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hopelesslonelyghost · 2 days

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the soft blue of a pale moon | Yautja x f!Reader

He keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive. Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at this creature, this beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones, his pretty pet, his plaything, supplicant by his side. You won't ever submit. Ever.

warnings: noncon/dubcon. captive reader. predator/prey. forced submission. noncon D/s dynamics. forced mating. rough sex/violent sex. broken bones. belly bulge. biting. size difference. mentions of violence. scent kink (slight). marking/scarring (territorially, possessively). alien biology. alien genitalia. female presenting reader (female anatomy).

Yautja terms:Kainde Amedha — hard meat (refers primarily to xenomorphs) Ooman — human

lore: comics, novels. divine wisdom.

this is basically a Dark (from the 2010 avp video game lmao) x Reader fic. Yautja is not an OC. but you don't need to know anything at all from the game to read this.

The bed of furs is soft beneath you.

It's an odd juxtaposition compared to the uncanny harshness of the room you've been left in (held captive for days, weeks, months—) with its severe lines and its stark, unfamiliar geometry. The walls stained a strange, unearthly colour of brownish-gold, towering high into a domed ceiling etched with symbols and runes you've yet to decode. Ones you know you never will.

This whole place is otherworldly. Seemingly beyond the scope of science fiction, or what your meagre imagination can dream up. Reality. Fantasy. The two blend together to form this archaic, rustic interior that's somehow far too futuristic for your mind to understand, and yet shaded in use, in age. Space dust. Caught between old and new—new: unknown, unknowable—and utterly mesmerising despite the garishness of what lies outside beyond the edge of the pelts you rest on.

Adorning the walls are an uncountable number of skulls and bleached white bones. Weaving spines strung up. Spindly, alien vertebrae. Fantastical creatures. Mythological beasts. It's something only the most inspired minds can conjure—

And yet, it all sits within reach.

(The human skull on the wall, still attached to its spine, is perched over your head like an omen—)

You tear your gaze away from it, sliding over the trophies immortalised in a shrine dedicated to the prowess of the being who took you. An alien. Yautja, you’ve come to learn. Predatory hunters who roam the galaxies in search of the best prey. A race made of warriors with a strict honour code.

Though—

You don’t know how honourable keeping captives are to their society, but none of the other massive beings had tried to intervene when he had taken you on the ship, hauled over his shoulder like a conquest, beating furious fists into his broad back. They stood back, chittering to themselves in what you know is laughter. Mocking clicks. Low trills. They thought it all so funny, outlandishly so, to see him stalk through the thick haze of fog that blanketed the ground with a yowling ooman clawing futilely at his back.

(As if your weak, feeble fists could ever hope to maim, to hurt—)

You don't know why he decided to take you. Even now, aeons later as you pass by an unfathomable number of solar systems, all glimmering like crushed gems just beyond the domed window above your bed, you have no idea what brought this on. What made him look at you, and think—

Pet (mine).

And it's not for a lack of trying, either. But trying to prise anything out of him is near impossible. Chiselling for gold with a plastic spoon.

It leaves you with only one other villain in this story, and you very readily blame Weyland-Yutani for this mess—dig deeper, explore faster, mine harder—but yourself, more so, for signing your name on the dotted line in the first place. You knew it was a terrible idea from the beginning. Not too many planets are truly desolate these days. Not with those things, xenomorphs, roaming the solar system unhindered.

Nothing good ever comes from meeting them. Death, inevitably, follows.

Though, comparatively, you'd rather be sprawled out—naked, collared—on a bed of strange, soft fur than being used as a breeding sow for a race of parasitic monsters hellbent on devouring the galaxy.

Panic is white hot, electric. The thought alone makes you lash out, a paroxysm of pure adrenaline, fear. Your hand flies to your chest instantly. Fingers knotting between your heaving breasts, feeling around for any movement under your skin. A beat. Several. All erratic. Thumping harshly against your ribcage. And—

Nothing. Just the erratic flutter of your heart, bragging senselessly in your chest.

(stupid thing—)

Of course. Of course.

Out of everyone on the ill-fated expedition, somehow only you survived. Holed up in the armoury, listening to those serpentine creatures tear into the flimsy metal of your ship. Taking out the ones who managed to sneak in with a well-placed shot to their domed heads. Hiding in a corner waiting for them to find you, wondering if the last few bullets should be used on them or yourself.

It was days of that. Of piling these awful monsters high, and hoping the corrosive blood didn't ruin the hull to make an opening wide enough for them all to pour in, overwhelming you with your dwindling ammo.

Breathing in ragged breaths, all the while listening to the hisses skirting across metal, grazing talons down your skull. They liked to taunt you, a fact that nearly drove you to the brink when all the meandering words uttered around about their hive-like simplicity, their insectoid stupidity, fell apart. These creatures are deadly, cunning.

And smart.

They adapted easily to your patterns, overcoming your bullets and your patchwork ingenuity with ease. The only thing that kept them at bay was the metal being too thick to penetrate with their claws.

(And you watched, helplessly, as they realised this after the second week, and sacrificed the smaller drones to splash their corrosive blood across the thickened alloy, melting it slowly down to nothing—)

They would have gotten you soon enough.

Had to, really. Because the Queen was waiting. You heard her hisses in your head. Felt her in the air, disturbed and agitated, around you. Pulsing like a heartbeat. Hammering against your resolve with each nightmare she pressed into the folds of your subconsciousness. Luring you to her. Showing you the wonders of giving in, granting her access.

Coming home—

You don’t know how anyone could withstand her influence. The siren’s call from down the hall, showing you image after image of her children curling protectively over you. Nestled in a tight embrace. Safe and sound from the howling winds and the scorching sun, from the awful hisses outside, and the horrific sound of metal giving way, melting into a puddle on the floor.

It was madness. One you wanted nothing more than to give into—

And then they came.

Appearing out of thin air just as your bullet pierced her jaw when she finally came for you, her child—

She fell, taking out several of the others with her—ones not on your list of alien species to look out for—and left behind nothing but a passel of intimidating creatures and you.

He, their leader, was the first to find you. Grabbing you by the scruff of your neck like a misbehaving kitten, and pulling you close. Taking stock, you think, of the bodies behind you and the holes in the Queen made from your gun.

An uneasy, stifling silence fell, broken by a series of drawn-out, low clicks.

You realised then, right as he bent down and tore the claw off of a dead xenomorph, what these beings were. Hunters. Predators. It was rare to see them on earth, but you’d heard of several run-ins with these creatures whenever humans decided to mettle with their preferred prey.

It was even rarer that any human survived the encounter.

He cocked his head to the side before pressing the bloody tip to your cheek, branding you with the mark of the blooded. One that matched his own. Purposefully done, of course.

His crest on your skin, unique as a thumbprint, is the loudest proclamation of his claim. Anyone from any number of clans that roam the heavens in search of prey, of hard meat, know, immediately, that you belong to him. That you bear his mark, branded with the scar of his respect.

(Respect—such a weighty thing to carry across your shoulders, too. Something you'd been eager to obtain, hungering for it all your life. And now—

The blunt, almost suffocating heft of it feels permanent in a way you can't even begin to unravel.)

He'd taken you, then. Despite thinking of humans as soft meat, cattle, he'd thrown you over his shoulder and marched you to his quarters where he stripped the xenomorphs of their skin, and hung their bones on the wall—your trophies. Sat next to his own. A bold display. A show of respect, however rare—and unwanted.

And then he'd stared at you through the black slits in his horned mask. Just watching. Studying. It took a great deal of composure not to weep. To beg for—

For something.

Leniency, maybe. For whatever crimes you inadvertently perpetrated against them. For being here, of all places, because of the insatiable greed of Weyland-Yutani.

For believing in them in the first place, maybe. Following, desperately, in the footsteps of your fallen idol.

It never mattered much in the end, though. After a careful, blank scrutinisation, he'd simply reached down, talons digging painfully into your skin, and tossed you into the softest bed of furs—of pure, hedonistic luxury you'd ever felt—and followed you down with an inhuman growl that rattled through your bones. That seemed to echo throughout the ship, shaking the walls, and trembling through the floors.

The kicking and screaming never happened. Futility paints a desperate picture, doesn't it? And in those moments, now lost to time, you knew, somehow, that it was useless. Is useless.

He wanted you. Him, the captain of this ship you've been left to rot inside of. The one who knows your language, but refuses to speak it. Preferring, instead, to let the guttural clicks and the chirring of his foreign, unspeakable mother tongue take precedence.

The one who hunts, viciously, and wears his trophies around his neck. Strung up for all to see as they dangle across his broad, mottled chest. Black. Endlessly so. His colouring is shades darker than your own galactic canvas where midnight itself spills across satin, but the comparison itches in your chest, rotting along with your sickening heartbeat.

And you think he knows this. Because despite his fury as he slashes his way through the oddest assortment of extraterrestrial creatures you've ever laid eyes upon, he's cunning. Smart. Adaptable.

It's this, the strange, almost preternatural patience he exudes which keeps you where you lay now. The innate knowledge that he's a primal hunter, one who uses both instinct and a keen, calculative sense of awareness to ensnare his victims wholly, unquestionably. One who'd undoubtedly hunt you down to the very edges of the star system you escape into until you're bent down on both knees, supplicant to his prowess.

His little pet.

And oh, how he luxuriates in it. This little moniker given to you by his clanmates seems to make him preen each time you hear the familiar, rasping click of their scornful mockery.

Soft ooman. His ugly little trophy.

He snaps his mandibles at them in response, but keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him—ozone, leather, spice, and a potent musk of mildew and loam, humus; the stagnant waters of a swamp teeming with algae blooms. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive.

Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at the creature, the beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones.

You won't ever submit. Ever.

But you can play the part—if only until he eases his grip, allowing you to slip away again.

With a glower, you lay open kisses along the hard, leathery ridges of his black scute, chasing the oily tang of his musk on your tongue.

The feel of your soft mouth makes his thighs tense—all firm, corded muscle; raw, primal power sheathed in a thick, aggregate pelt of marbled colours. It feels like warm stone under your fingers. Oiled leather. Crocodilian.

His maw opens, and the sound that tumbles out is full of fractured syllables and inhuman chirrs, gutteral crepitate. It's not something your human tongue could ever expect to replicate, and your lips tug downward in a sharp frown, your displeasure at this game of his growing by the minute. His staunch refusal to speak your language despite clearly knowing it—and knowing it well—is aggrevating, if only for the sole reason that he kidnapped you. That you being here, listening to him, is not of your own free will.

The scorn is thick on your tongue, the vitriolic rebuttal taking shape already, but he silences you when his thumb grazes your jaw. The air in your lungs tumbles out in a shudder when you feel the unnaturally soft, yet firm, skin of his palm slide around the back of your nape.

The fight in you is numbed by the realisation that his hand alone spans the entire length of your shoulders, now curled possessively around your neck. Fingers overlapping, folding over each other easily into a perfect collar.

His hand closing over your throat draws your eye to the ringed gorget he wears around his neck.

The comparison makes you sick.

The talons on his fingers are warm, powder-soft like the beak of a bird, when they tap against your throat as you swallow, thumb still stroking along the ridge of your jaw. It's shockingly intimate, and the humanness of it settles in your stomach like a sinking stone. Granite needling against soft tissue. Mercury bleeding into your guts. You hate it.

Hate how much you don't hate it.

The juxtaposition fills you with a fit of vicious anger. You don't want to seek comfort from this beast.

Your gaze drops, resting churlishly on the thick skin of his belly. Despite the raw, indomitable strength that coils through his muscles, malleable obsidian, when he sits, the softness of his belly pudges out, jutting over the brass-coloured belt of his loincloth.

It's—

Another marker of his uncanny likeness to the human form.

But where you might have expected to see coarse hair, his lower belly is sparsely covered by a dense, thick cropping of quills trailing along his abdomen. They feel like softened polymer under your fingertips, but catch on your skin if you're not careful, the sharpened edge digging in. It's not as painful as the press of his nails, but itches like a thorn. Needles of a cactus.

They stretch upward. Arching along in a perfect mockery of a happy trail that stretches to form a heavy bushel on his chest, small whiskers on his chin, his brow, dotted along the crest of his crown where his tresses fall.

Dragging your gaze up this path leads you back to piercing amber set deep inside the bracket of his skull. They seem to glow, an unnatural light spilling out of their sockets, highlighting the rigid lines of his bones.

He's watching you. Always.

(You blame the rapid thud of your heart on fear.)

Knowing he has your attention now, he makes the noise again. Lower this time. A snarling rasp breaking apart between his flexing mandibles. The sound akin to the rumble of an avalanche; the roaring screams of a forest on fire.

You have no hope of ever mimicking it—not without drinking down acid to corrode your vocal cords first. The anger that lashes through you is a whipcord cutting its tip against your resolve.

“What are you saying? I don’t understand—”

His massive crown dips, mandibles clicking. His thumb presses into your skin. Intentional. Pointed.

It's then you piece together that what he's saying isn't a command or a taunt, but rather his name. One you have no hope of ever repeating unless you want to turn your vocal cords into tatters, strips of unusable tissue. Wasting your words on his name is not something you think you would ever want to do.

And so, you don't.

Maybe it's to spite him. Or to put some semblance of distance between yourself and the alien holding you hostage, touching the skin of your neck with a soft sort of reverence you hadn't known he was capable of. Whatever the reason, you twist the ugliness inside of your chest, the rage and sorrow, into a brutal knife, wedging it into the scant space between your bodies, prying them apart in a shallow victory.

He's a hideous thing, isn't he? This brute.

Raw power. Untameable malice. All hidden under this pantomime of honour. How laughable, really, to think these beings know anything of the sort. Or maybe it's just him in particular. The outlier of the lot. One with a confounding obsession with ooman pets.

Ugly, you think, staring up at him. With his sunken eyes, and his mane-like crown. His tusks clicking together in quiet pleasure, smug in his throne of metal and bone.

Ugly, like the mossy green surface of a still swamp. Stagnant waters. A black lake. Shrouded by a dense, impenetrable cropping of weeping willows and mangroves. Shading the water so much that the algae blooms turn black like tar.

Dark, like him.

And so, you whisper it. Not his name, but this vindictive moniker you pieced together thinking of the lingering swamplands covered in moss and peat.

“Dark.”

In response, his nails rake over the back of your neck in both a warning, a reprimand; the same harsh touch used on an unruly cub by its mother. The comparison makes you bristle, hissing out a series of cruel jeers at him, but he barely pays it any mind, too busy chittering to himself now, humoured instead of insulted by this tangentially human name you've bestowed upon him.

The juxtaposition, the humanness of it all, is almost too much.

How can a creature that ripped a xenomorph’s jaw apart with his bare hands have these soft rolls along his midsection. Feel humour the same way your friends back home might have at your taunting barbs?

The contrast is nearly comical. Sour.

You don't like it when he's too human. When he scratches his warm talons along your nape absently. Thoughtless. A little twitch of his hand offering threadbare comfort in an unconscious whim. When he's tactile with you. Tensile. Gentle. Touching your skin with an exploratory sense of curiosity, of fondness. Laying you down on the furs with a tenderness that is at complete odds to the rough, demanding way he'll inevitably mate with you.

Mate. Because your coupling is always animalistic. Brutal. There's no tenderness to be found when he presses you into the furs, rutting into you like a beast. Growling, snarling. Making you take, and take, and take until he's satiated—

But you think you like it that way.

Especially when he's fresh off of a hunt.

When he fucks you into the mattress with nothing but harrowing, inhuman roars spilling from deep within his heaving, blood-drenched chest. Guttural snarls. Harsh, demanding. Moulding your body to his liking. Grasping you in a crushing clutch, and drawing your aching hips back to swallow down the intense thickness of his cock as it buries deep—impossibly so—inside of you.

You like him angry. Like him rough. It rents the moments when he's docile with you; bifurcating the peculiar sheen in his beady eyes when he lifts his mask off, placing it on the metal mantle with all the others, content to just stare at you. Looking, watching. Assessing.

It's the unnatural stillness of his gaze that sets you on edge. The heavy, unerring way he takes you apart with nothing but deep amber drilling through your skin.

Through because you've pieced enough together to know he can't see you the same way you can see him. That all the sharp angles of your features are hidden. The infinitesimal detailing lost to some wavelength your human eyes can't begin to take apart.

He hides this weakness by touching you endlessly. Long, sharp talons dragging over the bridge of your nose. The dip in your chin, the angles of your jaw. The plumpness of your cheeks.

He buries himself inside of you, and plays an exploratory game of committing your topography to memory with the soft, thick palms of his hands. Lets his long, rubbery tresses brush across your face as he sets a maddening pace that promises to one day snap your pelvis in half again, eyes glued to the centre of you where you burn the hottest.

Between these moments is where you linger the longest. Oscillating between a pet or a mockery of a queen; supplicant to its owner, it's King. Head resting on a terribly massive thigh as he commandeers a ship that makes all the technological advancements of your home world seem rudimentary and crude. A child's rendition of a spaceship brought to life with broken crayons. Left there to bask in his prowess, his glory. Surrounded by artefacts and trophies of all his kills—but considerably lesser than the vastness of his quarters where he keeps his most prized possessions.

Yourself included. Polished diamond perched on a satin pillow.

One he keeps dressed up in armour, in plating; decorated in the traditional fabrics of his own kind—mesh netting that keeps you perfectly comfortable, acclimated to the unbearable swelter of their ship, the temperature almost too much for your fragile skin to handle; breastplates over your chest; a bronze loincloth with intricate webbing and a heavy belt to keep it in place.

Adorned with pretty gems and metal bands around your neck, your arms. His mark on your skin.

Belly bare, and offered no shoes. But this fact is not a pointed statement about your imprisonment or your status amongst them—it's just for the simple fact that he doesn't wear them, and so: neither should you. The axiom is so irrefutable, that the bare, gnomic revelation is almost obvious in hindsight.

Obvious. In the same way a lightning strike is. Being torn to pieces for getting between a mother bear and her cubs. Falling off a cliff after dancing too close to the edge. Trying to swim in aerated water.

Obvious. It's all so obvious, isn't it?

You spend most of your days in this liminal labyrinth. Lost in your own mind as space flickers past the large window in front of you. Pinpricks of light in the distance of an endless, unfathomable black nothingness. Perched on the precipice of complacency and dread. Never knowing when he'll grow bored of this game, and turn you from a living emblem to a skull on his mantle like all the rest.

If, of course, you're even worthy enough of a place there.

You just don't know. And that's the crux of it all. Not knowing. Kept on the brink. Shrouded in uncertainty.

You'd think it intentional if you hadn't seen the way he preens under your stare sometimes. Flexing in his metal throne, showing off his array of scars; the trinkets he picked up on worlds unknown. The open, wanting way he regards you—this little human, barely a scrap of thing compared to him, to the sheer vastitude of his bulk. Hungry. Possessive. Always snapping his mandibles at the other Yautja who get too close, claws raking down flesh, spilling luminescent green blood across the floor. Injuring his own kind for attempting to touch you—

The King’s conquest.

But his ire doesn't abate for you, either. You've learned the hard way what it means to try and flee from his grasp, and while it wasn't nearly as bloodied, as brutal, as it was for his kin, it was terrifying.

He'd snatched you by your throat in an instant. His warm, soft palm enclosing over the fragile length of your neck with too much to spare for you to ever be comfortable. Long fingers overlapped across your nape, and he'd heaved you forward, slamming you into the hard plains of his body with a growl. Talons prickling into your skin, spilling blood down your back. He'd snarled so loud that the ship seemed to quiver, quaking under the sheer weight of his anger. Amber eyes drilled into you, widened with the fever of his fury, burying deep into your being. Your head wrenched side to side in a slow, agonising jolt as he assessed you. Taking stock of the silly pest that tried to run from him. That had the gall to slink off like an insect scurrying over his feet. Dishonourable.

You thought you were toeing the line before when you'd dig your human deep into his thickened hide as he kept you tucked to his side, on your knees for him; or when you tug so harshly at his tresses that green blood leaks from his skull and he howls in pain, but you realised then that you were wrong. That those little moments of mutiny were akin to foreplay to him. Small, inconsequential. Spilling his blood earned you marginal amounts of his respect, and he showed it by dumping you on his bed, and burying himself inside of you until you'd passed out into the furs. Overwhelmed. Punished. But it wasn't. You weren't being taught obedience by his hand, but rather getting a playful slap for your antics.

This, though.

Running from him—

Well.

In that moment, the air wrought with the metallic tang of his indomitable rage, you had thought: this was it. He was going to kill you. Flay your skin from muscle, and hang you in the rafters for the rest to gawk at. Easy prey. A fickle kill.

And with everything you'd gleaned about this strange tribe and their odd customs, it would have been a mercy.

But he didn't.

Doesn't.

His mandibles flare open, stretching out wide across his boxy jaw. The pinpricks of his teeth gleam in the hazy, saturated light of the ship; white, jagged peaks against fluttering, angry red. It shudders as he growls. The decibels pitched low, unfathomably so. You catch the spear of it rattling through his body, the rasping snark bellowing from the depths of his chest, and shaking the air around you. You can feel it reverberate from his flesh, the tight grip he has on you a conduit funnelling his anger straight into the middle of your throat.

It reminds you of a territorial crocodile bellowing in the shallow water, making it vibrate and splash around him as the shattering frequency ripples outward.

It's terrifying. Electric.

You feel it rattle through your bones. Feel the ripples trembling through your flesh.

It's primal, this fear. Animal.

But in the end, he doesn't kill you.

You're simply tossed over his shoulder like a rowdy, misbehaving pest, and taken back to his room, much to the amusement of his gathering tribemates peeking out of their room to see their leader tend to his wilful, misbehaving pet. He strips you of your armour with a careless, almost cruel disregard before pushing you back on the bed. There's a rigid line to his shoulders you'd never seen before; a damning flex to his jaws that make you shake, quivering in fear.

You know better than to speak, to beg. All it gets you in the end is a mocking series of clicks that you know enough to recognise as laughter. Instead, you take your punishment with your chin in the air, unwilling to submit the way he so clearly wants you to.

Your supercilious scorn has his mandibles widening in anger once again, and he exercises his control by shoving you face-first into the bed, and burying his tusks into the meat of your shoulder, keeping you still under him.

It's a clear warning. Move, it says, and his tusks will catch on your spine and rip it clean from your back. You still. Quiet. A prey animal lying prone, unmoving, at the feet of a chuffing predator as he mounts you from behind, rutting into you with a savagery that renders you into nothing more than a ruined heap under his bulk.

For your attempted escape, you end up with more of his scars on your body, indents in the shape of his flared mandibles on your shoulders, and a fractured pelvis. It could be worse. You could've died.

Should have, maybe.

(is that a plea? an orison?

and if so, why is it drenched in misery?)

And there is something vicious about the way he tends to your broken bones after, plunging the needle into your skin despite your howling, or the way you thrash. It's pure agony. The sensation how you imagine it must feel to be burned alive from the inside out.

That, you think, is why he has no qualms about leaving you alone now. Wandering off, chasing trophies and honour on a planet just outside of the domed window above your bed. A vicious, red world tidally locked around a small dwarf. One half shrouded endlessly in black while the other burns, charred from the intensity of its star. In the middle, you know, is a small strip. A habitable zone, if only just.

It's a place where a large, lumbering predator roams. One with towering antlers akin to the moose on earth, and jagged, spiked teeth protruding from its maw. The length is too much like a Sabre-toothed tiger for you to ever want to meet it face-to-face in the dark.

Proper prey. A worthy trophy, they consider it.

And, from the chittering you picked up, it seems that xenomorphs—kainde amedha—have found this place as well.

The thought of them down there—spreading, growing, infecting—fills you with a potent sense of dread, one that gnaws on your insides with serrated teeth. Vicious and ugly, it lingers in crevasses where it pokes and prods at your fear, and your worries, until they split open, leaking putrid rot all over.

It’s not that you’re worried about him. Not at all.

(despite the nagging in your chest that whispers you’re a liar when you press your face into his side of the lavish bed of furs, greedily inhaling as much of his lingering musk as you can—)

He's gone off on hunts many times since you've been taken, and most of them end up on worlds already broken apart, infested, by those parasites.

The notable difference is that brushes with them in the past never incurred much worry from you. If anything, you think you rather preferred it. Enjoyed the respite that came when he was gone, giving you a meagre ounce of freedom to think about all the (futile) ways you could escape.

And mostly waiting. Waiting for someone at Weyland-Yutani to notice the glaring absence of one of their engineers.

How laughable, really. Its echo is a false prophet whispering poison into your head, telling you that things will be over soon, that the higher-ups care less about profit margins than a whole fleet that went missing under garish circumstances on a planet you're soon beginning to think you never should have been sent to at all.

Saves money on wages, you suppose. And the expense of sending a rescue fleet in to investigate costs more than your yearly salary.

The bold, unignorable truth in that is a cruel, twisting knife to your agency. To the lingering remnants of your humanity, and worst of all, your hope.

No one is coming. You've known this for a while now. The toxic hisses are part of the reason why you decided to try your luck on a massive, earth-like planet the first (and only) time you've tried to run. Because without that, without this fraudulent hope, what else are you left with if not him?

And now—

It's been an uncountable number of days. Weeks.

Time in interstellar orbit is inconsequential. The beings themselves—yautja, you remember him hissing; garbled words mangled in his throat, and feel the burn in yours when you try to echo it in his tongue—have no reason to keep time, it seems. And even if they did, it's doubtful you would be able to interpret its abstract meaning.

But even without traditional clocks or human measures and scales of time, you know that he's been gone much longer than before. Agitation seems to simmer in the air. The yautja—unblooded younglings; juveniles in their comparably archaic youth—that come to deliver your food seem—

Restless.

Their maskless faces whisked in agitation. Shoulders set in a tense line. Eyes skewed toward the vast windows of the mothership, fraught with an eager sort of intensity.

You know, first-hand, how brutal their hierarchy tends to be, and have seen Dark use a brute, savage dominance over the younger, disrespectful, ones who ignored his warning in the past. The amalgamation, then, of their excitement and their uncertainty screams one thing:

he should have been back by now.

And it—

It does something to you.

Changes things, maybe. Skews your perspective.

Because the reality is this:

As much as you hate your circumstances, you're under no compunction that Dark isn't the sole reason you've been left, untouched, for so long. Why you're allowed to stay alive; to linger in his shadow, trailing after him like a lost dog. And you're barely certain that Dark won't turn around and kill you when the whim strikes him, much less his compatriots. His clanmates.

It leaves two brutal truisms for you to contend with: that you need him; and that without him, you're dead.

In that, you find there's almost too much to think about.

So—

You lean back, staring up at the pale blue moons outside of your prison, and think of nothing because if you can't see the pendulum, if you don't stare down into the maw of the pit, then you can pretend neither are really there at all.

You wake from a restless slumber to the door opening with a mechanised whirr, the rasp of heavy metals sliding against each other filling the air. A plume of thick fog billows up in response, shrouding the entrance in dense white.

The cloud conceals their identity, but it doesn't matter much. No one has access to these chambers. No one but him.

The long, sharpened talons on his toes clink against the floor as he approaches. Each footfall makes your heart jump, scattering in a strange, off-kilter rhythm.

Through the fog, he appears. Battleworn, and filthy. Splotches of dulled green blood cover his body from head (where you note a few tresses have been ripped off, some at the crown where a pock gapes open, deep forest green, and others at the ends) to toe. The majority of it is covered in the low, angry light of the glowing metal, the colour of molten rock. It's shielded from your prying eyes as he moves forward, strides purposeful as he lugs his wares over the threshold.

He comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, broad chest heaving with each breath he takes through the mask still on his face. You take stock of him as he stills, cataloguing each change to his appearance now—a new scar down the length of his chest, blistered and scabbed over from the healing salve they carry on their hunts. Part of it is hidden under a thick patch of burnt skin. The splatter whipping over his lower belly, and raising the toughened skin up half an inch.

The infliction of both are immediately recognizable in their unmistakable pattern.

The slash of a xenomorph’s claw ripping through skin, shredding through it like paper; and the jagged, rough burn of their blood as it rained down, unhinged, on bare flesh.

He fought quite the battle, you note, and pretend the rapidness of your breath doesn't reek of relief.

His hard-earned victory sits in his hands.

The skull of a queen.

The sickly white already polished and primed, ready for its place on his mantle. It should be there already. Should have been his first stop. Per tradition.

But he breaks it by standing before you now, covered in grime and dried blood. Reeking of stale sweat. Of rot. And holding his wares in his hand for you to see. To take note of. He waits even though you know it costs him a great deal of effort to stand here, beaten, bruised, scarred, burnt as he is. Half of it is the same, undeniable stubbornness that they all seem to inherit; a weaponised sense of pride. The other—

Well.

The significance of this moment, of this break in a sacred routine, isn't lost on you, despite your best efforts to pretend otherwise. As much as you want to ignore it, it itches behind your ribs, pulsing like an infectious wound.

It's only when he sways slightly in exhaustion, the movement almost indiscernible if you hadn't been watching him so intently, do you release him from this strange moment. Bowing your head down in quiet, muted submission; a reverent surrender to his indomitable prowess.

This gentle, almost desultory yielding doesn't seem to click at first. He tilts his head down slightly, gazing at you through the black slits in his mask, seemingly uncomprehending as he takes in the sight of you—this errant little human who caused him nothing but trouble, offered nothing but mocking respect—bowing down to him after an indefinite time fighting to free yourself from under his thumb.

Until—

It does.

The massive, bleached skull of the queen is shoved in the air in a sudden chirr, pitched to the ceiling as he stomps his feet on the ground in an effort to widen his stance. Knees bent, he throws his head back, and lets out a ravenous, blood-curdling roar of victory.

It bludgeons into you. The force of it winding when it hits, bruising along your skin in a throbbing ache.

This doesn't so much as feel like toppling over the precipice, but already being caught in an unstoppable freefall.

(one you're not sure will be an indefinite fall to the stagnation, stasis; or will send you crashing down to the jagged rock at the bottom of this vertiginous drop.

the one thing you are certain of is this:

it's much too late to go back when you've already lept off the edge.)

—and so, the pit it is.

His thumbs pitch under the board curve of his mask, grazing the soft underside of his boxed chin. Carefully, he lays down a single finger at a time, resting it against the smooth surface before slowly lifting it off his face.

When the humid air hits his flesh, his mandibles flare out. Flexing. An unconscious response, you now know, after being folded against his mouth to fit inside the helmet for so long. Joints aching. Muscles hinged with disuse.

It's with this motion that you notice the absence of his left, lower mandible. The stump a mangled mess of cauterised flesh. It's ugly. Atrocious, even. The scars crisscrossing against moulted skin of pale amber and black are a harrowing emerald smear, an awful amalgamation of dried blood and gnarled tissue.

The shock of it is dulled under the weight of his success, and it's then that you know you're too far gone to ever go back. Where there should be pity, and—shamefully—disgust, all you feel is an overwhelming sense of borrowed pride. Chiselled from the staunch set of his shoulders, the flex of his muscles, as he openly preens under your stare. Angling his chin downward, giving you a better glimpse of his battle scars. A hard-earned victory.

A queen is no easy feat, after all.

His eyes find yours in blood-red gloom. Burning amber, chiselled into the canyons of his unique, unmistakable topography, seems to drill, intensely, into you. They stray, travelling down the length of your nude body, barely covered by the pelts of his conquests.

You spare a thought to the idea that seeing you this way, wearing nothing at all but his kills, is what makes his broad chest expand suddenly, shoulders pulling back as he preens. Puffing his plumage in a heady pride, a deep satisfaction that runs bone deep.

Waiting for him, you think. Dressed only in the hide he skinned with his bare hands.

He rumbles suddenly. Bellowing out a low, steady growl between his sharpened teeth. This noise is unlike anything you'd ever heard before—deep, unfathomably so; but hollow. It echoes, reverberating from his chest in a timorous pitch.

You could almost mistake it for a leonine pur.

He stalks towards you, and each step ignites a war within you. The urge to flee from this predator is fierce. Instinctual. It burns through you with a vicious force, but in that rippling intensity, kindling burns in the scorch marks left behind.

Just as potent as the urge to run is, the want, the desire, to roll over and submit to this massive, powerful creature rages, blistering through you.

But you force yourself to stay still. To wait as he moves, seamlessly, to you. Lighter now that he's stripped himself of the wrist gauntlets, the cannon mounted to his shoulder, his trophies, his kills—the dangling skulls from around his neck, and waist. The belt and loincloth were the first to go, freeing himself to display his immodesty, completely at ease in his own nudity. The thermal netting peeled off next, and dropped into a pile by his mantle. The chill—if a near-constant swelter could ever be considered such a thing—made his jaws flare out in the only sign of discomfort he would ever give, flexing under the slow acclimation to this balmy heat that clings to air.

The heat, though—

Such a relentless thing.

You feel the humidity burn through you as he walks, unashamedly bare, to you. An incredible length of skin unveiled for your prying eyes, glinting a devastating obsidian in the pale luminescence of the locked moons just outside the window.

In this sparse light that trickles in, you let yourself grow bold, greedy, for the fill of him, and let your gaze trail down the pockets of quills dropping down his chest, his belly, until you meet the thick thatch on his groin. It's here where your breath catches. Hitching loudly in your throat as he comes to a standstill within your reach.

As human as he sometimes appears—usually in the most inopportune times—you can't deny the obviousness in his extraterrestrial anatomy compared to yours, to human morphology. Birdbeak warm claws, tusk tips on mandibles, leathery skin connected through a series of irregular polygonal shapes in mossy black and blazing amber, baleen teeth sharpened to needlepoints—you would be remiss to think him human in anything other than silhouette.

But arguably, the biggest shock (outside of his maw) is, of course, his cock.

Softened, it's kept tucked away inside of a slightly bulging cloaca shaded in the same dark green hue as his outer arms, back, and legs. A dense cluster of quills sit in a thatch around it, protruding near his black, pebbled scute. It's firmer than you'd expected it to be, but softens near the opening where his cock emerges, intimidatingly long, thick. The fattened length of him, too, is foreign.

The end tapers into a fleshy point. Along his shaft are barbs, small ridges that resemble the scute covering his body, if only softer. The reminder of them makes you tremble, skin heating. Feverish. It's indescribable, really. The way they drag along your sensitive flesh on the outstroke, the sensation dizzying.

Covering his flesh is an oily, slick substance, and it's really only this natural lubricant that even allows taking the full length of him inside of you possible. The sheen of it glints in the light when he flexes his muscles, and steps closer to the bed, smearing slick against his thighs. Your mouth waters, flooding with the veracity of your insatiable want.

(You hate him. Hate him. Want so him so badly that it feels like you're burning from the inside out—)

The push-pull of your submission, still at war with your innate sense of self, dims, quieting when he reaches the edge of the bed, cock in full view. The jut of it, now fully extended from his sheath, hangs, heavy and thick, between his legs, bobbing with his movements, twitching in his growing excitement. Prespend, slightly more watery in texture compared to a human man, gathers at the opening, dripping down to the floor beneath his feet. A long, pearlescent strand clings from his weeping slit, dropping to land on the flesh near his knee.

The sight of it shouldn't be as sinful as it is—you’ve yet to find god amongst the stars and you doubt, very much, you ever will—but seeing the thick glob of his desire spill, leaking steadily from his twitching cock, fills you with a heady sense of want. Desire.

He hasn't touched himself at all. Content, almost, to stare at you, head cocking to the side as his beady amber eyes drill into your lower belly, fixed on the spot where you burn the hottest. The heat signature you give off, blistering; red-hot, is probably the biggest appeal to a creature like him who sees in shades of yellows and reds. The mismatch of your complexion, the nude state of your body, is inconsequential to him when at your core, you're molten. And all for him.

He knows this, too. Knows your body well enough to see the unmistakable burn of your desire. Your desperation. The slick growing between your parted thighs turns into a heavy, hot flood; pulsing full of electricity. The depth of your need grows increasingly uncomfortable the longer he waits, watching. You want him. Want this massive beast who stole you away, who held you down and made you take him, made you submit.

And he wants you back. This Stygian king cut from ashlar, limned in shadows, wants you just as much—if not more. Went out of his way to burrow past your pitiful defences to bury himself as deeply as he could, rearranging your humanity into a likeness of his image; branding you with his mark, dressing you in clothes tailor-made to fit. Giving you the gift of his prowess—bones, skulls: trophies from the most fearsome predators in the galaxy left at your altar—in this mating dance, this outré ritual.

His desire for you is overwhelming. Dangerous. Your hips twinge at the reminder of when he exercised his punishment, exiguous as it was compared to his sheer strength, smarting with the phantom burn of fractured bones as he gave in, infinitesimally, to this voracious yearning that smoulders, a constant ember, in the sunken depths of his eyes.

Something surges through you at the thought of him holding back as much as he has, at the way he thickens just at the sight of your blood red need. It's a strange amalgamating of animalism (pure, unquantifiable primalism, bestial in its savagery; feral), and a heightened degree of pride—the sort that leaves you feeling godlike, peerless: transcendent, in the very essence of the word.

He wants you. You.

And in that, the vestiges of your control cessate.

Submission, you find, feels too much like finding sanctuary amidst a raging wildfire.

In response, he trills. The thundering bellow vibrates through the air. An unmistakable pur of a beast successfully conquering its mate.

He moves—soundless and surprisingly agile for such a mountainous creature; prodigious down to his every atom—and makes a slow, aching crawl to meet you on the bed. His knees, the size of your skull, press down first, making the basin of fur dip under the enormity of his heft. Encompassed in his shadow even with him kneeling before you, it makes the absurdity in your sizes more pronounced. Thighs thicker than the trunks of fir trees. Arms the width of your legs. His chest is the span of your own, just duplicated thrice.

Dark is a beastly thing up close.

There's a thrum in your throat; a heady pulse, throbbing with adrenaline cut by dormant fear. As if sensing death so close by, an atavistic caterwaul begins in your hindbrain, screaming at you to run, roll over, submit, play dead—the flickering of these prey responses an instinctual deluge that you quell, half-heartedly, with the knowledge that there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.

He'll find you. Even if he has to hear the star system apart to do it.

As if omnipotent to these weeping tendrils of animal fear, his broad chest trembles as he lets out a shallow pur. A softened bellow. The growl of a prowling cat on the Savannah.

You shiver, fisting the fur in your slick palms until it bulges up between whitening knuckles.

“Please,” is all you say, and you don't even know if this particular word registers to him at all. He never responded in the past to it (or stop, don't, no) outside of the rare occasion when he kept his helmet on, and mocked you with the garbled mimicry as he buried himself as deep inside of you as he could go.

This time, though, his mandibles twitch. His maw gapes open, displaying an egregious set of terrifying teeth, and the flutter of his throat grows, undulating in jerking pulses of flesh, sliding over each other until—

Puh–le’e–suh—

It's butchered beyond recognition. Maimed in the flex of his corded, baleen throat. But the intention is there, and the implication more so.

He spoke.

And it's a broken, devastating mockery of your mother tongue, but the force of it all is a blow, a bludgeon unlike anything you'd ever felt.

A whirlwind of emotions rage through you, all congealing into a muddled, indiscernible mess. It slips through your fingers, featherlight, but he doesn’t give you a moment to gather them together between your fists.

His tresses fall over his broad shoulders as he prowls forward, tiring of this epoch already. The long, tubular strands frame you in a serried curtain of black as he looms—gargantuan, mythical—above you, head dipped down. The massive crown lists to the side when you lean back, instinctively, spine meeting the furs in tandem with his slow advance.

The absence of his lower mandible when he flexes the others is novice in the liminal light that spills through the bulk of his body. You're not used to seeing him hurt like this. Ragged scars. Scorch marks tearing across his flesh.

Reflexively, you reach up. The tips of your fingers are feather-soft against the dry tresses just behind the missing cluster. The ends of them are cauterised—a thick, metallic clump glued to the bottoms to keep him from bleeding. Another anatomical anomaly.

Filled with veins and nerve endings, his tresses are far more sensitive to touch than the coarse hair of primates—the integument is different, too; rubbery to the touch, reminding you of polymer pipes or rubber bands, almost.

At your gentle touch, he makes a noise, a shallow churr in the back of his throat; mandibles soon folding over his mouth after. Reactive, you find, and endlessly endearing for such a monstrous creature. Cute.

A smile blooms at the notion of his sudden shyness. Such an outlandish thing for someone whose entire existence is narrowed down to honour and death. The pinch of his tusks elapsing over his maw fills you with a misplaced affection, a foreign growth metastasizing between your ribs.

You're not sure what it is—survival instinct, maybe. The urge, the drive, to keep living despite yourself; a blot against the harsh reality of your predicament. It feels like the most likely one considering the other is genuine adoration. Unthinkable even now in spite of your willing submission.

But thinking about this is a jagged dagger cutting through your insides. You shove it aside, hide it away.

The soft touch—a mere whisper of your fingertips gliding along the surface of his tresses—takes on a more intentional drag, purposeful. You curl your index finger around a corded forelock, giving a small, impish tug just to make him jutter above you.

His jaws flex, mandibles spreading slowly apart with a quiet, humid hiss. The heat brimming up once more as he curves his long mane over you, chin dipping down to encompass the entirety of your body under his.

You can't help wondering if this is what it feels like to be devoured.

And when he reaches the apex, eclipsing everything in your sight with the full, dark heft of him, hands fixed against the soft furs above your head, you think of a sanctum instead of a cage.

(a swinging pendulum—)

The heat is unbearable with him over you like this. Made worse, somehow, when his hand lifts, falls to your waist. The width of it covers you entirely. Swallowed whole by palm. You tremble, and he eats your anticipation with a distinctive, preening click, turning you on your belly with an ease that knocks the air from your lungs. Barely a featherweight to him. The notion is scorching.

The name he's given you is full rasping, mangled syllables your fleshy tongue could never begin to wrap around. In the absence of knowing how to speak it, you've begun to call him by your own human version of his namesake. It's this, the shortened, paltry whisper that rolls off your tongue when he presses the tapered tip of his cock against you.

“Please, Dark—”

At the soft utterance of it, he snaps his hips harshly in retaliation, burrowing his cock inside of you in a quick, jarring thrust.

It rents you in two, splits you down the middle. Your breaking point is surpassed in an instant; mettle fracturing, shattering on impact. It takes every ounce of willpower to cling to cognisance when he snarls through the last few inches of impaling you entirely.

In the static tatters of your consciousness, the realisation—a startling polyphony of fear, trepidation, and awe—that this is him holding back lingers on the periphery. That, in itself, is the rekindling of your appetite; hunger gnaws on shallow need, unsatiated by the threadbare scraps it's been given to chew on.

You say his name again. The whisper of it raw, wounded; scraping against your lacerated vocal cords, torn by the vicious howl, the shriek, that ripped through your chest when he seated himself deep inside of you.

He responds by snapping his hips into yours, the barbed ridges on his cock licking across your nerve endings in the almost perfect zenith of pleasure and pain. It's nirvana, you think. With hell nipping sharply at its heels.

The stretch—unlike anything you've ever felt before; incomparable outside of too much—burns furiously. The only thing keeping it from being impossible is the thick oil coating the length of him. The makeup of it must have analgesic properties, or some paralytic agent mixed in, because with each stroke, it soothes your raw flesh, erasing the pain of him inside of you, and leaving nothing but pure, unfettered sensation behind. It's just the thick, unrelenting press of him. The heaviness. The girth.

It's good. Too good. Overwhelmingly so.

A series of low clicks spilling out from his broad chest, the chirr of a rattlesnake. He must see it, the way your body floods with endorphins, with heat. The room, kept at an uncomfortable swelter, glues to your skin. Balmy, and achingly hot. The blister of it burrows deep, massing together into a molten core at the very apex of where he's buried inside of you.

Drawn there, moth to a flame, your hand slides between the damp fur, now drenched in your sweat, and comes to rest on the prominent bulge shifting through your abdomen. His cock.

Behind you, Dark lets out a susurrus hiss, and pauses the ruinous cants of his hips just long enough to let you feel for yourself how perfectly he changes your shape to fit himself inside. It's unmistakable, of course; but everything outside of raw feeling is liquified. Rendered numb. You know, somewhere, distantly, that this—feeling him through your muscle, your skin so distinctly that you can touch each ridge on his cock—is something that ought to break you, shatter you into pieces. The anatomical anomaly of having him stretch you like this, to this extent, is unfathomable.

And yet—

He drags his cock out, and you whimper, mindless, stupid, at the sudden loss of him.

You don't feel complete unless he's buried within you.

And despite yourself, the somnolence lapping at you, a part of you wonders if this is a symptom of that paralytic agent—musk, pheromones, miasma, poison—blotting out all logic, and inducing a soporific desperation, a vacuous need for him and him alone. One that makes wholeness out of the heavy press of his cock.

If it is, it doesn't matter much anymore.

You're too far gone, lost to the throes of it, to care about anything else.

A good thing, perhaps, because with Dark, it's always a selfish coupling. He pays no real heed to your pleasure, fully under the belief that his cock splitting you apart is enough.

And damn you—damn your treacherous body—it is.

Each brutal cant of his powerful hips slamming into you sends waves of pleasure roaring down your spine. To be pried apart, stuffed full of the overwhelming surplus of his girth notches against something inside of you that makes your bones liquid, your marrow running molten. Burning you up from the inside out.

You clench around him desperately, fingers knotting into the furs below, squeezing it tight in a vice. Trying, futilely, to cling to some sense of cognisance despite the vicious way he takes you apart. Atom by atom. Synapses bloating, crackling under the strain.

He fucks you like beast. All vicious snarls, guttural rasps; blood is drawn when his claws catch your skin, tearing it open like tissue paper. The sting is buried under the layers of sensation tunnelling through your body.

Pleasure, pain: equilibrium met on the cusp. Aided, in large part, by the frenzied way he ruts you; fractured, careless. Bullying himself into you until the tapered tip of his cock bruises your cervix—more battering ram than flesh; eager to wrench you open, spill himself inside of your womb.

You can't imagine what this must be like when he isn't holding back. Horrific, maybe. Blood, bruises. Torn skin. No wonder their hide is so thick.

But even this—tamed, as it might be—feels like a battle. A war. He spears you open, chirring the whole time as he curls over you, protective and awful, the motion forcing the last few inches of him into you. Bruised, aching, you whimper at the feeling of his sheath, white-hot and soaked with your slick, cupping your drenched cunt. He holds himself there, as deep as he can possibly go—tip a bludgeon against your cervix, stretched wide around the thick of him—and lets out another long, low pur that rumbles through you. Teeth chatter from the vibrations, delirious and bordering on the equinox of absolute damnation, your pussy clenches around his cock, each ridge and divot more pronounced than before.

Overwrought with bliss, with a nauseating pain, you keen in response to his deep bellow, feeling more animal than ever before.

Driven purely by instinct, you push back into him, thighs slapping against his own. The power in his muscles, the contrast between your supple, soft body and his, iron wrapped in thick, crocodilian skin, is flint striking steel.

A mere tinderbox, your body erupts in a devastating heat.

The burst of molten red makes him reel back, barbs catching on your sensitive skin. It's too much, too much—

He thrusts back into your spasming cunt with a shuddering roar, the sound alone—the lewd, drenched squelch of him splitting you apart—tugs the knot inside of you past its breaking point. As his claws rip through the pretty fawn fur, shredding them to pieces as he grips tight in an effort to piston his cock as fast as he can into your aching pussy, you find yourself tipping over the precipice in a stumbling fall. The force of it, the suddenness, is agonising, edging immediately into overstimulation when the deep, heavy jut of his cock head burrowing into your fluttering walls doesn't cease. It's—

White noise. Static. Your head is galvanised into slush, slurried into liquid pleasure that thrashes and writhes in your core, nerve endings set aflame in a wet, hot inferno under his bulk.

You puddle under him, burning with the aftershocks. Body melting, useless and spent, into the sheets as he drives into you with the single-minded purpose of reaching his own cataclysmic end. Numbed now, all you feel is an intense, dizzying pressure pulsing molten inside of you.

Dark braces himself over you, content to just rut deep into you, barely pulling the full, heavy length of himself out of your aching sex. With anyone else, it might be considered sloppy—a messy, desperate coupling, but even this much with him is devastating. Ruinous.

It's a maelstrom. A bleak, calamitous fall to the bottom of a blackened pit.

And with a savage, brutal plunge, he buries himself inside of you again, prising the soft plug of your womb open with a brutish roar—deep, broken; bellowed at the heavens—and you feel the steady pulse of him inside of you, filling you. It's too much—his fat, heavy girth, and the copious amounts of his spent stretch you past your limit, teeth raking across your mettle, and the bulge in your lower abdomen grows taut as he floods you with his release.

The end of the pit looms, and from the chasm, a jagged maw gapes open, gnashing its teeth at you in rapacious anticipation as you careen toward its empty gullet. Falling, falling, falling—

And in the midst of it all, you think this might be what dying feels like.

Your cognisance is drawn together in pieces, inchmeal.

A slow, gradual crawl out of slumber, the tugging threads of hypnagogia clinging to your rheum-heavy eyes.

Furs stick to your damp body, some pulling loose when you shift away from the uncomfortable, sweat-soaked puddle of heat beneath you.

Nausea roils through your belly, pulsing with dreadful synchronicity to the throbbing ache in your pelvis. In an effort to quell the feeling of your insides folding over themselves in a damning knot, you gingerly press the tips of your fingers to the spot that aches the most, feeling the raised indent of a contusion under your pads.

It makes you blink up at the domed ceiling, head lifting to catch a glimpse of soft flesh near your hip.

Through the midnight spill of your skin, you can see the tumid ridge bubbling up slightly higher than the rest of your flesh. In the middle is a small dot. An injection sight.

You realise, with a huff, that he must have broken your pelvis again. Unintentionally, this time. Caught up in your feverish coupling.

It makes sense. Your bones feel shattered beyond repair, but you know that they're knitted back together, suffused with the medicinal magic their healing injections have.

The thought should scare you. Be it the ease in which he can break your bones, snapping them into pieces; or whatever it is he's pumping into your body to heal it, but it slips, diaphanous and ephemeral, from your tangled thoughts. Untouchable now, slowly fading into the background.

The marbled quiet of your mind is broken when you feel him move beside you. His massive paw falls on your crown, covering the entirety of your head with an ease that you can't imagine ever not leaving you a little breathless at the scale, the vastness in your differing sizes. It rests there for a moment, leaching the warmth from your cap like a satiated, languorous reptile. A sluggish snake still digesting its oversized meat.

A series of clicks spill when you lull your head over to meet the burning yellow of his gaze, everything awash under the heavy scent of sex and loam. Stale sweat, iron. You breathe it in, blinking in the soft blue light of the pale moons spilling in from the window of the ship.

He lounges like a satiated cat. His legs spread akimbo; his other hand resting on his chest. The narrowing of his eyes, too, reminds you of a well-fed feline, squinting into a dewy oblivion.

With a deftness you can't keep up with, his hands shift, reaching out to take hold of you when the sleep drips from your eyes. It takes no real effort at all for him to drag you to rest between his spread thighs, head pillowed on the tuffs of quills covering his lower belly.

There's a twinge in your hips, but it's numbed by the palliative magic of the injection, pulsing like the soft beat of a headache through your bones. It'll hurt something awful later on when it begins to wear off, leaving you feeling more like a massive contusion than a person. But that's later. Much later. And as he rests his palm, warmed by your heat, against your nape, you find you don't mind the tenderness much at all, content to bask in the evidence of your coupling simmering, electric, between you, distinct in the air. An ozoneous tang. Heady. A sour, earthy miasma.

You breathe it in. Breathe him in.

And in the slow, soporific spool of your weaving thoughts, you can't help but wonder what he thinks of this, of you, as he reclines in the fur. Nothing at all, perhaps.

Or maybe something. Something you can't even begin to unravel. An archaic, primordial sort of want—animalistic, alien. The kind that would make him scar his own kind for gnashing their claws at you in anger, indignant over your mere presence in their leader's nest. Who would take a creature not of the same species, and parade them around as they bared his mark for all to see. A mate. A conquest. A queen. A pet. The fickleness of it is not lost on you, but there's something about the knowledge that this is as taboo, as unprecedented for him, for his kind, as it is for you.

And yet.

He still picked you. Of all the humans in the galaxy, crawling around like lost, queenless ants, he decided to shun the staples of his culture and take you with him.

That alone, you think, is enough.

And so—

You relax. Melting into the wrought iron strength of his frame, liquifying under the raze of his nails grazing your skin, pulling you deeper into this sense of complacency. Where else do you belong, after all?

You turn your head, nuzzling your nose into his quills. Into his skin. The potency of his smell is stronger here, so close to his groin, and you groan a little at the twinge in your cunt at the heady, briny weight of it settling on the back of your tongue when you breathe in deep.

He chuffs a bit, quietly pleased by your obvious scenting. The way you bury your nose into the crease where his inner thighs bend, drawing in the pungence of his unwashed flesh. It drags your attention away from his heavy musk, head lifting to catch his blistering, intent gaze. It darkens slightly at the sheen smearing across your chin and nose, covered in the natural oils of his pelt.

It's unlike yourself, but you find the depth of his intrigue deeply arousing, and slowly lick your stained lips, chasing the taste of him with your tongue.

A rumble reverberates from his broad chest, shaking the bed with his quiet growl. It's the only warning you get, the only one he'll give, before the other hand folds over your lower back, pushing your belly into his sheath where he swells, hot and thick, between you.

His eyes glow in the absence of light. Pale amber flickers when you arch into his chest, needy for him, and it unveils a catacomb desire much too primordial for you to ever dream of mapping. The deep pool of it unspools you, and you fall, weightless, to the bottom.

Ensnared.

#reading this right after watching alien vs predator for the first time #wow my brain was ITCHINGGGGG #i love this #reading this from a hospital room sick af AGAIN #predator x reader #yautja x reader

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hopelesslonelyghost · 8 days

Text

Slater's Guide to Military Terminology and Information

A guide for fanfiction readers and writers in the Call of Duty fandom (from a former competitive COD player herself). AKA a guide of how I write military speak and literally every vaguely military thing I've researched and learned that can be used in a story lol

Note: THIS IS NOT MEANT TO PROMOTE THE MILITARY, VIOLENCE, OR FIREARMS USAGE!!! THIS IS PURELY AN INFORMATIONAL POST FOR CALL OF DUTY ENTHUSIASTS, NEW FANS, AND FANART CREATORS!! USE THIS POST RESPONSIBLY!! I’M NOT A SOLDIER, JUST A FAN!! SOME OF THESE MAY BE INACCURATE!!

Location Terminology

LZ: Landing Zone, used for aircraft

AO: Area of Operation, where an exercise will take place

Target Area: Area with specific target, such as a person or object

Alpha/Beta/Charlie etc. (Site): Separate locations within the AO delineated by separate names

Movement Callouts

Advancing: Moving Forward

Pushing: Moving forward, often used in writing as quickly moving forward specifically towards an enemy

Strafing: 1. (COD game) moving sideways while continuously facing the same direction [oftentimes while shooting at an enemy] 2. (Real life) Shooting at an enemy from a low-flying aircraft

Retreating/Falling back: Moving away from an enemy, oftentimes because you do not have the ability to fight them any longer

Holding: Staying put in a single place

Cover to Cover: Moving from a position that is concealed from enemy fire to another position concealed by enemy fire

Breaking Away: Splitting off from a group

Pursuing: Following an objective or target

Pinned Down: Unable to move due to an enemy's maneuvers or fire

*EXTRA* Anaconda Maneuver: A reference to a large-scale military maneuver performed in 1861 by the American Union Army in the Civil War, which is simply "We'll take 'em from the front AND the back at the same time!!".....which is really fitting cause its called the Anaconda maneuver lol

Enemy Callouts

"Movement!" - There is someone moving in front of me

"# Tangos" or "# Combatants" or "# Enemies" or "# X-Rays" etc. - There are # number of enemies

"Taking enemy fire!" - I am being shot at by the enemy

"Contact!" - I see the enemy, they see me, we are firing at each other

"Taking heavy fire!" - I am being shot at by the enemy and it's a desperate situation; can also mean that the enemies have armor-piercing weapons

"Visual on enemy/objective/target/hostage" etc - I see the enemy /objective/target/hostage etc

"Taking small-arms fire!" - (Specifically for aircraft) Our aircraft is being shot at by regular sized guns from ground troops

"I have eyes on..." - I can see...

"# Military Aged Males" - Terminology used to describe men who are roughly 18-40 years old. They're usually plain-clothed, but because they fall into the correct age range to be drafted into the military/have military training, they are specifically flagged in case they pose a threat

“# Unknowns” - Used to describe unidentified possible combatants in a place of interest. They do not always mean that that person is a soldier. Sometimes, they can be civilians.

Common Radio Speak

Note: Preceding any radio communication, radio callsigns are often used to identify one's self. Radio callsigns are mad complicated, so I won't explain them specifically, but for more info on their usage, check the "Dialogue Examples" section at the end of this post!

"Please Advise" - Please tell me what I should do in this situation

"Send Traffic" - Tell me what you want to tell me.

"Go for [Callsign]" - I'm here, listening to you

"Say again" - Repeat what you last said

"[Callsign] to Actual" - 'Actual' refers to the commanding officer

"How copy?" - What/how are you doing?

"Negative" - No

"Affirmative" or "Affirm" - Yes

"Copy" - Copy that

"Planting charges" or "Planting mine" or "Planting anchors" - I am planting explosive charges/mine/anchors

"Advancing/pushing to second deck" - I am moving to the second floor

"Jackpot" - We took the object or person we were looking for into custody

"Possible jackpot" - I have possibly found the person or object we came for

"Engaging" - I am going to start fighting the enemy

"3, 2, 1 - Enter! Enter!" or "3, 2, 1 - Breach!" - used when forcefully entering a building or doorway

"All Units" or "All Stations" - Precedes a message that is relevant to all personal on a mission

"Requesting [something]" (ex. backup, air support, recon overhead etc) - I request backup

"Be advised" - Be aware of something

"Check Fire" - Watch where you're firing; this can also mean you've accidentally shot a teammate or civilian

"Standby" - Hold on

“Secure the area” - Make sure there are no enemies in the area/kill all the enemies in the area

“Occupy the area” - forcefully stay in one place, defending it from enemies

Common Miscellaneous Acronyms and Nicknames

PID - Positive Identification

MTC - Mission Time Clock, refers to how much time a team has to complete a mission

RTB - "Returning to Base"

CO - Commanding Officer

NCO - Noncommissioned Officer

FOB - Forward Operating Base

MIA - Missing in Action

KIA - Killed in Action

AWOL - Absent Without Official Leave

EOD - Explosive Ordinance Disposal

IED - Improvised Explosive Device

SERE (Training) - Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape

DMZ - Demilitarized Zone

VIP - Very Important Person, a person one is escorting through a certain area or otherwise protecting

SpecOps - Special Operations

MedEvac - Medical Evacuation

Op - Operation

Infil - Infiltration

Exfil - Exfiltration

Payload - 1. supplies, objects, or weapons that are being delivered somewhere 2. A bomb that is being dropped

Wilco - “Will Comply”

Radio and Military Related Slang/Jokes

GOFO - "Grasp Of the Fucking Obvious"

Chest Candy - Ribbons/awards that a soldier earns

Whiskey Foxtrot - Stands for military letters W and F, meaning "What the fuck?"

"Out here" - used on the radio to signal that you've finished talking, usually preceded by a radio callsign

Charlie Foxtrot - Stands for military letters C and F, meaning "clusterfuck"

FUBAR - Fucked beyond all repair

"Got your six" or "Bringing up your six" or "Watch your six" - "I've got your back" or "I'm bringing up the rear" or "watch your back"

Plebe - a new recruit, someone without any experience

Oscar Mike - Stands for the military letters O and M, which is used to mean "We Are On the Move"

Mike-Mike - Stands for millimeter, which is often used to describe the size of grenades (i.e. 40 Mike Mike)

Barrack's Bunny - someone who has sex with many people throughout the barracks

Sandbox/sandpit - slang for a desert area

Chair Force - refers the USA Air Force

Civvies - Means "Civilians" or "Civilian clothing"

Mandatory Fun - company organized events/dinner

"Drop 'em" - drop from a aircraft or kill someone

GRUNT - Stands for "general, replaceable, untrained", refers to low ranking infantrymen

Jarhead - refers exclusively to marines

Flyboy - derogatory term for aviators

"Rog'" - Roger that

"Squirters" - people who run out of the back door of a building that is being attacked

"Danger close" - an attack being send from an aircraft that is dangerously close to friendly soldiers

"Watch your shots" - another way of saying "Check your fire"

“Fuckin’ A” - means “Fucking Affirmative”

“Repo Quickly” - (not 100% sure but I think it means) Reposition Quickly

“Rush” / “Bum-Rush” - Move towards someone extremely forcefully and quickly (kind of “rushing” towards them, typically without finesse)

Munitions

Munitions: ammunition, weapons, and equipment used in the field

Tactical Equipment: Equipment used in the field to gain an advantage, but that are not necessarily lethal. Examples include flash grenades, gas grenades, heartbeat sensors, and trip mines.

Lethal Equipment: Equipment used in the field aside from firearms with lethal intent. Examples include, grenades, Semtex (sticky grenades), poisonous gas, Molotovs cocktails, trip mines etc.

Ammunition: Bullets, rounds, shells that are loaded into a firearm. For grenade launchers, the grenades may be called ammunition.

Other Interesting Military Devices

Spotter scopes: binoculars that can have both a regular and thermal setting. They are used to survey an area for enemies. They also show you how far you are standing from the targets (usually in meters).

Anchors: Used to rappel down the sides of cliffs

Field ladders: Used to scale buildings

Sledge hammers: Used to break down doors and plant anchors

Thermite charges: a substance that burns at over 2000 degrees celsius and is used to burn through walls, doors, and locks

Door and wall charges: explosive charges used to explode walls and doors

Electro Magnetic Pulses: disables or interrupts electronic devices and communications

LIDAR: Light detection and ranging. A device that uses lasers to model tunnels underneath the ground. However, it can reflect off of certain circumstances, including snow

Thermal scopes: scopes that detect heat. Fun fact! They have an infinite range, meaning they can detect heat from any distance. However, they cannot see through walls or thick concrete.

Bullet Proof Vests

Note: Many people describe them incorrectly and it physically hurts my heart, so let's break it down.

Types of Wearable Protection

Kevlar Vests: A vest that is made out of Kevlar fabric, which offers protection against handguns and other relatively common arms. THEY ARE NOT FASTENED USING BUCKLES!!!! I see people in fan fiction constantly say "he secured the buckles on his vest" ALL. THE. TIME. Standard issue vests have buckles TO ADJUST THE SIZE, NOT TO PUT IT ON!! THEY ARE SECURED USING VELCRO AROUND THE WAIST! Legit, might be my number 1 pet peeve lol

Flak Jackets: A fabric vest made to withstand explosive casings and shrapnel. THEY DO NOT PROTECT AGAINST BULLETS!

Plate Carriers: A type of vest without protective padding. On their own, they do not provide any protection. However, armor plates must be zipped into the pockets onto the front and back of the vest. These plates are usually made out of steel. They can withstand heavier fire. The plates can be replaced when they break.

Firearms (Long Section Lol)

Basic Terms in Firearm Usage

"Effective Fire Range" - the greatest distance a bullet can be shot from and accurately damage a target. This is important when considering which firearms a character should use in a certain environment. Is their EFR long? Short?

Rechambering (and Rechambering Speed): When reloading, the previous cartridge must be expelled. In bolt action weapons, the bolt must be pulled back. More rounds or another mag will be inserted. Then, either the bolt will be pushed back in, or the charging handle will be pumped, which pushes a new round into the chamber. On a revolver, this comes in the form of the "hammer." On pistols, this is the "slide."

Fire Rate: the frequency a bullet can be shot from the gun

ADS: stands for "Aim Down Sight", which means aiming down the barrel, using iron sights or another type of sight

Hip-fire: Firing a weapon without aiming down sight

Different Fire Types

Fully Automatic vs Semi-Automatic vs Bolt-Action: 1. Fully automatic guns (in simple terms) fire continuously at a high rate until the trigger is released or until the magazine is empty; automatic rifles are usually magazine fed; they expel the bullet cartridges by themselves 2. Semi-Automatic guns fire one bullet each time the trigger is pulled; they expel the bullet carriages by themselves 3. Bolt-Action rifles fire once every time the trigger is pulled; the cartridge must be manually expelled by the user by pulling back the bolt on the side of the gun

Pump-action: Shotguns that use a sliding handguard to rechamber the bullet. Oftentimes, I just call the handguard the "slide"

Select-Fire Rifles: A gun that can be fired on both a "full-auto" and "semi-auto" setting; remember, full-auto = high fire rate while semi-auto is a little slower; the fire rate is switched by flipping a lever on firearm; Assault Rifles, Small Machine Guns, and Light Machine guns are usually select-fire

Types of Firearms

Sidearm: A less powerful gun or other weapon that you carry alongside your main firearm; (Real life) sidearm usually just means pistol; (COD game) sidearms can include pistols, knives, shotguns, and other melee weapons, like batons and tonfas

Shotgun: A type of gun that fires shotgun shells, which are a type of ammunition that contains pellets that spread upon firing. They have a typical range of 35-50m of effectiveness. They are extremely destructive at close range, and can even sever limbs if fired close enough. Their range is limited, however.

Lever Action Rifles: Rifles that are magazine fed, lever action, and with multiple fire rates. Small Machine Guns and Assault Rifles fall into this category. They have a high rate of fire and have a typical range of effectiveness of 150-300m. They fire the same type of bullets as pistols.

Bolt Action Rifles: Rifles that require the user to manually eject the cartridge via pulling back the bolt on (typically) the right side of the gun). They have a slower rate of fire. Sniper rifles and Marksman rifles fall into this category (depending on the model). They have an effective range of about 500-800m. They are very precise, and can often immobilize a target with a single shot.

*EXTRA* Armor Piercing Sniper Rifles (ex. .50 Cal Rifle): Rifles that use armor piercing rounds, which can pierce both vehicle armor and body armor. A single shot will immobilize any target. They can be both bolt action or lever action, with an effective armor piercing range of 200-600m and can be shot up to 2,000m away. These rifles are often large and heavy, with a length of over 4ft long and with over 25 pounds of weight.

Types of Ammunition

Shotgun shells

9mm Parabellum (for handguns and some rifles)

7.62 (for lever action rifles)

5.56 (for lever action rifles)

.50 Cal (for Sniper Rifles only)

There are way more, but I won't list them here

Simple Types of Modifications to Use in Your Story

Sights: A device affixed to the barrel of a gun to allow it to be aimed more accurately. Types of sights include red dot sights, holographic sights, scopes, and thermal optics. Without a sight mod, a gun comes equipped with Iron Sights.

Barrels: In general, the longer the barrel of a gun, the more accurate it becomes. Barrels can be swapped according to the range needed for a certain mission. Two types of barrels are rifled and unrifled, which affect how the bullets travel out of the gun.

Bi-pod: A stand that is affixed to the bottom of a gun (oftentimes a sniper rifle) to allow the user to set it on the ground with the barrel raised.

Types You Should Avoid (WARNING!!)

Sawed-off barrels: Often associated with the Wild West. Yeah, you can't just do that. They will not be used in proper military settings either.

Semi-automatic to Full-auto modifications: Civilians (USA) cannot own full-auto weapons that were manufactured after 1986. You can own rifles made before 1986, but it requires a special license and also costs $20-30k. Modifying a rifle to have a full-auto setting is ILLEGAL.

.50 Cal Modifications: In a non-military setting, you will NOT find armor piercing guns. It is illegal.

Certain Ammo: Dragon's Breath shells, explosive rounds, and Bolo shells are also illegal, and should not be found in civilian OR military settings.

Silencers: If I remember correctly, silencers are illegal for civilians to use in most places.

Facts about Fire Fights

Over 90% of the rounds expended during a fire fight are used for COVER FIRE! Meaning that they aren't necessarily fired for the purpose of hitting the enemy, but rather, allowing the user to move to a different position.

Most people will not just "spray and pray" lever-action rifles. Even with weapons that have a high fire rate, most soldiers will precisely pull the trigger.

Gun kick increases with fire rate, which decreases precision.

As range increases, effectiveness decreases.

Sniper Rifles are used a long distance, often from a prone position.

You wouldn't think it's like this, but the longer the barrel of it is, it's usually easier to shoot (barring marksman and sniper rifles).

Call of Duty Video Game Slang

Camping - sitting in one place without moving, killing enemies as they come to you

Pushing - running into enemy territory

Killstreak - rewards given to the player for killing several enemies in a row without dying

Killcam - the recording of a player's death before they respawn

KD - Kill Death Ratio

"I'm going negative" or "I am negative" - I have a KD below 1, which means I've died more times than I've gotten kills

"I'm going positive" or "I am positive" - I am a KD over 1, which means I've gotten more kills than the amount of time I've died

"I'm carrying" - I have a significantly higher kildcount than everyone else on my team

"I'm throwing" - I'm doing worse than anyone else on my team

"Shotgunner" - a player using a shotgun

"Knife guy" - a person who is only wielding a knife

"He's one shot" - if he gets hit another time, he'll die

"I downed him" or "I knocked him" - he's down and needs to be revived

"I broke him" - he's out of armor plates

Dialogue Examples

"Bravo 0-7 to Watcher 1, taking heavy fire from the East. Requesting air support!"

"Copy, 0-7. Air support inbound on your location"

"Rog.'"

"Bravo 0-7 to Baseplate Actual."

"Baseplate Actual to Bravo 0-7, send traffic."

"Negative on target ID. Holding on first deck. Please advise."

"Copy. Return to entryway. Regroup with Alpha team."

"Copy."

"All units, be advised, there are civilians in the target area. I repeat, there are civilians in the target area. Check your fire."

"Copy."

"Bravo 0-7 to Overlord Actual, I have visual on Target Area. I repeat, I have visual on target area. Three military aged males in the east corner, no visible weapons. Two unknowns in the center of the plaza. Please advise."

"Contact!"

"Copy, all units, weapons free. Fire at will."

"Bravo 0-7, advancing to rooftop. Deploying field ladder."

"Copy."

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