"He also requested detailed maps of every major city's bakery districts," Ja'war continues, his pale eyes dancing with barely contained mirth. "Specifically focusing on establishments that specialize in what he called 'traditional comfort foods and seasonal celebrations.' He spent considerable time researching human courtship customs related to food sharing."
"Oh, he's definitely got his sights set on someone," I laugh, pieces clicking into place. "The questions about human dating rituals, the sudden interest in Earth culinary traditions, the way he gets this dreamy look when he talks about 'bringing warmth to those who need it most.' Our boy Ginzar is falling hard for some lucky human."
"You think he's got his sights set on an Earth girl?" I ask, though it's becoming obvious. "He's been asking a lot of questions about human courtship customs. Last week he wanted to know if bringing someone their favorite coffee every day would be considered romantic or stalking."
Ja'war's expression shifts to something thoughtful, tinged with the kind of fond exasperation reserved for friends making spectacularly poor decisions. "That would explain his recent distraction. He wassupposed to help plan our bonding ceremony celebration, but every time I contact him, he's either 'conducting important cultural research' or 'optimizing supply chain logistics for maximum nutritional impact.'"
"Translation: he's too busy chasing some poor unsuspecting human to focus on our wedding plans," I say, though my tone is affectionate. "Good for him. Maybe whoever she is will appreciate his whole 'spreading joy during the winter season' thing. Though I have to admire his approach—showing up with gourmet coffee and artisanal honey is definitely more sophisticated than lurking in blizzards for three years."
The comment makes Ja'war's circulatory patterns darken slightly—embarrassment, I've learned, though he still maintains it was strategic observation rather than stalking. "His method does demonstrate more direct engagement with the object of his affection."
"The cinnamon sugar," Ja'war says suddenly, his voice dropping an octave as he refocuses on the cookie in my hand, "it's... intense."
I can see the exact moment his enhanced senses fully catalog what he's experiencing. His nostrils flare slightly as he breathes in the spice-laden air, and the claiming patterns along his throat pulse brighter. Xarian olfactory systems are roughly ten times more sensitive than human—what smells like pleasant cinnamon to me probably hits him like a wall of complex aromatics.
"Enhanced alien senses," I tease, deliberately licking a stray bit of cinnamon-sugar from my thumb. His eyes track the movement like a predator watching prey, and I feel the familiar thrill of having his complete attention. "Everything tastes stronger to you. I bet you can probably identify every individual spice I used."
"Ceylon cinnamon, not cassia," he murmurs, his voice going rougher. "Madagascar vanilla extract, European-style butter with a higher fat content than standard American varieties, and granulated sugar with traces of... turbinado? The residual molasses compounds create a more complex sweetness profile."
"Show off," I breathe, but I'm impressed despite myself. "What else can you taste?"
"You," he growls, and suddenly the air between us crackles with familiar tension. "Your skin carries traces of the cinnamon. The oils have transferred from your hands to your face, your throat..." His pale eyes darken to storm-cloud gray. "I can taste your arousal beginning to spike."
Heat pools low in my belly at his words, at the predatory focus that's replaced his earlier curiosity. This is what happens when you bond with an apex predator from a species that evolved to hunt in pack formations—every physiological response becomes data, every scent shift tracked and cataloged with devastating precision.
"Show me," he says, but it's not really a request.
I pick up another cookie, still warm, and take a deliberate bite. Cinnamon and butter coat my tongue, the sweetness almost overwhelming after tasting nothing but ship rations for the past week. When I lean up to kiss him, I watch his control snap like a severed cable. He tastes the sweetness on my lips, his alien tongue chasing every trace of sugared cinnamon, and the rumbling sound he makes vibrates through both our chests.
His tongue is longer than human, with a slightly rougher texture designed for extracting maximum flavor compounds. When he deepens the kiss, exploring my mouth with methodical thoroughness, I can feel him cataloging every taste—the butter, the cinnamon, thevanilla, and underneath it all, me. The claiming bond flares between us, carrying echoes of his sensory experience, and for a moment I can taste what he tastes: sweetness layered with complexity, comfort food transformed into something almost narcotic by alien biochemistry.
"More," he demands against my mouth, his hands finding my waist.
I break off a piece of cookie and trace it along his lower lip, watching the way his breathing hitches. The cinnamon sugar leaves a glistening trail that makes his fangs gleam when he parts his lips. When he opens his mouth to taste it, I slip my cinnamon-sugar coated finger inside instead, feeling his tongue curl around it with devastating precision.
The wet heat of his mouth, the careful scrape of fangs against my skin, the way his tongue works to extract every grain of sugar—it sends fire racing through my nervous system. Through the bond, I can feel his reaction: the sweetness hitting his enhanced taste buds like a drug, the way my finger feels against his tongue, the barely controlled hunger that makes his hands tighten on my waist.
"Fiona," he growls around my finger, his voice vibrating against my skin. When I slowly withdraw it, his fangs catch gently, not enough to break skin but enough to make me gasp. "You're playing with fire."
"I know exactly what I'm doing." I crumble a bit of cookie and dust it across his throat, watching the granules cling to his alien skin. "Besides, it's Christmas. Time for new traditions."
I lean forward to lick the sugar from his throat, and the taste of him combined with cinnamon sweetness makes my head spin. His skin carries that unique alien flavor—salt and ozone and something indefinably otherworldly that makes my hindbrain purr with satisfaction. The claiming bond pulses between us, carrying echoes of sensation back and forth until I can't tell where his pleasure ends and mine begins.
He makes a sound like a dying star and lifts me onto the counter in one fluid motion, his alien strength making it effortless. The claiming patterns along his arms blaze brighter as his hands find the hem of my shirt, and I can feel his desperation through the bond—twelve hours of routine courier work dissolving under the assault of sugar and skin and the promise of something much more interesting than hyperspace calculations.
"These clothes," he mutters against my throat, alien dexterity making quick work of my shirt buttons, "are an obstacle to proper Christmas celebration."
"Then remove them," I challenge, working at his uniform in return.
His courier uniform is designed for function over form—thermal regulation layers, communications equipment, emergency supplies all integrated into a suit that can handle everything from vacuum exposure to atmospheric entry. But I've had twelve months to learn its secrets, and my fingers find the hidden clasps and seals with practiced efficiency.
We strip each other with the controlled urgency of two people who have done this dance before but never lose the thrill of it. His uniform hits the floor in pieces—thermal underlayer, equipment harness, the sturdy boots designed for a dozen different planetary surfaces. When his shirt joins the pile, I take a moment to admire the play of Christmas lights across his alien skin, the way the red and green illumination makes his circulatory patterns look like living art.
The lights were my addition to the ship's galley—battery-powered LED strings that I picked up during our last Earth stopover. Ja'war initially questioned their functionality ("They provide insufficient illumination for food preparation"), but I caught him studying them with quiet fascination when he thought I wasn't looking.Now they cast shifting patterns across his pale blue skin, turning him into something that belongs in a fantasy rather than a spaceship galley.
I pick up another warm cookie and deliberately take a bite, letting crumbs fall onto his bare chest. They catch in the dark lines of his circulatory patterns, tiny golden specks against blue skin that pulse with his heartbeat. "Oops," I say innocently. "Better clean that up."
What follows is a systematic exploration that reduces my normally articulate alien to incoherent sounds and three different languages I don't recognize. I trace every crumb with my tongue, starting at his collarbone and working my way down the center of his chest, following the dark veining that pulses brighter with his arousal.
