There were no days. No nights. Just rituals, lots of them. You clung to the familiar ones like lifelines in the dark, repeating the words like a prayer. Eating - human. Bathing in the silken, alien water - human. The dreamless sleep - human, human, human. The true rituals, the ones that carved away at the person you had been, were designed with a single purpose: to bind you to the Warlord. They were a systematic dismantling of your futile resistance against the new reality - being his pet. And with each beat of your heart, you were drifting closer to it.

He would make you accompany him to ‘meetings’ - gatherings in roaring, torch-lit halls that were little more than arenas for bloody beatings. You stood at the edge, a silent, adorned shadow with chain between your legs, and watched him dominate, dismantle, and destroy any who challenged him. He was always the winner. The air would be thick with the coppery stench of Yautja blood and the guttural cheers of the clan praising their leader. After, he would stride toward you, a mountain of victorious fury, the bones dragging behind him and clinging to his feet. His massive paw, now slick and stained with the sickly green of his foe's lifeblood, would reach for you. He didn't just want to mark you. He wanted you to understand, deep in your marrow, that his victory was your victory. His strength was your protection. The burn of his enemy's blood was a badge of his dominance, and therefore, your own.

He had other ways to show his dominance.

You will taste the palm which will feed you.

You didn’t so much as tasted it. You felt it. Everywhere. He would brush your hair, which had grown longer, thicker, and more lustrous from the rich, alien meats he provided. His fingers, each one capable of shredding metal, would trail through the strands with an unnatural, hypnotic gentleness. They would map the new, fuller curves of your hips and waist - his doing, all of it, a testament to his ability to reshape you from the inside out. His touch left behind not pain, but a trail of shivers and faint, pink scratches that tingled for hours. He could spend cycles like that, with you perched on the solid, armored plane of his thigh, as he scanned enormous, glowing data screens filled with star charts and battle reports. And all the while, just… touching you. Tracing the line of your spine. Cupping the nape of your neck with a possessiveness that made you weak. You would sit there, wet and aching and empty, the chain between your legs a constant, cold reminder of the release he withheld. The frustration was a live wire under your skin, and you had no way to protest, no right to refuse the touch of the hand against your will. The protests had died in your throat, replaced by a breathless anticipation for the next scratch, the next possessive grope, the next silent, searing moment of his attention.

It was a sweet, slow torture. But was it now against your will?

Then the mouth which you will learn to obey orders from.

His hunger for violence, for power and obedience almost matched the hunger for sex. The first few times he had tried to eat you out were a clumsy, brutal exploration. It had been messy and wet, a confusing tangle of pain and overstimulation from the rough, unfamiliar texture of his tongue and the threatening proximity of his teeth. It had satisfied him then, you think - the simple act of domination was enough. But the Grendel King was a master of his craft, in all things. And he learned. Oh, did he learn.

Yautja did not have soft, human lips for gentle kisses. Their mouths were gaping maws of powerful muscles, teeth, and a tongue that was far too long, too clever, and textured like rough velvet. Now, he used it with a devastating, learned precision. He held you with one massive paw, your legs draped over his broad, armored shoulders as if you weighed nothing. His forehead was pressed against your soft, rounded belly, a strangely intimate anchor, while his maw was buried between your thighs. The low, wet sounds of his work filled the silence, punctuated by the soft, click-clicking of his mandibles against your sensitive skin, a vibration that sang straight to your core.

Another, the translator on your neck growled. Give me another nectar.

Nectar. Your orgasm. Your wetness. You’ve lost counts of how many times you came for him. Your body was no longer your own; it was a wellspring for his satisfaction, and he was a thirsty god.

The broad, flat of his tongue, rough as worn leather, dragged a slow, heavy path from your entrance all the way up to your oversensitive clit. The motion was deliberate, a claiming sweep that gathered your wetness and made you cry out, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the bone armor of his back. Then the focus shifted. The tip of that same tongue, surprisingly deft, found the tight, throbbing bud of your clit and began to circle it with a relentless, rhythmic pressure. He fed from you, the deep, rhythmic purr in his chest vibrating directly into your core. You could feel the slick evidence of your own pleasure coating the hard plates around his mouth, his mandibles flexed gently against your inner thighs, the subtle movement creating a vibration that resonated through your entire body.

Just as the first shivers of an impending climax began to dance up your spine, he pulled back. Before you could even whine about it, one thick, powerful digit thrust inside you – just like it did when you first presented for him, all shivers and fear. And yet, you didn’t got used to it, though craving the stretching, the burn, the dominance of a single digit. Your cunt, slick and ready, accepted him rather easily, your inner walls fluttering around the intrusion despite your mind sending signals of pain. While you were still adjusting to the first, the blunt, insistent tip of a second finger pressed against your tight entrance. There was a moment of resistance, a plea dying in your dry mouth. With a slow, relentless pressure, he worked it into you, the two digits spreading you open, stretching you wider than you had ever been.

The stretch was exquisite agony.

“Please!” you gasped, a sweet hoarse sound.

“I-it’s too much… d-don’t, don’t move them… I can’t- can’t fit---”

You will.

You could feel every ridge of his skin, every minute movement as he began to piston his fingers in a slow, deliberate rhythm, scissoring them slightly with each withdrawal. He was preparing you. Methodically. Violently. For the final, terrifying, and craved invasion you knew was coming – if not now, then later, when you would be left alone to finger yourself and cry about your shame in a pillow when you’d realize it was not enough. Your body could do nothing but surrender to the brutal, opening rhythm.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” you gasped, every single nerve screaming of how humiliating it was, how good and how terrible at the same time. The broad, leathery palm of the hand that was fucking you rolled forward, pressing the base of his fingers firmly against your swollen, throbbing clit. The effect was cataclysmic. Your body, already taut as a bowstring, arched violently against his hold. A broken, wordless scream was ripped from your throat as the pressure on that sensitive nub, combined with the deep, internal stretching, sent you careening over the edge. It was not a wave of pleasure but a detonation - a white-hot supernova that obliterated thought, shame, and memory, leaving only the raw, shuddering fact of his possession in its wake. Your walls clamped down around his invading fingers, milking them in a series of frantic, helpless pulses. You moaned. You babbled. You thanked your chief, your Warlord, your king for what he did to you.

He did not fetch a cloth to wipe the evidence of your pleasure from his maw or the slick residue gleaming between your thighs. Instead, he simply stood, adjusting your limp form effortlessly, and draped you over one immense shoulder as if you were a prized game. The world swung dizzyingly, but you were too spent to care. He carried you through the torch-lit corridors himself. Your blurred vision caught glimpses of younger Yautja, who stopped and turned their massive heads to watch the Warlord pass. A chorus of low, guttural click-click-clicks followed you -a mix of approval, of simmering anger, of raw, undisguised lust. They could lust all they wanted. The scent of the Warlord on you was a boundary as solid as a fortress wall. To lay a finger on you was to sign their own death warrant, and they knew it. You had no idea what they said. You were fucked out, mindless, floating in a haze of endorphins and utter submission. You nuzzled your face into the mighty, corded column of his neck, where the scent of ozone, spice, and your own essence mingled. A soft, continuous sound rose in your own throat, a purr of pure, contented belonging.

It was the sound of a creature who had finally found its place.