Summary: A visiting Yautja clan quickly learns the consequences of disrespecting King’s pregnant human mate.
The arrival of another clan always changed the atmosphere of the stronghold long before their ships ever appeared, because among the Yautja, visits between clans were never simple matters of diplomacy or celebration, instead, they were carefully balanced displays of strength, hierarchy, and control where every gesture, every word, and every movement carried meaning under the surface.
You could feel the change everywhere around you.
The guards stationed throughout the halls stood straighter than usual, their armour ceremonial rather than practical. At the same time, servants and lower-ranked warriors moved with noticeably greater urgency through the towering stone corridors. They were preparing feasting halls, organising trophies for display, and ensuring that every inch of the stronghold reflected the power of the King who ruled it.
And because you carried his child, because his heir now grew safely underneath your heart, the tension surrounding the visit seemed even sharper than before.
You sat near the great fire within the upper chamber, one hand resting against the curve of your stomach while the flames cast warm light across the stone walls, and despite the comfort of the room, you could still sense the unease spreading throughout the fortress like an approaching storm.
The child had been moving since morning, restless and strong, moving under your skin often enough that you wondered if perhaps he could somehow feel your mate’s tension as clearly as you could.
The doors to your chamber opened heavily.
Your mate entered, and even after everything the two of you had shared together, the sight of him still carried the same overwhelming presence that had once frightened entire villages, because there was simply no way to ignore a creature built so powerfully, wrapped in armour and trophies, carrying himself with the kind of confidence only a true ruler could possess.
Yet despite his terrifying appearance, his attention found only you.
Always you.
His eyes swept across the room first, assessing in the instinctive way of a hunter, ensuring no danger had entered his territory before finally settling where you sat beside the fire.
“There you are,” you murmured, smiling as he approached.
He crossed the chamber in slow steps until he stood directly in front of you, one large hand moved carefully against the swell of your stomach with a surprising gentleness that never failed to make you smile.
The child shifted almost immediately under his touch. A pleased rumble sounded from deep within his chest at the reaction.
“They approach,” he said after a moment, his voice low and steady.
“The western clan?” you asked quietly.
“Yes.”
You knew of them already, at least through stories and reputation, because the western clan was among the oldest surviving bloodlines still aligned with your mate’s territory, made up of hunters known for their efficiency and deep devotion to honour, though they were also infamous for their pride and unwillingness to tolerate weakness in any form.
Your fingers brushed lightly against his wrist.
“You’ve been tense all day.”
“They are guests,” he answered carefully.
You smiled faintly because that was not truly the issue.
“And?”
His mandibles moved slightly before his eyes dropped briefly toward your stomach once more.
“You carry my heir.”
There it was.
The real concern.
Since your pregnancy became visible, your mate’s protective instincts had intensified to almost absurd levels, to the point where nothing entered your chambers without inspection, no warrior approached you without permission, and even the healers who examined you regularly found themselves watched with heavy scrutiny.
At first, you had found it excessive.
Now, strangely enough, you found it comforting.
“You know they are not going to challenge me,” you said softly, tilting your head up toward him.
“They would not survive it.”
The confidence in his answer made you laughh.
“You are very intense.”
“I am correct.”
“You usually are.”
That answer seemed to satisfy him enough that some of the tension left his posture, and then he leaned down and pressed his forehead briefly against yours in one of the rare moments of intimacy he allowed himself when no one was watching.
“You will remain beside me during the gathering,” he told you.
“I assumed as much.”
“You will not leave my sight.”
“You say that as though I wander endlessly when you are not looking.”
“You would if allowed.”
That made you laugh properly, and for a short moment, you watched the severity in his expression soften at the sound.
---
The visiting clan arrived before nightfall, their ships descending while warriors lined the entrance hall in ceremonial formation, creating a display impressive enough that even you found yourself pausing to admire the sheer scale of it all. Even though you have seen it before. They never fail to amaze you.
When the western clan finally entered the great hall, they did so with the confidence of warriors who feared nothing, their leader walking first, his huge frame decorated with sea-creature bones, polished skull fragments, and old scars that spoke of countless victories earned across many worlds.
Your mate remained seated beside you on the elevated stone platform overlooking the hall below, his posture relaxed enough to appear respectful while still carrying the unmistakable dominance of a King within his own territory, and as expected, his hand rarely strayed far from where it rested protectively near you.
The Western leader noticed you immediately.
Of course, he did.
A human seated beside a King was impossible to ignore.
Still, unlike lesser warriors, he possessed enough wisdom not to allow surprise to turn into disrespect, and after studying you for a moment, he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement before addressing your mate directly.
“Your Queen is honoured greatly within your halls,” he observed.
“She is, as she should be,” your mate answered immediately before you even had the chance to speak.
“Yes,” he replied. “Of course.”
For a while, the gathering remained peaceful as stories of hunts echoed throughout the halls, trophies were examined and admired, and warriors traded tales of victories earned through blood and skill, while servants carried endless platters of food between the enormous stone tables.
You almost began to relax.
Almost.
Then two younger warriors ruined everything.
You noticed them long before your mate did, mostly because they lacked the discipline to hide their interest properly, their eyes staying on you too long while whispering between themselves with faces carrying familiar arrogance young hunters often mistook for confidence.
One finally spoke while passing near the elevated platform.
“A human carrying royal blood,” he remarked mockingly. “The King lowers himself.”
The entire hall fell silent instantly.
You felt the change in the atmosphere. It was like a blade pressing against exposed skin.
Your mate did not move immediately, which somehow felt more dangerous than if he had exploded into violence, because slow anger from him was always far worse than impulsive rage.
Very slowly, he turned his head toward the two warriors. The sheer weight of his attention caused several nearby hunters to lower their eyes.
“You speak boldly,” your mate said quietly.
The second warrior, foolish beyond reason, actually laughed.
“She is prey pretending to be queen.”
Your mate rose to his feet.
Every sound inside the great hall disappeared entirely.
You remained seated despite the quickening pulse in your chest while your mate descended the platform with calm steps, not rushing, not roaring, not losing control even for a moment, because this was not mindless fury.
This was judgement.
The western clan leader exhaled slowly through his mandibles, disappointment evident in the sound.
“The young die foolishly,” he muttered.
Only then did the two warriors seem to understand the magnitude of their mistake.
Far too late.
Your mate stopped directly in front of them, towering over both.
“You insult my mate,” he said.
Neither warrior answered.
“You insult my unborn child.”
Still silence, then his voice lowered further.
“You insult me.”
The first warrior attacked in panic. It was the worst decision he could have made.
Your mate caught the strike effortlessly before twisting hard enough to shatter the warrior’s arm completely, and the sound of bone breaking echoed throughout the silent hall only moments before his wrist blades drove cleanly through the warrior’s throat.
Blood sprayed across the floor.
The body collapsed instantly.
The second warrior barely had enough time to draw his weapon before your mate turned towards him, and though the younger hunter fought harder than the first, it changed absolutely nothing about the outcome.
You watched every moment
And strangely, rather than fear, all you felt was pride.
Because your mate did not fight wildly.
He fought with purpose.
With absolute certainty.
The final blow split the second warrior open across the chest, sending his lifeless body crashing heavily onto the blood-covered stone beside his companion.
Silence followed.
Your mate stood over the bodies, breathing slowly while neon blood dripped from his blades onto the floor. Then the western clan leader rose calmly from his seat.
“Their deaths are justified,” he declared for the entire hall to hear. “They disrespected the Queen.”
Agreement rumbled immediately throughout the gathered warriors.
None challenged it
None dared.
Only then did your mate finally turn back to you, and the moment his eyes found you again, the fury visibly lessened, as he returned immediately to your side, one large hand settling protectively against your stomach as though reassuring himself that both you and the child remained unharmed.
You looked up at him with a faint smile.
“That was excessive,” you murmured teasingly.
“They were warned.”
“You enjoyed that.”
“They insulted you.”
“Yes,” you said softly. “They did.”
---
By the following evening, the skulls of the two fallen warriors decorated your home.
Cleaned and mounted high along the stone walls overlooking the entrance, they served both as trophies and as warnings to anyone foolish enough to forget what happened to those who disrespected the Queen of the stronghold.
Deep within your chambers, the fire crackled warmly as you rested comfortably beside your mate, wrapped in heavy furs.
For the first time since the western clan’s arrival, he finally seemed fully at ease.
You leaned against his side while one of his large hands rested over your stomach, feeling the strong movements of the child moving underneath your skin every so often, and when the baby kicked particularly hard, your mate immediately looked down with interest.
Another movement followed beneath his palm.
A deep, pleased rumble echoed from his chest.
“He grows stronger already,” he murmured.
“He is going to be enormous,” you sighed dramatically.
“As he should be.”
Eventually, your eyes moved toward the mounted skulls decorating the walls.
“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “most husbands bring flowers.”
Your mate looked toward the trophies before looking back at you.
“They brought disrespect.”
“And you brought home their heads.”
“They are decorative.”
The seriousness in his voice made you laugh hard enough that your stomach tightened slightly, immediately causing his attention to snap back toward you.
“You are in pain?”
“No,” you managed between soft laughter. “I am fine.”
He continued watching you carefully for another moment before finally relaxing once more, after which he leaned down and rested his forehead gently against yours.
“My Queen,” he murmured.
You closed your eyes, smiling, while his hand remained protectively over both you and your unborn child,
You were surrounded by warmth, safety, and the guarantee that no force in the universe would ever be allowed to harm either of you while your King was alive.
well look at that, my horniness took the better of me, so here’s the result
I bite back
Yautja x Reader / Yautja x Human female
Rating: 18+ mdni
Read: Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
“When is this going to end?” you murmured, gently tapping your forehead against the cold glass of the chamber that held you.
“You keep feeding me. Giving me water. What do you want?” you asked again, your voice low, tired.
It was strange. You were aboard a spaceship—held captive when you’d expected to die the instant you locked eyes with the creature that had taken you.
At first, you fought. You cried. You screamed. You pounded your fists against the reinforced glass until your hands ached.
You had been so much fiercer in the beginning.
Now? You were numb. Almost bored.
Days blurred together, each marked only by meals of unfamiliar but oddly palatable fruits and endless silence from your captor.
The questions haunted you: Why did it take me? Where are we going? What does it want?
Fear had long since faded into fatigue. You were too tired to be terrified anymore.
In truth, some days, you thought you would’ve preferred death over this drawn-out uncertainty.
But then… something changed.
One day, the alien stumbled into the ship, and you froze.
It was wounded.
A deep gash ran down its arm, green blood—neon and thick—oozing from the torn flesh. The limb hung at an unnatural angle, barely attached.
You watched, breath caught in your throat, as it clumsily moved through the ship, almost forgetting your presence entirely.
It collapsed onto a pile of thick rugs, panting, trembling.
You observed behind the glass, transfixed.
It was the first time you’d seen it in pain. The first time it looked… vulnerable.
Maybe, just maybe, this was your chance.
It stitched itself with crude but efficient movements, applying strange, iridescent substances you couldn’t identify. It let out a low, guttural sound—half a roar, half a groan—and then lay still.
You sat down, quietly, eyes on its shifting, unsteady breath as it twisted in discomfort.
It wasn’t out for long.
Minutes later, it stirred abruptly, eyes opening wide with a sharp inhale.
Then it disappeared and returned shortly, holding a tray of those strange fruits you’d been living off of.
As always, it slid open the small hatch of your chamber and pushed the tray inside.
But this time, you moved.
You reached out, quickly, instinctively and grabbed its wrist.
It froze.
For once, it didn’t pull away. Maybe it couldn’t. The wound had slowed it down.
But still… it let you touch it.
Your hand trembled slightly as your fingers wrapped around the rough, scaly texture of its skin. It was cold. Not quite like a reptile, but close. Unfamiliar. Alien.
You didn’t expect it to go this far, that it would allow contact.
You swallowed hard.
“Are you… hurt?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
No response.
“I saw you. You collapsed.”
A pause.
“Let me help you.”
You didn’t know what you could do. You had no training, not even with human medicine, let alone whatever this was. But the words came anyway.
“You’ve been feeding me. Taking care of me. Let me return the favor.”
Still, it said nothing. But it didn’t move either.
Maybe it was trying to understand your intent—measuring the risk.
Then, slowly, it shifted its hand beneath yours.
Your fingers slid over its palm as it moved. Coarse. Cold.
You repressed a shiver.
The creature took a step back, eyeing you carefully. You were still kneeling, looking small, unthreatening.
You knew how you looked to it. Fragile. Weak. But that was the point.
You wanted this—this moment. A crack in its guard.
If it trusted you, even a little, maybe… just maybe… you could turn that into a chance.
A way out.
The creature took two ragged, guttural breaths before stepping closer to the chamber. Its clawed finger slid over the padlock in a slow, deliberate motion. With a soft, mechanical click, the door released.
What?
Was that it? Was it really that easy?
Had all it taken was appearing small—fragile—for it to trust you?
Before the door had even swung halfway open, you were already slipping through the gap, adrenaline firing through your veins. You moved fast, fueled by a desperate, animal instinct to flee.
But freedom didn’t last more than a breath.
A hand, massive and unrelenting, wrapped around your throat and slammed you back against the cold glass chamber. Your skull hit the surface with a thud, and all the air was gone from your lungs.
Panic overtook you.
The creature’s clawed fingers squeezed, just enough to restrict your breathing but not crush it entirely. Its grip was so strong, so terrifyingly effortless. The sharp curve of its nails dug into the tender skin at the nape of your neck, pressing hard enough to hurt, to warn.
You clawed at its wrist, nails scraping over its scaled skin, desperate for air.
It didn’t flinch.
Even with blood still dripping from its wounded arm, it held you firm, as though pain meant nothing.
Your feet dangled, your body pinned like prey, caught and immobilized.
It could kill you. Right now. Just one twitch of that wrist and it would all be over.
Your vision blurred at the edges. Your eyes welled from the pressure.
“Please—” you gasped, voice cracked.
The grip loosened, barely.
Air returned in small, painful sips, but the hand remained, keeping you locked in place, back pressed hard to the smooth surface behind you. You coughed, instinctively reaching to support yourself, but the creature didn’t move away.
It leaned in closer, massive frame radiating heat. Its head dipped low, its strange mandibles brushing your cheek. Its breath, hot and coarse, ghosted along your skin, and then came the sound.
A low, rumbling growl vibrated from deep within its chest. Not quite a purr. Not quite a snarl. Something primal.
It grew louder, reverberating in your ears and against your ribs, until it cut off sharply.
Then came the voice… deep, guttural, foreign… but unmistakably clear.
“If you try to escape again, I won’t hesitate.”
He didn’t say what he would do. He didn’t need to.
You nodded quickly—yes, yes, you understood.
You were no threat. Not now. Not yet.
Slowly, his grip slackened, and you dropped to the floor in a heap, gasping, fingers clawing at your throat as your lungs fought for air.
You looked up at him.
He towered over you, chest rising and falling rapidly. The wound on his arm had reopened, neon blood dripping down in thick lines, staining the floor.
Even in pain, even with one arm nearly useless… he was still dominant. Still terrifying.
And yet…
You saw it. Something behind the rage, the instinct, the brute force. He was hurting. Breathing heavily. Off-balance. Vulnerable… in his own way.
This was dangerous. All of it. You knew that.
You rose to your feet—slowly. Carefully.
Every movement was cautious, as if one sudden gesture might awaken some dormant, primal instinct in him.
You kept still once upright, eyes locked on the heaving rise and fall of his chest. The green blood still poured from his arm, trailing in slow rivulets down his thick, scaled skin. It was grotesque and oddly beautiful. Like art painted in pain.
You had never seen anything like him before.
You swallowed the lump in your throat and spoke, your voice soft and unsure.
“Tell me how to help you.”
Silence.
He didn’t look at you immediately. Instead, he walked toward the part of the ship where he’d earlier attempted to patch himself up.
You watched him, his steps heavy, his breath audible. With a sharp tilt of his head, the long, rope-like dreadlocks shifted around his shoulders with grace.
He turned, mandibles twitching, the low clicking sound they made vibrating in the air between you like a warning or a signal.
He held something out.
A skin stapler—if you could even call it that. It was massive compared to any human medical tool, mechanical and crude, made for strength over finesse.
Then, without a word, he turned his back to you.
And only then did you see the true damage under the light.
A jagged slash, deep and raw, tore across his back. It wasn’t just bleeding—it was gaping, the green fluid seeping from it in thick, steady drops. You could see sinew beneath. Maybe even bone.
You stifled a gag, covering your mouth briefly before forcing your hand back down. Your stomach churned.
This was worse than you thought.
His back muscles twitched under the strain, contracting with each breath. Even still, he stood tall, tense, waiting.
You had to do this.
You needed his trust. And if earning it meant holding back the bile in your throat and pretending your hands weren’t shaking uncontrollably, then so be it.
Your fingers trembled as you took a step forward. You reached out with your free hand and gently touched his shoulder to steady yourself and him.
He flinched.
His skin was cold, much colder than you expected, and the contrast between your warmth and his body made him shudder. But he didn’t pull away.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, before pressing the device to his torn flesh.
You braced yourself, and then pulled the trigger.
The stapler hissed as metal bit into skin.
He grunted, guttural sound rumbling from deep in his chest. His hands slammed down onto the metal table in front of him, claws digging into it, leaving deep gashes in the surface.
You kept going.
Staple. Staple. Staple.
With every burst, his muscles flexed. His arms shook under the pain, and the table beneath him groaned under the pressure of his grip.
But he didn’t move. He didn’t strike out. He simply endured.
By the time you were done, the line of staples snaked clean across his back, sealing the worst of the wound. You stepped back, your hands slick with sweat and blood, the device trembling slightly in your grip.
You had done it.
He leaned against the table, his breaths deep and uneven. You watched his back shift with each inhale as he flexed the stitched muscles, testing the damage, testing your work.
Your hands were still trembling slightly when he turned and took the stapler from your grip.
Then, he faced you.
He didn’t speak. He simply watched.
The kind of stare that made the air feel heavier.
You didn’t know what to say, so you said nothing. But he seemed to be waiting for something—anything.
And when you remained still, uncertain, he closed the distance.
His hand reached for your face, fingers curling around your cheeks, thumb and forefinger applying just enough pressure to coax a reaction. You flinched slightly.
“What else do you want?” you asked, voice low and guarded, a frown forming on your face.
But the alien didn’t respond. He merely observed, eyes flicking across your features like he was trying to learn you, maybe even memorize the softness of your skin beneath his clawed fingertips.
His hand left your face, trailing down to your neck, then your shoulder, tracing a path beneath your arm and along your forearm. You shivered involuntarily when his thumb pressed firmly against the underside of your wrist, pinning your pulse.
He felt it.
Your heartbeat.
Unsteady.
And undeniably human.
A low purr resonated from deep within his chest, vibrating through the air like distant thunder. It wasn’t threatening, but it was possessive. Satisfied.
You let him explore you, not out of desire, but out of necessity. Every touch was a test. You didn’t know what he would do next and neither did he, maybe. But still, he touched like someone who had been holding back for too long.
When his hand slipped under your shirt, brushing just below your bellybutton, you stepped back instinctively, muscles tightening.
You couldn’t read his intentions, maybe he didn’t fully understand them either.
“I’m… ticklish,” you said quickly, a shaky breath escaping as you gently pushed his hand back up to your stomach.
Whether he believed the lie or not, he withdrew, wordlessly. Then, with fluid strength, he turned you around by your shoulders.
His claws traced along your back now, slow,intentional strokes.
Right over the spot that mirrored his own injury.
The gesture didn’t feel like threat.
It felt like recognition.
You bit your lip, steadying yourself when his touch followed the length of your spine. You had to clamp your hand over your mouth when his claws reached the small of your back. A tingling ripple ran across your skin.
He paused there.
Then, nothing.
Just silence.
Until you felt it.
Hot breath—on your neck.
It ghosted over your skin in slow waves. You froze, every instinct inside you telling you not to move.
His mandibles clicked, close to your ear. The sound sent a shiver down your spine, your head turning slightly away, just to escape it.
That’s when his grip tightened. Hands holding your shoulders firmly, anchoring you in place.
Don’t move, your mind warned.
Don’t give him a reason to think you’re resisting.
His breath returned, heavier now, brushing over the nape of your neck and then came the sharpness. You hissed softly as you felt the faint sting of his mandibles grazing your skin.
There was moisture.
Not blood—at least not yours.
Then, a slick warmth dragged slowly over the same spot.
His tongue.
You hadn’t seen it before, but now you knew. It was real, and it was on you.
Testing you.
Tasting you.
You clenched your jaw, holding in the gasp that threatened to escape. The sensation was foreign, unnerving, but strangely cautious. He wasn’t being careless. He was exploring. Reading your reaction. Studying how far he could go.
You were being mapped with his mouth, his claws, his curiosity.
And all you could do was endure it.
You hadn’t expected things to escalate this quickly—yet they had.
The sensation that bloomed where his mandibles had latched onto your skin again was so alien, so unfamiliar, you could barely contain the noise that threatened to rise in your throat. It wasn’t like anything you’d felt before, stinging, with a strange heat. And that’s what unsettled you most.
And still… that same unknown sent a pulse of something dark and electric down your spine.
Your knees trembled—not just from fear, but from the way your body responded to the contact. Helplessly, shamefully. Your heart threatened to burst out of your chest, as if caught in a tug-of-war between terror and… something else.
Another hiss slipped from between your clenched teeth when his tongue swept along your wounded nape, tasting the blood he had drawn moments before. You could feel the deliberate slowness in the way he licked over the bite, like he was trying to understand you—your scent, your flavor, your limits. This had to be a test, didn’t it? A threshold he was pushing you toward, waiting to see whether you would flinch… or endure.
If you could survive this, if you could hold your ground, maybe he’d trust you. And if he trusted you, then eventually… maybe you’d be free.
Then his hands were on you again, turning you to face him.
His breathing was ragged, strained, his chest rising and falling fast.
His mandibles were slick with crimson, your blood still fresh on him.
You should’ve recoiled in horror.
But you didn’t.
Instead, your eyes lingered on the tautness in his body, the tension in his shoulders. His gaze bore into you unrelenting and unreadable. Yet there was something unmistakably raw in it. As if he didn’t fully understand what he was doing, only that he needed to.
One clawed hand rose slowly, catching the hem of your shirt and giving it the smallest tug, pulling you closer until you were pressed to him, your face just above the curve of his chest. He was colder than any being you’d ever touched… and yet somehow, from within, he radiated heat. Like a furnace buried under stone.
Your breath stuttered as you tilted your head up, eyes meeting his.
He studied you the way a predator studies prey, but there was no hunger. Just intensity. Curiosity.
And then, without a word, one long, talon-tipped finger rose to your lips.
You held your breath.
He dragged it gently across your bottom lip, then pressed inward, urging your mouth open, just enough to trace the warmth inside. Your lips parted automatically, breath catching as the cold of his skin met the heat of your tongue. You didn’t even realize you’d made a sound until his chest rumbled in response—a satisfied purr.
He was testing you again. Learning the intricacies of your body the way someone learns the pressure points on a weapon.
And still… you didn’t pull away.
“Ooman, your heart is racing… yet you don’t seem scared.”
His guttural voice struck the air like a blade, freezing you where you stood.
Those red eyes—dark and unreadable—pierced you from above. There was something almost gentle in the way he stared, but it was impossible to ignore the sheer force behind his stance.
And he wasn’t wrong.
Your heart was hammering inside your chest like it was trying to escape your ribs… yet you hadn’t ran.
You hadn’t screamed.
He had touched you—bitten you—and you hadn’t moved.
Maybe worse… part of you didn’t want to.
Shame curled hot and thick in your chest, but shame didn’t undo the way your body had reacted. You were only human. You couldn’t control everything. Not when it felt this strange… this overwhelming.
He pressed his thumb further against your tongue, forcing you to choke slightly, the reflex hitting before you could stifle it. Tears welled up in your eyes from the gag, but even as your vision blurred, he didn’t look away. If anything, his gaze sharpened, his mandibles twitched, and the shimmer in his eyes suggested… fascination.
He liked that sound. Like he had just discovered a new function in a toy he hadn’t yet finished learning to play with.
“Are you sad, ooman?” he asked suddenly.
You blinked. That question was… unexpected. But you realized quickly why he asked it.
He had only ever seen you cry when you begged him to let you go, sobbing behind reinforced glass. You were sad then. Terrified.
But now?
“…No,” you whispered.
He pulled his thumb from your mouth, glancing at the saliva stretched between his fingers. He examined it with the same curiosity a scientist might give a strange specimen before flicking his gaze back to you.
“Then what do you feel?” he asked again, this time quieter.
You didn’t know how to answer.
Fear, yes. Curiosity, definitely.
But the heat coiling inside you, the warmth spreading down your spine and pooling between your legs—it wasn’t curiosity alone. It was something deeper. Something primal. Something neither of you seemed able to name.
“I’m not sure,” you admitted.
And you meant it. The confusion, the contradiction of everything in your body and mind. It was too much to untangle.
But something about your honesty changed him.
He studied you again, slower this time. And then his claws returned, sliding under the hem of your shirt. With one decisive movement, he tore the fabric, the sound ripping through the quiet as you gasped.
Your stomach, exposed now, just below your ribs, was bare beneath his stare. A sharp sound left your lips as he pressed a single claw to your abdomen, not aggressively, but intently.
He was testing you again.
The touch crawled up, just below your chest, and stopped when you tensed, your eyes shut tight in fear and… anticipation. But he didn’t go further.
“Why is your heart racing again?” he asked, voice low and impossibly close.
You opened your eyes, meeting his.
“Are you scared, ooman?”
Your throat tightened. You wanted to lie, to give a simple answer and end this test. But there was no hiding from him.
You nodded. Then, unsure… you shook your head.
His mandibles clicked, clearly confused by your response.
“Use your words,” he commanded, the demand more like a nudge this time.
Your face burned with shame.
“I… I am scared,” you whispered. “But I also feel… hot. Wherever you touch me.”
You couldn’t meet his gaze anymore, so you looked away, resting your forehead lightly against his chest. Partly to hide, partly because he felt so real.
He was massive. You hadn’t truly registered the sheer scale of him until now.
“Does it feel good?” he asked, his voice hoarse, strained. Desperate to understand.
You nodded again.
“Speak,” he said, more forcefully now.
“…Yes.”
The sound rumbled from deep in his chest—a pleased, almost feral purr that vibrated through his body and into yours.
He liked that answer. All of it. Your hesitation, your embarrassment, your honesty.
And then, without warning, he moved.
In a swift motion, he slid an arm beneath you, gripping you just under your thighs and lifting you into the air like you weighed nothing. A yelp escaped you—startled, unsteady—as your hands instinctively wrapped around his neck.
You felt the wetness of his healing wound bleed onto your pants, staining them green. The contact was hot and sticky, and your panic spiked just enough to make your breath hitch.
“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice trembling.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he lowered into a crouch and dropped you onto the pile of thick, ragged furs that covered the floor. The makeshift bedding cushioned your fall, but your body tensed as he loomed above you.
He knelt now, towering yet strangely calm.
The light overhead cast shadows across his skin, accentuating the dark blue hue of his chest. Scars, some old, some fresh, lined his torso, like a war map drawn across his body. He didn’t speak, didn’t gesture. He simply presented himself.
And you stared, drawn in despite yourself.
He didn’t wait for your permission this time. His hand grabbed your wrist firmly and brought it to his chest.
You hesitated.
Then… slowly, he let you explore.
Your fingers traced the hard lines of his muscles, the roughness of scarring, the slickness of partially healed wounds. He made a noise, deep and choked, when you grazed one of the fresh cuts.
Your eyes drifted up to his dreadlocks, long and heavy, brushing over his chest like strands of ink.
Hesitantly, you reached for one, curious now. You wrapped your fingers around it, stroking once, then again, before giving it a light squeeze.
That’s when it happened.
His entire body jolted, his muscles seizing as though you’d flipped a hidden switch. He collapsed forward slightly, one fist hitting the ground to steady himself, breath tearing from his chest in ragged bursts.
Your eyes widened.
Whatever those were… they weren’t just hair.
You let go immediately, crawling back into the furred rugs as he struggled to regain composure.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t move.
But your mind raced.
What was he?
And what had you just done?
You thought, for one breathless moment, that maybe this was your chance.
Maybe that flicker of weakness, his body buckling from your touch, meant you could shift the balance. Regain some control. Use it against him.
But that illusion vanished the instant he caught his breath.
He looked up at you with a low inhale and you saw it. The shift. The hunger. The intent.
Like a predator fixing its gaze on something it knew it could catch.
You stared, uncertain whether to brace or beg.
He didn’t give you time for either.
With a sudden, terrifying grace, he lunged forward, crawling fast over the rugs until he loomed above you. His forearms landed on either side of your head with a thud, enclosing you in his shadow.
You barely had time to gasp.
Warm blood dripped from his healing wound, trickling down to your cheek. You clenched your jaw to keep still, holding your breath, afraid to move or speak. Maybe this was it, maybe you’d pushed too far.
Then he lowered his head.
You heard the click of his mandibles before you felt his teeth.
He sank them into your shoulder, not deep enough to break bone, but enough to make you cry out. Sharp, white-hot pain bloomed across your skin as you twisted beneath him, but his weight pinned you like prey caught in a trap.
His hand pressed hard over your chest, flattening you against the furs, and then he struck again. His mouth finding your other shoulder with terrifying speed.
Another bite. Another cry.
This time, something was different.
He lingered.
You felt his tongue glide slowly across the mark he had made, the heat of it dragging across your skin, soothing and igniting at the same time. The sting of pain morphed into a low, building ache. You gasped, but not from pain. From…
Frustration.
But not the kind born of anger. This burned lower, deeper. A need you didn’t recognize, spreading like fire in your belly.
Your nipples stiffened under the thin fabric of what remained of your torn shirt. You weren’t sure when it happened, but his hand, still pressing on your chest, seemed to be aware before you were. Every brush of his palm made the sensation worse. Unbearable.
His mouth trailed lower, tongue dragging along your collarbone, then upward toward your neck.
You knew what was coming. Another bite. Another mark.
And some primal instinct in you snapped.
You acted before thinking, before fear could stop you.
You reached up, grabbed one of those thick, heavy dreadlocks hanging over your face… and yanked.
Hard.
He reacted instantly.
His body spasmed, his torso pitching forward until his chest nearly collapsed onto yours. A guttural sound erupted from him—not a growl, not a roar, but something building in his chest, shaking through his ribs like a lion’s warning.
His breathing turned ragged, desperate again. You felt him straining against the instinct to move, to react—to take.
His fist slammed down into the furs beside your head to steady himself.
You’d hit a nerve. Literally.
You let go. You could’ve stopped there.
But you didn’t.
Driven by something reckless, something stupid, you leaned up—and bit the same dreadlock between your teeth. Not enough to maim… just enough to threaten. To warn.
To show him that you could.
And that’s when it changed.
His hand shot up, clawed fingers wrapping around your throat.
Not with full strength, but enough to knock the air from your lungs and force you to release your bite.
He held you there, suspended between danger and awe. The grip at your throat was firm, unrelenting… but conscious. Just enough pressure to remind you: he was in control now.
Yet his eyes… they told another story.
Because in that moment, he wasn’t just looking at a fragile, soft-skinned thing he’d captured.
He was looking at something dangerous.
Something wild.
Something that bit back.
Your teeth might be small, but they could’ve torn through that sensitive appendage. And he knew it.
You saw that realization land behind his eyes.
And you saw something else too.
Respect.
Predator or not, he now understood:
You were not prey.
You stared up at him, breath hitching under the pressure of his hand, your body thrumming with adrenaline, confusion, heat.
“You bite like an animal,” he growled, voice low. “Yet you’re not one of them.”
The hand around your throat stayed firm, his grip no longer punishing, but purposeful. Curious. Possessive.
He studied you like a puzzle he hadn’t expected to find inside his cage.
Your chest rose and fell beneath him, breath caught somewhere between panic and anticipation, your lips parting reflexively as his thumb pressed against them—harder this time. Enough to make your head tilt slightly, your jaw strain. Enough to draw out those same desperate, involuntary sounds that had already begun to unravel him.
Mewls. Gasps. Whimpers that betrayed you, that sent heat rushing through both your veins and his.
He made you feel weak, pinned under his massive frame, restrained, breathless and yet the trembling in his chest betrayed a dangerous truth: he was just as undone as you were.
There was green blood staining the rugs now, hot and slick, smeared along the curve of your hip where he’d held you. His claws flexed at your sides, eager, restrained, and trembling. The Yautja was trying to hold himself together, and you… you were the reason he was falling apart.
In all his years of battles, of honor duels, of hunts through hostile terrain and endless bloodshed, he had never been brought to this edge. This need.
And not just because you fought back.
It was how you did it.
You didn’t bare fangs to kill.
You bared your teeth to warn, to challenge. To play.
And in his world… that meant something else entirely.
The way you looked up at him, defiant even as his hand rested on your throat. The way you gasped around his thumb, shame flushing your cheeks but never reaching your eyes. You weren’t meek. You were alive. Burning.
That was a language he understood.
It wasn’t what he expected when he first claimed you. You hadn’t fought then. You’d been taken without a struggle. No weapons, no resistance, just a shaking, wide-eyed creature.
He was supposed to drag you back. A trophy. A specimen.
Maybe even meat, if the elders had deemed it so.
But he hadn’t brought you to them.
He hadn’t handed you over.
He hadn’t harmed you.
Not even once.
Instead, he kept you.
Why?
He hadn’t known the answer… until now.
Now, your body squirmed beneath his. Your heat mixed with his, and your spirit rose like a flare against his instincts. You weren’t just prey. You were spark.
His chest began to tremble with a low, guttural noise, not quite a growl, not quite a purr. Something deeper.
Amusement.
He laughed.
It was alien, yes, but unmistakably pleased.
A sound from deep inside his chest, vibrating through your body like a drumbeat.
You blinked up at him, startled by the change. The gleam in his eyes was no longer just predatory. It was amused. Intrigued. He tilted his head as if seeing you for the first time, not as an obligation, not as cargo.
But as entertainment. A wild, feisty creature dropped into his hands.
You felt it then, something shift in the way he looked at you.
You weren’t just a captive anymore.
You were his distraction… his companion… his toy.
And in a life filled with blood, silence, and cold steel…
You were the first thing that ever made him feel alive.
