Thinking about monsters

It was pitch-black in your bedroom; the blinds were pulled down. Not a single ray of moonlight shone in. A small aura of blue light emanated from your phone screen. You had been doom-scrolling for the past three hours, and your eyes were getting tired. Finally, the display read 3 am; the witching hour was upon you.

You turned off the phone, placing it haphazardly on the nightstand. Everything was prepared. You were laying on top of your comforter in just your underwear. They were nice underwear too, all mesh and lace. You even dangled a hand enticingly over the edge of the bed. Now, you just needed to be patient. You squinted into the abyss around you while you feigned sleep. Slowly, the dark encroached on you, the shadows growing deeper and darker.

Something moved out of the corner of your eye, impossibly fast.

Your skin tingled and your breathing sped up; they were here, somewhere in your room. Behind your door, or in your closet. Possibly even under your bed.

You couldn’t wait any longer. Slowly, you moved down the bed. The wood floor was cold under the soles of your bare feet. The anticipation sent a shiver down your spine. A naked foot, what monster could resist that?

You could barely suppress a moan when the first icy tendril brushed your foot. How you had longed for this. You stayed completely still, afraid that whatever was bellow you would flee if you looked at it. Tentatively, the tendril wrapped itself around your ankle. You bit your lip to keep from making a sound. This was a dream come true.

The tendril coiled around you, but accidentally skimmed the sole of your foot. You flinched; it tickled. The second you moved, the tendril hastily withdrew. As it did, the room seemed to brighten, the shadows loosing their opaque darkness.

“Fuck!” you shouted, cursing your ticklish feet.

There was no point looking under your bed, there would be nothing there. Still, you fell to your knees, bending down to peek under the bed. A couple of socks and a mountain of dust bunnies, but no monster. How did you manage to scare it away again!

You had known this monster ever since you were a child. It always came back for you, no matter how many times you had switched beds or moved. Back then you were terrified of it, hiding under your covers at the smallest of sounds. But as you got older, grew into an adult, you realized the fear had evolved into something else. Something that made you a lot more eager to go to bed.

But as soon as you started to embrace your night terrors, they had stopped. For years you hadn’t felt the monster’s presence. You hadn’t even had a nightmare. But a few months ago, the monster returned.

Although they were different now. They didn’t try to scare you with creaking noises, cold winds or unexplained tugs at your limbs. No, now they were almost shy. Slowly, those feelings you had harbored for the monster all those years ago returned and tonight you were going to confess. Or so you had thought.

You rose to your feet and, slamming the light switch on the way, crossed the bright room to the wooden IKEA closet. It wasn’t big enough to conceal a person, but you had long ago learned that the monster’s shape was flexible. Like a slasher from a bad 80’s horror movie, you ripped open the doors. Inside was nothing but your clothes. You cursed once more, slamming the closet closed.

You were getting real sick and tired of this. The signs were clear as day. That tentacle around your ankle could only mean what you though it meant, or were you delusional? Did the monster under your bed want to fuck you, or should you check yourself into the hospital?

There was only one thing left to do, because you weren’t getting fucking ghosted by a shadow; speak to the god darn monster.

You returned to your bed and crouched on your knees next to it. The space under the bed felt unnaturally warm. You weren’t religious, but you clasped your hands and closed your eyes for good measure.

“If you’re real, which I sure hope otherwise I think I’m going kind of cuckoo. Please, just tell me what you want?”

No answer.

Great now you were pleading with empty space. Your neighbors were going to think you’d had some kind of mental break. Hopefully they weren’t awake at this time of night.

You sighed and continued, “Are we like a thing… or something?”

Still no answer.

The continued silence were getting on your last nerve. “Fucking answer me! Or I promise I will start using a nightlight and a sound machine!”

That threat must've worked, because suddenly the hairs on your back were standing on end —something was in the room with you.

You heard a creaking noise and turned your head to see your door slowly shutting. In the space behind the door was an impenetrable darkness. The darkness seemed to swell and pulse. It crept closer, shadowy tendrils licking the walls as it moved towards you. The shadow stopped a few feet from you, undulating, as if listening.

You watched in awe. It was beautiful, but it also broke your heart.

“Wh-why did you leave me?” Your voice broke as you spoke; you had missed the monster something terribly.

The shadow seemed to fall in on itself, it looked almost ashamed. Then, with one hesitant tendril, it reached for you. You welcomed it’s touch. As the tendril wrapped around your arm, you felt your vision darken and you slumped forward into deep sleep.

Slowly, your sight returned, but now you were no longer in your bedroom. The point of view was different, the eyes that you looked out of where nestled low by the floor. You recognized the room and especially that screeching TV; you were back in your old college dorm’s common room. From bellow the couch you had a great view of the back of your own beat-up sneakers, and a less great view of the TV.

You remembered that evening; one of the freshmen had wanted to watch the Pixar flick Monsters University to commemorate their final exam of the semester. As you watched the movie from bellow the couch, you could pinpoint the exact moment you realized your feelings for your own monster, as your sneaker clad feet stood up and walked away, out of your sight. You knew where you had gone: your bedroom. But sadly no monster disturbed your sleep that night, you had to settle for your hand.

The picture changed, this time you were crammed under a bed. Once more, your recognized the room: your first apartment. Two feet, that must be your own, paced back and forth in front of the bed. This memory was also clear. You had been psyching yourself up to finally ask the monster on a date or proposition them, or something. God, you didn’t know how to flirt with humans, let alone monsters. You never got an answer from the monster that night either.

But the monster had been listening that night. As you watched your younger self confess their heart out, you felt feelings that were not your own. Feelings of confusion, insecurity and uncertainty radiated from the monster whose eyes you borrowed. This must never have happened to them before, and they didn’t know how to react to any other feeling than fear, so they left. They left for years. Processing.

The picture changed, for what you hoped was the last time; this was all feeling a little too “Christmas carol”-y. You were still in your apartment, but, as if you predicted it, it was the holidays, just last year. Sparkling light gleamed in every corner of your room. In a pile in the corner were a couple of presents you had received from a friend secret Santa. Among them were a gag gift: a tentacle dildo. This was years after you had last felt the presence of your monster, and the gag gift had mostly made you sad. But the eyes under the bed were focused on the piece of plastic and warmth seemed to flow around you. If the monster had had a pulse, it would have been racing in anticipation.

The darkness took you one last time and you returned to your own body. In front of you the writhing abyss of shadows squirmed hesitantly, its tentacle still wrapped around your wrist. That trip down memory lane had made it all clear. You had never felt more sure of your feelings, now that you knew they were reciprocated.

With a leap, you collided with the mass of tendrils and wrapped your arms around the shadowy form of the monster. At first they froze, unsure, but then they wrapped every tendril and every tentacle it had around you. Your mouths met; the monster tasted of fresh cotton and their uncountable number of teeth scraped against your tongue. Tentacles were everywhere and you soon lost yourself in the embrace of your monster.

You slouched against the padded velvet railing of the grand circle, absentmindedly watching the empty stage bellow. This matinee was a terrible bore. You wished for a glass of absinthe to take the edge of, but such modern drinks hadn't yet made their way across the canal. London was such a drab city.

You could barely suppress a yawn. Tonight’s play was some kind of nonsensical, depressing thing. It itched in your fingers to get a hold of a copy of the scrip, if only so that you could add a few jokes; even Shakespeare knew people visiting the theater wanted to laugh.

Apparently, this show was all the rage. Literally. Last week, at the premier, there had broken out some kind of violent brawl in the theater lobby. Multiple people had to be escorted out by the police and taken to the asylum. According to the sensationalistic papers, they had been driven mad by the play itself. But more sensible people knew that these brawlers had simply had a glass too many that evening (not absinthe, sadly).

You weren’t one for gossip, but your sister insisted you come with her to see the play. At first you declined, citing that you already visited the theaters enough. You were a seasoned subscriber ticket holder, but you preferred to be at least a little selective of the shows you watched. Still, your sister insisted, shoving a printed advertisement of the play under your nose. “The King in Yellow”, it read and bellow was the name of the theater and a peculiar symbol. Suddenly, you felt a lot more curios and agreed to come along.

There had been policemen stationed outside the theater the evening you and your sister, along with her husband, went to see the play. You showed your tickets at the entrance and were led to the second floor of the theater. As always you had the best seats in the house, reserved especially for you. As the lights dimmed, you grew excited.

It quickly faded.

The play was absurd, dreamlike and odd. By the time the intermission rolled around, you were bored out of your mind. Your sister left to visit the powder room and her husband left for the bar, leaving you alone. You leaned against the railing, tapping your glowed fingers against the metal.

It was there that you first met her.

She seemed to have appeared out of thin air, materializing right next to you. She was quiet as a mouse; you wouldn’t have known she was there if she hadn’t spoken.

“What is your opinion of the play, so far?” her silky voice whispered right next to your ear.

You flinched, taking an involuntary step away. Beside you was a woman in a draped, flowing yellow dress. It was unfashionable, tattered and terribly out of place. A shawl covered her head and most of her face. But somehow, you knew that she was older, even if you couldn’t see an inch of her skin.

“I didn't mean to give you a fright, little one.” The woman smiled looked kindly at you.

Remembering your manners, you curtsied stiffly and told her your name. “I don’t think we've had the pleasure to be acquainted, ma’am.”

The woman mirrored your gesture. Her curtsy was flawless. “No, it is a shame. Indeed, I have long wished to speak with you.”

You raised your eyebrow in a terribly unladylike way. “You have?”

The woman didn’t answer. “Now, would you be so kind as to tell me what you think. I myself am biased towards the second act, however I’d love to hear your opinion.”

You bit your tongue to keep from asking further stupid questions. Clearly, this woman was a part of the theater troupe. That was why she was dressed in such unusual clothes. Maybe she was the author of the play? On the advertisement for the play, there had been no named author.

But why did she want your opinion on her work? There was no way she could know about the stacks of finished scrips carefully hidden in the bottom drawer of your dresser, right? You shared your playwright ambitions with no living soul, it was your deepest, darkest secret. Only in your dreams did you imagine yourself among the likes of Shakespeare, Goethe and Wild.

“It is quite, um… modern,” you began tentatively. “However, I found the second scene a bit confusing.”

“How so?” the woman hummed.

“Well,” you continued, feeling more confident, “all that nonsense about ‘Carcosa’ felt completely out of place. Seriously, two suns? A place like that could never exist, it is simply beyond the realm of plausible physics. And that scene at the masquerade ball! Why should the audience be scared when someone isn’t wearing a mask, which by the way the actor clearly was, I am not blind. The play tries so hard to be deep and scary, but I don’t like it one bit.”

You were out of breath by the time you finished your rant. The woman stood motionless next to you and for a moment you feared that you had overstepped.

“But the costume design was great,” you added sheepishly.

The woman laughed. The sound like nails on a chalkboard. You fought the urge to cover your ears—that would have been rude.

Slowly, the woman quieted. “You dear, are very forthcoming with your opinions. Honesty is a most wonderful quality and one I admire deeply.”

Her pale, almost yellow, eyes drilled into yours. The gaze sparkled, radiating a kind of heat you had never before seen in a fellow woman’s eyes. Your skin tingled under her scrutiny, heat traveling down to your abdomen. This was highly inappropriate, but you couldn't seem to tear your eyes away.

“I-,” you stuttered, cheeks turning pink. “I am flattered, but I have to disagree. I can’t believe I spoke so freely. Please do me the kindness of forgetting everything I said.”

The woman cocked her head playfully. “I can’t promise that. Now, I bid you farewell.”

The woman turned and was about to walk away, when she turned back one last time. “I believe it’s best you do not stay for the second act. I rather prefer your mind the way it is. Until me we meet again.” With that said, she disappeared around a corner.

As the woman left, you felt confused. Whatever could she mean? But something told you to heed her words and you left, forcibly tugging your sister (and her husband) out of the theater.

You didn’t understand why the meeting with the woman had made you so uncomfortable until much later. The play closed just a few weeks after you had attended; apparently the violence had continued to spread to other theatergoers and the brawlers had destroyed most of the lobby. The theater were selling the left-over costumes to fund the repairs. As you surveyed the sale, you were searching for the yellow costume worn by the woman, but to no avail.

You pulled aside an employee to ask if the costume had already been sold, but the employee looked terribly confused. He said no such costume existed in the play. You insisted and started describing the woman you had met. But you found you could not remember her name, nor her face. Had you even seen her face at all? You must've?

The only thing you could remember was a pallid mask. And the sign etched on it, burned into your mind. Then you remembered a name. An unspeakable name. The name of the King in Yellow.

~~~

You rifle through your desk, ripping open drawers and scattering papers all over the floor.

“It has to be here, it has to,” you mumble under your breath. “Where is it!”

But it’s not in the desk either. You hurry towards another cabinet, but on the way you trip on a loose sheet of paper, collapsing in a heap on the floor. You stay on the floor, chest heaving from exhaustion. It’s hopeless; you can’t find it anywhere.

“Could this be what you’re looking for?”

Precisely when you’ve abandoned all hope, the book you’ve been frantically searching for all morning, appears right above you. The book that somehow ended up on your doorstep two weeks earlier. The book you have read from cover to cover, you don't know how many times. The book with the yellow cover and the mysterious sigil. The King in Yellow.

You snatch the book out of the air, cradling it close to your chest. Then you freeze, recognizing the voice. It sends a shiver down your spine. It’s her: the woman from the theater. Your eyes meet her stoic mask-clad face. She is dressed in yellow rags, just like last time.

“I hope my presence isn’t an intrusion. Your housekeeper informed me you have been very busy these last few weeks.”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, but no sound comes out.

The woman surveys your room and gestures to a paper pinned to the wall. “I am flattered, but there are easier ways to get my attention.”

It is one of maybe a thousand “Yellow signs” that you drew on any piece of paper you encountered. When the loose sheets of paper ran out, you started ripping out pages of books and eventually drawing the signs on the walls themselves. You flush, momentarily stirred out of your insanity enough to feel embarrassed at the state of your room.

You stagger to your feet, the book still in your hands. “Please, take a seat.” You’re about to gesture to the office chair, before realizing that it currently contains a meter tall stack of paper, an empty absinthe bottle proudly atop the pile.

The woman doesn't point out your fumble, but instead sits down on the edge of your bed. “Now, what did you want to talk about?”

You open your mouth and are about to remind her that she is the one that called on her, not the other way, when you remember the signs. If the signs are somehow linked to the woman, it would be like you sent her a thousand letters. The thought makes you wince; you must look terribly desperate.

But you are desperate, desperate for her touch. Even just being in her presence has you soaking your knickers. Each time you close your eyes you replay the evening you met her, remembering the way her eyes made you feel. She haunts your dreams. They always leave you hot and bothered, with no other choice than to take matters into your own hands. How sinful you’ve been, and by the expression on the woman’s face mask, she knows all about it.

She doesn't move from her perch on your bed, still she pulls you closer; she is a planet and you a moon pulled in by her gravity. You hover between her legs, the book still in your grasp. Gently, she plucks the play from you, putting it down. Your fingers twitch, desperate to touch.

“Go on,” she murmurs.

Your fingers trail up her tattered silk sleeves, across her covered decolletage and lastly her mask-covered face. You push the hood of her dress back. Thick, black hair like the midnight sky tumbles across her shoulders. Your fingers continue their search, this time set on removing the frightening mask. But before you do, the woman stops you.

A hand closes over your wrist. “Let’s not. I did say I preferred your mind the way it is.”

You nod and your arms fall to your sides. You don’t know what to do; you’ve never initiated anything… untoward, like this. But you need her. You let out a frustrated whine.

The woman’s hand caresses your cheek. “Hush, darling. All is well. Just lay down on the bed for me.”

You recline on the pillows as the woman leans over you, slowly unbuttoning your blouse. She removes your clothing layer by layer, each more intimate than the last, until you are left as naked as the day you were born. She runs her hand down your exposed torso, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You spread your legs, wanting her to see the effect she has on you.

“My beautiful girl,” she hums, as her hand travels lower. “So wet for me already.”

You gasp as her first finger enters you. You’re unused to the intrusion, only ever touched yourself a few times. And her fingers. Her fingers feel different, longer and segmented, able to reach much further than your own.

She adds another finger, pumping them rhythmically in and out of you. Her long fingers scrape against your walls, but there is no pain. Instead the feeling is heady, itching out of your skin and leaving you gasping for more. Tears roll down your cheeks. The arousal is too much.

When the woman starts rubbing circles around a small nub you never knew existed, your back arches and you start shivering uncontrollably. That's when the fingers inside of you disappear. You sob from the loss of contact.

A soft mouth kisses your face, licking away the tears. “Don’t cry, my sweet. I want to taste you before our time together is over.”

You can’t see, but you feel her warm breath on your exposed sex. The tip of her tongue flicks against your swollen nub, before sucking it into her mouth. You cry out, unable to stifle yourself. Her tongue slithers into you, licking up your wetness like sweets. The tongue probes deeper, much deeper than her fingers reached.

Finally she has reached the end of you, to the place your fingers have never been able to reach. She laps at that deep place, every touch sending waves of pleasure down your spine. She is relentless, pushing and prodding until you can’t take it anymore. With one last torrent of incomprehensible shouts, you gush on her tongue. She laps it up, every last drop.

You can’t feel your body. You stare into the ceiling, unseeing. Distantly, you hear the woman putting her mask back on, and its pallid features appear in your sight. You reach for her, and she lets you pull her down and hold her close. What you feel beneath her yellow gown is formless in a way your mind shouldn’t be able to understand, but you are too tired to question it.

She leans into the crook of your neck and whispers, “I am glad you called me, it’s been too long since I reveled in the pleasure of another.”

Too soon, the woman slips out of your hold. Desperately, you fumble for her, grabbing her arm. She looks down at your disheveled figure and, somehow, she smiles.

It all started at the bar— because where else would you be at 2 am on a Saturday morning? You were deep into your third glass of whiskey and stared at the amber liquid, silently contemplating your life choices. Why the hell did you ever move to this fish-stinking town in the middle of nowhere, Massachusetts? You threw back the last of the whiskey, savoring the burn in your throat.

“One more drink would ya, hen.” You rapped your knuckles against the bar.

The bartender was an older woman with gray hair, bulging eyes and some kind of skin disease. She looked suitable creepy for this town.

She removed the empty whiskey glass, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I have to cut you off, dear.”

“Why?” you slurred. “Look at me, I’m fine.”

The bartender glared at you with her bulging eyes. “You’ve had enough. I have to close, and you should get home before the storm gets any worse.”

“Fine,” you grumbled, pushing away from the bar. When you tried to stand up, you’re body remembered how much you’ve drunk and your bladder was suddenly screaming at you. “Just gotta pop to the loo.”

The bartender sighed, but nodded reluctantly, before she went back to sweeping the floor.

You stumbled through the empty bar, making your way to the toilets in the back. You pushed open the door to the men’s bathroom. It was just as deserted as the rest of the run-down bar. You rounded a corner and stopped at the nearest urinal. Your sighed, as you were finally able to relive yourself.

Fuck, your life really was a shitshow. Two years ago, you were living the dream, about to become the youngest foreign zoology graduate offered a full-time position at Harvard. But then the accident happened, and your ichthyology dreams were crushed… literally. Six months lying in a coma isn’t a great way to research fish, but a great way to loose your job.

Instead of a top-modern research institute, you found yourself at Miskatonic: Americas most disreputable university. All you ever wanted to do was to study fish, but there wasn’t an Ichthyology department, so instead you worked alongside the crypto zoologists, trying to discover the Loch Ness monster or whatever. Pseudoscientific bullshit.

The sound of someone turning on a tap pulled you out of your thoughts. Who else could have been using the bathroom this late? A part of you wished it was someone looking for a hookup. You were usually up for a quick shag, and could really have used the distraction from your miserable life. You quickly tucked yourself back into your trousers and rounded the corner to the sinks. The room was empty.

Weird, but you shrugged it off. The tap was still on, spitting out boiling water and clouding the mirror above it. You moved to turn it off, but saw that there were words written in the condensation.

“Tell me your deepest secret,” you chuckled to yourself as you read it out loud.

Who the fuck would sneak into the bathroom just to write cryptic messages on mirrors? Your crypto zoology colleagues might have told you this was a sign of the occult. While this was certainly weird, you didn’t exactly believe in any of that crap. Must be some kind of prank. Let’s all be funny at the expense of the new guy in town. Should you play along?

“You want me to come out, or some shite? Surprise, I’m gay. Well queer. Its not like it is a secret, as most people just assume so anyway. I guess I set of their gaydar,” you blabbered, too drunk to care.

Then you paused. You didn’t want to tell the disembodied question an actual secret, but you also had a feeling whoever was behind this wasn’t going to reveal themselves until you said something juicy. At this point, could your life get any worse if someone posted some embarrassing shite on Instagram?

You lowered your voice for dramatic effect, “You know what is a secret, well, kind of a secret. I’m actually a bottom. Yeah, I know. Big bloke like me prefers to take it in the ass.”

There was a door in the back of the bathroom, which was suddenly thrown wide open, letting the rain and wind into the room. You staggered backwards, expecting someone to jump out, shouting that it was all a prank. But that didn’t happen. Instead, there was a low growl from the door, and you heard footsteps receding. There was someone listening, alright. You didn’t feel embarrassed; you’ve definitely said worse while drunk before.

You walked over to close the door. But before you could close it, a glance at the small window in the door made you freeze. On the outside of the window was a massive hand print. It had long claws and webbing between the fingers. Next to it was written three words: “I’m a top”.

Suddenly, you felt as sober as a funeral. You rushed out of the bathroom door, out into the dark alley. Your face was immediately pelted by rain. The street lighting was crap and Arkham’s harbor stunk of fish. The message on the window was already mostly washed away, but you were more worried about the possible prints on the ground. You squatted down, combing the wet pavement for any sign of footprints.

The rain had picked up, drenching you in mere minutes. Just when you were about to give up, you found something. After examining it in your palm, you could say with certainty that it was a scale. A shiny bluish-green fish scale.

This was mad. You were drunk and should’ve gone home, not gone looking for fish-men. But you couldn't get that hand print out of your mind. If this was a real world cryptid, and you of all people found it first, the other professors at Miskatonic would eat their hats in frustration. A smug smile crept onto your face. Maybe you weren’t as useless as you thought.

Suddenly, you were in research mode, determined to find this being. A few feet from the first scale was another, then another and you followed the trail all the way to the canal. The canal’s water was dark and grimy, filled with decades of industrial waste. But you stumbled down the uneven stone steps and sat on a bench just by the waters edge. Here you had a good vantage point over the canal. You were never the most patient of fishermen, but you stayed silent, waiting for something, anything to show itself.

Your dumb ass must've fallen asleep, because you woke to a pair of wet lips touching yours. You snapped open your eyes. Suddenly, you were face to face with the scariest thing you’ve ever seen. Sharp, needle like teeth, slits for pupils and blueish-green scales. When it saw that you were awake, it jumped back and crouched at the edge of the water. Gleaming eyes stared at you, the expression in them unreadable.

This… creature was magnificent. The perfect mix of human and fish. Finally, you understood the obsession of your crypto zoology colleagues. There truly existed creatures beyond humanity out there. A sudden urge to know it better awoke within you. To know it intimately. The short rest must've cleared your head, because a name came to you unprompted; all those hours listening to your colleagues finally payed off.

“You’re a Deep One, aren’t you,” you whispered.

The creature nodded, its eyes closing and opening sideways. It’s head tilted to the side. Was it curious? You felt warm under its gaze.

“You’re beautiful. I could get lost in those eyes, handsome.” You slapped your hand over your mouth. Had you actually flirted with it? How horny were you?

But the Deep One wasn’t turned off, instead it moved closer, all the while keeping you pinned with its gaze. The weather had cleared and moonlight reflected like silver in its shimmering scales. There were long fins running down its hunched back and down its arms. It stopped just shy of a meter from you. If you wanted to, you could reach out a hand and touch it. Would it be slippery under your touch, or rough like a shark?

“Do you mind?” You held out your hand.

The Deep One moved even closer, until it was leaning over you on the bench. Using one of its massive hands, it picked up yours and guided it to its chest. The scales were rough, but pleasant under your fingers and the chest was solid with solid muscle. It didn’t have nipples, but you ran your hand along it’s chest appreciatively anyway. You felt a deep rumble emanate from its throat.

Encouraged, you used your free hand to cup the creature’s face. Its gills fluttered under your fingers. You leaned closer, giving it a quick peck on the mouth, unafraid of the sharp teeth. The deep one kissed back, wrapping two strong arms around you. The kiss was wet and sloppy, but the creature enveloped your mouth with fervor, letting your tongue explore.

Something touched your leg. You broke the kiss to look down. “A bloody tail,” you mumbled in disbelief.

The scaled tail trailed up your thigh, the tip of it dangerously close to your hardening cock. “You cheeky…,” you trailed off in a moan when the tail brushed between your legs.

The sound caused the tail to stop moving. The Deep One asked something in a unintelligible throaty language, but you got the gist. It was nice to know you had a say in what happened.

You smirked at the creature. “Well, I didn’t walk all the way here just for some sloppy necking, did I? Does that earlier offer still stand?”

The creature’s lips were on you again before you finished speaking. The two arms picked you up easily and you wrapped your legs instinctively around the creature’s waist. It walked over to a wall, pressing you against the wet cold stones. With a slice of it’s claws, your pants turned into a lovely set of ass-less chaps. You shivered from the exposed flesh.

Since you were quite the expert on fish, and also fucked your fair amount of men, you thought you knew what to expect. But nothing could have prepared you for whatever Deep Ones had between their legs. It was some type of fin, long and tapered, with grooves and what you guess to be some kind of claspers at the bottom. It was equal parts terrifying and marvelous. How the hell would that feel inside of you?

Apparently, foreplay didn’t exist in Deep One culture, because the creature lowers you onto its member without any prep. Thankfully, the head is thin and slick, slipping into you easily. It felt completely different from anything you had ever put up yourself before.

The deep one hadn’t even bottomed out, when it started moving inside of you. Wide hands pressed you against the wall as it fucks into you hard. You were definitely going to have bruises after this, but it was worth it, not just for the scientific discovery. The thin and flexible cock was the perfect shape to grind against your prostate. The pleasure was unbelievable, stars flashing in your vision as you clung on for dear life. The creature sped up and at the same time wrapped its muscular tail around your cock. The scales scraped against your sensitive skin.

It didn’t take much more to make you come, staining the blue stomach of the creature with your cum. You went limp, letting the creature support you as it continued to abuse your ass. With a guttural groan the creature buried its cock deep inside of you. It swelled, the bottom claspers opening like an umbrella, and locked you and the creature together. In a sudden spurt, it came inside of you. Since the claspers trapped the cum inside, the feeling was like hot water sloshing inside of you.

Slowly, you felt the cock inside of you deflating and the claspers unclasping you. The creature pulled out and see-through spend sloshed down your legs. It continued to cradle you in its arms, holding you close. Its eyes were wide and shiny with afterglow. It gurgled something, before bending down to kiss you.

“Yeah, it was good for me too,” you laughed, before kissing it back.

It set you down on the bench, ran its clawed hand through your hair, before turning back to the canal.

“Wait!” you shouted. “Will I ever see you again?”

The deep one turned back to you, a wide grin spreading over its face. It nodded once, before diving back into the canal.

The cloaked people, your friends and family, guided you up the trail towards your destiny. Already, people were gathered in the gaps between the rough-hewn stone columns at the top of the hill. Their faces hidden beneath hoods and shadowed by candlelight. Empty skulls glared at you from below the sizable table-like rock in the middle of the circle. Of your own free will, you laid yourself down on that table. It was after all the night of May-Eve. The night of your holiest of unions.

One of the cloaked figures walked over to where you reclined on the table. A glimpse under his hood, told you this was none other than the leader; your old father. You smiled at him serenely.

“My child, I am happy for you,” he whispered, carding a gentle hand through your long, fair hair. “I couldn’t have wished for a better husband for my daughter.”

You leaned into his touch. “Thank you father. I am ready to meet him.”

Your father nodded, before he turned to the gathered congregation. In his hands he clutched the Book. He looked to you like a minister, although you had only been to a church once. It was quite sad what happened to that poor clergyman, but he should have known better than to preach his blasphemous gospel in these parts.

“Today is a most auspicious day. Today the fabric of our world thins and the planes of our universe overlap. Today we honor our most gracious benefactor.” Your father paused to raise his hands into the sky. “Join me now as we begin this holy ceremony.”

The cloaked figures standing in the ring all raised their hands in union. At my fathers signal, they all began chanting in a curious old dialect. Of course, you knew the words, but you needn’t chant them. All you needed to do was relax and stare into the black twinkling night sky. Soon, the first signs showed. The wind whipped around the altar where you lay, distorting the light around you. You lost sight of the chanting figures.

Above you something unnameable appeared. It was as if reality split in two, ripping like bed sheets. You felt an abnormal tug on your limbs, pulling you upwards towards the rift. You relented and felt your body slowly lifting of the cool stone altar. The chanting figures completely disappeared from your senses as your body was pulled through the fluctuating gap.

Beyond the rift there was nothing. Neither dark nor light. Then there was him. Writhing, fantastic, faceless. An impossible conglomeration of ever shifting globes, dancing in every shade of the rainbow and beyond. Yet achingly real as the slimy spheres reached out to touch you. Understanding reeled through your mind, smashing the walls of impossibility, rendering you unable to speak.

Whatever the thing was, it pulled you closer. You felt a presence in your broken mind. As carefully as someone would repair an ancient vase, the presence weaved your thoughts back together. It mended your mind, cushioning it in a thick veil of clouds. The fear was gone. You smiled blissfully; your husband was truly good to you.

Smaller tendrils and globes pushed helplessly at your clothes. You giggled, undoing the dress tie at your waist. The fabric fell open, revealing you before your husband. Your husband spoke sweet nothings, his thoughts transferring seamlessly into your mind. You blushed under his attention.

He pulled you close, orbs of light playing across your skin. His light was almost blinding now. Everywhere around you was his beautiful body. Your mouth opened, letting him kiss you. Your legs fell apart, allowing him inside.

You couldn’t speak, mouth filled to the brim, but your husband knew your mind. Knew what you could take. Your blood boiled and your souls became one when his manly power pushed inside of you. When you glanced down your saw how your body was stretched, far beyond its natural capabilities. Your lower stomach glowed and bulged slightly with the power of your husband.

Smaller tendrils caressed you, pleasured you. They flowed up and down your torso, squeezing you. They rubbed between your legs, glistening with your wetness. The pleasure was overwhelming. As ever you climbed that mountain towards its peak, ever did your stomach swell. You gasped as you realized that you could go no higher. At the same moment, the orb exploded inside of you, coating every inch of your insides, filling you with his seed.

You were blind, deaf and mute, lost in a sea of afterglow. You barely noticed the orbs and tendrils leaving your body. With a last tender caress, your husband lowered you down and you fell into a deep sleep.

You almost didn’t believe your eyes when you received the neatly-typed script. How did your agent manage to get you on the biggest picture of the year? You’re just some nobody from Sacramento who got lucky enough to be an extra in a war flick six months ago. Apparently, that one voice line you had was enough to get you an agent, who got you signed to one of the biggest studios in the valley.

This is your one chance at a big role. You play the charismatic rival, who seduces the female lead and stands in the way of the happily ever after for the couple. Of course, your character realizes their mistake in time and surrenders the girl to the star of the movie. That star: the Hollywood heartthrob Eugene Acheron.

Despite being new to the business, Eugene only starred in his first picture last year, he won an Oscar for Best Actor and his popularity skyrocketed. He’s the guy all the chicks want. While you’re not a girl, you can’t say you disagree. There’s a scene in Eugene’s movie where his shirt flies open to display truly glorious abs. When you first saw that scene, you had to surreptitiously cross your legs. Thankfully, the cinema was dark.

Now, you weave through the throng of people in the studio lot on your way to the actors’ trailers. You stop outside the trailer with a star nameplate. It is labeled “Acheron”. You hesitantly knock on the trailer door and wait, the script clenched in your hands. Was this a bad idea? Actors run lines together all the time, at least that’s what you’ve heard.

Your hear loud footsteps approach and the door swings open. “No, I don’t want any more soap samples, please.”

You’re speechless as the man you’ve been dreaming about is suddenly in front of you. Eugene's sharp jawline and his sun-bleached hair is just like his posters. If you had less self-control you might gape, but even in the entertainment industry it is safest to remain in the closet.

“My shower is still woefully overstock—,” Eugene cuts himself off. His eyes roam over your face and slowly travels down your body. You have to suppress the heat that’s rising on your cheeks. “You’re not the sample lady.”

“No. I mean... No, sir.”

Eugene raises an eyebrow, hinting that you should state your reason for disturbing him. This time you do blush. Where did all those expensive speech lessons go when you need them?

You take a deep breath. “I’m the actor who plays the rival in the upcoming picture. And well, I was wondering if you wanted to… run some lines,” Your voice fades out as you realize how stupid you sound. Why would an Oscar-winning actor want to run lines with you?

Eugene is quiet for a beat too long. But just as you're beginning to sweat, he smiles and opens the door further. “Sounds great. Come inside, I just put the kettle on. Why don’t we have some tea before we read lines.” Eugene winks.

Your stomach soars, you expected to be turned away at the door, not invited to tea. Something in your traitorous heart wants it to be a date, but you ignore it. This doesn't mean anything. Just professionals being professional.

Eugene’s trailer is immaculate. The floor is spotless, the bed made and the small gas stove does indeed have a kettle puttering. However, the trailer has no table or chairs. The only place to sit is the bed, but that’s way too intimate. You hover by the entrance, unsure of what to do.

“Sit down wherever you’d like,” Eugene says as he rummages through a cupboard for teabags.

You do as you’re told. The mattress squeaks softly as you sit down. You feel the paper of the script grow wet from your hand sweat. Eugene turns away from the stove and hands you a steaming mug of brewing tea. Then he sits down next to you on the bed, close enough for your legs to touch.

You can’t help but look down. Eugene’s thigh is wide and firm. Your eyes accidentally glance up at his crotch. His pants are loose, but your mind easily imagines what’s under them. You quickly look down into your teacup.

“Exactly, what scene did you have in mind?” Eugene’s voice has dropped an octave. Its low and silky in your ear. It sends a shiver down your spine.

“Um…,” you don’t know what to say. Somehow, you get the feeling that you and Eugene have different definitions of reading lines.

Eugene doesn't wait for a response. “You know, I’ve been watching your career very closely. It’s crazy that they haven’t offered you any bigger roles. That smile of yours is to die for.”

Eugene takes a slow sip of his tea, but he can’t entirely hide his smile. It’s just as dazzling in real life as on the movie screen. You can’t look away.

“Thank you,” is the only this you can think of to say.

Eugene puts down his cup on the bed. “When I saw you dying on that battlefield, I just knew you were the one. I pulled a few strings. But ultimately, you came to me all by yourself. What a good boy.”

You’re speechless. What strings? Is he saying he is the one who got you the deal with the studio? You mind is racing and the only thing it can focus in on is the praise. “Good boy” How you’ve longed to hear those words. You immediately feel your body reacting, and your pants become tighter. But this can’t be real.

To distract yourself, you bring the teacup to your mouth. But your hand is unsteady and boiling hot water sloshes out of the cup and onto your hand. Before you can register the pain, the teacup is no longer in your hand and Eugene has placed a gentle kiss on the burn. His lips are warm and wet on your skin. They travel slowly up your arm, until they reach your neck, where he sucks until you’re sure a red splotch is formed.

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. He’s kissing you, but why? You don’t understand. Eugene can’t want you like that?

You aggressively pull away and stand up. In your panic, you accidentally tip over the teacup that was precariously balanced on the edge of the bed. It clatters to floor, loudly. Seconds later there is a knock on the door.

“Mr. Acheron? Is everything alright?”

Both you and Eugene freeze. It must be one of the star’s many personal assistants.

Eugene recovers quickly. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just dropped a cup, but thankfully it didn’t shatter.”

“Isn’t that lucky? I’ll be over by the director’s tent if you need me, Mr. Acheron.”

“Sure thing, Ronny.” Eugene loudly declares as casually as ever. He really is a great actor.

The footsteps retreat and you let out the breath you were holding. But as you do you catch a glimpse of something on Eugene’s face. His jawline has softened. If you had only seen the pictures, you could chalk this change up to diet and some accumulated fats, but you gazed longingly at his face no more than five minutes ago.

As you stare, Eugene whips around to you and stalks closer. As he does you swear his jaw sharpens, until it is sharper than glass. Your eyes must've widened, because Eugene stops. His hand moves to his jaw and he pulls it away as if he’s cut himself.

“I always forget those stupid tiny details,” he mumbles. “Human bodies are tricky to keep a hold of sometimes.”

You don’t understand what he’s saying, but something in the way he acts sends shivers down your spine (and not the sexy kind). You want to back away, but you’ve hit a wall. Eugene has you trapped.

The actor shrugs. “I’m truly sorry you had to find out this way. But what’s done is done.” With that said, Eugene tugs of his shirt.

You instinctively close your eyes, just like you always do in changing rooms to avoid getting beat up. When you next open them, Eugene is gone. In his place is a being not of this planet. It’s body is huge and gelatinous, there’s barely enough space in the trailer for it to stand. It oozes with tentacles and the face is a melted abomination. Clothes, faux skin and a wig are discarded on the floor around it.

Before you can open your mouth to scream, a slimy half-formed tentacle wraps around your face.

“Stop that, I won't hurt you. Not if you behave like a good boy.” The words are sloppy, but recognizable as the voice of the famous actor you knew. But that can’t be.

The body advances on you and two grotesquely big hands pick you up and places you back on the bed. The tentacle around your mouth lets go. When it does, you scuttle as far away as you can.

“What are you?” you whimper.

The being smiles, or you think it does. “That’s a bit rude, I’m quite self-conscious about this body. I’m Eugene, or who you humans call Eugene. My true name is unpronounceable to you.”

You stare, not comprehending anything.

“Now, shall we get back to reading lines?” Eugene, climbs onto the bed with you. In this new form, he towers over you, blocking out everything but his writhing tentacles. They wind about your limbs, tangle in your hair and some even make their way under your clothes. It’s like a thousand wet mouths are kissing you everywhere. Your eyes glaze over, it’s too much.

“Stop, please, stop,” you pant, pushing the tentacles away from you.

Eugene goes rigid. His looks confused. “I thought you wanted to fuck? Your eyes were practically begging me to push you down and ravage you.”

You're taken aback by the filthy words. It’s true, you were looking at Eugene like he was a juicy steak. But that was before he changed into, whatever he is now. Before the tentacles started rubbing all over your body. You notice your pants have been unbuckled. Despite everything you’re still hard, and leaking, judging by the state of your briefs.

“Let me help you,” Eugene purrs as a lone tentacles snakes down your pants. Your impatient cock twitches at the brief touch. It feels so good. Fuck, maybe you want this?

“Yes,” you admit, letting your legs fall open. “I want to…make love.”

Eugene purrs again, his entire gelatinous body vibrating with satisfaction. “Then we will, my little actor.”

Your body leaves the bed, as you're manhandled out of your clothes and onto your stomach by a plethora of tentacles. You feel the weight of Eugene’s heavy body on your back. His lips find their way to your neck. They are just as wet and sloppy as earlier.

He takes his sweet time, licking and sucking, until you know that your entire neck is going to be purple tomorrow. At this point you’re panting, trying to rut against the bed, but unable to with the weight on your back. You try to whine, but when you open your mouth, a tentacle slips inside.

“Hush, be patient for me.”

You calm down, waiting for further instructions.

“My good boy,” Eugene chuckles wetly.

That’s when you feel the first tentacle prodding at your ass. Its slick and moves in small circles to lubricate the area, before diving in. The tentacle is tapered and thin, barely noticeable at first. It quickly grows in size, until it’s massaging your walls. Its uncomfortable and foreign, but Eugene is slow and gently coaxes you open. Another tentacles soon joins the first one, stretching you more than you thought possible. All while he mumbles praises in your ear.

“My beautiful actor, such a gorgeous body. I think you’re ready for me.”

At once, the tentacles disappear. They’re replaced by the head of something even bigger. Eugene pushes his oozing cock into your stretched hole, inch, by inch. Your moan is swallowed by the tentacle in your mouth. If you thought the two tentacles was a lot, it’s nothing compared to the fullness of the monstrous cock.

How he’s able to bottom out is unknown to you, but eventually the entire cock is sheathed inside. Your eyes roll back into your head from the sheer fullness. Eugene is everywhere around you, you can barely tell where one part of him stops and the other starts. You stop breathing when he begins to move. The thrusts are shallow at first, before escalating until the entire bed is rocking with the force.

You see stars every time his cock rakes against your prostate. You’re not going to last much longer. Especially when a tentacle wraps around your cock, jerking you off with fervor. You bury your head into the mattress as you come onto the comforter.

Your body clenches around Eugene’s cock and you feel his movements become irregular. With a grunt he comes inside of you. After a moment to catch your breath, he pulls out. Cum unlike anything you’ve ever felt drips out of you.

For a moment you’re afraid Eugene might collapse onto you, but instead he rolls to the side and with his deft tentacles he moves you onto his gelatinous stomach. You didn’t notice before, but his body is vaguely transparent and it is slowly absorbing the cum you left behind on the bedspread. You get the feeling he is eating it. It makes you blush.

Eugene licks his lips. “You taste delicious, my little actor. But I won’t eat you.” More tentacles warp around your body, pressing you against him. “You’re mine, mine to cherish forever.”

Cen

It’s a long way back to the diner. Cen’s stamina is running dangerously low. But at least he has his Ooman back. They’re tired too, half sleeping as they are cradled tightly to his chest. His arms ache from carrying them, but he doesn't care. They have been so brave, now it’s his turn to protect them. Cen will never let them out of his sight again. If Cen must fight, he will do so side by side with them. Like equals… like mates.

Along the way, they take turns telling each other what happened. Logan explains how this all started in the mines with they encounter of the strange leathery eggs. Then the Yautja, mainly An’to, retells the epic (his words) battle with the Xenomorphs at the diner. Cen’s tired Ooman chimes in at the end to explain how Parker had been taken and how they’d followed after him.

A few hours ago, Cen would've chastise them for putting their life at risk for someone they barely knew. But now—Cen glances over at An’to— now, Cen understands. Maybe some people were always destined to be your clanmate? Cen should offer An’to a ride home on his ship — if his Ooman is fine with that, of course.

Right now, Cen longs for some alone-time with his soon-to-be mate, mainly so that he can make it up to them. He was lost in his grief, but that is no excuse for not listening to the love of his life. He will obey their every command and beg on his hands and knees, until he has earned their forgiveness for almost killing them.

At last, the group passes the last hill and the small outpost comes into view. The rectangular barracks are bathed in the first light of morning. Somehow the whole night must've passed. The only traces of last night’s battle are the corpses of the Xenomorphs, barely visible now that they’ve been covered in snow by the blizzard.

“If that isn't a sight for sore eyes, I don’t know what is.” Logan voices what they’re all thinking.

His Ooman pats Cen’s arm to get his attention. He looks down at them and they give him a tired smile.

“I want to walk the last stretch please, Cen.”

Cen isn’t happy about letting his Ooman walk, but he will never deny their requests. So he nods and sets them down, feet first, on the snow. They give him a quick hug, before walking over and taking over the carrying of Parker. An’to breathes an imperceptible sigh of relief.

As the group closes in on the diner, the door is thrown wide open and a stream of people, lead by Chuck the bartender, flood out to greet them. Cen and the others are whisked inside in a pile of hugs and tears. Someone picks up Parker and twirls the boy in the air. Another helps Logan over to a chair. Even Cen receives a few hearty backslaps from happy miners, which he isn’t necessarily displeased about.

The diner is in less of a disarray than when the Yautja left. Most of the tables and chairs have been put back in their proper place. The glass has been brushed away and the cracked window taped over. A cozy fire is burning in one corner. It bathes the diner in a homely soft glow. Only one or two stubborn blood stains remain to mar the coziness.

All the pushing and blatant display of emotions is eventually too much for Cen. The only corner that has been neglected in the clean up is the one housing An’to’s Xenomorph trophies. Apparently, no one wanted to touch the glistening spine or the leering severed head. That’s where Cen decides to retreat to. Further away the sound level is more manageable on Cen’s sensitive ears.

Soon, An’to joins him. Immediately the younger starts asking questions Cen is somehow responsible for answering.

“I don’t understand.” An’to gestures to the people gathered in the diner. “Why are they so happy? Do they not care about their fallen soldiers?”

Cen is about to answer with a sigh and something about different cultures treating death differently, when a quote his Ooman once said comes to mind. Cen remembers it because they attributed it to a strong human warrior, who was unjustly slain for his words.

“We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.”

An’to ponders Cen’s answer. “I guess so. Did your… mate teach you that?” An’to’s tone is playful, hearkening back to their first conversation.

“Yes.”

There is silence, for much longer that is normal with An’to. But the younger can’t keep his mouth shut for long.

“I guess you’re leaving then, with your mate?” he blurts out, unable to look Cen in the eye.

“Yes. We leave as soon as we are rested. Probably tomorrow.”

“Cool. Cool.”

Cen raises an eye-ridge. “Then go clean your trophies. I will not have hard meat venom leaking into my ship’s floor.”

This makes An’to startle. “What! I can come with you?”

Cen nods. “We are clan-mates, remember?”

An’to’s bottom mandibles quiver. Cen is expecting some kind of grandiose thank you, or even another hug, but he should know An’to better than that. The younger can’t be serious for long.

“Butif I’m there, how are you going to claim your mate?” An’to says completely unprompted. “I can’t say I’m very keen to watch.” He makes a choking sound of disgust.

Cen can’t stop himself, he laughs for the first time in days. The sound is foreign in his own ears and must be downright shocking to An’to. When Cen is able to calm down, he punches An’to lightly in the shoulder. “Pauk you.”

The younger punches back playfully.“Pauk you, too.”

Cen clicks his mandibles in anticipation. So, An’to wants to fight? Cen stands and is just about to jump An’to, when suddenly his Ooman is standing right in front of him, their hands on their hips and an amused look on their face.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Cen promptly sits down and shakes his head, while An’to snickers. The younger stands and picks up his trophies. He gives Cen one last wink, before scampering off to who knows where.

“What was all that about?”

Cen shrugs and indicates towards his ship, that because the snow has stopped falling, is just barely visible through the window. Then points to wherever An’to just disappeared.

“Ah, I see. An’to is catching a ride with us?”

Cen nods.

“Great! I like the guy. Head empty, but nice enough.” As they say this, they collapse on An’to’s abandoned chair. “Fuck, it feels nice to sit down.”

They’ve sat down for approximately five seconds when their eyes narrow in on his shoulder. “Is that a new wound, big guy?”

Cen sighs affectionately. They can barely keep their eyes open, but they still need to patch him up. That’s his Ooman, always caring more about others than themselves. But before Cen needs to explain that he already patched himself up, more or less successfully, they are interrupted by the barkeep.

“Just wanted to tell you that Logan and Parker are in the med-bay and recovering well. Thanks again for all the help.” Chuck places two steaming bowls of stew in front of them. “Before you ask, heroes eat on the house.”

That’s all Cen has to hear. He picks up the bowl and pours the contents down his throat, barely chewing. He sets down the now empty bowl on the table with a bang. Then he sees the two sets of eyes staring at him from across the table. Cen feels himself blush. He once again forgot that it isn’t a sign of respect in other cultures to devour your food.

But Chuck isn’t offended. He gives Cen a solid pat on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re enjoying my cooking.”

His Ooman is more cautious, blowing on their spoon, before tasting it. A serene calm fills their face. “It’s great, thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Chuck brushes off the compliment. “By the way, I wanted to tell you your ship is all filled up with gas. Also, I had my best mechanics take a look and they fixed some problem with the engines. The ship is as good as new and ready for takeoff!”

“Chuck, You’re a lifesaver!” his Ooman exclaims, standing to give the barkeep a hug. “But if it’s alright we’d love to get some sleep before we leave, any chance you have a room to spare?”

“Nah, that’s y'alls title. I’ll get that room prepared for you and your Yautja friend,” Chuck says and then leaves to do just that.

Cen watches as his Ooman continues to eat the stew in slow-motion. He’s captivated by the way their soft lips close around the metal spoon. Has it only been a day since those lips were wrapped around him? His Ooman continues eating, as if unbothered by Cen’s blatant staring. But he can see a faint blush rise on their cheeks. Maybe they’re thinking of the same thing?

It feels like an eternity before they’re done with the stew and by that point Cen’s loincloth is growing uncomfortably wet. His Ooman picks up the empty stew bowls and together they head for the bar. There is a line. While they wait, Cen pulls his Ooman close, their body flush against his. With their differences in height, Cen can easily rest his chin on their head. This close, Cen’s senses are flooded with their pheromones. He can feel his body heating in response.

“Cen, I am covered in Xenomorph-slime,” they whisper, but do nothing to push him away. “You sure you want to hug me at this time?”

Cen buries his face deeper in their hair. It’s just so nice to breathe in their scent again. A low purr begins in his throat. He can’t control it.

“So, that’s a yes.” his Ooman sniggers.

When it’s their turn, his Ooman hands over the empty bowls and receives a key-card from Chuck.

“The room is just down the hall to the left. It’s got a nice water-shower.”

“That’s perfect. I can’t thank you enough,” his Ooman gushes.

“And it’s got a big bed,” Chuck adds with a wink.

His Ooman’s scent changes, growing sweeter and more intoxicating. It makes Cen dizzy.

They don’t answer Chuck, but his Ooman grabs Cen’s hand and pulls him towards the room. Cen is on cloud nine as they enter the bedroom, high on pheromones. That’s when his Ooman let’s go of his hand and steps away from him. Cen whines, the loss of their scent like a physical pain.

His Ooman suppresses a laugh behind their palm. “I’m sorry, I’ll be right back.” Then they head off towards what Cen assumes to be the bathroom.

Slowly, Cen’s head clears of the arousal caused by his Ooman’s scent. Finally, he is level-headed enough to take in the room. It’s small, with metallic walls, but it’s indeed got a big bed. With multiple blankets and pillows. It must get cold at night.

The sight of the comfortable bed triggers some ancient instinct in Cen’s mind. He picks up one of the pillows and places it in a different spot on the bed. Immediately, his brain floods with satisfaction.

“I must nest,” he whispers to himself on repeat. “Nest. Nest. Nest.”

~~~

You

The hot water is scalding as it rolls down your body. It’s also heaven. Just the way you like your showers. The Xenomorph saliva washes off quickly, but the resin is more stubborn. It takes three rounds of shampoo until you your hair doesn't stick together anymore. Then you stay until the icy feeling in your body has thawed and your skin feels like it’s burning off.

You wrap yourself in a towel and walk back to the bedroom. The first thing you see is the bed, or rather what was the bed. It is now a hodge-podge of pillows, blankets and comforters, seemingly haphazardly piled together. On the other side of the mess is Cen, re-arranging some of the pillows with a dazed expression. He has also shed most of his armor, scattering it all over the room.

You blink slowly, trying to take in the mess. “Why have you made our bed into a pillowfort?”

Cen startles, and the look he gives you is deeply embarrassed, like he’s been caught masturbating, not interior decorating.

“Nest,” he mumbles in English, then looks away, avoiding eye contact.

You frown. His behavior is…odd. For one, Cen never startles, he is constantly aware of you. It’s almost tiring how he can’t keep his eyes off you for even a few seconds. But in the last hours, Cen has been even more clingy. You chalked it up to the change in scenery and almost dying, but something is definitely weird between you two.

“I love you Cen, I really do, but I have been through hell today. I do not have the energy for charades or twenty questions.” You pause to shake your head. “Can you just tell me why you've been so weird lately?

Cen squirms at first, then takes a deep breath and meets your eyes. “Mates.”

“What?” Did he say what you think he did?

“We’re… mates,” Cen elaborates. A deep green blush is starting to rise on his cheeks. Well, this reaction is certainly a surprise. Cen is more embarrassed than you’ve ever seen him. This mate business must be very important to him.

It’s starting to dawn on you what he means. You’ve heard of mates in one context on Earth, in wildlife documentaries concerning… procreation.

“I see…” you mumble.

Is Cen unhappy in your relationship because you aren't sexually compatible because of the different species situation? No, not to toot your own horn, but you know Cen is always satisfied. You get the feeling that mates is something both biological, and possibly cultural.

You go out on a limb and ask: “Does this explain the bite, too?” you gesture vaguely to your shoulder to the place Cen has buried his teeth multiple times during sex.

Cen nods, then opens his mouth as if to say something, but closes it again. He furrows his brow-ridges. You wait patiently, aware he must be trying to find the right English words. At last he speaks.

“Symbol of mates,” he gestures between you. “For us to know.”

“It is a cultural thing! So the bite means I’m your mate, but wait. I’ve not bitten you back,” you speak your thoughts out loud.

At this statement, Cen’s face drops. He looks devastated, like you’ve ripped his heart (hearts?) out of his chest and stomped on it.

You repeat the words quietly to yourself. “I’ve not bitten you back.”

That’s when you realize something terrible: you haven’t claimed Cen back. You’re his mate, but he isn’t sure he’s yours. That’s why he’s been acting so clingy, he’s afraid you don’t love him back, because you haven’t committed. Silly alien customs. You guess you have to show him just how much you want to be his mate.

Walking around the bed, you gently, but firmly, push Cen backwards. He falls and lands in the middle of the pillow-covered bed. You slowly shed your towel, feeling Cen’s eyes roam across every inch of revealed skin.

“Stay,” you command, before you climb into the nest of pillows. Your eyes lock as you straddle his hips. Cen’s eyes are sparkling with anticipation and his hands flex against the covers of the bed, but he knows to stay still.

You lean in and give him a small peck on his mandible, before trailing kisses down his neck, not stopping until you reach his shoulder. You place a kiss on the exact mirror of the place Cen bit you.

“Is here alright?” you ask, lifting your head to look at Cen’s face. Your Yautja nods frantically. It makes you chuckle softly.

You open your mouth and bite into Cen’s shoulder as hard as you can. Your dull human teeth barely make a dent, only a tiny bit of green blood emerges. But Cen moans as if you’ve sucked his dick. You lick up the blood. It tastes sweet, and less metallic than your own. Cen shivers under you in pleasure.

You bite again. Cen whimpers, words you don’t understand spilling from his throat. It’s delicious.

“Can you get it into your thick skull that I love you?” you growl, trying to sound as possessive as possible. “You’re mine. My Mate. Forever.”

Cen moans even louder this time. You feel his chest rising and falling rapidly underneath you. His claws dig into the covers hard enough to rip them. He’s shaking with the force needed to keep still. And his eyes, they're pleading, pleading to touch you. To please you.

“My beautiful Mate.” You put extra emphasis on the pet-name. “Go on, touch me.”

With that command, your places are reversed in an instant; you’re on your back with Cen looming over you. You barely have enough time to take a breath, before his mandibles close around your head and your tongues finally meet. How you’ve missed this feeling: Cen’s forked tongue deep in your throat. He’s the only thing you can feel, smell and taste.

Cen’s hands are all over you, but they stop roaming to trace the bite on your shoulder. When he does, heat floods your body and you arch your back in pleasure. You have to pull away from the kiss to breathe.

“What the hell was that?” you ask as soon as you can talk again.

“Mate bond,” Cen replies smugly and licks a stripe across the bite.

You convulse. Fuck, that felt even better! It’s almost enough to make you come untouched. Okay, so mates are not just a cultural thing then. You have no idea how the bite works biologically, but you’re not complaining.

Cen kisses and licks his way down your body. Stopping for a moment to lick your nipples. You squirm under him. Cen learned all of your sensitive spots rather quickly. Such a devoted alien.

Unexpectedly, Cen’s tongue leaves your nipples. He moves down your body, parting your thighs and resting his head between them. His breath is hot on your crotch. Pleading yellow eyes once more meet yours.

“Touch me,” you repeat the order, simultaneously burying your hands in Cen’s locks and pushing his head down.

Cen’s mandibles open as wide as possible. Each tooth digs into your thighs, spreading you further and holding you still. His mandibles are big enough to engulf you entirely in the scorching heat of his mouth. Not a moment later his tongue is on you, licking, swirling and sucking your most sensitive parts.

Your eyes rolls back in their sockets from the wet feel of Cen. Your fingernails scrape against his scalp. Cen’s moans vibrates against you, creating a loop of pleasure. In addition to the bite still pulsating on your shoulder, it’s almost too much.

Suddenly you shout and come down Cen’s throat. Cen licks every drop of your spend, and when you have no more to give, he releases your thighs.

You feel a loopy grin plastered on face. You don’t know how anything could top that. Cen’s eyes are also clouded over. For a second you think that he came untouched again, but then Cen removes his loincloth. Underneath, his cock is out of its sheath, tip bright green and ridges swollen. Even though you’ve just cum, you stare at the glistening thing hungrily as your body grows aroused once more. A curious part of your mind wonders if the mate bond could affect refractory periods in humans? But you snuff the question out, this is not the time for exobiology research.

Shakily, you get up on your knees and flipping your places once more, Cen ends up underneath you. You let yourself revel in the beauty of his panting sweat-covered chest for a moment, before you crash your wet groins together. With a loud groan, you’re transported back to your first time together. Except this time you’re ready to go further.

You guide Cen’s cock to your entrance. It’s slippery against your tight ring of muscles. You relax, preparing to be filled, when Cen stops you. His hand comes up to cradle your face. You recognize the worry in his face. He doesn't want to hurt you. You snuggle into his hand, giving a non-verbal confirmation of his feelings. But you’re not scared.

Slowly, you sink down, the head entering only with minimal resistance. Cen’s eyes widen and you give him a smug grin. There was another reason you stayed so long in the shower: working yourself open with your fingers, until you could fit almost your entire fist.

With the head inside, the rest should be easy, but you’re not sure about the ridges. Each has swollen to the size of your thumb. When they enter, you’re stretched further than you though possible. It’s painful but possible if you go slow. Cen coaxes you through the pain, whispering soft alien words.

Finally, Cen’s length is completely sheathed inside of you. Your breathing is heavy. Your skin slick with sweat. You’re also so satisfyingly full. Underneath you Cen is seemingly struggling to remain present. His claws rake over your back, the pain grounding you both to the here and now.

After a moments rest, your try moving. The ridges scrape against your insides with such fierce pleasure you have to stop. Not deterred, you continue to rise, until only the head is left inside. Then you abruptly fall back down. Both of your heads are thrown back in unison. This is what you’ve been waiting for.

You repeat the rising and crashing down, until the air around you and Cen is thick with your combined moans and groans. You feel your legs growing tired. Cen helps you out by meeting your thrust halfway, but even Cen’s movements are growing irregular.

Sensing you’re both close, Cen puts his hand between your legs to help you out. With one last thrust, Cen’s cock swells in size and that, combined with his scaly hand, is enough to push you over the edge. Cen follows immediately after, flooding your insides with ropes of hot neon-green cum.

You collapse on top of Cen, not bothering to pull out before you snuggle close. Cen is more than happy with that, his arms wrapping tightly around you. His mandibles find your neck. When he bites down it makes you feel complete. It must be the mate bond amplifying it, but the love coursing through you feels big enough for your heart to explode. You bite back, the love traveling back into Cen.

You stay this way for a long time, but slowly the flames of the mating bond die down. Cen lets go of the bite and pulls out. You also remove your teeth. Your body shivers, for a completely different reason. Cen reaches over and wraps you in one of the millions of blankets nearby. Then you continue cuddling. Pressed so closely together someone might mistake you for one person.

“I love you, Cen,” you murmur into his neck.

“Mate,” Cen answers, holding you impossibly closer.

“Yes. Mate.” You smile and close your eyes.