When You Set the Stars Alight
Galactic Soldier Ghost x Plus Size Reader
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Summary:
Sick and tired of living a mediocre life on this third rock from the sun, you set out on your driftpod across the galaxy in search of escape, hoping to find peace in solitude. However, amidst your journey, you encountered someone who was also drifting, searching for something that felt like freedom, just like you.
Rating: E Category: F/M Tags: Secret Santa, Alternative Universe - Science Fiction, plus size reader, Sex Pollen, Strangers to Lovers, If You Squint, Mutual Pining, Forced Proximity, There Was Only One Bed, one bed trope, Star Wars Elements, space travel, Alien Worlds, Futuristic, Worldbuilding, excessive amounts of cum, Masturbation, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Lots of it, Reader is Sassy, Reader Is Spicy, Ghost is Loving It, Multiple Orgasms, Art by Author Inside, Galactic Soldier Ghost
Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4
A/N: My Secret Santa gift for @unseaworthy! This was a blast to write xD. Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays :D <3
CHAPTER ONE: QUARTZ
In space, no one can hear you scream.
Or at least that’s what you hope, by the gods, you hope no one has their satellite tuned in to your location, or they’d be picking up every sound wave of your pleasured cries as you’re getting railed on the bunk, a massive hand nestled around your throat as the man you only know as “Ghost” drives himself deep inside you, probably for the nth time that night — or day, you barely know anymore. The hours have melted together, your head swimming with euphoria as your body succumbs to each press of his hips.
You still couldn’t fathom how you ended up in this predicament since your original plan had been simple: to travel solo, hop from moon to moon, explore alien terrain, experience alien traditions, enjoy the freedom from all the responsibilities and nuances of life, and gaze at the stars without anyone encroaching on your territory.
It was fool-proof, and yet here you were, all plans gone out the window, as if the universe decided that your solo travel had to stop at a certain point; sharing a single metallic bunk with someone whose presence set your nerves alight as well as the desire pulsing through your veins.
But if you were being completely honest, the change of pace didn't bother you too much. Not really. It was just…exhausting. Your body aches and pulses, leaving you dizzy, drained, and yet, impossibly craving more.
As soon as you hit thirty, you realize you’d never truly lived. All you ever did was work and work and work, confined to that menial third rock from the sun, a planet with days too short for dreams and years that flashed by before you could even blink.
You could only dream of what everyone else experienced, leaping across the stars, talking about visiting planets several hundred thousand light-years away, much as your ancestors once talked about quick trips to Aruba. And you? You were stuck in a routine of nothing but too much labour, coming home to an empty flat in Centretown, a cluster of affordable housing in this seemingly solarpunk paradise. Yet, the air grew more toxic every year.
The city you lived in was one of the cookie-cutter solutions by the One Government, an assemblage of buildings under a greenhouse dome. Outside of it was nothing but a wasteland, with remnants of old civilizations stacked up to the ozone layer.
Some people didn’t mind the change over time, attributing it to humanity’s adaptability. But you see it as a terrarium for humans, a sanitized box of false hope that keeps whoever’s left alive. At night, you hear the harsh winds scraping against the dome’s protective sphere, making you wonder about a time when it might fail, and humanity would cease to exist.
You might prefer it that way, so you don’t have to keep attending those accursed family gatherings where relatives feel obligated to comment on your appearance, saying you’re practically taking up too much space. You’ve already made peace with the natural way your body has grown fuller, softer as you aged, a progression that feels human in contrast to all the artificial and synthetic aspects of life around you. Then there are the other relatives reminding you to settle down and keep the bloodline going, and even worse, the ones who manage to nag you about both in the same breath. You just want to spite them all for their relentless pestering.
It was a sickening, repetitive tune. Even a couple of millennia into the future, the expectations for women never changed. You had just had enough of the nonsense thrown your way.
So, you snapped. You emptied your life savings and purchased a driftpod. It might have been the most impulsive thing you’ve done in your life, with relatives calling you stupid and all that, but you didn’t care; their words were meaningless to you.
As you let an escort ship shuttle you past the last safe checkpoint in the familiar solar system, you bid the vast yet enclosed space you were familiar with goodbye.
It had been three years then, hopping between moons, one jump after another, from star system to star system. You’d passed by planets that differed wildly from one another, a few that reminded you of home, others that were too icy or too volcanic for your liking, and then there were alien planets that rained molten iron or hurtled glass shards like a never-ending storm.
You didn’t have a galactic permit to land on any of the planets with safe terrain for a supply run or even a short visit, not that you could afford it in the first place, so you made do by heading for the bunkers scattered throughout the galaxies. They were built on moons that were either too big or too small, but that was the beauty of it — the isolation, the freedom to slip away from anyone else’s presence.
You were far from home — too far — but you preferred it this way, preferred the peaceful independence you felt when you pushed your driftpod into hyperspace, drifting across the galaxy without a care in the world.
Your previous stop had been Camrina, a moon with blood red soil, but you weren’t there for long, unaware of the war that was going on, so you hightailed out of there and found yourself wandering into the outer rim of the Coperyn System.
In the shadowed territory at the farthest end, you found a tiny, secluded moon where everything promptly went wrong. As it turns out, you weren’t the only one running from your problems.
You didn’t expect company in a single metallic bunker in the middle of fuckwhere, let alone to end up sharing its only bunk.
Your driftpod landed on the rocky terrain just as his landed a few metres away. You thought he was there to replace his solar batteries, but when he started unloading his belongings into the bunker, you marched your way inside.
There was hardly an exchange at all. He just sat on the bunk, motionless, watching you like you’d grown a second head while you berated him. Or at least that’s what you assumed, since you could barely read anything behind the skull fixture — which should have given you pause in the first place. A hulking man in a military-grade exosuit and a skull helmet should’ve been enough to deter anyone from engaging.
Still, you kept talking, completely incensed, and although your mouth moved to give him a piece of your mind, your thoughts drifted to the way his head tilted toward you, not in mockery but in a sort of interest — and that surprised you, since most of the stares you’ve gotten in the past weren’t with good intentions. You were well aware of the softness of your frame against the hard metal around you, but he didn’t seem put off. If anything, his posture eased, as though your presence didn’t intimidate him in the slightest, and you weren’t sure if you’d take it as a compliment or an insult.
But then, you saw his shoulders tighten, and you thought for a split second he was about to lunge, and your mouth snapped shut. But he didn’t rise — he only rolled his shoulders back, flexing as if he’d been holding the tension for far too long.
You realized, then, that he hadn’t spoken a word back. You didn’t know if he was mute or didn’t understand Commonspeak, too riled up to put your translator on in case he was born somewhere you’re unfamiliar with, so you gave up, threw your hands in defeat, and went to prepare to take off to find another nearby bunker — only for your driftpod to have other plans.
After the galactic vehicle you’d spent a fortune on for your thirtieth birthday sputtered once and died, probably due to three years of nonstop use finally catching up, you tried contacting support, but before you could send the message, hands trembling with anger and disappointment, a voice rang out behind you.
“Y’need t’get that engine rebooted,” he said through comms out of the blue, and you almost screamed, totally unexpecting him to speak. When you turned to him, he remained unmoved, but you did hear a soft crackling huff, like a chuckle. The bastard.
With nary another word from him, he proceeded to inspect your vehicle, already taking his toolkit out from his gear pack.
It didn’t take him long to diagnose the issue. His assessment was immediate as he pulled himself from underneath the hull: “Engine’s burnt out. Gonna take five light days to fix,” he said, and you’ve only heard that term before a few times: a light day depends on the length of the sun in this particular territory, and after consulting your datapad, wanting to understand your situation more before you say anything else, your location dictates that it would take ten earth weeks.
You stared at the screen in disbelief, and for a moment, words didn’t make sense to you.
“Ten earth weeks?” You repeated to yourself, "That’s two months!"
You would’ve just gotten another driftpod delivered; it was that easy to get an astro-delivery dispatched. However, you were out of funds, so you really couldn’t do much anyway — not with your current financial state, which, in your case, means you literally have no money left. Unless you steal or plunder unsuspecting individuals, which you refuse to do, you would rather disintegrate to nothing before you commit a heinous crime and be brought to a galactic court.
As you turned towards him, you noticed he was back underneath the hull, already tinkering at the machine.
“Ever heard of maintenance?” he said, voice echoing slightly through the communication line, “when’s the last time you had this junk checked?”
You narrowed your eyes. “I have gotten it checked—”
“When?” he added further, and you immediately floundered, stammering to answer. Though the helmet hid your shame, you hoped he didn’t sense your unease.
“Why do you want to know?” you asked, all defensive, and this made him chuckle as he shook his head.
“Fuckin’ hell. You’ve never had this thing checked in your life, have you?”
You didn’t even bother denying it. He could smell the bullshit from light-years away. You never had the credits for proper maintenance, not after draining everything just to get off that godforsaken planet you called home.
You tried to dodge the embarrassment with an attitude: “Look, it moved. That’s all it needed to do.”
“Oh, it moves,” he said, tapping a scorched panel with his knuckles. “Miracle it didn’t blow itself to bits mid-jump.”
“It didn’t explode—”
“Because you’re lucky,” he cut you off, and then added a sly remark: “or daft. Hard to say.”
You scoffed at this but had nothing to retaliate with; he did have a point, for all you know, you could’ve become just another speck of dust drifting in space.
A spark that popped from the panel, followed by a gravelly swear in your communication line, broke your train of thought, and you see him pushing himself out from under the driftpod.
“Grab your things,” he said, turning to you, and you blinked in surprise. “Why?”
He let out a low, amused breath. “Plan on sleepin’ out here, then? Be my guest.”
A blush crept to your cheeks again, but he could only shrug, the grease on his gloves sizzling away from the suit’s nano-heaters.
You grumbled the phrase: “You don’t have to be such an asshole about it,” under your breath as you headed for the storage compartment, removing your belongings from the trunk when the comms crackled. You froze, realizing he had heard you, but he didn’t utter a word, only another huff of amusement, as if your attitude entertained him. You also didn’t have to see his face to hear the smirk in his tone.
You cursed softly at yourself, hauling one luggage out, then another, your arms straining from the weight.
You saw his shadow stretch over you, and he uttered a phrase that almost had you dropping your things: “Give it to me,” he said in a voice probably too deep and gravelly for your liking.
“What?” You asked, head whipping back so fast you almost whiplashed yourself.
He tilted his head, his hand still outstretched. "Give it here," he repeated, his fingertips curling slightly as he gestured for your belongings. Your thoughts lagged embarrassingly behind before you finally handed him your luggage, and he immediately secured the straps snugly against each side of his exosuit.
With your luggage out of the way, you weren't sure what to do next and found yourself staring at the skull helmet. He leaned in, as if studying your expression.
"You done starin’?" he asked, his voice rumbling through the comms, a hint of teasing evident that sent a thrilling shiver down your spine.
He didn’t wait for your reaction and swaggered back toward the bunker as if he hadn’t just said what he did.
When night came, or at least whatever time your suncycle tracker said it was, you had already stowed your gear in the bunker’s storage module, eaten your rations, and taken a quick rinse at the decontamination stall. Just as you were sliding your suit back on, the door hissed open, followed by the unmistakable weight of heavy boots hitting the alloy floor.
You barely had the suit halfway closed when his form appeared by the chamber entrance.
“Do you mind?” you groaned, annoyed, the sound of your suit closing hissed faintly.
He took a glance at you and deadpanned: “I don’t mind.” Before he stood in front of the stall and began removing his own gear, you gaped at the sight.
“What are you doing?” you asked, taken aback. He didn’t stop to look at you, but he did respond: “Gettin’ ready to rest,” and just kept removing pieces of his suit and laying them neatly onto the table.
He removed the skull helmet, and the armour clicked and puffed a cloud of smoke. You held your breath as you watched; you wouldn’t even deny your curiosity and excitement to finally see what he looked like underneath.
But just when you thought you would finally put a face to the grump, he revealed another skull mask beneath it, and you had to hold in an exhale that was a mixture of a laugh and a sound of disappointment as you shook your head.
Who wears a skull mask under a skull helmet? You thought to yourself, squinting your eyes at him. What an odd fellow—
When he bent to tug at the rest of his exosuit, you instantly looked away, but not before you caught a hint of skin — scarred and marred by burns. You felt ashamed for ogling, and you couldn’t deny the fact that the marks intrigued you, but you’d rather not ask about a man’s scars when you know what’s good for you.
Though you did find his lack of shame scandalizing as he just casually strips in front of you.
“For fuck’s sake, at least let me leave first—“
“No need.” He said, his voice sounded clear now, though the skull mask's material muffled it a bit. You barely registered the sound of the decontamination stall going off for a few seconds before he hopped out again. When you looked back, you saw him putting his exosuit back on.
With one final click in place, he was fully covered again.
Before you could react, his statement cut you off: “Get in the bed.”
“Excuse me?”
“You plannin’ on sleepin’ on the floor?”
“No, I—“
“Get in the bed, then.” He said again, a bit impatiently. You were still reeling, confused as if his words didn’t mean what you thought they meant.
You almost laughed, finding his statement utterly ridiculous as you glanced at the bed, then back at him. Surely, he wasn’t expecting to share the bed with you.
“You think you and I would fit in there?—“
“Yes. Get in the bed.” He said it with a finality that made you quiet, prompting you to sit on the edge while still maintaining eye contact. From this angle, he appeared taller and more imposing, yet despite this, you could feel a warmth of excitement pooling in your core. You knew this shouldn’t turn you on, but it did.
Without the helmet, you can see his eyes: smoky quartz, a bit jaded, a bit rough around the edges, but gentle all the same. His head tilted to the side as he let out a soft exhale, a chuckle almost.
“D’you women on Earth sleep sitting up?” His question was more rhetorical, and before you could respond, you realized it was pointless; the back-and-forth was getting old. And although you had to admit that his comebacks were exciting, you were tired, and sleep called to you. So, you scooted over to the farthest inner corner to create as much space as possible.
You felt the bed dip with his weight, the foam briefly undiluting with his movement before he was settled. You didn’t dare look, but judging by the warmth on your back and his backside barely pressing against yours, he was facing away from you.
Within minutes of dimming the lights, he was asleep, and you felt envious of how fast he was able to, while you were still wide awake, suddenly aware that you’re sharing a bed with a man — a man you barely know. You don’t even know his background, where he’s from, or his name.
But regardless of this, you felt surprisingly at ease, and you felt warmth caress your skin like a blanket, and soon enough, you were falling asleep, too.
You didn’t realize he had put a blanket on you and left himself without.
