Work Text:
The Hkr'Rcho is an enormous ship. It's so big that it's easy to get lost in its many corridors, especially if you can't read the Yautja language signs. If someone were to get stuck on a clan ship like the Hkr'Rcho without knowing the language or culture of this species, they'd be in serious trouble. Well, sucks to be you!
Your karma must be pretty bad considering how the last six months have gone.
You're lying on your back, staring at the ceiling, bopping one foot up and down, which is resting on your bent knee. As always, the constant hum of the ship's engines and the omnipresent heat on board this ship almost lull you into a light sleep. Humidity also creeps into every corner of the Hkr'Rcho, even the Warlord's quarters. As you quickly learned, he's the leader of an entire clan of warriors.
And you? You're the pet.
The exploding collar has been replaced by an invisible leash that is more effective than anything else – there's no way off this ship. Even if you manage to sneak out of your lord and master's quarters unnoticed, the route to the shuttle bay is lined with Yautja warriors who recognise you and know who you belong to. You've been caught and brought back more than once, locked in his quarters and left to stew like a roast.
The imposing Warchief isn't stupid. He knows he can punish you physically — and he does so occasionally — but the boredom and waiting are far worse. Being confined to his quarters with nothing but the sound of the engine and the occasional passing of a new solar system for days on end is enough to drive a person crazy. It's like solitary confinement when he decides to punish you for misbehaving. Even your food is hurriedly thrown into the room before the door is locked again.
He's not stupid. He quickly figured out how to make you furious, how to make you behave.
Although being the Warlord's pet has its advantages, it's also a double-edged sword.
Hey, on the one hand, you are well fed and clothed, and truly safe from the horrors of space.
The Yautja's diet mainly consists of meat, often even raw or severely undercooked, but they make sure you get exotic fruits and vegetables. In your position as the leader's favourite, they ensure you are fit for your rank. Considering that you have to endure the chief's needs, you need to be well fed. Being mounted by a 350 kg alien warrior is as dangerous as an extreme sport, if not more so.
And you are dressed in high-quality Yautja clothing. The revealing attire definitely shows off your body – you may not have an eight-pack, but the hearty food means the skimpy clothing fits. Not that it would be of much use when the Warlord returns from a hunt or a successful arena tournament. The fabric is no match for his claws and the hunger of the highly decorated warrior from Yautja Prime.
On this ship and in this ongoing situation, it's truly a case of give and take: you've never lived in such luxury before. As a Weyland-Yutani employee, you were paid a meagre wage, given tiny food rations and your life was worth less than the cargo you transported. Under Weyland-Yutani, there were no richly decorated clothes resembling Yautja scales and no sweet, juicy fruit to make your mouth water.
All you have to do is serve the Warlord. You're his pet, his toy and his concubine. You are both his slave and his mate. His scent clings to you, signalling to every other Yautja on this ship that you are out of bounds. Bowing down to the muscle-bound warrior is the price you pay for living in luxury. Should you dare to rebel against him, he will be only too happy to show you who's boss. He has grabbed and taken you by force more than once, but you would be lying if you said you didn't get a strangely erotic kick out of it. Sometimes you act a little more rebellious than you really are because that's what gets him going.
But no matter how you look at it, you share your bed with a brutal killing machine. Truth be told, you don't really like him. This isn't romance; it's a state of affairs. In this tactical game, you're not an equal opponent, but an object: a pet monkey dancing for the Warlord to laugh at. He can throw you across the room and onto the bed with one hand while he loosens his belt with the other. He knows you watch him every time he takes off his armour. He knows you want him.
His bed, a collection of furs — also trophies — is soft and inviting; huge, it beckons you to rest and laze around. Most of the time, you lie bored on this nest of trophies, covered in the Warlord's and your own scent, and the memory of all the times he bent you over and brutally took what he wanted. It's always associated with pain in some way, but when you think about it, you feel a hot tingling sensation running up the inside of your thighs. It's not just bad.
One thing you quickly learn on a Yautja clan ship is that violent sex is normal for these warriors. It's not at all uncommon for them to fight in the corridors and then have sex, sinking into each other with claws and tusks amid blood and bodily fluids. Sex isn't considered good unless there are open wounds or broken bones, and the females often put up a fierce fight. If you take these fights as a yardstick, you're actually being treated relatively gently - this is probably because you break more easily than a Yautja warrior. Don't wanna break the new toy, right?
While you're brooding in frustration and thinking that you could escape through the air vents again if necessary, you hear heavy footsteps approaching. From far away, you can hear battle cries growing louder and echoing through the ship like a dark choir. Great — the hunting party is back. That means the annoying part of this situation is about to begin.
No matter what one might think about the Yautja, a successful hunt is always celebrated extensively. Contrary to all expectations, these people definitely know how to party: they drink sour, high-proof wine and dine as befits great warriors. There are fights, songs and more fights. A good Yautja party doesn't end until someone is seriously injured. Not that you'd ever be invited to something like that, though.
The door opens and, from the thunderous footsteps in the hallway, you already knew 30 seconds ago that your owner was returning to his quarters. The Warlord is as impressive as ever, though now he's covered with blood and has several fresh wounds on his upper body and arm. As the door hisses shut behind him, he doesn't even glance at you. Instead, he places his bone axe among the many other trophies adorning the room.
It's a game. A test. Another way to humiliate you.
He doesn't deign to greet or even acknowledge you when he returns to his quarters from a hunt. You never take your gaze off his body, out of pure caution, and he knows it. This makes him even more eager to put on a show, carefully placing new hunting trophies on the wall or in a corner. He takes his time, occasionally making quiet growling and clicking noises as though humming to himself in a relaxed manner. Meanwhile, you're tense, like nervous prey waiting to be pounced on by a predator.
Next, he takes off his heavy bone coat. This trophy, consisting of xenomorph skeletons, is ridiculously heavy. You could only lift it on your own if you put all your strength into it. He, on the other hand, moves smoothly and gracefully, even with this imposing adornment. He moves his massive body with a robust elegance that lulls you into a false sense of security all too often. Good-looking, is the word that forms in your brain when you look at him.
His muscles glisten in the soft light of the room, making you clench your teeth in anger. You're only too happy to convince yourself that this is pure survival instinct. This physical attraction to the Warlord is your brain's desperate attempt to twist this terrible, traumatic situation into something bearable so that you suffer as little long-term damage as possible. Of course, there are often cases where hostages are attracted to their captors. This is obviously just another such case. Or ist it?
With a hollow clatter, the warrior places the bone cloak on the provided stand and straightens a few twisted vertebrae. His huge hands run over the trophy skilfully and patiently.
He's not really known for being a patient clan chief. But that's what makes him interesting: the Yautja can be gentle and extremely skilled, and he can be patient to the point of saintliness — when he's humiliating you, that is. As your first encounter, shortly before the arena fight, proved, he's only too happy to use these skills to assert dominance. Bringing you to climax skilfully in front of other Yautja and under life-threatening circumstances was not a one-off demonstration of power. Rest periods between hunts or arena events are often boring and monotonous, so you have to serve as his only real entertainment, which includes him bending you over a control panel on the ship's bridge in front of his crew and showing you what it means to be the warlord's favourite toy.
All this just to humiliate you.
This makes today all the more important. Because there's one thing the Yautja seem to underestimate time and time again: the human ability to adapt. The ability to observe and find new solutions to seemingly insurmountable problems. Even if you can't yet solve the problem of escaping this ship, you have a plan to get revenge for all the humiliation.
That's why you're sitting on the bed watching the warrior trying to intimidate you by ignoring you.
He comes from a good hunt, and that inevitably leads to sex. Even this spectacle, this disinterest in your existence, is part of the foreplay. He wants you to consider yourself lucky that he acknowledges your insignificant existence at some point, when finally looks at you.
That will happen, as it always does. In a moment, he'll turn to you and look at you with a mocking snort. His red eyes will reveal a lot about him. About his fire, his cruelty and his intentions. You'll know what he's going to do next, because all Yautja, including the Warlord, have one huge weakness: they're predictable. Rituals and routines are important to them. They do things in the same order after certain events.
During large celebrations, for example, you can always expect several injured warriors to be taken to the ship's infirmary. You can also expect all slaves — including you — to help with the rush of patients. Furthermore, many injuries are treated in the same way: with a healing accelerator that enhances the Yautja's already remarkable healing abilities. This drug has a side effect, however: dizziness, mild delirium and slowed reaction times.
At celebrations, the sour, strong-tasting wine flows freely. The same applies after a hunt. Yautja treat themselves to one or more cups of Thwei'pke and celebrate being good hunters. The drink is emptied in one gulp, as is customary. Drink the blood of your prey.
If someone had mixed a certain medicine into it, they wouldn't notice until it's too late.
You watch as the Warlord downs his personal supply of wine. The sour smell of the wine, combined with the stench of the hunt and blood, makes the already stuffy air in the room even harder to breathe. Yautja don't have the best table manners, so much of the wine spills out, but most of it makes it into the warrior's mouth. Good. Now you can lean back on the bed a little, feeling much more relaxed than before. With one hand, you feel the metal beneath a thick brown Tvah'trha fur, metal which is well hidden and an important tool for all this to work.
The desired effect kicks in fairly quickly - the Yautja biology absorbs the contents of the stomach incredibly fast, ensuring that a meal provides the necessary energy for a hunt as soon as possible. It's wonderful to be able to use the strengths of these people against them, it has to be said. Satisfaction is like warm milk and honey in your throat; like a summer night under the stars.
You smile. This alone is enough to make the Warlord hesitate; he senses that something is amiss, that you're up to something. He's not stupid and has a sixth sense about danger and changes in a situation. If he weren't such a bloodthirsty hunter, he would be a truly great leader — but he probably is, in his own Yautja way.
He shakes his massive head slightly, as if to shoo an irritating insect. The usually so smoothly moving body stiffens and sways imperceptibly, enough to send an excited tingling sensation through your fingertips.
It takes the clan chief a second to put two and two together, but when his gaze falls on the empty wine cup, he lets out an angry roar. His mandibles widen as he lets out a loud cry of battle, and instantly, before the poison can take full effect, he lunges at you like an angry grizzly bear.
It's only a few steps from the corner of the room to the bed, meaning you have barely two seconds to dodge his grasp. You instantly roll to the side and duck away under his body, land on the floor and hastily get back on your feet. His massive, tree-trunk-like arms chase after you. If the Warlord weren't in the process of losing his otherwise keen senses to the adulterated wine, he would probably have caught you without breaking into sweat.
But not today. This, well, any Yautja would call this cowardly, intervention in the power struggle of this weird relationship has just balanced the odds. You dodge another grab from his sharp claws, which tear through the air with a hiss. Your opponent roars and bellows; rock-hard muscles tremble with rage and lust for blood. He's slower than usual, staggering under the impairment of the drug you put in his wine. Not a surprise - you put so much of the drug in the wine that it would have knocked out half a dozen horses!
He spins around and lunges again, but once more catches nothing but air and a reflection of you, who has already taken a big step backwards. The great hunter staggers and reels, sinking deeper into a thick fog of delirium and dizziness with every passing second. And that's exactly what you're doing right now: buy time until the drug takes full effect. However, you have to expect that a massive guy like the Warlord will expel such poison from his system faster than an ordinary Yautja warrior, so you dodge his next angry outburst once more, before throwing yourself shoulder first against his upper body with all your strength.
Sure enough, he loses his balance and falls backwards onto the soft nest of furs with an angry growl as loud and deep as the thunder of a storm passing overhead. He curses and growls aggressively, but you're immediately on top of him, climbing over this huge Yautja mountain. You cling onto his belt and shoulder armour like a mountain climber while the Warlord succumbs more and more to delirium. His movements become erratic, aimless and sluggish, and - less deadly. His usually sharp gaze becomes dull and hollow.
The final piece of this feat is a pair of magnetic handcuffs that you stole from the armoury. These state-of-the-art wrist gauntlets made of heavy metal are highly magnetic and can keep even a Yautja like the Warlord at bay! You reach under the fur with your hands and pull out this special tool for your revenge; the clasp on the Warlord's everyday wrist gauntlet is located on the underside of his wrist. With quick, deft fingers, you remove this important piece of equipment and replace it with the magnetic handcuffs.
Then, after a brief struggle, he finally manages to grab your forearm. His huge hand squeezes down and you hiss, trying not to cry out in pain. Red eyes burn into your very soul, promising a fate worse than death. He holds your gaze, also full of rage and murderous intent. If he manages to free himself, you probably won't escape without a few broken bones. It's an unspoken promise he makes.
It doesn't matter though; this is worth the risk.
Your nervous sweat allows you to wriggle free of his grip and activate the handcuffs via the button on his wrist gauntlet. With a soft whirring sound, the mechanism kicks in, pulling the Warlord's forearms against the wall at the head of the bed. His rock-hard muscles twitch and tremble with the effort as he tries to free himself, while a triumphant smile spreads across your face.
It actually worked!
The Yautja roars and struggles against the handcuffs, but no matter how hard he tries, they won't budge. These handcuffs are strong enough to - probably - restrain a Xenomorph queen, so he won't be getting out of them any time soon without your permission.
The body beneath you bucks like a rodeo bull. You hold on to his shoulder armour with your free hand as he tries to throw you off. His movements are becoming more accurate and powerful again; as expected of the leader of this clan, the Warlord is in excellent health, and adrenaline and bloodlust quickly wash out any powerful drug from his system. Despite the high dose, his strength and precision return quickly, along with a sparkle in his eyes that has probably caused many a Yautja to fear him. He's a remarkable specimen, really.
Though you would probably be much more concerned if he weren't so helpless. The big, strong warmonger and exceptionally skilled warrior snorts and growls deeply as you sit astride his chest, looking down at him with a wild mixture of triumph and tense excitement. A tingling anticipation spreads through your body. Power and control are all-consuming, sweet and delicious on the tongue of the oppressed.
You carefully place his wrist gauntlet, which controls the handcuffs, on the floor so that he cannot reach it from his secure position in the nest of furs. As you lean to the side, he seizes the opportunity and jerks his head up to slam his spread mandibles into your flesh. However, you are quicker: one hand grabs one of the two knives from his belt and pushes it upwards, stopping directly below his throat.
Instantly, a silence falls over the Warlord and he stops moving. He quickly glances down at the blade, which is hovering menacingly close to one of his main neck arteries.
"Nuh-uh!" you sing smugly. So smugly, in fact, that you would disgust yourself if the circumstances weren't so serious. But hey, when you live on a ship with rowdy guys like this for months on end, you pick up a few tricks.
His mandibles fold back together as a sign of appeasement. He's strong, yes, but he's not an idiot. He senses your willingness to ram the knife into his throat if necessary — that definitely deserves some respect and maybe even some patience.
"Letting me watch you train the pups just to intimidate me was a mistake," you say slowly, settling back more comfortably on his broad chest; it's actually so broad that your knees don't touch the bed when you sit like this. Massive, a voice sings in your head. He's so wonderfully massive. "I saw how you taught them to always protect that spot on their throats." The sharp tip of the knife presses lightly into the thick skin. Of course, he doesn't even flinch. "One well-placed cut here and - they're dead. Thei-de."
A moment of silence falls over the room - then a deep, resonant laugh rumbles through his upper body and shakes you slightly. The Warlord certainly has a sense of humour, even if it's brutal and bloody like everything else on this ship. Still, the sound of that dark chuckle is music to your ears, as always.
"Setg'in-kwei," he hisses. Tricky and quick. It's still better than the title he usually uses for you: Eta - slave. "And yet you long for death like for a lover." Sure, his English is basic, but he can still use it to insult you. Hearing him speak your language does something to you though.
"My blade at your throat," you reply. It's a phrase you picked up from some arguing warriors. I'm in control here.
The Warlord exhales deeply, his tense muscles softening and relaxing slightly. With his hands fixed to the wall above his head, he sinks into the soft furs as if this were just another afternoon aboard the Hkr'Rcho. He waits to see what happens next.
And you? You can feel your own heartbeat pounding in every fibre of your body and the hot whisper of desire. The Yautja's muscles are still warm from today's hunt, and his skin is sticky with blood and dirt. The Yautja smell bitter and musky when they've been hunting. All of this comes together with the subliminal growl in his chest that you can feel all too well from your position sitting on top of him.
Ah, fuck. Whatever makes this bastard so irresistible definitely played into your decision to come up with this plan. To make him all yours.
So now you start to move, climbing up his body until you're sitting on the top of his chest, near the throat, your sex just inches away from his head. Usually you can feel his hot breath on your neck as he thrusts into you like a wild animal. But not today. Today, the Warlord is your toy.
Slowly, you lift the loincloth you're wearing. It's made of the finest fabric, woven from metal threads that protect against damage, and it's richly decorated with scales and shiny wires that form an elegant patterns. This fine piece of clothing is, of course, worn without underwear. The metal fabric reveals your soft flesh, which is already beginning to release its sweet juices in hot anticipation.
However, his eyes are fixed on your face, which hovers above him, bearing a cool smile.
"You know what I want," you say, feeling his chest rise as he inhales your scent. He can try to hide it as much as he likes, but your scent has always turned him on. "And I don't need to mention that if I feel teeth where I don't want them, I'll put this-" You pull the knife from his throat up to his eye. "In your eye socket."
He hesitates. You wait.
You have no qualms about sitting on a face that can be used as a weapon, but the idea of humiliating him and making him your sexual plaything is just too good. Perhaps it's due to the unusual company you've kept over the past six months, but something inside you has twisted into a desire for rough, slightly crazy sex. You make do with what you have, and your time on the Hkr'Rcho has certainly opened your mind sexually.
Then, to your surprise, he presses his face between your legs. You gasp as you feel something hot and moving - oh right, the Yautja tongues are forked. How interesting.
His tusks press against the insides of your thighs. The warmth of Yautja and human skin together is intoxicating and unique — like leather on velvet. The wetness, combined with his tongue's strong and lascivious movements, transforms the initially gentle tingle of desire into a white-hot pull of lust in your sex.
"Good," you murmur, positioning yourself a little higher to avoid the sharp tusks of his bone mask and give him access to your clitoris. "Keep going."
And he obeys. This alone makes you swallow hard against the delirium of intense desire, because hardly anyone has ever managed to subdue this warrior. Tricks and aids aside, this is your hunt and he's your prey.
The forked tongue slides between the hot, sweet folds of your sex, soaking the skin in tingling saliva. The Yautja's bodily fluids are not poisonous to humans, but sufficient contact can cause a slight tingling sensation and some numbness. A good thing too, considering his cock is as thick as your forearm; a little numbness is definitely helpful at times.
Slowly and deliberately, you begin to grind your pelvis against his face. Your movements are delicate and eager to get more out of the caresses of his tongue on your clitoris. Once again, he proves his tremendous perceptiveness by responding to the slightest sounds and movements, seemingly instinctively understanding what is driving you towards orgasm. His tongue repeatedly dives between the wet folds, deep and thorough, occasionally detouring to your entrance, which is met with a faint sigh.
At first, you think it's your imagination, but then you realise that the Warlord really is increasingly enjoying this activity. He arches his back ever so slightly so that you slide further onto his face, while the claws that are still chained to the metal wall above his head clench into fists. You don't dare glance back at the rest of his body in case you are caught off guard and attacked - but from the way he lifts his pelvis slightly, you're sure his cock is already out and half hard.
And when you focus intently on the body beneath you, you could swear that the soft, aggressive growling has turned into a deep purr.
"More," you gasp, rushing towards orgasm. The heat of his breath and his tongue on your sex is the purest aphrodisiac; a potent enhancer of desire you never thought possible. Add to that the knowledge that he's completely at your mercy - the great warrior, the bone hunter - it's almost as good as the feeling of his hot, wet tongue between your folds, eagerly tasting your skin. Having control over such a Yautja monster, such an unbridled force of nature, is exhilarating, to say the least. "Faster."
Your chest rises and falls heavily with each breath as the heat intensifies and the construct of lust and desire stretches its hands towards the sky. The Warlord obeys, eliciting a hoarse moan from you, which is answered with a deep, resonant rumble in his chest. When he takes you violently, you don't make such delightful noises. You don't sigh and pant, moan and chirp like a lustful Khe'leii. Seems like he just learned that he loves those sweet sounds that you can make.
"Faster, I said!" you command harshly, burying your free hand in his locks while the other hovers the knife over him. This firm grip in the black locks is rewarded with such a violent growl that the vibration is transmitted through his chest and between your legs; and with a sharp hiss, you reach your first climax of the day. A warm wave of relief and bliss washes over you, washing away the last remnants of anxiety and nervousness. All that remains is the hot throbbing of your clitoris and the slight ringing in your ears as your body basks in pure bliss.
Good. That was good. It was so satisfying that you could hardly suppress a mischievous grin. Revenge can be such a beautiful thing — so juicy and delicious. You should have done this much earlier! And you're not finished with him yet.
"Look how tame you can be." You sit back down on his chest, feeling his thick skin against your wetness. It feels like heaven. "Obedient as a youngling."
The soft purr now twists into something else, into an aggressive growl. How dare you mock him like that? Such audacity usually ends with the person who utters such scornful words having their head cut off! The Warlord's red eyes almost shoot sparks. If he could use his hands, he would probably tear you apart for such insolence , but something betrays the truth behind this angry mask. The Warlord is impressive even in this state, but he has never been harder. A quick glance back reveals his state of physical desire, and when you lean back and run one hand over his abdomen and down to his groin - arms barely reaching that far - you can feel his arousal.
The Yautja's breathing is laboured, and the muscles in his upper body tremble with suppressed lust while a thin film of sweat spreads across his chest. His cock feels even more impressive in your hand, rock hard with a hint of semen already adorning the tip.
Oh, he likes this.
The realisation hits you like a broken gravity converter; this bastard is actually deriving perverse pleasure from the situation! From the fact that he's now at your mercy, and that you are humiliating him. And you almost hate how much it turns you on. It makes your body glow, the knowledge that you have absolute control over this monster and that he even likes it. It's like a drunken delirium, knowing he craves your touch, that his powerful muscles tremble with desire. Desire for you.
This is so much more intense than you initially thought. Perhaps it's the afterglow of the orgasm, or maybe it's the sight of the Yautja with his tense biceps locked in a position behind his head that appeals to your primal instincts. Every movement of these muscles makes his brown skin, streaked with soft patterns of a dark brown color, glisten in the dim light. Watching this body writhing beneath you is a true spectacle, a show just for you. The mixture of anger, frustration and his attempts to stop his pelvis from touching you is liquid gold for your ego, too.
The heat seeps back into your bones, tugging at the strings of temptation in your lower abdomen. A warm, humand hand is still on his cock: firm, twitching and begging for attention. It presses hotly against your touch and even though he doesn't make a sound of need or pleasure, his body speaks volumes.
But you're not doing all this to satisfy him; quite the opposite, in fact.
You shake your head slightly to clear your mind and the Warlord lets out a disappointed grunt as your hand leaves his body. Instead, the knife dances across his neck and down to his chest. It pauses there, the tip of the blade pressing just enough into the thick skin for a drop of green, sweet-smelling blood to emerge.
"You really do love to humiliate and use me, don't you?" you hiss at him, the blade cutting deeper into his skin. He growls like an animal - deep and aggressive, yet relishing it. It's dry tinder on the fire spreading through your gut. "And yet you're nothing more than wax in my hands." Your pelvis grinds against his upper body, and he arches his back in response to the movement. "My prey." More blood. More control. More lust. "What do your matriarchs always say? Find the strongest of them and hunt them down."
Then, your free hand wanders down your body, over the metal fabric of the loincloth and towards the soft skin between your thighs. A warm wetness greets your skilled and delicate fingers as they enter you; with practised movements, you first insert two fingers, then three, and strive for an ambitious rhythm. Your own bodily fluids provide ample lubrication – there's no shortage of wetness, nor of erotic arrogance. Three fingers quickly become four while the attentive warrior watches the obscene spectacle. Red eyes follow your movements closely, registering the traces of your juices on your fingers. The wet sounds echo strangely in the stuffy room, but they hypnotise the Yautja in an unexpected way: Together with the soft sighs escaping your lips, they form a gentle melody that once again entices the deep purr from his chest. You don't make such sounds of ecstasy when he fucks you, a fact that he's just realising.
It's intoxicating. The rock-hard muscles beneath you quiver slightly, and a light sheen of sweat covers his body. He opens his mandibles so he can take in your scent completely. This makes him look more like a predator than ever, a wild beast waiting for the opportunity to strike. And, oh, it really gets you going! Desire and primal urges are catapulted into the stratosphere, merging and twisting into something dark and deep, something greedy and hungry. And you love it.
Trembling walls tighten around your fingers and your clitoris throbs, greedy for more. Driven by impatience, you sit back, slide backwards on his body and then settle onto his pelvis. Beneath you, you can feel the hardness rubbing against the inside of your thighs and your eager sex. Feels so, so good. As you roll your pelvis into the heat below, you elicit a hoarse growl from the Warlord - a tone that has never come from his chest before. It sounds deep and raspy as always, but with an undertone of need that sounds oh so wonderful. His claws stretch out and then clench into fists as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to regain the self-control he lost for a moment.
When you repeat the movement, he flinches almost imperceptibly. No growl, buts a sharp intake of air.
Oh... this is fun.
Slowly and deliberately, you run your hands over his torso, tracing the muscles and rough scales that form an alien mosaic together with the colored patterns. You quickly become accustomed to the appearance and demeanour of the Yautja, and once you look beyond those initial - and scary - impressions, you realise that they're quite a beautiful species. There are many different skin colors, as well as various patterns and shapes of scales. The desert clan Yautja, which includes the entire crew of the Hkr'Rcho and even more on Yautja Prime, are mostly of a sand or brown base color with dark brown or grey patterns and long, thin locks. They're usually rather slight, agile and fast, unlike their fearless leader, the Warlord. He's twice as broad as most other warriors, twice as brutal and is known as very experienced.
Well, except when dealing with Weyland-Yutani employees. He didn't count on you and your ability to fight back, or the cunning you acquire when working for a soulless corporation. He has mastered hundreds of battles and spilled much blood, but you come from a cheap colony and have worked in the capitalist grinder since childhood. You have endured a life worth less than a box of spare parts for a third-rate data processing computer. You've lived for years on meagre food rations and unpaid overtime.
He may be big and strong, but you're not easily intimidated and often underestimated. In the end, it's the hunger for blood that really connects you two. This is your triumph, your hunt, and it's time to end it.
You push up his belt and pull his loincloth to one side. As always, his cock is more than impressive: at least as wide as your forearm, just as long, and slightly thicker at the base than at the tip, which is broad rather than pointed like a human penis. Veins show through the sensitive skin, running like mountain ranges across his soft brown skin. At the tip, a drop of liquid glistens in the dim light of the room.
"We humans have a saying," you say, pushing your knees onto the bed and lifting your body as you wrap one hand around his length. Hot and hard. He grunts at your touch, red eyes watching closely as you work. "An eye for an eye," you continue, aligning yourself so that you can slowly lower yourself onto him. The tip alone barely fits inside you, but with a deep breath to relax, and with the help of your own bodily fluids, you manage it.
"Ah, fuck-!" you whisper as you slowly lower yourself back onto his body. As always, the first few inches are brutal; it feels like being impaled and torn apart at the same time. The burning sensation of being stretched to the limit is ever-present and makes you forget everything else, even breathing. Slow movements, up and down, help to acclimatise your walls to his girth and prevent this blackout of thoughts. Take it slow. You support yourself with your hands on his tense abdominal muscles, under a long growl from his chest that vibrates through your bodies. You swallow. Breathe. It hurts, but beneath the wave of pain, you can sense the glistening pleasure that sex with him always brings, time and time again. It hurts, but it's worth it.
As you lower yourself onto him again, you manage to take another inch of him, feeling the heat radiating from the thick skin. Yautja are naturally warm, but the Warlord is ridiculously hot to the touch. This eases the pain slightly and encourages you to try harder, to power through this to reach the point of pure bliss behind the veil of pain.
After a moment of breathing, you sit back up and lift your pelvis, allowing his cock to almost completely leave you. Before that happens, however, you lower yourself back down onto him, managing to take half of his length inside you in one single motion. This movement - the change from warm to cold to warm on this sensitive part of his body - makes him roar impatiently and thrust his pelvis against yours.
A cry escapes your lips as he fills you more than you expected – and, out of reflex and pure survival instinct, your hand grabs the knife that has found its place next to you on the bed. The blade sings as it seeks its target, finds it and penetrates skin and flesh. This is immediately followed by a louder, now angry roar from the Yautja; green blood drips in a fine trickle onto the soft bedding, from the wound in his thigh where the knife is now stuck. The Warlord struggles against the handcuffs, but they don't budge and he remains under your unconditional control. Your rage and his mix into a maelstrom of aggression that underlies every single interaction between you, all of them since you set food on this damn ship. Anger is wlays present between you two, anger and need. The need to hurt, the need to fight, the need to fuck.
His impatient movements and your immediate reactions cause this stretched rubber band to snap, like a switch being flipped and you stop thinking, only to give in to this blinding light of emotion.
Your fingernails draw lines across his abdomen as your bodies brutally colldie: the Yautja pushes himself up and thrusts into you, and you meet his movements with the same hungry enthusiasm. The obscene sound of skin hitting skin intensifies the violent rush of hormones and desire, causing you to leave the knife in his flesh and concentrate entirely on bringing this hunt to a climax. Every thrust is accompanied by a dull pain as he works his way deeper into you, filling you completely and stretching you to your breaking point. The length alone makes you see stars, but it's the downright ridiculous girth that cuts off all reason.
“Fuck-- ahh!” With one hand on his body for support and the other on your clitoris, you close your eyes and enjoy the ride. Every thrust, every movement of your own hand brings you closer to heaven and the wonderful release of the next orgasm. All patience and teasing disappears, the only thing left is the urgent, animalistic desire to find relief through his cock – because today, the Yautja is your toy and servant.
The warrior lies bound beneath you, growling, grunting, purring and roaring as he pounds into you. It's a sight you'll never tire of: Yautja that are lost in the endless pit of lust are a real feast for the eyes, especially this one. He's all muscles and sweat, strength and desire.
You moan.
And for a second, you forget about the knife in his leg, until you remember the sensation of ramming metal into his flesh. The sensation, the soft yielding of his body, catapults your lust to unimaginable heights. It felt good to hurt him.
Trembling fingers find the hilt of the weapon. Sadistically, you push the knife further into him, relishing the wet sound and sweet smell of more Yautja blood. The Warlord breathes a hollow growl from his chest - a mixture of pain and pleasure - which only spurs you on further.
Fuck, these people have really influenced your preferences. Or has it always been this way? Have there always been depths lurking beneath the navy-coloured jumpsuits of Weyland-Yutani, waiting to be unleashed? Maybe. Or maybe you're just losing your mind. But who cares when the reward for these efforts is damn good alien sex?
"Harder!" you gasp as your body slams into his repeatedly, turning every twinge of pain into pleasure. "I said harder!" You twist the knife in the wound. The Yautja roars angrily and lustfully, lost in his own search for redemption, and obeys your command. His pelvis crashes into yours so hard and his cock sinks so deep that you see stars dancing before your closed eyes. The rhythm is relentless and, even with his hands tied, he takes you with a hardness that balances struggle and lust delicately. He might be a monster, a killing machine, but he never disappoints when it comes to fucking you senseless.
Then you feel the hot chains in your abdomen loosen and the fragile structure of blinding, hot lust collapse, burying you beneath it. Wave after wave of omnipresent bliss engulfs you and you throw your head back, moaning hoarsely. This climax is incredible, devouring every clear thought and simultaneously dissolving every tension into pleasure. It feels not just good; you feel downright euphoric.
Breathe. It takes a moment to find the way back to reality, to leave this place of satisfaction and bliss. You have to summon all your willpower to motivate your trembling legs, but you manage and stand up with wobbly knees. The wonderful, hot fullness of his cock disappears, and your walls no longer clench around anything. Now towering over the Warlord, you stand up and he lets out a desperate, questioning grunt; his cock twitches desperately, glistening with your bodily fluids, but there's no release for him.
You smile, sensing his frustration at being stopped so close to climaxing.
"That was nice," you say, almost stumbling as you get off the bed. Your knees are weak, feel like jelly, but the warm glow of a fantastic orgasm still fills your chest, making you feel presumptuous and brave.
Without looking at him again, you turn around, straighten your clothes and smooth your hair, pressing your palms against your flushed cheeks. The growl behind you - he's just as out of breath as you are - then becomes loud and aggressive. The Yautja roars when he realises what you're doing: you're turning the tables, taking what you need and then leaving.
This is new, and he doesn't like it at all.
Again, the clan chief struggles against the handcuffs and you can hear the whirring of magnets resisting an apparently uncontrollable force. The handcuffs are escape-proof; you know that. Hm. How long will he lie there? With an erection and unfulfilled desires? A few hours for sure. Maybe even a day.
A smug grin and one last look back are the last things he sees of you before you grab his wrist gauntlet and leave the quarters. You, on the other hand, see an extremely angry Yautja warrior with sparkling eyes that reveal a wild lust for murder. He has never looked at you with such cold hatred before, accompanied by a silent threat that is downright terrifying. The door to the quarters closes just as he roars again, now even louder and shouts something in Yautja that is undoubtedly a death threat.
But you're already on your way down the hallway, eager to see how far you can get with the wrist gauntlet and with that, the Warlord's access codes.