Title: An Act of Rebellion
Rating: Explicit
Fandom: Predator: Killer of Killers
Ship: Warlord Predator/Grendel King (Male Yautja) x AFAB!Reader
Warnings: Non/Dubcon, captivity, canon typical violence
Author Note: This is the first third of this fic. The whole work can be read on AO3!
Summary: You are one of the few chosen by the Yautja to fight for their entertainment. Before you are taken to the arena, however, you catch the attention of the Warlord. Fighting back seems like a good idea at first - until he effortlessly turns the tables and demonstrates his power and control over you.
You spit onto the floor, releasing a mixture of saliva and old blood from your aching mouth. Your head throbs as if it had been slammed repeatedly against the metal wall of the room, even though you only fell out of the capsule holding you. A dull pain radiates from your hip, knee, and left hand—the parts of your body that broke your fall.
Who comes up with such nonsense as a floating cryo capsule?!
Dizziness makes the entire room dance and spin around you, causing deep, oppressive nausea. You have to muster all your willpower not to vomit on the cold floor beneath you.
"Fuck..." Blinking against the dizziness helps, if only a little. Don't throw up. Luckily, after a few seconds, your vision slowly becomes clearer. And your throat stops itching, mouth stops producing extra saliva.
Your weak knees can barely hold the weight of your own body. Cold muscles scream in silent agony, trembling and shaking as they threaten to give way. The cryo capsule you're pulling yourself up on is technology your foggy brain doesn't quite recognize. It's certainly not a Weyland-Yutani pod. Its rough, angular design is made for beings larger than humans. It's alien technology, an alien ship.
What's the last thing you remember?
It takes a moment for your brain to search for memories. The fog is thick, hiding what brought you to this creepy room lit only by narrow red lamps on the walls. The floor is cold. You hear the roar of an engine that doesn't belong to one of the company's large haulers. The vibrations in the material of this ship are more penetrating, reaching into your bones. Weyland-Yutani ships sound different. They sound hollow and somehow... cheaper. Their ships sound like cost-cutting measures and a willingness to lose entire crews if it means saving a little money.
This is not a human ship. Its high-quality engine emits a deep growl that resonates in your chest like a steady purr. A purring monster made of metal, on its way to who-knows-where.
You gasp for air as your brain finally locates the missing memory in the darkness. The Karattera. The strange cargo the company wanted to be transported to one of the research facilities back home. The crash on Vokila-2. And the black creatures that wreaked havoc. As this tidal wave of memories washes over you, accompanied by the lingering smell of blood, a trembling sob escapes you.
It's a sound as unstoppable as it is desperate. There are no tears, just the realization that the entire crew of the Karattera is dead. Just like the mining company team on the planet. You remember killing three of those black, fast beasts with long skulls using the Vokila-2 station's trash compactor. You heard the sound of bones breaking, of monsters screaming out in agony, of acid eating through metal - and then you sensed movement behind you, followed by a click and a growl.
And then? Nothing. Only the floating emptiness remains, waking up in the cryo capsule with the stale taste of blood in your mouth.
With trembling hands, you touch the back of your head, where there should be a wound because you were knocked down - or were you? It's the obvious conclusion to the blackout, to the lack of memories, but there's nothing there. Just a small bump that is hardly worth mentioning. The unanswered questions pile up in your stomach like a bunch of needles. What the hell is going on here?!
The door opens with a hiss. Every muscle in your body tenses in panic when you see the huge figure in the hallway. Ah, fuck.
It's a Yautja.
Rumors about these warriors - as fearless as they are brutal - have spread to the farthest corners of the company's colonies. People whisper on the freighters that these massive warriors are monsters who kill without mercy, whether with blades, plasma cannons, or their bare hands. They hunt for fun, pleasure, and the thrill of success. If that's true, then you're either a trophy or their afternoon entertainment. Double fuck.
The Yautja makes harsh growling noises - it's a command, that much is clear. Given the situation, move your ass is the only logical conclusion. He's coming to get you. But why? And to where?
With your legs trembling from the long, cold sleep, you stagger toward the door, trying not to appear threatening. Supposedly, the Yautja don't attack defenseless people: They don't attack the unarmed, the sick, children, or pregnant women. Hopefully, there's some truth to these rumors because you don't want to end up on the wrong end of that huge spear he's holding.
Nevertheless, your pride demands that you lift your chin and walk as upright as possible. You make smooth movements despite the jelly knees. Don't appear threatening, but don't appear easy prey either. This phrase echoes in your brain over and over again like a mantra or a prayer to reason. The chance of survival is probably slim, but not zero. If it happens, it happens. At least take one of these bastards with you.
This attitude was helpful when the black alien beasts overran the Karattera and Vokila-2. It kept you alive and gave you the courage to fight back. Maybe it'll save your out of luck ass again.
The spaceship's corridor is long and empty. Several doors lead to other rooms, but they are locked, and you can't peek inside any of them. A rough, deep rumbling sounds from somewhere. It's an animalistic roar that echoes off the ship's walls until it becomes a distorted sound of rage. Your heart skips a beat in despair.
Getting out of here alive is going to be difficult.
Suddenly, the Yautja grabs you with an incredibly strong grip. Before you can dodge his hand, the cold of the walls and floor wraps around your neck. There's a click, and something heavy hangs around your neck, pulling you slightly down. The weight and the realization what it is sends hot rage shooting through your head.
A fucking collar!
"Hey, what?!" Your angry hiss is drowned out by the mocking growls and clicks of your opponent, who seems to be thoroughly enjoying your expression of stupor. Trembling, weak human fingers pull at the metal holding your neck like an iron grip of death. But the collar won't come off; it just rubs uncomfortably against your sensitive skin. With a fiery gaze, you look up at the Yautja, nodding slightly and twitching your shoulder in a demanding manner. "What is this? What's going on here?! Am I your prisoner?"
The collar is beeping almost audibly, making you increasingly aggressive. Like a fucking time bomb around the neck.
The Yautja raises and lowers his chest with a deep, flat growl and lets out a snort. Mocking and amused. Then, he pushes you toward the end of the corridor to get you moving. Apparently, there's a schedule here because he pushes you again, urging you to pick up the pace.
The corridor itself is long with a floor of metal grates that echo your footsteps. It leads to another corridor, then another, and finally, a last one that is significantly wider and shorter than the rest. This cursed ship is a labyrinth and must be enormous. How are you supposed to get out of here? Hide in a ventilation shaft if you can escape at all. And then what? Steal a rescue pod and drift off into nothingness? Honestly, the options don't look good.
"C'jit, this one's particularly unimpressive." Another Yautja approaches you and your guide. He's armed with a long spear as well, though he has a much more relaxed demeanor than the guy who's been pushing you around. The loud hissing of a door at the other end of the hallway drowns out the words whispered into your ear by the collar. It's a translation of the warriors' language. Granted, it's useful that this thing around your neck acts as a translator, though that's definitely not its main function. It's probably more like... a shock collar. Or a real bomb. Oh god, please don't let it be a bomb.
The hissing of the double doors announces the arrival of more inhabitants of this ship. Heavy footsteps thunder on the grated floor, sending vibrations through your whole body until the inside of your ears starts to hurt. And the closer the footsteps come, the faster your heart beats.
Three. Two guards and a monster that can only be described as such emerge from the gloom of the dimly lit corridor. The two guards stop and lower their heads as the third emerges from the dimly lit corridor.
Oh man... The newly arrived Yautja is massive. The chances of making it out alive are closing in on zero.
His stature easily surpasses that of the others of his kind, and his cloak of bones and spines makes him look even bigger, more powerful, and more terrifying. The vertebrae protruding from his shoulders and upper back are a stark, ominous warning not to mess with this specimen, a warning reinforced when the other two Yautja take a subtle step back as he glances at them.
The urge to look away is so strong that your neck muscles tense up. However, looking away now would be a sign of weakness, and weakness is something you can't afford right now. These people crush the weak like bugs between their giant hands, amused by emotions like fear and terror. And yes, of course you're afraid. It would be stupid not to be. A few deep breaths, though, allow you to think somewhat logically. You clench that fear into a tight little knot below your diaphragm and think back to the mantra:
If it happens, it happens. At least take one of those bastards with you.
So, you straighten your back, pull your shoulders back, and stare stubbornly ahead.
Ikemen sengoku warlords realising that you are the one
Mitsunari Ishida :
He realises when he sees you so patiently waiting for him in his room.
You've always looked out for him even before you two became lovers and now that you were with him, things couldn't get any better.
He's overjoyed to have someone like you by his side.
Thise sweet kisses, your hands playing with his hair and you pulling the covers on top of him when he shuffles in his sleep.
But most importantly, when you cook for him.
He often forgets his meals, so he's eternally grateful that you remind him to eat with you.
How much he loves these little things you do <333
Kennyo :
He doesn't think he deserves you.
And even with much persuasion you cannot get this man to melt.
There will always be a part of the monk which will be insecure about the relationship but the bigger and wider part of him knows that he loves you unlike any other.
The fact that you would never want to leave his side makes him realise that the heavens had sent you to him.
Yes it was selfish, selfish of a devil like him to want an angel like you, but must this once he wanted to be unfair.
He wanted you.
He needed you.
Oh how desperately he loved you.
Shingen Takeda :
He had thoughts.
A lot of them really.
When he saw you he thought he could just play you like all the others out there and let you be.
But boy, was he wrong.
You come into his life brightening up everything with your adorable smile and cute little antics.
Shingen swears on his life to protect and be with you forever.
Oh he wasn't going to let you escape from his arms.
Hideyoshi Toyotomi :
He had had been with women before.
And it was very short termed for he had a Lord to serve.
There was no way he would fall for you, you were his sister *Cue Hideyoshi tripping on your beauty* oh he fell in love...
He realises this during the time you console him when Nobunaga was taken away.
There weren't always people around to comfort him, give him a reassuring hug... Let alone ask how he was.
You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him on the lips when he says that he's going to marry you right away once Nobunaga is found.
Title: An Act of Revenge
Rating: Explicit
Fandom: Predator: Killer of Killers
Ship: Warlord Predator/Grendel King (Male Yautja) x AFAB!Reader
Word Count: 7,4k
Warnings: Dubcon, canon typical violence, knifeplay
>> Warlord series Part 01
Author Note: This is the first part of this fic. The whole work is up on AO3! :)
The Hkr'Rcho is an enormous ship. It's so big that it's easy to get lost in its many corridors, especially if you can't read the Yautja language signs. If someone were to get stuck on a clan ship like the Hkr'Rcho without knowing the language or culture of this species, they'd be in serious trouble. Well, sucks to be you!
Your karma must be pretty bad considering how the last six months have gone.
You're lying on your back, staring at the ceiling, bopping one foot up and down, which is resting on your bent knee. As always, the constant hum of the ship's engines and the omnipresent heat on board this ship almost lull you into a light sleep. Humidity also creeps into every corner of the Hkr'Rcho, even the Warlord's quarters. As you quickly learned, he's the leader of an entire clan of warriors.
And you? You're the pet.
The exploding collar has been replaced by an invisible leash that is more effective than anything else – there's no way off this ship. Even if you manage to sneak out of your lord and master's quarters unnoticed, the route to the shuttle bay is lined with Yautja warriors who recognise you and know who you belong to. You've been caught and brought back more than once, locked in his quarters and left to stew like a roast.
The imposing Warchief isn't stupid. He knows he can punish you physically — and he does so occasionally — but the boredom and waiting are far worse. Being confined to his quarters with nothing but the sound of the engine and the occasional passing of a new solar system for days on end is enough to drive a person crazy. It's like solitary confinement when he decides to punish you for misbehaving. Even your food is hurriedly thrown into the room before the door is locked again.
He's not stupid. He quickly figured out how to make you furious, how to make you behave.
Although being the Warlord's pet has its advantages, it's also a double-edged sword.
Hey, on the one hand, you are well fed and clothed, and truly safe from the horrors of space.
The Yautja's diet mainly consists of meat, often even raw or severely undercooked, but they make sure you get exotic fruits and vegetables. In your position as the leader's favourite, they ensure you are fit for your rank. Considering that you have to endure the chief's needs, you need to be well fed. Being mounted by a 350 kg alien warrior is as dangerous as an extreme sport, if not more so.
And you are dressed in high-quality Yautja clothing. The revealing attire definitely shows off your body – you may not have an eight-pack, but the hearty food means the skimpy clothing fits. Not that it would be of much use when the Warlord returns from a hunt or a successful arena tournament. The fabric is no match for his claws and the hunger of the highly decorated warrior from Yautja Prime.
On this ship and in this ongoing situation, it's truly a case of give and take: you've never lived in such luxury before. As a Weyland-Yutani employee, you were paid a meagre wage, given tiny food rations and your life was worth less than the cargo you transported. Under Weyland-Yutani, there were no richly decorated clothes resembling Yautja scales and no sweet, juicy fruit to make your mouth water.
All you have to do is serve the Warlord. You're his pet, his toy and his concubine. You are both his slave and his mate. His scent clings to you, signalling to every other Yautja on this ship that you are out of bounds. Bowing down to the muscle-bound warrior is the price you pay for living in luxury. Should you dare to rebel against him, he will be only too happy to show you who's boss. He has grabbed and taken you by force more than once, but you would be lying if you said you didn't get a strangely erotic kick out of it. Sometimes you act a little more rebellious than you really are because that's what gets him going.
But no matter how you look at it, you share your bed with a brutal killing machine. Truth be told, you don't really like him. This isn't romance; it's a state of affairs. In this tactical game, you're not an equal opponent, but an object: a pet monkey dancing for the Warlord to laugh at. He can throw you across the room and onto the bed with one hand while he loosens his belt with the other. He knows you watch him every time he takes off his armour. He knows you want him.
His bed, a collection of furs — also trophies — is soft and inviting; huge, it beckons you to rest and laze around. Most of the time, you lie bored on this nest of trophies, covered in the Warlord's and your own scent, and the memory of all the times he bent you over and brutally took what he wanted. It's always associated with pain in some way, but when you think about it, you feel a hot tingling sensation running up the inside of your thighs. It's not just bad.
One thing you quickly learn on a Yautja clan ship is that violent sex is normal for these warriors. It's not at all uncommon for them to fight in the corridors and then have sex, sinking into each other with claws and tusks amid blood and bodily fluids. Sex isn't considered good unless there are open wounds or broken bones, and the females often put up a fierce fight. If you take these fights as a yardstick, you're actually being treated relatively gently - this is probably because you break more easily than a Yautja warrior. Don't wanna break the new toy, right?
While you're brooding in frustration and thinking that you could escape through the air vents again if necessary, you hear heavy footsteps approaching. From far away, you can hear battle cries growing louder and echoing through the ship like a dark choir. Great — the hunting party is back. That means the annoying part of this situation is about to begin.
No matter what one might think about the Yautja, a successful hunt is always celebrated extensively. Contrary to all expectations, these people definitely know how to party: they drink sour, high-proof wine and dine as befits great warriors. There are fights, songs and more fights. A good Yautja party doesn't end until someone is seriously injured. Not that you'd ever be invited to something like that, though.
The door opens and, from the thunderous footsteps in the hallway, you already knew 30 seconds ago that your owner was returning to his quarters. The Warlord is as impressive as ever, though now he's covered with blood and has several fresh wounds on his upper body and arm. As the door hisses shut behind him, he doesn't even glance at you. Instead, he places his bone axe among the many other trophies adorning the room.
It's a game. A test. Another way to humiliate you.
He doesn't deign to greet or even acknowledge you when he returns to his quarters from a hunt. You never take your gaze off his body, out of pure caution, and he knows it. This makes him even more eager to put on a show, carefully placing new hunting trophies on the wall or in a corner. He takes his time, occasionally making quiet growling and clicking noises as though humming to himself in a relaxed manner. Meanwhile, you're tense, like nervous prey waiting to be pounced on by a predator.
Next, he takes off his heavy bone coat. This trophy, consisting of xenomorph skeletons, is ridiculously heavy. You could only lift it on your own if you put all your strength into it. He, on the other hand, moves smoothly and gracefully, even with this imposing adornment. He moves his massive body with a robust elegance that lulls you into a false sense of security all too often. Good-looking, is the word that forms in your brain when you look at him.
His muscles glisten in the soft light of the room, making you clench your teeth in anger. You're only too happy to convince yourself that this is pure survival instinct. This physical attraction to the Warlord is your brain's desperate attempt to twist this terrible, traumatic situation into something bearable so that you suffer as little long-term damage as possible. Of course, there are often cases where hostages are attracted to their captors. This is obviously just another such case. Or ist it?
Title: An Act of Respect
Rating: Explicit
Fandom: Predator: Killer of Killers
Ship: Warlord Predator/Grendel King (Male Yautja) x AFAB!Reader
Warnings: Canon typical violence, blood & injury, angst
Author Note: This is part 03 of my Warlord series! The full fic is (as always) available on AO3!
Summary: Time has twisted your rocky relationship with the Warlord into something very intimate, very strange; from prisoner to plaything to something that has no name. Your world has become a balancing act between reality and wishful thinking — until one bloody night turns everything upside down.
When travelling in a spaceship, there's no day or night. Time warps like a planet that meets an unfortunate end in a black hole; days become months, which become seconds, which become mere moments. If you listen closely, and if you're not working shifts in the belly of the ship or on the bridge, but instead are alone with emptiness and boredom, then you can hear yourself slowly but surely going mad.
You turn onto your side. Soft fur tickles your nose, and the scent of sleep and tired bodies surrounds you in this non-night, in these hours designated for rest.
At this point, you even miss the nights in the colony. Being on a planet gives you a certain rhythm that you miss so much in open space. Even a Weyland-Yutani barracks can feel like paradise when days are no longer days. A worn-out cot or even the floor can seem beautiful when you can feel day and night merging into one another. On the freighters, you worked according to Earth time or the time of the colony you had just left. It didn't matter, as long as it was something to cling to. Time is a spider's web that anchors you in reality. Without it, you're little more than space junk, drifting through the void.
Free fall in zero gravity.
With a snort, you roll from one side to the other. You've been rolling back and forth for hours, like meat on a spit over a grill. No position is comfortable enough and no thought is pleasant enough to lull you to sleep. Everything is dull and has been overthought a thousand times before, every possibility weighed up dozens of times. Boredom has eaten its way into the folds of your brain like a woodworm, leaving behind a yawning void that can only be filled with discontent. Who would have thought that boredom could be so annoying?
No, seriously, you'd kill for a datapad with a book, or even just old archive entries on it!
Though it's probably this mental wasteland that drives the Yautja to train and fight so intensely. They pass the time through training, bloodshed and the quest to become the best hunter. They have to keep themselves busy somehow.
Getting up and looking for something to do isn't an option either. You still share your bed with the Yautja who claimed you as his property about a year ago. Has it really been a year already? It feels more like a month. Or ten years. Time is strange; it often exists in two places at once, yet it's merely a vague framework to which simple beings such as humans and Yautja cling.
The Warlord takes up most of the fur-covered bed; you have to snuggle up to him to lie reasonably comfortably. At first, this took some getting used to, but now it's everyday life. His body is an anchor and an obstacle, and it's dearly missed when he's out hunting again. When you sleep alone in this nest of trophies, the bed feels enormous and empty – a thought you never would have expected to have. It's so strange to long for the person who kidnapped you and is holding you captive. Is this perhaps the final form of Stockholm syndrome? Yearning for him when he's not here?
Absent-mindedly, your hand strokes the arm beneath you, the one that is holding you in a semi-firm embrace. Gentle fingertips trace the scales on the thick, leathery skin up to the biceps, which feel hard and firm even when relaxed. It would probably be easier if the Warlord wasn't so attractive; unfortunately, however, there's no denying that you're physically attracted to him. Emotionally speaking, the whole thing is pretty neutral territory. Love is not something that really happens here on the Hkr'Rcho.
The fighting and fleeing never stopped. Since you first lured him into a trap and took what you wanted, there have been several similar incidents. As with so many things before, it has become a game of hunter and hunted. Predator and prey. Whoever can force the other into a hopeless situation wins and to the victor go the spoils. He often has the upper hand, but you've also managed to leave him with a scar or two. Raw power is pitted against adaptability and speed: Yautja against human. Broken bones and open wounds are all part of the game, as are the sweet nectar of victory and the almost ridiculous satisfaction of winning. Every orgasm is a thousand times better when it's earned by blood.
It's crazy how much fun it is, as well as it's incredible how quickly you began to feel as a part of this ship, this clan. The boundaries between human and Yautja identity become increasingly blurred. Being part of the whole makes the loneliness less painful.
Your nails lightly scratch his thick skin and he sighs in his sleep.
The Warlord himself is in a category of his own when it comes to contrasts and oddities. He's like the sour wine that the Yautja love to drink: it tastes strong and bitter, but it gets you oh so wonderfully drunk! He's the chain that binds you to this ship; yet he's also the hot metal that stokes your desire and creates something beyond logic and common sense. He pushes you to indulge in whatever lurks in your own shadow, and you love it.
He mumbles something in his sleep – or is that a growl? Hard to say. Then he moves slightly. You can vaguely make out a few words in Yautja beneath the deep rumbling of his chest, but even the best linguists would struggle to distinguish between mocking growls and clicks and an accented Yautja word. Is he dreaming? Are these warriors dreaming of successful hunts? Well, you are. You dream of the moment the great warrior falls into your increasingly creative traps, when he's all yours to play with. They are good dreams, hot dreams, full of lust and satisfaction.
Your gentle movements on his arm don't stop. He's somewhere between deep sleep and being slightly awake, exhausted from leading this clan and enjoying a well-deserved break.
This semi-awake state of your jailer and lover brings you peace. The soft, human hand continues to gently caress the inside of his wrist, which is otherwise covered by the wrist gauntlet. Interestingly, the skin there is soft and sensitive, receptive to the tenderness that keeps the giant warrior in this twilight state. Even these monstrous and terrifying creatures have weak spots and vulnerabilities. The Warlord has few weaknesses and you know them all by now.
And what an interesting discovery this one was: A tired Yautja is a tame Yautja.
If you manage to wear one out, they seem to regress into the reptiles from which they probably descended. Their deadly claws and warm muscles then search for a source of warmth to cling to - a safe place to rest and restore their energy reserves through deep sleep.
Yautja sleep in short phases; they usually rest for no more than 3–4 hours at a time so that they can be fully active for around 30 hours. However, every few days - more or less a week on Earth - this short sleep rhythm is replaced by a long, deep sleep phase, which enables them to function with so little sleep in everyday life. This deep sleep lasts between 16 and 24 hours, during which their senses are duller than usual, making them vulnerable to attack. Therefore, they first look for a safe place to sleep.
Only the stars know whether the Warlord feels safe with you, but it's probably also the case that he sleeps peacefully because you are physically inferior to him. Either way, the huge, warm body next to you gives you a completely new feeling of security: When you work on a freighter, there's no security, either from the W-Y company or your own crew. Short-distance freighters have motley crews, many of whom have dark pasts and even darker desires. You have to sleep with one eye open; otherwise, you could quickly find yourself with a knife in your back or a stranger in your bed.
It's different here on the Hkr'Rcho. Although this Yautja is the opposite of a guardian angel, nothing can happen to you while he's sleeping next to you. Your status as his favourite pet gives you immunity among the crew. You're absolutely safe when he's around - because you give him something that only you can give him. This secures your special status at his side: You're his toy and he's yours. You live and breathe together, sleep in harmony and fight like old friends, enemies and lovers. His rough manner is an unchangeable part of him, just as your bitterness is an unchangeable part of you.
A tired Yautja is a tame Yautja, and a tame Yautja is a gentle Yautja.
The growl in his chest has become a deep, vibrating purr as your fingers continue to gently stroke the skin on his wrist. It's a weak spot, exposed to you like a wound. He smells like sweat and something earthy, mixed with that sweet, irresistible undertone. You know what you want and you're going to get it. He moves and turns onto his side; chest muscles press against your back, and you make a satisfied sound somwhere in your upper body. Hard muscles, warm flesh. Wonderful.
Your free hand pulls the Warlord's other arm around you, engulfing you in his firm embrace. And when you push your pelvis back towards him, a soft sound rumbles in his chest, breaking through the fog that still surrounds his mind.
Yes, you're going to get what you want.
