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You watch your friend reach into their pocket and pull out their hip flask. Again. It’s warm on the Cymbidium today, at least as warm as it ever gets with the literal climate control. They unscrew the cap and take a long drink, longer than you think should be possible from such a small flask. They’ve been drinking from it a lot lately.
“You should probably take it easy,” you tell them, worrying that they’ve fallen back into their old habits again. “Anything you wanna talk about?”
“Hmm?” They lean their head forward, clearly caught off guard by your comment as they swallow. “Nah, I’m great. Never been better,” they grin.
You watch a bead of something creamy and white dribble down from the corner of their smile, unable to look away as it traces its way down their chin, over their neck, and onto their collarbone.
“Okay. You’ve just been hitting the bottle a lot lately.” Your eyes look away as you try to broach the subject. “Just… worried, I guess?”
“Oh, this?” They chuckle as they waggle the flask, the cap rattling against the side of the flask on its string. It pulls your attention back to their hand. “It’s not booze.”
“What is it, then?”
“It’s better.” They hold the vessel out to you and you take it.
It’s certainly not booze, according to your sniff test. It’s sweet and creamy. It reminds you of the vanilla milk you had made a few times by mixing your ration’s powdered milk and powdered pudding.
“C’mooon,” they goad, “Try it.”
You know your friend wouldn’t give you anything dangerous. You doubt they could even get their hands on anything like that. Everything’s been dreadfully safe and boring since the Stellar Vanguard was quote-unquote rescued. But you’re still unsure. Your friend is a floret, after all. What if it has those xenodrugs in it?
You stammer, unsure how to politely decline.
Your friend, ever the tease, gently tilts your face up by your chin and puts the flask to your mouth. You definitely never had a crush on them, your face only feels so hot because of the weather. Because you’re overwhelmed with surprise. That’s all it is as they lift the bottom of the flask and pour a shot of ambrosia into your mouth.
That’s the only word you can think of to do justice to the sweet, milky, lightly floral taste coating your tongue. You can’t help but hum softly as it trickles down your throat.
They pull the flask away all too soon, still holding your hand holding it. “Good, right?”
“Mhmm,” you hum in the affirmative, licking your lips to savor the taste.
“Yeah,” they say with a slight glass to their eye and stow the flask away. “Well, I should probably get home soon. See you later?”
“Yeah.” You smile, trying to not let your heart flutter too much. “See you around.”
“Not if I see you first!”
And then they’re off. Back to their affini’s hab to do, you can only try to not imagine what. You just smile, watching until they’re gone. Then you sigh and head back to your hab.
Alone.
You compile another adventurous meal, something you’ve enjoyed doing with the infinite resources of the Affini Compact at your fingertips. Some steamed fish native to the homeworld of a species you’ve never met called the Xa'a-ackétøth. You have no idea how to pronounce it, or the name of the dish you eat, but it’s good.
Well, it’s fine. You’ve had a couple snacks, a few different drinks, since returning home, but none of them have tasted as good as you remembered. Nothing tastes as good as whatever was in that flask.
You spend the next morning and some of the afternoon trying to compile something comparable to the ambrosia you drank. Nothing you find in hours of searching comes anywhere close. You briefly consider just messaging your friend to ask, but you can already imagine how they’d tease you. You try not to imagine that, the thought alone almost more distracting than the lack of that heavenly drink.
You give up for the moment and get on with the rest of your day, not that you really have any obligations anymore. But you still can’t help retreating to the compiler every now and again to order up some new, ultimately disappointing, concoction.
It’s not until the afternoon of the third day that you run into your friend again. It’s not that they’ve been avoiding you, you know, it’s just that you’ve kept different schedules and different social circles ever since they volunteered to become a floret.
“H-Hey,” you stutter as you jog to catch up to them. Your smile feels too tight as you look them up and down.
“Oh, hey. What’s up?” They smile. Cute smile, you think.
“Um,” your smile twitches, “I was wondering if you, uh, have your flask on you?”
“Wow-how-how,” they grin. “What are you, jonesing?”
That’s what they always used to call it when they got shaky between drinks, especially between the Stellar Vanguard running out of alcohol rations and being rescued by the Cymbidium. You’re not jonesing. You’re definitely not shaking.
“No,” you say, hoping you don’t sound incredulous, “That stuff’s just like, really good.”
“I know, right?” They crack a smile and fish their hand into their pocket. “Here,” they hold the flask out to you.
Your hand only shakes a little bit, from the anticipation, as you unscrew the cap and take a swig. It’s exactly as good as you remembered. You take a second gulp, but, wary of drinking all of your friend’s supply, pull the bottle away. You let out a long, satisfied sigh, feeling all the more relaxed. Handing the flask back, they just hold their palm up and shake their head.
“Keep it. I’ll get more.”
“O-Okay…”
Suddenly, your friend’s datapad chimes in their pocket. “Oh, sorry, I’ve really gotta get going.” They shove it back in their pocket, turning to face you as they step away. “See you later, pollinator.”
“In a while, dendrophile,” you call back.
Looking down at the flask in your hand, you aren’t sure how to feel. Its contents are so good. But you can’t help but wonder how long you can make it last.
The answer turns out to be around two days. Two days of meager little sips, doing your best to spread them out as far as possible until you end up holding the flask upside down and tapping the bottom, hoping that a drop you somehow missed will land on your tongue. But it’s no use.
You try to go without it. You succeed for another day before you feel the pull, the yearning for the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted. Finally, after agonizing with your pad in your hand for hours, you send your friend a message inviting them out to dinner. You know they’ll have a new flask.
You sit at the table, the rumbling in your stomach unaffected by the smell of Jim Azalea's ship-famous pancakes. By the time your friend arrives, you’re gripping the table, leg bouncing out of sight. They slide into the booth with little fanfare and pluck a menu from the holder.
“So what are you thinking? Pancakes? Waff--”
“Do you have another flask?” You cut them off. You immediately tense up, shoulders bunching and legs curling into the booth’s bench.
They fold the menu back up and lay it flat on the table. They give you that smile they always do, they always have, the one that feels so warm it could get you through a night of heat rationing on the Vanguard. They reach below the table and set the flask down in front of you. You can’t help but grab it, fumbling with the cap before greedily gulping down the entire contents in a series of pulls.
“You know,” they say, head resting casually on a hand propped up by the table, “It’s a lot better right from the source.”
You blink at them. “The source?”
“Yeah. I mean if you want…” Their tone becomes teasing, like it often does.
You gulp, eyes focusing on theirs. And you nod.
They grab the empty flask, nodding sideways with a smile, and stand. You scoot out of the booth and follow them out the door.
You keep following them wordlessly across the plaza and beyond. They lead you closer to a part of the ship you’ve never been to before. It’s no surprise you haven’t seen the entire hab ring, considering it’s size, but you’ve been purposely avoiding some places for reasons that you’re not sure your friend knows about.
You’re not a feralist, you would swear up and down at the gentlest of prompting, and that would be the truth. It’s just that you never know what to do when one of them looks at you for too long.
You board a train on a line you’ve never ridden before. With anyone else, you would be at least a little wary. But you’re with your best friend, the one you definitely don’t have a crush on. You trust them implicity. Maybe even with your life. You certainly did back in the Cosmic Navy.
You’re not sure where you’re going exactly. The train ride feels longer than any you’ve had since arriving on the Cymbidium. Your leg starts to bounce, heel lifting off the floor with nervous energy. You can’t help but wonder how much better the sweet drink your friend gives you could even be from the source, considering how good it is by the time you get your hands on it in a flask.
A long sigh falls from your mouth as they place their hand on your knee and it stops your jittering entirely. Their hand moves higher up your leg, perhaps a bit suggestively, and your breath catches. Heat floods your face. Before you can really react, the train has already come to a stop and your friend starts walking away. You sit there for a moment, stunned.
That is until they spin to look at you and make a come-hither motion with their fingers.
You follow their beckoning without hesitation.
Stepping out onto an unfamiliar station platform, you see a sign welcoming you to the Pearl District. You’ve never been to the Pearl District before, but you’ve heard a few of your former-fellow-crewmen-turned-florets live there now. You can’t help but wonder what happened to your former captain. Good man, that captain.
Irrespective of the fate of your former captain, you follow along. You almost think of stopping, of telling them to nevermind anything you said. You almost tell them that you forgot about that important thing you just had to be doing at that very moment, that you never even liked that drink that much anyway and you’ll be fine without it. Almost.
Your eyes stick to your friend’s back pocket, where you know they keep their flask, bouncing along with every step as your surroundings fade into the background. All you can focus on, all you can think about, is that drink and your friend getting more for you. Fresh from the source. Wherever that may happen to be.
By the time you come too, jostled back to awareness by the fidgeting of your own hand, you realize you’ve walked a good distance from the train station. Your head swivels from side to side, and you find yourself in what looks to be an oversized cul-de-sac lined with Affini houses. Turning around, you see an iron gateway across the road at the end of the drive, big letters across the top reading ‘Trenzalore Park’. On the turn back, you make out what looks to be a massive cabin through the thicket of trees off to your right.
“C’mon,” your friend calls, “We’re almost there.”
Following the promise of more of that ambrosia - not to mention their continued company - you jog to catch up.
They don’t lead you to the impossible fractal spiral with a door or the hexagonal tower growing an entire forest from its roof. Instead, they guide you toward a home that feels like it could cradle the universe itself.
It’s rounded and gentle in every way, as if there isn’t a single sharp angle to be found. The walls bloom outward like the petals of a flower in mid-blossom, soft hues shifting between pastel pinks and buttery yellows. Lush vines drape lazily over the curved eaves, heavy with blossoms that seem to hum softly in the still air.
The closer you get, the more you feel that you’re not following but are instead being pulled towards the hab. A gentle tugging, even beyond your friend’s hand on yours. It’s like falling in slow motion.
The doorway doesn’t simply exist. It welcomes you, curving into an arch that seems to lean just slightly forward, inviting you to step inside. Above the entry, a canopy of flowering branches stretches out like they could hug you at any moment. The whole hab radiates a quiet, nurturing warmth.
“Mommy~!” your friend calls out as you both walk through the door, “I’m hoooome~!”
You recognize almost immediately that the warmth pulling at you isn’t the hab itself, as your friend’s owner flows into the living room, a facsimile of a woman moving about on a dozen vines like the legs of an octopus. It’s coming from Her.
She’s beautiful. Flowing waves of thick red leaves with uneven, rounded edges cascade and frame a head that is human in shape but lacks fine details, like that of a statue left to erode in the sand - features lost, but strong, smooth, gorgeous lines remaining. It’s as if a woman has been wrapped in cool, dark, blue-green leaves. The way they fold over one another to form her body reminds you of the cigars your Captain used to smoke. Or, perhaps, they remind you of a mummy, the way they merely suggest a face without the delicate contours of a brow or nose. The blue-green leaves continue wrapping down her neck and shoulder, arms and midsection, trailing down and unraveling into a skirt from under which long, thick vines support her.
Golden light glimmers through five symmetrical gaps in the leaves of her face, the largest being centered in where you guess her brow would be. A softer, milky, honeyed amber glows on her chest, filling two translucent teardrop breasts with a light that is as inviting as it is warm. You can’t help but notice the fine drops glimmering and leaking out from what appears to be nipples, each capping one of the glowing peaks.
Your mouth waters, phantom tastes of ambrosia licking at your lips, as you watch a creamy drop roll down the curve of the affini’s breast like tree sap catching dawn’s first light. You lick back.
“Welcome, dear,” the Affini says, “And I see you’ve brought a friend to play~”
Your friend giggles. “Yeah. This one really liked your nectarmilk.”
Your breath catches in your throat as you stare up at Her. You’re embarrassed. Mortified! It dawns on your slowly, dripping into your mind like the slow trickling beads of nectar leaking from Her. You drank an affini’s milk. This affini’s milk. Slowly, you shrink down behind your friend, awkwardly standing there and trying to make yourself scarce.
And yet you can’t look away.
“Aww,” the affini coos over you. Her voice is like sunlight. “So shy~. That’s just adorable~”
Your friend giggles. That same playful, teasing giggle loaded with meaning that you were always too afraid to parse. “I know, right? And they really wanna try some straight from the source.”
“Is that right?” She turns her attention to you alone.
Your gaze finally breaks away from Her, eyes stumbling awkwardly down and away even as your feet remain rooted to the floor. Your breaths come quickly. You try to convince yourself that this was a mistake. You try to convince yourself that coming here was a good idea. You don’t know what to do, all you know is you can’t bring yourself to look Her in the eye and tell her that you want, that you need, more of that ambrosia.
Her ambrosia.
In the midst of your self-deliberation, the affini scoops both you and your friend into her arms. You’re not sure whether to be grateful or horrified as your feet leave the ground, but after only a moment you can’t think about it. All you can focus on is the softly glowing teardrop in front of you. Occasionally, the sound of your friend’s soft, muffled moans and the wet sounds of their suckling manage to break through the haze, but your eyes stay locked straight ahead.
You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. You definitely shouldn’t, you think. But you don’t squirm, and you don’t fight, and you don’t try to push away. Your rapid breaths quickly draw in the scent of the dribbling sap before you. It works its way into your nose and deeper into your head, and it smells just like what was in the flask. Rich and creamy, milky vanilla at the forefront carried by the soft undercurrent of something faintly floral. Only now, it’s laced with something more robust and full, telling you that it will be just that much better straight from the source.
It’s intoxicating.
You just stare, mouth watering more and more by the second. The craving for that sweet ambrosia, the need for it, grows by the second. It’s like the scent drips down from your nose, down the back of your throat, and coats your tongue in the taste of it. Enough to make you want more, but far from enough to satisfy. It feels like it’s been hours since you drained that flask in the diner. It feels like it’s been days.
You worry that you shouldn’t.
You feel like you need it.
You know you’re already in far too deep.
You look up at the Affini’s face, and it feels like she’s giving you the warmest, most encouraging smile despite her total lack of a mouth. Your breath shudders as you look back down, hesitating for another long moment. And then, you lean in.
The closer you get, the stronger the scent gets. You swallow what feels like a mouthful of anticipatory drool. Your heart races as you hover, mouth just above the swollen Affini nipple. It feels like it's just begging you to try it. You lick your lips and allow them to part, leaning in to close the gap.
The first taste fills your mouth with sunlight as your tongue sweeps up the drops just sitting on the surface. You can’t help but hunch your shoulder and lean forward further, sealing your mouth around Her. You make a gentle suction with your mouth, and your efforts are rewarded with a splash of ambrosia, much stronger than what you’ve had before. If the first taste was like rays of sunshine, this feels like a warm hug.
You can’t stifle the moan that gets muffled by the smooth, soft surface of the affini’s breast. You can barely care to. Especially when She coos over you again, the soft layers of her arm squeezing you just a little bit tighter.
“That’s it. It’s okay,” her voice fills you with assurance. “Such a good little terran for Mommy.”
A desperate breath carries an even more desperate whine, a veritable moan protesting against the part of you that says this is wrong. A part of you that is shrinking with each drop of Heaven that spreads across your tastebuds. You can’t help but reach up, gently grabbing at Her breast, each draw coming more easily than the last.
You close your eyes, whines turning into soft, pleading whimpers as you continue suckling at the Affini’s nectarmilk. Your senses become coated, the luscious, fresh vanilla spreads through your mouth, Her scent takes your nose, filling your head and sinuses. Your ears are filled with the sound of your suckling, and that of your friend’s, backed by a slow, soothing, churning rhythm you can’t place. You feel nothing but her leaves around you, and yet you want more. You need more.
Refusing to remove yourself from the ambrosial stream, you weakly shuffle toward the Affini’s median, reaching out across her wrapped form, searching for contact. You receive it quickly as your friend’s hand lays on yours, their palm gripping the back of your hand.
It feels wonderful, especially being here with them. The idle thought floats through your mind on a sea of amber nectar that maybe you really do have a crush on your friend. A different heat spreads through your face and your hand trembles, but they only squeeze that much tighter. It feels good. It feels… right.
You and your friend continue to suckle from their affini until your friend lets out a loud yawn and finally lets go of your hand. Instead, they opt to curl against their Affini - their Owner - and snuggle in deeply, using Her breast as a pillow. You can’t help but feel a pang of something in your chest, but it’s quickly overshadowed as She guides your attention back to Her with another tender squeeze.
You keep drinking for some time, time having become some vague concept suspended out of reach like Harper’s Constant, both being just as pointless and nebulous to your mind. Each gulp of ambrosia is as good as the last, if not somehow better. Each taste feels like the first time in the best possible way. The silky smooth nectarmilk never gets old, never feels boring, never feels like you’ve had enough.
Not until your belly feels like it’s starting to stretch from the absurd amount you’ve drank. Your friend’s owner gently pats your back and a soft, airy burp escapes your lip. You almost feel embarrassed, but you just can’t as she hums a bit of melodic praise and calls you a “Good little terran” again. That, too, feels right. It feels like you’ve made her proud. Like you have her Approval, somehow.
It feels nice…
Eventually, you do tire. Physically, at least. You let out a yawn of your own and can’t resist the urge to latch right back on, eyelids feeling heavy and your suckling slow and sluggish.
“I think it’s just about bedtime, little one.” Her voice carries as soft as a whisper through the trees, a soothing breeze on the night air.
You make no move to protest, you don’t even stop lazily lapping up Her nectarmilk as she gracefully stands and carries you and your friend deeper into her hab. You’re carried down a hall and into a room with a drawing of some kind of bipedal cow, maybe some kind of xeno you haven’t met yet, pinned to the door. Right next to a crude but cute drawing of the Affini still cradling you to Her chest.
You realize quickly that you’re in your friend’s bedroom.
She moves through the room smoothly and you twist, cheek flush against her glowing bosom, and watch as she gently lays your friend in bed. It’s a big, cozy looking bed with beautifully crafted safety rails on either side and your friend’s name carved into the headboard. Another pang echoes through your chest as She puts a big ducky plushie in their arms. The echoes bounce again as she pulls their blanket over them, and then again as she kisses them goodnight.
The pangs wrack you again, each one dragging your heart a little further down until it sinks in your chest. If it’s your friend’s bedtime, that probably means it's time for you to go. Time for you to leave and go home. Back to your hab. Alone.
Something stings at the corner of your eye and trickles down your face as you can’t help but let out a whimper, soft as silence. She soothes you, cradling you in both arms now, and gently rocking back and forth. As she does, it feels like she’s humming a soft, simple tune. A child’s lullaby.
In Her rocking, each step turns you a little bit further away from your friend. You let yourself be carried away in the rhythm, barely noticing that you're moving at all until she’s turned the entire way around and you see something that makes your eyes go wide and your heart flutter. A cozy, comfy, warm looking bed covered in a thick blanket and lined with stuffies.
And your name, engraved into the headboard.
Three words fall from your lips, the taste of Her nectar hot on your breath. “Thank you, Mommy.”