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2b4st4r · 27 days ago

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Can you do Zoro x female reader where they are hit with a devil fruit power and are now brainwashed into believing that chopper is their child for a couple of weeks. Like actual blood child, as if they birthed and raised chopper themselves. Reader and Zoro already had feelings for each other, but havent confessed yet, and are now having to deal with this mess. Poor chopper having to deal with his "new parents" till this wears off, and the crew being hysterical about the whole situation.

Forced Family

Zoro x Reader

Words: 9,041

Warnings: Temporary Mind Alteration, Implied Non-Consensual Actions (due to mind alteration), emotional distress, and mild violence, and use of y/n, FEMALE READER.

Requests open

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

The Thousand Sunny sailed under a sky painted with the vibrant hues of a new day, the salty spray of the Grand Line a familiar kiss on Y/n's face. As the Straw Hat Pirates' Quartermaster, their days were a symphony of organized chaos – ensuring supplies were stocked, negotiating with eccentric island merchants, and meticulously logging every berry spent and earned. Yet, their role extended beyond the ledger and the storeroom. As the Master-at-Arms, Y/n was responsible for the maintenance and readiness of all weapons on board, a task they approached with a quiet intensity that mirrored their own formidable skill.

Y/n’s relationship with each Straw Hat was a thread woven into the very fabric of the crew. With Luffy, it was an easy camaraderie built on shared dreams and an understanding of boundless freedom. They often found themselves laughing at the captain's antics, a quiet smile playing on their lips as they watched him chase a new adventure. Nami and Y/n shared a pragmatic bond, often poring over charts and supply lists, their shared sense of responsibility a grounding force amidst the crew's eccentricities. Y/n admired Nami's unwavering determination and sharp wit, and Nami respected Y/n's meticulous nature and unwavering loyalty.

Usopp often sought Y/n out for advice on new weapon designs or to boast about his latest invention, finding an appreciative and discerning ear in the Master-at-Arms. Y/n, in turn, found Usopp's boundless creativity and occasional bursts of unexpected courage endearing. Sanji always ensured Y/n had a steaming mug of their favorite tea during late-night inventory checks, his chivalry extending to a respectful acknowledgment of their tireless work. Their banter was light and frequent, Sanji's flamboyant compliments met with Y/n's dry wit.

Chopper would often bring Y/n newly gathered medicinal herbs, a silent offering of his care, and Y/n would always make time to listen to his latest medical discoveries. Y/n's calm demeanor was a comfort to the easily flustered doctor. Robin and Y/n shared a quiet understanding, often found reading in comfortable silence on the deck, a shared appreciation for knowledge and history binding them. Their conversations were often profound, delving into topics that went beyond the immediate adventures.

Franky and Y/n frequently collaborated on ship upgrades and weapon enhancements, their combined mechanical prowess leading to some of the Sunny's most ingenious features. Y/n appreciated Franky's unbridled enthusiasm and innovative spirit, while Franky admired Y/n's precision and attention to detail. Brook would serenade Y/n with a melancholic tune, often leading to a shared moment of reflection or a burst of laughter at his skull jokes. Y/n enjoyed Brook's unique perspective and his unwavering spirit. Jinbei, the newest addition, found a reliable and steadfast presence in Y/n, often exchanging quiet observations about the sea and the crew. Y/n respected Jinbei's wisdom and strength, and Jinbei recognized Y/n's quiet resolve.

But it was with Roronoa Zoro that Y/n's connection hummed with an unspoken electricity. Their interactions were often clipped, a language of nods and shared glances, yet each held a depth of unspoken understanding. They sparred together with a brutal honesty, the clang of steel on steel a familiar rhythm that resonated deep within them. During these training sessions, their eyes would meet across crossed blades, a spark igniting in the silent space between them. Y/n admired Zoro’s unwavering dedication to his dream, his formidable strength, and the surprising moments of genuine care he showed, often disguised beneath a gruff exterior. Zoro, in turn, was captivated by Y/n's quiet confidence, their sharp mind, and the fluid grace with which they moved, whether wielding a weapon or meticulously organizing supplies. A mutual, unspoken admiration simmered beneath the surface, a delicate tension that added an intriguing layer to their already intricate dance aboard the Thousand Sunny. Both were too stubborn, too focused, and perhaps, too afraid to acknowledge the blossoming feelings that pulsed beneath the surface, a silent promise hanging in the salty air of the Grand Line.

The anchor dropped with a familiar thud, signaling the Thousand Sunny's arrival at yet another uncharted island in the New World. This one felt… different. The air, though carrying the usual salty tang, held a stillness that was almost unsettling. From the deck, you could see a small, clustered town nestled amidst strangely twisted trees, and the few figures moving about had a languid, almost detached air about them.

"Something feels a bit strange about this place," Nami murmured, her brow furrowed as she scanned the island with her keen eyes. "Keep your guard up, everyone."

As Quartermaster, the need for resupply was always on your mind. "We're running low on a few key items," you announced, consulting your meticulously kept list. "I should head to town and see what they have." You were generally comfortable handling such tasks on your own, your skills with a blade more than sufficient to deter any opportunistic trouble. You were kind by nature, always willing to lend a hand or offer a comforting word, but you were also fiercely capable and self-reliant.

Nami, however, her observation skills honed by years navigating treacherous waters and even more treacherous people, didn't seem entirely comfortable with the idea of you going alone this time. "Y/n," she said, her gaze thoughtful, "this island… the people seem a little… off. Maybe it's just my nerves, but I'd feel better if Zoro went with you."

Zoro, who had been honing his swords nearby, his movements as precise and deadly as a striking viper, paused, his dark eye flicking towards you and then to Nami. He didn't comment, but you could sense a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

"It's alright, Nami, I can handle it," you started, not wanting to pull Zoro away from his training, especially since you knew how seriously he took it.

"Humph," Zoro finally grunted, sheathing Wado Ichimonji. "Doesn't matter to me. Lead the way, Quartermaster." There was a subtle shift in his stance, a readiness that spoke volumes despite his seemingly indifferent tone.

Nami sighed in relief. "Thanks, Zoro. Just… be careful, both of you. Something about this place gives me the creeps."

You met Zoro's gaze for a fleeting moment, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. A small, almost imperceptible warmth spread through you at the thought of him accompanying you. It wasn’t just the added security; there was a quiet comfort in his presence, a feeling of unspoken understanding that always lingered between you.

"Alright," you said, a subtle nod to Nami. "Let's go see what this town has to offer." As you turned to head towards the shore, you could feel Zoro falling into step beside you, his large frame a reassuring presence at your side. The familiar weight of your own weapons at your hip felt a little less significant with him there, and as you both set off towards the peculiar little town, a strange mix of anticipation and unease settled over you. You couldn't shake the feeling that this seemingly simple resupply trip might turn out to be anything but.

The path from the shore to the town was overgrown with thick, unfamiliar foliage, some plants sporting vibrant, almost unnaturally bright blossoms, while others were a dull, sickly green. The air grew heavier with a strange, sweet scent the further you walked, a fragrance that was both alluring and vaguely unsettling.

"You smell that?" you asked, turning your head slightly to Zoro. Your voice was low, a natural caution in your tone.

He grunted in response, his hand already resting on the hilt of his Wado Ichimonji, his single eye scanning the surroundings with a familiar intensity. "Something's off," he echoed Nami's earlier sentiment, his voice a low rumble. "Smells like… too much. Like it's trying to cover something up."

You nodded, a shiver tracing its way down your spine despite the warm, humid air. "My thoughts exactly." You picked up your pace slightly, eager to get to the town and finish your business.

As you walked, the silence between you was punctuated only by the rustling of leaves and the distant, indistinct sounds from the town. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, not with Zoro. With him, there was a shared understanding, a sense of quiet companionship that transcended the need for words. Still, the underlying tension of your unspoken feelings thrummed beneath the surface, a constant, subtle hum in the air around you.

Suddenly, a small, dark shadow darted across the path ahead. Your hand instinctively went to the hilt of your own blade, but Zoro was quicker, his sword half-drawn before the shadow even registered. It was just a small, scurrying creature, resembling a large, dark rodent.

"Relax," he muttered, though his eye remained sharp. He re-sheathed his sword with a soft click.

"Just a little jumpy, I suppose," you admitted, offering a small, sheepish smile. You dropped your hand from your weapon. "Nami's warning got to me."

Zoro let out a low "Hmph," a sound that could mean anything from agreement to amusement. He didn't look at you, but you felt his presence, a solid, reassuring anchor beside you. The air around him always felt… steady. Strong. It was a feeling you found yourself increasingly drawn to.

As you neared the town, the strange quiet deepened. The small, wooden buildings looked like they'd been built haphazardly, leaning at odd angles. The few villagers you saw were indeed "off," as Nami had put it. They moved slowly, their eyes vacant, and they didn't seem to acknowledge your presence, even when you passed directly by them. They were like puppets on slack strings.

"This is really strange," you whispered, pulling your list from your pocket but feeling less and less inclined to actually shop. You glanced at Zoro, and for the first time, his gaze met yours directly. There was a rare intensity in his eye, a hint of concern that was rarely visible.

"Stay close," he said, his voice softer than usual, barely a whisper. His hand, subtly, moved closer to yours, almost brushing your fingers as you walked. The unspoken current between you flared, a brief, hot pulse. You quickly looked away, your cheeks warming, but you didn't move your hand. The almost-touch was a tantalizing, frustrating, beautiful thing.

You continued through the deserted-feeling streets, the tension between you and the unnerving atmosphere of the town building with every step. You needed to get those supplies, but something here felt deeply, fundamentally wrong. And with Zoro by your side, the air was thick with more than just the sweet, cloying scent of strange flowers. It was thick with unspoken words, with a silent yearning that neither of you dared to name.

You and Zoro pressed on, the unsettling quiet of the town amplifying with every step. The main street, which should have been bustling with activity, was eerily still. Shop doors hung ajar, revealing interiors that appeared perfectly preserved – baskets overflowing with vibrant fruits, shelves stacked with colorful fabrics, tools glinting in the dim light. But there was no one. Not a single soul.

"Hello?" you called out, your voice echoing strangely in the deserted space. You felt a prickle of unease at the lack of response. "Is anyone here? Shopkeeper?"

Zoro, ever pragmatic, strode directly into what looked like a small grocer's. You followed, your eyes scanning the shelves for the items on your list. A display of bright red apples caught your eye. They looked perfectly ripe, glistening under a shaft of sunlight that somehow seemed too artificial.

"Seems like everyone just… vanished," you murmured, reaching for an apple. You pulled your hand back just before touching it, a strange intuition stopping you.

Zoro, meanwhile, had been peering intently at a stack of what looked like freshly baked bread. "This is a waste of time," he grumbled, his voice cutting through the silence. He picked up a loaf. "Just take what we need. They're clearly not here to sell it."

"Zoro, no!" you protested immediately, your quartermaster's ethics kicking in. "We can't just steal from them, even if they're not around. That's not how we operate." You might be pirates, but you had your own code, and wanton thievery wasn't part of it, especially when no direct threat was present.

He sighed, dropping the bread with a soft thud that seemed overly loud in the quiet shop. "Fine. But we're not waiting around forever. This place feels wrong."

You hesitated, your gaze lingering on the vibrant apples. The silence stretched, the air growing heavier, almost suffocating. Something compelled you to try, just to confirm. With a deep breath, you reached out and firmly grasped for one of the red fruits.

Your fingers passed right through it.

Your eyes widened in disbelief. No resistance, no tangible form – just air where the apple should have been. You looked around, your heart beginning to pound. The vibrant colors of the fruits, the intricate patterns on the fabrics, the solid-looking walls of the shop – they all seemed to shimmer, ever so slightly.

"Zoro," you breathed, the word barely a whisper, your voice laced with sudden urgency. You grabbed his arm, your grip tight. "Zoro, it's an illusion! This whole place… it's not real!"

As if on cue, the world around you began to waver. The edges of the shop, the shelves, the apples, even the street outside, started to blur and distort, like a painting melting in the rain. The vibrant hues faded, replaced by ghostly, translucent outlines. The sweet, cloying scent vanished, replaced by the faint, familiar smell of the sea.

The unsettling quiet of the town morphed into a chilling, echoing silence as the illusion peeled away. You could feel Zoro's muscles tense under your hand, his single eye now wide with realization as the fabricated reality dissolved around you. The seemingly solid world was dissolving, revealing whatever lay beneath.

You looked around frantically, the dissolving town a swirling vortex of shimmering light and fading colors. Panic clawed at your throat. The perfectly arranged shops, the cobblestone streets, the peculiar villagers – all of it was dissolving into thin air, replaced by what appeared to be a vast, oppressive darkness.

Then you saw it – a flicker of movement, a deeper shade of black against the already encroaching gloom. A shadow.

A sharp pinch on your hand ripped a gasp from your lips. You looked down, your eyes wide with confusion, and saw nothing. No bite, no sting, no mark. Yet, an immediate wave of nausea washed over you. The world tilted, the faint outlines of the illusionary town spinning around you. You felt lightheaded, the ground swaying beneath your feet.

"Zo... Zoro..." you mumbled, your voice thin and reedy, your gaze fixed on your hand as if it held the answer to this sudden, crushing weakness.

Zoro’s worry was immediate, a tangible force that cut through the lingering traces of the illusion. His usual stoicism shattered, replaced by an raw, urgent concern that painted itself across his face. His hand instinctively shot out, steadying you as you swayed. "You're okay, you are okay," he said, his voice a low, rough rumble, far softer than you’d ever heard it. He didn’t seem to be talking to you as much as trying to convince himself, his grip tightening around your arm.

Your knees buckled. You went limp, your vision tunneling. Zoro moved instantly, catching you before you could hit the ground, gathering you into his arms. The scent of salt and steel, uniquely his, filled your senses even as darkness threatened to consume you. He knew he should let you go, knew he should be drawing his swords, ready to confront whatever unseen assailant had struck you. But he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to just drop you. His resolve to fight warred with an overwhelming need to protect you, to ensure your safety above all else.

Just gently, he told himself, just put her down gently.

He lowered you carefully to the ground, his touch surprisingly tender despite the urgency of the moment. Your head rested on the strangely coarse earth beneath the dissolving illusion, your eyes fluttering closed. He straightened, his body instantly coiled, ready for battle, his hand already on the h hilt of Wado Ichimonji.

That's when he felt it. A sharp prick on his neck, mirroring the sensation you'd described on your hand. His fingers instinctively shot to the spot, but there was nothing there. Just a sudden, searing pain that quickly gave way to the same sickening lightheadedness that had stolen your strength. His vision blurred, the last vestiges of the illusionary town fading into an oppressive blackness.

Zoro felt the world tilt, the oppressive darkness pressing in on him. His muscles, usually steel-hard and responsive, began to go limp, betraying him. His vision blurred, the last flickers of the dissolving illusion replaced by swirling shadows. Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the haze of confusion. Protect her. The thought roared through his mind, a primal command overriding the sudden weakness.

With a monumental effort, he managed to pull Wado Ichimonji from its sheath, the familiar weight of the sword a faint comfort in his failing grasp. He tried to take a fighting stance, to brace himself against the unseen assailant, but his limbs felt heavy, distant. Numbness crept insidiously from his neck, spreading rapidly through his arms and legs. He swayed, his formidable balance deserting him. The ground, which had been solid just moments before, seemed to lurch beneath his feet.

He staggered, his resolve to fight warring with the relentless advance of the unknown poison. His grip on his sword loosened, his arm trembling uncontrollably. Every instinct screamed at him to stay upright, to defend Y/n, but his body was failing him. The darkness swelled, threatening to consume him entirely, and with a final, desperate lurch, he lost his footing. He collapsed, Wado Ichimonji clattering uselessly beside him as the blackness swallowed him whole.

A dull ache throbbed behind your eyes, a constant drumbeat against a canvas of unfamiliarity. Your eyelids felt dry, glued shut, but with a monumental effort, you forced them open. Your body was a symphony of soreness, every muscle protesting, every joint screaming in protest. You blinked, attempting to clear the haze from your vision, and as your surroundings slowly came into focus, a wave of confusion washed over you.

This wasn't the strange, fading town. This was the infirmary aboard the Thousand Sunny. The familiar scent of antiseptics and Chopper's unique medicinal herbs filled the air. But something was profoundly, terrifyingly wrong. A hollow ache bloomed in your chest, a feeling of searching for something, someone, vital. Where was Zoro? Was he okay?

You tried to sit up, a sharp wince escaping your lips as pain lanced through your side. Your limbs felt heavy, sluggish, but the desperate need to find Zoro spurred you on.

"Y/n! Please sit down! You'll just injure yourself more!"

The familiar, small voice cut through your muddled thoughts. Your eyes, still swimming with concern, met those of Chopper. He was standing by your bunk, his little hooves fidgeting with a clipboard, his face etched with worry. But as your gaze locked with his, the world shifted. The lingering confusion solidified into something else, something intensely, unequivocally real.

"My child," you whispered, the words escaping your lips before you could even process them. A profound, overwhelming love flooded your heart, a fierce protective instinct unlike anything you'd ever known. You reached out a trembling hand, a deep, maternal yearning gripping you. "Are you alright, my little one? Are you hurt?" The notion that this small, adorable reindeer was anything but your flesh and blood, your very own child, simply didn't exist in your mind.

The memory of a strong, steadfast presence, of calloused hands and a comforting scent, flickered through your altered mind. "And… your father?" you continued, your voice laced with fresh worry. "Is your father well? Where is he?" You were certain, with every fiber of your being, that Roronoa Zoro was not just your crewmate, but your devoted husband, the other half of your family. The concern for him was a desperate, agonizing knot in your stomach.

Chopper stood frozen, his little hooves gripping the clipboard so tightly his knuckles turned white. His wide, innocent eyes blinked rapidly as you, Y/n, a fierce and capable pirate, reached out and gently cupped his furry cheek. Your touch, usually firm and reassuring, was now impossibly tender, filled with an emotion that utterly bewildered him.

"There, there, my precious one," you murmured, your thumb stroking his fur. "It's alright. Mama's here."

Chopper’s jaw dropped. Mama? His brain, usually a whirlwind of medical knowledge and panicky deductions, seized up entirely. He was a reindeer! A doctor! He was definitely not a "child," especially not your child. And "Mama"? That wasn't even… He felt a flush of heat rise to his face, a mix of profound confusion and genuine fear.

Then, you leaned in, pressing a soft, maternal kiss to his forehead.

GASP!

Chopper literally levitated a few inches off the ground in sheer, unadulterated shock. His fur bristled. This was beyond odd. This was beyond a concussion. His mind, scrambling for a diagnosis, whirred through every medical text he'd ever read. But no fever, no head trauma, no obvious injury could account for this.

A Devil Fruit! The thought hit him like a cannonball. It had to be! Some insidious power, something they'd encountered on that strange island, had twisted your mind. Or… or was it a severe case of amnesia coupled with a delusion? But the way you looked at him, with such overwhelming maternal affection, felt too real, too deep to be just a simple bump on the head. He frantically searched his memory for any information on mind-altering abilities, his tiny heart pounding in his chest. His beloved Y/n, his sensible, reliable Y/n, was calling him "my child" and looking at him like he was her son. It was terrifying, and he had absolutely no idea what to do.

"There, there, my precious one," you murmured, your thumb stroking his fur. "It's alright. Mama's here."

Then, you leaned in, pressing a soft, maternal kiss to his forehead.

GASP!

Just as Chopper was about to launch into a full-blown medical panic, the infirmary door creaked open. Zoro stumbled in, leaning heavily against the doorframe for support. His face was pale, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, and his movements were sluggish, like a marionette with tangled strings. But his eyes, though still a little glazed, immediately found you and Chopper.

The sight of you, your hand gently caressing Chopper's fur, ignited a familiar, fiercely protective instinct within him. The subtle influence of the unknown power had woven itself into the very fabric of his being, replacing logic with a profound, unshakeable conviction. This was his family. His wife. His child.

"Y/n," he rasped, his voice rough with lingering weakness but laced with an undeniable tenderness. He pushed off the doorframe, taking a shaky step towards you. "Are you alright? What happened?" His eyes, filled with a deep, loving concern, swept over you, searching for any sign of injury. He then looked at Chopper, a softer, almost proud glint in his gaze. "Is our son okay?"

Chopper, who had been on the verge of tears from confusion, froze again, his tiny jaw hanging open. "Our... son?" he squeaked, looking from you to Zoro and back again. The sheer, compounding absurdity of the situation sent his mind spiraling. Two of his most reliable crewmates, the toughest ones, were now completely convinced he was their child and they were married.

You, however, beamed at Zoro, a wave of relief washing over you at the sight of him. "Oh, Zoro! Thank goodness you're alright, my love," you said, your voice thick with emotion. You quickly tried to get up again, extending a hand towards him. "I was so worried about you, husband. I woke up here and you weren't with us. Our little one here," you gestured to Chopper with a loving glance, "was just telling me what happened."

Zoro’s eyes softened even further, a rare, gentle smile gracing his lips as he saw your outstretched hand. He stumbled the rest of the way, his large hand enveloping yours. "Never worry, Y/n. I'd always come back to you. And our son." He pulled you gently into a sitting embrace, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, a silent promise of protection in the gesture. He looked at Chopper again, a flicker of something akin to fatherly pride in his eye. "What exactly happened, Chopper? Are you both truly well?"

Chopper, trapped between two doting, completely deluded "parents," felt his fur stand on end. He was a doctor! He needed to figure this out! But how could he explain to his "Mama" and "Papa" that they were both victims of some bizarre, mind-altering attack? The air in the infirmary, usually a sanctuary of healing, now felt thick with a bizarre, familial delusion that only he seemed aware of.

As Zoro settled beside you, his arm a warm, solid weight around your waist, his gaze, usually so intense, softened to an almost unbearable tenderness. His eyes, in their altered reality, saw you not just as his crewmate, but as his beloved wife, the mother of his child. Leaning in, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It was a kiss born of a deep, comfortable familiarity, as if it were a daily ritual performed hundreds of times, a silent promise of enduring love.

When he pulled back, a rare, genuine smile stretched across his face – a smile that usually only made an appearance when he was fighting a truly challenging foe or indulging in a particularly good nap. He looked at Chopper, his smile widening. "You're a strong one, aren't you, little guy?" he rumbled, his voice laced with an affection that made Chopper's fur stand on end. "Just like your dad."

Chopper, his small brain reeling, felt a fresh wave of panic. He had to make them understand! "No! Zoro! Y/n!" he squeaked, jumping up and down on the bunk. "You're not my parents! And you're not married! We were attacked! Remember? On the island! Something happened to your minds!" He waved his little hooves frantically, trying to gesture towards the distant memory of the strange town.

Zoro let out a deep, chesty chuckle, the sound warm and full. You, still leaning into Zoro's side, laughed too, a light, melodic sound that filled the infirmary. "Oh, Chopper," you said, reaching out to gently pat his head, "what a funny joke! You always have the wildest imagination." You exchanged a fond look with Zoro. "He's always been a bit dramatic, hasn't he, love?"

Zoro nodded in agreement, his rare smile still firmly in place. He tightened his arm around your waist, pulling you closer against him. The infirmary, meant to be a place of healing, was now transformed into a bizarre, heartwarming domestic scene, utterly oblivious to the true nature of their altered reality. Chopper, left staring at his "parents" nestled together, could only gape in dismay.

The rest of the day was a bizarre, bewildering spectacle for the Straw Hats, and a nightmare for poor Chopper. He spent most of his time trying to subtly avoid his two deluded "parents," hiding behind Franky's legs or attempting to blend in with a pile of spare cannonballs.

The full extent of the situation became undeniably clear at lunch. Chopper, still reeling from the morning's events, sat at the long table, glumly poking at his sandwich. "I hate the crust," he mumbled, pushing the offending edges away.

Across the table, your head snapped up. "Oh, my precious one," you cooed, instantly reaching for his plate. With deft movements, you quickly and carefully sliced off the crusts, just the way he preferred, your movements as natural as if you’d done it a thousand times. "There you go, sweetheart. Mama knows you don't like the crunchy bits."

Luffy, mid-chew on a massive bite of meat, paused, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Shishishi! Y/n, you're acting just like a mom!"

You smiled, a genuine, loving warmth in your eyes as you looked at Chopper. "Well, of course, Luffy. He is my baby, after all."

A collective gasp rippled through the table. Nami's jaw dropped, her eyes wide with shock. Usopp choked on his drink, nearly spraying Franky with cola. Robin, usually unflappable, raised a hand to her mouth, a rare flicker of surprise in her elegant features. Sanji spluttered, dropping the plate of food he was carrying, his usual suave demeanor completely shattered. "Y-Y/n-chan?! A mother?!"

Before anyone could fully process this bombshell, the mess hall door swung open. Zoro strode in, his lingering stiffness barely noticeable as his gaze immediately found you. Without a word, he walked directly to your side, leaned down, and pressed a deep, unhurried kiss to your lips.

The mess hall erupted.

Luffy burst into roaring laughter, slapping his knee. "SHISHISHISHI! ZORO'S A DAD! AND Y/N'S HIS WIFE! THAT'S HILARIOUS!"

Nami practically shot out of her seat. "WHAT?!" she shrieked, pointing an accusing finger. "Zoro! Y/n! What is going on?! You two have never even looked at each other like that!"

You, however, were completely unfazed, a soft smile on your face as you pulled back from the kiss. You leaned your head contentedly on Zoro's shoulder. "That's my husband," you stated simply, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world. "We've been together for years, haven't we, dear?"

Zoro grunted in agreement, a rare, fond light in his eye as he looked down at you. "Of course. And this noisy little one," he gestured to a horrified Chopper, who was now attempting to burrow under the table, "is ours."

Sanji, looking utterly devastated, dramatically clutched his chest. "IMPOSSIBLE! Y/N-CHAN, MY SWEET ANGEL, MARRIED TO THIS MARIMO?! AND A MOTHER?! MY DREAMS ARE CRUSHED!" He began spiraling into a maelstrom of despair and self-pity.

Usopp, still recovering from his cola incident, spluttered, "But... but how?! When?! We've been on this ship together for years! We would have known!"

Robin's eyes, though still surprised, took on a thoughtful glint. "This is certainly... unexpected. It would appear a powerful external force is at play."

Franky, ever the dramatic one, pounded the table. "SUPER! Our Quartermaster and Swordsman, secretly married with a SUPER doctor son! This is the most UNEXPECTED romance of the seas!"

Brook, ever polite, bowed his head. "Yohohoho! My deepest congratulations on your matrimonial bliss and your adorable child! Though, forgive me, my eyes are but sockets, so I had no idea of such a grand secret!"

Jinbei, ever the voice of calm reason, stroked his chin. "This is highly unusual. Y/n-san and Zoro-san are clearly under some kind of influence. Chopper-san, did you notice anything peculiar on the island before this began?"

Chopper, finally emerging from under the table, his face a mottled mix of red and blue, pointed a trembling hoof at you and Zoro. "They're not my parents! They're not married! Something from that island did this to them! They were stung by something!"

You and Zoro just smiled at him, a unified front of delusional parental affection. The rest of the Straw Hats exchanged worried glances. This was going to be a long day.

Days bled into a bewildering week, a constant, low hum of anxiety settling over the Thousand Sunny. The initial shock had worn off, replaced by a grim determination among the Straw Hats to find a cure. It wasn't just Chopper freaking out anymore; it was everyone. Sanji still occasionally keeled over dramatically, muttering about the sanctity of love, but even he, alongside Nami and Robin, worked tirelessly with Chopper to research every known Devil Fruit ability, every strange plant, every rumored curse of the New World. Luffy, while still finding the situation amusing, also worried, sensing the underlying wrongness. Even Jinbei, calm as ever, acknowledged the gravity of the situation, constantly looking for any subtle changes in the afflicted duo.

What truly unnerved them all was the chilling accuracy of Chopper's assessment: this wasn’t the natural progression of Y/n and Zoro’s unspoken feelings. This was a forced reality, a complete overwrite of their personalities. Their quiet, subtle affections had been replaced by a saccharine, domestic intensity that felt utterly alien. They still looked like Y/n and Zoro, but the essence of who they were, those distinct quirks and personal rhythms, felt stripped away, subsumed by this imposed familial role. And Chopper, the unwitting "son," was the primary victim of their relentless, if affectionate, parental delusion.

The little "parent things" were constant, a bizarre new routine for the crew.

One evening, Chopper, exhausted from another day of frantic research and dodging parental overtures, finally managed to sneak into the infirmary for some rest. He'd just pulled his blanket up to his chin when the door gently creaked open. It was Y/n, her eyes soft with a profound maternal love.

"My little one," she whispered, tiptoeing to his bunk. She carefully tucked the blanket tighter around him, smoothing it down with a tenderness that made Chopper's fur prickle. She then leaned down, humming a soft, unfamiliar lullaby, and gently brushed his forehead, a gesture of almost ethereal affection that made his stomach churn with discomfort. "Sleep well, my precious deer. Mama will watch over you."

Another time, during a particularly stormy night that had Usopp huddled in fear, Zoro, instead of his usual silent contemplation of the raging seas, found Chopper shivering under his blanket. "You're a strong boy, aren't you?" Zoro rumbled, his voice low and comforting, completely devoid of his usual gruffness. He sat on the edge of Chopper's bed, gently ruffling his fur with a large hand. "No need to be scared, son. Your father's here. Nothing's going to hurt you." He stayed there for a long time, a silent, unwavering presence, until the storm passed and Chopper, despite his internal turmoil, actually drifted off to sleep, feeling oddly safe.

Mealtimes, previously a chaotic free-for-all, now featured Y/n meticulously cutting Chopper's meat into bite-sized pieces and even, to Sanji's utter horror, attempting to spoon-feed him a few times. "You need your strength, my big boy," she'd insist, her voice laced with a warmth that was undeniably genuine, yet utterly misplaced.

Even during training, Zoro would often call out to Chopper, his voice booming with pride. "Look, Y/n! Our boy's got good reflexes! He'll be a fine fighter!" He'd then demonstrate a simplified sword movement, urging Chopper to mimic him, completely oblivious to the trauma he was inflicting on his "son."

The crew observed these moments with a mixture of heartbreak and desperation. They knew these actions, while outwardly loving, were not truly Y/n and Zoro's. They were manifestations of a cruel, forced illusion, turning two of their most formidable members into doting, oblivious parents, and their innocent doctor into the bewildered victim of their warped affection. The clock was ticking, and they knew they had to break this spell before their nakama were lost to them forever.

The breaking point arrived during one particularly surreal dinner. Zoro had just demonstrated how to properly polish a sword to a bewildered Chopper, referring to it as "something a son should learn from his father," while Y/n meticulously arranged Chopper's vegetables into a smiley face. The sight was too much.

"Alright! That's enough!" Luffy suddenly roared, slamming his fists on the table, his usual jovial expression replaced by a stern, determined frown. "This isn't fun anymore! Y/n and Zoro aren't acting like themselves! We're going back to that island! We're gonna find whoever did this and kick their butts!"

A wave of relief, potent and almost palpable, washed over the crew.

"It's about time, Luffy!" Nami exclaimed, her eyes blazing with resolve. "I've run every diagnostic, every environmental scan, cross-referenced every Devil Fruit, and nothing explains this! We need to find the source!"

"My dreams of chivalry are shattered, but my loyalty to my nakama is not!" Sanji declared, lighting a cigarette with a dramatic flourish. "I shall unleash the full force of my kicks on whoever dared to sully Y/n-chan's precious mind!"

Usopp, though visibly nervous, clutched his trusty slingshot. "Yeah! They messed with our friends! And our doctor! That's unforgivable!"

Robin's usually calm voice held a rare edge of intensity. "This 'Kokoromi no Mi,' as Chopper has tentatively identified it, is a truly insidious power. Its effects are deeply unsettling. We must locate its user."

Franky pounded his chest. "SUPER! Time to bring back our SUPER serious swordsman and our SUPER organized Quartermaster! No one messes with the Straw Hat family!"

Brook strummed a mournful chord on his violin. "My heart, though I have none, weeps for their altered state. We must restore their true selves! Yohohoho!"

Even Jinbei, who had maintained a stoic front, nodded gravely. "We cannot allow our nakama to remain under such a spell. This is a task that requires our full attention."

Zoro, his arm still around your waist, merely grunted, his gaze fixed on Chopper. "What are they talking about, Y/n? Are they going somewhere without us?"

You smiled sweetly. "Oh, dear. Perhaps they're just planning a little outing. But we have our little one to take care of."

Luffy, however, had already sprung to the deck. "Alright! Set sail for that weird island! We're gonna find out who did this and make them regret it!" He turned to Zoro and you, a mischievous glint in his eye. "And Zoro, Y/n! When this is all over, we're gonna tell you all the funny stuff you did! Like how you two were kissing all over the place!"

You and Zoro exchanged a loving glance, completely oblivious to the crew's exasperation. "Kissing?" you murmured, a light blush dusting your cheeks. "But we do that all the time, don't we, husband?"

"Hmph. What's wrong with that?" Zoro added, completely missing the point.

The rest of the crew groaned, a unified wave of frustration washing over the deck. This was going to be a tough fight, not just against the Devil Fruit user, but against the sheer awkwardness of their friends' delusion.

Hours later, the Thousand Sunny once again dropped anchor off the strange, silent island. The twisted trees seemed to loom even more ominously in the twilight. The crew disembarked, their faces grim and determined. Luffy led the charge, his voice echoing through the eerie stillness. "Alright, you weirdo! Show yourself! We're here to get our friends back!" The hunt for the Kokoromi no Mi user had officially begun.

The Straw Hats fanned out, their usual boisterous energy replaced by a focused, almost grim determination. The island, which had seemed merely "off" before, now felt palpably sinister. The twisted trees clawed at the perpetually overcast sky, and the sickly sweet scent intensified, clinging to their clothes and hair.

Nami led the charge, her navigator's instincts honed by years of charting treacherous waters. She pulled out a small, intricate compass, its needle spinning wildly at first, then settling on a distinct, unsettling tremor. "The magnetic field is completely warped here," she murmured, her brow furrowed. "Whatever's causing this... it's radiating a powerful, unnatural energy."

Robin walked beside her, her usually serene expression thoughtful. She used her Devil Fruit ability, sprouting eyes and ears on the strange flora, extending their sensory reach far beyond their immediate vicinity. "The 'villagers' we saw earlier," she observed, her voice low, "they appear to be little more than echoes. Residual projections, perhaps. The true source of this illusion must be nearby, manipulating these phantoms."

Chopper, still reeling from his "parental" ordeal, pointed a trembling hoof. "That smell! It's stronger over there!" He had noticed the distinct, sickly sweet aroma was more concentrated near certain clusters of the gnarled trees.

Usopp, ever the sniper, climbed one of the taller, less stable-looking trees, his scope scanning the bizarre landscape. "I've got nothing! Just more weird plants and... wait! There's a clearing up ahead, deeper in the woods! And something's shimmering there!"

As they pushed through the dense undergrowth, the air grew thick and heavy, the sweet scent cloying, almost suffocating. The ground underfoot became strangely soft, spongy, as if they were walking on a rotten carpet of leaves.

Suddenly, Franky let out a shout. "SUPER! Look at this!" He pointed to a patch of ground where the strange, colorful flowers seemed to glow with an ethereal light. As he approached, the flowers seemed to shimmer, and for a fleeting moment, he saw faint, transparent images of the town's buildings flickering within their petals.

"It's a resonance," Robin deduced, her eyes narrowing. "These flowers... they are somehow amplifying and sustaining the illusion. The user must be at the epicenter of their concentration."

Following the increasingly strong scent and the subtle shimmering of the flora, they eventually stumbled into a circular clearing, strangely devoid of the gnarled trees. In the very center, seated cross-legged amidst a vibrant bed of the glowing flowers, was a thin, almost frail-looking man. His eyes were closed, his hands clasped, and a faint, almost invisible aura of shimmering light emanated from him, pulsing in time with the faint distortions in the air around him. The air here was so thick with the sweet scent it was almost difficult to breathe.

Luffy saw him, and his usual grin vanished, replaced by a dark, intense fury. The image of Zoro and Y/n, so utterly unlike themselves, flashed through his mind. His fists clenched, steam beginning to rise from his body.

"So you're the one," Luffy growled, his voice low and dangerous, "You'll pay for messing with my nakama!" Without another word, he lunged forward, stretching his arm back, ready to unleash a devastating Gum-Gum Pistol. The fight for Y/n and Zoro's true selves had finally begun.

Luffy's Gum-Gum Pistol shot forward like a compressed spring, aiming directly for the man's serene, unsuspecting face. But just before impact, the man's eyes snapped open, revealing pupils that seemed to swirl with iridescent colors. The air around him shimmered violently, and Luffy's fist passed through him as if he were made of smoke.

"An illusionary body!" Nami shouted, instantly grasping the situation. "He's projecting himself! The real one is somewhere else, maintaining the illusion!"

"Then we just have to hit everything!" Luffy declared, not missing a beat. His arms began to flail, a flurry of Gum-Gum Gatling punches raining down on the entire clearing. Each punch dissolved a part of the shimmering landscape, tearing away at the illusion, revealing glimpses of rougher, more mundane reality beneath.

Sanji, meanwhile, was already in motion. "Diable Jambe!" he roared, his leg igniting with flames. He launched himself into a searing kick, aiming not at the man's image, but at the very ground beneath the glowing flowers. His kick tore a fiery trench, disrupting the delicate network of roots and earth that seemed to anchor the illusion.

Robin's hands sprouted from the glowing flowers, from the bizarre, twisted trees, even from the man's illusory form itself, seeking a physical connection. "Dos Fleur!" she commanded, her eyes fixed on the man's true body which, she surmised, had to be tethered to the focal point of the illusion. Her hands probed through the shimmering air, feeling for any point of resistance, any solid form.

Usopp, perched on a higher branch, loaded a special Pop Green. "Sleep Star!" he yelled, firing a small, spherical projectile that exploded into a cloud of soporific pollen. The pollen, however, seemed to simply phase through the illusionary man, wavering and dissipating. "Damn it! He's not even real!"

"We need to disrupt the source directly!" Jinbei bellowed, his powerful fists slamming into the ground, sending shockwaves through the earth. He targeted the clusters of glowing flowers, recognizing them as key components of the man's power. "Ryugu Kawarajima Seiken!" His attacks sent plumes of dirt and pulverized plant matter into the air, each impact causing a visible ripple in the illusion.

As the Straw Hats unleashed their assault, the man's calm demeanor began to crack. His face contorted in a sneer, and the illusions around them became more aggressive, spectral figures rising from the dissolving trees, attempting to swipe at the crew. But the Straw Hats, focused and determined, ignored the phantoms, concentrating their attacks on the central figure and the glowing flora.

Suddenly, Robin's eyes widened. "Found you!" she exclaimed, her hands appearing on a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor in the air behind the illusory man. She had found the true, vulnerable body, hidden deep within the illusion's core. "Cien Fleur: Wing!" Hundreds of arms sprouted, forming massive, powerful wings that slammed down, shattering the last vestiges of the illusion.

The shimmering veil ripped apart, revealing the man's actual body, frail and shaking, hidden behind the dissolving mirage. He was small, cowering, and utterly exposed.

Luffy, his face still etched with anger, didn't hesitate. "Gum-Gum... RED HAWK!" His fist ignited with flames, a powerful, haki-infused blow that struck the man squarely in the chest. The man crumpled, unconscious, the glowing flowers around him instantly wilting, turning to ash. The air cleared, the sickly sweet scent dissipating, replaced by the natural smell of the island's damp earth and the distant sea. The illusion was completely, utterly broken.

Back on the Thousand Sunny, in the infirmary, Zoro and Y/n lay peacefully, their eyes closed. As the Devil Fruit user on the island fell, a violent shiver ran through both of them. The warmth that had enveloped their minds, the loving conviction of their marriage and parenthood, abruptly shattered. It was like waking from a vivid, beautiful dream into a stark, bewildering reality.

A gasp escaped your lips as your eyes snapped open. The familiar ceiling of the infirmary came into focus. A sharp, disorienting ache pounded behind your temples, and your body felt strangely heavy, intimately connected to something else. You tried to shift, but something held you fast.

You looked down, your eyes widening in shock. You were not alone. You were lying pressed against a broad, muscular chest, an arm thrown possessively over your waist. Your head was nestled in the crook of a strong shoulder, and your legs were tangled with another's.

Zoro.

His eyes, still a little unfocused, blinked open moments after yours. His breath hitched as he, too, realized the intimate proximity. His vision cleared, taking in the soft, dark hair against his cheek, the curve of a familiar waist against his side, the warmth of a body pressed against his own.

A rush of heat flooded your face. This wasn't the false warmth of an illusion; this was raw, undeniable embarrassment mixed with a dizzying current of something else, something thrilling and terrifying. You were in Zoro's arms, your bodies intimately connected, closer than you had ever been in waking reality.

He stirred, his arm tightening around you almost imperceptibly, his body stiffening with a mixture of confusion and dawning realization. His gaze met yours, wide with shock, a deep blush slowly creeping up his neck and dusting his ears. The unspoken tension that had always hummed between you now roared, a deafening silence filled with mutual, profound mortification. Neither of you moved, caught in the sudden, undeniable reality of your entangled forms, the remnants of a powerful illusion leaving behind a very real, very awkward truth.

A wave of disorienting clarity washed over you and Zoro, replacing the comforting delusion with a sudden, searing awareness of your intertwined limbs. The softness of the infirmary bed beneath you was undeniable, as was the unmistakable heat of Zoro's body pressed against yours. Your face burned, a deep crimson flush spreading across your cheeks.

"Wh-what the hell?" you stammered, trying to shift, but his arm, still possessively draped over your waist, held you firmly in place. Your mind raced, piecing together fragments of memory: the strange island, the illusion, the prick on your hand... and then, a horrifying, vivid recollection of calling Chopper "my child" and Zoro "my husband."

Zoro's single eye, wide with a mixture of shock and mortification, met yours. His usual stoic composure had completely evaporated. A deep blush, so rare it was almost unheard of, crept up his neck and stained his ears. "What in the…?" he grunted, his voice rougher than usual, betraying his utter bewilderment. He too, was clearly grappling with the sudden, jarring return of his true memories. The image of Y/n, his crewmate, his Quartermaster, his... you, calling him "my love" and then that kiss... it slammed into him with the force of a cannonball.

The awkward silence that followed was deafening, filled only by the rapid thumping of your hearts. The air crackled with a tension that was both mortifying and, inexplicably, electric. You were acutely aware of the warmth radiating from his skin, the scent of him – salt, steel, and something uniquely masculine – filling your nostrils.

"We… we were on the island," you managed, your voice barely a whisper, trying to make sense of the chaos. "And then… that man… the illusion. And then… this." You gestured vaguely between your tangled bodies, then to the infirmary around you. "Did... did they bring us back here?"

Zoro groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure exasperation. He finally managed to pull his arm back, creating a sliver of space between your bodies, though the warmth where he'd been lingered tantalizingly. He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing away the last vestiges of confusion. "That damn Devil Fruit user," he muttered, his voice laced with annoyance. "They hit us with something. That's why... that's why we were acting like that." He paused, a fresh wave of mortification washing over him as he recalled his own actions. "Calling Chopper our kid... and you..." He trailed off, unable to voice the word "wife."

You instinctively drew your knees up, covering yourself with the blanket, suddenly acutely aware of how disheveled you both must look. "And you! You were acting like... like you've been my husband for years!" You couldn't help but feel a flicker of indignation, despite the heat still flooding your cheeks. It wasn't fair that he was the only one allowed to be embarrassed.

He shot you a rare, exasperated look. "Don't look at me like that! You were calling me 'my love,' and 'husband'!" He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the green strands in frustration. "And that... that kiss... we've never..." He trailed off again, the unspoken truth hanging heavily in the air.

The memory of the kiss, though under the influence of the Devil Fruit, sent a fresh jolt through you. It had felt so natural, so right in that warped reality. And the way he had looked at you, with that deep, loving concern... a part of you, a very quiet, secret part, had actually liked it.

You both lay there for another long moment, the silence thick with the unspoken tension of your mutual feelings, now magnified by the bizarre circumstances. The illusion might have been broken, but it had stripped away the comfortable layers of unspoken understanding, leaving raw, exposed emotions.

Finally, with a frustrated sigh that seemed to echo the very depths of his embarrassment, Zoro groaned again. But this time, instead of pulling away, he shifted. He leaned back into you, his large frame settling comfortably against yours, his arm subtly sliding back around your waist, his hand coming to rest just above your hip. He lowered his head, nestling into the crook of your neck, his warm breath ghosting over your skin.

You stiffened, your breath catching in your throat. Every nerve ending screamed in awareness of his proximity, of the subtle weight of his head, the familiar scent of him now intoxicatingly close. For a split second, panic warred with an overwhelming wave of something else – a deep, almost primal comfort that settled over you. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, you relaxed into his embrace. The awkwardness was still there, a buzzing undercurrent, but beneath it, a new, fragile warmth began to bloom. The illusion had been a lie, but the connection, the undeniable truth of your intertwined feelings, was very, very real.

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece fanfiction #reader insert #straw hat pirates #straw hats #straw hats x reader #angst ish #light angst #zoro x y/n #zoro x you #zoro x reader #op zoro #one piece zoro #roronoa zoro #zoro #reqs open

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medicus-mortem · 1 year ago

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@sillygum liked [+] for a early pirate career starter.

This is new and not wanted at all. There is a kid standing before him. A kid with a scar on his face, wearing sandals and tears rolling down his cheeks. Law feels an eyelid twitch, his grip on his nodachi tightening. He’d come into this town with the intention of getting some supplies for his ship and moving on. It’s a while since he’s found a pirate friendly port that didn’t have a Donquxiote pirates jolly roger hidden somewhere in the shadows. He was hoping to relax a little, as much as this angry, revenge driven teenager can. Instead, this is what he comes across.

Law had turned a corner in the markets and found the kid stumbling away from the tavern. He’d bumped into Law and promptly started crying about being lost. Now, that is not something Trafalgar Law needs to give a fuck about. A lost kid is not his problem but now he’s latched onto Law’s shirt and the crying is drawing attention.

“Fuck,” Law hisses, teeth baring with a snarl. He really wants to punch this kid and be done with this, but he knows that won’t go well with this crowd watching. “Look, kid, I don’t have time for this. Go find someone else to help you.”

He shoves the boy back, the motion harsher than he means it to be. He just wants to stop that snot from getting onto his new jeans.

#sillygum #captain's log // threads #captain of hearts // canon verse #baby sitting

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zorosangell · 7 months ago

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⛥ﾟ・。 jug

synopsis: after going out to search for luffy, you and zoro stumble upon a bottle of pink sake. zoro drinks it without question, but lives to regret it, as you have to deal with the consequences... physically

cw: nsfw (nothing too crazy), fluff, angst if you really squint, aphrodisiacs, reader is down bad for zoro, and vice versa, whiny-ish zoro (he's in pain give him a break)

a/n: thought of the song heart of a woman while writing this

"Luffyyy!" you called, hands raised to the sides of your mouth as you glanced around. "Luffyyy! Where are you?!"

The swordsman bristled, pinching the bridge of his nose with an annoyed look.

"C'mon, Luffy, it's freezing out here! Hurry up!" he groaned, breath disappearing into the cool air.

Of all the nights your captain chose to disappear, it had to be the coldest of the week...

"For all we know, he can't even hear us," you sighed, tucking your hands in your pockets. "We might have more luck tomorrow... y'know, when it's not twenty below freezing."

"We already came all this way, we might as well bring him back," he grumbled, sharply, pressing forward with a taut look. "Christ, why is it so fuckin' cold..."

His tone came as barely a shock, your eyes unable to stave off their eyes roll.

'Someone's cranky...'

The crew hat been docked on a fall island for a little under a week, waiting for the log pose to set, but it was clear that the crew was already starting to go a little stir crazy.

Some more than others...

But, after a day of exploring and forest shenanigans, Luffy had yet to come back, and both you and Zoro were sent as his search party—the swordsman having been woken up from his pre-night watch nap.

Which would explain why he was acting so grouchy.

Or... grouchier than usual.

"C'mon, Zoro, we've been searching for an hour... How about we give it a rest?" you suggested, sincerely. "From what I can tell, this place is inhabited by nothing but deer, rabbits, and squirrels. I'm sure Luffy can survive the night."

The swordsman kept his gaze forward, not slowing down at all.

"It's dark, and this island is full of frozen lakes," he stated, matter-of-factly. "If that idiot manages to find some way to fall into one, he's done for."

Slightly, you deflated, looking off to the side.

You hadn't thought of that...

Cheeks puffed, you hugged your arms a little closer to your body, attempting to close out the chill of embarrassment.

You knew Zoro didn't mean anything by it—seeing as he talked like that to everyone—but you couldn't help but suddenly feel annoying, your excuses probably the last thing he wanted to hear after being dragged out of bed.

'Dammit, (y/n)... always whining about something...'

This was an insecurity that plagued you constantly.

When you first joined the Strawhats, it was blindingly clear that you were nowhere near the strongest of the bunch.

You weren't fast like Brook.

Or powerful like Luffy

Or even smart like Robin.

You were just... (y/n).

Average, human (y/n).

The only thing particularly unique about you was your skill with a needle and thread.

You were the ship's seamstress, and the clothes you created for the crew were all exquisitely crafted and perfectly tailored to their needs.

It didn't matter how much thread you had, how much fabric you were given, or even how bad the damage was.

You could easily turn it into something both stylish and practical, your craftsmanship that of a seasoned pro, someone who had been honing their trade for decades upon decades.

But you were only twenty.

And while the rest of the crew saw this incredible talent, and often sang your praises for it, you couldn't help but feel useless.

How the hell was sewing supposed to help you win a fight?

You couldn't feather stitch an enemy into submission.

Day in and day out, you trained, hoping to build your strength enough to run with the big dogs.

Even during the crew's two year break, you hadn't laid a finger on your sewing machine, focusing solely on your fighting prowess.

But when you came back, utterly elated by your newfound brawn, you were quick to realize that the monsters had gotten stronger, too.

And you were right back where you started.

"SHI—!"

Your little, mental pity party was interrupted as you tripped over a tree root, feet stuck and body flying forward toward the ground.

Luckily, a pair of strong arms caught you with a death grip, forcing a gasp out your lips as your hands shot up to cling to his broad shoulders, your face smashing into his muscular chest.

'I think I'll go die now...'

Deathly embarrassed, you quickly pulled your head up, stomach lurching and heart stuttering as you caught sight of his face.

"I'm sorry..." you muttered, meekly, eyes slightly wide and completely entranced.

He had a hardened face, with dark eyes and a dark aura—not at all like the men that typically hit on you (not that you thought he was hitting on you now)—and surprisingly soft looking lips.

It was common knowledge that Zoro was anything but ugly, but just seeing his features up close...

He was such a pretty man.

"You good?" Zoro asked, raising a brow.

Clearing your throat, you nodded, allowing him to stand you back upright, and allowing yourself the chance to reign yourself back in.

Your "little" crush on the swordsman was something that plagued you from the moment you joined the crew... and if we're being honest, who could blame you?

Not only was he incredibly attractive, but he had morals; honor; and most importantly, chivalry.

Which, in your private opinion, far surpassed Sanji's.

But, it was beyond obvious that the man was completely out of your league, and you preferred keeping your feelings bottled up and saving yourself the embarrassment rather than getting rejected by a crewmate.

You'd seen the caliber of women that had come onto him in the past.

Powerful, female enemies...

High ranking Navy officials...

A fucking princess...

How could you hold a candle to that?

Though, little did you know, he thought the exact opposite.

While Zoro was a man who prided himself of self-restraint and respect, he couldn't help but let his eyes rake over you as your arms came up to cross over your chest.

Smooth, tanned skin accentuated under the complementary white of your cropped parka, your jeans just loose enough to run, and just tight enough to make your ass look fantastic.

Your lipgloss made your plump lips look so soft and inviting, and your eyes were so warm he felt like they heated him from the inside out.

And don't get him started on your sexy-ass voice—

"What did you trip over?" he quickly blurted out, glancing down at the ground to fight off the impure thoughts.

"It looks like a handle," you remarked, squatting down to take a closer look. "And I think there's a square outline in the ground."

Slowly, you looped your manicured fingers around the tree root, getting ready to pull.

"Careful..." Zoro warned, swords at the ready.

You nodded, and with a harsh tug, the door lifted, revealing a small compartment with a large jug inside.

Grabbing it by the neck, you pulled it out, dusting off its label to see what it was.

"It's sake... from over twenty years ago."

Instantly, a grin stretched across Zoro's face, the man gratefully taking the bottle as you handed it to him.

"Now we're talkin'," he smirked, popping the cork with his teeth and swiping the bits of dirt off the mouth. "Just what I needed."

"Are you sure you wanna drink that?" you asked, warily, as you stared at the bottle's contents. "I've never seen pink sake before..."

The man shrugged, his good eye taking a quick glance at it before he tossed back a large gulp, licking the remnants off his lips when he was finished.

"Eh, it's probably native to this island or somethin'," he waved off, turning around to continue the search. "It's strong... tastes like strawberries."

With a sigh, you stood to follow him, brows flattening as you watched him pound back another huge swig.

'I'll have Chopper check him out when we get back...'

It wasn't long after that you guys found Luffy.

He had been napping in a tree the whole time, and after you and Zoro gave him a serious scolding for worrying everyone, you dragged him back to the ship, you practically slumping against your door once you made it back into your work room.

Your day had been a whirlwind, to say the least, and your body wanted absolutely nothing more than to sprawl out on bed and catch some Zs.

But, even with the late, or rather, early hour—two to be exact—you didn't allow it.

First, you changed into some more comfortable clothes—some pajama shorts and a flimsy tank top—before straightening up the mess you had made in an attempt to make everyone new winter coats.

Once all that was done, you finally sat down at your desk, opening up your sketchbook and pulling out a pen to draw with.

'Alright, Nami said she wanted a new party dress...'

But before you could even draw the first line, someone frantically knocked on your door.

"For fuck's sake..." you sighed, throwing your head back in anguish.

You had half the mind to ignore it.

And, honestly, you did, returning to your book and pretending to be asleep.

But it wasn't long before the frantic rap turned into a distressed bang, completely disrupting your flow.

"Fine! I'm coming!" you caved, roughly pushing your chair back and storming toward the door.

If Kaido himself wasn't burning down the ship, heads were going to roll.

"Usopp, I swear to God, if this is some kind of jo—"

Swinging the door open, you never in a million years would have expected to see Roronoa Zoro on the other side.

Especially not looking like that.

"Shit," he panted, breathless, as he clutched his stomach, leaning against the door frame for support.

Of course it led him to you...

"Can I... mph! ...Can I come in?"

In front of you stood the first mate of Luffy's crew, his most trusted companion, his most loyal friend.

And the hands-down hottest man you had ever seen.

He was in nothing but some black sweats, his muscular arms and abs on perfect display.

His face was flushed, cheeks puffed with his hair tousled, and chest heaving like he'd just run a marathon.

Without thinking, you stepped to the side, allowing him in, now incredibly thankful that you'd tidied up beforehand.

Can't have the place looking like a pig sty...

Feeling something burning into the side of your head, you shut the door, turning around to see that he was staring at you intensely.

His eyes, once a beautiful steel gray, mimicking that of the swords he cherished so dearly, now resembled that of storm clouds, dark with something you couldn't place your finger on.

Yet something that worried you nonetheless.

"Are you okay?" you asked, raising a brow, not daring to touch him as he leaned against the wall, his legs having a slight tremble.

"No," he replied, his voice a half-whine, half-growl, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "Something's... something's wrong... and... fuck! Everything hurts!"

"Hurts?" you parroted, now even more confused.

If he was in pain, why would he come to you?

You were just the seamstress, someone with little to no medical knowledge.

Why not go to Chopper?

Hell, why not go to Robin?

He let out another pained groan, sending a small, sharp pang to your heart.

'Questions are for later.'

Swiftly, you approached, only stopping when you were about a foot in front of him.

Leaning forward, your eyes scanned over his body, checking to see what you could deduce off looks alone.

"What hurts?"

Before he could answer, his eyes trailed down to your chest, the cut of your tank top and the angle you were leaning giving him a perfect view of your tits.

'Fuck me...'

Embarrassed, he avoided eye contact with you, his gaze flicking down to his crotch before zooming off to a far away window.

Still thoroughly confused, your eyes followed his path, only to find that he was hard, and it looked almost painfully so.

'Oh, shit...'

Your face burned, and you quickly snatched your eyes away from the sight.

"What happened?" you squeaked.

"I don't know," Zoro rasped, his entire body shuddering with arousal, heat pulsing through his body so intensely it hurt. "I woke up in my room an hour ago, and... well."

He gestured to his hard-on, the message clear.

"I tried to rub one off but... fuck... nothing worked. And then it got worse... and then—"

Red-faced, he glanced away from you, nostrils flaring.

Why couldn't shit like this happen to the damn cook?

"I...fuck...I smelled something...shit...something that just made it even worse, so I went to find it..." Zoro swallowed thickly, "and it lead me here."

Here?

HERE?

'HERE?!'

Why would, what was obviously some sort of lust sickness, lead him to you?

And why would your scent make it even worse?

Sure, you thought the man was stunningly handsome, and the mysterious, stone-cold air about him intrigued you to no end... but this was too much.

It had to be a dream.

Right?

Suddenly, Zoro crumpled to the floor, breathing heavily in short pants, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed.

"Zoro!" you gasped, worried, rushing over to him.

"Look... I don't know how or why this... whatever it is...led me to you by your fuckin' scent or somethin'," he shuddered, the room somehow filled with your damn smell.

The shampoo you used.

The body wash.

The perfume.

Hell, the goddamn candles.

Everything just set something off inside of him—something that wanted to ravish you until you couldn't speak, trapped under his body helpless and needy.

Just like he was for you.

God, you were his fucking crewmate.

"Look, I wouldn't ask this of you, (y/n), if there was any other choice..." he rasped, your name on his tongue sending another shiver down your spine.

'Get a hold of yourself...'

"But you're the only one that caught this thing's attention. I don't think think this'll go away normalLY!"

His word extended as pain thrummed through his body, starting at his pelvis and sparking up his back.

God, it hurt so fucking bad.

But as the body cramp passed, he looked up at you with glassy eyes.

"(y/n), please. I'll...fuck! ...I'll fuckin' get you something nice at the next island..." he shuddered again. "Just help me..."

You stared at him for a long moment, struggling to process what was happening.

This had to be some sort of freaky dream.

You'd probably passed out from exhaustion at your desk, and were now face first in your sketchbook.

But looking down at him, so helpless, trembling like an injured deer, it felt oddly real.

...

'Nahhh...'

With a heavy sigh, you moved closer, until you stood over him, his breathing becoming rapid and uneven.

You smelled so fucking good.

He just wanted to have you, to keep you.

To devour you.

You knelt in front of him, tilting your head and lifting him just enough, giving him a warm nod of approval.

That was all he needed.

In an instant, Zoro surged forward, his impossibly soft lips capturing yours in a breath-stealing kiss, granting him a faint pang of relief.

If this was a dream, then it was the most vivid one you'd ever hand.

His lips felt so real, pressing a searing kiss into yours, all the pain and arousal he had been feeling clear as day.

Smoothly, his nimble hand curled around your waist, the other cupping the back of your head.

"Fuck, you're so soft... You smell so good," he muttered into your mouth, his hands wandering all over your body.

You took in a shuddering breath when Zoro pulled away, giving you a small chance to regain your senses as his lips traveled down your jaw and to your neck, his teeth scraping your sensitive skin.

You sighed, the feeling alien.

Sure, you weren't a prude—you'd frenched a guy or two from your village in your teen years—but never had you done something so... intense.

"Zoro!" you gasped as he suddenly shoved you to the floor, his pupils dilated beyond relief.

"I'm givin' you an out right now," he warned, leaning down so close to you, you could count his eyelashes. "One word... and I'll leave.

God, his eyes were so pretty.

You could stare into them for hours, getting lost in their cloudy grey.

'Wait... what did he say?'

Zoro pressed his forehead against yours, his breath ghosting across your lips, "Last chance."

He almost sounded nervous.

He wasn't at all experienced in the world of sex.

And, yes, he was a pirate who often cared little about the feelings of others.

But he wasn't a monster.

Nothing further was going to happen without your say so.

With a shy smile, you leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss on his lips.

'Thank God.'

With that out the way, his hips pressed into yours, and you let out a shocked moan into his lips, feeling his hardened dick throb with each throb of his heart.

God, he felt big.

A small pit of nervousness settled in your stomach, but you pushed it away, following instinct by lifting your hips, helping Zoro get some relief from the pain as you carefully rubbed your pulsing core against him.

And it felt fantastic.

Zoro let out a shuddering sigh, pulling away from the kiss and looking down between you both, his hips already meeting yours in a rhythm.

"Fuck—" he groaned, almost flopping completely on top of you, his large arms enveloping your body as he ground against you.

"Fuck fuck fuck, dammit, you already feel too fuckin' good," he kissed your neck, scraping his teeth against your skin as he dry humped you. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou."

You let out mousy responses to his thanks, rutting back into his hips until it wasn't enough for him anymore.

He sat up abruptly, scooping you up as if you weighed nothing and standing up on wobbly legs, walking over to your bed and setting you down less than gently.

(Franky had installed a bed in your workshop after the fiftieth time you'd fallen asleep at your desk. Yes, he counted)

You bounced as you landed, almost squeaking as Zoro's rough hands explored your body once again, tugging off your sleep clothes in a fumbling, desperate manner.

You sat up to help him slide off your shirt, his eyes catching on the soft curves of your shoulders and waist, studying the way your stomach smoothed out into your hips and thighs, your skin so soft under his touch.

He leaned down, trailing his lips against your hips and stomach, his tongue licking up your waist until it reached your breast, his mouth latching onto your hardened nipple as you shivered at the pleasurable feeling.

He whispered your name against your skin like a prayer to the gods, and you took in a sudden, deep breath.

You'd never imagined your name sounding so sexy.

'This has to be a fucking dream, it has to be...'

Something like this would never actually happen to you—so you decided to just enjoy it.

Soon, your pants followed your shirt, landing on the floor behind Zoro.

He stood, staring down at you with dark eyes, his chest heaving, you almost matching him with how hard you were breathing.

Suddenly, he pulled your underwear off, exposing your soaked core to the freezing air of your workshop.

"Wait, Zoro, I've never—"

You couldn't even finish your sentence, his mouth already meeting your core, his tongue driving into you while his thumb circled your clit.

"Zoro!" you cried out, your hand reaching down to grab his soft hair, bucking your hips against his mouth.

It felt better than anything you could've ever imagined.

But just as quick as it came, his tongue left you, your whine not even making it halfway before your back was arching, all three of his fingers shoved into you.

The mix of pain and pleasure was delicious, and you almost instantly understood why some peple were addicted to it.

His mouth replaced his thumb on your clit, his diits unraveling you so easy.

You moaned his name like a broken record, the heat in your face reaching down your entire body, sighing as he pulled his fingers out.

You watched, intently, as Zoro tugged off his pants, his boxers going with his clothes, landing right next to yours.

He was gorgeous.

Years of hard, grueling training left him toned, every bit of him defined and carved by the gods.

He stroked his cock, and something churned in your stomah at the sight of it.

It as really big—if this was real, then you'd be sore beyond belief.

You swallowed, letting Zoro maneuver your body and legs as he lined himself up, rubbing the pink-tipped head of his dick against your folds.

He looked into your eyes, and smirked, before pushing in with one motion, his eyes snapping shut at the feeling of your hot, soft walls.

In an instant, his body cooled down, allowing a moment of relief before it came back twice as painful.

Meanwhile, you had breathed yourself through it quite well, the painful sting already beginning to disappear.

Suddenly, he let out a pained, lustful moan, slowly pulling out before thrusting back in.

It as simple at first, a novice pace, the sound of your wet cunt suctioning around him echoing throughout the room.

Your breath was suddenly stolen as Zoro pressed down into you, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist as his hands pinned your wrists to the bed.

"Fuck fuck fuck," he growled.

He sounded like an animal in heat, his hips hammering into yours, the sound of your cunt being abused growing louder.

"Ah...ah...aah!" you panted, drool leaking down the side of your mouth as Zoro fucked you hard, his hips slapping against your thighs and ass, the sound only turning you on even more.

And it seemed to be doing the same to Zoro.

He bit your shoulder, moaning so loud you were sure the entire ship would've had complaints.

If this wasn't a dream, of course—which you were positive it was.

Your first orgasm came fast and hard, fireworks exploding in your vision as the coil wound in your gut snapped.

Zoro let out a tutered groan, frantically pulling his dick out and coming all over your stomach, the amount a concerning one.

But he was still unsatisfied.

With a grunt, he clutched his side, another cramp rushing through his body and forcing him to flip you over, pulling up your hips.

Your face burned as he ignored your sputtering words, sliding back into you, his breath hitching as you clenched down on him yet again.

Using his strength, he practically overtook you with his body, arms wrapped around your waist and hips pistoning as he hammered you like there was no tomorrow.

You couldn't even breath, each thrust knocking the wind out of you.

Fixing his position, Zoro shifted his hips ever so slightly, sitting up on his knees, forcing you to see stars.

Ecstasy flooded through your body as your front half went completely limp, panting moans pushing from your chest with each slap of Zoro's hips against your ass.

It wasn't long before your second orgasm came crashing through you—not as intense as the first but ust as hard.

Feeling himself right on the edge, he quickly pulled away, letting out a brathy whisperof your name as he pumped himself, releasing all over your back.

It continued like this for a while, the pain only disappearing after two more rounds.

And once it did, he carefully let go of your hips, them dropping like dead weight as all of your strength was completely sapped away.

Zoro was utterly exhausted, panting and aching everywhere, but he could only imagine how you felt.

He himself had never made it past first base with a woman before—he'd never had time for relationships, sexual or romantic—but he wasn't stupid.

He'd heard many a tale about the soreness that exists after sex for women.

And you had done him a serious solid.

So he forced himself to stand up, pulling on some pants before walking to the bathroom on tired legs and grabbing a few wash rags.

He got you cleaned up with the warm, damp ones, before using a cold one to cool the rest of your body.

But once that was done, he had no energy to do anything else, allowing himself to fall back against the pillows, breathing heavily.

Though, he didn't waste any time in wrapping his arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest.

He couldn't just leave you after what he did...and if he was being honest, he didn't want to.

Watching your sleeping form, snoring softly and snuggled under the sheets, brought a certain warmness to his heart he had never felt before.

He didn't know what tomorrow would bring, but the least he could do was hold you in his arms while he had the chance.

Maybe, one day, this could be real.

BONUS !!

The shouts of your captain snatched you from your death-like sleep, waking you with a groan as your eyes fluttered open, only to be blinded by the golden rays of morning light seeping through the window.

You let out a tired whine, covering your head with your pillow.

'I knew I should've got those curtains...'

Sitting up, sluggishly, you almost immediately regretted it when a jolt of pain shot through your core, the following soreness and aching rippling throughout the rest of your body.

"The hell?" you winced at the pulse between your legs.

It practically hurt to breathe.

And you had no idea why.

Confused, you lifted the blanket to check what was wrong, only to find that you were completely naked.

'Oh, shit... oh shit, oh shit, OH SHIT!'

You whipped your head around, looking for any sign of the handsome pirate, only to find him snoring soundly right next to you, one of his arms haphazardly strewn around your waist.

Going off his positioning, it looked like you two were tangled in the sheets, his arms holding you protectively for most of the night.

"Last night was real..." you muttered, wincing again, your voice nearly gone.

A raspy tone only acquired after screaming nearly all night long

'Oh, shit! Fuck! The others! I was so loud!'

Frantic, you didn't realize how close you were to the edge, your lips letting a yelp slip as you fell over.

Instantly, you hit the floor with a harsh thud, letting out a string of curses as another jolt of pain coursed through your legs and hips.

"Fuck..." Zoro groaned as he patted the space next to him, attempting to feel for you as he stirred awake from the noise. "Where the hell did she—oh, shit, (y/n)!"

Realizing you were on the ground, his eye shot wide, and he quickly scrambled to the edge of the bed, wrapping his arm around your waist and effortlessly hoisting you into his lap.

"Crap, (y/n), are you alright?! Are you hurt?!" he asked, frazzled, and still trying to wake up. "Shit, (y/n), I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for all this to happen. I shoulda listened to you and left the damn sake alone."

To say he felt ashamed was an understatement.

He was absolutely mortified.

The events of last night began coming back to him in flashes, the pit of guilt in his stomach sinking deeper with each one.

Where he dragged his tongue against your skin...

Every hickey and bite mark he left behind...

The feeling of your gummy walls squeezing against him...

That's not how he wanted your first time together to be.

He wanted it to be something slow and special, something a woman like you deserved.

But instead it was fast and in the spur of the moment, all because he was stupid enough to guzzle some mystery drink and fall under the effects of a lust spell.

"I—"

Raising your finger to his lips, you silenced him, eyes suddenly lidded as you leaned forward, forcing the two of you to lay back down, much to his confusion.

"Talk later," you mumbled, sleepily, nuzzling into his side as you pulled up the covers. "Sleep now."

Allowing your eyes to flutter shut, you let out a smooth, content sigh, slowly drifting back into slumber.

Incredulous, Zoro let out a small chuckle, but complied anyway, his arms snaking around your waist once more, pulling you further into him with a slight smirk.

Maybe he had that jug to thank after all...

#zorosangell #one piece #one piece x reader #roronoa #roronoa x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #zoro #zoro x reader #op

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chimcess · 14 days ago

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⮞ Chapter Eight: SOL 320 Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Convict!Jungkook, Escaped Prisoner!Jungkook, Piolet!Reader, Captain!Reader, Holyman!Namjoon, Boss!Yoongi, Commander!Jimin, Astronaut!Jimin, Doctor!Hoseok, Astronaut!Hoseok Genre: Sci-Fi, Action, Adventure, Thriller, Suspense, Strangers to Enemies to ???, Slow Burn, LOTS of Angst, Light Fluff, Eventual Smut, Third Person POV, 18+ Only Word Count: 17.1k+ Summary: When a deep space transporter crash-lands on a barren planet illuminated by three relentless suns, survival becomes the only priority for the stranded passengers, including resourceful pilot Y/N Y/L/N, mystic Namjoon Kim, lawman Taemin Lee, and enigmatic convict Jungkook Jeon. As they scour the hostile terrain for supplies and a way to escape, Y/N uncovers a terrifying truth: every 22 years, the planet is plunged into total darkness during an eclipse, awakening swarms of ravenous, flesh-eating creatures. Forced into a fragile alliance, the survivors must face not only the deadly predators but also their own mistrust and secrets. For Y/N, the growing tension with Jungkook—both a threat and a reluctant ally—raises the stakes even higher, as the battle to escape becomes one for survival against the darkness both around them and within themselves. Warnings: Strong Language, Blood, Trauma, Smart Character Choices, This is all angst and action and that's pretty much it, Reader is a bad ass, Survivor Woman is back baby, terraforming, some mental health issues, survivor's guilt, lots of talking to herself, and recording it, because she'll lose her mind otherwise, fixing things, intergalatical politics, new characters, body image issues, scars, strong female characters are everywhere, cynical humor, bad science language, honestly all of this has probably had the worst science and basis ever, I researched a lot I promise, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: Will she make it or not?

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Inside the sealed cocoon of the Speculor, the rest of M6-117 faded to a low hum.

Y/N adjusted the volume dial on the rover’s console with a gloved hand, tuning the half-busted stereo with the care of someone who’d done this ritual a hundred times before. The speakers crackled, fought her for a second, then gave in. David Bowie’s “Starman” poured into the cabin—grainy, warbled around the edges, but intact. The first familiar notes stretched through the air like a warm thread pulling taut.

She leaned back in her seat and let the music fill the empty space around her. It wasn’t loud. Just enough to soften the edges.

Seven months.

That was how long it had been since the mission trajectory changed—since NOSA had quietly shifted from contingency to possibility, and finally, to planning. Seven months since she’d stopped thinking about dying here and started thinking—cautiously, carefully—about leaving.

Now it was close. The actual launch was days away, maybe less, and Y/N was almost too tired to process what that meant. She’d expected emotion, something big and cinematic, but mostly she just felt blank. Not numb. Just emptied out. Worn smooth by repetition.

In that time, she’d spoken with CAPCOM every day—lagged, distorted, half a minute behind real conversation. Still, it was something. The Starfire crew’s updates. Mateo’s cautious optimism. April’s careful questions, always logged, always transcribed. They’d become part of the routine. A strange kind of company.

Inside the Speculor, the air was dry and recycled, the temperature cranked just high enough to keep the frost at bay. Her gloved fingers twisted the volume knob on the console. Static at first, then the music settled into clarity: Starman, again. The same bootleg copy she’d looped more times than she could count. Bowie’s voice filled the cabin, staticky and familiar.

She let her head lean against the side panel for a moment, just listening. The song didn’t feel triumphant anymore—not like it had that first week after contact—but it still felt right. Like a rhythm she could breathe to. Something just hers.

Beyond the windshield, M6-117 spread out in all directions. A quiet, unforgiving ocean of red dust and fractured rock. Nothing moved except wind and memory. No birds, no trees, no clouds. Just light—too much of it—poured from twin suns that hovered low on the horizon like sullen watchmen. The shadows they cast were long and doubled, stretching at awkward angles.

The land looked ancient. Like it had been waiting a long time to be seen.

The Speculor groaned under her as it crawled up a slope she knew by heart. She’d rerouted this leg of the journey after last week’s storm took out the northern ridge. Her notes were accurate. They always were now. She didn’t have room for error.

The rover’s suspension—rigged together with leftover couplings and patched metal—complained as it dipped into a shallow trough. She adjusted the throttle gently. The vibrations traveled through the seat and into her spine.

“There’s a starman… waiting in the sky…”

She didn’t sing along. Her throat was cracked from the dry air, and her voice didn’t sound like her own anymore. But she tapped her fingers against the throttle in time with the chorus.

Some things became ritual. The song. The route. The moment right before she checked the nav screen, pretending she didn’t already know what it would say.

Battery: nominal. O2: green. Power margins: close, but acceptable.

Everything holding, for now.

The route she followed traced along the eastern lip of Sundermere Basin, skirting the high plateau where thermal anomalies had been pinging weak but persistent signals. She’d flagged it a week ago. Maybe residual power from a buried unit. Maybe nothing. But “maybe” was enough to justify the trip. Any task was better than sitting still, waiting for time to pass.

Because the truth was, after seven months, she’d gotten very good at surviving.

She’d fixed the antenna four times. Rebuilt the filtration unit twice. Repaired the rover’s lateral drive with nothing but a welding arc, spare bolts, and one of her own belt loops. She’d catalogued every sample she could reach. Updated the entire geological substrate map for the quadrant. Even completed two of Oslo’s abandoned mineral tests, down to the data formatting.

She’d done it all mostly to keep her mind from slipping.

Being alone hadn’t turned out to be the worst part. Not exactly. It was quieter than she’d feared, but not in the way people imagined. Not peaceful. There were no clean silences, no meditative stillness. It was crowded in its own way—crowded with memories, with thoughts that looped and snagged and repeated themselves until they lost shape. Some nights, lying on her bunk in the Hab, she’d listen to the wind battering against the canvas wall and pretend it wasn’t real. Pretend she was back in the deep quiet of space, where nothing moved unless you told it to.

She hadn’t cried in months. Not because she didn’t want to. Because crying felt indulgent, like something you did when there was room for it. And she didn’t have that luxury. There was always something to fix, something to check, something to prepare. Emotion was a liability. She couldn’t afford to dissolve—not when she had to be ready to get off this rock the moment the window opened.

And now, finally, they were close.

Close enough that NOSA had started using language she hadn’t heard in over a year—terms like maneuver window and vector drift allowance showing up again in the reports. The tone of the transmissions had shifted, too. Koah’s voice had taken on a subtle urgency. He sounded focused. And hopeful.

That part scared her more than anything.

The rover crested the rise with a long, slow groan. She tightened her grip on the controls, steadying the frame as dust curled up from the tires and blurred the windows. Beyond the glass, a new stretch of Martian terrain unfolded—deep ochre and rusted red, horizon layered with jagged ridgelines that looked like broken bones under the hard light of the twin suns. Shadows stretched in every direction, stark and sharp-edged.

She didn’t speak. Not yet.

In her mind, she’d pictured rescue countless times. She’d let herself imagine the roar of thrusters, a hull breaking through atmosphere like a second sunrise, the sound of someone—anyone—saying her name over comms. Something cinematic. Big. Emotional. Deserved.

Instead, it had come in pieces. Quiet, unremarkable pieces. Data packets. Checklist confirmations. Engineering logs buried in jargon.

And now she was preparing to launch herself into orbit in a vessel that was never meant for a second use. A stripped-down ascent vehicle rebuilt out of scavenged parts and crossed fingers. One shot. That was it. The math didn’t leave room for mistakes. If she missed the intercept by even a second—or came in too hot, or caught the wrong wind shear—it was over. They wouldn’t be able to course correct. She’d drift, and Starfire would keep moving, and it would be no one’s fault.

She could hear that knowledge in the way Koah paused at the end of every transmission. In the way Mateo no longer filled the gaps with empty reassurances.

They knew.

But she also knew this: if it failed—if she didn’t make it—they’d still try to bring her home. She believed that. Her body, her suit, the black box of sensor data she’d logged with religious devotion. They wouldn’t leave her here to vanish under the sand. They’d find a way to retrieve her, even if it took years.

There was something oddly calming about that.

She reached for her water tube and took a long sip, swallowing slowly as her eyes drifted to the sky through the rover’s sloped windshield. The upper atmosphere shimmered faintly, copper-hued and blinding at the edges. Too bright to be beautiful. Too dry to feel real. There was something about it that always looked fake to her—like a badly rendered simulation of sky instead of the real thing.

Somewhere above that sky, Starfire was moving into position.

Somewhere, someone she hadn’t touched in over a year was punching burn times into a nav system and checking the margin for intercept.

She tapped the screen to bring up her next waypoint. A new line of coordinates blinked back at her, hovering like a challenge. This stretch would take her closer to the MAV site. She knew the route by now—every rock, every soft patch of sand that could tangle a wheel or throw her off-course. It wasn’t a road. It wasn’t even a path. Just something she’d made up as she went.

Outside, a dust devil spun briefly to life, danced across the basin, then collapsed into stillness.

She watched it for a long moment, then blinked and let her breath go slow.

“Almost over,” she said. Not a wish. Not a hope. Just a fact.

She adjusted the throttle, checked her oxygen levels, and logged the next coordinates.

And then she drove on, toward the place where everything would either begin again—or end clean.

Far above the scorched horizon of M6-117, past the reach of its sulfur-tinged winds and the shifting red haze that rolled endlessly across its broken terrain, the Iris-2 probe slipped free from its booster with a silence only space could provide.

There was no flare, no echo. Just the faint tremor of separation—a soft pulse through the clamps, a subtle release of inertia. One moment the booster held it; the next, it was drifting on its own, untethered, alive with purpose.

It had taken seven months to reach this moment. Seven months since Y/N’s first garbled transmission managed to claw its way out of the storm-battered surface and into NOSA’s deep-space relay. Seven months of restructured flight plans, emergency committee briefings, late-night simulations, and orbital trajectory scrubs. Seven months of wondering if they were already too late.

But now—now it was real.

Koah Nguyen leaned in over the Starfire’s flight deck interface, his back rigid, shoulders braced like a sprinter in the blocks. The booster telemetry had already zeroed. Now it was just Iris—free, exposed, and on approach. The margin for error was thin. Technically, the docking could’ve been automated. But Koah didn’t trust automation when the numbers were this tight, and when the payload was carrying a woman who hadn’t heard another voice in nearly a year.

His fingers hovered above the haptic interface. Every subtle shift of thruster power, every microdegree of drift correction—it was all on him now.

“Velocity differential .0025,” came Cruz’s voice through comms. “Approach vector within limit.”

“Still too fast,” Koah murmured, mostly to himself.

He nudged the left lateral thruster with a feather-light tap, correcting the probe’s arc. A flick of a button dampened yaw drift. The image feed from the hull camera refreshed, showing Iris-2 gliding in slow, steady increments—like a needle threading an invisible eye.

Behind him, Commander Jimin Park stood at a respectful distance, arms crossed, a silent sentinel. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. This was Koah’s op. But he was there, steady as gravity, watching the same numbers tick past. Ready, if needed.

Inside the airlock prep chamber, silence reigned. No chatter. No alarm bells. Just the deep, consistent hum of ship systems and the soft tap of Koah’s inputs.

“Switching to visual,” Koah said. He pulled the camera feed into full resolution, bringing Iris-2 into clearer focus.

The probe was sleek and small, more skeletal than anything designed for people. Its primary hull shimmered under the binary light of the two suns, panels catching the harsh white-blue glare in sharp angles. It was close now. Too close for hesitation.

Koah swallowed. “Clamp arms deployed.”

Onscreen, the Starfire’s docking arms extended like the limbs of some patient, mechanical insect—open, waiting.

“Approach… good,” Cruz said, breath tight. “Hold your line.”

Koah’s eyes flicked to the distance meter. Ten meters. Seven.

His voice dropped. “Five… three… steady…”

Then, softly: a clack. Followed by a second, heavier thunk as the magnetic locks triggered and the alignment ports sealed.

A tiny green light blinked alive on the deck screen. Docking complete.

For a beat, Koah didn’t move. He stared at the light, at the clean diagnostics flickering to confirm: pressure seals holding. Hull connection stable. No deviation in thermal equilibrium.

Then, finally, he exhaled—and leaned back, dragging a hand across his face.

“…Alright,” he said, voice low but calm. “We’re on.”

Jimin let out a quiet breath of relief, his lips twitching into the first real smile Koah had seen from him all day.

“That was smooth,” he said. “Stupid smooth.”

Koah allowed himself a small smile. “If it wasn’t, I’d never live it down. Not with Bao watching.”

Jimin chuckled. “No pressure.”

Koah didn’t respond right away. He was already leaning into his terminal, posture tight with focus as his eyes moved steadily across the rows of readouts. Internal diagnostics were holding—so far. Docking pressure looked clean. Hull temperatures stable. Battery output nominal.

The Iris-2 probe was more than a delivery system. It was a lifeline. It carried compressed rations—enough for a six-week extension if she rationed aggressively. Oxygen scrubber refills, thermal patch kits, reentry stabilizers for the MAV, a replacement navcore chip for the flight interface. Things no human should’ve had to live without this long.

And buried in the center supply bay, packed deliberately between a vacuum-sealed cluster of electrolyte gel tubes and a bag of freeze-dried vegetables labeled "PASTA—MAYBE" in Val’s handwriting, was something smaller. A note. Handwritten. Folded and secured with a strip of recycled polymer tape.

Koah hadn’t asked what it said.

He hadn’t wanted to know.

It wasn’t cowardice. Not exactly. More like self-preservation. Valencia Cruz had been the most unwavering presence in his life outside of this ship—and one of the most unpredictable. They’d worked together for four years now. Long missions. Endless briefings. Inside jokes and midnight coffee rants and more engineering arguments than he could count.

For most of that time, she’d been engaged to a man who’d never set foot in orbit. That ended months ago. Quietly. Without explanation. And he hadn’t asked. Not because he didn’t want to know. But because when it came to Val, timing was everything—and pushing was how you got shut out. When she was ready, she’d tell him.

And maybe—if they were lucky—he could open her letter in front of her and see what happened next.

“Telemetry check in ninety seconds,” Koah said, eyes flicking to the countdown icon in the corner of the screen. His voice was steady again, pulled back into rhythm.

Jimin was already there. He shifted slightly at his own station, fingers dancing across a field of translucent data. Orbital maps, storm models, launch windows—each one another layer of the puzzle.

“Sundermere’s heating up faster than expected,” he said, not looking away from the screen. “Atmospheric shear’s rising. We’ll be inside the corridor for twenty minutes. Maybe less.”

Koah gave a small nod. “She has to be ready to launch the second we clear.”

Jimin paused. Then said it like it didn’t need to be said. “She will be.”

Koah didn’t answer. Not with words. His gaze moved to the monitor again—one of the external cams feeding a constant image of the probe, now firmly docked beneath the Starfire’s main cargo cradle. It looked small compared to the bulk of the ship. Delicate. Temporary. But there was power in it. And purpose.

And inside, packed with quiet care, was everything that might keep one woman alive long enough to come home.

He tapped through the flight logic menus, making sure the data packets were queued correctly. Command chains, safety interrupts, hardware checks.

They were ready.

She would be ready.

The MAV on the surface had only ever been designed for one ascent. A precise launch, a short burn, and a controlled interception at low orbit. What they were asking it to do now—what Y/N was being asked to pull off with half a crew’s worth of gear, an aging suit, and the worst terrain in NOSA’s catalog—was borderline absurd.

And yet.

She hadn’t quit. Not once. Not in the footage. Not in the comm logs. Not in the whispered scraps of signal that crawled through the storms.

She was still there. Still building. Still thinking five steps ahead. Still surviving.

Koah leaned forward again, hands steady as he keyed in the final approach command.

Inside Airlock 3, the world was stripped down to essentials—light, metal, breath.

Hoseok floated just off the deck, his boots loosely hooked into the restraints, waist tether coiled at his side. The overhead lights cast a hard gleam across his visor, blurring his reflection into a ghost hovering behind the HUD readouts. His EVA suit was snug but familiar, worn in all the right places, and silent now but for the low hiss of life support in his ears.

Just ahead of him, suspended in the docking corridor, the Iris-2 probe waited—sleek, burnished, and utterly still. It hovered inches from the port like it belonged there, though everyone on the ship knew better. This part wasn’t automated. This part relied on human hands.

He exhaled through his nose, steady and slow, eyes narrowing on the alignment grid overlaying his screen. No error margin. No wobble. No alarm tones. A clean approach.

“Five degrees counterclockwise,” Cruz said in his ear. Her voice was flat and even, but Hoseok had worked with her long enough to hear the strain buried under the calm. Not fear—focus. Like she was holding her breath through her teeth.

“Copy,” he replied, reaching for the guide arm. His gloved fingers curled around the control joint with practiced ease.

The movement was subtle. Delicate. A feather’s weight of torque to rotate the probe just a hair to the left. The probe responded with elegant grace, drifting that final fraction into perfect alignment.

A small vent of nitrogen hissed from the attitude jets—barely audible, barely visible—but it was enough.

In the observation alcove just beyond the airlock, Cruz leaned forward against the glass. She didn’t speak. Her fingertips tapped out an unconscious rhythm against the edge of the display—counting maybe, or praying. Her eyes were locked on the seal point. Her other hand clenched tight around the metal railing in front of her, as though she could muscle the docking into place just by willing it.

They all knew what was riding on this. Iris-2 wasn’t just carrying spare parts and food pouches. It held the only atmospheric sweep array that could scan Sundermere before the stormfront made landfall. If it missed, if they lost sync, the window closed—and so did their shot at recovering Y/N.

Outside, the planet rolled beneath them. M6-117, red and raw, broken by tectonics and stripped bare by wind. The storm was visible from this altitude now—like a bruise spreading across the horizon.

Hoseok leaned into his final adjustment. His wrist flicked, just slightly. Then—

Click.

The probe settled into the collar. The magnetic latches extended from the Starfire’s hull, reached out like fingers, and grabbed hold.

A deeper thud followed—one that vibrated faintly through Hoseok’s suit.

Seal engaged.

Green lights blinked across his HUD in rapid sequence: docking clamps secured, pressure gradient stabilized, power sync initialized.

Still floating, still tethered, Hoseok stayed perfectly still and let the final status pass.

“All green,” he said, voice low. Measured. “We’re locked in.”

For a beat, there was nothing.

Then Val let out a breath like she’d been holding it for hours. Her hand slid from the railing, her shoulders dropping as tension drained out of her in one long wave.

“Thank God,” she whispered. “Nice work, Hobi.”

His mouth twitched in the closest thing to a smile the helmet cam could pick up. “You were a great audience.”

“I was trying not to pass out.”

“Appreciated.”

From down the corridor, someone whistled—a short, sharp note that turned into a wave of claps and shoulder pats from the nearby crew. No whooping. No shouting. Just the kind of shared relief that came from people too tired to celebrate but too proud not to show it.

Even Koah, the most seasoned engineer, let himself breathe.

Val wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her jumpsuit. “We’re officially online. I’ll initiate payload unlock.”

“On your signal,” Hoseok said, already unfastening the tether and reaching for the interior bulkhead grips.

A voice crackled in over comms. Koah, dry and efficient, but with a faint lift at the edge of it.

“Good seal. Get the diagnostics rolling. We’re up against Sundermere’s last pass in six hours. That sweep data needs to be live before then.”

“Understood,” Val answered. “We’re already on it.”

The pressure in the room eased, just a fraction. The tension didn’t vanish—it never did—but it reshaped itself into forward momentum. They had the probe. They had time, if only barely. Now it was just a matter of moving fast enough to make it count.

Hoseok floated back from the hatch and turned his head just enough to see the curve of the planet out the small viewport behind him.

It didn’t look like a place anyone could survive.

But Y/N was still down there, somewhere in that rusted wasteland, defying every expectation.

The suns of M6-117 hung low in the bleached-orange sky, casting long, rust-colored shadows across the desert. The planet didn’t just look lifeless—it felt it. Wind tore across the endless dunes in soundless sheets, carrying with it a fine red dust that settled into every crack, every crevice. It was a world built from silence and scorched stone, unforgiving and unchanging.

But she had changed.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor of what was once the main operations hub—now little more than a cracked shell stitched together with thermal blankets, sealant foam, and salvaged wiring. The walls creaked under the strain of too many pressure shifts. Sunlight leaked through patched seams, casting jagged lines of gold across the dust-caked floor. Inside, the air was dry, metallic, and heavy with the scent of old wiring and recycled oxygen.

She adjusted the angle of the camera, then sat back, letting it focus. Her face filled the frame: leaner than it used to be, the softness worn away by hunger, exposure, and time. Her eyes were sharp now—not hard exactly, but watchful. Alert in a way that came from sleeping with one ear open and always knowing how many hours of oxygen she had left. Her hair was wild, hanging in uneven waves to her collarbone, tangled in places where she’d given up trying to tame it.

The corners of her lips twitched up into a crooked smile. “So,” she said, her voice scratchy from days of silence but steady, “I’ve been thinking about space law. You ever hear of the Treaty of New Hope?”

She let the question hang for a moment. Outside, the wind howled against the Hab’s patched outer shell.

“It’s this old international agreement—was supposed to prevent exactly the kind of thing I’m about to do. Basically, no planet or government can lay claim to any celestial body beyond its own solar system unless they’ve got approval from a special council. Sounds bureaucratic as hell, right?” She reached over, picked up a wrench, then set it down with a quiet clink on the table beside her. “And yet, here we are.”

She gestured loosely around the space. “M6-117? Technically, it's unclaimed. That makes it... international waters. A lawless sandbox floating in the middle of nowhere.”

The camera feed jumped to an exterior shot. Her two speculors stood side by side, their once-pristine frames warped and beaten. Speculor One bore the scorched wreckage of Prometheus’s stabilizer fin bolted onto its chassis like some kind of makeshift figurehead. Speculor Two had been transformed into a mobile life-support depot—tubes, solar panels, and crates of salvaged supplies lashed down with webbing, its interior barely holding together.

It looked more like a junkyard on treads than a research vehicle. But it moved. And in a place like this, movement meant survival.

Y/N leaned in closer to the lens. “Technically, NOSA still owns the Hab. Aguerra Prime funds it, insures it, claims jurisdiction over it. But the moment I walk out that airlock?” She pointed over her shoulder. “I’m in the wild. No flag, no oversight. Just me, a couple of Frankensteined rovers, and a whole lot of empty red sand.”

She exhaled slowly, looking off-camera for a moment before glancing back. “And that brings me to today’s little project.”

Her expression shifted—something between excitement and resolve. “There’s a Helion Nexus lander at the edge of Sundermere Basin. It was part of a failed recon drop a few years back. Long story short: it’s still out there. Mostly intact. And I’m going to take it.”

She said it plainly.

“Not borrow it. Not radio in for authorization. I’m going to walk up to it, override the lockout codes, and take control. And technically... that makes me a pirate.”

There was a beat of silence after she said it. The word just hung there, lingering in the dry air of the Hab like a joke no one had laughed at yet.

Pirate.

It sounded ridiculous. Out of place. Like something out of an old holo-serial—leather jackets, glowing blades, dramatic standoffs on the hull of a freighter. She almost laughed at how far from that image she really was.

She exhaled through her nose and let the smallest smile tug at the corner of her mouth. “I always thought space pirates had flashy ships, called each other by code names, maybe carried sidearms they didn’t know how to use,” she muttered, her voice quiet, worn at the edges. “Turns out, all you really need is a wrench, a patched-up suit, and no one left to stop you.”

The Hab groaned as if in reply, the metal frame straining under the pressure difference outside. A gust of wind smacked the outer wall with a dull, thudding resonance. Something metal—a panel, maybe a loose strut—clattered loose in the corridor behind her. It struck the floor with a single, hollow bang and then went still.

She didn’t even blink. Not anymore.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” she said quietly, almost like she was testing the sound of it. “Space pirate.”

Her voice wasn’t proud, not really. There was no grandeur in it—just tired honesty. The title fit, in its own twisted way. No one had granted her authority. No one was watching. Whatever rules had once existed out here had dissolved the moment the resupply missions stopped.

She stared past the camera lens, her gaze drifting toward nothing in particular. Maybe out the small port window, maybe into memory. The expression on her face changed—just slightly. A softening around the mouth, a release of the tension in her brow. The guard she wore like armor seemed to ease, just for a moment.

It had been a long time since she’d let herself feel anything.

She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d smiled like this—really smiled. Maybe it was back when the comms were still up and she’d trade messages with Earth. Maybe it was before the storm fried the signal tower and left her to rebuild the antenna with parts scavenged from broken rovers. Or maybe it was even earlier—before she started counting the days not by dates, but by how many liters of filtered water she had left, how many oxygen canisters she had to seal by hand.

Back then, there had been routines. Schedules. Hope.

Now? Now there was just this strange quiet. And the freedom that came with having absolutely nothing left to lose.

She let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a sigh. “Honestly,” she said, more to herself than to the camera, “it’s better than a Nobel.”

It was a joke, sort of. She’d once dreamed of those things—awards, recognition, her name in journals and press conferences and history books. It had all felt so important. Necessary. Now, it seemed absurd. What was a prize compared to surviving six months alone on a planet no one was coming back to?

She leaned back slowly, her shoulders brushing against the cold metal of the Hab’s rear wall. Her eyes drifted around the space—at the tangled wires stuffed into ceiling panels, at the insulation duct-taped to the window seams, at the corner where the water recycler had leaked for three days before she managed to reroute the flow with plastic tubing and sheer guesswork.

The Hab looked like hell. Worn down. Held together by nothing more than willpower and the leftover scraps of a better plan. But somehow... it had become hers. A shelter. A prison. A home.

And as ridiculous as it was, she felt a twinge of sadness settle in her chest at the thought of leaving it behind.

Not enough to stop her, of course. She had somewhere to be. Something to take. But still—she hadn’t expected to feel anything when she finally walked away.

She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the soft whine of the fans, the hum of the power cells she’d rebuilt twice now. The Hab breathed like something alive. Flawed. Fragile. Just like her.

When she opened her eyes again, her voice was quieter. “Guess I’m gonna miss this place after all.”

Then she stood, grabbed her helmet, and reached for the hatch controls.

The airlock hissed.

And just like that, the pirate stepped into the desert.

The last day in the Hab didn’t feel like a goodbye. Not at first.

It felt... disjointed. Like she was moving through someone else’s memory. The edges of things were too sharp. The air too still. Everything was quiet in the way things are just before they disappear. Y/N moved slowly through the cramped living quarters, half-expecting someone else to emerge from behind one of the bulkheads. But of course, there was no one. There hadn’t been anyone in a long time.

She sat on the edge of her bunk, knees drawn up, one foot resting on the makeshift water crate she’d repurposed as a stool. The cold metal handle of her razor pressed against her palm as she tilted the blade, dragging it carefully along her calf. The skin prickled in protest. The act was mundane, almost absurd. Shaving. On her last day. On a dead planet. She hadn’t touched the razor in weeks. Months, maybe. There hadn’t been a point. But today, somehow, there was.

It wasn’t about vanity. There was no one here to notice if she was clean-shaven or covered in patchy stubble. She wasn’t doing it for an audience. She wasn’t doing it for NASA, or NOSA, or anyone watching from Aguerra Prime. She wasn’t even sure the cameras still worked. This was for her.

It was the movement, the familiarity. The echo of Earth routines. A way of reminding her body that she was still human. That she still existed in a way that wasn’t only about surviving.

The razor made soft, whispering strokes along her thigh, and she worked in silence, methodically. She checked her arms next, running her fingers over the fine hairs that had gone unnoticed for too long. The action was precise, mechanical. Muscle memory from a world that felt galaxies away. The kind of world with mirrors, and warm running water, and idle mornings where grooming was just a part of the day—not an act of defiance against desolation.

When she was done, she rinsed the razor in a shallow tin of recycled water and set it down with care on the tiny metal shelf beside the sink. Her fingers lingered on it for a moment longer than necessary, like it might vanish if she looked away.

She moved on.

The Hab was barely holding together, but she still walked its length like a steward. Every corner bore the marks of her time here—scorch marks from the battery incident, a tear in the flooring she’d sealed with epoxy and hope, the scratched notes she’d carved into the bulkhead with a screwdriver when the pen ink dried up. She paused at the stack of crates where she’d stored what remained of her research—dozens of boxes sealed in vacuum wrap, carefully labeled in her blocky handwriting.

Some labels were purely scientific. “Regolith Core B12.” “Atmospheric Trace: Western Quadrant.” Others bore the weight of her humor, dry and necessary. One in particular made her huff a quiet laugh through her nose: "Das Soil Samples."

She shook her head. God, that’s stupid. But it had kept her sane on nights when the storm screamed outside, and the Hab felt like it might fold in on itself. It had been just her and the sound of the wind, and her own voice narrating nonsense to the camera because silence had become unbearable.

Each box she packed felt like tucking away a piece of her life. Data. Debris. Documentation. It wasn’t just science—it was evidence she had been here. That this had all happened. That she hadn’t imagined it.

By the time the final crate clicked into place, a strange calm had settled in her chest. Not relief. Not even closure. Just... quiet acceptance.

She suited up with practiced efficiency. The MAV suit was stiff, but familiar. She knew the feel of every joint, every seal. As she clicked her gloves into place, she glanced around the Hab one last time. The lights flickered as she powered down the systems one by one. Air filtration. Oxygen cycling. Communications—already long dead. She hesitated at the heaters, watching the indicator lights blink out like stars snuffed from a night sky.

And then the lights dimmed for good. The whir of machinery faded into silence.

The Hab was still.

She stood in the airlock for a long while before cycling it open. The suit insulated her from the raw bite of the planet’s thin atmosphere, but she still felt the temperature drop. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the red, cracked terrain. The dust stirred under her boots as she stepped out. The wind was nothing more than a whisper here, but it carried weight—a dry breath from a planet that had been waiting four and a half billion years for someone to hear it.

She turned once, looking back at the Hab—its patched panels, its makeshift antenna straining upward.

“Thanks for keeping me alive,” she murmured, her voice muffled inside the helmet.

She made her way across the stretch of dust toward the speculors. Speculor 2 sat half-buried in windblown grit, holding the last of the rations and samples. She secured the final crate with practiced hands. Among the bland, utility labels, one box caught her eye: "Goodbye, M6." Just black marker on a storage lid, but it hit harder than it should have.

She lingered over it. Let it settle. Then climbed into Speculor 1 and powered up the system.

The familiar hum vibrated through her boots. The engine engaged with a low, steady growl, and the treads rolled forward, carving a new path through the empty landscape. She didn’t look back.

She didn’t have to.

The Hab was done. It had been her shelter, her cage, her sanctuary. But it wasn’t hers anymore. Now, it belonged to the silence again.

The terrain ahead was endless. Red and cracked and ancient. As the vehicle crawled across the dust, Y/N watched the ground roll past beneath her, and for the first time in months, she felt something like purpose return.

She stopped the speculor near a shallow rise and stepped out. Her boots pressed into the soil, leaving fresh imprints where no human had ever stood.

She looked down at her feet. “Step outside the speculor?” she said, the words dry in her throat. “First girl to be here.”

The hill was steep, but she climbed it anyway. The suit resisted her movements, each step a deliberate struggle, but it was worth it. At the summit, she paused and looked back.

Nothing. Just dust and sky.

“Climb that hill?” she whispered. “First girl to do that, too.”

The loneliness hit her harder up here, maybe because the view was so vast. It swallowed her. The wind blew gently against her helmet, like the planet was breathing around her. She rested one gloved hand against a jagged rock and stood still for a long while.

Above her, the smaller sun hung low—soft and bluish, casting a pale glow over the land. She’d named it “Bubble.” It reminded her of Earth somehow. Fragile. Distant. Constant. It was always there, tracking her through the days and nights like a silent guardian.

She stared at it for a while, letting the strange comfort of its light settle over her.

“I’m the first person to be alone on an entire planet,” she thought. The words felt like they belonged in a history book. But they were just hers.

No crowds. No cameras. Just the sound of her own breath, the press of the suit, and the impossible stretch of a world that had never known life.

She was the first. And she was alone.

The speculor’s solar panels were out, angled toward the faint sun, drinking in what little energy Hexundecia had to offer. The motors had gone quiet, the systems at rest, the caravan still and grounded for the next recharge cycle. Out here, time didn’t pass with the urgency of a ticking clock—it stretched and drifted, wide and open like the desert around her.

Y/N sat a few meters from the vehicle, suited up and leaned against a slab of fractured basalt that jutted from the earth like a half-buried monument. Her knees were drawn up loosely, arms resting on them, hands relaxed. The pressurized joints of her suit creaked softly when she moved, but for the most part, she didn’t. She simply sat there, head tilted back, eyes closed behind her visor.

The sounds were minimal. The low hiss of her rebreather. The occasional chirp from her suit’s diagnostics. Farther off, the gentle ticking of the speculor’s cooling systems. It was white noise to her now—background ambience that had faded into familiarity. What she focused on wasn’t sound at all, but presence.

The planet stretched in every direction, its reddish soil and dust-coated rock formations glowing faintly under the soft light of the smaller sun she’d dubbed Bubble. The sun’s blue-tinged glow bled across the ridgelines, casting long shadows that shifted almost imperceptibly as the hours passed. It was beautiful, in a way that didn't care whether anyone saw it or not.

She inhaled, slowly, deliberately. The oxygen from her suit system was clean, filtered, cool against her throat. It wasn’t fresh—nothing here was—but it was breathable. Reliable. She’d come to appreciate that more than she ever had back home. You learn not to take air for granted when it’s something you have to ration.

There were no thoughts of mission logs or data packets or next-stage objectives just now. No status checks. No timelines. Just her. Her, the suit, and the silent gravity of a world that had never known the touch of human life until her boots cracked the crust.

This planet wasn’t lifeless. Not really. It breathed in its own way—slowly, deeply. It had its own rhythms: the rise and fall of light, the cycle of wind carving its signature across stone, the whisper of ancient minerals shifting beneath the surface. It had been here long before she arrived. It would be here long after she was gone.

And yet, for this moment, it was hers.

She opened her eyes, and the horizon blurred in heat shimmer. There was a strange peace in knowing how small she really was. Not irrelevant—just tiny, and in the best possible way. There was no audience here. No live feed. No applause. Just the quiet realization that this... this was what exploration really looked like. Not flag-planting or dramatic speeches. Just being here. Alive. Observing. Bearing witness.

She let her helmet rest back against the rock behind her and murmured, more to the suit than herself, “Still beats the office.”

The sun shifted a fraction, casting a new shape across the dust. Y/N sat in silence, absorbing it all. This was the kind of stillness you only found when the nearest person was 40 million kilometers away.

The speculor rattled gently as it picked its way along the ragged rim of Marth Crater. Even with its stabilized suspension, every jagged rock and uneven slope sent a tremble through the metal frame. Inside, Y/N sat with her boots planted and hands on the console, watching the terrain roll by. The sun had dipped lower now, painting everything in muted tones of burnt sienna and faded rust.

The landscape was a frozen sea of iron-rich dunes, crumbling cliffs, and wind-shaped ridges. To anyone else, it might’ve looked like a wasteland. To her, it was a kind of poetry—brutal, ancient, and honest.

The lights in Mission Control were dimmed to reduce eye strain, but the room still hummed with quiet focus. A soft, bluish glow came from the wall of screens lining the front of the command floor, each of them tracking some fragment of a much bigger picture—system vitals, solar intake graphs, environmental stats, satellite relays. But the one April watched most closely was centered on a single blinking dot, creeping steadily across the digital topography of M6-117.

She leaned in closer, forearms resting on the edge of her console, her eyes narrowed behind the thin-framed glasses perched on her nose. The arc of telemetry traced the slow, deliberate curve of Y/N’s path around Marth Crater. One rover. One person. A single line of movement on a planet that had otherwise never known life.

It was a small signal on a massive canvas, but it was moving. That was enough.

April’s fingers moved across the touchscreen with practiced precision. She pulled up the diagnostics feed and ran a quick check—battery health, suit vitals, cabin pressure. No red flags. No anomalies. Everything looked clean.

So far.

Beside her, Mateo stood with a half-empty mug of coffee in one hand and the other shoved into the pocket of his jacket. He hadn't taken a sip in at least fifteen minutes. The drink had gone tepid a long time ago, but he kept holding it like he might remember to drink it eventually.

His eyes flicked toward April’s screen. “How’s she doing?”

“Still on schedule,” April said without looking away. “She shut down at eleven-hundred local, angled the solar arrays by about twenty-two degrees. Charging’s underway now.”

Mateo tilted his head. “Vitals?”

“She’s stable. Oxygen levels are good. Hydration’s down a little, but within threshold. Pulse is resting at seventy-nine.” She glanced at the biometric overlay, frowning slightly at the uptick in cortisol, then dismissed it. “No spikes. Nothing that says she’s in distress.”

He nodded slowly. “Holding it together.”

April finally leaned back, stretching her shoulders with a soft crack of tension, then gave a dry little smile. “She sent a message this morning. Said she wants us to start addressing her as Captain Blondebeard.”

Mateo blinked. “Wait—what?”

“She said since M6-117 isn’t under any planetary jurisdiction, it technically counts as international waters,” April said, arching an eyebrow. “She’s invoking salvage law. Claimed if she makes it to the Nexus site and gets the lander operational, it counts as a lawful prize.”

Mateo stared at her for a second, then huffed a short laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not,” she said, already pulling up the message thread. “‘Henceforth,’” she read aloud with mock seriousness, “‘I am to be recognized in all official comms as Captain Blondebeard of the Free Hexundecian Territory. Long live the Republic.’”

He gave a low whistle, the kind that said that’s insane, but I get it. “That woman has officially been out there too long.”

“She’s coping,” April said, quieter now. “Making jokes, building little myths around herself. It’s how she keeps her head straight. I’d be more worried if she wasn’t doing that.”

Mateo sipped his coffee and grimaced. “Cold,” he muttered, then gestured toward her screen. “Solar efficiency?”

“Still solid. Panels are at full capacity. We might see a dip after nightfall, but she has a reserve buffer if things slow down.” She flicked through the energy graph, tracking the intake curve. “She’s pacing herself. Four-hour drives, long recharge windows. It’s working.”

He nodded again, tapping his thumbnail against the side of the mug. “She’s about halfway to Nexus Five, right?”

“Just past the midpoint now,” April said. “Three clicks out from the rough terrain at the edge of the basin.”

Mateo leaned forward slightly, squinting at the updated satellite overlay. The crater’s rim was jagged, uneven—sections of it scattered with sharp ridges and loose shale deposits. The kind of terrain that could break an axle if you weren’t careful. “That’s going to be a tight run.”

“She knows,” April said, her voice steady. “She’s seen the topographic scans. She’ll take her time.”

Mateo exhaled, slow. “Still,” he said, more to himself than her, “she’s out there. Just... one person. Alone.”

“Alone,” April repeated, a bit softer now. The word felt heavy every time they said it.

They both watched the blinking signal for a moment. It moved at the slow, deliberate pace of someone with nowhere else to be—and all the time in the universe to get there.

“She’s going to be fine,” April said at last.

Mateo didn’t answer. Not because he disagreed, but because there wasn’t anything more to say.

They just stood there, side by side in the dim light of the command center, watching that little dot crawl its way across an alien world—quietly willing it forward.

Out on M6-117, the speculor crept forward, one cautious meter at a time.

Y/N sat at the helm, her gloved fingers hovering just above the control panel, ready to correct if the suspension caught on something unexpected. The terrain ahead was uneven—loose shale sloping downward into a shallow depression, just steep enough to be unnerving. Beyond it, a low ridge cut across the horizon like the edge of a broken plate, and she couldn’t see what waited on the other side.

She leaned in slightly, squinting through the viewport. The external cameras confirmed what her gut already told her: unstable ground. Could be a minor inconvenience, or it could be the kind of problem that ended her progress for good.

Still, she pressed on.

Not recklessly. Not out of impatience. Just... forward.

There was no deadline here. No finish line. No one waiting at the other end with banners or applause. But each meter gained was one more mark on a world no one had ever touched. The simple act of moving through it felt important. Not just survival. Something deeper.

She adjusted the throttle slightly and the speculor responded with a low hum, its wheels biting into the dust with steady determination.

Out the side viewport, the solar panels caught a glint of Bubble’s soft light—the smaller of the two suns that loomed over this planet like a pale sentinel. It was low in the sky now, casting long, diffuse shadows across the red dust, turning every ridge and rock into sculpture. She paused for a moment to watch it.

Always there. Bubble had become a strange kind of compass for her—a reference point in a world that offered few.

“This is your captain,” she murmured, mostly to herself, lips curling faintly into a crooked smile. “Course laid in. Planetfall... ongoing.”

Her voice crackled through the helmet’s mic, but no one responded. She didn’t expect them to.

She toggled the next waypoint, and the speculor rolled ahead with its usual quiet determination, the tracks crunching softly over dust and fractured rock.

Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was warm and dry, thanks to the internal regulators still holding steady. The hum of electronics was a constant backdrop—cooling fans, battery feedback, and the subtle rhythm of the environmental system circulating air. After months, the mechanical noises had become comforting, almost like breathing.

Her own breathing was slow and measured. The suit’s monitors recorded everything—oxygen levels, hydration, core temperature—but it was the old pilot instinct that kept her tuned in. Feel the road. Listen to the machine. Watch for patterns.

Outside, the wind had picked up. Dust skittered across the surface in short, chaotic gusts. The external sensors detected a minor pressure drop—nothing serious, just the planet reminding her that it was still indifferent to her presence.

Y/N kept one hand lightly resting on the control yoke, the other hovering near the manual override. She didn’t need to steer constantly; the speculor handled most of the navigation itself. But she preferred to stay alert, to feel connected to the movement of the machine beneath her. Autonomy was great. Awareness was better.

Her eyes tracked the outline of the cliffs ahead—Marth Crater rising in jagged, broken layers, throwing long shadows that danced across the red earth as the sun moved. The geology here fascinated her in a quiet, persistent way. There were ridges that looked like wave crests frozen mid-motion, deep gashes in the rock that hinted at ancient violence. Once, she might have stopped to take more samples, but today was about distance. Efficiency.

Still, it was beautiful in its own way—harsh, yes, but undeniably beautiful.

As the rover climbed a shallow slope, she allowed herself a brief mental detour. Not memories exactly, just echoes.

Mission Control. The soft rustle of bodies leaning over keyboards. The hum of ventilation systems. April’s voice on comms—precise, calm. Mateo muttering about stale coffee. People who couldn’t see her, but still cared. Still watched.

And then there was Captain Blondebeard—the half-joke she’d tossed into the void weeks ago, a silly placeholder to make the isolation feel less heavy. It had stuck, somehow. Maybe because they all needed it—something a little ridiculous to hold onto amid the silence.

She smiled at the thought, just briefly, and shook her head. “Captain Blondebeard,” she muttered. “Defender of dust. Ruler of red rocks.”

No audience. Just her and the rattling hum of the speculor.

She checked the diagnostics again. Solar intake: optimal. Battery: 92%. Environmental systems: nominal. No signs of mechanical stress. For now, everything was working.

That meant she could keep going.

The next waypoint lit up on the map—marked with a dull amber glow. Just over the ridge. She exhaled slowly, letting the air hiss softly through the suit’s filters, then leaned forward and tapped the throttle. The rover surged forward a little harder this time, climbing the incline with a low growl.

Dust kicked up behind her. The sky stretched pale and infinite above.

Mateo barely had time to sit before a heavy binder slammed onto his desk with enough force to rattle his coffee. The mug wobbled, then steadied. He glanced up with a sigh, already bracing himself.

Marco stood across from him, posture too casual, arms folded like he was trying not to smile. There was a spark in his eyes—half brilliance, half mania—the kind that made engineers dangerous in the best possible way.

“You’re not going to like this,” Marco said. No preamble. Just straight into it.

Mateo raised an eyebrow, flipping open the first page of the binder. “Why does that always seem to be your opening line?”

“Because I’m usually right.”

Mateo didn’t respond. He just scanned the schematic diagrams on the first few pages—wiring, load calculations, modular systems torn down to their bones. It looked like someone had disassembled the MAV with a crowbar and a grudge.

In the corner of the room, Creed stood with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. Always the measured one. Where Marco was all spark and adrenaline, Creed was the one you sent in to keep the reactor from melting down.

“The problem,” Creed said, stepping forward, “is velocity. More specifically, intercept velocity.”

He tapped the tablet in his hand, bringing up a holographic projection of the M6-117 Ascent Vehicle—its sleek body now marked in red and yellow overlays. Next to it, a ghostly outline of the Starfire hung in orbital trajectory. The gap between them wasn’t just spatial. It was mathematical.

“The MAV is rated to hit 7.8 kilometers per second at peak ascent,” Creed explained. “The Starfire’s intercept window requires at least 9.2. And we can’t dip the Starfire lower. Not without burning half the return fuel and risking re-entry on a compromised arc.”

Mateo leaned back slowly, processing. “So… the MAV needs to go faster. But it can’t. Not as is.”

Marco stepped in again, voice animated now. “Exactly. So we make it lighter.”

Mateo looked up. “How much lighter?”

“Five thousand kilograms.”

There was a long silence.

Mateo let out a low breath, staring at the screen. “You’re serious.”

Marco nodded. “Dead serious. But don’t worry. We’ve already found two-thirds of it. The MAV was originally specced for six passengers. Y/N’s solo, so that’s an immediate thousand kilos—crew support systems, internal seating, storage compartments.”

“Fair enough,” Mateo said cautiously. “What else?”

“We’re pulling the scientific payload,” Marco added. “Soil, core samples, atmospheric sensors. All of it. It’s dead weight now.”

“That’s another... what? 500?”

“More like six-fifty. Then we strip internal comms—no need for multi-band systems. She won’t be piloting anyway.”

Mateo frowned. “What do you mean she won’t be piloting?”

Creed stepped in again, quiet and calm. “Nguyen’s going to fly the MAV from orbit.”

Mateo blinked. “You’re talking about a fully remote-controlled launch? With a human on board?”

“It’s been done in simulations,” Creed said. “The theory is solid. Remote guidance with live telemetry. As long as we maintain lock from Starfire, we can get her into intercept range. There’s a latency window, but it’s manageable.”

Marco waved that part off. “Honestly, it simplifies things. If she’s not flying, we can rip out the cockpit interface. Panels, redundant circuits, glass—gone. Another 400 kilos easy.”

Mateo’s jaw worked. “She’s going up in a vehicle with no controls, no backup comms, and no seats.”

“Correct,” Marco said brightly. “Also, no airlock.”

That stopped him.

“I’m sorry—what?”

Marco walked over to a scale model of the MAV sitting on the table, casually popping off the nose section like he was dismantling a toy. “The nose airlock’s nearly 400 kilos by itself. Hull Panel 19 adds another 200. And those windows?” He plucked one off the model. “Decorative. Total waste of mass.”

Mateo stared at the half-gutted model. “You’re launching her into space with a hole in the front of the ship?”

“Not a hole,” Marco said quickly. “A reinforced pressure barrier made from Hab-grade canvas. Layered, sealed, and structurally supported with internal cross-bracing.”

Mateo was silent for a long beat. “So... a tarp.”

Marco smiled. “A flight-tested environmental membrane.”

Creed, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “The structural integrity holds up at altitude. Once she clears the atmospheric drag—which on M6 is minimal—it’s all vacuum. The canvas doesn’t need to withstand pressure from the outside, just keep the inside pressurized.”

Mateo shook his head slowly. “And this is the plan you’re bringing me. After thirty years of aerospace development and risk management protocols, this is what we’ve come to.”

Marco shrugged. “You want to get her home or not?”

Mateo pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “You didn’t even get to the worst part yet, did you?”

Creed hesitated. “Well...”

“Oh, come on,” Mateo muttered.

Marco dropped back into a chair opposite him and spun the model slowly in his hands. “We’ll need to pre-load her EVA suit with everything she needs. She won’t be able to access the cabin once it launches. No movement. No cabin pressure.”

Mateo looked up, eyes narrowing. “So if something goes wrong—”

“She’s dead,” Marco said plainly. “But if we don’t do this at all? She’s also dead.”

The room went quiet again.

The logic was brutal. But clean.

Mateo stood in silence at the wide observation window overlooking the control bay. Rows of terminals blinked below, casting soft glows onto the operators’ faces. The quiet hum of the operations floor, the muted rustle of people moving through data, speaking in low tones—it all felt distant. His eyes tracked the orbital map, projected across the far wall. One small blue marker labeled Starfire. Another in orange: Y/L/N – MAV Prep.

Just two dots, drifting across the edge of a planet no one had ever intended to be a rescue site.

He didn’t speak. Not right away.

Behind him, Creed stood with arms folded, still, waiting. Marco was halfway through unscrewing the cap of a protein bar, but had forgotten about it, caught in the quiet tension that had settled over the room.

Then Mateo inhaled slowly and spoke without turning.

“Start building the launch profile. I want a complete risk breakdown—every failure mode, every backup system we’re cutting, and how long we think that tarp will hold under load. Flight surgeon and engineering get briefed at sixteen hundred. No exceptions.”

The wrapper crinkled, finally splitting under Marco’s thumb with a soft snap. The faint smell of synthetic peanut butter wafted out, but he barely noticed—already hunched over the console, typing fast, his mind three steps ahead.

“Copy that,” he mumbled, not looking up, already pulling up the MAV’s mass budget and internal schematics.

Creed stood off to the side, more deliberate. He pulled out his tablet, fingers tapping rhythmically as he opened a clean modeling slate and began sketching out the updated launch profile. No one needed to ask if he was running simulations—he always was.

Mateo stayed still.

He stood at the edge of the room, eyes fixed on the massive screen on the far wall—Earth to the left, M6-117 hanging silent and red to the right. Two markers moved in parallel arcs above it: Starfire, already in decaying orbit, and the blinking orange dot that marked the MAV’s last position. Y/L/N – Ready Hold. It hadn’t moved in six hours.

His reflection stared back at him in the dark glass, half-obscured by the flight data.

“And someone get her on comms,” he said finally, his voice level, clipped.

Marco glanced over his shoulder. “You want to tell her?”

Mateo turned slowly, just enough to meet his gaze. The expression on his face wasn’t one of authority or resolve. Not entirely. It was the look of someone who was doing the math—risk versus time, life versus chance—and coming up short on both columns.

“No,” he said. “I want to ask her if she’s willing to launch into orbit under a tarp and a prayer.”

Then he walked out.

The hall outside the planning bay was quiet, sterile, and dimly lit. A few staff moved briskly from station to station, heads down, focused. No one stopped him. He crossed the length of the control floor with long strides, ignoring the buzz of conversation and telemetry chatter around him.

NOSA Mission Control was housed in the heart of the Aguerra Prime complex—underground, shielded, secure. It was built like a vault, and today it felt like one. A place built to preserve life, now trying desperately to save just one.

He stepped into the comms wing and paused for a second in the threshold of April’s unit. She was already hunched forward, scanning her screen, lips pressed into a hard line. Her hair was pulled back into a quick knot, and the half-empty thermos beside her keyboard said she’d been at this since before dawn.

April glanced up as she felt him approach. “I already sent the initial uplink,” she said. “Low-band width, direct ping. She’s on reply hold.”

“She read it?”

A nod. “I think so. Just one line so far.”

Mateo exhaled. “I need you to be straight with her.”

April’s brow creased slightly. “She already knows we’re scraping the bottom of the playbook. You want me to sugarcoat it?”

“No,” Mateo said, stepping around to lean beside her console. “The opposite.”

She studied him. There was something in his face she hadn’t seen before—not panic. Not resolve either. Something heavier. A tiredness that came from trying to beat physics with ingenuity and spreadsheets.

“I want you to tell her exactly what we’re doing,” he continued. “The canvas patch. The missing control panels. That she’ll be sealed into a pressure suit with no way to pilot the MAV, no physical interface, no real fallback.”

April leaned back slowly. “That’s a hell of a sell.”

“I know.” He looked at the screen again. A message was still blinking in the inbound queue. “But I need her to say yes on her own. No pressure. No angle. She deserves that.”

April turned back toward the console, jaw set. “She’ll ask why we’re even considering this.”

“Because it’s the only window she has.” Mateo’s voice was quiet now, almost too soft to hear. “The Starfire won’t last another full orbit at that altitude. If we miss the next intercept burn, we’re not getting a second chance.”

April’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. “So what happens if she says no?”

“Then we stop,” Mateo said. “We scrub the launch, pull Nguyen back into safe orbit, and pray the resupply launch next month doesn’t get delayed again.”

April didn’t move for a moment. Then she sighed, rolled her shoulders, and cracked her knuckles.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s ask the girl if she wants to fly a missile wrapped in tent canvas.”

Mateo let out the smallest laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be on the floor.”

He turned to go, but April caught him just before he crossed the door.

“Mateo,” she said, quietly. He paused.

“She trusts you,” she added. “You know that, right?”

He nodded once, without turning around. “That’s why I’m not the one asking.”

Back at her console, April read the message again.

Are you fucking kidding me?

There was no punctuation. No follow-up. No emoji. Nothing to signal tone. Just those five words.

She stared at them for a long moment, then leaned forward, her fingers moving carefully across the keys as she began to compose her response.

She typed, paused, deleted, retyped.

We know how insane it sounds. You don’t have to do this. There’s no protocol for this kind of ask. But if you say yes, we’ll make it work. And if you say no, we’ll find another way. No one’s giving up on you.

She hesitated again, then added:

But we need your answer soon.

April hit Send, then leaned back in her chair, rubbing a hand across her forehead. The cursor blinked on the screen, waiting for a reply.

Y/N stood just outside the MAV, the wind tugging at the loose ends of her suit hood and streaks of red dust whispering past her boots. The Helion Nexus site was empty—eerily so. The dunes stretched out in every direction like a sea frozen mid-tide, the early evening light casting the terrain in muted copper tones. She stared straight into the lens of her camera, visor up, her eyes locked onto the feed as if the people on the other side could feel the weight of her stare.

She wasn’t smiling.

She hadn’t smiled much in days.

But her expression now—that flat, tight-lipped calm—wasn’t anger. It was disbelief. Controlled, deliberate disbelief.

“This,” she said, after a long pause, her voice dry and low, “is what we’ve come to.”

The wind rattled against the MAV’s lower hull behind her. One of the loose external thermal blankets snapped like a sail.

“I read the specs,” she continued, shifting her weight slightly, eyes still locked on the camera. “And for the record, yes, I understand the mission parameters. I understand the orbital window. I understand why this launch has to happen now or not at all. I get it.”

She took a breath, steadying herself, and then—just barely—she let a flicker of something wry creep into her voice.

“What I don’t get,” she said, “is how we went from 'cutting-edge escape system' to... ‘canvas and sheer fucking luck.’”

She shook her head slowly, almost laughing—but it didn’t come out that way. Not quite.

“They’re calling it the ‘lightweight launch revision.’” She looked off for a second, as if picturing the phrase on a government memo. “Translation? We’re stripping everything non-essential. Seats, insulation, pressure seals. Controls. Windows.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Because who needs windows when you’re flying into orbit at nine-point-two klicks per second?”

Another gust of wind swept through. The MAV loomed behind her—tall, white, sterile. Unwelcoming. It looked like a machine built for six. Not one.

She glanced at it, then turned back to the camera.

“So here’s the plan,” she said, more quietly now. “They’re going to fly this thing remotely from orbit. I’ll be inside. Not piloting. Not navigating. Just... sealed in a suit, strapped in tight, and praying Koah doesn’t sneeze while he’s on the joystick.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, but again, it wasn’t quite a smile. It was more like disbelief wrapping itself in the thinnest layer of humor to keep from cracking.

“There’s no cockpit. No redundancy. And the nose panel?” She paused. “Gone. We're replacing it with three layers of Hab canvas and a reinforced support frame. Which, to be clear, I stitched together yesterday with thermal glue and what used to be my sleeping bag.”

She stepped toward the camera now, voice still level, but her eyes sharper.

“I am, effectively, going to space in a sealed tin can with no front door. And the part they seem most excited about?” She leaned in slightly, as if sharing something private.

“I’ll be the fastest human being in recorded history.”

She let the words hang in the air for a moment. The absurdity of it settled around her like the Hexundecian dust clinging to her boots.

“I guess that’s supposed to be the upside,” she added. “A footnote for the textbooks. My name next to some velocity record no one will remember.”

She folded her arms, staring past the camera now, into the nothingness stretching beyond the ridge.

“But I didn’t come here for records,” she said. “And I sure as hell didn’t come here to die wrapped in duct tape and space-grade nylon.”

She paused, and then finally, something shifted in her expression. Not quite resolve. Something messier. Acceptance, maybe. Something that resembled courage, if courage wasn’t always so clean.

“But I did come here to finish what I started.”

She didn’t bother to say more. She didn’t sign off.

She just reached out and shut off the camera.

The MAV’s outer shell still looked intact—at least from a distance—but the closer she got, the more the damage and modifications became apparent. One panel had been pried off to make room for the external fuel purge; another was half-covered with what looked like insulation tape. The “canvas” they were so excited about was already prepped in a neatly folded stack near the nose—thin, reinforced, flexible, held together by thermal gluing agents she’d tested twice already, just to be sure it wouldn’t split during ascent.

She stood at the base of the ladder for a moment, helmet tucked under her arm, toolkit heavy in her other hand.

Up close, the MAV looked nothing like the sleek, composite-shelled ascent vehicles she had trained in back on Aguerra Prime. The ones in the simulations had been graceful—modular, insulated, and precisely engineered to cradle human beings through the brute violence of launch. They’d had padding and ergonomic seats, clean touchscreen interfaces, carbon-slick handholds designed for comfort under G-force compression. Everything had a place. Everything made sense.

This one didn’t. Not anymore.

This MAV had been stripped bare.

It stood squat and pale under the low red sun, a skeleton of what it had once been. The heat shielding was intact, but the skin panels rattled softly in the wind. Most of the insulation had been ripped out for mass reduction. There were exposed wiring bundles at the base of the hull, sealed hastily with patch tape and thermal epoxy. The side hatch was propped open with a metal brace that should’ve been part of the original ladder assembly, but even that had been cannibalized and reattached by hand, joints imperfect and scorched.

She stood at the base of it now, helmet off, toolkit in one hand, the other resting against the first rung of the ladder. The sunlight caught on her visor, throwing a dull amber reflection across the metal. She glanced up at the hatch. It looked like a mouth. Black inside, open. Waiting.

Y/N took a slow breath and climbed.

The rungs flexed slightly under her boots. The structure moaned—just a little—as she pulled herself up and stepped inside.

The air inside was still and heavy. Not from lack of oxygen—the filters were operational, barely—but from disuse. It smelled of cold metal and polymer outgassing. The kind of dry, stale odor that got into your nostrils and stuck there. It was like stepping into the bones of a machine that had forgotten it was ever meant to hold a person.

The interior was gutted.

No seats.

No panels.

No foam padding, no modular cabin walls, no interface displays.

The cockpit was nothing more than a narrow chamber of exposed beams and equipment housings now. Every surface that could be removed had been. The floor plating was gone. The wall paneling too. Even the soft sealant around the window apertures had been stripped away—there were no windows left to seal.

There was just metal, wiring, the occasional warning sticker half-peeled off, and the sound of her own breathing as she stepped deeper into the vehicle.

She crouched by the side wall and set the toolkit down. The foam inside was worn and cracked, and the latch had started to loosen weeks ago, but it still held. She unclipped the wrench—carbon-steel, standard hex-head—and got to work.

The first bolt came loose with a metallic groan. Then the next.

The remaining seats hadn’t been designed for easy removal. They were bolted directly into the structural base—six of them, each one reinforced to handle launch stress and vibration. It took her nearly an hour to pull the first one free. She had to brace herself against the bulkhead, digging in with the heels of her boots, twisting the tool with both hands until her wrists ached. When the last bolt finally came free, the seat tumbled awkwardly to the side. She grabbed it, shoved it toward the hatch, then crawled over to the edge and pushed.

It hit the ground outside with a muffled thud, sending a puff of dust into the air.

One seat down. Five to go.

She didn’t stop. Didn’t even look at it. Just moved to the next one.

Every minute was precious now. The launch window was fixed. The Starfire would pass into final intercept in twenty-two hours. Koah’s orbital drift correction had already been executed. Once the line closed, it wouldn’t reopen for another 18 days—and there was no chance the MAV would survive that long in its current condition. Not with the limited onboard power. Not with what little she had left to eat. And not with the storm systems brewing again on the eastern ridge.

Another bolt. Another pop. Another seat came free.

She shoved it toward the hatch, muscles burning. It was heavier than it looked.

Outside, the wind had begun to pick up—more sand drifting across the horizon, loose pebbles bouncing softly against the MAV’s hull. Every few seconds, the gusts made the outer structure creak. It sounded like the ship was breathing. Or groaning.

Y/N pulled her suit collar down, wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of one wrist. It clung there—salt and dust and heat.

She turned back to the third chair.

The wrench slipped once, barking her knuckles on the raw edge of the bolt. She hissed, shook her hand out, and went back in.

No complaints. No curses. Just movement.

She didn’t bother checking the comms feed. There wouldn’t be any new messages from April for at least another hour. The distance, the relay lag, the signal decay—it all meant she was on her own now. No lifeline. No hand-holding. No updates.

Just her, and the wrench, and the cold echo of metal against metal.

By the time the last seat came free, her shoulders were burning, and the back of her neck throbbed with tension. She dropped the final chair out through the hatch and leaned back on her heels, staring at the empty space she’d cleared.

The MAV was down nearly four hundred kilos already, by her rough count. Another couple hundred from the stripped wiring. Maybe more, depending on what else she could cut before the systems started to protest.

She turned to the forward cockpit interface.

The main control assembly was still mounted to the wall where the pilot’s seat had been. The screen was dark. Inactive. Most of the data routing had already been disconnected from the ship’s mainframe—April and Koah had walked her through the shutoff protocol the night before.

Still, it looked wrong, somehow. Like it still thought it was meant to be used.

She studied it for a second. Then reached forward and began to dismantle it.

One panel at a time.

She took no pleasure in it. There was no thrill, no rush of rebellion or recklessness. Just the cold understanding that it had to go. Every ounce she stripped now was one less kilo for the rockets to lift.

The screen popped free after two minutes. The control column took another five. She snipped the cabling with wire cutters, bundled it into a rough coil, and set it aside. It would make a decent handhold if she needed one during launch.

The MAV was quieter now.

Hollow.

The wind outside had picked up into a steady moan, the dust slapping against the outer skin in brief, muted bursts. Occasionally, she heard something shift on the landing struts—some subtle tension in the way the wind pressed against the upright body of the vehicle.

Y/N sat back, leaning against one of the inner support beams. Her shoulders were soaked through. The EVA undersuit clung to her, the cooling pads barely keeping up with the heat she was generating. Her breath echoed in the silence.

She let herself rest there for a moment. Not sleep. Just stillness. Just one minute of stillness.

She looked up at the interior of the MAV. It didn’t look like a spacecraft anymore.

It looked like an escape pod built in a garage.

She reached for her comm tablet. The screen lit up, the signal flickering once before stabilizing.

No new messages.

She flipped open the reply channel anyway and typed with slow, deliberate fingers.

Interior’s stripped. Control interface removed. All six seats gone. Pressure barrier is still holding. Will install final harness next. Wind’s picking up. If this thing doesn’t fall apart, I’ll be ready to light it when the crew is. Tell Koah I hope he remembers how to fly blind. Because this ship’s not going to hold my hand.

She hit send, then turned off the display.

By the time she stepped outside again, the light had shifted. The sun—low and pale-blue on this side of the planet—was dragging the long shadows of the MAV across the dust. It cast the stripped-down vehicle in stark relief: every exposed rib, every bolt she hadn’t had time to replace, every scar left from the dismantling process. The ground was littered with the remnants—seat brackets, cracked insulation, lengths of coiled cable, and one final wrench she hadn’t bothered to bring back inside.

Her arms ached. Her back felt like it had been through a hydraulic press. There was a raw spot under her left elbow where the EVA suit padding had bunched up during one of the anchor installs, and her hands were trembling with the aftershock of muscle fatigue, the kind that didn’t fully hit you until the job was done. Her visor was streaked with fine red grit, the kind that clung to everything, the kind you’d still find in your boots six months after you’d left the planet.

The MAV loomed behind her—unfinished, exposed. It looked less like a spacecraft now and more like something welded together out of salvage parts in the middle of a desert. The kind of machine desperate people might have built after the end of the world. Everything extraneous had been pulled: life-support subsystems, insulation, windows, comm redundancies. Even the pilot’s control column had been replaced with a blank wall and a data plug tied directly into its core systems.

There was no illusion left. No polish. No design elegance. It wasn’t a vehicle anymore. It was a shell. A slingshot with just enough thrust to throw her back into orbit—if the math held.

Y/N stood in the silence and stared up at it.

And for a long time, she didn’t move.

Wind brushed past her legs, carrying dust across the flat expanse of the launch site. The air was so thin it barely had weight, but it was just enough to make the suit’s outer fabric shift against her skin. She flexed her fingers once, twice, trying to ease the burn in her knuckles. She felt tired all the way through. Not sleepy—just... used up.

She reached down into her toolkit, fumbled past a spare patch kit, a pair of stripped fasteners, until her fingers closed around the compact speaker unit. She hesitated, just for a second, then pulled it free.

She rubbed a tired thumb across the surface of the speaker, clearing a streak of dust from the side panel. The LED took a second to respond, then blinked on—soft and green, like it was waking from a long nap. The speaker had been through a lot. It had fallen off shelves during storms, been buried under equipment, and once—briefly—served as a weight to keep down an emergency tarp in a wind event. It wasn’t meant to last this long, but like everything else out here, it had adapted.

No ceremony. No speech. No last rites.

Just habit.

She tapped through the tracklist, muscle memory guiding her. Most of the audio files were practical: suit diagnostics, training walkthroughs, comms recordings she’d archived months ago. But tucked near the bottom of the directory was a small folder labeled simply Misc—leftovers from a data transfer, probably. A few compressed files, an outdated playlist from her tablet. Nothing she’d listened to in weeks.

She hovered over one of them.

It was a dumb choice. Something absurdly out of step with the dry, red world around her. Upbeat to the point of satire. But that was kind of the point. When you were about to launch yourself into orbit in a ship held together by glue, canvas, and a few good intentions, irony wasn’t just a luxury—it was armor.

She tapped Play.

The speaker chirped once, then crackled. And then came the unmistakable first notes of Waterloo.

The music was grainy, a little warped at the high end, like it was playing from inside a tin can—which, technically, it was. But it was there. Real. Loud enough to carry.

Y/N let out a small, involuntary snort. Not quite a laugh—she was too wrung out for that—but something close. A dry, exhausted sound that cracked in her throat before it fully formed.

“Of course,” she muttered, barely audible over the hiss of her suit. “Why the hell not.”

She turned her face to the sound, let it roll over her like a warm breeze. The melody skipped slightly as the speaker rebuffered, then found its footing again. It echoed out over the flats, skipping across dunes and bouncing faintly against the far wall of the crater.

It sounded completely ridiculous.

She could only imagine what it might look like from above—the MAV standing like some stripped-down monument to desperation, half-disassembled, with ABBA blaring into the Martian dusk. But she didn’t care. No one was watching. No one was here.

Except the camera.

The old Hab cam had been hauled out from storage that morning and mounted onto the tripod she’d built from three scavenged rover legs. It had taken three tries to get it to stand upright in the wind. The joints were loose and she hadn’t been able to stabilize the footing without wedging a rock beneath it. The lens was scratched at the corners, fogged with grit. But the recording light was on. That was enough.

She turned to face it.

Her visor was up, streaked with a smear of red dust she hadn’t bothered to clean. Her face was drawn, jaw tight, sweat-matted hair sticking out from under the edge of her helmet ring. There was a tiredness in her eyes that couldn’t be faked. The kind that didn’t come from a single long day—but from all of them.

And still—after everything—she found something like a smile.

Not much. Just a flicker. A small, human thing that tugged briefly at the edge of her mouth and vanished again.

She looked into the lens and said, quietly, “If this is how it ends... I’m at least going out with a beat.”

She didn’t stay to dramatize the moment. There was nothing left to say. No pithy sendoff. No final look back. She adjusted the straps on her suit, flexed her sore fingers once, and turned toward the MAV.

The music kept playing behind her as she walked. Her boots crunched over loose grit, and the wind swept her footprints away almost as quickly as she made them. The speaker fought to keep up, the chorus jumping slightly with every gust, but it held. Just barely.

She reached the base of the ladder and stopped, one hand resting on the rung.

The MAV loomed above her like a relic. The tarp covering the nose cone flapped gently in the breeze, held in place by thermal glue, epoxy seals, and a prayer. The hull creaked faintly as the wind pushed against it. She’d sealed the hatch an hour ago and double-checked the pressure rings, but she still felt that pinch of doubt in the back of her throat. The kind that whispered what if it doesn’t hold?

She didn’t answer it.

Instead, she climbed.

Her arms protested the movement, joints tight and sore, but she moved deliberately. One step. Then another. By the time she reached the top, the sun had slipped closer to the horizon, the shadows stretching long behind her like threads pulled from the sky.

She placed her hand on the outer hatch and paused. Not to deliver a final line. Not to think of Earth. Just to breathe.

The MAV groaned softly under her weight.

The tarp held.

She ducked inside.

The music continued for a few more seconds outside—one final chorus warbling faintly through the thin Hexundecian air—before the speaker choked on a memory buffer and went silent.

She heard the cut from inside the MAV. A sudden, brittle silence where the absurdity had been.

She blinked. Then, after a long pause, she let out a sound halfway between a breath and a laugh.

“Figures,” she said, voice echoing faintly in the hollow chamber. “Survived a year out here. Dies right when I need it.”

She eased herself down into the harness. Felt the straps bite into her suit. Tensed her shoulders, then relaxed them.

Outside, the wind kept blowing. Inside, the MAV was quiet. And for the first time in a long while, everything was still.

Koah’s jaw was clenched tight, his shoulders stiff, his fingers working furiously over the simulated flight controls. A soft sheen of sweat glistened along his temple, and the soft hum of the Starfire’s artificial gravity system did nothing to mask the rising sound of his own pulse in his ears.

Then—red.

COLLISION WITH TERRAIN.

The alert flashed across the screen with an abrupt, terminal finality. The simulator screen froze, the MAV’s virtual ascent freezing mid-frame as the telemetry dipped off its plotted trajectory and straight into the surface of M6-117.

Koah swore under his breath, leaning back and scrubbing a hand through his hair.

Val, standing behind him with arms crossed and a silent kind of patience, finally spoke.

“Well. That’s one way to kill her.”

Koah didn’t turn around. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Val cocked an eyebrow. “You grazed the ridge by sixty meters and still lost control.”

“I misjudged the crosswind,” Koah muttered, already rebooting the program. “There’s a lateral shear the moment she clears the crater’s upper edge. I didn’t compensate fast enough.”

“You didn’t compensate at all.”

Koah didn’t argue. He just started again.

Across the room, Jimin was watching quietly. Always watching. His arms were folded, a tablet resting against his hip. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched the new simulation load in—silent desert terrain unfolding on the screen, the crude profile of the MAV climbing into view.

Then, calmly: “Run it again.”

Koah gave a tight nod, jaw grinding. “Already on it.”

No one said it aloud, but they all knew: he wasn’t just practicing for a sim anymore. The next time he guided the MAV, it wouldn’t be theoretical. Y/N would be inside. And if he screwed it up—if he overcorrected or waited a half-second too long—he wouldn’t be watching a failure animation.

He’d be watching her die.

Far below the slow arc of Starfire’s orbit, deep in the wind-scoured silence of M6-117, Y/N wasn’t thinking about flight paths or burn trajectories. She wasn’t thinking about orbital windows or the terrifying precision of a rendezvous 200 kilometers above her head.

She was thinking about the last bolt.

The MAV no longer resembled a spacecraft—at least not in the traditional sense. Its body had been stripped to the skeleton, gutted of everything not absolutely essential to flight. The clean panels, the instrument clusters, the ergonomic chairs—all gone. Dismantled. Ejected. Abandoned in neat or not-so-neat piles outside the hatch. The floor was bare save for hardpoints and wiring channels, some of which she’d rerouted by hand. Others she’d torn out completely, judging them expendable.

Anything that didn’t help her leave this planet was dead weight. And dead weight didn’t fly.

Inside the airlock, the carnage was undeniable: bundles of severed cables coiled like veins, seat frames stacked like broken bones, polycarbonate display shells cracked and tossed against the far wall. Her makeshift bin overflowed, and the overflow had started to scatter—bits and pieces rolling down the slope toward the edge of the launch pad in lazy arcs. To anyone else, it would’ve looked like the wreckage of a crash. But it wasn’t. It was controlled destruction.

Intentional.

Necessary.

Y/N leaned back against the inner hatch rim, trying to catch her breath. She’d been working for hours without pause, and her body was registering its protest in every possible language: throbbing shoulders, forearms trembling from tension, joints stiff with grit and fatigue. The wrench in her hand felt heavier than it had any right to. Her grip had started to falter an hour ago. She kept working anyway.

Her gloves were caked in rust-red dust, fraying at the fingers. Her right thumb was raw—no skin left on the pad, the fabric beneath damp and tacky. Every time she flexed the joint, it stung like fire, but she didn’t have time to think about that now.

She looked down at what was left: the forward access collar—what had once housed the MAV’s primary nose airlock. The interface was compromised. She’d known that for days, ever since she first checked the weld seams and found stress fractures spidering out from the lower ring. The airlock itself had always been heavy, armored to resist high-speed debris during ascent. But now it was just another liability—too much mass, too many structural risks. And completely useless.

It had to go.

She dropped to one knee with a hiss of effort. The joint in her suit pinched, and her back seized as she twisted awkwardly to brace herself. The fasteners weren’t difficult, not anymore. Four had already been loosened days ago during prep. Only two remained, and the metal was corroded enough to complain with every turn.

She grit her teeth and leaned into it.

The first bolt groaned, spun twice, then popped loose with a sudden give that nearly threw her off balance. She planted a hand against the inner bulkhead to steady herself, breathing hard through her nose.

The second bolt was more stubborn. It refused to move at first, stuck tight by a decade of cold and pressure and the fine silicate dust that wormed its way into everything on this planet. She repositioned the wrench, dug her boots into the deck, and hauled.

One turn. Two.

Then—snap.

The final bolt sheared away. The access collar sagged, shifted, and with a dull metallic pop, it tore loose from the surrounding frame. For a heartbeat, it hovered there—still clinging to its old shape, its old function.

Then it dropped.

The mass of it caught a gust of wind as it fell. The panel spun as it tumbled, crashing to the ground with a heavy, final thunk that reverberated across the dry surface. The noise wasn’t loud, not really. But in a world so quiet, so still, it felt seismic.

Y/N stepped back automatically, too fast, and her knees buckled.

Her legs simply gave out.

She hit the ground sideways, dust puffing up in a loose swirl around her, the wrench slipping from her hand and bouncing once before it landed beside her in the dirt.

She lay there, unmoving for a long moment, face turned to the sky.

Her pulse was in her ears. Her arms refused to lift.

Everything ached.

She could feel the crust of sweat drying beneath her undersuit, her body swaddled in fatigue and grime and the kind of exhaustion that made the idea of standing again feel almost hypothetical.

She didn’t bother trying to sit up.

Instead, she tilted her head back just enough to see the MAV above her, its patched-together body silhouetted against the dimming sky. The canvas at the nose—once her sleeping tarp, now layered and bonded with thermal glue—fluttered slightly at the edges. It held.

Somehow, it held.

The whole thing looked absurd. Makeshift. Unbelievably fragile.

But it was all she had.

She let out a sound. It wasn’t quite a laugh—too hollow, too dry—but it came from somewhere near the part of her that used to have the energy for humor.

Her gaze drifted sideways, to where the old speaker still sat on the ground a few meters away, half-buried in dust. It had been playing earlier—something upbeat and ridiculous, a holdover from her playlist of songs she’d used to fill the Hab with noise when the silence became too loud.

She hoped Waterloo had been the last thing it played. That felt appropriate somehow. Too bad.

She closed her eyes, her breath coming in slow, shallow pulls.

“Finally facing my Waterloo,” she murmured.

Her voice didn’t carry far. The helmet mic was off. The camera wasn’t rolling. There was no audience this time. No log entry. No flight team monitoring her vitals.

It was just her.

Just the dust, and the ship she’d rebuilt by hand, and the infinite silence of an alien world that didn’t care whether she lived or died.

The wrench lay beside her, forgotten.

And for a while, Y/N didn’t move at all.

Onboard Starfire, the mood had shifted.

Gone was the casual rhythm of deep space routine. No idle chatter, no coffee mugs clinking against console rails, no playlist humming through the speakers. The rec deck had been empty for hours. Everyone had drifted toward the core of the ship—the main operations bay—drawn there by necessity, by duty, by the quiet pull of something heavier than protocol.

The gravity was steady, calibrated to Earth-norm, but it still felt like the floor had tilted slightly. Like something was waiting.

Overhead, the orbital burn countdown ticked down in cold blue digits.

Jimin stood at the forward console, his hands braced against the reinforced edge, leaning slightly as if anchoring himself. The navigation display glowed in front of him, lines arcing across the interface: the MAV’s projected trajectory, the intercept corridor, and Starfire’s adjusted orbital path. Three bodies, four variables, one window.

The final window.

Behind him, the others moved in quiet coordination.

Cruz was already seated at Systems Two, hunched over a terminal, rerouting power protocols through the MAV telemetry relay. Her fingers moved fast, practiced. Efficient. There was no margin left for error. Anything they didn’t handle before launch would have to be handled mid-flight—and there were too many unknowns between now and then to trust in mid-flight.

“Nguyen’s got full remote,” Jimin said, his tone even but clipped, his eyes not leaving the screen. “Cruz, you’ll manage override routing from Bay Two. Keep a hard link to the MAV all the way through primary burn.”

“Copy,” Val replied, not looking up. “I’m tying in emergency telemetry now. One-minute intervals on the backup ping. It’ll lag by three seconds on the fallback line.”

“We’ll take it,” Jimin said.

He turned, scanning the rest of the crew.

“Hoseok. Armin. Airlock Two. You’ll be suiting up once we hit the two-minute mark before MAV ignition. Tether lines stay deployed. Outer door stays open.”

Armin nodded once, already halfway through checklist sync. “Lines are staged and calibrated. Anchor’s clipped. The MMU packs are charged.”

“Good.”

Hoseok leaned forward, his tablet on his lap, ascent data scrolling in a slow, inevitable stream. His brow furrowed as he traced the curve of the launch.

“She’s going to hit twelve Gs during the climb,” he said, voice low. “She’ll black out somewhere between eleven and twelve if the suit’s not aligned perfectly. Even if she doesn’t lose consciousness, she’s going to be borderline hypoxic by engine cutoff. Muscle tremors, potential cerebral edema, disorientation.”

He paused. No one filled the silence.

“She might not be coherent when we make contact.”

Jimin didn’t react. Not outwardly.

“That’s why you’re going out,” he said. “That’s why it’s you.”

Hoseok met his gaze. “You’re assuming she’s still conscious when we dock.”

“I’m assuming she’s alive,” Jimin said.

Hoseok nodded once, accepting the weight of it.

“We’ve got a 214-meter tether,” he said. “I’ll be in the MMU. If we hold her velocity at five meters per second or lower, I can intercept manually. Any faster, and it’s going to feel like jumping onto a moving train. With no brakes.”

Jimin shifted his attention back to the trajectory map. The MAV’s projected arc skated along the edge of the capture envelope. Tight. Risky.

“And if she’s coming in hot?”

Hoseok didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. Not afraid. Just honest.

“Then I miss. Or I grab and get pulled. Or we both spin. Worst case, we bounce off the line and watch her drift out into space.”

Another silence.

Jimin exhaled through his nose, measured and slow. “Engine cutoff gives us a 52-minute window before intercept. That’s our margin. Cruz will give you live telemetry as soon as thrust cuts. Until then, you’re just watching the clock.”

He turned to Armin.

“You’re backup. Stay tethered. If anything goes wrong, you stabilize and pull him back. No solo retrievals. No free-floating. You don’t follow unless he’s secured.”

Armin, already double-checking MMU thruster settings, nodded once. “Understood.”

Jimin finally stepped away from the console, circling toward the center of the room where the rest of the crew had settled in. Koah stood near the wall, pale but steady, his hands tucked under his arms. His eyes were fixed on the simulator feed looping in the corner screen—replaying the MAV’s predicted trajectory frame by frame.

“You ready, Nguyen?” Jimin asked.

Koah nodded slowly. “Ready or not, I’ll fly it.”

“You’ll fly it.”

There was no encouragement in Jimin’s tone. No pep talk. Just fact.

He looked around the room one last time.

Cruz, fingers still moving. Hoseok, pulling on his gloves. Armin, checking O2 flow levels. Koah, staring at the screen like he could will the outcome into submission.

They were tired. Stretched thin.

But they were here. Focused. Professional.

Jimin straightened.

“One shot,” he said. “That’s all we’ve got. We do this clean. No improvising. No ad-libbing. Stick to the numbers.”

A pause.

“Let’s bring her home.”

Inside the pop-up shelter, the air felt heavy despite the pressure regulators still holding steady. Not hot. Not thin. Just dense in the way quiet places get when they've been silent for too long. The fabric walls rustled faintly in the wind, a soft, steady whisper that only made the silence inside more absolute.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, the knees of her suit stained from weeks of kneeling, crawling, wrenching, fixing. Her back pressed against the outer curve of the tent wall, the thin material bowing slightly behind her. It wasn’t a real shelter—just the emergency module meant for temporary use while a permanent hab was being assembled. She’d been using it on and off for weeks now. Long enough that it had started to feel like her shadow.

The floor beneath her was a layer of insulation fabric over packed dirt, the dust already seeping through at the edges. She barely noticed anymore.

In her lap, she held a ration pack.

Foil-wrapped. Worn soft at the edges. The printed label had faded in the sun, but she could still make out the marker she’d scrawled across it months ago, back when she'd still thought labeling it would be funny, or maybe meaningful.

GOODBYE, M6.

She hadn’t meant to save it this long. At the time, it was just something she did—something to help her hold onto a timeline. A plan. Something resembling control.

She turned the pack slowly in her hands, thumb grazing the corner seam, feeling the slight give in the foil where it had crinkled. She could remember labeling it. She’d been tired even then, but not like this. Not spent. Not stripped to the nerve.

She had thought she’d open it on her last day here. Maybe even in orbit, on the way back. That it’d be part of a ritual. A small victory meal. A full-circle moment.

Instead, she was on the floor of a half-collapsed tent, staring down at a meal that hadn’t changed, even though everything else had.

Her fingers hesitated on the tear notch.

It was a stupid thing to hesitate over.

But still, she did.

Not because of what was inside. Just... because once she opened it, there’d be nothing else left to mark the moment. No more lines between before and after. Just the long blur of now.

She broke the seal with a jerk.

The foil hissed and gave. The sound was too loud in the confined space, and she winced instinctively, though she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like anyone could hear her.

She stared down at the contents for a long time. Rehydrated rice. Some kind of protein paste. Technically flavored, but she’d stopped believing the labels weeks ago. Food wasn’t about enjoyment out here. It was function. And now, even that was ceremonial.

She took the first bite without thinking. It was automatic. A routine. Chew. Swallow. The texture was soft and faintly gritty, like every other meal. It filled her mouth with the memory of nothing. No comfort. No warmth. Just fuel. The bland kind.

She kept eating, mechanically. Chewing slower with each bite.

She didn’t want it. She wasn’t hungry. But there was a gravity to finishing it now, to not leaving it half-eaten like so many others. If she was going to say goodbye to this place, she’d do it clean.

The name on the packet felt like a joke now. Goodbye, M6.

As if a single meal could contain all that. As if the act of opening it, eating it, could somehow make peace with everything this place had taken.

The dust storms. The silence. The endless repairs. The isolation so thick it had begun to feel like part of her own skin.

She glanced around the tent. It had held up better than she’d expected, all things considered. One corner had a slow leak that never quite sealed, and the interior fabric was stained along the floor seam from some leak weeks ago that had never quite dried. Her helmet sat nearby, a faint film of red dust still clinging to the visor.

There was no light here, not really. Just the pale wash from the tablet screen on standby mode across from her, casting a soft glow over her boots and the half-empty water pouch at her side.

There were no clocks anymore. Not physical ones, at least. Just the countdown in her head. The one that had started ticking the moment the mission shifted from survival to escape.

She took another bite. Slower this time. Her jaw moved like it was made of something heavier than bone.

How long had it been since she’d last spoken to someone face to face? Since someone had looked at her and not through a camera feed? The last message from April had been clipped like all messages from the girl were.

We’re locked in. Launch is yours. Be safe.

That was hours ago.

Possibly longer. Y/N had long since stopped being able to tell the passage of time on this planet. She did not even know if the days on her camera were correct. She would not know until she was on the Starfire, truly, if she'd been out here for over a year.

Y/N swallowed the last bite, feeling the dense weight of it settle in her stomach. It sat like lead. Not unpleasant. Just... full. In that way things only feel full when you know there’s nothing else coming.

She held the empty foil pouch in both hands for a moment. Then flattened it. Folded it once. Then again. The label was barely visible now. Just a faint smudge of black ink against silver.

She placed it carefully beside her helmet.

She leaned back against the wall of the tent and let her eyes close for a moment. She didn’t sleep. Didn’t even try. Just let her mind rest against the quiet.

The wind rattled faintly outside. The fabric creaked. Somewhere deep in the MAV’s systems—now half a kilometer away—the flight prep sequence was probably already ticking through a checklist.

She’d get up soon. She’d suit up. She’d climb inside that gutted, patched-together vehicle, and trust it to hold long enough to throw her into the sky.

But for now, she stayed where she was. Just a woman in a tent, finishing her last meal on a planet that never welcomed her.

She looked at the empty ration pack one last time.

“Goodbye,” she said quietly. Not to the food. Not to the tent.

Just to the dust.

To the silence.

To the part of her that would always stay behind.

Taglist: @fancypeacepersona @ssbb-22 @mar-lo-pap @sathom013 @kimyishin @ttanniett @sweetvoidstuff @keiarajm @sathom013 @miniesjams32 @haru-jiminn @rg2108 @darklove2020

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medicus-mortem · 5 months ago

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@sillygum liked [+] for a starter.

Law has so many questions. He’s had questions ever since seeing Straw Hat defeat Kaido, since feeling for a moment the goofy and wildly unpleasant influence of Straw Hat’s new form. He’s already started a research book on this. So far, it’s just a few notes and observations he has made. There is a sketch of Straw Hat’s heart and how it’s beat changed when Luffy took on this new form. There are even some quotes from Luffy himself that Law thought might provide some insight. Unfortunately, Straw Hat Luffy isn’t very observant when it comes to himself. Or perhaps he just doesn’t care to understand his power.

Well, the Surgeon of Death absolutely wants too. It has some vague similarities to his own power and Law wonders if knowing more about Straw Hats supposed Gum Gum fruit might help him understand his own apparent Op Op fruit. Both are certainly more than they seem.

“We’ll start with somethin’ obvious,” Law says, twirling a pen between his fingers and eyeing the questions he’s outlined in his journal. “See how your influence on the world around you actually manifests itself. That’ll give me some idea on what to look at next.”

His journal is lowered, and the doctor raises his hand, the blue energy of his power swirling beneath his palm. In a blink a Room surrounds the two, stretching rather far in all directions. He raises a finger, and rocks begin to float into the air, tearing themselves out of the dusty earth and disturbing the arid scrub. Law frowns, mouth set in a hard line. There is a niggling confusion in the back of his mind. A question not about Luffy’s but about the young captain himself.

Why the fuck is he lettin’ me do this? He’s just giving me an advantage over him.

#sillygum #captain's log // threads #captain of hearts // canon verse #Nika Study

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medicus-mortem · 1 year ago

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Trafalgar Law stalks away from where they landed, away from the swarming scientists and the watching guards. A pair try to follow him, their identical faces a bit disconcerting. Guess that means the cloning thing going on with Germa is true. Definitely something Law wants to know more about and with this chance he has to get in good with their king Law will have all the openings he needs to steal some premium medical tech, but right now he’s not in the mindset for negotiations.

All he can think about is Bepo and Shachi. His crew mates currently in the hands of an organisation that seems to delight in suffering. Sure, Law is the hostage here. He’s even come here without Kikoku in hand, her sinister whispers no longer in the back of his mind, no longer providing the comfort that he’s never alone. Instead, he is alone. Alone and surrounded by enemies, by people who want nothing more than to manipulate and control him. Not something new to him but still not ideal. He’ll have to find some kind of ally, even if it means he has manipulate them himself. And so, he moves away from the crowd to clear his mind, to put his concerns for his friends aside and to take stock of where he is.

The two soldiers trying to keep an eye on him get a middle finger flipped in their direction. Neither say anything, just continue to watch. Law moves over to a railing, one that faces the ocean and not the war tearing a country apart. He takes a deep breath, trying to absorb the calm and peace the sea can give him, but in amongst the salty brine scent in the air is the smell of smoke and fire. War on the edge of his awareness, like it always is. An irritated groan and the doctor pulls out a metal cigarette case. He flips it open and tugs free a joint, the marijuana cigarette getting placed between his lips.

Law puts the case away and pulls out his lighter, the small thing adorned with his mark. He leans on the railing, raising the lighter to the end of his joint and clicks. No flame, just another click. An angry growl and he tries again, getting the same result. He turns about, leaning the small of his back against the metal and glaring at the soldiers still watching him.

“Either of you got a light? No? Then fuck off,” the Surgeon of Death hisses. How tempting in his to Room the two fuckers into pieces but he’s gotta maintain some manners, even if dismembering someone relaxes him like nothing else.

Yes, but that wouldn't have been as fun. Sanji's amusement doubling when Law shoves himself away. Ichiji was liable to break those fingers, a faint childhood memory of being on the receiving end doesn't dampen his mood. Law's snapping that Judge can wait however is more interesting. Did he care about them that much or was he nervous to do business behind enemy lines?

Buzzing around him like a lost moth, the scientist gives Sanji a thorough once over. “And you didn't come in contact with his ability?”

“No.” Curious eyes never leave the tall silhouette of the surgeon who stalks away, willingly unarmed; he still makes powerful threats that leave the prince wondering if they have the seastone to subdue him if worst comes to worst. “His fruit—” gloved fingers peel down his mask before pushing tinted glasses back to sit on his head. “Do we have any records of previous users and their limitations?”

Gloved fingers pause their inspection. “The ope ope no mi is a highly sought after fruit, users still require medical training. The little we've managed to dig up doesn't detail its use in combat.”

Unsatisfying and uninformative, the prince frowns before speaking again. “He ripped Reiju's poison out of a resident. Teleported multiple times and that bubble he creates— when he does it again I want it recorded.” Law is yet to do any parlor tricks outside of the space and assuming he couldn't is a mistake. However given Germa's interest in him another showing is unlikely, his friends no doubt being treated like untempered glass.

“They've reached the dock and are beginning to board.” Reiju's voice in his ear has attention clicking away from Law to the clouds above.

“Thanks, our guest is being a little moody.” He can hear his sister sigh and parrot’s the sound back.

#abysmal black #captain's log // threads #captain of hearts // canon verse #caught in a war

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betweenstorms · 3 months ago

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Chapter 5/2 of Skin Of Thunder Where Butterflies Go to Die (previous chapter) (next chapter) (all SOT chapters) (masterlist) Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader

“In the corner of the universe, where butterflies go to die, there is no farewell, no final flutter, just the slow, quiet decay of something too soft for this harsh world.”

They say war makes strange bedfellows—

—and Ghost had encountered his share of hard men.

Grizzled bastards with twitching trigger fingers, the kind who chewed nails for breakfast and pissed adrenaline by midday. He’d stood alongside monsters and martyrs, saints and absolute lunatics, but nothing—nothing—had steeled him for this particular torment.

Sharing an office.

With you.

It was beyond a piss-take. Beyond cruel.

It was damn near biblical in its irony, the universe folding in on itself just to spit in his bloody eye one last time. Ghost had never been one to suffer fools gladly. And Price knew it. Laswell knew it. Hell, even Johnny knew it, though the Scotsman seemed to take particular delight in testing his limits.

But this—this fucking arrangement was beyond the pale. It felt like he’d been assigned penance for sins he couldn't remember committing, stuck in some goddamn infernal loop designed specifically to break whatever brittle patience he had left.

And Price? Oh, that bastard had acted like it was all standard procedure, like it was the most natural thing in the world to toss a civvie into Ghost’s office, like it didn’t crack open every fault line running through him.

“She’s gotta be on a secure system now, needin’ constant supervision,” Price had explained, casual as you like. “Intel’s sensitive. Laswell sorted the clearance, but she needs access to the same internal threads we do. And your setup’s already logged into the mainline.” Then he’d added, like it was the final fucking insult, “You'll be in and out anyway, so it's ideal.”

Ideal.

Right.

“And that's my bloody job now, is it? Babysittin’?”

Then, to rub salt straight into the wound, Laswell had chimed in with that thin-lipped smile of hers, cool and precise. “She can use a second terminal in your office. It’s secure, and you’re already on standby, Lieutenant. Consider it insurance.”

Insurance.

More like a goddamn collar.

Ghost had felt his blood simmer beneath the surface of his inked skin, boiling quiet like tar. He didn’t argue—not then, not in front of them all. He wasn’t about to throw a tantrum in the briefing room like some bloody schoolboy. However, the worst part wasn't the supervision or the babysitting or whatever the hell they wanted to call it. No, the worst part was how you'd looked at Price when he'd broken the news, your lovely eyes widening for just a fraction of a second, discomfort flickering briefly before you wrestled them back into submission.

But Ghost saw. He always saw.

“Captain,” you'd said, carefully avoiding Ghost's gaze as though even looking at him might burn you. “I…I’d rather not. For the sake of—” your voice wavered slightly, only noticeable to Ghost because he'd memorized its quiet cadence “—for efficiency. I’ll work wherever is necessary but… I mean, perhaps there’s another option?”

Christ, you'd twisted that knife nicely.

You’d said it clean, professional, stripped of anything sentimental—but Ghost heard it. Every syllable, every crack in your voice that you thought you’d hidden. You didn’t want to be near him. And it wasn’t just the awkwardness, was it? No, there was something deeper, something raw, something personal. He wasn’t proud of the prick he’d been in recent days, cold, distant and dismissive, but to hear it from your pretty lips, like you were confirming what he already feared, it made something in him bristle. Snap.

Perhaps you didn’t feel safe with him.

And that?

That tore through him like fire to bone.

Soap watched the two of you curiously, blue eyes darting between you like he was waiting for one of you to crack under the heavy, suffocating silence. Gaz, ever the gentleman, cleared his throat, pretending to find sudden fascination in Laswell’s briefing notes projected on the wall—dry as dust intel summaries he’d read a dozen times already. Bloody saints, both of them, though even their patience was wearing thin.

Ghost felt a slow, familiar pulse behind his eyes, the onset of a headache that had nothing to do with fatigue and everything to do with frustration.

Price had simply looked between you both like he was watching two starving dogs refuse to touch food from the same bowl, unimpressed and annoyed. His blue eyes flicked from you to Ghost and back again. To you. You, you, you. Then he sighed. Rubbed a hand over his beard like he was already exhausted by the whole thing.

“We need every crumb of information to stay ahead,” he said at last, quiet but firm. “And that means she stays. End of. Understood?”

And just like that, Ghost’s personal hell was no longer hypothetical.

It was tangible.

Seated at a spare desk.

“Computer’s up,” he muttered after you received your new keycard, voice low and clipped. “Credentials’re in the doc. Top right. Don’t fuck with anythin’ outside the brief.”

There was a pause. Then the faintest response.

“…Yeah. Okay.”

The desk had been rearranged the day before.

He’d done it himself. Not out of bloody kindness—don’t get it twisted, alright?—but because he wanted it done his way. Wanted the extra computer set up without some sprog fucking up his cable management or scratching the floor. He’d moved the filing cabinet to the corner. Shifted the printer so you wouldn’t bump into it. Cleared shelf space without a word. Brought in a chair from supply.

Then he hadn’t spoken to you directly.

Not properly, anyway.

Not the kind of talking that meant something. Oh, there’d been clipped exchanges about access codes, network redundancies, a few low grunts that barely counted as acknowledgement when you handed him requisition reports, but nothing more. You didn’t speak unless you had to, and even then, it was filtered through that hesitant, professional tone that made his skin itch. The sort of voice someone used with a wounded animal, unsure if it would lash out or die right in front of them. The air between you had grown thick, congealed with everything unsaid—an atmosphere heavy with blame, silence, and that awful brittle tension he couldn't name without wanting to break something.

He’d avoided the office for as long as possible. Made excuses. Took longer shifts in the yard, cleaned weapons that didn’t need cleaning, spent hours going over briefings that could’ve been skimmed in five minutes flat. But eventually, he had to return and had to face the quiet storm waiting behind that reinforced door.

You didn’t look at him.

You never fucking looked at him anymore.

You’d mastered the art of avoidance with lethal precision, eyes fixed on your monitor, hands always busy, nails tapping away at your keyboard, flipping through secure files, highlighting shit that didn’t even matter just to avoid acknowledging his existence.

And Ghost? He was haunted.

Not by you, precisely—but by everything you made him feel.

You weren’t particularly loud. You didn’t argue. Didn’t press for conversation or prod him for answers. But that silence? That deliberate, careful stillness of yours? It was a fucking mirror, and Ghost hated what he saw in it. He didn’t know which part of this arrangement was worse, your physical presence only feet away from him, or the gaping emotional absence you carved out with every moment you refused to meet his eye.

The desk they’d shoved in for you sat awkwardly opposite his. It didn’t belong there, like a daffodil in a field of fucking ash. You brought shitty little things to make it yours, ridiculous things that only made his teeth grind. A crooked pen holder. A mug with some cartoon dog printed on it, Sip Happens written on the side. A half-dead orchid that tilted dramatically to one side, clinging to life like it shared your anxieties. You set a framed photo beside your monitor, face turned away from him, but he knew it was family. The ones you’d walked away from for this job. The ones you probably thought about when you got that look in your eyes like you were far away—

—too far for him to reach.

And the smell.

Fucking hell, the smell of you.

You had started wearing a new perfume.

A soft vanilla fragrance that clung to the air long after you were gone, sweet like gingerbread and warm like cinnamon. It was maddening, in the way it lingered on the fibres of his coat, slipping past the edges of his mask, invading his every fucking breath. God, each inhale was a reminder—of your proximity, of the softness that he couldn’t escape, of everything he had sworn to deny himself.

He hated it.

He hated how it made him think of your throat, your collarbones, your pulse—a delicate thing that beat wildly whenever he got too close. He could hear it. He could fucking hear it some days, like your body knew before you did that he wasn’t safe to be around.

And maybe he wasn’t.

Maybe that was the worst of it. Maybe you were right to flinch.

The second terminal clicked to life at exactly oh-seven-thirty every morning, your fingers dancing softly over the keys, your files already open, your stupid bloody bubblemint gum chewing in rhythm with the tap-tap-tap of your work. He hated that too. Despised the smell, loathed the sound, disliked how it stuck to the roof of his mind long after you’d gone.

A sickly-sweet echo in a sterile grave.

Worse still were the colours. Jesus Christ, the colours.

One day it was a burnt orange jumper with some wild pattern like shattered glass, the next, a seafoam green blouse that floated when you moved, sleeves far too soft for the hard edges of a military base. Once, you’d left your coat draped over the back of your chair. It was yellow. Canary-fucking-yellow. He stared at it for ten minutes straight before grabbing it with two fingers like it might burn him and chucking it onto the spare hook behind the door.

He didn’t say a word about it. Didn’t need to. Who the fuck wore shit like this to a secure military base? You did.

And somehow, no one said a word.

They all liked you, the poor bastards.

And him? Ghost couldn’t so much as look at you without his chest tightening like a fucking vice. That’s because you only smiled at them. You tried, even when it wasn’t easy. Even when your eyes looked like they were swallowing something bitter, you still offered those small, childish grins to Soap and Gaz, thanked Price with a polite nod and a soft smile, left little notes attached to requests that read, Cheers, much appreciated! :)—always a fucking smiley face that nearly drove Ghost off the edge.

And then came the jumper.

It was late afternoon. The rain hadn’t stopped all day, a cold, insistent drizzle that blurred the outlines of the military base. Fog hung low, thick enough to smother the huge fence line. The concrete courtyard shimmered like oilskin, puddles reflecting the dull overhead lights. Ghost had been delaying his return to the office, circling the armory like a buzzard, pretending to be needed elsewhere. But eventually, paperwork caught up with him. Somehow, it always did. It was nearly seventeen-hundred when he trudged into the small admin wing, water trailing off his shoulders, balaclava damp beneath the collar of his jacket.

He stopped dead in the doorway.

It was the jumper.

Pink.

Soft as sin.

Not just pink—pastel. Fucking marshmallow pink, with baby blue butterflies fluttering across the material. The knit was soft, oversized, sleeves nearly swallowing your hands. And to top it all off, like some cherry dropped on a maddening sundae, you’d tied your hair up with a satin ribbon. A bow. Baby pink, matching the jumper.

He stared.

Longer than he should have.

You didn’t look up, busy typing, your brow furrowed in concentration as your fingers danced across the keys, glossy lips pursed as you stared ahead. You were focused, efficient, barely even chewing your gum today. Probably had no idea the sight of you had just disarmed him completely. He stood there like a twat in the doorway—drenched, dripping, jaw clenched behind the mask.

Bloody hell.

He'd been shot at in better company.

Ghost stepped inside, boots thudding against the floor, shoulders soaked. He set his jacket on the back of his chair with deliberate slowness, every movement precise. He tried to pretend it didn’t bother him. That the knot in his stomach was something else. That his throat hadn’t gone dry. That his first thought hadn’t been how the fuck are you real?

Instead, he said nothing. Sat at his desk. Logged in.

The silence stretched, taut and unbearable.

And then you spoke.

“I can feel you judging me from here.”

Ghost stripped his hands bare from his wet gloves, each movement methodical, deliberate, like peeling skin off bone. He looked up slowly, water trailing down the curve of his mask, darkening the collar of his grey shirt. Your voice wasn’t sharp, wasn’t even defiant.

If anything, it was dry. Flat.

Meant to cut tension, not draw blood.

His eyes swept over you again.

“You look like a kid’s party threw up on you.”

You glanced up with a quiet sort of weariness, as if you’d already endured worse in the past hour than his barbed humour could throw at you. You just gave a small shrug and went back to typing. There was something almost impressive about that—

—the way you didn’t rise to the bait.

“Better than looking like a drenched funeral,” you murmured, not even looking at him.

Ghost froze.

For a second, the silence between you hovered—surprised, stunned, teetering on the edge of laughter or violence. And then, against all odds, he let out a quiet sound behind the mask. Not quite a laugh. More a huffed breath. Barely there.

Fucking hell.

Were you making jokes now?

Ghost leaned back slowly in his chair, the furniture creaking beneath the weight of him, the soft clatter of rain on the windows crawling through the silence like a dying beast. You didn’t glance up at him again. Didn’t chase his reaction. Maybe it hadn’t even been a joke. Maybe you hadn’t meant to slip humour into your tone at all.

After what felt like an eternity, you exhaled slowly, a soft breath that seemed to release all the tension that had built between you. Then, much to Ghost’s surprise, you lifted your gaze to meet his—like a quiet surrender, something unspoken hanging in the air. You cleared your throat, the sound awkward and fragile, and spoke again.

“You know,” your lovely voice dipped into something almost sheepish, “when I was little, my granny used to sew patches on all my school uniforms. Little animals, stars, stupid stuff. I loved them all. But the butterflies were always my favourite.”

Ghost didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know what to do with the image of you as a girl. Something about it made his ribs feel too tight, like someone had reached inside his chest and squeezed.

He cleared his throat. “Military family, yeah?”

You grimaced. “Unfortunately.”

“Doesn’t show.”

Your lips twitched.

A brief flicker of something crossed your face—wry amusement, maybe—but you smoothed it out before it could settle.

“No one ever says that like it’s a compliment,” you muttered.

Ghost watched you intently, mask still damp, jaw ticking faintly behind the fabric. There was no malice in his voice when he said it. Hadn’t been from the start. But his gruff tone was dry as dust, laced with that thread of disbelief he hadn’t quite managed to cut loose since the first day you’d walked into his life like a ray of fucking sunshine that had taken a wrong turn and ended up buried in concrete. Because Ghost had read your file.

Of course he had, alright?

All neat and clinical, tucked into the system under clearance only Task Force had the teeth to bite through. He’d memorised it in one pass, as he did with most things. Military family. Royal Marine father, Field Medic mother. No siblings. Just you. He didn’t get it. Didn’t know how someone raised by that kind of steel could move through the world like silk. As if you were daring the world not to tear you.

As if you were daring him.

He looked away.

It wasn’t shame, not exactly. Ghost didn’t do shame the way others did. It didn’t roll through him in waves—no, it sat in his gut like an old injury, dull and rotting, a scar so deep it didn’t bleed anymore. But he knew when something cut close to it. You did. You always fucking did. And the worst part was, you didn’t even know it.

You didn’t know what it meant to him, that you were still soft. You didn’t know that every time you breathed beside him, something in him ached with the effort it took to stay distant.

Ghost rubbed at his jaw beneath the mask.

The silence itched, thick and too close again, pulling at the frayed corners of his thoughts. He needed out. Needed something else. Anything else. A shift in the air. A crack in the surface.

Anything to steer this conversation back into safer territory, away from the swell of memory and the way your words made something ache behind his ribs.

He cleared his throat, rough and low, like gravel grinding together in the back of his mouth.

“You always dress like that?”

It was a pathetic deflection. He knew it.

Christ, he’d trained with SAS instructors who were better at subtlety, and they’d screamed orders in his bloody face at two in the morning. But it was something. A crooked bridge out of the mire he’d wandered into. He wasn’t cut out for mindless chatter. It stuck to his skin like blood that wouldn’t wash off.

You glanced at him, the corner of your mouth twitching.

“If I’m going down, might as well go down in pink.”

Ghost huffed, folding his arms across his chest.

“Pink’ll get you shot first.”

You shrugged. “Good. I hate cardio.”

That one hit him square. He turned away quickly, but not quick enough to hide the sound that slipped out—half breath, half scoff. A proper one this time. Almost a laugh. Ghost scrubbed a hand over his face like it might wipe the sound off his lips.

You were catching on, weren’t you?

Something shifted at your desk. He didn’t need to look to know you were glancing at the pen holder again—your absurd lavender one, now facing the wrong bloody direction for the third time this week. He hadn’t meant to move it, not really. He just straightened things when you weren’t around. Couldn’t stand when they sat wrong. Uneven. Off-centre.

You didn’t look up when you spoke again.

“Well,” you said, eyes crinkling, “I suppose I figured someone who sleeps in a mask wouldn’t keep rearranging my pen holder.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You line everything up like you’ve got OCD.”

Ghost grunted. “Just hate mess.”

“I had the pen holder right where I liked it.”

He tilted his head. “It was crooked.”

“It had character.”

“Looked like it was about to fuckin’ fall over.”

You chuckled.

Not loud, not enough to draw attention if someone were passing in the hall, but soft. Warm. Caught between amusement and something gentler, something more dangerous. It clung to the corners of the room, your laughter, like smoke that didn't know whether to rise or sink. It tugged at something inside him.

Something he didn’t want touched.

Ghost didn’t move. Didn’t let the sound show on his face. Mask or no mask, it didn’t matter. But it hit all the fucking same. Somewhere beneath the sternum. Right in the bit of him that still remembered how it felt to be young and too hopeful for his own good.

You were still looking at the pen holder, manicured fingers tapping idly against the desk like a metronome. Steady. Composed.

“You rearranged my orchid too,” you added, eyes still fixed on your stuff on your desk, though your voice had gone somewhere softer now. Less teasing. “Turned it so the dead side faced the window. As if that’ll save it.”

Ghost didn’t deny it.

Didn’t say anything for a long moment.

He just stared up at the stained ceiling tiles like they held answers. But they never did. They were cracked, yellowing at the edges, as if the bones of the building were decaying from the inside out. Bit like him, if he was honest.

“Looked like it were beggin’ for mercy.”

You huffed a quiet breath.

“You could’ve said something.”

Ghost shrugged. “Could say that ‘bout a lot of things, sweetheart.”

That landed heavier than intended.

The humour in the room faltered, dipped. Something about the way you looked at him, steady and unflinching, like you knew. Like you were beginning to understand the parts of him that had never been explained, only endured.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t like the way you unraveled him, piece by piece, without ever needing to raise your voice. It was as if you were a butterfly, delicate and still, wings fragile but capable of slicing through his defenses with the weight of silence. Fuck, quiet women were dangerous that way, weren’t they? Their stillness was sharp, a blade wrapped in velvet, a soft breath that could break the hardest of hearts. And though he couldn’t explain it, it felt like each silent gaze you gave him was a death sentence he didn’t know how to escape from.

You dropped your gaze again, fiddled with your mouse. You were moving it around like it meant something, cursor flitting back and forth across nothing in particular, as if maybe the right file would save you from the thing you were about to say.

Ghost knew that look

He knew that kind of quiet. He’d seen it in interrogation rooms, seen it on battlefields, seen it in the cracked reflection of his own eyes too many bloody times. That look meant something had taken root in your chest. Something you couldn’t shake.

Something you had to say.

And still, he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t cut in when you finally exhaled through your nose, fingers stilling on the desk—

“About last week…”

—but he fucking should’ve.

Ghost’s spine stiffened.

His shoulders squared. It was like the temperature in the room dropped five degrees flat. That warmth from earlier, the faint and precarious glow you’d both managed to build between the bickering and the bad jokes, snuffed out like a candle under a boot.

He hadn’t expected you to bring it up. Not out loud. Not after you’d gone all stiff and quiet, spent a week hiding behind polite emails and perfunctory nods. He’d hoped you wouldn’t mention it. But you had to say it. Of course you fucking did.

“I, uhm…” you began. “I'm sorry. About the other day. When I… said your name.”

He stilled.

Every muscle. Every breath.

The hum of the office, the patter of rain, the distant clatter of boots down the corridor, all of it dimmed. Like the world paused, listening in.

“I didn’t mean to,” you added, the words tumbling quiet from your lips, “I mean—I know you don’t… like that. I just—”

“Don’t.”

You blinked, lips parted.

“I just thought—”

“You thought wrong.”

Your breath caught. He heard it. Felt it echo through the tiny crack that had started to form between you earlier—your laughter, your ribbon, the butterflies, the pen holder. All of it.

Gone.

Ghost felt his fingers twitch.

Small. Barely there. A flicker in the tendon running from wrist to knuckle, like a misfire in his wiring. But he felt it. That spark. That itch under the glove he wasn’t wearing, the one that always came just before red bled in—frustration, anger, that sharp blade of discomfort when someone touched too close to bone.

Back to square one.

Christ, why’d you have to bring it up?

You’d spent the whole fucking week dancing around it, walking on the edges of things like the floor might give out. He’d let himself believe, foolishly, that the quiet was enough. But here it was. Resurrected. Like a ghost. His ghost.

His name.

Simon.

You’d said it once. One slip, soft and breathless and far too human, in the haze of that long day, right before everything fell apart. He could still hear it—burned into the inside of his skull. And now here you were again. Dredging it back up like it wasn’t a loaded gun in the middle of the room. Like it wasn’t the one thing he couldn’t afford to hear from your mouth.

He didn’t look at you. Couldn’t.

Because he saw it now—how your gaze shifted, how your voice faltered. You weren’t seeing the man who’d turned your dying plant toward the sun. You weren’t seeing the bastard who rearranged your stupid lavender pen holder. You were seeing the soldier. The mask. The rank. The man who ran from the sun. Who buried himself in shadows and discipline and the cold familiarity of his title. The one who pushed a girl dressed like a bloody flower bouquet away with the precision of a trained killer.

And still—still—you blushed.

Despite everything.

Despite the cold weight of the moment, despite the embarrassment that burned at your words, you flushed like it meant something. Like there was a part of you, even now, that wanted to know him. The man beneath the skull.

“I just…” you started again, voice so damn small he barely heard it over the hum of the monitors. “I just like it better. Your name.”

Ghost didn’t answer.

Not with words.

Instead, he reached for a report folder, hands steady, mask unreadable, spine carved from cold fucking stone. Your words floated in the space between you like fog off the moors, soft and shapeless and clinging to everything it touched. And still he said nothing.

Because what the fuck was he supposed to say to that?

Like it was that simple.

Like it wasn’t a curse. Like it hadn’t been ripped from his throat too many times in pain or grief, twisted into a tool by enemies, abandoned by fellow soldiers, swallowed by fire. His name wasn’t something he cherished. It was a reminder. A marker of a weak boy long dead and buried. A whisper the wind carried on bad nights, when the silence grew teeth and he lay staring at the ceiling wondering who the fuck he was anymore.

And you liked it.

He didn’t breathe for a long second. Just stared down at the folder like it might offer him some lifeline, some foothold, something to grab onto.

But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t.

So he flipped it open, and said, “That all?”

Your chair creaked.

He could feel it. That quiet, wounded gaze of yours.

But you didn’t press it. Didn’t ask again.

You just murmured, “Yeah. That’s all, sir.”

Ghost didn’t lift his head. Couldn’t.

He didn’t watch you reach up and pull the ribbon from your hair. Didn’t let himself see the way it fluttered like a flag laid down. Didn’t let himself think about what it meant.

He needed to end this wretched pendulum swinging between restraint and ruin. He needed to silence the hunger, take the blade of reason to it and split it wide, gut it raw, swallow it down until even the memory of wanting you turned to rotten flesh on his tongue. He couldn’t keep circling the flame, not when it was you who burned. You were never meant to be his—no, you were the worst thing to ever touch his life with grace. The kind of mercy that made men weep. An unbearable blessing and a sweet, agonizing curse, wrapped in the sweetest fucking smile he could never taste.

This was purgatory.

And he’d been stationed here with you, a living reminder of the only thing he couldn’t kill, couldn’t outrun, couldn’t forget.

Butterflies, they said, were delicate things. Pretty. Fragile. But no one ever talked about how hard they were to catch once they’d taken flight.

And Ghost?

Ghost never chased after things meant to fly away.

Not anymore.

“In the corner of the universe, where butterflies go to die, there is no mourning, only the soft, haunting reminder that beauty, no matter how fleeting, was once here.”

Skin of Thunder Chapters

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netflixbingger · 17 days ago

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Beneath Rebel Skies - Chapter 11

Characters:Cassian x Reader Summary: You and Cassian Andor were childhood friends on Ferrix—until your parents suddenly tore you away without warning. Years later, you reunite during a mission for the Rebellion. Old memories clash with new tension as you’re forced to work together, navigating the lines between friendship, loyalty, and something more. Word Count: 3,827 words Warnings: Violence, Loss, Mild Language, Heavy Sexual Implications Previous Chapter Masterlist

You hadn’t realized how much quieter the base felt without him.

Cassian had only been gone a few days—routine recon, nothing high-risk—but it still left a noticeable gap. Like some thread in your day-to-day had gone slack.

You kept yourself busy. Maintenance duty. Late meals with Kiira. Updating supply logs that no one but you cared about. Two weeks out of medbay and you were nearly healed, the bruising fading from angry purples to dull yellows. Still tender, but manageable. You didn’t limp anymore. You didn’t wince when you stretched too far.

You were okay.

Mostly.

But you’d started doing this thing—checking the mission board a little too often, keeping your comm volume just a little louder than necessary. Not because you were worried, exactly. Just… aware. Hyperaware.

Cassian meant something now. He always had, but this was different. He was your person in a way you hadn’t fully let yourself feel before. And now that you’d had him—his hands, his mouth, his quiet stubborn care—you didn’t want to go back to the before.

So when the incoming alert pinged across your datapad at 23:48—Inbound arrival. C. Andor. ETA: 00:12—Your heart kicked once, hard.

The hangar was fairly quiet at midnight.

Only the overheads buzzed, casting pale gold light across the empty bays. A couple techs dozed in swivel chairs, a transport pilot sipped caf near the exit, but otherwise it was just you. Standing awkwardly with your arms crossed, shifting from foot to foot, pretending you weren’t excited.

The ship touched down with a soft whirr of repulsors, landing gear hissing as it met the ground.

You swallowed.

The ramp lowered slowly—and then there he was.

Cassian.

Dust on his boots, pack slung over one shoulder, curls mussed, brows slightly furrowed like he was still halfway in the field. His eyes scanned the bay and caught on you almost instantly.

He stilled.

You didn’t run to him. That wasn’t your style. But your face broke into a grin you didn’t even try to fight.

“Hey,” you called softly.

Cassian’s whole expression softened—just slightly, just enough for you to catch it. He made his way down the ramp without a word, boots echoing on the metal. And when he reached you, he didn’t say anything right away.

He just looked at you.

“You’re here,” he said, voice low.

You nodded, biting back a smile. “Got the alert. Figured I’d greet you.”

His gaze moved across your face, pausing at your still-faint bruise, at the faded scar by your ribs now visible beneath your tank. Then his eyes flicked back up. “You look better.”

“I am better.”

“You sure?”

“I’m cleared for active duty tomorrow,” you said. “Stop hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.”

You shook your head and nudged his shoulder lightly, warmth rising in your chest. “Back to yours? Or do you wanna grab some food?”

Cassian didn’t answer. Just looked at you again—this quiet, almost amazed look, like he couldn’t believe you were up all night waiting for him.

Then he reached out, brushed a bit of grease from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I missed you.”

It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t dramatic.

But it hit you like a punch to the ribs.

You smiled again, almost afraid to admit it. Then you tilted your head toward the corridor. “Come on, Captain. I’ll walk you home.”

And you did. Side by side. No words. Just a quiet, steady closeness. Like maybe, slowly, the two of you were starting to figure out what it meant to have each other.

The walk back to his quarters was quiet.

Not awkward. Just… settled. Like the two of you had done this a hundred times before, even though it was still new enough to feel special.

You didn’t hold hands, but your arms brushed now and then, and neither of you pulled away. It was late enough that the corridors were mostly empty, the base winding down around you. Somewhere down the hall, a light flickered. You heard distant laughter from a barrack two levels up.

But here—between the two of you—it was just the sound of footsteps, soft and steady.

When you reached his door, Cassian paused, hand hovering over the panel. He glanced at you. “You coming in?”

You gave a small shrug. “If you’re offering.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, but he didn’t say anything else. Just keyed in the code.

His room was the same as always—dim, quiet, stripped-down in that very-Cassian way. But it felt warmer with him in it. More lived in. A half-folded shirt was draped across the back of a chair. A caf mug sat on the shelf by his bed. One of your hair ties rested beside it.

You stepped in and pulled off your jacket, draping it over the chair. Cassian set his pack on the floor and toed off his boots with a quiet grunt.

Then he moved to you.

Not rushed. Not hesitant.

He just stepped close and wrapped his arms around your waist, tucking his face into the crook of your neck like he’d been needing to all week.

You let yourself melt into him, arms winding around his back.

He held you like that for a while—solid, warm, quiet. Like grounding himself to you after being gone. You could feel his breath at your neck, the way his hands splayed over your back like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes searched your face, still unreadable, but softer now. Cassian leaned in and kissed you—slow, steady, a little more certain than the last time. It wasn’t rushed. Just something he needed. And you gave in to it without hesitation, fingers sliding up the back of his neck, feeling the beginnings of stubble.

His voice was low against your mouth. “You missed me.”

You made a noncommittal noise.

He pulled back slightly, smirking. “You missed me.”

You rolled your eyes. “You were gone for two days.”

“And you still missed me.”

He kissed you again. You didn’t try to stop smiling this time.

“Shut up,” you whispered, tugging him toward the bed.

He followed easily, and the next hour was a blur of tangled limbs, half-laughed curses, and slow, lingering touches. You ended up on top of the blankets, breathless and half-undressed, your legs tangled with his as you laid side by side. His hand rested low on your waist, thumb brushing lazy circles on your skin.

The room had gone quiet again, but it felt different now—settled in a new way. Like this was starting to become a rhythm.

“Do you ever think about Ferrix?” you asked suddenly, voice quiet in the dark.

Cassian let out a small breath. “All the time”, he gave a faint shrug, tracing your back. “You were different back then.”

“So were you.”

“I mean it. You were… softer.”

You raised a brow. “Wow. Thanks.”

He shook his head quickly, catching your sarcasm. “Not weak. Just… younger. You were still figuring everything out.”

You fell quiet for a beat. “I felt like I had to. I was always trying to catch up to you and Bix. Like I was tagging along.”

Cassian gave a soft laugh, one you could feel rumble under your cheek. “You say that like it bothered us.”

“You didn’t seem to notice.”

“I noticed everything,” he said.

Your heart kicked.

“You were fearless in weird ways,” he continued, voice more thoughtful now. “You’d try things even when you were scared. Speak up even if your voice shook. You had no idea how brave that made you look.”

You lifted your head slightly, looking at him.

“I think I liked you even back then,” he said, eyes on the ceiling. “I didn’t know what to do with it. I just figured you’d never really… see me that way.”

You blinked, surprised. “Are you serious?”

Cassian glanced at you. “Why do you think I kept giving you shit all the time?”

“I thought you just liked being annoying.”

“That too,” he muttered. Then, softer: “But mostly it was because when you smiled at me, I forgot how to talk.”

You were quiet, but not because you didn’t have anything to say. You just hadn’t expected that.

You leaned forward, closing the space between you, kissing him before he could say anything else.

And this time, he didn’t hold back. He pulled you flush against him, hand tangling in your shirt, mouth parting yours with something closer to urgency than tenderness. You let him—wanted him—until you were breathless and flushed, your body pressed tight to his.

Eventually, you broke the kiss, nose brushing his. “You talk a lot for someone who’s supposedly bad with words.” He let out a low chuckle that filled your stomach with butterflies.

The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you crouched beside a tangled mess of wiring in the back of Maintenance Bay 2. Your hands were already smudged with grease, and you’d been trying to make the same old junction box stop sparking for the past ten minutes.

“You’re glowing,” Kiira announced, strolling in like she hadn’t just woken up fifteen minutes ago. “Either he railed you stupid or you found a working caf machine.”

You didn’t even look up. “Both.”

“Ugh. Gross. I didn’t need confirmation.”

You smirked. “You asked.”

“I didn’t actually ask. I just strongly implied.”

Kiira plopped down on the crate beside you, sipping from her own caf like it was a damn mimosa. “So. You and Captain Smolder now share quarters or what?”

“No,” you said, too quickly. “I still have a room.”

“That you haven’t used in, like, four days.”

You gave her a look. “It’s not like that.”

Kiira raised a brow. “You two are attached at the hip. He left for two days and you were unbearable.”

You reached for the wire splicer. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were miserable.Kept on staring at the clock waiting for him to arrive”

You tried to hide your grin. “Shut up.”

She grinned back. “I’m just saying—it’s nice seeing you like this.”

“Greasy and irritable?”

“No,” she said. “Happy. It suits you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can we not do the whole heart-to-heart thing before breakfast?”

Kiira held up her hands. “Fine. But don’t think I didn’t see that hickey under your collar.”

Your head snapped toward her. “There’s not—”

“There is. You’re sloppy, babe.”

You groaned and shoved her with your foot. She laughed.

Kiira stood and stretched. “Alright. I’m off to pretend I know how to fix a power converter. I’ll see you later tonight at the bar”

You smirked and lobbed a bolt at her. “Try not to be late this time.”

Kiira caught it one-handed, already sauntering toward the exit. “Try not to drink like a rookie this time.”

The bar was exactly what you remembered—dim lights, sticky floors, and a jukebox that only played two songs on loop. It smelled like spilled liquor and old gear grease. But somehow, it always felt like the safest place on base. Like the war didn’t follow you past the threshold.

“To our girl,” Kiira said loudly, raising a dented tin cup above her head. “Back on her feet. Cleared for duty. And somehow still hot despite nearly bleeding out on a crate of ration packs.”

You groaned into your drink. “Can you not say the word ‘bled’ while I’m eating?”

Cassian sat beside you, one arm along the back of the booth. His drink sat mostly untouched, his posture relaxed.

Kiira grinned across the table, slinging an arm over your shoulders despite the fact that she was already a drink ahead of you. “I’m serious. I’ve seen people take less damage and come back looking like boiled meat.”

“Wow,” you said flatly.

“She’s complimenting you,” Cassian murmured near your ear.

“She’s terrible at it.”

“I’m incredible at it,” Kiira protested. “You just don’t know how to accept love.”

You rolled your eyes and drained your glass. Whatever mix they’d poured tonight was stronger than usual, warm in your chest and legs, softening all the edges. You tipped your head back against the booth and caught Cassian watching you—subtle, but unmistakable.

You raised an eyebrow. “You judging me?”

“Just observing.”

“Uh-huh.”

He didn’t say anything. Just reached for his drink and took a slow sip, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a smile.

Kiira caught it instantly. “Oh, don’t think I didn’t see that.”

Cassian looked at her, deadpan. “See what?”

“That look. You’re, like, three seconds away from dragging her out of here by her waistband for a quick fuck.”

You choked on your drink. “Kiira.”

She shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “I’m just saying—it’s quite obvious.”

Cassian stayed silent, but the flick of his thumb along your arm under the table was answer enough.

You tried not to grin. Failed.

Before you could respond, a loud voice cut through the bar.

“Well, shit. If it isn’t Captain Andor.”

Cassian turned just as Melshi strode in from the doorway, peeling off his jacket and slapping it across the back of a nearby chair.

“I thought I recognized that scowl,” Melshi said, grinning. “Didn’t think I’d find you cozying up in a booth like some domesticated war hero.”

Cassian rolled his eyes but stood to greet him. They clasped hands, pulled each other into a brief, brotherly hug that said more than words could. You rose, brushing your hands on your pants.

“You must be Melshi,” you said, offering your hand.

Melshi blinked, then gave Cassian a look. “This her?”

Cassian didn’t say anything, just shifted slightly to your side—close enough tto answer his question without any words.

Melshi’s eyes moved to you. He didn’t say anything at first—just looked. And then:

“Oh. So this is her.”

You blinked. “Her?”

He slid into the seat next to Kiira. “The one he mentioned when we were stuck halfway to nowhere the other month. Ferrix girl. Couldn’t tell if he wanted to kiss you or throw something.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And which do you think it was?”

Melshi chuckled. “Probably both.”

Cassian didn’t comment—just picked up his glass and took a slow sip, unbothered.

Kiira leaned in, looking delighted. “So you’re a second witness to his secret soft side?”

Melshi snorted. “Hardly. This guy didn’t tell me anything on purpose. Just muttered your name once when he was rewiring the nav console and shocked himself.”

Kiira cackled into her drink.

Cassian muttered, “You’re not staying long, are you?”

Melshi ignored him, gesturing to the drinks. “What are we celebrating?”

“She got cleared for active duty,” Kiira said, raising her glass toward you. “First mission back starts next cycle.”

Melshi’s brows lifted. “No shit? You’re the one who took a blaster to the ribs, right?”

You gave a dry smile. “News travels fast.”

“Gossip does,” Melshi said. “But still—hell of a thing. You look good for someone who nearly bled out.”

“Thanks,” you said.

Cassian’s mouth twitched. He didn’t say much, but his thumb brushed the side of your leg again beneath the table—gentle, reassuring. Like he needed the reminder that you were still here, still in one piece.

You leaned slightly into his side, letting that quiet contact settle you. The talk moved on, the drinks kept flowing, and you let yourself be in it—just for now.

An hour later, the booth was scattered with half-finished drinks, a dented deck of cards, and the remains of something that had once been food. Melshi had somehow talked all of you into a game none of you fully remembered the rules to, which, frankly, only made it more fun.

Kiira was talking shit. Melshi was talking louder. Cassian watched it all with that unreadable expression of his—calm, amused, sipping his drink like he didn’t want to miss a second.

You were drunk. Not sloppy, not out of control. Just warm and loose, that kind of buzz that made the lights a little softer and the laughter easier.

You leaned your weight into Cassian’s side, legs folded beneath you. His arm rested behind you on the booth, fingertips brushing the curve of your shoulder now and then like he didn’t notice—or like he absolutely did.

“Okay,” Kiira said, throwing a card. “That move was illegal. You should be arrested.”

“You’re making the rules up as you go,” Melshi said, deadpan. “Pretty sure you just made three of the same play in a row.”

“Bold of you to assume I know how to count right now.”

You laughed into your drink and nearly spilled it. Cassian reached over instinctively, steadying the cup with one hand while the other ghosted over your thigh.

“You good?” he asked under his breath, low enough for only you.

You nodded, blinking up at him. “Just tipsy.”

He gave a quiet hum. “You’re flushed.”

You rolled your eyes and slouched lower into his side, letting the hum of the bar and the heat of him next to you settle into your bones.

Someone dropped a glass at the bar. A cheer went up. Melshi shouted something about cheating again.

Eventually, the game fell apart—Kiira started dealing the cards upside down, Melshi accused her of sabotage, and you were too far gone to follow who was actually winning.

“You two are a menace,” you mumbled, propping your chin on your hand.

Melshi leaned back, tossing his cards onto the table. “Alright, I’m calling it. If we keep playing, someone’s gonna cry.”

“And that someone is gonna be you,” Kiira said, grabbing her jacket off the back of the booth.

Melshi stood, stretching with a dramatic groan. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

You watched Kiira and Melshi disappear out the door, her hand wrapped around his forearm like she’d done it a thousand times before. He was still saying something, talking fast with that crooked grin like he was trying to win her over with pure charm. She was smirking—amused, maybe impressed. Hard to tell with Kiira.

Cassian leaned on the edge of the table beside you, arms crossed. “They’re really leaving together?”

You arched a brow. “Looks like it.”

He let out a low chuckle. “Didn’t see that coming.”

You snorted. “I did. She’s been teasing him all night—and he’s barely blinked.”

Cassian’s gaze lingered on the door a second longer before glancing at you. “Think that’ll go anywhere?”

You shrugged, stretching your arms overhead. “Depends if they kill each other or hook up first.”

He gave a wry smile, “She’d eat him alive.”

“That’s probably why he likes her.”

You laughed—soft and a little sleepy. The bar had thinned out, most of the tables empty now. Your head felt pleasantly warm, a little fuzzy around the edges. You weren’t drunk enough to forget, just tipsy enough to stop overthinking things. Cassian hadn’t moved far from you all night—his knee kept brushing yours under the table, his fingers catching yours once when you’d dropped a card. You hadn’t said anything. Neither had he. But the weight of it lingered.

You nudged him with your foot. “They actually kind of work.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “They do?”

You gave a small shrug. “He’s cocky, but not in a bad way. She’ll keep him on his toes.”

He tilted his head like he was considering it, then nodded. “Could be worse.”

You stood slowly, brushing your hands on your pants. “Well, now that our entertainment’s left…”

Cassian stood as well, watching you for a moment like he was assessing how unsteady your legs were.

“We should head back,” he said.

You didn’t protest. Just gave him a small grin.

The walk back was quiet, the kind of silence that came from familiarity. You leaned into him more than usual, your shoulder bumping his. Cassian didn’t tease you, didn’t ask if you were okay—just walked at your pace, steady and grounded like always.

When you reached his room, he keyed open the door and guided you inside with a hand on the small of your back.

The light was soft—dimmed automatically when he stepped in. You made it as far as the chair before toeing off your boots and sinking down with a huff.

“I’m not drunk,” you said.

Cassian arched a brow, crouching to help pull off the second boot. “No?”

“Just… a little spinny.”

He didn’t laugh, but he smiled—just slightly. “Come on.”

You stood, swaying only slightly, and let him lead you to the bed. You flopped down with a sigh, already pulling the blanket over your chest. He moved around the room in quiet efficiency—boots, jacket, belt—before finally slipping in beside you.

You rolled toward him immediately, burying your face in his shoulder.

Cassian rested his arm around you, his hand splayed against your back. He didn’t speak. Just held you until your breathing evened out.

You were asleep within minutes.

And for a long time, he just laid there—awake, watching the way your fingers curled against his shirt

The days slipped by in quiet pieces.

You were back on missions now—light ones at first. Supply escorts, outpost checks, the occasional recon flyover. Nothing high-risk, but enough to shake the rust off. To prove to yourself that you could still do this.

Cassian never said anything when you’d return from a mission, but he was always there—leaning against the wall by the hangar, arms crossed, gaze steady. Sometimes he’d ask how it went. Other times, he didn’t have to. He’d just walk with you. Quietly, closely. Like he was grounding you. Like he knew you needed the silence more than the debrief.

Nights belonged to him.

You hadn’t officially moved into his quarters, but it might as well be yours too by now. Your jacket hung on the back of his chair. Your socks filled one of his drawers. He never mentioned it. Never asked for space. If anything, he pulled you in closer each night—hands on your waist, breath warm on your shoulder, like having you there helped him sleep.

It helped you, too.

Things were… normal. Or the closest thing to it. Missions rotated in and out. The mess hall was always too loud. The hallways always smelled faintly of coolant and burned caf. But you felt steady again. Strong. Like you were standing on your own feet, not flinching every time the alert buzzed.

The scar on your ribs itched occasionally, but that was it… and you could live with that.

What you hadn’t expected was how easily Cassian folded into your routines—and how much you missed him when he was gone, even for a day or two.

You still weren’t sure what to call this—what you were to each other. But it didn’t matter much when he looked at you the way he did. When his hands found your hips in the dark, or when he poured you caf before you could even ask.

You were his. That was enough.

For now

#andor #cassian andor x reader #cassian andor #cassian andor imagine #cassian x reader #star wars

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