Chapter Text
Chapter 1
“Lines! Lines!” Yang bellowed out from the main deck.
Feet thundered around her, hands reaching for rope just as quickly as Yang’s did.
“Pull ’er in,” Yang called again, whirling the heaving line above her head before casting it toward the dock.
The weighted end sailed through the air.
The dockhand caught it cleanly and hauled the mooring line ashore, wrapping it around a weathered bollard.
The mooring line bit into Yang’s palms as it came taut.
“Heave,” Yang barked.
The deck answered as one.
Boots dug into the wet planks. The capstan groaned, its heavy timbers complaining as the Wildfire surrendered the last few yards between herself and the dock.
And Yang’s muscles burned with the strain, even with a good couple dozen of her men heaving beside her.
The Wildfire resisted for a heartbeat before finally yielding, creeping toward the dock under the crew’s combined effort.
“Easy!” Yang shouted. “Don’t drag us into the bloody pilings.”
The helmsman spun the wheel a fraction.
The bow obeyed, sliding neatly alongside the weather-beaten wharf.
A deep thud rolled through the hull as the fenders kissed timber.
“There we are,” someone muttered beside her.
“Belay the lines!” Yang called out quickly, not giving the crew a moment to slack off.
The order echoed across the deck.
One by one, the lines were made fast around worn mooring posts. Sailors tied off knots with practiced hands before finally stepping back, shoulders sagging as the tension left both rope and crew.
Yang passed the last of her line to a deckhand to coil before finally letting go.
She flexed her fingers, rubbing feeling back into her reddened palms. Salt had found every split in her skin during the crossing. The countless calluses on her hands were proof enough that the sea had become her life.
Fifteen months at sea this voyage.
Long enough that the deck’s constant sway felt more natural than solid ground ever could.
Not that she ever could grow accustomed to not having a constant sway beneath her legs.
It didn’t matter. The ship was still arriving, and there was work to be done.
“Get those fenders secured!” Yang shouted, already moving toward the rail. “I don’t want the hull scraped to hell.”
A few of the crew were already scrambling, but Yang kept going—filling the silence with direction, with the weight of command.
“Secure the mainsail. Coil those lines properly,” she ordered, pointing toward the bow. “And if I find so much as a loose knot before inspection, you’ll all wish we’d stayed at sea.”
A chorus of “Yes, Cap’n!” answered each command.
“Get the gangway down once we’re secured,” Yang ordered. “Harlan, get dockside and find that damned Harbormaster.”
The crew scattered without hesitation.
Some hurried aloft to furl the last of the canvas while others wrestled the fenders into place along the hull. The gangway was dragged toward the rail as Harlan hopped the narrowing gap to the dock, already muttering under his breath about harbor officials and missing paperwork.
Yang made her way along the deck, tugging at a line here and tightening a knot there. One sailor received an approving nod. Another earned a sharp look that had him immediately retying his work.
A captain who didn’t know every inch of her own ship had no business commanding one.
“Fuck off, pirate scum,” a drunken voice bellowed from the docks.
Yang didn’t look back.
Then came the sharp crack of glass against her ship’s hull.
She spun on her heel, her flintlock already in hand, the barrel trained squarely on the drunk.
“If you’re going to cause trouble,” she bellowed, “do it somewhere I can’t see that ugly mug o’ yours.”
The drunk swayed, pointing at her with an unsteady hand.
“Fah—Fuh—Fuck yooouu,” he sounded out with venom.
Nearly losing his balance, he caught himself on a nearby pole.
“Go ‘ome, piss-for-bra—” Yang began, raising her voice to carry over the docks.
The words died on her tongue as another voice carried effortlessly across the wharf.
“That’s quite enough, Miss Xiao Long, and Mr Navarro.”
Yang turned, already forcing a polite smile. With an easy flick of her wrist, she lowered the flintlock and slipped it back into the holster at her hip. The worn cutlass hanging opposite knocked softly against her thigh as she stepped forward.
A ring of guards in polished breastplates bearing Menagerie’s colors—a crimson surcoat and some embroidered crest Yang had never cared enough to identify—escorted the approaching noblewoman.
Faunus all, they bore ears, tails, horns, and every manner of trait without the slightest hint of shame.
Between them walked Kali Belladonna, her black cat ears standing proudly atop her head, each adorned with a slender gold ring and a pair of delicate piercings that caught the afternoon sun. Her soft black gown, trimmed in gold, swayed with each measured step.
Blake followed a step behind her mother, her dress cut from darker fabric, elegant without quite managing to tame her. Dark hair framed a pair of feline ears that twitched ever so slightly.
She had the etiquette—the measured pace, the folded hands, the polite smile—but it all sat on her like a borrowed coat.
“If it isn’t my favorite governess,” Yang mused sarcastically. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Yang’s gaze found Blake, golden eyes meeting hers for barely a heartbeat.
Fifteen months was a long damn time to go without certain comforts.
Blake’s ears gave an involuntary twitch.
Color crept across her cheeks before she looked away, smoothing an imaginary crease from her skirt as though she’d meant to do it all along.
“I’ll get to you in a minute,” Kali said evenly, interrupting Yang’s thoughts before they could wander somewhere even more inappropriate.
She turned her full attention to the wobbling drunk, who promptly tried to lean against her for support.
“Give this man a cold bath,” Kali said firmly, brushing his hands off quickly.
Two guards moved at once.
Mr. Navarro barely had time to sputter another protest before they each took an arm and marched him toward the end of the pier.
“W-Wait! I ain’t done with—”
A tremendous splash cut him off.
The gathered dockworkers chuckled amongst themselves while a few sailors aboard Yang’s ship barked out mocking laughs.
“That should cool his temper,” Kali remarked matter-of-factly, watching the ripples settle.
Only then did she turn her attention back to Yang.
“My apologies, Captain. I do hope Mr. Navarro hasn’t soured your return.”
Yang shrugged.
“He weren’t wrong.”
Behind Kali, Yang caught sight of Navarro hauling himself back onto the wharf, only to collapse to his hands and knees, coughing up what sounded like half the ocean.
“Yet that can still change, can it not?” Kali shot back with a knowing smile. “You can still become my privateer.”
Yang let out a roar of a laugh.
“I prefer my freedom, Governess.”
“So you keep telling me,” Kali said evenly.
Then she spared a quick glance at her daughter before turning back to Yang.
“You actually arrived at a rather convenient time,” Kali said. “We’re celebrating tonight.”
Yang raised an eyebrow and folded her arms.
“Celebrating what?”
“A rather important venture has finally begun to bear fruit,” Kali replied cheerily, accompanying the words with a small wave of her hand.
Yang hummed thoughtfully.
“You mean that trading company of yours?”
Kali nodded.
“A rather loose description, but it serves well enough.”
She spared another glance toward Blake.
“Blake was rather hoping you’d return in time,” Kali said, the hint of a teasing smile creeping onto her face.
Blake shot her a glare, forgetting to keep her posture for the briefest of seconds before adopting it again.
She flicked her gaze back to Yang, clearly trying to hide the blush creeping into her cheeks.
“I formally invite you, Captain Xiao Long,” Blake murmured under her breath.
Almost too quiet for Yang to hear, but she heard it…. Somehow.
For someone who’d spent the better part of two decades standing beside cannons, Yang had no business hearing a whisper that soft.
Not that being in her late thirties had done her hearing any favors.
Yang’s grin widened.
“Well,” she said, “when you ask so nicely.”
Blake’s ears flicked.
“Please, spare me the juvenile wit this time.”
Yang snorted as she vaulted onto the rail, one hand finding the nearest shroud with practiced ease.
“Would you prefer my pirate charm?” she teased.
Blake spared a quick glance at Yang’s crew hauling cargo before her gaze settled on Yang again.
“If by charm, you mean stolen cargo, then by all means bring your pirate charm.”
Yang let out a hearty laugh, leaning into the taut shroud as though it were the most natural backrest in the world.
“I’m afraid any loot I have is solely for sale to your mother’s company.”
A small pause.
“Mostly all of it,” Yang added, smirking at Kali.
“I’ll let you pick something from them later, dear,” Kali teased as she smiled at Blake.
“After she charges you three arms and a dozen legs for it,” Blake huffed, glaring at Yang.
“And I’ll make Mr. Schnee pay triple that for a quarter of it,” Kali shot back. “Call it the usual recovery fee.”
Yang shook her head, still chuckling, one boot hanging idly over the ship’s side.
She was about to counter with another joke, but another familiar voice cut in.
“I do not wish to hear of that man,” it said firmly.
Yang pushed lightly away from the shroud and turned atop the rail to find Weiss approaching with her usual poise, her companion walking arm in arm beside her.
The scar came before the woman herself. A broad, ragged slash ran straight across Weiss’ eyes. The blade had left more than torn flesh in its wake; both eyes were clouded beneath webs of scar tissue, never quite focusing on the world before them.
Whatever blade had carved it had done so without mercy.
Time had faded the wound, but never its consequences.
Yet Weiss never faltered. She walked with measured confidence, one hand resting lightly on her companion's arm.
Her white hair was styled with the same precision as everything else about her, though Yang could still pick out the subtle wear of countless days spent among the docks.
Pyrrha Nikos—her hair as red as a sailor burnt crisp beneath the summer sun—kept effortlessly in step, offering only the occasional quiet word whenever an uneven plank or coil of rope lay ahead.
Harlan followed close behind, scratching at his beard. He caught Yang’s eye and gave the slightest shrug, as if to say, don’t ask me Cap’n.
“Miss Weiss, Miss Nikos,” Kali said politely. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”
Kali bowed a half-inch, smiling more out of habit than for Weiss’ benefit.
“And it’s a pleasure to hear our fair governess,” Weiss replied, equally polite as she half-bowed back. “I wish we had time for our customary sparring of wits—as much as I enjoy it—but I have matters to attend to, I’m afraid.”
Pyrrha smiled apologetically.
“I do trust you’ve been keeping well.”
“Only as well as listening to the complaints of an entire kingdom and running a trading company allows,” Kali replied with a quiet laugh.
The three women shared a brief, knowing smile before Kali’s expression settled back into its usual composure.
“I bid you farewell, ladies,” Kali said evenly. “Harbormasters never rest, and my presence will hardly help matters.”
Weiss inclined her head.
“Quite.”
“Until next time, Governess,” Pyrrha said with a gentle smile.
Kali smiled politely.
“Then we’ll leave you to it. Come along, Blake.”
Blake dipped her head toward Yang—a gesture somewhere between a farewell and a promise to see her that evening—before following her mother down the wharf.
Yang watched Blake disappear into the bustle of the harbor, absently tightening her grip on the shroud.
Weiss waited until their footsteps had faded before turning ever so slightly toward Pyrrha.
“Tell me, is Yang smirking devilishly as always?”
“She is,” Pyrrha replied softly. “Perched on her own railing, no less.”
“Guilty as charged,” Yang laughed. “But I’m sure you can forgive me for my…. What’s the word you’d use?”
“Transgression,” Weiss said smoothly, trying—and failing—to hide her smirk.“Now, to the matter at hand. I assume you want the usual manifest written up?”
“Merchant vessel carrying legitimate cargo,” Yang said evenly.
“And I assume you only left one ship to tell the tale and scare him back in Atlas?” Weiss sighed.
“Maybe I did,” Yang said flatly, shrugging automatically. “The Schnee Trading Company always could spare losing a ship or five.”
Weiss let out a quiet sigh that somehow carried all the weariness of a woman who had heard the same excuses a hundred times before.
She then held out a gloved hand.
“The manifest, if you please.”
Yang looked toward Harlan.
“You heard the woman.”
Harlan stepped forward at once, fishing a neatly folded bundle of papers from inside his tattered coat before placing them carefully into Weiss’ waiting hand.
Yang caught the brief wrinkle of Weiss’ nose as Harlan leaned in with the papers.
The expression vanished as quickly as it came.
Pyrrha’s gaze drifted to the gangway before she whispered something to Weiss.
“Safe to assume you’ve already started unloading,” Weiss said evenly.
“Would you believe me if I said no?” Yang shot back with a small laugh.
“Not for a moment,” Weiss replied, a tiny smirk on her lips. “But I’ll pretend I inspected your ship beforehand.”
“Then I’ll leave you to your paperwork,” Yang said dryly. “I smell coin on the wind, and I’m not one to resist such a sweet scent.”
Weiss let out a snort.
“All I smell is fish carcass, salt, and lingering rum.”
Yang caught Harlan, out of the corner of her eye, subtly sniffing at his coat.
“She’s wearing that grin again,” Pyrrha observed.
“I feared as much,” Weiss sighed, though a smile tugged at her own lips.
Yang chuckled to herself before dropping lightly from the rail onto the deck.
Business would not sell itself.
She clapped her hands together once, loud enough to cut through the din of the docks.
“Get this cargo ashore and sold,” she ordered firmly. “And someone get repairs started on the Wildfire. I had to swim through my quarters that last stretch.”
A chorus of acknowledgements answered her.
Sailors fell into motion without another word. Crates disappeared down the gangway onto waiting carts while others fetched tar, spare planks, and coils of fresh rope from the stores below.
Dockhands mingled with Yang’s crew, shouting prices, destinations, and curses over one another until the wharf settled into the familiar rhythm of organized chaos.
Satisfied they no longer needed her breathing down their necks, Yang cast one last glance toward the town.
Menagerie.
Not exactly rife with riches, but it was a lively town nonetheless.
Faunus and humans mingled freely through its streets, alongside merchants, sailors, and more than a few pirates who knew better than to start trouble there.
Yang grew to love the place.
Blake certainly made the journey worthwhile.
Not that Menagerie needed much help. It was the largest—and liveliest—of the archipelago’s islands, and Yang had grown surprisingly fond of the place over the years. Blake simply gave her one more reason to keep coming back.
Yang took a long breath, filling her lungs with something other than salt spray and damp canvas.
Fresh bread drifted from a nearby bakery. Somewhere farther inland, a blacksmith’s hammer rang against steel. Children darted through the streets with all the reckless confidence that came from growing up in a town where everyone knew everyone.
It wasn’t quiet.
It wasn’t clean.
It certainly wasn’t rich.
But it was alive.
A small smile tugged at the corner of Yang’s mouth.
She’d missed it. More than she’d ever care to admit.
The party was still a few hours off. Any self-respecting noble wouldn’t start it in the middle of the afternoon.
There were a thousand things Yang could do. She could strut through the streets, finally wash the sea off herself, “borrow” something respectable to wear, or simply collapse into the hammock slung between the mainmast and the wheel.
But there was one thing she cared to do above all else.
Yang caught the second-floor railing with practised ease and swung herself onto the balcony.
The blazing afternoon sun had barely drifted across the sky. Yang, however, had long since grown tired of it after fifteen months beneath open skies.
But she hardly thought of that now.
She crept toward the door, the motion familiar by now. Even if she still sucked at it.
She eased the balcony door open, wincing when the latch gave the faintest click.
The room beyond was empty.
A neatly made bed. A wardrobe standing open a crack. A book lay face-down on the bedside table, a ribbon marking its place.
Yang hummed quietly.
Then a muffled voice drifted through the bedroom door. Calm. Measured. Giving orders Yang couldn’t quite make out.
Footsteps followed.
Yang slipped behind the door just as the handle began to turn.
The door swung inward.
A pair of polished shoes crossed the threshold, followed by the gentle rustle of skirts.
“Thank you,” the woman said from the doorway. “That will be all.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
The reply faded with retreating footsteps.
The moment the door clicked shut, Yang slipped in behind the woman and wrapped her in a tight squeeze.
The woman let out a sharp yelp, her body tensing as she half-turned, one elbow already driving back on instinct.
The elbow halted an inch before it could connect.
“…Yang.”
Relief softened Blake’s tone.
Yang buried her face against her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender and old parchment.
“Miss me?”
Blake fully turned and immediately planted her lips on Yang’s.
The surprise lasted only an instant before Yang kissed her back with equal hunger, her hands finding every inch of Blake’s body through her stiff clothing.
Blake’s hands found Yang’s shoulders, pulling her closer as their lips broke apart only long enough for breath.
“Gods I missed you,” Blake breathed against Yang’s mouth.
Yang grinned wickedly.
“Just fuck me,” she urged, her fingers already making short work of Blake’s fancy clothes.
Blake’s laugh came out breathy as Yang spun her around, already working at the laces of her corset from behind.
The knots came loose under Yang’s practiced fingers—fifteen months of separation hadn’t dulled her memory of how Blake’s formal wear came apart. Silk and boning gave way beneath her touch.
“Never were patient,” Blake teased, glancing back over her shoulder with a smug smile.
“What can I say?” Yang laughed, the corset finally falling away. “You’re an amazing shag.”
With a practiced tug, she peeled the loosened corset from Blake’s shoulders and let it fall aside.
Blake’s breath hitched as Yang’s hands found the bare skin underneath, the warmth of her palms against Blake.
Blake twisted back around, her eyes focused entirely on Yang. No pretense now. No borrowed politeness. Just Blake—all sharp edges and want.
Her fingers found the broad leather belt at Yang’s waist. With practiced ease, she slipped the buckle free, lifting the weight of the flintlock and cutlass clear before letting them fall to the floor with a solid thunk.
She pulled Yang toward the bed, already tugging at her salt-soaked shirt with enough impatience to nearly tear it from her.
Before Yang could finish tossing it to the side, Blake pushed her to the mattress and straddled Yang’s lap.
Yang’s hands found Blake’s bare back, pulling her closer, fingers splayed across the smooth curve of her back while Blake’s hands found their way to Yang’s side, bracing herself as they went in for a deeper kiss. Tongues meeting in a rhythm that had nothing to do with gentleness and everything to do with want.
Blake’s skirt was still bunched around her waist, but she was pressing down against Yang’s hips, grinding with a deliberateness that made Yang groan into her mouth.
Yang broke the kiss just long enough to catch her breath, her forehead still pressed against Blake’s.
She shifted beneath Blake, fingers catching the fabric of her skirt.
“C’mon,” she murmured. “I wanna see every inch of you.”
Blake eased herself up and off Yang’s lap. She stood at the edge of the bed, shedding the last pieces of her dress with practiced ease.
Yang propped herself up on her elbows, her eyes tracing over every inch of Blake’s body. The familiar landscape of her—the sharp lines of her collarbone, the curve of her ribs, her breasts catching the sun from the windows and the darker patch of hair between her legs.
And the scars. Smaller than Yang’s collection, fewer in number, but there all the same.
A pale band circled Blake’s wrist. Rope burn. Yang bore similar marks from forcing boardings.
Tiny flecks of pale skin dusted one forearm. Powder flash. Countless hours loading cannon would do that to a sailor sooner or later.
Thin white lines crossed her sides and shoulders where steel had found its mark, while here and there small puckered scars hinted at musket balls that had scraped past—or dug their way in.
Then there was one broad scar just beneath her ribs that Yang couldn’t quite place.
Yang’s gaze lingered on each one, not with pity, but with the kind of attention that came from knowing what those scars meant—knowing the story they told, the life Blake had lived once long ago.
“Come ’ere,” Yang urged, her voice rough with want as she raised a hand toward Blake.
Blake held her gaze for the briefest heartbeat before a faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
“Bossy as ever.”
She caught Yang’s outstretched hand, lacing their fingers together before stepping between Yang’s knees.
And for a moment, neither of them moved.
Blake’s fingers rested lightly against Yang’s thighs, her golden eyes never leaving hers.
Then, without breaking that gaze, Blake slowly lowered to her knees at the edge of the bed.
Her fingers hooked into the waistband of Yang’s pants, tugging them lower—inch by teasing inch.
Yang’s breathing quickened. One hand found Blake’s hair, fingers curling gently into the dark strands as anticipation coiled in her chest.
Blake’s fingers found their way into Yang’s underwear, and she drew it down with the same deliberate slowness, her golden eyes never once wavering from Yang’s.
Yang’s breath came shallow. Her grip on Blake’s hair tightened, but she didn’t push, didn’t rush her.
Not yet.
Blake’s lips curved into a knowing smile as she freed Yang completely, tossing the fabric aside.
She settled back between Yang’s thighs, her hands braced on the inside of Yang’s legs, still maintaining that locked gaze.
“So wet, already,” Blake teased, pressing a teasing kiss dangerously close. “You must have missed me.”
Yang’s answer was a low sound from her chest—something between agreement and desperate need.
Blake settled into a steady rhythm—slow, thorough, making Yang feel every second of it. Her hands gripped Yang’s thighs as she worked, her mouth finding every angle that made Yang’s hips shift upward involuntarily.
“Fuck, Blake,” Yang breathed, her fingers curling tighter in Blake’s hair. “Right there.”
Blake’s mouth never wavered as her fingers found their way inside Yang, sliding in with practiced ease—and Yang gasped from ecstasy.
“Fuck yes,” she rasped, her hips moving to match Blake’s rhythm. “Don’t fucking stop.”
Yang’s free hand gripped the sheets, her whole body starting to tense. The pressure was building—relentless now, climbing higher with each movement Blake made.
Blake knew exactly what she was doing. She could read every shift in Yang’s body, every sharp intake of breath that told her she was hitting the right angle.
She intensified her pace, her fingers curling slightly, her mouth working faster now.
“Blake, I’m—” Yang started, her voice breaking.
Blake didn’t slow. She doubled down, her fingers pressing deeper, her mouth maintaining that brutal pace. She was pushing Yang right to the edge, and she knew it. Enjoyed it.
Yang’s breathing became ragged. Her thighs tensed beneath Blake’s hands, and Blake met her halfway—keeping that intensity constant, refusing to let Yang escape it.
“Cum for me,” Blake purred against her skin, her voice muffled but urgent. “I want to taste it.”
Yang’s body tensed. Every muscle coiled tighter and tighter as release rushed toward her, each passing second stretching almost unbearably long.
Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, her fingers locked in Blake’s hair, everything in her wound so tight it felt like she might shatter.
“Blake—” she choked out, a plea and a prayer all at once.
And then Blake twisted her fingers slightly, changed the angle of her mouth, and Yang couldn’t hold it back—she came hard, her body convulsing and bucking as the release tore through her.
She cried out, her hips driving upward involuntarily as Blake kept moving, kept working her through it, drawing every second of pleasure from Yang’s shaking body.
Yang’s vision went white. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel the waves of release rolling through her as Blake refused to stop, pushing her further, making her ride it out completely.
When Yang finally collapsed back against the mattress, she was gasping, trembling, completely spent.
Blake slowly slid her fingers out, licking her lips.
Not that Yang noticed. Not really.
Yang’s eyes slowly refocused on the ceiling above her. Her chest was still heaving, her whole body still trembling with aftershocks.
She ran a shaky hand through her hair, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, her skin still flushed and damp. Every nerve ending hummed with the afterglow.
She swallowed hard, letting the sensation settle, letting her body come back to Remnant.
Fifteen months.
Fifteen months since she’d felt anything close to this—to Blake—and it had been worth every single second of waiting.
Blake slinked up onto the bed and beside Yang.
Yang could feel her watching, waiting, desperate.
She turned her head, catching Blake’s gaze.
“Gods,” Yang managed breathlessly.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Fifteen months apart had left them with plenty of words, and they didn’t need to say any of them.
Blake hummed lowly, a small smile on her lips as her eyes drifted over Yang’s body. Taking in her breasts, the countless scars Yang wore proudly, her sun-baked skin.
Yang then realised where Blake’s hand was, its familiar motion as she bit her lip.
Yang caught her wrist gently, stilling her hand.
Blake’s breath hitched, her eyes flicking to Yang’s.
“Let me,” Yang purred, her voice still rough from her own release.
She shifted, positioning herself so she was face to face with Blake, their bodies close enough to feel the heat radiating between them.
Yang slipped her hand into Blake’s place, settling into a rhythm she knew by heart. The slick-heat just as familiar as her own.
And Blake grinded against her, matching the rhythm, seeking more with each roll of her hips.
Her moans came low and urgent, her eyes never leaving Yang’s.
“That’s it,” Yang murmured, matching Blake’s pace, adjusting her angle to keep hitting exactly where Blake needed her.
Yang could see the desperation in Blake’s eyes and feel it in every warm breath that brushed against her skin.
Blake’s fingers dug into Yang’s shoulder hard enough to leave marks, and Yang didn’t mind. She could feel Blake’s body tightening around her fingers with each stroke, could feel the tremors running through her—every movement, every desperate little thrust Blake made toward her hand.
“Gods, Yang,” Blake gasped, her voice breaking against Yang’s collarbone. “Right there—don’t—”
Yang kept her rhythm steady, watching Blake’s face, feeling her body respond. She could feel how close Blake was now—the way her muscles were tensing, the way her breathing was getting faster, more ragged. Blake’s hips were moving with desperate urgency now, chasing the pressure building inside her.
“I’m gonna—-fuuuuucccckkkkk—“
Blake’s nails dug deeper into Yang’s shoulder, her face buried against Yang’s neck as she came hard, her whole body shaking with the force of it.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Blake choked out, incoherent, her hips still moving involuntarily against Yang’s hand.
Yang kept going, pushing Blake through the peak, feeling every aftershock ripple through her. The intimacy of it—feeling Blake completely undone like this, being the one causing it—sent a rush through Yang that had nothing to do with physical pleasure and everything to do with connection.
When Blake finally went limp, collapsing against Yang’s chest, she was trembling, gasping, completely spent.
Yang slipped her fingers out and brought them to her lips, licking at them absently.
“That’s my girl,” she purred.
Blake’s breathing gradually slowed, her body still trembling slightly as she settled against Yang’s chest. Yang wrapped her arms around her, one hand tracing lazy circles across Blake’s back.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Just the sound of their breathing, slowly evening out, the afternoon sun still streaming through the windows.
“That was…” Blake whispered against Yang’s shoulder before giving up on words.
“Yeah,” Yang agreed. “Needed that.”
For a while, neither of them said anything else.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It rarely was with Blake.
Yang listened to the quiet sounds of the room—the distant waves outside, the creak of old wood settling around them, Blake’s breathing slowly returning to normal.
It was strange how easy this part was.
The talking. The quiet. Just existing together without needing to pretend.
Yang knew better than to mistake it for something it wasn’t.
They had never made promises.
Never built a life around each other.
But moments like this made it dangerously easy to imagine what it would be like if they did.
Blake lifted her head slightly. “Being my mother’s privateer would mean you’d get to visit more often.”
Yang let out a long, disgruntled sigh.
She pulled away slightly to stare up at the ceiling, her arm still loosely draped around Blake.
“Don’t,” she grumbled. “I don’t wanna argue with you again.”
“But—“
“But nothing,” Yang cut Blake off, shooting her a half-glare. “What we have now works.”
Blake held Yang’s gaze for a moment, then looked away, her jaw tightening slightly.
Yang knew that look.
The argument was there. Blake was just choosing not to say it.
She settled back against Yang’s chest, her fingers curling into the sheets instead of Yang’s skin. The intimacy of a moment ago had shifted into something more complicated.
“My mother says I have to wed eventually,” Blake said slowly.
Yang hummed lowly.
“Says I should just finally marry you,” Blake laughed bitterly. “That we’d have her blessing.”
“And your dad?” Yang scoffed.
Blake let out a sigh of her own.
“He likes you, but…..”
She tapped her fingers against Yang, trying to find the words.
Words Yang couldn’t find herself.
“He still hates pirates,” Blake finally finished.
Yang went still.
Then she sat up, pulling away from Blake completely. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and planted her feet on the floor, her back to Blake now.
“Right,” she said flatly. “Cause being his privateer would be far more respectable.”
“Yang that’s not—“
“No I get it.” Yang’s voice was hard. “Paid piracy is better than my freedom. Better than flying my own flag, commanding my own ship as I please.”
“You know that’s not fair,” Blake said quietly.
“And it’s fair for him to hate me because of Sienna and her damned fleet?” Yang spat out harshly, shooting Blake a glare over her shoulder. “It weren’t me who nearly took his life and nealy razed Menagerie to the ground all those years ago.”
“But can you blame him?” Blake muttered harshly. “He spent the better part of three decades turning this place into more than the island humans dumped us on. Into a home—for us, and for humans alike.”
She let out a long sigh.
“Then Sienna damn near ruined it because of her pride. Because she hated humans.”
Yang scoffed as she stood, going for her scattered clothes.
“I’ll see you at the party,” she muttered.
“Yang, please—“
“We’re done talking about this,” Yang said firmly. She shot Blake one last glare before turning back to her clothes.
Yang finished buttoning her shirt with sharp, deliberate movements. She didn’t look back at Blake, didn’t acknowledge the quiet sound Blake made—something between frustration and resignation.
The balcony door closed behind her with a soft click.
She leapt over the railing and disappeared into the streets below.
Moving further from Blake.
The Belladonna estate’s grounds were strung with lanterns that swayed gently in the warm evening breeze. The scent of charcoal and grilled fish drifted thick through the air, mixing with citrus and salt spray from the ocean just beyond.
Long wooden tables groaned under the weight of roasted fish, flatbreads, tropical fruit, grilled meats, rice, and dishes Yang didn’t have names for.
Musicians scattered throughout played fiddles and drums, hand percussion keeping time with a rhythm that looked effortless, nothing formal about it.
The crowd was a good mix of everyone—nobles in their finest clothes mingling with sailors and merchants, humans and faunus standing shoulder to shoulder, children darting between guests without a care in the world.
Weiss was talking to someone with Pyrrha on her arm, as always—a conversation Yang couldn’t hear from this distance, not that she cared to.
Nearby, Blake followed politely after Kali, the two of them greeting guests with warm smiles and quiet thanks.
Yang’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than she meant them to.
Blake was dressed for the occasion—not that she wasn’t always well dressed. She was a Belladonna, after all.
But tonight was different.
The fabric, the details, the way everything had been put together… it was the sort of outfit meant for a governor’s fancy party rather than a quiet evening at home.
Even the makeup was subtle, carefully done rather than excessive. Just enough to sharpen the features Yang already knew so well.
It was strange seeing Blake like this.
Not because she didn’t belong.
Because she did.
Yang, meanwhile, had shown up in the same clothes she wore aboard the Wildfire. What she would’ve worn out at sea, getting tossed about by angry waves or beaten down by the relentless sun.
A weathered shirt faded by years of sun and salt. Sturdy boots. A sword at her hip and a flintlock within reach.
Not exactly the kind of thing most nobles expected at a formal gathering.
Then again, Yang had never been very good at caring what most nobles expected.
Yang made her way toward the nearest wooden table, abandoning the pretense of politeness. She grabbed a plate and started loading it with actual food—roasted fish that smelled like herbs she couldn’t name, flatbread that was still warm, grilled meat that looked like it had been cooked with actual care.
Fifteen months of hardtack and salted crackers would’ve made tree bark taste like it was served on a golden platter.
She bit into a piece of fish, and it was good—flaky and tender and seasoned properly.
She closed her eyes for a moment, simply savoring it.
Trying not to think about Blake.
She was only a few dozen yards away, yet somehow felt farther than she’d ever been while Yang was out at sea.
Around her, the party carried on as though nothing in the world had changed.
Somewhere behind her, someone laughed loudly enough to startle a flock of seabirds from the rooftops. A drummer picked up the tempo, and before long half a dozen couples had been coaxed into dancing, abandoning half-finished plates without a second thought.
Not that any seemed to mind, as they laughed and grinned.
Yang tore off a piece of the flatbread, more to keep her hands busy than because she was still hungry.
Yang was midway through another piece of flatbread when a shadow fell across her plate.
She didn’t need to look up to know who it was—there was a specific weight to Ghira Belladonna’s presence, the kind that came from being someone used to getting respect. Whether that was because of his easygoing nature or the fact he stood a head taller than most people, Yang couldn’t say.
She looked up anyway.
Ghira was a large man, his size softened only by the easy smile he wore. Pale scars traced one side of his jaw before disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt—old reminders of a life that hadn’t always been peaceful.
He carried the kind of quiet confidence that told people he didn’t need to raise his voice to command everyone’s attention.
Not that it stopped him from occasionally letting out a roar of a laugh—or a booming shout that, by Yang’s reckoning, could probably carry across a few islands.
“Enjoying the food?” He asked with an easy laugh, reaching beside Yang for some kind of skewer that carried a deep herbal-spice scent.
He paused, like he was giving Yang a chance to respond—or maybe just choosing his next words carefully.
He bit into the skewer, pretending not to watch Yang too closely, though his eyes lingered on the cutlass at her hip and the flintlock resting beside it.
“You tell me, Governor,” Yang said with a low laugh.
Ghira’s smile widened a fraction.
“Ghira is fine.”
“Oh but Mr. Governor,” Yang began, “you’re a respected man here. I can’t rightly treat you like a friend.”
Ghira paused to narrow his eyes at her.
Then he let out a booming laugh as he planted his hand on her shoulder.
“How long have we known each other, Xiao Long?”
“More years than I care to count,” Yang chuckled, feeling some of the tension slip away.
“And you’ve certainly helped my wife’s business grow profitable in all that time,” Ghira said evenly, still grinning. “For that, I owe you my thanks.”
“If you’re about to offer that privateer contract, save it,” Yang sighed, tossing her plate to the table.
Ghira nodded slowly, his eyes drifting to Kali in the crowd briefly before they flicked back to Yang.
“Then I’ll leave the stubbornness to my wife and daughter,” he laughed softly.
Yang blinked.
That was not the response she had expected.
“You’re not going to argue?”
Ghira shook his head, taking another bite from his skewer.
“Would it help?”
Yang opened her mouth, then stopped.
“…No.”
“Then I see little reason to waste a good evening doing it.”
His eyes drifted toward the party for a moment. Toward Kali greeting guests. Toward Blake laughing politely beside her.
“So enjoy yourself. Eat and mingle,” he encouraged, his eyes coming back to Yang. “We’re actually about to break open a cask, so have a drink and stop frowning so much.”
Yang rolled her eyes dramatically, and shot him a harder frown.
Ghira only laughed.
“Keep that up, and I’ll send Blake this way.”
That earned a reluctant snort from Yang.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re insufferable?”
Ghira shrugged, taking a step back toward the crowd.
“Blake’s called me many things, insufferable ranking fairly high on that list.”
Yang shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her mouth despite herself.
She almost forgot why she was frowning in the first place.
Almost.
And, as Ghira had prophesied, a few casks came out of… well, Yang didn’t know where. Nor did she particularly care.
Yang grabbed a glass the first chance she got and threw it back.
Wine wasn’t her drink of choice, and this one tasted like the kind of thing people with too much money bought to impress each other.
Not that it stopped her from going for a second glass, deciding to sip on it as she absently drifted through the crowd.
Eventually, she came across Weiss and Pyrrha, the latter guiding Weiss through the party with practiced ease.
Yang stepped closer, waving down Pyrrha, who in turn brought Weiss’s movement to a stop.
“You two look like you’re having fun.”
Weiss turned slightly toward the sound of her voice, a faint smile forming.
“Yang.”
Pyrrha smiled as well, adjusting her grip slightly on Weiss’s arm.
“Enjoying the party?”
“Trying to,” Yang admitted, lifting her glass slightly. “The food’s good. Wine’s not my preferred choice, though.”
Weiss swirled the wine in her own glass, considering it for a moment.
“Wine would definitely be my preferred choice.”
Pyrrha hummed lowly.
“If we’re talking preferences, I would choose a finely aged whiskey.”
Yang raised her glass towards Pyrrha.
“Now that’s something I can agree with,”
Weiss let out a small laugh.
“Not rum?” she teased.
Pyrrha clinked her glass against Yang’s, squeezing Weiss’s arm.
“Whiskeys a great choice,” Yang replied evenly.
“Maybe the greatest,” Pyrrha added.
For the first time that evening, Yang found herself smiling without forcing it.
“Glad to hear you laughing,” Weiss teased. “Pyrrha says you were frowning like someone sank your ship earlier.”
Yang glanced toward Pyrrha.
“You told ‘er?”
Pyrrha’s smile turned apologetic, though not particularly guilty.
“Only that you seemed troubled.”
“Troubled?”
Yang scoffed lightly.
“I face trouble on the regular,” she laughed, trying to make it sound lighter than it was.
Weiss let out a soft sigh, taking a small sip from her glass before speaking.
“This is the last place I wish to argue,” she said evenly. “I don’t think the Belladonnas have enough wine for that.”
Yang opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
She was right.
“Speaking of the Belladonna’s,” Yang mused, her eyes drifting across the crowd. Searching.
It didn’t take long.
Blake wasn’t hard to find.
Not because she stood out—she never had to.
Blake had always been the kind of person who could disappear into a room if she wanted to.
But Yang knew where to look.
Near Kali, of course.
Blake stood beside her mother, offering polite smiles and quiet words to guests as they passed.
Every so often, Blake looked over the crowd herself. Almost bored. Like she was buried beneath endless papers, no matter how many she finished there was always another waiting.
Yang knew that look.
She’d seen it countless times over the years.
Yang had once or twice barely managed to keep herself sitting still long enough to watch Blake practically collapse when her assistant brought over another stack of papers.
Was it her assistant?
Yang shrugged it off. Didn’t matter to her.
“Subtlety has never been your strong suit,” Weiss teased.
Yang quickly looked back, blinking as if it’d help her understand.
“… What’s that?”
“Pyrrha says you were very openly staring at a certain someone,” Weiss explained with a teasing smirk.
Yang let out a small snort.
“Don’t believe everything she says,” she huffed, hiding her smirk behind her glass.
Weiss took a small sip from her glass, the corner of her mouth twitching.
“I’m a trusted confidant,” Pyrrha replied with a laugh, squeezing Weiss’ arm.
“Big fancy word,” Yang muttered. “Whatever ‘elps you sleep at night.”
She took a long sip of her wine, trying—and failing—to swallow the smile tugging at her lips.
A cheer suddenly rose from somewhere near the center of the estate.
Yang turned in time to see someone prying the lid from a new cask. A fresh round of cups was already making its way through the crowd, greeted with far more enthusiasm than dignity.
“Well,” Yang mused, lifting her now half-empty glass, “looks like Menagerie has its priorities in order.”
“Free alcohol tends to have that effect,” Weiss replied dryly.
“You sound experienced.”
“This isn’t my first party,” Weiss replied, as though that explained everything.
“Coulda fooled me,” Yang laughed.
“Oh come now,” Weiss began evenly, “you really think I just poofed onto Menagerie’s docks, starting my life with…”
Weiss’ words trailed off as she gestured broadly at her eyes.
Yang laughed, and Weiss let the moment sit there, complete and understood without needing elaboration.
“Fair point,” Yang said, raising her glass in acknowledgment. “Here’s to the Belladonnas—may they never run out of food or wine.”
“Amen to that,” Pyrrha replied, raising her glass.
“Hear, hear,” Weiss added with a smile.
Their glasses clinked together.
Somewhere across the estate, another cheer erupted as a pair of musicians picked up a faster tune. Within moments, more guests were abandoning their seats, laughing as they were pulled toward the growing circle of dancers.
Yang watched them with quiet amusement.
Yang took another sip, letting her gaze wander over the party once more.
Kali had drifted off toward another group of guests, leaving Blake standing on her own for the first time that evening.
It didn’t last.
Another guest claimed her almost immediately.
Blake greeted them with the same patient smile she’d worn all evening.
Most people would’ve believed it.
And maybe they did.
Yang knew better.
She knew Blake’s real smile.
She’d seen it. Caused it often enough. Memorised it without ever meaning to.
Her fingers tightened slightly around her glass.
She could walk over. Say something stupid. Make Blake laugh.
She’d done it a thousand times before.
She’d be leaving shore soon enough. Yang never could stay landbound for long. She only ever lasted a few weeks at best.
Maybe, just for tonight, they could pretend none of that mattered. Maybe, for one night, they didn’t have to argue.
They’d never been girlfriends.
Yang could never promise that.
Whenever the Wildfire came into port, they’d crawl into the same bed and fuck away the months—or even years—apart.
And Yang would leave again.
She always did.
Yang was staring so intently that she almost didn’t notice when Blake excused herself from the guest she’d been talking to.
Blake moved through the crowd with practiced ease, accepting greetings without breaking stride, and made a beeline straight toward Yang.
There was no hesitation in her approach.
Just Blake, cutting through the party like she had every right to be wherever she wanted to be.
Which, technically, she did.
“Captain Xiao Long,” she greeted politely, bowing a quarter-inch.
“Miss Belladonna,” Yang replied with exaggerated politeness, punctuating it with a sly wink.
Blake’s ears flattened against her head almost instantly.
The blush followed a heartbeat later.
“M-May I borrow you for a moment,” Blake asked shyly.
Yang glanced toward Weiss and Pyrrha.
“Seems I’ve been summoned.”
“Yang,” Blake muttered under her breath.
“Sorry,” Yang grinned. “Couldn’t resist.”
Blake sighed, though the corners of her mouth betrayed the beginning of a smile.
“May I please borrow you for a moment?”
“Well, when you ask so nicely,” Yang teased, punctuating it with an exaggerated bow.
Blake rolled her eyes, though the smile never quite left her lips.
Yang spared a quick glance at Weiss and Pyrrha.
“Try not to drink their barrels dry,” she teased as Blake practically dragged her away.
“Some of us have standards,” Weiss shot back, smiling devilishly.
Pyrrha muttered something into her glass, but Yang was already too far to hear it.
Yang chuckled to herself, letting herself be led. Even as the music faded away slowly.
Yang wedged her sword between the cracks of one of the cargo boxes and pried it open with a grunt.
The lid gave with a sharp crack.
She tossed it aside, slid her sword back into its scabbard, and glanced over her shoulder.
“Really couldn’t wait until later for this?” she teased.
“Oh I could,” Blake chuckled. “I just wanted to get away from all those people.”
Yang looked back into the crate.
“Fair enough.”
She reached inside, pushing aside a layer of packing straw until her fingers brushed cold steel.
“What’s Schnee been transporting this time?” Yang muttered, pulling a rapier free.
Yang blinked at it, and Blake peered over her shoulder.
They stayed silent for a while, as if waiting for Schnee himself to come in and give an answer.
But he didn’t.
“No way this is simple guard gear,” Yang said lowly, turning it over on her hand.
“Looks almost… militaristic?” Blake said under her breath.
Yang didn’t answer. She leant the blade against the box, and dug deeper into the packing straw.
Another blade.
Then another.
Soon, half a dozen laid by the crate.
All perfectly identical.
Her expression slowly hardened.
“I swear, if I’ve stumbled onto a conspiracy, I’m gonna… I dunno what I’d do. Prolly shoot something.”
“Can that something be Jacques?” Blake huffed lowly.
Yang gasped dramatically.
“Blake Belladonna, a noblewoman, asking me to kill? Why I never.”
Blake rolled her eyes just as dramatically as Yang’s gasp.
“I said shoot him, not kill him.”
“Semantics,” Yang laughed with a wave of her hand.
The laughter faded almost as quickly as it had come.
Her eyes dropped back to the crate.
“…Jokes aside.”
She nudged one of the rapiers with her boot.
“Any idea what this means?”
Blake hummed lowly, her eyes fixed solely on the weapons.
“There’ve been reports that Sienna’s people recently stole a few shipments of weapons.”
Yang crossed her arms.
“How recent? Cause the last time I even saw that Schnee crest was a good few months ago.”
Blake sighed.
“I’ll have to check the reports,” she said flatly. “Enough reports and you can feel your brain rotting.”
Yang let out a low chuckle.
“Almost makes me feel sorry for Weiss.”
Blake’s mouth twitched.
“Almost?”
Yang half-shrugged.
“She chose that life. Can only fault her so much, ya’know?”
Blake rolled her eyes dramatically.
“Some people just have the head for numbers.”
Yang snorted.
“And some people have the head for taking what those numbers are worth.”
She tapped the side of the crate with her knuckles.
The joke faded when the sound of wood against steel echoed back.
Her eyes dropped to the pile of identical blades.
“I know Sienna has a bigger hate-boner for Schnee than most, but that don’t explain why she’s stealing his weapons.”
“A weapon’s a weapon to a pirate queen,” Blake huffed lowly.
“Self-proclaimed pirate queen,” Yang corrected. “Certainly ain’t one for us human pirates.”
“I forget that sometimes,” Blake sighed. “Her and that damned fleet of hers—“
She stopped herself, closing her eyes as if already tired of the argument before it started.
Blake opened them again, her expression settling back into its usual composure.
“Her politics and titles don’t matter right now,” Blake said flatly.
Yang’s grin faded as she looked back at the blades.
“Schnee’s got soldiers round the archipelago somewhere. Or he’s supplying them at the very least.”
“Oh yay. More paperwork,” Blake scoffed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Try to sound happy,” Yang teased, patting her on the shoulder.
“Oh I’m ecstatic,” Blake grumbled, shooting a glare at Yang.
“Good, cause I’m starving for some more food, and you’ll need that polite smile as I go raid whatever’s left,” Yang laughed.
Just as Yang stepped past her, Blake caught her arm and spun her back around.
Before Yang could make another joke, Blake pulled her into a deep kiss.
When Blake finally pulled away, Yang blinked.
“…Was that your way of asking me to stop talking?”
Blake’s ears twitched.
“I actually love hearing you talk.”
Yang raised a brow, caught somewhere between surprise and amusement.
“I didn’t want to check on the cargo, dumbass,” Blake laughed. “Especially finding out about some conspiracy and having to do more paperwork.”
“Dumbass?” Yang echoed, but she was already pulling Blake closer.
“You prefer pirate scum?” Blake teased.
Yang let out a snort.
“I prefer you naked.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Blake laughed, turning around smoothly.
“Here?” Yang laughed against Blake’s neck. “In your mother’s basement?”
“Think someone will interrupt us?” Blake teased, smiling smugly over her shoulder.
“When you say it like that…” Yang hummed, her fingers already finding the laces at Blake’s back.
Blake’s dress came apart with practiced ease, fabric giving way under Yang’s impatient hands.
For a moment, Yang almost forgot this was the same woman who had spent the last hour smiling politely at nobles and pretending not to be exhausted.
Yang pulled away the dress, letting Blake kick it off quickly, then spun her around and pulled her in for a kiss.
For a moment, the rest of the world disappeared—the party beyond the walls, the questions waiting in the crate, all of it forgotten
Blake pulled away long enough to lift Yang’s shirt over her head.
Yang’s shirt hit the floor, and Blake’s corset soon followed.
Within moments they were skin on skin, and Yang was pushing Blake back onto one of the other wooden crates, her thigh pressing between Blake’s legs while she pulled Blake’s face up to meet hers.
The next kiss was deep and messy—tongues tangling, teeth finding soft skin, Blake making small sounds of need against Yang’s mouth.
Yang’s hands roamed—one gripping Blake’s waist, the other finding Blake’s breast, fingers brushing across skin and teasing it.
Blake broke the kiss with a gasp, her own hands mirroring Yang’s—one hand at Yang’s waist, pulling her closer, the other finding Yang’s breast and squeezing with deliberate intent.
“Fuck,” Yang groaned, burying her face in Blake’s neck.
Blake’s fingers traced the curve of Yang’s chest, mapping old scars with new intention. She leaned forward and caught Yang’s nipple between her teeth, gentle then firm, drawing a sharp intake of breath from Yang.
Yang’s hand moved lower, her thigh still pressed against Blake’s center, feeling her slickness. She groaned and pushed harder, watching Blake’s head fall back, her mouth open in a silent cry.
Blake’s nails raked down Yang’s back as she gasped Yang’s name, and Yang answered by lifting her, Blake’s legs wrapping around her waist as Yang pressed her harder against the crate.
The room filled with the sound of Blake’s ragged breathing, Yang’s low groans, the creak of wood under their weight.
“More,” Blake begged.
Yang pressed her lips into Blake’s, her tongue finding Blake’s once again.
Minutes blurred into sensation—Blake’s gasps, Yang’s groans, Blake’s nails digging deeper and her breath coming faster.
Somewhere beyond the walls, the party carried on.
Music. Laughter. Voices.
None of it mattered.
Yang felt the exact moment Blake stopped thinking about anything but Yang.
The outside world didn’t exist anymore. For now, it was just them. Moaning, grinding, and kissing their thoughts away.
Yang had long since stopped trying to count the stars.
There were simply too many.
That certainly didn’t stop Ruby, so many years ago.
Her sister had spent hours pointing out shapes that weren’t there, giving every cluster of stars some ridiculous name.
But Yang had long since learned the real ones. Orion’s Belt. The North Star. The Big Dipper. The Pleiades, bright and clustered together like someone had spilled a handful of diamonds across the sky.
The stars weren’t just stories anymore.
They were markers.
Guides.
A sailor’s only constant.
The Wildfire rocked gently beneath her, the hammock swaying with the rhythm of the ocean as she stared upward, one arm resting beneath her head, and the other hanging loosely over the side.
The world felt pleasantly distant.
No expectations.
No problems.
Nothing but her and the open sky.
Not even a cloud to block it, tonight.
“Full moon….” Yang breathed, glancing over at it.
She squinted at it for a moment, as if expecting some great answer to appear in the pale glow.
Nothing came.
Just the same moon she’d seen a thousand times before.
The same one that had watched over storms, battles, long nights without land in sight, and mornings where she wondered if the ocean had any intention of letting her go.
It always did.
Always brought her back to shore against all odds. When they were running on fumes, hardly a crumb left. When they were carrying enough stolen goods to nearly sink them just from weight alone. When they got hopelessly lost in a deep fog.
Somehow, the Wildfire always found her way to port.
Yang smiled faintly at the thought.
Maybe that was why she never worried too much when the sea turned ugly. When it thrashed against the Wildfire. When it hid creatures beneath the waves that dared to try and take her life.
When it succeeded in taking one of her crew’s.
It had tried to kill her plenty of times. More than she’d ever care to count.
The hammock swayed beneath her, the gentle motion almost lulling her to sleep.
And to think Blake had offered her a soft bed, as if that would somehow help her sleep off her drunkenness.
Yang almost laughed at just how many glasses of wine she ended up having.
How she’d let Ghira convince her into a drinking contest after the last guest left, Yang didn’t know.
She still drank him under the table, though. Then had another few glasses… somehow.
Her memories after that were a little less clear.
Blake trying to get her to stop. Telling her she’d already proved herself.
Then her laughter, which broke into giggling.
The sound of it stuck with Yang more than the wine did.
The hammock shifted beneath her as the Wildfire continued its slow dance with the waves.
Yang smiled faintly, staring up at the stars.
A part of her wondered if Blake was staring up now.
If Ruby was.
If Tai was….
Yang let out a long sigh.
That was always the danger of getting drunk.
Eventually, there was nothing left between her and the memories she spent most days outrunning.
She always thought about him when she drank too much. Left alone with her thoughts, there was only so far she could run from the past.
Maybe it wasn’t so bad, every once in a while.
She just hadn’t been home in…
Yang frowned slightly.
She’d lost count years ago.
The thought lingered longer than she expected.
Home.
It was a strange word. A strange concept.
The Wildfire was her home. The ocean was the closest thing she’d ever had to a front yard in years—in decades.
She blinked, coming back to the stars above, the sound of the ocean below, and a far too familiar snoring she was only just starting to notice.
Yang eased one boot off—well, drunkenly yanked it off—then peeked over the hammock and towards her helmsman sleeping by the wheel.
She then chucked it blindly at him.
“Go below deck,” she slurred when he jolted awake.
The helmsman muttered something that sounded vaguely apologetic before stumbling off toward the stairs.
Satisfied, Yang settled back into the hammock.
The Wildfire rocked gently beneath her.
Sleep came easy after that.