Lightless

Time doesn't mean much, anymore. Down in the dark with the metal of the station's maintenance tunnels close and creaking, never being able to stand up straight, just sit or crawl or lie back on the cold metal floor. Caelum eats when he's hungry and the alien has brought him something to eat, sleeps when he's tired. He's lost count of the number of times he's slept. He's not sure if he's been here for weeks or months. Maybe he's been here for years, watching the alien come and go.

The worst part is the dread. Wondering when the station's Eyes will find him, when one of its thralls will crawl into the vents and claw its way to the place where Caelum curls hidden in the nest that the alien has built for him. When the alien is gone, there's nothing for Caelum to do but think. He sits and listens to every shift and creak of the station and imagines the thralls' blank eyes, the frozen scream of their mouths, the mechanical lurch of them as they reach for him to rip him into pieces like they had done with everyone else human aboard this ship.

He is always fervently, desperately grateful when the alien returns.

She is kind to him, he thinks. She speaks to him, low and unintelligible, in a series of clicks and drumming sounds and booms in the back of her strange, flexible throat, and she brightens up the bioluminescents on her sensory tendrils as bright as they will go, until he can see the faintest outline of her featureless, black disk of a face, until he can see the motion of his own hands. She touches him, running her six-clawed hands over his skin, caressing his face with the tendrils ringing her disk-face like rays off a dark sun. She brings him water, things to eat, blankets to make the cramped, cold metal feel enveloping and soft and safe. She makes Caelum feel real again.

When the alien is there, he's a person. He keeps up a lighthearted chatter, bantering with her and himself. He's ninety-nine percent sure she can't understand him, but she still responds, with her chirps and clacks and croons. He sings, sometimes, to stay in practice, even with his voice hoarse and cracking from disuse and testosterone. She likes that, will rest her tendrils against his throat to feel it buzz and rumble.

Thank fuck for modern science and the implant in his arm, dispensing regular doses of T into his system. This is bad enough without dysphoria to deal with. The other, unexpected, bonus benefit of being on T through this hell is that between the hormones and the boredom, his libido is through the roof. It's not long before Caelum gives in. What better way to hold off the darkness and the terror between the alien leaving and the alien returning than shoving his hand down his pants and closing his eyes tight against the dark and imagining the filthiest shit he can think of?

It starts off with the typical stuff for him. Getting gangbanged at a fancy party by a bunch of faceless people, left wrecked and messy. Sucking dick on his knees in an alley somewhere with a fist knotted in his hair. Being tied up with his knees apart and fingered casually, like he's just a toy, warm and wet and moaning. It gets... weirder from there. Darker, more fucked up.

Caelum tips his head back, eyes tightly shut against the dark, and puts two fingers in his own mouth, wanting something to suck on. His hips rock up into his other hand, fingers rubbing tight circles around his dick. Angle's weird, his wrist aching, so after a bit he unbuttons his pants, shoves them down with rough, shaking hands, sprawls back with his knees apart. God, if only he'd thought to grab something, fucking anything, that would be safe to shove up inside him back when he'd first dragged himself and his emergency pack into the maintenance tunnels. He aches for it, empty and wet, and his fingers aren't enough.

There's no way to get anything now. It's not like he could just explain to the alien what he wants, what he needs, except that then his mind jumps, traitorously, to exactly how he could do just that, how he could spread his legs and cant his hips up and whine like a fucking animal in heat until she just shoved... whatever into him, his imagination conjuring up several intriguing possibilities.

He fucks himself with his fingers, furious and hard and not hard enough, breathing shaky thinking about it, and buries his face in the crook of his elbow as he comes, whimpering.

His whimper is answered by a low croon.

Caelum freezes, sweaty and panting and horribly mortified. He doesn't want to open his eyes, doesn't even pull his fingers out of himself, just stays absolutely still in the vague hope that the alien will ignore him.

The alien croons again, and he feels her shift in the dark. Now that he's listening for her, he can hear the whisper-soft sound of her movements, the creak of the metal underneath her. She leans closer. Her tendrils tickle the insides of his thighs, and he sucks in a deep breath. The little anemone-like movements of her face tendrils draw a little nearer, trailing lines of delicate touch across his skin. He bites back a gasp, heat already starting to pool in his lower belly again. She doesn't have eyes, but she's looking at him, at where he's fucked himself open.

Her claws run over his flesh, scratching lightly so he gasps, and then wrap around his thigh -- her fingers, three pointed one way and three pointed the other, go all the way around, Christ. Gently, she pushes his knee further up and to the side, bending even closer. Caelum's hand flexes, and his hole makes a wet, obscene sound around his fingers as he finally pulls them out. He hesitates, hand shaking, and then grips his other thigh, pulling it aside as well. Holding himself bared and vulnerable.

He can't see what she's doing, even when he shifts enough to open his eyes. Her bioluminescent markings aren't engaged, and she's utterly invisible in the dark. He can feel her though, feel her shift over him. Hear her soft clicks and thrums.

Something touches him, and he whines before he realizes that it's the backs of her claws, running thoughtfully over his hole and dick, the wet mess there. Up and down the seam of him, and he wants to die and he wants to beg her to fingerfuck him, even though it would tear him up inside.

Instead the touch leaves him and her weight shifts again, pressing his legs even wider. There's a click closer to his shoulder as she braces herself on one clawed hand, feels a heaviness settle between his thighs. His body responds to the pose before he can consciously understand it, a surge of hot arousal, and he whimpers, broken and desperate. She's going to fuck him, going to fill him up, and he needs it more than he's ever needed anything.

There's a slick sound, and something touches him. It feels almost like the tip of someone's tongue at first, tracing over him, and he arches his hips into it, gasping.

"Yeah, yeah, please, God-"

The alien utters a low, throbbing pulse that he's never heard her make before. She presses into him, and the resemblance to a tongue stops because it just keeps pressing in. She's relentless, slow and constant pressure that forces him to stretch around the tentacle as it grows thicker and thicker along the length of it, so wet and slick that there's no resistance even as the stretch makes him sob, breathless. It's like nothing else he's ever had inside him, and he's fucking ruined for anything else after this. God. It's big enough to hurt - not much, just a little, a taunting amount, even after coming on his own fingers once, and everything about him feels centered around that pain. A wild part of him wishes it hurt a little more. Hurt enough to stick around for days, to remind him he's real and not alone.

And then it's in, and she stops moving. Caelum clenches down on the smooth length of her tentacle inside him, involuntary spasms that make his breathing stutter. The alien makes that throbbing sound again, her tentacle shifting inside him. Her face draws nearer to his, tendrils brushing his cheeks, and he kisses a tendril as it brushes his lips, a sharp, brutal movement that makes her click at him. The tendrils light up, finally, and he can see the opaque, empty disk of her face, see the scissor mandibles under it click and slide against each other in a hungry little gesture. He can't see what she's doing to him, the join of where her tentacle fits into him. All he can see is the faint suggestions of texture and movement, six inches from his face.

He tips his head back, baring his throat. His heart is racing, an animal part of him screaming at him for exposing his jugular to a predator, his skin prickling with anticipation and fear. Gently, he feels the bladed mandibles close around his throat, gliding up to press just under his jaw. They do not cut, but they lie against his skin, dangerous and tender. His breath stops.

And she moves inside him, tentacle rippling like a wave, and he stutters out a strangled groan, sucking in air after all, arousal hitting him like electricity to the gut. God, the movement of it hits every good spot he knew he had and several he didn't, smooth and overwhelming. He can't move his head the way he wants to, can't toss it back and arch and moan, the threat of the blades holding him still. Instead he trembles, pinned and filled and out of his mind with how turned on he is. There's nothing he can do but let her use him.

She moves again, and then again, and then the movement is continuous, merciless. The tentacle ripples and undulates inside him, and he drags in breaths that come out as high, whimpering sobs of sensation, his hands rising to clutch weakly at her forearms. It's overwhelming, driving out any thought but the pressure and fullness and movement, and this is so much better than anything he could have imagined, fuck. Time doesn't matter, but he seems to get fucked for forever before he feels her shudder, press in a little deeper, and then go still. He can feel some liquid spill inside him, and the thought of it is so hot he almost comes as well. He squirms, reaching down to touch his dick, and the mandibles around his throat release him. Instead the tendrils brush against the places where they had rested, and the alien croons at him, tenderly.

She doesn't seem inclined to pull out any time soon, so he clamps down around her where she's still inside him and grinds his dick hard into his fingertips, hissing hard breaths between clenched teeth as he comes, quickly and violently. She makes a quieter, lazier version of that throbbing noise, and the tentacle flexes inside him. Clearly she's a fan of the way he tightens when he comes. For a long moment, he lingers there, shuddering, coming on her dick.

When the alien pulls out, it's a lot faster than she went in, and he strangles a shriek at the sensation, the quick friction and the emptiness. He feels hollowed out, a ruined mess. He reaches down with shaking hands to run fingers through the mess on his thighs, and holds his hand up to the bioluminescence of her facial markings, inspecting the slick dark ink. Fuck, if he only had a light to see how it looked on his thighs.

The alien turns away, and then comes back to press something against his lips, and he registers that it's food. Granola bars again, seems like, but he takes it from her gratefully, hauling himself up into sitting. She's brought water, too, more water bottles. He leans into her shoulder as he eats and drinks, a shudder running through him occasionally as he feels the aftershocks. Afterwards, he lies down, tired from the first kind of physical activity he's had since he came to hide here, blissfully relaxed. He yawns, curling onto his side, and the alien comes to lie behind him. He realizes, vaguely, that he's still naked from the waist down and a mess, but there's not much he can do about it without ruining all of the clothes he has.

It does startle him, though, when he feels the alien's tentacle tease at him again. More casual, this time, almost playful, just the tip slipping in and out, circling just inside him. He shifts to allow her better access, sleepily, and squeaks when she slides a full half of the tentacle in. She leaves it there, though, seeming disinclined to move, and makes a sleepy sound. Just... using him.

If he wasn't so tired he'd be whimpering, but instead he just shivers and shuts his eyes against the oppressive dark, and, eventually, sleeps.