a ‘yes’ doesn’t always mean a ‘yes’ when there’s something going on under the hood. Though Missy had presented as a beta, he’d taught her much the same, about the way she should be treated by her partners and how she should treat them in return. The last thing he wanted was to make you even more afraid and confused in this moment.

“I trust you,” you said, shaking. “I’m just. I can’t. I’m not ready, back at home.”

He nodded seriously. “I can take care of that for you, if you want.”

You whined when you looked at the pizza, still a bunch left. You didn’t want to waste anything, especially when it was a gift from Marcus.

“I’ll get it to go. For now, let’s get you to my car and out of here. Are you ready?”

He moved you like a Secret Service agent moved the President, at a fast pace with most of his body covering you up. You don’t remember the few minutes you had to wait in Marcus’ car, because the second his scent hit your nose you were blissed the fuck out.

Only when the car started moving did you register the warmth in your lap. The largest pizza box you’d ever seen sat across your thighs, warm but not burning hot. It was a short drive, but you were grateful for Marcus’ help.

“1417,” you mumbled when you reached the lobby of your apartment. Time blipped forward little by little until you found yourself standing in front of your nest. How could you not have seen it coming? The fever, the intense pining, the looks and concern and nestmaking. The thought made you pout a little, but then a big hand rested itself on the small of your back to urge you toward the nest.

“C’mon, omega. Time to nest up.”

Fuck. Fuck. That sounds so good.

You stumbled toward the haphazard nest, mostly falling inside it while Marcus did whatever in the background. It didn't matter that he was an alpha you'd never invited into your house, it didn't matter because he was your Alpha.

"Oh, good girl," your alpha said, making your head snap up to look at him. He was holding a bundle of blankets and pillows you must have missed in your unconscious gathering earlier that evening. You let out a whine at the praise, instinctively baring your neck to him before ducking your head in embarrassment. "No, no, baby…" Marcus fell to his knees outside your nest, hovering as close as he dared. "What's wrong?"

"I feel so stupid right now. Making a fool of myself in front of you."

His hand came to rest on your head, urging you to look up at him. You realized you were shaking against his more steady, solid touch. "You're not a fool. And you're not stupid. This happens to everyone, all the time, baby girl. You've done nothing wrong, you're doing so good for me."

"You've gotta stop saying that…" you whined, pressing your face into his hand. God, his scent is so strong right now…

"Why?" he chuckled.

"Because I like it too much, I might actually do something stupid like ask you to stay."

He sucked in a breath, and the sharp scent of hurt-rejection-sadness flooded the air around him for a moment, heavy rain and ozone, stale air. It lessened when he gathered his control in a fist once more. "You don't want me to stay?"

"I do," you insisted, looking up at him. "I… Shit, this is the worst way imaginable to tell you how much I like you, how much I want you. That's not the heat talking, that's… the heat is making it easier to say. But I've liked you for years and years, Marcus."

A broken sound leaves his mouth, the hurt and rejection dissipating. The heavy sadness remained, though, and he explained, "I'm your boss, though…"

"You know I know you know the workplace cycle policy from memory," you said dryly. "This wasn't initiated on workplace grounds. This is my turf, I'd be the one culpable if anything came of it."

He furrowed his brow, trying to sort that out in his head. "That would have to be filed through HR…"

"Which can be done after the fact for the safety and comfort of all involved."

He quirked a smile at you. "And your usual cycle leave is flexible and at-will."

"And cycle assistance leave for your position is also approved by one Marcus Moreno."

He sat back on his heels. "Has it been that easy this whole time?" he asked to himself.

"It's not often that we can see when we're standing in our own way." A cramp hit you then, forcing a groan out of your mouth as you tried to take deep breaths until it passed. Marcus continued to stroke his hand over your hair, anywhere that helped. It came to rest on the back of your neck, and an immediate calm blanketed you when it did.

"There you go. That better?" he asked softly.

You nodded weakly. "Wh'r you doin'?" you mumbled against an old shirt, mortified to see that you were drooling all over it.

"Nobody's scruffed you before?"

Your anxiety rose at the prospect of revealing the part of yourself you hadn't yet explored. But you felt safe, secure with Marcus there. "I've never been with an alpha before. Never trusted anyone but omegas to help me in my heat, and it's… I was never brave enough. You hear the stories."

"I understand," he said, masking his surprise if there was any to be had. "And you trust me to stay with you through your heat?"

"Yes," you said, almost interrupting him.

"And you want me to be your heat partner? Even though I'm an alpha?"

"I do."

He took in a shaky breath and squeezed the back of your neck a little. "Okay," he said at long last, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead. It thrilled you, that little gesture. "Let's get you a little more comfortable, then. I'm going to run you a shower and get some things for you to wear, and then I'm going to go out and get some supplies, take care of everything so we don't have to worry about anything but you."

You didn't like the prospect of him leaving, but you understood it. You were woefully underprepared for a rapid-onset heat like this, and couldn't safely venture out to fix that. You would have ordered a grocery delivery or something, but probably wouldn't have thought of it until you'd eaten everything in the apartment. You nodded.

"Is there anything special I can get for you?" he asked. You couldn't just shake your head and say you were fine, not for an alpha who wanted to go above and beyond like Marcus wanted to.

"Will you make sure you get things for yourself? Toothbrush, clothes… condoms?" You hadn't even discussed that part yet with him. Were you being too forward?

"I'll make sure," he smiled, a playful glint in his eyes. "What about for you? What do you usually crave?"

"Pizza," you admitted. "And beer."

He laughed. "Well, I'll make sure you have it. That's typically what I want, too. And oddly, strawberries."

"Strawberries sound so good," you moaned, flopping to the side in your nest. The structural integrity of it failed, then, collapsing beneath you in a flatter heap than you liked. "I'm gonna rebuild this."

"I dunno, I like the squashed-sandcastle look," he teased. "Gonna start that shower for you."

You drifted along after him, leaning on the wall for support. He didn't run it too hot, knowing it would be better for you to stay conscious while showering. When he stepped back, he shook off his hands and turned to you. "There you go. I'll pick through your things for whatever looks comfiest."

"I have some heat-only clothes in a box in the closet," you said, pointing to the door. "If you don't want to open it, I can do it."

"That's alright," he shook his head. "Thank you for telling me, though. They'll be on your bed when you come out, sweetheart. I'll be back as soon as I can, and I'm taking your keys to lock the door behind me. Text me if you forget anything you need."

Before he rounded the corner, you called his name, taking a step closer. He was there in an instant, ready to help you. "Thank you," you said, softly and quietly. You really meant it. You'd been so scared back in the restaurant, panicked and frightened. He'd always been it for you, and you were so glad he wanted you back. Spending a heat alone, knowing your subconsciously-chosen Alpha had rejected you, would have been a living hell.

"Thank you," he insisted, coming closer and pressing another kiss to your forehead. He held himself there, just inches from you, for a long while. "I have to go. You smell so good, if I stay, I'll never leave."

"Come back quick," you asked, letting your anxiety show.

"I will," he vowed, and then he was gone.

You'd migrated all of your nesting materials back into the bedroom by the time he returned, laden with bags of all kinds - a black duffel you'd seen at work, several bags of groceries from a nicer store than you went to normally, a big bag from a drugstore with the long receipt trailing out the top, another pizza from Seven Hands, and a black gas station bag holding a few six-packs inside it. In addition to that, he was wearing a crewneck sweater he hadn't been wearing when he'd left.

But you didn't want to inspect the bags in his hands. The second he came in through the door, you were dancing around on your tiptoes, waiting for the opening to hug him close. You'd missed him with a desperation that had been hard to control, and he must have felt the same way, curling his body around yours and pressing his face to the crook of your neck and shoulder, holding you close. Idly, you registered the growing bulge at the front of his pants, but all you cared about was that he was here.

"You okay?" he asked against your skin. His facial hair tickled a little, but you didn't mind it. You'd dreamed about how it would feel against your skin all the time, and reality didn't disappoint whatsoever.

"Better now."

"Good. Let me put these aw—where's your nest?" he asked when he saw the clear floor before your couch.

"Back in my room. It's more comfortable there, I think my instincts were just make nest now, not let's think about this," you chuckled. "Is that okay?"

"That's perfect, sweetheart." He kissed your head again, a thrilling thing every time it happened. "Why don't you go sit on the couch? Drink this." He pulled out a water bottle and cracked the lid for you. "I'll be there in a second."

You did as you were told and watched Marcus put things in your fridge and cabinets. He must have explored before leaving, because he moved around the unfamiliar space with an ease and grace you hardly had on a daily basis. He disappeared into the bedroom for a minute, swearing under his breath at the much improved nest you'd started crafting while he was gone. "Great job on this!" he called, warming your chest and making you smile.

He returned, stripping off the crewneck without explanation. Your jaw hung slack at the sudden motion, eyes zeroing in on the glimpse of his tummy from his shirt riding up. Then, the sweater was in your lap, still body-warm and oh, this is soft.

"I only wore it while I was out, so it's not a lot, but I managed to get some rut-clothes from home that I uh. Hope you'll want to use. In the nest." He gulped a little, nervous about his offering.

"I would love to," you said, bringing the sweater up to your face and breathing in deeply. "This is perfect, thank you." You scrambled to pull it on over your head, emerging to see a grinning, puffed-chest Marcus on the other side. "Did you want to talk out here?" you asked.

He nodded. "Are you feeling a little better after the shower? I wanted you to have a clearer head when we talked about this."

"I do feel better, yeah."

"Great, that's great. So, this might make me seem like a huge nerd, but I wanted to ask about boundaries and expectations you might have…"

You talked over the next half-hour, asking and answering questions about your heat and health. Marcus offered to take the lead where you were unsure, since you'd never been with an alpha before. Some questions had your cheeks flaming hot with how dirty they felt, and by the time you'd agreed to the boundaries of the heat, you felt extremely at ease, and very turned on.

"I wanted to say, this isn't a… I don't know how to say it. I want to be everything you would want or need, because you're that to me. You already are. You make me happy, and give me purpose. It's unfair to lay all that on you and then say I'm not ready to promise you a lifetime, or a ring or a family, but this is the first real relationship I've pursued since my last marriage. I don't know if that's even something you'd want, and—"

"Marcus, I get it. I'm not asking you for any of that. I won't ask for anything you're not ready to give." You hugged the pillow in your lap, still sipping water. "I've got simple tastes and I like simple comforts. Beer and pizza, friendship, soft sweaters that smell like you." He grinned at that. "You've already given me all that without me needing to ask."

"Is there anything you do want to ask for?" he said, scooting a little closer. Your heart skipped a beat.

"The same as you'd given me before. And maybe more kissing and touching. Less clothes. I want to ask you to join me in my nest, alpha."

He reached up to take off his glasses, tossing them to the side so he could grab your face in both hands and kiss you. He pressed you down into the couch cushions, holding your body beneath his in a protective stance. All the while, he poured his feelings and emotion into you, letting go of that hold over his emotions and his scent, overwhelming you in the best possible way. You reciprocated in kind, moaning and baring your neck to him. You weren't asking for a mating bond, just showing him where to kiss you next.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he murmured over your pulse and down to the collar of his sweatshirt on you.

"Take me to bed, alpha."

"Yes, omega."

[queenofbaws]

I love your writing so much! I was wondering if you could do something about the Washingtons bonding together(please and thank you!)

Hell if she knew how they'd managed to do it, but no sooner had Beth realized she wasn't alone than she was up in the air, Hannah's arms under her own, Josh hoisting her by the feet, and - oh, there was no way this was going to happen. Her heart was in her throat as the jerks laughed, swinging her towards the pool with a ceremonious (if slightly out of sync) "ONE...TWO...TH - " and that was when her plan formed.

"Wait - wait you assholes! - my phone's in my pocket, my phone's in my pocket!" she yelled, thrashing this way and that, shooting a panicked look down towards her pants.

The swinging immediately stopped as Josh slackened his grip, lowering her feet a fraction of a fraction of an inch as he asked, genuinely concerned, "Oh shit, seriously?" and that's when she made her move.

"SABOTAAAGE!" Beth cried, wriggling out of his grip and pivoting hard, sending Hannah tumbling into the pool with a yelp and a splash before shoving him in after her. Standing triumphantly at the pool's edge, she laughed, "You guys are really going to have to do better than that next ti - " before a cold, wet hand closed around her ankle.

six sentence sat(or)sunday!!!