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.
Maybe it was the fact you hadn’t slept properly in two days.
Maybe it was the fact your body had been bent in every way a human body could bend the night before.
Maybe it was because your throat still burned, raw and tender from the way Zha’kor had used it like a toy for his pleasure.
Whatever it was, one thing was certain.
You were exhausted.
You had only a faint recollection of what happened while he helped you bathe. Fragments drifted back to you, the warmth of his arms around you, the way you clung to him without thinking, his touch gentle. You remembered his hand cupping your face, wiping away the water with slow, careful strokes.
“Zha’kor.”
You remembered the name, the sound of it on your tongue, rough, heavy and perfect. When you had said it, his chest had vibrated with something softer than you had ever heard from him, a low, satisfied purr, telling you that you had pronounced it just right for him.
And then everything went dark. You had passed out in his arms, slipping under like a candle burning its last drop of wax.
When you woke, you were tucked beneath a soft fur, your skin scented faintly with that same sweet fruit he had fed you once. Your hair was still damp, your body clean.
You blinked once. Twice. Adjusting to the dim glow of the room… only to find the nest empty beside you.
Of course.
He wouldn’t stay to cuddle. What were you expecting?
You sat up, clearing your throat, then coughed once, the sound scraping against the tender ache left behind.
“I could fucking die,” you muttered, wide-eyed as you touched your neck, half surprised it was still intact.
How could someone make you feel so feral, so utterly undone, that even choking on him felt like a privilege?
But he wouldn’t do that. You knew that now. He was brutal, yes, but never cruel. His strength had always met your desire, never crossed it. He pushed, teased, tested… but he never took.
It was strange, though. For a creature so alien, he understood you too well. Your rhythm, your needs, the way your body responded. It made you wonder, for a second, if you really were the first human he had done this with.
You drew a breath, eyes roaming the empty space around you. No sign of him, but nearby sat a familiar sight. A platter of fruit.
You smiled. Of course he had left you breakfast. Again.
Only this time, something new caught your eye. Nestled among the familiar shapes were strange fruits you hadn’t seen before, deep purples, blushing pinks, thick stems that looked too large for their delicate bodies.
“Oh, you’re feeding off my curiosity now,” you murmured to the empty room, a small, genuine smile tugging at your lips. You could almost hear the amused click of his mandibles in reply.
He knew you too well by now. Knew that boredom gnawed at you when he wasn’t around, so he left you something to discover, something to explore.
You picked up one of the pink fruits, pressing it to your nose. It smelled divine, like honey and sun-warmed berries. You pushed your thumbs into the stem and split it open easily, the scent blooming through the air, sweet enough to make you salivate.
The first bite was heaven, soft, creamy, a perfect blend of sweet and tart that melted over your tongue. For a fleeting second, it reminded you of strawberry milk ice cream, your favorite.
A strange coincidence. Or maybe not.
You moaned softly without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut as you savored the taste, licking the juice from your lips. The world blurred to that single sensation, soft, sweet, indulgent. You didn’t even notice that your throat no longer ached.
He had left that fruit on purpose…
Quietly, carefully, without a word.
Your chest warmed at the thought.
He was a hunter, ruthless, unrelenting and yet somehow, when it came to you, he was gentle.
You stood up, your body still bare, and decided it was time to find something, anything, to cover yourself with, before he decided to chase you around again just because you dared to walk through his ship naked.
He had warned you, made it painfully clear that you weren’t to walk around without clothes again. You didn’t know exactly what he would do if you disobeyed, but he had been too worked up at the time for you to even think about questioning him.
You stepped out of the nest quietly, your bare feet carrying you to where your underwear had been tossed and forgotten. You tiptoed over, slipping it on quickly, half-expecting him to appear out of nowhere and grab you for breaking one of his strange rules.
The room was silent.
Too silent.
It wasn’t surprising, though. He was probably out hunting. Yesterday, after all, he had stayed behind just to play with you.
You shook your head at the thought.
Play. That word didn’t fit what had happened between you. All you had wanted was his attention, but now even you called it playing, as if that softened what you truly wanted. Because deep down, you wanted so much more.
Your mind drifted to the promise you had made to yourself last night.
“I’m going to drive him insane.”
You didn’t even remember what had pushed you to think it, but as the memory replayed, you found yourself agreeing again. You wanted to make him lose control, make him chase you, crave you, beg for a taste. You wanted to see him crawl, desperate and thirsty.
You had done enough crawling for him.
You bit your lip at the image that sneakily formed in your mind, his massive frame dropping to his knees, crawling like a beast but with eyes that begged, heavy dreadlocks brushing the floor as he moved toward you. You could almost hear the low, rhythmic clicks of his mandibles, the soft sounds he made when he wanted you to soften up for him.
“No,” you’d smile at him, your voice calm but commanding, your foot pressing between his shoulder blades, pushing him down. He would growl in frustration, but even then, a pleased groan would escape his mouth just from feeling your touch.
Let me touch you, please.
You could almost hear his plea.
Your heart was racing now. The images felt too vivid, too real and for a moment you realized you were the one going insane instead.
You exhaled slowly and shook your head. No. This time, it was his turn to beg. You were done surrendering. He would have to be the one crawling for you.
You made your way back to the pool, quietly, searching for your T-shirt. But it wasn’t there. You were sure you had tossed it somewhere near the bath before you slipped in. You remembered it clearly… didn’t you?
You retraced your steps, first to the nest, then to the room you had once been locked in, but it wasn’t there either.
You huffed, frustration bubbling up as if your memory had decided to turn on you.
“What the fuck…” you muttered.
You wandered through the ship, trying to recall, maybe hoping something would spark your memory. Maybe I blacked out again… you thought, feeling uneasy.
Then came into view a massive metallic door you didn’t recognise, standing at the far end of the corridor. You weren’t sure if you were even allowed in there and you doubted your shirt had somehow ended up behind it. But something, some reckless, foolish impulse, made you want to snoop. Maybe he was in there. Maybe he was watching you, hidden in the shadows, amused at your curiosity again.
You approached the door. There was a padlock, sleek and red, mounted on its surface. You tilted your head, thinking.
You might have lost track of your shirt, but your memory? That was solid. You still remembered the exact sequence he had entered with his clawed finger the first time he had let you out of your cage.
You crossed your fingers, hoping he hadn’t changed it. Then, carefully, you began to press the symbols in the right order, your fingertip dancing across the glowing red surface.
Click.
A soft hiss followed and the padlock released.
Your eyes widened.
“Well, that was easy,” you whispered, grinning as you patted yourself on the back. Your memory hadn’t failed you.
The room wasn’t as big as you had expected, smaller than the pool room, but far more important. It was the flight deck of the ship and you looked around curiously, taking in the flickering lights and soft hum of dormant alarms. There was a massive seat near the cockpit, clearly designed for Zha’kor, broad enough to fit his size, yet luscious enough to suit his style.
You knew he was impressive in size, but he intended on making sure everyone else knew it too. Every surface reflected his strength and triumph, the place arranged like a museum of victories.
The control panel stretched wider than the seat itself and your feet carried you closer, your eyes tracing the alien buttons and strange glowing symbols. You touched the cold, reinforced glass of the viewport, but it was dark for now.
Still, your attention kept drifting back to the massive seat… and there, at its base, something white caught your eye.
You leaned down, fingers brushing the fabric before you even registered what it was. Soft. Familiar. Your shirt, crumpled and warm.
The realization hit you like a sudden, cold wave.
He had taken it.
The same hunter who had snarled that if you ever strolled the ship naked again he would hunt you down, pin you, make you regret every teasing step. He had hidden your shirt here, in his locked lair, so you’d stay bare and give him an excuse to chase you again…
Oh.
Oh.
A smirk curled your mouth.
That slick bastard…
He wanted you running, heart hammering, thighs trembling with anticipation while he stalked you through the corridors. Wanted the moment he caught you, claws sinking into your hips, cock shoving deep, your back bowed against cold metal as he growled your name like a threat.
Your fingers tightened on the shirt.
It was wet.
Not bath-water damp. A thick, warm slickness coated the cotton, shimmering faintly green under the low lights of the deck. You dragged it closer, the scent hitting you, sharp, musky, him.
He had used it…
Fisted himself right here, shirt bunched around his cock, hips jerking as he spilled into the fabric that still carried your scent. Probably came with your name caught behind his mandibles, struggling not to roar.
A mischievous laugh escaped you as you eyed the ruined shirt.
“You sick perv,” you muttered under your breath, as the scene unfolded behind your eyes like a fever dream.
You pictured him finding your damp T-shirt after bathing you, steam still clinging to the fabric, his claws flexing uncertain.
He would turn it over in his massive hands, your scent soaked into every thread, driving him sick with need.
A war inside his thick skull: keep it, burn it, bury it in the trophy room?
Then he would surrender, slowly and inevitably.
He would sink into this very chair, legs spread wide, the metal creaking under his weight. Your shirt squeezed in one fist, pressed to his face, dragged down the ridges of his chest until it wrapped around the thick, alien length of him.
He would imagine you there, straddling his lap, thighs trembling as you sank inch by agonizing inch onto his cock. Your moans would spill against his throat, teeth sinking into the tough hide of his shoulder to muffle the scream when he bottomed out. His claws would grab your hips, pinning you, guiding you, forcing you to take every brutal roll of his hips until your voice cracked on his name.
Pull, he’d rasp, guiding your hands to his dreadlocks. You would fist them hard, yank, and the growl that tore from him would rattle the walls.
You could almost see it clearly now, his fist pumping, relentless, your shirt a ruined sleeve around him. The other hand twisted in his own dreads, mimicking what he craved from you. Hips snapping up, chasing his orgasm, chasing the ghost of your heat. When he came, it was probably with a choked snarl, hot stripes soaking through cotton, his whole frame shuddering with the shame of wanting a fragile human so badly.
“Fuck…” The word slipped out of you, as you dropped into the chair. The seat was still warm. The air reeked of sex, of him. You pressed your thighs together, pulse thudding low and let your head fall back against the seat where his scent lingered the strongest.
He had been right here, losing his mind over you.
Why did he have to be such a filthy tease? Stealing your clothes, jerking off into them like some perv. What were you supposed to do, pretend you didn’t notice? That after flooding your mouth with his cum, he was still so wrecked for you, he came again with nothing but some cotton with your scent on it?
You liked it… God, you liked it way too much.
A shaky breath left you, burning low in your belly and sparking fire between your thighs. One more second and you would combust if you didn’t touch yourself. Right here.
Let your scent soak into his chair, his air, his everything.
When he’d come back and find the shirt gone, found you had been here, sprawled in his seat, fingers slick and trembling… oh, he would lose it.
You grinned, wicked and breathless and let your hand slip beneath the waistband of your panties. You were already drenched, clit swollen and begging.
The fantasy slammed into you again, him earlier, shirt pressed to his mandibles, inhaling you like oxygen while his fist pumped hard. Cursing in his guttural language as his cock jerked at the memory of your tongue on him, your throat opening, gagging sweet around his girth, tiny hands pumping what your mouth couldn’t take, his hips rolling to meet every thrust of his fist.
Your fingers found your clit and circled, slow, then faster, matching the rhythm you imagined he had used.
You imagined him gripping the armrest, dreadlocks moving, hips snapping into the ruined shirt until thick ropes of cum painted the fabric.
The image shattered you.
Your eyes rolled back, a broken moan slipping free as your pussy clenched hard around nothing, pulsing, aching for what wasn’t there.
You didn’t stop, you couldn’t.
Kept rubbing through the aftershocks, head thrown back, staring at the ceiling while you pictured his tongue lapping at your clit, hot and relentless, until you fucked his face chasing the next orgasm.
You came down panting, a stupid, sated grin smeared across your lips. The chair beneath you was warm, wet now with you. Lazily, you dragged your soaked fingers across the armrest, marking it.
“Pervert,” you whispered, not sure if you meant him or yourself.
You scooped your ruined shirt off the floor, the fabric heavy and warm, still slick with his release.
A low hum left your throat as you pulled it over your head. It slid down your body, clinging to your breasts, your ribs, the wet cotton cooling fast against your flushed skin.
Every shift made it drag across your nipples, teasing them until they tickled. You didn’t bother fixing it, letting it hang crooked, one shoulder slipping, the hem barely skimming your thighs.
Let him see what he had done.
Revenge tasted sweet on your tongue. You would work him up until his control snapped, until those primal growls turned into please and he bent you over the nearest surface and fucked you raw, just like he had threatened.
Your feet carried you through the corridors and you let your heels click louder, hips swaying, calling him like a siren.
No answer. No growl, no shadow peeling from the walls.
You almost felt disappointed.
Another door caught your eye, smaller, set deep into the bulkhead.
The padlock wasn’t on the outside this time. It was bolted to the inside of the room, a heavy red mechanism glowing faintly. You traced it with your fingertip, eyes narrowing before you realise it locks from within and opens only from within.
A safe room.
You slipped inside. The space was almost empty, bare metal walls, a single low bench, a sealed water pouch clipped to the wall and weapons. A rack of blades, curved and alien.
An idea bloomed in your mind, dark and delicious and stupid. You tried to shake it off.
No, too risky.
But it clung to your brain, sticky and persistent.
“No,” you whispered, shaking your head harder.
“That’s suicide.”
But your body was already answering, cheeks flushed red, the thought of him clawing at the door, mandibles flaring, voice cracking with frustration when he realized his prey had caged herself.
One wrong move and you’d be dead. One right move and he would tear the ship apart to get to you, fuck you until you forgot your own name.
You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood.
“Fuck it.”
You spun on your heel and went hunting for some traps. The danger tasted like copper and honey on your tongue and you were grinning like a mad thing as you disappeared down the corridor.
You sneaked through the rooms until the right door slid into view, the same one you had spotted from your first frantic game of hide-and-seek.
Darkness swallowed you before the room woke, low amber strips flickering to life, consoles humming, the air itself pulsing like a living thing.
Every vibration touched your bare skin under the ruined shirt, reminding you how little you wore, how much you reeked of him.
You walked deeper, eyes adjusting.
One table covered with hunting gear, coils of black rope, fine mesh nets and those sleek, toothless traps with wide jaws meant to clamp, but not to cut. A clean capture. Slow the prey, keep it breathing, skin it later.
Your pulse fluttered at the thought, how he never rushed the kill. He was truly terrifying in nature.
You ran a finger along a trap’s edge, imagining it snapping shut around his thick ankle, the growl that would follow.
A helpless grin tugged your mouth.
Perfect.
You gathered the ropes, the nets and two of the traps.
Then you moved to the next bench. Grenade-shaped canisters glinted, matte black and tempting. You lifted one, thumb brushing the cap and suddenly it blinked alive, counting down in red. Panic spiked in you and you slapped the cap again, the timer freezing at 00:03. Breath rushed out of you. Not those. You wanted smoke, flash, something to confuse him not actually hurt him.
Another device caught your eye, smaller, palm-sized. You pressed the stud and it leapt from your grip with a shriek so shrill your vision blurred, your knees buckling. You hit the floor crawling, ears ringing, lungs burning until your fingers found the switch and silenced it.
The sudden quiet left you gasping, forehead pressed to cool metal, heart pounding. You laughed shakily and pocketed it.
Oh, you’d use that. You wanted him on his knees anyway, mandibles trembling, claws scrabbling at the floor while that sound broke his control.
Ideas poured in, hot and reckless. Routes, angles, him snarling through your maze like a bull in a net.
You mapped it obsessively. Flight deck to safe room, back again, counting steps, testing sightlines. On the fifth pass you paused in the corridor, grinning at the shadows.
He would strut in here cocky, sure of his little human pet.
Time to remind him prey could bite back.
“You’re in for a hunt,” you breathed, the words tasting like sweet venom.
You scaled walls, crouched in alcoves, planted your toys with steady hands.
First, the heavy clamp-trap, half-hidden under a loose deck plate. Let it bite his ankle, slow him, make him think that was the worst you had.
He would laugh at the “soft human” trying to play hunter.
Then the net, with the laser tripwire strung low. After that, the near-invisible cords stretched ankle-high, ready to tangle those long legs of his. Enough space between each trap to keep him guessing, to drag the chase out until he was panting, furious, desperate.
You ran the course again and again, memorizing every dodge, every leap, making sure you wouldn’t get caught in one of the traps by accident.
Adrenaline sang in your blood as you waited for him, counting down the seconds.
And when the ship’s hatch finally opened, you were ready.
You had stashed a thick fur in the cold storage room earlier and now you wrapped it around your shoulders, masking your heat. He had bragged once, how he could see your heat glowing in your body.
Let him hunt blind for once.
You crouched behind crates, pulse hammering so hard you felt it in your ears. His feet hit the deck, heavy and fast, the echo of a predator fresh from a kill.
The air thickened instantly, thick with him, sweat, blood and that goddamn pheromone haze that turned your knees wobbly.
“Damn perv,” you hissed, but your voice cracked as the scent crawled over your skin. A wave of numbness rolled up your spine, you kneeled, catching yourself on a crate.
Not yet. You yanked a strip of cloth from the fur, tied it tight over your mouth and nose.
A makeshift filter, but it dulled the smell enough to think.
The flight-deck door hissed shut behind him.
And you waited, patiently, counting down the seconds until he realises.
And then came a very expected crush.
Metal screamed, followed by a guttural growl that vibrated through the walls.
The door slid open again and he stepped out.
Dreadlocks slick with sweat, chest streaked with strange blood from the hunt, muscles still twitching with leftover violence. His mandibles flaring wide, clicking loud and furious. His gaze swept the corridor, his predator vision searching for you, starving.
You bit your lip hard, noticing his frustration.
He hadn’t even showered, he had come straight for you, for the shirt, for the scent he couldn’t scrub from his mind.
Such a pervert.
He inhaled, slow and deep, throat rumbling with a sound that made your blood freeze and boil at the same time.
You stepped from behind the crates, letting the heavy fur slide from your shoulders as it landed with a soft thump.
His head snapped toward you, dreadlocks moving gracefully, chest rising and falling in frustrated pulls. His red eyes narrowed, mandibles clicking a warning.
“Looking for this?” You hooked two fingers under the hem of the ruined shirt, tugging it just high enough to flash the soft underside of your breast.
The clicking sharpened as he took one hurried step towards you.
“Ah-ah.” You lifted a single finger, wagging it.
“Stay where you are.”
He froze mid-stride, claws flexing, gaze locked on that tiny, shaking no.
His obedience was delicious, making you smirk.
“Did you hide my T-shirt so I wouldn’t find it?” you asked, tilting your head with a knowing smile.
He gave the smallest shake of his head, red eyes locked onto you. For a fleeting moment, you almost believed him, until you noticed the subtle hitch in his breath.
The lie looked gorgeous on him.
“You’re a bad liar, Zha’kor.”
You clicked your tongue in mock disappointment.
“What did you plan to do with it?”
You took a few slow steps back, drifting toward the corridor where your makeshift traps waited in silence.
His gaze followed you, calculating, measuring every step, every flick of your fingers.
“I meant to destroy it,” he rumbled.
The words came rough and deep, his tongue dragging over the consonants in a way that made your jaw clench. You hated it how he always sounded dangerously attractive after a hunt, electric, restless, always on edge.
“But I couldn’t.”
Your brows lifted.
“Your smell lingered on it.”
“And?” you pressed, fingers slipping under the fabric, slowly lifting your T-shirt.
“I couldn’t do it.”
A low shrug rolled through him.
“So I kept it as a trophy. Use it when I want.”
He started walking toward you, but you lifted a hand and stopped him with a slow shake of your head.
The confession came so easily from him, no shame, no hesitation. Just truth.
His honesty hit you harder than the admission itself.
He didn’t care how it sounded almost pathetic that he couldn’t bring himself to destroy something because it smelled like you.
It was…
too attractive of him.
Almost unfair.
“You already did,” you murmured, sliding the shirt off one shoulder, then the other. It dangled from a single finger, swinging like bait.
“Came all over it, didn’t you?”
His growl dropped low now, velvet and teasing. “Told you, no parading naked on my ship.”
“You’re a pervert, getting off to my smell.”
You clicked your tongue, pretending to scold him.
“I won’t argue with that.”
He answered back, head tilting, fingers flexing and relaxing at his sides before he folded his arms across his chest, posture daring you to say more.
You scoffed and suddenly hurled your T-shirt at him.
He caught it without even looking, the movement fast and precise.
A low growl rippled out of him, deeper than before, a warning, a line you had just crossed.
He lifted the shirt to his face, never breaking eye contact, breathing in your scent through the fabric.
Clawed fingers gripping it tight enough you thought he might tear it.
“You didn’t wash it?”
His voice dropped lower, pleasure threading through every word.
His throat vibrated with a dark, satisfied rumble.
“Who’s the pervert now, ooman?”
His gaze swept over you, slowly, soaking in every inch of your half-naked body.
Almost smiling with his eyes.
“I know what you want from me.”
His voice softened into something molten, a quiet purr rolling through his chest.
You heard it. You felt it.
Goosebumps exploded over your skin, every hair standing on end.
You had to shake it off before he noticed how badly your body betrayed you.
But he noticed.
Of course he did.
“Yeah… that’s right.”
The growl slid out of him, low and certain, and he started walking toward you with confidence, the way a predator approaches prey that has already surrendered.
You knew he wouldn’t stop now.
This was him claiming what he came for.
He had waited for this, for the moment to use you however he wanted for his own pleasure.
This little hunt was about to begin and he was going to enjoy every second of catching you and so would you.
You took two careful steps back, slipping over your first trap with ease and waited.
You figured he’d be too wrapped up in the push-and-pull between you, to notice any of the traps you had set.
“Aren’t you going to run this time?”
His voice was calm, taunting, as he closed in… until the first trap snapped.
A metal cuff locked around his right ankle, jerking him to a stop.
He groaned, head snapping downward.
“What the fuck?”
The growl vibrated low and dangerous in his chest, but he still hadn’t connected the dots.
When he lifted his gaze again, he found you smirking.
Proud.
Unapologetic.
His eyes narrowed, gaze darkening.
“You did this?”
There was no anger though, not really. Only something shockingly close to approval.
No.
No way.
He couldn’t be impressed by this.
“Tiv’ka.”
Your nickname slid off his tongue tenderly, almost proudly.
The sound alone nearly made your knees weak.
You nodded, confused at his reaction.
You had expected him to roar, to tear the trap apart and lunge straight at you.
Instead he just stared, chest heaving, mandibles parted on a breath that sounded like a stifled groan. The loincloth around his waist did nothing to hide the thick ridge straining against it now.
Your own breath caught.
The trap was meant to piss him off, to spark the chase. Not to make him look like he was enjoying this.
Fuck.
Heat spread across your face as you froze in place.
Did he just get turned on because you managed to trap him?
You wanted to provoke him, rile him up, tease him for using your shirt to get himself off.
But this?
This wasn’t part of your plan.
Well… you had hoped the chase would end like this.
You just didn’t expect it to start this way.
His name slipped from your tongue as you pulled the makeshift mask around your neck up and over your nose again.
You knew he would try to overwhelm you with his pheromones, but not this soon.
He tilted his head, mandibles flexing in curiosity as he watched you straighten, his scent muted behind the fabric.
“You came prepared, Tiv’ka?” he asked, voice a warm velvet that brushed along your skin. He still hadn’t moved, his leg remained caught and he looked perfectly content to stay that way.
His fingers caught the hem of your shirt again, lifting it to his face. He inhaled deeply, red eyes glowing, sharp and focused.
“That won’t do it for me anymore.” His voice dropped, low and sincere. “I need your body now.”
He threw the shirt with an effortless flick, sending it flying out of your reach.
“Come and get it then,” you murmured behind the cloth, soft and taunting.
“Come, Zha’kor.”
It came out like a command to a creature meant to obey.
That was what finally broke his restraint.
He crouched, claws scraping against metal as he snapped the trap apart with a single irritated twist of his wrist.
“Tiv’ka,” he growled, your chosen name rumbling in his chest and into yours, “you shouldn’t tell me what to do.”
His mandibles clicked another warning and that was your cue.
You backed away, then spun and sprinted, adrenaline buzzing in your chest.
You vaulted over the next trigger, anticipation thrumming through your veins.
How much more worked-up could he get for you?
Apparently enough to ignore the obvious.
He walked straight into it, the laser caught him, the mechanism hissed and a net dropped over his massive body, cinching tight.
You suddenly stopped running, breathless, turning around.
He had frozen mid-step.
Red eyes stared at you through the mesh, wide, almost startled.
Your hand flew to your mouth, smothering a laugh.
This—this exact moment—was what you had been waiting for.
Taking him by surprise.
Showing him he wasn’t the only one who could play games. Proving you could toy right back.
He looked around, finally taking in the net that bound him before his gaze locked onto yours again.
A different sound rumbled through his chest, low and unfamiliar.
You had heard it only once before, a growl that wasn’t a threat at all, but something strangely close to laughter.
His shoulders rose and fell with the vibration, head tipping back as the sound deepened, rich, dark, amused.
“Oh my God…” you whispered, stunned.
For a moment you fought the sudden urge to run to him and press yourself against that shaking chest, to feel that strange laughter vibrate through your bones. He looked… almost approachable. Someone you could touch without being devoured.
That single thought made your chest tighten as you forced a small, innocent smile to cover it.
You wanted to hear that sound again, someday.
“Ooman…” he exhaled, amusement still lingering in his words, “you’re going to regret this.”
Your blood went cold.
That was no jest.
He had humored your trap, but now he wasn’t playing.
He knew there were others hidden around him, the realization only sharpened his hunger for you.
“Please…” your voice softened, deceptively gentle, “make me regret it.”
You turned and bolted.
No glancing back this time, your only thought was the safe room.
But the raw, animalistic growl that tore after you made your head twist despite yourself. It crawled along your spine, rough, primal and dangerous.
More rope, coiled and triggered, caught him before he could fully chase you. He dropped to one knee, fist planted against the ground, head bowed.
Oh.
Now he was furious.
You stopped, unable to resist.
Your lips curved into a grin as you stared, savoring the sight.
Him finally kneeling.
Just for that second, he looked vulnerable, his predatory confidence gone.
It was everything you had secretly imagined and more.
All you needed now was his voice breaking, begging for whatever you’d let him have. You didn’t care what for anymore, seeing him trapped, pride broken, need warred in his eyes, was the filthy, perfect start.
And then came the roar.
You expected it, just not like that.
It hit you like a physical thing, freezing your blood, warning you that this was no longer playful danger.
This was real.
He was going to chase you and judging by that sound, you might even end up dead.
It was primal, raw, nothing a human could make.
Your heart slammed in your ribs as you sprinted, unsure if it was fear driving you or damn excitement.
Your knees trembled beneath you.
You glanced back just long enough to see him grab the thick vine-rope with both hands.
He didn’t need to, he was already free.
But fury boiled over in him and he tore the rope apart with a violent snap, the sound so loud you flinched.
He was staring directly at you, pupils blown wide. You wondered what he felt for that second, what he thought of you.
He launched himself forward on all fours, body lowering to gain speed, like an animal in pursuit.
The sight made you gasp.
Eight feet of predator muscle tensing, dreadlocks touching the floor, claws gouging the deck for traction. You felt your hands shaking as you reached the safe room.
You fumbled with the handle, threw the door open, slipped inside and slammed it shut.
Your fingers pressing random patterns on the padlock until it locked.
Click.
Only then did your legs give out.
You slid down the door, back scraping the metal until you collapsed onto the floor.
Your breath came fast, shallow, almost choking you, while your palm flew to your chest, trying to slow your racing heart.
You felt like you had just ran a marathon.
You were actually afraid.
Truly.
But it didn’t stop the heat that pulsed low in your body.
Your insides twisted restlessly, your nipples hardening under your touch as adrenaline scorched through you.
“Shit…” you whispered, before the door behind you shuddered violently and you gasped, scrambling away.
“What the hell…?”
It shook again, harder this time.
Was he throwing himself against it?
Your eyes widened in horror, imagining him forcing himself on the door like a battering ram, just to get to you.
Then you heard a softer sound, scraping dragged across the metal door.
His talons.
Slow, teasing, scratching.
Your skin crawled with something you couldn’t even name.
“You riled me up,” his voice came through, muffled but calm now, almost gentle, “only to run and hide after?”
The door jolted again, his fist landing on the barrier between you.
You bit your bottom lip, teeth digging into it at the thought of him getting to you, of what he might do when he finally had you trapped beneath him.
“Come out, Tiv’ka. Let’s play hunt again.”
His voice sounded gentle now, deep, calm and devastatingly tempting.
Your hand slid down almost without your permission, pressing against the damp heat gathering between your legs, your body betraying every rational thought once again.
You were supposed to be the one teasing him, not the other way around.
You let out a soft, broken moan as your fingers brushed the soaked cotton, two pressing hard against your clit through the fabric. The adrenaline had you drenched, every nerve screaming.
“Tiv’ka…” His voice slid through the door, low and coaxing, nails dragging slow lines down the metal, screech that vibrated straight to your core.
“Open the door,” he groaned, the words cracking with raw need.
“Ah—” Your back arched off the floor, hips chasing your own touch. He responded immediately, a rough, frustrated growl, like he was punishing himself for not having you under his hands already.
He could hear everything.
And a thrill ran straight through you knowing it, knowing he was forced to listen, barred just inches from you, desperate. He could hear every hitch of breath, every slick sound.
You wanted him to know exactly what he couldn’t have.
“Zha’kor…” You moaned his name, crawling closer until your spine pressed flush to the door. Your hand slipped beneath the waistband, fingers gliding through slick folds to circle your entrance.
Another growl behind the door, frustrated, desperate, the kind that said he’d tear the ship apart if it meant watching you come.
The damn voyeur he was.
“If I get to you…” He let the threat hang, voice gruff and guttural, then you heard his heavy body sliding down the other side of the door, sinking against it.
“Yeah?” you taunted, as you eased one finger inside you again. Your pussy took it greedily, a soft gasp slipping out. “What then?”
“Open the door, let me touch you instead.” The words scraped out of his throat, need and threat braided tight. You could feel the heat of him through the metal, claws worrying the surface like he was trying to claw his way inside.
“Say please,” you murmured, finger sliding in and out with lazy, wet sounds filling the space between you.
But instead of another threat, came…
Silence. Absolute, sudden silence.
You still felt him there.
A moment ago, his claws scraped the metal, fists pounding, heat radiating even through the cold steel.
But now, nothing. No scraping. No breathing.
Just silence.
You wondered if please was a foreign word to him or if he was debating whether to obey… or simply leave.
You froze, pulling your hand away, pressing your ear to the door, listening.
Had he really stopped?
A few seconds passed, then metal shrieked against metal, the entire door ripped free of its frame with a tortured shriek.
You lunged forward, scrambling on your hands and knees away from it.
One hand gripped the frame above him, his chest rising and falling like he had run miles. His eyes were darker, dreadlocks hanging wild around his face. His breathing was heavy, ragged, almost smoking with heat.
He looked like a wild animal, and god, he really was.
Your jaw went slack.
He filled the doorway, huge, terrifying, breathtaking.
He braced his forearm against the frame, looming over you, still trying to steady his breath.
Your hand crept behind you, fingertip brushing the trigger of the sound trap that could drop him to his knees.
But before you could speak, he did.
“Please.”
The word fell from him like a painful confession.
Your heart kicked hard, heat rushing up your neck. You squeezed your thighs together, trying to stay composed, but that single begging word hit you harder than all his growls and threats combined.
He sounded so genuine, as if the word had been pulled from somewhere deep inside him.
He stood outside the threshold, refusing to cross it, simply waiting… waiting for you to come to him.
Your fingers slackened, dropping the trigger behind you.
Using it felt like cheating, like breaking the unspoken promise that had formed the moment he had given that word to you.
He had begged.
That was all you wanted.
No need to push your luck.
“Say it again,” you whispered, sinking to your knees, tilting your face up to him with the sweetest, most innocent smile you could muster.
“Please…” he repeated, immediate, instinctive and you wondered if he understood what that word did to you.
Your heart beat unevenly now, breath catching faster, your mind swarming with images of him begging for more, to touch you, to fill you… begging you to let him cum.
Heat flushed over every inch of you. You needed to touch him, needed to feel those muscles tense around you as he buried himself deep inside.
You rose slowly, your skin aching to be touched.
He saw it, your heat flaring bright in his vision, the tremor in your legs, the way your nipples strained against nothing. His mandibles parted on a silent inhale, drinking you in, nothing but a thin, soaked cotton clinging to your hips and the scrap of cloth tied over your nose and mouth. His own heat and pheromones emitting in waves, thick and dizzying even through the filter.
You took one step. Then another. Close enough now to feel the needy warmth of his body, close enough to see the thickness straining beneath his loincloth.
One more word from him and you’d crawl the rest of the way.
Your palm met the rough blue of his chest, fingers spreading, nails scraping just enough to draw a low, rolling groan from his throat.
You tipped your chin up, his red eyes were already waiting, pupils studying your face.
“Were you going to hurt me?” you asked, voice soft, nails dragging again over his skin.
“Never.” His answer came quick, certain. His massive hand lifting, thumb brushing your cheek with surprising gentleness, tracing the edge of your mask. You leaned into it, eyes never leaving his.
“You’re a good hunter, Tiv’ka.” The praise rumbled out, warm and proud, and your heart stumbled again.
If only he knew what that praise did to you.
“But now,” he continued, voice dropping to a growl that vibrated through your palm, “you learn what happens when you taunt a bigger one.”
Before you could answer, his arm hooked your waist. The world flipped. You landed across his shoulder with a soft oof, the ship tilting, his scent flooding your senses even through the cloth. One clawed hand clamped possessively over the backs of your thighs, holding you steady.
Your eyes snapped wide, his shoulder a solid bar beneath your belly. He strode down the corridor, snatching the discarded T-shirt mid-stride and tucking it into his belt like a trophy.
The flight-deck door hissed open. Heavy steps thudded across the deck. The pilot’s chair groaned as he dropped into it, sliding you from his shoulder to his lap in one motion.
You blinked, breath catching up your throat. In his grip you were weightless, breakable, like a doll.
“Did you smear your cum all over my chair?” he asked, voice low and threatening.
His claws hooked your mask and tossed it aside. The cool air of the deck hit your face, before his scent flooded in, thick and heady.
You nodded at him.
“You did?” A soft huff of amusement. His fingers caught your chin, tilting it up until you had nowhere to look but those red eyes.
“Why?”
Thumb brushing your lower lip as he waited for an answer.
“Do you even know what you’re doing to me?”
His thumb pressed harder against your lips. You parted them, tongue sliding wet along the rough pad and the growl in his chest deepened, rolling like a deep purr.
He watched, transfixed, as your lips curled around his thumb, your small mouth always entertaining him. Then he hooked inside your cheek, tugging just enough to make you flinch.
“I wanted you to beg for me,” you breathed, the words raw against his grip.
He released your cheek, leaving the inside tender. “Too bold for a soft ooman,” he rumbled, voice painted with something close to irritation.
“You know what I could do to you?”
His thumb brushed your swollen lip again, gentler now, but the threat lingered in the air between you.
“Do you?”
He pulled you closer to him, your legs straddling his lap now and you were pressed tight against him, your eyes drifting down. You flicked the loincloth off his waist with one finger, gaze landing on his alien shaft, already pulsing against his thigh, veins thick and alien adorning it.
That thing was somehow bigger than last time, the pointed tip glistening with that milky, green-tinged precum. You dragged your thumb over the slick bead, gathering it, then pressed it to your tongue, your eyes locked on his as the sweet, sharp taste flooded your mouth.
And oh what a sight he was.
You’d never seen him that shocked before, his red eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes, trying to process what you had just done.
And you smirked.
You had him again.
Your plan was going exactly how you wanted it.
Or so you thought.
Because his next move stole every word from your throat.
One massive hand clamped the control stick and shoved it forward. The ship roared to life, charging ahead so hard your stomach flipped. You gasped, fingers scrabbling on his chest, clinging to him for dear life.
Eyes squeezed shut, you buried your face against his skin, too terrified to watch the blur of stars streaking past.
You couldn’t think past that wild spike of adrenaline flooding your veins, your heart threatening to break your ribs.
And he felt it. He knew how you enjoyed this.
The ship slammed to a dead stop. Your nails had carved crescents into his rough chest to keep from pitching forward.
You blinked, twisted in his lap and looked ahead.
Your jaw dropped. The viewport framed the edge of a cliff, the ship hovering a few meters from a drop into the void.
“Zha’kor,” you whispered, his name barely a breath, terrified the slightest move would nudge the ship over the edge and send you both to your deaths.
He tilted his head at you slowly.
“Scared, Tiv’ka?” A low rumble in his chest. “My brave girl afraid of heights?” His claws combed gently through your hair, casual, as if death wasn’t just inches beneath you.
“No, I’m scared of dying,” you snapped, trying to scramble off his lap. His arm locked around your waist, planting you firmly back against him.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled, the sound rumbling deep, like a lion warning its prey.
You folded your arms, frowning.
“What are we doing here?”
“I thought you liked danger.” He leaned in closer and you jerked back, your spine bumping the control stick again, the ship inching forward.
You gasped, freezing solid.
“Isn’t that what gets you wet? Danger?” His growl burned hot against your ear as he leaned in, chest pinning you to the console. Your back nudged the stick again, the ship creeping closer to the void.
“No,” you snapped, palms shoving at the wall of him, “I like it when you chase me, not when I’m about to fucking die.”
He didn’t budge. Just tilted his head, his red eyes gleaming. “What makes you think you’re not about to die when I chase you?”
His claws planted on either side of your head now, caging you. His chest pressing harder against your hands, daring you to push again.
“You wouldn’t hurt me,” you breathed, your voice trembling as his mandibles grazed your neck, warm tongue dragging slow and wet down your throat.
“I wouldn’t,” he rumbled, mouth traveling to your shoulder, biting softly at your flesh, just enough to sting.
“But you put up a hunt, Tiv’ka. What did you think I’d do?” He hummed over your neck.
“You don’t get to choose what happens now.” The growl vibrated against your ear, low and feral, raising goosebumps across every part of your body.
His head dipped lower, still planted in the chair and he dragged his tongue slow over your belly until he reached your sweet spot, dragging the underwear off your thighs. Your pussy clenched greedily for his tongue, welcoming the wetness you’ve been longing for.
“Fuck…” you exhaled, head snapping back, eyes fixed on the ceiling as your hips rolled shyly, chasing the friction.
“Oh my God—” you gasped when his shoulder nudged the control stick, the ship groaning forward.
“Fuck—” he growled against you, voice thick and dazed.
“You clenched on my tongue just now.” He sounded drunk on it, utterly mesmerized that your cunt had sucked him deeper the instant death was closer.
He pressed that split tongue back to your entrance, pushing deeper, hungrily, rubbing inside you like he was starving for every drop of your taste.
“Oh God—” you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as he forced your thighs wider across the panel. Buttons clicking beneath you, before a low boom echoed through the hull.
You snapped your eyes open, looking back at the viewport where a missile streaked across the chasm and detonated in a fiery explosion.
“Zha’kor—” you gasped, palms shoving him away. “You’re crushing me into the damn buttons.”
“I know,” he murmured, the vibration of his voice sinking straight into your clit. His dreadlocks dragging soft across your inner thighs and you bit the back of your hand, struggling not to moan.
“But there was an explosion—” you started, voice shaking.
“I don’t fucking care,” he growled into your wetness, tongue circling your sweet spot just how he knew you liked it.
That reckless, sex-drunk bastard had just torched half a planet because he needed your taste on his tongue, more than air in his lungs. Your pulse spiked again.
You enjoyed this a little too much, how out of control he was for you.
“Ah—fuck—” you gasped as his rough thumb found your clit, circling just right, sending your back arching off the panel for more.
He pulled back an inch, red eyes locking on yours, his mandibles moving in time with his shallow breath and he looked desperate for more.
“You look scared,” he rumbled, voice thick with amusement, chest buzzing with a laugh he wouldn’t let out.
“I fucking love it when you look like that.” The growl rolled low as he rose, hands slamming down on either side of your head. His dreadlocks brushing your cheeks, before his tongue dragged slow across your bottom lip, letting you taste yourself on his saliva.
Your eyes opened wide in shock.
“You’ve never done this before,” you breathed dazed, tasting yourself on your lip. This was the closest you had ever come to kissing him, something you never thought was possible with your anatomies contrasting.
“Do it again,” you begged, needy and sweet, honey dripping off every syllable.
And he obeyed. Of course he did. He was helpless against you and you knew it.
You knew how you looked to him, cheeks flushed red, lips swollen and bitten raw, eyes blown wide with want, your heart beating faster every time he touched you.
He had a soft spot for you when you needed him so badly, when your own body betrayed you so obviously.
His head lowered again slowly, his tongue brushing your lips. You were quick this time, darting yours out to meet it. A low growl rolled from his chest, a satisfied purr when he felt your tongue slide against his.
“Again,” you begged, needy, “again.”
And when he pulled away for a second to look at you, you grabbed a dreadlock in each fist and pulled him down, crushing his mouth to yours, tongue ready and eager. He made a startled little noise that had you grinning into the kiss as you worked your lips against his strange mouth, soft and slow, showing him the human way. You didn’t know if he felt anything close to what you did, but to you it was so natural, so intimate, almost feeling romantic.
You and your damn human needs…
His hands grabbed your hips then, claws biting in as the rumble in his chest grew louder. You clung harder to his dreadlocks, tongue sliding over his again and again, teasing and tasting until you sucked on it hard. His nails dug into your soft flesh before one massive hand shot up, gripping your entire jaw, holding you locked in place. His mandibles closed slowly around your face, gentle but possessive, as he pushed his tongue deeper into your mouth, eager to feel every inch of it against his.
Oh… so he feels just as good.
He growled deeper, pinning you hard against the console as his tongue swept every corner of your mouth, lapping at your saliva like he had been dying of thirst and you were the only water left in the world. His mandibles stayed locked around your face, but with every moan you fed him they eased just enough to let you gasp for air.
Then he slid a thick finger in alongside his tongue. Both of you licking it messily while you stared up at him with wide, watery eyes as he pressed down on your tongue. You loved how wrecked he looked, pupils blown wide, dreadlocks falling messy across his face.
Completely out of control. Like making out was a brand new territory for him. And it probably was.
His tongue curled over yours one last time, tasting you, tasting him on you, before he dragged that slick finger free and lowered it slow between your thighs.
He rubbed twice against your folds before pressing it inside hurriedly, like he couldn’t control anything anymore, neither his body nor his mind.
“Stop me,” he growled into your mouth, that guttural alien voice rumbling between licks, his mandibles moving as your tongues battled for dominance.
“No,” you breathed against his efforts to pull back.
You knew he was scared of himself, of what he’d do to you if you let him.
You swallowed his saliva, dragging a dreadlock to your lips, the rubbery texture strange against your tongue as you sucked it deep. He moved his finger faster inside you, way faster than you expected, not a hint of caution left, making you gasp.
He was done treating you gently since you refused to stop him.
He dropped his head, biting hard into your shoulder like he was trying to trap the sounds in his throat, but his hips betrayed him, jerking against the control panel the moment you gagged on his dreadlock.
“Zha’kor,” you whispered, something in you needing to see him right then.
And you were glad you did, because there it was, that face you had only glimpsed once before. Utterly lost, sweat beading and sliding down his forehead, red eyes wild with hunger yet begging for a control he had already lost.
He looked beautiful like that, a lethal alien crumbling under your touch, your soft voice, staring at you, waiting for you to say the word.
You cupped around his mandibles, pulled him down until your lips brushed the rough skin beside his temple, and breathed,
“Do whatever you want to me.”
He leaned back just enough to take your face in, staring up at him breathless, your slick walls clenching around his buried finger, as you begged him to use your body however he wanted.
In a second you were on your stomach against the control panel, thigh brushing the control stick and you tried your best to shift away so you wouldn’t trigger it and send you both to your doom.
But he didn’t care, lifting your hips up to his face, his tongue sliding hot between your ass cheeks. You gasped in surprise, twisting your body to look at him and accidentally nudging the stick. The ship crept even closer to the edge.
“Shit,” you whimpered scared, shutting your eyes tight as his tongue licked you again, your ass now as wet as your pussy. Pleasure and fear mixing dangerously.
He pressed a heavy hand on your back and you couldn’t move, trapped beneath him. You felt his hot cock rubbing against your ass cheeks and you squeezed them on instinct, intrigued but scared of what he was about to do.
“Zha’kor?” you called his name, before you felt his cock sliding between your cheeks and ending up against your lower back.
His hips snapped forward, again, again, skin slapping skin, low groans rumbling in time with every thrust, his breath hot against your ear.
He was addicted now, chasing every soft inch of you after tasting the inside of your mouth. He just couldn’t get enough of you.
You gripped the panel tight as he kept sliding between your cheeks, his alien cock burning hotter with every thrust, pulsing, throbbing, desperate to spill. A broken moan slipped from your lips before you feel the first hot splash of cum streaking your lower back.
You gasped. Already?
Before you could catch your breath, his hands grabbed your hips and shoved you farther across the console.
“Squeeze your legs together for me,” he rasped against your ear, chest pressing to your back, the rumble in him vibrating through your body, his breath shallow and fast.
You obeyed. He lifted your ass higher, then eased his still-hard cock between your thighs, the thick heat gliding along your clit and beyond, dragging a delicious gasp from your throat at the wet, perfect friction.
He pulled back and slammed forward harder, your knee smacking the control stick. You gasped as the ship moved, the cliff’s edge coming closer and closer in view.
“Zha’kor, wait—” you whimpered, but he only thrusted again, harder, your knee striking the stick with the force. Fear and pleasure twisted tight in your gut as his slick, ridged cock dragged over your clit, every bump teasing you just right. You rocked back on instinct.
“We’re going to die,” you whined.
His hand snatched your wrist then, yanking it behind you for leverage, using it to haul you onto his cock. Your thighs clenched without thinking, his hips snapped faster, harder, as if you had touched him exactly where he needed you to, finding the sweet spot on his dick. A raw, primal groan tore from his throat.
“I don’t give a fuck,” he growled, dragging you back to meet every brutal thrust.
He cursed in his language, voice rumbling against you, his dick vibrating between your thighs and against your clit, making you squirm underneath him. Your hands desperately trying to sneak beneath you as you finally managed to take hold of his pointy spongy tip sliding in your fist now.
He choked on a breath, then pounded into your grip, each thrust ripping a guttural, animal growl from his throat, air hissing out like he had been chasing prey. The ridges of his shaft dragged over your clit with every stroke, sending shocks of pleasure up your spine.
You bumped your knee against the stick again and the ship moved just enough so you could feel it tilting on the edge of the cliff, and you gasped in fear, squirming helplessly underneath him to back away from the control panel.
“Don’t. You. Fucking. Move,” he groaned, voice cracking with lust and frustration, mandibles snapping beside your face as the ship teetered on the edge.
His massive hand clamped your jaw, wrenching your face sideways until his tongue found your mouth.
He fucked between your thighs like a beast in a rut, wet, filthy slaps filling the room, his mouth against yours. With your eyes squeezed shut, you tried to block out the cliff’s edge creeping closer, but your pulse hammered, your pussy flooding hotter with every tilt of the ship. You were addicted now, ruined by him, chasing danger.
His chest crushed against your back, arms locking you in a cage of muscle and heat.
He pinned your face close, forehead grinding against your temple, tongue dragging over your shoulder to lap at the thin trickle of blood from his earlier bite.
His thrusts turned wild, sloppy and desperate, as the ship groaned louder, metal scraping the cliff’s lip.
Your eyes were wide open now, locked on the cliff’s edge coming closer, pupils wide as you bit down hard on his finger brushing over your lips. Your hips shoved back against him, heat pooling in your gut, clit throbbing against his vibrating, alien shaft.
“We’re going to crash,” you moaned, walls clenching hard, before you let yourself go. Eyes flaring wider as your pussy gushed, a shocking flood of wetness you had never felt before.
You gasped, air punched from your lungs, squirting for the first time in your life. Slick poured over the panel, your jaw locked open in a silent scream as you rode the blinding orgasm, grinding back on his cock trapped between your thighs.
He froze for just a second, his cock gripped tight between your thighs as you rubbed your clit against it, still pulsing from your release.
His hips snapped back to their frantic rhythm once he registered what you’d just done.
You hadn’t even finished riding it out when another hot spurt flooded between your thighs, this time his. His hand clamped your waist, the other seized your nape, locking you in place as he drove forward. His cum shot thick and messy across the control panel, streaking your stomach, hot and heavy just like last time.
He came with a deep, broken groan, words in his native tongue spilling out raw and guttural.
Your arms shook, you gripped the console hard so he wouldn’t fuck you straight through it and into another dimension.
Your belly dripped with him now, warm, thick, everywhere.
You slid your palm over his tip as he kept thrusting, and he groaned louder, burying himself deeper between your thighs, hips stuttering to a halt while you rubbed faster. Wild gasps tore from his throat, rough and broken above you, his whole body locked rigid as he came harder and you still couldn’t fathom how much semen he had stored in him.
He sagged over you, hands slamming down on either side of your head, chest sealing to your back. His cock kept vibrating between your thighs, pulsing out the last thick ropes of cum.
He was burning hot above you, wrecked and spent, breath coming out rough and heavy, dreadlocks spilling around you like a dark curtain.
You tried to move, wincing at the sticky mess on your belly, but your jaw clenched when his tongue dragged slow across your nape, lapping the sweat there before licking your ear, making you hiss.
“Aren’t you tired?” you smirked, twisting to meet his face.
“I’m stopping only because you’re tired,” he rumbled. “I can go like this for days.”
You gulped.
Days?
You couldn’t tell if it was excitement or pure threat you were feeling.
You forced a shaky smile as he gave one final, hot push between your thighs, stopping right at your clit and letting out a soft, satisfied groan, his breath falling hot across your neck.
The ship groaned in echo, finally falling over the edge.
Your stomach dropped as the world tilted before his hand shot from your waist, clamping the control stick and yanking it back. The ship coming to a halt, one second before plunging.
You sucked in air, eyes stinging, bloodshot, and spun to glare at him.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just held the stick steady, the ship hovering on the brink, the low thrum of engines vibrating through the deck and into your bones. His other arm stayed locked around your waist, pinning you to his lap, his still-hard cock twitching against your thighs.
“What is it?” he finally asked, voice low, but his eyes were sharp, watching every tremor in your body.
His hand slid from the stick to your hip, thumb tracing slow circles over the mess he had left on your skin, enjoying the feeling of his cum on your body.
“You thought I’d let you die?” He scoffed, chest rumbling, breath still fast from his climax.
He looked… calm. Too calm. A soft afterglow settled over his features, smoothing the sharp edges of his face. His red eyes stayed on you, claws tracing slow paths down your neck and over the swollen curve of your breast, still tender from scraping the panel.
“Was I too rough, Tiv’ka?” His voice rumbled low, but the usual bite was gone, replaced by something careful, almost gentle. His thumb brushed your nipple, then slid lower, wiping a streak of his cum from your stomach.
“You weren’t exactly gentle,” you teased.
His mandibles clicked once. Just that sound and the way his hand stilled, waiting.
“I can handle you,” you smiled, fingers gripping gently around one dreadlock, lifting it to your lips for a soft kiss.
“Are you alright?” he asked, voice quieter now. His hands had frozen, resting on the seat’s arms like he didn’t dare touch you now.
You tilted your head at the sudden change.
“Yes, you didn’t hurt me.” Your palm rose to his neck now, rubbing slow circles over his rough skin.
A low purr begun in his chest, eyes drifting shut as he leaned into your touch.
“You bruise too easily. You humans are so weak…” The words came out gruff, but the insult didn’t hit. The soft purr in his chest giving him away.
“Right, right,” you nodded, smiling knowingly, fingers still scratching gently. The purr deepened, vibrating through his body, warm with satisfaction.
That rough mask was slipping, the hunter giving way to something warm and real. You hadn’t made him crawl (not yet), but he had begged today and that victory bloomed softly in your chest.
“How come every part of you is soft?” His eyes had opened, red and curious, head dipping low. His tongue dragged slow over one nipple while his thumb and finger rolled the other.
You gasped, still shaky from your orgasm, burying your face in the rubbery fall of his dreadlocks. A soft, content purr vibrating against your cheek.
“You have to let me breathe for a second,” you laughed, breathless against his ear.
He stopped instantly, lifting his head until his face hovered inches from yours.
“And what is that?” His eyes looked past you, claw tracing the control panel, gathering a slick mix of his cum and yours on one thick finger.
Your face flamed hot. You shook your head, suddenly losing your ability to speak.
He lifted the finger up to his mandibles and licked it clean, red eyes locked on yours the whole time as you stared back at him.
He growled your name, a satisfied noise rumbling in his throat.
“Next time, you release all that in my mouth.”
It was your turn to choke on a breath now. You shoved at his chest, scrambling to escape his lap as embarrassment burned over you. His hands clamped your hips right away, pinning you on his lap.
A deep, amused rumble vibrated under your thighs. His mandibles nipped your neck playfully.
“Drown me with it,” he teased with a husky voice.
You gasped, slapping his thigh.
“Stop—I didn’t even know I could do that…”
You melted back against his chest, giving up as embarrassment took over.
“So no ooman has ever made you come like that?” His voice softened, curious now.
“No,” you admitted.
You felt him exhaling against you, long and slow, body melting into the chair. “You shouldn’t have told me that, Tiv’ka.”
“Why?” You turned around and your gaze immediately dropped.
His cock was already swelling again, pulsing in time with his breath, growing thicker with every passing second.
“Oh my…” You flicked your eyes back to his.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he shrugged, arms pulling you closer. “You know it’s your fault.” He hummed, his head resting over your shoulder.
“Tiv’ka.” He said your name softer than ever, like only meant for you to hear.
“My body wants to breed the fuck out of you,” he murmured, voice gravel and needy. “Good thing you humans don’t go into heat, or you’d already be carrying my younglings.”
You laughed, light and teasing.
“If you decide to cum inside me one day, maybe we’ll get to see that.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. Your face scrunched in confusion.
What the hell did I just say?
“Can’t do that,” he replied, his mouth finding your neck, licking it softly.
“Because I’m not an alien like you?” you asked, still wondering why you kept pushing this, like some part of you wanted it.
“Because you’ll break,” he said, tongue gliding over your ear, making you hiss. He couldn’t stop tasting you now, your skin, your sweat, like every part of your body was like a drug he couldn’t get enough of.
“What if I don’t break?” you mumbled, cheeks hot. “I could… practice taking you in. All of you.”
A low, amused rumble rolled through his chest, vibrating against your skin.
“You have no sense of danger, do you?”
He leaned back in the seat, one clawed hand beckoning come. You crawled up his chest, knees settling on either side of his hips.
“I mean, aren’t you curious how your dick would feel insi—”
His palm slammed over your mouth, claws gripping your jaw until it stung. Your breath hitched against his skin.
“You don’t want to know,” he growled, but the words cracked. His pupils blown, mandibles trembling.
He was fighting himself. Every muscle locked, cock jerking against your thighs, leaking. The thought of your tight walls clenching around him, stretching, taking, had him shaking.
You licked the pad of his palm slowly, a shudder ripping through him. Pride flared hot in your chest, you had crawled under his skin again and made him beg without a word.
You simply nodded at him, letting him think the teasing was over.
His hand released your mouth, slid to your chin and drew you in until his breath hit your lips.
“But if you dare set another trap for me,” he murmured, voice low and lazy, “I’ll pump my cum into every hole you own.”
The threat landed soft, almost sweet. You giggled, the sound bubbling up as his mouth pressed to your cheek, mandibles grazing your skin like a playful nip. His arms tightened, crushing you closer, every inch of him branding you.
“Sure, sure,” you teased back, body molding to his, giggling harder as his mandibles tickled your neck. And if you were to suffocate in his grip, you weren’t even able to resist him even that.
a/n: It’s been a hot minute but I promised myself I’ll update this story before Badlands drops 🤭 thank you everyone for showing this story so much love, if it wasn’t for you I don’t think I’d get out of my writer’s block 💙 Now I need to be honest with you, I’m dying to know what you thought of this extra long part 😏 comment your favourite moment and I’ll see you on the next part 🫶
divider by: @sinisterexaggerator & @enchanthings
word count: 5k
synopsis: After killing the Bad blood who hunted you, you gain the attention of another hunter.
a/n: Y'all don't judge me for my hear me out. I did not intend for this to end the way it did, but clearly I got carried away. For those apart of the Predator franchise, I'm new here and still learning the lore so I hope I got most of it correct.
warning: 18+, yautja smut, biting kink, size kink, more plot than porn, etc.
The jungle was unnervingly quiet in the wake of the slaughter. Smoke curled lazily from the scorched wreckage of gear, bodies strewn like broken dolls among shredded foliage. The metallic tang of blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of burnt flesh.
Above, smoke still clung to the treetops, drifting from where your unit had been ambushed. Twelve soldiers—half gone in less than ten minutes, the other half having slowly been hunted down over the course of the day. You were the only one left, though “standing” felt generous. Your breath came hard and uneven, weight braced on your rifle, every muscle screaming from hours of evasion and bursts of return fire.
You hadn’t seen the thing kill your squad, but you’d heard them die. One by one, their voices had crackled over comms—panicked screams cut short, the sound of erratic gunfire halting as you heard pleading cries dissolving into wet, choking gurgles that left no doubt about their fate.
A sharp crack broke the stillness to your right. Your head snapped toward the sound, rifle coming up in reflex, finger tight on the trigger.
What stepped—or rather, crashed—into the clearing was massive. Armour hung on its frame in mismatched plates, rusted and scored from old battles, the surface stained with rot and dried blood. The helmet was jagged, clearly scavenged, its targeting system flickering with an unstable red glow.
It let out a feral snarl, the reminded you of battle cry before it charged. That was your only warning before the hulking shape bore down on you.
You didn’t think—you reacted. Ducking under its wild swing, you drove your combat knife deep into the unarmored joint beneath its shoulder plate. It roared, claws lashing for your throat. You ducked, but its other hand shot out, fingers closing around the front of your vest. It hurled you into a tree with bone-jarring force, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs. You hit the ground hard, vision going white at the edges.
The creature lunged for you again. This time, you rolled, mud slick beneath your palms, and your hand closed around a fallen sidearm half-buried in the muck. You brought it up and fired point-blank into the gaps of its helmet until sparks spat from the damaged metal.
It staggered.
You surged forward, using the opening, and drove your blade into its throat. Hot, alien blood fountained over your hands, thick and bright green. You twisted hard, feeling resistance give way, and ripped the knife free. The creature gurgled once before collapsing in a final, heavy thud that sent leaves shivering from the canopy above.
Panting, you stood over the body, blood and sweat running into your eyes, staring down at the corpse. Only then did you sense another presence.
From the shadows, a figure stepped forward.
It was another of the same kind of alien you had just killed—but this one was different. Taller. Broader. His armour was etched with intricate markings that caught the fractured light filtering through the canopy. Every step he took set the small skulls, teeth, and bones hanging from his loincloth clattering together in a grim rattle.
You swallowed hard, forcing back the instinctive prickle of fear. Everything about him screamed superiority—the easy way he moved, the measured weight of his presence. This was no frenzied brute like the one before. This was a true seasoned hunter.
The realization struck like ice: he had been here the entire time. Watching the battled you had with his partner.
His mask turned toward the body at your feet, then back to you. Slowly, he extended one massive arm and the twin wrist-blades slid free from his gauntlet with a metallic hiss.
You were already bleeding from the ribs, every muscle aching from the last fight, but your grip tightened on your knife all the same. There was no way in hell you were going down without a fight.
A low, almost amused sound rumbled from his chest—but beneath it was something else. Interest.
Then he moved.
The world narrowed to motion—your blade flashing, his gauntleted arm swiping out a strike that would have struck a normal human. But you weren’t normal. You were one of the best, forged through years of elite military training. You were ducking the backhand before your mind could even catch up with your body, pivoting and delivering a sharp kick into his abdomen hard enough to make him grunt. Pain flared white-hot through your side from your sharp movement, but you stayed upright, refusing to back down.
Steel found flesh once—your knife slicing across his upper arm. It wasn’t deep, but it made him pause. His head tilted slightly, as though you had just passed some silent, unspoken test. Then he shifted, fast as lightning, and sent your knife spinning into the dirt.
Even weaponless, you swung at him, but his palm slammed into your sternum—not hard enough to break bone, but enough to knock the breath clean from your lungs. The jungle tilted around you. You stumbled, vision tunneling, before a massive hand caught your shoulder to keep you from collapsing entirely.
The edges of the world blurred. The last thing you saw before darkness claimed you was the tilt of his mask, as he studied you.
When awareness returned, it did so in fragments—heat against your skin, the slow rhythm of your own breathing, the faint hum of something mechanical in the distance.
You pushed yourself upright with a groan, every muscle protesting, and realized immediately that this wasn’t Earth.
The air was thick and humid, smelling of strange herbs and cured hides. You lay upon furs softer than any wool, beneath a ceiling worked in patterns you could not read. Through a latticed wall, the light was amber and alien, casting long shadows over weapons mounted like trophies.
The fight came back to you in shards—Your murdered team, the berserking alien, the fighting. And then… him.
Your gaze flicked to the doorway as a shadow fell across it.
Your alien captor stepped inside, filling the space with his presence. Without the chaos of battle to blur the details, you could take him in more clearly now—the well-maintained armour marked with intricate etchings, the heavy, mid-length dreadlocks falling over his shoulders, and the steady, assured confidence in every movement.
In his hands he carried a carved slab piled with thick cuts of red, raw meat and a horn flask filled with water. Crossing the room, he set them on the floor within your reach, then straightened without a word. The bones and charms hanging from his armour gave a faint clatter as he shifted, his mask angled toward you, watching.
You didn’t touch the offering—not at first. Your eyes stayed locked on him, waiting for the trick, the catch. Instead of closing the distance like you might've expected, he lowered himself onto a seat across the room. Then his hands rose to the sides of his helmet, claws working the clasps with practiced ease.
A hiss of released pressure filled the air as the mask came free.
Your breath caught. This was the first time you’d seen his face—alien in every sense. The ridges along his crown swept back in bold, clean lines, their mottled patterns catching the light. A scattering of scars marked his hide—evidence of battles survived. His mandibles flexed subtly as though testing the air between you.
What struck you most were his eyes—molten gold, sharp and unyielding, fixed on you with a predator’s unwavering focus. There was a confidence there, the quiet certainty of one who knew his own skill and strength and had proven it time and again. Everything about him was so distinctly inhuman and yet, to your own surprise, you didn’t recoil in fear or disgust.
You were… intrigued. But instead of embracing your curiousity, you looked away. You still didn't trust him. He had tried to kill you, and then abducted you. You had no idea what the hell he wanted with you.
The first week passed in that tense rhythm. Each day, he returned with food—slabs of raw meat still warm from the kill. The second day, you’d shifted closer for a better look before instinct made you recoil. He’d only grunted, as though your refusal was of no consequence. By the third day, hunger gnawed deep enough that you carved off a strip and held it over the flames, certain by now it wasn’t poisoned.
At the sight, he’d grunted again, eyes narrowing as he tore into his own portion raw. All the while, he watched you, gaze following the slow chew of your jaw as you struggled to bite through the cooked meat with your ooman teeth.
Neither of you spoke—not for lack of trying on his part. He didn’t fully understand your tongue, and whatever sounds came from him were low, clicking growls and deep-chested trills you couldn’t begin to match.
But there was no mistaking the way he studied you—the way your steps carried you through his home, how your gaze lingered on the carved trophies along his walls, the way you instinctively stiffened whenever his shadow fell across you.
Just as he watched you, you watched him. You noticed the smooth, predatory ease in the roll of his shoulders when he moved through the dwelling. The way his hands—large enough to encompass your skull—handled his weapons with a quiet reverence. You took note of the small ritual before each meal, the careful sharpening of his blades, the pause at the doorway each dawn as he scented the air like a wolf testing the wind.
He never closed the door completely when he left. You noticed that too. You weren’t sure if it was meant as a test or as bait. Without your weapons, you weren’t confident enough to risk finding out.
Yet, by the seventh day, the walls of his home as if they were closing in, even your own skin felt too tight. When he stepped toward the door with a spear slung over his back, you followed him.
“I’m coming with you,” you said.
He paused, turning his mask toward you. A long silence stretched between you. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he beckoned you forward—and held out your knife. The sight of it made your pulse quicken. You hadn’t even realized he’d taken it, you thought it had been left back on Earth.
The terrain outside his home was like nothing on Earth—mountains formed from jagged black stone, plains broken by thick forests of emerald-leafed trees. The air carried the distant roars and shrieks of unseen things.
That day’s quarry was a thresk—if you managed to understand his guttural growl correctly—a six-legged, deer-like creature with thick, scaled hide and wide antlers that shed once a season. It was fast and skittish, grazing in small herds on broad-leafed plants. Not harmless as you soon learned—it could gore you if startled—but it was food. He moved like the forest was an extension of him. You followed his lead, scanning the ground as he did—reading the bend of crushed stems, the imprint of heavy claws, the faint sway of disturbed foliage, caused by the passing of the herd.
When the kill came, it was sudden and brutal—your knife in the creature’s throat while his spear pinned it in place. He let you take the final strike, then showed you something strange. From his belt he drew a narrow, curved blade and cut free one of the creature’s fangs—long, polished by wear. He pressed it into your palm and curled your fingers around it. A mark of the hunt. A piece to keep even if the meat was the true prize.
You didn’t realize until later how much that small gesture shifted something between you both.
Days later, the second hunt changed everything.
You’d just brought down a gar’shun—a thick-bodied, tusked boar with spiny ridges along its back—when the air split with a scream. The sound was sharp enough to cut through the pounding of your pulse. Out of the undergrowth burst something you hadn’t seen before—a varik, all coiled muscle and hooked claws, its mottled hide blending perfectly with the ferns until the moment it struck.
You didn’t spot it until it was too close.
He did.
He slammed into you, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs, shoving you clear just as the varik’s claws tore across his chest. The sound of rending armour was followed by the wet, ugly rip of skin beneath. The fight that followed was brief but brutal—two predators colliding in a flurry of snapping mandibles, slashing claws, and spear strikes. He drove the weapon deep into its side, twisting until the creature let out a final, guttural shriek and collapsed.
When the beast hit the ground, he was already staggering.
You could have run. You could have vanished into the terrain, taken your chances finding your way home. But you didn’t.
Instead, you dropped to your knees beside him, your hand already reaching for the small pouch of emergency supplies still strapped to your belt. You cleaned the wound with what little you had, tearing strips from your undershirt to bind it tight. The alien blood was shockingly bright green, slick and hot against your fingers.
His mask tilted down at you, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and gravel-edged. “Why?”
It was the first time you’d heard him speak your language. The words were rough, growled, thick with an alien accent that rolled strangely over familiar sounds.
You didn’t stop working as you answered. “You saved my life. Now I’m saving yours.”
After the varik attack, that shift became more apparent.
It was subtle at first. He lingered closer when you moved through the forest—more protective. His gaze, though still sharp and assessing, had lost the hard edge of suspicion. When you worked together over the thresk carcass, he wordlessly passed you the choicest cuts—something you didn’t even notice until later.
One evening, as you sat beside the low-burning heat pit, he placed a strip of raw meat into your palm and gestured toward his own mouth.
You gave him a look. “It’s raw. Human's don't tend to eat meat raw.”
A low rumble sounded in his chest—amusement, maybe—and he tilted his head, urging. His massive hand came up, the tips of his claws nudging the meat closer to your face.
You eyed it warily, sighing when he gave your hand another insistent push. Finally, you lifted it to your mouth and took a small bite. The taste surprised you—sweet and tender, almost buttery, with a freshness that made Earth’s cooked rations seem dry and lifeless by comparison, and every time you’d been cooking it, the meat’s subtle flavour had been vanishing, becoming tough and leathery, but raw it was tender and flavourful.
After that, you stopped bothering with the fire.
Days passed, and you began to notice something about his speech. His helmet’s built-in translator let him understand you perfectly, yet when he spoke, it was almost always in his own language. The sounds were a mix of deep-chested trills, low growls, and the sharp clicks of his mandibles.
One evening, curiosity got the better of you.
“You can understand me,” you said, tearing off another strip of meat. “But you don’t speak my language.”
His mask tilted slightly, as though your observation amused him.
“You could,” you pressed. “I could teach you.”
He let out a low click, then gestured for you to continue. And so you did—pointing to objects, naming them in English, repeating the words until the alien syllables began to form on his tongue. The consonants were difficult for him, vowels stretching oddly in his deep voice, but you could hear the improvement with each attempt. Sometimes you corrected him, sometimes you laughed at how adorable he was trying to say the correct word, and sometimes he repeated a word so carefully with that rumbling growl it sent a shiver down your spine.
You fared no better when it was your turn. Listening to him rumble the Yautja equivalent of whatever English word you were trying to teach, you tripped over the sharp clicks and guttural rolls. He was patient in a way you hadn’t expected, correcting you with a low growl or the faintest click of his mandibles when you mangled a syllable.
Slowly but surely, you were both learning. The exchanges were broken, imperfect, but the gaps between you were closing. Bit by bit, you were beginning to communicate.
It wasn’t until a week into your growing truce that you finally asked the question that had been nagging at you.
“Why did you take me?” you asked, curiosity edging your voice.
He clicked his mandibles, as if weighing his answer, then spoke slowly, choosing his words. “You kill bad blood. Bad blood leader come. He take you. You fight… until die.”
You frowned. “Bad blood?”
“Me. Yautja,” he said, tapping a closed fist against his chest before pointing to a helmet resting on a shelf—one you hadn’t realized was there until now. Recognition jolted through you. It belonged to the Predator you’d killed. “Him. No honour Yautja.”
“So… me killing the bad blood would’ve had his leader take me and make me fight until I died?” you clarified.
He nodded once.
“But why save me from them?” you pressed.
He hesitated, mandibles clicking once before he spoke. “I don’t. I bring you to heal… and hunt. No honour to hunt broken. Only strong.” His head tilted slightly, his voice dropping into something almost gentle. “But no more. You now… friend.”
You blinked, the words settling heavily between you. “You brought me here to heal, and then you were going to finish your hunt?”
A part of you didn’t know how to feel about that revelation. Another part wasn’t surprised—that explanation fit more with the creature you’d first met than the one you’d begun to know.
“No more hunt,” he said firmly. “You. Friend.”
Your lips twitched despite yourself. “You know, I just realized—if we’re friends, I still don’t even know your name.”
He straightened slightly, then spoke—clicks and rolling syllables that resonated low in your bones. “Drak’ven.”
You tried it, mangling the guttural tones until his mandibles finally flared in what you guessed was approval.
“Y/n,” you replied, pressing your hand to your chest.
He repeated it slowly, tasting the human sounds, and for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, hearing your name in his voice made something tighten in your chest.
A few days later, you decided to test the luck of your new-found friendship.
“I need a shower,” you announced one morning. It had been weeks since your arrival, and you could take an educated guess that his kind didn’t share the same hygiene habits as humans. Still, your skin itched with the need to be properly clean, more than the small basin and a cloth you'd been using and you silently prayed he had something to help.
His head tilted, mandibles shifting slightly.
You mimed scrubbing your hair, letting your hands trail water down your arms. He watched, still as stone, for a long moment. Then his mandibles twitched in thought, and he turned, gesturing for you to follow.
The walk took you into the denser part of the forest, where the air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and the calls of unseen creatures. Eventually, the trees opened into a secluded clearing, revealing a hot spring cupped by jagged stone and draped in thick vines. Steam curled lazily upward into the shafts of golden light breaking through the canopy.
You nearly gasped. The place was beautiful, untouched. You were still taking it in when you heard Drak’ven shift behind you. Excitement to wash away days of dirt and grime overrode any hesitation; you stepped to the edge and tugged at your clothes.
His gaze followed—steady, unflinching—as you stripped and slid into the water. Heat enveloped you instantly, seeping deep into your muscles and drawing a low sigh from your lips.
When you looked back, he was removing his armour. Piece by piece, it revealed the thick cords of muscle beneath, the mottled pattern of his skin, the faint sheen of condensation forming where steam met flesh. Broad shoulders, sculpted arms, the ripple of strength across his chest.
You caught yourself staring, pulse quickening in ways you hadn’t felt in a long while. And when his gaze met yours again, you knew he’d been doing the same.
The water rippled as Drak’ven stepped in, steam curling around the edges of his broad frame.
You swallowed, your body moving before you had the sense to stop it, wading toward him as if drawn by something you couldn’t name. When you reached him, your hand rose—hesitant at first—until your palm met the solid heat of his chest. Your fingers traced the ridges of muscle, skimming over old scars that told stories you could only imagine, then followed the curve of his shoulder to the powerful line of his arm.
A low, resonant sound rolled from his chest—something almost like a purr, but with the underlying edge of a predator’s growl. Before you could pull away, his hand closed around your hip, claws pressing lightly into your skin as he hauled you through the water until you were flush against him.
Your breath caught. The heat of him was unmistakable, the hard, unyielding press of his body against yours impossible to ignore. Instinct tugged your gaze downward—just for a moment.
And gods help you, you looked.
Your eyes widened fractionally, and his mandibles flexed in what might have been amusement… or a warning.
You’d never cared much for human men—always finding them lacking in ways you could never quite explain—but standing this close to him, feeling the hardened length that was now pressing against your stomach, something inside you tightened. The want came sharp and sudden, curling deep in your loins like a spark catching flame.
It had been too long since you’d last touched yourself, too long since anyone had stirred your interest—and now, despite the gulf between your species, Drak’ven was the first male in years to make that spark flare.
His head tilted slightly, mandibles shifting as he scented the air. You realized, with a jolt, that he could smell the change in you—the growing arousal sweetening your already sweet scent. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his gaze was not. It was filled with growing hunger.
Yet, despite his own desires he slowly shook his head. When he spoke, his deep voice rumbled low with warning. “Me too big. You too little… to mate.”
No human man had ever come close to him in scale or presence. Not even close. You should have been intimidated by his sheer size, should have let his words cool the moment—but they didn’t.
Instead, you pressed closer, your breath hitching. “I can take you.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move.
His kind mated only for reproduction, never for pleasure, and among the Yautja, it was the females who dominated. Mating was a brutal contest—if the male wasn’t strong enough, he could be killed in the process. This was different. He wanted you despite knowing his seed would not take.
You felt so soft in his arms, pliant where his kind were unyielding. He knew you could be a vicious little thing when you wanted. Like when he’d seen you take down the bad blood, it was why he had marked you as his next hunt recognizing the predator you were. He’d intended to bring you here, let you heal, and then face you in an honourable fight. But then you had hunted with him, fought alongside him, saved him, and something in him had shifted.
He was still considered young by the standards of his people, and the elders would sneer at the idea of taking an ooman as a mate. But the more time Drak’ven spent with you, the more he found himself seeking your presence. There was strength in you, fierceness in the way you moved, in the way you met his gaze without flinching.
Still, your body was smaller, more fragile than his own. In his grip, you felt delicate—breakable—and that unsettled him. Gentleness was not something bred into his kind. He did not know how to wield it.
He let out a low, frustrated growl, hauling you up with sudden, effortless strength until your legs locked around his waist. The water lapping at his waist. Your faces were inches apart and the weight of his stare held you in place as surely as his hands.
Your gaze flicked to his mouth—not quite a mouth, not as you knew it. The mandibles were powerful, edged with faint ridges, twitching slightly as he studied you. You didn’t overthink it; you simply leaned in, closing the distance until your lips brushed lightly against the outside edge of one mandible.
His entire frame went still.
For a heartbeat, you thought you’d crossed some unspoken line—until that low, resonant sound rumbled from his chest again, the one you were beginning to recognize as approval. His head dipped, and one mandible shifted, grazing along your cheek in a deliberate, unhurried sweep.
It wasn’t a kiss, not exactly. But it felt like his version of one.
Your breath caught, the heat of him sinking through you. In that moment, it didn’t matter that you were two different species from two different worlds—you understood him. This was his way of returning what you’d offered, of saying I accept you too.
His hand tightened on your hip, pulling you imperceptibly closer as he began to move through the water toward the rocky edge. You soon realized what he was doing when he sat down at the ledge, shifting you higher on his lap. He was leaving you in control and giving you the choice to continue with what you both wanted or not.
You stared down at him, heart pounding. Everything about this was strange, and quite literally alien… and yet, you didn’t want to pull away.
Your body was already primed and aching, heat pooling deep inside you. It was almost embarrassing how wet you were and how much of it had nothing to do with your swim in the springs. His low growl vibrated through you as your hand slid lower, feeling the firm, heated weight of him resting against your thigh. You could barely encircle him, your fingers mapping the unfamiliar texture along his length.
A deep, purring sound rumbled from his chest as you explored, tracing those ridges with tentative strokes. The warmth between you grew until every nerve felt alive, and you took your time, ensuring you were both ready and his cock was throughly slick with both your fluids before lining him up with your enterance and slowly sinking down.
You gasped as his head pushed into you, the stretch of him burning. A deep snarl tore from his throat, his entire body tensing as he did everything he could to hold back and let you adjust to his sheer size. You were so tight, so warm and soft—softer than any Yautja female—that all he wanted was to bury himself fully inside you and savour the sensation of your walls gripping him. But he held back.
As much as it drove him crazy, he let you set the pace with shallow movements, your body gradually allowing him to sink deeper inside you. Slowly, the burn faded into pure pleasure as those ridges brushed against every sensitive nerve ending within you. Soft, breathless moans slipped past your lips, your hands bracing against his hard chest as you rocked against him. His hands found your hips, steadying and guiding you until, eventually, you were taking all of him—and he was practically taking over for you, lifting you on and off his length like you were a doll for his pleasure.
Moans spilled past your lips as your nails dug into his chest in pleasure. The moment he felt the sharp pinpricks of pain, the last thread of his control snapped. In an instant, you were on your back, and he was rutting into you without restraint. Broken moans escaped you, your eyes fluttering as your head fell back against the soft moss in rapture, baring your neck. Drak’ven’s mandibles came down, pressing against your skin in a primal stake of your submission, keeping you exactly where he wanted as he claimed your body.
His claws dug into your soft skin, blending pleasure with the slightest bite of pain. Tears stung your eyes—the sensations were almost too much, yet you craved more. You urged him on, digging your nails into his shoulder and tugging him closer, earning a low growl as he snapped his hips faster, driving you steadily toward your peak. Finally, you when you were all but sobbing, that tightening coil inside of you finally snapped and your vision went white, eyes rolling back in ecstasy. Your entire body shuddered as utter bliss ricocheted through you.
You barely felt it when his teeth sank into the junction where your shoulder met your neck, marking you as his mate before he pulled back with a mighty roar, releasing himself inside you.
For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the low, purring growls rumbling from his chest. Gradually, your awareness returned, each heartbeat pulling you further from the haze.
You slowly became aware of his touch again, his tongue lapping over the tender spot where his teeth had sunk into you. The sensation was strangely soothing despite the sting, a primal mix of comfort and possession that sent a shiver racing down your spine.
“Mate,” he growled, the word deep and certain, resonating through you as much as it did in the air.
He pulled back, eyes molten and unreadable, before rolling to your side. One massive arm hooked around your waist, hauling you effortlessly against him as he curled around your smaller form.
You only sighed in contentment, snuggling closer. “Yours.”
(A/N: I had a dream last night so yeah... Enjoy this dirty drabble~ 🖤)
ℕ𝔼𝔼𝔻
Rating: 18+
Pairing: Multiple Yautja Males x Female Reader
Synopsis/Excerpt: You stopped resisting. Body a canvas of bites and scratches, so close to becoming fully claimed.
⚠️WARNINGS/TAGS: Dark themes, non-con, dubious consent, claiming bites, groping, sexual overstimulation, pain kink, size difference, dacryphilia, interspecies sex, reader is a sex slave.
Yautja males are initially curious about how soft and pudgy a human female can be, prodding and squeezing the pliant flesh of your curves, eyes zeroed in on how it spills through the gaps of their fingers.
Curiosity quickly spirals into lustful anticipation.
Attempting to divert their hands away from your person was near impossible, your strength like that of a butterfly's and holding no real power against theirs. They then held your arms apart, a yautja holding a wrist on either side of you to limit your struggles. You held your breath when the others closed in on you.
The sight of their scarred and battle-hardened hands mapping out every inch of your naked body had you squeezing your thighs together, biting your lower lip hard to suppress your moans and ignore the steady throbbing of your clit as arousal quickly set in.
A whimper escapes your lips when they squeezed at your closed thighs, sharp nails scraping the surface of your skin and creating red welts on your body. The slight pain adds more fuel to the fire, your body jolting forward when one of them boldly squeezes at your heaving chest from behind. The harder he groped, the more beautifully you mewled, unsuccessful in resisting the delicious sensations of his firm hands milking your chest. A stunned croak left you when another squeezed at the pudge layering your tummy, face heating with embarrassment at their audacity for grabbing something you viewed as an imperfection on yourself.
Kicking in retaliation, you tried your hardest to fight them off and shy away from their daring touches. You feared that if you let them continue further, it would only get worse. Already you could feel your body betraying you, the wetness sloshing between your thighs a mutiny against your panicking thoughts and warring mind. You shook your head in denial, refusing to acknowledge the rivulets of cum running down your inner thighs, refusing to feel your nipples hardening into tight buds when tongues slithered to tease them, refusing to hear the gasping moans when hands squeezed hungrily at your ass before striking it again and again to observe it ripple.
It was soon becoming too much. A pathetic sob warbled out of your drooling mouth when several tusked faces clamped down on the fat of your breasts, hips and ass and licked away the blood budding from the wounds. They lapped languidly at the sweat coating your body, purring with pleasure at your taste before finding more areas to mark with their fanged teeth. Tears sprinkled the corners of your eyes the longer the sweet torture continued.
You stopped resisting. Body a canvas of bites and scratches, so close to becoming fully claimed.
The unmistakable scent of your arousal permeated the air around them, your pheromones causing several yautjas eyes to roll to the back of their head while others were quick to disrobe and release their hardened lengths from the confines of their armor.
Hungry growls responded to your body's needs.
Strong hands found your knees and applied pressure, spreading them fully to continue their exploration...
(A/N (again): worst part of the dream was waking up before the real fun could begin *SCREAMING AND TEARING MY HAIR OUT*)
some things humans do that seems like self mutilation to your yautja mate
when you cut your nails or file them down after they break off unevenly, constantly annoying you or scratching over your skin. it looks like you’re de-clawing yourself to your yautja and the next time you try to file down your nails, the nail kit is harder to find or has been used up as target practice while a very much innocent yautja clicks and clack his mandibles around
when you cut your hair short or at least trim the edges, especially at home. to yautjas, their dreadlocks AKA tentacles, are their extra sensors. they must be greatly taken care of, handled with care and even longer and well maintained dreadlocks are greatly desired amongst yautja society. long and well cared of dreadlocks means the yautja is an experienced hunter and old even in some cases and their kin desires to be an experienced, well aged, elder hunters. some tribes would even cut off the dreadlocks of prisoner yautjas of other tribes or bad bloods, so whenever the snipping sound of the scissor rings out, your mate has to suppress a shiver or hold back an angered growl at the scissors for daring to hurt his mate. the first few times, there were definitely snatching away of the sharp object or perhaps even one of their precise laser beams were fired to kick that thing away from your hair and hands. but even after many times of explaining and soothing, your yautja mate would still have some problem hiding his angered growl every time you snip away at your hair
whenever you brush your teeth. brushing teeth is nothing known to them due to their mouth anatomy and fangs. plus, their diet consists of fresh, uncooked meat most of the time which requires sharp canines and not so bright teeth (side note: yellow teeth are okay in humans because the actual bone color is yellow so yellow teeth means strong teeth or so i read). besides, the sound the brush makes when you brush your teeth sounds like the one a file would make when filing down bones so to them, it sounds like you’re filing down your fangs. sometimes, your yautja mate thinks that perhaps this is why you need to eat cooked meat and doesn’t have sharp fangs like him. and of course, the first few times, your toothbrush went missing
‘oomans are very weird with odd customs and desire for self-mutilation. sometimes, your mate would think this is perhaps why ‘oomans are so physically weak. that they purposefully make themselves weaker and would sometimes even have a growing sense of respect for ‘ooman warriors for even with all these self-mutilations and making themselves weaker, smaller and slower, they still manage to survive and sometimes even win against yautjas. ‘oomans were truly fascinating little creatures. but right now, your yautja is more keen to the idea of wrapping his body around your smaller one to keep you safe while you rest. though one of the many positive aspects, is that you make cute noises in your sleep
