“You wish to... examine my secretion glands?” The way he says it makes it sound far less clinical than I intended.
“It’s a basic medical assessment,” I lie.
It’s not just a medical assessment. I know it, and judging by the way his pupils just dilated—vertical slits flaring wide—he knows it too. But I need to touch him. The bond is humming between us, a low-level static that demands contact, and my engineer’s brain has decided that if I frame it as a “safety inspection,” I can indulge the craving without losing my dignity entirely.
“Remove your shirt,” I instruct, then realize he’s already shirtless. “I mean. Come to the medical bay.”
I’m extremely professional.
He moves with that liquid grace that should be illegal, all predatory muscle and barely restrained power, and settles onto the edge of the medical bay. Captain Starfire indeed... He straightens his posture, offering himself up for inspection with a vulnerability that makes my mouth go dry and my hands shake slightly.
“Hold still,” I say, moving to stand between his knees because that’s the best angle for examining the glands at his throat. Definitely. It has nothing to do with wanting to be surrounded by him.
It’s a tactical error. Standing this close, I’m overwhelmed by everything that is Crash. The scent of vanilla and ozone is dizzying, made stronger by proximity. The heat radiating from his skin feels like standing next to a warp core running at full capacity. And the way he’s looking at me—like I’m something precious and dangerous and utterly fascinating—makes it hard to remember why I’m supposed to be acting professional.
“This might be... sensitive,” I warn, reaching up to place my fingers on the gland at the base of his throat.
The moment I make contact, he goes absolutely rigid.
His skin is smoother than I expected, the scales so fine they feel almost like silk over the heat of him. Under my fingertips, his pulse hammers—a rapid, heavy rhythm that matches the thudding in my own chest. The gland itself is slightly swollen, warmer than the surrounding tissue.
“These are more prominent than I expected,” I murmur, forcing myself to look at the gland, not at the way his chest rises and falls with increasingly jagged breaths. “And warmer. Are they always this active?”
“They... respond to stimuli,” he says, his voice a rough rumble that vibrates through my fingertips where they rest against his throat. “Emotional state. Proximity to... to compatible individuals.”
“Compatible individuals,” I repeat, letting my thumb trace the curve of the gland in what I’m telling myself is a purely diagnostic manner. His whole body shudders. “Like bonded mates?”
“Yes.” The word comes out strangled.
“Fascinating.” I press slightly firmer, feeling the structure beneath the skin. “The tissue is engorged but not inflamed. That’s good. It suggests active function rather than damage.”
“That is... very good,” he manages, though he sounds like he’s being tortured.
I should probably stop touching him. But I’m a thorough inspector, and thoroughness requires comprehensive examination.
“I’m going to check the wrist glands now,” I announce, reaching for his hand.
He offers it without protest, but I can see the tremor running through his muscles. His claws are carefully retracted, but I can see the sheaths where they hide. The contrast between the lethal weaponry built into his body and the trembling restraint in his hand is intoxicating.
The glands at his wrists are smaller, more discreet, but equally warm under my exploring fingers. I press gently, feeling for any irregularities in the tissue.
“Are you... vibrating?” I ask, because his whole arm is trembling under my hands.
“Velogian muscle tension,” he grits out. “Very normal physiological response.”
“Really? Because it feels like you’re about to launch into orbit.”
“That would be... an exaggeration of my current state.”
He’s trying so hard. I can feel it through the bond—the immense, crushing effort he’s exerting to stay still, to not grab me, to not do whatever it is his biology is screaming at him to do. His control is impressive. His discomfort is obvious. And God help me, I want to push him.
Just a little.
“What triggers active secretion?” I ask, pressing a little firmer against the wrist gland and watching his eyes nearly roll back.
“Threat response for combat mode,” he says, his voice sounding like gravel dragged over broken glass. “Mate recognition for... for the other type.”
“Mate recognition.” I look up, meeting his eyes. They’re blown wide, the vertical pupils almost round with dilation. “What does that feel like? Physiologically speaking.”
