Get me some of that yautjussy

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

You sit naked at the feet of your king, K’thar, the mighty ruler of Clan Varak, perched upon a lavish velvet seat that elevates you slightly above the cold, unforgiving stone floor of the grand throne hall. The seat is a recent indulgence, crafted especially for you—a low, cushioned platform with soft, raised edges that cradle your form like a throne of its own, though far humbler than the massive obsidian edifice where K’thar presides. It positions you higher and closer to him, your body still on full display for the assembled court of Yautja warriors, advisors, and envoys from allied clans. No longer do you endure the hard concrete beneath your knees; those days of initial captivity, when you were first claimed as his prize. Now, as the bearer of his pups, you are spoiled beyond measure. The seat overflows with the softest furs in the galaxy, harvested from the elusive beasts of the outer rim worlds—creatures whose pelts shimmer like liquid moonlight and feel like whispers against your skin.

Your stomach swells large and round, a testament to the life growing within you, the heirs to Clan Varak's ancient bloodline. Your breasts have grown heavier, fuller, hanging lower as they swell with milk, ready to nourish the pups that kick and twist inside you. King K’thar has adorned you with long gold necklaces that match the intricate gold and crystal-encrusted collar around your neck—a symbol of your cherished captivity, etched with Yautja runes that declare you as his eternal possession. The necklaces drape elegantly down your breasts, their chains cool against your warm skin, catching the dim, flickering light of the bio-luminescent torches that line the hall. Your hair cascades in long, unbound waves down your back, your king revels in its length, often weaving his clawed fingers through it as a sign of affection.

The throne hall itself is a cavernous marvel of Yautja architecture. Massive pillars rise like the spines of ancient predators, adorned with trophies from countless hunts—skulls of xenomorphs, serpents from forbidden planets, and even the armored helmets of rival clans. The air hums with the low growl of Yautja speech, the scent of incense from sacred hunts mingling with the metallic tang of their weapons. K’thar's throne dominates the center, forged from the fused bones of his greatest kills. He sits upon it now, his massive frame clad in ornate armor etched with the symbols of his victories, his dreadlock-like tresses adorned with bone beads that clink softly with each movement.

He likes to show you off to everyone, a living emblem of his virility and dominance. To parade you as the human who carries his seed, proving his clan's strength in the face of those who once doubted a union with an human—a fragile outsider—could yield worthy heirs. You sit close to him, your arm wrapped around his large, muscular leg, stroking the rough, scaled skin gently as he speaks to his advisors in the guttural clicks and rumbles of the Yautja tongue. His voice echoes through the hall, commanding respect as he discusses border skirmishes with Clan R’vok and the upcoming great hunt on the ice world of Krynn.

His hand, massive and clawed yet surprisingly gentle, plays with your hair as he often does. The rhythmic motion soothes you, the sharp tips of his talons grazing your scalp without drawing blood—a controlled tenderness he's mastered over the years of your captivity. It feels good, easing the tensions of the day. The court sessions drag on endlessly, filled with reports of hunts, alliances, and the eternal Yautja pursuit of honor through combat. You've been very tired recently, the weight of the pups sapping your energy, making even simple movements feel like battles. He has noticed this, of course; nothing escapes his keen predator senses. In quieter moments, he's expressed sympathy his mandibles clicking softly as he tells you, "You fight a great battle every day carrying my pups, my pet. Stronger than any hunt I have known."

Your eyes close involuntarily, your body going slightly limp against him as exhaustion claims you. You rest your head against his knee, the warmth of his leg a comforting anchor in the vast hall.

He notices right away. His advisors' voices fade into the background as his hand shifts from your hair to cradle your head, his palm engulfing it protectively. "My pet is tired," he purrs, his voice a deep, resonant vibration that travels through you like thunder rolling across a stormy plain. The Yautja language is rich with layers—growls, clicks, and purrs—but he speaks in the simplified human tongue for your benefit, a concession he's made since claiming you.

You nod slightly, too weary to speak, your eyelids heavy.

"Come here, my pet," he orders, though his tone is laced with concern rather than command. With effortless strength, he helps you to your feet, his arms steadying you as you rise. The court watches in silence, but no one dares stare too long; they know the penalties for coveting the king's prize. He pulls you onto his lap, settling you against his broad chest, your swollen belly resting between the two of you.

Once seated, his tongue finds yours in a deep, possessive kiss. His mouth is alien—mandibles framing sharp teeth, his tongue longer and more dexterous than any human's, tasting of spice and wild game. You melt into it, the kiss lingering as his hands roam gently over your round belly, feeling the subtle shifts of the pups within. The advisors continue their reports, droning on about supply lines and warrior training, but K’thar interrupts them abruptly, his voice booming through the hall.

"My pet swells with my young," he declares, almost showing you off, his claws tracing lazy circles on your skin. "My seed has taken root in her belly, growing strong heirs for Clan Varak." His tone turns fiercely possessive, his eyes glowing with predatory fire as he scans the room. "She is mine alone. No other shall gaze upon her beauty, no other shall dream of her touch. To covet what is K’thar's is to invite the hunt—and I do not lose hunts." A low growl rumbles in his chest, a warning that silences even the bravest warriors. No one looks; they know better than to lay eyes on what doesn't belong to them. Whispers of past executions—for lesser offenses—hang in the air like unspoken threats.

He kisses you some more, his mandibles brushing your cheeks, the kiss deepening as your tiredness begins to morph into something else entirely. A warmth spreads through your body, ignited by his proximity, his scent—a heady mix of musk, leather, and the pheromones that Yautja males exude to claim their mates. It's become increasingly heightened since you became pregnant, your senses attuned to him in ways that border on addiction. Your core aches, craving him, his touch, his dominance.

"They are restless today," he rumbles, his voice like stones grinding deep in the earth, his hand pressing firmer against your belly where the pups stir. "Eager. Like their mother."

The words send a shiver through you, and you feel yourself growing warm, slick between your legs. He senses it immediately, his nostrils flaring as he inhales your arousal. A growl escapes him, loud enough for the room to hear: "Look at my slave—still so wet for me even while she carries my heirs." His advisors shift uncomfortably, but he pays them no mind, his focus solely on you.

He tells the advisors that court is done for the day, his voice brooking no argument. "Enough. I must ensure my pet rests." The hall empties swiftly, warriors and envoys bowing low as they depart, leaving you alone with your king.

With a gentleness that belies his warrior stature, he scoops you into his arms and carries you back to the royal chambers you share. He has been carrying you a lot lately, barely letting you walk anywhere by yourself anymore, especially now that you are in the later stages of your pregnancy. The corridors of the palace wind like the veins of a great beast, lined with glowing fungi and displays of past hunts. Guards stand tall as you pass, their eyes averted from your form.

When you reach his quarters, he lays you down on the massive bed—a sea of furs and silks from conquered worlds, dimmed lights casting a soft, amber glow. The chamber is opulent yet primal: walls adorned with weapons and trophies and a hearth crackling with blue flames. "Let me relax you," he says, his voice softening. "You have had a long day."

You sit up slightly as he strips off his armor, piece by piece—the chest plate clanging to the floor, revealing his scarred, muscular torso; the gauntlets and greaves following, until he's down to his loincloth. His body is a masterpiece of Yautja physiology: towering over eight feet, skin mottled in shades of green and black, muscles rippling like coiled serpents. He grabs a vial of oils from a nearby shelf—precious extracts from the flora of exotic planets, warm to the touch and scented with sweet, floral notes that calm the senses.

He starts rubbing them onto your enormous belly, his large hands gentle, the oil gliding smoothly over your stretched skin. The warmth seeps in, easing the aches, and the smell envelops you like a comforting embrace. You watch him, mesmerized by the reverence in his eyes. The pups kick against his hand, and he chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound. "My pups are strong," he says, pride swelling in his voice. "Look at this belly, my pet—so full, so perfect. I love how it swells with my seed, continuing the bloodline of Clan Varak. These marks on your body," he traces the stretch marks with a claw, "are more beautiful than any blade I have ever forged." He leans in, growling against your skin. "You are strong, carrying my pups. Your body is a vessel of honor, enduring what no Yautja female could. I praise you, my cherished one."

His words stir you deeply, and you feel a pool of liquid forming between your legs. You want him—crave him so badly it aches. He knows; he can smell your arousal, his mandibles flaring. He leans in once more, and you make out, your tongues dancing in a heated tangle. He begins to grope your large breasts while he kisses you. "My precious pet," he murmurs against your lips. He squeezes one breast, and milk begins to leak from it, dripping down your skin. He bends down to lick it up, his tongue rough and hot. "So sweet," he says, eyes glowing. "I love tasting the milk that will nourish my sons." He does this for a bit, squeezing and licking, savoring every drop as you caress his big arms and moan into his touch. His tongue licks up your neck, then finds your mouth again, teasing your tongue with his.

Your pussy is dripping now, throbbing with need. "Master, please," you beg, your voice breathless.

"Alright," he laughs, a low, amused rumble. "No more teasing." He touches your belly one last time, feeling the babies kick.

He lays you down on your back on the furs on your big bed.

He leaned down, his broad, helmet-less head lowering. The first touch wasn’t his mouth, but the backs of his knuckles, tracing the slick, swollen folds of your cunt. You gasped, your back leaving the furs for a moment.

“So wet for me already, my pet,” he murmured, the vibration of his voice traveling through his hand and into your very core. “This greedy, pregnant cunt weeps for its king.”

He replaced his knuckles with the flat of his tongue. It was broad, rougher than a human’s, and hot as a brand. He didn’t dive in. He lapped, a long, slow, devastating stroke from your perineum all the way up to your clit, gathering the slickness you’d made for him. The sensation was electric, a rough velvet drag that made your toes curl into the furs. He did it again. And again. Each pass was slower than the last, each one focusing more on the tight, throbbing bud of your clit, circling it with a precision that stole the air from your lungs.

You were panting, hands fisting in the dark pelts beneath you. “Master…”

He answered by sinking lower. His mouth closed over your entire cunt, his tongue pushing inside you. It wasn’t a thrust; it was an invasion, a claiming exploration. He fucked you with his tongue, deep and slow, the ridged texture lighting up every nerve inside you. You could feel the low, pleased rumble in his chest vibrating against your thighs. He drank from you, his tongue working in and out, curling against your inner walls.

Then one thick finger, slick with your own wetness, pressed against your entrance beside his tongue. He pushed in, just to the first knuckle, and paused. Your inner muscles clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper.

“So eager,” he growled against your flesh. He pushed further, the finger sinking in to the root. It was a stretch, a delicious, full feeling. He began to move it, a slow, corkscrew motion that rubbed a spot inside you that made you see stars. His tongue never stopped its relentless assault on your clit, flicking and circling in time with the thrust of his finger.

A second finger joined the first. The stretch burned for a glorious second before melting into an overwhelming sense of fullness. He scissored them gently, stretching you open, before curling them forward. He found that spongy, textured place inside you and pressed.

Your world detonated.

A sharp cry tore from your throat as your body bowed off the bed. Pleasure, hot and liquid and uncontrollable, erupted from your core, flushing through your limbs. Your cunt clenched and spasmed around his buried fingers, gushing wetness into his waiting mouth. He drank it all, his tongue lapping up every drop as you shook and whimpered through the convulsions. He didn’t stop. He kept his fingers buried deep, gently pumping, milking the last shudders from you until you were a boneless, gasping wreck on the furs.

Only then did he withdraw his fingers. He sat back on his haunches, lifting his hand to his mouth. He sucked your taste from his fingers, his eyes never leaving yours, glowing with possessive fire. “Sweet,” he declared. “My pet’s sweet cream.”

His free hand went to the simple loincloth at his hips. He didn’t untie it. He grabbed the sturdy fabric in one fist and pulled. It tore like paper, falling away.

His cock sprang free, and the sight of it, even now, after all this time, made your mouth go dry. It was thick, longer than a human man’s forearm, a ruddy, dark purple shaft that tapered to a blunt, flared head. A ridge of small, sensitive-looking nubs ran along the underside. It was already fully erect, jutting out from a thatch of coarse, dark hair, the tip glistening with a bead of his own pre-cum.

He moved over you, but not onto you. Instead, he lay down on his side amidst the furs, facing you. One powerful arm wrapped around you, his hand splaying over the taut, round dome of your belly. “Turn,” he commanded softly. “Face me.”

You shifted, rolling onto your side to mirror him. He guided your top leg to hook over his hip, opening you to him. His cock, hot and heavy, slid through your damp folds, nestling against your entrance. He didn’t push in. Not yet. His arm under you curled around, his huge hand cradling the underside of your belly, taking its weight completely. You felt a profound sense of relief, of safety, as the constant gravitational pull was lifted, supported by him.

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. His other hand came up to cup your cheek, a thumb stroking your skin. His breath was warm and smelled of musk and spice.

“I will fill you now,” he whispered, his voice thick. “Slowly. I will fuck this beautiful, ripe cunt that carries my sons.”

He flexed his hips forward.

The head of his cock pressed against your stretched, sensitive entrance and began to sink inside. The feeling was immense. It was a stretching, burning, perfect fullness that stole your breath. You were so wet, so pliant from your orgasm, that your body yielded to him, swallowing him inch by glorious inch. He went painfully, exquisitely slow, letting you feel every ridge, every contour of his cock as it penetrated you.

When he was fully seated, buried to the hilt, you both stilled. You were joined completely. You could feel the hard length of him pressed against your cervix, the weight of your belly resting in his supporting palm. He began to move. Not thrusts, but gentle, deep rolls of his hips. Each movement dragged his cock through your clutching depths, the ridge underneath stimulating your most sensitive inner walls.

His tongue flicked out, tracing your lips before sliding into your mouth. You kissed him back, the taste of yourself on his tongue an erotic, dizzying thrill. His mandibles brushed your cheeks, the click-rasp of his pleasure a constant, intimate sound.

His lips left yours, trailing down to your ear. “Feel that?” he growled, his voice vibrating through your very bones. His hips rolled again, a deep, possessive grind that made you moan into his shoulder. “Feel that, my sons? Your father is still deep inside your mother. He claims her. He breeds her. Even now, he fills the womb that shelters you.”

The words, the filthy, reverent praise, sent a fresh bolt of lust straight to your core. Your cunt fluttered around his embedded cock. He felt it, and a rough sound of approval escaped him.

“Yes,” he hissed. “Feel how she answers me. How her cunt hugs my cock. This is your legacy. This strength.”

He established a rhythm then, a steady, deep, and slow fucking that was less about frantic passion and more about profound connection. Each inward stroke was a deliberate re-claiming, each withdrawal a promise of return. His hand on your belly held you steady, his touch gentle but unyielding. You were wrapped in him, surrounded by him, impaled on him. The pleasure built again, a slow, coiling tension deep in your belly, lower, in the roots of your clit which rubbed against the rough skin of his lower abdomen with each movement.

“Master… I’m… I’m close again,” you gasped, your nails digging into the thick muscle of his back.

His mandibles flared. “Cum,” he ordered, his voice a dark caress. “Cum on your king’s cock. Let my sons feel their mother’s pleasure.”

The command, the image his words painted, broke you. Your second orgasm crashed over you, deeper and more rolling than the first. It wasn’t a sharp peak but a wave of intense, liquid heat that radiated out from your cunt, making your entire body tremble. Your inner muscles clenched and released in rhythmic pulses, milking his cock, pulling him deeper.

Feeling you convulse around him was his undoing. With a guttural roar that echoed in the chamber, he slammed his hips forward one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go. You felt the hot, sudden rush of his cum flooding your channel, jet after jet of it, marking you, filling you even beyond the fullness of pregnancy. His whole body shuddered against yours, his arms locking around you, holding you as if you were the only solid thing in the universe.

For long minutes, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the pop of the fire. He stayed inside you, softening slowly, his cum leaking out around the base of his cock to soak the furs beneath you. Finally, with utmost care, he withdrew. You felt empty, used, and utterly worshipped.

He didn’t let you rest for long. With a soft growl, he rolled you onto your back again. He shifted, kneeling between your legs once more. He was hard again, his cock already swelling back to its intimidating size. His eyes were fixed on your belly, where the movements of the pups had become more pronounced after the orgasms.

“Look,” he said, his voice awed. He placed a hand on the curve, and you could see a tiny foot or elbow slide beneath his touch. A fierce, tender expression crossed his fearsome features. “They know.”

He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the furs by your shoulders. He was so careful, keeping his weight off you, supporting himself on his arms. He guided his cock back to your slick, well-used entrance and pushed in. This angle was different, deeper, more direct. He started a gentle, rhythmic fucking, his eyes locked on your belly where his hand now rested.

“Feel that?” he murmured, more to your stomach than to you. His thrusts were shallow but potent, each one jostling you just enough to make the life within you stir. “The pups know their father is claiming their mother. They feel my strength. They will know it even before they are born.”

The sensation was overwhelming. The fullness of his cock, the sight of his huge, dark hand splayed over the pale skin of your pregnant belly, the feeling of the babies moving in response to the motion of his fucking… it was too much. Your third orgasm crept up on you, a slow, building pressure that suddenly burst. You cried out, your cunt clamping down on him in a series of tight, fluttering spasms. He groaned, his rhythm faltering, and then he was coming again, another hot flood pulsing into your already filled cunt, his seed mixing with his previous release and your own wetness.

He collapsed beside you, pulling you partially onto his chest, his cock slipping from you with a wet, soft sound. He was breathing heavily, one hand idly stroking your belly, the other wrapped possessively around your shoulder.

You were spent, buzzing with pleasure, your body humming. Yet, as you felt him soften against your thigh, a desperate, hungry want stirred again deep in your fucked-out core. You nuzzled against his chest, your voice a hoarse whisper.

“Once more… please, my King. One more time.”

He laughed then, a deep, rumbling, genuinely amused sound that vibrated through you. His hand came up to tilt your chin, forcing you to meet his glowing eyes. “My pet is insatiable. So eager for her king’s cock.” He kissed you, hard and claiming. “I will give you what you want.”

He shifted again. This time, he lay back onto the furs, pulling you with him so your back was to his front. He arranged you both with a careful, practiced efficiency. He pulled your top leg up, bending it, and placed a soft pillow beneath your knee for support. Then his arms came around you, both his huge hands sliding underneath the heavy weight of your pregnant belly. He lifted it, taking the full burden into his palms, holding you, and the life within you, cradled safely in his grasp.

You felt the thick, hard length of him nudge against your slick, swollen folds from behind. He guided himself in, the entrance eased by the copious amounts of cum and arousal leaking from you. He slid home in one smooth, deep stroke.

“Fuck,” you moaned, your head falling back against his shoulder. This angle was incredible. With the weight of your belly completely supported, there was no discomfort, only the intense, deep penetration of his cock. He held you like that, your body arched against his, your belly cradled in his hands, and began to move.

His thrusts were long and slow, a deep, rolling motion that rubbed every perfect place inside you. You could feel every inch of his cock moving within you, feel the ridge underneath stroking that magical spot with each push and pull. His breath was hot in your ear, his mandibles clicking softly against your temple.

“This cunt,” he growled, punctuating each word with a deep thrust. “This perfect, fucking, breeding cunt. It was made for me. To take my cock. To grow my sons. To milk my seed.”

You were babbling, nonsensical pleas and praises falling from your lips. The pleasure was a constant, rising tide now, no longer peaking in sharp bursts but building into a sustained, devastating plateau. He fucked you with a relentless, gentle precision, his hands holding your belly as if it were the most precious treasure in the universe. You felt utterly possessed, utterly safe, utterly ravaged.

The climax, when it came, was a silent, shattering wave. Your voice was gone. Your body simply seized, every muscle locking as a torrent of pure, unadulterated ecstasy ripped through you. Your cunt clenched around him in a vice-like grip, pulsing rhythmically, demanding.

With a roar that was half triumph, half surrender, he thrust up one final, devastating time and erupted. You felt the hot gush, another flood joining the mess he’d already made of you, marking you, claiming you, breeding you all over again even as you carried the proof of his previous claims within you. He held you through it, his grip on your belly tightening just slightly, his body shuddering against yours as he emptied himself deep into your welcoming, pregnant cunt.

As the waves of pleasure finally ebbed, leaving you both in a haze of satiated exhaustion, K’thar remained wrapped around you, his cock still buried deep inside as it softened. The chamber was filled with the soft crackle of the fire pit, the distant hum of the palace's ventilation systems, and your shared, ragged breaths. He didn't pull out immediately; instead, he held you close, his mandibles nuzzling the back of your neck in a rare display of post-coital tenderness. "Well done, my pet," he praises, his voice a low, satisfied purr that vibrates through your back. "You did so well. So strong, taking your king like that. My heirs are blessed to have such a mother."

You hum contentedly, your body limp and glowing with aftershocks, but he senses the mess between your legs—the mingled fluids of your unions soaking the furs. With careful movements, he withdraws, eliciting a soft whimper from you at the sudden emptiness. He rises from the bed, his massive form moving with surprising grace, and retrieves a soft, warmed towel from a nearby basin infused with healing herbs from the Yautja healing gardens. The cloth is scented with calming lavender-like blooms from a conquered world, designed to soothe and cleanse without irritation.

He returns to you, kneeling beside the bed, and begins to clean you up with meticulous care. His claws retract slightly to avoid any accidental scratches as he gently wipes between your thighs, removing the sticky remnants of his seed and your arousal. He works slowly, methodically, starting from your inner thighs and moving inward, his touch feather-light on your sensitive folds. "Shh, my pet," he murmurs when you twitch at the contact. "Let me tend to you. You have given me everything tonight; now I give back." He cleans your belly next, wiping away any stray drops of oil or milk, his hand lingering to feel the pups shift lazily within, as if they too are settling after the storm.

Once you're clean and dry, he discards the towel and helps you sit up against a pile of plush pillows, arranging the furs around you for maximum comfort. Your body aches in the best way, heavy with pregnancy and the aftermath of passion, but his support makes it bearable. "We will rest here," he declares, settling behind you so your back rests against his broad chest, his legs bracketing yours. "Dinner will be brought to us soon, and I don't want you lifting a finger. I will feed you with my own hands."

You nod in agreement, leaning into him, your head lolling against his shoulder as exhaustion truly sets in. The pups seem calmer now, their movements gentle rolls rather than vigorous kicks, as if lulled by the intimacy you've shared. True to his word, a soft chime echoes through the chamber—a signal from the servants—and moments later, a tray of food arrives, laden with a feast fit for a king and his queen. The aromas waft up: roasted meats from the great beasts of the hunt, seasoned with spices that tingle on the tongue; fresh fruits imported from lush colony worlds, their juices bursting with sweetness; nutrient-rich broths designed to bolster a pregnant body; and warm, flatbreads baked with grains from ancient Yautja fields.

K’thar dismisses the servants arrival with a wave, pulling the tray close with one hand while the other remains splayed over your belly, rubbing in slow, soothing circles. He feels the pups kick occasionally, responding to his touch, and he chuckles softly each time. "My sons are eager even in repose," he says, his voice warm with paternal pride. "They sense their father's hand, know his strength. Soon, they will hunt by my side, but for now, they grow safe within you."

He selects a tender piece of meat first, spearing it on a small fork designed for human-sized bites, and brings it to your lips. "Open, my pet," he commands gently, and you do, savoring the juicy, flavorful morsel as he feeds you. His movements are precise, unhurried, ensuring not a drop spills. Between bites, he offers sips of the broth from a curved vessel, tilting it carefully so you can drink without strain. "You must eat well," he says, his mandibles clicking in approval as you chew. "For yourself and for them. Your body does the work of warriors, nourishing our future."

As he feeds you, his free hand never stops its gentle massage on your belly, tracing the curves, feeling every flutter and kick. "There, little one," he murmurs directly to your stomach when a particularly strong movement ripples under his palm. "Be at ease. Your mother rests now." The gesture is intimate, wholesome—a far cry from the fierce warrior king who commands armies and slays beasts. In these moments, he's simply K’thar, your protector, your mate in all but name.

By the time the tray is empty, you're full and drowsy, the warmth of his body and the rhythmic rubbing lulling you toward sleep. He sets the tray aside, signaling for its removal, and pulls you closer, wrapping both arms around you now—one cradling your belly, the other stroking your hair. "Rest now, my cherished pet," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "You are safe. We are whole."

The pups give one final, contented stir, and you drift off in his embrace, the king of Clan Varak watching over you like a guardian sentinel, his heart as claimed by you as you are by him.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

“Eos, are you seeing this?”

There is a brief pause before Zander Flanagan’s, captain of Eos, a Weyland-Yutani research cruiser, voice crackles through your helmet’s speaker.

“We’re seeing it just fine up here,” he says. “And what a beauty she is.”

Through the comm link that connects you to Eos and your ground team comes a thunderous cheer, an amalgamation of celebration over the discovery looming in the valley below. Years of research, years of exploration, in and out of statis pods only to make it to the goddamn finish line.

“It’s fucking huge,” chuckles Sergeant Beaumont, shouldering his rifle.

Huge hardly grasps the vastness of the structure. Wedged between three mountains, facing North, the main structure protrudes from the ground like the flared rim of a vase, the edges smooth and linear, tapering to points at its four corners. In front of it is a wall that cuts into the sides of the mountain on either end. The middle is open, creating a sort of doorway though there is no arch, only massive statues separating the two sides.

“The rest of the structure has to be underground,” you muse. Tapping into your comm link, you connect to Eos. “Captain, can the scanners penetrate that far?”

“Built these myself,” comes a feminine voice with a Texas drawl. Not Captain Flanagan but Bronco, as she likes to call herself, answers. “Motherfuckers can see through anything.”

As Eos preps the exterior scanners attached to the hull, you and the ground team cut a path down the hill to the overgrown road that leads to the megastructure. Road is a generous term. Not much is left except for broken rocks and weeds. No one has touched this place in years.

“How tall do you think the walls are?” asks Nettie Eaton, the xenobiologist assigned to the mission. She forms up beside you, your shoulders brushing. “And that?” Nettie points to the structure behind the wall.

Wilkens pops up directly behind you and Nettie, his presence startling enough to separate. “These walls are easily one-hundred and eighty feet. Roughly fifty-five meters.”

“Jesus Christ, Wilky,” gasps Nettie, placing her hand over chest. “Caught me right on the hop.”

“The structure behind the wall?” he continues like he didn’t hear Nettie at all. “Double. Easily.”

Remington, one of the hired mercenaries, punches Wilkens in the arm, sending him stumbling.

“Watch it!” you snap, reaching for Wilkens.

“Sounding like a synthetic, Techie,” laughs Remington. “Maybe we should open you up and take a look at your wires.”

“Fuck off, Rem,” you say. “Leave him alone.”

Remington’s gaze roams up and down your body in a slow caress. The man’s been after you since Eos left the Ahldani system even though you won’t give him the time of day.

“Corporal Remington.” The four of you turn as Ella, the Weyland-Yutani synthetic assigned to this mission, joins the conversation. “If we opened up Engineer Wilkens, you’d only find blood. Not wiring.” She smiles and inclines her head. “To your bitter disappointment.”

Remington glowers. “Fucking synths,” he mutters, strutting off to join the rest of the hired guns.

Ella only hums, finding particular interest in a weed breaking upward through the dirt.

“I’m good,” says Wilkens, smoothing his spacesuit and checking his helmet. “All sealed.”

The planet’s air is breathable but Captain Flanagan isn’t taking any chances. Everyone is suited up for the health and safety of the rest of the crew.

“Come on then,” you smile, the three of you following behind the rest of the ground team.

You, Nettie, and Wilkens make up the scientists sent with the ground team with two others back on Eos. Along for the journey is Ella, the synth, and a security detail consisting of ten armed men all hired by Weyland-Yutani. Excessive, but you’re not the captain. Flanagan’s word is final.

“They aren’t lines at all,” observers Nettie, taking in the walls as the group nears. “From a distance you can’t tell, but—” She grabs your arm excitedly, shaking it. “It’s art. You must be thrilled. All that hard work and now—” Nettie sighs dreamily, mouth open in awe as her gaze sweeps over the stone.

It’s true. Both walls are covered, the rock sculpted into what appears to be a battle, or an array of smaller ones. Two creatures, and only two, are carved into the rock and repeated everywhere, tangled around each other, wielding weapon or claw. One of the two is bi-pedal. Humanoid. Their faces are covered by a mask or helmet, their bodies with armor. They all wield a sword or two-headed spear. There are no markings to indicate difference. Each one is uniform. A carbon copy.

The second creature, like the other, is also uniform in its depiction. A twinge of uncertainty tugs on the back of your brain, pulling. Unsettled, you take a step closer, observing the smooth, elongated head. It lacks visible eyes and, from the carvings, may also lack a nose or ears. Many mouths are open, their skeletal bodies lunging toward the upright, armored alien. You tilt your head. Peer closer.

“What the fuck,” you murmur, noticing a secondary mouth, or jaw, protruding from their open maws.

“Think they built this?” asks Nettie.

You jerk backward, turning to face her. Nettie’s laser pointer lands on the nearest statue, the red dot glowing on the stone stomach of the masked, bipedal alien. Wielding a double-edged spear, the bottom half pierces through the body of the skeletal alien with the elongated head as it writhes under a massive foot.

“It’s possible,” you answer, suddenly feeling sweaty. “Won’t know until we step inside.”

“And what will we find inside?” Lieutenant Booth, the man in charge of security stands between the two statues, his rifle pointed at the ground in a resting position.

You swallow. Sniff. “Remains to be seen.”

“You’re the expert.”

Yes, I am the expert. I am the only xenoarchaeologist on this mission because I’m the one who tracked the clues across the goddamn galaxy. It’s my research and my work that brought us here.

“Yes. And as the expert, I don’t know. A good scientist is always questioning.” Wilkens and Nettie look on in eagerness but the armed men appear bitter. “But I can make some guesses. Some hypotheses on what we might find.”

“Hypo what now?” asks Booth.

This is why you’re wielding the gun.

You start again. “Look at it from a human perspective. This place could be a number of things.” Placing your hand on the wall, you turn toward Booth. “The violence. The impalements. This place might have been…an arena.”

“Like the Colosseum? In Rome?”

You perk up, dropping your hand. “Precisely. If it is, then we have to ask ourselves if it was for spectacle or ceremonial purposes. To entertain. Carry out executions. Both.”

Nettie steps up, staring through the opening and at the megastructure. “Notice how the walls are smooth. They’re not decorated.” She takes a few steps forward. A few more. “I don’t even see a door.”

You consider this. “Maybe not an arena.” Glancing up, you focus on the array of alien bodies, how they writhe and seize, swirling across the wall like ocean waves. “It might be a memorial,” you state. “Or—”

Two words and you’re unable to speak them. With science, all things are possible until you test. Theorize all you want but it doesn’t matter unless you run the experiment. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat until your eyes bleed.

“Or what?” prompts Booth.

Inhale. Exhale. “A mass grave,” you reply, sounding choked. “A crypt. The walls depict a conflict or a war or a battle. A place they ceremoniously buried their dead.”

“So, what?” asks Remington. “Are we gonna find a bunch of dead aliens inside.”

You shrug, extending your arms in exasperation. “Maybe.”

Lieutenant Booth closes the distance between you, stopping too near for comfort. “What about all the other places you found. The places in your research. Didn’t they say anything?”

“You read my research?”

“Answer the question.”

“They were much smaller than this,” you admit, one hand gesturing toward the megastructure. “Ornamental. The clues led us here. Each place sending us to another planet.”

“Like a pilgrimage,” interjects Nettie, her voice rising. “We only went to four planets but there could be more.”

You nod. Keep nodding. “If the aliens who built this can travel sub-light speed, they’d be able to do a pilgrimage without entering statis!”

“That’s impossible,” sneers Remington, as if you wanted his opinion.

“Not true,” corrects Wilkens. “Sub-light speed exists. Humans haven’t cracked it yet.”

One of the mercenaries leans toward their comrade. “No statis sounds nice.”

Is it Cooke? No. Callum? Security details come and go so often that you hardly keep track anymore. Booth and Remington are the constant, never changing out. Their names are glue that won’t wash off.

“We’re not going anywhere until we find the door,” says Booth.

“I’ll circle the structure,” offers Ella. “I can cover more ground.”

“Yes. Thank you, Ella,” you say.

The synthetic gives an appreciative nod and takes off, starting at a light jog before shifting into a full sprint.

Bronco’s voice crackles in through the speaker. “Got your layout.”

You snatch the datapad out of Wilkens’ hands. “And?” you ask, eagerly staring at the screen as the layout begins to appear.

“Whatever it’s made of, it’s un-fucking-penetrable.”

Lines take shape. Connect. Intersecting. Forming, finally, into an upside-down pyramid.

“I can map the exterior underground structure,” says Bronco. “But whatever the walls are made of, or lined with, the sensors can’t break through.”

As the image settles, gray, horizontal lines appear, cutting through the structure, separating it into sections.

“What are these gray areas, Bronco?” you ask, shifting the camera around to view the titled pyramid on all sides.

“My guess is structural supports between floors. Based on how they’re laid out, makes the most sense. Don’t need to line solid walls meant to divide floors.

“Hey!” Nettie calls out. “Found the door.” Handing the datapad to Wilkens, you approach the eager xenobiologist as she bounces on her toes. “Stand here,” she says, all breathy. “Here.”

Standing next to her, you follow the direction of her finger. “I don’t see anything, Nettie.”

She steps to the side. “Right here.” Grabbing your shoulders, she yanks you to the spot she previously occupied. “Look! Do you see it?”

All you see is the slope of the building, the smooth stone edges. You shake your head. “No. I—” You pause as a black line forms in the rock, curving with the sloped walls. “Wait.”

“See!” squeals Nettie.

“That is—” you laugh, “that’s genius!”

Wilkens appears beside you. Nettie grabs for him pressing your helmeted head together. “How interesting,” he muses.

Booth and the security team stride forward, observing the curve. “Holy shit,” says Booth. “A hidden door.”

Thudding footsteps come from behind you. Everyone turns, startled by the loud noise in a place that’s, for the most part, been utterly quiet. Ella is the source, her legs slowing as she nears, coming to a full stop with a slight skid.

“I’ve detected no openings in the structure.” You point and Ella’s head swivels. “Hm. I’ve detected no other openings.”

“Think we can rule out the arena idea.” You drop your hand, striding slowly to the opening. The black line grows thicker. Wider. “A hidden door? Burial site seems more likely.”

“Or a prison.”

The raspy voice drags focus to the one mercenary standing off to the side. He wields a flamethrower, the strap holding it crosses over his torso, one arm resting on the metal body.

“Reminds me of the prison I was in before Weyland-Yutani dragged me out for my,” he gently taps the side of the flamethrower, “expertise.” He runs his tongue over his teeth, spitting into the dirt. “Whole thing was underground. Above was just a building. Square. Plain. But beneath? A goddamn death trap.”

The air sizzles with tension, the armed men around you tucking their weapons tighter, shoulders hunching, heads swiveling as if some terrible beast is about to burst through the tree line and gore them all.

“That’s an interesting observation,” you offer because you don’t want to add any fuel to the tension. “Something to consider. But I think Eaton and Wilkens would agree with me on the burial route. Based on the research.”

Nettie nods, her excited demeanor remaining given the tense faces around her. “A possibility. There are no signs of life, though. It could be a prison but I suspect it’ll be an empty one.”

Remington sighs like a forty-year-old dad getting out of bed. “Let’s go. I have vacuum-sealed chocolate cake waiting back on Eos.”

“Lieutenant.” Booth turns at the sound of your voice. “This would be a good time to remind everyone about the protocols Captain Flanagan set before we left.” Behind his suit’s faceplate, you clock his frown. You’ve overstepped.

Slowly, Booth addresses his team. “Before we head in, a reminder to not touch anything. Your job is to protect them.” Booth points in your direction. “If you notice something you think needs their attention, tell them. Don’t handle it yourself.”

“Especially if it’s biological,” adds Nettie. “That’s my area. I’ll decide what to do.”

“And keep your fucking helmets on,” growls Booth. “That’s just basic common sense. You do not remove them for any reason. The air is breathable but it’s not what like we’re used to. Air quality could be worse underground. Better, even. Hell, Earth levels. But even then, you don’t fucking remove your helmet. Is that understood.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Move out.”

The security team splits. Booth leads with five behind him, followed by you, Wilkens, Nettie, and Ella. At your back is Remington and the remaining five. Booth reaches the entrance first, shining his light on an open tunnel. No doors at all. Just a path.

It’s carved into the rock to face inward, edges smooth and in harmony with the structure, creating the illusion of no access points. The path sharply turns, bending back on itself, spitting you out into a vast atrium.

Everyone is focused on each other, of grouping up. Wilkens is taking off his backpack, withdrawing three round drones the size of baseballs. Blue lines fork and twist on their surfaces, glowing faintly. One takes off, then the other, and the last, veering out and away in different directions. They’re all talking, discussing, commenting on the high ceilings and towering pillars.

That’s fine. Wonderful.

You’re far more interested in the stone slab your flashlight caught on, the beam illuminating red symbols for a brief moment as it passed over them. The same statues at the wall are carved into this stone slab. Most of the surface is rocky, and blemished. It’s the smoothness at the center that intrigues you, and the letters carved and glowing within.

“This is language,” you whisper. “It’s—”

“Yautja.”

You swivel so fast, your knees pop, the flashlight beam landing on Ella’s face. “What?”

“The language,” she says. “It’s Yautja.”

“And that’s—”

“Those are also Yautja,” she continues, gesturing toward the statues. “The species, I mean.

“Ella. You—”

“I am a research synth,” she says simply. “I contain all the xenological information Weyland-Yutani has programmed me with. For everything else, I can ask MU/TH/UR.”

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Your voice rises, irritation leaking in.

“I had my suspicions,” admits Ella though she shows no remorse. Synths do not have feelings. Not the ones Weyland-Yutani makes. “But I didn’t think it wise to share until I was sure. The appearance of the Yautja language confirms my initial observations.

“What about the other one?”

“The other, what?”

“Alien. The one the Yautja were fighting.”

Ella freezes, her lips unmoving, staring into the beam of the flashlight, utterly still. It’s unnerving how the synths will do that when they’re processing a request or information that’s particularly strenuous. The moment hangs, and you wonder if maybe you’ve asked for something too complicated, that her system is rebooting, or maybe she’s communicating with Eos. Communicating with MU/TH/UR.

“You’re right, doctor.” Ella snaps out of her frozen state and back into the conversation like you hadn’t asked for anything at all. “This place is likely ceremonial. Not fights. Or executions. Based on the information Weyland-Yutani has on Yautja, a burial site is unlikely. But what we know is limited. It could be an aspect of their culture.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” you reply, attempting to divert Ella back to what you want to know. “What are those aliens the Yautja are fighting?”

Again, Ella ignores you. “I might be able to translate what’s here. MU/TH/UR will have the entire language reference. If we send pictures back to Eos, it would make the translation easier.”

“Ella—”

“The Yautja are warriors, operating on a code of honor. Highly secretive. The Company has always wanted to get their hands on their tech. To study it to improve our own technology. They are far more advanced than we are.”

“What the fuck is this?” Lieutenant Booth’s voice comes from your right. It’s a welcome relief.

“Language,” you answer. “Haven’t translated it yet.”

“As I informed our head xenoarcheologist,” Ella cuts in, “the language belongs to a species of aliens that are predominately a warrior-like group. We were discussing the parameters of what this structure might be used for. I wanted to add an additional theory.”

“And what’s that?” drawls Booth, clearly not interested.

“Training grounds.”

“Training grounds?” you and Booth ask at the same time.

“From my limited data, they are fierce, powerful creatures. They are taller than humans. Stronger. You could call them ‘Hunters.’ Simply put, they are predators and everything else is prey.”

Booth shakes his head. “I didn’t sign up for this shit,” he mutters. Turning to the rest of the group, he shouts, “We’re heading back. Now.”

Burial site. Arena. Training grounds. The why is important but it’s not the deciding factor. There is nothing living in this structure except the sixteen of them. Caution and awareness, exploring slowly and in sections, is a safe bet rather than abandoning everything.

“We’ve hardly stepped inside,” you protest, following after Booth.

Booth abruptly turns and you nearly run into him. “I’m not interested in becoming entertainment for those bastards,” he growls, pointing over your shoulder at the Yautja statues.

“This place is deserted and Eos sends constant scans to the surface. We’d be notified if it detected anything. And it hasn’t.”

Booth shifts closer, narrowing the distance until you’re forced to bend your neck to look at him. “On the surface,” he emphasizes with slow pronunciation. “Wilkens’ drones haven’t mapped the whole structure. They’ve barely cleared this floor. We don’t know what the fuck is done there. And I’m not interested in finding out.”

Before you can reply, a crackle comes through the comm connection, followed by Captain Flanagan’s voice. “What’s going on down there?”

Booth eases back but doesn’t shift his feet. “We’re deciding on how to proceed, sir.”

“Keep your comms open and talking. Went silent there for a few.”

“Heard, sir.”

As Captain Flanagan’s voice cuts out, you dive into the argument again with renewed fervor. “You’re right, Lieutenant. We don’t know what’s down there. But we have daylight and time. And we can at least explore the sections the drones have cleared before we head back.” Booth only arches an eyebrow, and you groan in frustration. “Look at the tablet. They’ve been cleared. No life.”

Booth, thankfully, checks the tablet, gaze scanning the information the drones have sent back. “Fine. But we take it slow. Don’t touch anything. Take pictures to send to Eos if you need to. Once the drones have scanned the structure, and everything looks good, we can come back.”

“Yes!” You throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his middle even if the protective suits create an awkward angle. “Thank you.”

When you back off, Booth has a startled look on his face. “Stay here. In this area only. I’ll take Wilkens since he’s tracking the drones. Taking the synth, too. I’ll leave six of my men with you and Nettie.”

“I’m keeping Ella. I need her to translate.”

“Ella speaks MU/TH/UR and I’ll need Eos tracking our interior movements. Synth will send the pings and the system can recalibrate. Captain Flanagan can do it manually but it’ll take too long. Ella can enter into the mainframe and speak with MU/TH/UR directly. It’ll be faster and I want out of here.”

You place your hands on your hips. Stomping your foot would make you look like a child but Ella’s neural library is better utilized with you, but you doubt Booth will concede.

“Okay,” you agree. “Fine. But the moment we’re back on Eos, I need her.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.

Lieutenant Booth walks away, communicating back to Eos the plan as he does so. Ella gives you a small smile as she passes, leaving you alone by the faintly glowing alien language. Nettie and the men Boothleaves behind are nearby, but Nettie is focused on moss-like foliage that speckles some of the stone pillars, and Booth’s men seem enraptured with whatever she’s saying.

Removing your pack, you withdraw and start to assemble a fixed, dual-headed halogen light. With portable battery charged, you plug it in, illuminating the stone slab that’s held your attention since stepping inside. Every picture you take directly sends to Eos. As you snap them, Becca, one of the other scientists onboard, comments on them through the comm link. Like you, she’s excited about the language, particularly how it seems to glow inside the rock. Wider shots are sent directly to Captain Flanagan in the bridge for immediate viewing.

Nettie calls your name as you snap a closeup shot. Stepping back, you turn in her direction, only to find her almost on top of you. Her eyes are wide and wild, fearful even.

“What is it?” you ask, a slight twinge developing in your chest.

“Have they checked in with you?”

She’s out of breath.

“Eos?”

“Lieutenant Booth. Did you not hear Flanagan over comms?”

“No,” you admit. “I’ve been on a private channel with Becca. Why?”

“You have to stop doing that,” she grumbles. “They haven’t been checking in. I radioed and got silence. Can you radio Booth? It might be interference. I mean, Eos couldn’t penetrate through the walls. Our short-range comms could be acting up.”

You switch over to Booth’s direct channel. “Lieutenant?’ Nothing. “Lieutenant.” Silence. “Booth.” Not even static. “I’m not receiving an answer.”

“Shit,” mutters Nettie. “Been almost ten minutes of no contact.”

“That’s not like him.”

“I know.”

Switching out the direct link, you ping Eos. “Captain, how would you like to proceed?”

“Have a tablet nearby?”

Nettie hands you hers. “Yeah. I got one.”

On your screen, the camera zooms in on the top floor. You and Nettie, plus the six members of Booth’s security, show up as red dots. The camera pans to a hallway on the other side of the atrium that ends in a large, circular room.

“Wilkens’ probe signals are reaching Eos. This room is the last place they reported from.”

“Want us to take a look, Captain.”

A pause, then, “Yes but be alert.”

Following the path shown on the tablet, your group exits the atrium and into the dark hallway. The walls here are smooth and feature carvings of the alien with the elongated head. They’re posed in different positions. Some crouched or curled in on themselves. Others standing upright or bent at an angle.

“Should be a door up ahead,” says the leading mercenary.

Flashlights move in all directions as the security team keep their heads on a swivel. You and Nettie are crunched together in the middle as they form a tight circle around the two of you. They wield large, military-grade rifles. Nothing you’ve been trained on. All you and Nettie have are semi-automatic pistols, one for each of you, with several replacement magazines.

“That’s the door.”

“Jesus.”

“What the fuck is that?”

“Whoever built this are some sick fucks.”

You follow the flashlights of the mercenaries as they fall onto the floor to ceiling double doors. Carved into the stone are human-like creatures without faces, and smaller versions of the aliens depicted on the walls bursting from their chests. The flashlight beams descend and freeze on a burst of yellow.

One of the stone doors stands ajar. In the opening, on the floor, is the gloved hand and arm of one of the mercenaries, the rest of his body hidden inside the room.

“Ready your weapons.”

You and Nettie exchange a look, flipping the safety to the off position as the leader slowly eases the door wider, the head of his rifle entering the opening. He steps over the body of his fallen comrade. The man is facedown and unmoving. Pushing the man onto his back with the toe of a boot reveals pale, squirmy flesh where the man’s face should be.

The door to the room stands wide now, but the leader holds out an arm, indicating that no one else is to enter. Standing on your toes, you peek over the shoulder of the nearest mercenary. There are short stone pillars, six in total. Atop each one are fleshy, pale eggs, their tops open like unfurled flowers. The air in this room is noticeably warmer.

Around the room, scattered across the floor and around the pillars, are the bodies of the rest of the team. The face shields on their helmets are caved inward, broken. All of them are unmoving, several with those fleshy and pale coverings on their faces.

No. Not coverings.

On the nearest body, the one wedged between the door, it moves. A twinge of a tail tightening around a throat. Slowly, you glance from body to body. These organisms are latched on, almost hugging their faces. You notice two bodies, Wilkens and Lieutenant Booth. Their faces are visible but their fleshy companions are beside them, on their backs, spindly legs and tail cured in like dead bugs.

“Captain Flanagan?”

The leader is contacting Eos, but there is no return answer.

“Captain Flanagan. Eos? Eos, come in. Eos, how copy?”

A wet squelch echoes and everyone takes a step back. A scuttling sound follows from above and then to your right. Movement. Just a shadow. A flash of a pale tail.

You drop as one of those facehuggers launches itself from an open sac. Two more follow. One landing on Nettie’s faceplate.

“Get it off!” she shrieks, thrashing around, hands tugging at the tail as it attempts to lash around her neck. “Get it off!”

One of the mercenaries lunges, grasping hold of the tail. The thing doesn’t budge. Hardly gives ground. Another dashes over, brandishing a knife, hacking at the facehugger. It shrieks and green blood spurts from the open wound where its tail once was. Legs opening, it hits the floor, twitching. As the blood lands it sizzles and pops, eating through the stone.

The nearest human without a facehugger sits up, gasping for breath, shouting, screaming, flailing about and coughing blood.

“Get it out! Get it out!” The man claws at his throat, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as his chest jerks outward.

“Run! Fucking run!”

You don’t hesitate. Grabbing Nettie’s hand, the two of you take off the way you came as gunfire erupts behind you. In the brief silence, there’s a roar. Inhuman and immense.

Hunting grounds.

Hunting grounds.

Hunting grounds.

Nettie trips, her weight pulling you down. You hit, hard. A distant explosion shakes the rock around you. Dirt and dust rains down, lingering in the air, the beam of your flashlight reflecting back at you instead of through.

“Nettie!” you call out. “Nettie!”

When she doesn’t respond you keep going, still yelling her name but this time through the comm link, through the open channel, and still there is no reply from Eos. Only gunfire and screaming screaming screaming.

Hurling yourself through the tight tunnel, you claw your way out and around the curve, confusing every sound for scuttling, every rock and pebble falling for spindly legs. Light appears and then you’re out in the open, charging past the wall, stumbling over a vine and losing all your breath as you look up into the sky.

Home is on fire.

Eos no longer hangs in orbit. It’s a phoenix, burning bright, descending toward the surface. It will never be reborn. It is more molten fireball than starship, igniting the forest in an inferno.

Your only escape, your only place of safety is the ship you and the rest of the team came down on. It has statis, food, oxygen. The central navigation system can take you to the nearest Weyland-Yutani settlement.

You’ll be fine. You will. But—

“Nettie!” You turn, expecting her to be there.

There is no Nettie.

There is only the statue made real in height and metal. An armored body. A familiar double-edged spear.

Then you don’t see anything at all.

Thurm. Thrum. Thrum.

Beneath you is a steady, breathing rhythm, heart-like, and comfortingly familiar. Softness encases your body, holding in warmth, enveloping you like a mother’s embrace. Awareness shrinks and expands, shrinks and expands. You sense all of it at once and then it recedes to a pinpoint. Nothing aches. Nothing hurts. There is only a gentle tug, a part of your brain coaxing you out from the shell of sleep.

Eyelids blink slowly, dragging and heavy. An earthy scent reaches you nostrils, and your head turns toward it, sniffing, rubbing at your eyes as your limbs and muscles awaken and stretch. There is no weight against your skin, no familiar rubbing of a spacesuit, no beeping in the ear or hiss of supplied oxygen. You are not enclosed or stiff in your movements. Freedom to flex is evident, compounded by the softness that caresses your—

A sharp squeeze seizes your esophagus, yanking you up and into a seated position. Like a frozen rabbit, you remain still, gaze taking in your surroundings, absorbing a sleeping space that should be familiar but isn’t.

This is not Eos. This isn’t even home.

Memory returns in pieces.

A ship ablaze. Stone statues. Slimy egg sacs.

You clamp your hand over your mouth, muffling a choked sob. In those final moments, when you turned, calling for Nettie, you only found the alien Ella named. Yautja. Yautja, which holds no meaning other than…savior? Abductor?

Dropping your hand, you notice bare skin, void of spacesuit or undergarments. Bare shoulders. Bare chest. Bare—

“Oh, what the fuck?” you whisper, clasping the furs tighter to your chest.

You’re naked. Head-to-toe nude and bundled under a pile of furs from creatures you don’t recognize and are unlikely to be anything from Earth. The only explanation is that the Yautja removed your clothes, and also appears to have taken some effort to clean you. There is no stink of fear sweat or hint of coppery blood.

Keeping the edge of the fur above your breasts, you slide to the edge of the large bed, place your feet on the floor, and promptly hold still.

The sleeping alcove you’re in leads into a circular room lined with skulls. From your position, you’re unable to see them all, but that fact isn’t much of a bother, nor is the central, circular dais cradling a familiar helmet. On the other side of the room, is the Yautja in question, one clawed hand resting on the wall, standing between this room and what might be an exterior hall and beyond that a ship’s navigational controls.

All the statues wore helmets, offering no theories on what might be beneath. This Yautja wears no helmet, its features clear and lit, and easily standing over two meters. Skin a scaly, reddish-brown, a slightly humanoid face with a strong brow and piercing eyes, and four mandibles closed over a mouth with sharp teeth. At the top of the head, near the edges, are shortened spikes that point outward, adding a small flare to the head’s shape. A severe widow’s peak adorns the top of its head, but the hair isn’t like anything you’ve seen before. It’s tubular and sleek, like black electrical cables but smoother. Metal beads clack as its head shifts and the hair moves with it.

As your gaze roams down to the metal armor, you notice the flatness of its chest. A male, perhaps? Not like you’ve ever met a Yautja before. The females may not have breasts like humans. For all you know, gender means nothing to them.

The Yautja steps into the skull room and your muscles tense with the urge to flee. A silly notion, since you’re on a fucking alien spaceship that is likely in space. There is nowhere to run, and launching yourself into the vastness of space is a horrible way to die. You don’t know the Yautja’s intentions, but if they wanted to harm you, they would have. As for now, your skin is unmarked by wounds and you smell clean.

Reaching around the corner of the sleeping alcove, you blindly search for a weapon, land on something solid, with holes, and yank it off the wall. It’s a skull but it’s clean, and your fingers fit in the eye sockets.

“Stay back,” you snarl, wielding the skull like a knife, taking a hostile stance while still holding the furs to your chest. It’s awkward but you’re not standing completely naked in front of this creature without it forcing your hand. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Why the fuck am I naked and in your bed?

“I am Kwei.”

The language you hear is not your own. This is deep and guttural with clicks and controlled breath and yet you understand it. With your weapon-free hand, you probe the back of your neck and skull, eventually landing on a small, healed incision just behind your left ear.

A translation device on top of the nakedness? Weyland-Yutani did not cover alien sex slavery in their training modules.

Kwei hasn’t taken any further steps. Ella said the Yautja are skilled hunters. Predators. Showing fear or submissiveness might trigger provocation. On the other hand, aggression could do the same. Calm. You need to be calm. Stand your ground, and try not to be rude.

You offer Kwei your name, and the Yautja repeats it back to you. Kwei lacks lips and you’re no linguist, but it’s clear enough to understand if a bit strange.

“Are you a Yautja?”

As you speak, it sounds wrong. Your native tongue is garbled, swallowed up by unfamiliar movements of your tongue and throat. Is there a chip in your neck, too? An implant in your vocal cords? How the hell are you speaking Yautja back to Kwei like you’ve known it all your life?

Kwei’s head tilts slightly. “It is Yautja,” he corrects. “I am Yautja.”

“And what do you want?”

Kwei’s gaze shifts from your face to the rest of your body, slowly cruising down to your toes and back up. Even with the furs, you feel naked under the Yautja’s stare.

“Why do you cover yourself?” asks Kwei.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” you splutter, your arm wielding the skull sagging under the weight. “That I’m not naked?”

“But you are naked.”

Technically, yes.

“What do you want?” you repeat, shaking out your arm, the muscles wanting to give out. “Why did you—why did you save me?”

“I cannot go back to the homeworld. We cannot go back. We are not allowed our clans. Our families. And we are not allowed females to mate with.”

That answers your earlier question and creates hundreds more. Kwei wants a mate, or desires to mate. You’re unsure of meaning. Mate as in partnership? Mate as in creating offspring? Mate as in sex?

You want to ask, to rapid fire a flurry of questions at him, to demand answers, that he gives his whole history and that of his species to help you understand what the fuck is going on. That is not what you do.

“Where are the others? The other humans? The ones I traveled with.”

Kwei steps forward, stopping at the round dais in the middle of the room. He glances at his mask briefly before addressing you. “Dead,” he says without emotion, without remorse. “We killed them.”

“You—”

“Except the female.”

“Nettie?” you gasp. “She’s alive?”

“Ruhosh brought her onto his ship.” Kwei pauses. “Mating. As we should.”

He says it with finality, as if there are no other options. Kwei’s muscles and imposing height are arousing as much as it’s frightening. It’s not like you haven’t thought about being dominated by someone larger and stronger than you, but there is no guarantee that your anatomy would fit with his even if Kwei believes it will.

Rage, though, is a fiercer creature.

“Why did you kill them?” When Kwei doesn’t answer immediately, you hurl the skull at him. It bounces off his arm and hits the ground, a few teeth cracking off. “Why!”

Kwei kicks the skull aside and strides toward you, each step powerful, purposeful. He’s on top of you before your brain can catch up and urge you backward, falling onto the bed. Kwei bends at the waist, placing one hand on the bed, and drops to his knees. You’re on your back, leaning on a single elbow, trapped under his frame.

The closeness brings a slickness between the thighs.

“Yautja send unblooded warriors to hunt there. No more than three. They stalk the hard meat. A successful hunt brings them honor. A true test of strength.” Kwei turns his head and your gaze follows, landing on four smooth, elongated skulls.

“Hard meat?” you repeat because it translated fine but the meaning is off. It cannot just mean hard meat. Literally translation does not equate to higher, symbolic understanding.

The confusion on Kwei’s face says enough. The translation to you and the repetition don’t match.

“There was a synth with us. I asked it about,” you point at the skulls, “that.”

Kwei nods. Sitting back on his heels, he lifts his arm, tapping a few buttons on his wrist gauntlet. A floating image appears, that of the alien carved into the walls but in three-dimensional rendering. Red symbols appear around it. Yautja language. One by one the symbols become letters you recognize, that of your own tongue.

Xenomorph.

“That is what your species calls them,” says Kwei.

“But that’s not what I saw,” you reply, remembering the spider-like creatures that emerged from the slimy eggs.

“You saw how they start. They become this.” He points to the Xenomorph. “Lays an egg in your chest.” Kwei forms a fist, placing it in the middle of his upper body. “It bursts out. Killing the host.”

“There must be a way to save the host. If caught early—”

“No,” and Kwei’s voice is cold. “Death is the only solution.” He drops his arm, the image of the Xenomorph disappearing. “That place is supposed to be abandoned. It’s why we went. To scavenge.”

“But you found us?”

Kwei inclines his head. “And a waking Queen.”

You don’t want to know what the fuck that is.

“And what about Eos? The people on the ship? Why did you kill them? They weren’t…infected.”

“Still a risk.”

“Why?” you demand.

“Information,” he growls. “About the hard meat. About Yautja.”

Ella called them secretive, that Weyland-Yutani has been looking for information on Yautja and their technology. It wouldn’t be much of a jump to consider that they’re also looking for information on or the whereabouts of Xenomorphs.

Kwei has his reasons, reasons that make sense to him, that make sense to you even if you hate them. Your entire team is gone. And Nettie? She’s with one of the other Yautja. It’s the we you are unable to let go of, that Kwei is not on his own.

“You keep saying ‘we.’ That we cannot go back to the homeworld. That we aren’t allowed mates.”

Kwei’s features soften, mandibles relaxing, his eyes a deep well of sadness. “I lead a clan of Bad Bloods. Those banished from Yautja society. We cannot go back to our homeworld, Yautja Prime. We are not allowed to mate with females. We are hunted by our kin.”

“What did you do?”

“I disobeyed my father. Refused to kill my younger brother. Dek is a runt. Father called him weak. Worthless. But even our weakest deserve a hunt. A chance to prove themselves.” The ridge between the top two mandibles flares, revealing a set of thin nostrils. “Father claims I attacked him. Murdered several Yautja before fleeing.” The middle of his brow turns inward, deepening. “But he is a liar. A coward.” Kwei says coward in a guttural snarl.

Tentatively, you scoot to the edge, raising your hand to gently place your fingers under the curve of his bottom right mandible joint. “What happened to your brother?”

Kwei allows you to turn his face toward yours. “On his hunt.”

“Alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about the other Bad Bloods. What have they done?”

Kwei’s mandibles flex, the fangs clacking against each other in clear irritation. “We are formidable warriors. All blooded. Many honorable kills. And we were all betrayed. Turned on by our own kin out of selfishness. It’s not the Yautja way. We have broken no code. Have not dishonored ourselves.”

Pieces click together, becoming clearer, a singular image. Wrong place, wrong time. For you and your team, and for Kwei and his clan. Your misfortune is Kwei’s opportunity. A chance for a family while killing your own. And yet, you still hold sympathy for this stranger.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

Kwei chuffs. “You’ve done nothing.”

“No. But you’ve lost a father. A brother. Your home. I’m sorry it happened to you.”

Kwei seems to accept this as he stands, towering over you. “You lost your team.”

“Yes.”

“They were your family?”

“Yes.”

Kwei’s silence lingers in the air, hovering and heavy before he speaks. “I have…hurt you?”

Goddamnit.

“Yes.” You don’t want to bend, but you need to ask. “Will I see Nettie again?”

“The clan has a small stronghold on a remote planet. Ruhosh and the others will join us there. You will see her. Soon.”

That one promise, that one point of hope is enough to not smother you in eternal grief. If Kwei wants a mate, he can have one if it means being with Nettie again.

Kwei backs away, pressing a button on the wall. Metal shifts, revealing a several hooks drilled into the metal. Straps are loosened, armor removed and placed carefully on the hooks. Footwear next. Belt. Wrist gauntlets. Dragging your gaze away from Kwei is impossible. The scientist in you is interested purely on an informational level, but a more primal side of you is growing, itching to be released, snapping wildly with each removal.

Kwei’s reddish-brown skin features black molting on his outer arms and shoulders. His shoulders are broad, every inch of him solid muscle. Kwei’s back features noticeable scars. One tapers downward, coming to an end at the top of his buttocks. That’s all muscle, too.

I cannot go back to the homeworld.

We cannot go back.

We are not allowed our clans. Our families.

And we are not allowed females to mate with.

The main lights of the circular room dim. Kwei steps out from behind the wall, unashamed, standing tall and proud before you. You take him in and nearly choke on your own spit when you realize how big his dick is. Male Yautja anatomy isn’t much different from a human man. Kwei’s cock is phallic and his two testes are round and heavy. There is no body hair except for a some small, thin, quill-like hairs around the base. The shaft has a ridged, scaly texture, the tip mushroomed like a human male’s but narrower. At the base is a slight bulge, and Kwei’s pelvis around this bulge is thicker, likely for protection of his reproductive organs.

“Kwei,” you whisper.

The staunch reality of your situation smashes your skull, forcing you to confront the fact that you’re about to fuck, or be fucked, by an alien.

“What if I refuse you?” you ask. “Will you force me?”

“Force you?” His arms extend, indicating the room behind him. “I am a seasoned warrior. A skilled hunter. I can provide for and protect you and whatever offspring we have together. Why would you refuse me?”

Kwei genuinely appears baffled by your question. The intent is not malicious even if he saw an opportunity and swept you up. Kwei wishes to a fill a void cut from him by his own people. He wants this, and he’s picked you.

You have no way off this ship and you certainly can’t commandeer it. Strength is not on your side. If you were to attack Kwei, he’d easily overpower you. No contest. What you do have, what you can use to your advantage, is what Kwei wants most.

Perching on the very edge of the bed, you allow the furs to fall away, revealing yourself to him. Kwei’s gaze drops instantly, devouring, mandibles flexing, fangs clicking. Attraction is questionable, but the eagerness is there. Seduction, you can do. You’ve never fucked a Yautja, and Kwei’s never fucked a human. If you lead, show intention first, you might catch him off-guard.

“Kwei,” you whisper, this time breathy, almost a whine. “Come here.”

It takes all of two steps for him to arrive. Before he stops, you’re reaching for him, your hand fisting his cock, stroking as you open your mouth and tease the head with the tip of your tongue. Kwei’s muscles clench, his body growing ridged. Best scientific guess, female Yautja don’t give head, not with faces like that.

You close your lips around the tip and gently suck. Kwei’s mandibles flare wide, his chest heaving like he’s run for miles. This is the reaction you want, to pull Kwei in a bit, to surprise him.

Allowing saliva to pool in your mouth, you push it out between your lips with your tongue, coating the head of his cock. Your gaze remains on his face, but Kwei isn’t looking at you. He’s locked onto your lips, how they part, how they take him in. Further. Further. Until you choke. Until you gag. Until you reach for breath and throat him again.

Kwei’s arms shoot out, hands landing hard against the alcove’s walls, anchoring himself in place as you suck his cock. Timing the bob of your head with the movement of your hand, you take as much of him as you’re able, which isn’t much. Length and girth make it difficult, stretching your lips wider than you’d like. Already, your jaw aches.

Breathing in through your nostrils, you throat him again, gagging on purpose, leaving a mess of saliva behind. Kwei’s perfectly still, not thrusting into your mouth. All the tension is in his muscles, in his eyes, in the way his mandibles remain open and wide.

You come up for air, and smile at him. “Do you like that, Kwei?”

Kwei’s momentary surprise curls in on itself until it melts into vapor, leaving behind a feral determination. “Yes,” he growls.

Before your able to reach for him, Kwei grasps the back of your head, forcing you down on him. Your hands raise, grasping the front of Kwei’s thighs, nails sinking into his skin as he fucks your mouth. There’s too much of him going down your throat. All you’re able to do is cling on, relax your throat muscles the best you can, and breath through your nose.

Kwei’s dominance is suffocating, threading through your lungs and into your veins. You’ll be thoroughly fucked and sore before you make it to the clan’s stronghold. He is hungry, clearly craving a mate for some time. The when and how long is unknown but the desperation and forcefulness in how he fucks your throat says enough.

As his head falls back, cock popping from your mouth. Ropes of opalescent cum spurt from the tip, landing on your breasts, dripping off your nipples and onto your stomach. Kwei, noticing the mess, scoops up some his cum with one clawed finger. You watch as he presses that finger to your pussy, swirling it around before pushing in.

Warmth blooms were his cum rests. Kwei scoops up more. Brings it to your pussy. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat until your breasts and stomach are clean while your cunt is sticky.

“Kwei,” you gasp, grasping his wrist. “We—we can’t. You won’t fit.”

“Won’t fit?” he asks, voice tinged with amusement. He probes your pussy, fitting one and then a second finger, pumping slowly. He tuts, the click a chastisement. “I will fit.”

Kwei grasps your hips, picking you up and tossing you further up the bed. You land, only for your legs to be forced wide. Kwei’s cock finds your cunt, and you’re crying out. Every inch enters. No ceremony. No slowness. Your legs are out and bent to accommodate his broad hips and thick thighs. The rest of you is trapped beneath his torso, fingers grasping for whatever you can find.

You are no more than a hole. There is little you’re able to do except accept the brutish thrusting. Already, your thighs and hips ache from the stretch, but the intensity growing between your legs is another matter. The ribbed shaft of Kwei’s cock creates pleasurable friction. If you had words, you’d speak them—scream them. What you manage are clipped ah ah’s, each one yanked out of you against your will.

Kwei drapes himself over you, arms resting on the furs above your head, surrounding you with his scent. Earthy with a metallic quality, like recently burned gunpowder. Trapped as you, control is not out of your reach. Hands sliding inward, you apply pressure to his pectorals, enough that Kwei stirs, pushing up slightly to look down at you.

The weight lifts. You take the opportunity, sitting up, shoving him back. Kwei submits, curiosity returning to that prior state when you licked his cock. The two of you roll with you landing atop him, still seated on his cock, legs stretched over his massive thighs. Hesitation is smothered, forced into a box, and stored away.

Hands on his stomach, you change position. Keeping Kwei’s cock inside you is easy as you bend your knees, planting your feet firmly on the bed. It allows a clear view of his cock stretching you, to show Kwei how good you take him. You bring one hand to your pelvis, sliding slowly down to your pussy, tracing where he penetrates you with one finger. Kwei’s response is a gruff grunt and rolling clicks that sound like a purr.

You trail that finger up to your clit, circling and circling until the beginnings of a small orgasm rises in your core, grows, and floods outward. Holding still, you play with yourself, pussy squeezing him as the orgasm crests, shuddering through you.

Kwei is fascinated, his own clawed hand reaching out to settle over yours, to gently draw it away, to tentatively touch your sensitive clit. The contact makes you shiver, and Kwei growls low in his throat, adding additional pressure as he works it in the same way you did.

Keeping your hands planted on his abdomen, you start to bounce, head dipped to watch how his thick cock enters and retreats, keeping you full and throbbing. The friction of his ribbed shaft and his finger tease out another orgasm. Limbs become boneless. Your body sways, lost in a generous wave of euphoria.

Kwei’s finger falls from your clit, his hands grasping your wrists, yanking them behind your back. He transfers both to one hand, keeping them restrained in his fist as his other hand grasp your hip. Kwei’s thrusts up as he forces your hips down, sinking all the way inside, until your pussy grinds against his pelvis. That connection is an electric sizzle. Your clit is stimulated along with your inner walls.

Your mouth hangs open, eyes rolling, breasts bouncing as Kwei roughly fucks up into you. His grunts become snarls, become feral, become sharpened things that fall over each other in their haste to escape him.

It’s the arch of his back, the flex of his hips, the swell at the base of his cock easing in, acting as a stopper. Wet heat floods your pussy, filling a space that is already full. Your toes curl, thighs shaking as Kwei comes inside you.

As his body relaxes, Kwei releases your wrists. The pressure evaporates, and you fall forward onto his chest, gasping for air, body slick with sweat. As your mind swirls and head spins, you attempt to ground yourself in reality, to grasp on to something real, to anchor yourself. Kwei’s scaly skin beneath your hands provides that, the texture scraping against your skin. You focus on it, breathing.

Kwei sighs, and rolls.

You yelp, suddenly empty, only to be pushed onto your side, and Kwei’s still hard cock easing in again. One large arm drapes over your chest, his clawed hand finding your throat, enclosing it like a collar.

Kwei’s head is close to yours, the fangs on his mandibles brushing along your shoulder. “We will mate until your belly swells.” He thrusts, and you gasp. “How jealous the others will be.”

You place one hand on his outer thigh, fingers curling, nails digging into his skin. The other grasp his forearm, the muscle there thick, your hand unable to fully wrap around it.

Stage II – A Member of the Clan

Once you earn your freedom and decide to stay with the clan, you are given proper clothing.

Not gifts from the King. Standard clan attire.

Simple leather wraps. Practical trousers.

A sleeveless tunic designed for movement. Heavy boots. A cloak for colder hunts.

No decorations. No status symbols.

Just the clothing of another hunter.

For the first time, when you walk through the village, nobody immediately sees “the human.”

They see a hunter, a member of the clan.

Stage III – The King’s Favouritism

This is where you begin noticing something.

The King starts bringing gifts.

Not obviously romantic gifts, more practical ones.

A better hunting belt. A stronger pair of gloves. A warmer cloak made from some enormous beast. A carved shoulder guard.

Every gift improves something you already own.

You assume it’s because you are one of his best hunters.

The entire clan knows otherwise.

Gradually, your clothing becomes noticeably better than everyone else’s.

Not extravagant.

Just… personal.

Everything fits perfectly. Every piece was clearly chosen with you in mind.

You still have absolutely no idea you are being courted.

Stage IV – The Sword

This is the first truly unmistakable gift.

Alongside the sword comes matching armour.

Not royal. Warrior armour.

Black leather reinforced with dark metal plates, engraved with the King’s own clan markings.

When you put it on, you unintentionally mirror him. Standing beside one another, it’s obvious the armour was designed as a matching set.

Everyone notices.

Except you.

Stage V – The Proposal

Once you accept him, things change again. You are no longer simply wearing good armour.

You begin wearing symbols, braided cords around one arm representing an official courtship.

A necklace crafted from one of the King’s own trophies.

Bone beads woven into your hair.

A ceremonial cloak clasped with the King’s crest.

Nothing overly royal yet.

You are still a hunter first.

But now everyone knows exactly who you belong beside.

Stage VI – Warrior Queen

This is where the clothing becomes spectacular.

After proving yourself in the arena, you aren’t crowned with a golden crown like a human queen.

Instead, you are dressed by the clan itself.

Imagine several elder females helping prepare you. They remove the hunter’s gear you have worn for years. Then they dress you piece by piece.

A beautifully fitted leather underlayer. Royal armour made specifically for a Queen who still fights. A long fur-lined mantle draping over one shoulder. Heavy necklaces crafted from legendary hunts.

The King’s own symbol across the chest.

A helmet, not because you will wear it often.

Because it declares:

“She is our Queen.”

Most importantly…

You can still fight in every piece of it.

Stage VII – Pregnancy

Suddenly the armour disappears.

The King refuses to let you wear anything restrictive.

Instead, your clothing becomes softer.

Flowing layered fabrics. Warm furs. Loose ceremonial robes. Wide belts resting under your stomach instead of across it.

Beautiful embroidery telling the story of the royal bloodline, little charms sewn into the clothing for protection.

The entire clan immediately recognises the meaning.

You are carrying the future of the clan. You are no longer dressed for battle.

You are dressed for life.

Stage VIII – Mother

After your child is born, there is another evolution.

The robes remain elegant but become practical again.

You might wear a sling made of beautifully embroidered leather and soft fur so you can carry the baby as you move through the stronghold.

One shoulder guard returns. Your sword hangs once more at your side.

You are neither entirely warrior nor entirely queen.

You are both.

A mother.

A hunter.

A ruler.

One detail…

Throughout the entire progression, you unknowingly keep one thing from Earth.

A small memory. A small necklace. 

No matter how elaborate your clothing becomes, you always keep that one small human item.

Then, years later, after becoming Queen, you are getting dressed for a ceremony.

You reach automatically for that old keepsake.

Before you can put it on, the King gently takes it from your hands.

For a brief moment, you worry he thinks it’s time to let go of your old life. Instead, he quietly hands it to the royal armourer.

The armourer carefully incorporates it into your ceremonial attire rather than replacing it, it is placed into the many layers of bone and clan markings, preserving its place while surrounding it with Yautja craftsmanship.

“Your past brought you to me. It deserves a place beside your future.”

That single gesture would say everything about your relationship. He never asks you to stop being human. Instead, he makes your humanity part of the Queen you have become.

~Masterlist~