The Hunters Chosen Mate (Chapter 1)
Summary: Abducted from Earth and thrust into the brutal markets of Yautja Prime, you find yourself caged and sold as an exotic slave to Va-tahn, a massive, scarred lone warrior feared by his own kind. Viewing you as a fragile pet at first, he takes you to his isolated jungle home, where fear and resentment clash with his unexpected patience and quiet care.
Paring: Yautja x Reader
word count: 8000+
warnings: Violence, Blood
A/N : Hello there! Here is the first chapter for my new Yautija x Human series! hope you enjoy! Be sure to read more of my Yautja x Reader fics by checking out my master list! <3
Masterlist
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Chapter 1 : Captured Prey
Your eyelids flutter open, heavy and reluctant, as if glued shut by some invisible force. The world around you is a blur of metallic sheen and low, pulsating hums that vibrate through your bones. Disorientation hits you like a wave, crashing over your senses. Where are you? This isn't your bed, not the familiar softness of your sheets back home. No, this is hard, cold, unyielding. You try to sit up, but your limbs feel leaden, your head throbbing with a dull ache that pulses in time with the strange rhythm surrounding you.
Panic begins to seep in as your vision clears. You're in a confined space, walls of smooth, dark metal curving around you like the insides of a cocoon—or a prison. Lights flicker overhead, not the warm glow of sunlight or the steady buzz of fluorescents, but an eerie, reddish hue that casts long shadows. The air is thick, metallic-tasting, laced with an unfamiliar scent—something acrid, like ozone mixed with the faint tang of blood. Your heart races, pounding against your ribs as fragments of memory trickle back: a late-night walk, a sudden shadow, a prick of something sharp in your neck. Then... nothing. Blackness.
Abducted. The word forms in your mind, sharp and terrifying. You've been taken. But by whom? For what? You press your hands against the walls, feeling the subtle vibration, the hum that suggests movement—fast, interstellar movement. This isn't a room; it's a ship. A spaceship. The realization sends a chill down your spine. Aliens? It sounds absurd, like something from a bad sci-fi movie, but the evidence is undeniable. You're not on Earth anymore.
You scramble to your feet, or try to—the space is too small, forcing you to hunch over. There's a small viewport nearby, a narrow slit of reinforced glass. Peering through it, your breath catches. Stars streak by in elongated blurs, a hyperspace tunnel of light and void. And then, abruptly, the ship shudders, the hum deepening to a roar as it drops out of whatever faster-than-light travel it was using. A planet looms into view: vast, ominous, bathed in the harsh light of two suns. A brutal world of endless scorching deserts, where sand dunes shift like living entities under blistering winds, dotted with rivers of lava that snake across the surface like glowing veins of fire, their heat warping the air into shimmering mirages. Interspersed are dense, humid jungles, pockets of green hell teeming with predatory flora that ensnares the unwary and fauna that hunts with silent precision, rustling leaves hiding venomous barbs and razor-sharp claws.
The ship descends, atmosphere burning against its hull in a fiery entry. You brace yourself as gravity shifts, the vessel banking toward a sprawling settlement etched into the edge of a desert-jungle border. The market square below is a chaotic sprawl: towering structures of bone and metal, stalls draped in hides from unimaginable beasts, and crowds of massive figures moving with predatory grace. Yautja. They're hunters, warriors, a species revered and feared across galaxies for their prowess and code of honor. But to you, they're monsters—tall, muscular, with dreadlock-like tendrils cascading from their heads, mandibles that click and flare, and eyes that glow with primal intelligence.
The ship lands with a jolt, and soon, rough hands—clawed and scaled—yank you from your confinement. You're dragged into the blinding light of the dual suns, their rays searing your skin like twin furnaces. Blinking against the glare, you're shoved into a cramped cage, one of many lined up in the bustling market square. The bars are thick, energy-infused, humming with a low warning buzz if you get too close. Around you, other humans—terrified, disheveled—huddle in similar prisons. Men, women, a few children, all wide-eyed and pleading. Exotic slaves, that's what you are. Pets, trophies, or worse, to these alien overlords.
The market is alive with activity. Towering Yautja stride between the stalls, their clicks and growls filling the air like a symphony of threats. Some wear ornate armor, plasma casters slung over shoulders, while others are adorned with trophies—skulls of various species polished to a gleam. You catch snippets of conversation through translation devices clipped to their masks or embedded in their throats, rendering their guttural language into broken but understandable English. "This ooman weak—kill now," one snarls, gesturing at a frail man in the cage beside yours. The human's screams are cut short by a swift blade, red blood splattering in the sand.
Terror grips you, cold and unyielding. You press yourself against the back of your cage, making yourself as small as possible, heart hammering so loud you fear they'll hear it. The elements assault you relentlessly. By day, the dual suns bake the market square, heat radiating off the sand like an oven, sweat pouring down your body until dehydration sets in. At night, chilling winds howl through the stalls, carrying the distant roars of jungle beasts, your teeth chattering as you curl into a ball for warmth. Food is scant—a slurry of nutrient paste shoved through the bars once a day, if that. Water comes in drips from a rusted spout, brackish and warm. You ration it, but your lips crack, your throat burns.
A week drags by in this hell. One by one, the other humans are inspected, bartered, or deemed unfit. The unfit ones... you try not to watch, but the sounds haunt you: pleas turning to gurgles, bodies dragged away to be disposed of in ritualistic fires that light up the night sky with acrid smoke. You're the last one. The strongest, or perhaps the luckiest, surviving on sheer will and the faint hope that this is a nightmare you'll wake from. But it's real. Too real. Your body trembles constantly now, from fear, exhaustion, the unrelenting exposure. You huddle in the shadows of your cage, avoiding the eyes of the Yautja hunters who prowl by, their inspections clinical and merciless.
Then, one sweltering afternoon, the market falls unnaturally silent. The usual cacophony of clicks, growls, and barters fades to whispers. You peek through the bars, curiosity overriding caution for a moment. A massive figure approaches, larger than the others, his form a tapestry of scars—deep gashes across his chest and arms, puckered burns on his dreadlocks, a bio-mask etched with symbols that scream of battles won and lost. Va-tahn. The name whispers through the crowd like a curse. "The Cursed One comes—stay away," a nearby Yautja murmurs, averting his eyes. Others back away, fear etched in their postures despite their warrior stature. He's a lone warrior, avoided, feared—rumors of his exile, his unmatched ferocity in hunts that border on madness.
He stops before your cage, his presence radiating intimidation like heat from the lava rivers. Through the slits of his bio-mask, his eyes—glowing yellow—fix on you. His mandibles twitch faintly, a subtle sign of interest or calculation. You shrink back further, body shaking uncontrollably, convinced this is the end. He'll kill you, or worse. But he doesn't speak at first, just examines you silently, his head tilting as if assessing a prey animal. Then, without hesitation, he turns to the slaver—a wiry Yautja with a scarred mandible—and gestures. A brief exchange, credits or trophies changing hands, and just like that, you're his.
He cloaks, his form shimmering into near-invisibility, a technology that bends light around him. Strong arms lift your cage effortlessly, as if it weighs nothing, and he carries you away from the market. The crowd parts like water before a predator, whispers following: "The Cursed One takes an ooman... pity the fragile thing." You're loaded onto his remote ship—a sleek, predatory vessel shaped like a hunting blade, its engines purring with restrained power. The journey is short, the ship slicing through the atmosphere to a lush jungle moon orbiting Yautja Prime. This satellite world is a contrast to the main planet's deserts: dense foliage towers hundreds of feet, vines thick as your thigh draping from bioluminescent trees that glow with inner light, humming with the life of insectoid swarms. Predatory calls echo—screeches, roars, the rustle of unseen threats.
His isolated dwelling materializes as the ship lands: a fortified structure, half-buried in the jungle, built from reinforced metal alloys fused with natural bone and hide. Towers rise like spines, energy shields flickering faintly to ward off intruders. Inside, it's dimly lit, chambers vast and echoing, furnished with perches for weapons, trophy walls displaying skulls of galactic beasts, and a central nest area piled with furs from hunts. He places your cage in a side chamber, the door sealing with a hiss. Your heart pounds, terror peaking as you stare at him, this monstrous predator uncloaking before you. His skin is mottled green and brown, perfect for jungle camouflage, muscles rippling under scales. Mandibles flare slightly as he removes his bio-mask, revealing a face that's both alien and expressive—eyes sharp, intelligent.
You're convinced he'll assault you. Rip the cage open, take what he wants from your fragile body. Tears stream down your face as you back into the corner, whimpering softly. But he doesn't. Instead, he approaches slowly, placing bowls through the bars: one with strange, nutrient-dense food—chunks of meat in a gelatinous broth, smelling oddly savory—and another with clear, fresh water. "Eat, small one," he growls, his voice a deep rumble, fluent English emerging from a translator embedded in his throat. The sentences are sometimes off, a slight awkwardness in phrasing, but clear, understandable. "No harm will come to you."
You hesitate, suspicion warring with hunger. The food looks alien, could be poisoned. You curl away, pressing against the cold bars, your body skittish, flinching at his every movement. He notices—oh, he notices everything. Your wide-eyed fear, the way your hands tremble, the shallow breaths. But he doesn't force it. He steps back, watching with quiet patience, viewing you as a curious pet at first, something exotic to observe in his solitary existence. "You need strength," he adds, his mandibles clicking softly. "I will watch. You will eat."
Days blend into weeks. He leaves you alone for hours at a time, vanishing into the jungle for hunts, returning with fresh kills to prepare meals. The chamber is secure, no escape—the energy bars hum lethally if you test them. The vast jungle outside taunts you through narrow viewports: towering trees with leaves that shimmer like jewels, flowers that bloom with hypnotic colors, but also dangers—shadowy shapes prowling, vines that snap like whips. Isolation presses in, a constant reminder that you're far from any clans, any rescue. Earth feels like a distant dream.
He tries to build trust subtly. Small comforts appear near your cage: soft hides, woven from the fur of gentle herbivores, to cushion the hard floor. A small orb that emits soft light, banishing the chamber's shadows. He speaks occasionally, his English improving with each interaction, though still with that off-kilter rhythm. "You are from Earth. It is a soft world. Here, you must be strong or you will die." He observes you quietly, perched on a high ledge, his presence a constant weight. Your resentment boils— he's your captor, this monster who bought you like property. But his patience is unnerving, no temper flares, no violence. Just quiet watchfulness.
Weeks stretch into months. Your fear doesn't fade entirely; it's a living thing, coiling in your gut. Every time he approaches to refill your bowls, you flinch, heart racing, expecting the worst. "Why me?" you whisper one day, voice cracking. He pauses, mandibles twitching. "You... survived. You have a strong spirit. I see this." His words are meant to comfort, perhaps, but they only heighten your terror. What does he want? To break you? To keep you as a pet forever?
The jungle moon's cycles mark time: dual moons rising in tandem, casting silvery light through the viewports, accompanied by choruses of alien calls. Storms rage, rain pounding the structure like artillery, thunder shaking the walls. In those moments, you huddle under the hides he provided, grateful despite yourself. He notices that too, a soft chuff escaping him—amusement? Approval? "Good. These will keep you warm." His attempts at trust-building continue: a small tool to comb your hair, fashioned from bone, left wordlessly. He learns your patterns—when you eat, when you sleep fitfully, nightmares plaguing you.
Your body adapts slowly, the nutrient food restoring some strength, but emotionally, you're a wreck. Skittish jumps at shadows, wide-eyed stares when he enters. He doesn't touch you beyond sliding bowls through the bars, respecting an invisible boundary. "Do not fear me," he says one evening, his voice low. "You are mine. I protect what's mine.. You are my pet now. Learn trust."
Pet. The word stings, fueling resentment. You're no animal, but in this vast, isolated world, what choice do you have? The jungle outside is a death trap—predators larger than bears, plants that ensnare and digest. Escape means death. So you endure, terror a constant companion, as months pass in this uneasy stasis. Va-tahn watches, patient as a hunter stalking prey, his yellow eyes gleaming in the dim light. And deep down, a seed of confusion sprouts: why hasn't he hurt you? What game is this?
The chamber grows familiar, its scents—musk of furs, faint ozone from energy fields—becoming almost normal. But normalcy is a lie. You're a prisoner, bought and owned by the Cursed One, feared by his own kind. Whispers from the market echo in your mind: pity the fragile thing. Pity indeed. Your tears dry eventually, replaced by a numb vigilance. He brings water from a pure spring, cooler now, noticing your preference. "Drink. Good for you, small one." His English is fluent, sentences sometimes clipped—"I bring more tomorrow"—but clear.
One night, as rain lashes the viewports, you catch him staring, mandibles relaxed. "Your name?" he asks suddenly. You hesitate, voice a whisper. He repeats yours back, rolling it on his tongue like a new flavor. "I am Va-tahn.." The exchange is brief, but it's a crack in the wall of fear. Still, you curl away, heart pounding. Trust? Impossible. He's the monster who took you from everything.
Time wears on. The jungle blooms with seasonal flowers, their scents wafting in on breezes. He leaves a petal once, vibrant purple, near your cage. A gift? Or a test? You don't touch it, suspicion winning. He notices, always notices, but says nothing. Patience unending. Your resentment simmers, mixed with exhaustion. How long can this go on? Months bleed into more, the isolation a cage as real as the bars. And all the while, Va-tahn observes, his presence a shadow over your terrified existence.
Chapter 2
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