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yeyinde · 5 months

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the soft blue of a pale moon | Yautja x f!Reader

He keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive. Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at this creature, this beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones, his pretty pet, his plaything, supplicant by his side. You won't ever submit. Ever.

warnings: noncon/dubcon. captive reader. predator/prey. forced submission. noncon D/s dynamics. forced mating. rough sex/violent sex. broken bones. belly bulge. biting. size difference. mentions of violence. scent kink (slight). marking/scarring (territorially, possessively). alien biology. alien genitalia. female presenting reader (female anatomy).

Yautja terms:Kainde Amedha — hard meat (refers primarily to xenomorphs)

Ooman — human

this is basically a Dark (from the 2010 avp video game lmao) x Reader fic. Yautja is not an OC. but you don't need to know anything at all from the game to read this.

lore:

comics, novels. divine wisdom.

The bed of furs is soft beneath you.

It's an odd juxtaposition compared to the uncanny harshness of the room you've been left in (held captive for days, weeks, months—) with its severe lines and its stark, unfamiliar geometry. The walls stained a strange, unearthly colour of brownish-gold, towering high into a domed ceiling etched with symbols and runes you've yet to decode. Ones you know you never will.

This whole place is otherworldly. Seemingly beyond the scope of science fiction, or what your meagre imagination can dream up. Reality. Fantasy. The two blend together to form this archaic, rustic interior that's somehow far too futuristic for your mind to understand, and yet shaded in use, in age. Space dust. Caught between old and new—new: unknown, unknowable—and utterly mesmerising despite the garishness of what lies outside beyond the edge of the pelts you rest on.

Adorning the walls are an uncountable number of skulls and bleached white bones. Weaving spines strung up. Spindly, alien vertebrae. Fantastical creatures. Mythological beasts. It's something only the most inspired minds can conjure—

And yet, it all sits within reach.

(The human skull on the wall, still attached to its spine, is perched over your head like an omen—)

You tear your gaze away from it, sliding over the trophies immortalised in a shrine dedicated to the prowess of the being who took you. An alien. Yautja, you’ve come to learn. Predatory hunters who roam the galaxies in search of the best prey. A race made of warriors with a strict honour code.

Though—

You don’t know how honourable keeping captives are to their society, but none of the other massive beings had tried to intervene when he had taken you on the ship, hauled over his shoulder like a conquest, beating furious fists into his broad back. They stood back, chittering to themselves in what you know is laughter. Mocking clicks. Low trills. They thought it all so funny, outlandishly so, to see him stalk through the thick haze of fog that blanketed the ground with a yowling ooman clawing futilely at his back.

(As if your weak, feeble fists could ever hope to maim, to hurt—)

You don't know why he decided to take you. Even now, aeons later as you pass by an unfathomable number of solar systems, all glimmering like crushed gems just beyond the domed window above your bed, you have no idea what brought this on. What made him look at you, and think—

Pet (mine).

And it's not for a lack of trying, either. But trying to prise anything out of him is near impossible. Chiselling for gold with a plastic spoon.

It leaves you with only one other villain in this story, and you very readily blame Weyland-Yutani for this mess—dig deeper, explore faster, mine harder—but yourself, more so, for signing your name on the dotted line in the first place. You knew it was a terrible idea from the beginning. Not too many planets are truly desolate these days. Not with those things, xenomorphs, roaming the solar system unhindered.

Nothing good ever comes from meeting them. Death, inevitably, follows.

Though, comparatively, you'd rather be sprawled out—naked, collared—on a bed of strange, soft fur than being used as a breeding sow for a race of parasitic monsters hellbent on devouring the galaxy.

Panic is white hot, electric. The thought alone makes you lash out, a paroxysm of pure adrenaline, fear. Your hand flies to your chest instantly. Fingers knotting between your heaving breasts, feeling around for any movement under your skin. A beat. Several. All erratic. Thumping harshly against your ribcage. And—

Nothing. Just the erratic flutter of your heart, bragging senselessly in your chest.

(stupid thing—)

Of course. Of course.

Out of everyone on the ill-fated expedition, somehow only you survived. Holed up in the armoury, listening to those serpentine creatures tear into the flimsy metal of your ship. Taking out the ones who managed to sneak in with a well-placed shot to their domed heads. Hiding in a corner waiting for them to find you, wondering if the last few bullets should be used on them or yourself.

It was days of that. Of piling these awful monsters high, and hoping the corrosive blood didn't ruin the hull to make an opening wide enough for them all to pour in, overwhelming you with your dwindling ammo.

Breathing in ragged breaths, all the while listening to the hisses skirting across metal, grazing talons down your skull. They liked to taunt you, a fact that nearly drove you to the brink when all the meandering words uttered around about their hive-like simplicity, their insectoid stupidity, fell apart. These creatures are deadly, cunning.

And smart.

They adapted easily to your patterns, overcoming your bullets and your patchwork ingenuity with ease. The only thing that kept them at bay was the metal being too thick to penetrate with their claws.

(And you watched, helplessly, as they realised this after the second week, and sacrificed the smaller drones to splash their corrosive blood across the thickened alloy, melting it slowly down to nothing—)

They would have gotten you soon enough.

Had to, really. Because the Queen was waiting. You heard her hisses in your head. Felt her in the air, disturbed and agitated, around you. Pulsing like a heartbeat. Hammering against your resolve with each nightmare she pressed into the folds of your subconsciousness. Luring you to her. Showing you the wonders of giving in, granting her access.

Coming home—

You don’t know how anyone could withstand her influence. The siren’s call from down the hall, showing you image after image of her children curling protectively over you. Nestled in a tight embrace. Safe and sound from the howling winds and the scorching sun, from the awful hisses outside, and the horrific sound of metal giving way, melting into a puddle on the floor.

It was madness. One you wanted nothing more than to give into—

And then they came.

Appearing out of thin air just as your bullet pierced her jaw when she finally came for you, her child—

She fell, taking out several of the others with her—ones not on your list of alien species to look out for—and left behind nothing but a passel of intimidating creatures and you.

He, their leader, was the first to find you. Grabbing you by the scruff of your neck like a misbehaving kitten, and pulling you close. Taking stock, you think, of the bodies behind you and the holes in the Queen made from your gun.

An uneasy, stifling silence fell, broken by a series of drawn-out, low clicks.

You realised then, right as he bent down and tore the claw off of a dead xenomorph, what these beings were. Hunters. Predators. It was rare to see them on earth, but you’d heard of several run-ins with these creatures whenever humans decided to mettle with their preferred prey.

It was even rarer that any human survived the encounter.

He cocked his head to the side before pressing the bloody tip to your cheek, branding you with the mark of the blooded. One that matched his own. Purposefully done, of course.

His crest on your skin, unique as a thumbprint, is the loudest proclamation of his claim. Anyone from any number of clans that roam the heavens in search of prey, of hard meat, know, immediately, that you belong to him. That you bear his mark, branded with the scar of his respect.

(Respect—such a weighty thing to carry across your shoulders, too. Something you'd been eager to obtain, hungering for it all your life. And now—

The blunt, almost suffocating heft of it feels permanent in a way you can't even begin to unravel.)

He'd taken you, then. Despite thinking of humans as soft meat, cattle, he'd thrown you over his shoulder and marched you to his quarters where he stripped the xenomorphs of their skin, and hung their bones on the wall—your trophies. Sat next to his own. A bold display. A show of respect, however rare—and unwanted.

And then he'd stared at you through the black slits in his horned mask. Just watching. Studying. It took a great deal of composure not to weep. To beg for—

For something.

Leniency, maybe. For whatever crimes you inadvertently perpetrated against them. For being here, of all places, because of the insatiable greed of Weyland-Yutani.

For believing in them in the first place, maybe. Following, desperately, in the footsteps of your fallen idol.

It never mattered much in the end, though. After a careful, blank scrutinisation, he'd simply reached down, talons digging painfully into your skin, and tossed you into the softest bed of furs—of pure, hedonistic luxury you'd ever felt—and followed you down with an inhuman growl that rattled through your bones. That seemed to echo throughout the ship, shaking the walls, and trembling through the floors.

The kicking and screaming never happened. Futility paints a desperate picture, doesn't it? And in those moments, now lost to time, you knew, somehow, that it was useless. Is useless.

He wanted you. Him, the captain of this ship you've been left to rot inside of. The one who knows your language, but refuses to speak it. Preferring, instead, to let the guttural clicks and the chirring of his foreign, unspeakable mother tongue take precedence.

The one who hunts, viciously, and wears his trophies around his neck. Strung up for all to see as they dangle across his broad, mottled chest. Black. Endlessly so. His colouring is shades darker than your own galactic canvas where midnight itself spills across satin, but the comparison itches in your chest, rotting along with your sickening heartbeat.

And you think he knows this. Because despite his fury as he slashes his way through the oddest assortment of extraterrestrial creatures you've ever laid eyes upon, he's cunning. Smart. Adaptable.

It's this, the strange, almost preternatural patience he exudes which keeps you where you lay now. The innate knowledge that he's a primal hunter, one who uses both instinct and a keen, calculative sense of awareness to ensnare his victims wholly, unquestionably. One who'd undoubtedly hunt you down to the very edges of the star system you escape into until you're bent down on both knees, supplicant to his prowess.

His little pet.

And oh, how he luxuriates in it. This little moniker given to you by his clanmates seems to make him preen each time you hear the familiar, rasping click of their scornful mockery.

Soft ooman. His ugly little trophy.

He snaps his mandibles at them in response, but keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him—ozone, leather, spice, and a potent musk of mildew and loam, humus; the stagnant waters of a swamp teeming with algae blooms. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive.

Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at the creature, the beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones.

You won't ever submit. Ever.

But you can play the part—if only until he eases his grip, allowing you to slip away again.

With a glower, you lay open kisses along the hard, leathery ridges of his black scute, chasing the oily tang of his musk on your tongue.

The feel of your soft mouth makes his thighs tense—all firm, corded muscle; raw, primal power sheathed in a thick, aggregate pelt of marbled colours. It feels like warm stone under your fingers. Oiled leather. Crocodilian.

His maw opens, and the sound that tumbles out is full of fractured syllables and inhuman chirrs, gutteral crepitate. It's not something your human tongue could ever expect to replicate, and your lips tug downward in a sharp frown, your displeasure at this game of his growing by the minute. His staunch refusal to speak your language despite clearly knowing it—and knowing it well—is aggrevating, if only for the sole reason that he kidnapped you. That you being here, listening to him, is not of your own free will.

The scorn is thick on your tongue, the vitriolic rebuttal taking shape already, but he silences you when his thumb grazes your jaw. The air in your lungs tumbles out in a shudder when you feel the unnaturally soft, yet firm, skin of his palm slide around the back of your nape.

The fight in you is numbed by the realisation that his hand alone spans the entire length of your shoulders, now curled possessively around your neck. Fingers overlapping, folding over each other easily into a perfect collar.

His hand closing over your throat draws your eye to the ringed gorget he wears around his neck.

The comparison makes you sick.

The talons on his fingers are warm, powder-soft like the beak of a bird, when they tap against your throat as you swallow, thumb still stroking along the ridge of your jaw. It's shockingly intimate, and the humanness of it settles in your stomach like a sinking stone. Granite needling against soft tissue. Mercury bleeding into your guts. You hate it.

Hate how much you don't hate it.

The juxtaposition fills you with a fit of vicious anger. You don't want to seek comfort from this beast.

Your gaze drops, resting churlishly on the thick skin of his belly. Despite the raw, indomitable strength that coils through his muscles, malleable obsidian, when he sits, the softness of his belly pudges out, jutting over the brass-coloured belt of his loincloth.

It's—

Another marker of his uncanny likeness to the human form.

But where you might have expected to see coarse hair, his lower belly is sparsely covered by a dense, thick cropping of quills trailing along his abdomen. They feel like softened polymer under your fingertips, but catch on your skin if you're not careful, the sharpened edge digging in. It's not as painful as the press of his nails, but itches like a thorn. Needles of a cactus.

They stretch upward. Arching along in a perfect mockery of a happy trail that stretches to form a heavy bushel on his chest, small whiskers on his chin, his brow, dotted along the crest of his crown where his tresses fall.

Dragging your gaze up this path leads you back to piercing amber set deep inside the bracket of his skull. They seem to glow, an unnatural light spilling out of their sockets, highlighting the rigid lines of his bones.

He's watching you. Always.

(You blame the rapid thud of your heart on fear.)

Knowing he has your attention now, he makes the noise again. Lower this time. A snarling rasp breaking apart between his flexing mandibles. The sound akin to the rumble of an avalanche; the roaring screams of a forest on fire.

You have no hope of ever mimicking it—not without drinking down acid to corrode your vocal cords first. The anger that lashes through you is a whipcord cutting its tip against your resolve.

“What are you saying? I don’t understand—”

His massive crown dips, mandibles clicking. His thumb presses into your skin. Intentional. Pointed.

It's then you piece together that what he's saying isn't a command or a taunt, but rather his name. One you have no hope of ever repeating unless you want to turn your vocal cords into tatters, strips of unusable tissue. Wasting your words on his name is not something you think you would ever want to do.

And so, you don't.

Maybe it's to spite him. Or to put some semblance of distance between yourself and the alien holding you hostage, touching the skin of your neck with a soft sort of reverence you hadn't known he was capable of. Whatever the reason, you twist the ugliness inside of your chest, the rage and sorrow, into a brutal knife, wedging it into the scant space between your bodies, prying them apart in a shallow victory.

He's a hideous thing, isn't he? This brute.

Raw power. Untameable malice. All hidden under this pantomime of honour. How laughable, really, to think these beings know anything of the sort. Or maybe it's just him in particular. The outlier of the lot. One with a confounding obsession with ooman pets.

Ugly, you think, staring up at him. With his sunken eyes, and his mane-like crown. His tusks clicking together in quiet pleasure, smug in his throne of metal and bone.

Ugly, like the mossy green surface of a still swamp. Stagnant waters. A black lake. Shrouded by a dense, impenetrable cropping of weeping willows and mangroves. Shading the water so much that the algae blooms turn black like tar.

Dark, like him.

And so, you whisper it. Not his name, but this vindictive moniker you pieced together thinking of the lingering swamplands covered in moss and peat.

“Dark.”

In response, his nails rake over the back of your neck in both a warning, a reprimand; the same harsh touch used on an unruly cub by its mother. The comparison makes you bristle, hissing out a series of cruel jeers at him, but he barely pays it any mind, too busy chittering to himself now, humoured instead of insulted by this tangentially human name you've bestowed upon him.

The juxtaposition, the humanness of it all, is almost too much.

How can a creature that ripped a xenomorph’s jaw apart with his bare hands have these soft rolls along his midsection. Feel humour the same way your friends back home might have at your taunting barbs?

The contrast is nearly comical. Sour.

You don't like it when he's too human. When he scratches his warm talons along your nape absently. Thoughtless. A little twitch of his hand offering threadbare comfort in an unconscious whim. When he's tactile with you. Tensile. Gentle. Touching your skin with an exploratory sense of curiosity, of fondness. Laying you down on the furs with a tenderness that is at complete odds to the rough, demanding way he'll inevitably mate with you.

Mate. Because your coupling is always animalistic. Brutal. There's no tenderness to be found when he presses you into the furs, rutting into you like a beast. Growling, snarling. Making you take, and take, and take until he's satiated—

But you think you like it that way.

Especially when he's fresh off of a hunt.

When he fucks you into the mattress with nothing but harrowing, inhuman roars spilling from deep within his heaving, blood-drenched chest. Guttural snarls. Harsh, demanding. Moulding your body to his liking. Grasping you in a crushing clutch, and drawing your aching hips back to swallow down the intense thickness of his cock as it buries deep—impossibly so—inside of you.

You like him angry. Like him rough. It rents the moments when he's docile with you; bifurcating the peculiar sheen in his beady eyes when he lifts his mask off, placing it on the metal mantle with all the others, content to just stare at you. Looking, watching. Assessing.

It's the unnatural stillness of his gaze that sets you on edge. The heavy, unerring way he takes you apart with nothing but deep amber drilling through your skin.

Through because you've pieced enough together to know he can't see you the same way you can see him. That all the sharp angles of your features are hidden. The infinitesimal detailing lost to some wavelength your human eyes can't begin to take apart.

He hides this weakness by touching you endlessly. Long, sharp talons dragging over the bridge of your nose. The dip in your chin, the angles of your jaw. The plumpness of your cheeks.

He buries himself inside of you, and plays an exploratory game of committing your topography to memory with the soft, thick palms of his hands. Lets his long, rubbery tresses brush across your face as he sets a maddening pace that promises to one day snap your pelvis in half again, eyes glued to the centre of you where you burn the hottest.

Between these moments is where you linger the longest. Oscillating between a pet or a mockery of a queen; supplicant to its owner, it's King. Head resting on a terribly massive thigh as he commandeers a ship that makes all the technological advancements of your home world seem rudimentary and crude. A child's rendition of a spaceship brought to life with broken crayons. Left there to bask in his prowess, his glory. Surrounded by artefacts and trophies of all his kills—but considerably lesser than the vastness of his quarters where he keeps his most prized possessions.

Yourself included. Polished diamond perched on a satin pillow.

One he keeps dressed up in armour, in plating; decorated in the traditional fabrics of his own kind—mesh netting that keeps you perfectly comfortable, acclimated to the unbearable swelter of their ship, the temperature almost too much for your fragile skin to handle; breastplates over your chest; a bronze loincloth with intricate webbing and a heavy belt to keep it in place.

Adorned with pretty gems and metal bands around your neck, your arms. His mark on your skin.

Belly bare, and offered no shoes. But this fact is not a pointed statement about your imprisonment or your status amongst them—it's just for the simple fact that he doesn't wear them, and so: neither should you. The axiom is so irrefutable, that the bare, gnomic revelation is almost obvious in hindsight.

Obvious. In the same way a lightning strike is. Being torn to pieces for getting between a mother bear and her cubs. Falling off a cliff after dancing too close to the edge. Trying to swim in aerated water.

Obvious. It's all so obvious, isn't it?

You spend most of your days in this liminal labyrinth. Lost in your own mind as space flickers past the large window in front of you. Pinpricks of light in the distance of an endless, unfathomable black nothingness. Perched on the precipice of complacency and dread. Never knowing when he'll grow bored of this game, and turn you from a living emblem to a skull on his mantle like all the rest.

If, of course, you're even worthy enough of a place there.

You just don't know. And that's the crux of it all. Not knowing. Kept on the brink. Shrouded in uncertainty.

You'd think it intentional if you hadn't seen the way he preens under your stare sometimes. Flexing in his metal throne, showing off his array of scars; the trinkets he picked up on worlds unknown. The open, wanting way he regards you—this little human, barely a scrap of thing compared to him, to the sheer vastitude of his bulk. Hungry. Possessive. Always snapping his mandibles at the other Yautja who get too close, claws raking down flesh, spilling luminescent green blood across the floor. Injuring his own kind for attempting to touch you—

The King’s conquest.

But his ire doesn't abate for you, either. You've learned the hard way what it means to try and flee from his grasp, and while it wasn't nearly as bloodied, as brutal, as it was for his kin, it was terrifying.

You thought you were toeing the line before when you'd dig your human deep into his thickened hide as he kept you tucked to his side, on your knees for him; or when you tug so harshly at his tresses that green blood leaks from his skull and he howls in pain, but you realised then that you were wrong. That those little moments of mutiny were akin to foreplay to him. Small, inconsequential. Spilling his blood earned you marginal amounts of his respect, and he showed it by dumping you on his bed, and burying himself inside of you until you'd passed out into the furs. Overwhelmed. Punished. But it wasn't. You weren't being taught obedience by his hand, but rather getting a playful slap for your antics.

He'd snatched you by your throat in an instant. His warm, soft palm enclosing over the fragile length of your neck with too much to spare for you to ever be comfortable. Long fingers overlapped across your nape, and he'd heaved you forward, slamming you into the hard plains of his body with a growl. Talons prickling into your skin, spilling blood down your back. He'd snarled so loud that the ship seemed to quiver, quaking under the sheer weight of his anger.

Amber eyes drilled into you, widened with the fever of his fury, burying deep into your being. Your head wrenched side to side in a slow, agonising jolt as he assessed you. Taking stock of the silly pest that tried to run from him. That had the gall to slink off like an insect scurrying over his feet. Dishonourable.

This, though.

Running from him—

Well.

In that moment, the air wrought with the metallic tang of his indomitable rage, you had thought: this was it. He was going to kill you. Flay your skin from muscle, and hang you in the rafters for the rest to gawk at. Easy prey. A fickle kill.

And with everything you'd gleaned about this strange tribe and their odd customs, it would have been a mercy.

But he didn't.

Doesn't.

His mandibles flare open, stretching out wide across his boxy jaw. The pinpricks of his teeth gleam in the hazy, saturated light of the ship; white, jagged peaks against fluttering, angry red. It shudders as he growls. The decibels pitched low, unfathomably so. You catch the spear of it rattling through his body, the rasping snark bellowing from the depths of his chest, and shaking the air around you. You can feel it reverberate from his flesh, the tight grip he has on you a conduit funnelling his anger straight into the middle of your throat.

It reminds you of a territorial crocodile bellowing in the shallow water, making it vibrate and splash around him as the shattering frequency ripples outward.

It's terrifying. Electric.

You feel it rattle through your bones. Feel the ripples trembling through your flesh.

It's primal, this fear. Animal.

But in the end, he doesn't kill you.

You're simply tossed over his shoulder like a rowdy, misbehaving pest, and taken back to his room, much to the amusement of his gathering tribemates peeking out of their room to see their leader tend to his wilful, misbehaving pet. He strips you of your armour with a careless, almost cruel disregard before pushing you back on the bed. There's a rigid line to his shoulders you'd never seen before; a damning flex to his jaws that make you shake, quivering in fear.

You know better than to speak, to beg. All it gets you in the end is a mocking series of clicks that you know enough to recognise as laughter. Instead, you take your punishment with your chin in the air, unwilling to submit the way he so clearly wants you to.

Your supercilious scorn has his mandibles widening in anger once again, and he exercises his control by shoving you face-first into the bed, and burying his tusks into the meat of your shoulder, keeping you still under him.

It's a clear warning. Move, it says, and his tusks will catch on your spine and rip it clean from your back. You still. Quiet. A prey animal lying prone, unmoving, at the feet of a chuffing predator as he mounts you from behind, rutting into you with a savagery that renders you into nothing more than a ruined heap under his bulk.

For your attempted escape, you end up with more of his scars on your body, indents in the shape of his flared mandibles on your shoulders, and a fractured pelvis. It could be worse. You could've died.

Should have, maybe.

(is that a plea? an orison?

and if so, why is it drenched in misery?)

And there is something vicious about the way he tends to your broken bones after, plunging the needle into your skin despite your howling, or the way you thrash. It's pure agony. The sensation how you imagine it must feel to be burned alive from the inside out.

That, you think, is why he has no qualms about leaving you alone now. Wandering off, chasing trophies and honour on a planet just outside of the domed window above your bed. A vicious, red world tidally locked around a small dwarf. One half shrouded endlessly in black while the other burns, charred from the intensity of its star. In the middle, you know, is a small strip. A habitable zone, if only just.

It's a place where a large, lumbering predator roams. One with towering antlers akin to the moose on earth, and jagged, spiked teeth protruding from its maw. The length is too much like a Sabre-toothed tiger for you to ever want to meet it face-to-face in the dark.

Proper prey. A worthy trophy, they consider it.

And, from the chittering you picked up, it seems that xenomorphs—kainde amedha—have found this place as well.

The thought of them down there—spreading, growing, infecting—fills you with a potent sense of dread, one that gnaws on your insides with serrated teeth. Vicious and ugly, it lingers in crevasses where it pokes and prods at your fear, and your worries, until they split open, leaking putrid rot all over.

It’s not that you’re worried about him. Not at all.

(despite the nagging in your chest that whispers you’re a liar when you press your face into his side of the lavish bed of furs, greedily inhaling as much of his lingering musk as you can—)

He's gone off on hunts many times since you've been taken, and most of them end up on worlds already broken apart, infested, by those parasites.

The notable difference is that brushes with them in the past never incurred much worry from you. If anything, you think you rather preferred it. Enjoyed the respite that came when he was gone, giving you a meagre ounce of freedom to think about all the (futile) ways you could escape.

And mostly waiting. Waiting for someone at Weyland-Yutani to notice the glaring absence of one of their engineers.

How laughable, really. Its echo is a false prophet whispering poison into your head, telling you that things will be over soon, that the higher-ups care less about profit margins than a whole fleet that went missing under garish circumstances on a planet you're soon beginning to think you never should have been sent to at all.

Saves money on wages, you suppose. And the expense of sending a rescue fleet in to investigate costs more than your yearly salary.

The bold, unignorable truth in that is a cruel, twisting knife to your agency. To the lingering remnants of your humanity, and worst of all, your hope.

No one is coming. You've known this for a while now. The toxic hisses are part of the reason why you decided to try your luck on a massive, earth-like planet the first (and only) time you've tried to run. Because without that, without this fraudulent hope, what else are you left with if not him?

And now—

It's been an uncountable number of days. Weeks.

Time in interstellar orbit is inconsequential. The beings themselves—yautja, you remember him hissing; garbled words mangled in his throat, and feel the burn in yours when you try to echo it in his tongue—have no reason to keep time, it seems. And even if they did, it's doubtful you would be able to interpret its abstract meaning.

But even without traditional clocks or human measures and scales of time, you know that he's been gone much longer than before. Agitation seems to simmer in the air. The yautja—unblooded younglings; juveniles in their comparably archaic youth—that come to deliver your food seem—

Restless.

Their maskless faces whisked in agitation. Shoulders set in a tense line. Eyes skewed toward the vast windows of the mothership, fraught with an eager sort of intensity.

You know, first-hand, how brutal their hierarchy tends to be, and have seen Dark use a brute, savage dominance over the younger, disrespectful, ones who ignored his warning in the past. The amalgamation, then, of their excitement and their uncertainty screams one thing:

he should have been back by now.

And it—

It does something to you.

Changes things, maybe. Skews your perspective.

Because the reality is this:

As much as you hate your circumstances, you're under no compunction that Dark isn't the sole reason you've been left, untouched, for so long. Why you're allowed to stay alive; to linger in his shadow, trailing after him like a lost dog. And you're barely certain that Dark won't turn around and kill you when the whim strikes him, much less his compatriots. His clanmates.

It leaves two brutal truisms for you to contend with: that you need him; and that without him, you're dead.

In that, you find there's almost too much to think about.

So—

You lean back, staring up at the pale blue moons outside of your prison, and think of nothing because if you can't see the pendulum, if you don't stare down into the maw of the pit, then you can pretend neither are really there at all.

You wake from a restless slumber to the door opening with a mechanised whirr, the rasp of heavy metals sliding against each other filling the air. A plume of thick fog billows up in response, shrouding the entrance in dense white.

The cloud conceals their identity, but it doesn't matter much. No one has access to these chambers. No one but him.

The long, sharpened talons on his toes clink against the floor as he approaches. Each footfall makes your heart jump, scattering in a strange, off-kilter rhythm.

Through the fog, he appears. Battleworn, and filthy. Splotches of dulled green blood cover his body from head (where you note a few tresses have been ripped off, some at the crown where a pock gapes open, deep forest green, and others at the ends) to toe. The majority of it is covered in the low, angry light of the glowing metal, the colour of molten rock. It's shielded from your prying eyes as he moves forward, strides purposeful as he lugs his wares over the threshold.

He comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, broad chest heaving with each breath he takes through the mask still on his face. You take stock of him as he stills, cataloguing each change to his appearance now—a new scar down the length of his chest, blistered and scabbed over from the healing salve they carry on their hunts. Part of it is hidden under a thick patch of burnt skin. The splatter whipping over his lower belly, and raising the toughened skin up half an inch.

The infliction of both are immediately recognizable in their unmistakable pattern.

The slash of a xenomorph’s claw ripping through skin, shredding through it like paper; and the jagged, rough burn of their blood as it rained down, unhinged, on bare flesh.

He fought quite the battle, you note, and pretend the rapidness of your breath doesn't reek of relief.

His hard-earned victory sits in his hands.

The skull of a queen.

The sickly white already polished and primed, ready for its place on his mantle. It should be there already. Should have been his first stop. Per tradition.

But he breaks it by standing before you now, covered in grime and dried blood. Reeking of stale sweat. Of rot. And holding his wares in his hand for you to see. To take note of. He waits even though you know it costs him a great deal of effort to stand here, beaten, bruised, scarred, burnt as he is. Half of it is the same, undeniable stubbornness that they all seem to inherit; a weaponised sense of pride. The other—

Well.

The significance of this moment, of this break in a sacred routine, isn't lost on you, despite your best efforts to pretend otherwise. As much as you want to ignore it, it itches behind your ribs, pulsing like an infectious wound.

It's only when he sways slightly in exhaustion, the movement almost indiscernible if you hadn't been watching him so intently, do you release him from this strange moment. Bowing your head down in quiet, muted submission; a reverent surrender to his indomitable prowess.

This gentle, almost desultory yielding doesn't seem to click at first. He tilts his head down slightly, gazing at you through the black slits in his mask, seemingly uncomprehending as he takes in the sight of you—this errant little human who caused him nothing but trouble, offered nothing but mocking respect—bowing down to him after an indefinite time fighting to free yourself from under his thumb.

Until—

It does.

The massive, bleached skull of the queen is shoved in the air in a sudden chirr, pitched to the ceiling as he stomps his feet on the ground in an effort to widen his stance. Knees bent, he throws his head back, and lets out a ravenous, blood-curdling roar of victory.

It bludgeons into you. The force of it winding when it hits, bruising along your skin in a throbbing ache.

This doesn't so much as feel like toppling over the precipice, but already being caught in an unstoppable freefall.

(one you're not sure will be an indefinite fall to the stagnation, stasis; or will send you crashing down to the jagged rock at the bottom of this vertiginous drop.

the one thing you are certain of is this:

it's much too late to go back when you've already lept off the edge.)

—and so, the pit it is.

His thumbs pitch under the board curve of his mask, grazing the soft underside of his boxed chin. Carefully, he lays down a single finger at a time, resting it against the smooth surface before slowly lifting it off his face.

When the humid air hits his flesh, his mandibles flare out. Flexing. An unconscious response, you now know, after being folded against his mouth to fit inside the helmet for so long. Joints aching. Muscles hinged with disuse.

It's with this motion that you notice the absence of his left, lower mandible. The stump a mangled mess of cauterised flesh. It's ugly. Atrocious, even. The scars crisscrossing against moulted skin of pale amber and black are a harrowing emerald smear, an awful amalgamation of dried blood and gnarled tissue.

The shock of it is dulled under the weight of his success, and it's then that you know you're too far gone to ever go back. Where there should be pity, and—shamefully—disgust, all you feel is an overwhelming sense of borrowed pride. Chiselled from the staunch set of his shoulders, the flex of his muscles, as he openly preens under your stare. Angling his chin downward, giving you a better glimpse of his battle scars. A hard-earned victory.

A queen is no easy feat, after all.

His eyes find yours in blood-red gloom. Burning amber, chiselled into the canyons of his unique, unmistakable topography, seems to drill, intensely, into you. They stray, travelling down the length of your nude body, barely covered by the pelts of his conquests.

You spare a thought to the idea that seeing you this way, wearing nothing at all but his kills, is what makes his broad chest expand suddenly, shoulders pulling back as he preens. Puffing his plumage in a heady pride, a deep satisfaction that runs bone deep.

Waiting for him, you think. Dressed only in the hide he skinned with his bare hands.

He rumbles suddenly. Bellowing out a low, steady growl between his sharpened teeth. This noise is unlike anything you'd ever heard before—deep, unfathomably so; but hollow. It echoes, reverberating from his chest in a timorous pitch.

You could almost mistake it for a leonine pur.

He stalks towards you, and each step ignites a war within you. The urge to flee from this predator is fierce. Instinctual. It burns through you with a vicious force, but in that rippling intensity, kindling burns in the scorch marks left behind.

Just as potent as the urge to run is, the want, the desire, to roll over and submit to this massive, powerful creature rages, blistering through you.

But you force yourself to stay still. To wait as he moves, seamlessly, to you. Lighter now that he's stripped himself of the wrist gauntlets, the cannon mounted to his shoulder, his trophies, his kills—the dangling skulls from around his neck, and waist. The belt and loincloth were the first to go, freeing himself to display his immodesty, completely at ease in his own nudity. The thermal netting peeled off next, and dropped into a pile by his mantle. The chill—if a near-constant swelter could ever be considered such a thing—made his jaws flare out in the only sign of discomfort he would ever give, flexing under the slow acclimation to this balmy heat that clings to air.

The heat, though—

Such a relentless thing.

You feel the humidity burn through you as he walks, unashamedly bare, to you. An incredible length of skin unveiled for your prying eyes, glinting a devastating obsidian in the pale luminescence of the locked moons just outside the window.

In this sparse light that trickles in, you let yourself grow bold, greedy, for the fill of him, and let your gaze trail down the pockets of quills dropping down his chest, his belly, until you meet the thick thatch on his groin. It's here where your breath catches. Hitching loudly in your throat as he comes to a standstill within your reach.

As human as he sometimes appears—usually in the most inopportune times—you can't deny the obviousness in his extraterrestrial anatomy compared to yours, to human morphology. Birdbeak warm claws, tusk tips on mandibles, leathery skin connected through a series of irregular polygonal shapes in mossy black and blazing amber, baleen teeth sharpened to needlepoints—you would be remiss to think him human in anything other than silhouette.

But arguably, the biggest shock (outside of his maw) is, of course, his cock.

Softened, it's kept tucked away inside of a slightly bulging cloaca shaded in the same dark green hue as his outer arms, back, and legs. A dense cluster of quills sit in a thatch around it, protruding near his black, pebbled scute. It's firmer than you'd expected it to be, but softens near the opening where his cock emerges, intimidatingly long, thick. The fattened length of him, too, is foreign.

The end tapers into a fleshy point. Along his shaft are barbs, small ridges that resemble the scute covering his body, if only softer. The reminder of them makes you tremble, skin heating. Feverish. It's indescribable, really. The way they drag along your sensitive flesh on the outstroke, the sensation dizzying.

Covering his flesh is an oily, slick substance, and it's really only this natural lubricant that even allows taking the full length of him inside of you possible. The sheen of it glints in the light when he flexes his muscles, and steps closer to the bed, smearing slick against his thighs. Your mouth waters, flooding with the veracity of your insatiable want.

(You hate him. Hate him. Want so him so badly that it feels like you're burning from the inside out—)

The push-pull of your submission, still at war with your innate sense of self, dims, quieting when he reaches the edge of the bed, cock in full view. The jut of it, now fully extended from his sheath, hangs, heavy and thick, between his legs, bobbing with his movements, twitching in his growing excitement. Prespend, slightly more watery in texture compared to a human man, gathers at the opening, dripping down to the floor beneath his feet. A long, pearlescent strand clings from his weeping slit, dropping to land on the flesh near his knee.

The sight of it shouldn't be as sinful as it is—you’ve yet to find god amongst the stars and you doubt, very much, you ever will—but seeing the thick glob of his desire spill, leaking steadily from his twitching cock, fills you with a heady sense of want. Desire.

He hasn't touched himself at all. Content, almost, to stare at you, head cocking to the side as his beady amber eyes drill into your lower belly, fixed on the spot where you burn the hottest. The heat signature you give off, blistering; red-hot, is probably the biggest appeal to a creature like him who sees in shades of yellows and reds. The mismatch of your complexion, the nude state of your body, is inconsequential to him when at your core, you're molten. And all for him.

He knows this, too. Knows your body well enough to see the unmistakable burn of your desire. Your desperation. The slick growing between your parted thighs turns into a heavy, hot flood; pulsing full of electricity. The depth of your need grows increasingly uncomfortable the longer he waits, watching. You want him. Want this massive beast who stole you away, who held you down and made you take him, made you submit.

And he wants you back. This Stygian king cut from ashlar, limned in shadows, wants you just as much—if not more. Went out of his way to burrow past your pitiful defences to bury himself as deeply as he could, rearranging your humanity into a likeness of his image; branding you with his mark, dressing you in clothes tailor-made to fit. Giving you the gift of his prowess—bones, skulls: trophies from the most fearsome predators in the galaxy left at your altar—in this mating dance, this outré ritual.

His desire for you is overwhelming. Dangerous. Your hips twinge at the reminder of when he exercised his punishment, exiguous as it was compared to his sheer strength, smarting with the phantom burn of fractured bones as he gave in, infinitesimally, to this voracious yearning that smoulders, a constant ember, in the sunken depths of his eyes.

Something surges through you at the thought of him holding back as much as he has, at the way he thickens just at the sight of your blood red need. It's a strange amalgamating of animalism (pure, unquantifiable primalism, bestial in its savagery; feral), and a heightened degree of pride—the sort that leaves you feeling godlike, peerless: transcendent, in the very essence of the word.

He wants you. You.

And in that, the vestiges of your control cessate.

Submission, you find, feels too much like finding sanctuary amidst a raging wildfire.

In response, he trills. The thundering bellow vibrates through the air. An unmistakable pur of a beast successfully conquering its mate.

He moves—soundless and surprisingly agile for such a mountainous creature; prodigious down to his every atom—and makes a slow, aching crawl to meet you on the bed. His knees, the size of your skull, press down first, making the basin of fur dip under the enormity of his heft. Encompassed in his shadow even with him kneeling before you, it makes the absurdity in your sizes more pronounced. Thighs thicker than the trunks of fir trees. Arms the width of your legs. His chest is the span of your own, just duplicated thrice.

Dark is a beastly thing up close.

There's a thrum in your throat; a heady pulse, throbbing with adrenaline cut by dormant fear. As if sensing death so close by, an atavistic caterwaul begins in your hindbrain, screaming at you to run, roll over, submit, play dead—the flickering of these prey responses an instinctual deluge that you quell, half-heartedly, with the knowledge that there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.

He'll find you. Even if he has to hear the star system apart to do it.

As if omnipotent to these weeping tendrils of animal fear, his broad chest trembles as he lets out a shallow pur. A softened bellow. The growl of a prowling cat on the Savannah.

You shiver, fisting the fur in your slick palms until it bulges up between whitening knuckles.

“Please,” is all you say, and you don't even know if this particular word registers to him at all. He never responded in the past to it (or stop, don't, no) outside of the rare occasion when he kept his helmet on, and mocked you with the garbled mimicry as he buried himself as deep inside of you as he could go.

This time, though, his mandibles twitch. His maw gapes open, displaying an egregious set of terrifying teeth, and the flutter of his throat grows, undulating in jerking pulses of flesh, sliding over each other until—

Puh–le’e–suh—

It's butchered beyond recognition. Maimed in the flex of his corded, baleen throat. But the intention is there, and the implication more so.

He spoke.

And it's a broken, devastating mockery of your mother tongue, but the force of it all is a blow, a bludgeon unlike anything you'd ever felt.

A whirlwind of emotions rage through you, all congealing into a muddled, indiscernible mess. It slips through your fingers, featherlight, but he doesn’t give you a moment to gather them together between your fists.

His tresses fall over his broad shoulders as he prowls forward, tiring of this epoch already. The long, tubular strands frame you in a serried curtain of black as he looms—gargantuan, mythical—above you, head dipped down. The massive crown lists to the side when you lean back, instinctively, spine meeting the furs in tandem with his slow advance.

The absence of his lower mandible when he flexes the others is novice in the liminal light that spills through the bulk of his body. You're not used to seeing him hurt like this. Ragged scars. Scorch marks tearing across his flesh.

Reflexively, you reach up. The tips of your fingers are feather-soft against the dry tresses just behind the missing cluster. The ends of them are cauterised—a thick, metallic clump glued to the bottoms to keep him from bleeding. Another anatomical anomaly.

Filled with veins and nerve endings, his tresses are far more sensitive to touch than the coarse hair of primates—the integument is different, too; rubbery to the touch, reminding you of polymer pipes or rubber bands, almost.

At your gentle touch, he makes a noise, a shallow churr in the back of his throat; mandibles soon folding over his mouth after. Reactive, you find, and endlessly endearing for such a monstrous creature. Cute.

A smile blooms at the notion of his sudden shyness. Such an outlandish thing for someone whose entire existence is narrowed down to honour and death. The pinch of his tusks elapsing over his maw fills you with a misplaced affection, a foreign growth metastasizing between your ribs.

You're not sure what it is—survival instinct, maybe. The urge, the drive, to keep living despite yourself; a blot against the harsh reality of your predicament. It feels like the most likely one considering the other is genuine adoration. Unthinkable even now in spite of your willing submission.

But thinking about this is a jagged dagger cutting through your insides. You shove it aside, hide it away.

The soft touch—a mere whisper of your fingertips gliding along the surface of his tresses—takes on a more intentional drag, purposeful. You curl your index finger around a corded forelock, giving a small, impish tug just to make him jutter above you.

His jaws flex, mandibles spreading slowly apart with a quiet, humid hiss. The heat brimming up once more as he curves his long mane over you, chin dipping down to encompass the entirety of your body under his.

You can't help wondering if this is what it feels like to be devoured.

And when he reaches the apex, eclipsing everything in your sight with the full, dark heft of him, hands fixed against the soft furs above your head, you think of a sanctum instead of a cage.

(a swinging pendulum—)

The heat is unbearable with him over you like this. Made worse, somehow, when his hand lifts, falls to your waist. The width of it covers you entirely. Swallowed whole by palm. You tremble, and he eats your anticipation with a distinctive, preening click, turning you on your belly with an ease that knocks the air from your lungs. Barely a featherweight to him. The notion is scorching.

The name he's given you is full rasping, mangled syllables your fleshy tongue could never begin to wrap around. In the absence of knowing how to speak it, you've begun to call him by your own human version of his namesake. It's this, the shortened, paltry whisper that rolls off your tongue when he presses the tapered tip of his cock against you.

“Please, Dark—”

At the soft utterance of it, he snaps his hips harshly in retaliation, burrowing his cock inside of you in a quick, jarring thrust.

It rents you in two, splits you down the middle. Your breaking point is surpassed in an instant; mettle fracturing, shattering on impact. It takes every ounce of willpower to cling to cognisance when he snarls through the last few inches of impaling you entirely.

In the static tatters of your consciousness, the realisation—a startling polyphony of fear, trepidation, and awe—that this is him holding back lingers on the periphery. That, in itself, is the rekindling of your appetite; hunger gnaws on shallow need, unsatiated by the threadbare scraps it's been given to chew on.

You say his name again. The whisper of it raw, wounded; scraping against your lacerated vocal cords, torn by the vicious howl, the shriek, that ripped through your chest when he seated himself deep inside of you.

He responds by snapping his hips into yours, the barbed ridges on his cock licking across your nerve endings in the almost perfect zenith of pleasure and pain. It's nirvana, you think. With hell nipping sharply at its heels.

The stretch—unlike anything you've ever felt before; incomparable outside of too much—burns furiously. The only thing keeping it from being impossible is the thick oil coating the length of him. The makeup of it must have analgesic properties, or some paralytic agent mixed in, because with each stroke, it soothes your raw flesh, erasing the pain of him inside of you, and leaving nothing but pure, unfettered sensation behind. It's just the thick, unrelenting press of him. The heaviness. The girth.

It's good. Too good. Overwhelmingly so.

A series of low clicks spilling out from his broad chest, the chirr of a rattlesnake. He must see it, the way your body floods with endorphins, with heat. The room, kept at an uncomfortable swelter, glues to your skin. Balmy, and achingly hot. The blister of it burrows deep, massing together into a molten core at the very apex of where he's buried inside of you.

Drawn there, moth to a flame, your hand slides between the damp fur, now drenched in your sweat, and comes to rest on the prominent bulge shifting through your abdomen. His cock.

Behind you, Dark lets out a susurrus hiss, and pauses the ruinous cants of his hips just long enough to let you feel for yourself how perfectly he changes your shape to fit himself inside. It's unmistakable, of course; but everything outside of raw feeling is liquified. Rendered numb. You know, somewhere, distantly, that this—feeling him through your muscle, your skin so distinctly that you can touch each ridge on his cock—is something that ought to break you, shatter you into pieces. The anatomical anomaly of having him stretch you like this, to this extent, is unfathomable.

And yet—

He drags his cock out, and you whimper, mindless, stupid, at the sudden loss of him.

You don't feel complete unless he's buried within you.

And despite yourself, the somnolence lapping at you, a part of you wonders if this is a symptom of that paralytic agent—musk, pheromones, miasma, poison—blotting out all logic, and inducing a soporific desperation, a vacuous need for him and him alone. One that makes wholeness out of the heavy press of his cock.

If it is, it doesn't matter much anymore.

You're too far gone, lost to the throes of it, to care about anything else.

A good thing, perhaps, because with Dark, it's always a selfish coupling. He pays no real heed to your pleasure, fully under the belief that his cock splitting you apart is enough.

And damn you—damn your treacherous body—it is.

Each brutal cant of his powerful hips slamming into you sends waves of pleasure roaring down your spine. To be pried apart, stuffed full of the overwhelming surplus of his girth notches against something inside of you that makes your bones liquid, your marrow running molten. Burning you up from the inside out.

You clench around him desperately, fingers knotting into the furs below, squeezing it tight in a vice. Trying, futilely, to cling to some sense of cognisance despite the vicious way he takes you apart. Atom by atom. Synapses bloating, crackling under the strain.

He fucks you like beast. All vicious snarls, guttural rasps; blood is drawn when his claws catch your skin, tearing it open like tissue paper. The sting is buried under the layers of sensation tunnelling through your body.

Pleasure, pain: equilibrium met on the cusp. Aided, in large part, by the frenzied way he ruts you; fractured, careless. Bullying himself into you until the tapered tip of his cock bruises your cervix—more battering ram than flesh; eager to wrench you open, spill himself inside of your womb.

You can't imagine what this must be like when he isn't holding back. Horrific, maybe. Blood, bruises. Torn skin. No wonder their hide is so thick.

But even this—tamed, as it might be—feels like a battle. A war. He spears you open, chirring the whole time as he curls over you, protective and awful, the motion forcing the last few inches of him into you. Bruised, aching, you whimper at the feeling of his sheath, white-hot and soaked with your slick, cupping your drenched cunt. He holds himself there, as deep as he can possibly go—tip a bludgeon against your cervix, stretched wide around the thick of him—and lets out another long, low pur that rumbles through you. Teeth chatter from the vibrations, delirious and bordering on the equinox of absolute damnation, your pussy clenches around his cock, each ridge and divot more pronounced than before.

Overwrought with bliss, with a nauseating pain, you keen in response to his deep bellow, feeling more animal than ever before.

Driven purely by instinct, you push back into him, thighs slapping against his own. The power in his muscles, the contrast between your supple, soft body and his, iron wrapped in thick, crocodilian skin, is flint striking steel.

A mere tinderbox, your body erupts in a devastating heat.

The burst of molten red makes him reel back, barbs catching on your sensitive skin. It's too much, too much—

He thrusts back into your spasming cunt with a shuddering roar, the sound alone—the lewd, drenched squelch of him splitting you apart—tugs the knot inside of you past its breaking point. As his claws rip through the pretty fawn fur, shredding them to pieces as he grips tight in an effort to piston his cock as fast as he can into your aching pussy, you find yourself tipping over the precipice in a stumbling fall. The force of it, the suddenness, is agonising, edging immediately into overstimulation when the deep, heavy jut of his cock head burrowing into your fluttering walls doesn't cease. It's—

White noise. Static. Your head is galvanised into slush, slurried into liquid pleasure that thrashes and writhes in your core, nerve endings set aflame in a wet, hot inferno under his bulk.

You puddle under him, burning with the aftershocks. Body melting, useless and spent, into the sheets as he drives into you with the single-minded purpose of reaching his own cataclysmic end. Numbed now, all you feel is an intense, dizzying pressure pulsing molten inside of you.

Dark braces himself over you, content to just rut deep into you, barely pulling the full, heavy length of himself out of your aching sex. With anyone else, it might be considered sloppy—a messy, desperate coupling, but even this much with him is devastating. Ruinous.

It's a maelstrom. A bleak, calamitous fall to the bottom of a blackened pit.

And with a savage, brutal plunge, he buries himself inside of you again, prising the soft plug of your womb open with a brutish roar—deep, broken; bellowed at the heavens—and you feel the steady pulse of him inside of you, filling you. It's too much—his fat, heavy girth, and the copious amounts of his spent stretch you past your limit, teeth raking across your mettle, and the bulge in your lower abdomen grows taut as he floods you with his release.

The end of the pit looms, and from the chasm, a jagged maw gapes open, gnashing its teeth at you in rapacious anticipation as you careen toward its empty gullet. Falling, falling, falling—

And in the midst of it all, you think this might be what dying feels like.

Your cognisance is drawn together in pieces, inchmeal.

A slow, gradual crawl out of slumber, the tugging threads of hypnagogia clinging to your rheum-heavy eyes.

Furs stick to your damp body, some pulling loose when you shift away from the uncomfortable, sweat-soaked puddle of heat beneath you.

Nausea roils through your belly, pulsing with dreadful synchronicity to the throbbing ache in your pelvis. In an effort to quell the feeling of your insides folding over themselves in a damning knot, you gingerly press the tips of your fingers to the spot that aches the most, feeling the raised indent of a contusion under your pads.

It makes you blink up at the domed ceiling, head lifting to catch a glimpse of soft flesh near your hip.

Through the midnight spill of your skin, you can see the tumid ridge bubbling up slightly higher than the rest of your flesh. In the middle is a small dot. An injection sight.

You realise, with a huff, that he must have broken your pelvis again. Unintentionally, this time. Caught up in your feverish coupling.

It makes sense. Your bones feel shattered beyond repair, but you know that they're knitted back together, suffused with the medicinal magic their healing injections have.

The thought should scare you. Be it the ease in which he can break your bones, snapping them into pieces; or whatever it is he's pumping into your body to heal it, but it slips, diaphanous and ephemeral, from your tangled thoughts. Untouchable now, slowly fading into the background.

The marbled quiet of your mind is broken when you feel him move beside you. His massive paw falls on your crown, covering the entirety of your head with an ease that you can't imagine ever not leaving you a little breathless at the scale, the vastness in your differing sizes. It rests there for a moment, leaching the warmth from your cap like a satiated, languorous reptile. A sluggish snake still digesting its oversized meat.

A series of clicks spill when you lull your head over to meet the burning yellow of his gaze, everything awash under the heavy scent of sex and loam. Stale sweat, iron. You breathe it in, blinking in the soft blue light of the pale moons spilling in from the window of the ship.

He lounges like a satiated cat. His legs spread akimbo; his other hand resting on his chest. The narrowing of his eyes, too, reminds you of a well-fed feline, squinting into a dewy oblivion.

With a deftness you can't keep up with, his hands shift, reaching out to take hold of you when the sleep drips from your eyes. It takes no real effort at all for him to drag you to rest between his spread thighs, head pillowed on the tuffs of quills covering his lower belly.

There's a twinge in your hips, but it's numbed by the palliative magic of the injection, pulsing like the soft beat of a headache through your bones. It'll hurt something awful later on when it begins to wear off, leaving you feeling more like a massive contusion than a person. But that's later. Much later. And as he rests his palm, warmed by your heat, against your nape, you find you don't mind the tenderness much at all, content to bask in the evidence of your coupling simmering, electric, between you, distinct in the air. An ozoneous tang. Heady. A sour, earthy miasma.

You breathe it in. Breathe him in.

And in the slow, soporific spool of your weaving thoughts, you can't help but wonder what he thinks of this, of you, as he reclines in the fur. Nothing at all, perhaps.

Or maybe something. Something you can't even begin to unravel. An archaic, primordial sort of want—animalistic, alien. The kind that would make him scar his own kind for gnashing their claws at you in anger, indignant over your mere presence in their leader's nest. Who would take a creature not of the same species, and parade them around as they bared his mark for all to see. A mate. A conquest. A queen. A pet. The fickleness of it is not lost on you, but there's something about the knowledge that this is as taboo, as unprecedented for him, for his kind, as it is for you.

And yet.

He still picked you. Of all the humans in the galaxy, crawling around like lost, queenless ants, he decided to shun the staples of his culture and take you with him.

That alone, you think, is enough.

And so—

You relax. Melting into the wrought iron strength of his frame, liquifying under the raze of his nails grazing your skin, pulling you deeper into this sense of complacency. Where else do you belong, after all?

You turn your head, nuzzling your nose into his quills. Into his skin. The potency of his smell is stronger here, so close to his groin, and you groan a little at the twinge in your cunt at the heady, briny weight of it settling on the back of your tongue when you breathe in deep.

He chuffs a bit, quietly pleased by your obvious scenting. The way you bury your nose into the crease where his inner thighs bend, drawing in the pungence of his unwashed flesh. It drags your attention away from his heavy musk, head lifting to catch his blistering, intent gaze. It darkens slightly at the sheen smearing across your chin and nose, covered in the natural oils of his pelt.

It's unlike yourself, but you find the depth of his intrigue deeply arousing, and slowly lick your stained lips, chasing the taste of him with your tongue.

A rumble reverberates from his broad chest, shaking the bed with his quiet growl. It's the only warning you get, the only one he'll give, before the other hand folds over your lower back, pushing your belly into his sheath where he swells, hot and thick, between you.

His eyes glow in the absence of light. Pale amber flickers when you arch into his chest, needy for him, and it unveils a catacomb desire much too primordial for you to ever dream of mapping. The deep pool of it unspools you, and you fall, weightless, to the bottom.

Ensnared.

#for someone who's entire identity is “i wanna fuck an alien/monster/yautja so bad it makes me look stupid”#i have a surprising lack of smut in my repertoire #yautja x reader #yautja x human #dark (avp) x reader #predator x reader #avp #predator #yautja smut #yautja

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freedomfireflies · 8 months

Text

Insatiable You*

Summary: The second part to Infinite You*

The one where Harry wants to know more about these smutty books you read. And maybe have a bit of fun, too.

Word Count: 5.8k

Content Warning: 18+, smut, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, spanking, spitting, Sir Kink

“Begin.”

“Harry—”

“Begin,” he repeats. Stern. Final. “I’m not gonna ask you again, Kitten. This is what we agreed on, yeah? Said you would. So go.”

Your hands shake as you hold the book against your chest. You nod quickly, eager to please him, and you feel relieved when he smiles.

You open the novel and flip to the bookmarked page. You can feel him watching you from his place between your legs and you attempt to cover your face with the pages before he’s quickly—and easily—pushing the book back down.

He gives you a certain look that makes you swallow, and you nod again.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

“S’okay,” he says. He’s trying not to smile. “But I wanna see you. You know that.”

You swallow for a second time and flick your attention back to the page. “So…just…anywhere?”

He hums. “Anywhere.”

You straighten up and clear your throat. “Damien was quiet as he entered Elizabeth’s bedroom. He could see her laid out in wait. Her familiar silhouette illuminated in the gentle light of the moon. He’d know her anywhere.”

You glance at Harry. He’s smirking. Intrigued. And you feel your cheeks warm as you look back to the story. Even if it’s not inherently smutty yet, you know it’s coming.

“He walked closer, careful not to disturb her peace as he made his way into her space. Pulling the soft blanket away from her hips to reveal the silk nightgown underneath.” You take a deep breath. You feel Harry squeeze your ankle. “He…he could see her glistening cunt beneath the sheer fabric. She’d been waiting for him. Working herself up in anticipation for his return. So it would be easier for him to take her once he arrived.”

As you read, you feel Harry’s fingers travel up the length of your leg and toward the large shirt resting around your hips. He pulls it back to reveal your glistening pussy. Equally as worked up as the one in the story.

You hesitate, embarrassed and enamored, before he nods once to reassure you. He’s far too amused to let you stop now. After all, this was your deal. You would read, he would reenact.

Your insides twist as you continue. “She stirred the moment his cold fingertips made contact with her warm skin. Still, he was gentle. He stroked and he pulled and he situated her where he wanted her. She was good. Quiet. Allowing herself to be moved without so much as a whimper.”

In turn, Harry’s large hands tighten around your hips. Tugging you away from the headboard and closer to his face. You gasp and clutch the book as though it’ll save you, but nothing can save you now.

“Go,” he murmurs and it’s anxious. He knows what’s coming and he knows he can’t begin until Damien does.

You continue. “Her body greeted him the way it always did. It was warm to the touch and seemed to call to him like a siren. Luring him closer until he had no choice but to take a taste.”

Harry scoots closer. Ready.

“His tongue flattened against her and he savored her need until he was short of breath. Licking and nipping at her until she awoke and cried out his name—”

However, you lose the rest the moment Harry’s tongue drags up your cunt and settles against your clit. And you decide that this is much better than reading alone because this is infinitely more vivid than the image in your head. Better than Damien, better than your own hand, better than a toy.

And Harry is beautiful. With his sharp, strong jaw that somehow looks sharper with the way he mouths at you. With his curls that are falling against his forehead and with the muscles that flex whenever he tightens his hold on your legs.

You drop the book onto your stomach and whimper, “Harry—”

He stops. Looks up.

“Sir,” you correct quickly. “Sir, please—”

“Keep reading,” he nearly grunts. He juts his chin toward the novel. “Go.”

Your fingers are trembling as you lift the book back up. He expects too much of you when his tongue is lapping at your body the way it is. “He did not waver. She was sensitive from whatever ministrations she had practiced before he arrived, but he carried on. He pulled…he pulled her clit between his teeth and gave her something to cry about.”

Harry follows suit and your eyes roll back. He’s perfect, considering he’s only done this once before. But he knows how to treat you, how to touch you, how to taste you. Better than anyone ever has. He’s insatiable and determined.

“He swallowed her down like a man dying of thirst,” you read through strained, shallow breaths. “She was his vixen. His wet, perfect little dream. Already pulling him closer by her warmth—shit—”

He smacks your thigh. Wrong. You keep reading.

“She pulled his hair and brought him closer. She lived within his lungs. He didn’t want the air she hadn’t touched. He wanted every drop that was wasted on the sheets below. The drops that belonged to him. Because her taste belonged to him. Always.”

Harry’s fingers curl around the backs of your thighs before he lifts them up. Creating more room and space for him to work. And he does. He takes and he groans and he licks a stripe from your ass to your clit. More intimate than you were expecting and you gasp before the book drops.

“No,” he seethes against your pussy. He licks harder, sucks faster. “Keep going.”

“Harry—”

“Go.”

You can hardly see the words through the haze in your eye. They’re melting off the page, blurring together. Still, you try. You obey. “Damien teased her with his finger. He knew she could take him, but he needed to hear her beg.”

In turn, the tip of Harry’s finger begins to smooth through the wet folds beneath his tongue. The sensation is overwhelming and you feel yourself clench at the very thought of him sliding inside. The anticipation almost dreadful.

But he doesn’t. Instead, his eyes find yours. “Beg me.”

Your breath catches. “Harry—”

He slaps your clit. Hard. “Beg me,” he repeats. “Fucking beg me, baby. Beg me to touch you. Beg me to stretch you. Beg me to fuck this cute little hole until you’re coming all down my hand.”

You clutch the paperback novel so hard, you feel it dent. “Harry—”

“Sir,” he corrects sharply. There’s something virile in his eye. A step past insatiable. Depraved. Like a wild animal with his prey.

And you aren’t afraid. You aren’t embarrassed or ashamed. Because you understand this hunger. It's the same hunger you felt after days of not being with him. Of knowing he was with Rebecca while you were alone with your pillow. Knowing he fell asleep in her arms instead of yours.

It's not just some itch you need scratched. It's him. His technique, his aurora, his presence. Mind, body, soul. Him. Nobody else will ever do it for you the way he can. Not even Damien.

“Beg me,” he repeats from below, ravenous attention locked on you. “Beg me, Kitten…and I’ll give it to you.”

You hold the book in one hand and his curls in the other. “Please,” you exhale. It’s airy and faint, but filled with a kind of desperation you know he understands. “Please, Sir. Please touch me. Please…it hurts.”

He hums and swipes his tongue over your clit. Teasingly. Temptingly. He thinks. “Does it?”

You nod quickly. “Anytime I’m not with you, it hurts. Please…nobody else can fix it.”

There’s a soft smile on his glistening lips. One you almost don’t catch through the tears in your lashes. “Nobody, hm?”

You shake your head.

“Have you been trying to find somebody else, Kitten?” He nips at you again. “Have you been going around, trying to give away what’s mine?”

Your eyes widen and your skin warms. You hate how much you love the possessive undertone. Even if he doesn’t mean it. “Never.”

He looks back up. “Do you promise?”

You swallow. You do promise, even though the truth is…you aren’t his. And you don’t imagine you ever will be. Still, you whisper, “I promise.”

And you mean it. More than anything.

Satisfied, the tip of his finger begins to push you open. Stretching the warm, quivering walls that are anxious to draw him in, effortlessly easing the ache in your stomach.

You let out a relieved sigh that makes him smirk and you adore his smugness. More than you should.

“Keep reading,” he repeats yet again while thrusting his finger in and out at a deviously slow pace.

The book shakes as it’s brought back up. “She…she pulled his hair and whispered his name. And he’d never heard something so beautiful. Her mouth was good for many things, but moaning his name was perhaps Damien’s favorite.”

Harry kisses everywhere he can. Your cunt, your thighs, your hip. Pulling at the skin and sucking it until it’s bright red and swollen before soothing it gently with his tongue.

“She was trembling beneath him,” you read. “She was sensitive and ready to give him her second orgasm. And he was ready to take it—”

“And are you ready, baby?” Harry says to you now. His grin is mischievous as he awaits your response. Because he knows you are. Knows that you were a good girl, that you did your homework and obeyed his instruction. That you touched yourself before he arrived, exactly like Elizabeth had.

You let out an unsteady breath and nod once. “Yes.”

“Good. Keep going."

You go back to your novel. “When she came, she was loud. Her naked body gleamed beneath her nightgown, covered in those dewy beads of sweat that made his mouth water. He wanted to run his tongue up and down every inch of her. To taste her, fully. To have her inside of him the way he was desperate to be inside her.”

Harry suddenly crawls up your body and begins to drag his tongue along your shaky stomach. A trail of saliva follows in the wake of his mouth and you can’t help but whimper as you watch him move toward your chest.

“Read,” he murmurs against your left tit, leaving you no choice but to oblige.

“When the light found her eyes, he saw what she really wanted,” you continue. “She pulled on him again and pleaded, ‘Damien, please. I can’t wait.’ So, he took himself from her swollen cunt and pressed his mouth to hers. He gave her a taste of herself and she swallowed it all, gladly—”

And before you can even ready yourself, Harry is taking your lips with his and sucking. Biting. Having. Feeding that hunger until you melt beneath him. Giving you the same taste Damien gave Elizabeth.

His tongue feels good against yours and the sensation is unfathomable. But not because of you...because of him.

He knows you can’t read very well like this, but he doesn’t mind. He draws back and holds your jaw in his palm until you open your mouth in acceptance. And then…he spits. Right down your throat, as though every drop belongs to you.

And you swallow it all. Gladly.

His kisses eventually move back down before he instructs you to finish the scene. And you struggle your way through it, despite how anxious you are to reach the end. “Her pussy welcomed him in and it felt like coming home. He held her throat in his hand and whispered, ‘Tell me, my love. Tell me what you did while I was away. Tell me exactly how you touched yourself as you waited.’”

You feel Harry nudge his nose underneath your chin before he says, “Go on, baby. Tell me.”

You close your eyes and allow the memory to find you. “I thought of you,” you tell him softly. Quietly. You’re embarrassed again and you don’t know why. “Thought of how you knew what I was doing while I did it.”

You feel him smile against your throat.

“Thought about what you told me to do,” you continue. “How…how you told me to take good care of your pussy until you got here.”

He hums and it seems to vibrate through the fingers still pumping inside your cunt. “And you did, didn’t you?”

You nod wordlessly.

“Tell me how.”

Another mesmerized inhale. “I was here,” you whisper. The noise he makes this time is greedier. “I was here and I…I remembered how you looked last time. I thought of you, and I…I tried to do what you would do.”

He grins a bit wider and it makes your chest swell. “Is that right, Kitten?”

“Mhm.” You clutch the book to keep from writhing. “And I moaned your name when I came. Knew I couldn’t come for anybody else. Didn’t want to.”

He nuzzles his face in your shoulder and groans. “God, you’re gonna fucking kill me, baby. You know that? My ego’s already too big.”

“Maybe,” you laugh breathlessly. “But it should be. You’re so good, Harry. Couldn’t wait to see you. Think I came just picturing you walking through my door.”

He leans back now and your heart drops. Perhaps that was a bit too honest. Too intimate. Especially considering that he’s still not yours to have.

He studies you a moment and you wait. Timidly. Preparing yourself for the disappointment that might follow his reply.

Then, he dips down, and nuzzles his nose against yours. “You’re too good to me,” he exhales. It sounds heavy. Scared. Sweet. “I don’t deserve you, Kitten. I hope you know that.”

You drop the book and take hold of the curls against the back of his neck. You squeeze them tight in your fist as you shake your head. You hate the resolve in his voice. “That’s not true. I’m just…here. I’m just me. You’re the one going out of your way to help me.”

Another smile but it’s softer. Sadder. “I think you’re helping me more than I’m helping you.”

You lift up and kiss him. “We’re helping each other,” you decide. “For as long as we can.”

When he kisses you back, you feel limitless. “Good.” He smacks his other hand against the outside of your leg. “Now, finish the chapter. We’re just getting to the good bit.”

You nearly whine but you do obey. Flipping through the pages until you find where you last left off. “Elizabeth looked at him, unabashedly. ‘What would you have liked me to do?’ she asked. Her voice was a silky purr. ‘How would you have liked me to touch myself without you? Would you have liked me to be soft and tender? Or would you have liked me to be just as hard and relentless as you?’”

Harry listens carefully, kissing a trail along down your chest while his fingers begin to work you closer. He knows you’re only moments away. Somehow, he always knows.

“‘Would you have preferred that I soak our sheets? Would you have liked to see the aftermath of my lust for you?’ She dragged her nails down his back. ‘Or do you like to know that I cannot touch myself the way you touch me? That my body does not respond to my hand the way it does yours?’”

Suddenly, he adds a third finger and your mouth instantly drops open. It starts to unravel before you can stop it and when he thrusts to the knuckle, you see those stars again. The same stars that brought him to you.

“Harry,” you gasp. You clutch his hair and his tongue dives forward. “Shit, Harry, wait—”

You come but he doesn’t stop. Damien might have, but Harry is most certainly not Damien. He flicks and sucks and pumps until you begin to cry. Until your legs are shaking on either side of his head and you’ve nearly yanked the curls from his skull.

Still, he pushes you toward a second—or rather, a third. And it’s far too quick for your liking.

“Har…shit, Harry, please—” You squirm and you fight against the almost painful pleasure radiating between your legs. “Hurts…hurts, Harry, please—”

“Don’t care,” you vaguely hear him murmur before he’s nipping at your clit again. “Again.”

Your cheeks are soaked and your fingers move from his curls to the bed beneath. You clutch the sheets and arch from the mattress, but he shoves you back down.

“Again,” he says. He slaps your pussy and you mewl. “You’ve done it before. Know you can do it again. Be good for me, come on. Be fucking good.”

And it’s almost sinister but it works. You come for a third time and your body feels wrecked. Ruined. Spent. You lose yourself in the sensation and by the time you find yourself again, he’s pulling his cock out and lining himself up.

“Read,” he demands next. He nods at the book. He’s determined to see this through. “Go. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Told me you used to fuck yourself to these books, so I wanna fuck you to them, too. Wanna show you how much better the real thing is. So fucking read it, baby.”

You mindlessly reach for the novel beside you and drag it back open. You know he’s right and you plan to rush through the rest of the chapter so you can throw the book away and never open it again.

“When he pushes in, his breath becomes hers,” you whisper. “Her cunt accepts his cock and molds to it. And he knows, undoubtedly, that her pussy was made for him. That she was sewn together in the heavens and left on his lap for such a purpose. Because no one would ever be able to please her the way Damien could. No other man could even try. She was made for him. To be loved by him. To be fucked by him. To live and die for him. They were one.”

Harry waits for you to finish the thought before he finally pushes forward, the tip of his large head disappearing between your folds.

He braces himself against your hips and your lungs nearly give out. And he watches. He watches every fucking second of the way his cock stretches you open. Curses when he sees the way you accept him. Grits his teeth and fists your skin until he’s completely bottomed out.

And then…he kisses you.

Long and slow and it almost feels grateful. Like he’s thanking you for letting him inside and you sigh against his mouth.

Then, the book is suddenly snatched from your hand and chucked across the room before he kisses you harder. He growls, “Enough. You don’t come for him anymore. You fucking come for me. Is that understood?”

You whine his name but it’s not enough.

“Is that fucking understood?” he repeats louder. “You are not to pick up that goddamn book as long as you’re mine, do you hear me? You will not touch yourself to another man’s words or soak these fucking sheets for anybody else but me.”

And even if Harry isn’t a possessive man by nature, you thrive off the instruction. The threat—the demand. You imagine he doesn’t truly mean it, nor would he be that cross with you if you were to do it again.

But it fits the scene and you want to be perfect for him. “I understand,” you whimper. You bite your lip but he bites it harder. “Though, technically…it was written by a woman.”

You like to think he’d laugh if it were any other time. Today, however, he merely yanks himself out of your pussy and flips you around.

You’re on your stomach and spread before you can catch your breath. And you feel him push back in without a moment’s hesitation while his hand comes down in a firm smack to your ass.

You cry out his name and nuzzle your cheek against the bed. You miss being able to see him, but you happen to adore this side of him, too.

“Did I fucking ask?” he hisses before spanking you again. You feel your skin grow hot where his hand lands and somehow, it brings you even closer to release. “Huh? I don’t fucking care who wrote it. It is no longer yours to read. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” you say again. “I do, Sir. I promise.”

He kneads the tender flesh in his palm before mumbling, “Good girl. Now, are you gonna take my cock, Kitten? You gonna let me show you how a real man does it?”

Thankfully, your fervent nod is answer enough and with that, he begins a harsh, unforgiving pace that turns your insides to jello.

The bed shakes and your body shakes and this is fucking. The kind you’ve only ever seen in porn and you are so incredibly present in this moment with him. You drink in every detail, the way he holds your body, the way he fucks into your pussy, the way it sounds when he slips.

His hips feel good against your ass and his soft grunts are euphoric. A few rendezvous aren’t enough, you realize. You thought you were addicted before but now…

You don’t think it’s fair that he doesn’t have to share you, but you have to share him. And you can’t hide the pout that forms on your lips at the very thought of him leaving you—leaving your warmth—to go find it with someone else.

And you know he’s not like that. You know he’s not actively with anybody else but you…and occasionally Rebecca. Still, the chance is there. The offer is his for the taking, should he decide to take it.

When you go quiet, he weaves his fingers through your hair. “Baby, what’s wrong?” It’s still gruff the way he speaks but laced with tender concern. The kind you’re used to from him.

You replace the pout with a small smile. “Nothing, Sir. I promise.”

“Would you like to take a break? Or change colors?”

You shake your head. “No. I promise.”

He slows his thrusts. “Are you thinking again?” he asks gently. “Did I lose you to those ugly thoughts?”

You could almost cry from the way he notices. The way he cares. Still, you force a brave face. “No, sorry. Just feels really good.”

He’s unconvinced. “Kitten—”

“Please don’t stop, Sir,” you whimper. You use the quiver in your voice to persuade him. To keep him in this moment with you instead of trying to yank you out. “Please, I’m…I’m so close. Just wanna come with you.”

You hear him sigh and the firm grip on your hip loosens. “All right,” he concedes, yet…he pulls out.

You nearly wither.

However, before you can, he’s rolling you over onto your back. “I wanna try something else with you this time,” he says. “Wanna see if you’d ride me.”

You feel your eyes grow larger while your head nods all on its accord.

And he grins when he sees how mesmerized you are, grabbing your hand to help you up as you both get situated near the headboard. An easier place to start.

He pulls you over his thighs before he’s slipping his hands beneath your large shirt to pull it over your head. And once he has full access to your chest, he takes advantage. Kissing and licking your tits while his palm flattens against your spine to keep you on his tongue.

Then, you sit.

You start slow, and he uses his other hand to guide your hips at a pace he prefers. A pace he knows will be easier on you. After all, you’ve never taken him like this, and he’d like you to enjoy every fucking inch of the way down.

You gasp and cling to his shoulders as you go. This stretch is just as tantalizing, yet strangely more pleasurable. He feels deeper than he ever has and you glance down at where your bodies meet as though you’ll be able to see just where he is.

He smiles and takes your hand. “Right here,” he murmurs, as though anticipating your wonder. He presses your palm flat against your stomach before nudging himself up into you and—

The gasp melts into a moan, and he thrusts up once more but keeps your hand taut to your tummy. To the subtle bulge you can feel moving beneath.

“Sh…shit,” you manage, nails scratching at your skin. “I’m…fuck, Harry, I—”

“I know,” he says gently. He’s watching you again. Curious to your reaction and seemingly enthralled by your response. Happy. Content. “I know, baby. S’good, yeah?”

You surge forward and kiss him. Taking your hand away only so you can drag it down his chest and claw at his heart as though desperate to reach inside and take hold. To keep it. Forever.

You can feel it thumping against his ribcage. Going about as fast as you imagine yours is and there’s something so incredibly wonderful about knowing he’s equally as possessed as you are.

He seems to realize he’s the first man to do something so intimate with you and he likes this idea. Likes that he will always be your first memory, forever ingrained in your past. He holds you harder and kisses you deeper and begins to move you faster over his cock.

You shift, and grind, and ride him until you’re both a mess of moans and incoherent praises. He helps lift you up and guide you back down, setting a strangely addictive pace of bouncing on his cock until you’re nearing a fourth. But you won’t succumb until he does.

Your body is spent, every limb tired and aching for relief. It almost hurts, this pleasure, but it’s oddly sweet. Everything always is with him.

“Doing so good,” you hear him say, and you peel your eyes open to watch the way he watches you. His face is magnetic, every inch of him just as erotic as the sex itself. Even the way he swallows and clenches his jaw in pure bliss. “So fucking good, Kitten, you gonna give me another?”

You mewl pitifully and attempt to nod but it’s useless. The pressure is building and the ache is distracting and you’re close but somehow not nearly close enough.

Yet your tears and meek reaction only entertain him further. He grins wickedly as he rolls you faster, taking your nipple in his mouth before looking up. “What’s the matter, baby, hm? S’it hurt?”

You nod again while your hands cement themselves to his shoulders for balance.

However, he merely hums while his fingers suddenly lift toward his lips and disappear beside his tongue. And he sucks. Loudly. Lewdly. Until they’re soaked and dripping.

And then…he drops them to your clit.

The sound you make is miserable and pathetic. It does hurt but in the best way and you bury your face in his neck as though to hide from the pleasure.

You feel him nuzzle his cheek against your head. “Shh,” he coos, and rubs his other hand up and down your spine soothingly. “You’re okay. You’re gonna take it, aren’t you? Gonna give me another—”

“Harry,” you cry, gripping onto his curls as though your life depends on it.

“You’re okay,” he repeats firmly. “You’re fine. I know you can take me, so take me. Just like you took your little fingers before I got here. You come for me the way you came for him. Okay?”

It’s mean and cruel and so incredibly sadistic but with one little pinch…he tips you over.

It’s quick but powerful and you’re drop kicked back into your body just in time to feel him twitch before he’s slamming you down and hissing, “Can I?”

You nod and he fills you. Completely and utterly, until your insides feel even fuller and your mind has gone numb.

His head drops back against the headboard, lashes fluttering shut with relief while you watch. You watch all of it. The way he dribbles out of your pussy and down onto his thighs. The way his cock sits snugly inside of you. The way his skin glistens from the sweat and exertion.

But you can’t help the whine that slips out when you see those delicious pearlescent drops go to waste and you squirm when you realize how much you’re really losing.

You’ve never been one to care about keeping it inside. In fact, you’ve never really cared about it at all. But now…it feels like you’re losing him. You’re losing this experience by letting it drip down and disappear, and you nearly start to cry.

He takes hold of your cheek and gently sweeps his thumb across the soaked, warm skin of your face. “Baby,” he breathes. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow thickly and attempt to relax. You don't imagine he'd understand. “Nothing, sorry.”

His head tilts but he’s still smiling. “Then why are you clenching me so hard? What’s wrong? Are you in pain, does it hurt?”

“No. No,” you assure him quickly. “No, I just…I don’t know. Feels like…a waste, I guess.”

He’s confused until you look down and the moment he realizes, he laughs again. “Oh, you sweet fucking girl—” He tugs you in for another kiss and now your body is numb, too. “God, I really don’t fucking deserve you.”

You whimper against his tongue and he sighs.

“I’ll give you more, don’t worry,” he says before kissing down your throat. “Next time. I promise. But right now, I wanna clean you up and make sure you’re all right.”

You’d likely protest if you had the strength, but instead, you allow him to care for you. He sets you down onto the bed as gently as he can before he’s rushing around your apartment collecting the things he needs.

He starts with a warm washcloth along your inner thighs to collect the sticky residue and add a bit of relief to your swollen cunt. And even though it’s sensitive and you try to squirm away, he soothingly talks you through it. Keeping you calm. Steady. Present.

Then, once he’s washed himself up as well, he asks if it would be all right to hold you. And it’s the easiest yes you’ve ever given.

So you stay in his arms for hours, your head on his chest, his lips in your hair. You talk about everything and nothing, just listening to the sound of his heart as he recalls past moments that made him happy. Like this one.

Then, your favorite part. He asks what you’d like to do next time.

“I don’t know,” you admit sheepishly. “I…I’m not sure what all I like.”

He thinks. “Well, we could do some research. Try a few things. You said you like things rougher, yeah? We could add some new dynamics. Degradation, harder spanking, punishments. Things like that.”

Your stomach flips. “You’re into punishment?”

He laughs and the sound is beautiful. “Yeah. Why, does that surprise you?”

“Honestly…yes and no.”

“We don’t have to go too deep if you don’t want,” he says. “We can keep it light, but the option is always there.”

You nod. “And…you like being rougher? You like…degradation and all that?”

“Yeah. Because I know my partner trusts me to take care of them even if I’m being harsh. And there’s something powerful in that, I guess. That their pain and their pleasure belongs to me.”

You feel yourself clench at the very thought before you’re scooting closer. “Well…that sounds good to me. I like being taken care of by you. Even if you’re mean.”

He laughs. “Was I mean, Kitten?”

“No. Just oddly possessive over that book.”

He hums before he looks toward the discarded novel on the other side of the room. “Yeah, well…fuck that book. I mean it.”

Now, it’s your turn to laugh. “Harry.”

“What? I do mean it.” He kisses your forehead. “You deserve better than some half-assed attempt at sex on a page. You deserve to be fucked and looked after. And Damien isn’t gonna do that for you.”

“No, but…I have other books.”

He snorts. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah. I just picked an easy one since I didn’t want you to get too jealous.”

“Is that right?”

“Yup. Although that clearly didn’t work very well.”

You feel him land a firm smack to your ass that makes you squeal before you settle again.

“Watch it,” he warns. “Or I’ll pull you over my lap right now.”

You grin. “Maybe you should.”

And when he chuckles, you feel whole. “Next time. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The room falls silent again as you exist in his hold. Against his heart. In his life in a way you never imagined.

And then…you ruin it.

“Was she surprised you were coming over again?” you ask quietly, breath already catching in anticipation of his response. “Or was she…mad?”

Yet true to form, he’s calm. “No,” he says easily. “She was happy, honestly. Just surprised you didn’t mention it to her yourself.”

You grimace. Right. “I…yeah. Sorry, I…I think I got scared.”

You feel his cheek roll across your head before he’s scratching his nails up and down your back. “Why, Kitten?” he asks softly. “She’s not scary, I promise.”

“I know. Fuck, I know. I know, I…I don’t know.” You groan. “I think I…I just think I’m still not used to this. To this idea of…sharing? And I keep worrying that she’s gonna change her mind and…and it’ll be over. Just like that.”

He considers this for a beat before he’s kissing your crown again. “She’s not like that. I promise. She never would have agreed if she thought she’d change her mind.”

“…I know.”

“And even if she did, she doesn’t get to make that decision for us,” he tells you. “If we want to continue, that’s our choice. And nobody else’s.”

This makes you smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Another kiss. “But you know she doesn’t want this to upset you. She cares about you a lot, Kitten. She values your friendship more than anything and she’d hate to know she’s made you so anxious.”

And just like that, you feel dejected again. “I know…”

“I don’t want to come between you two,” he whispers, and you know he means it. “And if I am—”

“No,” you interject. “No, you’re not. But I don’t want to come between you two, either.”

“You’re not,” he echoes smugly. “And I think that’s why this works. We’re good at sharing. At least with each other. And I like it this way.”

The contentment in his voice makes your heart swell and you reach up to kiss him firmly in response.

But the truth is, you don’t think you are very good at sharing. At least not him.

Although, you suppose you’ll have to learn.

Because next time…you don’t plan to let him go.

Writing smut inside smut is no joke 😭

Next Part:

~ Insufferable You* (Pt. 3)

Previous Part:

~ Infinite You* (Pt. 1)

~ Full Infinite You Masterlist

~ Main Masterlist

Amazing divider by @firefly-graphics! 💞

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics @0nlythrowharrybeaux @hannahdressedasabanana @iguessyourejustwhatineeded @dylanobandposts21 @butdaddyilovehim-hs

#harry #harry styles #harry edward styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles x you #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fan #harry styles smut #harry styles request #harry styles concept #smut #concept #friend!harry #harry and kitten #open relationship!harry #soft dom!harry

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kyoghurts · 6 months

Text

LOVER ACTS. mashle headcanon 𞥙୧

˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ being your lover and being in love comes with a habit, sprung from the ground and grows like a flower. MASHLE VARIOUS CHARS have a habit of . . .

ᥫ᭡ MASH BURNEDEAD

. . . resting his chin on your palm at any chance he sees. this guy is so tenderly and quietly affectionate especially in the physical aspect. you might say he’s a bit of a touch starved. he won’t say it, though if you ask him he won’t lie to you either. so whenever you’re both alone and doing insignificant things, you offer your hand for him to plant a small kiss and he’ll just keep his lips on your palm, or rest his chin, looking into your eyes with intensity that tells you so much. you need not ask the gods if he’s meant for you or you’re meant for him. he only has eyes for you, only you.

ᥫ᭡ LANCE CROWN.

. . . playing with your hair. or simply making it a routine to tend to your hair: comb, trim (if it gets too long), braid, and if he’s in the mood to dive more intimate: he’ll wash your hair. he’s like your personal hairdresser, he might as well be, with how good he is at taking care of them. when outside or at class, he’ll absentmindedly brush a few strands off your face or slightly ruffle them. but sometimes it gets annoying for you, and when you try to pry off his hands you’ll have yourself blessed by the airy chuckle you hear from lance. mind you, getting this kind of reaction from your boyfriend occurs once in a blue moon, so, you’ll say nothing. instead, you’ll savor every breath of it and how his hands can be so good to you (and your hair.)

ᥫ᭡ FINN AMES

. . . sending small trinkets. handmade letters, doodles from only half spending his attention to his lecturers, paper cranes, stickers, you know it. you’re pretty sure your room is going to be full with his little stuffs, and he’s not going to hide the sheer happiness he feels whenever he visits you. he’ll ask you where you put them or if he sees it displayed out in the open, he’s going to get all misty about it. and he would want to create more for you for this purpose: to show the contents of his love for you.

ᥫ᭡ DOT BARRETT.

. . . singing you crappy & cheesy love songs. oh i know this man is going to be super annoying and loud but but but— you can tolerate it. why? this guy can sing like he’s destined to step on the stage. it can also be the sole reason why you fell for him, he’s not afraid to express himself. not to you or anyone, whether you’re out in public or private, he will sing to you all the love songs he knows. and from the way you playfully shut him up with light jabs (or if you’re feeling confident in yourself, a quick kiss to his lips), it will be the key that gives way to your feelings. and well, its okay, you’re not afraid to express yourself, either.

ᥫ᭡ LEMON IRVINE

. . . recommending songs & films. even better, you both could listen/watch to it! she’ll be over the moon, painted by glistening stars of happiness, bonus points if you tell her in a novel detailed way on your thoughts after, does it remind you of something? a memory? a feeling? how and why so? you could ramble until the sun comes shining, she’ll never get tired of it, never of you.

ᥫ᭡ RAYNE AMES.

. . . spoiling/treating you with gifts. he’ll come home and there’s not an ounce of surprise written off your face as you see literal shopping bags and what’s funny is that he won’t look at you in the eye, he’s just going to shove it to you and walk away. you could go shopping together and, granted that he is perceptive, he will buy anything that catches your eye for a minute longer. never say no. you will regret it. he’s going to sulk, he’s going to ignore you until you apologize. (in the form of taking and accepting his gifts so yeah, he still wins in the end.) also uh, he also has a habit of nuzzling his head on the crook of your neck hehe :3

ᥫ᭡ ABYSS RAZOR.

. . . gazing at your eyes and complimenting them. i’m pretty sure he’ll also slip a few flowery words on every part of your face, but i will emphasize on the eyes. they’re so captivating to him, they tell a story about a kind soul such as yours, and it reminds him how he’s so loved and seen. and when you tell him he’s the reason the sparkle in your eyes exist? how it softens whenever it connects with his? the world will never know the feeling that abyss has in his heart, and it’s immense—but never heavy, its full, its floating, its beautiful. you’re beautiful, inside and out.

ᥫ᭡ ABEL WALKER.

. . . taking you to a romantic and fancy dinner on a very well-known restaurant with candle lits and everything because he is the absolute elegant of a man and he will treat you the way you deserve to be treated. like the goddamn queen/king that you are. like the goddamn your highness that you are. and when he takes you home, let the moonlight grace your face but let him kiss your lips like the world is about to end. i cannot imagine him acting otherwise. take this hc or leave it.

notes. pops in randomly hi :3 pops out and become inactive for the next few days

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dcxdpdabbles · 2 months

Note

Hey, if you’re doing requests, can you please do another part of Alfred’s boy? Maybe a rogue attack at the opera?

Wes warned Danny three times that the doors would not open from the outside as soon as the show started. This meant that if he got up to use the bathroom, he would not be allowed back in until intermission.

Danny nodded along each time with a little half-amused and half-tired smile. Jason watched them from the corner of his eyes, and then a quick glance at his other side showed his siblings, who were rapidly becoming angry that Danny wasn't even looking at them.

Tim, in particular, was fuming. He had apparently called off a grave undercover mission to go to the opera with them—why that meant he had to dress as a giant duck, Jason will never know.

Thankfully Jason and Dick were sitting between the two groups as a solid buffer- with Dick purposely being placed before Jason as a human shield- and he had made sure Danny winded up with a wall on one side so that the little urchins couldn't claim the other seat.

If that didn't make them burn, nothing else would.

He was having the time of his life. Jason should come home more often; this was like one of his favorite novels.

Suddenly, Danny stiffens, holding a hand over his mouth with a slight gasp. His face crumbles into a grimace, and he shifts his eyes around as if worried someone noticed. Jason thinks he has some mints he can offer the kid.

Bad breath on a date is honestly so embarrassing. Mentally, he cringes at the thought of Katy Moon. She never let him live it down- that was until he died a year later.

Jason watches as Wes immediately snaps to attention at Danny's action, glancing around the room with an intensity he had not previously seen on the teen. That was.....a very odd reaction.

Was it not a case of bad breath?

"Everything-"

"Bathroom. Excuse us, we have to hurry before the show starts." Wes tells him, grabbing Danny's hand and quickly descending the aisle. He sidesteps his siblings, who are all pressing their legs against their seats to make the path a little easier to pass through.

Jason is happy to notice that he is not the only one who senses the urgency in their movements. Cass, who had just been on her phone taking selfies, is now also searching for whatever danger the boys have noticed.

She makes a hand motion that tells the rest of the Bats the area is clear. Jason relaxes a smidge as he, too, has failed to find any danger.

"I'll accompany you," Damian announces, standing up from his chair. Danny gives Wes a wild, quick glance that has every bell ringing in Jason's head. It's not fear, exactly, more of a glance of someone who doesn't know how to politely decline an invitation.

Wes shakes his head with an easy smile that Damian does not like. "Sorry, but I want to spend some alone time with Danny. You understand."

Steph's hands curl into claws in her seat as she hisses, "Alone time?"

Cass pats her hand softly. "Alone time is very important. Have a good time Danny, Wes"

"Thank you for understanding, Miss Cass." Danny chirps as he hurries out. Through the door of the box seat, they can see that he glances around rapidly, but instead of heading toward the restrooms, Danny races in the opposite direction.

Wes for some reason, pulls out a lipstick stick from his pocket running after him. Why would he-Oh.

Oh. Danny, you sly dog. Jason shares a knowing look with Dick before they both have to stop the rest of the brats from going after the two teenage boys.

Not dating his ass.

They wait for about seventeen minutes, where Dick and Cass have to stop the rest of the brats from going to search for Danny. Jason also does the same, but his word isn't nearly as compelling as Dick's own or Cass's immovable blank stare down. The lights dim, and he just started to worry himself when Danny and Wes stumble back through, apologizing to the usher, who was in the motion of locking the door.

Danny's hair is in dismay, his clothes are rumbled, and he has a bright flush on his face. Wes is sweaty, has an equally red face, and has a swollen lower lip.It does not take a genius to guess what they were getting up to.

"We made it! I was so scared we would miss the curtain call and have to watch the show from the hallway's TVs." Wes cheers, hurrying to his chair. He seems blissfully unaware of the poison the younger Waynes are attempting to glare into him. Wes would go home in a casket if any of them had heat vision.

"I'm sorry, Wes," Danny whispered in a soft, small voice. Jason only heard him because he was right in front of him on Danny's way to his seat when he did. "I didn't want you to have to do deal with this when you were here."

"Are you kidding? I get to the full Phantom of the Opera experince," Wes laughs, nudging Danny. "Best seats in the house too."

Danny's face blooms into a bright smile, lacing their hands together as Wes settles for the show. He barely notices when Danny's head comes down to rest on his shoulder, allowing the other boy to press closer as the performers take their places and the live orchestra starts up the first few tunes of the music.

Jason stares at the pair for a moment, wondering what Wes was talking about. They're here to watch Orfeo ed Euridice.

#dcxdpdabbles #Alfred's boy #A deleted Pov of what was happening in Part 6 #There is a fight but the Waynes aren't aware #Danny and Wes are really not helping the secret relationship allegations #Jason's Pov #Part 6.5 #dcxdp crossover

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jadeylovesmarvelxo · 3 months

Text

There's Eddie and then there's you, who has moved into the trailer park. Eddie discovers this one morning and proceeds to make an ass of himself. Features cute and flirty Eddie.

Or alternatively Eddie spots you while he's rushing to get to his van for school and nearly knocks himself out.

Eddie has no game but he tries, sweet Eddie.

🖤

Eddie doesn't pay much attention to the new family moving into the trailer park. He's too focused on getting a song prepared for Saturday at The Hideout, alternating that with writing in his notebook, poring over ideas for a new Hellfire campaign.

Wayne pokes his head out of the trailer door, he's clutching cups of coffee for them both. Eddie's coffee is in his favourite mug- the Garfield one that Wayne bought for him when he first moved in with him many moons ago.

He gulps the coffee down, almost burns his tongue at the scalding temperature then swears when he realises what time it is. Shit shit shit. He's already late for school, he's determined to graduate this year so no skipping any boring shit no matter how much he wants to.

It's when he's climbing inside his van that he realises he's forgotten his essay for Mrs O'Donnell's class, it took him long enough to write the shit. If this was about D&D or metal music or any one of the fantasy novels he loves then he'd ace it, but it's not and he's not interested in another fucking love story.

Honestly, he wouldn't put it past the old dragon to fail him if he forgot the essay and he can't use the excuse that a dog ate it- that got him a week's detention last time.

It's then that he sees the trailer door open that's not far from Mayfield's house and he's not seen who's moved into the new trailer so sue him, he's curious and looks over.

You can imagine his surprise when he catches a hint of a cheerleading uniform then you peer up at him, the momentum as he runs or if he's being honest tries to strut and the fact he's gawking at you causes him to trip over his feet and he nearly knocks himself out on his van door and sprawls on the ground.

"Jesus h Christ" he growls and he cringes that he almost knocked himself out because he was hawking at a pretty lady. Smooth Munson. Real smooth.

"Are you alright?" Suddenly you're beside him, kneeling in the grass and peering over him anxiously. He thinks he might have died and he's now in heaven because your fingers are in his hair and you murmur that you're checking for blood.

"Beautiful" he thinks to himself but then he realised he said it out loud and a pink blush coats his cheeks. You bite your lip and a sweet smile blooms on your face.

"Okay, I think you've definitely hit your head" You grin at him and his heart is fluttering, racing like a hummingbird's wings. Fuck, he has no game when it comes to women, usually he tries to make them laugh or makes an overdramatic fool of himself.

But this right now with you? this stumps him and makes him nervous. Eddie was rarely nervous, perfecting a don't give a fuck demeanour over the years but one look from you and he's putty. Feels shy and tongue-tied, he can't remember the last time he was ever tongue-tied.

Trying very carefully not to make an ass of himself he gets up and takes a bow which makes you giggle. "Eddie Munson at your service princess"

"I know. Your reputation precedes you, Eddie, though you're nothing that I thought you'd be like" he smiles impishly, knows exactly what you mean.

"Mmm, mean, scary and is known to make Jason Carver piss his pants" You snort and nod, eyes lighting up and he's eager to hear your sweet laugh again.

Maybe you have some jock boyfriend who would kick his ass for flirting or talking to his girl but at this moment he could not give a shit.

"Yeah and I didn't expect you to almost knock yourself out just because you looked at me" there's a shyness to your tone and he shrugs.

"It's not often that I'm graced with someone who is so enchanting Milady" he teases but it's the truth at the same time and you

"Enchanting? I've never been called that before" you seem surprised that someone could think that about you and that pisses Eddie off. If you did have a boyfriend then he was the biggest jackass in the world if he didn't show you how special you were.

And he never thought there would ever be a bigger jackass than Jason Carver.

"I've never made a complete ass of myself and nearly gave myself a concussion in front of a girl before sweetheart, guess there are firsts for everything" he hides his smile with a lock of his hair, his heart rate spiking again at the look on your face.

"Should probably get going, I'd offer you a ride but uh I'm sure your boyfriend would kick my ass if I did that and you know you're from the dark side and Hellfire would lose their shit" he's disappointed he can't talk to you more but at least you live close, maybe you would speak again.

It's only when he realises that you've walked past him and you're waiting at the van door that he comes out of his reverie.

"The dark side? We're not in Star Wars and if I was I'd be Leia and kick the dark side's ass. Also it's good that I don't have a boyfriend so you can drive me huh Munson?" You wink at him and his brain short circuits.

No boyfriend. You just winked at him. He feels like a deer in headlights then promptly snaps out of it. Feels like he's the cock of the walk as he struts to his van.

He absolutely does not nearly trip over his own feet again trying to impress you with his suave strut. Absolutely not.

He does.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x cheerleader!reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #soft eddie munson #eddie munson #no vecna

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sylusjinwoon · 2 months

Text

{ 202 }

kiss me.

sylus x (non mc)fem.reader

{ oh, kiss me, beneath the milky twilight | lead me out on the moonlit floor | lift your open hand | strike up the band and make the fireflies dance | silver moon's sparkling | so kiss me… }

sylus was busy with meetings and deals, leaving you to fend for yourself as you kept busy while remaining safely tucked inside of his bedroom.

both luke and kieran were standing guard outside of their boss’ room, shielding you from any potential man that dared wander to your location. knowing that you were heavily guarded, you allowed yourself to relax while lazing around on his bed. sitting back against the headboard, you held a thick, leather-bound tome in your hands, reading an engrossing love story between an immortal vampire and the human woman that he loves.

completely focused on the story you were reading, you were blissfully unaware of how much time had passed, simply snacking on the charcuterie board and sandwiches the personal chef had made for you while taking sips of your red wine. you were right in the middle of your novel when the door bursts open, making your eyes go wide momentarily before relaxing.

sylus was seen taking quick strides to you, loosening his tie as his expensive dress shoes were heard tapping across the floor. “what a damn mess; how dare all of them keep me from you?”

setting aside your book, you open up your arms to sylus, allowing him to land within your embrace. he lets out a huff of your name, features already visibly relaxing when he buries his face within the curve of your neck. taking in the scent of your lavender scented shampoo, sylus lets out a sigh of relief, pressing gentle (almost reverent) kisses against your skin.

you hum while delving your fingers into his hair. “was it a long day for you?”

“hn, you have no idea how much i wanted to strangle those bastards for taking away my time with you.”

you giggle and pick up a sandwich, placing the food against sylus’s lips. with a roll of his eyes, he opens his mouth and takes a bite of it, finishing the rest of the sandwich within mere seconds. you spend the next thirty minutes or so feeding him bites of the food you were unable to finish, with sylus clearing off both full plates of food with a hearty groan.

“thank you for that; i feel much better now, my love.”

with his mood significantly improved, sylus gets off the bed and stands back to his full height. he offers his hand for you to take, and you do so with little hesitation. now within the safety of his arms, sylus twirls you around the luxurious bedroom, humming a tune before leading you toward the record player.

you watch as his long fingertips sift through the collection of records, landing on the one he was searching for before placing it on the player. the moment the needle lands on the vinyl, you heard the gentle instrumentals of a love song, giggling as sylus returns your form to his embrace.

sylus keeps your body locked in a soft and innocent dance with him, chuckling each time he hears your joyous laughter while bringing you inexplicably closer to him. you both continue dancing beneath the moonlight, not stopping until sylus takes a hold of your hand, pressing a kiss against the palm of it.

“had it not been for you, i would have fallen into darkness a long time ago.” a playful smirk graces his handsome features when he leans forward to gently bite down against the side of your hand, earning an audible gasp from you.

amused by your reaction, sylus takes a moment to delve his fingers into your hair. “i love you, more than anyone or anything else in this entire, godforsaken universe. you are what makes me whole… what makes me complete.”

you were left feeling overwhelmed with emotions for him, the love you held for him overflowing, practically brimming over your heart when you huskily whisper to him. “kiss me.”

basking in the way sylus’s breath hitches in response to your gentle command, you stand on the tip of your toes to further reach him, framing at his face while looking at him with a sense of urgency, “you mean the world to me, too… and words can never describe my love for you, so kiss me… and you’ll feel the purity of my love as well.”

sylus needed no further urging after listening to your explanations, surging forward eagerly as he takes both of your hands and places them around his neck. he calls out your name, his voice deepening further, painted with passion and adoration for you before perfectly slotting his lips against yours.

sylus’s kiss was gentle, but demanding, feeling his tongue trace around the borders of your lips, haughtily ordering entrance. with a feign sigh, you open up to him, nearly giggling when you felt just how eager he was to get a taste of you.

you close your eyes when sylus continues to deepen the kiss, letting out a soft moan as sylus growls in response. the way your body kept trembling while trapped in his kiss and embrace was almost too much for you, which in turn made you break from the kiss first in response.

taking deep breaths, you did your best to catch your breath-

yet sylus wasn’t having any of this. instead of giving you a moment to breathe, sylus keeps on chasing your lips, keeping you against him with your lips locked together with him. this uncharacteristic urgency makes you giggle in response, “mmph…! s-sylus… s-stop, i can’t breathe….! hehe- mmmm…”

sylus manages to swallow the rest of your words and moans, unable to stop or pull away from you, quickly becoming addicted to experiencing these playful kisses with you as your grumpy crow kept you in his embrace for the rest of the night ♡

a.n. - ignore me,,,, this is just another self indulgent drabble that i needed in my life (⺣◡⺣)♡

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

#sylus x reader #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #lnds sylus #lads sylus #l&ds sylus #jin woon x reader #jin woon x you #.stories

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stillbeatingheart · 11 months

Text

Face of the Moon excerpt Chapter 9: Name

My mother named me Tilde because she liked the way it felt in her mouth, she liked the way her tongue and lips moved around the consonants. In mathematics it means negation. In English it’s most often used in place of about, it’s an approximation. And in some languages it’s used to note a change of pronunciation.

Truth is, she was probably high when she was filling out the papers. And in the years since, she probably felt some need to explain it when people asked, when people wanted to know why she named her kid the title of a squiggly line.

Amory’s not a word either, but at least it’s unfamiliar enough that most people think it’s just some creative forward-thinking name, some play on amour or something clever. It’s not clever, it’s a town in Alabama that Mom passed through once in the passenger seat of an 18-wheeler while she was hitchhiking across the country. Yes, hitchhiking. How times have changed. In not so many years. Maybe we just think times have changed because it’s not romanticized anymore, it’s something for bums and junkies, not for hippies and broke travelers. Now that the gap year has a name and only rich kids get to do it, it’s not about finding yourself. It’s about losing yourself, or getting lost in the process of becoming an adult.

Mom got lost. And no amazing grace was about to save her. Peyote either.

I never really thought about my name. Only when kids teased me about it being a girl’s name but that didn’t last long when they realized I wore girls clothing too, and owned it. I’d never be one of those kids that apologized with my stance or by trying to blend in, I always knew who I was and what I liked and it didn’t matter to me if others didn’t get it. It wasn’t up to them to understand. It never will be.

People say they just want to be understood. They just want to be around people who get them. Maybe that’s how it was with Jacy. We spent our separate childhoods orbiting the same monsters with different faces, we knew without having to speak any of it. Maybe that’s what it means to be understood. To have the silence and know what it means.

Could I live without it? Yeah. Of course. I’d lived without it before him and I’d live without it after him. The problem is that once you have something for the first time, a part of you awakens. Turns out, that part is hard to kill once it’s come to life.

Ebook available on B&N

#face of the moon ebook #face of the moon novel #face of the moon chapter 9 excerpt #ebook #novel #fiction #literary fiction #novel publishing #self publishing #queer characters #nonbinary character #bisexual character #jacy wilder #tilde hart #love story

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nelle-y · 6 months

Text

You kept me like a secret, but I kept you like an oath

Synopsis: trying to spend time with your boyfriend while keeping your relationship private… or a secret…

Content: Alhaitham x fem!reader, low-profile/secret relationship, angst no comfort, writer!reader,

Warnings: slightly toxic if you squint, guilt-tripping, neglect, arguing, long intro (it gets good i promise), cursing, not proofread

Note: (Title from Taylor Swift’s ‘All Too Well (10 Minute Version) (Taylor’s Version)’) I tried to make this as in-character as possible while trying to convey the conflict of the plot so please let me know if there are any inaccuracies

—

The walls of Lambad’s tavern grew dim as the sun set; you, Tighnari, and Kaveh sat at a table having a little get-together. It didn’t feel complete, though, because two members of the group have yet to arrive. Cyno said he would be late due to an interrogation he has to do. And Alhaitham… he didn’t really give a notice but you all figured he was busy, being the acting grand sage and all that.

After a 30-minute rant about Kaveh’s clients, you talked about writing a new novel but you had no idea how to start it.

“Questions are overrated,” said Kaveh as he downed his drink, “I suggest you start with an at-large murder suspect being chased down by government officials—not guardes or the millelith, literal government officials.”

“You could ask Cyno for inspiration,” Tighnari suggests. You consider the idea but you figured Cyno wouldn’t have the time. “Or you could ask Alhaitham. I remember he has some experience in that field too.”

“Ah, yes,” you reply meekly. “I had forgotten.”

Hearing Alhaitham’s name felt like a stab to the heart, a curse laid upon you. You weren’t sure if it was out of love or suffering. After two years of dating, not a single soul knew about the two of you. As you asked yourself why that is, you give yourself an excuse that he simply wasn’t ready to be out. That he wanted you to make a name for yourself in case people would only remember you as the acting grand sage’s partner and not your rightful title as a writer.

When he first introduced the idea of keeping your relationship low-profile, you thought nothing of it. You knew he had no ill-intentions with the situation, so you agreed. But you thought the coast would be clear 6 months into the relationship.

During that time, the only signs of affection you got from him were when he was seldom tired from work and came home to you, longing for your warmth and drowning you with the most beautifully crafted compliments you could only dream of hearing. It was the side of him only you got to see. It was almost an honor being able to witness such greatness, all the while feeling like a goddess, worshipped and gratified by the gift of your presence.

Nowadays, you no longer felt like a deity worth praying to; that side of him became rarer than it already was.

The times when you were together—together being with the rest of your friends—you would always try to make some sort of contact with him just to feel the thrill of love your heart was aching to have, only for him to starve you of it and leave.

You felt alone, neglected, desperate, nonexistent, like a forgotten dream worth pursuing.

Everytime you thought of leaving, frames and fragments of his flattering psalms and echoing touch seemed worth the mind-numbing pain you’re going through. You’re the only one for me, he’d say. I don’t know what I did to deserve you. He would gaze upon you like you were a full moon, and you would embrace him like he was the sun.

But basking under the sun is bound to get you burned.

About an hour later, already midnight, Cyno had already arrived but Alhaitham was nowhere to be seen. Kaveh has had too many drinks and is now drunk to the core. And with the hopes of seeing Alhaitham’s face for once, you drank your fair share too. Your cheeks glowed with a drunken flush, a fire setting aflame to your frozen heart. Something he could never do.

“Looks like the acting grand sage will not be joining us,” Cyno pointed out.

A guffaw escaped from your throat, “What is there to even expect, Alhaitham has been busy since that damned Azar did… something.”

You can’t think clearly. The laugh you let out almost sounded like a sob, and to be honest, you were on the verge of crying. You were just tired. You needed the warmth only the love of your life could provide.

Then out of the blue, the voice you longed for an eternity echoed through the tavern, tired and monotonous. “Apologies for my utmost tardiness, there were some issues at the akademiya I needed to handle.”

Alhaitham.

Your stomach hurt all of the sudden. You watched as he walked to the seat opposite of you. Shouldn’t you be happy now? You were just about to break down because he wasn’t here. Now that he is, you should be content and watch your boyfriend from afar. But all you could feel was betrayal, the blank agony of despair, the cruel sting of rejection.

He failed to notice the tears that glossed your eyes, assuming it was the reflection of the light. Your gaze pierced his soul with desperation, begging for him to console you and just… do whatever. You were asking for even a squeak, a sliver of concern, the bare minimum.

“Tighnari, how is Collei doing with her studies?” Like he had a shield for your painful daggers, he didn’t even glance at your direction. Disappointment filled you like a glass of wine. You should be used to this by now—the overwhelming weight when he avoided your leg, another desperate cry you needed him to hear.

Tighnari shared Collei’s progress after seeing that you were okay. As much as you were proud of her, you prayed to every archon not to let her be in your situation. Your heart shreds for the other person, it screams his name like a priest in worship, and all that for naught.

The group laughed at something, you weren’t listening all that much. You just felt… empty.

Kaveh’s voice called your name, “Isn’t that right, Y/N?” The group turns to you, who was dazed and distracted. The architect immediately noticed this. He patted your cold hand, “Y/N?”

“Hm? Ah, yes. Yeah, sure.”

Alhaitham laughed, “You seem distracted tonight, Y/N. If you’re looking to write for the akademiya, that kind of attitude will not be tolerated.”

Somehow you got defensive. Was it Alhaitham’s obliviousness? The way he made it seem like you were aloof? His laugh that mocked you in your desolate state? Maybe it was all of the above. Whatever it was, it made you snap.

“Ah, Alhaitham, akademiya this, akademiya that—there are more things to life than work, you know.” Your voice covered up your attacks as simple friendly banter. You’ve gotten good at sucking up your anxieties and steadying your voice all thanks to him. Now you can cover yourself up real nice when you commit a crime. You have a knife in mind, and you’re ready to kill. “Like, I don’t know, a partner, per say.”

Stab.

The grand sage scoffed, “You know very well I don’t have time for such trivial things.” His muscles flex as he crossed his arms. So these were the words he chose to say to you, after centuries of broken promises and empty plates.

“Maybe you would if you actually made the time for one.”

Stab.

“You are aware that you just ignored what I just said, right? Are you even listening?”

Stab.

“Oh, I’ve been listening. For the past two years, I’ve been listening my butt out for you.” It was scarring how unbothered Alhaitham was; you wanted to scream at him. The tightening of your chest, the prickling of tears behind your eyes, the weight of despair settling in your stomach, could he see what you’re going through? “Now, all I ask is a little bit of sympathy because I have been suffering all alone, waking up to an empty bed, not even a-“

“Y/N, what are you talking about?” Alhaitham interrupted you, somewhat panicked. You didn’t realize how loud you were being, up from your seat with your palm stinging from how hard it hit the table. “You know, if you’re having boy problems, you don’t have to take it out on me. It’s not like I’m your boyfriend.”

Right then and there, your world began crashing down. “Alhaitham,” Cyno muttered disapprovingly, making Alhaitham realize how rude he sounded. The tavern’s customers hushed to listen to your table. You hadn’t realized there were so many people.

Without even looking around, you could feel their eyes on you, whispers riddled with scandal.

“They’re being so loud.”

“Has she no shame?”

“In the presence of Acting Grand Sage Alhaitham, too.”

“Look, the general mahamatra is there; she really needs to watch herself.”

The embarrassment, the anger; it all fuelled you with a feeling you could not explain. No metaphor could capture the entirety of the wickedness of a man. How come he gets to sit there with everyone’s respect while you grovel in your puddle of tears? How come he’s having the time of his life while you’re burning in hell?

“You’re right,” you began, eyes dulled and void of life—of love, “You’re not. Okay, that’s all the liquor I can handle, guys. I think I’ll be heading home now.”

“Y/N,” Kaveh called, standing from his seat to escort you on your way out.

“I can walk myself, Kaveh.” You grabbed your things and took a sip of water. “Acting Grand Sage, humblest apologies.” Once again, you looked at him with utmost disappointment before leaving the tavern and heading home.

—

I am adrift in a sea of longing, drowning in the silence of his absence, clutching to memories like driftwood in a storm-tossed ocean. Yet still, I cling to the fading embers of our love, fearing the darkness that awaits should I let them fade to ash.

Hours after you returned home, sleep had not been your friend. As much as it would be typical, you cried until your eyes stung. It was now 4am, the time Alhaitham usually wakes up. Lost in your never-ending, ever-agonizing thoughts, you stared blankly at the dining room, wondering if he will finally recognize his mistakes, how much pain you’ve been in.

The knob of your front door twisted open, and surprise, surprise, it was Alhaitham who entered your apartment. “What the FUCK was that, Y/N?” He was not one to raise his voice like that, or even curse.

“Of all the nights I was available, this was when and how you choose to talk to me?” Your voice was the opposite—calm, sad, empty.

“Do you realize you nearly told everyone about our relationship?” He spotted a notebook on your crossed lap and grabbed it. “What’s that, ‘I am adrift in a sea of..’ what? Y/N, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“You specialized in languages, Alhaitham, you’ll figure it out.”

The man scoffed, “I’m not a mind reader, Y/N, if you could stop being immature-“

“You’re calling me immature? Okay, what about you keeping our two-year relationship a fucking secret?” The both of you continued raising your voices at each other. If people in the tavern hadn’t already spread rumors, this will surely start them. “Just tell me you’re ashamed of me, Alhaitham!” Then the man fell silent. Serves him right. “Tell me you don’t love me, so you can have a concrete reason to leave!”

“You know being the acting grand sage was never an easy task. The Fatui and other rebelling organizations have me as their number one target, and they are more than willing to hurt anyone to get their way! I was keeping us a secret to protect you! Seeing you getting hurt would mean the end of the world.”

“Getting hurt?” You scoff, “If you never wanted me to get hurt, you’re doing a terrible fucking job. I had to sit through multiple tables with empty seats because you were never home. Do you know how embarrassing that is for myself? I had to tolerate every ounce of contact you avoided because ‘someone might see us.’ In case you couldn’t get how much pain I’m in, let me sum it up for you—IT HURTS MORE THAN DEATH, ALHAITHAM!”

As the last echoes of your argument faded into the silence of the empty apartment, it felt as though the very foundations of your world was crumbling around them. Each word spoken was like a dagger to the heart, tearing apart the fragile bonds of love that had once held you together.

Every word you said stung his chest, the last part beating him to a pulp. It was too late for regret to cross his mind. “I really did love you, Alhaitham, more than anything.”

Those words… he hadn’t heard them in what felt like eternity. All he wanted to do was melt into your arms and apologize endlessly for all his wrongdoings, the times he barely came home, the mornings he could’ve spent with you. He’s been feeling this way for what feels like centuries. If he opened his arms to you, would you still embrace him? Would you still forgive him?

“But I can’t keep giving myself excuses to tolerate all of this.”

He looked at you, your eyes that were once so full of light now dimming of any source. The desperation, the longing you both share. There was so much sadness in your eyes. Have you always looked at him that way? Alhaitham was always quick on his feet—he had to find a way to convince you to stay!

“Y/N,” he began, “We can’t just give up on everything we’ve been through. All the dates, anniversaries, everything we took our time to make—it will all be a waste if we give up now.”

“I think you gave up on us the first time you dropped my hand when I reached for you.”

You were slowly slipping from his grasp, from his future. “I’m willing to give you all the time you need. Every meal, every date, every word you desire, I will make time for all of it. I promise you.”

“How can I know this will be another empty promise? How will I know you won’t do this again? You were never the type to offer everything so helplessly, Alhaitham.”

“Y/N, can’t you see-“

“Where were you during my sleepless nights? Where were you when I had prepared the perfect dinner for us? Where were you when I stood in the middle of the park, waiting for a certain someone to show up?

You were never there, Alhaitham. But I forgave you for all of that. I gave you a million last chances.”

A million last chances… you were thinking of leaving him beforehand? When he couldn’t seem to move his mouth, you decided you’ve had enough.

“Please, leave.”

It was too late for him now. He was long gone from saving you, from saving this relationship. There was nothing left to say, or do.

In the dim light of dawn, you both stood alone, tears a silent testament to the shattered dreams and broken promises that littered the floor like shards of glass. And as you watched your former lover walk away, a part of you knew that the wounds inflicted that night would never fully heal, leaving behind nothing but the bitter taste of regret and the haunting echo of what could have been.

(A lot of you guys are having trouble with the link😭 anw I tried copying a new link of part 2, lmk if it works)

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #alhaitham #alhaitham angst #4ggravate #angst #alhaitham x reader #genshin angst #genshin fanfic #alhaitham fanfic

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