Professional N(y)apper

The girl hurried towards the sound, sunlight filtering through the leaves, trying to light the young mother's path. Y/n thought that one of the village girls might have abandoned the child; it was an unwanted pregnancy. This was a common practice: when a girl became pregnant but no one would marry her, the child was left in the forest to preserve the family's reputation. Y/n herself had once been ordered to do the same. Her parents were furious, shouting and beating her. But the girl refused, and they took her to the forest, where a small house stood. Her parents didn't want to shame the entire family, so they left her there. In the end, her parents wanted to know the father's name, but by the grace of heaven, it was the king's knight. They were passing through their lands and decided to stay in the village. Y/n vaguely remembered the man's face, but he had whispered so seductively, promised love so tenderly, that the girl surrendered and lay on his bed. Soon after, the detachment left. That year, many innocent girls "suffered" at the hands of seductive knights, and many were shamefully cast out. Y/n was no exception. The infant's cry grew louder, and the girl ran out into a clearing where a bundle lay. She hurried to it, and when she pulled back a corner of the blanket, she recoiled in fear. It was a dark elf child. Y/n looked around, listening to the forest sounds, but realized the child's parents were not there. The infant's head had darkened from crying, and the girl understood it was hungry. Y/n couldn't abandon the child, so she unlaced her bodice and gently brought the baby to her right breast. The child finally quieted, having received nourishment. But Y/n still scanned her surroundings, ready to place the child back and flee if she saw anyone of its kind.

Y/n realized the infant's parents were absent, unsure if the child was abandoned or if something had happened to them. But Y/n made a decision that would change her fate forever! She took the child and returned home.

Several days passed, and now two babies lay nestled together in a spacious crib, having bonded with each other. Y/n cooed over them, continuing to leave them alone at home after tending to them, and went to the forest to gather herbs. It was a hot summer, but autumn was approaching, and supplies were needed, especially medicinal herbs. In the evenings, from time to time, she also went into the forest with a bow on her shoulder to hunt rabbits, and if lucky, a larger animal. The girl wouldn't have had to hunt; if she hadn't been driven from home, her father would have done it, and then her husband. But fate decreed otherwise, and using the skills she observed in the settlement, she independently crafted a bow and arrows and trained herself. Y/n was quite good at it, considering the game she brought home. And she herself didn't need much. Just something to put in her mouth to avoid starving and to stay healthy for the children.

The worst began after the past week. Moon Day started with the dark elf's loud crying. Y/n realized the infant was ill. She gave him various tinctures; the raspberry tincture didn't help the fever, and the baby cried more, seeming to burn. Linden was needed, but it had run out, so the girl quickly gave a chamomile tincture, which helped the child calm down. Taking her basket, she ran to the other end of the forest. She probably fell a few times on the way, but nothing could stop her. She gathered a whole basket of linden flowers and, just as quickly, wanted to get home. As she approached the cottage, she saw the open door, and fear pierced her entire body. Somewhere, she tried to calm herself, telling herself it was likely her parents, who rarely visited, but her gut told her it wasn't her parents. Quietly and slowly, she approached the door and peeked inside. All was silent. No one. Only the cooing of her baby. She rushed to the cradle and saw only her child. But where was the second? She swallowed loudly, carefully turning towards the door. The girl understood that she now needed to go out and survey the area.

Y/N wanted to grab a bow for protection, but to her horror, realized it was broken. Now, unarmed, she went outside. She stopped, trying to listen to the sounds, but the gusts of wind rustling the treetops made it difficult.

She understood that a dark elf had come here and taken his child, but had he left? Perhaps he would realize she hadn't done him any harm, only protected the child?

She looked around, spinning, and at the last moment noticed a man who had unexpectedly appeared among the trees. His dark skin and bright eyes frightened Y/N, causing her to involuntarily yelp. The man held a baby in his arms, who calmly rested his head against his father's chest, looking peaceful.

"I… I… I didn't hurt him…" Y/N decided to start her defense.

The elf smiled slyly, and then… disappeared. Y/N merely blinked, and the man was gone.

The following days passed peacefully, the only change being that Y/N began to notice baskets with various fruits and vegetables, and sometimes fish or game, on her doorstep.

She knew this wouldn't go unacknowledged; she would be obligated to give something in return. And on the other hand, she had cared for his child… And Y/N accepted the gifts, enjoying the peace.

The next morning, the woman noticed how the nature around her trembled nervously. Strong gusts of wind reached her cottage, leaden clouds hung over the forest, thunder rumbled in the distance, and lightning even flashed.

Y/N closed the window shutters, pressing them tightly against the frame, and securing them with a latch. She moved the cradle further from the window, deeper into the house.

While the woman was busy preparing food and caring for the child, evening had already arrived, and there was a loud knock at the door. She heard a couple of male voices and Y/N thought of her family, who had decided to pay her a visit. She hurried to open the door to let her soaked family into the house. But to her horror, the ones at the door were two men, one a burly fellow with an eyepatch, and the other thin with an overbite.

"What do you need?" the woman asked, slightly closing the door. "Oh, darling, are you alone?" the big man replied. "What's it to you? I asked a question," Y/n frowned as the man placed his hand on the door, pushing it slightly. "We got lost in the woods and stumbled upon this cabin. Let us in, we're soaked," his voice was deep but grating. "I can't," Y/n relaxed a little.

The man didn't like the answer and shoved the door with all his might. Y/n unexpectedly fell to the floor. The men brazenly entered the house, looking around. They smelled unpleasantly of alcohol, sweat, and tobacco. Most likely, they were bandits or hunters. But their arrival made the woman nervous. She stood up, awaiting further actions.

"Oh, look, Bon, we were expected," the big man brazenly sat at the table where a bowl of stew was. "I told you there'd be something to get here," the lanky guy finally spoke, he was thin, almost squeaking. He also brazenly started rummaging through the cupboards, collecting all the supplies. "What are you doing!? Get out of my house!" Y/n screamed hysterically, and a second later dodged a sharp knife that Bon threw. "Shut your mouth, whore! Boss, should we kill her!?" the man squeaked similarly. "Come on, what are you waiting for? She'll warm our bed," the Boss chuckled, a few pieces of meat falling from his mouth.

The door was open, a downpour raging behind it, forming deep puddles. Y/n couldn't escape because of her baby, who began to stir, disliking the loud voices and the cold, so he started whimpering. The men noticed him. The lanky guy approached the cradle inside the house, and Y/n's heart clenched and filled with fear.

"Yeah, she's mommy!" Bon exclaimed, and yanked the baby out by the leg, the child dangling, crying louder. "Please! Put him back! You're hurting him!" Y/n lunged at the man, but he pushed her away, and the girl fell to the floor again.

"She's so loud! Boss! Why do we need her!?" The sniveler unceremoniously tossed the baby into the crib, and Y/n's head began to throb. Her child was only a few months old, too fragile! "Hey! I don't care, you don't have to stick your junk in her. I'm going to stick it in her, I haven't had a woman in a year!" The boss, who had been eating meat the whole time, stood up, grabbed Y/n by the hair with his dirty hands, and dragged her across the floor.

To the sounds of the baby's crying, and her own, Y/n struggled, scratching her attacker's hands, but it was all useless.

"Ah, you slut! Well, nothing, I'll calm you down now! Why are you kicking, it's clearly not your first time! I'll give you another baby, for good measure! Did you hear that, Bon!?" The men laughed obscenely, the brute began to pull down his pants, but the belt wouldn't budge.

Y/n crawled towards the door. She somehow got up and ran outside. The woman ran a short distance and stopped halfway when she noticed a familiar figure among the trees. The rain continued to pour, she was getting wet and pathetic. She noticed her secret acquaintance holding a basket with something in it, he clearly wanted to visit her at such an hour.

"Where are you running!? Do you want me to kill your worm!?" roared the bandit, stepping outside, his pants already down, "I'll take care of this quickly! Or are you, such a dirty girl, that you decided to entertain me outside in the rain!?" he laughed obscenely again. "Please…" Y/n wanted to beg the dark elf, but a thick black shadow flashed past her.

This magic began to form into hands with claws, it headed towards the bandit, who fearfully tried to escape, but failed. These hands grabbed him, sinking their claws into his flesh, they moved to his neck, squeezing it, and then, amidst the sound of the rain, a snap was heard. The magic snapped his neck. As the force was about to retreat, a displeased companion appeared in the doorway, picking his nose.

"Boss, what were you doing…?" he froze.

The claws went into a new battle, grabbed the skinny man, suspended him above the ground, and then flung him with all their might towards the trees. The dark elf skillfully controlled this power, moving his hands through the air. And the claws obeyed him, finishing off the man. Y/n remained standing, looking only at him. The elf also continued to look. A moment passed, and it became dark in her eyes, and Y/n fell onto the wet ground, not caring about anything.

The girl woke up to birdsong. She opened her eyes slightly and realized she was in her room, her baby cooing beside her. She got up carefully, wearing a nightgown, and a blush of embarrassment spread across her cheeks, realizing the mysterious elf had changed her clothes. To her surprise, she noticed that besides her child, a dark elf's baby was also in the cradle, happily reaching out to her. The girl shook her head and quickly went outside. Not far away, under a tree, sat an elf, his eyes closed, humming softly.

"Thank you," the girl said quietly but clearly as she approached the stranger. "ɦ໐ຟ ໓໐ นู໐น ʄﻉﻉɭ?" a similarly quiet and deep voice asked. The girl faltered slightly. "Sorry, I don't understand... I think I hear familiar words, but I can't put them together," Y/n smiled awkwardly, and the elf nodded. "Y/n," the girl pointed to herself. The man did the same. "Elowen."

The elf fell silent again and closed his eyes. Y/n understood that he would stay, and she wouldn't mind.

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.

Footsteps approached. Heavy, confident, unhurried.

You looked up.

Jatruk blocked the doorway.

Your heart tightened.

“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.”

“He’s not… interested. He’s just… cautious. Observant.”

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.

No running.

No claws reaching in the dark.

Only warmth.

Only belonging.

Only love.

The scent of laboratory-grade ethanol and the sterile, recycled air of the Eridian habitat was a poor substitute for the smell of a brewing thunderstorm.

You sat on the edge of a steel workbench, your legs dangling, staring blankly at a digital schematic of a hydroponic filtration system. Beside you, Ryland Grace was furiously scribbling notes on a dry-erase board, his unruly curls bouncing slightly with the motion of his marker. He looked exhausted, but he always looked a little exhausted—that manic, brilliant energy was just part of his charm.

"Ryland?" you asked softly, the quiet of the lab swallowing your voice.

"Yeah? What's up?" He didn't stop writing, his brain clearly firing at a million miles an hour. "If this is about the nutrient density in the thylakoid replication, I swear I’m fixing it—"

"Do you ever miss rain?"

The marker stopped. The squeak of the felt tip cut off abruptly, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Ryland lowered his arm slowly and turned around, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The frantic, teacher-mode light in his eyes softened into something deeply empathetic, and a little bit bruised.

"Every day," he said, his voice dropping an octave. He walked over, leaning his hip against the workbench right next to your knee. "Smell of asphalt right after a downpour. Petrichor. It’s... you don't realize how much you miss the chaos of Earth weather until you're trapped in a giant, perfectly pressurized tin can."

A small, watery smile tugged at your lips. "I miss the sound it makes on windowpanes. And I miss autumn. The crunch of dry leaves under your shoes. You can't replicate that. Rocky’s people don't even have a word for the crunch of a dead leaf."

Ryland chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound, but it died down quickly. He looked at you, really looked at you, noticing the faint sheen of tears you were trying desperately to blink away. He reached out, his hand hesitant for a fraction of a second before his warm fingers gently wrapped around your wrist, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your pulse point.

"Hey," he murmured, his tone incredibly tender. "What's really going on in that brain of yours?"

You let out a shaky breath, looking down at your feet. "I was just thinking about things I’ll never get back. Milestones. Normal human stuff. I was looking through an old digital archive earlier and saw a picture of my cousin’s prom." You laughed, though it sounded a bit choked. "Stupid, right? I'm lightyears away from Earth, helping save civilizations, and I'm moping about high school."

"It's not stupid," Ryland insisted, shifting closer so his shoulder brushed yours. "What about prom?"

"I never got to go," you admitted, the old, silly ache blooming fresh in your chest. "My family moved right before senior year. I didn't know anyone, I didn't have a date, and I spent the whole night in my bedroom eating stale popcorn and watching reruns. I always told myself, "Oh, you'll go to a college formal, or a fancy gala someday.' And then... the Sun started dying, and I ended up on a spaceship, and now my neighbors are five-legged, sentient rocks."

You looked up at him, a melanchonic tear finally escaping and slipping down your cheek. "I wanted the whole cheesy experience, Ryland. The ridiculous, overpriced dress. The terrible corsage that pricks your wrist. The awkward slow-dancing to a song everyone is sick of. I never got it. And I never will."

Ryland’s expression fractured into something so profoundly sorrowful it made your heart ache. He didn't say anything at first. He just reached up, his thumb catching the tear on your cheek, his touch incredibly soft. He held your face for a moment, his thumb caressing your cheekbone.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his eyes searching yours. "I'm so sorry, sunshine. You deserved that. You deserved a completely normal, boring, beautiful human life."

He pulled you into his arms, and you buried your face in the crook of his neck. He smelled like Earth—or at least, the closest thing to it. He smelled like laundry detergent and peppermint tea, and he held you so tightly, his hand cradling the back of your head as you let out the quiet sob you’d been holding in for months.

~

For the next week, Ryland was strangely elusive.

Normally, the two of you were attached at the hip. If he was teaching his Eridian students about basic human biology or advanced physics, you were there to help translate or pass out materials. But lately, he kept shooing you out of the main classroom area.

"Just some advanced curriculum planning!" he’d say, waving his hands frantically, his face flushing a bright, guilty pink. "Very boring! Heavy math! Go read a book, relax!"

Even Rocky seemed to be in on it. When you ran into the brilliant alien in the corridor, his carapace clicked in an agitated, rhythmic pattern.

“You go away now, question-asker,” Rocky’s mechanical translator droned. “Grace-Buddy says you must not see the engineering bay. Secret. Surprise. Go away.”

"A surprise?" you muttered, raising an eyebrow. "Rocky, what is he doing?"

“No tell! You bad at waiting! Go away!” Rocky waved a claw at you and scuttled off.

You were left bewildered, a little lonely, and deeply curious.

On Friday evening, a small, laminated card was slid under your quarters' door. Written in Ryland’s messy, distinctive handwriting was a single instruction:

> 8:00 PM. The Main Commons. Wear something that makes you feel pretty. (Standard uniform trousers are acceptable, but formalwear is highly encouraged).

Your heart did a strange, fluttery flip. You didn't have a prom dress—who packs a ballgown for an interstellar suicide mission?—but you did have a deep [f/c] silk button-down shirt that you’d kept in vacuum-sealed storage, and a pair of well-fitted black slacks/black, flowy, ankle-length skirt adorned with constellations. You brushed your hair, fixed it the best you could without a proper mirror, and took a deep breath.

When you walked down the corridor toward the commons, the usual bright, fluorescent overhead lights were completely turned off. Instead, the hallway was illuminated by a warm, dim glow.

As you stepped through the threshold of the commons, your breath hitched.

The entire room had been transformed. Strings of tiny, improvised LED lights—clearly repurposed from cockpit control panels—were draped across the ceiling, mimicking a starry night sky. Bunches of inflated latex lab gloves were tied together in clusters, painted pink and white to look like makeshift balloons.

But it was the center of the room that made your hands fly to your mouth.

Standing there, looking incredibly handsome and delightfully dorky, was Ryland. He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt, a black vest, and—bless his heart—a completely crooked, hand-tied bowtie.

He was holding a large piece of cardboard. In bright, colorful marker, he had written:

> I know this is lightyears late, and we’re on a completely different planet...

> But will you go to PROM with me?*

> [ ] YES [ ] NO (Click claw once for Yes, twice for No)

You let out a wet, breathless laugh, tears instantly pricking your eyes.

"Ryland," you choked out.

Before he could speak, a chorus of high-pitched, rhythmic clicking erupted from the shadows. From behind the hydroponic towers, a dozen of Ryland’s Eridian students stepped forward. They were all holding small, glowing light-sticks, waving them in unison.

Rocky was at the front of the group. Around his central carapace, he had tied a massive, absurdly bright pink ribbon into a bow.

“Say yes, [name]!” Rocky’s translator blared proudly. “We spend four days making plastic spheres look like Earth-flowers! Grace-Buddy is very sweaty and nervous!”

"Shut up, Rocky!" Ryland hissed, his face turning bright red, though he never broke eye contact with you. He lowered the sign slightly, his eyes soft, hopeful, and overflowing with affection. "So... what do you say?"

"Yes," you whispered, then louder, wiping a tear from your eye. "Yes, a thousand times yes!"

The Eridian students erupted into a frenzy of celebratory musical notes and whistles. Rocky clapped his claws together furiously.

Ryland let out a massive sigh of relief, setting the sign down on a table. He walked over to you, his eyes fixed entirely on yours. When he reached you, he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small object. It was a clumsily constructed corsage made of clear, flexible tubing, wires, and a small, beautifully folded piece of blue origami paper shaped like a rose.

"I couldn't find an actual rose," he said softly, his hands trembling slightly as he gently slipped the elastic band over your wrist. "But I made this. And Rocky helped me seal it so it stays perfect."

You looked down at the paper rose on your wrist, your heart swelling so painfully with love you thought it might burst. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Good," Ryland murmured, stepping closer, his hands settling gently on your waist. "Because I also managed to rig the audio system."

From the overhead speakers, replacing the usual low hum of the ship's engines, came the soft, melancholic strumming of an acoustic guitar. It was an old, classic love song from Earth.

Ryland pulled you against him. One of his hands held yours, locking his fingers through yours, while his other hand pressed firmly against the small of your back. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady, rapid thumping of his heart.

The two of you began to sway, slowly, aimlessly, in the center of the decorated room. Around the perimeter, the Eridians watched in rapt, silent fascination, their light-sticks casting a soft, romantic glow over the makeshift ballroom.

"I know it's not Earth," Ryland whispered into your hair, his lips brushing against your temple. "I know there's no rain outside, and there's no punch bowl, and your classmates are all aliens. But... I wanted you to have this. I wanted to give you a memory that wasn't just about survival."

You tightened your grip on his shirt, breathing him in. The ache of everything you had lost on Earth didn't vanish—it never would—but in his arms, surrounded by glowing wires and painted lab gloves, the void of space didn't feel so empty anymore.

"It's better than Earth," you whispered, looking up to meet his warm, brown eyes. "It's perfect, Ryland. Thank you."