Alien Owner! Who picked you up off the street one day- you were wandering, like a lost little thing (you were on a walk), a stray! A poor human who had no one to guide them, and they just had to save you!
Alien Owner! Who takes you back home with them, rambling excitedly in a language you can't even dream of understanding- you just know you probably won't be seeing the streets any time soon
Alien Owner! Who researches for weeks about their new human, spending hours every day on forums and blogs compiling a list of how to best take care of you, while you come to realize that apparently, humans are a pretty common ‘exotic pet’
Alien Owner! Who does everything in their power to make you happy and comfortable, buying you all the best foods, beds, toys—anything and everything you could possibly want
Alien Owner! Who learns one day that humans ovulate once a month—but not that it's only some humans—and believes it's just like other animals going into heat
Alien Owner! Who decides one day that you're acting differently from usual, that it must be because of your ‘heat’, and that, being a good owner, they have to do something about it to make their little human happy and comfortable!
Alien Owner! Who makes happy clicks and trills at you, petting your body, nuzzling and licking your skin, until you start to react- always watching closely to make sure they're not hurting or stressing you out
Alien Owner! Whose whole species, you learn, have both parts; when their strange cock breaches their slick pussy out of nowhere, rubbing at your stomach and the curve of your hip like it's looking for entry
Alien Owner! Whose anatomy is distinctly inhuman, with strange curves and twists and…spines? But who feels so, so good when inside and wrapped around you, stroking all the right places
Alien Owner! Who makes you cum embarrassingly fast, and embarrassingly hard, leaving your body trembling and legs unusable while they coo and pet you like a dog, pulling away like nothing happened
Alien Owner! Who seems unfazed- until you find them hidden away with their hand(?) stroking furiously at their cock, a second strange appendage pumping in and out of their cunt desperately
Imagine an alien species that evolved to be semi-aquatic watching humans (a species evolved to climb and run on land) jump eagerly into the water to swim with them. No safety equipment, no flotation devices, just a thin modesty suit and sheer glee.
And humans, by the alien’s standards, are terrible at swimming. Just…truly awful. They can’t hold their breath for long, their bones and muscles are dense, their lungs make them too buoyant, their hair creates drag, their gangly limbs are slow and clumsy, and they can’t open their eyes underwater because the water will hurt them.
And yet the human laughs and splashes with their alien friend and alien can’t help but marvel as the human seems to adapt in real time right in front of their eyes.
The human streamlines themself to glide through the water as best they can, trying their best to turn their grasping hands into paddles, their feet into flippers. The human watches and copies how the alien moves and mimics them, learns and copies them until they move almost gracefully.
Often, they break away from these learned skills and become a land mammal flailing in the water again, but something about the human willingly defying their nature, learning to be more than they are in a bid for connection with another species, makes the alien light up with something that feels an awful lot like fondness.
Alien Bf asked for you to teach him all there was to know about human intimacy. He wanted to learn all there was, so long as it was you teaching him and no one else. You were his mate after all…
While he believed he had learned everything he needed to know by sneaking into the spaceship’s computer room and exploring the databases entire collection of porn, you insisted there was more. Much to his chagrin you moved away from all the porn and turned your focus to romance movies.
When watching them he didn’t understand these strange mating rituals. But he saw how the humans in each film reacted to them. More importantly he saw how you reacted. And he wanted nothing more than to make you feel all of that and more.
From then on your Alien bf does everything he can think of to make you blush and feel special. Making bold declarations of love in the middle of mission meetings and creating gifts of pleasure where he just so happens to give you them in front of everyone and they can all tell by your muffled screams when he uses them on you later.
As well as performing gestures like triggering the automatic doors for you, dragging you to sit on his lap, feeding you all your meals just as well as he feeds you his cock behind closed doors.
None of it is innocent, you know this as a fact by now. As sweet as his acts are, you know he’s purposefully toeing the line between romantic and sexual intimacy. Trying in every way he knows how to rile you up, using every advantage he as in his arsenal before you inevitably drag him off into some dark closet so he can fuck you straight into the next galaxy.
And he’s eating it up, every minute of it. Whether that minute is spent with his face buried between your thighs or otherwise. Always making those soft chirps that he does whenever he’s particularly pleased with himself. That sly grin on his face that forms after making you both blush and become incredibly horny.
You should finally call him out on it. For too long he’s been getting away with breaking the rules and testing the last of your patience. But fuck if you don’t benefit from that every chance you get. The words are right on the tip of your tongue, urging you to speak out about it, as you try and make the familiar clicking noise of his people. Yet the sound trails off as another climax wracks through your spent and battered cunt.
Mercilessly he fucks you through it, snapping up his hips to make you bounce on his dick. The girth of his cock rubbing against your sensitive silken walls, igniting your nerves and making stars dance behind your eyes. The sound of wet bodies smacking together echo through the whole ship but you can’t even care. They’ve heard you enough times to know what to expect.
“Isn’t this nngh! better, my mate? No hah! wasting time when we can just get down to what truly makes you blush,” your bf moans, swiveling his hips to hit that special spot deep within your walls.
Does he really think you’re in a state to teach him right now?! It’s almost like he’s doing it on purpose. You’re far too fucked out to notice the wickedly delighted glint in his eye. He hums to himself in thought, seemingly unaffected meanwhile you’re nothing more than a puddle for him to rut into as he reshapes your insides, ensuring no human or alien could satisfy you besides him.
“Ahh—hmmph— the way you smile so sweetly when I d-dote on you is more than enough to tempt me to do it again… and again,” he adds, a deeper meaning to his words that even you can pick up on.
His words combined with the way he skillfully rolls your bundle of nerves between his long fingers hurtles you over the edge once again. Your Alien bf makes an inhuman cry, filling you up with his essence as you cum together.
With that last climax all his strength vanishes. He flops down on top of you, his large body covering your plush frame. All he has strength for is the playful nips he leaves along your throat. The firm weight of his body has you writhing beneath him like you aim to get him hard again. That seals it, you’re definitely as obsessed with sex as he is.
“It might take a bit more practice before you get the hang of this romance thing,” you whisper into his hair, nuzzling into the soft strands. His following chuckle rumbles through you.
“We can practice as many times as you think I need, darling,” he purrs, having gotten the hang of this whole teasing thing.
Suddenly his hips flex, meeting your miniature thrusts and a loud moans pours out of you without your permission. More than prepared to practice whatever you wish all night. As long as it takes. He’ll romance you just how you need.
Summary: Taken by the Yautja at twenty years old, you have spent years working quietly as a maid within the household of an honoured hunter. Your days are spent caring for the home and its younglings. Life is controlled but predictable. That changes the moment Vorkath’ren, the clan’s feared Enforcer, returns from a hunt.
You woke before the suns rose, as you always did.
The house was still and cool, the walls humming with the noise of Yautja technology that you had learned to live beside.
You gathered water, prepared food for the younglings, and tidied the common room before the first of them padded sleepily into the halls.
The children of the clan always found you amusing. You were small to them, soft, and fragile.
They adored you for it.
One clung to your leg as you tried to sweep the floor. Another demanded to be carried.
You obliged, lifting the smallest and settling him on your hip. His low purr vibrated against your shoulder.
This was your place. This was your life. It was not easy, but it was safe enough.
Until today.
The rumble of returning hunters echoed through the compound long before the door slid open.
The heads of the younglings snapped up. Their eyes widened with excitement.
“They are back,” one chirped, hopping from foot to foot.
The returning party always presented themselves to the tribe's Elder, and you were expected to greet them as part of your duties. You steadied your breathing and stepped into the main hall.
The air grew heavier as the hunters entered. The first few were familiar to you, masked warriors you had tended to after training sessions.
They smelled of iron and smoke, their hides marked with fresh paint and newly earned scars.
Then he stepped through the doorway.
Vorkath’ren.
You knew his title long before you ever saw his face.
The Enforcer.
The executioner of the Elder.
The one even seasoned hunters whispered about in low tones. His armour was plated in obsidian metal and decorated with bones from creatures you could not name.
His dreadlocks were bound with trophies, each one telling a story of violence and dominance. His presence filled the hall like a storm rolling in from distant mountains.
He carried the skull of a slain bad blood in one massive hand and dropped it into the centre of the room as proof that his task had been completed.
The warriors roared their approval.
You should have been able to stay invisible. You never made noise, never drew attention.
Yet as the Elder stepped forward to praise the returning party, Vorkath’ren’s gaze moved.
It landed on you.
For a moment, your body forgot how to move.
His mask turned fully in your direction, the glow of his eyes sharp and focused.
He had been looking at the Elder a moment before. Now, every line of his towering form faced you, as if pulled by an instinct he did not understand.
You lowered your eyes.
It was improper to hold a hunter’s stare for too long, especially one like him.
It was considered rude and a challenge between Yautja.
The weight of his attention. The force of it.
Your pulse quickened at the way he stood utterly still, observing you as though you were the only living thing in the hall.
Another hunter approached him, speaking of the fallen bad bloods. Vorkath’ren did not respond.
His focus rarely lingered.
The Elder noticed and followed the line of his sight, landing on you. His expression tightened with curiosity.
“You.” The Elder called out.
Your steps were quiet as you approached. You kept your hands folded, your head bowed.
“Offer greetings to the hunters,” the Elder instructed.
You did, voice steady despite the tremor beneath your ribs.
“Welcome home. May your hunts continue to honour the clan.”
A respectful sentence. One you had spoken many times.
Vorkath’ren tilted his head as though memorising the sound of your voice. His mask retracted with a sharp click.
You had never seen him unmasked.
His mandibles framed a mouth full of sharp, gleaming teeth.
Scars crossed his lower jaw. His eyes were a molten shade of amber, intense and almost strange in their depth.
He looked at you. He really looked.
Your breath caught.
Something flickered in those eyes.
He inhaled, sampling your scent.
You were not supposed to react, yet your heart thudded so loudly that you feared every hunter in the hall could hear it.
The Elder spoke again, addressing Vorkath’ren.
“Your hunt was successful, Enforcer. The clan is safer with the bad bloods destroyed.”
Vorkath’ren did not answer.
His gaze remained locked with yours.
The Elder’s eyes narrowed with thought.
“Does something interest you?”
A low, rumbling sound left Vorkath’ren’s chest. Not a threat. Not entirely. It was something far more complicated.
You took a small step back.
That was when he moved.
Only an inch forward, barely noticeable to anyone who did not know Yautja body language. But you knew enough. He was closing distance.
The Elder lifted a hand, halting whatever shift had started in the air.
“Return to your quarters, Enforcer. We will discuss the hunt later.”
Vorkath’ren hesitated.
A feared executioner. A brutal enforcer whose word was law to the lower ranks.
He hesitated.
But eventually he obeyed, turning away.
As he passed you, he looked down at you one last time, pupils wide, breath warm and heavy.
You felt it like a touch. A warning. A promise.
Something you did not yet have a name for.
You were supposed to return to your duties. You were supposed to forget this moment.
But long after he left the hall, you could still feel the burn of his eyes on your skin.
And deep in your chest, something answered.
You tried to tell yourself that nothing had changed.
You tried to believe it.
But from the moment Vorkath’ren returned from the hunt, the walls of the house felt different, as though something had awakened in the shadows and refused to rest again.
He watched you.
You first noticed it the very next morning.
You were carrying herbal infusions to the balcony to dry in the weak sunlight when you sensed it.
A shift in the air. A weight. The unmistakable feeling of being watched.
You lifted your head.
Vorkath’ren stood on the far side of the balcony, silent as a carved idol. His arms were folded behind him, skull trophies hanging across his broad chest. His eyes were fixed on you with that same intensity from the hall.
You almost dropped the tray.
He did not move. He did not speak. He watched.
You gave a small bow, unsure what else to do, and hurried away.
The moment you stepped inside, your skin prickled again. You looked over your shoulder.
He followed you.
Not close. Not enough to appear threatening. But he stood at the next doorway, gaze anchored to your retreating form.
You felt heat rise in your face.
He continued like this for days.
Everywhere you went, he was there.
In the training yard, standing against a pillar as you passed by with supplies.
By the nursery, observing quietly as you soothed a crying youngling.
In the market corridor, his towering form blocked a group of rowdy hunters from brushing too close to you.
The first time he did that, the younger hunter attempted to challenge him, puffing his chest and hissing a complaint.
Vorkath’ren turned his head slowly.
The young hunter froze. Whatever he saw in those amber eyes made him drop his gaze and step back at once.
No one bothered you after that.
You should have been relieved, but your heart raced whenever Vorkath’ren was near. Sometimes you caught him scenting the air when you walked past, a low inhale that made something stir deep in your stomach.
You had never been so intensely noticed in your life.
One afternoon, while trying to stack storage crates, you lost your footing. You braced for the impact, but it never came. A huge hand caught your arm, lifting you upright as though you weighed nothing.
Vorkath’ren.
He crouched, bringing his face level with yours. His eyes scanned you from head to toe, checking for injury.
“I am fine. Thank you.”
He did not release your arm immediately. His grasp was warm, steady, careful.
When he finally let go, his fingers traced lightly across your wrist as though reluctant to break contact.
He rumbled something in his own language. A sound low and soft. You had heard Yautja hunters speak many times, but none of them ever used a tone like that.
Then he rose to his full height and walked away, leaving you breathless.
Later that night, when you returned to your quarters, something waited on your sleeping furs.
A charm.
Bone carved into the shape of a curved talon, polished to a soft shine. A traditional token used by Yautja males when they wished to express interest.
Your breath stopped in your throat.
You lifted it with shaking fingers.
The air carried a faint scent that did not belong to you.
Him.
Footsteps echoed down the hall outside your door. Heavy. Controlled. You knew the sound now.
He paused outside your quarters.
Waiting.
Listening.
You clutched the charm to your chest, unsure whether to hide it or cherish it.
The footsteps moved on.
You sank onto your bed, the charm still resting in your palm, glowing faintly in the dim light.
You should fear this. You should return the token immediately.
Yet warmth bloomed in your chest. A slow, hesitant flutter that made you press your other hand to your heart as if you could calm it.
The Enforcer watched you. Protected you. Desired you.
And no matter how much you tried to ignore it, a part of you felt strangely safe when his shadow fell over yours.
A part of you wondered what it meant to receive a token from a male like him.
A part of you wanted to know what he would do if you kept it.
The gift weighed on your mind for days.
Every time you tucked the carved talon beneath your tunic, every time your fingers brushed its polished surface, you felt the same gentle ache in your chest. You should have returned it. You told yourself that many times. Yet each morning you found it still resting above your heart.
You noticed changes in Vorkath’ren too.
He no longer lurked in distant doorways. He approached you with deliberate steps, closing the distance inch by inch until there was no ignoring his presence.
He found you by the feeding hall one morning, sorting through herbs for the younglings. His shadow covered the table before you realised he was there.
“Enforcer,” you greeted softly, bowing your head.
His mask was clipped to his hip today. His face was bare. His eyes studied you with the precision of a hunter tracking something precious.
“Vorkath’ren,” he corrected, voice deep and gravelled.
You startled. He had never spoken his name to you before.
“I mean no disrespect,” you murmured.
He lowered himself until he was crouched at your level, movements slow and deliberate, as if approaching something fragile.
“You do not disrespect,” he said. The words were heavily accented, but the meaning was clear. “You speak. I listen.”
Your stomach fluttered. You had spoken to many hunters before, but Vorkath’ren was different.
His attention felt heavy, purposeful. His gaze tracked your eyes, your hands, the subtle rise and fall of your chest when you breathed.
You cleared your throat. “I should return to work.”
He tilted his head, mandibles flexing faintly in what you were beginning to recognise as curiosity.
“If I am too near, you speak. I move.”
The offer stunned you. Yautja were not known for yielding to humans. Yet here he was, offering you the ability to push him away.
You hesitated.
“I will tell you if I need space.”
He nodded once. A promise.
True to his word, he respected every boundary you set. When he stepped too close, you gently lifted your hand. He backed away immediately. When his looming presence became too much, you told him, voice shaking.
He bowed his head and stepped aside.
Each time he listened, something inside you softened.
But even with distance, he watched.
He watched you braid a youngling’s hair.
He watched you carry a basket of fruits across the courtyard.
He watched you walk home at twilight, standing sentry on the rooftop above as if guarding your path.
You should have been frightened. Yet somehow, every time your eyes found his towering silhouette, your heart steadied instead of racing away.
The change came on the night of the storm.
The world outside the house raged with thunder. The walls shuddered with each strike of lightning, the sound echoing in your chest.
You hated storms here.
The atmosphere felt different, heavier, more violent than storms on Earth.
You sat curled on your sleeping furs, arms wrapped around your knees, fighting the urge to hide beneath the blankets like a child.
A crash shook the compound so violently that you flinched and covered your ears.
Something moved outside your door.
Footsteps. Heavy, steady, unmistakable.
Your breath hitched.
The door opened with a quiet hiss.
Vorkath’ren stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by flashes of white lightning.
He looked at you, then at the trembling doorframe, then back to you. A low hum vibrated in his chest, something warm and unthreatening.
“Fear. Your scent.”
You swallowed hard.
“The storm is loud. That is all.”
He stepped forward slowly, giving you time to refuse. You did not.
He lowered himself to sit beside your bed, his back against the wall, arms resting on his bent knees.
“I remain here. If you wish.”
Your heart fluttered.
“You are not needed.”
“No. But I remain.”
Another crash shook the house. You jerked, breath quickening. Vorkath’ren glanced at the ceiling, then back at you.
“You rest, I watch.”
There was no demand in his tone. Only quiet certainty, as though protecting you had ceased being a choice.
You lay back on your furs, though sleep did not come easily. The storm raged. Thunder cracked.
Lightning flashed.
But beside your bed sat the Enforcer of the clan.
Silent. Still. Watching the entrance with unwavering focus.
Your eyes traced the outline of his form.
The breadth of his shoulders. The slow rise and fall of his breath.
His profile was illuminated by every lightning flash.
You loosened your grip on your blankets.
He felt your stare and turned his head, eyes meeting yours through the dim light.
“Sleep,” he murmured.
Something in his tone unravelled the knot inside your chest.
For the first time since childhood, you fell asleep during a storm.
And when you woke, he was exactly where he had been, guarding your dreams with the patience of a creature who had claimed a place he would never relinquish.
The days after the storm settled into a strange rhythm. Vorkath’ren appeared everywhere you went, but no longer hid behind distance.
If you walked through the courtyard, he followed at a respectful pace. If you tended the younglings, he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, protective eyes tracking every movement around you.
The clan noticed.
How could they not?
Whispers echoed through the corridors, hunters murmuring to one another in disbelief.
The Enforcer watches the human.
Why her?
Does she have a hold on him?
Some were curious. Some were unsettled. A few were openly displeased.
One of them was Jatruk.
He was younger than Vorkath’ren, ambitious, arrogant, a hunter who thought status made him untouchable.
You had always avoided him. His gaze was too bold. His voice is too sharp. He disliked humans and made no attempt to hide it.
You should have been more cautious when you passed through the storage hall alone.
You were gathering medicinal moss for the elder’s mate, head bent, arms full of herbs. No one else stayed in the long corridor. It should have been a simple task.
“I have been watching you. The Enforcer gives you his time. His attention. His silence. You must know what that means.”
Your pulse sped. You stepped back, but he followed.
“I have wondered what you did to earn it. Did you beg him? Offer him something? Humans use tricks. It is known.”
“That is not true. Please let me through.”
He smiled, mandibles flaring faintly.
“Perhaps I should inspect you myself. See what he finds so interesting.”
You moved back again.
He trapped you between a support beam and his towering frame. Panic rose in you.
You clutched the herbs against your chest.
“Move,” you said, voice shaking.
“No,” he answered, leaning closer.
A low sound rumbled from your throat.
Not a cry. Not a scream. A sound of fear so raw it echoed through the corridor.
Jatruk’s hand reached for your arm.
He never touched you.
A shadow dropped behind him with the weight of a falling mountain.
Vorkath’ren.
His roar shattered the silence.
Jatruk spun, but it was already too late.
Vorkath’ren struck him hard enough to send him skidding across the floor. Skulls rattled on the Enforcer’s armour, teeth bared, mandibles wide with fury. Rage radiated from him in waves.
The entire compound seemed to freeze.
Jatruk scrambled to his feet, sputtering.
“She is a servant. A human. She has no claim.”
Vorkath’ren advanced one step. The floor trembled beneath his weight.
“You will not approach her. You will not speak to her. You will not breathe near her.”
Jatruk bared his teeth, refusing to yield.
“You break our customs for her. You shame the clan. Has she enthralled you? Has she made you weak?”
Vorkath’ren’s eyes darkened.
“No. She makes me choose.”
Jatruk lunged.
It was foolish.
It was the end of him.
Vorkath’ren moved with a speed you had never seen.
The collision sent Jatruk crashing into a stone pillar, air leaving his lungs in a single pained gasp. Vorkath’ren pinned him with one massive hand, claws pressed lightly against his throat in warning.
He did not kill him.
But the message was unmistakable.
The Enforcer chose restraint only for you.
Hunters gathered at the edges of the corridor, drawn by the noise, silent witnesses to what came next.
Vorkath’ren released Jatruk, who collapsed to the floor, panting and humiliated.
Without looking at him again, Vorkath’ren turned to you.
His voice softened in a way that stunned everyone present.
“Did he touch you?” he asked.
“No,” you whispered.
He stepped closer, towering above you, but his posture was low, submissive in a way Yautja rarely displayed.
He reached out, paused, and waited for your permission. You gave a small nod.
His hand came to rest lightly against your arm, warm and steady.
“Good,” he said, voice thick with relief.
The gathered hunters exchanged shocked looks.
A murmur rippled through them.
The Enforcer protects the human.
The Enforcer claims her.
The Enforcer chooses.
You swallowed hard, the realisation sinking in.
“What you did, you declared something.”
His eyes met yours, dark and burning.
“I declare truth. You are under my protection. My watch. My choice.”
The words were not casual. Not symbolic.
Among Yautja, such a declaration was the first step toward a mate bond.
“Vorkath’ren, you cannot simply claim me.”
He lowered himself until his face was inches from yours. His mandibles brushed your cheek in the faintest touch, the contact so gentle it barely existed.
“I do not claim your body, I claim your safety.”
His hand lifted to your chest. Not touching.
“As for more, you decide. Not I.”
Your heart ached at the tenderness hidden beneath so much power.
Hunters still watched, stunned, uncertain, afraid to speak.
But Vorkath’ren did not care for their eyes.
He stepped to your side, standing as your shield. He looked at the hall, at Jatruk, at the hunters gathered, and his voice thundered through the corridor.
“She belongs to my guard. My watch. My protection. Any who threaten her are my enemy.”
Silence fell like a closing door.
Your life changed with those words. Yet, you still choose to act as if nothing happened.
Even if you were no longer just a maid. You were the Enforcer’s chosen.
And nothing in the clan would ever be the same again.
Later that night
You help put the younglings down for sleep, soft humming drifting through the stone hall, blankets pulled up, little claws clutching at your sleeves as they nestle in.
Once the final one is tucked in, you step outside for a moment of quiet, breathing in the night air.
The village glows with dim bioluminescent lanterns.
The jungle sings in its endless voice of insects and distant beasts. Cool wind wraps around you.
You close your eyes.
A branch cracks.
Your heart jumps.
Then you feel it, the shift in the air, heavy and unmistakable.
You turn.
Vorkath’ren stands in the shadows between the huts, half-lit by the soft glow. His mask is removed now, hanging at his hip.
His bare mandibles flare slightly, breath deep and steady, eyes burning like molten amber.
He does not speak.
He simply watches.
You know in your bones he does not stumble upon you by chance.
He came for you.
Slowly, he steps into the lantern light. His trophies clink softly with each movement.
His muscles ripple with controlled violence under the dim glow, but his eyes… his eyes soften when they land on you.
A shock hits your chest.
This creature, who executes traitors without hesitation is looking at you like you are something delicate.
Something important.
You take a step back.
He takes a step forward.
“Why… why are you here?” you whisper.
He gives a low chirr.
So soft it sends heat down your spine.
Then he does something you have never seen him do with anyone.
He kneels.
One knee to the ground. Head bowed. Eyes locked on yours.
A gesture of intent.
A vow.
Your breath catches.
You don’t understand it.
You’re not ready to understand it.
He rises slowly, towering once more.
His claws lift, hovering near your face again, but he stops himself, pulling back with a frustrated growl.
Restraint.
You realise with a shiver:
He wants you.
Deeply.
And he is trying very, very hard not to take what he wants.
He steps back into the shadows.
Watching.
Guarding.
Obsessed.
You shiver.
Not from fear.
But from the dangerous flutter low in your stomach that whispers you might want him too.
For almost a full week, Vorkath’ren becomes a shadow stitched to the edges of your world. He doesn’t approach you directly.
He doesn’t speak.
He simply appears.
Everywhere.
When you fetch water, you sense him crouched on the rooftops, silent as a panther.
When you walk the younglings to their lessons, he lingers at the far edge of the training grounds, trophy bones clinking in the breeze.
When you sweep the family hearthstones, you catch glimpses of him through gaps in the walls, mask glinting as he watches.
He never moves toward you unless you look away first.
He never touches you again.
And somehow that makes it worse.
That makes the air between you tighter.
Sharper.
Hungrier.
The matron of the house notices the way you startle at every heavy footstep, every distant growl.
She tuts, as if amused.
“The enforcer’s interest is unusual. He shows no tenderness. No fondness. Not to anyone.”
Her mandibles twitch in what you’ve learned is a smile.
“My dear, that hunter is watching you as if you were a wounded animal he wishes to guard, and a mate he wishes to claim.”
Your cheeks burn.
She continues, voice softening.
“Be careful. His kind love fiercely… but when they choose, it is with absolute possession.”
The bowl in your hands suddenly feels too heavy.
You wake to the sound of metal striking stone.
Clang.
Scrape.
Clang.
You sit up in your small sleeping corner, heart thumping. The household sleeps deeply, but something outside calls to you.
You push aside the cloth covering the doorway and step into the cool night.
The moonlight spills silver across the training yard.
And there he is.
Vorkath’ren
Mask off. Standing before a tall stone pillar engraved with ancient glyphs. His dreadlocks hang in wild black ropes, some tied with the skulls of creatures you’ve only seen in nightmares.
In his hand, he holds a blade nearly as long as your torso.
Clang.
Scrape.
He drags the tip along the stone in slow, deliberate strokes.
Marking something.
A symbol.
A vertical slash followed by three cross-strokes.
Your breath catches.
You’ve seen that symbol before.
On armour.
On huts.
On weapons.
It is the sigil of a Yautja’s chosen mate.
You freeze.
He pauses, sensing you, head lifting slightly.
Very slowly, he turns.
His eyes glow gold in the moonlight, burning like twin suns. His chest rises with a deep, deliberate inhale, as if tasting the air you displace.
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t have to.
You can feel the weight of the gesture.
He has carved the sigil, knowing you would see it.
Knowing you would understand.
You step back, breath shaking.
“Vorkath’ren… I… I don’t…”
You don’t know what.
What to feel.
What to say.
What to do with the wildfire building between you.
He takes one heavy step toward you.
Then another.
Not fast.
Not aggressive.
Just steady.
Sure.
Like gravity itself has chosen you and refuses to let go.
Instinct takes over, and you brace to run.
He stops instantly.
His head tilts, mandibles tucking tight with frustration, almost fear. As if even the idea of frightening you rattles him more than any hunt.
He lifts one clawed hand.
Very slow.
Palm open.
Showing he means no harm.
The gesture steals your breath.
You’ve seen him lift that same hand to crush skulls.
To cut down traitors.
To silence those who disobey the Elder.
But to you…
He shows his empty palm.
His voice rumbles out, low and rough, shaping your name with surprising clarity.
It sounds different in his mouth.
Possessive.
You step forward before you even realise you’ve moved.
He inhales sharply.
Your closeness affects him, visibly, intensely. His pupils blow wide, his mandibles twitch with restrained hunger, and his claws flex as if begging to touch but refusing.
Slowly, he lowers himself to one knee again.
The enforcer.
The executioner.
The tribe’s monster.
Kneeling. For you.
Your throat tightens.
“Vorkath’ren… why are you doing this?”
He rumbles deep in his chest, a sound you feel in your spine.
Then he lifts one claw and taps the newly carved sigil on the stone.
Your breath stutters.
“You cannot, I’m human. I’m not… I can’t be that to you.”
He tilts his head again, amber eyes narrowing with a certainty that chills you.
He isn’t asking. He’s telling you.
Claiming you in the only way he knows.
He stands slowly, towering over you, body radiating heat, breath heavy with want he can barely contain.
His claws gently brush the air near your shoulder.
Not touching.
As if he’s waiting for you to choose first.
Waiting for permission.
You take the tiniest step closer.
He shudders.
Then he exhales a low, trembling sound you’ve only ever heard from wounded Yautja.
Vulnerability.
Need.
He backs away into the shadows before he loses control.
But you know now what he wants.
And what you are becoming to him.
Not prey.
Not property.
Not duty.
Something far more dangerous.
Something he would kill for.
Something he would die for.
Something he has already begun to claim.
---
The threats that once stalked your nights, bad blood hunters, political tension within the tribe, challenges to Var’kah’s authority, fade, conquered one by one beneath his claws.
His savage reputation remains, but there is a softness now that only you ever see.
And it starts every morning.
You wake to the warmth of his chest pressed behind your back, his arm coiled around your waist like an unmovable band of iron and affection. His mandibles rest lightly against your shoulder, a habit he formed the first time you shared a sleeping mat. The rumble he makes when he feels you stir vibrates through your ribs, low and content.
You turn to face him.
His eyes open.
He has never slept deeply unless you are beside him.
“Good morning,” you whisper, brushing a hand over the scars on his jawline.
He answers in a gentle click, then lowers his forehead to yours.
A gesture you once feared, now one that unties your heart a little more each day.
He lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a slow kiss to your palm. His tusks scrape softly, deliberately careful.
Once, he was the tribe’s executioner.
Now, he is the male who warms your feet at night, who wakes before dawn to hunt your favourite fruit, who growls possessively when anyone looks at you too long.
And no one challenges it.
Not anymore.
The tribe accepts you.
Respects you.
Some even adore you.
The younglings, greet you each day with chirrs and small carvings they insist on giving you.
When the matron grew too old to keep the nursery, you took her place without question.
Vorkath’ren rebuilt the sleeping hall himself, larger and sturdier, so you would be safe, though everyone knows he meant “protected by walls built with my own hands.”
He watches over you even now, but the obsession that once frightened you has softened into something deeply loyal. Intensely warm.
Still possessive, always, but no longer tangled in pain.
One evening, you sit together at the edge of the jungle, watching the twin moons rise. Var’kah crouches beside you, his size dwarfing your own, his arm brushing yours as if he cannot bear even an inch of distance.
He holds something in his hand.
A bone carving.
Small, elegant, shaped into a sigil you know very well: his.
You lift it with gentle fingers.
“For me?”
He nods, mandibles lifting in a subtle smile.
“Mine,” he rumbles softly.
Not a claim.
A promise.
You lean into him, resting your head against his arm. He shifts so you can settle more comfortably, pulling you against his chest with a tenderness that would shock anyone who once feared him.
“Yours,” you reply quietly.
His entire body warms at the word.
He wraps both arms around you, holding you as if you are the axis of his world, the thing he orbits. You feel the soft vibration of his contentment, a sound that settles into your bones like sunlight.
The moons climb higher.
The night grows still.
And for the first time in your life, the future feels simple.
Safe.
You reach up and brush his cheek.
“Are you happy?” you ask, though you already know the answer.
He presses his forehead to yours, eyes burning softly, voice low and sincere.
“With you, always.”
You smile, closing your eyes as he pulls you into the circle of his arms, the hunter’s moon glowing white above you both.
Here, in this life you built together, there is no fear.
You wake up in an unfamiliar bed with a pain in your head and a dull ache between your legs.
You groan softly and stretch, gently trying to nudge the stranger's arm off your waist so you can sit up.
While massaging the side of your head, trying to regain some motor functions, you look around and spot your technician jumpsuit and boots on the floor where you tossed them last night.
Just when you move to carefully slink off the bed, a soft four fingered hand gently reaches out to rub your lower back. You tense a little as the hand brushes up to your shoulder and a soft chest presses against your back.
“You weren't just going to leave while I was sleeping, were you?”
A soft voice mumbles sleepily against your skin. It’s said in a playful tone, they know the answer already.
“Well, that's my go-to.”
You try and make the rejection sound as casual as you can. The alien behind you sighs against your shoulder, cold breath prickling your sticky naked skin. You need a shower.
Turning your head, you meet their lips in a soft kiss, pushing them down onto the bed.
“I have to go.” Your words are mumbled against their lips. “But we can do this again, I promise.”
The alien under you breathes out a sigh, “Alright.”
You get up to get dressed, sliding into your technician's uniform and boots before turning back to the alien watching you with interest. There’s something probing in their stare and before you can think too much about it, you lean over where they lie in the plush sheets.
“One more for the road?”
They huff a strange laugh before mumbling, “I’m not familiar with that phrase.”
You roll your eyes, gaze down to their plump lips and clarify,
“I’m asking for another kiss before I leave.”
They hum in agreement and you lean down to kiss them a bit more passionately than intended but you eventually find it in you to separate and jump off the bed.
“Okay, bye! See you later!”
The door whizzes shut behind you.
☄︎₊˚⊹☆
You speed walk down the bustling staff corridor of the star fleet, weaving in-between the various alien species just going about their day. Some deckhands rush past, anxious to get to their assigned areas and assist some elderly passenger with their luggage. Others, like cleaning staff, stroll past not nearly as rushed to get to where another passenger has thrown up their last drink.
You slip into the very board room you were supposed to be in 15 minutes ago and breathe a sigh of relief before that breath gets sucked back in when you’re faced with the stony glare of the Section Director.
The Director’s expression doesn't give much away, you can feel their large black eyes assess your state, determining why you’re late and how to proceed. The tension in the room is thick and you only ease up a little when you notice your buddy and co-worker, Shark standing awkwardly behind him, giving you an apologetic, light-hearted look.
“Good morning, Station Technician 005”
The Director's monotone but authoritative voice fills the empty space and you straighten up, clearing your throat.
“Good morning, Sir”
He looks down at you, as he does with most given how tall he is and gives you another once over.
“Had a good night's rest, I assume?”
Is his reply, a bit more heavy handed than usual. He must be more upset than he lets on. You've garnered yourself quite a reputation since boarding this ship so you're less than bothered by the implication.
“As always, Sir.”
He hums and finally turns his gaze away from you and back to his clipboard.
“The next time you’re late, I will have to write up a warning letter.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He motions for you to stand next to Shark so he can address you both.
“I need you to fix the vent in my office. I don’t care if it's broken or just needs cleaning, I want it fixed by the end of lunch hour."
He dishes commands out like he was born to, looking between the two subordinates in front of him with a stern look.
"Don't waste my time.”
With that he walks out the door, giving you one last disapproving glance before the door slides shut behind him.
Both you and Shark let out relieved breaths the second the door shuts.
☄︎₊˚⊹☆
The last of the screws fall to the floor and you wrench the vent off the wall, peering into the sizeable opening. You sigh when you don’t see much dust or blockage, that means you’ll need to replace the actual vent covers.
“I just don’t get why he has to be so uptight all the time.”
Your complaint echoes as you poke your whole upper body into the opening in the wall, working to reach for the vent opening on the other side. The ship walls are thick and you have to stretch your entire torso into the vent just to reach but once you do, you start unscrewing the cover from the inside.
“He’s the section director. He has to be uptight, Leik.”
Shark drawls in his deep bass. He’s leaning against the wall you’ve crawled into, being very unhelpful.
Names are difficult to translate between languages that are literal galaxies apart so it's common for nicknames to spring up and stick between friends. He calls you Leik because you apparently resemble one. What that even means, you have no idea because he won’t tell you. You tried looking it up but you don’t know how to spell that in his native text and anyone of his species you've asked apparently doesn’t know.
That's also why you call him Shark. Orca would've been just as accurate but when you showed him what a shark was he thought it was really cool so it stuck.
“This is a star cruiser, not a military ship. He should loosen up.”
You mumble, finally getting the vent on the other side of the wall open, pushing it until it falls to the floor of the Director's office.
“C’mon, we both know you only think that cus you wanna fuck ‘em.”
Shark pokes your ass cheek and you are now very aware that your ass has been sticking out of the vent behind you this whole time. You go to wiggle your way out of the short vent but Shark places both his hands on your ass, preventing you from moving.
“You do, right?”
He asks again while groping the fat of your cheeks. You sigh, already feeling a little heat in your stomach.
“Yes, obviously. Nobody is surprised by that.”
You wiggle a little, trying to crawl your way out the front this time. Shark easily pulls you right back, keeping you still with one large hand around your thigh.
“You think he knows that? I bet his reaction would be hilar-”
“Are you really doing this now?”
“Cmon, Leik. I can smell you. You’re frustrated. You really wanna wait until our shift ends to get off? Everyone's at lunch right now, no one will even hear.”
A sigh tumbles from your lips, you don’t know what it is about the Director but he always gets you so riled up and Shark knows this all too well.
You unbutton your jumpsuit and slide it down your waist as much as you can, leaving you in your under-shirt.
Sharks laughter comes out like rumbling thunder, clearly amused at how little convincing you needed. He slips your jumpsuit down the rest of the way along with your underwear. You can feel him breathe in deeply, taking a long sniff of your arousal before running his finger down your cunt, smearing your wetness across your clit and back over your holes.
He slowly thrusts two fingers in your cunt making you whine with the sudden stretch. A stretch you should’ve gotten used to by now given how much you and Shark fool around, especially since he isn’t one for wasting time. He takes his fingers out of you and replaces them with his tongue, his huge, slimy tongue. You moan lowly as the appendage explores inside you, feeling the vibrations of his moan when you clench down.
His tongue retreats and you whine even while knowing what’s coming next. Shark’s cock always hit the right spots, perfect ridges along the shaft, the arrow like tip, god it felt so good every time. You arch your back when you hear the shuffling of his pants falling down his massive thighs. His hands go to spread your cheeks wide and you lean up on your tiptoes, presenting for him.
He taps his warm, leaking tip on your cunt, collecting some of your slick and his spit. You try to grind back on him but can’t get much friction, not with his hand on your hip keeping you in place. He chuckles, taking pity on you and his cock, pushing in just enough to pop the arrowhead tip into you, watching how you stretch around him.
Your pussy weeps for more, clenching around his pointed tip, trying to suck in more of him. He slowly thrusts in, inch by inch, letting you feel every little ridge of his cock against your walls. The feeling has your eyes rolling, bracing yourself against the wall.
Your breath hitches when you feel the base of his cock against your ass, now taking his entire length. His warm hands massage the fat of your hips, feeling your walls clench around him. He does this all the time, just sits with his dick inside you, not actually moving. You heave a frustrated sigh,
“Fucking move.”
He gives you another, more ragged laugh,
“Sorry, Leik. You just feel so snug.”
Before you can snap back at him, a groan cuts you off as he pulls all the way out only to thrust back in all the way to the base. He sets a generous pace, fucking you through the wall. His hands on your hips, keeping your stomach pressed against the vent, making you feel the way his cock makes your tummy bulge against the cold metal.
You pant and moan, the sounds echoing in the empty office. You're so lost in the pleasure you don't even hear the door to the office hiss open or the quiet footsteps that follow.
When you do finally open your eyes, your entire body freezes when you see two squeaky clean boots standing right in front of you. You already know exactly who it is before you snap your head up.
The Director towers over you, wearing the same stern face he always does and it makes you tense up so much that Shark curses from the other side of the wall.
“Fuck! So fucking tight.”
The Director looks over at the wall and then back to you, raising an eyebrow.
You try to avoid looking at him. What are you supposed to do? Are you going to be fired? Go back home, ashamed and-
A sharp thrust from Shark knocks you completely out of your head and forces a load moan from your mouth that you desperately try to cover with your hand.
The Director only cocks his head to the side, as if assessing an interesting animal.
You hang your head low, trying to compose yourself even a little. You can’t look at him, not when Shark’s tip is kissing your cervix with every thrust. You groan into your hand, hating how turned on this is all making you.
You probably just lost your job but all you can think about is how dripping wet you are and how he can probably hear the slick plaps from the other side of the wall even over Shark's grunts and groans.
A slim hand slinks around your wrist and pulls your hand away from your mouth with a tug. You look up at the Director and he looks back with the same composed expression he always has, serious but calm.
The Director takes your chin in his long fingers and holds your face up to his. He studies your heavy breathes, your teary eyes as you try your best to hold back any sounds, your lip captured between your teeth.
Another rough thrust crashes through you as Shark grows closer and closer to his release. Your eyes squeeze shut, choking out a whimper despite your best efforts to keep it down.
You feel The Director’s grip on your chin tighten slightly, urging you to open your eyes. When you do, he's a lot closer than before, crouching down to your level. His big dark eyes bore into yours, commanding you to never look away again.
He pulls gently on your lip, pulling it from under your teeth and replacing it with his thumb. His eyes flicker down to your lips as he slowly slides his thumb between your teeth, forcing your sounds to fill the office space once again. You finally let your moans fall freely when Shark brings his thick fingers to clumsily rub at your clit.
His thumb brushes your molars as your breaths quicken and you reach for his wrist. He grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers while never taking his eyes off yours, not even blinking.
You bite down on his thumb as your cunt squeezes down on Shark, feeling all the ridges and ribs of his cock against your walls. That's how you cum, staring right into the eyes of your director. You hear Sharks deep roar as he cums, coating your walls generously with every deep thrust.
Through your haze, you can see The Director's lips turn up ever so slightly into a mean little smirk, his eyes squinting a little in condescending delight as he watches you come undone.
Drool runs down his hand and your chin when he finally pulls out of your mouth. He wipes his hand on your shirt while you catch your breath, head dropping down to the floor again as the pain in your neck finally catches up to you.
Before you can properly regain your composure, The Director lifts your head back up, this time by pulling the hair at the back of your head. It stings and you meet his idle gaze with a glare.
Until Shark pulls out and you feel that familiar gush of cum pour out with him, making you moan involuntary. The Director huffs in amusement before dropping your head back down and standing upright again.
He brushes his uniform down, neat and tidy as always and walks out of the room without a single word or glance back at you. You curse to yourself as the door hisses shut again and before you can even think of any consequences this encounter could have, you feel a big slimy tongue lick all the way up your thighs and cunt.
“Shark!”
His voice echoes through the walls,
“What? I’m cleaning up.”
You groan, having no clue how you could possibly explain to him that you both might’ve lost your jobs for a quickie but you’re not sure because the guy who caught you seemed really into it but he’s a dick so he might just get you fired anyway but you’re not actually sure...?
