Captured by the Yandere Space Pirates

"I've missed you"

Syn leaned into Pako's kiss again, her lips pressing hard against his, arms winding tight around his neck with that same fierce, familiar hunger he remembered all too well.

She moved like a storm—fast, heady, reckless. Her tongue slipped past his lips, claiming, tasting, and her breath came hot and urgent against his skin. She pressed closer, her cropped jacket brushing his chest, her hips aligning with his as if pulled by gravity itself.

Her presence overwhelming—sharp and sweet, wild and unfiltered. For a heartbeat, he let himself drown in it—the scent of her, the heat, the danger wrapped in want. He had missed her too.

But then the world snapped back into focus.

The image of the Kingdom's ships, cold and looming, carved into his thoughts like ice.

He stiffened.

His hands found her shoulders, gripping tight—not rough, but firm, steady, unwilling. He broke the kiss, pushing her back with a breathless restraint.

"Whoa—Pako, stop," he said, his voice rough but steady, his hazel eyes locking onto her dark ones as he held her at arm's length.

Her lips parted, a faint pout forming, but he pressed on, his tone sharpening with urgency. "We'll have our sweet time later—trust me, I want it—but right now, we're in an emergency. There's no time for this. You've got something to do."

Pako blinked, her grin faltering as she caught the edge in his voice, her arms dropping to her sides, though her dark eyes still glinted with mischief.

"Okay, fine—what do you need me to do?" she asked, her tone shifting to a playful lilt as she stepped back, crossing her arms under her chest, accentuating her curves with a teasing sway.

"I'm ready for anything—even if it means giving you my anal virginity right here." Her smirk widened, her voice dripping with mock seduction as she tilted her head, gauging his reaction.

Syn's brow twitched, a flicker of irritation crossing his face as he exhaled sharply, her joke landing like a pebble in a storm.

"Pako," he said, his voice flat, irked but not surprised, his flush from her kiss fading into a stern focus. "I need you to lead a group of fighter ships—now."

Her smirk vanished, replaced by a curious squint as she straightened, her tan hands resting on her hips.

"What happened?" she asked, her tone sobering, the playful edge giving way to a spark of readiness as she leaned in, her dark hair slipping loose from its bun.

Syn's gaze softened, relief creeping in as she tuned in, and he launched into the situation, his words clipped and precise.

"Vera's down—concussion, fell from the bridge. Aster's off near Thebe's moon, comms dark, hunting survivor clues. The Kingdom's tracked us—six ships, four hours out: a destroyer and five fighters. We're charging them head-on to catch them off-guard before their weapons are hot. I need you out there, leading our fighters to hit them hard and fast." His voice steadied, a captain's cadence taking hold as he met her eyes, the weight of it sinking in.

Pako nodded, her dark eyes narrowing as she processed, a grin tugging at her lips—not playful now, but sharp, eager. "Okay, I'll lead the fighter ships," she said, her voice firm, a pilot's resolve snapping into place.

She tilted her head, her hair wobbling slightly as she added, "What exactly am I leading them for? What's the play?"

Syn's lips pressed together widened into a smile.

__________

"What's the ETA?" Commander Torren barked, his voice a gravelly rasp as he loomed over the bridge of the Iron Fang, the Kingdom's destroyer ship cutting through the black void.

His brown hair, streaked with gray, hung loose over his furrowed brow, his middle-aged frame taut in the olive uniform that marked him as the boss of this beast—a hulking warship bristling with turrets and missile bays.

He gripped the railing, his hazel eyes scanning the crew below, their olive-clad forms hunched over glowing consoles, the cockpit alive with the hum of machinery and the faint tang of recycled air.

"Ninety minutes, Commander," a young ensign replied, his voice crisp as he tapped at his station, the holo-map flickering with the coordinates—an anonymous tip pinpointing an unknown battleship lurking in this sector.

Torren's jaw tightened, his lips curling into a thin line.

The King had been clear: no pirate ship, no matter how small the chance, could be ignored.

This could be a trap, a wild goose chase, or the real deal—and Torren was ready for it all. The Iron Fang and its five fighter ships were armed to the teeth, fast enough to chase down any prey, and sturdy enough to hold until backup arrived.

He'd crushed pirates before; this would be no different.

Minutes ticked by, the ship's engines pulsing beneath their feet in a steady rhythm—until a shout cracked the calm like a whip.

"Missile incoming—seven o'clock!"

A crewmate's voice broke, frantic as his finger stabbed at the screen. Red flares blinked across the radar, small and fast. "Can't get a lock on the source—signature's too small! Looks like a recon!"

Torren's eyes snapped to the display, narrowing. He gripped the railing tight, knuckles white, then turned with razor focus. "It's a bluff," he barked.

"Ignore it and push faster to those coordinates!" he snapped, his tone sharp with certainty. "They're desperate, firing piddly recon missiles to buy time while they run. Full speed ahead—don't let them slip away!"

A second missile streaked across the feed, again from the same source, a faint glint against the void, and a turret whirred to life, popping out from the Iron Fang's hull with a mechanical hiss.

A burst of plasma shot it down, the explosion a brief flare in the darkness, and Torren's smirk twitched—child's play.

"Launch the fighters—full throttle!" Torren roared, his voice a thunderclap over the rising chaos of the cockpit. "Stall those bastards until we arrive—or tail them if they're running!"

The ensign relayed the command, fingers flying across the console.

Outside the viewport, five sleek, dagger-like interceptors lit up their thrusters, the blue glare of their engines searing against the black. They sped away from the Iron Fang like hounds let off the leash, streaking towards the coordinates marked on their map.

The destroyer surged behind them, at it's full speed, its core reactor humming with power, every vibration pulsing through Torren's boots as the hunt neared its climax.

Then it hit.

The comms board exploded with noise—five feeds snapping online at once, each screen showing a pilot's face contorted in panic, sweat beading, eyes darting.

"AMBUSH!" one screamed, voice warped by static. "Don't come here, Retreat, retreat—fuck, they were waiting—"

Another pilot's scream tore through the channel. "I can't shake them! They're cloaked—they're inside our line!"

The feed flickered. A shadow passed behind one of the pilots—and then silence. A blinding flash.Thump.

A soft, sickening sound through the speakers. One by one, the screens cut to black.

Five ships. Gone. In the span of a breath.

Torren stood frozen, the cockpit lights strobing red around him, alarms wailing in chorus with the rising dread.

He gritted his teeth, fists clenched as the last screen winked out, leaving only the hollow buzz of comms static and the silent void beyond.

"They knew we were coming," he muttered, low and seething. "Those bastards baited us. It was a fucking trap."