Craved by an Alien

by Amanda Milo

  Gracie’s hand lands between my legs as if by accident.

  With the curve of my wing, I lovingly cup her rump in such a rapid fashion it could be misconstrued as a slap.

  Gracie turns to bury her raucous laugh into my shirt.

  I consider the puzzle before us. The laboratory is set up with the best in synthetic lighting, offering full spectrum rays to mimic the sun so the younglings—just like those that are raised on a ship—technically lack for nothing if they remain indoors indefinitely.

  It’s not ideal, but it’s possible.

  Which is good, because Hotahn’s only taken them out at night.

  The outdoor enclosure has a youth-sized training gauntlet, plenty of area to run and roll and frolic; an exemplarily conducive environment to stimulate a youngling’s neurons, burn off excess energies… and socialize.

  I keep circling around the fact that although the area is youngling-proofed, and offers tall, broad, flat-board fencing for privacy (though not private from me; I have monitoring equipment inconspicuously placed there too, of course) the problem lies in that it’s shared with Tara’s offspring.

  I believe Hotahn only guides his young out at night because he’s avoiding the introduction of his adopted younglings to Tara’s offspring.

  I believe I have ascertained why. The twins are female.

  One of the first truths Rakhii are taught—just as hobs are—is that Gryfala cannot mingle.

  However, human females have a much higher tolerance for each other, and Hotahn is aware of this.

  I haven’t interfered, too curious to observe his parenting instincts and methods.

  Yet... he may be taking his proactively protective avoidance too far.

  Early evidence for my case: the male youth lifts himself from where he rests against the wall, then drops himself back, repeating this process again and again on the unforgiving surface.

  Gracie’s throat emits a pained sound of disbelief. “That’s… he’s literally bouncing off of the wall.”

  I look at her, and she shifts to explain. “It’s an old idiom on our home planet—though it normally refers to excess energy. This poor boy just looks dead bored.”

  “Dead?”

  “Bored to the point of doing that. He’s getting zoochosis.” Her eyes stare off, her tone growing more serious. Clinical, she’d label it if these words were leaving my mouth. “Sometimes, wild-caught aquatic animals can have a very difficult time adjusting to captivity. The ocean’s a great big underwater world, and to go from that to the four walls and floor of a tank… They need lots of stimulation to keep them happy and healthy. Too bad the cat hasn’t popped yet. It’ll be great for the kids to watch and handle kittens.”

  The feline mostly hides under Doc’s bed, leaving the dark and quiet of her safe haven to relieve herself in a box of shavings. She’s only recently ventured to investigate her surroundings, and still, she’s only made it to Doc’s coverlet. I hope her kittens prove more outgoing or it doesn’t seem to me like they’ll enjoy being handled by younglings.

  I bob my wings in understanding for the male’s situation. “We can add more items to keep this youth better occupied. I believe their difficult upbringing is the catalyst for Hotahn being overprotective to an extreme. If he doesn’t relax and let the younglings outside, at some point we may have to step in.”

  I hear the distinct sound of a chocolate wrapper before Gracie manages a slightly chocolate-treat-muffled, “Nope. Doc’s going to put her foot down. You just watch.”

  “That is precisely my intent—or it was, until you distracted me with the possibility of sex.”

  She makes a scandalized noise—but spoils it by snickering. “There are children in the next room. What’s wrong with you?”

  I chase my fingers along her ribs until she’s gasping protests and nearly falls off the sofa. While she’s righting herself, spitting out her mane, I enjoy the peaceful moments of not-quiet-at-all subject viewing on account of her grumbling, and I find I’m enjoying our time together immensely.

  Then I peer closer at what I’m seeing. “Do you believe Hotahn is attracted to Doc?”

  Gracie’s retrieved the popcorn—and just to be contrary, she’s separated it into two bowls and she’s done an admirable job of scrawling my name in my language on the side of one bowl. She proceeds to recline and eats from this one while holding hers hostage.

  As if she doesn’t know I’ve been trained twenty different ways to coax a female to give up whatever she’s holding onto. I catch her feet and begin massaging until she’s stretching into my hands. Three rotations of my thumb into the knotted muscle of her lower leg and she’s pressing a handful of popcorn to my lips in praise or thanks or both.

  I adjust my wings in satisfaction. I had the highest marks in Gryfala attitude adjustment drills and this was my go-to theoretical technique. It’s utterly satisfying to employ it in real life and have it perform perfectly.

  I clean every kernel flake and trace of salted butter from her fingers while her other hand strokes through my hair.

  Creator, my professors should see me now.

  “If you were a ninety-year-old Earthen woman, people would affectionately label your curiosity in this couple as meddling.”

  I risk taking my eyes from Hotahn’s interesting actions to glance at her in askance. “But not if I were an Earthen male?”

  “A ninety-year-old guy keeping two orphans, a veterinarian, and a killer watchdog captive in his private laboratory?” She makes a choked laugh as popcorn attacks her throat. She’s hoarse when she finishes, “Noooo, meddling is not what they'd call that, sorry.” Now it’s her turn to peer closer. “Did he just filch her lip balm?”

  My hearts leap that Gracie’s beside me to revel in this development together. “He collected her lip moisturizing cream, yes indeed!”

  She presses my now-empty mortar bowl into my hands before dumping her bowl’s contents over the lip of mine. “I can see why that would make you excited?”

  I give her the dry look her sarcasm deserves.

  While Doc is occupied in her room, Hotahn opens the bottom drawer of the dresser placed next to his bed.

  I maneuver the camera’s settings for a close view.

  The drawer holds five lip moisturizers.

  “Doc keeps joking they grow legs and walk off,” Gracie says in wonder. “That’s just what lip balm does. Nobody would think anything of it.”

  Distracted but captivated by this tidbit, I query, “Human lip balm grows legs?”

  There’s two writing instruments stowed away in his drawer, their ends crimped flat, chewed on by a flat-toothed being.

  Chewed on by Doc.

  He taking her things. Textbook bonded behavior… without the killing rages. How curious. “What he’s exhibiting is Rakhii hoarding.”

  Gracie gives Hotahn a critical look. “None of this stuff is worth anything. This is like kleptomania.”

  When I poise my finger over my tablet, she dutifully expounds on this human term so that I may record it: “It’s compulsive stealing—to the point of no reason. They just have to take something.”

  “Not quite the same,” I muse thoughtfully. “With bonded Rakhii, they only collect things that he perceives as belonging to his female, and they’re particularly attracted to items that serve her well.” I use my wing to point to the screen, indicating the other items in his drawer: the lacing that belongs to one of her shoes (I should have known to search the cameras for Hotahn’s whereabouts when Doc declared it mysteriously missing), an array of non-matching socks, and an empty bottle of nail polish he rescued from the trash receptacle—I know this for a fact because I saw her cleaning out her purse and she threw this bottle away. The common factor in his drawer of her things is that each item was considered by Doc to be useful, therefore he desires them.

  “Why’d he only take one of each sock?” Gracie wonders. “Let me guess: easier to avoid detection?”

  I clack my wing talons together. “You hav
e it right. She’s never even complained about them going missing. Evidently, she just assumes she’s lost them.”

  Doc exits her room with a suddenness that has Hotahn clapping his drawer shut, catching the end of his tail, hissing mightily—

  Gracie leans into me. “Did you by any chance catch alien curses in that?”

  “I’m sorry, my mate. I did not.”

  “Blast and damnation.”

  “It’s dusk,” Doc declares, addressing Hotahn. “Is it safe to go out, do you think?”

  He holds the end of his slightly-bent tail, and considers the brightly night-lit play area before offering a grudging nod.

  Doc leads them out, allowing the youths to run until they grow bored of running alone for no reason, then she instructs them to sit down.

  Hotahn sits right along with the children, one on either side of him.

  Doc appears flustered, eyes darting from him, color filling her cheeks—but only for a few moments. Soon, she’s circling the grouping, patting the children’s heads, calling out Earthen waterfowl species.

  As Hotahn lowers his head, ears eased out on either side of his face, clearly waiting for a pat too, Gracie explains for me what waterfowl look like. I do hope one of the books we brought with us contains facts on these creatures.

  When Doc ceases shouting out a waterbird called a duck, she cries, goose! This is yet another type of waterfowl; taller and more aggressive—it’s also the verbal cue for the child she touched (while shouting goose) to leap up and give chase.

  It’s a strange game, but the children are laughing, and Hotahn’s tail sweeps hypnotically as he sits among them for two rounds.

  But when the third round begins and it’s clear Doc is only involving the children, his tail raises enough so he can tick and tock his blades back and forth in dissatisfaction.

  When a Rakhii’s ears are at rest, they appear as one-dimensional as folded paper. Long, tapered at the ends, and very thin but heavy-looking.

  When something intensely captures a Rakhii’s interest, their ears are strong enough to pop upright and snap open—the difference can be quite startling, so it’s no wonder Doc jumps back a pace.

  “I would like to join,” Hotahn rumbles.

  Doc sits down. “Okay, your turn. You play.”

  “No,” he says—

  He told Doc no! I sit forward, my wings clapping together at my back as I realize I’ve not heard Hotahn use the word no with Doc—Gracie constantly, the children frequently—but not Doc.

  “—you will play with me also.”

  Insistent of her time and attention. I’m furiously tapping out notes when sweetened breath heats my ear. “You love spying.” Gracie says.

  “Studying,” we say at the same time, and I smile and reach for her hand and bring it to my chest, which brings her front against my side.

  “This is our version of date night,” Gracie observes.

  “Date night?”

  “When a couple—or, I guess, how a couple spends their together time before the fucking.”

  “Does pre-fucking involve more popcorn?”

  Her lips press to my ear, and her teeth close over the upper portion, making my eyes nearly cross. “Rein, you have the best ideas.”

  Abashed pleasure heats my skin, but I keep my tone level and feign insufferable when I reply, “I know.”

  CHAPTER 19

  DOHREIN

  “Doc’s going to put her foot down. You just watch.”

  Rotations ago, I’d have said Doc wouldn’t likely have the chance. Hotahn commandeered the young’s rearing, as Rakhii are wont to do, and at first, he coddled the young female perhaps overmuch.

  Her brother attempted to teach Hotahn how to properly deal with her, but very, very intriguing to note: it’s Doc who has achieved success in forcing Hotahn to temper his tendency to indulge the juvenile female’s wishes.

  Doc’s rearing technique has so far been to sit back and watch the trio attentively—and to listen to the advice that the juvenile male advises. She will watch Hotahn struggle to take the male’s advice—not because he doesn’t see merit in it, but because it’s difficult for him to deny the young female anything.

  Doc is… stern is too strong a word. She’s firm in her dealings with the young, and she rigidly demands Hotahn comply when she deems it fit or necessary.

  Fascinating.

  The impetus for the daytime foray: Doc spies the boy partaking in the Earth pastime of bouncing off the wall. She marches to the door that leads to the yard. “All right everybody. It’s time to go outside and play.”

  Hotahn’s ears flick in alarm, and he moves towards her like he might be contemplating barring the younglings’ exit—when Doc’s unyielding glance knocks him back a step.

  The younglings proceed to make loud vocalizations. “We’re going outside? We’re going to play in the sunshine?” Cricket shouts excitedly.

  “All right, now that’s just sad,” Gracie comments, eyes wide.

  “At least apply sunblock,” Hohtan insists, handing Doc a bottle. He requested a hefty supply before we left Earth yet he hasn’t given the children the opportunity to so much as need use of it.

  Much to our chagrin but probably not Hotahn’s, they have the playyard to themselves, Tara’s family not venturing out.

  Hotahn lifts Cricket on his shoulders to collect fruit from one of our native orchard trees, still bearing produce despite being recently transplanted here to this habitat of Hotahn’s family. Levi scrambles nimbly up the other side.

  He’s using his legs and arms on account of being wingless, and it’s interesting to see how the young—well, not adapt, since they’ve never known any different, but manage. Humans all seem to manage quite well without wings.

  I prop the back of my wing under my chin and settle in to observe.

  CHAPTER 20

  GRACIE

  It’s a good thing our ‘subjects’ (heh, that goes right along with my title and our castle) don’t mind being under the proverbial microscope.

  (Probably literally too if Dohrein’s taken any samples of them.)

  I hate to admit it, but I can see the appeal of looking at the world as one giant experiment. It’s peoplewatching, which I’ve always found fun, but it’s on a whole new level, plus some controls.

  Dohrein’s totally engrossed in this little—or big and invasive—window into other’s lives.

  When I pass by his chair, he lifts his head, and a softly unfocused, distracted gaze lands on me before a faint, fond smile spreads across his face.

  I kick his chair.

  I only do it lightly—just a bounce of the side of my foot against one of the legs.

  Anticipatory warmth spreads through my chest as I wait for the provocation to take effect. I brush my thumb over my shirt.

  Metal squeaks against tile as he slides his chair back, and stands, towering over me. I tilt my chin up, staring into his face, and there is nothing distracted about his expression now. I’ve got all of his not-so-inconsiderable focus.

  It feels like I’ve scored a tally in a rather competitive match.

  His lip twitches, but his voice is deeper than normal when he declares, “That was your sign of affection.”

  In reaction to his lowering pitch, my own voice comes out oddly breathy. “Huh. Exactly how hard did I kick your chair?”

  One of his wing talons angles towards my face, and carefully sweeps my hair behind my ear. “You are nonverbally reinforcing your bond with me.”

  I purse my lips. “Ever worry that these chemicals you play with are melting your brain?” I watch the way his mouth tugs into a grin. It isn’t sarcastic, or cutting.

  I like it.

  Reaching up, I press my hand to the sparkly side of his wing, greedily anticipating the rush I’ll feel. “I like the sound of this activity—I'm all for more of it.” I pause, fluttering my lashes at him. “But you looked busy. Are you sure now’s a good time for some 'nonverbal bond reinforcement'?”

 
Eyes locked with mine, he murmurs, “For you? Anything. Any time.”

  He indicates the screens with a tilt of his head. “Besides, they look well occupied and I can always check footage later for anything I might have missed.”

  As he advances on me, the area between my legs begins to pulse. I wheel around and make it two steps before his hard body crashes against mine, his arms catching me and pulling me hard against him, his big hand spreading across my lower belly, forcing me to feel him against my backside. He buries his face in my hair, the stubble on his jaw scraping my neck before he pulls up and moves me so that my chest is smashing into his stomach.

  I arch my back, enjoying his heat—until my feet slip out from underneath of me and I nearly land on my arse. “Whoa!”

  My hands catch onto the long bones in Rein’s wings, the only things keeping me upright until his arm moves around my shoulders.

  “What is it?” he asks, eking back enough to look between our bodies.

  “I nearly died because of my damn socks!” My lower back landed pretty rough against the edge of the lab desk and my kidneys feel a little pissed.

  He snorts softly. “Here,” he gives me a lift onto the cleared surface behind me.

  This is an improvement. In fact, it’s perfect. I bat my lashes. “Hmm. Now what do you think we should do?”

  He steps between my knees, spreading me wide.

  Pressing himself against me.

  ...At least until he makes contact. Then he becomes entranced.

  I know why. To this point, I’ve pretty much been living in leggings. Not today. Today I’m in a striped ruffle-hemmed skirt—with side tie satin ruffled knickers.

  I’ve been saving these for a fun occasion.

  Let the games begin!

  I stretch up so I can whisper in his ear. “You know what’s amazing about skirts?”

  “Hmm?" he purrs—not the pass-out kind, but the rumbly-sexy kind.

  “Easy access,” I tell him with a cheeky grin before I demonstrate the lacy split gusset that, come on, nobody looks at and thinks, “Oh that will make peeing easy.”