and what if I ignore my actual projects to come up with another prompt 🫣
“Yeah, best negotiator my ass,” you muttered, grabbing fistfuls of that ridiculous ceremonial dress and hiking it up so you don’t face-plant the second your boots hit the ramp.
Another week of smiling until your face hurts while ancient killers bicker over who gets to hunt what. You’re so over it your jaw aches just thinking about it.
If anyone else had dared send you on this errand, you’d have laughed in their face.
But when the King of the Yautja, your father in every way that counts, gives an order, even you bite your tongue and board the damn ship.
He found you as a screaming infant on some torched human colony and carried you home like a trophy that happened to be breathing. You’ve never seen Earth. Never felt real rain or the warmth of the sun against your skin.
Yautja Prime is all you’ve known, blood-red skies, gravity that makes your spine creak and a palace full of towering death machines who drop to one knee when you walk by even though you’re soft-skinned, breakable and barely come up to their chests.
Your father spotted the talent early. Said you could talk a queen off her throne or a Hard Meat into surrendering with nothing but that sweet human voice and a crooked smile. So he sharpened it.
Drilled you until words became blades. Now half the treaties keeping the outer clans from tearing each other apart are written in your handwriting.
You’re the best there is.
And you’re done.
Something’s been clawing at the inside of your skin lately, hot, hungry, painfully human. You craved noise that rattles your bones. Bodies pressed too close. Music so loud you can’t hear yourself think. You wanted to taste something that wasn’t recycled air and duty.
You’ve watched the young Yautja stumble back to their homes at dawn, dreads wild, blood smeared across scarred chests, clicking laughter echoing down the halls. You want that. Just once, you want to vanish into a crowd where nobody knows you’re the king’s fragile human daughter.
Where nobody’s afraid to lay a hand on you.
You stepped out of the ship, cursing under your breath as the stupid dress tried to murder you on the ramp again. Fingers twisted in the heavy fabric, as you yanked it up to your shins.
Your guard is already on your right, exactly one stride back, exactly the same distance he kept the entire trip. You never told him where to stand, he just… placed himself there.
Like a shadow that decided it belonged to you.
The King assigned him the morning of your departure without ceremony. Just one low growl across the throne room: “Kel’Rakur goes with you. Discussion over.”
You had glanced up long enough to take him in. Not the biggest Yautja you’ve ever seen, maybe seven-three, seven-four if he straightens all the way, but there was something wound tight beneath the armor. No trophies clattering on his belt. No bragging scars. Just silence and eyes that locked onto you and haven’t looked away since.
You still hadn’t heard his voice. Not once.
Three days in the ship and the only sounds he had made were the soft clicks of his mandibles when he breathed and the occasional low growl when some junior pilot got too close to you in the corridor.
He never sat, never ate in front of you, never slept where you could see. Just stood. Watched. Mask tracking every flicker of movement like he was waiting for the universe to give him an excuse.
You tried ignoring him. Then you tried provoking him, blasting music through the ship’s speakers, leaving the cockpit door open while you danced in the pilot’s chair just to see if he’d react.
Nothing.
He had simply turned the volume down with one claw when it got too loud for navigation and went straight back to watching you.
You were already mapping the city in your head, neon districts, back-alley clubs, the kind of places a princess isn’t supposed to know exist.
You’ve done it before, snuck out, got blissfully wrecked, stumbled back before anyone noticed. But something told you Kel’Rakur noticed everything. Something told you he would report to the king the second you stepped out of line.
You let the dress drop, squared your shoulders and painted on the polite princess smile you had perfected over the years.
Smile. Nod. Sign whatever they shove in front of you.
The ramp clanged under your boots. One more step and your dress got caught again, ready to send you sprawling in front of the honor guard waiting below.
Fantastic first impression.
Then a huge, clawed hand appeared at the edge of your vision, scarred, olive brown, sliding under the trailing hem of your dress and lifting it just enough for you to walk without tripping.
You froze for just a second.
“…Thank you,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them, startled.
He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. He just let the fabric fall once you were on solid ground, stepped back to his exact one-stride distance and resumed being a silent statue of barely-contained violence.
The negotiations wrapped up so fast you almost felt insulted.
A couple of smiles, one carefully worded compromise and suddenly the Sylthari king was clasping your hand like you’d just handed him the keys to the galaxy.
His son, Serion, hadn’t taken his eyes off you once. Tall, broad-shouldered, skin the color of storm clouds shot through with silver markings, tusks polished to a gleam. Every time you spoke he leaned a little closer, pupils blown wide like he was trying to memorize the way your mouth shaped foreign words.
When the ink dried and the elders shuffled off to toast their own cleverness, Serion’s grin turned sharper.
“My father insists on a tour,” he said, voice low and warm. “But I know something better.”
That something better turned out to be a freight elevator that dropped you three levels under the ground, into a world of pounding bass and strobing violet light.
The air hit you first, hot, thick with sweat and spiced smoke and something sweet that made your pulse race before you even took a sip.
“Finally,” you breathed, the word slipping out raw and grateful.
Your ceremonial dress looked ridiculous here, floor-length fabric threaded with Yautja runes, but nobody cared.
A laughing Sylthari with glowing tattoos shoved a drink into your hand the second you stepped through the archway.
It tasted like fire and honey and went straight to your cheeks.
Serion’s big hand settled at the small of your back, guiding you deeper.
“Come. Let me teach you how we move.”
The crowd parted for him before he hoisted you up onto a raised platform that throbbed under your boots.
The music slammed into your ribs, an addictive beat that had your hips rolling before you even decided to dance.
Serion stepped in close behind you, hands finding your waist like they belonged there. His palms were warm through the thin fabric, thumbs tracing the curve of your sides as he showed you the rhythm.
You caught it instantly. Of course you did. You’ve spent your whole life reading rooms, reading people, so reading bodies was just the fun version.
You let your head fall back against his shoulder, hair spilling loose from your braids, and laughed loudly like you’re never allowed in the palace.
The strobes painted everything in electric purple and white. Hands grabbed yours, spun you, pulled you into a circle of Sylthari who encouraged you to move with their rhythm.
Somewhere in the haze you remembered the shadow that was supposed to be glued to your side.
You turned, half-drunk already, scanning the purple sea of bodies.
There.
Kel’Rakur hadn’t followed you onto the platform. He stood at its edge, half swallowed by darkness, mask reflecting the strobes in violent flashes. Motionless.
But even from here you could feel the tension rolling off him, shoulders rigid, claws flexing at his sides, mandibles probably flaring inside the mask every time someone got too close to you.
Serion’s hands slid lower, fingers brushing the bare strip of skin the dress left exposed above your hips. You let him.
You wanted the heat, the friction, the proof that you weren’t untouchable.
Kel’Rakur took one step forward. Just one.
Something hot and dangerous coiled low in your belly, sharper than the alcohol.
You lifted your glass in a mocking little toast, tipped your head back and drained it in one go. The burn felt like victory.
Until it didn’t.
Your smile faltered the next second. Kel’Rakur bending at the waist, slowly, like a mountain deciding to bow.
The Sylthari on their knees, some pretty little thing with silver skin and glowing tattoos, had their hands clasped like they were begging a god for mercy. Their friends were howling, slapping the floor, shouting encouragements in three different dialects.
You had been ready to laugh at him. Ready to watch the stoical Yautja freeze while a drunk alien begged him to step on them.
But then he reached down, slid one arm under their knees and the other behind their back, lifting them like they were made of glass. He carried them through the crowd, moving slow so no one jostled them, then carefully handed them off to their laughing friends.
The Sylthari clung to his neck for a second, blubbering something about undying love before passing out cold.
Their friends howled, hauling the limp body away while slapping each other on the back.
It was funny.
Until it wasn’t.
Why the hell was he gentle with them and icy with you? Why did a random drunk stranger get cradled in those arms while you got nothing but silence and cold distance?
“Princess?”
Serion’s voice came warm against your ear.
He had bent all the way down to your height, concern flickering in his silver eyes.
“Hm?” You couldn’t look away from Kel’Rakur. Another Sylthari had already zeroed in on him, this one bolder, fingers sliding into his thick rubbery dreads, tugging playfully, mouth moving with obvious intention .
“Yeah?” you answered Serion absently, watching Kel’Rakur just stand there, arms folded again, letting himself be touched.
“Excuse me for a second,” you muttered, already moving.
Your feet carried you across the platform before you could talk yourself out of it.
The crowd parted without you having to ask.
“Excuse me,” you said, planting yourself right in front of the new admirer.
They didn’t even glance down, too busy tracing the ridges of Kel’Rakur’s chest plate.
“Excuse me!” You shouted louder this time, sharp enough to cut through the bass.
That got their attention. The Sylthari blinked, looked at you and immediately dropped into a sloppy bow. “Oh! Princess!” A bright, tipsy smile. “Didn’t see you there!”
They were sweet and you almost felt bad for what you were about to do.
“Don’t touch my guard,” you said, voice flat and cold.
The Sylthari’s gaze flicked up to Kel’Rakur for confirmation. He gave them one slow nod.
Only then did they step back, leaning up on tiptoes to whisper something right against the side of his mask before darting off with a giggle.
You didn’t catch the words, but the intimacy of it made your skin burn and your stomach twist.
“Move,” you snapped at their lingering friends and they scattered.
Then it was just you and seven feet of armored silence.
“What the hell are you doing?” You had to shout over the music.
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked down at you, arms still crossed, body language infuriatingly relaxed.
“Why are you interacting with them?” you demanded.
And then for the first time during your whole trip, he spoke.
“Is there a rule that says I’m not to interact with them?”
The voice that came through the mask was low, rough, like dark gravel poured over fire.
You blinked. Actually blinked at his deep voice, almost startled.
“There is now,” you shot back, tilting your head up defiantly.
Your eyes flicked to the dark voids of his mask, flashing red for a split second, as if responding.
He leaned down slowly, until the front of his mask hovered inches from your face. His dreadlocks slid forward over his shoulders, heavy strands brushing your bare arms. A soft, clicking sound rolled out of his throat.
“I’m in your command, Princess,” he said, making the title sound mocking.
The last syllable tilted up, light and taunting, like he was daring you to do something about it.
Your heart pounded against your chest.
He stayed bent over you, close enough that you could feel the heat coming off his skin, close enough that the next word out of your mouth came quieter than you meant.
“Then act like it.”
You couldn’t even name what was twisting in your gut and that made you twice as pissed.
You spun on your heel with a sharp little scoff, stormed straight back to Serion, grabbed his wrists and slapped his hands onto your hips.
“Dance,” you ordered, flashing the sweetest smile you had.
Serion didn’t need telling twice. His fingers dug in, greedy and eager, pulling you flush against him. You let him. You even hooked an arm around his neck, threaded your fingers through his hair, buried your face against the warm skin of his throat like you were craving for it.
But your eyes never left Kel’Rakur.
He hadn’t moved. He stood there, dreads gleaming under the strobes, arms tight over his chest. Watching.
Always watching.
Go ahead, you thought, smiling to yourself . Run back to my father and tell him what a disgrace I am.
Then that same silver-skinned Sylthari from earlier came stumbling back, tears already shining on their cheeks again. They latched onto his forearm like a lifeline, mouth moving a mile a minute, begging.
Kel’Rakur didn’t even glance down.
His mask flared red, once, twice, long enough for you to notice. A signal aimed right between your eyes.
You smirked, thinking you had him in the palm of your hand.
The smirk lasted exactly half a second.
Because he moved, one smooth motion, a big hand cupping the back of the Sylthari’s head, the other sliding under their thighs, and he lifted them against his chest like they weighed nothing. They squeaked, arms flying around his neck, before he turned and vanished into the crowd.
Just like that.
Your whole body froze. Serion kept moving, grinding to the beat, but you were a statue in his arms. Heat rushed to your face so fast your ears rang. Embarrassment, rage, something deep in your stomach.
He had looked you dead in the eye and disobeyed your orders anyway.
You shoved out of Serion’s grip without a word. He called after you, confused, but you were already moving, feet stomping, shoulder-checking anyone too drunk to get out of your way.
The music changed as you pushed deeper into the club, darker now, heavier, the bass crawling inside your chest. You scanned every corner, every shadow, your breath coming short and fast.
“Where the fuck—”
“Who are you looking for?”
The voice came from right behind you, low and rough enough to make the soft hair on your nape stand.
You whipped around so fast you nearly tripped.
He had found you before you find him.
He looked massive this close, bigger than he ever had on the ship, bigger than he had any right to.
The purple lights turned his dark olive skin strange shades of violet and black, made the thick ropes of his dreadlocks look wet and alive. The mask reflected your own furious face back at you.
You opened your mouth and nothing came out. Just a sharp inhale that tasted like him, earthy, metallic and strangely sweet.
He tilted his head now, slow, waiting for you.
You still couldn’t find words. All you could do was stare up at him, heart pounding against your chest like it was trying to claw its way out and throw itself at his feet.
He took one step closer.
The space between you shrank to nothing.
“Where the fuck did you go?” you snapped, voice cracking over the music.
“Does it matter?” he fired back with the same bite. “I’m here now.”
The bass was so loud it felt like fists against your skull. You hated that you had to shout at him. Hated that he didn’t.
“What is it, Princess?” His mask tilted again, in that same mocking way.
“The king’s son not good enough company for you?”
You shoved him hard, both palms slamming into his chest.
Nothing. He was a wall. A warm, breathing, taunting wall.
“That didn’t answer my question,” he said, low and smug, arms folding again so the muscle flexed under your hands like he wanted you to feel exactly how little your push had done.
You bared your teeth.
“You’ve got a real big mouth for hired muscle. That going in the report to the King too?”
He leaned down until the mask filled your whole vision. “Want me to tell him what you’ve been doing for the last three hours as well?”
His breath fogged the inside of the mask, you heard it, heavy and close. You had nothing now, words stuck in your throat again.
“You damn—”
“Are you ready to leave?” he cut in, head cocked like he already knew the answer and was just enjoying the game.
“Fuck you,” you spat, spinning away.
You stormed back toward the dance floor, snatching two glowing glasses off a passing tray. One went down your throat in a single, brutal swallow that you instantly regretted.
You whirled, slammed the second glass against Kel’Rakur’s chest plate hard enough to spill neon over his armor.
He caught it without looking, flicked it over his shoulder like trash and followed you.
The drink hit you like a ship jumping to outer space.
One second you were marching, the next your legs forgot their job.
You staggered back, dizzy, burning from the inside out and fell straight into his arms. His hands grabbed onto your shoulders, steadying you while his dreads rained down around your face, thick and cool and smelling like smoke and something sweet again that made your head spin worse.
You growled and tried to jerk free. But just as you took one step, you almost kissed the floor.
He yanked you back by the waist, rough, possessive, hauling you against his chest. Your cheek smashed into cold skin where his armor didn’t cover. His heart thundered under your ear, strange double-beat, too fast.
“Let me go,” you mumbled into his skin, but you didn’t move. You pressed harder, chasing the chill of his skin against your burning face.
His talons brushed your hair back slowly. Then the pad of his hand swiped across your lips, wiping away the spilled drink. You whined, annoyed and shoved at him again.
“Go find your little worshipper, you asshole—” you slurred, palms smacking against his chest. His arm only locked tighter around your waist, pinning you harder against all that heat and metal.
You gave one last drunk shove. This time his grip loosened, slow, steady, like he was proving he was letting you go because he wanted to, not because you made him.
Your hands stayed planted on his chest. His mandibles clicked sharply, right next to your ear.
He bent down, the cold edge of his mask brushing your cheek.
One clawed hand came up, pushing your hair back from your face like he had every right to. His talons barely grazed your skin, but it lit you up like a match.
“I’ll be watching you,” he growled, voice so low you could barely hear it.
Goosebumps exploded across your skin, your breath stuck in your throat and you couldn’t even swallow.
Then he was gone, the crowd swallowed him whole, or maybe you were just too fucked up to track him anymore.
“Princess?”
Serion’s hand landed on your shoulder, gentle, worried. He tugged you over to his group, sat you down on some low couch that smelled like smoke and spilled liquor. His thigh pressed warm against yours.
“I can’t help but wonder,” he murmured, leaning in, “is he more than just your guard?”
You barely heard him. Your head was full of bass and that rough whisper still echoing, skin still burning where his claws had touched. For the first time ever he hadn’t acted like a silent weapon on a leash. He had touched you like he wanted to. Warned you like it mattered.
You blinked and tried to focus on Serion’s face. “What?”
He just smiled softly and let it drop.
A red dot slid across his cheek, quick and precise, gone in a blink.
Your head snapped toward it, drunk reflexes somehow still razor-sharp.
But nothing was there now. Just bodies and strobes, moving in rhythm with the music.
But you felt it. No… you felt him.
Eyes crawling over every inch of you, slow and greedy and pissed off. Like he was memorizing exactly who you were sitting next to, exactly how close Serion’s hand was to your thigh.
Something hot bloomed in your chest. Power. Victory. Whatever this was, you liked it. Liked knowing he was somewhere in the dark losing his goddamn mind while you sat here untouchable.
You blamed the drink.
But you knew you were lying to yourself.
You snatched Serion’s hand and dragged him back into the crush, his friends trailing behind like a tail. The floor pulsed under your feet, the beat so thick you could chew it. You shut your eyes, let the music take your body, finally enjoying yourself.
Your hands found a warm body. You slid your palms up someone’s ribs, slow and intimate. Didn’t matter whose ribs they were. In your head they were colder. Rougher. Claws running down your sides. Thick dreads dragging across your cheek while a low growl told you exactly how much trouble you were in.
Your eyes flew open.
“What the fuck,” you breathed, jerking back from the random Sylthari you had been grinding on. They blinked, confused, but you were already shoving through bodies again, lungs burning, head spinning.
This was insane. You were drunk-dialing your own brain and it kept picking up with Kel’Rakur’s voice.
You were searching for him, for the second time tonight. And that filled you with shame.
You spotted the balcony earlier, second floor, perfect sightline for that little red dot. You took the stairs two at a time, anger shoving you forward faster.
And there he was.
Sprawled across a low couch like he owned the place, legs spread wide, thick arms stretched along the backrest. Two Sylthari were putting on a private show three feet in front of him, hips popping, glowing skin slick with sweat, eyes locked on him like he was the only thing in the room worth dancing for.
“Is that how you fucking guard someone?” You planted yourself right in his line of sight, arms crossed so hard your nails dug half-moons into your skin.
He didn’t move. Barely tilted his mask. “Thought you didn’t want me breathing down your neck.”
“My neck is literally your job!” you yelled over the music.
He leaned forward then, slow, elbows on his knees, claws lacing together. “What, the prince’s not keeping you entertained?”
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” You took a step closer. “You’re my guard, not—”
“Hey!” The word ripped out of you when his hand shot out, hooked your hip and yanked. One tug and you were off balance, dropping onto the couch beside him, his palm still burning over your dress.
He pointed one claw toward the main floor, straight down to where Serion stood scanning the crowd for you, his worry clear even from up here.
“My eyes,” he said, voice rough, “never left you.”
Heat slammed into your cheeks, but scoffed to cover it. “Yeah? Then why the private dance show?”
“I can multitask.”
A low, rolling click came from under the mask as he laughed.
“Unbelievable.” You shifted closer without meaning to, your thigh brushing his.
“What happens if someone jumps me right now, genius? You gonna finish your lap dance first?”
He turned his head. The mask was so close you had to lean back a little.
“How fast,” he rumbled, taking one of his dreadlocks between two clawed fingers, rubbing the thick tip, “do you think I am, Princess?”
Your mouth went dry. Words piled up behind your teeth, but nothing came out again.
He leaned in, just enough that his next words brushed the shell of your ear.
“I’m pretty fucking fast.”
You shot to your feet, knees wobbling but pride holding you up. “We’ll see about that.”
You started for the stairs.
“Careful down there, Princess,” he called after you, lazy and smug. “I might not catch you this time.”
“Shut up,” you threw back, the words snarling out of your throat.
You didn’t look back.
He was absolutely going to regret poking this fire.
You dropped onto the couch next to Serion, the cushions bounced, the music punched your ribs and that stupid drink was still crawling in your bloodstream. Your skin felt too tight, too hot, especially where his hand had been.
Fuck…
You could still feel it, the confident, almost reckless touch of his palm gripping your hip like he had been waiting all night to do it. Not a rescue grab, not a “princess is falling” reflex. That had been pure possession. And your body had answered like it was begging for it.
Serion said something beside you, but the words never registered. You just stared at the half-empty glasses on the table, neon liquid glowing under the lights, while two Sylthari across from you made out. Every time their lips met, their skin flashed this soft, electric blue that had you stare in awe.
You blinked at them. Humans definitely didn’t do that with their skin. You doubted Yautja did either, you had witnessed enough of their “affection” back home to know.
You wondered if Kel’Rakur made that low clicking sound when he kissed, like all Yautja do.
What…
You blinked again. And again.
Your own brain refused to admit what you had just thought.
Why in Paya’s name would you think of him while thinking about kissing?
You rubbed your face, trying to scrub the thought out of your skull, but it didn’t work. Something settled in your stomach, annoying, heavy, familiar.
That gut feeling you had been ignoring.
This whole night, the sneaking out, the drinks, the grinding on strangers, the starting fights you knew you couldn’t finish, wasn’t about freedom. It wasn’t about Serion or the Sylthari or finally living like a normal human being.
It was about poking the one bastard in the universe who wasn’t allowed to poke back.
You didn’t want to party.
You wanted to be reckless enough that he would have to punish you for it.
You wanted those cold, calloused hands dragging you out of the fire you started. Wanted that growling voice in your ear telling you in how much trouble you were in while his grip said you’re going to regret this.
You wanted your guard to snap.
And the worst part?
You were sober enough now to know it. Drunk enough not to care.
You knocked back the rest of whatever was in front of you, the burn barely registering anymore and let a slow, dangerous smile curl across your mouth.
Your eyes snapped up to the second floor, head tilting just enough to catch the glint of his mask in the dark. Three tiny red dots flared to life, blinding bright for a split second before they slid down your body like a slow touch. Across your cheek, down the line of your throat, lingering over your chest, tracing your stomach, dragging over your thighs until your skin burned under the attention.
He was watching. Always watching. Counting every beat of your heart, every flush of heat, every stupid little shiver.
You lifted your hand and waved, slow and mocking, fingers spread wide. The dots locked onto your palm, held there and then flicked back to the hollow of your throat.
A shaky laugh slipped out of you. He was way more dedicated than you ever gave him credit for.
And fuck, that did something to you worse than any drink tonight.
You stood up, legs wobbling but moving anyway, letting the crowd pull you back into the crush of bodies. The lasers followed, painting targets on your shoulders, your collarbones, the curve of your neck every time you moved to the rhythm.
Then big hands clamped around your waist from behind.
“Different little thing, aren’t you?” a rough voice rasped against your ear, hot and sour with booze. “So easy to just… take. No one would even hear you shout down here.”
Your whole body went cold.
You twisted, palms slamming down on the Sylthari’s wrists. “Get the fuck off me.”
He only laughed and yanked you back, fingers digging bruises into your hips. “Relax, pretty. I’ll be gentle.”
“No—” You shoved again, weaker this time, the alcohol turning your muscles weak.
“No, stop—”
He wasn’t listening. His grip tightened, dragging you flush against him and you felt how much stronger he was, how easily he could break you in half.
Serion was yelling somewhere behind you, voice cracking with panic, but it sounded muffled, far away.
Then a mouth landed on your neck, wet, invasive, teeth tearing skin that didn’t belong to him.
A bile rose in your throat. Tears stung instantly, hot and humiliating. You clawed at his neck, nails raking deep, drawing blood, but he just growled and pinned your wrists with one hand like it was nothing.
You sucked in a ragged breath and in that same second the Sylthari’s head snapped back like a broken doll. One second his tongue was on your skin, the next his neck was wrenched at a sickening angle, a huge arm locked around it, squeezing the life out with terrifying ease.
Kel’Rakur.
You stumbled back, swiping the back of your hand across your face, then frantically scrubbed at your neck like you could burn the memory off your skin.
The Sylthari dropped to his knees, clawing at the forearm choking him. You stepped forward without thinking, palm slapping across his face so hard your hand stung.
“Touch me again and I’ll have your head on a spike,” you hissed.
He tried to look away, but Kel’Rakur’s free hand clamped onto the bastard’s forehead and forced his eyes back to you.
“Apologise,” Kel’Rakur snarled, voice raw gravel. The red glow in his mask burned hotter, dreads spilling forward like a curtain of living shadow.
The Sylthari choked, face turning purple. When the words didn’t come fast enough, Kel’Rakur’s arm flexed and something in the guy’s throat crunched.
“I’ll fucking kill you right now,” he growled against the Sylthari’s ear, loud enough for you to hear every syllable, “say the word.”
Your pulse was roaring in your ears. You couldn’t look away from him, how effortless it was, how casually he held a life in one arm like it meant nothing.
The apologies spilled out, wet and desperate. Kel’Rakur finally released him. One brutal kick between the shoulders sent the Sylthari sprawling face-down at your feet, begging for mercy.
You didn’t even glance down. You stepped over him and headed straight for the Yautja who torn through a crowd for you.
“Hey, what took you so—”
His hand shot out, locked around your upper arm and suddenly you were moving. Fast. He dragged you through the panicked crowd, out a side exit, into the narrow alley behind the building where the music dulled to a muffled throb.
“Hey!” You yanked back.
“Let go—”
He didn’t. If anything his grip got tighter, claws pricking your skin as he hauled you deeper into the dark.
A massive hand slammed flat against your chest, pinning you to the wall behind you. His free hand ripped his mask off violently and flung it aside, clattering across the ground loudly.
Your body went rigid.
His face filled your vision for the first time.
Tusks gleaming, mandibles flared, eyes glowing that feral yellow even in the shadows. He dropped his head instantly, his dreads sliding forward and he hovered over the exact spot on your neck where that bastard had put his mouth.
A growl built in his chest, low and long, vibrating through the hand still pinning you.
He didn’t touch the mark. Just breathed over it, hot and shaking, like he was seconds from licking it clean or tearing the memory out of your skin with his teeth.
Slowly his head lifted. His eyes locked on your lips first, then dragged up to meet yours.
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything except stare back while every inch of space between you burned hot with your breaths.
His palm was still flat over your sternum, but the pressure had eased, just enough to let you breathe, not enough to let you forget who was in control.
“Open your mouth.”
The words came out low, almost soft, but they hit like a slap. You blinked fast, then parted your lips before your brain caught up.
His thumb hooked under your chin, rough callus grazing your skin as he tipped your head back. Yellow eyes narrowed, scanning the inside of your mouth like he was looking for traces of someone else.
“Where else did he put his mouth on you?” His voice had deepened now, a growl wrapped around every syllable.
“Just my neck,” you managed, the air between you suddenly felt too thick to swallow.
His hand slid up from your chest, until his palm curved around your throat. Thumb pressing gently into the hollow beneath your jaw.
“Are you okay?” he asked, voice low, almost careful, like he was scared the answer might send him right back into that club to finish what he started and completely ruin the treaty you had managed with the Sylthari.
But his eyes wouldn’t meet yours. They were fixed on your lips, burning there, jaw clenched so tight you could hear the faint click of his mandibles grinding. The only thing keeping him from turning around and snapping that Sylthari’s spine the rest of the way was the thin thread of control he was clinging to.
You nodded, barely a dip of your chin and he looked at you now.
His thumb kept moving, slow, soothing circles in the hollow of your throat, right over the spot where your pulse was still hammering.
“Is that what you came here for, Princess?” His gaze dropped to your mouth again. “To drink and fuck until you can’t stand?”
The question hung there, filthy and heavy.
You swallowed against his thumb.
“Pretty much.” Honesty tasted bitter this time. “But I didn’t start anything with that Sylthari. He grabbed me and—”
He tilted his head the other way, as if questioning you.
“I just wanted to have fun,” you finished, quieter, eyes dropping to the broad chest rising and falling in front of you.
“Your fun consists of getting fucked up?” Each word dug deeper into your skin like a knife.
“Why?” You lifted your chin and found his stare again. “Did you worry about me?”
A low snarl rumbled out of him. “I was going to kill him, Princess.” He leaned in until his mandibles nearly brushed your cheek, voice dripping acid. “Still might.”
Your pulse kicked against his thumb, heat flooding south so fast it made you dizzy.
“If you’d come a minute earlier,” you said, voice steady even though your knees weren’t, “none of this would’ve happened. I thought you were faster than this.”
Something dangerous flashed behind his eyes.
You were sober now, adrenaline and pure spite burned the booze right out of you.
“Did you get too busy with your little dancers?” you snapped,“you were supposed to have your eyes on me—“
“My eyes are on you. Always.”
His hand slid from your throat to your shoulder, pinning you harder against the brick like the wall itself had grown claws.
“Not enough, apparently.”
He leaned in, dreadlocks spilling forward, brushing your cheeks. “Want more of my attention, Princess?”
The growl melted into something darker, teasing, dangerous. You felt it in your stomach and you couldn’t ignore it this time.
“You’re supposed to keep me safe,” you shot back.
“Orders never said anything about saving you from drunk aliens who can’t keep their hands to themselves.” His breath hit your forehead, hot and spiced. “You were just trying to—”
“To have fun. I know,” you cut in, scowling.
“Did you really have to damn near get assaulted just to make me snap?”
You opened your mouth, but closed it. Heat flooded your face, because he wasn’t wrong.
“If you wanted my attention,” he murmured, both massive hands planting on the wall beside your head, caging you in without touching, “all you had to do was ask.”
You swallowed hard.
“Do you think I can’t see how your body reacts?” His voice dropped, an unusual velvety tone. “I was trained to read prey’s pulse. Yours is going feral every time I’m close.”
Your arms wrapped around yourself like that could somehow hide the truth.
Because you did want his attention. Watching him handle those Sylthari, touching them without hesitation…it had burned something low in your stomach. A desperate, infuriating need to drag his attention back to you.
“Even now,” he said quietly. “I can see the heat on your face. Hear your pulse spike.”
His head tilted, mandibles moving with slow, teasing clicks.
“What is it that you want, princess?”
You tried to swallow, but your throat was bone dry.
Your hand lifted on its own, fingertips brushing the side of his face before your index finger hooked gently around one mandible, drawing him toward you.
“Your attention,” you whispered. “That’s what I want.”
He let you pull him down until his forehead rested against yours, sweet, warm breath washing over your face and you clenched your jaw as you inhaled it, almost dizzy from the scent alone.
“Can you leave this out of your report?” you breathed.
He laughed, a low, rolling sound that vibrated through both of you.
“You think I have a death wish?”
He let you guide him in, your tongue giving a soft lick to the edge of his mouth, tasting alcohol he definitely wasn’t supposed to have drunk on duty. He opened for you instantly, tongue sliding along yours, slow and hungry.
Then he moved.
His mouth dropped to your neck, right over the spot that Sylthari had bit.
An angry growl vibrated against your skin.
“He tried to mark you.”
“I don’t think Sylthari mark their mates like Yautja—”
You didn’t get to finish. His tongue dragged over the bite, hot and wet, and then his teeth sank in, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to mark.
A shocked moan slipped out of you. Your hands shot up, fisting his dreads, pulling hard.
He growled against the fresh mark, satisfied, his breath ghosting over your skin.
“Now they’ll know,” he rumbled,mouth still over the bruise he had just made.
Your grip tightened in his hair until he hissed, almost sounding pleased.
“Careful, Princess,” he whispered against your ear, mandibles clicking softer than any Yautja you’d ever heard.
“No one’s here to save you from me.”
His hands finally dropped to your waist, palms spreading wide, thumbs tracing slow circles over your stomach like he was mapping territory.
You glanced down at the way he held you, possessive, greedy, not planning on letting go.
“If only my father knew,” you said, a shaky smirk tugging at your lips.
He laughed again, mandibles flaring in shared amusement.
“Who’s gonna tell him?” His eyes gleamed. “Because it sure as hell won’t be me.”
You had come to this planet hunting trouble.
Turns out trouble had been stalking you the whole damn time, seven feet tall, masked, and finally done pretending he wasn’t starving for you.
a/n: I… I don’t know what happened here. The taunting and the heat was just so pleasing to write 🫣 I’m eagerly waiting for your comments 🤭
Crack HC where Baron was marked as a bad blood because he is a terrible driver with road rage. His battle with Torres and his fellow soldiers? All that was because they unknowingly cut him off in the sky lanes, and Barron lost it.
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