Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jackson awoke with a yawn, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. It was still strange, to wake up feeling rested like this day in and day out. A scant two months ago, he never got a good eight hours’ rest. He was forced to cut his sleeping hours short time and time again to meet his employer’s outrageous deadlines and quotas. It was that or end up out in the cold.

But that wasn’t a problem anymore. No more employers, no more deadlines, ever again. And the only price Jackson had to pay was his species’ sovereignty? It wasn’t like they did much with it anyway. What was humanity’s greatest achievement as their own stewards? Conquering the Rinans? Developing a jump drive? Oh yes, such fearsome achievements. Enslaving a planet full of plushies and building insane tech that would explode if you looked at it wrong.

The Affini seemed to have it all figured out. They could reconfigure matter into any form they wished at the push of a button. Their personal shuttles were the size of Terran warships and far more powerful. Despite all odds, they had managed to straddle the line between expansionist imperial force and benign stewards of the universe.

Jackson just wished they’d lay off on the whole “collared pet” thing. He had spent his twenty-six years as a pawn in the games Terran corporations played, and he had no interest in being owned again, thank you very much. His species may have been better off as just another flower in the Affin Compact’s garden, but Jackson Meadows was an independent sophont and planned on keeping it that way.

He clapped his hands twice and the heavy curtains over his bedroom windows slid open, bathing him in mid-morning sunlight. He blinked, thankful his bedroom faced away from the sun itself. Acer had been kind enough to reconfigure the entire Hab unit when Jackson mentioned how harsh the glare was in the morning. Now his massive bedroom faced north, and he could leave his curtains open all day without the sun’s full fury searing his retinas.

Jackson crawled out of his massive bed on hands and knees, swinging himself down onto the floor and padding over to the closet. The Affini did have a way with needless excess; Jackson’s bed could easily sleep six sophonts comfortably. His bedroom alone was bigger than any apartment he had ever lived in back on Terra, and the attached bathroom was almost as big. The first time he saw the size of his new quarters, he was stunned. This kind of opulence was accessible to only the wealthiest Terrans back in the Accord. On Gilreath, and apparently in the rest of the Compact if Acer was to be believed, luxury of this nature was the norm.

The young man stopped to look at himself in the mirror and smiled. Acer and his vet had accomplished more in two months than humans could in two years. His muscles grew more well-defined every day, his curves had straightened out and masculinized his form, and there was even a nice bush right above his pussy! Choosing to keep that was inspired. For as long as Jackson wanted to look like a guy, he never wished for a cock. He preferred to keep what the universe gave him between his legs, even if everything else could go for all he cared.

”Good morning, Jackson,” the Hab AI called in a high singsong voice. “Mr. Maplestone has breakfast for you whenever you’re ready.”

”Great, thanks Patty,” Jackson replied, continuing into his closet. He selected a pair of short denim cutoffs and a tight-fitting tank top designed to show off his arms. What was the point of all that working out and those trips to the vet if he couldn’t flaunt his new form?

He brushed his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes, knowing full well it would be falling right back in his face within a minute. Jackson could tie it back or cut it short, but he liked it this way. It reminded him of the video files of so-called “boy bands” from the late twentieth century he watched on a loop growing up. He was more than willing to put up with bangs in his face if he could look like the man he’d dreamed of being his entire life.

Jackson strode out of his room, the bedroom door sliding open for him free of any input on his behalf. His room opened onto the massive living room, with enough couches, chairs, and assorted cushions to seat thirty sophonts. It was rare for Jackson to go a full day without seeing a minimum of five other beings in his home. He was always happy about it, Acer was just as much of a social creature as he was. Sometimes they would both shut their pads off when together just to have a break from the incessant message notifications.

”Good morning petal,” Acer said. Jackson turned toward the kitchen eagerly to find his warden standing there. Deep down, he knew that Acer Maplestone, Fourth Bloom was technically his jailer, but stars, it didn’t feel like that. He was more free as a ward of the Affini Compact than he ever was as a “free Terran.” When he looked into Acer’s sparkling silver eyes, he didn’t see a conquering alien overlord intent on subjugating him. He saw a friend, one who wanted nothing more than protect him and care for him.

Well, Acer technically was a conquering alien overlord intent on subjugating him. Beneath the veil of bright green vines and autumnal leaves lay a suite of injectors loaded with xenodrugs designed to render him docile and obedient. He was lucky he ended up with one of the Affini who cared about human notions like “consent” and “boundaries.” He knew plenty of Affini looked at Terrans and saw nothing but pets-to-be, despite any protests to the contrary.

”Morning Acer,” he replied, giving him a bright smile. “What’s for breakfast? It smells great!”

”Pancakes with homemade syrup and eggs benedict,” Acer said, preening. Jackson rolled his eyes and punched the Affini playfully. His warden was derived from a maple tree, and his sap was multi-functional. He could lace it with xenodrugs and unleash it on an unsuspecting sophont, he could thicken it to make an effective bondage tool, or he could use it to make the most delicious syrup Jackson had ever tasted. He was rather proud of this capability, apparently food-grade sap was rare amongst Affini. Usually it had to be grafted on.

”A lesser Affini would have you domesticated for that,” Acer said with a lopsided grin.

“In your dreams, plant,” Jackson said, sticking out his tongue and climbing up into his chair at the countertop. If Acer was going to domesticate him for misbehavior, he would’ve done so long ago. They’d had “the talk” several times by now, and Jackson made it clear that while he cared about Acer and valued his guidance, he didn’t want to be a pet. Acer also made it clear that he would happily collar Jackson if he ever asked for it, but Jackson advised he not hold his breath.

“Plant?” Acer gasped in fake shock, clutching his hands up to his chest. “I ought to go fetch your collar now, you ungrateful brat! After all I’ve done to support your independence, you refer to me as nothing but a mere plant!” He laid the back of his hand against his forehead and collapsed into a melodramatic pile of vines.

Jackson snickered as he bit into the eggs benedict, his eyes fluttering. Acer was plenty smug about his abilities in the kitchen, but he had every right to be. He insisted on making all of Jackson’s meals himself unless he was at a restaurant, and the chestnut-haired Terran was grateful for it. If there was a Terran chef who made eggs benedict half as well as his warden, Jackson never met him.

Acer knit himself back into his usual form, the blanket of autumnal maple leaves draped across his body in the shape of a toga. It was hypnotic to watch, Jackson understood why so many of his species ended up as bewitched pets. The Affini moved with a certain musicality, in sync with what Acer described as a “biorhythm.” Apparently all living beings had one, and Affini evolved theirs to be entrancing to other species. It made sense to Jackson, given that plants surely had to attract pollinators once upon a time.

”Very nice,” Jackson commented, hurriedly redirecting his gaze when Acer smiled down at him.

”I’m glad you enjoyed my performance, little petal,” Acer said, sitting down at a much larger stool at the countertop. “I never tire of amusing you. How’s breakfast?”

”It’s delicious,” Jackson said through a mouthful of pancake. Stars, he swore Acer’s syrup got better every time. It was the perfect mix of sweet and bitter, a flavor that no artificial Accord substitute could dream of replicating. “Did you change the syrup? It’s incredible today.”

”I change it every time, in fact,” Acer said, scrolling through his pad and opening up a document full of notes. “Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, depending on your verbal and physical reactions. Your biorhythm tells me a great deal about how you respond to a given formula. Today’s is more bitter and a touch more viscous than most recipes I’ve created thus far.”

”Well whatever you’re doing, keep it up,” Jackson said with a pleased hum. “This is amazing!”

Acer nodded and tapped more notes into his pad while Jackson wolfed down the rest of his breakfast. The Affini looked up for a moment and admonished him to slow down, warning that it was well within his rights as warden to take over feeding his charge his meals by vine if Jackson proved he couldn’t feed himself safely. The Terran flushed bright red and looked away from his guardian.

”Stop smirking like that!” Jackson complained, trying to will his cheeks back to a less crimson shade.

”You’re not even looking at me, starlight,” Acer said, amused.

”I can feel it,” Jackson grumbled. “You’re looking at me like you want to make me some kind of stupid pet.”

”Well, I do want to make you some kind of stupid pet,” Acer replied as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Specifically, I want to make you my stupid pet! Well, maybe less my stupid pet and more my happy, docile, pampered dog with nice floppy ears and a wagging tail.”

”You’re impossible!” Jackson exclaimed with a groan, hoping Acer didn’t notice his little smile. The plant would make for a nice boyfriend if he weren’t so hung up on the whole “pet” thing. The pair of them had established an excellent repartee over the last two months, and even when Jackson won his independence he couldn’t imagine leaving Acer behind. Maybe they could be roommates or something?

”And you’re adorable,” Acer said, booping Jackson on the nose with a vine. “But as much as I would love to sit here and spar with you all day, there is an important matter at work that requires your attention.”

The word “work” fired a neuron Jackson did not miss. Panic welled up in his throat and his mind shot back to his ten-hour days in a miserable little cubicle, with a different name and an unwelcome chest. He heard a beep, then the memories dissipated under a wave of Class E-induced calm. That monitoring cuff worked quickly.

”Relax, dear starlight,” Acer said, entwining his right arm in soothing vines. Jackson did the breathing exercise his warden taught him after rescuing him from Terra: breathe in for four counts, hold for four counts, out for four counts, hold for four counts. “I’m not going to force you into labor, I simply would like your assistance with my own work.”

Acer worked as an intake counselor for Gilreath’s largest veterinary facility. Whenever a new sophont came to the planet and wasn’t taken for domestication, they went through Acer’s department. By his own estimation, over the course of two blooms on Gilreath he had worked with several thousand sophonts.

Jackson let out another breath and nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “What is it?”

Acer produced a single injector, trailing it up the arm he had oh so conveniently bound in vines. “There’s a new Terran under my care, and he’s an… interesting case. Normally somebody with his behavioral profile would be domesticated immediately, but there are certain complications.”

He sank the injector into the crook of Jackson’s arm, and the Terran had to bite back a moan. Acer was such a tease with his Class Gs. “He’s asked to speak with a non-domesticated Terran about life in the Compact. Well, less asked and more ‘demanded.’ He claims to have some method of harming himself that we cannot stop. And although every single scan and medical examination at our disposal has turned up nothing…”

”You’d rather just do what he asks than take the risk,” Jackson finished. “Why me? I’m sure there are more qualified Terrans, there’s got to be therapists or something around here.”

”He has insisted that it be a ‘regular person,’” Acer said with a sigh. “And among ‘regular people,’ most independents in the area would rather walk across hot coals than go into a facility full of domestication experts just to talk to a suicidal feralist.”

Jackson shrugged. “Well, it can’t hurt,” he said, climbing out of his chair. “Let’s go!”

***

The veterinary facility took his breath away every time. It was a massive campus, full of parks and gardens like everything else in the Affini Compact. There were at least 20 separate buildings that filled any number of functions, including one massive circular building just for medical fetish play. Jackson hadn’t asked about that one since Acer mentioned how cute he would look straitjacketed and locked in a padded cell.

The towering Affini led him through a set of double doors and into what looked like an opulent hotel. Everywhere Jackson looked, there were plush couches, fountains, and screens playing a whole range of media. Stars above, the Affini didn’t skimp on anything, did they? Acer resisted ever showing Jackson around his workplace before now, always saying that his ward needed to “recover from the strains of capitalism.” Terran capitalism might’ve been easier to bear if it was a bit more like this.

He took Jackson into an elevator and up to the eleventh floor, where a long ring of doors surrounded a balcony that overlooked the open lobby. The Terran supposed the panopticon was a fitting design mentality for the surveillance-mad Affini. If you so much as coughed in an Affini settlement, eight different plants would know within seconds and two of them would be fighting to domesticate you on medical grounds.

”He’s in room 1139,” Acer said, pointing Jackson down the hallway. “I’m not going to come with you, he’s threatened to trigger this blasted mechanism the moment an Affini enters his room. But I’ll be watching and listening the whole time. If you need help, just stretch your arms over your head, okay?”

Jackson nodded and smiled up at his nervous guardian. “I’ll be alright, you dork,” he said, giving Acer another playful punch on his vine-woven arm. “If he were a threat to me, you wouldn’t have brought me here. You’d keep me in packing peanuts 24/7 if you thought you could get away with it, you wouldn’t put me in danger.”

”I most certainly would not,” Acer huffed. “Packing peanuts are a ticking time bomb, environmentally speaking. Perhaps some sort of biodegradable expanding foam would do the trick. It would certainly keep you from any unwarranted movements. You male Terrans seem to love nothing more than competing to see who can injure themselves the fastest.”

Jackson glowed for a moment at being referred to as a “male Terran” before he laughed at his warden. “Whatever you say, nerd,” he teased. “What’s this guy’s name, anyway?”

”Brady,” Acer said, glancing down at his pad. “Brady Montana. He’s a refugee from some far-flung Terran colony, barely more than an asteroid. Says here it’s called Solak-5.”

“Mining colony?” Jackson asked, peeking at the file and finding only illegible Affini script.

”No, some sort of communications hub,” Acer replied. “According to the extraction team’s reports, it processed signals from all over the galaxy. They’re working on tracing the sources, nobody we rescued will breathe a word about the media they handled. Any information you can get about that would be appreciated as well.”

Jackson gave her a thumbs-up and set off down the hallway, stopping in front of room 1139. He took a deep breath to settle himself and adopted his most winning smile. He glanced back to a worried-looking Acer, who was wringing his vines so hard it looked like he was going to snap them. Honestly, he wasn’t some damsel in distress. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself with some random feralist.

He knocked on the door and heard a frustrated groan inside. “I told you plants to fuck off!” A high, yet masculine voice came from behind the door. “Set one fucking vine in here and I’m gone! CCC prepares us for you freaks, I’m a valuable corporate asset! Terra forever!”

Jackson groaned quietly. Stars, was he this obnoxious when he first arrived on Gilreath? He remembered that colonial Terrans could be a good deal more… fanatical in their allegiance to the Accord, but this seemed extreme. Why would somebody execute themselves instead of talk to beings that just wanted to help them?

”Um, I’m not an Affini!” Jackson called in, trying to keep his voice friendly. “My name’s Jackson Meadows, my friend told me you wanted to talk to a regular Terran?”

Brady was silent for a moment as he contemplated this answer. “Friend, huh?” The voice came back, suspicious. “Are you one of those fucking wormheads? That doesn’t count.”

Jackson had to fight back an angry growl, using the word “wormheads” was enough to get him domesticated on its own. But he maintained his pleasant tone, he could enjoy the sight of this feralist getting domesticated later so long as he kept a level head.

”I’m not a floret, no,” he said patiently. “I was taken to Gilreath from Terra two months ago, I was hoping to talk to you about what my life is like here! Acer’s very concerned about you.”

Brady scoffed. “Yeah, I’m sure he’s real concerned,” he said dismissively. “Real concerned about the fact that I don’t have some fucking plant growing on my spine! I was fine working for the CCC, we were all fine! I could’ve kept broadcasting football games from home for the rest of my life. You Terra fat cats sold us out to the fucking weeds, and I had to flee to some fucking rock in the middle of nowhere!”

”Football?” Jackson asked, caught off-guard by that. Whatever “CCC” was, he’d assumed it was some kind of feralist communications network. Re-routing terrorist plots and propaganda broadcasts for the Rebellion, that sort of thing. Football had always been a propaganda broadcast of sorts, Jackson supposed, but not the kind he had in mind.

”Fucking duh,” Brady said. This Terran was not much of a conversationalist. “What else would the Crown Communications Corporation be doing? They ran it through us so rival raiders could never find us and disrupt broadcasts. Apparently they didn’t account for the plant slavers from space!”

Jackson opened his mouth to tell Brady exactly what he thought about his opinions on the Compact, but he took a deep breath and steadied himself. On the off chance he did have some kind of suicide mechanism, he didn’t want to make him angry and set it off. Football could be a good line to follow to help him let his walls down. Besides, he hadn’t gotten to talk about his favorite sport since before Acer took him as a ward.

“You a big fan of the Crown League?” Jackson offered through the door. “I’ve been super into it since I was a kid. The Wasps were like the only thing I could ever talk to my dad about.”

Brady was quiet for a long minute, and Jackson was afraid he’d done something wrong. But then, much to his surprise, the door slid open to reveal the troublesome Terran. Frankly, he looked terrible. Greasy blond hair that looked plastered down to his head, boxy glasses with a huge crack in the right lens, and a frame that indicated a diet based on synthcubes and feralist rage.

”You’re a Wasps fan?” Brady asked, looking Jackson up and down. “Guess you can’t be all bad.” He gestured for Jackson to come in and the brown-haired Terran took him up on it, striding across the threshold without another word.

The room looked like a bomb had gone off. Brady had torn every last bit of art and homely décor off the wall and shredded them. The screen next to his compiler had its history pulled up, and a glance showed he’d created nothing but synthcubes during his stay here. The shades were drawn, and he wasn’t even using the bed. All of the blankets lay in a pile on the floor, but the sheets were undisturbed.

Jackson chose not to address all that for the moment, instead offering an olive branch. “I grew up in Vancouver, we were only ten minutes from the stadium when they were still on Terra,” he said, sitting down on the bed rather than trying to stand the overturned armchair upright. “We never had enough credits to get tickets, but sometimes we’d go watch the huge screens they had outside. It was nice.”

Brady scoffed. “Yeah, it sure was nice,” he grumbled. “Real nice up until the plants and their wormheads came and ruined everything! The Crown League had to move to some crazy super-secret blacksite just to keep running. I had a nice life in Paris until your friends showed up.”

Jackson sighed. “First of all, I’d advise against calling florets ‘wormheads,’” he said, wincing at having to use the word. “There’s no surer path to getting domesticated than hurting florets, and the whole Compact treats that word like a slur.”

”I-“ Brady began, but Jackson cut him off.

”Second of all,” he said, holding up a hand. “Who’s your favorite Wasps player?”

The question visibly caught Brady off-guard. The sneer faded from his face and he plopped down next to Jackson on the bed. Neither of them had expected the conversation to take this tenor, but Jackson couldn’t think of a better way to break the ice. What better way to defuse suspicion than to discuss a common interest?

”That’s a hard one,” he said, licking his lips. “I’ve been watching them for years, yelling at the TV just as long. God, do you remember the grand finals in ‘49?”

Jackson made a gagging face. “Ugh stars, I wish I didn’t,” he said with a groan. “My grandmother could’ve caught that pass! You’d think with all that genetic engineering they’d give the wide receivers sticky hands or something.”

”They do!” Brady exclaimed. “That makes it even worse!” They both started giggling, and the tension in the room deflated somewhat.

”So who’s your favorite then?” Jackson asked, leaning back and propping himself up on his forearms. “If you had to pick one.”

Brady buzzed his lips. “I guess it’s Jason Travis,” he said after a minute.

”Oh somebody likes going off the beaten path,” Jackson teased. “Can’t say I’ve ever had somebody pick an offensive tackle as their favorite player.”

Brady blushed, and he looked much cuter with some life back on his face. “Nobody’s ever done it better than him!” He said defensively. “He went three straight seasons without giving up a sack! We had the Crown’s best running game basically his whole career because nobody could touch him!”

”Nobdy except Lawrence,” Jackson replied with a smirk.

”That cheap-shotting prick,” Brady grumbled. “If I ever meet Taylor Lawrence, I swear I’ll-“

He trailed off, blushing, and Jackson laughed. “You’ll what?” He said, giving Brady a playful punch on the arm. “Get pounded into the ground like a nail?”

Brady shot him an angry look, and for a half a second Jackson was afraid he’d messed up. But then the blond boy burst out laughing and Jackson happily joined him. Once you got this boy talking about something besides “wormheads,” he wasn’t half-bad. And talking about football players was a great deal easier than trying to work through his clearly compromised emotional state.

”Hey, do you want something to eat?” Jackson asked. “Because no offense man, but you’re so skinny you look like you haven’t had a full meal since the birth of Terra.”

Brady shrugged. “Whatever,” he said. “I’ve already had a synthcube today, I don’t really need more than that.”

Jackson tutted and stood, crossing the room to go into the atomic compiler. “Lesson one of the living in the Compact, Brady,” he said, typing in a request for a plate of loaded nachos. “Your wants and needs matter here. Whatever they were feeding you on that rock doesn’t have to be a concern anymore. You’ll never pay for food again!”

Seconds later, he turned around with a plate of nachos, with cheese, beef, peppers, and plentiful other goodies. Judging by how Brady’s eyes widened, he wasn’t quite as immune to the charms of food as he claimed to be.

”Oh God,” he said softly. “Those look amazing. They’re not drugged or anything, right?”

”Nope!” Jackson replied cheerily. “They could be if you wanted to, Class As are a great time in food. Though if you’re not careful, you’ll end up with one hell of a stomachache. Eating just feels so good you’ll never want to stop!”

”I’m good, thanks,” Brady said dryly, though he didn’t look away from the nachos.

Jackson shrugged. “Your loss,” he said, setting the platter down on the bed. Brady dug into them like a man possessed, his eyes fluttering blissfully. “Careful now, don’t choke!”

”I know how to eat,” Brady grumbled through a mouthful of chips, cheese, and bacon bits. But he did heed Jackson’s warning and slow down.”How ‘bout you? Who’s your all-time top Wasp?”

”Okay, favorite or best?” Jackson said, making sure he a got a bite with a bit of everything. “Super-different answers.”

”Both!”

Jackson pondered that through four more bites of nachos. “Best has got to be Don Starr,” he said. Brady snorted, accidentally spraying Jackson with chip crumbs.

”What are you, eighty?” He snarked. “I bet your parents weren’t even alive when Don Starr played.”

”I’ve watched every game he ever played!” Jackson said with mix of defensiveness and pride. “He was exactly as good as everybody says he was, maybe better! I’ve never seen anybody who could throw a ball like that.”

”So you’re just like, a massive dork, huh?” Brady said. “Didn’t Starr play like seventeen seasons?”

”Nineteen, actually,” Jackson replied with a smirk.

”How have you watched all of his games?” Brady asked. “I know what CCC charges for those archive subscriptions, it’s an arm and a leg and maybe your other foot too.”

Jackson winced. “Yeah, there were maybe a couple of months where I paid for that and skipped a meal or three,” he said sheepishly. “Acer will still make fun of me for choices like that.”

Brady’s expression darkened. “Acer,” he said with a grumble. “You mean that giant tree who keeps telling me how much happier I’ll be as a worm- uh, as a stupid pet?”

Well it still wasn’t great, but at least it was progress. “Yeah, that’s the one,” Jackson said. “I’m not his pet or anything, I want to be independent, but he’s helped me adjust to living here. He makes better food than any Terran I’ve ever met.”

The blond boy’s expression lightened for a moment at the mention of food, but he caught himself and scowled. “Like good food and a couple fountains make up for enslaving Terra,” he shot back. “Those fuckers ruined everything!”

Jackson took a deep breath. Enough dancing around it. “Yeah but, did they?” He said. Brady shot him a look, but he continued. “Brady, humans didn’t do a great job as stewards of their own future. We started horrific wars, we destroyed most of the planets we terraformed. We launched orbital strikes against labor unions!”

”But none of that gives these plant monsters the right to make us slaves!” Brady exclaimed. “We are free beings! We deserve the rights to our own earnings!”

”Earnings are all we would ever get from the Accord,” Jackson replied. “And even then, we didn’t get most of them. I bet you ate synthcubes on Solak-5 because they didn’t pay you enough to get anything better.” Brady’s sullen silence was confirmation enough.

”The Affini aren’t here to enslave us, Brady,” Jackson said. “If they were, I’d have been implanted a long time ago no matter what I said. They mean it when they say they want the best for us. It’s just that for some people, what’s best for them is life as a floret.”

Brady groaned and flopped back on the bed. “Jackson, I’m fucked, aren’t I?”

Jackson didn’t have it in him to lie. “You’re probably going to be domesticated once they figure out how to deactive whatever your suicide mechanism is,” he confessed. “Threats of self-harm and the state of your living space are sufficient grounds on their own. Add in all the w-word stuff? You’re probably going to be implanted by the end of the week.”

”Phenomenal,” Brady said. “The suicide mechanism isn’t even real. CCC only gives that shit to people with proprietary information, I wasn’t important enough. I was just stalling to try and find a way out of this. Clearly there isn’t one.”

”There isn’t,” Jackson said, scooting back to sit next to Brady’s head. “The Affini aren’t going anywhere, and they’re not going to let you leave the planet. The cold, hard truth is that humanity does not have the tools to resist the Compact.”

”So I’m just gonna be a wormhead now?” Bryce moaned. “I get everything that makes me who I am stripped away to be some stupid pet for a plant?”

”That’s not what it’s like at all!” Jackson exclaimed. “And stop using that word! Florets don’t stop being themselves when they’re domesticated. They get to be whatever version of themselves they would be if they didn’t have to worry about anything. Their owners deal with feeding them, maintaining their health, keeping them housed and clothed, everything. They have all the time in the world to pursue their interests. Well, and have sex. They do a whole lot of that.”

”That sounds too good to be true,” Brady said.

”I know, but somehow it’s not,” Jackson replied. He rested his hand on Brady’s and squeezed it. “Your life doesn’t end when you join the Compact. It’s more that your new one begins.”

Brady sighed and sat up. “I mean, I’m pretty fucking pissed about it,” he said. “But am I correct in assuming that they’re listening to us right now?”

”You are.”

”And am I also correct in assuming that they’re going to come claim me the second you leave, since they know now I can’t actually erupt into a fireball at will?” Brady asked.

”Correct once again,” Jackson responded.

“It was so obvious I was lying,” Brady said, shaking his head. “The devices CCC gives the higher-ups are detectable even on Terran scans. Why didn’t they just take me?“

”Second lesson of living in the Affini Compact,” Jackson said in reply. “These plants care more about your health and safety than anything else in the universe. If there is the slightest chance that they can make another sophont happy, they’ll do everything they can to make it happen.”

“I still don’t really believe you,” Brady sighed. “But I guess I don’t have much choice in the matter. You still gotta tell me who your favorite player is before you go!”

Jackson smiled dreamily. “Oh that’s easy,” he said. “Patrick Bradshaw. I’ve never seen guys do the things with a football he can. Also, and this is a bit less important, stars is he dreamy.”

Brady snickered and now it was Jackson’s turn to blush. “What?” He asked. “Tell me I’m wrong!”

”You’re not,” he said. “It’s just… pretty gay to make your choice of favorite player like that.”

”Look me in the eye and tell me that if Jason Travis said he wanted to fuck you, you’d turn him down,” Jackson deadpanned. Much to his delight, Brady turned crimson and refused to answer.

”Thought so,” Jackson said, grabbing the empty plate and taking it to the compiler. “Seriously though, welcome to the Compact. I know it’s a big change, but I think you’ll learn to love it.”

Brady didn’t reply as he left the room. Once Jackson stepped outside, Acer and his friend Coriander were waiting outside.

”Oh thank the stars!” Acer said, grabbing Jackson in his vines and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. “I was so worried! Did he hurt you, did anything happen?”

”Acer, I think you’re the most likely source of hurt here,” Coriander replied dryly.

”Put me down please!’ Jackson squeaked. Acer did so reluctantly, only after checking every inch of his body for injuries. That got Jackson blushing and made Coriander giggle.

“You knew he couldn’t actually kill himself, didn’t you?” Jackson said, eyeing his guardian suspiciously. “Why bother sending me in there?”

”I don’t know what you could possibly mean, petal,” Acer said with a twinkle in his eye. “This was a vital mission in which you succeeded greatly. It was particularly encouraging to hear your glowing speech on the nature of florethood.”

Jackson thought he was going to blush himself into a fireball. “A-anyway,” he stammered, trying to keep himself from screaming. “Coriander, are you here for Brady?”

The herbal-scented Affini’s bright green eyes flickered. “Oh yes,” she said, almost purring. “I love taking in strays, especially ones who have given me every reason not to be gentle in my domestication.”

An array of injector vines flared out behind Coriander, and Jackson averted his gaze. Not expressing interest in xenodrugs was a key cog in remaining independent. Alright he may have suggested Class As to Brady, but that was just to put him at ease! Anybody could see that.

Coriander pressed a vine against a sensor next to Brady’s door and it slid open. Jackson heard a surprised yelp from inside and the telltale clicking sounds of an Affini staring down cornered prey before it slid shut. A faint humming sound indicated Coriander had activated the room’s noise cancelling features. Brady was in for it now.

”He’s in good vines with her,” Acer said, escorting Jackson toward the elevator. “You’ll scarcely recognize him next time you see him.”

Jackson giggled. “Can’t wait,” he said. But his conversation with Brady lingered in his mind. Truth be told, he hadn’t thought about football since arriving on Gilreath. There was far too much about life in the Compact to explore, too many new things to do, too many new friends to enjoy spending time with.

But the thoughts were back now, and suddenly Jackson missed it. He missed watching chess where all of the pieces moved at once. He missed the depth of statistical analysis available for such an intricate game. He missed his Wasps. And dear stars did he miss looking at Patrick Bradshaw.

”Hey Acer,” Jackson said as the pair of them rode the elevator back to the lobby. “Have you ever heard of football?”

Chapter Text

“Okay, you lost me.”

Jackson groaned and gesticulated at the whiteboard set up in his and Acer’s living room, which was currently covered in all manner of lines, numbers, X’s and O’s. Acer Maplestone sat on the couch and watched on, amused. Jackson was so cute when he got all worked up like this. He had to keep brushing his shaggy brown hair out of his face, and he got the most adorable pouty expression whenever Acer said he didn’t understand a concept.

In truth, he understood what his hopeful floret-to-be was explaining well enough. Acer took up chess shortly after the initial Terran domestication campaign, and Jackson’s explanation of football as “chess where all the pieces move at once” got the point across. But pretending not to comprehend his ward meant Jackson got to explain it more. Plus, more cute pouting!

”Okay, where did I lose you?” Jackson asked. He was almost vibrating, he was so excited to be talking about this. He had swapped out his previous outfit for a strange mesh shirt with insignias of an angry-looking wasp on both shoulders and the chest. He decided that pants were not a necessary part of explaining this strange sport, which Acer decided was definitely just to tease him. Seriously. What was an Affini meant to do when faced with a half-naked cute gushing about his special interest with his pussy on display? Not drug and enjoy him? It was unfair, woefully unfair.

But Acer contained himself, looking down at the “notes” he’d been taking on his pad. In truth, they were a few broad strokes about the game and pages of gushing about Jackson. “I believe around the point where you were discussing the minutiae of the ‘line backers?’ I fail to see the difference between these line backers and the defensive backs. That much specialization leads to unhealthy mental patterns for you cuties.”

Jackson grumbled and buzzed his lips, turning around and clearing a section of his whiteboard. “Alright, so there’s a few different kinds of linebackers. One word, linebacker. That pause in the middle makes it sound super weird. There’s two base defensive structures, 3-4 and 4-3. The first number refers to the defensive line, the second to the linebackers. With me so far?”

Acer nodded, thinking about how much fun it would be to make Jackson explain this with a Class A injector sitting in his neck.

”We’ll start with the 4-3, because that’s what my favorite team uses. Or at least it was, I’m not sure what they’re doing this season, you guys don’t broadcast Crown League games. The middle linebacker is like the quarterback of the defense. He communicates with the sidelines and tells all of his teammates what the play call is. He’s responsible for making any adjustments before the snap as well in response to what the offense does. With me so far?”

”Yes, that makes sense,” Acer said with a smile. “How did you acquire so much knowledge about this game, cutie? You must’ve studied for years!”

”Oh this is nothing,” Jackson said with a wave of his hand. “This is just basic theory. Wait until we get to the advanced stats and concepts! But stay focused, plant! We have a lot to get through. You said you wanted to understand everything.”

Acer sighed happily as Jackson went on about the responsibilities of the middle linebacker and how important they were to the operation of a defense. He had some concerns about this game, but those could wait until after Jackson’s adorable little lecture. His ward had a singular cuteness to him when he got excited about something. He spoke faster, his voice dropped lower, and he even got excited between his legs. It took every bit of self-control Acer Maplestone had in his vines not to pounce on Jackson every time he decided to have a “no-pants day.” Honestly, he already behaved like a floret most of the time. Collaring him wouldn’t change much of anything besides puncturing that precious little ego of his.

”I do have one question, actually,” Acer interjected as Jackson rambled about how outside and inside linebackers served different functions. “Doesn’t this all seem rather… barbaric, as you Terrans say? This is an awful lot of violence and risk of harm for a simple little game with a ball.”

That was a fraction of Acer’s true concerns about the shocking feralism on display in this game of football, but he figured it was only fair to not pour a bucket of ice water all over Jackson’s fun little lecture. He deserved a chance to advocate for himself and his interests before Acer jumped down his throat.

”Well, you’re not wrong,” Jackson admitted, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “There is a certain violence to football that’s built into the game. The country it grew and thrived in was pretty brutal if history is any judge. But there’s artistry in the violence, you know? The way these twenty-two people move in concert on any given play, it’s like a dance. One partner leads, the other follows, eleven times across the field, over and over again.”

”Hmm, I suppose so,” Acer said, tapping a vine against his chin. “Is that artistry worth the cost? From your descriptions of certain plays, I see upward of fifty chances for serious injury at any given time.”

”Acer, I know the Compact doesn’t have much respect for human risk assessment,” Jackson replied, looking up at the Affini. “And that’s reasonable, considering the state of our society when you found us. But we’re capable of taking calculated risks. Football is a game of calculating and recalculating risk at the end of the day.”

”The Affini Compact has rather a different definition of what level of risk is ‘acceptable,’ cutie,” Acer said, his red and gold leaves rustling. “Tell me, how often will a player tear their anterior collateral ligament? Lacking Affini medical tech, that is a severe injury that can never fully heal!”

”Not that much since they started with the genetic modifications!” Jackson protested, but Acer was not convinced.

”Petal, if a game requires genetic modifications to be played safely, then perhaps it ought to be consigned to the history books,” Acer cautioned. “The health and welfare of sophonts is paramount in the Compact, and this sport seems to go against our principles deliberately!”

Jackson deflated, and Acer sighed. It was a tricky thing, balancing the basic Affini drive to protect and domesticate without crushing the cultural spirits of the species they watched over.

If Acer were smart, he would shut this down right now. That’s what Fan would do. Fan Malvaceae, Twelfth Bloom always knew what to do in sticky situations with sophonts. So many Affini treated every problem the same way: if a sophont is expressing abnormal behavior, administer xenodrugs until behavior normalizes. And while that was all well and good, and pumping Jackson full of Classes A and C until he smiled again sounded lovely, it wouldn’t feel right. The knot around his core wouldn’t go away.

We may be the stewards of our empire, Mr. Maplestone, Fan’s voice said from a distant memory. But we are not the only species with a perspective to offer on life among the cosmos. The sophonts in our care have much wisdom of their own, and we ought to take it seriously. No matter how cute they are, we owe it to them.

Besides, it’s much more satisfying when they come rushing into our vines because they realize it is right and good. Their submission is all the sweeter when it is freely given.

”Hey,” Acer said, slipping a vine under Jackson’s chin and tilting his head back. The boy’s breath caught in his throat, and Acer had to force himself not to pounce. “I don’t want you to stop, pup. I only want you to consider our perspective on this game. As your guardian, it is my responsibility to challenge you on feralist value systems. But please do go on, I’d love to hear more about your favorite little game.”

Jackson’s face was red enough that Acer could probably cook dinner on it. By the stars, how did the little one just keep getting cuter?

”Um, th-thanks,” he said, pulling away and giving his body a shake. “Um, uh, l-let’s talk about quarterbacks! Yeah. They’re the most important position on the team. Everybody is vital, everybody has their role to play, but teams orbit around the man under center.”

”Wait, he’s under the center?” Acer looked down at one of the diagrams he had drawn, now beyond mystified. “But if he’s under the center, how is he supposed to take the clap and run the play?”

Jackson giggled, now it was Acer’s turn to blush and grumble. “First of all, it’s called a snap, not a clap, you goofy pile of leaves,” he teased. “Second of all, ‘under center’ is just an expression. It refers to the quarterback standing right behind the center, holding out his hands to catch the snap and start the play.”

Acer conjured an image of that in his mind’s eye. “That seems rather sexual,” he commented.

”Oh, one hundred percent,” Jackson replied. “Football is the horniest sport humanity ever dreamed up. Hot, sweaty guys running around, crashing into each, dragging each other down to the ground? At least three times a game, you’ll hear an announcer talk about how well one team is penetrating. Before you ask, no, not literally penetrating. They save that stuff for after the game.”

“Well, I see why you took so well to it then,” Acer said with a smirk, his silver eyes sparkling. Jackson stuck out his tongue, and Acer had to wrap a few vines around his injectors to keep himself from attacking. By the Everbloom, Jackson would look so cute with that tongue hanging out and panting like a good puppy. It was hard work not being one of the Affini who would just pounce on any sophont they decided would be better off as a floret. Every biological instinct in his body screamed at him to ignore his ethics and turn his ward into Jackson Maplestone, Third Floret. 

But he wouldn’t. Jackson had insisted that he would prefer to remain independent, and he had given Acer no cause to domesticate him forcefully. It was rare to find a Terran so well-adjusted as Jackson Meadows. When Acer found him, he was miserable with his work, certainly, but he had his affairs in order nonetheless. He ate three square meals a day, bathed regularly, interacted with friends and loved ones when his job gave him enough time.

And once he had the freedom to pursue his transition and never participate in capitalism again, Jackson thrived. He was one of the only independent friends of practically every floret in their sector, and he relished it. Ripping his independence from him would be satisfying in the moment, and once Jackson was a glassy-eyed pet he would surely thank his owner for it. But it would feel like killing a little part of the boy Acer had so fallen for. It wouldn’t be right.

”But anyway, quarterbacks,” Jackson said, and Acer shook himself out of his reverie with a rustle. “I know I mentioned what they are already, but they’re the most important player on the team. The jersey I’m wearing is actually the Wasps’ current quarterback! His name’s Patrick Bradshaw, he’s incredible.”

Acer watched with a smirk as the color rose on Jackson’s cheeks just from thinking about this player. “Aww, look at that,” he teased. “Seems like a certain little puppy’s got a crush!”

Jackson squirmed. “You’d understand if you saw him!” He protested. “And I’m not a puppy!”

”Funny, that’s not what you were saying the other night,” Acer said, vines snaking across the floor toward Jackson. “I seem to remember an awful lot of barking and whining coming from a certain little beagle held nice and tight in my vines. I’m happy to go fetch that precious little piece of neoprene if somebody needs a reminder.”

”THAT WON’T BE NECESSARY!” Jackson exclaimed, though he didn’t make any movement away from Acer’s encroaching vines. “F-fine, maybe I like acting like a dog sometimes, but that doesn’t make me your puppy!”

Acer’s smile grew, flashing his thorny fangs. Seeds made the silliest mistakes. “Sweet boy, I never said anything about you being my puppy,” he said, his vines curling around Jackson’s legs. “I just said you were a puppy. But if you’re going to insist on it, I won’t protest!”

Jackson let out an adorable little whine, too intoxicated by the teasing to protest his independence. Besides, he trusted Acer enough to submit in scenes without that extrapolating to being an owned pet. But he held strong, looking up at Acer with pleading eyes.

”I w-wasn’t done teaching you!” Jackson said with a pout. “Please, can I finish before you go to town on me? I’ll even call you that thing you really like!”

Acer relented, but he didn’t release his hold on Jackson’s legs. “You drive a hard bargain, petal,” Acer said with a smirk. “Very well, please continue. But I’m not letting go of your legs. You’ll just have to keep up this adorable little lecture about your favorite feralist pastime while I play with you. Please do try not to consider how easy it would be for me to domesticate you on the spot.”

Jackson whined and squirmed, but he put up a valiant effort to carry on. “S-so the quarterback is vital to a good team,” he said, struggling to keep his composure. “Everything operates around them, and the whole team will go out of their way to protect them. If a team’s starting quarterback gets seriously hurt, that’s probably it for their season.”

”So the quarterback is the floret?” Acer asked.

Jackson smirked. “Kinda, I guess,” he said. “I’d say they’re like the queen on the chessboard. Capable of a great deal, powerful, and important. But if you lose them, you’re in deep shit.”

”Language,” Acer admonished, lightly whipping a vine across Jackson’s pussy. The boy quaked and moaned, leaking all over the Affini’s vines. Honestly. It was patently unfair that he didn’t get to just claim the little cutie here and now.

“S-sorry Acer,” Jackson said, but that wasn’t good enough for Acer’s taste.

”Ah ah ah, you said you’d use the title,” Acer said, his vines coiling up over the brown-haired boy’s hips. Jackson pouted, but he complied like a good pet-in-training.

”Sorry Master,” he said with a hot blush on his cheeks. “This doesn’t mean I’m your floret!”

”Of course not, sweet pup,” Acer replied smoothly. “It’s just for fun. Please do continue informing me about the nickelback.”

”Quarterback!” Jackson exclaimed. “You’re saying that one wrong on purpose just to annoy me!”

Acer let out a mock gasp, slipping a vine into Jackson’s cunt. “Why, I would never!” He protested. “The very idea of such treachery is counter to my entire philosophy. I can’t believe you would accuse me of something so terrible!”

He lifted Jackson into the air, forcing his hands behind his back and binding them there. Any protests the so-called “independent” boy might've had died in his throat as he bucked against the vines invading his pussy. By the Everbloom, this was where Jackson belonged.

“I’m terribly sorry petal, I just couldn’t resist,” Acer said, red sparks running through his silver eyes. “But worry not. I would like you to walk me through this sport of yours once more. No, I will not be releasing you in order to do so. Please try to enunciate clearly, as this subject matter is unfamiliar to me.”

”Wh-where should I ungh, sweet stars, s-start?” Jackson asked feebly, adding a sheepish “Master” to the end when Acer cocked an eyebrow.

”The very basics, please,” Acer said, taking Jackson back into his bedroom. “You were speaking so quickly and excitedly on our walk home that I’m afraid I missed out on some rather basic mechanics of football. I cannot recall precisely what ‘third up’ means.”

Jackson groaned and squirmed in Acer’s vines. “Y-you know it’s third ah down, M-Master! This isn’t fair!”

”If you wanted me to be fair, you would ask me to stop,” Acer pointed out. Jackson scowled. The two of them had frequent conversations about the boundaries in their relationship. The brown-haired boy was happy to let Acer play with him as he liked, so long as he stopped when asked to. Understandably, given his years under Terran capitalism trapped in a body he never wanted, he had a complex relationship with the idea of coercion.

And yet, despite all of those protestations about maintaining his sexual independence, Acer couldn’t remember a time Jackson ever asked his warden to stop once he got going.

”F-fine,” Jackson grumbled, gasping as Acer wound a vine around his neck. “Every p-play in football is called a *gasp* down. You have four downs to make it ungh ten yards, then it r-resets. At the end of the oh sweet stars field is the end zone, and if you make it there, you Master please oh please get six points!”

“Mmm, I see,” Acer said. He understood all of this when Jackson first explained it the first time, but seeing him this flustered was too delightful to pass up. “And what is this ‘field goal’ business? I can’t quite recall.”

Jackson pulled against his bonds as hard as he could, but he could do nothing to fight back against Acer. “If you c-can’t make it Master please I’m so close to the end zone, you can ungh PLEASE k-kick a field goal instead! There’s *whine* goalposts behind each end zone, a-a-and if you k-kick it through you get three points! Acer, fucking please, I ca-“

Acer squeezed the vine around Jackson’s neck tighter, cutting off the trapped boy’s pleas. “Petal, how many times must I warn you about your language?” He chided. He brandished an injector flower, and watched Jackson’s expression transition from fear to anticipation in microseconds. “If you’re going to call me Master like a floret and sit in my vines like a floret, you’re going to speak like a floret.”

He poked the injector into Jackson’s thigh and relaxed the vine around his neck. “Try to curse, sweetheart,” Acer invited. The bound man opened his mouth, forming his lips to make the beginnings of an “f,” but instead his eyes crossed and his pussy clamped down on Acer’s vines.

”This is a special Class W strain, sweet puppy,” Acer said, pumping in a liberal dose. “It won’t affect most of your speech, only the amygdala. It’s responsible for cursing! If it detects an oncoming swear word, it will instead hit you with a nice bolt of stupefying pleasure. I’ll include it when I give you your Class Gs every morning, since you clearly can’t be trusted with uninhibited speech. Does my independent puppy have a problem with that?”

Still quivering from the blinding pleasure from his failed curse word, Jackson shook his head. Acer smiled. “Good! Such an eager, compliant ward,” he praised, petting the top of Jackson’s head. “Thank you for your extensive lesson on this… charming little game. Would you like some release before dinner?”

Jackson nodded frantically and Acer grinned. He held a small vine on either side of the bound man’s clit and vibrated them at high speed. Jackson howled in bliss, arching his back and clamping down on the vine still buried in his cunt. It only took seconds before he came with a shuddering moan, then Acer lowered him down onto the couch and got him a glass of water.

”You’re such a bully,” Jackson grumbled.

”Funny, that doesn’t sound like a safeword to me,” Acer replied with a grin. Jackson rolled his eyes, but he had a matching grin across his face. He might not be able to call Jackson his floret, but the adorable Terran was still undeniably HIS .

After a minute of gulping down water, Jackson looked up at his warden with wide eyes. “Um, Acer?” He asked. The Affini, now done with the scene, didn’t force him to use the title, ignoring the itch in his injectors. “Do you think you could find a way to get a Wasps game into our Hab? Now that I’m thinking about football again, I really miss it.”

”Petal,” Acer began, but Jackson kept going.

”Please?” Jackson continued. “I know it’s feralist, I know it’s violent, and I didn’t even get into some of the… other stuff the Crown League. But it would really make me happy to watch a football game again. Isn’t that the Affini’s whole deal?”

“There’s a line, Jackson,” Acer said, but his will was already chipping away. And when the Terran widened his eyes and stuck out his bottom lip, his resolve broke altogether.

”Oh, very well,” Acer said, and Jackson cheered. “One game, alright?”

”Definitely!” Jackson exclaimed. He jumped up and leapt into Acer’s vines, hugging him tight. “Thank you so much, you big dumb plant! You’re the best warden a boy could ask for.”

As nice as that was, it still stung a bit. He never wanted to hear Jackson call him “warden” again.

Chapter Text

“Nngh, let me go you stupid weed!” Brady said, grimacing as he struggled against the vines wrapped around his body.

”Such a fiery little creature, aren’t you?” Came the response from above his head. “I’m delighted to inform you that allowing you freedom is simply not an option, little Brady. What with your abhorrent feralist behavior since arriving here on Gilreath, it would be most improper of me to allow you even a whisper of self-determination before your implantation. So you had best get comfortable in my vines, dear one. You’ll be spending a great deal of time in them.”

Rage coursed through Brady as he fought against the soft, smooth vines. They couldn’t do this! It wasn’t right! Terrans weren’t made for confinement and pethood, it went against everything their species stood for. The Affini may have fancied themselves the stewards of the universe, but that didn’t make it true. That didn’t mean their definition of a good life was right for Brady. He was perfectly fine as a comms tech on Solak-5. He didn’t need these ridiculous plush beds or loudly colored clothing or delicious food. They were wasting their time on him.

”I’m never going to want to be a pet, you know,” he grumbled, sagging in the vines. “I want to go back to my old life. So if you could just drop me off where you found me and forget about all this bullshit, that’d be great.”

The Affini holding him giggled. “Little one, it seems you don’t have a firm grasp of what it is we do here,” she said, slipping a vine under Brady’s shirt and tickling his tummy. “It is the solemn mission of the Affini Compact to ensure that every sophont species in our care can lead the most wonderful, fulfilling lives possible. Even greasy little Terrans who would rather make a scene than accept our care. Can you really look at how you’ve lived since your arrival and tell me that you are better off free of my aid?”

Brady grumbled. The Affini, Coriander Apiales, she said her name was, did maybe have something resembling a point. He had eaten nothing but synthcubes since arriving, he slept on the floor in protest of his abduction, and he hadn’t even looked at the shower. But none of that gave her the right to assume control of his life! Surely anybody would react to this ridiculous situation the same way. He refused to concede.

”’Aid’ is a pretty generous word for kidnapping me and locking me up!” Brady protested. “Do you weeds even care about what the species you conquer want from their lives? I have a whole lot of things I’d rather do instead of being a pet. That Jackson guy seemed pretty cool, you let him be independent!”

”Little one, when you see how Jackson Meadows behaves around Acer, you’ll never think of him as independent again,” Coriander replied with that same musical giggle. “Honestly, it’s silly that they don’t just dispense with their absurd little act and make him a floret. But it’s not my place to comment on another Affini’s courtship, so that’ll just be our little secret, hm?”

Coriander kept Brady pinned in her vines as she crossed the room to the compiler, pulling up the history. “My goodness little one,” she said, somber. “I knew you were limiting yourself to those appalling synthcubes, but only one per day? No wonder you’re thin as a stick! We’re going to fix that, mark my words. Your new Mistress is going to fill that body out wonderfully.”

Mistress. The word hit Brady’s ears like a foghorn. It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t a possibility, it was a certainty. This plant was going to own him, and there was nothing he could do to change her mind.

”And you’re going to be my, uh, M-Mistress?” Brady asked, the word catching in his throat. “I’m just going to be your slave the rest of my life?”

Coriander went still instantly. Every leaf, every vine went stiff and silent, and a chill ran through Brady’s body. “That word carries with it an innacurate and unfair accusation, little one,” she said, her voice low. “I have no intention of making you perform labor. I am not going to treat you like a commodity. I am not going to buy or sell you. I am only here to help you. You are not a slave. Today is the day you are freed, not confined.”

”Strange thing to say to a man you have in bondage,” Brady protested. “Okay, not a slave. Sorry to touch a… well, I guess not a nerve, I don’t think plants have those. But still, some of the tenets apply to your idea of being a pet! I’m still here against my will!”

Coriander relented, a soundless song returning to the rustling of her leaves and the movement of her vines. She filled the room with a nice, fresh smell. It reminded Brady of the community herb garden in his building back on Terra. Despite everything, he had to admit she smelled very nice.

”I will grant you that, little one,” Coriander said. “Given the choice, I’m sure you could name a hundred places you would rather be right now than nestled in my vines. However, I am under no obligation to entertain your ideas of where you ought to be in the world. You surrendered that right the moment you threatened to harm yourself.”

”But I couldn’t even do anything!” Brady whined. “Weren’t you listening? I never had a way of hurting myself, I didn’t matter enough for CCC to give me a suicide rig! I was just trying to buy some time, I was never gonna do anything.”

”Little petal, my people are not mind readers,” Coriander said, typing something into the compiler. “How were we to know you had no intention of injuring yourself? And also, I don’t think I believe you. So many of you Terrans are such fanatics about your so-called ‘freedom’ that you react with unimaginable violence when somebody tries to help.”

Brady yelped as he felt a poke in his neck. He was wondering when Coriander was going to unleash those terrifying injector flowers on him.

”Let me ask you something, little one,” Coriander said. “And do keep in mind that you are now under the influence of Class D xenodrugs, designed to make it impossible for you to lie to your Mistress. If you could have used one of those sickening suicide rigs, would you have?”

”Yes,” Brady replied immediately, surprising even himself. “My life is best served as a tool for the Terran Accord, and if I can give my life to damage my enemy, all the better.”

“Brady, if I released you right now, where would you go?” Coriander asked, the dominant tone in her voice ceding to one of deep sadness and sympathy. The words poured out before Brady could even think about it.

”I would return to Solak-5 and resume my post as a communications technology specialist for the Crown Communications Corporation,” he responded, almost robotically. “I would resume the life I obviously deserve, consuming as few of the Terran Accord’s precious resources as I can while advancing the profitability of my employer.”

Coriander squeezed him tighter. “You’re doing very well, Brady, you’re being very honest with me,” the Affini said. She sounded upset, but she carried on. “You mentioned the life you ‘obviously deserve.’ Do you feel that you would deserve a different life if your society were not bound by the limitations of finite resources?”

”I don’t see the point of the question,” Brady said with a scoff. “That’s impossible. Every society has limited resources. It’s the duty of every good citizen to consume as little as possible in order to promote productivity and profit.” Was the weed high or just delusional? That was a preposterous notion. Even these compiler things couldn’t create something from nothing. Civilization was a constant battle for resources and manpower, every Terran learned that as a child.

“I-“ Coriander seemed at a loss for words, and Brady grinned smugly. He was outwitting her, even on a truth serum. “Petal, what did they do to you? I’ve dealt with a great many ferals in my time, but none quite so indoctrinated as you.”

”Mental reconditioning is a prerequisite to employment within any branch of the Crown League,” Brady replied, and Coriander went still again. “I went through an intensive six-month treatment course in order to reshape me into a proper employee. It got my mental processes in line with the optimal functioning of Terran society, and I’m grateful for it. Don’t you all do the same thing for your pets?”

”By the Everbloom,” Coriander mumbled. “Brady, I have one more question for you. What makes you happy?”

Brady cocked his head. “My happiness is irrelevant, obviously,” he replied. “All that matters is my productivity. Although those nachos Jackson compiled were really tasty, they are irrelevant to my ultimate purpose.”

The compiler dinged, and Brady blinked. That was strange. All of those answers were true, so far as he knew, but they came from somewhere deeper in him than his own consciousness. Affini truth serums had a bit more subtlety to them than the Terran ones. Those drugs they fed him during training were a good deal less delicate about the whole thing. He spent many a night in that hospital on his hands and knees in front of a toilet after interrogation days.

”You poor petal,” Coriander whispered, reaching into the compiler and pulling out a plate loaded with sweets. Cakes, little pies, cookies, and a few other things Brady half-recognized from his old life back on Terra. “We have a great deal of work to do in order to adapt you to life in the Compact, which will take rather a while, I fear. In the meantime, however, I will be sure to give you the happiest, most comfortable life, and do everything I can to prove to you that your happiness is real and that it matters.”

Brady scoffed. These plants were awfully naïve for being guardians of the universe. Living on Terra, you learned to put happiness aside as a serious pursuit early on, if for no other reason than avoiding constant disappointment. Brady Montana gave up on the pursuit of happiness long before he set foot in the CCC’s reconditioning center, and it would take more than an over-emotional weed to change that.

”To whit, here’s your first lesson, munchkin,” Coriander said, though the cheer in her voice did sound distinctly forced. “Here in the Compact, it is your stars-given right to eat and enjoy as much as you please. When was the last time you had a little sweet treat?”

”Do berry flavor dots count?” Brady asked. Coriander said they didn’t. “Then it would have to be at least five years ago, back on Terra. I’m not certain. But I don’t need this, I’m perfectly fine with just synthcubes.”

”You are not!” Coriander exclaimed, her vines grasping Brady tight enough to make him wheeze. “Do you have any idea how insufficient synthcubes are for nourishing Terrans? Your species is meant to have a layer of body fat in order to live a healthy life. And yet you starve yourselves all for the sake of maintaining profit! That is sickening, and such mentality is not tolerated in the Affini Compact.”

She tapped Brady’s cheek, and his mouth fell open on instinct. Coriander chuckled as she placed a tiny little cake on his tongue, covered in pink frosting and sprinkles, and Brady blushed furiously. This was so undignified!

”Maybe all that conditioning has some upsides,” Coriander said, her dominant tone creeping back in. “You’re a very obedient boy, aren’t you? Only the most naturally suited florets don’t have to be taught about gesture training. Look at you, still waiting for the command to close your mouth! You’re going to make for such a well-behaved pet.”

Brady fumed. He had some thoughts about what kind of pet he’d be, but then Coriander tapped on his chin with a vine and drew a circle on his cheek. Without thinking, he closed his mouth and bit into the cake, letting out an audible moan. A thick jelly burst from the cake as he chewed, tasting almost like berry flavor dots, only a million times better. Were those real raspberries? He could’ve sworn those had gone extinct.

”That’s a good boy, enjoy your treat,” Coriander cooed, running a vine through his hair. “You deserve it. You deserve to feel pleasure, feel joy, find things that actually satisfy you. This tastes nice, doesn’t it?”

Brady nodded, swallowing as the Affini ran a vine down his throat. He couldn’t believe he was admitting such a thing to his captor, he was almost throwing his leverage away! But oh stars, the treat did taste divine. The cake was soft and sweet, the frosting was light and heavenly, and that raspberry jelly was surely the nectar of the gods. Maybe he didn’t need them, but if Coriander wasn’t going to give him a choice, surely there wasn’t any harm in enjoying the cakes just a little bit, right?

Her vine was back, this time carrying a cookie with a disc of bright green gel in the middle. This time, Brady’s mouth opened eagerly at the touch of Coriander’s vine on his cheek, and the second between her setting the cookie on his tongue and tapping his chin felt like an eternity. Another circle on his cheek invited him to chew, and a wondrous, tart taste spread across his tongue.

”I do hope you enjoy my baking, petal,” Coriander said, her voice dripping with affectionate dominance. “A floret of mine started a bakery years ago, and I’ve kept it running for her. She taught me rather a lot! Though the Class A and Class C cocktails in them are of my own creation.”

Brady whined indignantly, he hadn’t consented to drugs! But he wasn’t indignant enough to spit out the cookie, that would be disrespectful. It was far too tasty for that. The cookie had just enough bite to it to be satisfying, without being hard enough to bedevil Brady’s teeth. And that filling in the middle, oh stars! Brady was sure he remembered what kind of green fruit would create that wonderful tartness, but it was a bit tricky to think right now through the fog in his brain.

When the Affini stroked his throat with a vine to encourage him to swallow then opened his mouth with another tap, he was panting. He was still writhing in the Affini’s vines, only now it was out of pleasure than an earnest attempt to escape. He wasn’t a pet, he didn’t want to be a pet, but he could spend a little while like this. It was cozy here in Miss Apiales’ vines.

”Even badly brainwashed ferals break for my baking,” Miss Apiales said in a singsong voice. “Would you like some more, little Brady? Remember, you still can’t lie to me!” He nodded as hard as he could, a shameful little whine escaping his mouth. He couldn’t help it! It was just the drugs, he wasn’t some kind of weird pet.

Miss Apiales hummed to herself as she picked up another cake, this one dark brown with fluffy white frosting. The second she placed it in his mouth and invited him to chew, Brady recognized the chocolate. He’d never eaten real chocolate before, nobody could afford that stuff on Terra without at least seven digits in their bank accounts. This was so much better than the fake flavoring!

Two of the Affini’s vines worked under Brady’s shirt, massaging his shoulders and petting his stomach. He tried to be upset about the indignity, but Miss Apiales felt too nice. She did say she broke a lot of ferals, after all. Brady doubted he was the first Terran to give her grief about not wanting to be a pet. She was going to be his Mistress after all, like it or not. Jackson said humanity didn’t have the tools to fight back against the Affini, and he was right.

”Mmmpphh,” Jackson moaned around the mouthful of cake, fighting the stab of arousal in the pit of his stomach. Was this going to be the rest of his life? Bound up in Miss Apiales’ vines, eating delicious treats, and getting drugged up out of his mind? Funny, all those concerns of profit and efficiency seemed a million miles away by now. Everything was small when he was here in Miss Apiales’ vines.

That’s the drugs talking, dummy! Brady’s inner monologue shouted. Wake up! They’re trying to trick you, strip away everything that makes you human! This is how they get you!

Brady knew the voice was right, but he didn’t care. He could listen to himself once Miss Apiales was done feeding him all these tasty snacks. Next up was a flaky little pie full of spiced apples, and Brady devoured it in just three bites. It was all just so good! Jackson was right, Class A made food so much better. He didn’t know what Class C was, but it must’ve added to the experience!

”I’ll tell you this much little one, keep up like this and we’ll fill out that figure in no time,” Miss Apiales cooed. “And my goodness, it seems that somebody’s awfully excited!”

Brady looked down and squealed, seeing the wet, straining bulge in his pants. He tried to protest through another mouthful of one of the pink-frosted raspberry cakes, but who was he kidding? He couldn’t remember ever feeling this much pleasure, and Miss Apiales wasn’t even touching his dick! He’d be thanking her if he could speak, but speaking meant spending less time eating, and he simply couldn’t have that.

”Oh and if you like these, wait until you have the ones I actually make fresh,” Miss Apiales purred. “I just had the compiler remake my recipes. They’re lovely, but they’re missing that certain special something you’ll get when you’re on display in my bakery.”

”Whhmmph?!” Brady exclaimed, but the Affini just giggled.

”Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, sweetpea,” she cooed, tracing a vine down Brady’s spine. “You’ll love it, that much I can promise you. Wouldn’t you rather worry about having a nutty little treat?” Miss Apiales held up a croissant, and Brady started drooling. Oh, he remembered these. Regional culture was mostly an afterthought by the time he was born on Terra, but every place held onto a couple markers from old times.

Parisian croissants were expensive enough that Brady had to save up for the better part of a year to buy one, but they were always worth the wait. Warm, crisp, so soft and fluffy inside, and delicious beyond belief. This one was dotted with slivered almonds and coated in melted butter, and it glistened in the low light of his room. Brady swore he could cum on the spot just from looking at it.

Then Miss Apiales fed it to him, right as she slipped an injector into his thigh.

The arousal flickering in his stomach flipped to a roaring blaze as Brady’s eyes rolled back in his head. He strained against Miss Apiales’ vines, his cock pulsed twice, then he came harder than he ever had in his life. Stars, it was just so good! And apparently she had better ones back in her bakery?!

The Affini held him tight throughout his shaking, shuddering orgasm, cooing praise and affirmation in his ear. As wonderful as the sensations were, Brady knew this was wrong, that he couldn’t be doing this. Good citizens of the Accord worked hard, they didn’t just get to relax and enjoy frivolous luxuries. That was all this was, all the Affini Compact and Miss Apiales brought to the table. So as toe-curling and wonderful as his orgasm felt, the clarity hit Brady far sooner than he would like. Apparently those xenodrugs had limitations.

He frowned, settling back into Miss Apiales’ grip. Now his pants were wet, he felt ashamed of himself, and he was still doomed to become a wormhead. Tears welled up in his eyes. This wasn’t fair! To him, to Miss Apiales, to anybody! He didn’t want to be some stupid pet, and he didn’t deserve all these things anyway. Everybody would be better off if CCC had just given him one of the suicide rigs.

”Oh petal, what’s wrong?” Miss Apiales asked, lifting Brady out of her lap and turning him to face her. As much as he hated to admit it, she was arresting. Six sparkling bright green eyes drew his attention, even through the veil of tears clouding his eyesight. She didn’t have flowers the way many other Affini did, except for her ever-bared injectors. Instead she was covered in a million and one different herbs, surrounding her with a fresh perfume.

”You need to let me go,” he said, hanging limp in Miss Apiales’ vines. “I’m not worth it. I’m better off back where I belong, I can’t be here. Please, you have to send me home.”

Miss Apiales sighed. “Darling Brady, that simply isn’t going to happen,” she said, stroking a vine down his cheek. “What happened? You enjoyed your little snack so much you achieved release without me even brushing up against your parts?”

Brady broke out into full sobs. Couldn’t she see that was the problem? He couldn’t enjoy this, it wasn’t allowed! It was a waste, he was being so greedy by taking all this food and pleasure for himself. Stars, what was the bill going to look like for all of this? They had to be lying about not having a monetary system, that was ridiculous. Any minute now, Miss Apiales was going to inform him of the massive debt he now owed the Affini Compact, and then she would take him off to become a wormhead. It was the only logical outcome of this situation.

But Miss Apiales didn’t have much interest in abiding by Brady’s perfectly logical deductions. Instead, she said something in an alien language that sounded like wind blowing through a tree and carried him off into the barely-used bathroom. She pressed a vine against a small panel on the wall and the floor slid open, revealing a comically oversized tub dug into the floor. Great, something else outrageously luxurious that he didn’t deserve. That would be really helpful.

”If I had to guess, you didn’t have access to appropriate bathing facilities on that desolate little rock,” Miss Apiales said, hitting another button to fill the tub with floral-scented water. “Knowing that appalling government of yours, you likely didn’t have them back on Terra either!”

”You’d have to be a trillionaire to afford a bathroom like this,” Brady complained through his tears. “How much are you gonna charge me for this anyway? I know you’re lying about being post-money or whatever.”

Miss Apiales didn’t bother responding to that comment, instead electing to strip Brady out of his clothes. He squealed and fought against her vines to cover himself, but she wouldn’t allow it. While it was nice to be out of his cum-laden pants, this was entirely undignified! Was this how the Affini treated their prisoners? They were going to invade his body with their sickening implants, but this was just unnecessary.

The massive tub filled quickly, and it was only a minute later that Miss Apiales stepped down into it with Brady still clutched tight in her vines. Despite himself, Brady sighed as he sank into the water up to his stomach. It was just the right temperature, the scent of wildflowers was calming, and the aching wrongness of it all felt a little further away.

That’s because she drugged the water, dumbass, Brady thought. Fight it. You were not born to be a stupid fucking pet.

”Now, I want to make a few things clear about your new life with me, Brady,” Miss Apiales said, vines curling around him possessively. “I know that your former… employers conditioned you to believe that you do not deserve even the most basic Terran necessities. I intend to break you of this notion, by any means necessary. I’m aware this sounds like a threat to you, and in a sense it is. But please try to remind yourself that I only want what’s best for you.”

Brady scoffed, though it was difficult to be dismissive when his assailant’s grasp felt better by the minute. “And do I not have any say in what’s best for me?” He asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

”Petal, you surrendered all rights to agency when you repeatedly threatened to harm yourself,” she replied, sticking a thick vine in his mouth to silence him when he tried to protest. “Yes, I am aware you lacked the genuine means to injure or kill yourself, but the intent was there. You told me so, remember?”

Brady grumbled into the vine gagging him, she did have a point. If those cheap bastards at the CCC bothered to give him a rig, none of this would be happening. Instead he had to sit here and listen to his alien captor prattle on about his fundamental disregard for his own well-being. He didn’t know how to make it clear to her that his well-being was irrelevant. Even more so now that his employer had presumably been dissolved in the wake off the Affini invasion.

“So no, you do not have any say in what’s best for yourself,” Miss Apiales continued. She picked up a bottle and squeezed a dollop of light pink goop into her hand, working it into Brady’s hair. “That is now my responsibility. Your ingrained case of feralism will require serious work to address, and it is now my duty to ensure you receive the best care the Compact has to offer.”

Her voice sounded like it was coming from the far end of a hallway now, echoing and distant. The second the pink goo touched Brady’s scalp, it felt like a fireworks show went off in his head. Miss Apiales removed the vine from his mouth, as it seemed speech was well beyond him at this point. Judging by the whimpering moan that leaked out of his mouth, anyway.

”Your mental condition calls for an aggressive daily xenodrug regimen,” Miss Apiales said with a cheery tone. “Class A and C goes more or less without saying, those will improve both your mental state and your desire to integrate into society. Class E will address your desires for self-harm and fear of relaxation. Class D will help you remain honest about your wants and needs, and just a light touch of Class J to help you be your cuddliest self!”

All of that sounded nice, Brady supposed. It was hard to think with the electric jolts of pleasure emanating from his scalp. Surely when he was sober again he’d have some protests for Miss Apiales’ plans for him, but right now he was distracted by the white-hot pleasure.

Well, that and the straining cock between his legs. Hm. It was strange. With this much pleasure running through him, surely his cock should be the locus of his enjoyment, right? But no. It just felt like it was there. He grumbled, squirming unhappily in Miss Apiales’ vines

”Something wrong, sweet petal?” She asked. Stars, her voice was just as pretty as her eyes. It was a lot easier to focus on it when he wasn’t obsessed with being mad at her.

”Cccccock not feel good,” he pouted. “Rest of body feels better!”

You sound like a fucking moron, Brady thought. It was so much better to listen to Miss Apiales than his thoughts, though. He could listen to those correct thoughts about how he was a waste of space later. The pleasure said he should listen to Miss Apiales right now.

”Oh dear, it does?” Miss Apiales said, sounding much more hungry than concerned. “Well, I cannot have my adorable little floret-to-be feeling less than incredible!”

She wrapped a lattice of tiny vines around Brady’s cock and pressed it against his body, replacing his bits with a carpet of leaves. Instantly, he felt better. He moaned and writhed in Miss Apiales’ vines, now free to embrace the overpowering pleasure while happily ignoring the screaming inner monologue.

Repent, it said.

Give in, said the pleasure.

You are worthless, it said.

You are beautiful, said the pleasure.

Brady had never enountered a force stronger than the CCC’s programming, but Miss Apiales and the suite of intoxicating substances certainly came quite close.

He blinked, bleary eyes just clear enough to see the Affini holding a tablet in front of him, camera pointing directly at his squirming form. He ought to be indignant, but indignant had no place in the palace of pleasure the xenodrugs built for him. He had to look pretty pathetic.

”Sweet little Jackson asked to see evidence of your feralism crumbling,” Miss Apiales cooed. “I wouldn’t dream of disappointing him. And the best part is we’re nowhere close to done with your bath!”

She picked up another bottle and poured out another dollop of goop, this one deep purple. Brady whined, but all he felt was eagerness as she worked this new substance into his hair. It felt so nice to take a little break from that hateful, certain little voice in his head, the one that reminded him he didn’t deserve joy. He’d listen to it again once Miss Apiales was done with him. But it was nice to have a break.

”Now, your shampoo was a basic Class A blend,” Miss Apiales said, scrubbing her vines through Brady’s hair. “This is designed to condition your mind just as much as your hair! The Class H in this conditioner will make you nice and susceptible to everything you feel right now. Best of all, it’ll instill lovely new pathways in those little neurons of yours that’ll make you crave it again and again.”

Brady knew what she was doing deep down. She was systemically closing off his pathways to escape her influence, getting him addicted to the pleasure she provided. But stars, why would he ever want to? Yes, yes, he needed to go be a productive employee or whatever, but Miss Apiales wasn’t going to let him go. Surely he could… pretend to be a good pet, right? Keep up the act, earn her trust, th-then get away? There had to be a way out before she turned him fully docile.

”Feel that feralism slip away, far, far away,” she sang in his ear, slipping an injector into his thigh. “I almost forgot to mention, you’ll be getting some Class Ns in your daily regimen as well, this exact strain I’m giving you. I want to make sure you only get your orgasms when you’re being a good pet for your Mistress. I’ve already given you one unintended release today, little one. It is not a mistake I plan to make again.”

At this point, Brady wasn’t sure he even could say no. Miss Apiales wouldn’t listen anyway, so it was something of a moot point, but those xenodrugs packed a punch. Everything she said sounded like the best idea ever. No orgasms unless he obeyed her? Sure, perfect, whatever you say, Miss Apiales. A cocktail of drugs that would do stars-know-what to him injected every day? Miss Apiales suggested it, how could she ever be wrong?

By the time she picked up a loofah and loaded it up with a blue-green goo, Brady was crying from bliss. The pleasure from all of Miss Apiales’ treats was wonderful, but this was beyond pleasure. This was rapture. And now she was going to add in something else?! He was grateful to her for the Class N stuff, otherwise he’d be cumming his brains out and be feeling all those icky, gross feelings his mind told him he should be.

”Time for a full Class C wash, little Brady!” Miss Apiales exclaimed. “No strain of feralism can withstand the full mightiness of the Terran bonding instinct. Even the rather tenacious thoughts that lurk in your mind are now my prey. From the moment this touches your skin, you will look at me and see a being you cannot help but love and obey. Does that sound nice, petal?”

Of course it sounds nice, you fucking weed, Brady’s mean, cruel brain thought. Instead of listening to it, Brady nodded, his eyes wide and shining. Miss Apiales had already put Class C in his treats, but if the increase of strength from the shampoo and conditioner were anything to go by, this body wash would put that to shame.

He was right.

Brady swore hearts shone in his eyes as Miss Apiales gently scrubbed his back. He keened in his bonds and moaned, his cock pulsing in its bonds. It was funny how much better it felt when it wasn’t out twitching and throbbing in the open where he could see it, yet another thing to thank Miss Apiales for. She was even nice enough to cover his eyes when she moved her vines aside to scrub between his legs. He was lucky to have such a kind, caring Affini taking care of him.

After that, his bath was finally over. She lifted him out of the water and wrapped him in a huge, warm, fluffy towel, drying him off from head to toe and fluffing his hair. Brady giggled sleepily and squirmed, feeling immensely satisfied despite being denied a second orgasm. That was better than an orgasm, honestly. Cumming was so messy, and it always felt just a little wrong. Nothing that happened in that tub felt even a little wrong.

“By the Everbloom, you are an adorable little thing,” Miss Apiales said, nestling Brady deeper into her vines and heading out into the hallway. “Don’t worry, little Brady. I’ll make sure to teach you that you deserve all the pleasure and joy there is in this universe. Just like every other sophont in our care.”

Brady didn’t believe her. But it was nice to hear, at least.

Chapter Text

“Jackson, my Mistress will see you now!”

”Thanks Clarice,” Jackson said, giving the fox floret a pet as he walked by her desk. She let out a happy little squeak and nuzzled against his paw, but Jackson was too preoccupied today to give her more than a brief bout of scritches. He wanted to cancel this appointment with everything he had on the docket, but Acer wouldn’t hear it.

I will not stand by and let you imperil your mental health, puppy, Acer had said firmly. You will go to therapy today, or so help me I will drug you up to your eyeballs and drag you there myself.

The plant had a point, as much as Jackson was loath to admit it. He had learned to keep his emotions and thoughts in check out of necessity back on Terra, but there were issues in there that Acer wouldn’t let him leave be. Letting those problems fester was much easier than coming to this office and talking about them, but Acer Maplestone was not the kind of being who preferred the easy way out. He enrolled Jackson in therapy the week he arrived on Gilreath, and he had to admit it did him a world of good.

That didn’t mean he had to like it. In fact, he hated it. He would rather let his emotions pass than linger on them and cry about them, but that choice was not his to make. Acer gave him a lot of leeway in his wardship, far more than was typical in his understanding, but he would not budge on this. Fine. If he had to burn an hour every week on this pointless exercise, so be it.

Acer and Miss Veraceae might challenge him on his use of the word “pointless,” but they weren’t in his head. Jackson intended to keep it that way, and achieving that goal meant going along with the Affini’s insistence that he explore his inner life with others like some kind of sap.

He walked through the open door into his therapist’s office, and there she was. Miss Eliza Veraceae, Twenty-First Bloom, expert in the mental health of more than three thousand xenosophont species. Jackson supposed that if he could live for roughly 6,300 years, he’d develop a pretty wide skill set as well.

”Ah, it’s lovely to see you again, Jackson,” Miss Veraceae said, gesturing toward the couch all of her patients sat on. Jackson took his seat, forcing a smile onto his face. “Did you get a chance to complete the exercise I laid out for you last week?”

”Ah, fuh-huhhhhh!” Jackson moaned. Acer clearly hadn’t been kidding about the new Class W regimen, trying to curse resulted in a lightning strike of pleasure between his legs. Miss Veraceae politely waited for the assault on his senses to subside. “I f-forgot.”

”Hmm,” the therapist said, jotting down a note on her pad. She had to be the only Affini Jackson had ever met who used physical writing implements. “Jackson, that marks the fourth assignment I’ve sent you home with that you’ve neglected. I understand that you’ve expressed reservations about these appointments in the past, but I do expect you to engage with these exercises earnestly. I know that your warden does as well.”

Jackson sighed, fighting back an annoyed grumble. How was writing out ten unqualified compliments about himself meant to do anything for his mental health? It was beyond pointless. Acer gave him enough compliments to last ten lifetimes, between the plant and his floret friends he was drowning in positive affirmation. It was important for him to be realistic about his qualities and capabilities.

But he learned long ago that saying things like that in front of an Affini was as good as asking for a collar. If he was going to keep his neck free, he had to keep a level head during these sessions. Miss Veraceae may have had a twisted idea of what a mentally healthy Terran looked like, but she was no fool. Better to tell selective truths than outright lies.

”I’m really sorry, Miss Veraceae,” he said, looking up at her and making his best puppy eyes. “I don’t mean to blow off your assignments, I just forget things sometimes. They always used to discipline me for it at work and school back on Terra.”

Ah yes, Old Reliable. Nothing melted an Affini core quite like discussing the perils of capitalism. Nothing he said was a lie either, he did forget things sometimes and Terran authority figures would often punish him for it. But he remembered exactly what Miss Veraceae asked him to do all week, no matter how much he tried to forget it.

Something in Jackson’s head told him that maybe it wasn’t the best thing that he was so vehemently opposed to giving himself ten compliments, but he brushed it off. Exercises like that were for florets who couldn’t walk across a room without help from an Affini. He was put together and competent, everybody said so. People told him that back on Terra, and now Affini told him that on Gilreath. It was who he was. If he abandoned that to talk about his stupid, mushy insecurities, what would he have left?

Miss Veraceae took the bait. “Oh, you poor dear,” she said, offering out a vine for him to take. Jackson accepted the gesture, holding onto it tightly, but not so tightly that she would think he needed it or something. “I understand. Issues such as these are very common among Terrans, you cuties have so much to worry about! In the future, I will communicate your assignments to Acer, and he can ensure they remain on your agenda.”

Wait, fuck, that wasn’t what he wanted at all! Jackson scowled, he had backed himself right into a corner. Miss Veraceae wasn’t angry with him, but now Acer was going to find out that he hadn’t done his stupid homework. His tree was a good deal more familiar with his tricks than his therapist, he wasn’t likely to buy the excuse that he’d forgotten four straight assignments. That wouldn’t be enough to domesticate him on the spot, but it would surely earn him a lecture about the importance of caring for himself. Fantastic.

”Thank you Miss,” he said after a moment, a fake smile spreading across his cheeks. “That should definitely help.”

Miss Veraceae smiled at that, dipping a vine in her pitcher of mineralized water. “That’s a good boy,” she said. “How has your week been?”

Jackson sighed. “Full,” he answered honestly. “Acer and I are hosting a watch party for my favorite Terran sport today, and I’m pretty nervous about it.”

“Oh of course, the great feetball party, it’s the talk of the town!” Miss Veraceae exclaimed. “I can’t help hearing about it everywhere I go. How many sophonts are you going to have in your Hab for the match?”

Jackson buzzed his lips. “Okay first of all, it is football,” he grumbled. “I swear half of you plants say it incorrectly on purpose just to get a rise out of me! And second of all, it’s gonna be like sixty. Acer and I have been cooking since yesterday morning to get everything ready. We had to have a restaurant stasis chamber delivered!”

Miss Veraceae scribbled something on her pad. “That sounds like an awful lot of work,” she said. “Have you taken breaks during the day like we’ve discussed?”

Jackson chuckled awkwardly. “Uh, well when you’re making food for sixty people in a day and a half, there isn’t a lot of time for slowing down,” he said. “I was exhausted by the time I went to bed yesterday, I just fell asleep in Acer’s vines on the couch.”

“Jackson dear, at the risk of sounding somewhat harsh, you cannot simply discuss changes you wish to make in therapy, you must actually make the changes,” the Affini said with a sigh. She set her pen and pad down. “I first saw you nine weeks ago, and you said you wanted to learn how to take pressure off of yourself and relax. Do you feel you’ve done much in your time on Gilreath to work toward these goals?”

Jackson sighed and looked out the window. If he was being truthful, he hadn’t, but what did it matter? He did just fine without all of this stuff beforehand, and he was perfectly capable of being self-sufficient. That didn’t mean Miss Veraceae would be happy to hear his opinion, though. She was going to be a key character witness at his independence hearing, whenever that was. Jackson knew full well his degree of self-determination was unusual among wards, and the thought of giving that up was terrifying.

“I guess I haven’t,” he said with a sigh. “I just don’t understand the point. I did fine without therapy and talking about all my feelings back on Terra, and I have a great time here without doing all the weird compliment stuff. I know they’re true, Acer and my friends won’t stop reminding me about everything they like about me. Why do I have to say it too?”

Miss Veraceae tapped her chin with a vine. “Let me ask a question in return,” she said. “Why don’t you want to?”

Jackson grumbled. It was always another layer with Miss Veraceae, there was never just an answer. Couldn’t “I don’t want to” be enough? Apparently not. The Affini’s relentless drive to never leave anybody behind got obnoxious when you were perfectly comfortable being left behind on some fronts.

“It just feels unnecessary!” Jackson exclaimed, forcefully enough to make Miss Veraceae jump. “Why should I be praising myself when I haven’t even done anything? Anybody can cook, anybody can throw a party. It feels selfish, it feels so stupid!”

Whoops. The mask wasn’t supposed to slip like that in here. Judging by the look of concern on Miss Veraceae’s face, Jackson had just made a pretty serious error. This was why he didn’t want anything to do with this stupid place. If he ever let them see this side of him, he’d be collared and contracted by the end of the week.

“Jackson, dear,” Miss Veraceae said, looking him right in the eye. “Did you really forget to do your assignment? I won’t be upset if that is the case, but I would like to know. It’s important that you be honest with me in these sessions.”

“Well, um, I've been busy,” Jackson said sheepishly. “I guess I didn’t forget, I might’ve just kinda blown it off.”

Miss Veraceae smiled softly. “That’s perfectly normal,” she said. “Among florets, that is. Such exercises are traditionally left to their owners to enforce. How are you feeling about your relationship with Acer these days, Jackson?”

Jackson grimaced. She did have him on that one, leaving the thought of responsibilities to your designated Affini was definitely some top-tier floret shit behavior. Thank the stars Acer embraced his wishes in a way that most Affini wouldn’t. If it was Miss Veraceae who found him, he’d probably be a collared, fuzzy-headed pet by now. And that sounded awful.

Terrible. Definitely for sure something he never wanted.

“It’s uh, it’s good!” Jackson said, trying to sound casual. “We get along really well, and I feel like he appreciates me for who I am instead of something he’s trying to shape me into. I’d ask him to be my boyfriend, but that would feel pretty weird with the whole pet thing.”

“Why’s that?” Miss Veraceae asked. “You two have had multiple conversations about your boundaries, and he seems more than willing to respect them. What’s wrong with deepening your relationship?”

“Because I know he won’t be happy with it not progressing past that,” Jackson said miserably. “Do you know how many of my floret friends have tried to do something like that? They’ll say ‘oh, we’ll just be partners, I’ll never be a pet, we’ve got it figured out.’ Most of them don’t even make it a month before they’re in a collar. Once you take that first step with an Affini, it never stops.”

Miss Veraceae chuckled, and Jackson fumed. This wasn’t funny, this was his future!

“Jackson dear, forgive me, but it seems you’ve already taken several of those steps,” the Affini said, flipping through her pad. “You have regular scenes together, he performs most of your care tasks, you’ve even said you call him Master in the past. I must say, I don’t see that too much would change if you wore a collar and called yourself Jackson Maplestone.”

“That’s not the point!” Jackson exclaimed.

“Then what is the point, petal?” She asked. Jackson felt anger bubbling up in his gut, but he took a deep breath and pushed it back down. Shouting wasn’t going to fix anything.

“It just feels wrong,” he replied. “I’m happy to play around with the idea, it’s fun to be Acer’s puppy during scenes. But I get sick to my stomach when I think about introducing myself as property. I never got to be anything but what I was told to be on Terra, Miss Veraceae. I can’t go back.”

She stopped writing in her pad. “It’s strange to hear that from somebody who made such a passionate speech about the liberation of being a floret, Jackson,” she said. “That footage has been one of the most popular videos on the local overnet this week. I’m sure you can guess what it says in most of the comments.”

Jackson scoffed. “Probably something like ‘Oh by the Everbloom, what a precious little seed! I’m going to go file a Notice of Intent right this minute!’”

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time somebody called Jackson a seed. His floret friends teased him about it constantly, joking about how they should measure his neck for a collar, telling him that puppies don’t belong on the furniture. And sure, he would play along, and get on the floor and bark when they told him too, but that didn’t mean he had to be a pet forever! He liked having final say over his own life for once!

“Mostly to that effect, yes,” Miss Veraceae said. “I’m not in a position to force you into domestication, Jackson. That is not my role, and it is not my place to pass judgment on the courtship practices of another Affini. But I am sending you home with a new assignment, and I will be sending it to your warden so that you complete it before your next session.”

“I’m really sorry,” Jackson said, looking back out the window.

“Ah ah ah, none of that,” Miss Veraceae admonished. “There’s nothing wrong with needing help to complete tasks. Internal motivation can be difficult for all sophonts, independent or domesticated. I’m certain Acer will be delighted to help you with your exercises.”

Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. Jackson could almost hear the scratch of the pen on his domestication contract.

“Before your next session, you’re going to do a little writing exercise for me, petal,” Miss Veraceae said. “I want you to write out what would be different about your life if you were a floret. I assure you that this exercise will not be used against you at your independence hearing, it is simply something I want you to consider.”

Jackson fought back a scoff. Yeah, sure. This was the Affini Compact, nothing was out-of-bounds at independence hearings. They would probably read it aloud to a chorus of polite titters from their peers, while Jackson blushed and grumbled himself into a puddle. All of the Affini would think it was adorable, and some part of his soul would die forever.

But if she was going to tell Acer that this was on his to-do list, then it was absolutely going to happen. Knowing his plant, he’d have to write the damn essay in his pup hood while so high he could barely see straight.

When he thought about it like that, Jackson understood why everybody thought he was a floret. But that didn’t matter as long as Acer got it, and Acer demonstrated over and over again that he got it. He wasn’t about to force his ward into some permanent, humanity-stripping pet relationship without knowing it was what Jackson wanted.

“Thank you, Miss Veraceae,” he said, forcing his maelstrom of emotions back down under control. “That should definitely help.”

“Of course, dear petal,” she said. “I’ll see you at the same time next week. You ought to get going for now, you’ve got to get ready for your legball!”

“Football!” Jackson exclaimed, exasperated, as he walked out of the office.

***

“I don’t understand it,” Jackson sighed as he mashed avocados for guacamole. “I know going there is good for me, but I always feel more tired and on edge after my sessions with Miss Veraceae than I do when I get there.”

Jackson and his plant were in their massive kitchen, preparing the last of their food and beverages for the party. The handmade tortilla chips were already sitting in the stasis chamber, held in perpetual freshness until their guests arrived. But Jackson insisted that letting the guacamole sit, even flawlessly preserved by Compact technology, would degrade its quality. He had to do it just before everybody arrived, and he had to do it himself.

“That’s typical for therapy among Terrans, little beagle,” Acer said, mixing the xenodrug-laden floret punch. “Unpacking past traumas is tiring, and it can dig up previous thought patterns that are damaging to your species’ psyche. There’s a reason many first sessions at the medical campus are conducted with the patient in restraints. There’s no telling what you Terrans will do sometimes!”

Jackson giggled. “Sometimes I’m amazed you ever let me hold a knife,” he teased.

Acer shot him a look, and an electric thrill ran down Jackson’s spine. “I’d be happy to re-examine that stance if you wish,” he said with playful venom in his voice. “Your hood is just in our playroom, I’m sure you’d be happier doing all this work if you let go a bit.”

Jackson waved his hand. “No, no, it’ll be better if I just get this done,” he said, not looking up from his task. “There’s still so much to finish! We’ve got to make the guacamole and the punch, get everything set out, make sure the TV is hooked up to Coriander’s feed, arrange all the seating-”

“Jackson-” Acer interjected, but the human barrelled onward.

“Clean the Hab, I need to pick out my outfit and change, and then AFTER the party we have to clean up again and put everything away and do something with the food!” His heart was racing. “I don’t have time to be a dog, I have to make sure everything is perfect!”

“Starlight, stop,” Acer said, adding an undertone of The Voice. Whenever he broke that out, it was enough to make Jackson stop cold in his tracks. “You have worked yourself to the bone all week for this party, and I will be disregarding my duty if I allow you to continue in this manner. You are going to put on your adorable little hood and finish making your lovely guacamole, and then you will not do one more thing to prepare our home for this party. Do I make myself clear?”

“B-but,” Jackson squeaked, only for Acer to wrap three vines around his waist and lift him up to look him right in the eyes. The brown-haired Terran lost himself in the bottomless silver pools immediately, just like always.

“I didn’t ask for protests, starlight,” Acer said, squeezing the vines around his waist. “I asked if you understood.” Jackson nodded, slack-jawed. Of course he understood. What other option did he have but to understand? Nobody was better at being clear than his warden.

The Affini set him back on the ground and set him off with a pat on the back, and Jackson made his way through the living room into their playroom. It was an expansive space full of kinky gear, but right now Jackson only had eyes for one thing. It rested on a metal mannequin head just inside the entrance, and just looking at it was enough to make him blush.

It was two pieces of neoprene, held together by snap fasteners in the shape of a dog’s head. His had long, floppy dark orange ears to match his preferred breed of dog. The snout was the same color, and the rest was a uniform shade of black. Back on Terra, they called them pup hoods. Jackson had long wanted one, but custom neoprene was well outside the budget of most workaday citizens in the Terran Accord. Fortunately, that wasn’t a consideration on Gilreath. All it took was one visit to a specialty tailor and a set of measurements, and now Jackson was the proud owner of a piece of gear that made him feel alive.

He came out wearing it, and Acer picked him up and deposited him back in the chair. He didn’t continue with The Voice, but the echoes of it still rang in Jackson’s head. Joining it was Miss Veraceae’s unstated implication that not much of his life would change if he gave in and became Acer’s floret. She couldn’t be right, could she? No, that was silly.

Jackson focused on the task at hand, mixing the mashed avocados in with tomatoes, red onions, chilis, cilantro, lemon juice, salt, and pepper. He’d made this recipe as long as he could remember. It was the only thing he made the first time he hosted a party on his own. It was nice to be able to use the real thing again instead of the revolting synthetic produce he could find back on Terra. He shuddered, remembering the disgusting chemical aftertaste of fake avocado. It took way too much salt to cover that up.

“Excellent work, puppy!” Acer said, scratching under the hood’s ears. Jackson wagged his butt, the weight of the world disappearing for just a moment. “Now be a good boy and go sit in your puppy bed until our guests arrive. And if I catch you doing even one bit of work to prepare between now and then, you will spend the game naked and bound. Understood?”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he grumbled. “I’m perfectly alright to keep working, I’m not some fragile little floret.”

”That’s an awful lot of words for a little beagle,” Acer said, brandishing an injector. “Does somebody need them taken away?”

Jackson yelped and scrambled over to the doggy bed in the living room. There was a cozy blanket and a book he had long been meaning to read waiting for him, and he couldn’t help but smile. He may not have been Acer’s floret, but the sappy maple tree took excellent care of him nonetheless. Miss Veraceae did tell him that he needed to take more breaks, after all.

He curled up under the fluffy blanket and opened the book. It was a kinky romance novel, all about a newly collared floret learning about their desires from a much more experienced puppy boy. It had been sitting on his nightstand for three weeks, but there was always something that needed doing. He’d only have an hour with it before company arrived, but it would be nice to have the hour.

Maybe Miss Veraceae had a point. It felt nice to take a break like this. Acer certainly didn’t need his help, he was flying through tasks that would’ve taken Jackson far longer. At lightning speed, all of the food was out, the Wasps team flags were hung up around the living room, the TV was tuned to the frequency Coriander hacked into, and all of the seating was re-oriented to face the huge screen.

It was difficult not to feel useless when confronted with the infinite competence of the Affini Compact. This was why Jackson didn’t like to take breaks. They made him feel like he was letting everybody else down, no matter how much Acer or his friends said otherwise. But expressing that thought might just get him some more Class W, so he shoved that emotion down alongside all of the others. Now was not the time to feel his feelings, it was time for football!

Jackson got out of the dog bed and went into his room, carefully putting his hood back on its stand. He went over to his closet to hunt down a good outfit for the game, only to find that his big dumb plant had already made something perfect. Hanging front and center was a brand-new Patrick Bradshaw Wasps jersey, black and yellow with the team logo on both shoulders. He felt it reverently, game-quality jerseys weren’t the kind of thing he could ever get back on Terra.

He matched the jersey with a comfy pair of well-worn jeans, compiled to be a little ratty. It only seemed fitting for returning to football, dressing up would just feel ridiculous. They were going to be eating wings, nachos, chips and guacamole, and more fried morsels than Jackson could count. Anything but casual would’ve just felt silly.

The door chimed, and Jackson barked without thinking. He blushed. Maybe Acer’s puppy conditioning was working better than he wanted to admit. But there wasn’t time to consider that, there were guests to entertain! He donned his most winning smile and strode out of his bedroom, only to find the most adorable sight.

Standing in his living room in a flowery companion dress and struggling not to look happy about it was Brady Montana. Well, at least the sophont once known as Brady Montana. Coriander had done excellent work on her newest charge, the girl standing there bore little resemblance to the sullen, greasy, ill-tempered boy Jackson met just a week before.

Her hair was growing out quickly, even faster than was typical for new florets. The greasy mop-top was now long enough to be tied in a single blonde braid, draped over her shoulder. The companion dress was a vibrant mix of greens, fitting for her herbal owner. And of course, she wore a collar around her neck, made of four vines woven together and a solid steel ring at the front.

”Petal, do be a dear and introduce yourself like we practiced,” Coriander said as she intertwined two of her vines with Acer’s.

The newly-minted floret gave an uneasy curtsy. “Alice Apiales, F-Fifth Floret,” she said, her tone shaky. “It’s a p-pleasure to meet you again, Jackson.”

”Oh believe me Alice, the pleasure is all mine,” Jackson said, almost purring. “I guess you changed your tune a bit, huh?”

Alice squirmed. “It’s not like I had much of a choice!” She protested. “Mistress is relentless!”

”Why, of course I am, little love,” Coriander said, slipping a vine into the ring on her collar. “My little troublemaker requires frequent correction in her mindset, and I am more than happy to provide it.”

Alice groaned and buried her face in her hands, but Jackson caught the hint of a smile on her face as she did. Nobody fell harder into florethood than the sophonts who were most opposed to it. Two of the wind-up dolls attending the viewing party today were once fleet commanders in the Terra Navy. He wouldn’t be shocked if Alice ended up in a similar role.

”So you’re a full-fledged floret already?” Jackson asked. “Implant and contract and everything?”

”Well, no implant yet,” Alice said, peeking out over the hands that were currently failing to hide her blush. “Mistress is still growing her haustoria. But I just signed my contract two days ago. It was uh, it was actually really fun. Mistress gave me treats every time I signed under a clause!”

Coriander ran three vines through her floret’s long blonde tresses and cooed praises at her, and Jackson felt a strange pang of jealousy. No, that couldn’t be it. Why would he be jealous of a floret? He had everything he wanted in his relationship with Acer without a collar, contract, or haustoric implant. It was perfect. Right? Right.

”My lovely Alice’s implant should be ready for her in a mere four days’ time,” Coriander said happily. Joy radiated from her body, seemingly brightening the room. Was there a single creature in the cosmos more fulfilled than an Affini showing off their freshly domesticated pet? Jackson didn’t think so.

”You’ll need to bring Alice over for a playdate while she’s recovering from her surgery,” Acer said, shooting Jackson a smirk. “My beagle loves little more than having a spacey little pet to play around with. He’s got a chair in his favorite room that would be just perfect for Alice while her brain is having its vacation!” That got both humans blushing.

”Well, thank you so much for coming,” Jackson said hurriedly, leading Coriander and a still-blushing Alice over to the seating area. “The game won’t be starting for a little bit yet, but feel free to get comfortable and help yourself to some food! We’ve got plenty to spare, no need to skimp.”

Alice forgot all about her embarrassment as she attacked a plate of wings. Her body was already filling out under her dress, it was hardly surprising to see somebody used to one synthcube a day living it up like she was. She was pretty damn cute now that she was bathed and lost that scowl. Jackson made a mental note to talk to Coriander about bringing her pet over for a visit to his playroom.

He sat down next to Alice on the couch, stretching an arm out around her shoulders in a classically Terran romantic gesture. He wasn’t sure what his feelings were for the new floret, but her demeanor was certainly a bit more welcoming than the last time he saw her. Alice Apiales, Fifth Floret didn’t seem like she was about to call anybody a “wormhead.”

”So how’re you liking the Compact so far?” Jackson asked, snuggling up to Alice and savoring the return of her blush. Nothing was quite so easy or relaxing as flustering florets.

”A lot better than I thought,” Alice said with a wince. “Mistress gives me stuff every morning that means I’m really honest about everything, especially how nice it is to be here. It still feels like I don’t really deserve any of it, and part of me thinks I still belong on Solak-5 or in that tiny little apartment back on Terra. But Mistress is so nice and my home is so comfy and her baking is so amazing that it’s getting harder to believe I belong anywhere but here.”

Ah yes, a classic suite of Class D and Class G for the reluctant, dysphoric floret. If Jackson had to guess, Alice was likely flying high on a few other things with her pupils all blown out like that. Class C was a likely culprit, perhaps a bit of Class A too. He’d have to ask Coriander before he put this little snack in his chair.

”I’m really happy to hear that,” Jackson said. “Ready to watch some football today? I’m so hype to see a Wasps game again.”

Alice looked troubled for a moment, but then her eyes unfocused and she smiled. “Yeah!” She said, her voice suddenly much higher pitched. “Mistress told me all about how she got the game ready for us. She had to hack into one of the CCC’s super-duper encrypted feeds, they’re probably gonna be really mad about that.”

Jackson saw one of Coriander’s injectors buried in Alice’s thigh. That was disconcerting. What did she mean by “got the game ready?” Looking at how she was swaying in her seat, Alice was probably going to be too drugged up to enjoy the game anyway. Jackson shrugged it off. Saying weird stuff was a hallmark of the new floret.

The doorbell rang again, sliding open to reveal Aloe Belladonna and three of the most rambunctious dolls in the entire Compact. Erin, Mina, and Lauren Belladonna were holy terrors on Gilreath, their boundless energy matched only by their capacity for mischief. For a plushie, a pool toy, and a porcelain doll, they wreaked an outsized level of havoc. Acer stipulated on the invitation he sent to their Mistress that the three of them would need to be bound in place for the duration of the game to keep anybody else from being distracted.

”Hi Jackson!” Mina chirped, her vinyl, air-filled body easily bouncing up to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks so much for inviting us! We’re all really excited to learn about football!”

”We promise we won’t destroy things again!” Erin chimed in, wrapping her plush, furry pink arms around Jackson’s waist. It did not escape his notice that the soft little rabbit pressed her soft paw right between his legs.

”Speak for yourself,” Lauren said with a huff. “Breaking stuff is fun!” It never ceased to amaze Jackson how that much destructive capacity could fit in such a fragile doll.

”Break my things at your own risk, doll,” Jackson said, looking down at her with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. “I’d be happy to break you again if you step out of line.”

That shut her up in a hurry, and both her pinnates broke out in giggles. Synthetic bodies added a whole new dimension of fun for florets, Jackson was welcome to do whatever he pleased to them, and Aloe would have backups of their personalities saved. He’d sent the three of them home torn to shreds, popped, and shattered respectively, and none of them were any worse for wear the next time he saw them.

”Don’t you worry petal, my little dolls will be happy to behave themselves for your little match,” Aloe said, slipping a few vines through Jackson’s shaggy brown hair. He leaned in to the pets with a smile, wagging without even thinking about it.

The rest of the guests filtered in over the next fifteen minutes. Most of them were floret and Affini pairs, but a good number of independents came in as well. Jackson checked the guest list, just about everybody made it! There was plenty of space, people were enjoying the food, everything was perfect.

”Alright everybody, it’s game time!” Acer called, turning up the sound on the television. Jackson hadn’t paid attention to the pregame show, it was usually mindless drivel anyway. But now that he looked at it, there were a few unusual differences from the Crown League he was used to.

Usually the stadium was covered in advertisements, every last inch of usable space selling some company or another. Whatever algorithm Coriander ran it through must’ve cleansed that. It was a bit strange, but Jackson didn’t miss them. Advertising was something of a necessary evil in professional sports, but that wasn’t a concern in the Compact. There was a good chance some of the florets in the room had their minds scrubbed of any memories of capitalism. He knew for a fact that Lauren had all memories prior to the Compact ripped out when she signed her contract.

The longer Jackson watched though, the weirder it got. The announcers sounded strange, their voices unusually chipper and their vocabulary scrubbed of the usual combative language of football. The feed cut out for the traditional pre-kickoff spacecraft flyover, replaced by a short instructional film on the rules of football. That wasn’t too bad, as most of the sophonts in the room didn’t know anything about football, but it was typically Compact cutesy. Plus, it said the point of the game was for both teams to have fun!

An uneasy feeling rose in Jackson’s stomach, but he tried to calm himself. It was a minor miracle that Acer was letting him show a game so violent and feralist to a room full of florets, and they had gone to so much trouble to make this a party worth attending. So they softened the rough edges of the game a bit, that wasn’t the end of the world. It wasn’t like the overbearing capitalism and violence of football culture was pleasant to interact with anyway. It would all be fine.

Then the game began. It was not fine.

Tackles morphed into hugs. The announcers wouldn’t stop talking about how the players were cuties and doing a fantastic job. There wasn’t any scoreboard, because now the game was just about playing around on the field and having fun! It was unrecognizable, and nobody in the room knew! Well, Alice knew, but she was too busy inhaling food and getting drugged by her owner to complain.

The storm brewing in his mind cleared for a moment as Patrick Bradshaw took the field for the first time. Stars, he was a majestic specimen. Six and a half feet of pure, uncut masculinity, a muscular frame devoid of a single follicle of body hair, and by the Everbloom those eyes. They were bright green, sparkling with intelligence and what Jackson imagined was a sharp wit. The things he would do to actually meet him.

But then Patrick took a snap, and in a turn that made Jackson’s stomach lurch, he just handed it to a defensive lineman on the other team! With a weird, unnatural smile on his face! It was the Compact algorithm at work again, that wasn’t what Patrick’s smile looked like at all. That was only half the problem, though. This was not football. This wasn’t anything but a waste of time!

”I can’t believe this,” he mumbled under his breath. Erin, sitting directly in front of him in her owner’s vines, turned around to face him. Her blushy bunny face twisted up in an expression of concern.

”Can’t believe what, Jackson?” She chirped. Oh great, just what he needed. How could she ever understand? He couldn’t burden Erin with his stress about all this, he needed to be able to handle his own anger without involving her.

”It’s just not what I expected, I guess,” he said, forcing down a myriad of more forceful thoughts about this mockery of his favorite game. “This isn’t a lot like the football I’m used to.”

”Oh, I’m sorry,” Erin said. “I really like it though! Everyone looks like they’re having so much fun. Do you think we could do this on Gilreath sometime? Mistress was all worried about this game being feralist or whatever, but this doesn’t seem so bad!”

”Yeah, for sure,” Jackson said absentmindedly. Erin smiled and turned back to face the TV.

Everybody was having fun but Jackson. He wanted to watch the damn game, not this weird, twisted, fluffy piece of nothing! How was this even a sport? What the fuck did Coriander do to his game?

He tapped the herbaceous Affini on the shoulder. “Coriander, could I please talk to you and Acer in the other room for a minute?” He asked, fighting to keep his tone under control. She nodded in assent, and Jackson led the two plants into his bedroom.

”Is everything alright, little beagle?” Acer asked, concerned.

Jackson took a shaky breath. Yelling was not the right course of action, no matter how badly he wanted it to be right now. “No, everything is certainly not alright,” he said, his voice breaking under the strain. “What are we watching? This is not football, this is just a bunch of Terrans playing a weird game of catch in a yard! I’ve told you both so much about this sport, you have to see how insane this is!”

Coriander shrugged. “We don’t believe unaltered football is an acceptable broadcast for Compact space, especially not for a room full of florets,” she said as though it were the most understandable concept in the universe. “I ran the broadcast through a simple floret filter, nothing more. Everybody seems to be enjoying themselves.”

”I’m not!” Jackson exclaimed. “Acer, come on, there’s no way you don’t understand this. I’ve spent hours talking your vines off about this sport, this is nothing like it! You’ve listened enough to talk about play concepts with me!”

Acer looked uneasy. “Little one, I’m sorry, but I have to agree with Coriander,” he said. “She showed me the unaltered broadcast when she first accessed the feed, and to tell the truth, it was far worse than I feared. The feralism goes beyond anything we’ve seen from Terrans short of military engagements. One of the players on the Cherries broke his neck during a tackle!”

Jackson wanted to scream. Not only did these plants not understand the Terran concept of risk, they refused to try. Yes, football was a rough game, sometimes people got hurt. That was all part of it!

”I wouldn’t be doing all of this work if I knew that we were just going to be watching some stupid Compact crap,” he said, anger creeping into his voice. “I’ve worked my tail off all week for this?! Do you know how excited I was to bring this part of myself back and show it to everybody?”

”Petal,” Acer began, but Jackson was not stopping.

”I know you plants are obsessed with keeping us safe, and I know that Terrans have hardly proved themselves trustworthy,” he continued. “But how in the stars could you think I would be okay with this? If you didn’t want us watching football, you should’ve just said no!”

Acer wrung his vines, and even Coriander looked guilty. “I just wanted to make you happy, starlight,” he said. “I thought this would be an equitable compromise.”

“An equitable compromise?!“ Jackson shouted, fuming. “It doesn’t feel like one to me!”

”Jackson please, there are sensitive florets out there,” Coriander cautioned, but Jackson was beyond caring.

”All you want to do is take my old life away!” He continued, pacing back and forth across the room, his hands tangled up in his hair. “Everything about Terra and the Accord is awful and sinful and needs to be purged, right? So no more freedom, no more rights, no more self-determination for us as sophonts or our species as a whole! No, the Affini Compact knows best, and the rest of us are just little art projects for you to use however you fucking want!”

The Class W gave him a jolt of pleasure, but he was too angry to pay attention to it. Coriander looked sorrowful, but Acer just stared back at him. His bright silver eyes shone with what Jackson’s brain told him was fury.

”Coriander, please go rejoin the party,” Acer said, stepping toward Jackson. “My ward and I need to have a little chat.”

Coriander nodded and left the room without another word, leaving Jackson alone with his plant. The human’s hands were now balled up in fists at his sides, his heart was racing, and he had a lump in his throat. Was he going to start crying now? Great, just what he needed. A stupid outburst followed by sobbing like a little girl.

”Jackson, I know you don’t believe that,” Acer said.

”Maybe I do,” Jackson lied. “I really thought you understood me. Why didn’t you just say no? Why didn’t you at least tell me that we were going to be watching that?”

”Because this was the best I could do, starlight,” Acer said, his eyes still pulsing with what Jackson now recognized as sympathy. “I told you yes without understanding just how deep-set the feralist roots of this sport were, and by the time I figured it out, I didn’t have it in me to cancel. You were just so excited, and you already told all of your friends and invited them over, I couldn’t stand to take that away from you.”

The anger died in Jackson’s chest, replaced with an overpowering feeling of shame. He was stupid to ever think he could have unaltered football in the Compact. Shown to a room full of florets? Many of whom would start crying at the sound of a raised voice? What was he thinking? And then to top it all off by yelling at two of the Affini who had the most say in his independence, Jackson had just undone an unknown amount of careful work. All that time spent building up the reputation of somebody who had his act together, tossed aside because of a stupid game.

They were probably out there crying now, having to be comforted by the Affini because he couldn’t control his emotions. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

”Little beagle, what’s going on?” Acer asked. “This isn’t like you. You’ve never raised your voice like that in two months, certainly not at somebody else.”

This had not been a banner day thus far, but if Jackson followed this line of questioning to its logical conclusion, it was only going to get worse. Acer was going to find out he was a total mess, he was going to get domesticated and lose himself forever. Florethood may have been liberating for others, but Jackson knew himself better than that. He couldn’t give in. He had to keep fighting.

”I was just upset, I guess,” he lied, his tone appropriately miserable. “I was so excited about seeing a football game again, and I’ve been so busy this week, and I snapped. I just wish you’d told me beforehand. That was a pretty rough surprise.”

It felt awful to hide things from Acer, who Jackson knew just wanted to help him. But how could he talk about being deathly afraid of pethood with the plant who wanted to collar him in the first place? “Conflict of interests” didn’t do this situation justice.

Acer didn’t buy it for a second. “Jackson, you and I both know this is more than that,” he said firmly. “Miss Veraceae told me you have been disregarding your assignments for therapy. You have been neglecting your emotional self-care and trying to hide it. It’s only natural for that to boil over, especially with the amount of stress you put yourself through. But this gives me pause on the matter of your independence.”

Jackson’s stomach dropped. There it was. “B-but being a pet won’t fix any of that,” he protested. “It already feels like I have to walk on eggshells to keep living the life I want, holding domestication over my head will only make it worse!”

Acer grabbed Jackson in his vines, much more forcefully than usual. For once, he was not happy to be there. He grunted and squirmed in his guardian’s grasp, but it was just as inescapable as ever.

”Starshine, why does what you said to sweet Alice not apply to you?” Acer asked. “You told her all about how florethood is liberating, and yet you insist that for you, it would be some horrific punishment.”

”Let me go,” Jackson demanded, but Acer kept his grip.

”Not until you answer my question,” he replied, sticking an injector in Jackson’s thigh. “Class D, as you are being unusually recalcitrant. I don’t like treating you like this, Jackson. It’s usually not necessary, but this emotional state is abnormal for you and calls for greater measures. Now, out with it. Why is florethood good and right for everybody but you?”

”Because it feels like I’ll die!” Jackson shouted. It wasn’t anger that propelled the words out of his mouth, it was cold, soul-crushing dread. “It feels like the moment I sign my contract, Jackson Meadows will be dead and gone. I can’t be one of those pets who can’t do anything for themselves, I can’t lose the part of me that loves football and built a sustainable life on Terra. I wouldn’t be me anymore. I’d be something else.”

Saying the words aloud made Jackson want to vomit. There it was, his messy insecurities in all their glory. The logical part of his brain told him that Acer already did so much for him, but the rest of his brain shouted back that he was choosing all of that. He could make it stop and say no whenever he wanted, and Acer would listen. He was in control of his life, and the thought of surrendering that was worse than death.

Acer set Jackson down on the bed, relaxing the iron grip on his body and wrapping him in what was much more like a hug instead. That didn’t make any sense. He was supposed to be punished for outbursts like this, not comforted. He’d never blown up at Acer like this before, shouldn’t he be out on the street and told never to return? Left to fend for himself, to be scooped up by some other plant that didn’t really care about him.

Instead, Acer ran vines through his hair and whispered in his ear. “Oh petal,” he said, gently rubbing Jackson’s back. “Your ability to fend for yourself does not define you. I don’t know who convinced you otherwise, but I am so sorry your life has led you to a point where accepting help makes you feel like you’re dying.”

”That’s not-“ Jackson started, but then he stopped. Acer was right, like Acer usually was. How many times had he instinctively refused assistance this week? Four friends had offered to help with party prep, but he turned them down because he needed to do it himself. He was the put-together one, he was the grown-up. Accepting that he couldn’t do something himself was a sign of weakness, and nothing was worse than that.

”Miss Veraceae sent me the writing exercise she assigned you in therapy today, I think it would be healing to work on that,” Acer said, keeping up the smooth strokes down Jackson’s back. “Once all of our friends depart, Patty and I will handle all of the cleanup. You will not lift one little beagle paw to help, and you will spend tonight relaxing. Your schedule is clear tomorrow, and I will keep you company while you write. Do you understand?”

”Y-yes Acer,” Jackson said, his voice heavy. He would rather do literally anything else, but his behavior hadn’t given him a lot of options. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

”Apology accepted, little beagle,” Acer said, brushing Jackson’s hair out of his eyes. “I do understand your anger, I definitely could have handled this situation better. We can discuss other ways for you to interact with your hobby after the party. For now though, I think you have had quite enough Terran words for today. Don’t you?”

Jackson nodded. Puppies didn’t have to be in control of everything, they were too busy being happy and wagging their tails. Before he knew it, his hood was on, his leather paw mitts went on over his hands, and an injector was in his thigh.

”A mix of Classes A and W for my precious puppy,” Acer said, rubbing his tummy with a vine. “You will spend the rest of the party in your puppy bed, getting pets and making those adorable puppy noises of yours. We will be talking more about what happened in this room, but I want you to know that I am not angry with you. Do you understand, Ripple?”

Ripple. His puppy name. Acer only pulled that out when it was time to really not be a human for a while. Ripple barked and nodded. It made perfect sense that they should talk more about the outburst, but he was grateful that Acer wasn’t mad. His handler was the best part of living in the Affini Compact.

Acer carried Ripple out of his bedroom, where he saw to his relief that nobody looked upset. The soundproofing in Compact buildings didn’t mess around, and it looked like everybody was engrossed in the strange Affini perversion of football. Well, that and the puppy now laying on his fluffy bed in front of a room full of florets.

The rest of the party passed in a haze of tummy rubs, scritches, and cooed words of praise. Somewhere along the way, Ripple lost his jersey and jeans, but he didn’t mind. Puppies didn’t need clothes, after all.

Ripple avoided looking at the television, not wanting to trigger his anger again. He didn’t like the way he felt when his emotions got the better of him. At least he didn’t cry. He hated crying, it felt awful. Crying in front of Acer would likely be the final thing the loving tree needed to domesticate him.

The game came to an end and sophonts slowly trickled out, bidding Ripple and Acer goodbye. Almost all of them complimented the food, especially Alice. She left with a huge container full of leftovers, which Ripple estimated would last maybe a day. The newly minted floret was going to look so cute when she got all chubby.

When the last stragglers finally left, Acer got to work cleaning up the Hab. He turned on a movie for Ripple to watch, mercifully not a floret cut. He also compiled a strange-looking silicone vine and handed it to the puppy.

”You could use some release, little beagle,” Acer said with a smile. “Enjoy it as long as you like, and bark three times if you’d rather enjoy my touch.”

Normally he’d be barking his head off instantly, but Ripple held off. He’d been so much trouble for Acer already today. He couldn’t stand the idea of giving him something else he had to be responsible for.

Chapter Text

Patrick Bradshaw woke up the same way he did every day, to the sound of a shrill, blaring tone. Everybody in the Wasps compound woke up as one, lest they provoke the ire of their employers. If one of them triggered the pressure sensors in their bunks five minutes after the alarm, every single one of them would get a harsh shock between their legs. He wondered where the fucking bastards who ran the Wasps came up with this stuff.

Who installed electric chastity cages on their employees without being some kind of sadistic pervert? As if he didn’t hate what was between his legs enough, it was repurposed into an instrument of torture. It was like team ownership had it in for him specifically.

As Patrick stood and made his way to the team shower, he wondered if everybody else in the Crown League was subjected to the same treatment as he and his teammates were. Players weren’t allowed to interact with members of other teams socially, and if they were traded their memories of their time with their prior team was wiped to protect proprietary information. At least he’d stayed on the Wasps his whole career so he didn’t have his brain fried. Players who were traded regularly could barely string a sentence together.

He stood there with his fifty-two teammates as water laced with chemical cleansers poured down on them. Well, perhaps not “poured” so much as “sprayed.” There wasn’t enough water on this godforsaken rock for them all to have water properly poured on them. Instead they got just enough of a mist full of stuff that would surely kill them to keep them clean. Patrick tried to breathe in as little as possible in here. He took full breaths the first time they were shoved in this box, and it felt like his lungs had been scoured with a wire brush for the rest of the day.

Patrick winced as the soapy water sank into the fresh flogging wounds on his back. Losing to a chickenshit team like the Cherries would’ve been bad enough, but losses didn’t go down easily in the Crown League. The league’s security forces would tie each player to metal posts and flog them live on camera, though whether that was to satisfy team owners or the bloodthirsty fans was beyond Patrick. That particular tradition only started when the Compact war began, and while the players weren’t happy about it, they couldn’t do anything about it. The league, and by consequence team ownership, held all the power. Patrick and his teammates could only obey their directives.

The far wall of the group shower opened and the fifty-three men proceeded out and dressed for practice in silence. Patrick missed the old camaraderie back on Terra. They used to behave like teammates, they used to talk like friends. Now? If they wasted time with frivolities like conversations in the locker room, they’d all be shocked. The microphones in there were hooked up to a transmitter to their cages. None of them knew the exact decibel level that would trip the sensor, but they’d learned to be careful. Three years of this treatment was enough to cow anybody into silence.

He enjoyed this job, once upon a time. Thank the stars, otherwise he wouldn’t have made it this long in this hellhole. There was a certain poetry to football, an artistry to a perfectly constructed play run by teammates operating in perfect sync. When they were on Terra, the labor conditions were odious, but at least they weren’t treated like slaves. They had homes, they could go on vacations, they even had actual pay. Maybe it wasn’t as nice as he remembered it, but even a sliver of freedom sounded like heaven compared to this.

Patrick had no idea where they were now, somewhere far away from any prying vines. His new home was a series of steel compounds on a desolate asteroid, with the sucking void of space just outside any number of easily accessible airlocks. He suspected this was a repurposed military training facility from the aesthetics of the place, all corrugated steel and desolate barracks.

The second it became clear the Affini Compact was going to conquer Terra, that sliver of freedom was ripped from his grasp, apparently never to return. The working conditions were terrible, but they were never good. But those bastards had torn the one thing he ever had from him. He couldn’t love his game anymore. He could deal with the miserable conditions here on this rock in the middle of nowhere, well outside Accord space by his estimation. But if he couldn’t love football anymore, what did he have left?

Patrick sighed as he pulled his red practice jersey over his shoulder pads, looking around the locker room. He knew all of these guys like the back of his hand, they had grown up together. But ever since they came to this hideous rock, they were getting harder and harder to recognize. He had spent just about every day of his thirty years with them, and now they were all so beaten down they could barely stand to look each other in the eye.

He suspected that the microphones and cameras everywhere were in place to prevent the players from doing anything about their steadily worsening conditions. Authorities in the Accord did not take kindly to organized labor; when Crown League concessions workers tried to unionize, the leaders of the movement were shot in broad daylight. Patrick would point out that workers wouldn’t feel the need to organize if they were treated well, but the league wasn’t about to listen to his thoughts on the matter.

His cage buzzed with a gentle current, indicating it was time to head out to the practice field. Patrick and his teammates filed out the double doors to the field, an expanse of artificially vibrant grass under harsh fluorescent lighting. Everything smelled like industrial disinfectant, although there was a faint scent of rot that Patrick assumed was endemic to this planetoid before the Crown League showed up to make it their hidey-hole. If it was somewhere the Compact couldn’t find for three years, it must’ve been a pretty miserable shithole.

“Let’s go, you lazy pricks!” Ah yes, just what Patrick wanted to hear when he was already in a despairing mood. Coach Brian Cashwell was a member of a virulent strain of football coach: the shouting prick. In his life with the Wasps, coming up in their training academy and then as a member of the team, he’d had several coaches like Cashwell. But none of them were quite so relentlessly unpleasant as he was, and none of them had quite so much power over his players as he did now.

He hardly cut an intimidating figure. He was a hair over five feet tall, with a few wisps of greasy black hair he kept in a sickening combover. As ever, he was clad in a Wasps team tracksuit, with a comically oversized fanny pack on his right hip. Once upon a time, the players loved to make fun of him for it. Those days were long gone. They ended the second Cashwell heard one of the jokes and had the offending party tossed out of an airlock.

”You sorry sons of bitches are NOT going to put on another fucking performance like what I saw yesterday!” Cashwell hollered. He rarely did anything but holler. “Ten laps around the field, right now, get a move on! You are going to run until you fucking bleed today!”

Several of the players grumbled, a few muttered angry retorts under their breaths, but nobody wanted to stand up to him. What good would it do? The last time somebody talked back to Cashwell with any kind of venom, they got spaced. As the balding man was happy to point out, each of them was replaceable. Every year, the Crown League’s genetic engineering improved, bringing up another crop of brainwashed recruits for the teams to draw from. If somebody displeased their team enough, they would be replaced.

Best-case scenario, getting cut from the league meant having your memory wiped and reduced to some kind of menial service role. Some of the lucky ones got to coach or work as trainers, but a lot of former players ended up working as glorified maids for the league. But these days, you were just as likely to end up a corpse floating through space.

“Word is Cato’s getting spaced next time he drops a pass,” a voice said to Patrick’s left. It was Devin, the closest thing he had to a friend left on the team. Most of his favorite teammates had long since been cut, traded, or thrown into space. He suspected that the league was trying to isolate everybody and keep them under control, no wonder everybody’s play looked worse these days.

”Who’re you hearing that from?” Patrick replied, trying to act like the notion didn’t bother him. Being openly bothered by spacings was often sufficient grounds to put you next in line.

”Nash and Brand,” Devin answered. “They said they heard coaches talking ‘bout it right after the Cherries game.”

Patrick shot Devin a brief, worried look, finding him as disengaged as ever. Devin David was easy to talk to, but it was difficult to feel close to somebody so disconnected from the world around him. Patrick had no clue whether this was a defense mechanism or if he really didn’t care about anything. How could anybody discuss such matters with nonchalance?

”Would be a bummer,” Patrick said, fighting to tamp down his feelings. “Cato’s a damn fine player.”

Devin snorted. “Not since his boyfriend got spaced,” he snarked. “Dumbass shoulda just kept his mouth shut, now we’re down a left tackle all season and our X wideout’s a fucking wreck.”

Patrick scowled. How in the stars could Devin blame poor Sean for getting spaced? Cashwell tried to force him to come back way too soon following a broken leg, just arguing was enough to get him summarily executed. Jordan Cato, once a boisterous, lively, if slightly annoying, presence, was now a shell of himself. How was anything going to get better if his teammates thought like Devin?

”I guess,” Patrick mumbled. He didn’t dare say what he was thinking. This life may have been miserable, but it was still a life. Life had possibilities, life had opportunities. Floating through space would be nothing but a short burst of hellish suffering followed by endless nothingness. Keeping his head down may have felt like walking on his soul in cleats, but it kept him going.

The team flew through their laps, as they always did. Genetic modification worked a trick for athletic ability. They were all built to be stronger, faster, and a good deal more agile than normal humans. There were costs; cancer rates for former Crown League players were catastrophic. Patrick knew from when he was very young that he wasn’t meant to die old. But at least it made miserable workouts a bit more bearable.

”Come on you fucking sissies, let’s GO!” Cashwell bellowed. Nothing was ever good enough for that son of a bitch. Patrick longed to knock his block off. If running all the way around a football field ten times in ten minutes wasn’t good enough for him, he had no idea what was.

”Prick,” somebody behind Patrick grumbled. Devin shot him a dirty look.

”You’re gonna get us all fried cocksucker, shut up!” he hissed urgently. “I don’t want my junk zapped because you can’t shut your mouth.”

”Liar,” a voice Patrick now recognized to be Jordan responded. “I bet you fucking love it.”

”Are you calling me a fucking faggot, Cato?!” Devin demanded. He ignored a chorus of urgent shushing from his teammates. “I’ll kill you!”

”You don’t have the balls, David!” Jordan shouted. Devin didn’t need any more than that, and he broke pace to pounce on Jordan and drag him to the ground, raining down punches on him and spewing homophobic vitriol. Jordan didn’t even defend himself.

A reasonable coach would have rushed in to break it up. Coach Cashwell, on the other hand, stood thirty yards away and laughed his ass off. So it was left to Patrick, the ostensible team captain of this band of sorry misfits, to pull Devin off of his newly-bloodied teammate.

”I’ll fucking kill you, you fudge-packing piece of shit!” Devin howled, struggling against Patrick’s grip. “Let go, Bradshaw!”

”Get back to your laps, Devin,” Patrick whispered urgently. “Cashwell’s gonna fry you.”

Devin kept fighting, trying to pull his way free to jump back on Jordan. Cato, for his part, lay on the turf, blood pouring out of his freshly broken nose. These days, it was rare to make it through a whole practice without at least one fight breaking out. Everybody was exhausted and on edge, everybody was worried about making a mistake and getting spaced. New academy recruits came up and joined the team seemingly every day to replace whoever ownership deemed expendable. It was no wonder they ended up like this.

”You fucking nancies can’t even fight right!” Cashwell growled as he stalked up to the trio. The rest of the team continued their laps, leaving Jordan, Devin, and Patrick alone with their coach. “Bradshaw! What the fuck are you doing? Just let them fight. You can’t let Cato call him a fag and not let him do something about it!”

”He didn’t call him anything like that, Coach,” Patrick said, still trying to restrain Devin.

”He called you a prick, Coach!” Devin interjected. “Then he said I liked getting fried!”

A cold fury washed over the stocky, balding Cashwell, and Patrick’s heart stopped. He may have been a temperamental, violent man, but you really had to be scared when he got quiet. When his volume dropped and his tone grew clipped, it usually meant somebody was getting spaced.

”Is he telling the truth, Bradshaw?” Cashwell asked, his steel-grey eyes boring in Patrick’s green ones. Great. Fantastic. He had two choices before him: lie and get spaced, or tell the truth and watch Jordan get spaced because of him. The slim wide receiver was never his favorite teammate, but that didn’t mean he deserved to die.

On the other hand, what was the best-case scenario of lying? Devin would hate him for it and immediately contradict him, Cashwell would go check the security cameras, and then they would both get spaced. There was no way to win.

”He is, Coach,” Patrick said, hanging his head in shame. Cashwell’s nostrils flared, and he kicked the still-prone Jordan in the head as hard as he could. Then he reached into his fanny pack and pulled out a remote.

”You know the rules, boys!” Cashwell roared. He pressed a big red button on the remote, and all of the players collapsed as their cages lit up with a potent current. Patrick and Devin convulsed on the ground, inadvertently grinding against each other. Just what Patrick needed today, a nice dose of dysphoria to go on top of everything else. If he didn’t know any better, he would swear Devin was doing this on purpose.

Cashwell held the button down for a full minute before releasing it, leaving his players shaking and twitching on the ground. He delivered another three swift kicks to Jordan’s head, then grabbed his communicator and held it up to his ear.

”Yes, I have a new customer for you,” he said, leering at Jordan. “Use the practice field airlock. I want these sons of bitches to see what happens to ungrateful brats who call me names.”

He slipped the communicator back into his fanny pack, kicked Jordan again, brushed a few hairs out of his face, and strode away. Patrick wanted to cry, but that would get him fried again. He crawled over to Jordan and looked down at him. The receiver’s gaze was a million miles away, Cashwell and Devin’s aggression likely gave him a concussion.

”I’m so sorry, Jordan,” he said, his voice breaking. Jordan Cato cracked a tiny smile.

“Why?” Jordan responded, his voice weak. “I’ve been dead since Sean got spaced. I can finally see him again.”

Patrick had no response to that. He didn’t think there was another side where he could see everybody the Crown League tore from him, but what use was there in breaking a dying man?

A door slid open on the far side of the practice field, and three men dressed in black tactical gear marched through. Patrick fought the urge to roll his eyes. Crown League security took themselves so seriously, it was ridiculous. They dressed like soldiers, complete with two guns and body armor. The players were much more likely to get hurt than the rent-a-cops were, but it seemed like more money went into their protective gear.

”Right this way, officers,” Cashwell said. Funny how his tone was always sweet as synthsugar when he dealt with security staff. “The one laying on the ground.”

”Affirmative,” the tallest security man said with a grunt. “You said you wanted it public?”

”Absolutely,” Cashwell said, leering at Patrick and Devin. “These pricks need to understand their place.”

”You’d think they’d get it by now,” the shortest security man said with a cruel laugh. “I didn’t think they took out their brains in the fuckin’ vats.”

Two of the three security men took Jordan under the arms and lugged him over to the airlock, while the third hung back to talk with Cashwell. The airlock was simple, a door leading to a small steel box attached to the main building with an outer door that spelled your doom. Going into the airlock was a one-way trip, as far as Patrick knew, nobody who went in ever came back.

”Watch and learn, you pricks!” Cashwell called as the two security men unceremoniously dumped Jordan into the airlock. “This is what happens to replaceable cogs when they disobey orders!”

One of the security men hit the big red button labeled PURGE to the left of the door, sending Jordan to his doom. Patrick couldn’t bear to look, instead directing his gaze over to Cashwell and the third security man.

”Yeah, we’re heading out tonight,” the security man said with a sigh, his bushy mustache wrinkling. “Copyright protection assignment, none of the comms units are available to respond after the raid on the relay base.”

”Bullshit that you’ve gotta do it,” Cashwell responded, a sick smile on his face as he looked out the window at Jordan.

”Eh, gets us off this fucking rock for a couple nights,” the security man said. “Besides, we get to put these fuckin’ things to use for once. Never gonna kill any wormheads around here.”

Wormheads?

Patrick remembered that term from back on Terra. What was it the Affini called them in the propaganda? Florets, right? They claimed that the beings under their care lived pampered, carefree lives where they could pursue their passions liberated from the strains of capitalism. It sounded too good to be true, but then again, so did everything about the Affini.

”Wormheads” was an early Terran slang term for the pets. According to rumor, the massive plants implanted some kind of bug on every pet’s spinal cord that controlled their minds and rendered them docile. Patrick always thought that was ridiculous, but even if it wasn’t, he’d rather have a worm on his spine than go on living like this.

”We’re running pretty low on bodies these days,” the security man said, glancing down at his communicator. “Gotta carry this mission out down a man, Rodriguez got spaced last week.”

”What for?” Cashwell asked, finally looking away from the window. Jordan must’ve been done thrashing.

”Who knows anymore?” The security man said with a sigh. “Not like those fat cats are ever gonna tell us.”

Before he knew it, Patrick moved. He didn’t know if this was a good idea, he didn’t think enough for it to even classify as an “idea.” But he saw a chance, a fleeting hope to get out of this nightmarish existence, and he took it.

”Officer!” Patrick exclaimed, his voice leaping up half an octave. “I want to help, there’s no reason our brave security forces should be down a man for a dangerous mission.”

Lying like that brought bile up in his throat, but he kept himself under control. The image of Patrick Bradshaw he projected was somebody endlessly loyal to the Crown League, somebody who would surely put himself on the line for the sanctity of its intellectual property. None of them had to know that he was desperate to escape more than anything else.

The security man cocked an eyebrow. “Bradshaw?” He said dubiously. “This isn’t some high-flyin’ hero shit, you’re not gonna be the toast of the Accord for goin’ on a copyright raid.”

Patrick fought back the urge to roll his eyes once again. The Accord didn’t even exist anymore, and he didn’t expect to get good press for much of anything these days. It had been a long time since he was interviewed for a Crown League broadcast, they didn’t bother with all of that anymore. Yet further points in his favor that this was purely an act of altruism.

”I know that sir,” he said, putting on his most winning smile. “I owe the Crown League my life, it only seems right that I do what I can to protect it.”

The security man looked at Cashwell for approval, who shrugged. “I’ve got another three of him in the academy right now if he dies,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Will he be back before the next game?”

The security man stroked his mustache. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. “Jump there, kill the wormheads, jump back. He know his way around a gun?”

”I do, sir,” Patrick chimed in. “We all learned during the war in order to defend our home.”

“Alright then,” the security man said with a curt nod. “Be ready to go at 1900 hours on the dot or we leave without you.”

He turned and strode away, his colleagues coming after him. For the first time in years, Patrick felt a burst of hope in his heart. It was a small chance, but it was a chance. Maybe now, for once, he could have a life that was his own.

Chapter Text

“Durataxin, Mr. Maplestone? Is that entirely necessary?”

Acer dropped a vine into the glass with a simulated sigh, his leaves rustling. “I need something to take the edge off, Fan,” he complained. “Seven different Affini have told me that I should just claim Jackson already and get it over with, but I can’t do it! I know I have sufficient grounds and nobody would judge me, but Jackson would never forgive me.”

The bartender left behind a pitcher of the intoxicating liquid and gave Acer a sympathetic smile. He sighed. Usually Affini didn’t need drugs to “take the edge off,” that was floret behavior. But the existence of a place like The Lazy Vine was proof enough that there were other Affini like him was enough to smother the guilt.

He sucked the relaxing contents of the glass into his vines, the knot around his core loosening up. The fourth bloom had been on edge since Jackson’s blowup at the party. Every friend he told about the events told him that Jackson would clearly be better off as a floret, with all memories of this ridiculous, feralist game purged from his mind.

The verdict was universal, except for, of course, Fan Malvaceae, Twelfth Bloom. It had always been a renegade in the eyes of the Affini Compact, telling anybody who would listen that maybe they could learn something from the species they domesticated. Not that many Affini listened, and plenty of those who did had some choice words for it about their species’ responsibility to bring enlightenment to the cosmos.

Fan wasn’t a radical or anything, it wasn’t about to advocate for the end of florethood. It had claimed no less than twenty pets over its twelve blooms, after all. But it took umbrage with many Affini’s eagerness to ignore sophonts’ desires and decide they were better off as pets. Some sophonts absolutely were better off as pets, but not enough to justify the ever-climbing domestication rates.

“None of them know your ward like you do, Mr. Maplestone,” Fan reassured, intertwining three vines into Acer’s. “Nobody can force you to domesticate dear Jackson before he’s ready.”

”But what if they’re right?” Acer asked with a groan. “Calling this sport ‘feralist’ isn’t anywhere near sufficient! Incessant advertisements, overt displays of military force before every game, constant risk of injury. I watched one player get into an argument with his coach, and the player was thrown out of an airlock!”

Watching that uncensored broadcast was a sickening experience. Injuries everywhere, even with the genetic modifications the commentators discussed at length. All of the players looked miserable, when they made a mistake the whole team would double over in pain. He didn’t know what was happening with that, Jackson never mentioned anything about collective punishment during his lessons. But it made him sick to his core to watch these poor sophonts suffer.

”I watched the video file as well, Coriander insisted,” Fan said, refilling Acer’s durataxin glass. “You’re right, the feralist tendencies are alarming. I was especially perturbed by the commentators promising that ‘wormhead executions’ would be a feature in future matches.”

Stars, Acer forgot about that. He was too distracted by all of the other horrible things on display.

”However,” Fan continued, raising a vine. “So far as I can tell, the primary problems in this game come from the influence of the Terran Accord. The feralism I see in your precious petal does not come from his failings, and I do not see grounds for domestication. He needs time to learn the flaws in the Accord worldview.”

Acer would laugh if he didn’t feel so anxious. Of course that was Fan’s perspective. Everything was systemic, individual sophonts needed grace and understanding, shoving them bodily into a massive new social system they didn’t understand would do more harm than good. It was an easy case to understand, especially given the horrors of Terran culture. It was rare for the Compact to find a society quite so predisposed to violence and totalitarianism.

Fan and Acer had overseen thousands upon thousands of new arrivals to Gilreath over the centuries, and few species were so universally combative as Terrans. If there was any species that could disabuse the twelfth bloom of its ideology, it was surely humanity.

But throughout the Terran domestication campaign, Fan was a voice for caution. Not a popular one, given Gilreath’s rock-bottom independence rates, but that didn’t dissuade it one bit. It never bothered Fan that almost nobody on the planet listened to it. It knew it couldn’t change the entire culture of the Compact, it didn’t want that in the first place. It simply believed that diversity of opinion was vital.

”Most Affini would say two months is more than enough time to learn that lesson,” Acer said with a begrudging smile.

”Well Mr. Maplestone, I should hope that if you’ve learned one thing in the last millennium, it’s that I am not most Affini,” Fan said with a wink.

Acer’s core fluttered. Stars, it was bewitching. Bright bronze eyes, dark purple vines sourced from some planet at the frontier of Compact space, dotted with black and white roses and plenty of thorns. Fan may have preached the importance of giving sophonts a fair shake at independence, but if they didn’t end up independent after that fair shake? There wasn’t a more authoritative Affini on Gilreath.

”Mr. Maplestone, dear?” Fan said. “Are you still with me?”

Acer shook himself out of his reverie. By the Everbloom, what was he thinking? He had enough to worry about without getting all sunny-eyed over the Affini who helped him find his life’s purpose. Maybe once this situation with Jackson was resolved he could go back to his secret, shameful fantasies. What those thorns would feel like digging into his core, being called “Mr. Maplestone” while utterly helpless, getting-

“Honestly, what are they putting in durataxin these days?”

”S-sorry!” Acer said hurriedly. “Just, um, just have a lot on my mind. I’m really worried about Jackson, that’s all.”

Acer saw a brief flash of a thorny smile on Fan’s face, before it disappeared back into a look of contemplation. “It’s perfectly understandable that you’d be on edge about all of this, Mr. Maplestone. You’re always like this when you’re getting close to domesticating a sophont.”

That much was true. Whenever a relationship with one of his wards reached that fuzzy grey area between independence and pethood, he turned into an anxious mess. He did everything for Jackson, and he loved each moment of it. The bliss of watching the cute Terran with the floppy hair enjoy the food he cooked was unmatched. On one level, it was always like this.

But something still ate at him.

”I’m not sure that’s what this is, though,” Acer protested. “By the time all my pets fell into my vines, they didn’t have this kind of a feralist streak. Jackson lets me do almost everything for him, short of dressing him and letting him make some food. But the way he snapped at us was distressing, to say the least.”

”Is he attending therapy?” Fan asked, treating itself to mineral water. Funny, for as much as it raised a leafy eyebrow at Acer treating himself to some durataxin, it was eager to refill his glass whenever he drained it. That anxiety now had to fight against a rising tide of relaxation.

”Yes, but I don’t know if he’s committing to it,” Acer grumbled. “Eliza messaged me after his appointment yesterday, she told me he’s been skimping on his assignments. I want to give him his fair shake, I think I have! But if he’s not going to do the work to unlearn his feralism, what choice do I have left?”

”Now now Mr. Maplestone, there’s no need to be rash,” Fan admonished. “You’ve said yourself that you think springing involuntary domestication on Jackson would do more harm than good. I believe it would do more harm than good to the both of you.”

”I don’t know if I could bear it,” Acer said miserably. “I know it’s probably the right thing to do, but he’s told me time and time again he doesn’t want it!”

”Mr. Maplestone,” Fan interjected, its tone sharp. “What is the first thing I taught you about crisis response?”

Acer stiffened. Stars, that voice cut through to his core. “There is no universal right thing,” he replied. “The right thing to do changes on a case-by-case basis dependent on the needs of those involved in a given situation.”

”Quite right,” it said. “Too often, Affini treat every case like a nail to be solved with the hammer of domestication. You know better, Mr. Maplestone. Listen to yourself, accept that you know best when it comes to your ward, and do what you feel is right.”

Acer sighed. That was the problem, he had no idea what he felt was right. His instincts screamed at him that allowing Jackson to retain his interest in football would only worsen his worrisome feralist streak. On the other hand, Fan had a point that the game could be stripped of much of its problematic tendencies.

He thought back to the recording Coriander showed him. The herbaceous Affini was of course affronted, going on and on about how Jackson even suggesting they watch this was grounds for immediate domestication. He was disturbed by the broadcast, but under all of that, he saw the appeal of the game that Jackson loved. The intricacies of the game seemed bottomless, appealing to the strategic mind. It was certainly a better outlet for Terran aggression than some other domestication cases Acer saw at his job practiced.

So if it felt wrong to purge one of Jackson’s favorite pastimes from his brain, but it also felt wrong to let the feralist aspects of football run free. There was only one thing to do.

”I suppose I’ll have to find a healthier expression for this game,” Acer mused. “Perhaps there are more sophonts on Gilreath who would like to play!”

”Excellent work, Mr. Maplestone,” Fan said. Acer felt like he was glowing. Getting praised by Fan Malvaceae gave him a buzzy feeling that reminded him of how florets described being pet by their owners. But this was different, of course. Acer was an Affini.

“Thank you, Fan,” Acer said, sucking up the remnants of a fourth glass of durataxin. Stars, he felt dizzy. “I have to get home, Coriander’s leaving sweet little Alice with me while she goes off to save some ship full of misguided mercenaries from themselves.”

”Ah, where does the time go?” Fan mused. “I ought to get going to as well, I have to catch that very ship!”

”You’re going?” Acer asked, somewhat incredulous. “I wouldn’t expect that to be your kind of scene.”

Fan flashed that smile, stunning white thorns that could light up the sky. “Traditionally, no,” it said, drawing itself up to its full, towering twenty feet. “But even I have my needs, Mr. Maplestone. A ship full of unrepentant murderers coming to carry out further murders for the sake of copyright infringement? Those are sophonts I’m delighted to shove into domestication.”

The two of them embraced as they left The Lazy Vine, heading in opposite directions. Fan was on its way to the spaceport, and Acer had to get home to collect Alice from Coriander. He cursed under his breath, they had spent more time together than he intended. The hours seemed to melt away whenever he saw Fan, and now he was late to meet Coriander.

He unfurled his form into a more efficient shape and took off, taking care to avoid running into anybody. With this much durataxin coursing through his veins, he didn’t want to risk hurting anybody. Ooh, it was going to be fun cooking dinner for Jackson and Alice tonight feeling like this. Inebriated cooking was an absolute delight.

Before he knew it, he was walking into his Hab, where Jackson, Coriander and Alice were waiting. They were hardly sitting idle waiting for him to return home. Alice was helplessly bound in Coriander’s vines, wearing a leather collar and leash he recognized from Jackson’s gear collection.

Jackson, for his part, was dressed in nothing but his Wasps jersey, pussy on display, as he fed the helpless Alice a plate of precious pink cupcakes. The sweet girl was already filling out beautifully, she looked like the perfect floret now. Between the blonde tresses cascading down her shoulders, the cutesy pink ballgown, and the white satin opera gloves, she was flawless. Nobody worked miracles like Coriander.

”Ah, welcome home Acer!” Coriander said. “I hope you had a lovely time with Mx. Malvaceae, I took the liberty of coming over a little early to keep sweet Jackson company. Alice was so excited about seeing her little crush again, wasn’t she?”

Coriander took a grip of Alice’s curly hair and made her nod, ignoring her blushy cheeks and whimpers of protests. Jackson was grinning his face off, his pussy dripping all over the couch. It was nice to see him in a good mood again, nothing cheered him up quite like having somebody cute to torment.

”Every time she finishes a cupcake, she has to tell me something she likes about me,” Jackson said, feeding Alice another bite. “She’s having a pretty hard time with all the Class E in these, though. All she could say after the last one was ‘voice pretty!’”

Alice squirmed in her bonds, but didn’t make any indication that she wanted this to stop. Acer slipped down onto the couch behind Jackson, wrapping five vines around him in a cautious hug. He was terrified that his ward would pull away and that he would ruin this lovely scene, but instead he leaned into his vines with a happy little hum.

”Hey plant,” Jackson said with a goofy smile. “How was your super-secret meeting that definitely wasn’t with your big, bad plant crush?”

Coriander giggled at that, and Acer blushed. It wasn’t a crush! They were just friends. And coworkers. And Acer looked up to Fan and its steadfast convictions. And also he would rest at night thinking about how its thorns must feel-

“It was perfectly lovely, if you must know,” Acer said in what he thought was a perfectly nonchalant tone. “And I absolutely do not have a ‘crush’ on it. Crushes are for cute little sophonts like you and your Patrick Bradshaw.”

Much to his delight, that was enough to make Jackson blush and grumble. “It’s not my fault he’s the cutest guy in the Accord!” Jackson protested. “And I know I’m right! You turn into a giggling schoolgirl every time you talk about Fan.”

”He does have a point, dear,” Coriander added, poking an injector into Alice’s neck. “You are often rather preoccupied with Mx. Malvaceae.”

”Don’t take his side!” Acer exclaimed. Jackson giggled and stuck out his tongue, and Acer simply could not let that stand.

“Did somebody let dominating a floret convince him that he’s in charge?” Acer hissed, wrapping more vines around his ward. Jackson squeaked in protest as he took Alice’s leash in one of his vines, but Acer noted that he was now even wetter between his legs.

”No fair!” Jackson said, squirming with little intent to actually escape. “I’m not your floret, you can’t just grab me like this!”

Acer chuckled, brushing a vine across his folds. “I’ll happily release you if you ask, petal.” Jackson did not ask to be released, so Acer kept him captive.

“Did you have durataxin with your plant crush, ya big tree?” Jackson asked. “You always get more dominant on that stuff, and you smell like it too.”

”What an astute little sophont,” Acer cooed, sticking a Class A injector into Jackson’s thigh. “I have had some durataxin, and it’s going to be your problem this evening. Well, I say ‘problem,’ but I highly doubt you’ll have any problems with it whatsoever.”

By that point, Jackson was too full of Class A to respond. So Acer stuffed three vines into his pussy and gagged him, leaving him to squirm and moan his brains out. Alice, her dom now incapacitated, whimpered needily.

Acer happily picked up the plate of cupcakes and took over feeding her, redirecting his attention to Coriander. “Would it kill you to back me up when my ward is teasing me?”

Coriander giggled. “And miss seeing you blush like that? Absolutely no chance,” she said. “It’s not like he’s wrong.”

Acer grumbled, but he didn’t really put his core into it. It was all in good fun, and it was impossible to be grumpy with his pet-to-be writhing in bliss in his vines. “Don’t you have some misguided Terrans to rescue?”

”Oh I certainly do,” Coriander purred, running her vines through her new floret’s hair. “My darling little pet here told me all about the copyright death squads, it’s going to be a delight to rescue them from such abominable feralism. They sleep on metal slabs on those ships!”

It never ceased to shock Acer how awful conditions were in the Terran Accord. Why did those poor dears fight so hard for something so untenable? They had wisdom and experiences worth sharing, certainly, but their devotion to atrocious conditions was remarkable.

”I’m sure you’ll find plenty of pets-to-be in need of firm vines,” Acer said with a smirk. “Now get going! Fan gets testy if it has to sit around waiting.”

”Very well, keep your vines on!” Coriander said. She disentangled a panting, needy Alice from her vines, poking an injector into her neck. “There’s the counteragent for her Class E, she should be a touch more coherent now. Her favorite stuffed animal is in Jackson’s bed, her dietary needs are in your pad, please make sure you brush her teeth and get her in the pajamas I compiled and-“

”Coriander dear, please relax,” Acer said. “I’m perfectly capable of caring for sweet Alice for a night, stars know Jackson is. We’ll have a lovely time, won’t we?”

Jackson was just barely coherent enough to nod, and Alice turned to face her owner with a bright smile.

”Go have fun Mistress!” Alice chirped. Stars, she was embracing her role in record time. “Mr. Maplestone and I are gonna have so much fun with Jackson.”

Coriander wrung her vines, but ultimately relented. “Alright munchkin, have a fun night for Mistress, alright?” She slipped a vine under Alice’s chin and tilted her head back, her eyes rippling out into pink and gold rings. “Remember that you deserve care, fun, bliss, and everything else that comes with the life of a floret.”

Alice moaned, clasping her hands behind her back. “Y-yuh Mistress,” she moaned. If Acer had to guess, Coriander had already trained her not to touch herself when she was hypnotized. If there was ever evidence that some sophonts were made to be florets, Alice Apiales should be Exhibit A.

“That’s my good girl,” Coriander said, giving her a quick pet. “Acer dear, please don’t hesitate to contact me if something goes awry. I can’t promise I’ll respond immediately if we’re engaged with these poor dears, but-“

”Coriander, if you make Fan wait any longer, it’s going to start pulling your vines off,” Acer said. “We’ll be just fine, off with you!”

Coriander grumbled, but she left with one last pet for her floret. Once she exited, Acer released Jackson from his vines, giving him some pets of his own. Jackson grumbled some nonsense about how Acer shouldn’t be treating him like a floret, but he didn’t do anything to resist the pets.

”You look really hot when you’re all tied up,” Alice blurted out, her cheeks instantly turning bright red. “Uh, s-sorry! Mistress gives me Class D every morning, I don’t have a filter anymore!”

Jackson laughed. “Hey, I’m not gonna complain about a compliment,” he replied. “Especially from a floret like you. Do you see how you look at your Mistress already? You’re not even implanted yet and you’re more helplessly in love than most of my friends.”

Alice’s blush turned even deeper. “You’re one to talk!” She shot back. “You wouldn’t stop talking about Mr. Maplestone the whole time he was gone!”

Jackson sputtered and stammered, frantically grabbing the plate of cupcakes and stuffing one in Alice’s mouth. For her part, the floret just hummed happily around the mouthful of sweet treat, tapping her gloved hands on her thighs. It was only fair, Acer thought. Jackson played a major part in getting Alice domesticated in the first place. It was perfectly reasonable that she would try to get him pushed into the same place.

”Is that true, little beagle?” Acer asked, already knowing the answer.

Jackson humphed. “Y-you came up in conversation,” he said. Well, that certainly wasn’t good enough for Acer.

”Patty dear, please review your logs and tell me how often I ‘came up in conversation’ this afternoon,” Acer said with a smirk.

”Certainly, Mr. Maplestone,” the Hab AI said with a chime. “By my count, during seventy minutes of shared time between Jackson Meadows, Alice Apiales, and Coriander Apiales, Jackson initiated conversation about you on seven separate occasions.”

”How interesting,” Acer said, possessive clicking sounds filling the living room. “I can’t say I know too many independent sophonts who discuss their guardians with such frequency. I don’t even need to ask Patty to reach the conclusion that the conversations were glowing.”

Alice nodded hard, and Jackson growled at her. How precious. He was so desperate to cling to something he didn’t actually want deep down. The only problem was that before you hit those desires deep down, you had to dig through several layers of free will and consent. Many Affini wouldn’t care about such things, but Acer couldn’t let himself do much more than tease.

”Well, as much as I would love to sit here and torment Jackson all night, I ought to get some dinner in the two of you,” Acer said. “Before I do, I would like to have a little chat in private with my ward. Alice dear, will you be alright on your own?”

Before she could say anything, Jackson piped up with an eager grin on his face. “I don’t know Acer, newly domesticated florets can’t be trusted on their own,” he said. “You never know what they might do! I think we need to keep sweet little Alice all safe and secure until we can attend to her again.”

Now it was Alice’s turn to sputter and whimper. But she didn’t say anything to contradict his assertion, so Jackson grabbed her by the hand and dragged her into his playroom. Acer followed behind them with a smile, watching as Jackson half-threw poor little Alice into a leather chair.

Ignoring her half-hearted protests, Jackson strapped her in. He pulled leather belts across her wrists, ankles, waist, and chest, making sure he tightened it right on top of her newly budding breasts. Alice mewled, but that only gave Jackson an opportunity to push a ballgag between her jaws and lock it in place.

”There, that ought to keep her from doing anything she’ll regret!” Jackson said as he slipped a clicker into her hand. “Press this if you need out, alright? We’ll just be in the next room. I’ll give you something to keep you occupied while we’re gone, though.”

He slipped a visor over Alice’s head and switched it on, and the floret let out a shaky little moan around her gag. This was one of his favorite tricks, lighting up his prey’s eyes with spirals until they melted. Jackson would make for an excellent Affini, Acer thought. Such a shame he was a silly little Terran with a head full of misbegotten ideas about independence.

”That ought to hold her,” Jackson said as he left his playroom, leaving Alice and the quickly-growing wet patch at the front of her dress. “What did you want to talk about?”

”Let’s discuss this while I prepare dinner,” Acer said, shepherding Jackson into the kitchen. He typed a quick command into his pad instructing Patty to monitor Alice more closely as he did, also pulling up Coriander’s exhaustive instructions for how to care for her floret.

”Sure thing! What’s on the menu?” Jackson asked as he climbed up onto a stool. He looked so cute with his legs dangling in the air like that, sitting around in nothing but his Wasps jersey. Acer wanted to scold him for not waiting to be lifted into the stool like a good pet, but he stopped himself. Feeding him would make up for it nicely.

”Well, Coriander sent me a list of every single food Alice has eaten thus far and notes on her opinions of each one,” Acer said, rolling his eyes. “It looks like she hasn’t had a chance to try pizza yet, and she seems to have a high opinion of everything that might go in it. Does that sound good?”

”Mmmm, you make the best pizza,” Jackson said dreamily.

”Seems like you’ve recovered well from our incident yesterday,” Acer said, pulling premade pizza dough from the stasis chamber. “I’ll admit, I was afraid that our interactions might be a touch more frosty than this today.”

Jackson squirmed in his seat. “Yeah, I was a little bit fuc- um, messed up about it when I woke up this morning,” he said. Acer smirked at his self-censorship. “I’m still a bit upset, if I’m being honest. Not like I was, though. I know you were just trying to look out for me and all the other florets, it just hurt to feel like you didn’t trust me.”

That stung. It wasn’t a matter of him not trusting Jackson, he wouldn’t still be independent if he didn’t trust him. Acer steadied himself, this was a delicate situation. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing and trigger Jackson’s insecurities once more. Because of this, he didn’t make a comment about his ward’s

reference to “other florets.”

”Well, I do want to tell you that this has nothing to do with my trust in you,” Acer said, picking up a rolling pin and flattening the dough into a disc. “I trust you a great deal. You would not have the degree of freedom you enjoy if you didn’t. This has everything to do with unlearning harmful mental patterns.”

Jackson hummed thoughtfully. “Harmful how though?” He asked. “It’s just a game. I know that a lot of the stuff around it is bad, I’m not a big fan of the postgame floggings. I’ve loved football my whole life, it hasn’t turned me into a violent maniac.”

Acer fought back an annoyed grumble. Terrans could be so stubborn. “That’s the problem at hand though, starshine,” he said. “You don’t notice the harmful thought patterns because they seem natural to you. The advertisements, the genetic modifications, the military displays, they’re all simply part of the experience to your mind.”

Jackson opened his mouth to reply, but he seemed to think better of it and pursed his lips. Acer wasn’t naïve enough to think that one well-reasoned point would adjust Jackson’s perspective, but the Terran took his guardian’s opinions seriously.

”I guess that makes sense,” he said begrudgingly. “I don’t see why that means we can’t have any football in the Compact. That’s capitalism, not the game!”

”And this is precisely what I wanted to talk to you about,” Acer said, almost glowing. “Fan recommended that we search for an alternative to Crown League broadcasts. We could simulate games and broadcast those, we could seek out video games, we could teach your friends how to play!”

Jackson looked shocked. “Wait, really?!” He asked. “You’d do that for me?”

Acer smiled. “I would do anything for you, petal,” he cooed. “Anything under the stars.”

Jackson turned bright red and fidgeted in his stool, too flustered to speak. Acer didn’t push the envelope any further, choosing instead to focus on preparing the pizza. It was fortuitous that Alice’s food preferences aligned so neatly with Jackson’s favorite pizza toppings.

Acer’s ward generally liked foods that were very “boy” coded. Wings, steak, generally a diet that leaned heavily on meat. But for pizza, Jackson preferred a vegetable medley: bell peppers, roasted red onions, mushrooms, and artichokes atop the traditional base of tomato sauce and cheese. Acer had seen him devour an entire 16” pie with these toppings in one sitting.

”Despite that, I do still apologize for misleading you about the game yesterday,” Acer said as he lit an open flame to char the onions. “That wasn’t right or fair of me, and you deserve better than that. With any luck, Coriander’s expedition may lead us to the Crown League hideout itself! Then we can see about bringing some high-quality football to Gilreath.”

”Are you serious?” Jackson asked, still stunned.

”Well, we can’t count our horses before they’re born,” Acer said. “I can’t imagine many of my peers will be wild about such an idea. I think we’d need to demonstrate that this sport can be played safely first, free of the influence of the Terran Accord. For now, why don’t we focus on teaching your friends and finding a good video game?”

”That’s definitely better than no football,” Jackson said with a smile. “Thanks, plant. It really means a lot.”

”Oh believe me little beagle, the pleasure is all mine,” Acer said as he slid the pizza into the oven. “It’s going to be about ten minutes until dinner’s ready, would you like to go play with your little girlfriend until then?”

Jackson’s blush returned with haste. “She’s not my girlfriend!” He exclaimed. “We just like each other, that’s all.”

Acer giggled. Terrans were so cute when they tried to deny the obvious. Even as Jackson rushed out of the room to go tell Alice that she made “such a cute little princess,” his cheeks were still so red they were almost glowing. The drippy trail he left behind himself was more than enough proof that he loved this treatment.

The fourth bloom watched happily as Jackson took out all of his embarrassment on poor Alice. The bound blonde girl took to florethood like second nature, albeit with plenty of assistance from Coriander. She had posted scores of videos of Alice’s in-depth training on the overnet, and it seemed the precious girl didn’t have enough of an independent brain left to remember her negative feelings toward the Compact. An implant was going to do her wonders.

”Do you have a problem with me ruining this pretty dress, sweet princess?” Jackson asked, his voice dripping with faux sympathy. Alice shook her head frantically, her eyes wild with desire. Jackson smirked and cut the dress off of her with a pair of safety shears.

Acer was distracted from Alice’s naked body by a ding on his pad. He looked down and his core jumped, it was Fan.

biggestfan: How did your conversation with sweet Jackson go, Mr. Maplestone?

PocketAcers: Perfectly lovely. He was flustered to the stars and back by the lengths Affini will go to for their pets.

PocketAcers: Well, future pets in this instance, I suppose.

PocketAcers: And anyway, why are you messaging me right now? Don’t you have ferals to rescue?

biggestfan: We’re still scanning. Whatever these copyright death squads make their ships out of is some sterner stuff than the typical Accord spacecraft.

biggestfan: Coriander is in minute forty-seven of an extended rant about the absurd priorities of feral Terrans.

PocketAcers: Sounds about right. She’s already laid waste to the feralism in little Alice. She’s currently falling apart in Jackson’s paws.

biggestfan: Paws? I thought Jackson was a Terran.

PocketAcers: Oh, he is. But his days as a human Terran are numbered.

biggestfan: Well, enjoy your plotting. We’ve just received some sort of signal, I think it’s almost time.

PocketAcers: Good luck!

biggestfan: And to you, Mr. Maplestone.

Acer smiled, looking back up to see Jackson holding a vibrating wand against Alice’s chastity belt. By the Everbloom, she looked precious in that thing. Sometimes Acer wished he could be like Coriander.

Then again, as Jackson looked over to him and gave him a glowing smile, this method certainly had its benefits.

Chapter Text

1900 hours on the dot, the sergeant said. Patrick Bradshaw was in the hangar at 1850 just to be sure, explaining that his presence was allowed to all of the security guards and their shock batons. Players were never allowed out of their prescribed areas in this hellhole. The first time one of Patrick’s teammates tried to slip out of their barracks and explore, the poor bastard got fried by one of those shock batons. They were allegedly stun weapons, but everybody here knew that those damn rent-a-cops tuned them high enough to kill.

It figured that the security officers would miss the scheduled launch. They maintained control over the Crown League through brute force, not some kind of tactical genius. The players mastered operating on a rigid schedule years ago, their very existence regimented under threat of death. Surely the security team were just as replaceable as the players were.

Patrick leaned against a sleek black transport ship, the dim lights in the hangar vanishing into its hull. It looked more expensive than everything else on this base put together. It made sense that they had the cash to invest in fancy-pants interstellar travel now that they didn’t have to pay the athletes anymore. Slave labor was quite the money-saver, turns out.

Finally at 1935, the sergeant and his five cohorts stumbled into the hangar. Had they been drinking? Patrick wanted to scream. He would kill for a good buzz right now. Of course such things were denied to the players. Management claimed it would “negatively impact their performance,” but Patrick figured that murdering his teammates and enslaving him affected his performance a great deal more.

He fought not to give the sergeant the stink eye. This was a good thing, Patrick reasoned. If these pricks were drunk and distracted, it would be much easier for him to find a way to contact the Affini. It wouldn’t be much longer. Either this would work, and he would escape into the blissful confines of life as an owned pet, or they would catch him and throw him into space. One way or another, he would never come back to this godforsaken rock.

”Good evening, Sergeant,” Patrick said, standing bolt upright and saluting. He felt ridiculous, but kowtowing to this blowhard seemed a promising route. “Are we ready to depart? Are there any tasks you need me to perform before takeoff?”

”Calm the fuck down, Bradshaw,” the sergeant slurred. “Get on the damn ship, Cutler will give you your responsibilities there.”

”I will?” Another one of the armored officers said, his voice even more thick with alcohol than the sergeant. “The fuck even are his responsibilities.”

The sergeant’s nametag fell off of his vest and he swore as he bent down to pick it up. Patrick looked down at him with disdain. This was the force that had evaded the Affini Compact for three years? Maybe the administrators were smarter than their grunts, these fools could barely outsmart the door to the ship.

The sergeant stood, securing the placard back on his chest with his chewing gum. Patrick squinted, reading the name “Kiper” on the cheap, flaking piece of golden plastic. He’d been too disgusted to read it earlier after the bastard’s squad threw Jordan out of an airlock. He smiled when he watched, too. Maybe he’d get lucky and Kiper would die in the crossfire when the Affini came to take the ship.

“Whatever Bosa’s responsibilities were, just pass ‘em along,” Kiper grumbled. “It’s a fuckin’ kill mission, he shouldn’t have to do too much but point and shoot.”

Sergeant Kiper stumbled onto the ship, mumbling about a headache. Patrick wondered if these men were reckless or just fools. They were going into Affini space on a kill mission like this? To take down citizens of the empire that crushed the Terran military like bugs? He followed along behind them, hoping that at least the pilot was sober.

He glanced into the cockpit to see that the man flying the ship was mercifully not one of the uniformed rent-a-cops. He did shoot Patrick a scowl, and he wondered what he had ever done to invite the scorn of all of these people. Scorn was part of the job of a professional athlete; back on Terra he couldn’t stop himself from wasting nights scrolling through hateful online posts directed at him. But that was quite different to dealing with the hatred of a person who could kill him and face no consequences.

”Bradshaw! Get your pansy ass over here,” Cutler barked. Patrick ground his teeth, he wanted nothing more than to show this jackass who the real pansy was here. “Gotta show you the comms panel, it’s your station.”

All of the distaste was instantly forgotten. Communications panel? Was he lucky enough that they were going to sit him in the exact spot he needed to escape the last of the Accord forever?

Apparently so. Cutler didn’t seem to have the first clue how it worked, but he had his deceased comrade's credentials to log into the terminal. He slurred his way through a half-hearted explanation of Patrick’s duties on the mission.

”You’re gonna watch the monitor and keep an eye out for location pings,” Cutler said, reaching into his hip pack and pulling out a flask. “The ship’s gotta stay cloaked, so you’re also gonna send out dummy signals to bounce off anything you see. Planets, moons, other ships, it throws ‘em off our scent. Think you can manage that, jock?”

”I’ll do my best, Sir,” Patrick said in his best impression of an earnest tone. Cutler nodded, grunted, and took another slug of liquor from his flask.

”Good,” he said. “We should be getting in without detection from the weeds, but we’ll be in real-speed flight for a while so they can’t see us on scans. Once we’re on the planet, all we gotta do is open fire on the thieves and then we’ll head on back.”

”Sounds simple enough,” Patrick said. “What’s this big red button do?”

Cutler laughed. “Distress signal,” he said. “Don’t hit that shit. Not unless you wanna end up with a fuckin’ worm growing on your spine!”

He slapped Patrick on the back, and the green-eyed boy realized he should be laughing too. His blood froze for a moment there. But Cutler didn’t suspect him of anything, he was too drunk and likely too dim. He walked off, telling his squadmates about the “great fuckin’ joke!” he just told.

Patrick looked at the red button. Clearly, that would be the most obvious way out. It would also probably light up every monitor on the ship with the fact that he hit it, which would get a pulse rifle fired into his temple. That wouldn’t do at all. He’d have to be more subtle about it.

”Strap in for takeoff,” the pliot’s voice said over the intercom. Patrick complied, while also unhooking the pulse rifle strapped to the wall and inspecting it. He’d never seen one capable of live fire. All of the Crown League academy students learned how to handle guns in case of emergency, but this one was different. It was much heavier, and it hummed with a dangerous energy. The power cells in these things were notoriously unstable at high settings, but no portable weapon could kill quite like one of these.

Jordan Cato flashed across Patrick’s mind again, and his face fell. He was the best shot on the team, always had been. They maybe could’ve helped the Accord with the war if the damn league had just released them from their contracts. But no, apparently the quadrillionaires who owned the teams cared more about adding a few more credits to their hoards than preserving the society they lived in.

He was happy he didn’t watch Jordan die. He made that mistake once, the first time a teammate got spaced. Bo Adams didn’t make it a month in their new home before he did something to piss off Cashman, Patrick couldn’t even remember what it was. Defending Bo got him a brutal shock from his cage and a reminder that stepping a toe out of line was enough to get him spaced. He watched as Bo drifted through space, clutching at his throat and pleading for mercy to an uncaring god.

Maybe Jordan was right, and there was another side humans went to when they died. That was certainly a more comforting prospect than dying in a freezing vacuum and entering a void for the rest of time. If Patrick didn’t play this right, he’d find out before the end of the night what happens to a human soul when its body loses its spark.

”Brace for jump,” the pilot said. The whole ship hummed, and Patrick gritted his teeth. Jump drives were an adventure at the best of times. They allowed Terrans to cross into the age of spacefaring, certainly, but they also killed a good percentage of the people they tried to transport. Plus, he half-remembered an article saying something about jump drives driving up cancer rates.

Whatever. If this worked, he’d find his way to an Affini who could cure any disease in the universe. From what he heard, they could even do something about the niggling sense of wrongness that pervaded his entire body.

”Initializing,” a computerized voice said on the intercom. Patrick squeezed his eyes shut, sending a silent prayer to the stars that the ship would survive the jump. He felt a percussive thump against his chest that forced the air from his lungs, and when he opened his eyes, the display on his screen looked completely different.

”Jump completed, t-minus two hours and five minutes until landing,” the pilot said. “Commence usual duties.”

Patrick cast a glance over to the main passenger area. The whole squad of pricks was there without a care in the world, passing three flasks around and getting even more drunk. He fought down his instinct to be annoyed, choosing to view this as a blessing. At this rate, he wouldn’t have to worry about dealing with them at all. He would only have to tangle with the pilot and presumably an engineer. Jump drives were complex enough that every ship with one needed a dedicated crew member to operate them, as a pilot had enough to worry about without managing that.

He returned his gaze to the screen, taking stock of what he saw. As he understood it, his job now would mostly be confusing enemy scanners. He started with Cutler’s suggestion and typed out a dummy signal to send to a nearby planet. The ship’s array beamed out <Hi hello, I’m over here/> in binary code, zipping through space and reflecting off of a planet to beam through the cosmos. It was simple process, select a destination, construct a message, hit send. He had two hours to kill before they landed, so he might as well try to fill the time.

“Bradshaw!” Kiper called out after ninety minutes, rising to his feet. “Try not to get us killed on something this fuckin’ simple. You ever see a weed die?”

”No sir,” Patrick replied, typing out another message to bounce it off of a satellite orbiting the planet they were passing by. “I’ve never even seed an Aff- um, a weed in person before. Just vid files.”

”I have,” Kiper said gruffly. “They die loud. All screams and thorns and whipping vines.”

”Bullshit you have, sarge,” Cutler shot back. “You’ve never even been to the front lines!”

Kiper whirled on his underling with fury in his eyes, smacking the flask out of his hand. “You callin’ me a goddamn liar, boy?!”

Cutler stood, only coming up to his sergeant’s chin. “Well I sure ain’t calling you to dinner!”

Kiper’s nostrils flared, and Patrick looked away as he punched the smaller man square in the face. The men broke out in a fight, all six of them pulled into a scrum. Patrick sighed. Hopefully men weren’t like this in the Affini Compact. All violence and threats and bravado, it made that pervasive wrongness all the stronger.

”Meatheads,” a soft voice said behind Patrick. “I don’t understand why somebody would ever voluntarily associate with them.”

Patrick whirled in his chair to see a sickly thin young man standing behind him, with big brown doe eyes and close-cropped black hair. His stick-thin body didn’t fill out his uniform, which hung off of him like old curtains. He surveyed Patrick with a spark of intelligence and suspicion in his eyes.

”Um, you must be the jump engineer,” Patrick said, offering up his hand. The young man took it, his spindly fingers half the size of Patrick’s own.

”Indeed,” he said, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the ongoing fight. “Colin Gore. I barely escaped a Rebellion ship as the Affini ensnared it. The Crown League was the only place left that I could go free of the weeds’ influence, so here I am.”

”That had to be pretty scary,” Patrick said, turning back around to send another signal. This one seemed a good deal sharper than the rest. He could present a problem.”

”Quite so, yes,” Colin said. His gentle, low tone was far more unsettling than Kiper’s yelling and Cutler’s slurring disdain. “I was pricked by one of their injectors as I fled, it took a full day in my escape pod before the arousal subsided.”

”Sounds awful,” Patrick lied.

”Hmm,” Colin responded. “You perplex me, Patrick Bradshaw. Why would somebody in your position volunteer for a mission like this? As you can tell, it’s not difficult for another one of those disorderly louts to learn to operate this console. I assumed they forced you into it, but Sergeant Kiper informed me that you volunteered."

Patrick’s mouth went dry as a bone. He could only hope Colin didn’t notice the sweat beading on his brow. He wracked his brains, trying to remember his rationale when he signed up in the first place.

”I wanted to help,” he said, feigning comfort. “Sergeant Kiper said they were down a man, and I was in a position to lend my assistance. I couldn’t just stand by and let them conduct a mission in enemy territory without a full complement. They’ve trained me for shit like this since I was a kid anyway.”

He risked a glance at Colin, who looked unconvinced. “Is that the case?” The engineer asked. “I suspect you’re not telling me the truth, Patrick Bradshaw. Would you like to know why?”

”I bet you’re going to tell me no matter what I say,” Patrick said, chancing some sarcasm. He saw the ghost of a smile on Colin’s face.

”Quite so,” he said with a mirthless chuckle. “My father was a high-ranking officer for the lead Terran intelligence agency, Patrick Bradshaw. It was his sworn duty to extract any and all actionable information from malcontents brought before him. I trust I needn’t go into detail on his methods when I say that he was an effective interrogator.”

Patrick gulped. Colin continued.

”My father’s position appointed us an enviable life on Terra, Patrick Bradshaw,” he said. “A penthouse apartment in a building that touched the clouds in Shanghai, servants to attend our every need, private tutors to keep my sisters and I out of the filthy public schools. And then the weeds arrived to ruin everything.”

His tone didn’t change and his voice stayed quiet, but Patrick saw his hands clenched into shaking fists. He sent another signal out from the array, this time bouncing off of the nearby planet’s moon. Maybe if he stopped listening, this weird little rich kid would go away.

”They took everything from me,” Colin said. “My home, my family, the position my father set aside for me at the agency. And then they have the audacity to turn around and inform us that our system was at fault, and they’ve constructed something better where up-jumped peasants walk as though they’re my equal? I think not.”

Patrick fought to keep from shaking. Was he scared or angry? He couldn’t tell. The cops may have been brutes, but people as rich as Colin’s family were far worse. They were the kind of people who employed these copyright death squads in the first place. Overpowering drunk men was one thing. Talking his way around somebody intelligent and fanatical was quite another.

“I fled to the Rebellion, as it was the one place I could find with any sense left that could manage talents such as mine,” he said, reaching into his pocked and pulling out a small remote. “Of course, as the Affini whittled down our fighting force, I had to diversify my skill set. In addition to everything my father taught me, I learned to operate a jump drive as well as anybody in the Accord. I also acquired a great deal of responsibility. Do you know what this is?”

”N-no,” Patrick stammered, licking his lips in an attempt to restore moisture to his mouth.

”I thought not,” Colin said. “Near-animals like yourself wouldn’t have the authority to handle a device such as this. Though I’m confident you’re aware of what it controls. Here’s a hint, Patrick Bradshaw: you and every one of your teammates have one implanted in the base of your skull.”

Patrick’s breath caught in his throat. “It’s the trigger for the incinerator units,” he said.

”Quite right,” Colin replied. “If I hold this button for three seconds, every incinerator unit on the ship detonates. It is bio-coded to me, nobody else on the ship is trusted to activate it. I will not hesitate to use this remote if an extreme situation calls for it.”

He leaned in, redirecting Patrick’s gaze from the monitor to his face with one slim finger. “So I will ask you again, Patrick Bradshaw,” Colin said, his finger resting on the button. “Why are you here?”

Patrick froze. Did those rich fucks back on Terra implant their kids with lie deterctors or something? Probably not, but what if he lied again and Colin didn’t buy it? Not only would he die horribly, but so would six other men. But if he did tell the truth, he’d probably get spaced! His heart raced as he tried to think of a way out, when the universe was kind enough to provide him with one.

”Affini ship detected,” the pilot said. “All crew return to stations immediately, brace in anticipation of possible jump.”

Colin scowled and slipped the remote back into his pocket. “We are not finished here, Patrick Bradshaw,” he said, his big brown eyes looking more intimidating than should’ve been possible. “If you do anything to bring about this ship’s capture, you will not live long enough to regret it.”

The slim young man skulked away, slipping through a tangle of pipes and wires at the back of the ship and down a ladder. Patrick shuddered. That… certainly complicated matters. He hadn’t considered the incinerator units in the four microseconds he spent formulating this plan. Would Colin really kill himself and eight other men just for the sake of getting one over on the Affini? It felt irrational, but the Terran upper class wasn’t known for their rationality.

The rent-a-cops finally disentangled from their fight, Cutler and Kiper both sporting broken visors and black eyes. The sergeant had several finger-shaped bruises around his neck. If the situation weren’t so dire, Patrick would’ve laughed. That idiot managed to lose a fight to somebody a head shorter than him? It was preposterous.

”Deactivating non-essential systems,” the pilot said. “Communications, cloaking, and life support remain functional. Bradshaw, continue with distribution of dummy signals. Danger of capture is too great for the mission to procede as scheduled, once the threat is passed we will jump back to base.”

”Bullshit!” Kiper exclaimed. “You’re not the one calling the shots here, Pollyanna, we will go on with the fuckin’ mission as planned!”

”Negative,” the pilot said. “If they’ve already dispatched a search craft, they are too aware of our presence to proceed with a kill mission. Engineering, prepare for an emergency jump.”

”Copy,” came Colin’s soft voice over the intercom. “Emergency measures are at the ready in the event of the ship’s capture.”

”Um, the fuck does that mean?” One of the cops interjected.

”It means that the weeds will never get their vines on proprietary Crown League information, regardless of the personal cost, Andrew Colston,” Colin replied. “But that should not be necessary unless the unforeseen should come to pass.”

”Agreed,” the pilot said. “This craft comes equipped with the finest cloaking technology money can buy. It has avoided Compact detection before, it will do so again.”

The intercom switched off, leaving Patrick alone with his thoughts and the uncomfortable murmuring of the rent-a-cops in the passenger seats. Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. One wrong move and that crazy kid in engineering would light them all on fire. No wrong moves and the ship would escape detection and take Patrick right back to the nightmare he was so desperate to escape. What could he do?

He decided that returning to that godforsaken asteroid was not an acceptable option. So he did something maybe a little reckless. He encoded <Dear stars help please help me/> into binary and beamed it right at the massive ship that just appeared on his screen. He had no idea if the pilot or Colin could see where he was sending signals, he had no idea if they could even receive it. But what was the alternative?

Patrick fired off another three signals in quick succession, holding his breath for the intercom or a burning sensation at the base of his skull. Neither came. Instead, text popped up on the console screen.

Hello, petal. Are you in need of assistance?

Patrick yelped, then clapped a hand over his mouth. He looked over at the rest of the ship, but only Cutler seemed to notice. He was too preoccupied with worrying about Colin’s veiled proclamation that he was going to burn them all alive if he so much as smelled an Affini. He typed more, grateful they assigned him a job that would give him cover for this desperate gambit.

<Yes I am, I’m trapped on this ship and I don’t know how to escape, please help please please please./>

Remain calm dear, it’s all going to be alright. What is your name?

<Patrick Bradshaw/>

A charming name indeed, and I’m sure it comes attached to a charming sophont. What seems to be the trouble?

<They’ve got some kind of advanced cloaking system, and if you can’t find us, they’re going to jump away and I’ll be trapped for stars know how long./>

A worrisome situation indeed.

<That isn’t the half of it./>

What else is there, petal?

<The engineer can kill everybody on board at the push of a button, and he’ll do it. He’s crazy. He blames the Affini for ruining his life./>

Dear oh dear, that simply will not do. But there is no need to fear such a fate. We have triangulated your location thanks to your signals. How does this engineer plan on committing these heinous acts?

<We’re all implanted with incinerator units. He’s got a remote. He said if he holds the button on it for three seconds, we’ll all be dead./>

That is certainly a conundrum. Please proceed with your job as assigned, darling. Raise no suspicion, give the engineer no cause to activate the units. I trust that given you are still communicating with me, your activities have not been detected?

<I guess, I have no way of knowing. I’ve never done this job before. Are you going to kill him?/>

No. That is not how the Affini Compact operates. None of you will be harmed unless somebody on your ship is the one carrying out the harm. Do not place yourself in a position to get hurt, let us take care of it. With any luck, you’ll be safe within the hour.

The text disappeared from Patrick’s screen, leaving him to continue beaming dummy signals. He felt dazed. He had done what he had to, and it seemed that nobody on the ship was any the wiser. He couldn’t decide if he felt more giddy or terrified. If this was the day he died, he could at least shuffle off this mortal coil knowing he spent his last minutes doing something in defiance of authority for once.

”No signs of detection thus far, but the Affini ship shows no signs of leaving the sector,” the pilot said over the intercom. “Remain braced for emergency jump.”

The rent-a-cops all grumbled, but then Patrick heard Colin’s voice come over the speaker instead. Fucking perfect.

”While we wait, I suppose I may as well make this line of questioning public,” he said, his tone as gentle as ever. “Before the arrival of the enemy craft, I was in the midst of questioning Patrick Bradshaw about his motives in joining our mission today. Is anybody else curious about this point of information?”

”He already told us,” Kiper said with a grunt. “Wants to serve the Crown League. They gave him life, they raised him, they made him famous. Seems about right to me.” All of his men grunted in agreement.

”It’s specious conclusions like those that brought down the Terran Accord,” Colin replied. “The Crown League has done little but beat down Patrick Bradshaw and his compatriots, especially of late. Now, I am of a mind that this is the only appropriate treatment for low-class scum. But I cannot fathom why he might agree.”

Patrick took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice steady. “I need a regimented life, Colin,” he said, keeping the tremor in his hands out of his tone. “It’s all I’ve ever known, and I resent the notion that I would sell out my family to the enemy army that destroyed the Terran way of life.”

It was all a pack of lies, of course. He had, in fact, already sold them out. The last time he felt like he had “family” in the Crown League was the moment before Bo Adams got thrown out an airlock. The rent-a-cops bought it well enough, and the pilot didn’t say anything. But he heard the sound of Colin’s boots on the ladder behind him.

He had just enough time to send out another signal saying <Please hurry!/> before the slim engineer emerged from the tangle of pipes and wires, his big brown eyes narrowed. He had the remote in his hand, except now the button was lit up.

”The incinerator units are now primed, Patrick Bradshaw,” Colin said, a manic tone creeping into his quiet voice. “I am going to give you one last chance to tell me the truth, or you will be responsible for the death of seven men. I would ask if that’s something you can live with, but that won’t be necessary for a charred corpse to consider.”

Patrick took a moment to consider that question, then without thinking, he pounced. Colin’s eyes went wide, but before he could press the button, Patrick forced it out of his hand. It skidded under the communications terminal, out of immediate harm’s way. All of the engineer’s wealthy haughtiness couldn’t win him a fight against a genetically engineered athlete.

”What the fuck’s going on back there?!” The pilot asked over the intercom. “Engineering, report!”

”B-Brandon!” Colin sputtered, Patrick’s arm locked around his throat in a headlock. “He’s trying to k-kill me!”

”And I’ll fucking do it too!” Patrick roared. “Everybody sit down and shut up until the weeds are gone or the spoiled brat gets it!”

”Bradshaw, you moron,” the pilot said. “If you kill him, there’ll be nobody to jump us home!”

”Then I guess you all better back off,” Patrick said. “Sergeant, he was going to burn us all alive because I told him the truth. Can you please grab the remote under my station so he can’t do that?”

Kiper nodded without a word and collected the blinking remote from under the computer terminal, retreating to his seat and taking another swig from his flask. This time, Patrick couldn’t blame him.

“Idiots!” Colin said, gasping for air. “Fools! He’s going to be the death of us all! Can’t you see?”

“Communications, please release engineering,” the pilot said. “Now that the remote is out of his possession, surely that removes any and all leverage he may have possessed.”

”No can do,” Patrick said, though he did relax the tension on the slim man’s neck. “Who’s to say he doesn’t have another one stashed away downstairs? I’m not risking everybody’s life because of one man’s paranoia.”

Colin growled. “You don’t fool me for one moment, Patrick Bradshaw,” he said, not bothering to struggle anymore. “I bet you’ve already disclosed our coordinates to the weeds.”

Patrick rolled his eyes and scoffed. “I think somebody would’ve noticed if I did something that stupid,” he replied. “You would’ve already turned me to ash.”

”I have no way of seeing your terminal remotely!” Colin exclaimed. “Nobody on the ship does! Somebody, check his logs! His story is nonsensical, an escape attempt is the only logical reason for him to be on this mission.”

Much to Patrick’s chagrin, Cutler stood up and stumbled over to the terminal. “If it’ll make you shut the fuck up, shortstack,” he said. Patrick looked up toward the ceiling, hoping the Affini would show up soon. What was taking them so long? He wished he had some way of letting them know they didn’t have to worry about the incinerator units anymore. Kiper wasn’t about to kill himself like Colin would.

Cutler opened the log, and the dismissive smirk on his face quickly turned to shock. “You… you fucking bastard!” He shouted, whirling on Patrick. “What the hell have you done?!”

”What is it?” Kiper said, standing out of his chair.

”It’s exactly what the kid said!” Cutler continued, motioning the sergeant over. “Bradshaw sold us out! He was sending them signals, trying to lead them right to us!”

Patrick now had six furious pairs of eyes on him and one very smug jump engineer in a headlock in his lap. Seeing no other options, he retreated into the pipes and wires, picking his way through and hoping the drunken rent-a-cops were too out of it to follow him right away.

”You have nowhere to run, Patrick Bradshaw,” Colin said as Patrick reached the ladder behind the tangle.

”Quiet, or I’m throwing you down there head-first,” Patrick said. “You’re lucky I’m not the kind of person you are.”

Colin laughed out loud. “In a million years, given infinite attempts, you could never be the kind of person I am,” he shot back. “You are vat-grown scum, fit for nothing more than crashing into other subhumans for the enjoyment of your social superiors. I am simply a higher order of life than you.”

Patrick reached the bottom of the ladder and slammed Colin against a wall with more force than was strictly necessary. He reached up and closed the hatch at the bottom of the shaft, spinning the wheel to lock it. That wouldn’t hold them forever, but it would at least buy him some time. Colin was maybe ninety pounds soaking wet, so it was easy to hold him up with one hand around his throat.

”You don’t seem like a higher order of life right now,” Patrick growled. “Is Dadddy’s money going to save you now? You don’t deserve the life the Affini want to give you. From everything I’ve heard, they want to give everybody luxury! What the hell is wrong with that?”

”Not… right…” Colin gasped. “You… are… inferior.”

Patrick leaned in closer, tensing up his hand but not squeezing harder. “Do you have any idea how easy it would be for me to kill you right now, pipsqueak?” He snarled. “They grew me in that vat to be physically perfect. It’s going to kill me someday, but right now I’m strong enough to wring your little neck.”

But he couldn’t do it. He refused to lower himself down to the level of Kiper and his goons. So he released Colin’s neck and let him collapse down to his hands and knees, then sank down to the floor himself. Tears beaded in his eyes as he sat back on his butt. He didn’t think to bring the pulse rifle down with him. That hatch wouldn’t hold forever. The rent-a-cops would be down here to rend his body apart before the Affini ever came to rescue him.

”I do not understand you, Patrick Bradshaw,” Colin said once he regained his breath. “Killing me would have been the optimal choice for your escape attempt. Why have you not done it?”

”Have you ever considered that not every person is as much of a complete bastard as you, Colin?” Patrick said. “You think I’m just going to kill you because it’s convenient for me?”

”You did just threaten to do so, Patrick Bradshaw,” Colin mumbled. “And it’s hardly germane, anyway. Those drunken fools are going to come barging in here any second to kill you, and I will likely be caught in the crossfire. They know they’re about to be captured, and common men are foolish when they are desperate.”

Patrick didn’t bother responding to that, instead listening to the commotion from above. That was definitely pulse rifle fire. Were they killing each other? No, that was unlikely. Could it be that the Affini had finally shown up? No, he told them that the main danger was in engineering, they definitely would’ve come here first. So what the hell was happening?

Suddenly, the metal hatch burst open. Patrick scooted away from it, bumping against the containment chamber for the jump drive. This was it. They were coming to kill him. At least he got to do something exciting to close out his life, something besides exactly what he was ordered to do.

But instead of a flood of jack-booted brutes, a tangle of deep purple vines came down the shaft. The vines were covered with black and white roses as well as bright bronze thorns. When the vines came all the way down the hatch and presented Patrick with a pair of bright bronze eyes, he was so happy he started crying.

”Right then,” the Affini said. “Am I to assume that the hysterically sobbing sophont is Patrick Bradshaw?”

”Th-that-that’s me!” He said, ignoring Colin’s dirty look.

”Most excellent,” it said. “Such an ingenious little Terran, using your cloaking mechanism to contact help. My associates have already subdued your colleagues, though it seems they did much of the subduing all by themselves before we arrived.”

Patrick laughed through his tears, barely able to breathe. This was beyond ridiculous. He hadn’t dared let himself think that this would actually work! But here he was, with a hulking mass of vines standing over him, a conquering alien monster that looked more comforting than any Terran he’d ever met.

”Excuse me!” Came Colin’s voice from behind the Affini. “You do not have permission to be on this craft, I demand that you disembark immediately!”

The Affini wrapped him in three vines, easily lifting him up and bringing him around in front of it. “I assume this is the fanatical little engineer sweet Patrick told me about,” it said, brandishing a flower with a long needle coming out of it. “Normally, I am loathe to treat a newly rescued sophont with xenodrugs as though they’re some kind of wild animal. But given the information I have in my possession, I cannot allow you to run about putting lives in danger.”

It buried the needle in Colin’s thigh, and two seconds later he was out cold in its vines. The Affini brought Colin into its vines, where the engineer disappeared in the rolling purple coils. Patrick couldn’t help but stare.

”S-so um, who do I have to thank for my daring rescue?” Patrick asked, cautious joy blossoming in his heart.

The Affini chuckled. It was an enchanting, musical sound. “Fan Malvaceae, Twelfth Bloom, it/its,” the Affini said. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, dear Patrick. Though I would hardly call this rescue ‘daring.’ The only complicating factor was disabling all communicative signals to counteract the engineer’s little remote, but that was simple enough for one of my compatriots. All the rest of us had to do was come in and extract you lot. Through I must ask, how did you end up so far away from your terminal? And why was the rest of the crew in such disarray?”

Patrick laughed sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck. “I uh, I didn’t do a great job of following your orders,” he said. “I got myself in harm’s way pretty much immediately. I had to retreat down here for safety once those idiots upstairs found out I’d been communicating with you.”

Fan sighed, a noise that sounded like rustling leaves. “I swear, there is not a species that pursues their own downfall quite like Terrans,” it said. “Nevertheless, I commend you for your bravery. You will not be subject to compulsory domestication like your shipmates, you will have a fair chance at earning your independence.”

”O-oh,” Patrick said, trying to look happy. “Um, thank you!”

Fan gave him a long, studying look. “This is not a mandatory condition of your rescue, I hope you understand,” it said. “If a wardship leading to an independence hearing is not to your preference, you may request the life of a floret at any time.”

“Thank you, Fan,” Patrick said, tension leaving his body. “I don’t know how I can possibly thank you enough.”

”There is no need to thank me, dear Patrick,” Fan said. “This is my calling as an Affini. It is our solemn duty to care for all the species in the cosmos.”

”Well, speaking of care,” Patrick said, climbing to his feet. “There’s a ton of rumors about you guys among Terrans, and there’s one I heard years ago I’ve never been able to forget. A trader told me he heard about something called G Class drugs. He said they can, uh, make guys feel more like girls?”

Fan laughed again, and the sound was enough to make Patrick smile. “Oh, sweet petal,” it said, slipping a vine under his chin and tilting his head back. “Class G xenodrugs are capable of far, far more than that.”

Patrick shuddered at the soft feeling under his chin. Maybe he’d ask to end his independence sooner rather than later with that kind of sensation.

END

Chapter Text

Jackson rolled over in bed, looking at Alice’s sleeping face. You’d never know from looking at her peaceful expression that she was bound up in an elaborate web of leather straps beneath the blankets, freshly compiled just to fit her. It was hard to believe that mere days ago, she was a fanatical Accord devotee with that tragic, flat mop of hair. The beautiful girl with the flowing tresses was nothing like Brady Montana.

It had been a fun night. He’d never made somebody cum through a chastity belt before, but whatever xenodrug regimen Coriander had her floret on made her sensitive beyond belief. By the time Jackson got her out of the chair and Acer gave the two of them a deeply sensual bath, he couldn’t bear seeing her free of bondage. All he got when he held up the harness he suggested threading through Alice’s pajamas was flustered, horny whimpers.

She was still conked out on her mandatory Class Z, she wouldn’t wake up until Acer came in to give her the counteragent. Jackson smirked, he could do anything to her right now and she wouldn’t even flinch. It was tempting, her breasts were already so wonderfully soft and every inch of her body was grabbable. But right now, Jackson would rather pull the covers back and enjoy the sight of her.

Coriander’s disposition to dressing her like a slutty little princess did wonders for Alice. Her nightgown was sheer, much more revealing in its refusal to actually cover anything. Her chastity belt glimmered in the early morning sunlight, and the curve of her breasts was more substantial than it had any right to be after such a short time on Class G. She was a vision, and the straps laced through the pink gown just made her all the lovelier.

”And you say I’ve got a crush,” Acer said from the doorway. “You may as well have hearts beating in your eyes, the way you look at her. Should I get to drawing up pinnate papers?”

Jackson stuck out his tongue. “Independents don’t have pinnates, plant,” he said. “And I don’t see a collar around my neck yet!”

Acer’s eyes narrowed and his smile grew. “Oh it’s ’yet,’ is it?” The Affini stepped closer to Jackson, the leaves blanketing his form rustling. “I’m sure you can guess that my friends think your little outburst was sufficient grounds for domestication. Perhaps they’re right, petal.”

Jackson giggled nervously, scrambling onto his hands and knees and backing away on the bed. “Yeah, you’re a riot,” he said, trying to play off the bolt of fear and what he tried to think wasn’t desire. “You wouldn’t.”

Acer bared his thorny fangs, an injector flower emerging from beneath the carpet of leaves. It didn’t happen often, but Acer Maplestone could look downright terrifying when he wanted to. Between his razor-sharp grin and the vines creeping across the bed toward Jackson, the knowledge that he had no real power over his warden sat right at the front of the man’s mind.

”I may respect your desires, my dear beagle boy,” Acer said, a vine teasing around the folds of Jackson’s pussy. “But my kind does have certain urges. It would be sprout’s play for me to make you not just ask for a contract and a collar, but to make you beg for it. Can you really tell me that you have no interest in such a proposition?”

More vines crept across Jackson’s form, dragging their tips through his body hair. His brain screamed at him to use his safeword, to stop this before he got lost in the pleasure, but his body wouldn’t obey. Acer’s touch felt too good, especially after a whole night dominating Alice. He could give in, just a little bit. So long as he kept a permanent collar off of his neck.

”M-maybe I do,” he said, looking up at Acer and biting his lip. “But I’m an independent! I can’t just be a stupid slutty floret, I’ve got stuff I want to do.”

Acer scoffed, and Jackson’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh petal, I don’t think you understand the temptation inside of me right now,” he growled. “Perhaps I ought to show you just how much a stupid, slutty floret can accomplish.”

At that moment, Acer’s pad dinged and he grumbled, his leaves rustling. He looked away from Jackson, and the grateful human caught his breath. He’d never felt that close to slipping before. If Acer kept pushing, he might’ve actually given in. He’d have to be sure to thank whoever decided to message him later.

”Saved by the chime, starshine,” Acer said. “It seems that Fan and Coriander have returned with their rescues, and our favorite bundle of herbs is most anxious to return to her floret.”

Jackson chuckled awkwardly, glancing down to see his pussy dripping all over the bed. Stars, he was lucky to have Acer. Any other Affini on Gilreath would’ve long since domesticated him by now, he’d given plenty of potential justifications by this point. Getting turned on by vines was usually enough to mark you as a floret-to-be, and that was without accounting for the undoubtedly pathetic facial expressions he got looking up at Acer just now.

He shook himself back to reality in time to see Acer give Alice her Class Z. Her big brown doe eyes opened slowly, full of arousal as she realized she was still trapped in her harness.

”Good morning, dear Alice,” Acer said, giving her a gentle smile. “Did you rest well?”

”You know the answer,” Alice huffed. “It’s not like I have any choice with all the sleepy drugs in my system!”

Jackson giggled. “Aww, somebody gets cranky in the mornings,” he teased, hoping to direct Acer’s attention away from how wet he still was. “Does little Alice need her good girl medicine, hmm?”

Alice humphed, but Jackson still saw the ghost of a smile play across her lips. He couldn’t resist, he leaned in and gave her a kiss. Alice squeaked in surprise, but returned the gesture enthusiastically. Funny, for as many sophonts as Jackson played with since arriving on Gilreath, none of them were quite so enticing to his heart as Alice. Maybe it was those eyes, maybe it was the sweetness that came out more by the day, or maybe it was the fact that she was the only sophont he could talk to about football while expecting any kind of comprehension.

”Oh s-stars,” Alice said as Jackson pulled away with a soft pop. “Um, I’ve uh, um n-never kissed someone before. W-well, except Mistress, but-“

”This is different, yeah?” Jackson said, biting his lip. “Yeah, you feel pretty different too. I mean, you can look at me wagging my butt and see that you’re something else. There aren’t a lot of girls who can dress up like a princess then turn around and have a debate about whether two-point conversions are worth it.”

”They basically always are!” Alice exclaimed. Jackson opened his mouth to argue otherwise, but Acer held a vine up to his lips.

“As much as I would love to let you two cuties discuss the ins and outs of this game at a frankly irresponsible volume, we must get going,” Acer said, slipping two more injectors into Alice’s thigh. “Coriander wants sweet Alice fed and dressed by the time she arrives, apparently the three of us simply must meet Fan’s new ward.”

Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Fan’s got a ward?”

Acer chuckled, picking up his ward and setting him on the ground. He tapped under each of Jackson’s arms and the boy raised them without thinking. “Indeed it does,” he answered, pulling a tight red tank top onto Jackson’s torso. “Seems like she’s quite an interesting sophont.”

”She?” Alice asked. “How was there a ‘she’ on a copyright mission? The Crown League went out of its way not to have any women on staff, let alone with security clearance and kill authority.”

“I suppose we’ll all have to find out together, won’t we?” Acer said with a knowing wink as he pulled a pair of cutoff jean shorts up Jackson’s legs. Jackson regarded his warden with suspicion. He definitely knew more than he was letting on, but it was hard to consider that when Acer’s vines were teasing his folds under the shorts and jockstrap.

The Affini scooped up his ward and held him as he grabbed Alice out of bed, easily working the blonde floret out of her bedtime harness.

“Hey, I put her in the harness, I should take her out!” Jackson protested, but Acer just stuck a vine between his teeth and continued undoing the straps.

”Nonsense,” Acer said, wrapping vines around Jackson’s arms and legs. “You spent all night being the big, bad dominant beast. It would be irresponsible of me as your caretaker to allow you to linger in that headspace. You need a nice, long, restful break.”

Jackson growled into the vine wedged between his teeth, blushing at Alice’s giggles. Great, more of this “you don’t have to do everything yourself” crap. He was perfectly capable of pushing around any number of cute girls, thank you very much. He had five or more of them in his inbox at any given time asking for an evening in his dungeon!

But Acer wouldn’t give him a chance to express any of those facts. Instead, he kept Jackson bound and gagged in his vines while he got Alice all dressed up anew. She wore a baby blue dress with a massive skirt supported by a petticoat, accompanied by light pink silk gloves that just barely reached her wrists. Acer put her hair up in an elaborate crown brain, accompanied by a silver tiara to tie it all together. She really did look like a princess.

”There we are, just perfect!” Acer cooed, giving Alice gentle pets. “Your owner picked out this outfit just for you today, she’s going to love how precious you look in it.”

Alice squirmed. “Thanks Mister Acer,” she said, a bright smile on her face despite her rosy cheeks.

”Anytime, sweet girl,” Acer said, picking her up and placing her next to Jackson in his vines. Much to the ward’s annoyance, Alice was not bound anywhere near as much as him. “Now, let’s get you two fed. I’ve got some lemon and berry bagels waiting that’ll knock your shoes off!”

Both Terrans giggled, but Acer paid them no mind as he carried them into the kitchen. He went into the stasis chamber and pulled out two matching plates, and the smell of toasted bagels and lemon curd filled the room. Jackson breathed in through his nose and sighed dreamily. Nothing in the universe smelled better than Acer’s cooking, except possibly the walking maple tree himself.

Acer set Alice and Jackson on top of the table on their knees, binding them up in vines to keep them there. He set one of the plates in front of each of his captives, then brandished four injector flowers. Jackson looked at them nervously.

”Now then, petal,” Acer said, piling his vines and leaves into a chair. “You may not be my floret, but I don’t think you’re about to stop me having my way with you. Are you?”

”N-no,” Jackson stammered. He gasped as Acer stabbed the first injector into his neck.

”No what, beagle boy?” Acer said. Jackson gasped. This was so unfair! How was he supposed to resist when the telltale humming pleasure of Class A was already flowing through his bloodstream?

”Yeah, no what, Jackson?” Alice said, batting her eyes at him. “Are you so much of a big, bad independent that you can’t have a fun scene with Mister Acer?”

”Not you too!” Jackson groaned. “Can’t you back me up here?”

Alice shook her head and giggled, and Acer held the next injector against Jackson’s neck. The ward sighed. Stopping all of this would certainly be the correct move to preserve his independence, especially since this was 100% leading to him getting fed. But stars, the searing heat in his pussy burned away any rational thought.

”No Master,” Jackson said, resigned. “I’m not going to stop you.”

Acer hummed with satisfaction. “Precisely as I thought,” he said. “I‘ve also decided to expand your xenodrug regimen. In addition to your Class Gs and Ws, I think some daily Class C will do you a world of good.”

Jackson gaped at him, trying to block out Alice’s delighted giggles. “B-but that’s not fair!” He protested. “If you’re putting me on Cs every day, then how am I supposed to resist?”

”You’re not,” Alice pointed out. “Mistress thinks it’s silly that you’re playing pretend and acting like an independent all the time anyway. Independents don’t get dressed and fed by their Affini.”

”Shut the fuc-AHH!” Jackson’s admonishment ground to a halt when the Class W pumping into his neck attacked his pleasure centers. Alice was laughing at him all over again, even Acer was chuckling! He wasn’t a floret, he didn’t want to be a floret. Some xenodrugs weren’t about to change that!

He was too busy swimming through the haze of forced pleasure to protest the Class C injection any further, shortly followed by his daily dose of Gs. He whimpered at the idea that this heady mix of dangerous bliss was going to be his reality from now on. His eyes locked onto Alice’s collar. Would that strain get him in the same situation as her, minus all the hyper-femme trappings?

Why didn’t that sound as bad as it did a minute ago?

“Now sadly, we don’t have time to give sweet Jackson the submission he deserves after all of his hard work last night,” Acer said. “But we can repay him with room to spare soon enough. For now, breakfast will do.”

The Affini tapped each Terran’s cheek, and their mouths fell open in unison. Jackson huffed, it wasn’t fair that getting fed felt this good. He thought about the essay that Miss Veraceae assigned him, which hadn’t made it onto the schedule since his appointment. He shuddered. He couldn’t think of much about his life that would change if he were a floret right now.

Acer fed them both a bite of bagel, tapping their jaw and drawing a circle on their cheek to tell them to chew. It was delicious, like every meal the Affini made. The bagel was somehow dense and light at the same time, toasted to a perfect golden brown. The lemon curd, cream cheese, and berries were little bursts of flavor that made Jackson wag his imaginary tail. Acer even did simple breakfasts perfectly.

“Such good little humans you are,” Acer said, brushing Jackson’s hair out of his face with a vine. “I’d say what good pets you two are, but we all know Jackson would object to such a categorization. After all, he’s so clearly an independent sophont.”

Jackson shot him a glare, but it softened in a hurry once he got another bite of bagel. It was like Alice said, this was just a scene. They’d done tons of those before, and none of those meant that he was domesticated. He could call Acer Master every now and again, maybe. It did seem to make him happy. It didn’t mean he was surrendering his independence or anything. It was just something nice for somebody he cared about, nothing more.

The doorbell sounded, an intricate chime Aloe had composed. “Miss Apiales is here, Mr. Maplestone,” Patty said over the speaker.

“Lovely, please let her in,” Acer said, his gaze burrowing into Jackson’s soul. “I’d fetch her myself, but I’m a bit preoccupied.”

Patty giggled. “Sure thing,” she said, and within thirty seconds the kitchen was full of the scent of an herb garden.

“Well, well, seems like the three of you are enjoying yourselves,” Coriander said, her vines reaching out for her pet. Acer released her, and Alice squeaked as her owner scooped her up and cuddled her. “I trust my Alice wasn’t any trouble?”

“She was the perfect little lady,” Acer said, looking away from Jackson for a split second to give the leafy Affini a smile. “She had a great deal of fun with my sweet little beagle. She even slept in bondage!”

Coriander cooed down at her pet and tickled under her chin, and Alice failed to fight off a smile. Jackson looked up at them with a twinge of what he didn’t want to be jealousy.

“As much as I hate to break up this sweet little display, we had best be going,” Coriander said, setting Alice down and looping a vine through her collar. “Fan is quite excited for the two of you to meet its new ward.”

Acer chuckled, finally releasing Jackson from his bonds and setting him on the floor. “Whatever happened to ‘no pets this bloom?’”

Coriander scoffed. “As if,” she said. “It can never make it half that long without getting the itch again.”

The two Affini shared a laugh as they shepherded their respective Terrans out the door and into the midday sun. It was a warm day without being hot, a cool breeze blowing through town. It was only a five-minute walk to the train station at human pace, and Acer always let him keep his own pace. It was fine to do Master and pet stuff at home, but being carried in public was one floret barrier he wouldn’t cross.

So they walked. Jackson had bare feet, and Coriander effortlessly slipped little white kitten heels onto Alice’s feet. Jackson chuckled as the Affini informed her pet that it was unladylike for a princess to be walking around outside with unprotected feet. Acer, meanwhile, joked that it would be quite unusual to put shoes on a dog. Jackson didn’t think that was anywhere near as funny as Coriander and Alice seemed to.

In short order, they arrived at the medical center, making their way into a hospital building. Jackson glanced over at the circular building full of padded cells, and noticed Alice gave it an even longer look than he did. That got his mind turning, but that could wait until later. If Fan found a ward on a death squad, that was more interesting than the thought of the cute blonde girl in a straitjacket.

“Now petals, Fan’s ward isn’t physically harmed, but it seems the poor dear has been through quite a lot,” Coriander said. “She risked her life to escape her horrific circumstances, so try to take it easy on her. Low voices, avoid upsetting topics.”

They stepped onto an elevator and rode it up to the seventeenth floor. “Especially you, starshine,” Acer said. “I know you can be an eager beagle when you meet new friends, but please tread carefully.”

Jackson cocked his head. “Um, okay I guess,” he said. “I haven’t really had a bad time with that in the past, have I?”

Acer looked down at him. “No, you are a lovely gentleman,” he replied. Jackson’s heart fluttered. “Just be in your best behavior. Fan is… very protective of its pets.”

They rounded a corner and stopped in front of a closed door, Coriander gently rapping a pair of vines against it. Jackson wasn’t sure why Acer felt the need to admonish him to stay on his best behavior, but then the door slid open and he had to fight back a squeal of excitement.

There was no way he was actually looking at what he thought he was, right? That couldn’t possibly be Patrick Bradshaw laying in that bed, all six foot six of him with the dazzling green eyes and biceps the size of Jackson’s head. And yet, there he was. A model of masculinity the ward thought was long since out of reach, with the perfect smile and a deep ball flawless enough to bring you to tears.

“Please do come in everyone,” Fan said, its usual professional tone subsumed by excitement. “My dear cutie is so excited to meet all of you.”

“Hi!” Jackson chirped, all social graces thrown out the window. He was sure he could fry an egg on his cheeks. “I’m Jackson, Jackson Meadows. I just wanted to tell you that you’re amazing, you’re my favorite player!”

Patrick rubbed the back of his neck and grinned sheepishly. “Uhm, thanks, I guess,” he said. “Good to know my career was fun for one of us.”

Jackson kept the smile on his face and nodded, but his heart fell through the floor. You never get a second chance at a first impression, and he spent his being an inconsiderate fanboy. Cool. Great. Fun.

Acer came to the rescue. “Fan told us all about your escape, that must have been terrifying,” he said, placing a comforting vine around Jackson’s shoulders. “I hope you’ve found Gilreath to your liking so far, you could hardly be in more capable vines.”

Patrick looked up at Fan with unbridled adoration. “It saved my life,” he said quietly. “And it’s been nothing but wonderful ever since.”

Jackson knew that look. He saw it on every floret’s face on Gilreath whenever they looked at their owners. He’d be shocked if Patrick was uncollared by the end of the day at this rate. Calling him a “ward” seemed like nothing but a legal label at this point.

“Is all the food here as good as what Mx. Malvaceae’s given me?” He asked. “Because that was the best crab I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Oh, there’s even better everywhere you look,” Alice said. “If they fed you guys like they fed us, every meal is gonna be better than sex.”

Patrick cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

Alice giggled. “Oh, the Affini took me from one of the comms outposts,” she replied. “Mistress goes out of her way to make sure the taste of synthcubes gets buried under every sweet treat the Compact has to offer. You need to come to her bakery when you’re feeling better!”

Patrick’s face lit up at the mention of a bakery. “Does she do nanaimo bars?”

“That and everything else you can imagine,” Coriander interjected. “I can bring you a platter for you to enjoy following your little procedure.”

“Procedure?” Jackson asked.

“My dear ward has a regrettable artifact in her body from her employers,” Fan said, putting a great deal of venom on the final word. “She’s due for a small surgery in an hour to extricate it. It’ll free up that space for something much more suitable to her disposition.”

Suddenly Jackson recognized they were all referring to Patrick Bradshaw, golden boy of the Crown League, as “she.” It wasn’t like transition was unprecedented for the newly discovered floret, it was pretty de rigeur. But it felt strange to see a model of masculinity he dreamed of give up on it.

“So um, with all the ‘she,’ you probably don’t want me calling you by the name I know,” Jackson said. Oh stars, those eyes. His train of thought ran off the tracks and crashed into a wall.

“Hey dude, I don’t bite, it’s okay,” the newly minted girl in the bed said. “You don’t have to look so starstruck.”

“Sorry!” Jackson said, blinking and averting his eyes. “I just, uh, I wasn’t um, when they said ‘she’ I wasn’t expecting-“

The quarterback shrugged. “Miss Apiales said something about me being a floret’s favorite player,” she said. “It’s okay.”

Jackson shot Coriander an accusatory glare. “Well, I’m not a pet, I’m independent,” he said, choosing to ignore the stifled giggles from Alice and her owner. “But yeah, I’ve never seen anybody do it like you. You made living in Vancouver a little more bearable.”

Her smile brightened a little. “Oh,” she said. Stars, even her voice was cute. “Nobody’s ever really put it like that before, you know. Thanks, Jackson.”

The ward smiled right back. “Yeah, of course.”

There were a million and one questions swirling in Jackson’s mind about the Crown League. What was happening to him? Acer even warned him about this, though it might’ve been nice to be clued in a bit more. He was supposed to be the competent one, especially in social settings. But right now, looking at his idol, it took all his strength not to blurt out his every last thought.

“Perhaps the six of us should have a nice dinner together once our new friend is all settled in,” Acer said. “I have a delightful lobster pasta recipe I’ve wanted to try out for a special occasion, what could possibly be a better reason?”

The compiler on the other side of the room dinged, and Fan strode across the floor to collect its contents. “A capital idea, Mr. Maplestone,” it said, turning around with a pizza that looked just like Acer’s dinner from the prior night. “Would anybody care for a snack? I made sure to requisition enough for three.”

Jackson squeaked. “Oh, I’d love one,” he said. “Is that the-“

“Bell peppers, roasted red onions, mushrooms, and artichokes?” Fan asked with a wink. “It most certainly is, dear Jackson.”

“Oh fuck, that sounds amazing,” Patrick said as she accepted three slices on a plate. “Veggie pizza is the best kind of pizza.”

“I know, right?” Jackson said through an already full mouth. “Meat is amazing, but the vegetarian pies were always the best back home.”

“Oh, do you remember that one place right at Hemlock and Broadway?” Patrick asked. “They had that one amazing pie with zucchini and halloumi cheese?”

“Oh, Ypremian’s!” Jackson exclaimed, spraying bits of red onion and garlic from his mouth. “The best fuck-NNGH!”

The pleasure hit him like a sledgehammer and he doubled over in his chair, gulping down the pizza so he could gasp for air. Patrick sounded alarmed.

“Is he okay?!” She exclaimed.

“Oh, she’s just nectariney,” Acer replied. “My little beagle isn’t allowed to curse anymore. Whenever he does, a special strain of xenodrugs bombard his pleasure centers to remind him of that fact.”

“Huh,” Patrick replied. “You guys can do that?”

“I mean, they can pretty much do anything,” Jackson groaned. He swore the pleasure got more intense with every instance.

“Speaking of our xenodrug capabilities,” Fan said, extending an injector. “I believe my dear ward needs her, what did you call it? ‘Girl juice?’”

Patrick giggled, her voice going far higher than her body indicated was possible. She held out her arm, which Fan immediately wrapped in a deep purple vine. The girl shuddered, her eyes going wide. Jackson remembered his first Class G injection. That feeling of terrified joy, accompanied by the overpowering capabilities of the Affini. There was nothing like it.

He glanced over at Acer, who could not look away from the scene in front of him. His leaves lay absolutely flat against his body, but his vines were coiling, uncoiling, and sliding all over his form. Jackson had spent enough time with the Affini to see when one felt worked up. And judging by the loaded look Fan shot Acer, it was well aware of his feelings as well.

“Now be a good girl and hold still for me,” it said. It trailed the needle in a slow spiral around the crook of Patrick’s elbow, pulling a breathy little moan out of her mouth. Jackson heard a creak from Acer; he’d have to tease him about that later.

But first, he had to piece together his feelings about all this. Patrick being Fan’s ward meant that they’d be around each other quite a lot, but it stung to see his long-nursed crush running away from the qualities that drew Jackson in. And it would’ve been nice to have one human guy to have fun with on this planet. Outside of Acer and a couple of transmasc florets, it was a sea of girls.

Plenty of great girls, to be sure. Mina, Erin, and Lauren were a great time, Alice was a wonderful addition to his life, and there were a million and one other sophonts he enjoyed sharing his time with. But he needed somebody he could just be a guy with. Somebody he could lean into masculinity with. And if a Crown League player wasn’t going to be that for him, then who ever could?

He choked down a lump in his throat and finished his pizza. “I’m uh, I’m really happy for you,” he said, doing his best impression of a genuine smile. “There’s no better place in the universe to transition than in an Affini’s care.”

“Hear hear,” Alice added. That just made Jackson feel worse.

“Hey Acer, we have the uh, the thing in a little bit, right?” He said, turning to his warden, desperately hoping he’d understand.

Acer came through, as he always did. “Ah yes, silly me, where does the time go?” He said, sweeping Jackson up in his vines. “It was absolutely lovely to meet you, sweet Patrick. I’ll reach out to Fan when you’re a bit more settled in. Best of luck with the vet today!”

“Wait, did he say vet?” Patrick asked.

“You get used to it,” Jackson offered in reply. “Really nice to meet you. If you ever want to talk football with me, I’d love to hear what you think.”

She winced a bit. “I wouldn’t hold my breath on that, but it was nice meeting you too.”

Jackson grimaced. He just had to circle back to that, didn’t he? Jackson Meadows, competent independent sophont. He wanted to beat his head against a wall.

“Bye, Ripple,” Alice said with a little smile. “I had a great time with you last night. I hope you get to enjoy some puppy time tonight.”

“Me too,” Jackson said with a mirthless chuckle. Acer intertwined a pair of vines with Coriander and Fan in turn, then Affini and Terran left the room to the sound of continuing conversation.

“I think that went great,” Jackson quipped, a hitch in his voice. “I’m pretty sure I suck.”

Acer cooed, running three vines through his ward’s hair. “Now now, not one word of that,” he said. “Unless you’re referring to one specific activity your species enjoys, which you are rather proficient at.”

“Not the time, plant,” Jackson replied, nestling deeper into Acer’s vines.

Acer’s biorhythm hitched. “You’re serious,” he said. “Understood. Worry not, dear starshine. We’ll get home and we can work through all of this.”

The moment they reached the bottom of the elevator and left the building, Acer uncoiled his form and broke out into a supernatural run, bounding across walkways and plazas. The whole time, he held Jackson perfectly still.

“Patty dear, please place an order for the inferno nachos from Sergio’s, to be delivered as soon as possible,” Acer said as he walked through the front door. “We need to take very good care of our puppy tonight.”

“I’m n-n-not your-“ Jackson began, but Acer shushed him.

“I know sweetheart, you’re a wonderful independent beagle, but right now you’re my ward and you need care,” Acer cut in. “I don’t want to hear a single objection to things I know you like. Clear?”

“Yes, Master.”

It just slipped out. He couldn’t control it, couldn’t do anything to stop it. Maybe it was the xenodrugs, maybe it was the emotional stress, but there was no going back now.

“That’s, um, I, I didn’t,” Jackson stammered, but Acer interjected again.

“Relax, dear one,” Acer said, his tone soothing. “I’m not going to force a collar on you right now, that would simply be cruel. You’re vulnerable right now, and not in the enjoyable way. However, would you like some time restrained? Not for any kind of scene, merely to center you.”

Jackson nodded, and Acer carried him into his dungeon. Few things sounded better, honestly. Bondage and kink didn’t always have to be about sex. Sometimes, it could just be something to unwind. Given how tense every muscle in his body was, he could really use it.

“It’s been a little bit since we did some proper suspension,” Acer said, going into a closet and selecting several coils of rough hemp rope. “How does a floating hogtie sound?”

“Great, whatever you want,” Jackson said. “Just don’t let me screw anything else up.”

Acer took him out of his clothes, standing him on the floor and pulling his arms behind his back. “And how is it that you’ve screwed everything up, dear?” The Affini asked, winding rope around Jackson’s wrists.

“You saw what happened in there!” Jackson exclaimed. “I was a mess. I kept bringing up stuff that made him, no HER upset! I can’t even get her pronouns right. I’m trans too, I’m supposed to be better than this! I shouldn’t get hung up on something as stupid and malleable as gender.”

Acer pulled on the rope, tugging out the slack and pulling Jackson’s arms so they were flush with his back. “Being transgender does not liberate you from the weight of preconceived notions,” he said, wrapping the rope up his ward’s arms. “I would say I bear some weight of responsibility there. I deliberately withheld information from you because I thought it would be a fun surprise.”

Jackson scoffed. “Plant, you could’ve told me a year in advance that Patrick Bradshaw was trans and I would’ve fallen apart in there,” he said. “Besides, what kinda football star doesn’t want to talk about football?!”

Acer moved on to tying a double-threaded pentagram

harness on Jackson’s chest. “Given what Coriander told me of little Alice’s descriptions of working conditions in the Crown League, it’s not surprising that she’d be less than eager,” he said.

Jackson sighed. “I guess she did decide to go on a death squad mission over staying there,” he said. “I hope she doesn’t hate me.”

“I doubt that she will do anything of the sort,” Acer responded.

Jackson bit his lip as the Affini tied the well-practiced harness in place. The hemp rope was scratchy and pricked at his skin, but he liked it that way. It felt rough and added further intensity to the bondage. He almost never got to break out, most of the subs around here preferred cozier bondage. He didn’t have any problem with that, per se, but it didn’t quite hit the same.

“You don’t know that,” he mumbled. “People have hated me before.”

“Well, I cannot imagine how,” Acer said. He moved on to fastening Jackson’s ankles together. “While that was the closest I’ve ever seen you to being awkward, it was adorable watching you get to meet her.”

“Okay, but being adorable to an Affini is not a high bar to clear,” Jackson complained. “You think I’m adorable when I sleep!”

“Only because you are,” Acer said, roping his thighs together. “The soft little breaths, your precious smile, the way you curl up in a tight little ball of beagle under the blankets! I can’t imagine anybody who would think you’re not adorable.”

Jackson huffed. How was a guy supposed to have perfectly well-reasoned anger at himself with a massive maple tree giving him compliments? It was unfair, entirely unfair. Then again, these ropes on him felt pretty nice.

Acer picked his ward up off the ground and bent his legs in half, tying the ropes on his ankles to the ropes on his thighs. He held Jackson aloft as he ran several ropes through anchor points in the ceiling and tied them up and down his bound body. They stayed silent for a minute, enjoying the pleasure of the act.

“It feels like I’m a bad person for feeling weird about Patrick taking Class G,” Jackson said, breaking the quiet. “And I feel like a worse person for not knowing how to feel better about it.”

“Well, I can confirm that you told Patrick you were happy for her,” Acer said, fastening the last suspending rope to the harness. “That is what counts, dear beagle. Your thoughts are not an offense, what matters is what you do about it.”

He yanked on the ropes, pulling Jackson into the air and letting him dangle by the lengths of hemp. The ropes bit into his skin, coaxing a soft moan from the bound boy. Funny, all of his problems seemed much further away from up here.

The doorbell sounded. “Ah, that’ll be your nachos,” Acer said. “I’ll go fetch them, and you and I can work through all of this together. I’m right here, Jackson. I’ll make sure you’re safe with me.”

As the Affini walked away, Jackson already felt a bit better.

Chapter Text

Alice flopped down on the couch in her Hab, switching on the massive viewscreen and flipping to a recording of an old Terran tennis match. She liked tennis. It had a rhythmic calm to it, offset by the frenetic effort required of the players. Mistress dug around in the local media archives to find her a plethora of films, shows, and sports to enjoy. Thankfully, tennis lived up to her moral standards better than football did.

It felt a little silly watching sports in a flowy purple dress with a corset and white lace gloves, but not necessarily silly in a bad way. Had it really only been nine days since Mistress claimed her? She giggled as one of the players walloped a forehand winner. She wondered what that boy would think of who she was now.

She struggled to access the mindset she had as Brady Montana. So dedicated to a life that made her miserable, completely unwilling to give an inch and admit that maybe she did deserve nice things. Alice shuddered. Gosh, Mistress’ influence was potent. The CCC’s mental reconfiguration set deep in her mind, but Coriander Apiales wasn’t about to let a bunch of malicious Terrans have more power over her little pet than she did.

Alice played with the ring on the front of her collar nervously. If Mistress had power over her this morning, that power would grow exponentially by the evening. In about four hours, the two of them would head to the medical center for her implantation. And once she had a little piece of her owner surgically attached to her spine, nobody else in the universe would ever have more of a say in her life than her owner.

She was of two minds over the whole affair. It was unsettling, that much was certain. The idea of having her neck split open specifically to introduce a foreign object triggered base anxieties buried in her head. Apparently some new florets liked to be awake for their implantation too! That boggled Alice’s mind. Mistress certainly wouldn’t have that, it would be most improper for her little princess.

The CCC conditioning lingering in her mind was another complication. It told Alice that all of this luxury was wasted on her, especially a massive medical procedure that she didn’t even have to pay for. On some level, it felt wrong that Mistress did all of these nice things for her.

On the other hand, every sophont deserved nice things. It was hard to listen to the nasty little voice the CCC forced on her when Mistress spent hours every night forcefully convincing her otherwise. Alice shuddered, thinking of how Mistress’ bright green eyes rippled out into spirals whenever she wanted her pet to change her mind. She never needed much convincing, but Mistress was thorough.

Cruel Terrans will never decide what runs through your mind again, my darling girl, Mistress had said last night while feeding her Class H-loaded eclairs. Your Mistress will reshape your thoughts from now on. It’s better this way, isn’t it darling?

Alice reached between her legs with a shaky moan, only to find her silver belt waiting to block her touch. She whimpered. It made perfect sense when Mistress explained why she was in chastity, something about learning how to experience pleasure as a woman. Alice suspected it was more to keep her mind clouded with desire, but it didn’t matter much in the end. It would be coming off for her bottom surgery today anyway, all part of her implantation.

Mistress came back into the living room, carrying a tray loaded down with Alice’s lunch. It was an outrageous amount of food, like it usually was. Mistress made sure that her floret got every last calorie she could handle, and that turned out to be more than Alice ever thought it was. When you lived a life of plenty and didn’t have to worry about paying for your next meal, eating without fear felt quite nice.

”Sorry for taking so long, sweet petal,” Mistress said as she took a seat on the couch next to Alice. She rolled her eyes.

”Mistress, you were gone for like half an hour,” she said. “How did you make all of this so fast?! I couldn’t make this much food in two days.”

Mistress giggled. “Well, then I guess it’s a good thing you’re the pet here, isn’t it?”

She had prepared quite the spread. The centerpiece was a panini loaded up with mozzarella, tomatoes, and a basil pesto that smelled absolutely heavenly. The bread was homemade, stored in a stasis chamber for whenever Mistress needed it. Accompanying the sandwich was a spinach salad, full of walnuts, roasted butternut squash, and a tangy vinaigrette that made it shine.

Mistress also prepared a little basket of tater tots, which seemed like quite the pain to make from scratch. Alice once thought she could never finish meals of this size, but Mistress slipped something into her food that made it impossible to stop eating until her plates were clean. Or maybe it was what she put in the fruity little cocktails she served with every meal.

They weren’t alcoholic, but Alice knew they were loaded up with something. Whenever she asked, Mistress played coy and told her they were just “yummy little juices for my yummy little floret!” Whenever Alice took a sip of the vibrantly colored drinks, they made her head spin. Today’s looked like a sunset; reds and oranges swirling into each other, catching the light and making Alice’s mouth water.

Mistress set the tray on the coffee table in front of her and snatched Alice up in her vines, sitting the blonde girl in her lap and binding her up tight. Alice tugged on her bonds, less out of a desire to escape and more to feel secure. It was rare for Mistress to ever give her a meal free of her vines, and today she was all the more thankful for her embrace.

”Hmm, your song sounds unsettled today, my darling,” Mistress said, petting Alice. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes Mistress, but I’m definitely nervous,” she answered. The daily Class D made her much more forthcoming. “Just… the thought of getting cut open to have a part of you put inside of me, it’s scary.”

”Hmm,” Mistress said, holding up the sandwich to Alice’s mouth and directing her to take a bite. “There’s nothing wrong with that, sweet girl. Plenty of sophonts worry themselves sick over medical procedures, even when they’re perfectly safe.”

Alice shuddered. Stars, that voice. It felt like Mistress spreading a weighted blanket over her anxiety, and the amazing panini didn’t hurt on that front. How was everything about her owner so wonderful? In another life, Alice would’ve found her nothing but annoying. She was overbearing, controlling, condescending, and absolutely relentless. But somehow, all of that was nothing but points in her favor these days.

”Y-yes Mistress,” Alice said once she swallowed. “I guess I’m just scared I kinda won’t be me anymore, you know? I know I’m already so different, and I like who I am way better now, but this is…”

”This is what, dearest?” Mistress asked, running a vine down Alice’s back. It came bursting out just as the crowd on the viewscreen rose in cheers over a thrilling point in the match.

”Are you still gonna let me like football?!” Alice exclaimed, the volume and intensity surprising both her and Mistress. “I know it seems silly, and I know you think it’s feralist, but my boyfriend really likes it and-“

Mistress quieted her with a forkful of salad, the rich, nutty taste saturating her tongue. “Dearest, I wouldn’t dream of ripping something from you that brings you so much joy,” she replied. “Granted, I would very much like to, but you and dear Jackson have connected so much over it that I couldn’t without causing you harm. So as unfit as I find that barbaric pastime for a precious princess, I will leave your interests as they are.”

Alice sighed with relief. That was honestly one of her biggest worries about the procedure, even if it was silly. Jackson had been blowing up her inbox over the past several days with ideas for how to bring their favorite sport to the Compact. Broadcasting Crown League games was clearly a non-starter, especially since Mistress was now intent on bringing that particular institution crashing to the ground.

”And my word little petal, did you call Jackson Meadows your boyfriend?” Mistress teased as she fed Alice more of the sandwich and then several tater tots. “That’s so sweet! Though I’m not sure I should have my newly implanted pet dating an ‘independent sophont,’ it might give her some ideas.”

Alice giggled. “Mistress, Jackson is about as independent as I am,” she replied. “Mister Acer’s just a lot nicer than you are!”

Mistress gasped, throwing a vine across her forehead in mocking shock. “My pet thinks I’m not nice?!” She exclaimed, stuffing Alice’s mouth with more food. “As I feed her a homemade meal and prepare her for her implantation? Simply awful, clearly the little lady needs further lessons in etiquette.”

Alice’s laughter melted away as Mistress sat her perfectly upright and slipped several vines under her dress. Feedings always devolved into this, vines molesting her breasts and whispered commands to maintain her royal composure. She would always fail, of course. Especially when Mistress cheated and slipped a Class A injector into her neck!

“My dear Alice, I am being as nice to you as I possibly can,” Mistress hissed in her pet’s ear, giving her a sip of her intoxicating cocktail. “If you want to find out what ‘mean’ looks like, by all means inform me. I would love to see blood stain your pretty little dresses, darling~”

Alice whimpered around the new mouthful of salad Mistress gave her. Maybe once she was implanted, she’d have to act out. Just a little bit. Only enough to know exactly what Mistress was threatening her with. Because for whatever reason, the thought of bleeding for somebody who really loved her sounded just as appealing as the loving, tender touch Mistress gave her.

”Ah, but I can’t be inflicting something quite so strenuous on you the day of your implant!” Mistress said, her cheery tone returning as though it never left. Alice felt dizzy with lust, but Mistress simply held her still and kept feeding her lunch. “Just the usual suite of xenodrugs with lunch, nothing more. Your vet told me that I can’t be putting you through too much until your body has integrated my tissue into its structure.”

Alice nodded. She didn’t understand how pumping her full of this many xenodrugs was anything but strenuous, but that was why Mistress held all the power in their relationship. She did feel relaxed these days in a way that was never possible in her old life.

Relaxation wasn’t something available to employees of the Crown Communications Corporation. A scant three weeks ago, Alice would’ve been revolted by the very notion of relaxing. All she had was work, all she could think of was trying to ascend the corporate ladder. She heard rumors that if she reached the level two above her own, her rations would move beyond synthcubes and the odd flavor dot. Though now, thinking about it, she bet that rumor was fed to everyone to keep them hungry to climb.

Life on Solak-5 had been astonishingly grim, now that Alice had some distance from it. She slept on a hard, ancient mattress that dug into her side if she laid on it at the wrong angle. She got only enough food to keep her working, not a calorie more. Fraternization with coworkers was discouraged, forcefully if management found too much camaraderie. They didn’t suffer the same gruesome deaths as the athletes and security forces, but corporal punishment was commonplace.

Though, it was funny. As clearly as Alice could think about the outline of her conditions, she couldn’t make out the specifics anymore. The color of the mattress was gone, the exact look of her computer terminal was gone, even the faces of her interchangable, slave-driving supervisors were gone. Mistress stripped her of all of that, and replaced it with love and kindness. Overbearing kindness she wasn’t legally permitted to refuse, certainly, but kindness that she was maybe ready to admit she deserved.

Right now though, her mouth was too occupied to admit anything out loud. Mistress finally got through the sandwich, salad, and tater tots, and now moved onto her dessert. She always gave Alice desserts, even for breakfast. The curly-haired floret suspected that Mistress was fattening her up, but she wasn’t going to complain. It was kinda nice being soft and squishy instead of stick-thin and cold all the time.

Today, Mistress had three brownies for Alice, and the bound floret squeaked joyfully. She loved chocolate, maybe more than anything else Mistress had introduced her to. It was the first dessert she gave Alice to celebrate her signing her contract, and she loved to give her fresh-baked brownies whenever she and Alice spent time at the bakery together.

She tapped Alice on the cheek with a single vine, and the floret’s mouth eagerly fell open. She still wasn’t full, thanks to whatever it was Mistress gave her, and right now nothing in the world sounded better than more food. Especially more of Mistress’ brownies, oh stars. They were so good that florets came from light-years away just to enjoy them.

Alice bit down on the chewy pastry and moaned aloud, leaking into her belt. How in the world did they taste this good?! Mistress’ savory cooking was excellent, sure, but it had nothing on her prowess with sweets. Cakes, candies, cookies, pies, and these mulching brownies were half of what Alice thought about these days. It was a good thing Mistress was militant about her oral health, otherwise her teeth would be rotting out by this point!

”That’s my good sweet slut,” Mistress cooed, and Alice’s cheeks flushed as red as could be. “Aren’t Mistress’ pastries just so intoxicating? Don’t they make you want to surrender to whatever whim she has to offer up?”

Alice nodded and moaned again, taking another bite of the rich, delicious brownie. How had she lived without this for so long? She had a brownie here and there back on Terra, when she could scrape together enough credits for such a luxury. They were fine, but preservatives, synthetic substitutes and faux chocolate were a poor imitation of this.

After one and a half brownies, Alice was on the brink of orgasm. Mistress seemed to sense it and slipped another injector into her neck, which Alice could only assume contained Class N. It had to be her least favorite xenodrug, an assertion only challenged by how much she loved it. She sat on the precipice of release, trapped from falling over the point of no return by Mistress’ all-consuming grasp.

By the time she finished her dessert, Alice was falling apart at the seams. Tears beaded in her eyes from sheer, overwhelming pleasure, and Mistress cooed sweet words of temptation into her ear. Temptation she had no chance to pursue, since all she could do was strain in her belt. Jackson was nice enough to buzz an orgasm out of her through her belt, but Mistress had no such intentions.

”All done!” Mistress said cheerfully, paying no mind to the shambling mess Alice was in her vines. “Let me go decompile the dishes, dearest. You enjoy your little game of eightis, and I’ll be back momentarily to take you to your appointment!”

”It’s called tennis, Mistress!” Alice replied as the herbaceous Affini disentangled her pet from her vines and strolled off into the kitchen. She didn’t respond to Alice’s correction, but did leave two vines lingering behind her to give her pet headpats. Apparently thinking clearly wasn’t on the agenda tonight.

Mistress returned moments later and scooped her back up in her vines, promptly binding her up once more. The Affini relished binding Alice so tight she could hardly twitch, and whenever she went in public she went above and beyond. She forced her pet’s arms behind her back, pinning them together and forcing her to push out her budding breasts.

”Mistress!” Alice complained with a huge smile on her face. “Sophonts are staring!”

”Good,” came the melodic reply. “I want them to. Everybody should see how far along my pet has come in such a short time. I bet some of them saw you kicking up such an awful fuss in my vines back on your first day. And isn’t it just delicious that they see you like this now, my little treat?”

Alice whined, and a few passerby giggled politely. She would’ve loved to not answer that question, but withholding the truth was no longer an option for her.

”Yes Mistress, it’s delicious!” Alice cried, a good deal louder than she would’ve liked. Stars, all of Gilreath would hear her at this rate. “Please, never stop showing everyone how I’m your perfect little pet.”

Mistress hummed with satisfaction, but mercifully did not push any harder. She just held her pet tight and carried her off to the medical center, making sure to show her off to anybody who happened to walk by. The five-minute walk took four times as long after she kept stopping for one Affini after another to pet Alice and compliment her on being such a well-behaved pet.

They finally reached the medical center and walked into an opulent lobby, where Mistress finally released her pet and set her down on a massive couch. She gave Alice a pet and strode away to handle her check-in process.

Alice sat perfectly upright with her shoulders rolled back, hands clasped elegantly in her lap, the only suitable way for a princess to present herself. Gosh, just that thought was enough to make her shudder. It took the CCC months of intense brainwashing to instill Brady Montana’s self-hatred. It took Mistress days to rip it out of Alice Apiales and replace it with something better.

”Alice? Is that you?”

The blonde floret turned to see Patrick Bradshaw walking through the massive sliding glass doors, a warm smile on her face. It was good to see her smile like that. Though it was surprising to see her without her guardian.

”Hi, Patrick!” Alice said, giving her a regal wave and patting the spot next to her on the couch. “Where’s Mx. Malvaceae? I’m surprised it let you out of its sight.”

She laughed sheepishly and rubbed the back of my neck. “It’s back at our Hab,” she answered. “It says I need to ‘experience independence’ before it’ll collar me and keep me as its pet.”

Alice giggled. “I take it you asked for it already then?”

”Probably like seven times,” Patrick grumbled. “It’s not fair! I just want to be owned, it’s the only thing that makes any sense to me.”

Alice took Patrick’s hand in her own. “Hey, this stuff doesn’t make much sense to me yet either,” she said, giving the hulking seed a soft smile. “If Mx. Malvaceae wants you to experience independence, then it’s a good idea to experience independence. It’s not like you’ve had much of a chance before now.”

Patrick sighed. “Yeah, I guess,” she said. “I had to be rescued by the one Affini who doesn’t grab and domesticate on sight, didn’t I?”

“Just your luck,” Alice teased. “Whatcha doing here today anyway? You can’t be here for an implantation, that’s my appointment today.”

”Therapy,” Patrick grumbled. “Another box to check off the fucking list before I can find out what Mx. Malvaceae’s collar feels like. Everybody else on that damn death squad is already collared and contracted. Even that little engineer brat has his appointment soon from what I hear.”

Alice pursed her lips. Patrick was a sweet girl, but therapy was clearly the right place for her right now. She didn’t know much about the genetic modifications forced on Crown League players, but she remembered that they led to enhanced aggression and a quick temper. Violent fights during games were a common sight. From what she knew about Mx. Malvaceae, it made sense that it would want to normalize its ward’s emotional state before introducing her to florethood.

Patrick sighed. “Agh, I’m sorry,” she said. “Guess this is why I’m here, huh?”

Alice laughed softly. “Hey, I get it, girl,” she said. “I was an absolute wreck when I got here. I spent a week telling everyone I would blow myself up if they didn’t send me back to that horrible little asteroid they had us doing broadcasts from.”

Patrick gaped at her. “You did?” She said, incredulous. “You, Alice Apiales, the perfect little princess?”

Her cheeks flushed bright red. She didn’t know if Patrick was trying to fluster her, but it was working whether she meant to or not. Alice let out a quiet little “hmph” and pouted. Patrick smirked.

”You can thank Mistress for that,” Alice said, gesturing toward her owner over at the check-in desk. “She’s absolutely relentless. If I ever express a thought or do something that isn’t exactly in line with who I’m supposed to be, she corrects me.”

Patrick sighed wistfully. “I could go for some relentlessness,” she replied. “Mx. Malvaceae is almost too respectful of me. I don’t know what to do with it.”

Alice patted her on the hand. “Even Affini who disagree with Mx. Malvaceae respect its methods,” she said. “Mistress may be turning me into an airhead princess toy, but I still notice things. If you’re not collared yet, it’s for a good reason.”

Patrick smiled. “Yeah, I guess,” she replied. “Thanks Alice. I’m really happy I got to meet you.”

Alice beamed. “Me too!” She chirped. “And I’ll be seeing you again soon, Mistress said we’re all gonna do that pasta dinner night at Mister Acer’s Hab once I’m all recovered from my implant.”

Patrick’s face darkened slightly, but not in anger. She almost looked uncomfortable. “Right,” she said. “I’m not sure if I’m up for that yet. I know you’re really close with Jackson and everything, but that felt pretty weird for me. I don’t want to linger on my old life.”

Alice gulped. Right. She’d almost forgotten how messy that introduction had been. It was the first time she’d ever seen Jackson be on the back foot in a social setting. Seeing that boy uncomfortable around others was like looking at a squid on a skyscraper; inherently wrong and unsettling.

”I’d bet it was weird for you,” Alice said. She’d have to choose her words carefully here. “I don’t doubt that for a second. But can you try to give Jackson a little grace? His definitely-not-owner loves to surprise him with stuff, and keeping it a surprise that he’d be meeting his idol with unexpected new pronouns was probably not the best idea.”

Now it was Patrick’s turn to let out a tiny hmph. He didn’t offer anything further, so Alice pressed on.

”The Affini aren’t perfect, Patrick,” she continued. “Sometimes they make mistakes, and people react unpredictably when they’re in strange situations. I know for a fact Jackson wasn’t thrilled with how that went either. He’s such a sweetheart, Patrick. Can you give him a second chance? He’ll knock it out of the park.”

Patrick sighed. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “That’s all I can promise. Something else for me to talk about at my appointment, I guess.”

A small Affini strode out through a hallway, barely taller than Patrick was. “Patrick Bradshaw?” They called out.

The ward gulped. “That’s my cue,” she said, her voice shaky and nervous. “Thanks, Alice. It’s been a long time since I had actual friends, you know. I’m lucky that you get to be one.”

Alice beamed, and stood to hug Patrick. “Good luck in there,” she said, so much shorter that her head didn’t even reach Patrick’s budding breasts. “And get to work on a new name too, dork! I feel ridiculous going around calling a pretty girl ‘Patrick.’”

The taller girl blushed, stars, she was adorable. “I’ll get right on that,” she said. “Good luck becoming an official floret, Princess Alice. I can’t wait to join you.”

She strode away, leaving Alice sputtering and pouting. She took a seat once more, maintaining the perfect posture that Mistress drilled her on every day.

Just then, Mistress walked back over and scooped her up, squeezing her tight and kissing her on the forehead. Alice squeaked happily, still flustered from the pretty butch girl calling her Princess Alice. The straining in her belt felt most unbecoming of a princess!

”Ah, welcome back, sweet little princess!” It was her vet, Lucerys Nymeria, Seventy-Ninth Bloom. Alice couldn’t do the math on how old that was, but her best guess was that he had a good few millennia on organized Terran civilization.

”Hi Dr. Nymeria,” Alice said, her medical anxiety surging anew. Mistress quieted it with an injector in her neck. “Imma lil bit nervous ‘bout the florting.”

Stars, how much Class E did Mistress just give her?! The whole room was spinning now.

The towering vet gave her a pet. “That’s perfectly alright, dear girl,” they said, gently taking her from Mistress’ vines and laying her down in her hospital bed. “Plenty of sophonts in your position get nervous before their implant surgery. Would you like me to describe the process to you, or would that make it worse?”

Alice gave him a dumbfounded look, and Mistress chuckled awkwardly. “I may have gone a touch overboard with the Class E,” she said sheepishly. “I can give her a counteragent if you want her more coherent right now.”

”Oh, no need for that,” Dr. Nymeria replied with a wave of their vine. “She’s about to be a good deal less coherent in a minute! If she even remembers this conversation, a dose of Class B will alleviate any lingering stress.”

With practiced ease, the vet stripped Alice of her regal gown and accessories, undoing her braids and slipping her into a hospital gown. Disoriented as she was, it felt like a blur to the blonde floret. Gosh, the vet’s vines were so comfortable sliding over her bare skin like that. She suspected that not all of this touching was medically necessary, but she wasn’t about to complain.

Especially not once the nice vet unlocked her chastity belt and exposed her cock to open air. She reached for it on instinct, but Mistress immediately pushed her hands into soft cuffs locked down to the bed.

”So sorry my darling, you’ve had your last orgasm with those bits,” she purred. “It would be irresponsible of me to feed into your dysphoria by granting you further release when you’re not equipped with the parts you desire.”

Alice whined at her, but she knew it was pointless. Mistress always got what she wanted, and she clearly didn’t want her floret getting off again without a pussy.

”What a delightful display,” Dr. Nymeria cooed. “I love seeing the control a youngbloom exerts over their new pets.”

Now it was Mistress’ turn to blush. “And who are you calling a youngbloom?!” She demanded.

The vet gave her a cocky little smile. “Dear, I owned a thousand pets before you ever joined me in the universe,” they said. “Most Affini are youngblooms to me. Even you, Miss High-And-Mighty Eighth Bloom.”

Gosh, Mistress was so cute when she made her own little hmph. Alice hoped that there would be more Affini who could bring it out of her. Stars knew she never could. She was Mistress Coriander’s pretty little princess, she was there to look pretty and not have any power.

“Well, as delightful as this is, I must get this little cutie into the surgery suite!” Dr. Nymeria exclaimed. “I’ve still got four more implantations to do today, and one is a major flight risk. Apparently he’s some kind of Terran aristocrat and has been terribly unpleasant about his social integration.”

Mistress rolled her eyes. “I remember that sophont quite well,” she said with a scowl. “Tried to burn nine little ones alive! I’m honestly shocked it’s taken this long to get him implanted.”

Dr. Nymeria nodded. “As am I, apparently his owner likes their pets feisty,” they said. “It’s going to be a conscious procedure too, though with enough xenodrugs that he won’t feel a lick of pain.”

”Ooh, I might like to watch that,” Mistress said gleefully. Alice shuddered. That was a feature of the Affini Compact she’d be happy to miss out on.

The vet grinned, their warm bedside manner suddenly absent. “You better get to the viewing gallery early then, dear,” they said. “Just about everybody who’s interacted with that brat is eager to see it. Ought to be quite the show.”

The two of them returned their attention to Alice, and her heart skipped a beat. It was difficult to overstate how unnerving, yet arousing it was for two massive aliens to look at her like she was their dinner.

”As for this one, it shouldn’t be too much of a show at all,” Dr. Nymeria said. “Such a well-behaved princess, after all. She’ll go to sleep, have a nice, long nap, and wake up even better behaved than before!”

Mistress gave Alice a kiss on the forehead as Dr. Nymeria produced an injector flower. “Sleep well, my darling princess,” Mistress said, her voice soft and gentle. “I’ll be right by your side the moment you wake up, today and every day for the rest of your life.”

”Yes, Mistress,” Alice replied dreamily as the vet slipped the Class Z injector into her thigh. “Talk t’ya laterrrr…”

The drugs swept her away in a wave of calm, and Alice’s heavy eyes slammed shut.