This is when you are first brought to the clan, you are still wearing the clothing you arrived in.
Worn jeans, leather boots, a shirt that’s been stitched back together several times, an old jacket you are reluctant to part with because it’s the last thing connecting you to Earth.
Compared to the Yautja around you, you looks…
Small.
Fragile.
Out of place.
You notices everyone staring because your clothes move differently, the fabrics are unfamiliar, and the colours stand out against the darker leathers and bone decorations worn throughout the clan.
The King notices too.
Not because he dislikes them.
Because the clothing doesn’t protect you.
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.
You and your team depart from Eos, a Weyland-Yutani research cruiser, to a remote, unknown planet in the search for answers. What awaits your team is death, and a Yautja intent on taking you with him.
ao3 // main masterlist // scientific guide masterlist
“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.
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.
“I’m not fond of sharing,” he purrs, his fangs tracing back up your shoulder. “I’ll keep you for myself.”
When Yautja want to show close affection with someone, they usually touch each other's forehead. A gesture that's seen as very intimate in their culture, therefore reversed to only those they view as family or close friends. But that particular spot in between their eyebrows is an extremely sensitive area. When you massage it gently, it will literally act as an 'off button' of sorts. It relaxes them to a point they go completely lax and turn into a loud, purring mess. It's a secret that's very well kept among Yautjas. (Because of how embarrassing it is to their pride)
It's not uncommon for Yautja Mothers to use this technique to quiet down their fussy pups when everything else fails.
kwei was still young when he died, and even if dek is a runt, hes still gonna grow. hes gonna get bigger, and one day hes gonna walk past a mirror and see kweis reflection. or at least, he thinks he kind of looks like kwei. the memory of kwei is kind of faded and hes not sure anymore
Do you have any tips with naming Yautja? I'm planning on making a new Yautja OC:]
For Yautja names, it’s mostly about the vibe: mix in harsh sounds, unusual letter combinations, longer vowels, or fitting endings. Apostrophes can work, but they’re not a must. Human names work very well for this.
Gerhard = Gher’haard
Karl = Kha’rl
Günther = Ghun’thar
Otto = Ot’toh
Hey! I was wondering, do you read fanfics? If you do, what are your favorite kinds of stories or tropes? And are there any things you really don’t like or avoid reading?
Yeah, I do read fanfiction.
Right now I’m really into the Predator fandom, so that’s what I’ve been reading the most lately, although I’ve slowed down a bit because I haven’t found many stories that really grabbed me.
One thing I really enjoy is when the main character, whether it’s an OC or Reader, is clever, a little chaotic, a bit clumsy, and can hold their own. I like characters who think their way out of situations, are a bit of a trickster, and don’t always need someone to protect or save them. Characters who are constantly portrayed as helpless, weak, or completely dependent on others just aren’t my thing 😅
Two tropes I absolutely can’t get into is:
the slave/pet trope. It just makes me uncomfortable, and I usually stop reading the story...it’s just not for me.
Another trope I really can’t read is when a character gets kidnapped and forced into a pregnancy they never wanted, only for everything to suddenly work out and for them to end up happy about being pregnant. Sorry, but THAT would literally be my worst nightmare, so I just can’t enjoy stories like that.
It also doesn’t have to be all about romance or seggs. I genuinely enjoy a well-written, funny story with character development.
--------------------------------
I linked some of my favorite fanfics below. I keep coming back to these and reread them every now and then.
The Warlord's Mate series and Hey Lover by Silkbone /@spicymotte
He walks among the stars
And dreams of the one
Whose scent is like a rose,
But whose heart is the Milky Way.
Two portholes — his eyes,
He watches stars from the crater's rise,
But can't reach the skies.
So gentle in love, you won't find another,
So help him, help him,
Guide him further.
Summary: You navigate the chaotic joys of raising a mischievous half-Yautja son with your devoted mate, filled with laughter, surprises, and a bit of troublemaking
Paring: Yautja x Reader
word count: 9000+
warnings: Fluff, a Yautja toddler getting into trouble
A/N : Hello Friends! I wrote another part to my Yautja Family series "Little Storms and Starlit Nests" I hope you like it!
Masterlist
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
The first sun had barely crested the crimson canopy when K’zath made the announcement that sent your stomach into a gentle flutter of nerves. The clan was alive with its usual morning rhythm: the low clang of whetstones on plasma blades in the training yards below, the distant roar of a caged kryll-beast being fed, and the soft chatter of Yautja mothers exchanging stories over steaming nutrient broth at the communal hearths. Your home—carved into the cliffside with its smooth reddish stone walls veined in glowing moss—felt warmer than usual, the air scented with the spicy musk of your mate and the faint sweetness of the herbal tea you’d brewed.
K’zath stood in the center of your sleeping chamber, massive frame silhouetted against the woven vine curtains. His scarred shoulders gleamed under the golden light filtering through, mandibles relaxed in a rare, soft curve of pride. T’kai bounced at his feet, already dressed in a miniature version of his father’s training harness—tiny straps crisscrossing his green-gold chest, a single practice dagger (blunted to harmlessness) tucked at his side. The boy’s budding dreadlocks were still damp from his morning wash, and his yellow eyes sparkled with the kind of boundless energy that made you both laugh and brace for chaos.
“Today, little storm,” K’zath rumbled, voice deep and warm as distant thunder, “you shadow your papa on your first official training patrol. A short loop around the compound cliffs. No farther than the eastern training grounds. You will listen, you will watch, and you will learn what it means to be pack.”
T’kai puffed out his chest, mandibles flaring in an adorable imitation of a warrior’s stance. “I shadow Papa! I hunt good! Rawr!”
You set down the half-finished blanket you’d been weaving—soft fibers from the valley’s silk-vines, patterned with Earth-style stars and Yautja clan marks—and crossed the room. Your hands found K’zath’s broad chest, feeling the steady thrum of his primary heart beneath the tough plating. “You’ll keep him close?” you asked, trying to keep the worry from your voice. Hours alone with a half-Yautja toddler who could outrun most human adults? You knew exactly how quickly “short loop” could turn into adventure. But this was important—K’zath had been planning it for weeks, a rite to bond father and son in the ways of the hunt.
Your mate’s massive hand covered yours, claws retracted, thumb stroking gently. “Closer than my own shadow, my mate. I have hunted xeno queens with less care. He will return tired, fed, and proud.” He leaned down, mandibles grazing your forehead in a tender click-kiss. “Weave your blanket in peace. The suns will not set before we are home.”
T’kai tugged at K’zath’s gauntlet. “Papa, go now? I ready!”
With one last reassuring purr that vibrated through you both, K’zath scooped T’kai onto his shoulder—where the boy perched like a tiny conqueror—and they stepped out into the vine-draped walkway. You watched from the balcony as they descended the cliff path: K’zath’s stride measured and patient, one hand never leaving the boy’s back; T’kai chattering nonstop, tiny fists punching the air at imaginary prey. The compound sprawled below—towering bio-luminescent stone spires connected by swaying vine bridges, training yards carved into terraces, and the vast jungle valley stretching to the horizon where dual suns painted everything in fiery gold and deep crimson. Your heart swelled even as it twisted with nerves. This was their time. You turned back inside, picked up your weaving, and tried not to count the minutes.
Hours passed.
The second sun climbed higher, bathing the chamber in warm light. You wove steadily at first—looping fibers, humming an old Earth lullaby—but your fingers grew clumsy as the shadows lengthened. The blanket was meant for T’kai’s next growth spurt, a mix of human comfort and Yautja durability, but your mind kept drifting to the cliffs. What if he wandered near the edge? What if a youngblood’s stray plasma bolt startled him? You paced to the balcony twice, scanning the paths, but the compound’s bustle swallowed any sign of your boys.
By mid-afternoon, the weaving lay forgotten in your lap. You brewed more tea, then abandoned it. The quiet pressed in—too quiet without T’kai’s giggles or K’zath’s steady rumble. You told yourself it was fine. K’zath was the most careful warrior you knew. He’d once carried you through a crashing ship without a scratch. But still… hours.
Meanwhile, far below on the winding cliff trails that looped the compound, the “short patrol” had already derailed into legend.
K’zath had begun perfectly: slow pace along the upper ridges, pointing out tracks in the moss—fresh kryll prints, the scored bark of a thunder-beast’s claw marks. “See here, pup? The beast drags its tail when it hunts. You watch the ground as much as the sky.”
T’kai nodded solemnly at first, little hand gripping his father’s gauntlet. “I watch, Papa. Like you.”
For the first half-hour, it was textbook. K’zath demonstrated silent steps, how to breathe with the wind, how to scent prey on the breeze. T’kai mimicked with exaggerated care, mandibles clicking in concentration. They circled the first training ground—a wide terrace of packed earth where youngbloods sparred with blunted staffs—and K’zath even let the boy “mark” a target dummy with his tiny dagger, praising the strike.
But toddlers, even half-Yautja ones, have the attention span of a plasma bolt in flight.
“Papa… boring,” T’kai announced suddenly, stopping dead on the path. His yellow eyes had locked onto something far more interesting: a cluster of low-hanging glow-berries on a vine that draped over the training ground fence. The berries shimmered in every color—vibrant crimson, electric blue, sunny gold—juicy and forbidden for unsupervised pups because they stained everything they touched and fermented into a mildly dizzying syrup if eaten in excess.
K’zath’s mandibles twitched in warning. “No, T’kai. Those are not for hunting today. Stay on the path.”
Too late. With a gleeful squeal, T’kai bolted—short legs pumping faster than any human child’s—and dove under the fence rail before K’zath could snatch him.
“T’kai! No—come back!”
The boy was already wrist-deep in the bush, crushing berries in his tiny fists and smearing them across his cheeks like war paint. “Papa look! Sky colors! I paint warrior!”
K’zath vaulted the fence in one fluid leap, landing with a thud that shook the ground. Berry juice squirted everywhere as he gently but firmly pried his son’s hands free. “Pup, these are not paint. They are… aiiee, look at you.” Crimson and blue streaked T’kai’s face, dripped from his dreadlocks, and now transferred in sticky handprints to K’zath’s own gauntlet as the boy hugged his leg.
“Pretty Papa now too!” T’kai declared, patting more juice onto his father’s thigh.
K’zath exhaled a long, suffering rumble—the sound of a warrior who had faced down entire hives yet found himself defeated by fruit. “No more touching. We return to the path.” He scooped T’kai up, wiping the worst of the mess with a corner of his cloak, only for the boy to squirm free mid-lift and dart toward a stack of training dummies.
“Papa! Monsters! I fight!”
The dummies were old practice targets, scarred from plasma fire and rigged with light sensors that beeped on impact. T’kai launched himself at the nearest one, tiny claws scrabbling up its side like a determined spider. The dummy wobbled. The sensor shrieked. T’kai punched it square in the chest plate and crowed, “I win!”
The entire stack toppled in a clattering avalanche.
K’zath was there in a blur, catching the falling dummies with one arm while the other hauled T’kai off by the harness strap. Berry-stained juice now decorated the equipment. “T’kai, do not climb the prey dummies! They are not for pups!”
“But Papa, they fall funny! Like shadow monster!” T’kai giggled, mandibles flaring wide.
K’zath set the dummies upright with a grunt, then knelt to clean the worst juice smears with the hem of his cloak. His own plating was starting to glisten with color. “Your mother does this every day,” he muttered to himself, half in awe, half in exhausted admiration. “Alone. For days when I hunt off-world. How does she not retire to the elder caves?” He glanced at his son’s beaming face and felt the familiar warmth bloom beneath the frustration. Love, fierce and endless. “Come, little shadow. Real hunt now. No more—”
T’kai had already spotted the next temptation: a shallow stream that fed the training grounds’ irrigation, sparkling with tiny silver fish-analogs that darted like living stars. “Fishies! I catch for Mama!”
Splash.
K’zath dove after him, boots sinking into mud. T’kai surfaced laughing, covered head-to-toe in wet clay and more berries he’d crushed on the way down. “Papa wet! Funny!”
The warrior—seasoned elder, Bad Blood survivor—stood knee-deep in the stream, water dripping from his mandibles, and actually laughed. A deep, helpless click-rumble that echoed off the cliffs. “You will be the death of me, pup. And then your mother will finish the job.” He waded out, T’kai tucked under one arm like a squirming trophy, and spent the next ten minutes rinsing the worst of the mud while the boy tried to “help” by splashing more.
They pressed on. The patrol route twisted through a grove of fruiting vines the youngbloods used for endurance drills. T’kai decided this was his personal berry empire. He led—dragging his father by the gauntlet—on a zigzag trail of crushed fruit that painted the ground in rainbow streaks. Every bush became a new “hunt.”
“No, don’t touch that one—it’s thorned!”
Too late. Tiny claws grabbed. T’kai yelped, then laughed as K’zath plucked thorns from his palm with the precision of a surgeon.
“Papa fix! You best healer!”
Another bush: T’kai belly-flopped into the center, emerging with a crown of vines and blue stains across his entire harness. “I king berry!”
K’zath cleaned him again, muttering, “Your mother weaves blankets while I chase fruit-crazed pups. She is stronger than any hunter I know.” But his mandibles kept twitching upward, pride mixing with the tire in his bones.
They circled half the training grounds this way—dodging youngbloods who were supposed to be sparring but instead paused to stare at the spectacle of Elder K’zath, covered in berry war paint, chasing a giggling toddler who had somehow acquired the elder’s spare wrist gauntlet from a training rack. T’kai had yanked it down during one escape, and now wore it like an oversized glove, the metal clanking against his knee with every step.
“Papa! Look! I big warrior! Gauntlet strong!”
K’zath tried for stern. “That is not yours, pup. Return it—” But T’kai was already striking dramatic poses, punching invisible enemies with the massive gauntlet flopping comically.
The sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in fiery oranges and deep purples. The dual suns kissed the horizon, turning the jungle into a blazing tapestry. K’zath’s shoulders sagged just slightly—hours of constant vigilance, rescues, clean-ups, and love had worn even his legendary stamina. Yet every time T’kai looked up with those shifting eyes and said “Papa best hunter ever,” the fatigue melted.
Finally, as the last light faded, they crested the final ridge back toward home.
The youngbloods in the lower yard spotted them first. Howling laughter erupted—deep Yautja bellows that shook the vines. “Elder K’zath returns from war with the berry tribe!” one called. “And his shadow wears the trophy gauntlet!”
K’zath straightened, trying for dignity, but his mandibles wouldn’t stop twitching in helpless amusement. Berry stains streaked his chest, arms, and face in every color. T’kai marched proudly beside him, gauntlet clanking, face a masterpiece of crushed fruit.
You had been waiting on the main path, heart in your throat for the last hour. When you saw them, relief crashed over you like a warm wave. You walked up quickly, smiling despite the mess.
“My Love… are you alright?” You wrapped your arms around his waist—careful of the sticky patches—and pressed your cheek to his stained chest. He smelled like berries, mud, and home.
He huffed a tired laugh, one arm encircling you while the other kept T’kai from bolting again. “Your son decided the patrol was ‘boring,’ my mate. He led me on a berry conquest across half the training grounds. I have fought worse… but nothing stickier.”
T’kai beamed up at you, gauntlet waving. “Mama! I hunt berries! For you! Papa help. Lots.”
You laughed, crouching to kiss his stained forehead. “I see that, little storm. You look like a walking rainbow. And that gauntlet—Papa’s going to want it back, you know.”
“Mine now! Big hunter!” T’kai declared, then yawned hugely, mandibles drooping.
K’zath’s eyes softened as he looked at you both. “He is… a handful. I do not know how you manage this alone when I am gone for days. You are the true elder here.”
You rose on tiptoe, kissing the cleanest spot on his mandible. “Because I love him as much as you do. And because you always come home to help clean up the mess—literally.”
The three of you walked the last stretch home amid the fading laughter of the youngbloods, T’kai chattering about every “victory” while K’zath carried him on his hip. The compound lights began to glow—soft bioluminescent orbs along the paths—as night settled.
That evening, the hearth in your den crackled with holographic flames that danced without heat, casting warm golden light across the obsidian pit. The air smelled of roasting meat from the communal fires and the faint berry sweetness still clinging to your boys. You sat nestled against K’zath’s side on the wide stone bench, his massive arm around your shoulders, making sure the woven cushion was perfectly placed beneath you. He had bathed quickly—most of the stains gone—but a few stubborn blue streaks remained on his plating like battle honors.
T’kai sat cross-legged on the floor, the oversized gauntlet now resting in his lap like a prized trophy. K’zath had retrieved a cleaning kit—soft cloths, plasma-neutral oil, and tiny brushes—and was guiding the boy’s hands with infinite patience.
“See, little shadow? Gentle circles. The gauntlet protects you, so you honor it.” K’zath’s huge hand dwarfed T’kai’s, carefully directing one tiny claw to buff a scuff mark. “No rushing. A warrior’s tools deserve care.”
T’kai nodded solemnly, tongue poking out in concentration as he mimicked the motion. “Like this, Papa? I clean good. Then I shadow again tomorrow?”
K’zath’s mandibles curved in a smile only you and the boy ever saw. “Perhaps a shorter shadow next time. But yes… every day, if you wish.”
You watched them—your legendary warrior, scarred from a hundred hunts, patiently teaching his tiny son the smallest of rituals—and your heart swelled until it ached in the most beautiful way. The blanket you’d woven lay finished across your lap, ready for bedtime. The jungle night sang softly beyond the curtains. Your family was safe, sticky, and utterly perfect.
K’zath glanced over, yellow eyes warm. “Come here, my mate. There is room for all three shadows tonight.”
You slid closer, T’kai climbing into your lap with the half-cleaned gauntlet. The three of you stayed that way long after the holographic flames dimmed—purring, giggling, and whole.
Outside, the dual moons rose high, silver light spilling over the cliffs where one very small hunter had left a rainbow trail of love across the training grounds. And somewhere in the quiet, the jungle itself seemed to chuckle, as if even Yautja Prime knew: the greatest hunt of all was the one that came home covered in berries.
hi! you got any more of your own headcannons of yautja i'm curious? Mine is that female yautja births one pup in their first pregnancy typically & expected as this is also can be considered their chiva. I made myself laugh out loud from imagining all yautja in the clan be so baffled a female human mated to yautja got pregnant & it's twins or even better triplets at THEIR FIRST PREGNANCY & i so know their yautja mate is definitely bragging every moment of that fact
so sorry this took me ONE MILLION YEARS to type out!!! 😭🙏
BUT YES!!! I have so many Yautja headcanons that whenever I try to make a comprehensive doc of all of them, my brain fizzles out. 😭 I've been trying to write out a Yautja Biology post for AGES now. 😖
But yes! I totally agree that Yautja females almost always have a single pup their first pregnancy: It's the most common outcome, as twins are exceptionally rare! Yautja females that do bear twins their first pregnancy, in some clans, make something of a name for themselves, and their general desirability would definitely increase— Especially if said twins are both in good health, strong, etc. Poor gals not only have two wild children to look after, but come next mating season they'll be swamped with dozens of potential suitors too😅 Lot's of new males to fight (and probably kill)...
Anyways! Here's some of my thoughts down below ↓
I'm more of the mind that the Chiva is nearly always the traditional hunt for kiande amedha(e.g., Scar, Chopper, and Celtic in Alien vs. Predator), with some clans expanding the definition to include other species of high value, dangerous prey (e.g., Dek hunting on Genna for the Kalisk in Predator: Badlands). It's ritualistic hunting— it's The Hunt— thus is required for all Yautja... Well, at least for the males. Yautja males must succeed in their Chiva as it is the rite of passage for them to obtain their Blooded status, permittance to partake in mating seasons (as that's how they prove themselves to Yautja females), and be recognized as powerful hunters by their clan. For Yautja males, achieving their Chiva is their next life step, and they would not be considered "full" Yautja until they have done so. It can be embarrassing to consistently disqualify for one's Chiva (only select groups are chosen for any given Chiva, and spots are limited), even more so to fail at it, and any self-respecting Yautja male would sooner die during his Chiva than survive it emptyhanded, as maintaining their honor is paramount. To come back from a Chiva without a trophy (or "succeeding" through cheating, lies, schemes, etc) is like abandoning all one's honor and forsaking their clan, and sometimes it can be bad enough that a Yautja male will not only be ostracized, but exiled too. Or potentially branded as a Bad Blood, to be hunted and killed by other Yautja for their honor.
On the other hand, Yautja females just don't have to prove their worth in that same way. They are "full" Yautja the second they are born by virtue of being females under a strict matriarchy. Now, Yautja females certainly hunt, but they do not need to Hunt; if you get what I'm saying. They are not the ones that prove themselves in order to mate, they do not need to amass great collections of skulls and trophies to please another— That is the task of the Yautja male. Yautja females most often hunt for food, resources, or in defense; the ones that do trophy hunt do so to hone their skills, simply because they want to, or perhaps even chase the thrill. Some definitely take trophies, especially when the hunt was notable enough, but those trophies are for them and them alone. In a sense, Yautja females don't have a Chiva, because they simply don't need one. Though, Yautja females that hunt kiande amedha would be probably be considered highly desirable just by that fact alone.
SO! It is interesting to think of pregnancy/birth/childrearing as an expected factor of a Yautja female's life, to the point it is like their Chiva-equivalent. 🤔 I certainly think there is a sizable amount of Yautja mothers who 100% tell their daughters "When you have a pup of your own..." and have the expectation that their daughters will rear children, but not always. I think Yautja females have far more leeway when it comes to life paths, and if one choses not to partake in mating season and/or bear pups, it isn't necessarily a social taboo— But it certainly is dependent on the attitudes of their clan at large!
Here's just some more miscellaneous headcanons I have:
Yautja live largely divided by the sexes, and Yautja females are the backbone of Yautja society. ALL planet-side settlements are established, occupied, controlled, and maintained by females. They are also the predominant actors of diplomacy, civilization, and legislation.
On the other hand, Yautja males generally live on clanships, smaller hunting ships with select members of their tribe, or lead solitary lives. Regardless, the life of a male is largely space-faring and nomadic, and even those that have stakes in planet-side settlements— Yautja Prime included— don't tend to stick around for long periods of time (aside from male Elders and Elites, who have more social standing).
Each clan has a Clan Leader (usually an Elite/Elder male) and a Clan Matriarch (often grandmothers). These are roles that are held by the most powerful, strongest of their clan, but their positions are always at risk of usurpation. Anyone willing can challenge to be Clan Leader or Clan Matriarch, though it is a somewhat infrequent phenomena... considering just how badly the challenger will probably lose. The changing of power is honestly once in a blue moon, and most succession is due to the Clan Matriarch or Leader (especially the male) dying honorably to a failed hunt.
While Clan Leaders govern and control clanships and the inner workings of male Yautja circles, the Clan Matriarch has final say and veto power.
Yautja females that Hunt are often deadlier, more efficient, and even smarter than their male counterparts (take for example Cleopatra, a female hunter known for her ruthlessness).
There's definitely a TON more I could say, but this post has been sitting in my drafts for ages, and I don't wanna keep you waiting any longer 😅
yautja who have a purring sound layered to their voice when they speak of or to their mate because they love them so much that they are always happy when with them that it affects their voice
