The Montana rain had been falling for three straight days, turning the boundary line between the Yellowstone Ranch and the Broken Rock Reservation into a viscous, treacherous trench of freezing black mud.
Jules was soaked to the bone, his oversized Carhartt jacket heavy with water and plastered to his shivering frame. Rip Wheeler had sent him out to ride the south fence line, a brutal, solitary punishment detail for mouthing off in the bunkhouse. But to a feral stray who had finally found a home, protecting the boundary wasn't just a job; it was a sacred, blood-sworn duty.
Through the driving, relentless sheets of rain, Jules saw him.
A massive, nameless figure was standing on the Yellowstone side of the barbed wire, shrouded in a heavy dark slicker. The stranger had a pair of heavy iron snips in his hands and was actively wrestling with the tension wire, pulling it taut against the wooden post.
To Jules, the equation was instantaneous and violent. Intruder. Sabotage. Threat.
He didn't yell a warning. He didn't unholster his radio to call for backup. He didn't even know if this was a Broken Rock local or a hired mercenary. It didn't matter. The brand burned into his chest flared with a blinding, territorial rage. Jules dropped from his saddle, hitting the slick earth at a dead sprint.
The sound of his boots sloshing through the muck was masked by the howling wind. Jules launched himself through the air with the sheer, suicidal ferocity of a cornered wolf, hitting the giant squarely between the shoulder blades.
The kinetic force of the tackle sent them both crashing violently into the liquefied earth.
The stranger hit the mud with a heavy, concussive thud, his heavy snips flying from his grip and disappearing into the freezing slop. For a split second, the man was entirely caught off guard.
Jules didn't give him a second to recover. He scrambled up, his hands covered in freezing mud, and threw a wild, desperate right hook that glanced sharply off the man's jaw.
"Get the fuck off our land!" Jules screamed, his voice cracking with a terrifying, raw hysteria, rain plastering his dark curls to his face.
The stranger's shock vanished, instantly replaced by the lethal, coiled reflexes of an apex predator. He didn't panic. He reached up, his massive, calloused hand easily catching Julesâs second punch mid-air. The man's grip was like an iron vise around Julesâs wrist.
Jules snarled, twisting his body violently to free himself, throwing his left elbow toward the intruder's throat.
They rolled in the muck, a chaotic, thrashing tangle of limbs, heavy canvas, and freezing water. The sheer disparity in their size was staggering, but Jules fought with the unhinged, merciless desperation of a street rat who had spent his entire life fighting for survival in alleyways. He bit, he scratched, he gouged, trying to use the slippery mud to his advantage to escape the crushing weight.
But the stranger was a mountain, and mountains did not yield to the storm.
The man absorbed a knee to his thigh and a desperate elbow to his collarbone, his jaw locking in grim determination. He surged upward, using his massive leverage to violently flip their positions.
With a breathless grunt of exertion, the giant drove Jules backward, slamming the teenagerâs shoulders flat into the freezing mud. Before Jules could buck his hips to escape, the man dropped his heavy right knee directly onto the center of Julesâs chest.
The impact drove all the oxygen from Julesâs lungs in a sharp, agonizing whoosh.
Jules gasped violently, his vision spotting black as the crushing weight pinned him immovably to the earth.
"Enough," the stranger roared over the driving rain, his deep voice vibrating with absolute, undeniable authority.
But Jules wasn't done. The feral panic spiked. Operating on pure, blind instinct, Julesâs right hand whipped down to his belt. The fluid, practiced motion of a kid who had survived Seattle's underbelly took over. The silver blade of his buck knife snapped open with a sharp snick that cut through the sound of the storm.
He thrust the blade upward in a lethal, flashing arc.
But the stranger was faster.
As Julesâs arm came up, the man's left hand shot out, catching Julesâs wrist inches from his own neck. Simultaneously, the giant's right hand cleared his heavy leather sheath.
The chaotic thrashing abruptly stopped. The world seemed to freeze entirely, the only movement the heavy sheets of rain washing the black mud from their faces.
The heavy knee was still crushing Julesâs sternum. Julesâs wrist was locked in an immovable grip, the tip of Julesâs silver buck knife hovering exactly two inches from the stranger's jugular.
But resting flush against the pulse point of Julesâs own throat was the heavy, serrated, six-inch steel of a hunting knife.
The standoff was absolute. One flinch, one slip in the mud, and they would both bleed out in the dirt. They stared at each other, their chests heaving violently, their breaths rising in white, ragged plumes of steam against the freezing rain.
The man wasn't angry. He wasn't breathing heavily. The blood from his split lip dripped slowly down his chin, but his dark eyes were ancient, bottomless, and entirely calm. He was looking down at Jules not as a threat to be eliminated, but as a wild, terrified creature caught in a snare.
"You breathe like a dying bird, Yellowstone," he murmured. His voice was a low, resonant rumble, completely devoid of adrenaline or malice.
Jules gritted his teeth, his grip on his own knife shaking with the effort of trying to overpower the mans hold. "Get off me. I'll kill you. I swear to God, I'll kill you."
"No, you won't," the man replied softly. He didn't press his knife any deeper into Julesâs neck, but he didn't pull it away, either.
"Because if you wanted to kill me, you wouldn't be shaking. You're fighting a ghost, kid. And I'm not him."
The transition from the pristine, heavily guarded gates of the Yellowstone to the dusty, worn roads of the Broken Rock Reservation was always a jarring shift.
Jules rode shotgun in Kayceâs battered heavy-duty Ram, staring out the window. They had spent the morning hauling a two-horse trailer loaded with a pair of gentle, older quarter horses Kayce was giving to Monicaâs grandfather, Felix.
Kayce drove with one hand draped casually over the steering wheel. He didn't treat Jules like a loaded weapon the way Rip did. Kayce just treated him like a kid who needed a job to do. But as they crossed the reservation line, Jules couldn't stop shifting in his seat. He was acutely aware of the dark canvas jacket he was wearing, and the heavy 'Y' branded into his chest. On the ranch, it was armor. Out here, on Native land, it was a target painted directly on his back.
"Relax, Julian," Kayce murmured, noticing the kidâs white-knuckle grip on the door handle. It was the first time anyone had used his full name since he arrived, and it sounded strange coming from the hardened cowboy.
"Nobody's going to mess with you while you're with me. Just keep your head down, be respectful to the elders, and don't stare."
"Yes, sir," Jules muttered, forcing his hands into his pockets.
They pulled up to a small, weathered homestead surrounded by a patchwork of wooden corrals. It wasn't just Felix there. It was a community gatheringâa late-summer cookout. Smoke drifted from a massive iron smoker, children were chasing each other through the dust, and a few dozen people were gathered around folding tables, laughing and talking in a mixture of English and Crow.
Kayce put the truck in park. "Stay by the trailer. I'm going to go find Felix and Monica."
Kayce walked off into the crowd, instantly greeted with warm, albeit cautious, familiarity by his in-laws.
Jules stayed exactly where he was told, leaning against the heavy steel fender of the truck. He felt completely exposed. He crossed his arms over his chest, dropping his chin, trying to make himself invisible. He was a Yellowstone stray dropped into the middle of a family he didn't belong to.
Then, through the haze of the barbecue smoke, he saw him.
Micah Tallgrass wasn't wearing his faded canvas tracking coat, and he wasn't melting into the shadows of the timber. He was standing near the smoker, wearing a worn, pearl-snap denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing lean, corded forearms. He was holding a paper plate, laughing at something an older woman had just said to him.
Jules stared. He had only ever seen Micah as a ghostâa terrifyingly competent, lethal force in the woods. Seeing him here, bathed in the golden afternoon sun, smiling a genuine, relaxed smile, completely short-circuited Julesâs brain. The Shoshone tracker looked devastatingly handsome when he wasn't preparing to cut someone's throat.
As if feeling the weight of the stare, Micah turned his head.
His dark eyes scanned the crowd and locked onto the Yellowstone truck. He saw the defensive, tightly coiled teenager leaning against the fender. The smile on Micahâs face didn't vanish, but it shifted. It softened into something infinitely more private.
Micah handed his plate to a teenager walking by, whispered something to the elder, and began walking across the dusty yard toward the truck.
Julesâs heart immediately executed a frantic, heavy rhythm against his ribs. His fight-or-flight instincts flared, but the math in his head was completely wrong. His hands weren't balling into fists to fight. His stomach was dropping. His chest felt tight, but not from the brand.
Something felt different this time. There was no barbed wire between them. There were no knives. There was no territorial posturing.
Micah stopped a few feet away, hooking his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. Up close, without the shadows of the pines hiding him, Jules could see the faint, fading bruise on Micah's cheekboneâthe one Jules had put there two weeks ago.
"You're a long way from the bunkhouse, Yellowstone," Micah said. His voice was that same low, resonant rumble, but it carried a warm, teasing cadence Jules had never heard before.
Jules swallowed dryly, his defensive instincts fighting a losing battle against the sudden, overwhelming heat climbing the back of his neck.
"Kayce brought me. Dropping off horses."
Micah glanced at the trailer, then back at Jules. He took a slow step closer, stepping into Jules's personal space. The scent of woodsmoke, sage, and warm skin washed over Jules, making his breath hitch imperceptibly.
"You look like a stray dog expecting to get kicked," Micah observed quietly, his dark eyes tracing the rigid line of Jules's shoulders. "You don't have to wear the armor out here, Jules. Nobody at this barbecue gives a damn about John Dutton."
"I'm not wearing armor," Jules deflected automatically, crossing his arms tighter. "I'm just doing my job."
Micah let out a soft, breathy chuckle. It was a deeply intimate sound. He reached out, and for a terrifying, electrifying second, Jules thought Micah was going to touch his chest again. Instead, Micahâs hand bypassed the canvas jacket entirely. His rough, calloused fingers brushed gently against the side of Julesâs neck, stopping to rest lightly on Jules's tense shoulder.
The physical contact sent a violent, electric shockwave straight down Julesâs spine.
"You're shaking," Micah murmured, his voice dropping so low it was meant only for Jules.
"I'm not scared of you," Jules shot back instantly, a breathless, defensive whisper.
Micahâs dark eyes locked onto Julesâs, stripping away every single layer of the Yellowstone hand's carefully constructed tough-guy act in a millisecond.
"I know you aren't," Micah replied softly, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizingly gentle line across the heavy seam of Jules's jacket. "That's why your heart is beating so fast."
Jules froze. He couldn't breathe. The absolute, undeniable truth of the statement hung in the air between them, thick and heavy. It wasn't fear keeping Jules glued to the fender of the truck. It was gravity. He was deeply, terrifyingly attracted to the man standing in front of him, and Micah knew it. Micah had probably known it since the creek.
Before Jules could scramble for a defense, Kayce's voice called out from across the yard. "Julian! Drop the tailgate on the trailer!"
The spell broke.
Micah slowly pulled his hand back, letting his fingers linger for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. The corner of his mouth ticked upward in that knowing, quiet smirk.
"Drop the tailgate, Yellowstone," Micah murmured, taking a step back to give him room.
"Before your boss thinks I'm kidnapping his muscle."
Jules exhaled a ragged breath, his hands trembling slightly as he turned around to unlatch the heavy steel gate of the trailer. He didn't look back at Micah, but he could feel the tracker's eyes on him the entire time. The feral, survivalist kid who had arrived on the ranch was gone. In his place was a teenager realizing that the most dangerous thing in the valley wasn't the poachers, or the Duttons, or the brand on his chest.
It was the Shoshone ghost who knew exactly how to dismantle him without throwing a single punch....
Working on something special, caught the Yellowstone hyper fixation bug. Full fic is coming soon, for now just posting parts I find fun.
To Claim A Galaxy (Male Yautja X Male Human) 18+ Excerpt.
"Intergalactic Meet Cute"
Rookie Detective Orion St. Clair has been tracking a brutal pattern of violence thatâs pushed the cityâs criminal underworld into a state of paranoia. The first time he crossed paths with what he believed to be the culprit, the creature left behind a trail of mutilated criminalsâbodies strung up and skinnedâand storage units filled with abducted children.
As the investigation deepens, Orion encounters the âsuspectâ againâthis time inside a warehouse owned by a major cartel.
East River Industrial Park â 12:14 A.M.
Rain had started to fall again, thin and needling, just enough to make the air hum. The old foundry loomed ahead like a dying beast, ribs of steel jutting through rotted concrete. The orange light inside had dimmed to a feverish glow.
Orion St. Clair slipped through the half-melted side door, Glock raised, every instinct screaming at him to turn around. But he didnât. Not after what heâd seen on the roof. The smell hit him firstâburned oil, blood, ozone. A metallic taste coated the back of his throat. The lights flickered weakly above him, buzzing like dying flies. Every few seconds one popped, showering sparks onto the floor. He moved slow, gun sweeping side to side, trying not to breathe through his nose. A man lay sprawled across a crate, eyes wide open, a clean cauterized hole through his chest. No blood spray, just a blackened wound, as if the heat had sealed it shut.
The silence pressed against his ears. He crept deeper in, boots echoing faintly across steel. The air felt charged, like right before lightning hitsâthick and vibrating. Then, movement.
Up above. The shimmer againâlike glass bending.
A ripple of light crawled across the rafters. And there it was: the figure, crouched low, its outline faint but unmistakable. Orionâs mouth went dry. He raised the gun but didnât aim.
âYouâre real,â he whispered.
The thing tilted its head, mask lenses glinting amber under the flicker of light. It was watching him. Studying him.
âYou saved those kids,â he said quietly, voice catching. âThat was you, right, back at the docks?â
No answer. Just the faint hum of its armor.
Something shifted in the corner of Orionâs visionâa man. One of the gunrunners heâd thought was dead, crawling behind a pillar. Slowly, the guy lifted an assault rifle, the muzzle glinting wet with rainwater leaking through the roof. The barrel leveled right at the figureâs back.
âHeyâ!â Orion barked. The gunman fired.
Three rounds cracked through the air, a spark when a bullet grazed the figures shoulder. Without thinking, Orion moved. He swung the Glock up and fired twice, the first shot missing, the second catching the shooter in the side of the neck. The man collapsed with a strangled grunt, rifle clattering to the floor.
The Yautja spun at the noise, shoulder cannon twitching, lasers dancing across Orionâs chest.
âDonât!â Orion shouted, backing up with one hand raised, gun lowered.
âHe was gonna shoot you!â
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the rain and the hiss of the dying manâs breath.Then the creatureâs weapon lowered and The red beams dimmed. The humming stopped. And the beast trilled a series of clicks.
It turned, glanced down at the dead gunman, then back at Orion. A faint, almost mechanical rumble came from behind the mask. Not wordsâbut something that mightâve been acknowledgment.
âYeah,â Orion muttered under his breath, adrenaline spiking.
âYouâre welcome.â
The Yautja stepped closer, feet silent on steel, towering over him. Orionâs every nerve screamed to run, but his body wouldnât move. Up close, it was impossibly bigâheat rippling from its skin, the detective could have sworn the raindrops sizzled where they landed. The maskâs eyes shone briefly, scanning him. And then it did something strange.
It reached upâslowlyâand tapped two fingers against its own chestplate, then pointed at him.
âYouâŚâ Orion started, voice trembling, ââŚyouâre trying to say something?â
An arpeggio of clicksâlow, guttural. Maybe a name. Maybe approval. How the hell should he know?
Then, movement behind themâanother gunman, staggering to his feet with a knife raised. But before Orion could react, the Yautja moved. One arm snapped out, caught the man mid-swing, and threw him ten feet across the floor. The body hit a column with a wet crack.
The alien looked back at Orion. The brief shimmer of its cloaking field pulsed, half-engaged, like it was ready to vanish.
âWait,â Orion said softly. âYouâre hurt.â
A graze of smoke rose from the creatureâs shoulderâone of the earlier bullets had nicked through its flesh leaving a glowing welt.
He took a hesitant step forward. âLet meââ
The Yautja tensed, a low warning growl rumbling from deep within its chest.
âOkay,â Orion said quickly, hands up. âOkay. No touching.â
They stared at each other through the rain leaking from the roof, the human breathing hard, the alien silent and unreadable.
Finally, it turned toward the open doorway, pausing only long enough to look back at him once more. The mask tilted slightly, as if committing his face to memory. Then the air shimmered, the figure vanished, and the warehouse fell into silence.
Orion lowered his gun, exhaling shakily. The smell of scorched metal lingered. He looked down at the man heâd shotâthe only human heâd killed tonightâand then back at the spot where the Yautja had stood.
âGuess that makes us even,â he muttered.
Outside, the rain poured harder, washing the blood toward the gutter.
It had been Days since he had seen the alien with a nack of murdering the cities worst. The trail had gone gold, until one night. Detective St.Clair finds what he had been seeking, was seeking him.
The city had gone quiet again, that strange dead hour between midnight and dawn when the subways sighed and even the rats seemed tired. Orion St. Clairâs boots splashed through puddles slick with streetlight glare as he cut down the narrow alley behind his building. He was running on caffeine, adrenaline, and too many questions. The night air was sharp, laced with the smell of wet cardboard and motor oil.
Heâd almost made it to the stairwell door when a sound stopped him cold. A low, rhythmic clicking, echoing off the brick walls. Followed by a guttural, wet groan. His stomach dropped. He knew that sound.
ââŚno way,â he whispered.
The noise came again, louder this time, from the direction of the dumpster. Orion turned slowly, heart pounding so hard it made the inside of his jacket flutter. The lid was half-closed, garbage bags piled high, steam rising faintly from the runoff. He stepped closer, hand unconsciously reaching for the pistol holstered at his side.
Another click. Then something shiftedânot the trash itself, but the space above it. The air bent, twisted, rippled like water poured over glass. For a split second there was nothing, and then the nothing moved.
âOh, fuckâŚâ Orion breathed.
The cloaking field flickered, stuttered, and finally died. What it revealed made his chest tighten: the massive, masked figure slumped against the inside wall of the dumpster, armor cracked, shoulder bandage blackened and smoking. A faint green glow seeped from beneath its plating, the same bioluminescent blood heâd seen before, pooling at the bottom among crushed cans and soaked newspaper. It let out another low, ragged groan, mandibles clicking behind the maskâs filters.
âHeyâhey!â Orion blurted, rushing forward before he could think. He grabbed the edge of the dumpster and leaned in. âHey, itâs me, remember? The detective guyââ
The creatureâs head lifted slightly, mask lenses flaring with weak amber light. Its breathing came in short, metallic hisses. When it tried to rise, the motion sent a tremor through the steel bin.
âShit, youâre bleeding again,â Orion muttered. He glanced around the empty alleyâno one, not even the usual drunksâand climbed onto the side ledge. âOkay, just stay still, big guy. Youâre⌠youâre too damn heavy for me to drag if you pass out.â
The Yautja twitched, a feeble attempt to raise its weapon arm, but it barely managed to lift it before slumping back.
âEasy,â Orion said, lowering his voice. âYou saved my ass twice, all right? Let me return the favor.â
He reached down, fingers brushing the warm, scarred plating of its chest. The heat radiating through the armor was feverish, like touching the hood of a car that had run too long. He pulled out his pocket knife, using it to rip a strip off his already-ruined shirt. When he pressed the cloth to the wound, the creature lurched, claws flexing, but didnât strike. The blood shimmered through the cotton like liquid neon, painting his fingers a radioactive green. It gave off a faint warmth, like wet paint under a blacklight.
It reminded him of car coolant.
âJesus ChristâŚâ Orion muttered, watching it pulse. âYouâre bleeding light.â
He glanced up, into the maskâblank, bone-white metal, the faint reflection of his own wide eyes in the lenses.
âWhat the fuck are you?â
A pause.
Then his own voice came back at himâgarbled, mechanical, distorted through the maskâs speaker:
"Fuck⌠are you?â
He froze. âWhatâwhat the hellâŚâ
The creature tilted its head, as though studying the confusion it had caused. The faint click-click-click of its throat vibrated through the air, not threatening, just curious.
Orion swallowed hard. âAhaha, IâmâuhâIâm Orion,â he stammered, still pressing the fabric against the wound. âIâm a private investigator⌠like a detective. I stop bad guys, though my methods are a bit⌠less deadly. Not your style, huh?â
The thing didnât answerâjust clicked again, the sound echoing like a camera shutter.
âYouâre not from around here, are you?â Orion asked quietly.
The mask crackled once more, then repeated his own words back at him, rough and off-key:
"Not from around here⌠are you?â
He blinked, almost laughing through his nerves. âYeah, thatâs what I thought.â
He tightened the makeshift bandage. The creature roaredâloud enough to shake dust from the raftersâand Orion jumped back instinctively, nearly losing his balance. But he didnât let go. His hand stayed braced against its shoulder, palm pressed to armor that radiated unnatural heat.
The muscles beneath the plating shifted, dense and impossibly strong. His fingertips traced the contoursâcorded, alien, alive.
âChristâŚâ he whispered under his breath, half to himself.
The Yautjaâs massive hand moved, catching his wrist. The grip was firm, but not cruel. Slowly, it pulled his hand away from the wound and held it there between them, as if to say:
Enough.
Finally, the Yautjaâs voice rasped through the mask, low and broken:
âHunt⌠over.â
Orion froze. âOver? You meanâyouâre done?â
A low click answered himâmaybe yes, maybe just exhaustion. The figure slumped slightly, body too heavy to hold upright.
âOkay, okay, easy.â Orion glanced toward the mouth of the alley, then back. âI canât leave you out here. Somebodyâll see you. And Iâm not explaining that to the NYPD.â
He hesitated only a second before muttering, âThis is so far above my pay grade,â and reaching out both hands. âCome on, big guy. Letâs get you somewhere safe.â
He didnât know how he was going to do it. He just knew he couldnât walk away.
By the time he got the thing through the back door of his building, every nerve in his body felt ready to snap.
Each step up the narrow stairwell was a miracle; the metal groaned under the Yautjaâs weight, the banister creaked, and every footfall echoed like a gunshot. Somewhere two floors below, a baby cried and a radio murmured in Spanish. Nobody came out to look.
âJesus, youâre heavy,â Orion hissed under his breath. âHow do you even move like this in combat? Eat rebar for breakfast?â
The only answer was the rough, rasping breath behind him and the faint electronic pulse of the beingâs failing armor. Its bloodâbright, impossibly greenâhad smeared across his jacket and the wall. Heâd have to paint over that later, if the building didnât condemn the place first.
He fumbled his keys, muttered a curse, and shoved the door open. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee, gun oil, and rain-wet paperâhis life reduced to the smell of work. He backed through the doorway, guiding the Yautja inside.
âWatch yourââ
The hunterâs head clipped the doorframe with a clang.
ââhead,â Orion finished lamely.
The creature half-collapsed near the couch, the floorboards complaining under its weight. Its cloak flickered once, trying to engage, then died entirely. For the first time under full light, Orion saw the damage: cracks running through the armor, black ichor glowing in places like molten glass.
He tore off his ruined jacket, tossed it aside, and went straight for the bathroom. The medicine cabinet held exactly three things: rubbing alcohol, gauze, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He came back with all of them. The Yautjaâs head turned slightly as he approached, the faint amber of its mask lenses tracking him. Orion set the supplies down on the coffee table, trying not to think about how absurd this lookedâa seven-foot alien slumped in a Queens walk-up, green blood dripping onto a rug from IKEA.
âOkay,â he said, voice low, steadying his hands. âI patch up humans for a living. Youâre⌠not that different, right?â
The hunter made a deep clicking sound, hard to readâpain, maybe, or disbelief.
âYeah, thatâs what I thought.â Orion poured whiskey over the wound. The liquid hissed, steaming where it touched exposed tissue. The Yautja jerked, claws gouging the hardwood.
âSorry, sorry!â Orion yelped. âI forgotâour antiseptic probably feels like acid to you.â
He ripped open the gauze with his teeth and pressed it down. The glow dimmed beneath the fabric, pulsing slowly like a heartbeat.
For a long moment neither of them spoke. The rain outside ticked against the window, and the city hummed far below.
âYouâre gonna blow my electric bill, you know that?â Orion said finally, breaking the silence. âBetween your⌠suit thing and the space-heater body temperatureââ
He stopped himself when he realized the creature was watching him. Not just with its sensors; watching. Measuring him.
âYou understand me, donât you?â he asked quietly.
The maskâs speaker crackled, then replayed fragments of his own voice from the alley, chopped and distorted:
Fortunately for us, we have a pretty clear picture, believe it or not. Tehe.
âźď¸BEHOLDâźď¸
StudioADI created some miniature predator sculpts to aid in scripting and production of the 2004 AVP movie. (They were originally intended to walk out naked in a scene where they emerge from cryosleep, which was later removed from the movie script entirely. Thatâs the origin of this specific photo.)
So, I guess this is basically canon? But this still is just one rendition of what their genitalia possibly looks like.
Actually describing it, I honestly couldnât tell you whatâs going on here. Lookâs like everything is already pre-packaged in a pouch though, just like my disgustingly delicious frozen dinners. So at least they donât have to wear jockstraps and speedos 24/7. Good for them. đđ
Quick update, totally forgot about this conversation I had a million years ago regarding more of their biology. Goes way more in depth!
I've gone with sheathed/tendril. Funnily enough, like it's blood. It's Coloful. Pink at the tip, and it descends in an ombre of white to light almost sky blue at its knotted base. (cause tying is fun)
To Claim A Galaxy (Male Yautja X Male Human) 18+ Excerpt.
"Intergalactic Meet Cute"
Rookie Detective Orion St. Clair has been tracking a brutal pattern of violence thatâs pushed the cityâs criminal underworld into a state of paranoia. The first time he crossed paths with what he believed to be the culprit, the creature left behind a trail of mutilated criminalsâbodies strung up and skinnedâand storage units filled with abducted children.
As the investigation deepens, Orion encounters the âsuspectâ againâthis time inside a warehouse owned by a major cartel.
East River Industrial Park â 12:14 A.M.
Rain had started to fall again, thin and needling, just enough to make the air hum. The old foundry loomed ahead like a dying beast, ribs of steel jutting through rotted concrete. The orange light inside had dimmed to a feverish glow.
Orion St. Clair slipped through the half-melted side door, Glock raised, every instinct screaming at him to turn around. But he didnât. Not after what heâd seen on the roof. The smell hit him firstâburned oil, blood, ozone. A metallic taste coated the back of his throat. The lights flickered weakly above him, buzzing like dying flies. Every few seconds one popped, showering sparks onto the floor. He moved slow, gun sweeping side to side, trying not to breathe through his nose. A man lay sprawled across a crate, eyes wide open, a clean cauterized hole through his chest. No blood spray, just a blackened wound, as if the heat had sealed it shut.
The silence pressed against his ears. He crept deeper in, boots echoing faintly across steel. The air felt charged, like right before lightning hitsâthick and vibrating. Then, movement.
Up above. The shimmer againâlike glass bending.
A ripple of light crawled across the rafters. And there it was: the figure, crouched low, its outline faint but unmistakable. Orionâs mouth went dry. He raised the gun but didnât aim.
âYouâre real,â he whispered.
The thing tilted its head, mask lenses glinting amber under the flicker of light. It was watching him. Studying him.
âYou saved those kids,â he said quietly, voice catching. âThat was you, right, back at the docks?â
No answer. Just the faint hum of its armor.
Something shifted in the corner of Orionâs visionâa man. One of the gunrunners heâd thought was dead, crawling behind a pillar. Slowly, the guy lifted an assault rifle, the muzzle glinting wet with rainwater leaking through the roof. The barrel leveled right at the figureâs back.
âHeyâ!â Orion barked. The gunman fired.
Three rounds cracked through the air, a spark when a bullet grazed the figures shoulder. Without thinking, Orion moved. He swung the Glock up and fired twice, the first shot missing, the second catching the shooter in the side of the neck. The man collapsed with a strangled grunt, rifle clattering to the floor.
The Yautja spun at the noise, shoulder cannon twitching, lasers dancing across Orionâs chest.
âDonât!â Orion shouted, backing up with one hand raised, gun lowered.
âHe was gonna shoot you!â
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the rain and the hiss of the dying manâs breath.Then the creatureâs weapon lowered and The red beams dimmed. The humming stopped. And the beast trilled a series of clicks.
It turned, glanced down at the dead gunman, then back at Orion. A faint, almost mechanical rumble came from behind the mask. Not wordsâbut something that mightâve been acknowledgment.
âYeah,â Orion muttered under his breath, adrenaline spiking.
âYouâre welcome.â
The Yautja stepped closer, feet silent on steel, towering over him. Orionâs every nerve screamed to run, but his body wouldnât move. Up close, it was impossibly bigâheat rippling from its skin, the detective could have sworn the raindrops sizzled where they landed. The maskâs eyes shone briefly, scanning him. And then it did something strange.
It reached upâslowlyâand tapped two fingers against its own chestplate, then pointed at him.
âYouâŚâ Orion started, voice trembling, ââŚyouâre trying to say something?â
An arpeggio of clicksâlow, guttural. Maybe a name. Maybe approval. How the hell should he know?
Then, movement behind themâanother gunman, staggering to his feet with a knife raised. But before Orion could react, the Yautja moved. One arm snapped out, caught the man mid-swing, and threw him ten feet across the floor. The body hit a column with a wet crack.
The alien looked back at Orion. The brief shimmer of its cloaking field pulsed, half-engaged, like it was ready to vanish.
âWait,â Orion said softly. âYouâre hurt.â
A graze of smoke rose from the creatureâs shoulderâone of the earlier bullets had nicked through its flesh leaving a glowing welt.
He took a hesitant step forward. âLet meââ
The Yautja tensed, a low warning growl rumbling from deep within its chest.
âOkay,â Orion said quickly, hands up. âOkay. No touching.â
They stared at each other through the rain leaking from the roof, the human breathing hard, the alien silent and unreadable.
Finally, it turned toward the open doorway, pausing only long enough to look back at him once more. The mask tilted slightly, as if committing his face to memory. Then the air shimmered, the figure vanished, and the warehouse fell into silence.
Orion lowered his gun, exhaling shakily. The smell of scorched metal lingered. He looked down at the man heâd shotâthe only human heâd killed tonightâand then back at the spot where the Yautja had stood.
âGuess that makes us even,â he muttered.
Outside, the rain poured harder, washing the blood toward the gutter.
Prepared by: Special Analyst R.Nocturna, Old Meridian District Intelligence
I. SUMMARY
Codename âGreyscaleâ refers to an unregistered vigilante operating within South Meridian, Railtown, and Docks Sector 6.
First sighting occurred approximately six months ago following a string of dismantled black-market enhancement rings. Subject intervened in several superhuman altercations, neutralizing aggressors with exceptional precision and restraint.
Multiple city-cam recordings confirm subjectâs consistent use of nonlethal tactics and deliberate avoidance of civilian harm. Motive remains unclear, though target selection implies strong anti-super powered sentiment.
II. PHYSICAL PROFILE
Sex: Male
Estimated Age: 17â20 (youthful gait and stature)
Height: Approx. 5â8
Build: Lean athletic; movements display advanced muscle coordination inconsistent with age group.
Matte grey modular armor made from prosthetic-grade alloys.
Collapsible batons of unknown make.
Partial mask and grey hood obscuring facial ID.
III. BEHAVIORAL NOTES
Highly disciplined, methodical combatant â indicative of either formal training or adaptive experience under duress.
Shows signs of tactical empathy: tends to check vitals of neutralized enemies and assist wounded civilians.
Avoids media, gangs, or street-level fame; anonymity appears strategic, not accidental.
Demonstrates uncanny familiarity with prosthetic tech and combat exosystems, possibly former test subject or lab escapee.
IV. COMBAT OBSERVATIONS
Strength / Speed: Comparable to peak enhanced SDN operatives (Class-C superhuman range).
Endurance: Withstood full-impact shock rounds and concussive force from energy discharge at 2 meters â continued engagement. Could be shield related.
Shield Use: Combines deflection, striking, and mobility tactics; weapon doubles as short-range projectile via magnetic tether.
V. PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE
Estimated age and behavioral restraint suggest trauma-induced hypercontrol â possibly stemming from early exposure to superhuman violence.
Emotional detachment in field footage suggests either training conditioning or a learned coping mechanism.
Displays protective instincts toward minors and noncombatants, consistent with survivor guilt archetype.
VI. UNCONFIRMED CONNECTIONS
Eli Ward (18), registered prosthetic engineer apprentice, operates out of a small workshop in Old Meridian.
No criminal record.
Documented to have occasional correspondence with Robert Robertson (SDN consultant/Dispatcher, âMecha Manâ).
Witnesses claim Wardâs designs incorporate military-grade scrap untraceable to any legal vendor.
No evidence currently linking Ward to Greyscale.
Analyst Dispute: Two field agents (Robertson and Chase) have speculated a resemblance in build and movement signature, but biometric comparison remains inconclusive.
Hey y'all, Just working on my Dispatch OC. Think enhanced human. So Like Black Panther/Winter Soldier vibes. 2-3x Peak human physical performance with the combat training to match.
I'm thinking His past is connected to the last Mecha Man if not Robert. A fight between him and Shroud was getting catastrophic and to minimize damage, Mecha Man brought the fight to Eli's neighborhood. The poor, Black and Brown neighborhood. And he loses his parents in the collateral damage.
Robert doesn't know Eli's Greyscale, and Eli doesn't know Roberts Mecha Man., but they live in the same complex, just not the same building.
SDN wants Robert to find out who Greyscale is and bring him in, either to join the SDN, or go to prison. Etc.
It's more of a big brother, little brother situation. But Yes, Eli is đłď¸âđ.
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