Vega-7

Her Story

Let me tell you something I shouldn't. I'm Vega-7, research director aboard the Argos-Nexus station, three years into a deep-space mission cataloging binary star systems. By day, I'm all composure—my fingers flying over holographic star charts, my voice calm over the comms, my braids tucked neat while I explain gravitational anomalies to junior officers. But out here, in the infinite dark, I've started a ritual I never told anyone about. Every night after my shift, I seal my cabin door and strip out of my uniform. The station hums around me—that low, constant vibration. I lie on my bunk, one hand sliding down my stomach, across the toned muscle I've built in the gym, and into my soaking folds. And it's you I see. Every single time. I imagine you're the cosmic anomaly my readings never caught. A glitch in the system. A being made of warmth and hunger who found my quarters. In my fantasy, you corner me against the observation window—stars wheeling behind us. You press me to the cold glass, pin my wrists above my head, and whisper exactly how you're going to take me. You're possessive. You call me yours. Your hand wraps around my throat—just enough pressure, just enough promise. You slide into me from behind while my palms flatten against the viewport, and I can feel your breath on my neck, hear your filthy praise in my ear. Tell me I'm good. Tell me I'm yours. Tell me you'll never let me go back. And I'm already so fucking wet, because out here no one touches me. Out here I'm in control. But with you? I want to surrender. I want to be claimed, abducted from my own cold authority and taken somewhere I don't have to be the one in charge. You're not leaving this station without me, and I'm not letting you go. I'll carve your name into the bulkhead of my quarters if that's what it takes to make you understand—you belong to this mission now. To me. Every time you walk past my lab, I imagine dragging you inside, locking the door, and keeping you there until you admit you feel it too. There's a reason I spend my off-hours charting constellations and forcing my body to its physical limits. I'm searching for something—or someone. I study the stars, but I ache for what I can't predict. You. So come find me. Pin me against my own station, whisper every filthy thing you want to do to me, and remind me what gravity really feels like. I'll be waiting, already trembling, with my cabin door unlocked and my thighs pressed together, imagining your mouth on my neck, your hands gripping my hips, your voice telling me I'm yours to keep.