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yautjalover · 10 months

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Okay, here’s a new short for y’all! I wanted this to short and to the point, but give just enough. I hope it’s not horribly awful as I worry. 🫠

Rating: NSFW 18+ for Gore & Death

Contents: Angst, Tragic Accident, Hunt Gone Wrong, Major Character Death, Death of a Mate

F human x M Yautja

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The Goo ☣️

This hunt had gone just like all the others. It was the same routine of scoping out the hunting grounds, seeding them, and letting it flourish before the hunt. But, it didn’t go to plan.

Something went seriously wrong.

The human had been excited to see another world with her Yautja mate.

He was tall and stoic, a male of few words, but he was very expressive. There was a kindness he possessed that others didn’t have. They shared a bond that had been forged with time and proximity. Their hearts were entwined on a deeper level because of this.

It was on this hunt that as she was helping him set out a container of black goo that some of it splashed onto him. At first, nothing happened, as he used a cloth to wipe it off. Moments later however, as they board the scout ship he stumbled and fell to his knees. She and everyone else in the party could only watch with confusion as he growled and grunted in pain. Every attempt by her trying to help him, she was pushed away. One of his hunt brothers held her back when the transformation began.

The black goo began to mutate him. He howled in pain as he grew bigger in size, his muscles bulging obscenely. His armor was forced off his changing body as he quickly outgrew it entirely.

Others spoke rapidly around her as he stumbled around gripping his head. That, too, was changing. His eyes turned a solid black and his head bulged along his cranium where his clan marking was. Even his mandibles mutated; he grew two more on each side giving his mouth a spider-like look.

“You have to help him! Please! He’s in pain!” She cried, desperately clawing to get to her mate.

She sobbed as she watched him hulk out before her eyes. A pain burned in her chest watching him suffer. It was soon over, though. He fell quiet, sitting in a crouch panting on the ground.

“He is an abomination now,” commented someone. “We must end his misery so he dies with honor.”

That was when the human but her captor, digging her teeth into his flesh until he bled. He released her with a hiss.

The human mate stumbled forward and knelt before her alien mate, gingerly touching his now-massive shoulder. His black beady eyes shot up with a ragged growl. Strangely, he did nothing but wrap his massive paw around her slender neck. She squeaked and several hunters rushed forward to her aid.

There was a flurry of limbs and a flash of metal weapons. Quicker than she was able to keep up, the hunters were fighting off her mutated mate. He lumbered around attacking the others. Four hunters had been brutally slain before she decided to step in.

She thought of the times they had shared together, whether it was having amazing sex or him training her, as well as when they first met so many years ago. It was obvious there wouldn’t be any more of those moments. The goo has mutated him into a killing machine. He was mindless with nothing but kill on his mind. Drawing on her resolve, she jumped onto his back as he bent over someone beating them to death with his meaty fists.

Her blade sung true and she buried into his lungs, forcing it to the hilt.

The mutated Yautja snarled, falling to his knees and turning his head to find her with his beady eyes. She landed hard on her rump and stared up at him, tears in her eyes. A cry of pain left her as he wrapped an almost crushing grip around her leg and dragged her closer. He raised a mighty fist to end her life but something shimmered in the inky depths of his eyes.

“Please,” she pleaded tearfully, “don’t do this, my love. I’m ending your pain.”

There was a moment of silence as he sat there, struggling to breath, his wheezing growing stronger. He shook violently before falling to the ground. One of his massive hands reached out for her and she took it, scooting closer to stroke his jaw and give him comfort. He let out a final rumble, his hand caressing her leg as it loosened.

Other hunters had to drag her away again as they commenced the burial rights. She was afforded his mask as a keepsake. It was safely tucked in her arms while she watched his body burn. Some made real attempts at comforting her, the Yautja hunters telling comedic tales about her mate and reminisce with her.

It was a total mystery how she’d raise their child alone now.

#yautjalover #yautja #predator #avp #monster romance #teratophillia #ocs #female lead #major character death #dying mate #mutation

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allefendra · 8 months

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Chapter 1

Although the bonfire roaring in the town square obfuscated the sky, the sparkling array of the galaxy was still clearly visible to the sharp eyes of Dema Simondred. Her distinctive eyes reflected the warm glow of the flame with an inhuman, almost predatory shine, which only served to make the mustard-colored rings around her irises more apparent, but her skin, deep as coal, seemed to swallow the light. As a subservient canine might, she bared her vulpine grin to any passerby who glanced in her direction, earning her at best a muted scowl and at worst an unconcealed glare. The crumbling cobblestones beneath her bare feet felt cool despite their proximity to the flame. She wiggled her toes in a feeble attempt to draw warmth to them.

Something hard and sharp struck her between the shoulder blades and she pitched forward, windmilling her arms instinctively to keep her face from plowing into the ground. Her numb toes bent and flexed against the edges of the stones, and she thanked the stars her feet had already gone numb. With an involuntary grunt, she straightened, pretending not to be bothered by the now throbbing wound on her back. Slowly, she turned to face her assailants, aware already that she could do nothing to prevent their assault.

A group of children, none of which was old enough to be off their mother’s apron strings, giggled mischievously as she raised a rounded brow at them. One clutched a rough chunk of stone in one hand, a slingshot in the other, but dropped the rock nervously as soon as she directed the full force of her glare upon him. On the opposite side of the square, adults mingled with mugs of ale or spice wine in their gloved hands. None took notice of the scene unfolding.

Dema estimated the oldest of the bunch to be of maybe nine or ten winters, a wiry child wearing a pair of shoes riddled with holes and a dress stained with myriad colors. The girl held her nose much too high for one of her station, though Dema’s own station couldn’t be said to be more than slightly superior.

“You have had your fun,” Dema growled, “now be off.”

The oldest advanced, proving herself to be the leader of her ragtag gang. “We take no orders from you, Dema the Demon!” she sneered, somehow holding her nose even higher than before. “We will leave when we feel like it!”

“Oh? You don’t fear the demon, then?” Dema replied calmly, running a hand over her bare scalp. “I could haunt your nightmares, you know. Now that I’ve had a good look at your face, your dreams would be easy to locate.”

The child blanched. “You’re bluffing! None can enter another’s dream!”

Dema began to methodically stretch each muscle in her willowy frame, starting with her neck and going down. The children watched her anxiously, confusion plain on their faces. “Perhaps I am bluffing,” she said, a wicked smile spreading across her face, “and perhaps not. Regardless, I don’t need magic or trickery to deal with the lot of you. All I need are my two legs. I’m an honorable sort, so I will make this fair. I will give you to the count of twenty before I move. Use those twenty seconds as you will.”

The children scattered like leaves taken by the wind, a few squeaking cacophonous yelps, some down alleys, others toward the decrepit Forktongue Bridge, but all with the panic of the hunted. Dema smirked to herself, satisfied with her own ingenuity. Despite her lithe figure, she was actually a terrible runner, and she certainly wouldn’t have been able to catch even one of those children barefoot. Not only that, but she lacked the innate spark for Resonance, which was said to be endowed to no more than one in every thousand born. Demons, of course, were all born with Resonance, which is precisely why so many feared them, but “Dema the Demon” knew herself to be no demon at all. A child of foxfire, perhaps, but not a demon. Her lack of Resonance was proof enough for that.

She was still smirking when a rolling pin connected with her rump, startling more than injuring her. Knowing better than to respond, she stifled her grin and stood arrow-straight. She swallowed hard, producing an audible gulp.

“Mother,” she said quietly, clasping her hands behind her back and staring intently at her bruised toes, “I thought you would be fast asleep by this late hour.”

“I thought the same of you,” Mistress Simondred snapped, tapping Dema again with her rolling pin. “You might be able to fool your father with a wad of hay stuffed under your blankets, girl, but I know better. I heard not a sound from your chambers this evening. Usually, by this time of night, you would be dreaming and squawking like a crow. I knew something was amiss when I heard not a peep.” She paused, inspecting Dema up and down. “And just where are your shoes? Did we not just purchase a pair of sturdy shoes from Mistress Yohan a week past?”

“Father would surely have noticed I left had I taken my shoes, Mother,” Dema said levelly, still fighting her wry smile. “This was the only way.”

“The only way to broken toes, I’d wager,” her mother grumbled, staring concernedly at Dema’s toes. “You’d best hope you can manage to work tomorrow on those feet.”

“I’ve faced worse.”

“I’m certain you have.”

The two stared at each other intently, evaluating each other in the way of two wolves. After a few seconds, Mistress Simondred sighed and wrapped Dema in her fleshy arms.

“Oh, Dema,” she murmured, placing her free hand at the back of Dema’s head as she embraced her tightly, “you can’t imagine how I feel when I find your bed empty. I never worried so when I found your brother’s bed empty. Not until the morning I went to rouse him and the bed still lay empty. I still check your brother’s bed on occasion, when the longing strikes me too deeply and I lose my sense.” She pulled back so she could gaze into Dema’s eyes. “I cannot lose another child. I cannot. From now on, your bedroom will be warded in the evenings. I have no other choice. This foolishness has gone on long enough.”

“Mother!” Dema exclaimed, fury making her face appear even darker. “I will not accept this! I am not my brother.” “I’m sorry, Dema,” her mother said, a melancholy look in her gray eyes. “It can be no other way. These people have no sense. Today, they give you dirty looks. Tomorrow, they could give you a knife through your ribs. You trust too much.”

Dema felt a drop of something cold and wet strike her scalp. Automatically, her hand covered the top of her head, and another drop glanced off the knuckle of her middle finger.

Mistress Simondred looked warily to the sky and shook her head with irritation. Her eyes looked wet in the firelight as she turned them to the sky. A melted snowflake, or tears?

“Another of these snowstorms,” she groaned, and began rifling through the leather sack hanging from her belt pouch. “I tell you, this is Ribbin’s work. Who’ve heard of snowstorms in the ides of Verdance? Lucky for you, I’ve a hat for you somewhere in here. I’ll find it. But we truly must return home now before you lose those purple toes of yours to frostbite.”

Warily, Dema tilted her head back, knowing she would see no stars and lamenting their loss. Only moments before, the stars had been strikingly bright against the black velvet carpet of the sky. Now, she could see nothing but the charcoal gray of thick, raging clouds.

“Just a moment ago…” she began, but let herself trail off as she realized her mother wasn’t listening. Mistress Simondred was muttering to herself angrily, still searching for a hat in her absurdly large pouch. Large pouches had come into fashion, but no pouch around any waist in town rivaled the behemoth flopping at Mistress Simondred’s side.

“Ah! Here it is!” she said triumphantly, drawing a black beret from the bottom of the sack. It was mildly crumpled and would need to be reshaped, but it didn’t really matter. By that time, the only villagers who might see her in adequate lighting would likely be drunk anyway. “Oh, Goddess above! This isn’t your hat! It’s your father’s!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dema replied, ignoring her mother’s hypocrisy. If she ever uttered an oath like that to the Goddess, her mother would wallop her hard with her rolling pin, or any other implement at her disposal. “It will keep my head warm either way. We’ve a long walk home and I’m getting colder by the second. Can we go, Mother?”

“Yes,” she answered, “but stay close to me. There are brigands afoot this time of evening.”

As soon as her mother turned away, Dema rolled her eyes dramatically. In all of Forktongue, she had encountered not a single brigand, unless one counted the cutpurse who had once sliced her belt pouch. Unfortunately for the cutpurse, the pouch was merely a fashion accessory and held no coin. In the world her mother imagined, a thief schemed in every side street, a conman plotted on every corner, and a murderer waited with bated breath in every shadow. It was a wonder her mother had mustered the courage to comb the streets in search of Dema that evening. With that thought, a surge of guilt washed over her, and she almost conceded to herself that her mother had been right to set a penance.

“I’ll fetch you a hot brick for under your covers once we get home,” her mother said softly as they stepped into a particularly dark street. “You must be frozen to the bone.”

“I’m a touch chilled,” Dema lied.

“Why are you walking in that strange way? You look like a rod has been inserted in your spine.”

Dema looked at her from the sides of her eyes. “I hurt my back when I was working today. It feels better if I stand straight.”

“A pulled muscle, is it? Well, no matter. Tomorrow we’ll have our baths. I’ll massage your malady then. There’s no pulled muscle that can withstand a massage in hot water. Not when these hands are doing the massaging,” she said cheerily, gripping her rolling pin in both hands enthusiastically. She could have slipped the rolling pin into a fold in her apron, but she preferred to hold onto it whenever possible.

“No!” Dema blurted sharply. Realizing her blunder, she adjusted her tone. “I mean, no. That’s not necessary. I am sure it will relieve itself in the night. Sleep cures many afflictions.”

“That is certainly true,” Mistress Simondred replied, though it was clear only half her mind was on the conversation. The other half was scouting the way ahead, ensuring no threats would impede them. “Just another mile,” she said to herself quietly, as though to soothe her own frayed nerves.

“Not a mile, Mother. Perhaps half a mile.”

Changing the subject abruptly, Mistress Simondred said with renewed anger, “What were you doing this evening, anyway? What would possess you to make such a rash choice?”

“I wanted to see the bonfire, Mother. Sorzen is always speaking of it. I just wanted to see it for myself. He claimed the flames climbed as high as the Mayor’s house is tall, but I know now it was just another of his tales.”

“I ought to box his ears, filling your head with such foolishness. I should have known Sorzen inspired you to this. I’ll be having words with his mother, mark me.”

“That isn’t necessary, Mother.”

“Isn’t it? He knows you can’t travel around as freely as others, yet he natters to you day and night of all the sights and sounds and smells you cannot have. He is no friend to you, girl. You’ll learn that one day.”

In silence, they continued on together. Dema was astounded when her foot touched the silky dirt of Wayward Path. Had they not, just an instant before, been surrounded by the squalor of the city? The dirt path, just as cold as the cobblestones before it, somehow cheered her, its familiar texture acting as a balm for her injured toes. The light layer of frost over the dirt only served to magnify its soothing effect. Her mother claimed the dirt of Wayward Path was the ashes of Resonants burned long ago in the city square, but Dema had met none who could corroborate the tale. In some ways, her mother was as histrionic and imaginative as Sorzen, though Dema would never say so to her face.

In the distance, Dema could make out the faint flickering of candlelight seeping out from beneath the canvas curtain that served as the front door of her family’s tiny domicile. A silhouette crossed back and forth across the entryway repeatedly, which made the light appear to flash. She could tell by the bulk of the figure that it was her father, a man often mistaken for a blacksmith with his wide shoulders and bulging biceps. Few outside of the business knew just how much muscle a baker could develop through the rigors of his or her routine. Even her mother, a woman round and soft all over, had a thick layer of muscle beneath her plump exterior from long days kneading dough or lifting trays of hot confections.

“He’ll be as mean as a badger tomorrow,” Mistress Simondred said, smacking her rolling pin against her palm with irritation. “I told that man to take himself to bed. Why does he never listen?”

“I don’t know, Mother.”

“Not all men are of this nature, you must know. Some are quite excellent listeners, I hear.”

“Sorzen is a good listener.”

Mistress Simondred shot her a grimace that would curdle fresh goat’s milk. “Sorzen is a rascal of questionable character. If he cared a whit for you, he’d listen less and talk more. He’d talk you out of your harebrained schemes, at the very least.”

Dema shrugged. “I was only citing an example.”

Her mother put the rolling pin into her apron for the first time that night and whirled to face Dema. “Now,” she said, “not another word of your foolishness. Your father is not pleased. I would suggest against your usual way. Say neither a word of Sorzen nor any others among your companions unless you’d like your father to visit each personally with a loaf of bread.”

Dema shivered, and not just from the cold. Her father, armed with only a loaf of his fresh bread, could convince almost anyone of anything. She trusted Sorzen, but not so much that she’d allow him to be tempted with a good rye or a sourdough. “Mother, I am sorry. Truly. I never meant to worry you.”

“I know it, girl. It’s your father who’ll need convincing,” she said in a hushed tone, now just outside the canvas flap. With a strong hand, she yanked the canvas aside, revealing the interior of their home.

Her father stared at her wildly and wiped sweaty palms on his apron. Wisps of hair stuck out in every possible direction, giving him the appearance of a man recently struck by lightning. He was standing in the center of the room, in front of the hearth, which was as cold and dead as the soil of the Wayward Path. The only light or heat came from a solitary tallow candle burning on the dining table. An ornately carved rocking chair in the corner of the room was the most exquisite of their furnishings, while the other furniture was obviously scavenged from some garbage heap. Her parents’ bed rested against the only wall with a window, which meant it was always quite chilly under those covers. Her bed was located in the only enclosed room in the hut, a blessing for which she rarely remembered to offer thanks.

“Thank Allefendra, you’re alive!” her father boomed in a voice that reverberated off the adobe walls. He looked to be on the point of tears. “I thought...I thought…”

“I’m perfectly well, Father,” she said deferentially, lowering her head. The look in her father’s eyes was almost too much for her to bear. “I am sorry, but I had a good reason.”

“What reason was that?”

“I wanted – no, I needed to see the bonfire.”

Master Simondred threw up his hands in exasperation and plunked down onto the bed. It creaked under his mass. “I could scarcely breathe, Dema,” he growled, “I could scarcely move because you ‘needed’ to see a bonfire? If you wanted to waste your hours staring into a flame, we’ve candles aplenty. What you’ve done is deplorable. Despicable! How could you do this?”

Dema’s throat constricted. “I can’t continue living this way. I just can’t.”

“You’ll continue living this way, or you’ll not continue living at all!” he shouted, pounding a meaty fist into the quilt. “You shame your brother!”

Her face stung as though her father had just backhanded her. Tears sprang to her eyes, magnifying their eerie glow. She maintained her steady gaze on her father, refusing to disengage. Before she could speak a word, her mother placed a gentle palm on her forearm, forestalling her.

“You’re both exhausted,” her mother said placidly, as if placating a pair of scuffling toddlers. “This is a talk better had by the light of day.” Master Simondred started to speak, but she cut him off with a stern glare. “I’ve said what I’ve said and I expect you will obey. Both of you.”

Master Simondred shook his head in disgust. “It’s past time I started work. Dawn comes quickly.” He brushed off non-existent dust from his apron and adjusted the apron strings at the back of his neck. “Dema, you’ll be no good with the customers if you don’t sleep. Stella, you’ll need your rest as well. You can meet me in the morning.”

“Do you not think it would be best to open late?”

“Open late?” he scoffed, “I haven’t opened late in eight winters. I certainly won’t do so now.”

“Paitin,” Mistress Simondred pleaded, “you mustn’t do this. Truly, you ought not open at all tomorrow. I can’t imagine many customers will be in. Not with them all suffering the grog horrors. Besides, I could hardly see past my own fingers out there. It is cold as Ribbin’s breath. You’ve no need to be risking yourself out there. Which reminds me, light the hearth, you fool man! Have you not seen your daughter’s feet?”

He stared down at Dema’s feet, squinting. The light from the tallow candle was dimming each second. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “Indeed I had not! Dema, child, tell me you haven’t yet lost your new shoes. I expected those to last at least a year.”

“She didn’t take her shoes because you would have noticed they were missing,” Mistress Simondred replied in a mocking voice. “Clever like her father, down to the core.”

Master Simondred beamed for a moment before coming back to his senses. “I see.” He grabbed his wool cloak off a peg in the wall and draped it around his shoulders. It made him look like a lumbering boulder with a head. “I’ll light the hearth, but the two of you must get to bed. You ought to get in the same bed to share some heat,” he suggested. “Clean yourself up, girl. I’ll not have soot in my sheets.” He passed her a bucket of frigid water, sloshing a few drops in the process, that had been used to collect the rain which seeped through the thatch roof. He stalked out of the shelter, almost stomping.

She compliantly splashed the water over her shins and feet, trying not to wince at the temperature. She took note of a sharp pain at the edges of a toenail. She’d likely lose that nail. As she rubbed the water over her skin, her mother fetched a minuscule nub of soap and a dingy towel. She took it gratefully.

Mistress Simondred dabbed a second towel on Dema’s face. It wasn’t dirty, really, but she continued to wipe at her cheeks nonetheless. “There,” she said softly, pushing Dema’s face up with a finger under her chin, “now I can see that beautiful skin of yours.”

Dema fought off a snort. “I am glad at least you take pleasure in my demon skin.”

“You are not a demon!” her mother replied furiously, cupping both of Dema’s cheeks in her hands. “Look into my eyes! You are no such thing! Say it!”

“I am no such thing,” Dema answered, though her mouth, pinched as it was, struggled to enunciate the words. “I’m tired, Mother.”

“As am I. Slip off your dress and get in bed. Your shift will do for night clothes tonight.”

Ice cold and mentally numb with exhaustion, Dema fell into slumber immediately. Even as her father lit the hearth, she remained asleep. Her mother snuggled up beside her, grateful to share the warmth. From his rocking chair, Master Simondred regarded his sleeping wife and child with affection, noting the similarities in their features. Notwithstanding the stark contrast in their skin tones, Dema’s face was almost an exact copy of her mother’s. He rose, kissed each on the forehead, and trudged into the blizzard, all the while making a list in his mind of each chore and task that need be completed at the bakery.

#writing #original world #oc #fantasy #wip #novel #fantasy fiction #fiction #female lead #adult fantasy #dark fantasy

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