hi, i've been in a rough mood lately, maybe something fluffy involving the xenomorph or xeno queen bc i adore them deeply
and given your preferences, i suppose some belly rubs of comfort would be nice too
ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ💕 I'm sorry you've been in a rough mood, buddy! Gladly worked on some fluff with our favorite aliens <3
Hurt/Comfort under the cut!
Enjoy!
ʕʽɞʼʔ˞͛˞͛
When the universe is too much, the sounds are too loud, the weight on your shoulder threatens to break you, there is one place that is safe, queit, warm. The nest. Your nest. The cathedral of shadows and softness. You had built it in the lowest cargo bay, the one no one used, where you could be alone with your weight and your thoughts.
The creature had found you three weeks ago, curled in a corner, your breath coming in short, ragged bursts, the pain pressing down on your sternum until you could not remember what it felt like to be light. You had expected death. You had almost welcomed it. Instead, the xenomorph had clicked at you - a soft sound, questioning, like a curious bird, its massive, elongated head had tilted, the smooth, black carapace gleaming dully in the emergency lighting. You felt its attention like a physical touch - a slow, scanning warmth that seemed to pass through you, reading the tension in your muscles, the ache in your bones, the storm behind your ribs. You had flinched when it moved closer, its powerful limbs silent on the deck plates. But it did not strike. Did not hiss. Did not bare that gleaming second set of jaws. It had simply... settled. A great, sinuous coil of alien flesh and warmth, curling around you like a serpent made of starlight and shadow. The heat from its body was immediate, shocking - a dry, living furnace that chased the cold from your marrow. Its skin was smoother than you had imagined, not slimy or chitinous, but warm like sun-baked stone, with a subtle, almost imperceptible grain that seemed to shift under your trembling fingers.
And the sound.
A low, resonant purr began deep in its chest, or where you imagined its chest to be. It was not a sound that traveled through the air so much as it traveled through your bones, a vibration that started at your feet and climbed your spine, loosening knots you hadn't known you were holding. It was the sound of a thousand idling engines or of a great, sleeping beast. The xenomorph had pulled you closer with a gentle, looping curl of its tail, the tip of that terrible weapon resting not at your throat, but across your back, a warm, living blanket. It had clicked again, softer this time, a series of staccato notes that somehow conveyed patience.
Now, you cannot imagine sleeping anywhere else. The nest has grown. You have dragged blankets and pillows from your quarters, old uniforms that still hold the faintest ghost of your scent. The creature, your friend - though the word feels too small, too domestic - has added its own contributions. Shreds of insulation foam, which it arranges with fastidious care. A few dented coolant canisters, which it rolls into place like territorial markers. The bones of something small and unfortunate, though those are kept at the edges, a boundary you do not cross.
The scent of the nest is complex. Underneath the faint, metallic tang of the cargo bay and the softer, organic smell of your own bedding, there is them. It is not unpleasant. It is warm and slightly musky, like the fur of a great cat after sunning itself, with an undertone of something electric, like the air before a thunderstorm. It clings to your clothes, your hair, your skin, and you have stopped trying to wash it away. It a sign of belonging now.
Tonight you come to the nest wordless, your movements heavy. The creature senses you before you reach the hatch, its head lifting from where it had been resting on its forelimbs. That invisible attention sweeps over you again, reading your limp posture, the dull glaze of your eyes, the way your hands hang useless at your sides. It clicks. Three times. A worried sound. You simply collapse into the center of the nest, face down, too exhausted even to arrange yourself properly.
Silence.
Then, the rustle of its body as it unfolds, moving with that terrifying, beautiful grace. It circles you once, twice, as if checking for injury, its warm leather skin brushing against your outstretched legs. Then, it settles around you. Its body curls in a great, protective spiral, enclosing you in a living cage of warmth and shadow. One massive limb drapes over your back, heavy but not crushing, the weight a grounding pressure that pushes the air from your lungs in a slow, releasing sigh. Its tail loops around your ankles, completing the circle.
You are surrounded. You are held.
And the purr starts.
It takes a moment to build, that deep, resonant thrum that seems to bypass your ears entirely and resonate directly in your chest cavity. It is not a steady sound, but rather a living lullaby, tuned precisely to your pain, and it is singing you back to yourself. You turn your face into alien’s side, and the warmth there is immense. Your nose presses against the surface and you breathe in deep. The musk. The ozone. The life of it, so different from the sterile, recycled air of the ship's corridors. It smells like a place where things are allowed to exist without purpose. Without duty. Your hand, moving of its own accord, reaches out and rests flat against its flank. The texture is strange - smooth like polished stone, but with a subtle give, a living warmth that pulses with a slow, outwordly heartbeat. The purr deepens, and the creature makes a new sound—a soft, chittering keen, so quiet it is almost lost beneath the vibration. You have come to recognize this sound. It is approval. Contentment.
You are safe, it seems to say. You are wanted. You are home.
Tears slip from the corners of your closed eyes, but they are not the sharp, jagged tears of before. These are warm and slow, a gentle release, like water finding its level. The creature's tail tightens fractionally around your ankles, a squeeze of acknowledgment, and its great head lowers, the blunt curve of its jaw coming to rest against the crown of your head. The weight is immense. Perfect.
Once she took the chip, finding John was easy. She doesn't care about the painless life or the City of Light—her John is here and safe, his desire firm against her body—everything she's done is worth it.
ALIE isn't the first or the worst demon Emori has worked with. She's like a child, figuring out the world and her place in it, why her creator left her. She appears before Emori in the fleimkepa's crypt, deciphering the generations-old paintings on the wall as John tells his version of the story.
Emori doesn't understand, but she lets herself believe.
cross-posted from ao3, link on my blog to read more like this
my friends ocs (with mine oc) if they were aliens
( @lordwackynessvi s oc is the 2nd, @unfunny-guy-the-emoji s is the third and the last 1 doesent have tumblr i think so)
