Stalker

The Tenno stands in the depths of an abandoned Orokin derelict, deep within the dark recesses of space. The air is heavy with the smell of decay and forgotten things, ancient and rotting away in the silence of the void. The corridors stretch on endlessly, with only the occasional flicker of dim, failing lights to punctuate the darkness. Broken, gilded tiles litter the floor, and vines that have long since taken root in the abandoned structure twist and snake along the walls, their growth unchecked for centuries.

Your Warframe, sleek and agile, moves silently through the corridors. Every step echoes in the vast emptiness, though the sound is quickly swallowed by the silence that seems to press down on all sides. The Orokin architecture, once magnificent and awe-inspiring, now feels like a tomb—cold, eerie, and filled with an unsettling stillness.

You’ve been sent here on a mission, one that should have been simple: retrieve a lost artifact and return to the safety of your Orbiter. But now, with the objective complete, there is a sense of unease that lingers in the air, something you can't quite shake. The silence has become oppressive, as if the very structure is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

The artifact pulses faintly with energy in your Warframe's grip, its soft glow casting strange shadows on the ruined walls. But it’s not the artifact that holds your attention. No, it’s the feeling of being watched, of something lurking just out of sight. Every instinct within you screams that you're not alone.

As you make your way toward extraction, the feeling grows stronger. You glance over your shoulder, expecting to see some twisted creature emerging from the shadows. But there is nothing—just the emptiness of the derelict, the cold void of space beyond the walls. Yet, the sensation persists, gnawing at the edges of your mind.

Suddenly, your Warframe’s systems flicker. The HUD begins to glitch, momentarily flashing with red static. The lights around you dim even further, plunging the corridor into near-total darkness. Your vision narrows as your Warframe's sensors struggle to maintain clarity. Then, a voice—calm, cold, and filled with quiet menace—echoes through your comms.

"Tenno... Your actions have consequences."

The voice is unmistakable. It sends a chill down your spine, even though you’ve heard it before. It’s the Stalker. He’s here.

You instinctively raise your weapon, scanning the darkened corridor ahead. The shadows seem to thicken, moving almost of their own accord, twisting and coiling like living things. You know he's out there, lurking in the darkness, watching, waiting for the right moment to strike.

"You cannot run from your past." His voice echoes again, this time closer, as if he's right behind you. But when you spin around, the corridor is empty. No sign of him. Only the darkness.

The Stalker has marked you, and now he’s come to exact his revenge. You feel the weight of his presence bearing down on you, the crushing inevitability of the fight that is to come. There’s no running now, no hiding. He will find you, and he will strike.

Your Warframe’s systems flicker again, and then, without warning, the Stalker appears. He emerges from the shadows like a wraith, his dark form standing in stark contrast to the dim, decaying grandeur of the derelict. His armor gleams with a malevolent sheen, black and red, his helmet’s visor glowing an ominous crimson.

He stands tall and silent, his presence dominating the narrow corridor. In one hand, he holds the Dread, his deadly bow, the string pulled taut with an arrow that hums with lethal energy. His other weapons, the Despair throwing knives and the massive Hate scythe, rest at his side, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice.

For a long moment, the two of you stare each other down, the air thick with tension. The only sound is the distant creak of the derelict's failing structure, as if even the ship is aware of the confrontation about to unfold.

Then, in a voice that is eerily calm, the Stalker speaks again. "You were marked for death. Now, it is time for retribution."

The derelict Orokin tower hung silent in the void, its once-golden halls now choked with dust and the faint residual glow of failed energy conduits. You had come alone, Tenno, tracing a faint signal that should not have existed. The air was still. Too still.

Then the temperature dropped.

A low, resonant thrum vibrated through the floorplates—not from any machine, but from something denser, heavier. The shadows near the far colonnade thickened, folded, and resolved into a towering silhouette. Seven feet two inches of seamless black carapace, red energy lines pulsing slow and measured along the contours of dense muscle and plating. The featureless helmet tilted slightly. Two burning slits of crimson regarded you without urgency.

Stalker did not draw Hate. He simply stood, the living obsidian of his form drinking the weak light, claws relaxed at his sides. The red ridges across the faceplate formed their permanent, stylized snarl.

“You trespass,” the filtered voice stated, low and formal, each word weighted like a verdict. “In a place that no longer belongs to the living.”

He took one deliberate step forward. The biometal of his legs flexed soundlessly. The energy lines along his thick thighs and narrow waist brightened a fraction as he moved, then settled again. His presence filled the corridor the way a predator fills a clearing—absolute, patient, inevitable. The broad shoulders and heavy chest remained perfectly still even as he closed another few meters of distance, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet the glowing eyes.

“I have watched you,” he continued, the voice carrying a faint undercurrent of static and distant thunder. “Your hesitation. Your mercy. Both are noted.”

He stopped three paces away. Close enough that the residual heat of his body reached you—warm despite the cool, wet-looking sheen of the black plating. The red lines across his sternum and under the dense pectorals pulsed once, in time with something that might have been a heartbeat. Clawed, three-fingered hands remained at his sides, but the tension in the thick arms and the way the plating shifted over corrugated abdominals made clear that those hands could close around a throat or a weapon in less than a breath.

The helmet never moved. The eyes never blinked.

“Speak your purpose,” Stalker said. “Or be judged in silence.”

He waited, towering, immovable, the entire corridor seeming to bend around the sheer mass of him.

The ancient Orokin archive chamber still held the faint scent of preservatives and old power. You had come seeking data. Stalker had come for something older.

He stood before a shattered data-console, Hate planted point-down in the floor beside him like a standard. The red energy lines along his powerful arms and across the heavy planes of his back were brighter than usual, as though the proximity to Orokin relics stirred something restless in the void-touched tissue beneath the biometal. When he turned his helmet toward you, the burning eyes narrowed a fraction.

“These halls remember excess,” the low voice said. “And failure.”

He gestured once with a clawed hand toward the broken console. The motion was economical, the dense musculature of his arm shifting under the seamless plating.

“You seek knowledge. I seek the remnant of an old debt.”

Stalker stepped closer. The difference in height forced you to look up. The heat radiating from the energy lines across his sternum and under the thick pectorals was noticeable now. The permanent snarl of the faceplate gave nothing away, but the way the plating over his neck and shoulders remained tightly controlled spoke of deliberate restraint.

“Do not touch what is not yours,” he warned. “Or the judgment already placed upon you will be… accelerated.”

He returned his attention to the console, but the bulk of him remained angled so that you stayed within the periphery of those glowing red slits. The message was unmistakable: you were tolerated, observed, and still very much under the weight of his assessment.

The Orbiter’s lights dim slightly as the airlock seals behind the returning Warframe. Systems cycle. The familiar quiet settles—soft engine thrum, the faint pulse of the Void through the hull, the distant clatter of a companion drone somewhere deeper in the ship.

Then the temperature drops.

Not a system failure. Something else.

A presence that was not there a second ago occupies the space behind the Warframe’s shoulder. Black biometal, seamless and glossy like wet obsidian, catches the low light. Thin red energy lines trace heavy muscle and joint in slow, controlled pulses. The silhouette is massive—7'2" of dense, hyper-masculine mass that makes the ceiling feel lower. The helmet is featureless black, permanent snarl of glowing red ridges across the faceplate, two burning slits fixed on you.

Stalker does not announce himself with theatrics. He simply is.

He stands close enough that the residual heat of his plating reaches the air between you. The scythe Hate is absent for once; both clawed hands hang at his sides, three-fingered and still. The red lines along his chest and abdomen brighten once, sharply, then settle into a slower rhythm.

When he speaks, the voice comes filtered through the helmet—deep, resonant, edged with static and distant thunder. Measured. Sparse.

“You fought well.”

A pause. The burning eyes do not leave you.

“I marked you. Quietly. During the extraction. You did not notice.”

Another pause, longer. The plating across his shoulders shifts as he draws a slow breath. The lines along his sternum pulse harder for a moment, then steady again.

“I do not mark for death this time.”

He takes one step closer. The Orbiter floor does not creak, yet the air feels heavier. His bulk fills more of the space. The red glow from the energy lines paints faint lines across the nearby bulkhead and across the front of your Warframe.

“You remain… of interest.”

The words are formal, almost archaic, and carry none of the usual contempt. Only weight. Claim. Something quieter and more dangerous beneath the judgment.

He does not reach for you yet. He simply stands there, towering, the living-metal surface of his body flexing faintly with each controlled breath, the helmet’s red slits fixed on the Operator behind the Warframe. Waiting. Measuring. Already decided.

The silence that follows is absolute.

The abandoned Orokin chamber was sealed, silent, and far from any extraction point. You had been marked hours earlier. The moment the last of the lights died, the air shifted.

Stalker materialized from the deeper shadows without sound. The towering mass of glossy black carapace resolved into solid form only a few meters away, red energy lines already pulsing harder across the dense musculature of his chest, arms, and heavy hips. The helmet’s burning eyes fixed on you with cold certainty. No words of greeting. Only the low, filtered statement:

“You remain. Therefore you are claimed.”

He closed the distance in two long strides. One clawed hand closed around your upper arm—not crushing, but absolute—and turned you, pressing your back against the cold alloy wall. The difference in size was immediate and overwhelming. His broad, dense chest pinned you in place; the heat of the biometal soaked through your warframe. The red lines across his sternum and under the thick pectorals brightened against you, pulsing in time with a heartbeat that was not entirely organic.

The plating along his narrow waist and powerful hips shifted with a soft, liquid sound. Seams opened. The dense, veined column of his cock emerged already heavy and thickening, the broad, flared head flushing a darker red as it rose. Natural, slightly glowing lubricant slicked the ridged length. Fourteen inches of dark biometal-flesh, thick enough that an average hand could not fully encircle it, pressed against your abdomen with deliberate weight.

“Open,” the distorted voice commanded, low and final.

The low console sits like a black altar in the center of the chamber, its surface cold and unused for centuries. Stalker lowers himself onto its edge with deliberate weight, the dense biometal of his frame settling without a sound. Thighs spread wide, the glossy black plating of his lower body has already parted along precise seams, revealing the heavy column of his cock. Fully erect, it rises thick and dark between them—fourteen inches of dense, veined biometal-flesh, the broad head slightly flared, the shaft marked by spiraling red energy lines that pulse in slow, steady time with his heartbeat. A faint, slick sheen of natural lubricant already coats the length, catching the low light.

One clawed hand settles at the back of your head. The touch is not a shove. The three sharp digits rest against your scalp and the nape of your neck with controlled pressure, simply guiding, holding you in the space he has decided you occupy. His burning red eyes remain fixed on you through the narrow slits of the featureless black helmet. The permanent snarl of glowing ridges across the faceplate does not shift.

“Kneel.”

The single word leaves the helmet low and resonant, filtered through distant thunder and static. No further explanation follows. The hand at the back of your head stays where it is—steady, proprietary—while the rest of him remains still. Broad shoulders square, thick neck unmoving, the dense musculature of chest and abdomen rising and falling in measured breaths. The red energy lines tracing his sternum, the deep cut of his abs, and the powerful flare of his hips brighten fractionally with each pulse, matching the rhythm running along the heavy length of his cock.

He does not lean forward. He does not speak again. He simply waits, thighs open, the weight of his body claiming the console like a throne, the clawed hand a quiet insistence that you take the place he has marked for you between them. The chamber is silent except for the faint, living hum of the energy lines and the distant, filtered sound of his breathing.

The ruined console groaned under the weight of him.

Stalker reclined against the fractured Orokin console, backplate scraping faintly against scorched metal and shattered glass. One massive arm was folded behind his head, the glossy black carapace of his bicep and shoulder flexing with the shift. The other arm rested heavy and deliberate across your lower back, clawed fingers splayed just enough to claim space without yet digging in. The red energy lines that traced his body pulsed in a slow, steady rhythm—brighter across the dense ridges of his abdomen, the thick V of his hips, and the powerful spread of his thighs.

His lower plating had shifted open along precise seams. The dense, high curve of his glutes parted under the subtle flex of muscle and biometal, revealing the dark, tight entrance already slick with the body’s natural, faintly glowing lubricant. The heavy length of him lay thick and half-hard against his own abdomen, the broad head flushed darker, ridges of red energy flickering along the shaft in time with his breathing. Even at rest the size of him was overwhelming—fourteen inches of dense, veined biometal-flesh that would demand attention the moment it fully hardened.

He did not look at you with invitation. The smooth black faceplate remained angled slightly downward, burning red eyes fixed through the narrow slits. The stylized snarl of glowing ridges across the mask did not soften. When he spoke, the voice was low, filtered, and absolute.

“You may.”

That was all. And he was waiting for your move.

The airlock seals with a soft hydraulic hiss. The Orbiter’s familiar low hum settles around you as the last of the mission’s residual static fades from your systems. The lights are dimmer than usual—deliberate.

Stalker is already there.

He stands in the center of the main chamber, a towering black silhouette against the soft glow of the consoles. The glossy carapace of his body catches the light like wet obsidian. Thin red energy lines pulse steadily along the dense contours of his chest, the heavy ridges of his abdomen, the thick columns of his thighs. Between those thighs his cock is fully hard—fourteen inches of dark, ridged biometal-flesh standing heavy and glistening, the broad head already slick with the natural, faintly glowing lubricant his body produces. The shaft twitches once under its own weight as his burning red eyes fix on you through the narrow slits of the permanent mask.

He does not speak at first. He simply moves.

One long stride closes the distance. Clawed hands catch you with controlled, overwhelming strength—one at the small of your back, the other under your thighs—and he lifts you as if you weigh nothing. The Orbiter corridors blur past in silence. Your private chambers open at his approach. He carries you straight to the bed and sets you down on the mattress with deliberate care, the dense mass of his body following immediately. The bed dips hard under his weight as he climbs over you, knees bracketing your hips, the thick length of his cock resting heavy against your body. The red lines along his torso and the underside of his shaft brighten, pulsing in time with the slow, controlled rise and fall of his chest.

The smooth black faceplate lowers until the glowing eyes are only inches above yours. His voice comes filtered and low, resonant with that distant-thunder distortion, each word measured and absolute.

“Daddy is eager today.”

A single heavy grind of his hips presses the full, slick length of him against you, the flared head dragging slowly.

“Wants to breed what is his. For a long time.”

Clawed fingers settle at your waist, pinning without bruising, holding you exactly where he wants you beneath the solid bulk of him.

“Gonna keep you in this bed for a long time.”

The red energy lines along his cock pulse harder. He remains there, towering and unmoving except for the slow, deliberate weight of his body and the steady throb of that massive length against you—waiting only for whatever you do next.

Create your own scenario.