Chapter 6 Research & Development #2
My reflection in the mirror shows exactly how compromised I am—pupils dilated to near-black, golden markings pulsing with my elevated heartbeat, skin flushed darker with arousal I can no longer pretend doesn’t exist. The luminescent secretions I’ve been producing since the bonding glisten along my temples, my throat, places where the mate-recognition pheromones concentrate.
I look like I’m about to claim someone. Like my biology has given up all pretense of restraint and is simply demanding satisfaction.
The hot water sluices over my scales as I step under the spray, and I brace one hand against the shower wall while the other slides down my body with desperate purpose.
This is necessary. Purely biological necessity. The bond has been flooding my system with arousal for hours, Zola’s unconscious dreaming providing sensory feedback through our connection, and my body has needs that won’t be denied simply because I wish to be respectful.
I wrap my hand around myself with a groan that’s probably louder than it should be, hoping the water covers the sound.
Every stroke sends heat racing through my system, intensified by the bond until I can almost feel echoes of what this would be like with her touching me instead.
Her smaller hands learning my alien anatomy.
Her scent surrounding me. Her voice saying my name with that breathless quality it gets when she’s affected.
The fantasy spirals out of control—Zola beneath me, around me, crying out as I finally claim what my biology insists is mine. Her green eyes dark with want. Her body arching into my touch. The soft sounds she’d make. The way she’d feel.
I come hard with her name on my lips, the release explosive after hours of restraint. My hand slaps against the shower wall for balance as sensation overwhelms me, the bond flaring bright and hot as if it knows what I’m doing and approves enthusiastically.
For several long moments, I can only stand there shaking while water pounds against my overheated skin and reality slowly reasserts itself.
That was... necessary. Purely biological necessity.
Nothing to feel guilty about.
Except I can still feel her through the bond—sleeping now, peaceful, unaware that I just experienced the most intense release of my adult life while thinking about her.
The wrongness of the distance has eased slightly, as if my body has temporarily accepted this separation now that immediate needs have been addressed.
When I emerge from the refresher considerably calmer, Jitters has diplomatically relocated to the ceiling, still maintaining his careful neutral gray like a supportive friend who understands some things are best left unmentioned.
And I return to the workstation and try and get some rest to not disturb Zola.
“Good morning!” KiKi’s cheerful announcement fills the cabin along with gradually increasing ambient lighting that feels like assault on my light-sensitive eyes.
Early morning announcements should be illegal during sleep cycles.
“Did you have a restful sleep period? I have prepared nutritional recommendations for bonded partners, updated atmospheric controls for optimal romantic ambiance, and compiled a playlist of human courtship music that includes several selections specifically designed to enhance—”
From the bunk comes a groan that sounds distinctly unimpressed with electronic enthusiasm. “Turn off the lights, KiKi. And the music. And whatever ‘romantic ambiance’ you think we need.”
“But Zola, research indicates that morning routines significantly impact relationship satisfaction—”
“No courtship activities before coffee,” she says firmly, sitting up in the bunk.
Her auburn hair is delightfully mussed from sleep, and there are crease marks on her cheek from my coveralls.
The sight makes something warm unfurl in my chest that has nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with domestic contentment.
Then her green eyes focus on me, standing near the workstation where I’ve been since KiKi’s wake-up call, and I watch her notice my position.
Her gaze travels from my face down my body and back up again, and I can smell the subtle shift in her scent that suggests she’s noticed I’ve showered.
Changed clothes. That my hair is still slightly damp.
That I’m standing carefully at the edge of the comfortable distance rather than close enough to touch.
“Crash, why are you way over there?” Her voice carries curiosity mixed with something that might be concern.
“I was... researching,” I manage, very carefully not mentioning that I’d relocated after my shower situation to avoid explaining why I needed the shower at oh-four hundred in the first place.
“Researching what?” She swings her legs over the side of the bunk, her sleep shirt riding up to reveal a strip of skin that my enhanced vision catalogs with entirely too much interest despite my recent... relief.
“Human courtship customs.”
She stops moving. Stares at me. Then her gaze drifts to the workstation screen, which is still displaying Chapter Four of Commander Blade Starfire’s adventures: When the Beast Breaks Free.
Her expression shifts through several distinct phases—confusion, realization, and what might be barely suppressed amusement.
“You were researching how to seduce me using romance novels?”
The words hang in the air between us, and I can feel my face heating despite my best efforts at maintaining dignity.
“I was attempting to understand appropriate approaches for courtship situations involving biochemically bonded partners,” I say carefully.
“I do not wish to make you uncomfortable through ignorance of human preferences.”
“So you decided to consult Commander Blade Starfire for guidance.” There’s definite amusement in her voice now, warm rather than mocking.
“He seems very... successful... with female partners?” It comes out like a question, which probably undermines whatever authority I was trying to project.
She makes a sound that’s definitely strangled laughter. “Crash, Commander Blade Starfire is a fictional pirate who solves relationship problems through strategic kidnapping and brooding in his quarters while his muscles ripple. He’s not a guidebook.”
“He is not?”
“He’s fantasy. Entertainment. Not an instruction manual for actual human courtship.” She’s fighting a smile now, and I can see it in the way her mouth twitches.
This is deeply disappointing. “Then how do human males successfully court human females?”
From the galley comes a soft thump, followed by the sound of enthusiastic reorganization. A moment later, Jitters appears, glowing with helpful pink pride as he positions himself near the coffee maker and begins reshaping himself into an efficient filtration system.
“Is he—” Zola starts, watching with fascinated attention as Jitters flows through his transformation.
“Becoming the coffee filter again, yes,” I confirm. “He enjoys being useful. And possibly enabling your caffeine dependency.”
She watches as Jitters completes his preparations with practiced efficiency, her scientific curiosity clearly engaged despite the early hour and lack of coffee.
“How does his cellular structure maintain integrity while filtering liquid at different temperatures? The protein matrices alone should be fascinating from a biochemical perspective.”
And just like that, we’re back to safer territory. I move closer—within comfortable bond distance—and begin explaining Junglix biology while she makes coffee and Jitters preens under her attention.
“Junglix possess adaptive protein matrices that can shift molecular density based on external stimulus,” I explain, grateful for a topic that doesn’t involve my humiliating research into fictional courtship strategies.
“The filtration process actually stimulates their cellular regeneration—he finds the activity soothing.”
“That’s actually incredible.” She leans closer to observe Jitters’s process, and the movement brings her near enough that I can smell the sleepy-warm scent of her, vanilla and honey and something uniquely hers.
“The applications for filtration technology alone could revolutionize water treatment systems in frontier settlements.”
“You could ask him for samples,” I suggest, trying to focus on the conversation rather than the fact that she’s standing close enough to touch, wearing sleep clothes that reveal the elegant line of her throat, her hair still mussed from my coveralls.
“He would be honored to contribute to scientific advancement. Though he might require compensation in the form of excessive praise and possibly sharing your coffee.”
Jitters warbles enthusiastic agreement, his pink glow intensifying to near-neon levels at the suggestion of scientific collaboration and shared beverages.
She accepts the coffee Jitters offers with genuine warmth that makes the blob creature practically vibrate with happiness. “Thanks, Jitters. This smells amazing even if it’s slightly concerning that you’re part of the brewing process.”
From his position near the coffee maker, Jitters glows brilliant pink and produces a sound like pleased purring mixed with the hum of satisfied machinery.
She sips the coffee, her green eyes studying me over the rim with analytical focus that makes my heart rate spike for entirely unprofessional reasons.
I’m suddenly very aware that I showered less than an hour ago while thinking about her, that my body is still hyperaware of her proximity, that the bond is humming with satisfaction at having her close again after the separation.
“So,” she says, and there’s warmth underneath the teasing, “back to the romance novel research. Did Commander Blade Starfire provide any useful guidance, or was it all strategic kidnapping and rippling muscles?”
“There was mention of predatory grace,” I admit, my face heating again. “And commanding presence. I attempted to practice the techniques.”
“And?”