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Alien x reader

The jungle swallowed sound.

It wasn’t quiet, not exactly. The constant drone of insects, the crackle of leaves, the distant howl of something—they filled your ears. But it was the wrong kind of noise. No birdsong. No signs of human life. No chatter from your team anymore.

Just the deep, oppressive silence of being watched.

You’d been in-country less than seventy-two hours when things went wrong. What was supposed to be a straightforward recon mission—collect data, tag environmental markers, report possible illegal mining activity—turned into a disappearance. One by one, your team dropped off the comms. First Alvarez, then Becker. Garcia’s last transmission was static and a scream.

You’d been trained for combat. Had been deployed before. But this was different. There were no bodies. No blood trails. Just...absence. Like the jungle had eaten them. And now it was just you.

You hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time in two days. Your legs ached from moving through uneven terrain, and your shoulder throbbed where you’d fallen during a climb. You rationed your food carefully, but the heat melted everything. You were sweating so much you weren’t sure how much you had left in your body. The only thing keeping you going was instinct. That primal, burning sense in your gut that something was wrong. That you had to move. Now.

You kept thinking back to the last full camp—before the disappearances. Alvarez had joked about the locals calling this place La Boca del Infierno—the Mouth of Hell. Said there were old legends. Warriors made of light and metal who hunted men for sport. Becker laughed. You didn’t. You remember how the forest went quiet right after he said it.

You’d brushed it off as coincidence. Now? Now you were listening to the jungle more than your GPS.

The sun was starting to fall, bleeding through the canopy in orange streaks as you stumbled into a clearing. It was the first real space you’d seen in hours. No hanging vines, no twisted roots, just a bowl of flattened ferns and cracked branches.

You froze.

Something had been here.

Recently.

You crouched low, brushing your hand across the ground. The depressions were huge—too long for a boot, too heavy for any natural predator. Four-pronged, like something walked on split hooves or claws. And around them? Scorch marks. Small, circular burns embedded in the leaves, like something hot had briefly touched down and lifted away.

An aircraft? You didn’t hear one. Didn’t see one.

You stood, hand tightening on your sidearm—not that it would do much. You knew that. Whatever was out here, it didn’t leave evidence because it didn’t need to. It was confident.

It was hunting.

And you were alone.

That night, you didn’t build a fire. You found a narrow alcove between two moss-covered boulders and huddled inside, wrapping yourself in your jacket to muffle your breathing. You didn’t sleep. You listened.

At some point past midnight, the air shifted.

You peered out.

Nothing. You waited—still as a corpse—for a break in the tension. For the forest to breathe again. But it didn’t. The quiet stretched thin, fragile as wet paper. You blinked into the darkness, eyes scanning for motion. But there was only black, deeper than night. No wind. No rustling. Just that crawling sensation prickling over your spine. But when you lay back, heart pounding, you noticed something you hadn’t seen before.

On your arm—just above the cuff of your sleeve.

A mark. Thin. Red. Burned into your skin like a brand. Four small points in a square.

Like a hunter tagging its prey.

You ducked back into your alcove, drawing your knees to your chest, every muscle locked. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just your brain eating itself alive from lack of sleep. That seemed easier to accept than the alternative: that something had crept close enough to silence the whole forest, and then stepped back before you could see it.

You didn’t sleep, but the next hour passed in a haze. Somewhere in that half-conscious drift, you heard a soft clicking. Not mechanical. Not insectile. Something in-between. It came from above. Then it was gone.

By morning, you were coated in sweat, your muscles sore from holding so still. When you emerged from the alcove, the mark on your arm was darker. Crusted slightly.

Something had touched you.

Marked you.

You ran.

You didn’t make a plan. You didn’t even eat. You just shoved your few supplies into your rucksack, shouldered your rifle, and sprinted east toward the slope where your extraction beacon should’ve been transmitting.

But when you reached the ridge, the sky was blank. No drone. No chopper. Just clouds and the low, shuddering roar of distant thunder. Your comm still flickered. Static. Then something stranger: a high-pitched tone, pulsing once every five seconds. Rhythmic. Too steady to be weather.

You turned it off.

You descended into the valley.

It should’ve taken half a day. It took two. The forest kept shifting. Paths you swore you’d taken curled back in on themselves. Landmarks vanished. Branches you’d cut were whole again the next time you passed. It was like the jungle repaired itself. Or you were being led in circles.

No—herded.

That word landed in your head and stuck like a splinter. Herded. Driven like prey by something you still hadn’t seen. Something that could touch you without waking you. Something that silenced entire ecosystems just by existing.

You began leaving signs behind you—scratches on tree trunks, scraps of cloth tied to vines. But none of them were there when you looked back.

You were sure of it.

By the third night, your legs gave out beneath you. You collapsed beneath the twisted limbs of a massive tree, too tired to move. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting mottled shadows across the ground. Your eyes barely stayed open. You kept your weapon on your chest, but your fingers felt too numb to use it.

That’s when you heard it again.

The clicking.

This time closer.

Not above. Not far.

Just behind you.

And something else—barely audible. A hum. Like distant electricity. Or a breath.

Slow.

You spun around.

Nothing.

Again.

But something was there. You could feel it— in the way the hair on your arms lifted. In the way your lungs squeezed too tight in your chest. Something was watching. Not passively. Curiously. Like a man staring through glass at a creature in a cage.

You raised your weapon and swept the area.

Still nothing.

But on the ground—just a few feet from your boot—was something new.

A feather.

No. Not a feather. Something like it. Long. Matte black. Semi-metallic. Tapered to a sharp, unnatural point. You reached down, slowly, and picked it up.

It vibrated in your hand.

Then went still.

That’s when you noticed the trees around you.

They were marked. Four-pronged, claw-like gouges running through bark in wide, deliberate circles. Patterns. Not random. Not animal.

Symbols.

And each one ringed the area where you slept.

That night, you didn’t rest.

Instead, you watched the strange, black “feather” as it lay on the flat rock across from you—just within the edge of the firelight. You’d set it down there hours ago, thinking maybe it would stop. Maybe the pulsing vibration that hummed faintly through your pack, through your fingers, through you would finally die.

It didn’t.

It hadn't stopped since you found it.

Even now, lying motionless, it gave off a subtle frequency. You could feel it more than hear it, like the inaudible pressure of a subwoofer in your bones. A quiet, rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum, in perfect sync with your pulse. When you closed your eyes, you swore you could feel it echoing in your teeth.

It was like it had tuned itself to you.

You’d thought about throwing it away. About burying it deep in the woods or leaving it behind on some high ledge.

But you couldn’t.

The idea made something twist in your gut—not fear, exactly. Something worse. Regret. As if you were abandoning something…or someone.

You hadn’t told yourself this out loud yet, but you’d already begun thinking of it as a signal. A thread between you and whatever was out here with you. And maybe—just maybe—it was thinking of you, too.

When you touched it again, the pulse spiked. Not violently—not like a weapon. More like excitement. Like it recognized your touch.

You drew your hand back. The vibration softened, but didn’t stop. Your pulse, however, kept racing. It was just an object. It had no moving parts, no electronics you could see. Just a perfect obsidian black, feather-shaped shard—smooth along the edges, but too sharp at the tip. When you’d cut your palm on it earlier, the blood hadn’t even stuck to it. It slid right off. Like it couldn’t be tainted.

And now, the skin around the cut had begun to itch.

You rolled up your sleeve.

There was something beneath the skin.

A dark line, faint, following the veins of your arm. Not blood. Not a bruise. Like a mark seeping beneath the surface. One you hadn’t noticed until now. It branched out from the base of your thumb and curled toward your wrist in subtle spirals.

You rubbed at it.

It didn’t fade.

It didn’t hurt.

But you knew it wasn’t natural.

The feather pulsed again.

You put it back in your pack and sat down heavily on a moss-covered log, raking your hands through your sweat-soaked hair. The forest around you still felt wrong. Off-balance. The way it did before lightning struck or an animal charged. Like the world was holding its breath again, waiting for something to break.

But it wasn’t fear that crawled through your spine anymore. It was something warmer. Low and uneasy, yes, but also magnetic. Like a wire had been strung between your heart and something deeper in the jungle and the vibration of that black shard was the pull of that wire tightening.

You weren’t being stalked anymore.

You were being drawn.

And for the first time since your team disappeared, you didn’t feel entirely alone. You felt seen.

—-

In the middle of the night, you startled awake—not from a noise, but from the absence of one.

The feather.

It was gone.

Your pack lay open beside you. You hadn’t heard a zipper. Hadn’t felt movement. But it was missing.

You bolted upright, heart thundering. Scanned the dark.

Nothing.

But the moment your fingers gripped your rifle, something fell in front of you with a soft, nearly soundless flutter.

You stared.

The feather was back.

Right at your feet.

Still vibrating.

Still tuned to you.

Only now there were two.

You stared at the two feathers.

They lay side by side at your feet—almost touching, both still pulsing faintly, almost like the beat of twin hearts. The fire had dimmed to embers behind you, casting long, dancing shadows across the clearing. The forest hadn’t made a sound in nearly an hour. And now the feathers, vibrating just subtly, just enough to make the leaves beneath them tremble, had returned.

On their own.

You leaned forward slowly, hand hovering. As your fingers neared them, the pulsing sped up, like excitement. Or anticipation. You hesitated.

That’s when you heard it.

A branch, just behind you, creaking under the weight of something heavy.

Not a rustle. Not a flutter.

A snap.

Then another.

You turned, weapon raised but not fast enough.

A flash of movement and then pain exploded through your arm as something massive slammed into you from behind, claws catching your jacket and driving you to the ground. Your rifle clattered into the brush. You barely had time to see it—fur, muscle, yellow eyes—something canine, but far too big. Some twisted alien jungle predator, jaws gaping wide as it lunged again—

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZT—!

A shriek tore through the clearing.

Your ears rang as white light flared—searing and sharp—and the beast jerked violently mid-pounce. It slammed to the ground beside you, limbs twitching, smoke pouring from its chest. A clean hole burned straight through its ribcage, steaming. The stench of scorched flesh hit your nose a second later.

Dead.

Instantly.

You blinked through the haze.

The feathers. They were gone from where they’d been.

Then you saw them. Both floating in the air a few feet away, glowing faintly, spinning in slow, synchronized orbits like twin daggers poised mid-air. The tips of them still sizzled faintly with heat. And then, like a pair of trained birds, they drifted gently back toward you.

Your hand shook as you reached for them. The moment your fingers brushed the first one—

BZZT.

A soft, quick pulse of vibration met your skin. Not painful. Not even aggressive.

Happy.

The other joined it, buzzing slightly faster, weaving in small circles around your wrist like it was nuzzling you.

You laughed—breathless, a little wild—not because it was funny, but because it was insane.

They liked you.

You curled your fingers around them, and the moment your palm closed, the vibration steadied—calm now. Content.

You sat in the ashes of your half-burned fire, a dead predator twitching beside you, and two alien, intelligent shards purring in your hand like eager pets.

You whispered, “What the hell are you?”

The trees didn’t answer.

But the feathers did.

They buzzed again—not a warning this time.

A greeting.

Like someone far away had just smiled.

And was getting closer.

—-

Two weeks passed and the jungle was still dangerous.

But it wasn’t the same.

You weren’t alone in it anymore.

It had taken three days before the fear started to fade. Not entirely but just enough for you to breathe without flinching. You moved more deliberately now, not because you were scared, but because you weren’t justsurviving. You were being watched. And guarded.

The feathers—you still didn’t have a better name for them—followed you everywhere. Most of the time, they drifted near your shoulder or circled your wrist, keeping just enough distance not to feel intrusive. They pulsed in that subtle rhythm, like the deep-throated purr of an animal at peace.

But if anything came too close—a snake you didn’t see, a sudden shift in the underbrush, even falling debris—they reacted instantly. One would dart between you and the threat, buzzing furiously, glowing bright white-blue. The other would anchor itself against your back, holding firm until the danger passed.

They were protectors. Messengers. Something more than drones, but not quite alive in the way you understood.

And over time, you stopped fearing them.

You began to reach for them.

You set up camp in a half-collapsed ruin. Some ancient stone outpost long reclaimed by moss and vines. The walls gave shelter, and the crumbling archway let the sun spill through in long golden stripes.

The feathers liked the sun.

They would hover in the beams like moths, drifting in lazy spirals as if they were warming themselves. Sometimes they would spin in tandem. Not for function, but for the sheer pleasure of motion. Like they were happy to exist near you.

In the quiet moments, you touched them.

At first, it was just a brush of your fingers—testing the surface, still unsure. But they responded. Gently. One would lower itself to rest in your open palm. The other would weave between your fingers, slow and curious. When you dragged your fingertips down their curved edges, they buzzed with a low hum, warm and grateful.

You found yourself whispering to them sometimes.

Just nonsense.

"Easy," you'd murmur when they twitched in response to a rustle too small to be a threat.

"You’re alright. I’m alright. We’re okay."

And they would settle.

One night, a storm broke across the valley—wind lashing through the trees, rain thundering down in sheets. You ducked beneath a stone overhang, clutching your jacket tight as lightning forked across the sky. The feathers stayed close, unusually still, pressed to your chest like frightened birds. You wrapped your hands around them, pulling them against your collarbone. Their buzzing steadied. Then deepened. You could feel it echoing through your ribcage.

Not panic.

Comfort.

Affection.

And when you whispered, “I don’t know why you’re helping me,” one of them brushed your cheek.

It lingered there, warm and vibrating, as if answering: ‘Because you are precious.’

By now, you didn’t question why they knew where to go. You’d stopped using the map days ago. The feathers always guided you to shelter, to clean water, to safety.

Or, more than once away from something else.

Something bigger.

You never saw it. Just the feathers suddenly buzzing sharply, flying to block your path, vibrating with urgency until you turned and ran the other direction. Sometimes you caught flashes of movement—deep in the trees, too far to see clearly. Once, a guttural growl echoed through the forest behind you for a full hour.

You asked the feathers what it was.

They didn’t answer.

But they didn’t leave your side, either.

You woke one morning to find them hovering just above your chest, bathed in sunlight. They dipped low, touching the mark on your palm—the one that had darkened since the day you bled on them. The spiral pattern on your wrist had grown more visible now. Fine lines like ink beneath your skin, curling up toward your elbow.

You ran your thumb along one of the feathers.

It quivered.

Then pulsed happily.

You whispered, “You’re not just tools, are you?”

They hovered silently for a moment.

Then the larger one—the one you always felt was the braver of the two—pressed itself to your chest again. And you swore, for just a second, you felt something beating inside it. Matching your heart.

The air was heavy that night. Still. Your breath came in slow drags as you crouched inside the old stone ruin, staring out into the dark trees. You could feel it. The change. The way the forest tilted, even without moving. The way the buzzing of the feathers had shifted from their usual soft hum into something sharp and distressed.

They darted in circles above you now. Not playful, not warm.

Panicked.

One slammed against the side of your head in warning. The other hovered between you and the open doorway, glowing faint blue.

Your gut twisted.

Something was coming.

It announced itself first with a guttural snarl, vibrating through the stones and into your spine. Leaves rustled. Branches cracked. And then, from the dark:

Eyes.

Ten of them. Wide. Pale. Low to the ground at first then rising as the thing unfurled itself to its full height. It stepped into the clearing and the moonlight struck its hide—matte black, armored in thick plates like a beetle's back, its limbs long and too many, some dragging, some twitching with anticipation. Its mouth split sideways. Wet. Eager.

The feathers screamed.

One darted forward, firing a narrow burst of light. It hit, but the beam deflected off the thing’s carapace, barely charring the surface.

The creature didn’t flinch.

It lunged.

You scrambled back, tripping over the ruined stone floor, slamming hard into the wall behind you. Your rifle—already useless against something like that—was still on the ground. The second shard zipped in, firing again, aiming for the thing’s eye—

Too slow.

The beast swatted it aside. The feather spun through the air, its light flickering weakly.

Then it was on you.

You screamed as claws sank into your side. It wasn’t a clean slice, but a tearing rip of flesh and fabric, hot blood immediately spilling down your hip. You struck out blindly—fists, rock, elbow—it didn’t matter. It was too strong. Its breath stank of rot. One clawed paw gripped your chest.

It was pulling you apart.

Pain blurred everything.

You thought—this is it.

You thought—this is how it ends.

And then the jungle exploded.

A roar split the trees.

Not the beast’s roar.

His.

A sound so deep, so unearthly, it didn’t echo—tt swallowed the world around it. The canopy above split with a thundering crash as something huge dropped from the trees, slamming into the clearing like a meteor.

The force threw the beast off you. You collapsed to the ground, gasping, your vision swimming with red. The feathers returned, both of them circling your head now, whimpering in soundless pulses of light. But you barely registered them.

You watched.

You watched him.

He was tall—easily nine feet, built like a nightmare carved from raw sinew and obsidian stone.

His body was plated in armor that didn’t look forged so much as grown—slick and dark, patterned with the faint glimmer of organic veining that pulsed softly with light, like heat shimmering through oil. His skin, where visible, had a smooth, bark-like texture that shifted in iridescent tones as he moved. Black one moment, blue or silver the next. No mouth was visible. No eyes, at first. But then the plates along his face split open, unfurling like a flower in reverse, revealing six narrow, glowing slits that blinked slowly across his otherwise featureless face. Each one fixed on the beast.

And the spirals, they were everywhere.

Glowing softly, raised just beneath the skin, like bioluminescent tattoos carved along his arms, his throat, his chest. Some were thick like vines. Others looped delicately around his fingers and neck like intricate symbols of a foreign language.

The patterns matched yours.

They pulsed with light as he stepped forward—not just brightening, but answering the ones on your own arm, your wrist, your ribs. Like your marks were singing back to his.

The beast charged.

He didn’t flinch.

He moved with an otherworldly grace. Fluid and unearthly, more like an underwater predator than anything land-bound. Limbs too long. Joints that bent just slightly wrong. His arm extended far past what should’ve been anatomically possible as he seized the creature by the throat mid-air, catching it with inhuman strength.

No roar.

No theatrics.

He pulled it to the ground like it weighed nothing—and when it twisted, he plunged something into it—a narrow, spike-like tendril that extended from his palm. The creature spasmed violently. His body folded over it, twisting with calculated force.

You heard bones snap.

Flesh tear.

And then silence.

You couldn’t move. The pain had turned distant, almost cold, your body sinking into shock. Every breath was shallow. Wet. You watched him through the narrowing tunnel of your vision—this towering, alien figure haloed in the silver light of the ruined jungle.

The two shards, the ones that had followed you, guarded you, bonded with you, drifted slowly up from where they hovered protectively above your body.

And left you.

Your chest clenched in betrayal.

But they didn’t abandon you.

They returned home.

The larger shard rose first, then the smaller, gliding through the air. They circled the alien’s head once, twice, then settled around him, orbiting in slow, intricate patterns. Their glow softened, their buzzing becoming more melodic, almost…musical.

He turned his head slightly, watching them.

Listening.

It wasn’t idle.

They were speaking to him.

Whatever they told him, it made the spirals along his arms brighten, blooming in soft gold light. His unreadable face tilted down toward you again.

And then—with hands far larger than yours, clawed and plated and utterly inhuman—he reached for you.

You tensed.

But he was gentle.

So gentle it didn’t make sense.

One arm slipped beneath your back, the other beneath your knees. His grip was careful, mindful of your wounds. No sudden jerks. No unnecessary pressure. It was like being lifted by water.

You felt the vibration of the spirals against your skin. His body was humming. Like the shards. Like yours.

The world blurred.

His head bowed over you as if shielding you from the night. You were pressed to his chest, and for a moment—a final flicker of consciousness—you could feel his heartbeat.

Slow. Deep. Anchored.

Like a drum buried in the earth.

The shards hovered beside your face again, glowing soft. Not buzzing for attention. Just watching.

Your fingers twitched toward them.

You whispered something.

And then the world went black.

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