#as i am stepping out of my comfort zone w doing these parts

[morn1e]

the ladies of rs upon ye (eminem picture) pt. 2

original/pt 1 is here

[solarsturniolo]

Hiii, I’m Natalie but you can call me Nat 💋. I’m 22 and have been watching the triplets since spring 2022. Not much you need to know about me tbh and not that you or anyone else really cares anyways.

I am an adult, i do write adult content about other adults. if this makes you uncomfortable, you are not obligated to read any of it and i wholeheartedly understand. Also keep in mind that I am an adult and i work a full time job. Writing is my hobby. I will not be as consistent with posting because I do have other priorities that come first. I will try to update as much as possible, but once again I am an adult with an adult life and adult responsibilities. All I ask is that you stay patient with me and show some grace where it is needed. I work very hard on my writing and appreciate any attention that it gets, please do not blow up my inbox repeatedly with the same prompt. I promise you that I see it.

Here is a masterlist of everything that I write, I'll do my best to keep it updated!

I DO NOT GIVE CONSENT TO MY WORKS BEING REPOSTED ONTO THIS PLATFORM OR ANOTHER PLATFORM. IF YOU REUPLOAD MY WRITING AND CLAIM IT AS YOUR OWN, I WILL NOT BE AFRAID TO GET A LAWYER INVOLVED. WRITE YOUR OWN, POST YOUR OWN. DO NOT REPOST MY WRITING. REPOSTING MY STUFF WITHOUT MY CONSENT IS AN ALL RIGHTS RESERVED COPYRIGHT VIOLATION AND YOU CAN BE CONVICTED WITH A COPYRIGHT CRIME. DO YOURSELF A FAVOR AND JUST DONT REPOST MY STUFF :)

If you’d like to be added to my tag list, click here!

Also, here is a reminder of how to NOT inbox me about inquiries on updates, new prompts, or just in general. Click here!

Key

🚀 - smut

✨ - fluff

🪐- angst

🌌- other

ℭ𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰 𝔖𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔬𝔩𝔬

✫彡 Too Damn Long pt 1 🚀

✫彡 Too Damn Long pt 2 🚀

✫彡 Too Damn Long pt 3 🚀

✫彡 Too Damn Long pt 4 🚀

✫彡 Too Damn Long pt 5 (final part) 🚀

✫彡 Nail Tech (Coming Soon)

✫彡 Twisted (Coming Soon)

✫彡 The Ice Breaker (Coming Soon)

✫彡 Nothing (Coming Soon)

✫彡 Dr.Feelgood (Coming Soon)

✫彡 Record Label (Coming Soon)

✫彡 Money, Money, Money (Coming Soon)

✫彡 The Irony of Choking On a Lifesaver (Coming Soon)

✫彡 King of the Jungle (Coming Soon)

✫彡 Texts w Best Friend!Chris ✨🌌

✫彡 Texts w Best Friend!Chris pt 2 ✨🌌

✫彡 Texts w Best Friend!Chris pt 3✨🌌

✫彡 Texts w Best Friend!Christ pt 4 ✨🌌

✫彡 Texts w FWB!Chris 🚀🪐✨🌌

✫彡 Texts w FWB!Chris pt 2 🚀🪐✨🌌

✫彡 Texts w FWB!Chris pt 3 🚀🪐✨🌌

✫彡 Texts w Bf!Chris

HEADCANONS

✫彡 Sub!Chris 🚀🌌

✫彡 Overstimulated (Coming soon)

𝔐𝔞𝔱𝔱 𝔖𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔦��𝔩𝔬

✫彡 We're Just Friends pt 1 🚀

✫彡 We’re Just Friends pt 2 🚀

✫彡 We're Just Friends pt 3 🪐✨🌌

✫彡 We’re Just Friends pt 4

✫彡 We’re Just Friends pt 5 (Coming Soon)

✫彡 Not My First Rodeo (Coming Soon)

✫彡 Creep: Introduction,

✫彡 Temporary Bliss (Coming Soon)

✫彡 Pugs 'N’ Kisses Prologue 🪐🚀🌌

✫彡 Pugs 'N' Kisses: One

✫彡 Nothing 🪐🌌

✫彡 Comfort Zone (Coming Soon) ✨

✫彡 Texts w Bf!Matt pt 1 🚀🌌

✫彡 Texts w Bf!Matt pt 2 🚀🌌

✫彡 Texts w Bf!Matt pt 3 🚀🌌

✫彡 Texts w Bf!Matt pt 4

✫彡 Texts w Bf!Matt pt 5

✫彡 Texts w Bf!Matt pt 6

✫彡 Texts w Bf!Matt pt 7

✫彡 Texts w FWB!Matt

HEADCANONS

✫彡 Sub!Matt 🚀🌌

✫彡 NSFW Alphabet 🚀🌌

✫彡 Overstimulated 🚀🌌

✫彡 Dom!Matt (Coming Soon)

THINGS I WILL NOT WRITE ABOUT: STEP SIBLINGS??????????, Nick x fem!reader, self-harm, suicidal thoughts or tendencies, incest???!!!!!!, sensitive topics such as eating disorders, abuse, etc, any kinks involving urine or feces, beastiality, SEXUAL ASSAULT OR R*PE, (this list will probably be continued at some point but this is what i have for now)

Natalie’s Recommended

These are all great stories that I’ve read and recommend! Definitely check these stories out!

ℭ𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰 𝔖𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔬𝔩𝔬

✫彡 Panty Thief by @evieolo

✫彡 Lollipop by @freshloverr (Part two here!)

✫彡“Cool Spider” by @gamermattsgf

𝔐𝔞𝔱𝔱 𝔖𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔬𝔩𝔬

✫彡 Painted by @flowerxbunnie

✫彡 Ink by @flowerxbunnie

✫彡 7 Minutes in Heaven by @middlepartmatt

✫彡THIS FUCKING STORY by @pearlzier

[biibini]

modern!mizu pt2 sfw + nsfw

a/n: brain continues to rot 😵‍💫 i thought i would focus more on ur relationship w mizu & ur dynamic with her

note: nsfw at the bottom!

ok so ab u two hehe

sfw ☆

modern!mizu gets into a playful mood w u from time to time

usually when she gets bored from hw or takes a break after coming back from the gym, she’ll come out of the zone and bother u

she loves to press ur buttons especially when it’s the two of u alone

modern!mizu is a tease. next headcannon.

“Mizu. Stop.”

“Stop? What would I be stopping?” she would say in a teasing manner.

“You know what I mean-“ you say as she continues to squish your face with her left hand. A small but undeniable smirk starts forming on her face.

however, when u are both out, she’ll keep the teasing to a minimum

at least tries to (the voices r strong but shes stronger most of the time)

her hand might just slip down by ur waist and squeeze it at times to get a little reaction or gasp out of u

(but that’s an idea for me to elaborate on later)

modern!mizu prefers u to hold her arm than her hand

she’ll take either but she feels more secure knowing ur holding onto her

she def likes it when u lightly squeeze her arms to stay close

modern!mizu likes joining in on ur care routine before going to sleep (this is kinda nsfw)

at first, she was curious as to what products u were using on ur face

she initially saw the facial ice roller as a new toy ngl

it’s not one of her proudest moments

“Hey Y/N?”

“Yeah?” You were in the bedroom finding your pajamas, not even guessing what she would ask you next

“You bought a new toy?” Mizu yells from the bathroom.

“I did?”

She comes out with your facial ice roller in hand.

“Baby-“ you start speaking.

“I mean I know you said you wanted to test out temperatures in bed one time but…”

“Miz-“

“Just how… exactly do we use this? I know this part is the handle but where does the ice go?” she asks as she holds the handle sideways, staring at the product and analyzing its usage.

You start to giggle a little as you take the roller out of her hands.

“I’m being serious. How does it work?”

“Mizu, it’s for my face.”

She starts blanking out as you begin to roll the cold icy part on your cheeks.

“It’s supposed to help with puffiness.”

“Oh…”

self care along with her nightly tea became a comforting ritual in her bedroom

she was intrigued by the amount of skincare products u own

it’s not a lot (jk)

mizu totally didn’t build a whole shelf for ur products (she made sure it fit everything)

modern!mizu is ur guinea pig, and vice versa (sorta)

if u wanted to try a new product, she would try it with u

if she had a new creation/projected she needed to test out, u would be the second person she would call to check on production

u used to be the first until the “incident”

one time she called u in at the dead hour of 2 AM to come to the auto-shop and see her creation

it was a makeshift turbine for a solo project and all u had to do was turn it on to low fan speed

u ended up turning it on the highest speed somehow and broke the fragile engine

mizu froze as she watched her project get quickly chopped up by the fan

however she starts running to push u away and protect u when the fan starts hurling towards ur direction

u end up finding out she mislabeled the fan speed and made the “lowest” setting the highest setting

worried that she would put u in danger again, she asks taigen or ringo to test her new projects

she continues to be a guinea pig with ur skincare products and cooking

(ill make this vary depending on reader’s skills)

if ur not a rlly good cook, u and mizu can make two halves meet and collaborate on cooking together

u would probably ask ringo to help u out more than mizu admits to (it’s for the better and safety of the apartment)

if u are a good cook, she’ll be a bit more confident and step up as ur sous chef

she jokingly calls u “yes chef” as she gives u a kiss on ur cheek

one day, u bought a chef hat and started prepping dinner before mizu got back from the gym

You hear the front door open and the small ring of the jingle bell Ringo put on the handle.

“Y/N? Ringo?” Mizu yells as she puts down her bag.

“In here!” You yell from the kitchen. You fix your newly bought chef hat to match Mizu’s little running bit.

“Hey what are you coo-“ Mizu stops to look at what you’re wearing.

Some slippers, one of her shirts, and a chef hat. Oh my god. You turn to look at her with a smile.

“What is… that?“ She says, gawking at the hat.

“You like what I bought?”

“Yes but I wasn’t expecting a whole chef hat.” Mizu says as gives you a quick hug from behind and a little “hello” kiss on your cheek.

“You mean ‘Yes chef’?” You say teasingly.

“Haha very funny…”

You stare at her, pausing your cooking as you wait for the right words to be spoken out. She looks back and sighing in defeat.

“Yes chef.” She says as you giggle at her defeated tone, continuing to tend to dinner.

modern!mizu will chop and prep for u

give her a knife and a chopping board

ask and u will receive

random thought but she will tough out the onions

when she first starts her sous chef journey, she would always chew gum

she never realized that she could avoid onion tears with this method until she tried it

game changer !!

trust her w the onions. always.

modern!mizu enjoys dates out with u but the best dates are done at home, cuddling and watching netflix

u guys def have movie/tv show nights

maybe even experiment in cooking dinners

it’s peaceful and quiet (besides ringo joining in occasionally most of the time)

cuddling and relaxing after long school days resets both of u

mizu esp loves it when u both are under the covers and she can feel u doze off

it makes her a little sleepy too

As the second to final episode of your show comes to an end, Mizu checks up on you. She finds you, eyes closed & softly breathing.

“Y/N” she whispers while slowly unwrapping the blanket covering you two.

“Uh hm…” you say as you try and grip onto the blanket, it’s warmth escaping you. A light chuckle comes out of Mizu.

She successfully takes off the blanket, laying it to hang on the couch. She makes a mental reminder to fix it before she leaves for the gym tomorrow. You on the other hand are slowly waking up and walking to the bedroom, still holding her hand.

“C’mon now, let’s get to bed.”

You simply nod as she brings you to the bedroom to continue your sleep. She’ll catch you up on what you missed when you dozed off the following day.

modern!mizu would sleep on her back

it’s best to relieve lower back pain after learning from her adopted dad

so she’s adapted the same habit as him

when it comes to cuddling, she wraps her arm around you as she dozes off

if u wanted (or she wanted) to spoon, she would initially be the big spoon

however, the more u get into ur relationship, the more she switches over to being the little spoon

the feeling of ur hands wrapped around her as you both doze off is comforting

big spoon does stay on top though

it gives her access to… places

nsfw ♥︎

yk how i said in the first modern!mizu that she was touchy (and here too)

modern!mizu needs to hold or touch u whenever u guys are doing it

ur face, hands, shoulder, waist, hips, thighs

anywhere basically

she loves giving ur hips a squeeze while guiding u through the motions

when she’s making out with u, she lovesss to cup ur face or hold ur waist closer to u with her hands

when eating u out, u cannot escape

those gym seshes come in clutch

her arms will wrap around ur thighs and will not let u go

“Be good for me, will ya?” Mizu says, her breath only a few inches away from your heat.

You can only nod as you let your legs succumb to her arms. There’s no use fighting against them. You’ve tried and failed many times.

she would also hold onto ur hips if ur on top

she loves the control she would have on ur hips while u bounce up and down on her strap on

if not ur hips, she would give ur ass a squeeze as u continue to be riding her

modern!mizu always loves to leave a little mark

she knows how sensitive u can be around ur neck and loves to leave at least one, maybe two

if not there, then definitely around ur breasts

no one’s going to see them (most of the time)

she loves doing it especially when ur stimulated below by her fingers that are slowly yet deeply thrusting into ur wet insides

it would overstimulate u

but it would be so fun to see her lovely girl crumble little by little by her fingers and mouth

modern!mizu will do anything to hear ur voice

when she’s making out w u and hears a moan escape from ur lips, she’s so ready

ur moans escaping from ur lips while she eats u out is the best melody she’s ever heard

she gets lost indulging in ur noise that she would have to double check if anyone else is home before continuing

if ur moans gets louder when she goes faster, she will keep that pace up until ur a mumbling mess

so ab her being a tease earlier

modern!mizu likes to tease, especially when ur close

“Is my Y/N getting close?” she coos as she continues to thrust into you.

You were already overstimulated with how much she has done with you that night. From making out to practically squirting on her fingers earlier, your mind was a mess. As she thrust into you, all you could do was nod and moan as she hit a deeper spot.

“That’s the spot, isn’t it?”

You mumbled a yes and nodded. She heard you. But was it a spoken answer? Not exactly to Mizu.

She slows her pace down and looks to see your reaction: fucked out, dazed, and is practically begging for more.

“Mizu, please.”

“Please what?”

She grinds once to hear another moan come out. You continue to lose it as you start to bounce up and down on her strap, finding the spot again.

“Please fuck me more.” you answer.

She grinned as she watch you continue to move your hips up and down on her. Who knew you could still have the energy after all?

However, Mizu wasn’t done toying with you. She wants to hear your exact words.

“Fuck you how much more?” She says slyly as her hips start to slowly match your pace. You get silent as you find the right angle.

“Deeper. Much deeper.”

“Oh yeah?” she answers breathily, lining her hands with your waist as she searches for the deep spot.

A loud moan escaped your lips. Bingo.

“Good girl.” she calls as she continues her deep thrusts into you, coming once again.

hands down, making you speak while you’re fucked out is the favorite way to tease u

i cannot exaggerate how ur moans get her off

it’ll always be in the back of her mind while she continues to mess w u

it’s basically an obsession

hearing her lover practically crumble from her is her favorite part of teasing u

[reviewinghiccup]

BECOMING CHIEF || HTTYD MOVIES | BREAKING DOWN HICCUP (DEEP TALK)

Blog Post Title : Breaking Down Hiccup (Deep Talk)

Blog Post Series No.: #1

Title : How to Train Your Dragon 2

Disclaimer: This isn't a full review on HTTYD 2 the movie.

Once again, Hiccup floating in the air, gliding through the skies on Toothless, seamlessly flying on invisible currents is cathartic. I just wish I could breathe air that clear and fresh. I wonder if some time away from everything will make it easier to make tough decisions.

So far, I don't think I address the question on whether Hiccup wants to be chief. My reviews on Riders of Berk refer to the village's changing perspective of Hiccup and them taking to him as leader. I don't think I've discussed whether Hiccup wants the job. Besides, that question isn't material at the time and space ROB was just yet. Hiccup was still, a kid.

In HTTYD 2, we know he doesn't want to be chief because he still feels lost. Incomplete. His thirst for adventure continues and he will harken to anything calling his name (apart from his dad). But Astrid's advice rings true. He has had so many missions, adventures, discoveries in ROB, DOB and RTTE but they did not quench or answer the inner call to "Who am I?"

Even for us, sometimes wanderlust is just a distractions to the grand scheme of responsibilities we are suppose to take on to answer the question we keep asking.

Believing that being chief isn't innately him, is the very doubt that causes him to discount how much of a born leader he is.

"I was so afraid of becoming my dad, mostly because I never thought I could. How, how do you be someone that great, that brave, that selfless? I guess, you can only try," Hiccup says at his father's funeral.

Self-doubt is the thief of destiny. As such, even after his father's passing, Hiccup struggled to step into the role, to feel worthy of it, until Valka said that his father always knew he was going to be great.

"He always said you would become the strongest of them all and he was right. You have the heart of a chief and the soul of a dragon only you can bring our worlds together. That is who you are, son."

A CHIEF PROTECTS HIS OWN

You see. This may sound like news to Hiccup, but for those who have been following his story, he has always been brave and selfless. He protected Berk and his riders, diving to their rescue even at the expense of precious treasures.

Even to the extent of protecting day-to-day relationships. Like what he did for Snotlout at Thawfest, the encouragement he brings to Fishlegs, the validation he gives the Twins. Training dragons to live w Berkians. Defending Berkians. Saving anyone that needs saving. Helping anyone that needs help. Without question or quandary.

He thought that the answer to Who am I was out there, but it was in him all along. And when you are this blind to all your attributes, the only way to answer the all-asking question is by stepping out of your comfort zone.

He has always protected his own. It started w his undying loyalty to Toothless, protecting him from day one.

I hate that Stoick's death had to happen, but it was that drastic nudge forcing Hiccup into the shoes he was always meant to fill.

Parts of me feel like I understand Hiccup, 15-year-old Hiccup and 20-year-old Hiccup because I AM HICCUP. Sure, I don't have a village to run and no legacy to fulfil, but boy am I afraid to do something because I don't think I can.

This show just speaks to me because I hear that same internal struggle tugging at my heart. Where do I fit in this world of very definable squares?

But maybe that's the answer I need to hear. That to find it, I have to go towards it. And to believe, that "this destiny" was mine all along.

[beatrice-otter]

Third Chance

Title: Third Chance Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space 9 Written for: fly_to_dawn in Fic In A Box 2023 Characters: Ro Laren, Kira Nerys, Jadzia Dax Length: 13,236 words Rating: General Audiences

AN: Canon has two possible outcomes for Ro Laren. In Picard, she survived the destruction of the Maquis, spent time in prison, and then was recruited by Starfleet Intelligence. In the books and Star Trek Online, she survived the Maquis and joined the Bajoran Militia, and was stationed to DS9 as security chief.

Ro already got a second chance to start her life over, on the Enterprise; I figure this is her third chance at the life she wanted.

On Dreamwidth. On Pillowfort. On Ad Astra. On Squidgeworld. On Cohost.

"Colonel, you can't seriously be considering allowing this." Lieutenant Belasco's voice was filled with a sort of arrogant disbelief that Kira found grating.

If I were going to argue with either Starfleet or the Militia about personnel, it would be to get rid of Belasco, not Ro, Kira thought to herself. The lieutenant was Deep Space Nine's Starfleet replacement for Chief O'Brien. He was less skilled than O'Brien was (although that was an unfair comparison—there was a reason O'Brien had been tapped to teach at Starfleet Academy, a rare honor for an NCO). He was less experienced, both in engineering matters and in personnel management. And he had in full that Human arrogance about the Federation's superiority, with an unhealthy helping of post-Dominion War suspicion and anger.

"Why not?" Kira asked, instead of saying any of that.

"Because she's a terrorist!" Belasco said.

"So am I," Kira pointed out.

"It's not the same thing!" Belasco said.

"Name one thing Ro Laren—or the Maquis in general—have done that I didn't do in the Resistance."

"They used biogenic weapons on Quatal Prime."

"And we used trilithium resin on Solossos III," Kira pointed out. Much as she respected and admired Captain Sisko, and understood his feelings about Eddington's betrayal, that was one decision she disagreed with.

"They regularly killed civilians."

"I killed a lot of Cardassian so-called civilians in my day," Kira said. "That's why the Federation called the Resistance terrorists." She shook her head. "Cardassians don't make as strong a distinction between military and civilian as the Federation does, and when the Cardassians are conquering a place, the civilians are acting as part of the occupation, suppression, and resource-extraction. They're not innocents completely separate from what their government is doing—they're agents of the state no matter what their role or title. That was just as true in the Demilitarized Zone as it was in the Occupation."

Belasco gaped at her, but was at least smart enough not to further that argument. He wouldn't win. "She betrayed Starfleet!" he said.

Now, that Kira had no answer for. But fortunately, she didn't need one. The door to her office chimed. "Come in," she said.

Worf stepped through the door, clad in civilian garb that was half-way between Klingon and Federation styles. She gestured him to a seat on the couch, and sat down in the armchair across from it, leaving Belasco standing off to the side.

"Ambassador, thank you for taking the time away from your leave," Kira said. Given that Dax was still stationed on Deep Space Nine as science officer, and that the station was the hub of diplomatic efforts both between quadrants and within Alpha Quadrant nations finding new equilibrium after the war, they saw quite a bit of him. But he and Dax had a tendency to disappear into their quarters when he was here.

"Of course, Colonel Kira," Worf said, settling himself comfortably. "How can I help?"

"You served on the Enterprise with Ro Laren, didn't you?" Kira asked. "What's she like?"

"Capable, tactically brilliant, and determined," Worf said without hesitation. "She was an asset to the ship on numerous occasions, well beyond what one would expect of her rank. Cool-headed under pressure. However, she did have problems with authority, which made her … challenging to manage."

Kira raised her eyebrows. For Worf, that was effusive praise. "And her last mission with Enterprise?" Had she been like Eddington, biding her time and waiting for an opportunity to betray her crewmates? Or had it been a more spur-of-the-moment thing?

Worf pondered that before speaking. "I was not consulted on that assignment, and I would have objected to it if I had been. Whatever the tactical objectives, it was dishonorable, and part of a flawed strategy that was unlikely to lead to the long-term results the Federation wished. Lieutenant Ro was an honorable officer, and her sympathies would very naturally be with the people she was being asked to infiltrate and betray."

"So instead, she betrayed Starfleet?" Belasco said.

Worf shot him an irritated glance. "Why are you asking about her?" he asked Kira.

"She survived the fall of the Maquis and joined the Bajoran Militia," Kira said. "They're assigning her here, as chief of security."

Worf cocked his head. "I am pleased to hear that she is alive and well, and in a position that will suit her abilities," he said. "I will pass the information on to Captain Picard—she was a protégé of his."

"Her last mission is classified," Kira said. "Can you share anything about what to do to ensure it doesn't happen again?"

"Don't send her out to gain peoples' trust in order to betray them to the Cardassians," Worf said, with the dry understatement he did so well.

"I think I can guarantee that's not going to happen as long as she's in the Militia," Kira said. "Even if the Cardassians turn expansionist again, Bajor will never try to appease them by helping them conquer others."

Worf nodded. "I believe the Federation, also, has learned the futility of attempting to appease expansionist powers. It is foolish, and only emboldens them." This changed the subject to the status of various negotiations and maneuverings among the various Alpha Quadrant powers, which were all licking their wounds from the Dominion War and trying to re-establish their spheres of influence and alliances in the new, post-War reality.

To his credit, Belasco controlled his fuming and made insightful comments at appropriate times. He might be a mediocre engineer, but he had a good knowledge of the larger diplomatic and strategic picture that Kira had found useful.

***

The first thing Kira noticed about her new security chief was the earring.

"Captain Ro Laren, reporting as ordered," Ro said, striding into Kira' office.

Kira looked her up and down. "You a follower of the Pah Wraith?"

"What?" Ro frowned.

"The earring, captain," Kira said.

"The Pah Wraith are a myth to scare children with," Ro said. "There aren't any Wraith devotees, haven't been for centuries."

"You haven't been back on Bajor very long, have you," Kira said.

"Only two weeks on Bajor itself," Ro said. "The refugee processing was on Derna, and the Militia orientation and retraining was on Jeraddo."

Kira nodded. "On multiple occasions, Pah-wraiths have possessed people on this station, either to try and destroy the Celestial Temple or fight the Prophets. One of their followers tried to assassinate Captain Sisko on Stardate 52152. It was a Pah-wraith that collapsed the wormhole on Stardate 51950, and if Captain Sisko hadn't given his life to seal the Fire Caves, the Pah-wraiths would have destroyed the Celestial Temple and spread themselves to countless worlds across the quadrant, and given their malice and love of death and destruction, that would have been disastrous for everyone." She raised her eyebrows. "Nobody told you any of that?"

"No," Ro said. "I did get a number of snide comments about the earring. But I left Bajor at the age of nine and hadn't been back since, so I didn't know it was anything unusual." She reached up and took off the earring, switching it to the other side.

"Why do you wear it on the wrong side, if not to signal allegiance to the Kosst Amojan?" Kira asked.

"Because I don't like people trying to feel my pah," Ro said. She grimaced as she did so, and fumbled a bit with the clasp, obviously unused to wearing it on the correct side.

There had to be more to it; Kira knew Bajorans who rejected Bajoran culture (or aspects of it) and all that the earring symbolized, but they didn't wear the traditional earring on the wrong ear. They didn't wear earrings at all, or wore Federation-style earrings. But Ro didn't seem to want to say more about it, and Kira had more important things to worry about.

"Have a seat, captain," she said, pointing to the chair across from her desk.

"Thank you, sir," Ro said.

Kira wasn't sure if she saw something ironic, or if that was just Ro's normal demeanor. "I have the non-classified portion of your Starfleet record, and Ambassador Worf gives you high praise."

"Ambassador Worf?" Ro said.

"It's a new appointment since the end of the war."

Ro raised her eyebrows. "He's not very … diplomatic."

Kira shrugged. "He's the Federation ambassador to the Klingon Empire. His straight-forwardness sets him in good stead, there. You'll probably see him around; his wife is our science officer, Lieutenant Commander Jadzia Dax."

"I look forward to it," Ro said.

"I also have a few records from your time with the Maquis," Kira continued. "If we were fighting the Cardassians or the Dominion—or anyone else—you would be a superb addition to this station. If we were a ship in need of a pilot or ops officer, you would also be an excellent asset. But as far as I can tell, you've never had any training or experience with security work."

"That's correct, Colonel," Ro said.

"Any idea why they assigned you here?" Kira asked. Given Ro's record, if Kira were in charge of Militia assignments, she'd have had Ro teaching either piloting or tactics. The Militia didn't have any people with the sort of formal training Ro had gotten at Starfleet's Advanced Tactical Training course.

Ro shrugged. "They didn't consult me, just gave me my orders."

"And if you had to guess?" Kira prodded.

Ro smirked. "I think they thought my experience with Starfleet would be an asset on the Bajoran base with the most Starfleet contact." That was definitely sarcasm.

"Ironic, considering our new Chief Engineer has already been in here complaining about you."

"My reputation gets around," Ro said. "Aside from a few people on Enterprise, not many Starfleet officers liked me before I joined the Maquis."

"Speaking of reputation, if you have an urge to defect again, or disobey orders, please let me know ahead of time," Kira said, voice heavy with both irony and sincerity. She locked eyes with Ro.

Ro matched her in intensity and mood. "Don't give me stupid orders, and I won't."

Kira nodded, secure in the understanding between them. "I'll do my best." In a way, the whole thing felt weirdly like being back in the caves in Shakaar's Resistance cell. Where command was given not based on rank or training or some outside authority requiring it, but on respect within the group. No wonder Ro had had a hard time in Starfleet; they wouldn't have known what to do with her. "So, if you've never done security work before, what's your first step, Captain?"

"I'm halfway through reading the station regulations and the portions of Bajoran legal code that apply to the station," Ro said. "I've already gone over a lot of the security logs from the station's time under Bajoran authority, looking for patterns in both security calls and crimes committed. It looks like there's two basic types of trouble Security gets called for: organized crime such as smuggling and illegal gambling, usually involving Quark in some fashion, and more serious but less predictable trouble coming from visitors to the station. That ranges from 'invasion' to 'cultural misunderstanding.' Not much of that during the Dominion War, of course, but it looks like it's starting to pick up again."

Kira raised her eyebrows. "I'm impressed, captain; that's a lot of work, given how recently you were given your orders."

Ro shrugged. "I wanted to hit the ground running, and if there's one thing Starfleet teaches all its people, it's how to take in and analyze lots of information, and then put it to use."

She really should be teaching, Kira thought; that was a skill the Militia didn't have much of, or if they did, they were only beginning to teach it now; Kira's generation, of course, had no formal training of any kind, and either you sank or swam based on innate skill and whether or not you had a good mentor.

"Any questions about what you've read?" Kira asked.

"I'm sure I'll have questions once I'm finished with the studying and am settled in with the department," Ro said, "but none come to mind immediately."

"Don't hesitate to ask," Kira said. "I worked very closely with Constable Odo—" she suppressed a pang of grief "—and if past experience is anything to go by, there'll be a lot of times when the safety and well-being of this station and her inhabitants depends on the command staff and Security working smoothly together."

"Thank you, sir," Ro said. "I will do that."

"You'll be starting tomorrow morning," Kira said. "I will be at the Security Office to introduce you to your team and see the command transferred to you."

"Alright," Ro said.

"Dismissed," Kira said.

***

Ro sat alone at a table in the Replimat, watching the crowd walk by and seeing what patterns she could spot. Her PADD was out in front of her, but she'd spent a lot of time studying in the past few days, and her brain needed to rest before she could absorb any more information. From here, she could see the Romulan Embassy (in what had been the Cardassian Embassy, before the war), the Security office and detention facilities which would shortly be her domain, and the gift shop. Just out of sight around the curve of the Promenade was the station's temple, the Infirmary, and Quark's Bar and Holosuites.

She'd checked the angles, and from the Security Office it was possible to see across the entrance to Quark's, and watch who was going in and out, but you couldn't see into it; the temple was the only place with a direct view into Quark's (and vice versa, which she couldn't imagine either the Ferengi or the Vedeks were happy with). If you wanted to know what was happening in Quark's, you had to go in. Given that Quark was the most consistent source of trouble on the station, she foresaw herself spending a lot of time there.

"Captain Ro," came a familiar bass rumble.

"Ambassador Worf," Ro said, looking up at him. She'd never seen him in civilian clothes before, and his hair was loose. It suited him. "Congratulations on your new job."

"Likewise," Worf said. "May I introduce my wife, Lieutenant Commander Jadzia Dax?" He gestured to the Trill woman next to him, wearing a Starfleet uniform.

"Commander," Ro said stiffly, wondering how this was going to go.

"May we join you?" Commander Dax said with a smile.

"Of course." Ro gestured to the seat across the table. Dax sat in it, while Worf grabbed a chair from a nearby table and settled himself in it.

"I understand we're going to be working together," Dax said. "Worf has told me a bit about you."

"All good things, I hope," Ro said.

"Mostly," Dax said, wiggling her head.

"Fair enough," Ro said.

"I have informed Captain Picard that you are alive and have joined the Bajoran Militia," Worf announced.

"Thank you," Ro said, not sure she was pleased. Her greatest regret about joining the Maquis was having to betray Picard's trust. He'd done so much more for her than anybody else alive had, he'd believed in her. She couldn't have done anything else, not and lived with herself, but if he'd decided to hate her she didn't want to know.

"He asked me to pass along his greetings and well-wishes," Worf said.

"Thank you," Ro said again, gut relaxing just a bit. At least it wasn't as bad as it could have been; he might even forgive her, if she could get up the courage to contact him. "How's Alexander?" That seemed safer than asking after any old Enterprise crewmates.

"He served in the Klingon Defense Force during the war," Worf said.

"Little Alexander is old enough to serve on a warship?" Ro shook her head. "He can't be, he was just a kid. My time on Enterprise wasn't that long ago."

"He would not have been old enough to serve on a Federation vessel, which is why he chose to serve the Empire, instead," Worf said.

"Klingons grow up faster than most species do," Dax said, "and Alexander grew at a Klingon rate, not a Human one. It's one of the things we're looking into: Klingons and Trill aren't very compatible biologically, and it turns out there's never been a Trill/Klingon hybrid. Doctor Bashir has solved the initial incompatibilities for gestation, which is the hard part, but there are still other things we need to decide before an embryo can be created. I'd like our children to have a bit longer childhoods than Klingons do."

"You're considering having kids?" Ro eyed Worf. He hadn't seemed that great a father to Alexander on Enterprise. Or that thrilled about him. Everyone knew he'd shipped the kid off to his parents to raise, at least at first.

"We are," Worf said.

"Congratulations," Ro said.

"But you knew Alexander as a small child," Dax said. "Tell me about him!"

"I didn't know him very well," Ro said. "Didn't hang out with the families much on Enterprise. I only really saw him during that one mission where I got turned into a kid temporarily. And then the Ferengi, of all people, captured the ship, and they weren't watching the kids so we were the ones with the best opportunity to retake the ship."

Dax turned to Worf, eyes alight with mischief. "Worf! You never told me you let Ferengi capture your ship! How did that happen?"

"They possessed two Klingon Birds-of-Prey and used them competently," Worf said.

"We never did figure out how they got those," Ro reminisced.

"I doubt the Empire would be happy to announce to the galaxy that they lost a pair of warships to the Ferengi," Dax said. "But you said you had been de-aged. How did that happen? Were you the only one? How did you save the ship?"

Ro explained the transporter accident, and told the story of how they'd used childish tactics to outwit the Ferengi, and Alexander's role in the whole thing. Worf hadn't been present for the most part, being locked up in the brig; the Ferengi had been smart enough to clock him as a major threat.

Dax chimed in with a few stories about some of the odder or funnier things that had happened on the station, Worf adding commentary here or there. It was nice. Collegial. The sort of thing that happened when Starfleet officers hung out together, the sort of thing Ro had so often been excluded from when she wore the same uniform Dax did.

"You know, I'm kind of surprised at the warm welcome," Ro said, studying her mug and contemplating getting another cup of tea. "Considering what your crew did to the Maquis on Solosos III."

Worf shifted uneasily, and he and Dax exchanged a look.

"It wasn't exactly our finest hour," Dax said.

"The tactics were effective, but did not live up to Starfleet's ideals," Worf said.

"I had friends there," Ro said. "Not all of them made it out." She shrugged. "That's war, I guess." She wondered how many of the Enterprise crew had died in the war. She hadn't looked it up, too preoccupied with surviving and grieving the loss of her Maquis friends and comrades.

"Most Maquis died when the Dominion started a scorched-earth policy in the Demilitarized Zone," Dax said. "How did you survive?"

Ro sighed. "My ship was on a supply run, and things were hot enough we hadn't been using the standard routes for … a while, at that point. So there were actually a fair number of Maquis ships that didn't get caught in the sweep—they weren't bothering with small targets, at that point. When we heard what was happening, we went dead and waited for the Dominion ships to leave. Then we headed towards the closest colony, gathered up as many survivors as we could fit aboard, and ran for the border. We happened to be on this side of the DMZ, so we ended up in Bajoran hands. Unlike the Federation, Bajor didn't consider us criminals, so we got asylum."

"And then you joined the Militia," Dax said.

"And then I joined the Militia," Ro said. "And the Federation threw a fit. With the Cardassians gone, they don't much care what happens to former Maquis who live quietly and take up, I don't know, farming or something." And honestly, she'd thought about it, but none of her other options had sounded appealing.

"But given that Bajor is joining the Federation, and even those Militia members who don't join Starfleet or serve on DS9 will have access to classified Starfleet information, I can see why they might not like you in a Bajoran uniform," Dax said. "When they posted you to DS9, were they trying to upset the Federation on purpose?"

"If you figure it out, let me know," Ro said. "From what I can tell, there are a lot of conflicting feelings about the Federation and Starfleet within the Militia. So there was probably at least a little of that."

"It's actually a lot better than it was seven years ago," Dax said.

"Glad I missed it, then," Ro said. People looked at her and saw everything they disliked about the other side. Either they were mad at her for leaving Starfleet, or for ever having been Starfleet in the first place.

***

Ro arranged for the formal transfer of authority and briefing to take place the day before her first official shift, so that she could start fresh. She'd met some of her crew in the last week, but not all of them; and much as she'd implied otherwise to Colonel Kira, her head was still swimming with the amount of procedures, regulations, and station history she'd tried to cram into her head.

She eyed the first-shift deputies, all lined up in the security office.

"At ease," she said, and they relaxed a bit. "For those of you who don't know me, I'm Captain Ro Laren. Captain in the Bajoran Militia is equal to a Federation Lieutenant Senior Grade. Which was the rank I held in Starfleet before I left to join the Maquis. My commission is new but don't let that fool you, I'm not new to military service.

"From what I can tell, this department has been a pillar of this station, performing competently under a wide variety of difficult and unforeseeable circumstances. I'm not a fan of changing things for the sake of change, so things will probably stay mostly the same around here, at least to start. That said, if there are traditions or ways of doing things that you think could be improved, let me know. I don't promise to take your suggestions, but I will listen." She'd always gotten along best with officers who listened to her ideas, even if they chose not to accept her suggestions.

"If any of you are planning to transfer to Starfleet once Bajor formally joins the Federation, and have questions about Starfleet service, I'd be happy to answer them," Ro went on. "If you want to stay in Security you probably won't need much retraining, but if you want to specialize in something else, there'll be a lot to learn, and I can help you get a head start."

She eyed her new department. "Any questions?" There were none, although some of them looked like they had reservations they didn't want to voice. "All right then," she said. "You know your jobs. Get to them."

The deputies dispersed, most of them to patrol or guard stations, one to his shift in the cells—empty, at the moment, so she didn't have to deal with that. Ro retreated back into her new office and dove back into the pile of reports waiting for her.

***

Ro woke up, heart racing. "Lights!" Even years in the Maquis, living in huts without computers and ships without voice commands, hadn't been enough to break that instinctive response. But she was on DS9, now, and the computer obediently raised the lights. That, more than anything, helped her catch her breath.

If she'd really been back on a rustbucket held together with spit and prayers, stuffed to the gills with half-dead friends, dodging Dominion and Cardassian ships with little hope of making it to safety, calling for lights would have done nothing except get her bunkmate to yell at her to shut up.

But she was here, in Bajoran soon-to-be-Federation space, on a Federation-run space station, and the vocal commands worked.

Mouth filled with bile, she went to the bathroom and rinsed her mouth out. Then she got an anti-nausea med from the replicator, and a painkiller for the headache she knew was coming. She thought about getting a sleep med, but on a Starfleet-run station, three medications dispensed at once triggered an automatic alert to sickbay. At least, they would if she were an officer; she had no idea about civilians, or whether it would apply to Militia officers as she now was.

Besides, keyed up as the nightmare had left her, she doubted that anything mild enough to be dispensed without a prescription would do any good. She took the anti-nausea med and painkiller, took another drink of water, and went back to bed.

Ro sighed. "Lights, twenty percent." Which was brighter than she usually preferred to sleep with, but it meant the shadows couldn't play tricks on her. She closed her eyes and tried to snuggle deeper into the mattress. It was too hard, too much like the thin pallets that were the best most Maquis ships had, too much like the bare dirt she'd slept on as a child in the camps. She'd have to see about switching it out for something softer.

But the mattress wasn't really the problem. She'd fallen asleep just fine. The adrenaline flooding her from her nightmare, and the dread of another, that was the problem. She could have had the perfect mattress, and her chances of falling back to sleep would still have been slim to none.

She sighed again. That flight—and the weeks and months that had preceded it—had been nightmarish enough to live through the first time.

Even if she couldn't fall back asleep, laying here resting would be better for her brain and body than getting up and trying to do something. Starfleet made sure all its people knew that.

So Ro lay in her bed, and tried to keep her breathing even and slow, as the night passed.

At last, she was too bored, and couldn't stand it any longer. "Computer, what time is it?"

"The time is 0348."

"I give up," Ro said. Her alarm was set for 0600, and she couldn't face the thought of lying there for another two hours. And if she took a sleep med now, she'd be too groggy in the morning.

So she got up, wrapped herself in a robe, and curled up on her couch. “Computer, what’s in my inbox?”

“You have two new shift reports marked low-priority, three informational dispatches from the Bajoran Militia, one security alert from Starfleet—”

“Starfleet? What’s it about?”

“The message from Starfleet is a general alert regarding increased piracy in Sector 23.”

“Great, just what we need, problems around the Romulan Neutral Zone,” Ro said. Still, it wasn’t like it was her problem, not like it would have been when she was in Starfleet. “Any other messages?”

“You have a personal message from Captain Jean-Luc Picard.”

Ro dropped her head and sighed. If he was disappointed in her, or hated her, he wouldn’t bother to send a message; but she had betrayed his trust, and she regretted deeply that she’d had to leave that way. While she’d been in the Maquis, she hadn’t had to think about it, off in a world far distant from Starfleet and everything she’d known before. But you couldn’t outrun your past forever. “Computer, play message.”

“Captain Ro. I was pleased to hear that you survived the war, and that you have found your way into the beginnings of a new life. I would be interested to hear about your experiences and your new posting. I hope your new service is a good fit for you, and a good use of your talents and abilities. Picard out.”

Short, and sort of abrupt. But then, he was a busy man, and they’d never been close; he was a captain, and she’d been an ensign. He’d taken an interest in her career. Maybe he was still interested? Ro sighed. She had no idea how to respond. She wasn’t actually sorry about joining the Maquis, despite all her regrets about how it went down Could she just … respond as he had, ignoring all the reasons they hadn’t spoken in years?

***

Ro frowned at the report she was reading. Something seemed off, but she couldn't say for sure. One of the deputies would know. She touched the intercom for the brig and got only static.

She was half-way through bringing up the technical specs to see if she could fix it before she realized she wasn't in the Maquis any longer. There was a maintenance crew on call.

But she couldn't find either the Militia or Starfleet maintenance request forms on her terminal. It was possible she wasn't correctly remembering the Militia procedure—she'd had to cram an awful lot of information into a fairly short period, and things were bound to have fallen through the cracks. She used her commbadge to call Deputy Yndar to her office. They didn't have anybody in their cells today, so there was no harm in having him step out.

"Yes, Captain?" Yndar said, poking his head in.

Ro wondered if that would ever stop being weird to hear. The Bajoran ranks were … odd, after years in Starfleet. "Two things. I've got some questions about a report, and I can't figure out how to submit a maintenance request."

"Ah," Yndar said. "We're still using the Cardassian maintenance request system."

"I know how Starfleet does things, I know how the Militia does things, and now I have to learn a third system?" Ro made a face. "I suppose the Cardassian system is better integrated to the station than our own system would be."

"Here, let me show you," Yndar said. "It should be in a top-level directory, the number of things that go wrong on this station. They broke everything they could and didn't leave any manuals behind when they left, and they deleted the parts catalogue from the station replicators."

"Typical," Ro said. "If they couldn't have it, spoil it so nobody else could, either."

"Yeah," Yndar said. He showed her where the maintenance request subroutine was hiding, and walked her through reporting a problem. Then he answered her questions about the reports. Then he went back to his post. He was efficient, professional, and courteous.

Ro was left feeling a bit off balance.

***

"On the house," Quark said, setting a drink down in front of her.

"Security officers are not allowed to accept gifts, so no, it's not," Ro said.

"Not allowed to accept gifts!" Quark said. "Even if it's only a drink? What harm can one drink do?"

"It's the things that come after the drink that are the problem," Ro said. Actually, the drink was below the value threshold of what she could accept, but she wanted to put Quark a little off balance, and she didn't want alcohol, anyhow. She was going to try a mild sedative tonight, to see if she could sleep through the night for a change, and they often reacted with alcohol or narcotics. "Vulcan spice tea and an Ubed casserole, please."

"Ooh, variety, I like it," Quark said. "Would you like replicated tea, or the real thing?"

"The real thing," Ro said. She hadn't had the real thing since she'd been on Earth for Advanced Tactical Training. It would be interesting to see how fresh it was here, this far out from Vulcan. Replicated might actually be better. But she'd try it and see.

To her surprise, it was actually good quality tea, and fresh enough to be worth paying a premium for—someone must be growing it nearby. The casserole was a different variant than the one she was used to, but not bad.

"Mind if I join you?"

Ro looked up to see Dax coming over from the entryway. "Go right ahead," she said. "Worf left already?"

Dax grimaced. "He never gets to stay as long as he'd like. We've thought about requesting a transfer for me, but … there isn't any place that needs a science officer that's better positioned for Worf's work, right now. He's doing a lot of travelling, and we're hosting a lot of diplomatic conferences here. Things will settle down eventually, and available postings for me will change, and until then we'll deal with it."

She sat down in a chair and nodded to a passing waiter. "My usual, please." She looked at Ro's food. "Vulcan tea and Betazoid food—eclectic tastes. You know, if you want homemade Bajoran food, there isn't a Bajoran restaurant here, but a couple of station residents have a sideline cooking meals for people."

"Thanks for the offer," Ro said, "but I actually don't have much of a taste for Bajoran food. The refugee camp I grew up in had a couple of Federation replicators that only worked half the time, and whatever local plants and animals we could gather."

"Ah," Dax said. She seemed less embarrassed than Federation people usually were by the mention of Ro's childhood; maybe it was the extra lives that gave her some perspective, or maybe just that she'd spent the last few years working with Bajorans who probably all had similar stories of deprivation. "Did the replicators have Betazoid cuisine, then?"

"I'm not sure," Ro said. "I was introduced to this dish by Counselor Troi, on the Enterprise. How's she doing these days, do you know?" It hadn’t come up in the conversation with Worf.

"Still on the Enterprise," Dax said. "That crew has been together a remarkably long time, Worf is the only one who left."

"You're kidding," Ro said. "Even during the war, they didn't give Riker his own ship?"

"Nope," Dax said, flashing a smile at the waiter who brought her food.

"Huh," Ro said, resuming her meal now that Dax had something to eat, too. Well, even if Troi had been reassigned, it wasn't like she'd have been sent here. And just because she was the first counselor Ro had known who wasn't completely useless or untrustworthy (or both) didn't mean that she'd still be willing to help after the way Ro had left.

And Ro was fine, anyway; it was just a bit of trouble sleeping. She'd been through rough patches before, worse than this.

"So I was thinking," Dax said. "Kira and I sometimes do things together in the holosuites—fun things. Spa days, frothy mindless historical fantasy stories, as far away from work as we can get. Would you like to join us?"

Social time with her commanding officer? Ro had certainly never been offered that before. And it was true that she was only two ranks below the Lieutenant Colonel, and one of the senior officers on the station. And the highest-ranking Bajoran besides the Colonel herself. But still.

"If the colonel is okay with it, it sounds like it could be fun," Ro said. Frothy mindless historical fantasies weren't exactly her thing, but she wasn't going to turn down an overture of friendship from a fellow officer.

That was one of the ways the Maquis had been different from Starfleet. She hadn't been the life of the party, but she hadn't been a loner, either. For the first time in her life, she'd felt like she fit in. Or, at least, that she didn't fit any less than other people did.

"I'll talk to her," Dax said. "We've got something planned for tomorrow evening, if you're free."

Definite plans would be more awkward for Colonel Kira to get out of, if she didn't want to have a relative stranger in her recreational time. "I'm swamped right now, trying to get settled in and learn the job. Maybe another time?" It had the virtue of being true.

***

A week into her new security chief's tenure, Kira called her in for a progress report.

"So, how are you settling in?" she said.

Captain Ro shrugged and sipped her tea. "Haven't screwed up yet, that's always a plus."

"I figured I'd have heard about it if you had," Kira said.

"I'm getting a handle on the rhythms of the work, and getting to know my deputies," Ro said. "There's a couple of things I'm planning on changing in the patrol schedule; nothing's really been adjusted since the end of the war, when Constable Odo left. And the security needs are different in peacetime."

"Will you be going back to one of Odo's schedules, or coming up with something new?" Kira asked.

"Peacetime isn't the same now as it was before the war," Ro said. "Trade patterns have shifted, given the number of planets devastated by the war, and Bajor's coming Federation membership. More Klingons, fewer Cardassians, and that means different security challenges. So, probably something new."

"All right," Kira said.

"I'm more concerned about organized crime, to be honest," Ro said. "Constable Odo's reports about his investigations are sometimes … unspecific. He had contacts who would pass him information about certain types of criminal activity, but he never wrote down their names. Whether those helpful people will continue to talk to us … who knows. And from things the deputies have said, I'm pretty sure he sometimes used his shapeshifting to perform illegal surveillance of Quark and other suspects."

"Odo had a very finely-tuned sense of justice," Kira said. "He would never have done anything he believed was wrong." She sighed. "But he learned how to do security work under the Cardassians. He was always fair, and there's a reason we were happy to keep him in the same job after the Cardassians left. But he did miss the level of surveillance the Cardassians used, and Captain Sisko never reprimanded him for spying on Quark or other suspects."

"In the Federation, surveillance by law enforcement is illegal without a court order," Ro said. "Regardless of why you're doing it. Not everyone has a finely-tuned sense of justice like Odo did."

"We're not in the Federation," Kira pointed out.

"We will be soon," Ro said. "The station has always been in a weird place, legally speaking, but that will be resolved when Bajor enters the Federation. Federation standards for evidence tend to be fairly strict. They vary by planetary jurisdiction, of course, and we won't know what the Bajoran laws will be until all the details are hammered out. But there's a minimum standard of civil rights required of all Federation members. Even if Odo were still here, he'd have to change tactics if he wanted any of his evidence to hold up in court."

"With Quark, things usually don't go that far," Kira said. "He's rarely into anything deeply illegal or dangerous, and his various misdemeanors were mostly useful to force him to toe the line." Kira thought about it for a second. "Sometimes also for blackmailing him into doing what we needed him to for the good of the station. Quark understands that, I'm pretty sure it's how Ferengi society works."

Ro paused. "So that's why some of the reports are incomplete," she said, sounding satisfied. "Odo definitely wouldn't have wanted to put that in writing."

"No, he wouldn't have."

"And his deputies are all still loyal to him, and wouldn't want him to look bad."

Kira was pleased to hear they still respected and cared for Odo. With the Dominion War, and Odo's complex relationship to his people, things had been … rocky, in that department.

"But we still have a problem," Ro said. "We can't use Odo's tactics, either practically or legally, which means we don't have the same leverage."

"Quark isn't that bad," Kira pointed out. "He's never done anything really awful, or we would have let the charges go through and gotten him convicted and deported."

Ro shook her head. "Bajor's entry into the Federation changes things. After the Occupation we weren't wealthy enough in our own right to be worth much to the crime syndicates. Oh, sure, there was the wormhole … but it's easy to control who goes through that, so it's too hard to run a criminal enterprise through it, especially back when it was first found. And then the war came. But now Bajor's joining the Federation. It's going to get a lot more prosperous very quickly. And things are going to change a lot in a short time—which means opportunities for the syndicates to take advantage of. And if they can get a solid foothold on Bajor, that means they have a solid foothold in the Federation. We're a lot more tempting a target than we used to be."

"I thought you didn't have any previous law enforcement experience," Kira said. "How do you know that?"

Ro shrugged. "Starfleet isn't all exploring, you know—or all fighting. It takes a while for regular Federation law enforcement to set up in the space around new member worlds, so smaller Starfleet cruisers end up filling in the gaps. My first assignment out of the academy spent some time rooting out a nest of pirates around Gadika III. It took us a couple of months, not because they were hard to fight—or even hard to find. But they'd gotten dug in to the Gadikan government, had a number of people in their pocket. And they got advance notice of our movements. Took a while to clean up."

"I see," Kira said. "I'll pass along the warning to other Militia posts. Do you have any contacts in Starfleet who might have advice?" Given Ro's history, it was a long shot.

Ro winced. "Probably not any who would be willing to talk to me, or at least, not any with current experience in anti-piracy work. Captain Picard would probably answer any questions I sent him, but … it's probably close to two decades since he was captain of a ship that might get sent on that sort of mission. And you know Worf, of course, but he spent his career on larger starships, not small cruisers."

"Right," Kira said. "Well, we'll just have to keep an eye on things." She paused, trying to gauge Ro's reaction. "How are you settling in on a personal level?"

"Fine," Ro said shortly.

Kira nodded, but let the silence linger for a bit before continuing. "How are you getting along with the deputies?"

"No problems, sir," Ro said.

Kira nodded again. Ro Laren was enough like her, she thought, to predict her reactions. Ro was prickly, independent, and would resent being coddled. But she'd also been thrown into a position she was unqualified for to sink or swim, and Kira had never in her life been as isolated as Ro probably was right now. And if she got space to talk, she might use it.

"Dax tells me she invited you to one of our holosuite outings," Kira said before the silence could get awkward.

"She did," Ro said.

"And you turned her down," Kira said. "Was that really because you were busy, or were you not interested?"

Ro shrugged. "Little of both. I really am that busy, but also, fantasy adventure really isn't my thing. I don't mind it, but it's not what I'd choose on my own. And then there was the fact that she volunteered your time without asking you. If you weren't interested, less awkward all around if I said no first."

"Fair enough," Kira said. "I've learned to enjoy the fantasy adventures, but they're more Dax's thing than mine. The spa days are really nice. What do you do to relax?"

"On the holodecks?" Ro said "Mysteries, puzzle games, and rock climbing."

"I don't know that I've ever climbed rocks as a hobby," Kira said. "How's it done?"

"There's two basic types, bouldering and walling," Ro said. "Bouldering is more like what you'd do on a mission: find a rock and climb over it, usually without going high enough to be dangerous, without any specialized equipment. Or not much; if you're doing it for sport usually you use special shoes and put chalk on your hands to help your grip, and put a mat below you to break your fall. Walling takes more equipment to do—you're climbing up a cliff face, or a wall that simulates a cliff face. Usually with a rope to catch you if you fall."

"You climb up cliffs?" Kira raised her eyebrows. "For fun?"

"I do," Ro said with a smile. "It's hard, but if you do it right it's not dangerous—especially in a holodeck—and you have the most incredible views and sense of accomplishment when you're done. I can show you some time, if you're interested."

"I am," Kira said. "If nothing else, it sounds like a more interesting workout than just lifting weights or running on a treadmill."

"It is," Ro said.

***

Ro eyed her inbox. She hadn’t responded to Captain Picard’s message, and the longer it took the more awkward it would get. But she still wasn’t sure what to say.

Fortunately, she had no shortage of other work to do instead. She went through her mental to-do list, decided that more studying of regulations and logs today would be counterproductive, and went on to the relatively easy tasks.

The interior security station comms still were not fixed. Ro pulled up the maintenance form, only to find it wasn't there. Not pending, not resolved, not denied, nothing.

She tapped her commbadge. "Ro to Yndar, I can't find the maintenance form for the security comms problem. Is there something I'm missing?"

"I'll check," he said. A few minutes later he called her back. "I can't find it, either. That's weird."

"It's not a known bug in the system?"

"No, sir, I've never seen it happen before. I wondered why it isn't fixed yet."

"Okay," Ro said. "Well, I'm submitting it again, we'll see if it gets eaten again."

***

Kira had to cancel her next holosuite outing with Dax; there was a minor diplomatic incident with the Romulans that turned out to be not so minor after all, and which needed in a truly infuriating amount of flattery and reassurances to smooth over. Kira actually wasn't directly involved with most of it; it had happened on the station, but (thank the Prophets) hadn't been caused by station personnel. Still, for someone who hadn't contributed to the problem, dealing with it took far too much of her time. Dax had been very helpful, both as executive officer and also with advice about the necessary diplomacy. Ro had handled the security aspects of it competently. Julian hadn't been involved at all. Belasco had kept as low a profile as possible, which was a relief given that he was even less suited to diplomacy than Kira was.

***

Ro double-checked the maintenance requests. The Security Station internal comms had been deleted from the queue again. She hadn't had time to worry about it (or much of anything else besides Romulan egos) while dealing with security for the Romulan ambassador. Now that things were back to normal, it was one of many things to check up on.

She tapped her commbadge. "Ro to Belasco."

"Belasco here."

"Your maintenance request system has problems. It's eaten two maintenance requests."

"Nonsense, it's working perfectly."

"How would you know that if it's eating requests?" Ro asked.

"Nobody else has complained."

"That just means it's an intermittent fault."

"If you submitted a maintenance request and it's no longer there, the request must have been submitted improperly. These Cardassian systems are a bit tricky, and you're new here."

"Deputy Yndar walked me through the process," Ro said. "He's been here since the Cardassians left, and knows the station backwards and forwards."

There was a pause. "What was the nature of the request?"

"Security's hardwired internal communications system isn't working."

Belasco scoffed. "That's a low-priority fix if ever there was one. You all have functional combadges, it's redundant."

Ro agreed; it was mostly there because the Cardassians were paranoid and wanted a system that would be harder to crack into even if you stole a Cardassian communicator. "Which is why I'm more concerned about the fact that your system is deleting maintenance requests."

"And again, nobody else has a problem."

"You mean, nobody else has reported a problem, which is not the same thing," Ro said. "Maybe they're just sitting around wondering why nobody's come to fix their issue yet."

"If it'll make you happy, I'll come fix your communications systems personally." There was a sarcastic edge to his voice.

"I don't care who fixes it." Ro reined in her temper. Belasco was an ass who hated her; she'd served with people like him before, and she probably would again. At least he didn't outrank her. "Fix your maintenance system. Ro out."

***

"Want a spa day?" Ro looked up to see Dax poking her head into the security office.

Ro glanced down at the file she was working on. Her shift was over, and it wasn't like the paperwork was going anywhere. "In the holosuites, I presume? How's the program's massage therapist?" She hadn't had a really good massage since leaving Enterprise, and it always helped her sleep. On DS9, a spa on the holosuite was probably the best option.

"Pretty good for a non-sentient hologram," Dax said. "Not at the level you'd need for serious therapeutic work, but perfect for ordinary massage."

"I would love to join you," Ro decided. "Give me ten minutes to wrap up what I'm doing?"

"Meet us in Suite 6," Dax said.

'Us' probably meant the Colonel as well. Ro wouldn't have necessarily chosen to hang out and get a massage with her CO, but on the other hand, Kira seemed to be competent and sensible and wasn't holding Ro's past against her, so it'd probably be fine.

Ro finished reading the report, signed off on it, and headed over to Quark's.

***

"You could have asked before inviting her," Kira protested as they changed into loose robes in the holosuite.

"I thought you liked her," Dax said innocently.

"I do!" Kira said. "But it's awkward socializing with subordinates, and a little warning would have been nice. Especially for a spa day."

"I’m your subordinate, too,” Dax said.

“That’s different,” Kira said. “We were friends for years before I took command of the station.”

Dax shrugged. “Being commanding officer doesn’t mean you have to be isolated. I like her, and it's a fun way of getting to know your senior staff better."

"Sisko never hung out at the spa with us," Kira pointed out.

"Ben gave dinners where he cooked for people instead," Dax said. "Besides, given what she's been through, I'd say she needs some simple, easy relaxation, and I like the spa, and I like people. And I want to be hospitable to our new staff."

"You haven't asked Belasco to do something," Kira said. "And I'd say he could use some simple, easy relaxation if anyone could."

"I did when he first got here," Dax said. "He turned me down. And then I saw the difference between how he treated his Bajoran subordinates and the Starfleet crew."

"Is there something I should be aware of?" Kira asked. You wouldn't think a single step on the promotion ladder would cut her off so much from the station grapevine, but she was constantly surprised how much less she heard about.

Dax made a face. "If it were enough to act on, I'd have told you already."

The holosuite door opened with a hiss and a little grinding noise; Quark was cheaping out on maintenance, as usual.

"Ro! Glad you could join us," Dax said. "Kira and I usually start with a dip in the hot tub and then a massage. What are your preferences?"

"Hot tub then massage sounds fine to me," Ro said, stripping off her clothes. She was fit, but with a variety of scars old and new that Federation medicine could have easily eliminated, if Ro had chosen it. She hadn't.

Kira had scars, too, that she hadn't allowed Julian to remove. She didn't want to do away with the physical reminder of some of the things she'd been through.

***

The hot tub was great. There were two pools, side by side, one set to a good temperature for Bajorans, the other set to Dax's comfort. It was a little odd to have someone in the same pool, but it wasn't bad.

"So," Kira said, "I hear they have spas on some Federation starships?"

"No," Ro said. She leaned her head back against the padded rest and consciously worked on relaxing each muscle group individually one at a time. "Enterprise had a salon, and there was a massage therapist attached to Sickbay that anyone could make an appointment with any time, but if you wanted something like this you had to use the holodeck."

"A massage therapist in sickbay?" Kira said.

"It's part of physical therapy," Dax explained. "We don't need one on the station, because if someone needs serious rehabilitation, we send them to Bajor. But a large exploring ship like Enterprise, which might not come back to a Federation port for months or years, needs to be able to do everything. Including long-term physical therapy and rehab."

"Huh," Kira said. She and Dax started debating where the line was between extravagance and caring for the well-being of people so far from home for so long.

Ro closed her eyes and let the conversation wash over her as she let all her tension seep out into the water.

***

Ro had been quiet in the hot tubs, but as they snacked on finger food before their massages, Dax asked her about what she was finding hardest to get used to on the station.

"You know, it's funny," Ro said. "This is the first time I've ever come into an assignment as a superior officer? When I was in Starfleet, I made it to lieutenant, got busted down to ensign for getting people killed, then I got assigned to the Enterprise and eventually promoted again. But I was still on the same ship, everybody already knew me both times I made Lieutenant. The people I was commanding knew me before I got the rank. And then in the Maquis, you don't—didn't—get outside assignments. You joined the crew of whoever wanted you, or wanted to follow you."

Kira noted that present tense. "The Resistance was like that."

"I know," Ro said. "We had our share of old Resistance fighters in the Maquis."

"Watch who you're calling old," Kira said dryly.

"Didn't mean it that way," Ro said with a grimace. "I've commanded people, and I've started my life over somewhere nobody knew me. I've done both multiple times. This is the first time I'm doing both at the same time."

Kira had never had to start her life over; not really. That was a major difference in their life experience. Still. "Coming here was a little like that, for me. I'd never served with strangers before, and I'd certainly never commanded them. And I had no idea what to expect from Starfleet officers, and most of what I did expect turned out to be wrong in one way or another. Captain—then Commander—Sisko was a great help, and I learned a lot from him."

"It's not that it's difficult," Ro said. "Just odd."

Dax chimed in with a story about Torias and his first squadron command, during advanced pilot training, and the trouble he had gotten himself into, and the conversation turned to stories about pranks and hijinks and stupid accidents they had done or seen in their careers.

***

Ro wasn't sure whether it was the sleep med or the massage, but she slept better that night than she had in a while. That only lasted until the handover briefing at the beginning of her shift the next day, when Deputy Gerjo noted that Belasco had fixed the internal comms system during beta shift the night before.

"Very thoughtful of him, to come in and handle it personally on his off shift," Ro said neutrally.

Gerjo rolled his eyes but didn't comment, and the briefing went on.

Ro got herself a cup of tea from the replicator and sat in her office, thinking. Belasco didn't like her, and this was a low-priority repair. She would have expected the comms repair to go to the very bottom of the priority list, and yet he'd come in to do it personally the very day it was reported to him?

She checked the surveillance logs—Ro wasn't thrilled about spending most of her working hours in a place with continuous recordings, but at least her office didn't have cameras, just a sensor on the door to report who went in and out, and when.

Belasco hadn't brought an assistant with him. This sort of work—tracing a fault that might be in one of several rooms, or in one of several interconnected computer systems—was usually done in pairs to speed things up.

He didn't like her, but he'd found a reason to be alone in her office while she was off-duty.

Ro had had fellow officers express their dislike of her through pranks on several occasions, both at the academy and on her first posting. She would have hoped that someone who rose to command a department on a joint station wouldn't pull nasty pranks, but she couldn't rule it out.

A quick search of her office didn't find anything.

A security scan, however, did.

Ro tapped her commbadge. "Ro to Colonel Kira."

"Kira here. Go ahead."

"Could you join me in my office, sir?" Ro said. "There's something you're going to want to see."

There was a pause.

"I'll be right there, Captain."

***

"He bugged your office?" Kira was shocked.

Ro shrugged. "Can't prove it was him. He's the only person who's been in here alone besides me since I got here, but I didn't do a security sweep when I moved in. It could have been here longer than that."

"Not much longer," Kira said. "Given the war and all the mess with his people and all the people who hated him because he was a changeling, Odo did regular security sweeps of his office and quarters. If this had been here before he left, he would have found it."

"Still doesn't prove that Belasco planted it," Ro said.

"You keep saying that, but you're the one who said it might be him," Kira said. "You don't like him."

Ro shrugged. "That's why I want to make sure we don't rush to blame him. I've spent a lot of time disliked and distrusted by my fellow officers, and had too many people assume I'd done things I hadn't just because it was an easy answer and they wanted to believe the worst of me."

"Whereas you'd rather they thought badly of you because of the things you'd actually done," Kira said, voice heavy with irony.

Ro nodded. "Yeah." She looked at the bug again. "And if he did do it, there's not much we can do unless we can prove it. Which might be a problem. It's a professionally made bug; high quality but generic. I checked on the specs and it's the sort of thing someone uses when they don't want it to be traced back to them. But it wasn't hidden very well, and if whoever planted it had known how to use it effectively, they could have made it a lot harder to find."

"So, someone with access to good equipment, but not a professional spy." Kira put her hands on the desk and leaned over it, examining the small bug.

"Exactly," Ro said. "And you never know. It might have been there for a while. It might have been planted by someone who wants to keep tabs on station security. It might have been planted by someone who could erase their entry to the station from the security logs."

"Somebody good enough to hack into the Security Office's computer would be good enough to set the bug properly," Kira said.

"Most likely," Ro said.

"Do we know if this is the only active bug, or are there others?"

Ro shrugged. "It's the only bug active in the security offices, ops, or the deuterium refinery. Those are the only places with enough security to do an automatic scan that would find it—it's small and designed to go undetected if possible. Anywhere else, we're going to have to send deputies to comb the station with hand scanners. Oh, and your office would also need to be scanned manually."

Kira grimaced. Of course the deuterium refinery—formerly the ore processing facility where the majority of Bajoran laborers had been forced to work during the Occupation—would have that kind of surveillance. "Let's do a full scan of the station."

"It won't pick up any bugs that aren't currently in use," Ro pointed out. "So if someone has a stash of them somewhere, we won't find them."

"I'll call Dax, see if she has any ideas."

***

"Well?" Ro asked.

Dax looked up from her tricorder. "Maybe."

"What's the problem?" Kira asked.

"There are a lot of electronic devices on this station, both station equipment and personal items." Dax shrugged. "The components in this device are a bit on the rare side, and some of the alloy combinations they had to use to get this much scanning and memory into a device this small are distinctive. But not distinctive enough to be easily identified, and there could be any number of legitimate devices made with similar materials. I can modify the tricorders to look for it, but it's going to be a short-range scan and there are going to be false positives. And there are also going to be places where the equipment in the walls will mask what's on the other side of them."

"How short a range?" Ro asked.

"Max range, with no walls or furniture or other things in the way, will probably be about five meters. If you're scanning through bulkheads, probably more like two or three meters, depending on what exactly is in the bulkheads."

Kira and Ro exchanged a glance. Ro shrugged.

"Not ideal, but it's better than nothing," Kira said.

"Problem is, if it is Belasco, he'll hear about the scan as soon as we start it, and dispose of any evidence," Dax said. "It's going to be hard to hide deputies combing the station with scanners. And even if we had every one of our officers and crew out looking, he'd still probably have time to move or destroy anything."

Ro nodded. "And if it's not Belasco, they might still be tipped off. And the bug was found in the security office; it might have been a deputy. They're the only people who spend a lot of time in here without an escort. So even just limiting the search to the deputies might not be enough."

Kira smiled. "I think I have an idea."

***

Ro looked at the crowd in the security staging area. It was the first time since she'd taken command of the department that they'd all been gathered into one place. The deputies were chatting desultorily. All were present, except for the few in the middle of their sleep cycle who would get briefed later. She called them to attention and began her briefing.

"We're going to be doing a training exercise and manually searching the station for surveillance devices, security weaknesses, contraband goods, and explosives. Some things have been planted for you to find. There will also be false positives. It is not your job to remove or diffuse anything you find at this time; we may be doing other exercises for how to handle that aspect of things later, but this current exercise is simply about searching the station. All you have to do is report your findings."

She explained the procedure, the rewards for the three people who found the most items of interest, and reminded them of the boundaries of Federation privacy regulations and how they applied to security scans without a warrant.

"And," she said, "we're also going to be practicing information security. If this were a real scan, if somebody had planted listening devices or a bomb or something, we would want to avoid tipping them off until we'd found our target. So! Consider this exercise classified until it is completed. And that includes your crewmates in other departments: nobody says anything to anyone outside the department until we're done. And if you can scan an area without looking like you're scanning it—or at least without anyone seeing you do it—so much the better.

Deputy Pinar raised a hand. "Sir, the scanning program is automated, right? We don't have to be watching it as it runs?"

"For the most part," Ro said. "But the scan will only work at a fairly short range, and there are a lot of things on the station that could block or distort it, so you'll have to check every so often to make sure you don't need to re-scan an area from a different spot or something. But no, you don't have to walk around staring at your tricorder while pretending you're not."

Ro waited a few seconds. "Any other questions?"

There was a general shuffling and shaking of heads.

"Dismissed."

***

By the end of the shift, as people were turning in their tricorders and signing out, many things had been found. None of them were what they were looking for, and only one was something Dax had planted as part of the exercise. It would take several days, at this rate, to scan the whole station.

"I expected more grumbling," Ro said to Deputy Yndar as they wrapped up the last few details and got ready to hand the station over to beta shift.

Yndar shrugged. "We've had enough problems with spies and saboteurs over the years that everyone can see the reason for it. And besides, patrol is either boring or exciting in the bad way. The competition livens things up a bit."

***

Given the limitations of the scan, Ro was almost surprised when they found what they were looking for.

And even more surprised that the stash of bugs was in Belasco's quarters. She hadn't thought he'd be stupid enough to keep them where they would obviously be his. If Ro had illegal surveillance devices, she'd put them somewhere she'd have plausible deniability if they were found.

She waited until after shift to call the Colonel. As far as the deputies were concerned, this was just another thing planted for them to find, and Ro wanted to keep it that way for now. She had an awful hunch about where he'd gotten those bugs.

***

"No lecture about Federation privacy rules?" Kira asked as Ro used her security override to open Belasco's quarters.

The door slid open, and Ro gestured her inside. "He's not a civilian, he's a Starfleet officer and you're his CO. You have the authority to search his quarters and personal effects at any time. And even if he was a civilian, the scan was perfectly legal, so it would be easy to get a warrant based on it."

"Good to know," Kira said.

It only took a few seconds for Ro's tricorder to find the bugs. They were in a box in a bureau by the door.

Ro scanned them. "No fingerprints or DNA on these ones, either," she said. "Whoever gave them to him was careful."

"We'll see if Dax can figure anything out," Kira said. "Meanwhile, it's time to have a chat with Mr. Belasco."

***

Belasco's confident walk into Kira's office faltered a bit when he saw Ro standing by her desk. Guilty conscience, Kira wondered? Dax was standing on Kira's other side, but it was Ro that Belasco kept glancing towards.

"Lieutenant Belasco," she said, gesturing to the box of bugs. "Would you care to explain why you used an illegal surveillance device to spy on your colleague?"

"You had no right to search my things," Belasco said, drawing himself up to his full height.

"So you admit they're yours?" Dax asked.

Belasco glanced at her but didn't respond.

"And as it happens, Lieutenant, I do have the right to search your things, as your commanding officer," Kira said. "And I'd like an answer to Commander Dax's question."

"Sir." Belasco said stiffly.

"Do you admit that these are yours?" Kira asked. "Do you admit that you planted a bug in the security office while you were in there to do maintenance?"

Belasco bit his lip, then decided to brazen it out. "What if I did? She's a traitor! She can't be trusted! And she has you in her corner, which I expected, you Bajorans are all thick as thieves together. But she got Commander Dax behind her, as well. There was no point in any official action, but I wanted to make sure that when she betrays us, we'll know."

"She has me behind her, Lieutenant, because unlike you, I listened to the people who actually knew her, instead of to my prejudices," Dax said pointedly.

"You're all taken in by her," Belasco said. "I don't know why, it's not like she's that charismatic—"

"I'm a pretty good judge of character, Belasco," Dax said. "I've had seven lifetimes to practice."

"Lieutenant," Kira said. "Refresh my memory. What do Starfleet regulations say you should do when you believe your superior officer is committing a dangerous mistake and nobody in your chain of command will listen?"

"Contact the Judge Advocate General's office, or the Operations Office, for advice, depending on what sort of mistake it is," Belasco answered promptly. He bit his lip and wouldn't meet her eyes. Not out of shame, but out of … something else.

"And you did, didn't you?" Ro said. "And whoever it was you got ahold of confirmed that I was a dangerous terrorist and a threat to the station and to all of Starfleet, but said their hands were tied and there was nothing they could do because the Bajorans were being irrational, and gave you the surveillance devices so you could prove it. Probably promised you a promotion and a better posting if you got intelligence they could use."

Belasco's jaw dropped. His mouth moved wordlessly for a few seconds. "I—I don't—That's absurd! Why would you think that?" He wasn't as convincing as he was trying to sound.

"When I was out of Starfleet the first time," Ro said, "Admiral Niles Kennelly gave me a secret mission. Officially, I was to make contact with a group of Bajorans who had attacked a Federation colony, to help the Enterprise settle things peacefully. Unofficially, I was to provide the group with weapons. Kennelly said that he knew the Cardassians were vicious, violent people, and a threat to the peace and stability of the whole quadrant."

This was a story Kira hadn't heard; she glanced at Dax, who gave a slight nod that she knew it; Worf must have told her.

"Kennelly said he wanted to ensure the group could defend themselves," Ro went on, "both because it was the right thing to do, and because anything that stopped or slowed the Cardassians in their goals could only be good for the Federation in the long run. But his hands were tied, officially, by the spineless cowards in the diplomatic corps who wanted to appease the Cardassians at any cost. But he could reinstate me and send me with secret orders. If I succeeded in arming the group without anyone realizing how they'd gotten the weapons, he would let me keep my commission and give me my pick of postings."

It sounded too good to be true, Kira thought. And if there was an admiral who favored Bajor that strongly, Captain Sisko would have called him in to help when they'd had conflicts with Starfleet or the Federation.

"Obviously he kept his word," Belasco said, "because otherwise you wouldn't have been in a position to betray Starfleet later."

"He didn't, actually," Ro said. "He couldn't. He was being court-martialed. You see, every single word he'd told me was a lie. He was actually working with the Cardassians. They were the ones who had destroyed the colony and framed Bajoran terrorists, to try and get the Federation involved on Cardassia's side. Kennelly was their patsy, but he also genuinely believed that a war would be good for Starfleet and that an alliance with the Cardassians would be good for the Federation. I figured out what was going on, and told Captain Picard, who was able to expose the whole thing. It was my courage and integrity in coming forward—even though I knew it might get my commission revoked, again, and sent back to prison—that got me my post on the Enterprise. Not Kennelly's machinations."

"I don't see what any of that has to do with me," Belasco said steadily. He was tense, and his eyes kept flicking between the two of them, Kira noticed.

"Your contact at Starfleet Ops wouldn't have been Admiral Kaluža, would it?" Dax asked. "She heads the right subdepartment for your complaint to hit her desk."

"How—" Belasco swallowed. "I don't know what you mean."

"I've had the misfortune of working with her before," Kira said. "Kaluža believes that Bajorans are violent thugs, and inherently untrustworthy. She's been working to keep Bajor out of the Federation since the idea was first floated shortly after the Occupation ended. I know of at least two separate occasions when negotiations were stalled because of things she had convinced Starfleet to demand, or various Federation ambassadors to ask for. And a separate one where she intentionally and maliciously edited a cultural briefing to make a new ambassador to Bajor look bad."

"If she's the one who gave you the bugs," Dax said, "I don't doubt she truly believed anything she told you about how untrustworthy Bajorans are. But she'd be delighted to have inside intelligence she could use to try and drive further wedges between Bajor and the Federation."

If Kaluža were the only stumbling block, Bajor would have joined long before the Dominion War, Kira mused. Bajor had never made too much of a fuss about her, because there were a few people like that on the Bajoran side of the negotiations, so they didn't exactly have the moral high ground. But there was no point muddying the waters to point that out.

"She can't prevent Bajor joining at this late date," Ro said. "But she could, for example, make it much harder for members of the Bajoran Militia who want to transfer to Starfleet to do so."

"If she's your contact, Lieutenant, I'm sure she thought her birthday had come early when you brought your concerns to her," Kira said.

"But whether you got the bugs from her or someone else, you should come clean," Ro said. "It will never be easier than it is right now. I know for a fact that there are a number of Starfleet officers like Captain Picard who have a great respect for people who realize their mistakes and own up to them. Whether you stick it out or confess, this is going in your record. Every future commanding officer you ever have will see that you tried to spy on a fellow officer, a Federation ally. The question is, what are they going to see next to that? Are they going to see you came clean and did the right thing? Or not?"

Belasco was wavering, Kira could see it in his eyes.

"Do the right thing," Dax said. "Starfleet should be better than paranoia and hate and spying on our allies."

Belasco opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked down. He shook his head, and looked up again. "I am serving Starfleet and the Federation as they need to be served," he said. "I wish you could see that, sir."

***

"Now what?" Ro asked after Belasco had left. He would be confined to quarters until he could be shipped off back to Starfleet.

"Now, we write our reports and leave it in Starfleet's hands," Dax said. "And hope we don't have an engineering crisis until we can get a replacement."

"We can't prove he did it," Ro said. "The evidence is circumstantial, and he never actually confessed."

"If he gets a good lawyer, he probably won't even be court-martialed," Dax said. "It'll be a black mark on his record, at worst."

"And there's a good chance he'll be targeted by Section 31 or any other unscrupulous senior officer looking for someone to do their dirty work with plausible deniability," Ro said.

Kira shrugged. "It's out of our hands now," she said. "Hopefully his replacement will be better. You did a good job, Captain; I was impressed with your professionalism. You didn't let your prejudices make you jump to conclusions, and you advocated for Belasco even though you didn't like him."

"Thank you, sir," Ro said.

***

Ro turned down Dax's invitation to dinner at the Replimat, and headed home as soon as her shift was over. As the doors to her quarters closed behind her, she sighed. It had been a long day without any good resolution for anyone. Belasco had no idea what he was in for, and he was going to be in a position to fall in with people who would amplify his worst traits. She wished they could have either gotten through to him, or gotten him out of Starfleet.

Still, at least they’d gotten him off the station so she wouldn’t have to deal with him any longer. And done it before he’d had a chance to spy on her. And her new CO liked her.

It wasn’t like the support she’d gotten from Picard; he’d believed in her, trusted her, given her space to prove herself. It had been what she needed at the time. But they’d had such different lives, and he’d been so much older and more experienced that there had been a large gulf between them even before she’d left Starfleet.

With Kira, she was closer to her age and experience, and there was a kind of camaraderie she could never have had with Picard.

But Ro was still grateful for everything she’d learned from him. And she’d put off calling him long enough.

Ro got herself a cup of tea from the replicator, and sat down in front of her communications screen. She started the recording. “Captain Picard, it was good to hear from you. I enjoyed meeting Ambassador Worf again, and his wife Lieutenant Dax and I are becoming friends. I was glad to hear that you and the new Enterprise came through the war well …”

[awmancreeper]

ミ★Just Say You Love me </3 . 20 - T as in Troy

--★ Kai’s friends roast him for not being in a relationship since he was 12. While Y/n tries to avoid getting into a relationship every week. One day Kai spots a familiar girl hiding in a tree finding out she was hiding from her 2nd confession that week. After hearing the university’s IT girl struggles Hyuka comes up with a plan.

Masterlist / prev / next

!!written parts!!

“Here’s your grape juice sir” you said handing Kai the drink as you sat down next to him. “Thank you” he said putting away his phone “what’s up?” You questioned as he shook his head “just the boys, they were curious about what I was doing” he told you opening the juice. “You look tired” you spoke watching the boy “well yeah you had me up all night watching that one show,” he laughed as you giggled too “Where’s everyone?” Kai asked taking a swig of his drink “they went to ride more rides but I told them I needed a break,” you said watching people around you “they wanted to stay but I told them you’d keep me company” you said bumping Kai with your shoulder. “Oh thank god, I thought I was only one” Kai laughed running his fingers through his hair. You laughed too “yeah I’m sorry about them” you told him but he shook his head “don’t be, although I see why they’d make you so tired; you need people like them to push you out of your comfort zone” Kai said looking over at you.

“I-if you don’t mind me asking how did you end up with friends like them?” He asked as you swung your legs back-forth. “If you haven’t realized yet it was all Yeji,” you looked up at Kai “I’ve known Yeji since elementary, she’s always been a social butterfly yet she does have her moments” you giggled thinking about your best friend. “She has something about her that makes everyone gravitate towards her, I haven’t figured out what yet”

“Whether it’s her confidence or kind smile i don’t know but I wish I did. I would love to have an ounce of her confidence” your fingers picked at the concrete planter you sat on “I suck at making friends so I followed her around like a lost puppy and I guess she knew that too so she started shoving me into the spotlight and I didn’t know what to do so I copied her and people liked what they saw”

“They only saw what they liked… I was this confident, sweet girl that had a bombshell of a best friend and that’s what I’ve been since high school” you saw Kai’s hand next to yours so your pinkie twitched towards it. “Soon people looked at me like how I looked at Yeji, they put me on this pedestal; wanting to be my friend or be me and I want to be ‘me’ too” you spoke the last part quietly “if I only had confidence” your eyes dart up towards Kai's face for a split second before taking his hand in yours. “I’m a nervous wreck hiding in box and I put on this mask but I get tired of pretending,” you said afraid to look at Kai’s reaction but he scooted closer taking your hand in both of his. Your eyes trace up his arm to his face, Kai smiled at you sweetly “but you…” you spoke without thinking making your face turn red “y-you gave me this rush, and I completely stepped out of my box”

“There’s something about you Huening Kai and I’m not sure what it is but Im gonna find out” you told him resting your head on his shoulder. “Will you be my girlfriend?” He spoke, but something about that made your heart hurt “w-what?!” You backed up. Kai quickly dug through his pocket and pulled out a small back box. “Kai-“ you began to freak out but he waved frantically “no it’s just my friends have been calling you my girlfriend but you're not and I think it’s about time we ‘made it official’” he did air quotes opening the little box. It was a silver necklace “is this from-“ you began but he scoffed “don’t read too much into it, it’s just something I got this morning and it’s not expensive I am just a university student with a minimum wage job” he ranted but you took the box for him. “Stop I love it!” You smiled brightly making his heart melt “I’m glad” he looked away flustered.

You held the necklace in your hand, the shoot Star charm left a weird feeling in your stomach. “Put it on for me” you held it out to him and he gladly excepted it. You moved your hair while Kai placed the necklace around your neck. An unfamiliar feeling hit you but it was quickly pushed away as something else hit you “T as in Troy?” You said looking back at him as he pushed your shoulder lighting “way to ruin the mood” he laughed. “THERE THEY ARE!” Sunoo’s voice yelled.

🝮🝮🝮🝮

You watched your surroundings fly by you as the tiny snorts coming from the seats behind you became background noise. Everyone was asleep in the car, Sunoo and Wonyoung using a sleeping Niki as a pillow in the back seats, Yeji slept peacefully against a large stuffed animal yeonjun won her, and there was Kai who sat on the seat next to you also sleeping on a Molang plush he made you buy him. You played with your necklace looking at the night sky when a voice broke your train of consciousness.

“Pretty necklace” Yeonjun softly said from the driver seat as he drove. “I know” you responded just as quietly, “where’d you get it?” He asked you looked over at him as he tapped the wheel “because I know you didn’t have it when I picked you up today” he explained.

“Kai gave it to me,… when he asked me to be his girlfriend?” You whispered the last part but Yeonjun still heard “h-he did, what did you say?” “I’m wearing the necklace, aren’t I” you laughed as he joined “I guess that was a stupid question huh?” He chuckled.

“Why didn’t you tell us yet?” Yeonjun asked. You shook your head “I guess I just wanted it to be just for me… at least for a bit, you know how that is” you told him as he nodded “I know but why not me?,” he spoke and continued “we tell each other everything, but lately you’ve been keeping things from me; like this guy! Trust me I get why you’d keep something’s from me I mean I am your-“ “I know! Im sorry but like I said I just wanted it for me” you said smiling to yourself “okay… I guess I’ll give the guy a chance” Yeonjun grumbled making you scoot as much as you can toward him

“Really?!” You asked excitedly “yeah I have a feeling he’s gonna be around for a while plus he’s not that bad could be worse” he shrugged “yay! Thank you Junnie” you smiled as he rolled his eyes “yeah yeah”

“Just promise me if something happened between you two; you’ll tell me” he asked you nodded happily “of course”.

[neewtmas]

(sending this from my main account bc tumblr doesn’t allow asks from side blogs)

i kinda struggle w social anxiety, which includes online interactions bc i’m scared of doing the wrong thing accidentally (with mutuals too 😭), but i’m coming out of my shell to say that i really appreciate what you did for the holdays!! i could really see how close-knit and welcoming this fandom space is because of your appreciation calendar (even though i was too shy to submit anything at the time), and i think it’s also helping me take another step to opening up to others and trying to make more online friends ☺️

so tldr, tysm for making ppl feel appreciated for the holidays and tysm for being an encouragement/inspiration to improve my social skills 🩵🩵

Hey!! This is such a nice message🥹

Honestly, I totally get you, it can be so difficult to come out of your comfort zone and it makes me so happy that I could help you a little with that🫂

I think I speak for myself and everyone around her when I say that there is really nothing you can do wrong - I know just saying that probably doesn't mean much to your anxiety, but it's so true!! There is nothing better than getting an ask from someone, it's such an essential part of tumblr. I am most definitely super happy about every ask i get, yours included!!!

I'm sure you'll have no issues making friends, especially not in this fandom. My inbox is always open :)🫂🫶🏻

Also please don't feel bad because you didn't submit anything for the advent calendar - it was never meant to put pressure on anyone and you are so appreciated even if you're just silently cheering from the sidelines💫

[ryqoshay]

Cattywampus: Cat Nap

Primary Pairing: ShikiMei Rating: G Words: 928 Fandom: Love Live Superstar Time Frame: Not long after the two join Liella Events: Femslash February 2023 Event Source: @femslashfeb Prompt: Asleep

---------

Author’s Note: It’s still before midnight on Midway Atoll, so I’m technically posting this still on the 16th, just not in my time zone...

Summary: Mei finds Shiki asleep in the science room

---------

“Shiki?”

Silence was the only response from within the science clubroom.

However, Mei could very clearly see Shiki sitting on her usual stool. Or was it that blasted skeleton again? Mei grumbled to herself at the memory of one of the pranks… tactics? Shiki had used to trick… guide? her into joining Liella. She made her way across the room, assuring herself she was prepared for whatever Shiki had in st…

She wasn’t prepared.

Mei’s heart skipped a beat at the sight that greeted her as she rounded the chair. The sight of Shiki, sound asleep.

Cute. By the gods, she is cute like that.

But is that position comfortable? Mei found herself wondering. Well, even it if is comfortable now, she’ll definitely be sore later after slouching like that…

Mei glanced around the science room. Where could she move her friend to allow for a better napping position? Perhaps she could simply slide Shiki against the nearby shelves? No. Mei shook her head and dismissed that idea. If Shiki were to lean against the display cabinets, the wheels on the stool would allow it to roll out from under her.

Hrm… Oh. When did we get those boxes? Mei noticed the new items near the other wall. Maybe Shiki had secured more equipment? In any case, the way they were arranged made them look a little like a bench. A bench that was probably more stable than the stool if they were sturdy enough.

Mei stepped over to the boxes to perform a quick test. Then, once satisfied, returned to Shiki.

“Shiki, you shouldn’t sleep here.” Mei murmured, stooping to gently rouse her friend.

“Mmm…” Shiki hummed softly, stirring only slightly.

“C’mon, let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.” Mei pulled an arm over her shoulders.

“… Mei…?” Shiki’s eyes finally opened a bit.

“W-Wait, Shiki, w-what are you…?” Mei sputtered as Shiki pulled her down and wrapped her other arm around her.

“Mei…”

Mei felt heat rising in her cheeks. Part of her wanted to break free and run. But another part of her… strangely, wanted to return the embrace, despite the awkward position.

After a few moments of indecisiveness, Mei realized Shiki’s breathing had returned to its earlier, shallow rhythm. Did she fall back asleep?

“Shiki.” Mei muttered. “Hey, I can’t stay like this forever. I’m going to fall over or something.”

No response.

Mei cursed under her breath before finally pulling upward. Slowly, Shiki rose along with Mei’s prompting, but continued to lean heavily on her as the two made their way to the boxes.

“Alright, down you go.” Mei said, lowering Shiki gently. She then tried to stand back up but found herself unable to do so. “Ne, Shiki. Let go.”

“… Mei… come nap with me…”

“Eh?” Mei felt her pulse quicken.

“… Jus’ for a little while…”

Mei sighed. “Fine. Just for a little while.”

Mei twisted herself down until she was sitting beside Shiki. Right beside Shiki. As in their hips were touching. And Shiki’s arm was around her shoulders.

Shiki let out a content sigh and leaned against Mei. Now more than just their hips were touching.

Mei felt like steam would start shooting out of her ears at any moment. By the gods was this embarrassing.

Embarrassing… yet… comfortable. Very comfortable.

Mei felt a yawn escape her before her eyelids started to droop.

Maybe… Just maybe, this wasn’t so… b…

---------

Mei opened her eyes. How long had she been out?

As her senses kicked in, she became aware of warmth at her side. Oh, right, she had fallen asleep next to Shiki.

Mei blinked to try to focus her vision. Eh? What was that?

“Ne, Shiki.”

“Mei. You’re awake.”

“Yes. I am. But why are you looking at pictures of me asleep?”

“Because Mei is cute when she is sleeping.” Shiki moved her phone as though to give Mei a better view.

“Were you pretending to be asleep that whole time just to get pictures of me?”

“No. I woke up only a few minutes ago, wondered how I got here for a moment, realized that Mei had moved me, realized Mei was still here with me, then decided to take these pictures because Mei looked cute.”

Mei growled.

Click

“Hey!” Mei protested another shot.

“Mei is cute when she is grumpy too.”

“Hmph…” Mei huffed and crossed her arms.

She didn’t bother telling Shiki to delete the pictures as she had given up that battle back in middle school. And, if she was being completely honest, it didn’t actually bother her as much as she portrayed that it did. At least if the one taking the picture was Shiki. She was still a bit hesitant about the motives of someone like Natsumi. At least Shiki was happy to keep the pictures to herself.

“We should head home soon.” Shiki suddenly said before standing.

Immediately, Mei missed the warmth at her side.

“Thank you for joining me in a cat nap, Mei.” Shiki continued. “It was more comfortable with you next to me.”

“Mm…” Mei hummed a neutral response, finding herself unable to fully admit how comfortable she had been as well. “It’s a shame practice was cancelled today.” She said instead, as she also stood. “I’m feeling more energized now.”

“Shall we go for a run before heading home?”

A run? Mei wouldn’t say that would have been her first choice of ways to spend a little more time with Shiki before going home, but… “Alright.” She agreed.

Shiki nodded and the two left the science room together.

---------

Author’s Note Continued: “Cattywampus. Adjective. Meaning askew or awry. Positioned diagonally or cater-cornered.” - Shiki, when I first started writing for the ship.

And with that, I’ve settled on an overall title for my ShikiMei section of my kinda sorta canon-compliant’ish, combined fic universe of How to Handle a Nico, Happy Life, Tri-Arame, and now Cattywampus. I hadn’t figured out this title back when I first started writing ShikiMei fics back during IFH’s Promptober, but the prompt that got me writing them has stuck with me since then. Cattywampus just works for what I have in mind for this couple.

And I’ve already thought about some ways to play off of it, like I just did with this chapter and Cat Nap. Mei’s vision is skewed by her refusal to wear glasses, so that fits. Mei has catlike eyes, so going with cat again. Mei’s temperamental personality could be described as catlike, and I fully intend to have Shiki lampshade that with some teasing at some point. And I’m sure I’ll come up with more as I write more.

May or may not be worth mentioning that I actually grew up learning the variant of Kittywumpus. But then I also grew up in the only state in the Union that goes with grey duck instead of goose, so maybe it’s a local thing. In any case, according to a quick Google search, Catawampus was the original version, or Catawampous, if you go with what Dickens wrote in Martin Chuzzlewit back in 1983. Yay weird words and etymology.

[crowtrobotx]

Man, I know you shouldn’t do this. But I was staring with increasing bitterness at the kudos/hits on Chrysalis and sinking further and further into the whole “what even is the point” mindset I’m so prone to. Probably this was triggered by having come to expect a handful of kudos with each new chapter and this time I didn’t get… any.

I think Bri is probably the only person who knows how personal this fic is to me and how much of myself I’ve poured into it. And I don’t really want to divulge what that means to everyone - maybe one day - but just rest assured this fic isn’t just the manifestation of an irrational love of a video game character (which it is, of course) but it’s… somewhat healing for me. And a gift to myself. And it took a lot, and I mean A LOT, for me to even put it out there.

I’m not saying everyone needs to shower me with praise and affection at all times, or that I think I’m uniquely incredible at what I do, or that I need validation to keep going - I am much more motivated by spite anyway lol. And I for sure don’t want to minimize the folks who have been devotedly commenting on every chapter, have texted me outside of here/AO3 to talk about it, have made FAN ART (which is crazy!!!!), have reblogged every chapter and sent me asks. I appreciate it so so so much and it means more to me than I could ever verbalize.

But like, damn. Sometimes the sadness has hands and sometimes it’s the absence of folks you thought would be there that’s all you can see, y’know?

And then I decided to look at the other Heisenberg/OC fics, and the ones that are purely platonic, and basically anything that isn’t 2nd person w/smut or part of a popular canon x canon ship. I looked at ones that came out right around the game’s release, ones that came out last week.

And like, damn. Chrysalis has a staggering amount of engagement in comparison, especially when you consider I published it two years late. I didn’t have an AO3 account at all until fucking February 2023. And that makes me feel sort of good, but now I’m just mad again lmao. You should not have to jump into things at peak popularity or have an established following or include popular pairings/tropes to have your work get noticed. I mean, logically, I know this is just how media and art works to an extent - and I’m not saying people who do write/create in the popular fandoms for popular ships are doing something wrong - but it really shows how unwilling folks are to step outside their comfort zones and read things that they think they’re not interested in or won’t like.

There are platonic, x oc, rarepair etc fics that are so stunningly beautiful that it feels criminal for them to only have a handful of commenters and kudos. And honestly the people writing these are doing so with an insane amount of passion because you HAVE to in order to keep finding the strength to publish that next chapter when you know you’re explicitly going against what people insist they want. Again, this extends to more traditional art forms too - how many fucking brilliant books and paintings are out there gathering dust because the creator didn’t have the right connections or they didn’t make something that had mass appeal?

I always try to do the “what advice would I give to someone in my position” exercise with stuff like this. And of course I would reference the reality that if you have ONE person who is cheering you on, it’s a whole complex person you’ve made happy and that’s a miracle in and of itself. And some folks don’t WANT to be noticed - they are much happier with small circles and good for them! But also - I don’t think people are wrong when they start feeling crummy from seeing their work get steamrolled or comparatively ignored.

Idk. Idk where I’m going with this except to say I really wish people would expand their fic libraries (and their media/art consumption in general) to include more than just whatever the current hyperfixation is because it gives them serotonin. Take a chance on something different, within reason. (I know someone will try to respond with OH SO YOU’RE SAYING I SHOULD TRIGGER MYSELF or something like good god, no.)

There are some truly awesome popular works and creators out there. Please don’t interpret this as me being some bitter small platform blog ranting because I’m not being elected prom queen. All I’m doing is thinking out loud and sorting through my own spaghetti brain. I think I’m gonna spend part of this weekend sorting fics with the least engagement/popularity first and leaving some comments on them.

It’s a brave and beautiful thing to make and then share art, no matter the form it takes. People deserve to be reminded of that. Frequently.

[shushthisaintmytumbla]

a year in the books - 8/9/22

It always just amazes me how much can change from the previous time I write here. I have definitely neglected this space for quite some time (longer than usual) as its been almost a YEAR! It’s always so insane to see how much has changed and where i am now from where i was in the last post. I truly don’t even know where to begin, but I guess i will just state the fact that tomorrow is my one year anniversary of living in NYC.... HOWWW?! So much has happened over the past year. New friendships, self growth, hurt, feeling lost, finding myself, you name it its happened. Its crazy to read my last post and see how un settled this city made me feel. I can now leave my apartment and get just about anywhere by memory. I have so much to say and update on so I guess we shall start with a big part of my last post. D. 

Wowow i don’t know what to say but girlllll you were just getting started with this heartbreak. To say being in a toxic relationship is difficult is just an understatement. Its definitely been one of the biggest struggles from the past year. I have been hurt countless times, but yet i still find myself stuck in the same place. From where I was a year ago, I’ve been back and forth and pulled in every direct. From a genuine relationship to a hook up to a toxic friendship to friends to enemies and back, we still gravitate towards one another. Our relationship makes zero sense to me, but id like to think my mental state of the relationship has begun to take positive steps out of the toxicity. It’s hard to say what the future looks like but all I can hope is that I find a way through this muddy path. I know I am capable and I hope to continue to work on finding my way out... I guess thats all I can really say.

other than THAT! lol so so so much good has happened. Sometime after this post I pushed myself out of my comfortzone to make nyc MY city with MY friends. It took some trial and error, but through a literal friend dating app I found my best friends who I now could not imagine life without. Were literally going on our second trip together this weekend like thats how freaking amazing they are. They make NYC home and I couldnt be more grateful. Not only do I have them, but ive been able to connect with people who I barely knew im college, I have molly and her friends and I even had brooke (who unfortunately just moved back to LA) for so much of the past year. Once i got out of my comfort zone this city really openned up to me. My friends here are the reason I love new york as much as I do and for that I am forever grateful.

Not only have my relationships changed, but MY JOB changed. This I never thought I’d be saying a year ago, mostly because I thought my job was going to be the coolest thing ever. It was at first, dont get my wrong, but once things set into place i realized the scam that is reality TV lol. I am now at a new job that has been one of the most challenging ones yet. Hold onto your seat bc you wont believe this... I AM SO BUSY. I thought i was cursed w boring jobs hahah but not the case anymore!! I really really struggled the first few weeks, but id like to think im getting the hang of it now. Its still in influener marketing which I enjoy, but now i do everything from sourcing talent to contracting to runnning a full campaign. I hope to stay in this role for a bit and grow at the company because it definitely seems like there is a ton of room for it. Im excited to see what the future holds w this career path.

Another big thing is I started therapy this year! It is something ive always been so scared to do, but something i really needed. I am so good at venting to an online portal, but actually seeking a mental health outlet has been so good for me. Sometimes i doubt my progress, but ive been able to open up a lot more and id like to think its made me more overall healthy. 

I feel like thats a pretty lengthy update on the life status for now, but i hope to come back soon w even more life  wins and not go so long without writing here! I am so so excited to see what the future holds, how my nyc life will progress, and what new challenges will come my way to make me even stronger. 

xx,

C

[lisatheiguana]

going through and navigating my 20's has me feeling a mixture of things: curiosity, fear, joy, love, sadness, anxiety, regret and much more.

sometimes all at once, sometimes individually, sometimes in pairs.

i'm aware this is all so normal and it may never go away as this is what we call "experiencing life", but if i'm being honest w/ myself, i do hate the fact that covid took away part of my youth. i feel like that time was meant for me to truly discover myself.. what are my passions? hobbies? do i enjoy the party life? or am i reserved at heart?

after covid, i felt as if i couldn't really answer the questions i had for myself b/c 1. i developed social anxiety which was surprising for me and 2. i felt as if i was too "old" to go out and discover myself. i allowed myself to fall into a pattern of settling which ended up becoming my daily routine for quite some time.

and then the year of '23 was quite eye opening. quite a few life changes had occurred and many of them were very drastic. i had to learn how to navigate myself through it all and i will admit it was quite difficult. i had even more questions for myself and it felt overwhelming at times b/c more questions were being added to a list of unanswered ones. but i'm glad i got to answer a few. the year didn't feel like a waste to me in terms of personal growth and for once i could finally say "i think i'm getting somewhere". i will say that the summer of '23 was truly was the best summer i've ever had though. stepping out of my comfort zone and trying new things was quite refreshing. i do owe a lot of thanks to the people i have in my life for these experiences. i'd say i made a few core memories, like who knew i'd enjoy crocheting (didn't bother doing it again after, although i did enjoy my night thoroughly), going to soca or die, played ping pong for my very first time, seeing my best friend get married, experiencing a different type of love after losing one and more.

i'm slowly coming to terms that although i am getting older, i am still young. it's never too late for me to try new things and to live in the present just a little more. can i say i'm happy where my life is right now? no, but i can say that i'm happy it's finally working on being on the right track :)

[make-me-your-animal]

ummmm hiiiiii? so weird question, whom out of the leppards (i’m calling them that now fuck it) would be a good match/fit for me? i guess i should provide some tidbits about myself.

i am NOT one to take life seriously at all. i like to live spontaneously, in the moment, i keep myself pretty grounded and humble. people would say i’m sweet and kind, funny (i try a bit too hard sometimes). and i guess smart too haha. i like to crack a joke here and there. and i love someone who can genuinely laugh at them.

i don’t do drugs, drink or smoke. but i’m not against anyone else who does. just don’t do it chronically, ya hear?

i’m short, five foot two only. i’m not incredibly skinny though. i am a foodie after all.

i love music, music is my lifeblood. i love to dance to it. i primarily like classic alt and new wave. but disco/dance/r&b and love/power ballads are also my thanggg.

i love to write, although i’m not the best at it. i try to get out sometimes, although im not the most sporty. i would consider myself semi-athletic.

my biggest insecurity is my anxiety. i am shy and quiet when i’m first getting to know you and when i meet you for the first time i may act strange. that’s just part of my quirky nature. i also tend to warm up pretty fast. and once i do… i become pretty talkative, haha

i have a love-hate relationship w being around people… i really appreciate someone who’s more acquainted with people and is flexible and encouraging with me in a social scenario, ie making me come out of my shell, holding my hand as i step out of my comfort zone, etc. i’m not afraid to try new things, although i’ll have a tiny bit of a panic attack about it first.

bottom line. if you like to have a good time, then i’m all in!

oh, and i’m also an aquarius… like that matters any. only child, too. so i do get lonely easily…

thanks!!!

~rem 💜

One of the Rick's. I'm leaning more toward Rick savage. But also Rick allen is the biggest goof ever. And a big sweetheart.

[yuuana]

Music Monday #241: Chungha - Eenie Meenie (feat. Hongjoong (ATEEZ)) release: March 2024 genre: Kpop cw: flashing, mild lens flare, lasers

Who me, playing favorites? Of course I am. Are we surprised? Not if you've been here for more than a hot minute, I'm sure. XD Besides, this song has been stuck in my head, catching me off guard any time it wants, since the day of its release. And not just because of the featuring artist, dammit. XD

Amused that the captain who insists we should only have eyes on him is the first to feature on an outside artist's track. Not at all surprised though that from the moment she started talking about it, Chungha had nothing but praise for Hongjoong, crediting him with helping her step out of her comfort zone a bit on this song (he has writing and producing credits). I wouldn't go quite so far as to call it pirate pop, but there's a fun and slightly funky vibe to the beat, at least partly from that string bass syncopation that's the grounding for the whole song. Chungha alternates between sung and spoken lines, utilizing more of her vocal range in the process. How deep a read you want to do on the song is up to you - on the surface, it's a girl power bop about having one's choice in boyfriends. If we look a bit deeper, one finds a call to know yourself well enough to know what you want and to not settle for something less.

There's enough breaks away from the performance of the song's dance to keep this from being a performance video as such, but I wouldn't say the video has a particular narrative thread to it, either, and we are completely fine with that. Instead we get three minutes of Chungha and her dance team in a variety of settings, from a back alley to the middle of a street, a closed coffee house to an actual sound stage. The choreography is looks deceptively simple in the way that it flows like water to the beat.

There is a performance video, like the music show stages, it's just Chungha and her dancers, with Chungha doing lip sync to Hongjoong's rap. It better shows off the choreography for that part that isn't centered in the MV, since Hongjoong was directed to just go with the flow and do what felt right for the vibe rather than worrying about specific moves. This was likely in deference to the fact that they only had him for a few hours -- the reason the music shows have been Chungha only is that ATEEZ's schedule has had them in Japan for most of the last month and in fact Hongjoong flew in (and back out the same day) to shoot the video around his other schedules. Keen eyes will also catch both the Crazy Form bunny move the dance crew does during the rap section (a move the choreographer specifically put in to honor ATEEZ), as well as Hongjoong's own Bouncy reference. Some Atiny have been quick to jump on the silver chain mask of the masked dancer as another ATEEZ callback, though it isn't exactly the same as the Z lore mask, but hey, close enough? And if that was the intention, then it's another sweet gesture from a seonbae towards her hoobae.

Eenie Meenie (and it's c/w I'm Ready) is available via the usual streaming options. As much as I would love to have seen a live stage with both Chungha and Hongjoong, I know better than to expect it. Still, a jagu can dream, right? ;)

Want to see Music Monday deep dives more often? Sponsor a song selection! For the low, low price of one (1) KoFi, I'll write up the song of your choice. ANY song of your choice. Yes, even that one that's been played to death. Yes, your obscure faves too. With sponsors, I can stop skipping weeks and falling further and further behind in the releases! Sponsor a current CB for the next open Music Monday slot or sponsor a throwback for a Thursday feature! But seriously, if you've been enjoying my selections and analyses, we (me and the foster kittens) would love a KoFi in thanks. DW | Twitter | Mastodon | Bluesky | Ko-fi | Patreon | Discord | Twitch

[crescentcityhellmouth-rpg]

Out Of Character

Name/Alias: Chey Age: 27 NSFW Personal Preference: I’m comfortable with smut but Its not really my specialty. I don't mind using fade to black. Series/Season: Up to S5. Canon Changes: No canon changes. Activity Level: Mostly afternoon or midnight. Time Zone: EST. RP Experience: 7yrs on tumblr. Best Mode of Contact: Discord.

In-Character

Desired Character: Stiles Stillinski Age: 18 OTP / NOTP: Stiles x Lydia Housing: House in the Garden District.

Interview questions.

01. Give us your thoughts on New Orleans?

"New Orleans is G R E A T, wonderful really - y'know, minus the high mortality rate."

02. Tell us how you feel about your species, and if you could change it what would you choose to be and why?

"i''m human, and living here, well, life expectancy for someone like me is AT MOST a month. not worried at all, totally cool."

03. Please describe the most important person to you and why?

"My dad, scott, lydia, the p a c k. yeah, actually they're all pretty fricken important."

04. Detail a specific point in time that has detrimentally changed you?

"probably that time i was possessed by a deranged dark kitsune that tormented my friends for fun. i watched it all happen. i couldn't do anything. i had all this p o w e r, but i was powerless. i couldn't stop. they were suffering. suffering because of M E. it was me.. and there was nothing i could do. i just watched. I just watched her die."

05. Explain (a few) bad habit(s) in detail that you’ve picked up over the years, if you remember when you started it describe that pivotal moment as well as what you’ve tried to do to cope with it?

"i got this problem where i make everyones problem my problem. i probably shouldn't.. well, get in the middle - do things that go against every moral fiber of my being - but i can't help it. i gotta help. i can't just.. y'know... not know. It's what I do, its who i am, maybe its morbid curiousity.. or a calling or whatever."

Playlist.  

• My Body — Young Giant • Wheres My Mind — The Pixies • I Feel Like I'm Drowning — Two Feet

Paragraph sample.

Stiles drove down the dirt path and parked his jeep at the very edge of the bayou, his headlights cutting through the thicket of trees sending little animals scurrying away. He reached into his backseat, grabbed his trusty bat, and just like always, Stiles went off to chase a lead. he'd been following along on the radio like he often did against his fathers wishes, listening into officers calls for fresh news. he had a knack for meddling in any and all dangerous things. maybe it was the adrenaline or maybe it was the adderall he'd taken. the air was thick and muggy, the worst scenario for a swamp as the mosquitos drawn by sweat clung to him desperately for a taste. he swatted them away wildly. trudging his way through the wet earth that suctioned onto each step he took. he began to wrestle his way through the most dense part of the underbrush like a puppet with it's strings being pulled in different directions all at once. tightening his grip on the bat, he clicked on the flash light he'd brought in his breast pocket, turning 360 to decide which way to go. further and further he went until the ground gave a way beneath him. His foot catching under a gnarled root, he toppled over, slidding down a small trench with a shriek. surely the sound alerting any predators of his vulnerable state. stiles glanced up, his face streaked with grime as he flipped himself over and scrambled to grab his flashlight. but as he reached out for it, he seen a set of bare feet focused in front of the light. "what in the actual.." he groaned, looking up to meet a girl with brunette hair plastered wet to her pale face from the recent rain. in a panic he reached for his weapon, fingers slipping momentarily before catching hold. her eyes were glowering down at him through the darkness, bright and burning yellow like the sun.

[taviewritesstuff]

Into the Depths, Part 1

A/N: And now for something a little different!

I was working on a snippet for the FLaG universe again, because it’s the current H-B universe that has a hold on my heart.

This was inspired by a sermon I was listening to yesterday about stepping out of your comfort zone. Aside from the realization that I need to do that, I instantly thought of Dum-Dum. And that led to me writing this for about two days.

This is also Cat’s first appearance, and I wanted to try writing her more, too. More in Parts 2 & 3!

—

"It is time for you to fully awaken, Keeper."

"W-What?" Dum-Dum stared at His Eminence, though doing so caused the backs of his eyes to burn. It was as if he were staring into the sun. "B-But I thought..."

"You tapped into this power, my power, in a moment of righteous fury. I'm not condemning you for that. But you've only begun to discover your power. You have the potential to become the most powerful Keeper of the Crown the world has seen...and yet, you are holding yourself back."

"I-I am?"

"You have suffered for your position, and have been subjected to unspeakable torture. The latter has left a mark on your soul, one that cannot be erased easily. And because of what happened, you have been afraid to truly accept your role, and your powers."

Dum-Dum swallowed, knowing what He was referring to.

"However, if you truly want to set yourself apart from your forebears...if you truly want to make the world a better place for both yourself and those you love...then you will have to go into the depths, Keeper. You will have to allow yourself to sink."

"B-But if I sink, I-I'll drown!"

"Only if you allow yourself to."

"W-What does that mean?"

"Too many of your forebears have drowned in power, and it did them hardly any good."

"I-If that's the case, then, why'd you choose me? Why me to hold these powers?"

"Because out of the clan, you have the pure heart required to wield both the Crown and Oathkeeper. What you lack, however, are the nerves of steel and courageous will to continue. You have resigned yourself to your fate...but you haven't fully accepted it."

"Huh...I wonder why that is..."

"If I may be so blunt, it's because of your fear. You fear losing yourself to anger like your grandfather before you, or seeping in bitterness like your great-uncle before you."

Dum-Dum stared at the mirage of His Eminence, unable to reply to that. It was true. His grandfather's pursuit of the power that came with being a Keeper led to him committing all sorts of crimes, and Great-Uncle Dugan had been old, sad, and duty-bound. The first thought he had when he'd been named the Keeper was that he'd end up like his great-uncle: dying alone, with no family, no friends, no loved ones to spend the rest of his life with.

His mind wandered to a certain feline in his life, and he shook his head--though it wasn't enough to erase the heat that rose to his face.

A low, rumbling chuckle. "I know I cannot speak on such matters, but the heart wants what it wants."

"Uh...w-well, I haven't told 'er anythin' yet. Besides, I don't even know if she likes me..."

"You might be surprised, Dum-Dum. Things have a way of sorting themselves out."

"R-Right..."

“However, I must warn you that if you truly want to protect her, and the rest of your entourage, then you must complete your training. Your grandfather lied when he told you that it had been completed."

"Y-you mean, t-tappin' into your power was the first step?"

"The first step of many, Dum-Dum. You stepped out of your comfort zone to unlock it, but you have remained at the shallow end for far too long. You are too content with your current progress."

Dum-Dum found himself standing at the edge of a beach, the water above his ankles. The coolness of the ocean and the graininess of the sand almost felt real. The mirage of His Eminence was no longer in front of him, but standing behind him. Dum-Dum saw His reflection looking down at him with almost fatherly concern.

He processed everything carefully. Yes, he was wielding Oathkeeper with greater efficiency and skill, and wearing the Dugan Crown no longer filled him with dread. But he couldn't deny what he was feeling in his heart. Even at his current level, ther was always a sneaking suspicion that he could do better, that there was more for him to unlock.




[levmada]

First Times Anthology, ch6.5: let go

work summary » Intimate, vulnerable, gentle. Concepts Levi is a stranger to, until you.

ch.summary: You and Levi have a heart-to-heart. There was never going to be another answer—it’s time to let go. Afterwards, you both step outside your comfort zones.

content/warnings: healthy communication😌, brief description of a panic attack, Erwin gives romance advice, so much love, use of tobacco, Hange being a menace, oral (f!m!receiving), edging (m!receiving), light subspace/description of subdrop, eating Levi out, slight exhibitionism, confessions, multiple orgasms (m!receiving), light use of gags/restraints (f!m!receiving), (very) heavy petting, bittersweet end, everyone is fragile

wc: 16.6k

a/n: I AM SO EXCITED FOR THIS!! beware, this chappy is mainly 10k words of smut 😭 with lots of emotions. i even got all weepy while editing one of these scenes (guess).

i feel like it's also helpful to add that it's year 849 (1 year before canon aot) seeing how this is a precanon fic n all.

only one left :33 i hope u guys enjoy. also this song goes well w/ this chapter!

previous part・work masterpost・next part

Listened to while writing:

taglist: @peace-for-levi | @sckerman | @jayteacups | @levi-my-beloved | (if you’d like to be added, lmk!)

When the frigid night air hits him, Levi tugs his suit jacket tighter around himself and descends the marble steps. Without thinking he does so two at a time, but the tension leaves his shoulders when he sees that you haven’t gone far at all.

Around the paved path, bunches of carriages form an arc. Every one of them looks the same, as if one after another they’ve been cloned, but there’s only one dark silhouette donning a flowing dress: you.

He’s confident, because even if he got the carriage wrong (which isn’t likely; Levi has a good memory), he’d always know you, even while draped in shadows.

You look like a helpless little thing that’s been locked out of the house for too long. Once your head shoots up in his direction, there’s surprise, crumpled relief, and then a mask of neutrality falls over face; count that as double when he gets past the quip that you look extremely shitty and he goes to ask what’s wrong. He knows all the tells of your anxiety—tearing at your sleeves, scraping the cuticles around your fingertips raw—but he won’t assume anything of you when you look so out of sorts like this.

It only prickles him when you tell him nothing is wrong. Further, how it was thoughtful for him to come and find you, but it’s about time you let all those lights and all that food and all those people swallow you back in again. 

But, you’re fighting air, which is why he feels something inside shrivel up, and plants a hand on your shoulder to stop your yammering. When he frowns, gets a good look at you under the streetlight, you don’t look well. He feels under his palm where your shoulders lift with your breaths; like the outside world has been vacuum-sealed.

“Stop,” he says, both hands on your shoulders now. Though the order is careful, he means it as just that: an order. “Breathe.”

Your gaze swivels between him, then this way and that. “The party—”

“Doesn’t exist right now,” he finishes for you. It’s just you two here, right now, for however long it takes until this notion that the world is ending evaporates. Maybe he can’t comfort even a little kid, but he can coax your attention towards him well-enough and try. Eventually, finally, your arms slip around him, and your frame becomes a little less like razor wire and more like a heavy blanket.

Suddenly, he no longer hates what he wants, what he does, what he is. Suddenly he’s not a predator. He’s a watchdog, or a pillow. He can be something safe and strong for you.

It’s “Relax, alright?” and, “Good job. Keep going,” and when you give a heavy sniff, he cradles the back of your head. Your hair is delicately done-up, not too unlike his own, but he can’t bring himself to worry much. This is the least he can do.

You’re lovingly crushed under the weight of how much you have to thank him for right now; but first, you swallow like a stone is in your throat, and pull away a fraction. He looks as concerned as you’ve ever seen him, and that measuring frown pulling his lips down twists your stomach again. You feel so anxious that it hurts.

“Thank you… But, we should still go back,” you resolve with a sigh, and try to stand up a little straighter. “Wasted enough time.”

The side of his mouth twitches. “Wasted? You’re kidding. You needed air, so you got air.”

He notes the fine sheen of sweat on your brow with an air of caution. “Did this whole thing really get to you that much?” Maybe it’s his fault, for leaving you alone. “Something happen?”

Vehemently, you shake your head, and it’s honest, which is why you can’t be honest about breaking down over nothing. Or maybe it’s a string of every little thing that mixed to create a ripe concoction stinking with panic.

“No, really,” you try. “I'm just a little tired… It’s not worth all this fuss. I know you’re worried,” you give his arm a reassuring rub, “but I probably just haven’t been sleeping well.”

His gaze sharpens, because if that’s truly the case then that’s his fault too. “Not sleeping well? Why?”

You shake your head dismissively, and immediately regret it when the world does a few extra wobbles. “Stress, maybe. I don’t know, but I don’t want anything bad to happen to our funding because of me, so—”

“You’re a lot more important than pig cash.”

In the dark, his stern glare looks almost supernatural. Without thinking much of it, you give a little shake of your head. Frankly, arguing is making you feel worse.

He makes sure it doesn’t show on his face, but it feels like hot coals in his chest, hearing you fully admit that you’re nothing but slop for those pigs. It makes him sick.

Of course securing funding is important—it’s the second lifeblood of the regiment, besides lives—but why should he give a damn about that now, when the night is a step from being done with and something is wrong with you? That is, you can’t breathe and the air becomes calcified to his lungs too? Maybe this problem isn’t all that catastrophic in the grand scheme of things—maybe you’re just the air Levi breathes—but it’s still his fucking air.

You really do look ill. Your skin isn’t running terribly warm when he touches the side of your face, but he feels a cold sweat sitting on your temple that tells him you’re anxious and drained and overwhelmed. 

He doesn’t want to leave you alone—“It’s just for an hour.”—and you’ve done enough; he bets they didn’t earn half of what they would have without you—“Please, that’s not true. You don’t need to lie to make me feel better.”

A careful sigh slides between his teeth. It’s not new, you talking like this, but self-depreciation isn’t helping your case (nor did it ever) because for one, he’s stubborn and set in his feelings, and two, you’re his air. He maintains careful patience, though, because it’s worse than usual.

You stare at him, pleading. “This isn’t a big deal, ‘Vi. Just tired. I’ll nap in the carriage and you’ll be there when I wake up, right?”

Those words chew him up and spit him right back out. He has to steal a breath, because something is cutting at his insides. 

“Shut up. Don’t–” he wrenches back, “–ever fucking say that.”

Your brows shoot up to your forehead, stunned. Then you understand, and guilt floods your stomach.

“Don’t.”

“No,” you breathe. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

You are tired, to be fair—from all those faces, from three or four days worth of supper lining silken tables, from some kind of unbearable pressure crushing you that is invisible and attacks from nowhere.

You have to be better; anxiety feels like a cheap excuse, even though it isn’t. It isn’t at all. You wish calling for help didn’t feel like speaking mute. You can’t put on a sugar-coated mask and convey to the world that you look okay, act okay, sound okay—and be okay. It’s not possible to be fine all the time; but how fucking weak that makes you feel.

It’s mildly tempting to say you didn’t ask him to come, but you feel cornered. You shouldn’t have lashed out when he was trying to help, and the very fact that you didn’t ask is likely why he went looking for you. It’s not his fault you’re like this. 

His tongue feels too swollen in his mouth to say anything. He doubts snapping at you for something you didn’t even mean helped very much. It’s not your fault he’s like this.

“Tell me it’s nothing one more time.”

You don’t; it doesn’t even cross your mind. While you deliberate, your hands stray to your sleeves again, and gingerly, he pries them apart. He doesn’t say anything either, but he won’t look at you: just off to the side, rather.

A little sigh. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“I get it.” He does.

“I am,” you insist, “and I need you.”

He nods like a mannequin would, squeezes your wrists, and his touch goes away. “Okay, tell me what…” What you need, except you already said that. “…what to do.”

Your smile is fragile like a feather. The most you need to ask for in words is a moment by yourselves; in the carriage, that is, where the seats are comfy and it’s quite dark—save for the slender streetlights and what little of their gold trickles through the windows.

You sit side by side as Levi allows you to drag his hand over and fidget with his bony fingers. It lets air enter your lungs easier, not fixating on yourself but Levi, who you like much more than yourself. 

The coarse skin on his palm runs a little cool, but you sense the strength in it under just a few fingers. There’s the creases and edges etched into it, the myriad of tiny, wobbly lines, his own fingerprints; they’re unlike yours, or anybody else’s. These countless little rings remind you in more clarity that Levi is unlike any other person, and you’re unlike anyone else, too. Billions of patterns which are clear, even pleasant to the eye, others tiny and unknowable unless you took your time searching. He has a jagged, almost invisible scar on the fringe of his palm, below his thumb. You trace it and recall that when you asked, he couldn’t remember where he got it from. 

Now, your head rests on his shoulder like there’s a pillow there. You have to slouch a little so his head rests on your head. No surprise that his eyes are heavy.

“No,” he’s saying, “I only heard of her through Nile, since he’s married to her. Two kids and a house or something.” He’s not sure why you’re asking. “Erwin really gave you a straight answer about all that?”

You snort. “He never gave you one, did he?”

“I never asked.”

Now you laugh, and he’s inclined to smile a tad from a fond feeling.

You were curious about Marie, a woman who Commander Erwin was apparently set on marrying before he graduated from the Cadet Corps. Though, the couple guys in the Garrison you spoke to who claimed they graduated with him insisted it was the other way around. But of course, that’s something only Erwin and Marie know, and if the Commander never chatted with Levi of all people about it, then it’s a closed case. 

It was the first you heard about it, and it made you wonder; not why he chose the Titans over the supposed ‘woman of his dreams’, but why she didn’t fight him tooth and nail on it. 

You imagine—in some faraway, alternate universe—living day by day for three years in the Cadet Corps with Levi. Even though you’d still be fighting for that fresh, unknowable haven—freedom—and even though it must come first, you would do just that. No matter if you or he ended up making the ultimate sacrifice; that excruciating moment that would tear through you as time freezes and the air becomes sludge, only to be buried in the cold aftermath of love’s death. Even further, even if you were forced to live the rest of your days half-alive until you eventually met a similar fate—there would be nothing you wouldn’t do.

“Maybe he just didn’t like her that much,” he quips, forcing you to muffle an amused little huff into his fine suit jacket, where you gladly drown in his cologne. 

But he honestly doesn’t know. He knows that—once every three blue moons or so—Hange grows low and serious and insists that joy is a diamond cradled in the mud at the bottom of a swamp cradled deep deep deep in the bedrock of this world. 

“Seriously, shorty,” they’d sigh. “You have no idea what you’re gonna miss if you keep on this will-we, won’t-we stuff.”

In lieu of leaving you high and dry and without a likely answer, he decides to settle on, “Erwin’s got his own ambitions. Who fucking knows how many laws he broke getting me here in the first place?”

You squeeze his hand, and he bullies his fingers between your own to squeeze back. “You think it’s a little selfish?”

“Maybe.”

“Aren’t we?”

His lips press into a line. Yes, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Despite all the reasons we shouldn’t be. 

Selfish, like the times (many times) where you lay sprawled on Levi’s little sofa in his office. The thing’s pretty small, so your knees tend to dangle over the armrest. On those days, you always do your paperwork your own way. All the while, he’s hunched over his desk, doing nothing at all spectacular—signing his name, reading, maybe—but your eyes dart over to him, watching him do nothing while the giggles start bubbling up in your throat.

The smile reaches the apple of your cheeks, showing teeth, and when he shoots you the exact opposite look and asks, “The hell are you laughing at?” and subtly glances down at himself in case something’s out of order—you can’t offer him any real answer. You just get the feeling of flowers and flapping butterfly wings and a good night’s sleep when you look at him. 

And through the little giggles you try (and fail) to hide under your hand, you tell him, “I don’t know. You’re just–” and you have to pin your lips between your teeth. Cute isn’t the right word. “I like you.”

And he stares at you, the way he would a stubborn stain. “...Alright then.” 

Levi’s knocked from his mind when your hand lands in his slicked hair again. He has to do the unthinkable and grab your wrist, then do something less unthinkable: slide his grip down so he can link your fingers together.

He forgot all about your current topic of little talk, which he and you—but mostly him—still pretend is hypothetical: what would change, what it meant if you took the leap. There’s been a surprising amount of long pauses so far.

Normally, he avoids this topic like the plague, and you don’t push him. It’s not so scary to muse on, though, not like it used to be. As for you, your shakes have gone away, like the anxiety has spit you back out so you can clamber to your feet.

“...I wouldn’t have to lie to everyone. And you,” he eventually answers, well and truly grasping at straws now. “About wearing your stupid sweaters.”

You bump his cheek with your nose: you have too much lipstick on to risk stains. He’s adorable. Since the biggest sweaters of yours puddle around his waist and swallow his hands, Hange loves to point it out while Erwin pretends not to avidly listen.

“Honestly?” You turn your head, and your voice is clear. “I already knew you loved them. You really think I mind?”

He rolls his eyes at the word you use. Of course you don’t mind, and of course you know how he feels. He’s the same. You’re both a week of sleepless nights past agonizing over selfish feelings, actions, and maybe even promises. 

“How could I forget?” he retorts. “You know everything.”

You nudge him and shake your head. “I don’t think anyone knows anything.”

He recognized a long time ago that you’re much smarter than he is, which is why he can’t contribute anything that meaningful and instead changes the subject. He needs to talk to Erwin, but he’ll be back, so: “Don’t move. I’ll send a search party if you disappear again.”

Your brow wrinkles as he shuffles away from you. “What about?”

“Your job is to kill Titans, not schmooze to assholes,” he replies, after a little deliberation. “The night’s almost over, anyway.”

A pause. You open your mouth, close it. “...Okay. I trust you.”

“...I know.”

Cold air slaps him in the face, but the sound the carriage door makes when he shuts it feels final, in a good way; something like closure, the gavel going down after the judge deems you innocent. It feels like you came to an understanding somehow.

And he helped you. He knows how important performing well at this thing meant to you; but proving yourself is always important to you.

Old habits die hard as well. He knows all about that.

Navigating the crowd inside is a challenge, but the Commander has hair like cornsilk and he’s as tall as a tree. Levi gets a sinking feeling when he spots him schmoozing to a few straight-edge looking corpsmen with green horse patches on their leather. Good thing Erwin has his priorities straight, because the MPs clear away almost as soon as Levi’s name is out of his mouth. It seems he still has a reputation with them.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Levi crosses his arms when he gets the suspicion Erwin is carefully concealing a smile. “It’s not—whatever filth you’re thinking of. I said she’s not feeling well…These things make me sick to my stomach too,” he grumbles.

Erwin hums wisely around his cocktail glass, but that funny look in his eye has gone away now. Levi informs him you got overwhelmed, and Erwin agrees that’s understandable, considering the circumstance. Levi believes he means it without question.

“Things went well enough, right?” he goes on, a little dumbly.

“They did. The results of our last expedition contributed to that. You work well together, both on the battlefield and off of it.”

As much success as they reaped then, he’s referring to the two injured in Levi’s squad. You two played quite the role in ensuring Petra and Eld lived back then.

As Erwin speaks, he turns his back and heads in the direction of at least three table’s worth of drinks. Levi obediently follows behind, thinking to himself that Erwin should lay off the booze, but he doubts any one of them will be appreciating their livers in another fifteen years. It’s understandable, even, what with the heightened responsibility Erwin carries. Levi doesn’t envy his job at all. 

He says nothing.

“Those casualties weren’t your fault. You’ve always been masterful at quick and efficient decision-making.” He sets the empty umbrella-shaped glass down on a table of crystal.

Unimpressed, “The sun will rise before you get to the point you’re trying to make.”

Erwin’s lips crinkle at the edges when he smiles, reminiscent of a genie, or a guy who thinks he knows everything; for all Levi knows, that might be the case. He can never quite tell what Erwin’s thinking until he goes on and says it.

“What I mean to say is, you ought to make a choice before you lose the chance.”

Cryptic as ever. Then, Levi’s eyes widen a fraction with understanding: he comes to Erwin and requests you both return to HQ early, and Erwin decides it’s time to divulge romance advice for the first time ever.

“Normally… I wouldn’t lecture you on personal matters. It isn’t my place,” he goes on, uncharacteristically sheepish. “But I wanted to speak from personal experience. It’s none of my concern, one way or another.”

Levi blinks up at him. “I intend to.”

“You’re welcome,” he teases.

“Ugh. Shut up.”

With that, Levi turns his back and leaves this friendly exchange. He marches away like Erwin just gave him an order, but he didn’t, and ironically enough he already planned on it. He already decided.

Back in the carriage, actually.

The sight looks promising: you, no longer hunched up inside the carriage, but leaning against one of the paneled doors, smoking a fat cigar. You have to raise it to your lips around the giant, puffy sleeves, and suddenly he’s no longer just relieved, but amused.

“You must be feeling better.”

“Mm.” You sigh. He presses the back of his hand to your cheek just in case, and it’s deliciously warm. “I threw up.”

Levi takes a perilous look around your immediate vicinity. He repeats after you, incredulous, before you insist that you feel better now; not that you caught a bug, but this time anxiety triggered your stomach, as it has on more than one occasion in the past.

He believes you, mostly because he’s seen firsthand. Then again, he wants to know where, exactly. “–not in that tiny box we have to get back to Trost in, right?”

You shake your head. Your mouth feels like tumbleweeds and acid. “Those ‘pigs’ will have something to clean in the morning… Did you know they keep a whole box of cigars just—in the carriages?”

He knows very well: a pig’s favorite pastime, after all, is indulging in good mud. But he only indulges in tobacco every once (once) in a very long while, because otherwise you’d go around stinking like smoke with teeth like baked corn. That shit never comes out.

Thing is, everyone and their mother in the Underground smoked. Kenny in particular always had a pipe in his hand when it wasn’t a knife or a tankard, but if Levi wanted to be adventurous, Kenny would dangle it above his head before locking him out for the night—to be certain Levi learned his lesson. Very kind in retrospect, considering the man Kenny is, or was.

The smoke is a comforting, disgusting smell, but either way Levi still does it. As for you, you indulge only when you’re past carrying all the stress your shoulders can handle.

You swallow. Quietly, “We’re not going back?”

No. Erwin already thinks you’re sick besides, which is why Levi cranes his neck to get a look at where the stagecoach should be, and isn’t. Odds are, they’re off rolling tobacco or chowing down on whatever slop that doesn’t measure up to what the guests get. Either way, you can’t leave. Maybe that can work out.

The chilly air cuts when he breathes too deeply. He’s thankful when you offer him the smoldering cigar, trapped between all five fingers. 

Around a huff of amusement, he takes it between two of his own. All these years, and you still handle your tobacco like a toddler.

“What?” You sound like you know what he’s thinking.

He spares you by saying nothing and inhales deeply, pleased with the rich taste that curls over his tongue; pig’s mud indeed.

A smirk threatens one side of your mouth. “Only you can make smoking that stuff attractive.”

He blows the smoke out one side and clears his throat, flustered. No way you’ve always thought that and just never told him—you’re fucking with him. His eyes go somewhere else. “Tch. Watched and learned is all.”

You decide to tease him if he’s going to assume you’re doing that already. “Am not. It’s only sexy on you, princess.”

He opens his mouth, stammers horribly, and shuts it with a buzz in his head; probably the tobacco. “Th-That’s–” He plants himself against the carriage. He needs to recover. “Shut up. Now. Shut your sh-shitty mouth.” You don’t. His lips wrinkle. “Stop laughing already… That’s enough.”

He flicks your forehead and your laughing dissolves into giggles. How thankful he is that it's dark: he can feel the heat flock to his cheeks. 

“Your joke isn’t funny,” he complains. “Unless you intended to creep me out.”

“Who said I was joking?”

“I did.”

He’s done with this conversation. It’s too late to go back, and while Erwin excused you both, the stagecoach is absent to do just that. It’s not the end of the world, though. Carriage rides, no matter the destination, tend to drag on so long it’s worth more of your time to find patterns in the upholstery than look around outside. Neither of you are inclined to add nearly an hour to the trip by sitting inside. 

Let’s look at the stars, you suggest. He caves, surprisingly without much fight at all, considering it’s colder than the underside of an ice cube tonight. 

But first, he’s bullying a mint between your lips and thoroughly, furiously lathering every bit of your hands with a cloth soaked in something clean and cold he draws from the depths of his lapels. Just in case, he claims; who knows what germs stew around in the stomach all day?

“What is that?” You almost gag. “Gin?”

“Absinthe. Stop fucking—” he spreads your palm, “—jerking everywhere.”

I’ll jerk something—

You laugh, mostly at yourself. “Where’d you get absinthe?” That’s some strong alcohol, the sort heavy enough to even roll Levi over like a train. 

The side of his mouth twitches as he tells you he has friends in high places, as if that means anything. He probably threatened someone rich. You let it go and shake your hands out, appreciating the clean taste of the mint. 

That’s until he swipes the absinthe-rag across your lips—“Ugh! ‘Vi–”—and dabs around your mouth like you have crumbs stuck there. He considers asking you to suck on it like a lozenge, an old trick for stomach problems he learned from no one other than a boozehound like Kenny, but it might just put you out. It usually worked for Levi, though. 

“Why?” you ask incredulously around a shot of nausea. Your nostrils feel like you’ve snorted floor cleaner. “Lemme guess. It put you to sleep?”

“No.”

You don’t get an explanation at first. He’s too busy tossing the rag in a bin, drying his hands, then fiddling with his waxy hair with a sour look on his face. You take initiative, and he melts a little.

“It got me drunk, and I threw up,” he finally relents, expression thoroughly pinched with disgust. “But you’ve had enough of that for one night, right?”

You tut. “Yeah. Not very romantic.”

Saying that, you slip your arms around his waist and tuck yourself against him. His skin is soft and fairly salty here since you’ve been under lights all night. You note also, with a touch of longing, how his whole body clams up before strong arms stray over your shoulders. Technically you’re in public here, where not a single person doesn’t know you and him by your faces; it’s not the anonymity you’re privileged to in Trost, or even Stohess. 

Nerves turn your stomach. You bury your face a little deeper to escape it, and his chest lifts with a deep breath. Under an oily night like this, it’s unlikely you’ll be noticed, but you hope you didn’t make him uncomfortable anyway. 

“You’re warm,” you whisper, voice muffled as if by a pillow.

His eyes sting when he allows them to slip shut. Maybe he’s tired or amused or fond, but there’s a raw feeling in his chest that glows to hear you say that. You’re warm, too.

He pets your hair. “C’mon.”

With all the factories tucked in the industrial district south of Mitras, the air is more clogged somehow. It doesn’t taste as clean as the countryside air in Wall Rose, let alone outside it in what is now Titan territory. 

The height of the castle, however, makes up for it plenty. If the stars could somehow be reached, touched, taken—those mere pinpricks in the fabric of the nighttime blanket—then the castle stretches far enough into the sky to convince you of that illusion. Tons and tons of drops of pure light.

You both lounge on a long, shady stretch of cobblestone, protected at all sides from a finely-cut stone barrier. The chill nips at your bones much more up here.

Once you settle in, Levi goes very still and very quiet, almost as if he was at a funeral, but he’s just craning his neck to marvel. It’s a solemn sort of wonder, one you understand. 

“I’m gonna sound crazy,” he mumbled once, but he didn’t need convincing to admit it. He always has one last weak defense in his arsenal; always before exposing a raw and very tender nerve. “But just listen. Doesn’t it look like you could….”

The quiet was severe that late at night, even at the Trost barracks. You understood. “Like maybe… You could reach out and touch one?”

And he stopped looking for one moment to shoot you a sidelong, thoughtful look; you and the blanket over your shoulders, because Levi always runs hot and he didn’t like to cuddle back then.

“Am I wrong?”

He looked away and didn’t say anything for a long time. So long you didn’t think he’d reply. “Not at all.”

You weren’t sure if you quite pinned down what he was thinking, whether you read his mind exactly right, or whether you said something he never considered—it’s still hard to tell now, sometimes. Levi has a million facets to him, some quieter than others, no matter how far your history stretches. Some a stranger can discern with just a passing glance, some only you know; no matter what, you always get to learn something new about him this way.

In comparison, your heart is permanently tethered to your sleeve, and you talk freely about this or that. He’s a very good listener, always sharp-eyed and attentive. That’s how it is now, though this evening’s chaos bouncing about your mind doesn't allow you to go on and on as much as usual.

The night is stunning. You think back: a dark, mildewy blanket of a sky, endless and echoing into nothing—that’s what the Underground ceiling is like, or that’s how he always described it when he opened up about it. You can’t imagine growing up in darkness: trapped, small, never-ending. 

But a kind word, an I’m sorry goes a bit over his head, always has. You learned to accept his grief for what it is, just like he learned to console you when you so much as forget to tip a waitress. You learned an apology is what you give your subordinate when your handwriting is a bit too messy to make out, or you show up a few minutes late to a meeting. True sorrow is as rare as true love: just as you can’t mend a crater in the earth with a bandaid, you can’t convey true love with words like, “You’re warm.”

You know what you share, and you think he knows that too. Part of this means listening rather than just hearing him, and if you can’t understand his trouble, you always understand how he feels. The amount of times he’s spared you the same reverent attention makes your head spin a little.

For all these little facets of what you share, a smile is drawn to your lips when you breathe in his cologne. It’s hard to pinpoint a time you’ve ever felt closer to him (nevermind the scarce amount of physical space between you now), though you’ve almost always been—in some invisible, demonstrable way—together. You walk on air.

Cross-legged, Levi does nothing to stop you as you toy with his long fingers some more, tracing patterns all over his hand. Beneath moonlight like this, his skin looks more like porcelain, making the baby hairs and pasty scars here and there a little more shiny. 

“You have small wrists.”

Your sides touch, and you vaguely register that he’s fidgeting the slightest bit. 

“Keen observation,” he drawls, thick with sarcasm. “Did you happen to notice my eyes are gray?”

You’re scandalized. “Huh? They’re blue!” You ignore his surly glare. “Like… Like how starlight looks. Or the sky when the sun’s about to come up. And in the dark? Right now? It’s how water looks when the moon’s reflecting off it. Don’t you get it?”

A flare of embarrassment ripples your chest—you’re rambling, and it’s obvious you’ve ruminated on his eye color, of all things—but he doesn’t mock you. His eyes are a touch wider, and the exact color you just described. The pull of some emotion raw and blatant looks outright uncanny without his bangs in the way.

You ask if he ever gave such a thing much thought, and really, no. Parts of himself he can’t change—the shape of his face, the slope of a small nose, his short, stocky build—he never gave much mind to. There’s no part of him capable of spewing poetry like you just did.

Suddenly, he feels convicted. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, furrowing his brow. “In general. Not just tonight,” and to add onto that, “Not just your looks, either.”

The look on your face reminds him of a very soft, pretty flower. He resists the urge to look away and leans forward, kisses you smooth and slow. You kiss back with earnest. It’s a shock to his senses when your chilly hand lands on his flaming cheek.

Your eyes are quite dazzled. Your lips part, then they close. “Have you given it any more thought?”

He knows that thin pull in your voice isn’t because of anything he’s done wrong, but he wants his arm around your waist anyway. It’s without a moment of hesitation that you shuffle up close. He stretches one leg out to make room, and suddenly his mouth is dry.

He realizes he didn’t answer you and nods a little stupidly. All day today (technically, since two nights ago when he last slept properly) he’s been ‘giving it thought’.

“I shouldn’t have asked, sorry. I don’t want to rush a decision like that, but you make it hard when you–” you nose his cheek, kiss the flaming skin there, “–call me that.”

You, as in all that you are. He doesn’t just stop at a pretty face, but it’s the little quirk in your laugh and the way you walk; your subpar cleaning skills and your knack for putting on a brave face no matter if it’s the fall of Wall Maria four years ago, or if a yowling cat trapped in a damn thicket. It’s just a word, but it means so much; you can’t quite tell if you’re overreacting or not.

His answer: A hand buries in your hair and he shakes his head. “It just isn’t easy for me. I don’t even…”

He stalls, because the first explanation he jumps to, he realizes, is a lie. “I know how I feel. I know how you feel, and it’s selfish. But I wouldn’t have regrets,” he head hangs, “I’d—I’d rather suffer than regret anything with you.”

You give a small, sure nod. “Me too.”

Your heart is on a rampage in your chest, but you’re very still, like a statue. You fear any slight move could dim this moment, or make him quiet. If only you could stay like this forever, or at least until the sun comes up. Together.

He’s reminded of how you reassured him shortly before Mayfest. Unsurprisingly, he still carries those words with him: “We’ve been through everything together, this is no different.”

He clears his throat, but his voice remains rusty. His duty demands he reiterate this: “W-We have a job to do. But even so, things have always been the same between us.”

“Yeah... Hange will always be making kissy noises when we’re in the same room together.” 

That too. His heart twists up, and an ocean of warmth washes over his chest. He feels protective suddenly; with both arms he cradles you closer, and nudges your temple tucked beneath his chin. He has to strain his neck a little to do it, but he doesn’t care at all.

“You’d t-train one-on-one with me s-several days a week,” he blurts out. He keeps fucking stammering. “On ODM, too. That’s, my condition.”

You’re happy to—thrilled, in fact, to bust your ass a hundred times and slash at cardboard Titans every day out of the week, if he preferred. His lips part like he plans to go on, but doesn’t. And don’t get killed, you think he’d say; Don’t get killed for me. Neither of you can uphold a promise like that.

There’s no air in his lungs. His voice is like thin, crystalline glass. “So, if, if you’d live with me, then…”

He stalls; he knows the answer. When you kiss him, you knock your noses together. It feels like fire and tastes like spirits. There’s no need to use so many words.

Where he’s slowly grown remarkably tense, his shoulders fall, welcoming your arms around them. The cold bristles your cheek where his hand leaves you in favor of the nape of your neck. Stay here, it says, and you mimic him. Stay with me. 

Levi stews in the confusion of this solid, warm feeling cramping his chest; it begs tears when there’s nothing to grieve. Death of the past, maybe. Too many sentiments roll around in his head to speak any aloud. You’d probably be better off counting the stars. The frustration is like a red-hot coil, deep in his chest. He feels the longing like a pinprick in the middle of his ribcage. 

He tilts his head and pushes more passion into the kiss. You must understand that this is him, trusting you, and giving himself away; and he will take care of you in return. He’d be horribly remiss to do any wrong by you.

More; the way your thin breath stutters and your fingers dance at the prickly hairs, short of where his undercut lays. Your lashes kiss his cheeks and your pulse thumps beneath his thumb. If you wanted to kiss any deeper, he'd have to part his lips for you.

He imagines—in some faraway, alternate universe—in which things never led to this moment, like naming a color no one’s ever seen. It simply wouldn’t make sense. He wants you to keep in your mind, to never think of yourself as any less than Levi at the best moments you have framed of him in your mind.

He thinks himself lucky, despite the rest; one precious jewel this world finally, for once, took upon itself to hurl at him despite all its wretchedness. But, that would be giving the world too much credit.

He wants you.

Your velvety tongue rolls across his lips, allowing you to breathe each other in, warm, hot and heavy, and a ghostly moan rises from his chest. For all his patience, he doesn’t want to stop; that’s until his palm lands on your cheek, and finds cold, sticky tears there. 

He pulls away as if he’s been burned, but you’re smiling with abandon; you tell him, “No, I’m just so happy,” and he is too. If only he had any say in this world’s inane rules, tears wouldn’t walk hand-in-hand with joy. Why should people cry when they’re happy?

“Oh,” he replies.

He wets his lips, tastes absinthe and mint and you; your lipstick is smeared, which means his are stained red. It doesn’t feel like he can move when you look at him this way. The shine in your eyes puts the stars to shame. 

Then, your thumb traces his high cheekbone. He twitches and realizes he’s trembling all over, like a cornered mouse. 

“You see?” You smear a silent tear from his cheek. “You’re doing it too.”

He has thick lashes; no matter how he blinks, tears stick to them. His nose is stuffy. If you were to ask if he’s happy, so happy, then he would melt. You kiss his smile—again, again, then once more. Tremors lay in his thumbs as he wipes away the tears pasted to your cheeks.

“For the record,” you tell him a very long while later, when the flashy lights and sounds from inside have dumbed down, when suits and flowy gowns have poured out onto the sidewalks, “you’re beautiful too.”

No, Erwin won’t mind that he ended up fibbing by spending the death of the evening anywhere but riding back to HQ. You ask him how he can be so sure of that, but he shakes his head. If by the slimmest of margins Erwin does mind, the excuse is your missing stagecoach.

Levi locks his arm with yours as you walk—one part not to lose you to the crowd, mostly because he can—and you’re scarcely able to avoid the Commander, but there’s no such thing as avoiding Hange. They’re steering Moblit in all directions (as they please) despite being exponentially more wasted than him, and nearly pass you both by. Levi is propping the carriage door open with his elbow and lends you his other hand while you pick up your dress so as not to trip over the steps.

You’ve just gotten situated when a screech—“Captain Shorty! Looking dashing as always!”—that could only be Hange sounds from very close by. Moblit may tear his arm off in efforts to drag them in the opposite direction.

If they get a good look at him, his hair askew, his collar utterly rumpled despite all your attempts to straighten it, a scene will be made. There also may or may not be red splotches from your lipstick on his neck, so all he can do is flee into the carriage. Already you dash for the hatch and slam it shut.

“It’s not over,” he croaks, and on cue the door lurches under Hange’s two hands. They stare in through the round window, big brown eyes wide with curiosity. 

He darts back just in time. You have to slap your hand over your mouth so as to not laugh your head off.

Finally, peace and quiet once Moblit gets a handle on them like the good assistant he is. Not soon enough, the carriage lurches forward, and you both start breathing again. 

You’re still laughing as you attempt to comb his greased hair back to its original shape, and the only reason he stays still and takes it is because it’s the only thing that can unwind his frayed nerves. It’s helpless until he can wash it out, but it’s a valiant effort on your part.

But (and for once), he’s not so stressed just because of Hange’s antics. You share another cigar, but only his hands are steady enough to light the match.

It’s a dirty habit, even dirtier to light it up inside someplace small and confined like this, but the evening and its happy lunacy warrant a little indulgence. He can wash, iron, and dry your outfits later, all you like. He can brush his teeth a hundred times and you can wash his hair until he’s brand new. You can do anything.

You take a small toke of the fat cigar. “We need a shower when we get home,” you say without thinking, and at his raised brow, you blanch. “Oh.” You think fast. “This reminds me of something that happened between me and my first boyfriend.”

Like a dolt, he blinks at you. He opens his mouth, then closes it. You’ve never mentioned this person before. “What did you say?”

You knock his shoulder, eyes wide and expectant; it reminds him of a little kid. You play innocent, insist that he knows him, like it’s the most basic of information. He nearly goes cross-eyed wracking his memories for any mention or face of some man you’ve dated in the past. 

You always strongly disliked the heart-eyes one of your past subordinates always shot you, besides this faceless steelworker or that stablehand. His brows furrow and a frown tugs his lips down. Jealousy sweeps over him in longer and larger waves.

Finally, he shoots you a petulant, vaguely helpless look. “Who are you talking about?”

Your lips break into a snarky grin. You sigh as if you’re about to explain something to a child, and climb astride in his lap (careful not to tangle your dress in the process). Close and comfortable.

He doesn’t move. “What–”

“It’s you, dummy. You’re my first.”

Before you can congratulate yourself on your wit, Levi sneers and captures your lips. His hand seizes the back of your head so you can’t try anything. 

It isn’t the first time you’ve accidentally referred to Trost HQ as ‘home’, but he’s also feeling petty from that joke; enough to pinch your bottom lip between his teeth, enough to do nothing when your dress slips from your neckline and exposes your shoulder to the rapidly warming air.

Your round thighs squeeze his hips, stoking warmth below his belt, but still manages to act petulant between the wet smacks of your lips: “You’re such a pain in the ass–” kiss, “–idiot.”

“Dummy.”

“Idiot.”

You pass him the smoldering cigar as a peace offering. His tongue darts across his shiny lips as he takes it. Spicy tobacco smoke plays around your nose until you duck your head and taste his soft cologne, his salty sweat. He nods his head back to make room, and regrets it as soon as he sucks a strangled gasp through his teeth when you circle your tongue around his adam’s apple. Your lips are smoldering. 

The tobacco has his head spinning brightly, and your teeth make his cock stir. Briefly, he abandons the cigar to just feel. 

A sweet shudder tickles your spine. You love to feel him cling to you despite how hard he fights to smother the slightest hint that you’re getting to him. You’ll never get over how reactive Levi is, perfectly pliant under your mouth, your hands.

You can’t help yourself. As you suckle a stretch of skin (that his cravat has no hopes of covering) between your teeth, you roll your hips where you’re perfectly slotted together, and gasp when you feel the ridge of his half-hard cock through your slip.

He screws his eyes shut. “You better stop that.”

You only vaguely ease off. “Why?”

“‘Cause I don’t wanna deal with a hard-on for two fucking hours.”

You whisper in his ear, “What if you don’t have to?” 

He almost drops the cigar, which is only barely still clinging to life. His free hand squeezes your shoulder—more for his stability than yours, honestly. “Ah, I see how it is. You’ve gone crazy.”

It seems you try to rub your thighs together, but you only manage to squeeze his hips instead. Your mouth has quit though, your hands gone still just in case he really means that. 

You watch his dark eyes grow glazed when you wet your lips, and insist: “Tell me you’ve never thought about it. Like this, here…”

But he has, and he’s no liar. He sighs instead—in defeat, lust, relief, or all three—and drags your hips over his lap with both hands. The way the friction has your breath audibly catching in your throat stokes the fire low in his belly. 

He wishes he could see more, with your dress and all the other barriers out of the way.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Have it your way.”

You catch him in a bruising liplock, sharing hot breath, tongue, touch; as if it’s been ages since you’ve brushed paths, as if close has never been close enough until this very moment.

Levi takes care to flick what’s left of the scorched cigar-butt into an ashtray so he can make a desperate grab for more of you. You sling both your arms around his neck and cling.

Your lipstick, ruby-red, makes the drag of your lips like honey. It mingles with the sticky taste of tobacco, but he needs more, so he takes your bottom lip and licks into your hot mouth when he first gets the chance. He loves it when you moan for him.

Your hand snakes up, massaging where his hair is prickly and short. Higher, where all of it is at your disposal, as slicked as it is—the sensation has pleasant shivers shaking up his spine. His lungs beg for air.

A moment to breathe. His blue-grey eyes have gone glazed and a tad lidded, and strawberry-colored smears decorate his swelled ones, and all around his mouth. You kiss his cheek, and revel in the saccharine satisfaction of the stain that’s left behind. There’s something about leaving a mark on him that licks flames at your insides. Irresistible.

You’re going to be forced to clean up later, but a part of you wants others to see the lipstick stains on the apples of both his cheeks; following down his sharp jaw, his high cheekbones, even his forehead. 

He doesn’t stop you either. In fact your heart leaps because, as breathy and small as it is, he very well could be laughing (his voice always cracks when he laughs for how rare it happens), so you start to laugh too. Then you’re laughing and kissing and grabbing at each other like two drunk idiots. 

Your lips fall below his chin, driving a shiver up his spine. Goosebumps rise to his skin, then his skin between your teeth, and he lightly gasps. He makes a blind grab for your thigh, but comes up with a handful of silk instead. 

Levi remembers himself finally— “Fucking dress,”—and scoops the hems up in both hands. He catches sight of fine, fleece stockings colored like snow; then garters. Fine, black lace following up beneath your slip, surely clipped to your panties.

A breath is punched from his chest. Your heels clatter to the floor with the haste that he hitches you up further, closer. His belly does somersaults and his mind fucking melts.

“The fuck—didn’t you tell me?” His hands roam all over, gliding up and down and under the thin lace. You laugh at the incredible petulance in his voice; shiver nonetheless when he thumbs under the stocking’s frills and has them snap back against your thigh.

“Our outfits were surprises, weren’t they?”

He scoffs, thoroughly through with your tricks. His palms slip inside your panties instead, taking two handfuls of your ass, and the gasp he gets in return has his chest fluttering. It’s your hips he takes hold of next, rolling his hips up shamelessly.

You curse in surprise, burning like a fever has come over you. So much fabric bars you from feeling him, and that has to change. 

“Are you—”

“Don’t stop,” you gasp. You’re not going to be the one calling the shots this time, and thrill like a firework shoots through your belly.

He holds you close, and doesn’t stop. When you begin meeting him in the middle, rutting hard against the hard ridge of his cock, he curses under his breath and throbs. 

You like the look on his face—pinched, bloomed pink—so you bite that feather-sensitive spot under his ear and his whole body shudders with a barely-concealed cry. He starts panting. 

“I want what you want,” you whisper.

Levi wastes no time. He puts you where he wants you: your backside on the cushions, sat up with your dress a heap in your lap, knees bent. 

Before he slides down to the fuzzy carpet, he kisses your chin. “Not a sound, right?”

Your teeth clack from shutting your mouth so abruptly, nodding like a bobblehead though that’s certainly not a promise you can keep. Between your thighs, your clit is throbbing.

Kneeling, he decides you’re not close enough and abruptly yanks you closer by the fat of your thighs. 

Your soul leaves your body, the ease with which he handles you. He could easily drag you into any position he wants—like now, he spreads your legs wide—and you would go limp and pliant and let him take you any way he’d like. 

Now he hitches both your legs up over his shoulders, exposing your soaked panties to the cool air, and his mouth. You cross your ankles over his upper back, where his shoulderblades lie, and hear your heart like a stampede in your ears.

You want what he wants—and he wants to taste you. Somewhere there’s a twinge of surprise inside you, but there shouldn’t be; that first time he shuddered when he first licked you, and seized your thighs to take more and more and more. 

Like now: he licks a long line over your panties from your hole to your clit, and though you gasp from the bottom of your lungs, though you urge his head right there, he’s determined to tease you.

He made out with your messy cunt until you whimpered if he so much as kissed your shaking thigh, that first time. You shook like a leaf all over in fact for the latter half of that night, and in the morning there was a crick in his jaw.

Now he thumbs your panties to one side, spreading your lips with his other between two fingers. His tongue—deliciously hot, heavy, and wet—laps between your sloppy folds, no barriers left, and you were crazy to ever imagine staying dead silent to be possible.

Occasionally, blindsiding you, his lips will close around your clit and suckle, and the gasp that leaves you makes your head spin. Your gasping is obnoxiously loud, but so are the squelching noises his lips make smacking on your swollen clit. 

It doesn’t even register that your hands are greasy from the gel slicking his hair. Half of your attention is paid to staying quiet and the other on mashing his face in your pussy.

And he gets off on you jerking him around like this; yanking him any way that pleases you, getting used by you. 

He never knows what to do or how without bruising his mind thinking, and this way it’s so much easier to let go and let you take him. There’s no reason to doubt that you want him, either. Need.

Spread open for him, he breathes hot and open-mouthed over your glistening lips. You’re soaked because of him. He did this, and a feeling randomly seizes him. 

He yanks your panties further aside, practically ravenous, only for fabric to tear abruptly, like yanking off a bandaid. If he didn’t pull them aside they’d drop from your hips on their own, surely. 

Through a thick haze you hardly hear, just feel him stop. You look up, and by the rueful look on his face, Levi must’ve forgotten his own strength. 

“Sorry.” He actually sounds genuine. 

You could laugh. “Come back here,” you whimper, giving his collar a small yank, and before you even finish he’s back between your slippery thighs.

He breathes carefully through his nose and adjusts you for an easier angle. Only now, distantly, does he notice himself idly rubbing his thighs together when that thick, heavy sweetness rolls over his tongue once more, and the realization vanishes. 

A squeak just barely dies in your throat, your grip painful again, and he wants to fuck his hand so bad he aches. He paints your clit with his tongue, drags his heavy tongue through your soaked folds and actually whimpers, it’s so hot, so damn tight.

Your thighs pin him where he is, and it’s a wickedly appealing desire to have your thighs to smother him; cushion his head so those sheer stockings mess his hair while he makes you come on his face again and again. 

Your voice—breathy and high and choked—has broken the surface; he can tell you’re close. It’s wetter, soaking his face from the slope of his nose down his chin, and he sweeps his tongue to lap it all up, but your hips keep fucking his face and there’s more every time he licks into you. 

Over and over is a grossly appealing idea right about now, all fucking night. 

He sucks your clit, and you jerk, fighting for air. You gasp his name, and flames lick at his lower half. So close. He needs it.

Faster, he strokes your clit with his tongue, for the first time uses his fingers to circle your entrance, and you’re in grave danger of keening out loud at the ceiling. 

For him too, a moan is almost wrenched from his throat. Shit, because the carriage is rocking—he’s licking you out in a fucking carriage—and there’s no way you’ll stay quiet this way. 

He squeezes your thighs so he can pull away and climb up between your legs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as does. Cushions hug your back, your thighs awkwardly pivoting back to accommodate his waist.

“Sorry—”

His palm falls over your mouth and he holds his finger up, glistening with your cum, to his lips in a way that says: Quiet.

You breathe noisily, gasping really, and tilt your hips towards him, silently begging. 

Your thighs are hefted up high next—folding you almost completely in half—so your ankles end up dangling helplessly over his shoulders. Your thighs strain immediately, a dull pain, but it’s thrilling to be exposed this way; from the waist down you’re spread open, allowing the air to kiss your glistening cunt. You vaguely register that you’re trembling. 

He leans forward and props your chin up on two fingers. “Can you handle this? Or too much?”

You open your eyes. His lips are plump and shiny, and a daring sheen in his bright blue-greys tells you Levi likes having you at his mercy like this. Still, he asks, and for some reason that leaves your head reeling.

It’s a touch too painful for your thighs, being bent like this, and without so much as batting an eye he props your knees up high around his midriff instead. You cross your calves behind his back while he spreads his knees apart further so your backside doesn’t slip forward.

“Better?” He whispers this. 

You sigh in relief. “Thank you.”

An abrupt bump in the road forces him to brace himself against the wooden rail above your head. Before you can yelp, he has you taken care of. His palm slaps back over your mouth, and your nostrils flare.

“That’s another problem.” He thumbs at your bottom lip and forces your lips into a pucker. “This mouth of yours. So,” he searches your eyes, “you gonna shut up this time? Or do I need to do it for you?”

Your pussy flutters hard, and the sound you make in kind has him huffing in amusement. Clearly not.

Experimentally, he bullies three fingers past your lips while his free hand falls between your thighs to play with your clit. 

You just about gag in surprise when his fingers press your tongue down flat, and swallow around them to compensate for the whines that vibrate around his fingers. Your cheeks hollow out, and as much as he likes to watch—you make his heart thump in his ears and his cock strain between his thighs—it’s no good.

You notice him yank his cravat free from his collar because he’s forced to pull away from your clit to do so. The ones pruned from your mouth he wipes off on his pant leg.

You swallow furiously, nod your head and breathe hard as it’s knotted tight around your head. Obediently you bite down, experimentally working your tongue around it. It’s silkier than most of his others, but you taste what light scent he wore this evening, plus thick traces of spice from the cigar. It’s good, you decide. 

You’re to pinch him if something’s wrong, and it takes every last speck of your patience not to force his hand and beg him not to treat you like thin glass that could shatter.

The carriage keeps on rocking, but he’s got you. It sharply occurs to him that you may be very short on time now, so his hand falls down to smear more cum coating thighs and pussy up, all over your clit. 

The way he rubs you in these quick little motions reminds you of the way he handles the ODM triggers. Grinding your teeth, you force yourself to stay near-silent. Your hips jerk sloppily, out of rhythm, shameless.

He sighs and sinks two fingers into your cunt. In the next breath he picks up a quick, steady rhythm, and finger-fucks you deep. 

You’re already drawing up shivery and tight, whining for him, groping his shoulders. The squelching sounds have you physically hot all over; your fabrics stick to you like an ugly sauna. 

Between the gag, he thinks you’re trying to say his name, and kicks his hips forward at nothing but air. A third finger slips through your folds before bullying in beside the others and your chest lifts, head nodding back. 

He swallows a groan, not that he's interested in getting caught, but no matter how he tries you just can’t obey his order. That’s how good it is for you, that’s how much you crave him, and that’s what’s getting him off. You’re far from silent, but quiet enough.

“That’s better,” he sighs, curls his fingers in a c’mere motion, fucks them deep, and is forced to cradle the back of your head so you don’t end up hurting yourself, you reel back so hard.

While you’re trying to say, Levi Levi Levi, he pecks one of your stuffed cheeks, then kisses, suckles your bottom lip. They’re split by spit-soaked fabric, but he’s too fond of your muffled, broken attempts at his name to resist.

You’re turning your knuckles white for how desperately you’re clinging to him. His thumb slips through your sloppy folds to give your clit some needed attention, and your cry, this time, is audible.

He’s attacking your throat with kisses. Never does he ramble so much, you’ve found, than when you’re fucking.

“Dirty girl.” His voice is severe. “Wish you could see yourself, getting fucked on my fingers,” he’s panting, “gagged and soaking wet for me. I want it, give it to me.”

So tight—your pillowy cunt split around his three fingers, your thighs locked around his waist. The first wave makes your vision flash between tumbling breaths over a high, red-hot peak. It shakes its way through you and then a little more.

Levi groans under his breath, fat cock pinned to his thigh, and protectively shades your face in his throat while your slippery cunt gushes all over his fingers. All for security, safety, privacy—and, this is for his eyes and ears only.

It’s quick and it’s dirty; drool paints both sides of your pretty mouth while he works your pussy through those last little flutters. 

His fingers slow until your hips have picked up a tiny tremor, shying away the slightest bit this position allows. The world floats like a heatwave behind your eyelids, then fingers are working in a flurry behind your head, and you’re free.

Soaked spit webs his cravat and your tongue, connecting them. With a sore tongue you wet your lips and just breathe. Your thighs seem to vibrate, but he’s letting your legs down, sarcastically asking if you’re alive. 

A smile breaks your cheeks. Your hand moves without much thought at all, in lieu of words you simply don’t possess right now; stroking his cheek, then to his destroyed hair, which you rub affectionately. 

Your eyes are still closed, but they open as he briskly goes about fixing up your appearance (however you’ll have to go without panties; he throbs at the thought) in order to straighten him out too.

“Fuck,” you giggle like a dream. His pupils are round with lust, cheeks stained red by a blush (and darker lip-shaped imprints speckling his face). Dark strands of hair can’t decide whether to stay pinned back or fall over his forehead, where they belong. You decide on the latter, and through a glowing fog ask how he can talk like that.

Embarrassed, scorched by pride, he smugly pretends to not know what you mean. You like to think even Levi blurts things out in the heat of the moment sometimes. 

Beside you, he flicks the curtain back, finds the glass fogged as if by a hot shower, and whips it closed again. You’re likely both stinking like sex, and all he has are mints. 

Your rumpled hems find the carpeted floor. Attempts to smooth them down are in vain, but you’re both in various states of rumpledness.

You’re dabbing a clean cloth over the lipstick stains on his chin. “Are we close?”

A snort, making you pout. Clever choice of words. “We’re here.”

He flicks his cravat in a wastebasket, and just when you’re about to apologize—silk costs a fortune these days—he points out that your underwear is wrecked, and neither of you paid for these outfits.

He wouldn’t be able to see himself ever wearing that cravat again, anyway, out of his others. Wearing refined silk or jewels, expensive furs and this fabric or that—it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Always has.

The wheels stutter when they come to a stop over gravel, the carriage itself shuttering with it. 

He keeps crossing and uncrossing his legs, and you’re asking, “Mine or yours?” while the echoes of slamming doors shutter outside. Levi suspects Hange and Moblit, but mostly Hange.

“Mine,” he replies, then works his jaw in that strange way he does when he’s stressed. “Or both.”

Without needing to speak, you both already agreed to retreat inside after the rest of your comrades have passed, but now question marks wobble in your mind. The air grows somewhat awkward.

“Both?” Your mouth dries up. “You mean ours?”

He shoots you a little glance. “You’re still getting our clothes mixed up when you stay over, right?”

You laugh at this while Levi pretends to be casual, but his eyes are just as bright as they were on that balcony and of course, obviously, “I’d love to.”

The door only slams shut when you shove him against it as soon as you’re even remotely inside. Your kiss is a mess of heat, tongue, and salty perfume, reawakening his earlier lust with a fiery vengeance.

All this, but he still manages to fumble for the lock before his wrists are seized and slid up above his head. You hold tight.

Instinctively he gasps around a sloppy kiss, stomach dropping into somewhere bottomless, and bows back against you. He’s trapped, pinned, and he can’t decide if he likes it—not until your thigh pushes between his legs. 

His cock surges, and the fear feeling evaporates. Your breath is trembling—or maybe it’s his own—where you suck his skin between your teeth. 

All of this happens in a whirlwind, but he manages to hook his leg around your waist so he has you closer, tighter, harder. He gasps when the rolls of your thigh grow desperate, and throws his head back so he doesn’t make an embarrassing noise.

Then you, whispering filth in his ear. He tastes metal, because squirming isn’t enough, and the pain mashes with the pleasure so exquisitely that he doesn’t register that he’s right on the edge. 

His hips are rolling, humping your thigh like a filthy fucking animal, and you’re whining in his ear, “Ah, never took you for such a whore, Captain,” which flashes his mind in blinding light.

“Fuck—” he slurs, “—wait, fuckwait—” but he’s already shaking through his climax. He throws his head back, gives up, so he has no choice but to let you rub him through it.

This realization prolongs the throbbing in his cock and has him whining towards the end of the hot waves. For a long, endless moment you’re both (but mostly him) catching your breath. But then—once he has his mind back—he tugs his wrists free and gives your shoulders a weak shove.

You stumble a little, startled. “Oh, I thought you–” 

You’re doing my laundry tomorrow,” he huffs, shedding his vest, undoing his buttons in a flurry then yanking his shirt over his head. 

But when a beat passes without your reply, he watches you with his shirt bundled in his arms, good-natured, because he did like it. 

“Well?” he says weakly. He’s struck by an odd sense of insecurity.

Your mind catches up from moments ago—from calling Levi a slut and him shaking in your hold, the heat you felt spill under his slacks—to this very moment in a flurry. Your cheeks heat like an oven.

“Yes,” you manage, taking the bundle from his arms once you’re close enough. “I just wanted to make sure that was okay. Clearly I was right.”

Better, actually. His adam’s apple bobs when he swallows; this between a neck riddled with hickies. “You’re being embarrassing.”

“Do you want to stop?”

He wants to ask what there is to stop exactly, but there’s a mischievous glint in your eye and he can feel he isn’t quite satisfied yet. Stamina like his can be a nuisance sometimes. 

His endurance, too, is normally relentless, but not this time. Partially he blames you, but unsurprisingly, he’s a stranger to his own tastes. That much is clear. 

You’re not mocking him either—behind your eyes or otherwise—which makes whatever you’re implying much more tempting. 

Finally: “…I’m listening.”

“Undress, then.” You’re actually smirking. “On the bed.”

He pretends getting ordered around like this doesn’t make his knees weak, and follows your direction.

It’s pointless to act prude and fold everything, not with the state of his slacks and underwear (disgust and relief war inside him to be rid of them finally), so he shucks everything in the same pile by the foot of the bed, along with his socks and shoes.

You’re left in just a thin, silky blue slip when you push him on his back and crawl between his legs. Casually, you stroke his thighs until he parts them slightly, but he can read your nerves, and he feels clogged with them too.

“What’re you planning?” he murmurs, now half-hard and certainly not squirming at all. His inner thighs are glistening, mostly around the creases of his pelvis.

Honestly, you’re not completely sure. He gives it quite a bit of thought before shaking his head when you offer to try restraining his wrists above his head, and you get a shaky feeling imagining going any further than what you’ve tried so far. You imagine that’d be too much for him, too.

This is how you both agree, simply, to do as you please. His cock twitches a little against his thigh as your heavy tongue traces trails over his mess, speckling pecks, then long, open-mouthed draws of your tongue.

“Ah.” The hard muscles on his belly tense. He can’t quite bring himself to lay back than to watch you through thick lashes as you dutifully lap up his cum—now scraping your tongue through the wiry hairs below his navel. 

Where your mouth goes, his skin cools, causing goosebumps to prick up.

It’s completely unlike how he licked you in the carriage—rushed and feverish—this time you’re clearly making it a point to work him up slowly. You kiss his big thighs almost innocently, nudging bruises into the pale skin with your teeth. 

That’s the part that’s getting to him the most. He can’t recall ever being treated like this before. His elbow falls over his eyes, somehow embarrassed, thighs twitching. 

Without his realizing, he’s inching them shut. He only realizes when you tell him gently, “None of that,” and gently pry them apart again. “Legs open, princess.”

His chest lifts. He doesn’t know what to do with himself besides exaggerate your request—using his absurd flexibility to his advantage to spread them much wider than you probably wanted—then feel his hips twitch up and into the soaked heat that closes around his tender cockhead. Just before, you called how he spread himself perfect.

A mumbled version of your name is smothered by his elbow, pleading. He’s still sensitive, wracked by overwhelming jolts so soon after just coming—but somehow, it feels good. He can’t help twitching away from your mouth, the feeling borders on pain, but you hold him still and it feels like liquid heat.

You lick into his slit, gently pumping the base. The only reason you pull off is to say his name. You want him to watch.

His lower half melts. Somewhere, he’s knuckling the sheets. If he allows you to look at him, he’ll just embarrass himself. He’s too exposed like this.

“I can’t.” He shudders. “It’s. You’re goin’ too slow.”

You lay your palms spread across his thick thighs. Muscles draw a little tense. “You want me to go faster?”

Somehow, you doubt he’s upset about any more than being touched like this. His fat cock, almost fully hard again, idles up high in the crease of his pelvis. It’s even leaking from the flushed head already.

You’re hot between your legs, but you don’t want this to be about you anymore. He deserves to be loved on too. You gently beckon him with his name.

“No,” he whispers, though it sounds more like a question. He peeks over his arm at you, hesitant. “I don’t know.”

“That’s fine,” you lean over and kiss his forehead, “You don’t have to talk, or even look. I just want you to feel good.”

You wrap him in a tender fist, and his eyes fall into slits. “I already do.”

He can hear the smile in your voice. “You know what I mean, ‘Vi.” Your spare hand roams his strong chest, swiping over his nipple. He grunts. “I want you to do two things: tell me to stop, if you need to…”

His hips rock into your hand, face pinched. “I don’t.”

“If.” Your lips quirk. “And tell me when you get close, okay?”

He still doesn’t know what you’re planning—though, he suspects you intend to try something new—but he nods. That specific command makes him heat up. He wants to please you.

Another kiss, and then you’re back between his legs, still pumping him. Faster, then slower. He’s beside himself with impatience, waiting for what you’ll do. Then one stray finger, he feels, slips down to rub his taint, and his thighs nearly jerk shut again. His heart is in his ears.

You’re already there prying them apart. Then, still rubbing, sweet heat swallows in in his cockhead—already sucking. A soft moan dies in his throat, and blindly he’s groping for your shoulder, then the nape of your neck; not to push or pull, but for something to cling to. The sheets aren’t enough.

His mind is buzzing. You suck him in so tight, soft like velvet, sticky and buttery and warm. It’s not his first time getting similar treatment, but it’s different when it’s with you; when you treat his body like something to worship, and reel in his pleasure instead of roughly taking it. 

It’s you eagerly lapping salty cum welled over his slit, your heavy tongue tracing that sensitive vein on the underside, your touch down below, alternating between gently massaging his balls and sweeping over his taint.

He still can’t bring himself to watch what you’re doing to him. Instead he feels you squeeze his ass in both hands while hollowing your cheeks around all you’ve taken so far, and he snaps his hips forward with a wet moan. This has his swollen girth pushing past your lips and over your tongue, bottoming out finally. 

You only gag a little before going down on him harder, bobbing your head even, which has him throbbing under your tongue. His hand buries in your hair, panting hard. Another falls over your bulging cheek. He can feel himself just on the other side, a fiery realization that punches a gasp from his lungs.

Maybe his grip turns a little tight in your hair, maybe it happens just for the hell of it, but a long moan kisses the sticky heat swallowing his cock, and his head falls back. His hips rock and he tosses his head to the side. 

Gasping, “I’m close.”

The sound that follows your mouth slipping off his cock makes his toes curl. At first he’s confused, then his climax fades and whittles away, and he’s filled with desperate disappointment.

“What—” He was staring at the backs of his eyelids so long the scarce lantern light on the bedside blinds him for a moment. Then he spots the self-satisfied smile you kiss his thighs with. “What’re you doing?”

“Making you feel good,” you rasp, going on smacking kisses that do nothing but frustrate him. “How about you just be patient, hm?”

A curse. Miserably, he squirms around, attempting to both earn back your mouth and distract from his red, swollen cock, but you can’t be swayed.

“That’s not—fair,” he tries, still watching you. No reply. Between a soft sigh, his hand falls over his chest, and he hisses his pleasure.

You most certainly don’t seem to mind, for you sigh too, breezily, and soothe a smarting bruise you left upon a scar with your tongue—that is, a deep indent years of ODM have impressed on his body. These stretch around both his thighs in double rings.

Where he needs you most—his cock, hard and glowing with spit, besides what cum has spilled over since your mouth left him—remains ignored. 

His hips stutter. Both his nipples are sensitive to the very air from his pinching the next time he speaks, bright and peaked. “Fucking do something already.”

“Watch your tone, Levi.” Immediately, dark thrills shoot through his stomach. “I’ll leave you like this.”

He freezes. Chancing a glance down at your expression, he can tell you’re at least halfway serious, so he shuts up.

Three fingers abruptly fall over his taint, rubbing slow, hard, then buttery heat swallows in his balls. Your tongue massages them.

His hips nudge up, craving more, only for your other arm to pin him down by his waist and stay there. It draws a rough groan from his lips. He feels unbearably high all the sudden, up in clouds, drowning in sweltering waves. 

He’s out of control, and he actually likes it. He’s in your hands.

Over the rush in his ears he can vaguely register his voice cracking between all the sounds he’s making. You’re not even touching him; you’re bowed between his legs, tonguing at his taint, kneading the firm flesh of his ass with two spread palms. 

So, he plays around his weeping cockhead instead, smearing cum. His muscles ripple, lips parting with a shuddering moan. No part of his body wants him too, but he warns that he’s close again. 

Your tongue was so dangerously close to dragging over a tight, much more sensitive spot too, which is why he whines so loud when you pull off. His lost climax feels so much more this time; his balls are heavy, cockhead as red as his lips, and he shivers, feeling you mindlessly rub his thighs and kiss his eyelids. 

But you also brush his sweaty bangs off his forehead, and that’s much better at least. 

Your voice is silk. “You’re so pretty like this, ’Vi. I wanted...” You laugh a little. “…I just always wanted you like this.”

He really likes that—knowing what he’s doing is right. Complaints are outside his mind. His eyes open now, but he looks away instinctively. “Well… you got it.”

And he really is pretty; with his pretty cock straining between thick, muscular thighs, these bruised in places. Above, where dark hair dusts up his navel, soft muscles twitch under your touch. His nipples are hard, as red as the lips he hooks his teeth into; these still a shade darker than the rich blush stretching over his face, down his bruised neck, sharp collar, heaving chest.

You find yourself admiring him more than his patience allows—if he has any left at all. The fact he warmed your heart by accepting a compliment without shying away confirms that. The trust he holds to let you worship and unravel him in this way puts a flutter in your chest.

Carefully, you wipe what tiny tears have pricked at the sides of his eyes. “Give me one more, I’ll let you come.”

Finally. “Then hurry,” he whispers without air. As for what he wants, what there is to ask for or what to say—he’s helpless. A wobbly feeling.

When your lips meet he grabs for you, rougher than he meant. His arms over your shoulders, gliding all over the silk that hugs your waist, lightly scratching down your back. He’s humming strained as you lick into his hot mouth, almost a whimper.

Your hand falls around his thick shaft, steady at first; slow enough to let him fuck your fist. Then, you abruptly speed up as if you mean to get him off right there, in a sloppy flurry. He’s teetering on the edge in moments.

A moan is wrenched from his chest, vibrating between your open mouths. “Ah, coming I’m gonna—” he gasps—

—But of course you stop, stealing the release he’s in dire need of and all his breath in your wake. He’s on the very cusp of begging. That’s why the relief when your hand wanders lower has him shivering. He craves something to do with his hands, but there’s nothing, so they clench into pointless fists behind your back instead. All that’s left is to cling and writhe.

You watch his jaw clench, and ask breathlessly, “Have you ever been touched here?”

He nods, aching too bad to lie or even consider lying. His pride died the exact moment you both stumbled through the door. 

It’s up to you, whatever you wish to try, if anything. You don’t have to, and he reiterates this at least three times in the time it takes for you to kiss and lick back down his rippled body. 

Also for the third time, you shake your head. Your heart is pounding; you’ve never tried, but you want to.

He squirms around to accommodate you, so his knees end up bent apart, his feet flat on the bed. This pleases you enough to hum where you’re licking; a place that already has him twitching and resisting the irresistible urge to whine.

Sensitive, reactive—as always. You’re glad to know you’re doing this right. He tastes good, like clean sweat and spice, all complimented by a heavy musk that belongs to only Levi. Wet smacking sounds.

“Yeah,” he whispers, and a hair lands lightly in your hair. Much of his earlier nerves sound like they floated away. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

His hole is pink and hairless. You sigh, unable to resist rubbing your thighs together. After spreading properly you glide your tongue over that very spot; once at first, to hear Levi’s low, punched cry; then you gain confidence and drag your tongue in even strokes up and down. Your surprise to feel it twitching under your tongue is burning hot. 

He’s been so shamelessly loud since the third time you deprived him. Maybe this is even the loudest you’ve heard him, period. The most desperate. You shiver.

Your tongue circles his hole like you’re drunk, or that’s how much he’s squirming, and almost constantly, little sounds are punctuated with his breaths. All with abandon. It’s a challenge to force him still. 

A tiny thrill shoots through your belly. You often forget that in any situation he can easily overpower you. This makes the fact he’s gasping and mashing your face flush with his tight entrance bordering on a mental aphrodisiac. 

Shuddering, you let yourself go completely slack except for your lapping tongue; above you, he’s grinding his hips down on your heavy tongue, riding your face. 

Your lips are swollen and tender, and spit dribbles down to your chin. It’s a challenge to breathe, but that problem is whisked from your mind when you realize just how loose and pliant he’s become. 

After just a brief reprieve for air, you suction an obnoxiously loud kiss right between his cheeks, and a cry shatters the air before a hand abruptly tugs you away.

“Lev’—?”

Panting, he shakes his head helplessly, trembling all over. “…Too close. I, you didn’t—” he stops for air, “—I’m too close.”

You blanch. No wonder: thanks to your tongue, his hole is lewdly pink and glistening. Silvery cum has drooled all down his girth, and compared to his entrance the head blushes a swollen shade of red. It strains helplessly above his full, heavy balls.

“No, honey.” You wipe your mouth, and, not understanding his panic, reach for one of his hands. Immediately, his hold turns deathly tight. “I said one more, didn’t I?” A fretful pause. “‘m sorry, I should’ve been more clear.”

You’re doing nothing but holding his hand, yet he’s outright panting. 

“You didn’t say I can,” he offers meekly.

Any moment it looks like he’ll shy away under his elbow again. You search his wide blue eyes, and sense his state of mind has definitely softened, or grown somehow weaker. 

He seems almost fragile, so you’re determined to treat him as such. To some extent he’s right, too, so you reach forward and gently tug his arm while your hand makes a brief home in the absolute disaster that is his hair. With soft words you reassure him.

A stuttered sigh, and he shakes and shakes. A prick of clarity makes him realize he ruined the moment. For some reason, the guilt finds him like a punch in the gut. “Sorry.”

It’s almost endearing, but you shake your head—“Levi, angel,”—and bring your hand down to play around his slit. 

First he gasps, then immediately tosses his head from side to side. It’s too good. He blushes a deep, dark shade of crimson. 

“I’m not mad. You know how wet you’ve made me?—just by watching you?”

You keep talking, all in that sweet, buttery voice of yours. He barely hears, what you’re doing is so fiery and confusing. His tongue feels too big for his mouth. “N-No.”

You’re jerking his slippery cock properly now, bowing over and licking his hard nipple into your mouth. He clings to you and fucks your fist, his head thrown back. Ghostly sighs rise into half-weeping, half-moaning, falling from his parted lips. 

“Keep making those pretty sounds,” you sigh by his ear, and, “You need it so bad, don’t you, angel?”

His nails dig into your arm, the one you throttle his cock with. Thick thighs hug your waist and he tosses his head feverishly, hips rutting. “Gonna—gonna come…! Don’t stop don’t—”

Suddenly he goes very still, his back draws into the tightest arch (nearly throwing your balance), followed by what can only be described as a soft wail from his open mouth. Even the wet sounds are smothered by him. 

He shakes through the first wave with a hard shout into your sweaty neck, but even then he’d be heard if someone happened to pass the hallway beyond his office. Loud enough to be unmistakable, which is why you all but collapse on top of him and let him thrash and jerk and bow up underneath you. 

The whole time he’s shooting ropes of cum between your bodies you’re cooing by his ear, working his pulsing cock. You're close enough to feel his jaw slacken against your cheek and enjoy the sweetest moans that leave his parted lips. 

“That’s right—” muffled, he’s moaning your name, “—that’s so fucking good, Lee.”

So messy. Heavy spurts of cum dribble down his cock until he’s weakly rocking into your tight fist. You’re watching avidly, not slowing at all.

“F-Fuck…”

With the receding waves he writhes in your arms, pretty sounds from his shiny lips dissolving to hiccuped sighs. There’s a heavy sheen of sweat on his temple you lick away, the unbridled bliss etched on his drawn brow falling gently slack, then tight again when you thumb his slit.

Breathlessly, “Can you give me one more, ‘Vi?” and he’s nodding, spreading his thighs, then shuddering when you guide his palm down around his twitching cock. It’s hardly gone down at all.

It takes nearly a minute, if even, while you’re hugging one of his thighs and licking around his hole. You even dare to reach between your thighs and use the thick wetness to breach the tight ring of muscles with two fingers.

His second climax is a testament to just how much you worked him up, especially since you were too worried about hurting him to finger-fuck him too hard, nor any deeper than your second knuckles.

He’s working his cock and desperately grinding down on your face when he shudders again and his muscles lock up tight. Your name, again.

A soundless cry with the first, pounding pulse of his second (technically his third) climax. It’s a white-hot heat—almost as strong as the last—that crests, then seizes his whole body in amazing tremors.

Where his thigh muscles are twitching hard through the last tremors, you slow your thrusts. They shake. You’re still partly drunk on the way his walls clamped down when he came. 

Breathing hard, you manage to sit up and work them out from inside him while he reels.

Amidst the warm weightlessness he must feel everywhere, his softening cock pulses gently where it lays across his pelvis. His shaky gasps for air while he catches his breath is the loudest sound in your bedroom. The air positively reeks; of heavy sex, sweat, and—you huff gently to yourself—debauchery.

He’s melted, he’s convinced. Grasping for even a modicum of a thought, all he comes up with is the warm buzz wrapped all around him like a blanket on the inside; he can’t remember a time he’s ever been this tired. Pleasantly drained. His fingers twitch. Drowsy.

Then, he hears his name quietly murmured from the side. You’re carefully soft in all you do, including touching him; your hand on his waist is enough to break his skin in goosebumps.

He surfaces from a thick warm place to you gently tracing his brow with your thumb. Then your voice and the words attached finally register: “—did so good, Levi. So good.”

A sleepy sound he’s never heard himself make rumbles in his throat somewhere. He needs a long breath before his eyes finally crack open.

Then he spots it: the cool thing gliding over his middle is evidently a rag you retrieved between his utter blackout and now. 

“Are you okay? That was a lot.”

“I.” His muscles sing when he shifts. If it’s possible for his dick to be sore, it’s sore, and there’s sweat pasted to his skin, especially his back. He feels used, in the best of ways.

Shutting his eyes again is an appealing idea, but you look very spent, and very very beautiful.

Finally he blinks at you and mumbles, “Kiss,” like he can do much more than quirk his lips a little while you lean down and give him what he needs.

“Bath?”

“Can’t move. Your fault,” he mutters, but as he says this he meagerly tries anyway. He ends up braced on his elbows, stomach dropping from just how sweaty, messy, and especially hickey-ridden he is. “Ugh. Gross.”

You’re still wiping streaks of cum off his pelvis. “So this is gross, but I’m not?”

He feels weightless and glowing. Like a golden light. “It doesn’t taste good,” he settles on.

You pause and gawk at him. “You tried it?”

There is nothing even the least bit intelligent he can say to defend himself, so he lays down again. The sheets are too damp for him not to make a face under his veiny forearm he’s slipped over his eyes.

You ask if he’s alright. A nod. More than anything his eyes are weighted by stones. The last time he slept properly was two nights ago and you fucked his brains out just now—he’s so thrilled to finally sleep.

A thread of feeling makes him a little sorry he can’t do anything for you, but you shush him before he can even be done talking.

“Let me clean up, and change the bedspread at least.” You trace his jaw. “Clean clothes?”

Tonight his world flipped right side up, everything that locked into place, rolled over, changed. But, he’s at least going to shower off. He doesn’t want to fall asleep before you, either. Doing nothing isn’t how he’s wired.

A pause before you nod. When you kiss him next, your lips don’t glide together as much as lock lazily. You both need rest.

So, while you put on fresh bedspread and clean up, he sighs when rushing hot water hits him, then washes down his body like a waterfall.

He doesn’t need but five minutes, but he regrets not inviting you in here with him. All by themselves his fingers hold a tremor still, like his mind has neglected to quite catch up from the onslaught you gave him; maybe he’s still back on that roof even.

He cried, he was so happy, and you did too. His throat tightens now like he wants to cry, but for polar opposite reasons too profound to describe. 

It’s an awful yearning. It would be easy for him to believe, even, that you’ve somehow disappeared into thin air and don’t plan on coming back. This horrible emptiness is cold mud.

Afterwards, he steps back into the dim room while the mirror is still steamed up, and smothers the hell he feels; you only need a few minutes to shower. The candles you lit are like little stars—he smells soft lavender and fresh vanilla. You kiss him with a smile.

He’s shucked on fresh underwear, but he feels a little lost when he throws a look at the neatly made bed. Laying down means sleep, which means falling asleep before you, but before all else he’ll lay there alone. 

The feeling still hasn’t left him, so that idea for some horrible reason, is more than enough to leave him standing, despite how he wavers.

Instead, he stupidly idles by the bathroom door for a long while, clenching and unclenching his trembling hands, waiting.

It blindsides him. He’s low and depressed, clingy, and not in the way he’s used to, not in a way that’s good anymore. Heaven’s gates only open when the water finally cuts off.

Breathing hard, he’s looking aimlessly at a bookshelf, the window, the floor in fast rotations. His legs are jelly.

Then you open the door and you must be surprised to find him just standing there. Your eyes grow a touch wide directly to concern.

“Levi, what’s wrong?”

He doesn’t know where to put his hands, or his eyes. “Nothing. I just—” But it’d be stupid for him to miss you. “—I don’t know.”

You step very close and rub his shoulders, to which he immediately melts. At once he goes very slack in your embrace, tugging at your sweatshirt, then anywhere he can reach, really. A gust of relief falls over his chest to be squeezed so tight.

You ask, but in no way did you do anything wrong. Your shoulder turns into a pillow for his head while you suggest he’s much more sensitive (Stupid, he’s apt to correct you, but doesn’t) after so much. Like a raw nerve.

“You could’ve told me,” you try, a little hurt.

A sigh. What he wants to say gets garbled somewhere, so ends up overlapping two sentences at once: “Don’t need to worry about me,” crosses with, “Didn’t want to worry you.” It’s better he just stop talking, he decides.

A precious kiss to his forehead. “Let me take care of you.”

“We can’t drop everything every time something’s wrong,” he grumbles, but also puts up no fight to be pushed down into bed, under the covers, then tucked so close to your side he can feel your slow breaths drift across his cheek.

You nod, because you know that. “But you don’t need to hide.”

“Neither do you,” he retorts. His eyes shut as soon as he settled into the mattress, but he cracks them now to make sure you agree. Softly, you hum.

This is so much better than before. He doesn’t have to think when you’re cocooned in thick blankets, not while you stroke his back in lazy circles. To the bottoms of his feet he’s very warm all over, even inside. 

In kind, you sigh blissfully and rest your hand on his nape. His arm is a firm, protective fixture around your waist, and lower, your legs are even tangled. It tickles to move.

Persistently, he’s just barely trembling. Nothing is wrong, but it’s not quite right.

He tries again. “Are you…good?” Alright or Okay are dull words.

“I’m good,” you snort a little. Many, many leagues above good, in fact. “But your legs are hairy.”

“Get lost then,” he sighs. A shadow of a ghost of a retort he actually means. 

This makes you laugh, which encourages him to admit it. He hides in the crook of your neck.

“It’s too good,” he whispers, and nuzzles a little. This is a secret he’s telling you. He repeats himself. “It’s too good.”

At his cheek he can feel you smiling lopsidedly. “What, the sex…?”

“No,” he scoffs. “Or, yes. All of it.”

As soon as the words leave him, affection grips your heart and you want, terribly, to tell him you love him. You’re stunned into silence.

You’re not one to hide your feelings: if he did something wrong you’d be the first to admit it hurt, and you were the one to chase him as much as he tried to pull away when what you share was still blooming.

Years later, the first time he ever broke down to tears before you was over a month ago, right around the time you first tried intimacy; much less, your relationship only took its first breath hours ago. 

You’ve loved him for a long time.

“Oh,” you say, a little tearfully.

He goes like a board and stiffens. Feverishly he searches for a reason that may upset you, but finds none. 

It’s been ‘too good’ for a long time. Yet, he still struggles to mold a racing heart and sweaty palms into something definable. He’s never admitted this out loud until now.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he gathers, unmoving. He’s frayed glass.

He prepares for you to pull away and stumble through some kind of denial, but you only do so to kiss him so hard he’s pushed back a little by the force of it.

“Not at all.” You’re still kissing him all over his plump cheeks and the cupid’s bow above his lips. 

The way you look at him hurts, it’s too good. He never wants you to stop looking at him like that.

“You’re good,” you say.

His eyes fall shut, dazed and warm and sleepy. He whispers back, “Yeah,” even though he means, “You too,” and muses to himself that if you both had more time to settle, he could learn to believe that. 

For once in his life he could relax and be normal. If you had more time, you yourself could live your life unapologetically. Your emotions tear through you like you fight without armor or even skin—you feel heartache like a raw nerve feels a strike—and if there was time, you could leave your ball and chain behind.

But every hour is a privilege, every passing day trickling down an hourglass. Time is precious, let alone times of peace that allow for such faraway dreams.

He again thinks, and he again can’t imagine a world or chain events that didn’t lead to this very moment: the two of you.

Soft blankets scrape his chin. Upon a weightless sigh, he pulls you closer into his strong arms.

Time is precious. All of this. He thinks, I’m a fucking fool, because, like he confessed on the rooftop, he would rather suffer than regret this life with you; barreling towards the blinding end of a fight that he, nor you, may very well never see. 

In any other circumstance, it is foolish. But his feelings can’t be changed.

No regrets, indeed.

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