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A chained fox. A foreign threat. When the stars bring monsters with weapons and smirks, the only thing more dangerous than what they came for—is how badly they want it.", "writing": "[b]Chapter 1 – First Impressions[/b]\n\n[i]*A chained fox. A foreign threat. When the stars bring monsters with weapons and smirks, the only thing more dangerous than what they came for—is how badly they want it.*[/i]\n\nThe sun hung low over the dust-blown plains, casting long shadows from the spired rooftops of the manor house behind him. The fox knelt where he always did, bare knees on the packed dirt, arms bound behind his back with rough rope. A black leather collar circled his throat, heavy with dried sweat and iron links that led up to a thick post driven into the ground. He didn’t bother to tug at it anymore. Not today.\n\nThe blood on his chest had gone sticky. Pink smears traced through the pale fur of his throat and down to his belly, still tacky where it clumped over healing bite wounds and a guest’s arterial spray. The stink of it clung to him like heat. Flies hovered and danced around him, landing now and then to test the edge of his ragged breath.\n\nThen—without warning—the air rippled.\n\nNo wind, no shift in scent, just a shimmer, like heat haze too tightly coiled. A low, electric hum pierced the silence. The fox’s ears pinned flat, his muscles going rigid. A moment later, the ripple collapsed inward, and with a sharp, concussive pop of displaced air, four towering shapes appeared in the yard before him.\n\nThey were like nothing he had ever seen.\n\nTheir clothing clung close to their bodies in black matte layers, studded with smooth metal and glowing symbols. Each one held a strange device—long and angular—that whined softly as they raised them toward the fox. Their scent hit him second: sharp, foreign, wrong. Metallic with something... sterile underneath. Unnatural.\n\nThe largest of them stepped forward. A Rottweiler, taller than any alpha he’d seen, his broad chest straining against his armor as he puffed on the half-burned cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth. Smoke curled from his muzzle as he spoke a guttural string of words the fox couldn’t understand.\n\nAll eyes turned to him.\n\nThe fox's lips peeled back from his teeth.\n\nA low, guttural growl built in his chest—no words, no warning, just raw hate boiled down into noise. The moment one of the smaller males took a step forward, he exploded.\n\nHe lunged as far as the chain would allow, saliva flying from his jaws as he snapped at empty air just inches from the stranger’s throat. His teeth clacked together with a sound like breaking bones. His whole body arched, wild and lean, his eyes locked with the man’s like an animal ready to kill or be killed.\n\nThe growl had barely hit its peak before the house door exploded open.\n\nCRASH.\n\nA mountain of muscle stormed through the frame—an enormous black bull with a braided beard and a face like carved stone. His breath steamed from his nostrils as he raised a double-bladed axe that looked like it belonged on a battlefield, not a doorstep. His voice boomed across the yard, shaking the very air.\n\n“What in the seven hells—!”\n\nThe fox fell silent, panting. Not out of fear, but from the raw effort of rage. The Rottweiler took the cigar from his mouth slowly, blowing a plume of smoke between his teeth.\n\nNo one moved.\nNot yet.\n\nThe bull took a heavy step forward, hooves digging ruts in the earth. Muscles like bridge cables rolled beneath his fur as he hefted the axe one-handed, eyes narrowed and unblinking. Behind him, the door swung on broken hinges, dust curling in its wake.\n\nThe fox didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched with slit-pupil eyes, hackles raised, chest still rising and falling with silent fury.\n\nThe Rottweiler didn’t flinch.\n\nHe gave a lazy gesture with two fingers toward the male nearest him—a lanky jackal with too many sharp edges and a matte-gray visor where his eyes should’ve been. The jackal stepped forward, knelt, and fiddled with a small console on the side of his weapon. A soft chirp sounded, followed by a ripple of light that flickered across the collar at his throat.\n\nHe nodded once.\n\nThe Rottweiler rolled his broad shoulders and turned to the bull, one hand lifted, palm out—open, slow. His voice was low, rich, and cocky.\n\n“Hold on there, broco,” he said, each word clipped and clear.\n\nThe translator lagged a breath behind:\n\"Hold on there, broco. We just came to talk. No need to get your ass hair all twisted outta shape.\"\n\nThe bull blinked, confused for just long enough that the axe dipped slightly.\n\nBehind his cigar, the Rottweiler muttered through gritted teeth, too low for the bull to catch—but not low enough to be missed by the fox’s keen ears:\n\n“Fuckin’ backwater inbred sheep-fuckin’ redneck savages. And I have to fuck one of ’em.”\n\nThe fox’s ears twitched.\n\nNot from offense.\n\nFrom recognition.\n\nThe words meant nothing—but the tone? That cutting, dismissive disgust? That he understood. And something in his gut twisted like a blade.\n\nThe bull finally growled, voice like rolling stones. “You’ve got ten seconds to un-fuck whatever magic trick brought you here, alien, before I split your skull like firewood.”\n\nThe jackal stiffened. The other two raised their weapons. The fox could smell the tension, thick and electric. And through it all, the Rottweiler just grinned wider, slowly dragging on his cigar as if the axe wasn’t already glinting inches from his face.\n\nThe fox didn’t know what they wanted. Didn’t care. But he knew one thing:\n\nThis wasn’t going to end quietly.\n\nThe bull’s jaw clenched, but his fingers shifted on the haft of his axe. Slowly, he brought the weapon down to rest against the ground—not in surrender, but in wary negotiation. Dust puffed up around the metal blades as they struck dirt.\n\nThe Rottweiler took a breath, spreading his hands.\n\n“Look, just calm down a second. We’re here to make you an offer,” he said. His chin dipped toward the fox without ever taking his eyes off the bull. “For the fox.”\n\nThe collar around the omega’s throat burned like ice. He bared his teeth again, this time silent. His wrists twitched behind his back, fingers curling into dirt.\n\nThe bull didn’t respond.\n\nHe just shifted his grip on the axe—subtle, habitual. A natural change in stance, not a threat.\n\nBut the jackal panicked.\n\nWith a shrill whine, the device in his hand lit up like a star. The air shimmered—then exploded into a pillar of light so hot it turned the bull’s silhouette into bones in an instant.\n\nThen nothing.\nNot bone. Not ash.\nJust a blackened ring of carbon where his hooves had been.\n\nSilence slammed down like a hammer.\n\nThe fox flinched hard, eyes wide, breath ragged. His entire body froze, the chain rattling softly as if even the metal were in mourning.\n\nThe Rottweiler turned. Slowly. Deliberately.\n\nHe stalked across the scorched dirt, smoke curling around his boots. The jackal had lowered his weapon, eyes wide behind his visor, shoulders tense. He barely had time to brace before the Rottweiler hauled back and smacked him across the side of the head with the flat of his palm.\n\nCRACK.\n\nThe jackal staggered, stumbling sideways with a choked yelp. His visor sparked at the edge.\n\n“Are you fuckin’ serious?” the Rottweiler barked. “You think that bull was the threat in this yard?!”\n\nHis voice dropped, low and furious as he jabbed a finger in the jackal’s chest.\n\n“Now they know what we’re packin’. They know. We just lost any goddamn leverage we had.”\n\nHe turned, spit hitting the dirt near the scorched patch where the bull had stood. Then, quieter, to himself:\n\n“Fucking trigger-happy little shits. Can’t even wait for the negotiations to start before you piss on everything.”\n\nBehind them, the fox hadn't moved.\n\nBut his breathing had changed.\n\nSlower. More calculating. Something colder than fear creeping into the place where terror had lived for years.\n\nWhatever these aliens were—whatever they wanted—one thing was clear:\n\nThey were just as dangerous as the alphas who owned this place. Maybe more.\n\nAnd unlike the ones who beat him… these ones didn’t need to touch you to kill you.\n\nThe jackal was still rubbing his jaw, ears pinned and muttering apologies the Rottweiler didn’t bother listening to. The smoke was already beginning to fade from the scorched earth, leaving behind only the sharp tang of burnt stone and the quiet, oppressive absence of the bull.\n\nThe Rottweiler took one last drag of his cigar before flicking the smoldering butt into the dirt.\n\n“It doesn’t matter,” he growled, turning his head toward the fox without fully facing him. His voice was colder now. Flat with purpose. “This is what we’re here for.”\n\nHis eyes locked on the fox—still crouched low, chest heaving, blood dried into pale fur. Collar gleaming black. Mouth still wet with foam from his earlier outburst.\n\n“Sedate it. Pack it up. And let’s get the fuck off this backwater rock.”\n\nThe fox’s ears snapped back.\n\nHe didn’t know the words. But he knew a command when he heard one. Knew the shift in posture, the clipped tone of an alpha making a decision that others would carry out—on his body, with or without his consent.\n\nThe jackal hesitated, glancing sideways at the fox. “Sir, if I get close—”\n\nThe Rottweiler cut him off with a look. “He’s chained. Do your damn job.”\n\nThe jackal swallowed, then pulled a small device from his hip—a slender injector with a blinking green light. He approached slowly, step by cautious step, hand out like someone offering food to a starving dog.\n\nThe fox didn’t move.\n\nNot at first.\n\nBut just as the jackal got within reach, the chain snapped taut.\n\nThe fox lunged again—teeth bared, eyes blazing, muscles straining so violently his whole body trembled. The snarl that tore from his throat was less animal than elemental, like the earth itself had given voice to fury.\n\nThe jackal flinched back.\n\nBut the Rottweiler didn’t even blink. He just reached into his vest and pulled out a second injector. Without ceremony, he stepped forward and, in a blur of practiced movement, jammed it hard into the side of the fox’s neck.\n\nThe fox screamed.\n\nIt was raw and short-lived, fury strangled by chemicals that surged into his bloodstream. His limbs twitched, lungs heaving once—twice—before going slack.\n\nThe Rottweiler held onto him as his body sagged.\n\nStill warm. Still breathing. But limp.\n\nHe looked down at the fox, jaw working.\n\n“Congratulations, pretty boy,” he muttered, brushing the matted fur off the fox’s cheek like one might wipe grime off a trophy. “You just became the most valuable fuck in ten systems.”", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "Chapter 1 – First Impressions

*A chained fox. A foreign threat. When the stars bring monsters with weapons and smirks, the only thing more dangerous than what they came for—is how badly they want it.*

The sun hung low over the dust-blown plains, casting long shadows from the spired rooftops of the manor house behind him. The fox knelt where he always did, bare knees on the packed dirt, arms bound behind his back with rough rope. A black leather collar circled his throat, heavy with dried sweat and iron links that led up to a thick post driven into the ground. He didn’t bother to tug at it anymore. Not today.

The blood on his chest had gone sticky. Pink smears traced through the pale fur of his throat and down to his belly, still tacky where it clumped over healing bite wounds and a guest’s arterial spray. The stink of it clung to him like heat. Flies hovered and danced around him, landing now and then to test the edge of his ragged breath.

Then—without warning—the air rippled.

No wind, no shift in scent, just a shimmer, like heat haze too tightly coiled. A low, electric hum pierced the silence. The fox’s ears pinned flat, his muscles going rigid. A moment later, the ripple collapsed inward, and with a sharp, concussive pop of displaced air, four towering shapes appeared in the yard before him.

They were like nothing he had ever seen.

Their clothing clung close to their bodies in black matte layers, studded with smooth metal and glowing symbols. Each one held a strange device—long and angular—that whined softly as they raised them toward the fox. Their scent hit him second: sharp, foreign, wrong. Metallic with something... sterile underneath. Unnatural.

The largest of them stepped forward. A Rottweiler, taller than any alpha he’d seen, his broad chest straining against his armor as he puffed on the half-burned cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth. Smoke curled from his muzzle as he spoke a guttural string of words the fox couldn’t understand.

All eyes turned to him.

The fox's lips peeled back from his teeth.

A low, guttural growl built in his chest—no words, no warning, just raw hate boiled down into noise. The moment one of the smaller males took a step forward, he exploded.

He lunged as far as the chain would allow, saliva flying from his jaws as he snapped at empty air just inches from the stranger’s throat. His teeth clacked together with a sound like breaking bones. His whole body arched, wild and lean, his eyes locked with the man’s like an animal ready to kill or be killed.

The growl had barely hit its peak before the house door exploded open.

CRASH.

A mountain of muscle stormed through the frame—an enormous black bull with a braided beard and a face like carved stone. His breath steamed from his nostrils as he raised a double-bladed axe that looked like it belonged on a battlefield, not a doorstep. His voice boomed across the yard, shaking the very air.

“What in the seven hells—!”

The fox fell silent, panting. Not out of fear, but from the raw effort of rage. The Rottweiler took the cigar from his mouth slowly, blowing a plume of smoke between his teeth.

No one moved.
Not yet.

The bull took a heavy step forward, hooves digging ruts in the earth. Muscles like bridge cables rolled beneath his fur as he hefted the axe one-handed, eyes narrowed and unblinking. Behind him, the door swung on broken hinges, dust curling in its wake.

The fox didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched with slit-pupil eyes, hackles raised, chest still rising and falling with silent fury.

The Rottweiler didn’t flinch.

He gave a lazy gesture with two fingers toward the male nearest him—a lanky jackal with too many sharp edges and a matte-gray visor where his eyes should’ve been. The jackal stepped forward, knelt, and fiddled with a small console on the side of his weapon. A soft chirp sounded, followed by a ripple of light that flickered across the collar at his throat.

He nodded once.

The Rottweiler rolled his broad shoulders and turned to the bull, one hand lifted, palm out—open, slow. His voice was low, rich, and cocky.

“Hold on there, broco,” he said, each word clipped and clear.

The translator lagged a breath behind:
"Hold on there, broco. We just came to talk. No need to get your ass hair all twisted outta shape."

The bull blinked, confused for just long enough that the axe dipped slightly.

Behind his cigar, the Rottweiler muttered through gritted teeth, too low for the bull to catch—but not low enough to be missed by the fox’s keen ears:

“Fuckin’ backwater inbred sheep-fuckin’ redneck savages. And I have to fuck one of ’em.”

The fox’s ears twitched.

Not from offense.

From recognition.

The words meant nothing—but the tone? That cutting, dismissive disgust? That he understood. And something in his gut twisted like a blade.

The bull finally growled, voice like rolling stones. “You’ve got ten seconds to un-fuck whatever magic trick brought you here, alien, before I split your skull like firewood.”

The jackal stiffened. The other two raised their weapons. The fox could smell the tension, thick and electric. And through it all, the Rottweiler just grinned wider, slowly dragging on his cigar as if the axe wasn’t already glinting inches from his face.

The fox didn’t know what they wanted. Didn’t care. But he knew one thing:

This wasn’t going to end quietly.

The bull’s jaw clenched, but his fingers shifted on the haft of his axe. Slowly, he brought the weapon down to rest against the ground—not in surrender, but in wary negotiation. Dust puffed up around the metal blades as they struck dirt.

The Rottweiler took a breath, spreading his hands.

“Look, just calm down a second. We’re here to make you an offer,” he said. His chin dipped toward the fox without ever taking his eyes off the bull. “For the fox.”

The collar around the omega’s throat burned like ice. He bared his teeth again, this time silent. His wrists twitched behind his back, fingers curling into dirt.

The bull didn’t respond.

He just shifted his grip on the axe—subtle, habitual. A natural change in stance, not a threat.

But the jackal panicked.

With a shrill whine, the device in his hand lit up like a star. The air shimmered—then exploded into a pillar of light so hot it turned the bull’s silhouette into bones in an instant.

Then nothing.
Not bone. Not ash.
Just a blackened ring of carbon where his hooves had been.

Silence slammed down like a hammer.

The fox flinched hard, eyes wide, breath ragged. His entire body froze, the chain rattling softly as if even the metal were in mourning.

The Rottweiler turned. Slowly. Deliberately.

He stalked across the scorched dirt, smoke curling around his boots. The jackal had lowered his weapon, eyes wide behind his visor, shoulders tense. He barely had time to brace before the Rottweiler hauled back and smacked him across the side of the head with the flat of his palm.

CRACK.

The jackal staggered, stumbling sideways with a choked yelp. His visor sparked at the edge.

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” the Rottweiler barked. “You think that bull was the threat in this yard?!”

His voice dropped, low and furious as he jabbed a finger in the jackal’s chest.

“Now they know what we’re packin’. They know. We just lost any goddamn leverage we had.”

He turned, spit hitting the dirt near the scorched patch where the bull had stood. Then, quieter, to himself:

“Fucking trigger-happy little shits. Can’t even wait for the negotiations to start before you piss on everything.”

Behind them, the fox hadn't moved.

But his breathing had changed.

Slower. More calculating. Something colder than fear creeping into the place where terror had lived for years.

Whatever these aliens were—whatever they wanted—one thing was clear:

They were just as dangerous as the alphas who owned this place. Maybe more.

And unlike the ones who beat him… these ones didn’t need to touch you to kill you.

The jackal was still rubbing his jaw, ears pinned and muttering apologies the Rottweiler didn’t bother listening to. The smoke was already beginning to fade from the scorched earth, leaving behind only the sharp tang of burnt stone and the quiet, oppressive absence of the bull.

The Rottweiler took one last drag of his cigar before flicking the smoldering butt into the dirt.

“It doesn’t matter,” he growled, turning his head toward the fox without fully facing him. His voice was colder now. Flat with purpose. “This is what we’re here for.”

His eyes locked on the fox—still crouched low, chest heaving, blood dried into pale fur. Collar gleaming black. Mouth still wet with foam from his earlier outburst.

“Sedate it. Pack it up. And let’s get the fuck off this backwater rock.”

The fox’s ears snapped back.

He didn’t know the words. But he knew a command when he heard one. Knew the shift in posture, the clipped tone of an alpha making a decision that others would carry out—on his body, with or without his consent.

The jackal hesitated, glancing sideways at the fox. “Sir, if I get close—”

The Rottweiler cut him off with a look. “He’s chained. Do your damn job.”

The jackal swallowed, then pulled a small device from his hip—a slender injector with a blinking green light. He approached slowly, step by cautious step, hand out like someone offering food to a starving dog.

The fox didn’t move.

Not at first.

But just as the jackal got within reach, the chain snapped taut.

The fox lunged again—teeth bared, eyes blazing, muscles straining so violently his whole body trembled. The snarl that tore from his throat was less animal than elemental, like the earth itself had given voice to fury.

The jackal flinched back.

But the Rottweiler didn’t even blink. He just reached into his vest and pulled out a second injector. Without ceremony, he stepped forward and, in a blur of practiced movement, jammed it hard into the side of the fox’s neck.

The fox screamed.

It was raw and short-lived, fury strangled by chemicals that surged into his bloodstream. His limbs twitched, lungs heaving once—twice—before going slack.

The Rottweiler held onto him as his body sagged.

Still warm. Still breathing. But limp.

He looked down at the fox, jaw working.

“Congratulations, pretty boy,” he muttered, brushing the matted fur off the fox’s cheek like one might wipe grime off a trophy. “You just became the most valuable fuck in ten systems.”", "pools_count": 1, "title": "Breed Standard - Chapter 1: First Impressions", "deleted": "f", "public": "t", "mimetype": "text/plain", "pagecount": "1", "rating_id": "2", "rating_name": "Adult", "ratings": [ { "content_tag_id": "4", "name": "Sexual Themes", "description": "Erotic imagery, sexual activity or arousal", "rating_id": "2" } ], "submission_type_id": "12", "type_name": "Writing - Document", "guest_block": "t", "friends_only": "f", "comments_count": "0", "views": "98" }