𝟏𝟖+ 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢 | he sends you a voice message while he’s away.
“hey sweet thing. missing ya’.”
his voice erupted, you could only hear the sound of his breathing, imagining the slow rise and fall of his chest.
“how have you been, mm? eating well? hydrating? you best be taking care of yourself while ’m gone.” he laughed, that squeaky one where you could tell his throat was tight from holding something in.
“wish you could feel how much i’m missing you.” you heard his breath shake at the last syllable, then the tell-tale sound of his zipper slipping down rang out. a loud zzziipp like he wasn’t even trying to hide it.
a moment of silence then a harsh hiss came from his side as he wrapped a hand around his aching member, stroking it to full mast. “shit baby, i’m so hard just thinkin’ about you.” he groaned, then a rustle of clothes came as he shoved his pants down to his ankles.
he shifted his phone so that it was placed right beneath his cock, you could hear it slap against his phone screen, hot and heavy. “listen to it. listen to what you do to me.” he panted, beginning to pump himself, every tug of his length drawing a throaty sigh from him.
“wish you were here. y’know, sucking me off.” he paused to breath, stifling a whine as he imagined the scene in his head. “gosh, you’d look so pretty, mouth full of me. choking on me.” he continued.
“or you could just sit on it. let me hump you ‘til you pass out, all dumbed out on my dick.” he rasped, voice dropping a milky octave. you could hear him spit down on his cock, smearing the glob of saliva over his length.
“if you were here, i’d bend you right over this desk and fuck—” he sped up his strokes, you could tell he was close with how whiny he got. “i’d do so much to you darling, but you’re just not here. and it’s killing me.”
“miss you, so fuckin’ bad.” his voice cracked, you could hear the lewd fap-fap-fap of him fisting his cock ruthlessly, teetering on the edge of release.
“bet you’re touching yourself too, huh?” you could hear his smirk through the phone, “bet you’re getting off at seeing me so desperate and needy. you’re evil.” he grunted.
“shit, i’m close.” he cursed through gritted teeth, you could hear his chair creak under his weight as he pumped his cock, chasing his orgasm.
“this one’s for you.” he panted, the sounds of his fist becoming slicker. after a couple more strokes, he came all over himself with a muffled groan, making a mess everywhere.
“it’s so much.” he grumbled, already regretting what he did knowing he would have to get up and clean off. “and i blame it on you.” he chuckled, you could hear him tucking himself back into his pants.
“anyway. i’ll be back soon. love you, byee.” he spoke before blowing an obnoxious kiss to the phone and cutting the voice message.
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.
The old farmhouse you bought with your remaining savings turned out to be possessed by an axe murderer. The charm doesn't end here.
content: female reader, jealous ghost farmer based on The Conjuring: Last Rites, horror
Your house is haunted, yet no one will believe you.
You should’ve known from the moment you set foot inside. The agent was uneasy, a tad too eager to be done with the viewing. He frequently reminded you of the fantastic price, the one-of-a-kind offer you’d never find again on the market. It was spacious, it was in good shape. More rooms than a single lady like you would ever need.
“Speaking of rooms,” you said, “we haven’t seen the basement yet.”
The agent’s smile faltered for a fragment of a second. He adjusted his collar and glanced at the door, contemplating his response. At the time, you found the prolonged pause to be rather odd. Was there some damage that would come with hidden costs? It suddenly made sense that they’d try to sell you something broken beyond repair. You asked him to have a swift check, prepared to find the secret to this ridiculous deal. The man waited at the top of the stairs, visibly pale, while you descended into the poorly lit clutter of chambers. Old furniture, some posters. Plenty of dust. Yet, to your surprise, everything was in order.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” you called from the darkness.
“I never said there was,” your agent answered impatiently. His hand was clutching onto the door, keeping it wide open. “I suggest we continue up here,” he urged.
After a brief chat, you signed the papers. Whatever anxiety you might’ve had about the place was quickly dulled by the massive discount. He told the truth about one thing, at the very least: you wouldn’t get another chance like this one.
Pretty little thing. The sunken eyes followed you with growing curiosity: your hurried pace as you carried the boxes around, the sighs that rolled out of your mouth after each trip, the strands of hair that fell over your face as you reached for the next item to unpack. He could sense the faintest tug at his hollow heart. Maybe you could be the one. Maybe you wouldn’t betray him like they did.
“Hello?” you abruptly stood up, facing the hallway. Somehow, you were overwhelmed by the dreadful feeling that you were being watched.
Nonsense. You were merely adjusting to the new neighborhood, to the idea that you were in the middle of nowhere. It messes with your head, the agent had explained, but you get used to it.
You assumed, however, that slight discomfort would be your only hurdle during this process. Hallucinations were one step too far and something you hadn’t anticipated. Was it the consequence of uneasiness? Were you slowly losing your mind? Either way, you were convinced you were seeing a man in your home.
It began when you first dragged your laundry basket down into the basement. The lights flickered right as you slammed the door to the washing machine shut, and you turned to look for the switch. Then you discerned it, the tall frame, the crooked features of a ghastly white face. With hitched breath, you fumbled for the flashlight. You almost didn’t dare to point it in his direction; you didn’t want to see whatever unholy creature stood in the corner. This was not the appearance you’d find in a human.
“Good God,” you exhaled, shoulders instantly dropping in relief. You managed to huff out a chuckle as you gazed at the poster across from you. You must’ve imagined the devilish distortions.
Except those same distortions kept coming back, each time clearer than before. The second apparition nearly gave you a heart attack. You had finished cleaning up the kitchen and were about to head upstairs, when you saw the same man at the end of the hallway, blocking the path. It had to be real. You could make out the shadow it cast on the walls, the weight of the body pressing into the carpet. You heard the floorboard creak as he took a step towards you. He was tenebrously tall and muscular, dressed in dirty, torn overalls. The face was smudged, save for the glistening smile – a deformed grin made of sharp teeth. As if the demonic traits weren’t enough to freeze your blood, your eyes eventually rested on the object he carried in his hand. A battered axe, dripping with thick, black liquid. The metallic scent inundated your nostrils, making you nauseous.
His feet suddenly jerked forwards. The movement startled you so much that you fell over, panic clouding your senses. He was going to kill you. Like a wounded animal, you crawled on your fours, sobbing apologies for whatever sins you may have committed, babbling pleads of mercy as you imagined chunks of your flesh splattered across the floor. You looked up, hoping to find some sort of reasoning within your monstrous attacker, but he was gone. The hallway was empty once more and you wondered if your sanity had slipped away entirely, until you noticed the dent left on the carpet, right where your assailant stood. You hesitantly put your foot next to the prints, gulping at the sheer difference.
The next day, you returned home with a heavy stack of newspapers you’d printed at the local library. You wanted answers, or at least a hint to guide you along this madness. You sprawled out each paper and inspected it carefully. There it was. ‘Local farmer murders wife after learning of her affair’. ‘The body of a young woman was found in the neighboring fields, covered in deep wounds believed to be caused by an axe. Police identified her as the wife of a local farmer.’ Your fingers hovered above the black and white photograph of the man; it was the same person you’d seen in your home. He had apparently shot himself in the basement, leaving a note behind containing his reasoning. One day, he’d find himself a loyal woman. You crumpled the page and threw it as far as you could.
You felt trapped. All your savings were poured into this damn house. There were no friends or family nearby, and you didn’t know anyone here. You couldn’t just pack up and leave. Where would you have gone? What would you have told your parents, that you were running away from a ghost?
“Fuck you,” you spat out, filled with resentment. “Here’s a tip, dumbass, don’t chase your potential partner with an axe.”
Humor was all you had to diffuse the suffocating tension, and those words were all he needed to soothe his yearning. So, you agreed. He knew he could put his faith in you. Surely you must’ve pitied him after reading what happened to his miserable soul, trapped here for years by a burning wish.
You woke up to your bed covered in wilted roses. You would’ve guessed it was a bizarre dream if it wasn’t for the decaying stench and the neatly folded note left on the other pillow: to my beloved wife.
Oh, no. You hadn’t signed up for this. In a frightened daze, you stuffed some necessities in a backpack. Perhaps someone else would buy the house, you decided in your scrambled thoughts. It would come with a loss, sure, but money was the last thing on your mind at that moment. You just wanted to be away from the surreal haunting. You’d get yourself a coffee, sit down, then think about all the technical details.
You darted down the stairs, towards the exit. No more of this nonsense for you. Your hand reached for the doorknob, but – in an instant – the blade of an axe landed straight into the door, grazing past your head. You opened your mouth to scream, yet nothing came out of your parched throat.
“Where do you think you’re going,” a deep voice called.
You couldn’t find the courage to turn around. Soon enough you felt it, that cold, heavy presence, growing stronger, drawing closer. A hot breath blew against your neck, and a scarred, brawny arm appeared from behind you, effortlessly retrieving the axe.
“’s not proper for a lady to wander without her man,” he drawled in your ear. “Besides, do ya truly believe you’d get rid of me like that?”
His rough finger caressed your cheek. You were much too fixated on the edge of the blade to notice his loving gaze, or his mocking smirk. You shook your head; it was, indeed, a stupid kind of hope to cling onto. He wasn’t bound to the house, at least not anymore. He was bound to you. He’d follow you everywhere, maybe even in death. You shivered at the realization.
“Sorry, mom, can’t make it this weekend,” you said flatly, staring at the hollow expression of the man holding you on his lap. “I’m busy with the new house. You know how it goes.”
Slashers Reacting to their S/O trying to "escape" while sleep walking
Inspired by this post by @amomentsescape . Go check them out! Fell in love with their post and just HAD to write about it myself
I am working on a few requests and original ideas, so if you've requested something know that it is (slowly) in the works!)
posting this early to show I'm still active! let me know if you want a part two with other slashers, im already working on one for the sinclair bros but check my character list to see which others i should add! ive added a few new characters to my list aswell :3
CW: Implications of abuse, kidnapping, and other unhealthy relationship dynamics
GN Reader!
Characters include Michael Myers, Thomas Hewitt, Brahms Heelshire, Billy Loomis, and Stu Macher!
You’ve been with your slasher for a while now, trapped living with them in their respective homes. You have no intentions of leaving as Stockholm Syndrome has long kicked in. But right as your slasher lets you sleep without the chains, your brain decides that it’s a perfect time to start sleepwalking…
Michael Myers (Halloween ‘78)
Michael is up the second you are. He never truly sleeps, so the moment your body starts to shift out of bed his eyes are open and watching you intensely. He stopped handcuffing you to the bed post a few nights ago, but he still doesn’t trust you to not leave. Before you can walk towards the bedroom door, he’s already infront of you and grabbing your wrists tightly.
He doesn’t care that you’re asleep. When you didn’t react to him grabbing your wrists, he tilted his head. It takes him a few moments to realize that you’re still asleep. He grabs you by the shoulders and aggressively shakes you awake, startling the hell out of you. “What the fuck!?” You wake up to see Michael glaring down at you menacingly. He is pissed.
You can’t plead with him. Your wrists are back to being cuffed to the bed and he doesn’t let you leave the bedroom. It doesn’t matter that you were asleep, you still tried to leave him. You cry and beg, swearing up and down that you love him but all you get back is an icy glare. Any trust you thought you had with him is gone for the next few months. He loves you Y/N, no matter if you like it or not.
Stares at you through the night. The first couple of nights after your sleepwalking incident, he can’t close his eyes. Ends up just staring at you for the rest of the night, not really sure how to feel about what you’ve done. He won’t say it, but his feelings are really hurt. Why can’t you just do what he wants?
Thomas Hewitt (Texas Chainsaw Remake)
He wakes up alone in bed. He has to get up extra early for his daily chores, so he’s used to see you by his side, still fast asleep. When you aren’t there, he starts to panic. He’s tossing the room frantically hoping to find you, all while fearing the worst. He should’ve listen to his family when they said not to unchain you.
He finds you at the front door, staring at it absentmindedly. He rushes towards you and grabs hold of you, which wakes you up. You scream in confusion which makes him scream. He’s a blubbering mess afterwards while you try to explain what sleepwalking is and how you weren’t consciously trying to leave
He believes you, but he’s still scared that you might leave. He installs a lock on the bedroom door and keeps the key hidden away during the night so you don’t wander off again. He’s worried that you might end up hurting yourself walking around the house, so you can’t coax him out of the lock.
He hugs you extra tight at night. He was always a cuddler, but now he’s nearly smothering you every night in fear that he might wake up alone again. Don’t fight it, it’ll only make him hug you tighter.
Brahms Heelshire (The Boy)
Crashes the fuck out once he realizes you aren’t in bed with him. He’s running around the mansion frantically looking for you in every nook and cranny, getting more and more worked up. Probably starts crying and/or screaming after not being able to find you quickly.
He finds you in the garden, eventually. He hates going outside. He hates you going outside even more. It’s dead of night when you wake up to Brahms incoherently screaming at you while being dragged back inside. You’re so confused while Brahms is just having a full on meltdown, accusing you of trying to leave him.
You have to wait for him to calm down before explaining what happened. He's screaming so loud, sobbing and stomping back and forth the hallway as you sit on the ground, half-dazed. You try to talk to him but he literally can't hear you over his tantrum.
Clings to you. After his break down, you explain what happened-- "I was just sleepwalking, Brahms." He isn't completely convinced but he accepts the explanation on the condition that you never do it again, which you try to say you can't really control it but- oh well. It doesn't matter, as Brahms is always by your side now, holding your hand or waist or the hem of your shirt while you go on with the chores. You never have a moment alone now, and probably never will again for a good while. Do you even want to?
Billy Loomis (Scream)
Another certified crash out. He wakes up one night expecting you beside him, only to find you gone. Immediately tears the house apart looking for you. And when he cant find you? He snaps. Thinks you've left him. Escaped his tight grasp. Destroys everything, grabs his knife, and goes to look for you. If he cant have you then he's going to kill you.
He finds you standing on the porch. Looking back, he doesnt know how you didnt wake up from the noise he was making. He puts the knife to your throat, threatening you until he realizes you were kinda just...not responding. Waves his hand in front of your face and realizes you are asleep and just stares at you. How the fuck did you even get past the locks anyways?
So pissed at you. Its not your fault but it doesnt matter. You should subconsciously want to be near him at all times, sleepwalking or not. He drags you back to the bedroom, gripping your arm so tightly that it wakes you up. You're confused on whats happening, but Billy ignores your questions before tossing you on the bed and forcing you to go back to sleep.
He starts tying you to the bed. He doesn't let you have a say in it, either. He won't say it, but waking up and seeing you gone was one of the very limited moments in his life when he felt fear. And he doesn't intend to ever feel that way again.
Stu Macher (Scream)
Where'd you go, Y/N? He wakes up without you under him, and is immediately confused but not worried. You must have needed to go to the bathroom! Still, he feels a weird flutter in his chest as he gets up to check on you.
He finds you in the hallway just standing there, like a ghost. You startle awake because he screams, not expecting to see you in such a creepy way. He laughs immediately after, finding it hilarious that you managed to scare him!
He has a tight grip on you as he guides you back to bed. You notice as you both lay down that he clings just a bit more to you than usual, so much that you almost feel suffocated. He won't say it aloud, but he doesn't like the idea of you leaving the bed, of leaving him.
He starts laying on top of you during the nights, as a way to hopefully stop you from leaving the room. It works for the most part, and Stu loves the new-found closeness, even if you have to give up a bit of air at night. If you ask, he'll try to shift his weight to one side so he doesn't completely cut off your airflow, but he's reluctant to get off of you completely. What if you hurt yourself walking around?
Freaks out every time you move. Ever since that incident, Stu is hyper focused on you when you sleep. Every time you slightly shift during the night, Stu is locked on you, waiting to see if you try to get up or not. He doesn't want you to leave, y/n, and if that means having to sacrifice some sleep to make sure you stay, that's alright with him.
