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I mean tbh..š they do look like strippers compared to Dekās design (idk if its just me but The older movies intentionally made them to have some sex appeal of some sort)
I gotta agree- Bring back the Cunty Fishnets! wanna see Yautjas in upcoming new installations with those snake patterns/stripes design too š¤
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
ā Live Streamingā Interactive Chatā Private Showsā HD Qualityā Free Actions
Free to watch ā¢ No registration required ā¢ HD streaming
well look at that, my horniness took the better of me, so hereās the result
I bite back
Yautja x Reader / Yautja x Human female
Rating: 18+ mdni
Read: Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
āWhen is this going to end?ā you murmured, gently tapping your forehead against the cold glass of the chamber that held you.
āYou keep feeding me. Giving me water. What do you want?ā you asked again, your voice low, tired.
It was strange. You were aboard a spaceshipāheld captive when youād expected to die the instant you locked eyes with the creature that had taken you.
At first, you fought. You cried. You screamed. You pounded your fists against the reinforced glass until your hands ached.
You had been so much fiercer in the beginning.
Now? You were numb. Almost bored.
Days blurred together, each marked only by meals of unfamiliar but oddly palatable fruits and endless silence from your captor.
The questions haunted you: Why did it take me? Where are we going? What does it want?
Fear had long since faded into fatigue. You were too tired to be terrified anymore.
In truth, some days, you thought you wouldāve preferred death over this drawn-out uncertainty.
But thenā¦ something changed.
One day, the alien stumbled into the ship, and you froze.
It was wounded.
A deep gash ran down its arm, green bloodāneon and thickāoozing from the torn flesh. The limb hung at an unnatural angle, barely attached.
You watched, breath caught in your throat, as it clumsily moved through the ship, almost forgetting your presence entirely.
It collapsed onto a pile of thick rugs, panting, trembling.
You observed behind the glass, transfixed.
It was the first time youād seen it in pain. The first time it lookedā¦ vulnerable.
Maybe, just maybe, this was your chance.
It stitched itself with crude but efficient movements, applying strange, iridescent substances you couldnāt identify. It let out a low, guttural soundāhalf a roar, half a groanāand then lay still.
You sat down, quietly, eyes on its shifting, unsteady breath as it twisted in discomfort.
It wasnāt out for long.
Minutes later, it stirred abruptly, eyes opening wide with a sharp inhale.
Then it disappeared and returned shortly, holding a tray of those strange fruits youād been living off of.
As always, it slid open the small hatch of your chamber and pushed the tray inside.
But this time, you moved.
You reached out, quickly, instinctively and grabbed its wrist.
It froze.
For once, it didnāt pull away. Maybe it couldnāt. The wound had slowed it down.
But stillā¦ it let you touch it.
Your hand trembled slightly as your fingers wrapped around the rough, scaly texture of its skin. It was cold. Not quite like a reptile, but close. Unfamiliar. Alien.
You didnāt expect it to go this far, that it would allow contact.
You swallowed hard.
āAre youā¦ hurt?ā you asked, barely above a whisper.
No response.
āI saw you. You collapsed.ā
A pause.
āLet me help you.ā
You didnāt know what you could do. You had no training, not even with human medicine, let alone whatever this was. But the words came anyway.
āYouāve been feeding me. Taking care of me. Let me return the favor.ā
Still, it said nothing. But it didnāt move either.
Maybe it was trying to understand your intentāmeasuring the risk.
Then, slowly, it shifted its hand beneath yours.
Your fingers slid over its palm as it moved. Coarse. Cold.
You repressed a shiver.
The creature took a step back, eyeing you carefully. You were still kneeling, looking small, unthreatening.
You knew how you looked to it. Fragile. Weak. But that was the point.
You wanted thisāthis moment. A crack in its guard.
If it trusted you, even a little, maybeā¦ just maybeā¦ you could turn that into a chance.
A way out.
The creature took two ragged, guttural breaths before stepping closer to the chamber. Its clawed finger slid over the padlock in a slow, deliberate motion. With a soft, mechanical click, the door released.
What?
Was that it? Was it really that easy?
Had all it taken was appearing smallāfragileāfor it to trust you?
Before the door had even swung halfway open, you were already slipping through the gap, adrenaline firing through your veins. You moved fast, fueled by a desperate, animal instinct to flee.
But freedom didnāt last more than a breath.
A hand, massive and unrelenting, wrapped around your throat and slammed you back against the cold glass chamber. Your skull hit the surface with a thud, and all the air was gone from your lungs.
Panic overtook you.
The creatureās clawed fingers squeezed, just enough to restrict your breathing but not crush it entirely. Its grip was so strong, so terrifyingly effortless. The sharp curve of its nails dug into the tender skin at the nape of your neck, pressing hard enough to hurt, to warn.
You clawed at its wrist, nails scraping over its scaled skin, desperate for air.
It didnāt flinch.
Even with blood still dripping from its wounded arm, it held you firm, as though pain meant nothing.
Your feet dangled, your body pinned like prey, caught and immobilized.
It could kill you. Right now. Just one twitch of that wrist and it would all be over.
Your vision blurred at the edges. Your eyes welled from the pressure.
āPleaseāā you gasped, voice cracked.
The grip loosened, barely.
Air returned in small, painful sips, but the hand remained, keeping you locked in place, back pressed hard to the smooth surface behind you. You coughed, instinctively reaching to support yourself, but the creature didnāt move away.
It leaned in closer, massive frame radiating heat. Its head dipped low, its strange mandibles brushing your cheek. Its breath, hot and coarse, ghosted along your skin, and then came the sound.
A low, rumbling growl vibrated from deep within its chest. Not quite a purr. Not quite a snarl. Something primal.
It grew louder, reverberating in your ears and against your ribs, until it cut off sharply.
Then came the voiceā¦ deep, guttural, foreignā¦ but unmistakably clear.
āIf you try to escape again, I wonāt hesitate.ā
He didnāt say what he would do. He didnāt need to.
You nodded quicklyāyes, yes, you understood.
You were no threat. Not now. Not yet.
Slowly, his grip slackened, and you dropped to the floor in a heap, gasping, fingers clawing at your throat as your lungs fought for air.
You looked up at him.
He towered over you, chest rising and falling rapidly. The wound on his arm had reopened, neon blood dripping down in thick lines, staining the floor.
Even in pain, even with one arm nearly uselessā¦ he was still dominant. Still terrifying.
And yetā¦
You saw it. Something behind the rage, the instinct, the brute force. He was hurting. Breathing heavily. Off-balance. Vulnerableā¦ in his own way.
This was dangerous. All of it. You knew that.
You rose to your feetāslowly. Carefully.
Every movement was cautious, as if one sudden gesture might awaken some dormant, primal instinct in him.
You kept still once upright, eyes locked on the heaving rise and fall of his chest. The green blood still poured from his arm, trailing in slow rivulets down his thick, scaled skin. It was grotesque and oddly beautiful. Like art painted in pain.
You had never seen anything like him before.
You swallowed the lump in your throat and spoke, your voice soft and unsure.
āTell me how to help you.ā
Silence.
He didnāt look at you immediately. Instead, he walked toward the part of the ship where heād earlier attempted to patch himself up.
You watched him, his steps heavy, his breath audible. With a sharp tilt of his head, the long, rope-like dreadlocks shifted around his shoulders with grace.
He turned, mandibles twitching, the low clicking sound they made vibrating in the air between you like a warning or a signal.
He held something out.
A skin staplerāif you could even call it that. It was massive compared to any human medical tool, mechanical and crude, made for strength over finesse.
Then, without a word, he turned his back to you.
And only then did you see the true damage under the light.
A jagged slash, deep and raw, tore across his back. It wasnāt just bleedingāit was gaping, the green fluid seeping from it in thick, steady drops. You could see sinew beneath. Maybe even bone.
You stifled a gag, covering your mouth briefly before forcing your hand back down. Your stomach churned.
This was worse than you thought.
His back muscles twitched under the strain, contracting with each breath. Even still, he stood tall, tense, waiting.
You had to do this.
You needed his trust. And if earning it meant holding back the bile in your throat and pretending your hands werenāt shaking uncontrollably, then so be it.
Your fingers trembled as you took a step forward. You reached out with your free hand and gently touched his shoulder to steady yourself and him.
He flinched.
His skin was cold, much colder than you expected, and the contrast between your warmth and his body made him shudder. But he didnāt pull away.
āIām sorry,ā you whispered, before pressing the device to his torn flesh.
You braced yourself, and then pulled the trigger.
The stapler hissed as metal bit into skin.
He grunted, guttural sound rumbling from deep in his chest. His hands slammed down onto the metal table in front of him, claws digging into it, leaving deep gashes in the surface.
You kept going.
Staple. Staple. Staple.
With every burst, his muscles flexed. His arms shook under the pain, and the table beneath him groaned under the pressure of his grip.
But he didnāt move. He didnāt strike out. He simply endured.
By the time you were done, the line of staples snaked clean across his back, sealing the worst of the wound. You stepped back, your hands slick with sweat and blood, the device trembling slightly in your grip.
You had done it.
He leaned against the table, his breaths deep and uneven. You watched his back shift with each inhale as he flexed the stitched muscles, testing the damage, testing your work.
Your hands were still trembling slightly when he turned and took the stapler from your grip.
Then, he faced you.
He didnāt speak. He simply watched.
The kind of stare that made the air feel heavier.
You didnāt know what to say, so you said nothing. But he seemed to be waiting for somethingāanything.
And when you remained still, uncertain, he closed the distance.
His hand reached for your face, fingers curling around your cheeks, thumb and forefinger applying just enough pressure to coax a reaction. You flinched slightly.
āWhat else do you want?ā you asked, voice low and guarded, a frown forming on your face.
But the alien didnāt respond. He merely observed, eyes flicking across your features like he was trying to learn you, maybe even memorize the softness of your skin beneath his clawed fingertips.
His hand left your face, trailing down to your neck, then your shoulder, tracing a path beneath your arm and along your forearm. You shivered involuntarily when his thumb pressed firmly against the underside of your wrist, pinning your pulse.
He felt it.
Your heartbeat.
Unsteady.
And undeniably human.
A low purr resonated from deep within his chest, vibrating through the air like distant thunder. It wasnāt threatening, but it was possessive. Satisfied.
You let him explore you, not out of desire, but out of necessity. Every touch was a test. You didnāt know what he would do next and neither did he, maybe. But still, he touched like someone who had been holding back for too long.
When his hand slipped under your shirt, brushing just below your bellybutton, you stepped back instinctively, muscles tightening.
You couldnāt read his intentions, maybe he didnāt fully understand them either.
āIāmā¦ ticklish,ā you said quickly, a shaky breath escaping as you gently pushed his hand back up to your stomach.
Whether he believed the lie or not, he withdrew, wordlessly. Then, with fluid strength, he turned you around by your shoulders.
His claws traced along your back now, slow,intentional strokes.
Right over the spot that mirrored his own injury.
The gesture didnāt feel like threat.
It felt like recognition.
You bit your lip, steadying yourself when his touch followed the length of your spine. You had to clamp your hand over your mouth when his claws reached the small of your back. A tingling ripple ran across your skin.
He paused there.
Then, nothing.
Just silence.
Until you felt it.
Hot breathāon your neck.
It ghosted over your skin in slow waves. You froze, every instinct inside you telling you not to move.
His mandibles clicked, close to your ear. The sound sent a shiver down your spine, your head turning slightly away, just to escape it.
Thatās when his grip tightened. Hands holding your shoulders firmly, anchoring you in place.
Donāt move, your mind warned.
Donāt give him a reason to think youāre resisting.
His breath returned, heavier now, brushing over the nape of your neck and then came the sharpness. You hissed softly as you felt the faint sting of his mandibles grazing your skin.
There was moisture.
Not bloodāat least not yours.
Then, a slick warmth dragged slowly over the same spot.
His tongue.
You hadnāt seen it before, but now you knew. It was real, and it was on you.
Testing you.
Tasting you.
You clenched your jaw, holding in the gasp that threatened to escape. The sensation was foreign, unnerving, but strangely cautious. He wasnāt being careless. He was exploring. Reading your reaction. Studying how far he could go.
You were being mapped with his mouth, his claws, his curiosity.
And all you could do was endure it.
You hadnāt expected things to escalate this quicklyāyet they had.
The sensation that bloomed where his mandibles had latched onto your skin again was so alien, so unfamiliar, you could barely contain the noise that threatened to rise in your throat. It wasnāt like anything youād felt before, stinging, with a strange heat. And thatās what unsettled you most.
And stillā¦ that same unknown sent a pulse of something dark and electric down your spine.
Your knees trembledānot just from fear, but from the way your body responded to the contact. Helplessly, shamefully. Your heart threatened to burst out of your chest, as if caught in a tug-of-war between terror andā¦ something else.
Another hiss slipped from between your clenched teeth when his tongue swept along your wounded nape, tasting the blood he had drawn moments before. You could feel the deliberate slowness in the way he licked over the bite, like he was trying to understand youāyour scent, your flavor, your limits. This had to be a test, didnāt it? A threshold he was pushing you toward, waiting to see whether you would flinchā¦ or endure.
If you could survive this, if you could hold your ground, maybe heād trust you. And if he trusted you, then eventuallyā¦ maybe youād be free.
Then his hands were on you again, turning you to face him.
His breathing was ragged, strained, his chest rising and falling fast.
His mandibles were slick with crimson, your blood still fresh on him.
You shouldāve recoiled in horror.
But you didnāt.
Instead, your eyes lingered on the tautness in his body, the tension in his shoulders. His gaze bore into you unrelenting and unreadable. Yet there was something unmistakably raw in it. As if he didnāt fully understand what he was doing, only that he needed to.
One clawed hand rose slowly, catching the hem of your shirt and giving it the smallest tug, pulling you closer until you were pressed to him, your face just above the curve of his chest. He was colder than any being youād ever touchedā¦ and yet somehow, from within, he radiated heat. Like a furnace buried under stone.
Your breath stuttered as you tilted your head up, eyes meeting his.
He studied you the way a predator studies prey, but there was no hunger. Just intensity. Curiosity.
And then, without a word, one long, talon-tipped finger rose to your lips.
You held your breath.
He dragged it gently across your bottom lip, then pressed inward, urging your mouth open, just enough to trace the warmth inside. Your lips parted automatically, breath catching as the cold of his skin met the heat of your tongue. You didnāt even realize youād made a sound until his chest rumbled in responseāa satisfied purr.
He was testing you again. Learning the intricacies of your body the way someone learns the pressure points on a weapon.
And stillā¦ you didnāt pull away.
āOoman, your heart is racingā¦ yet you donāt seem scared.ā
His guttural voice struck the air like a blade, freezing you where you stood.
Those red eyesādark and unreadableāpierced you from above. There was something almost gentle in the way he stared, but it was impossible to ignore the sheer force behind his stance.
And he wasnāt wrong.
Your heart was hammering inside your chest like it was trying to escape your ribsā¦ yet you hadnāt ran.
You hadnāt screamed.
He had touched youābitten youāand you hadnāt moved.
Maybe worseā¦ part of you didnāt want to.
Shame curled hot and thick in your chest, but shame didnāt undo the way your body had reacted. You were only human. You couldnāt control everything. Not when it felt this strangeā¦ this overwhelming.
He pressed his thumb further against your tongue, forcing you to choke slightly, the reflex hitting before you could stifle it. Tears welled up in your eyes from the gag, but even as your vision blurred, he didnāt look away. If anything, his gaze sharpened, his mandibles twitched, and the shimmer in his eyes suggestedā¦ fascination.
He liked that sound. Like he had just discovered a new function in a toy he hadnāt yet finished learning to play with.
āAre you sad, ooman?ā he asked suddenly.
You blinked. That question wasā¦ unexpected. But you realized quickly why he asked it.
He had only ever seen you cry when you begged him to let you go, sobbing behind reinforced glass. You were sad then. Terrified.
But now?
āā¦No,ā you whispered.
He pulled his thumb from your mouth, glancing at the saliva stretched between his fingers. He examined it with the same curiosity a scientist might give a strange specimen before flicking his gaze back to you.
āThen what do you feel?ā he asked again, this time quieter.
You didnāt know how to answer.
Fear, yes. Curiosity, definitely.
But the heat coiling inside you, the warmth spreading down your spine and pooling between your legsāit wasnāt curiosity alone. It was something deeper. Something primal. Something neither of you seemed able to name.
āIām not sure,ā you admitted.
And you meant it. The confusion, the contradiction of everything in your body and mind. It was too much to untangle.
But something about your honesty changed him.
He studied you again, slower this time. And then his claws returned, sliding under the hem of your shirt. With one decisive movement, he tore the fabric, the sound ripping through the quiet as you gasped.
Your stomach, exposed now, just below your ribs, was bare beneath his stare. A sharp sound left your lips as he pressed a single claw to your abdomen, not aggressively, but intently.
He was testing you again.
The touch crawled up, just below your chest, and stopped when you tensed, your eyes shut tight in fear andā¦ anticipation. But he didnāt go further.
āWhy is your heart racing again?ā he asked, voice low and impossibly close.
You opened your eyes, meeting his.
āAre you scared, ooman?ā
Your throat tightened. You wanted to lie, to give a simple answer and end this test. But there was no hiding from him.
You nodded. Then, unsureā¦ you shook your head.
His mandibles clicked, clearly confused by your response.
āUse your words,ā he commanded, the demand more like a nudge this time.
Your face burned with shame.
āIā¦ I am scared,ā you whispered. āBut I also feelā¦ hot. Wherever you touch me.ā
You couldnāt meet his gaze anymore, so you looked away, resting your forehead lightly against his chest. Partly to hide, partly because he felt so real.
He was massive. You hadnāt truly registered the sheer scale of him until now.
āDoes it feel good?ā he asked, his voice hoarse, strained. Desperate to understand.
You nodded again.
āSpeak,ā he said, more forcefully now.
āā¦Yes.ā
The sound rumbled from deep in his chestāa pleased, almost feral purr that vibrated through his body and into yours.
He liked that answer. All of it. Your hesitation, your embarrassment, your honesty.
And then, without warning, he moved.
In a swift motion, he slid an arm beneath you, gripping you just under your thighs and lifting you into the air like you weighed nothing. A yelp escaped youāstartled, unsteadyāas your hands instinctively wrapped around his neck.
You felt the wetness of his healing wound bleed onto your pants, staining them green. The contact was hot and sticky, and your panic spiked just enough to make your breath hitch.
āWhat are you doing?ā you asked, your voice trembling.
He didnāt answer. Instead, he lowered into a crouch and dropped you onto the pile of thick, ragged furs that covered the floor. The makeshift bedding cushioned your fall, but your body tensed as he loomed above you.
He knelt now, towering yet strangely calm.
The light overhead cast shadows across his skin, accentuating the dark blue hue of his chest. Scars, some old, some fresh, lined his torso, like a war map drawn across his body. He didnāt speak, didnāt gesture. He simply presented himself.
And you stared, drawn in despite yourself.
He didnāt wait for your permission this time. His hand grabbed your wrist firmly and brought it to his chest.
You hesitated.
Thenā¦ slowly, he let you explore.
Your fingers traced the hard lines of his muscles, the roughness of scarring, the slickness of partially healed wounds. He made a noise, deep and choked, when you grazed one of the fresh cuts.
Your eyes drifted up to his dreadlocks, long and heavy, brushing over his chest like strands of ink.
Hesitantly, you reached for one, curious now. You wrapped your fingers around it, stroking once, then again, before giving it a light squeeze.
Thatās when it happened.
His entire body jolted, his muscles seizing as though youād flipped a hidden switch. He collapsed forward slightly, one fist hitting the ground to steady himself, breath tearing from his chest in ragged bursts.
Your eyes widened.
Whatever those wereā¦ they werenāt just hair.
You let go immediately, crawling back into the furred rugs as he struggled to regain composure.
You didnāt speak. You didnāt move.
But your mind raced.
What was he?
And what had you just done?
You thought, for one breathless moment, that maybe this was your chance.
Maybe that flicker of weakness, his body buckling from your touch, meant you could shift the balance. Regain some control. Use it against him.
But that illusion vanished the instant he caught his breath.
He looked up at you with a low inhale and you saw it. The shift. The hunger. The intent.
Like a predator fixing its gaze on something it knew it could catch.
You stared, uncertain whether to brace or beg.
He didnāt give you time for either.
With a sudden, terrifying grace, he lunged forward, crawling fast over the rugs until he loomed above you. His forearms landed on either side of your head with a thud, enclosing you in his shadow.
You barely had time to gasp.
Warm blood dripped from his healing wound, trickling down to your cheek. You clenched your jaw to keep still, holding your breath, afraid to move or speak. Maybe this was it, maybe youād pushed too far.
Then he lowered his head.
You heard the click of his mandibles before you felt his teeth.
He sank them into your shoulder, not deep enough to break bone, but enough to make you cry out. Sharp, white-hot pain bloomed across your skin as you twisted beneath him, but his weight pinned you like prey caught in a trap.
His hand pressed hard over your chest, flattening you against the furs, and then he struck again. His mouth finding your other shoulder with terrifying speed.
Another bite. Another cry.
This time, something was different.
He lingered.
You felt his tongue glide slowly across the mark he had made, the heat of it dragging across your skin, soothing and igniting at the same time. The sting of pain morphed into a low, building ache. You gasped, but not from pain. Fromā¦
Frustration.
But not the kind born of anger. This burned lower, deeper. A need you didnāt recognize, spreading like fire in your belly.
Your nipples stiffened under the thin fabric of what remained of your torn shirt. You werenāt sure when it happened, but his hand, still pressing on your chest, seemed to be aware before you were. Every brush of his palm made the sensation worse. Unbearable.
His mouth trailed lower, tongue dragging along your collarbone, then upward toward your neck.
You knew what was coming. Another bite. Another mark.
And some primal instinct in you snapped.
You acted before thinking, before fear could stop you.
You reached up, grabbed one of those thick, heavy dreadlocks hanging over your faceā¦ and yanked.
Hard.
He reacted instantly.
His body spasmed, his torso pitching forward until his chest nearly collapsed onto yours. A guttural sound erupted from himānot a growl, not a roar, but something building in his chest, shaking through his ribs like a lionās warning.
His breathing turned ragged, desperate again. You felt him straining against the instinct to move, to reactāto take.
His fist slammed down into the furs beside your head to steady himself.
Youād hit a nerve. Literally.
You let go. You couldāve stopped there.
But you didnāt.
Driven by something reckless, something stupid, you leaned upāand bit the same dreadlock between your teeth. Not enough to maimā¦ just enough to threaten. To warn.
To show him that you could.
And thatās when it changed.
His hand shot up, clawed fingers wrapping around your throat.
Not with full strength, but enough to knock the air from your lungs and force you to release your bite.
He held you there, suspended between danger and awe. The grip at your throat was firm, unrelentingā¦ but conscious. Just enough pressure to remind you: he was in control now.
Yet his eyesā¦ they told another story.
Because in that moment, he wasnāt just looking at a fragile, soft-skinned thing heād captured.
He was looking at something dangerous.
Something wild.
Something that bit back.
Your teeth might be small, but they couldāve torn through that sensitive appendage. And he knew it.
You saw that realization land behind his eyes.
And you saw something else too.
Respect.
Predator or not, he now understood:
You were not prey.
You stared up at him, breath hitching under the pressure of his hand, your body thrumming with adrenaline, confusion, heat.
āYou bite like an animal,ā he growled, voice low. āYet youāre not one of them.ā
The hand around your throat stayed firm, his grip no longer punishing, but purposeful. Curious. Possessive.
He studied you like a puzzle he hadnāt expected to find inside his cage.
Your chest rose and fell beneath him, breath caught somewhere between panic and anticipation, your lips parting reflexively as his thumb pressed against themāharder this time. Enough to make your head tilt slightly, your jaw strain. Enough to draw out those same desperate, involuntary sounds that had already begun to unravel him.
Mewls. Gasps. Whimpers that betrayed you, that sent heat rushing through both your veins and his.
He made you feel weak, pinned under his massive frame, restrained, breathless and yet the trembling in his chest betrayed a dangerous truth: he was just as undone as you were.
There was green blood staining the rugs now, hot and slick, smeared along the curve of your hip where heād held you. His claws flexed at your sides, eager, restrained, and trembling. The Yautja was trying to hold himself together, and youā¦ you were the reason he was falling apart.
In all his years of battles, of honor duels, of hunts through hostile terrain and endless bloodshed, he had never been brought to this edge. This need.
And not just because you fought back.
It was how you did it.
You didnāt bare fangs to kill.
You bared your teeth to warn, to challenge. To play.
And in his worldā¦ that meant something else entirely.
The way you looked up at him, defiant even as his hand rested on your throat. The way you gasped around his thumb, shame flushing your cheeks but never reaching your eyes. You werenāt meek. You were alive. Burning.
That was a language he understood.
It wasnāt what he expected when he first claimed you. You hadnāt fought then. Youād been taken without a struggle. No weapons, no resistance, just a shaking, wide-eyed creature.
He was supposed to drag you back. A trophy. A specimen.
Maybe even meat, if the elders had deemed it so.
But he hadnāt brought you to them.
He hadnāt handed you over.
He hadnāt harmed you.
Not even once.
Instead, he kept you.
Why?
He hadnāt known the answerā¦ until now.
Now, your body squirmed beneath his. Your heat mixed with his, and your spirit rose like a flare against his instincts. You werenāt just prey. You were spark.
His chest began to tremble with a low, guttural noise, not quite a growl, not quite a purr. Something deeper.
Amusement.
He laughed.
It was alien, yes, but unmistakably pleased.
A sound from deep inside his chest, vibrating through your body like a drumbeat.
You blinked up at him, startled by the change. The gleam in his eyes was no longer just predatory. It was amused. Intrigued. He tilted his head as if seeing you for the first time, not as an obligation, not as cargo.
But as entertainment. A wild, feisty creature dropped into his hands.
You felt it then, something shift in the way he looked at you.
You werenāt just a captive anymore.
You were his distractionā¦ his companionā¦ his toy.
And in a life filled with blood, silence, and cold steelā¦
You were the first thing that ever made him feel alive.
