#honeybeegashii.brainrot

[honeybeegashii]

Feral Devotion

⋆˚꩜｡Note: My first time posting something like this. But this fandom needs more Yautja x reader content. Please bear with me as I improve more in the future

Summary: Used as bait for the Elder Hunters. Instead of the intended hunters, you caught a different hunter interest. Despite not understanding each other, the warrior became fiercely protective.

You don’t remember being taken. Not exactly.

Just the after.

Heat like breathing inside a furnace. Metal walls and no windows. A hiss of hydraulics and something moving just out of sight. Bigger than anything on Earth. The air here tastes wrong. Heavy. Wet with ozone and blood.

Your wrists still ache from the way they strung you up, bait on a hook for something ancient and cruel. Tech-slick cuffs, research collars, chemical fog burned into your skin. You were never meant to survive. Just scream loud enough to lure something out of the trees.

Pheromones, they said. You’re appealing. Not because you’re beautiful—but because you’re biologically interesting. Like a scent that sets off alarms in a predator’s skull. You’re the kind of soft that makes instincts break down and violence feel holy.

But it wasn’t the elder hunters that found you.

It was him.

Didn’t expect the Young Blood who found you first. Young, yes. Raw, yes. But deadly. Already decorated in the blood of creatures older and meaner than he had any right surviving.

You remember the scream of something dying. Not yours.

You remember the drip of blood onto the metal floor, the snarl he made when he sliced you down from where you hung.

He didn’t kill you. He should’ve.

But instead, he touched your hair. Strange and clumsy. Just the very tips of his claws. He watched you the way humans watch lightning, awe and danger, like getting too close might kill him. And then, he took you.

Scooped you up in those terrifying arms like you were a prize. A trophy. A thing to be carried off and hidden in the dark corners of a starship.

You were unconscious most of the journey. The air too thin. The gravity too heavy. But sometimes you woke up long enough to see him, kneeling beside you like a shadow, fingers twitching near your face. Like he wanted to touch. Like he didn’t know how.

He doesn’t speak your language. But you feel what he means when he looks at you.

He wraps you in fabric stripped from his own gear. Tucks you into the warm belly of the ship like you’re an egg he means to hatch. He growls at the others who come too close, real warriors, Blooded ones. They snarl back, laughing, until he nearly kills one of them. Over you.

They think he’s gone feral. You think maybe he has too.

He shouldn’t have touched you. Should’ve left you strung up like a carcass. Should’ve let the others take the kill.

But he didn’t. He claimed you.

And now you live in the eye of a hurricane made of muscle and blood and devotion that doesn’t make any sense. Now you sleep on the pelt of some slain beast in the belly of his quarters, under the eye of a warrior who’s too young to know better and too wild to care.

You were bait. Meant to be hunted. But he got to you first.

And gods help you—he won’t let you go.

Next Part

[honeybeegashii]

Feral Devotion 2

⋆˚꩜｡Note: Thank you guys so much for the support for the first part! It was heartwarming to see all the likes, reblogs, and comments. I quickly cooked this one up, shout-out to my boyfriend for being my beta reader.

Summary: A dangerous hunter is drawn to your fragility and quiet nature, seeing you as something precious and divine. Despite the vast differences in your cultures and the Yautja's violent instincts, he treats you with care

He’s not supposed to want you.

Not like that. Not like this.

You’re quiet where they roar. You flinch from the kind of touch that means affection to them—too close to violence, too hot, too heavy. You’re human. You’re wrong.

And still, he watches you like you hung the moons. Like there’s something divine etched in the fragile lines of your body, something sacred about the way you curl in on yourself instead of baring your teeth. You learned early what he is—a hunter bred for war, death, and blood under his claws.

You’ve seen what he does to the things he wants to keep. How rough their courtship is. How bloody. But when he touches you. He’s careful.

Too big for your world. Too dangerous to breathe the same air as you. And yet, he steps soft when he enters the space you call home (a cage, a cell, a corner of a ship lit by humming low-tech lights because their stars are too bright, their walls too raw).

He brings you things.

Not flowers. Not chocolates. No, he’s not stupid. He brings you kills. The skull of a serpent-beast. A feathered claw from a world that burns too hot for your lungs. Trophies, cleaned with his own hands. Left at your door. He leaves them like a stray cat with a bleeding mouse, proud and anxious, waiting for praise. You told him once, voice shaking. “I’m not like your women...”

And he growled. Not in anger. Not in threat. But something low, something that made your stomach twist, your spine press against the cold metal behind you. Like the idea excited him. He tilted his head. Clicked low in his throat. Moved closer. Towered.

“No,” he rasped, his translator lagging half a breath behind the guttural music of his voice. “You are mine.” You're not ideal. Not Blooded. Not even worthy by their standards.

But his. And maybe that’s worse. Because it means he wants you. Means you’ve been marked by a creature whose love looks like possession, whose tenderness comes with claws that can cut you open if you flinch too fast.

You don’t even know how it started. The way he began inserting himself between you and anything that moved too fast. The way he tracked your scent was like it was a command, not a curiosity. The way his eyes followed your throat when you swallowed, was slow and fragile and breakable.

Sometimes you think he doesn’t even want to breed you. That the idea of touching you would be too much, like holding a moth in a closed fist, terrified of the ruin. Other times, you wake up with his shadow looming in your doorway, watching you sleep like he’s debating it.

Like he wants it. Not the act, but the claiming.

And what do you do when something like that wants you? When something that could tear your spine from your body with a flick of his wrist chooses to kneel instead? You let him bring his trophies. You let him watch. You start dreaming about what those claws might feel like pressed just right. And slowly, slowly, you start to wonder—not if he’ll claim you, but when.

He doesn’t understand why you flinch when he calls you mine.

Doesn’t get why your voice rises when you say, “I’m not a thing,” or why your hands tremble after you push him away. Soft, but still rejection.

Because where he’s from, possession is not cruelty. It’s protection.

It’s a promise. It’s a claim burned brighter than blood and louder than any vow.

In his culture, nothing is more sacred than what you keep. Trophies are not just reminders of conquest, they are proof of survival. The victory, and the value.

And you? You’re his most precious kill-not-kill.

He didn’t mount your skull on a wall. He didn’t skin you and hang your pelt next to his Xenomorph marks. Instead, he keeps you fed and clothed you. He stood between you and his kin like a wall of living flame.

You think that’s captivity.

To him, it’s worship.

You come from a world of soft language and softer boundaries. Consent, communication, compromise. He doesn’t speak that tongue. Not naturally. Not easily. His language was forged in the heat of combat and scarcity. It is made of action, not words.

His society teaches that worth is earned in blood. That the weak must be culled or kept. And he kept you.

You don’t know how many he had to fight for that. You don’t know the way they laughed. The way they mocked him for guarding a soft, broken-boned little thing like it was a sacred heirloom. They called him feral. Called you a pet. Told him you wouldn’t last a season before you snapped under pressure like wet bone.

You snapped, yes, but not in the way they thought. You bent around him. Learned the rhythm of his rage. You stopped crying when he snarled and started staring him down instead. You learned how to say no in a language with no word for refusal—and he started listening.

That’s the thing no one warned him about. That humans infect. That their fragility is contagious. That their softness spreads.

Now, he waits before he touches. Watches you sleep instead of curling around you like a beast. Tries not to show his teeth when you talk back. (He fails sometimes. But he tries.)

He still calls you mine. But he says it differently now.

Previous

[honeybeegashii]

Good day or night to you, chef! I saw on your page that you did Yautja stuff and I just wanted to make a request.

I really do apologize for making this if you don't take any requests! I'm also sorry if you have rules, I couldn't find that anywhere.

My question, if you want to take it, is if the reader, who is a mother to a Yautja (like a half-human half-Yautja baby) and he had gotten blinded in a fight or something like that. Now, humans can be very revenge-driven creatures when pushed far enough, and I know that there are a lot of mothers who would kill for their child. Could you write something about the reader killing and/or torturing the person who blinded her son?

The Soft Widow

Warnings: This fic includes some dark content, such as garphic violence, child injury, themes of vengeance, and grief of loss. And possibly other triggers.

Age rating (17+)

Summary: When your half-Yautja son is deliberately maimed during a training exercise by a prejudiced warrior. Fueled by maternal rage and being a widow of a revered hunter, exacts revenge on the warrior, sending a clear message that harming her son will not be tolerated.

You do not weep when they bring your son to you.

Not in front of them.

“Mama,” he whimpers, but he doesn’t see you. His hands fumbled, touching only air. Your knees gave out and hit the dirt.

He is merely 10 years old, yet the level of hatred towards him is enough to provoke thoughts of maiming.

Blood streams down your son’s cheek. It beads and flows like molten lava. Even his blood is different from them, red and slick but thicker than humans should be.

Your son does not cry either, simply stumbles into your arms, shoulders hunched, breath ragged, skin torn, but it’s done so precisely it could only have been deliberate. The healer who brought him to you said that during the younglings’ training, the blade was drawn too slowly and too close. Not meant to kill.

Just like that... maim.

He clings to your shoulders, his grip tight as if your warmth can ground him in his now dark world, held close by you.

It’s said that a training exercise spiraled out of control, resulting in an accident. You know better.

Your son, with soft features and sharp mandibles, carries too much of his father’s presence, yet possesses your discerning eyes that pierce through falsehoods. You can feel his small body trembling with pain and fear, but he doesn’t make a sound, not even a whimper. Just as you are, he’s become strong and silent.

He curls in your lap in the comforts of your home, breathing heavily like a beast struggling with its own suffering. Fresh bandages cover his wounds. His claws twitch. His mandibles flutter in panic, wide and anxious. Your fingers caress his hair-like appendages. Your child is half-human. Half-Yautja. To the clan, this signifies diminished worth.

The whispers had followed you since your mate’s death—How could he, so revered, choose something soft and human? How could he taint his lineage with an earthly being?

The soft-spoken female who bore him a son with strange eyes and warm blood. But you were not weak.

They forget you were the mate of a great hunter, the one who brought down the mighty Xenomorph queen. They forget that you stood by his side, that you fought alongside him, and that you bore him a son who inherited his strength and cunning.

Only because you are human, soft, fragile, and do not fit in with them.

As you hold your son close, you can feel the weight of their disdain, their disgust, and their hatred. They do not see him as one of their own, as a worthy successor to Ka’htrakk’s legacy. They view him as a monstrous hybrid, neither fully Yautja nor human.

You had bitten your tongue then, smiled and only bowed your head.

Now, fire consumes you, finding it’s place in your marrow.

Gently, you set your son to rest on the bedding. He had cried himself to sleep, his breathing has evened out.

You take the necklace from the place you’ve hidden it, strung with the fang of a beast on his first hunt, another he killed in your name, and finally threaded in the middle is your son’s first baby tooth he lost long ago. You hold it like a prayer.

Ka’htrakk, the one who slept lighter when you were with child, always one hand resting over your growing stomach. Who died defending a juvenile hunting party when their ship was downed during a planetary migration storm? He stayed behind, breathing toxic air as the atmosphere ruptured, and manually sealed the escape hatch.

“I will not bury another,” you murmur. “Not him. Not mine.”

Ka’htrakk taught you how to gut a thing in silence. Waiting in such deep stillness that not even the jungle stirs around you.

Your mate once said, “Revenge is not the way of honor.”

But he never said you couldn’t teach a lesson. He never lived to witness their actions against your son. He never imagined his clan would turn on his blood.

Beginning with observation is key.

A human woman, smaller, slower—but they forget what you carry behind your eyes. You move through the clan’s perimeter like a ghost. No one questions you. They’re used to ignoring you. Just the soft widow. The off world pet who learned to live among them.

You find the one responsible.

No juvenile. He was a full-blooded warrior. Bitter. Arrogant. A male who always watched you for too long and your son too little. He claims it was a training accident—but your boy’s face tells another story.

You wait until the dark cycle. Grabbing the weapon your mate once gifted you. Despite its age, the blade remained capable of cleaving bone and spine.

He’s alone when you find him.

You give him the same courtesy they gave your child. You do not aim to kill, you cut low. Across the hamstrings. Crippling and slow.

You want him to feel it. To know what it means to be marked by something small and human. Your son will heal. But the light won’t come back. You lean in close, your voice a thread of steel. “You took his sight. So I take your stride. Next time you approach my son, I’ll slit your throat.

When you return to your home. your son never asked what happened. Why did you leave in the night? Nothing. He doesn’t have to.

As his father had done, you pressed your foreheads together, whispering, “Sleep, Mama is here.”

The next morning, the whispers are different. Fearful. Confused. The Warrior who harmed your son is now hobbled, furious. There is no trial, no confrontation. The warrior lies about what happened. Claims a beast caught him in the forest. But his knowing gaze reveals your mutual awareness.

Your son, however, lifts his head towards the sunlight for the first time. Despite his inability to see it, a smile graces his face at the warmth.