queen | part 1 | predator 2 yautja X reader
A/N: I've had this silly little idea in mind for a little while... it's pretty filthy (and might just be my kinkiest work to date, though this chapter is relatively tame), so heed the content warnings! Remember: Don't like, don't read 😎 This was inspired by Skadi_Gemini's deliciously devilish fic The Yautja's Breeding Mate over on AO3 😉😏 That's another Yautja fanfic that's pretty raunchy, so while I recommend it (🥵), please mind its tags as well!!
I think this fic will be three parts, maybe only two if I shove what I wanna shove into the second half 🤔 But it's pretty extensive, and more descriptive than my usual writing style, so I guess we'll see 🤷♀️
enjoy!! 😈
summary: You are given a new objective in life.
word count: 5,082
content: 18+, NSFT, fem!afab!reader, (F/Mx10), reverse harem, plus size reader, blood and gore, violence, kidnapping, medical experiments, drugging, nonconsensual touching, horny Yautja like they are so unbelievably down bad, mention of an erection
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You stumble across a grisly scene: The burly, snarling monster that had taken out your team holds aloft a human skull, its spine dangling from it. The ivory of bone peeks through sinew and pink mess, blood glistens in the light of the sun and rolls down the beast's arm in crimson rivets. Discarded, the remainder of the soldier's body lays a mutilated mess of flesh and torn fabric. You can't recognize him— too horrified to think— though even if you had, his name would've escaped you.
Weyland-Yutani hired you as a botanist. You were not prepared for the field nor did you share comradery with the rest of the troop. No— You were hired to sit quietly, study plants, and tell everyone which pretty flower was safe to eat and which would paralyze their throat muscles until they choked on their own saliva.
Not this.
A strangled cry escapes your mouth, and you regret it immediately. The beast's head whips around to face you, his beady eyes like a pair of inky gimlets. You've never seen a face like his before: Four mandibles pointed with tusks, a fanged inner mouth, a large, sloped skull. The pattern on his head reminds you of a diamondback rattlesnake. He makes a strange clicking noise— It's a cold shock to realize you've heard it before; consistently, in the jungle when the others had still been alive— and slowly, so slowly, he lowers the head of your compatriot until it drops to the grass.
His stare never leaves you. His face is terrifying.
You make to run, which you immediately know is a mistake. This creature hunted you all, stalked and killed until the weakest of the pack was left. Maybe he liked the challenge, you think bitterly to yourself, and I'm the easy break.
In two steps, he's lunged at you with another horrific roar. Two steps is all it takes until he has a grip on your neck. You gag, hands flying to the wrist that holds you aloft inches above the ground. The creature is snarling once again and lifts you higher, right until you're face-level with him. His four razor-sharp tusks gnash too close to your face, his breath is hot on your skin. Tears blur your vision. I'm going to die.
Desperate for air and survival, you claw and yank at his wrist. Of course, your feeble attempts do nothing if only to make him angrier with you. He tightens his hold, clawed fingertips digging into your skin, piercing the soft dermis. You cry out, fully sobbing, struggling in his hold. Your neck is on fire, and you can feel hot trails of blood crawl down to your collarbones.
"Please." You weep, hating how you sound so pathetic, but not knowing what else to do. The beast snarls and clicks— Clearly saying something, but you don't speak his tongue. He shakes his head, grunting, and with his free hand adheres his odd, burnished silver mask to his face. It somewhat lessens your fear, but a new bolt of it courses through you when the eye pieces flash bright red. A scanner whirs to life, the green laser sweeping down your body head to toe. It makes you shift uncomfortably when the light hovers above your midsection for just a bit too long.
The scanner shuts down with a small noise, and the eye pieces of the beast's mask flicker off. He grunts, flicking his wrist to open a panel on his blood stained gauntlet. After a few beats, his tone seems to shift, and his choking hold on you loosens to a degree you can gulp down air with. Suddenly, his demeanor seems... contemplative, like all his fury has simmered down to allow for a more analytical approach to this situation. Your heart thuds painfully in your chest, lungs still burning from the lack of air and head swimming from fear. Considering the ache of your wounds, perhaps from blood loss as well.
The next time the creature speaks, his voice is nearly room-level, almost congenial, like he's talking to a close companion. You wonder if the rolling clicks and whickers mean he's appraising your worth as another kill or even a meal. That last thought is a bit too much, even for you.
Though you don't wonder much else, as your world fades to black...
Waking up is a terrible surprise.
You are immediately struck with the throbbing in your neck, so powerful it pulses with your heartbeat. Imagining the bruises and scraps only makes you feel nauseous, so you try not to focus too hard on it. Groaning, you glide your hands down the... furs beneath you? It's an extraordinary effort to sit up— Your arms feel like jelly and your back is stiff— but you look down to see pelts of all colors, patterns, and textures. You finger some, marveling at how most are incredibly soft, their fibers long and slippery.
You also realize you are completely naked; stripped bare as the day you were born. Embarrassment heats your cheeks— as does an inkling of dread— but at least no one else, seemingly, is in the room with you. A small mercy.
The next thing you notice is the peculiar setting you've found yourself in. No longer do sterile, white walls cage you at every turn. Instead, you're in a room of buffed brass, dim orange lights, and an almost suffocating heat. The Weyland-Yutani ship was cold and its air thin, but the vessel you're aboard now is anything but. It's humid, so much so the ship has a layer of fog obscuring its floor! The mist licks at your knees when you swing your legs over the side of what must be a bed, your sweat sticking to you like a second skin. It gathers in all your dips and crevices, making you feel damp everywhere.
Just as you've gathered the courage (and strength) to stand, the wall in front of you opens: A sliding door. Twin panels part to reveal another one of the beasts, but this one clearly isn't the one that kidnapped you. He's taller, leaner, and his hide is dusky and fades to a soft pearl white on his front. His... hair? Whatever it is, exactly, is much longer too. You jump back onto the bed, scooting as far away as you can until your back presses against the wall. It's grooved and warm and entirely alien.
He merely glances your way, face hidden beneath the skull of an animal you can't identify, then turns away again. He's occupying himself with something in his hands, but he's too far away for you to see what it is. Though you're very reminded of the state you're in, clothes wise, you're too frozen with fear to move. All you can do is wait. And stare. And let your heart and mind race.
What are these things? Where am I? Why did they take me?
Confusion starts to meld with the fear, and your heart sinks into the pit in your stomach. You want to scream, but panicking in some louder, more frantic way just won't... happen.
The beast turns to you, that familiar clicking sound sending shivers down your spine. You tense as he paces over, wasting no time in getting directly in your face. His mask obscures his eyes, but when he tilts his head you can catch one's pearlescent sheen: Blind, at least in one eye. He makes those same rhythmic, purposeful whickers— More language, words you don't understand— and shows you what he'd been working on. You look down at his hand, briefly marveling at how large he is.
In his long, thick fingers he holds a strange metal vessel. In it is a pinkish liquid that shines green when the light hits it right. The beast grunts, shaking it impatiently, and you shakily take the cup from his hand. His fingertips brush your wrists, and he clicks lowly, seemingly tender. You can't help but flush.
Holding the cup a distance from your chest like its poison, a strange, sweet scent graces your nostrils. Whatever it is, the liquid smells wonderful, and it's almost enough for you to completely lower your guard and drink it. But you refrain. You don't know what it is, what it'll do, if it's safe for human consumption. Any good botanist also knows when something smells too sweet; that it's a bad sign.
The creature does not react well when you shake your head, gesturing for him to take the cup back. He snarls, strange hair whipping around his head as he raises an arm. You squeak, flinching, only to cry out louder when he grabs your jaw in one hand and the cup with the other. You don't even have time to protest before the metal is at your lips, and he forcibly pours the liquid down your throat. Like its smell, it's far too saccharine and it's thick, like an awful milkshake. You sputter, feeling it dribble down your chin, but the beast doesn't lose his hold. A few more gulps, and it's finished, and you gasp for air when you're finally freed.
"Bastard." You cough, trying to avoid acknowledging how a strange heat has begun to develop in your belly. Maybe it was poison, and the aliens only brought you aboard their ship to study you, dose you, then examine your lifeless husk. Fruitlessly, you wipe the remaining liquid from your face, leaving you feeling even more sticky. The dark-scaled creature makes a soft noise, almost a cooing sound crossed with a whistle, and nods his head. Apparently, he found your insult to be cute. It feels so condescending.
"What are you?" Your brain finally catches up with your racing heart, and you find enough courage to ask the question that had been swirling in your head. Talking also helps keep your mind off the warmth in your belly, which has stopped rising in intensity but remains consistent. In fact, the only place that doesn't feel warm is your neck, where you feel almost cool. It's weird, but the ache of the wounds has almost entirely disappeared, so you can't complain. You shift, tucking your feet beneath your butt. This makes the alien stare at your legs in a way that you can't describe. Thankfully, he tilts his head back up to you, whickering the first word you're somewhat able to discern:
"Yautja."
He hits a fist to his pale chest, thumping against the broad muscle and dark line of scales between his pecs. He also wears gauntlets, but they seem far less technical than the ones the other wore, as they seem to only be a black, leather-esque material bound with silver bands. When his hand falls, you watch with wide eyes as he places his massive paw down on the bed of furs, his fingertips inches away from your knee. You catch his gaze, but he merely lilts his large head to the side. There's a strange tension in the air. It feels like... he's testing you. Your boundaries, specifically, like he's experimenting with how far he can push before you pull away.
It's weird, but even if you could, you don't feel like running, not anymore. If these beasts were going to hurt you, they certainly would have done so already. You don't feel safe, nor do you trust him, but his mild consideration for how you feel is... nice.
"Yautja?" You try the word on your tongue, and your pronunciation must be somewhat acceptable, because the Yautja nods his head, then he purrs. Like a big cat, the familiar, tell-tale noise erupts from his body like an alarm, his chest vibrating with the sound. The pelts shift as he fully climbs onto them with you, the hand near your knee sliding closer and closer until he grabs it. Then he glides it just a bit up your leg. His palm is a hot, heavy weight on your thigh, and you shiver at how his long fingers flex against your flesh. The Yautja coos again, looking down to watch as your thigh fat squishes around his fingers.
The self-conscious woman inside you practically shrieks with horror. You'd always been a bigger girl, with thick thighs to match, and to have another basically play with the weight is mortifying. Your embarrassment triples when he slaps your flank, bouncing your leg with his fingers. The dusky male makes an appreciative noise.
"Stop that." You try, swatting at his hand, but the Yautja only seems emboldened. He growls, his grip returning to the side of your thigh where it latches on like a vice. His other hand does the same, closing down on your other leg. Despite your squeaks of protest, he tugs your legs out from under you and pushes your thighs apart. The burn of the sudden stretch has you gasping, but what chokes you is realizing your pussy is now on full display. Terror strikes you, but the Yautja doesn't seem interested in what's between your legs— At least, not yet. He only continues to feel up your legs, periodically squeezing your thighs and calves, clicking in low tones. Occasionally, he glides his palms up your flanks to grab and jiggle your love handles, which makes you hot with shame.
His touch is seemingly endless and excruciating. He has curious hands, and every so often makes that cooing noise, like he's exploring and finding things he likes. It makes the heat in your core worse, and you're suddenly aware of how sweaty you are. Everything is damp and hot, your hair sticks to the nape of your neck, and the cuts and bruises don't even register anymore. The Yautja's touch is like fire, but it feels pleasant; a little boyish and clumsy, but pleasant nonetheless. Your heart still beats wildly, but thankfully your breathing has evened out. You feel calm, maybe too calm. I'm losing it, you think, though the thought doesn't really bother you.
Salacious thoughts about this burly, masculine beast start to creep into your mind. You want his wandering hands to touch other places, and judging by how firm yet careful they are, you think you'd have a good time. It'd be the most action you've gotten since signing over to the Weyland-Yutani Corp; if not the most you'd ever got in your life.
Just when you think the beast is about to crawl between your legs for the main course— His kneading begins to focus very heavily on your hips, and his stare is squarely on your cunt— he pulls away. Just like that. You almost protest, but bite your tongue when you spot two looming figures past the Yautja's shoulders, filling the doorway.
The male practically between your legs parts from you, turning to speak to the two that entered. Their speech is too fast for you to even try and pick out singular words; the rolling clicks and chuff meld together in an oddly harmonic symphony of a language. The largest Yautja— who has a fucking cannon on his shoulder— seems to be leading the conversation, and his suave, commanding tone tells you he's definitely the leader. You gasp for air, not realizing you'd been holding your breath for so long, and the small noise catches their attention. Three pairs of eyes, hidden and not, lock in on you, and once again you're extremely aware of your nude, exposed... wet body.
Slowly, you shut your legs in a weak attempt to be decent, though those three pairs of eyes only follow the curve and arc of your legs with great curiosity. Your face burns.
The biggest Yautja looks you dead in the face, his own unmasked and fearsome. He has bizarrely pale eyes, a yellow lighter than buttermilk, which makes his beady, dark pupils stand out even more. He also has a strikingly monotonous gray color scheme— Very unlike the Yautja that was sitting pretty with you with his vivid, contrasting blacks and whites. This one is ghostly, almost pallid; like his mottled pattern has been sunbleached. The darker parts of him— The edges of his crested head, his deep-set eye sockets, his strange hair— are more a slate gray, and something about how weathered this Yautja is tells you he may also be an older one.
If his general appearance wasn't a suitable indicator, he's also adorned with far more ornaments than the other two. The one that forced that gross drink down your throat had his skull mask, silver bands around his locs, and whatnot; but the gray one has strings of beads, intricate carvings on his scant armor, even a necklace of tiny skulls. Your eyes dance across his far more complex outfitting, until you meet his steely gaze and shyly look away. He'd come closer, standing beside the Yautja you got frisky with, exchanging words with him. Whatever he says, the leader makes a pleased noise, kneeling to be more level with you. You glance over at him again, eyes sore from watching them through your periphery. After you brave it, low, reverberating clicks echo in his chest like a woodpecker on a tree.
A shadow passes your vision, and you flinch when you feel a presence by your face. His hand cups your head, large enough that from the base of his palm to the tips of his fingers your entire skull fits like a charm. The Yautja is steadily clicking, cooing in the same way the first one did, and gliding his thumb up and down your hot, semi-wet cheek. His long claws glint in the dim light, and you're so very aware of how close they are to all of your delicate bones and organs. But he is exceedingly careful, his touch featherlight. His eyes are appraising, and that tension has begun to thicken the air again. Your breath hitches on it, throat suddenly very dry. Like before, the Yautja pulls away prematurely, though not before running two knuckles down your cheek and jaw. He does so... reverently, like fondly petting a prized animal. It should make you feel objectified, even dehumanized, but the sheer approval borders on religious worship.
You aren't fully sure what your purpose is here for these Yautja, but you're beginning to have your guesses. It's, so far, a ship of all very, obviously male creatures, and you are decidedly very female. As a scientist (a botanist, but still), you are well aware of nature's methods of reproduction. The touching, the frankly lustful leering, the restless energy— It all points to one particular outcome. You look over to the door, where the third Yautja lingers.
Again, you are stricken by such an appearance, but at least the stark facial differences are starting to have less of an effect on you— Thank fuck. It would be a pain to be constantly on high alert, though you doubt you'll be fully chilling out anytime soon. The Yautja is... panting, or at least his dark brown shoulders rise and fall deeply. His mandibles flex and relax, and with each breath he takes his long, forked tongue scents the air. For as long as he stood there, you'd felt the prickle of his orange-eyed stare on your body— Though he is shamelessly staring down at your ass and nethers. You make the mistake of following the dark scales of his rusty red belly, eyes tracing the rolling muscles of his abs down and down until they lock in on the unmistakable bulge beneath his loincloth.
Jesus Christ. You can't look away. It should fill you with dread. It's just so big. You should start screaming, crying, begging— Act normal. But your reaction confounds you. There's no fear, no terror. Thoughts of how you've been treated thus far support the idea none of them would take advantage of you without consent. The Yautja may be brutish, frightening beasts, but you don't think they're monsters. Yet... your human sensibilities keep betraying you: What would a normal woman do in this situation? Certainly not what you find yourself doing next.
With speed you didn't know you had, you whirl around to the Yautja beside you, just before he pulls out of reach, and grab onto the crook of his elbow. His flint-gray skin is rough and thick. He jolts, as if startled you'd be so bold as to touch him, and you ignore how his beefy arm muscles flex beneath your hands in order to ask:
"Why me?"
It's somewhat embarrassing to hear your own voice sound so small, but at least you've met and held the leader's harsh yellow stare without flinching. The gray Yautja tilts his head back just slightly, his expression contemplative. He reaches for you, placing his rough-skinned palm on your cheek once more. At first he's quiet, merely brushing the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip and whickering in interest. You briefly wonder why your mouth is so fascinating, but on closer inspection realize that the Yautja have no lips. They are also so corded with muscle— completely toned, literally hard creatures— you also wonder if your relatively soft, fatty body is a complete marvel to them as well.
Just as you think he won't give you any answer, he does something fascinating:
"Mother."
The word is garbled and staticky, like being played through satellite radio with poor connection. His jaws and throat move when he says it, so you know it came from him, but it sounds... familiar, like you've heard that same voice say that same word the same way. It hits you: Mimicry. He's parroting the voice of your undoubtedly deceased captain; it's the same intonation she'd use whenever she'd talk to MU/TH/UR whenever accessing Weyland-Yutani files. Somehow, he'd heard her say it, which can only mean the Yautja were watching your ship and the crew for far longer than you'd thought. Again, you feel like you can't breathe. Did they kill them all to get to me?
Whatever the case, his utterance of that single word is more than enough confirmation of some of your previous theories. Many more questions swirl in your head, but you can't bring yourself to ask any of them. It's all so taboo, so scandalous, and yet... You don't feel afraid. Not of the implications, nor the consequences.
Stunned to silence, you let go of his arm; even if part of you wants to continue touching, just to feel his warm, strange scales.
What happens next only confounds you more.
All three Yautja exit the room in a strangely orderly fashion, the one you grabbed shouldering the one with… the issue below the belt, snarling. He gnashes his mandibles, the harsh clicking that erupts from his throat sounding like a series of choice words, even to your ignorant ears. Maybe even such a ferocious beast thought it was improper. The other Yautja merely takes the hit with a grunt, pivoting sharp on his heel and stomping out once the leader passes him. None of them cast you a second glance as they exit, nor do they when the doors hiss to close, the air trembling from the suction as it shuts.
Maybe it’s just you coming down from the adrenaline rush, but a wave of what you can only think is loneliness washes over your body. Your nerves are downright fried, and exhaustion threatens to pull you back to sleep, but the ache in your heart is something else. Even alien, their company and attention was the most you’d ever gotten at Weyland-Yutani, and you hadn’t realized how touch-starved you were until you’d received an abundance of it. Tears prick suddenly and hot at the backs of your eyes, and it feels like your heart is sinking into a low pit of despair. Crying was never something you liked to do, but the situation certainly calls for it— You're frazzled, tired, hurting, and alone. Vision blurring, you manage to crawl yourself under some of the pelts, nestling deep in the furs. You lay so that your back is pressed against the wall, the position giving you a clear view of the entire room. With the fur pulled up to your chin, the light, rhythmic thrums of the ship has you drifting off to sleep, and twin tears fall from your eyes as you close them.
You wake up again, this time groggy and unrested as opposed to disoriented and fearful. You’re also so incredibly sweaty, it feels like a practical joke. As you sit up, the pelt pulled over your body is like a weighted, heated blanket and the one below you sticks to your skin. You groan as you toss off the one on top, whinging as you shuffle to a less damp area of the bed. The ship looks the same around you— Orange lights still buzzing softly and heat just as potent— and nothing within the room has changed either. The metal cup from earlier is on an outcrop sticking from the wall nearest you, but the Yautja must have left it behind. As you strain your neck to peer over its rim, seeing nothing left in it, your body aches, remnants of sleep making you feel heavy. You don’t know if it’s day or night, or how long you’ve slept. It feels like it’s been hours, yet at the same time, mere minutes. Already, you aren’t liking how this environment will affect your circadian rhythm.
Regardless, you force yourself up and off the bed, this time allowing your feet to touch the ground. When you stand, the warm mist swirls around your knees, sometimes rolling up to brush your thighs. For once, you can appreciate being naked— If you had clothes, they’d almost certainly be wet to the touch. You glance at the door, taking in how the archway looks identical to the others spread across the room. Curious, you pad over to it, legs feeling like jelly and knees trembling, despite not performing any significant exertion in however long. Regardless, you make sure to take as light of steps as possible, a part of you still feeling as though you need to be quiet and meek. While the Yautja hadn’t shown any hostility to you, if wandering about the room changes that, you don’t want to fuck around and find out— What was done to the Weyland-Yutani crew still has you shivering.
Tentatively placing your hand on the doors, the strange bronze metal vibrates under your touch, thrumming almost organically like the sturdy walls. On closer inspection, there’s even a free-form, vein-like pattern on the translucent, thin windows that sit higher up. You aren’t tall enough to look out, definitely short by a head or two, but the glass is too filmy to see anything clearly. Your eyes scour the frame, admiring the intricate engravings, and your interest is piqued by a disruption in the pattern. It’s a thin rectangle, semi-depressed into the metal with multiple lights across its top edge. The one blinking is a tiny green one, but the rounded halves of the others tell you they’d be yellow or red. Your fingertips circle each one, then glide down to the center, which is strangely soft. The door swooshes open, and with a startled gasp, you smack your hand on the controls again. It slides shut immediately. At least you know you aren’t a prisoner, technically, though you doubt if you ventured out of the room you’d get very far.
Keeping that in mind, you turn and head over to the adjacent wall. It has the same archways, but instead of doors, there are what look like shelves within their arc. Nothing is on any of them, leading you to believe this room might truly be yours. Considering the bed, the empty spaces— And even compartments hidden in the walls, revealed when you press on them— it’s beginning to seem as though you are meant to fill the space with items of your own. Of course, none of your past possessions on the Weyland-Yutani ship are with you, nor do you think they were retrieved, but the sense of finality you get is… freeing.
You’re able to just start over, completely abandon any inkling of your old life in favor of the new. The Corp had been your first attempt, and your first regret. Leaving your colony ship for a stint with the company that owned it only meant Wey-Yu owned you on an even tighter leash. Now, with the Yautja, the path would be entirely unknown to you— Probably with a significant uptick in violence and blood— but it would be yours. Somehow, even after being kidnapped by these fearsome alien creatures, you can’t help but feel grateful. Your eyes trail back to your bed, and for the first time you notice it’s actually round in shape.
Like a designer futon, or more primitively; a nest. The furs you’d been sleeping on line the circular, raised structure and when you walk back over to investigate, it dips down ever so slightly towards the center. Each pelt is different, some more similar to the next, but all with textures and patterns you’ve never felt or seen before. You toy with the ones you’d been sleeping the most on, taking a bit longer to marvel at their velvety soft feel now that you aren’t indisposed with fear. A pleased hum passes your lips as you murmur, “I’d like more of these ones for sure.”
Behind you, the door opens again, but this time you’re too engrossed with the exotic pelts on your bed to really mind. You feel a stare on your back, but it doesn’t frighten you when you know who it may belong to. Footsteps draw closer until there is the heat of a figure behind you, and you expect to see one of the Yautja you’ve been closely acquainted with when you turn and—
Your heart stops.
The Yautja that looms over you is the one from the forest, the one that choked you. His eyes are just as dark, and under the low lights are swallowed in the shadows of his heavy brow. He seems upset, his whole broad body tense, like he’s a wolf with his hackles raised. Mouth dry, you warily eye the diamond-esque pattern on his head, and suddenly he’s not a wolf: He’s a snake.
Even though they hadn’t hurt in a while, the cuts on your neck sting.
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