Page 46 of Alien Attachment
“You are correct,” I admit with as much dignity as I can manage while my rogue appendages continue their unauthorized reconnaissance. “I appear to be... malfunctioning.”
Her laugh vibrates through her body into mine, a sensation I am beginning to understand could become addictive. The sound starts low in her chest and ripples outward, creating tiny movements that press her more firmly against me and send sparks through every contact point. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Through our bond, I feel her amusement, her affection, and beneath it a warmth that has nothing to do with the pod’s environmental systems and everything to do with the way she’s begun to view my increasingly creative interpretations of ‘medical necessity.’ She is not displeased by my “malfunction.” If anything, her physiological responses—elevated pulse, increased skin temperature, subtle shifts in her breathing pattern—suggest quite the opposite.
“Perhaps ‘malfunction’ is inaccurate,” I concede, allowing the errant tendril to continue its exploration while maintaining the pretense of innocent concern for her wellbeing. My other appendages, apparently emboldened by this admission, begin their own more thorough investigations of accessible territory. “I may be operating precisely as intended.”
“And what, exactly, were you intended for?” she asks, though her breathing has changed in ways that suggest she knows the answer and finds it considerably more appealing than our current tactical situation would normally warrant.
“Connection,” I reply simply, letting my voice drop to the low register that seems to affect her pulse rate so dramatically.“Touch. The creation of bonds that transcend the merely physical.” One tendril finds the delicate skin of her wrist, tracing the pattern of veins visible beneath the surface while simultaneously delivering the faintest bioelectric pulse—just enough to make her gasp softly.
“That’s very poetic for someone who’s essentially feeling me up in an escape pod,” she observes, though her tone lacks any real objection and her body’s responses suggest she finds my poetry considerably more compelling than she pretends.
“I contain multitudes,” I remind her, punctuating the statement by finding a previously unexplored sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her arch against me with gratifying enthusiasm.
“Yes, you’ve mentioned that,” she says, turning slightly in my arms so she can look at me directly. The movement is supposedly casual, but it brings her lips tantalizingly close to mine and presses her breasts more firmly against my chest in a way that suggests tactical planning of a different sort entirely. “Question is, what are you going to do about it?”
The challenge in her voice, combined with the spike of desire through our bond and the way her eyes have darkened with unmistakable intent, nearly overwhelms my tactical assessment protocols. We are in a stolen escape pod, drifting through potentially hostile space, with limited supplies and uncertain prospects. Our pursuers may have tracking technology we haven’t accounted for. The pod’s life support systems are functioning but not designed for extended occupation.
This is not an appropriate time for recreational physical interaction.
I kiss her anyway.
Her response is immediate and enthusiastic, her hands fisting in my shirt as she presses closer with the sort of desperate hunger that suggests she’s been thinking about thisfor considerably longer than the last few minutes. The confined space that has been a source of frustration becomes suddenly advantageous—she cannot pull away, cannot retreat to a safe distance, and I cannot resist the temptation to explore every accessible inch of her with both hands and tendrils.
Her mouth is warm and eager under mine, tasting of the emergency rations we shared hours ago and something uniquely Kaylee that makes my bond-lines flare with bioluminescence. She kisses like she pilots—with skill, precision, and absolute commitment to the task at hand. When her tongue traces the seam of my lips, I open for her immediately, and the small sound of satisfaction she makes sends heat racing through circuits that were never designed for such overload.
“This is tactically inadvisable,” I murmur against her lips between increasingly urgent kisses, even as my hands map the elegant curve of her spine and my tendrils discover the fascinating acoustics involved in finding precisely the right pressure points to make her gasp my name.
“Probably,” she agrees breathlessly, then demonstrates her own capacity for multitasking by somehow maintaining the conversation while simultaneously working at the fastenings of my shirt with the sort of focused determination usually reserved for emergency repairs. “Are you going to stop?”
“Negative,” I reply with perhaps excessive honesty, particularly since I’m currently using three separate appendages to facilitate her efforts at exposing more of my skin to her touch.
“Good,” she breathes, succeeding in her mission to open my shirt and immediately taking advantage by running her palms across my chest in a way that makes my secondary heart stutter and skip. “Because I’ve been thinking about your ‘circulation assessment’ techniques for the last three hours, and I have some very specific requests.”
Her hands on my skin send cascades of sensation through my bond-lines, making them pulse with increased luminosity that fills the cramped space with gentle blue-white light. The confined cockpit becomes a constellation of bioluminescent patterns as my bioelectric responses amplify, creating shifting aurora across every surface. Kaylee notices immediately, her eyes widening with fascination and unmistakable desire.
“I love it when you do that,” she whispers, tracing the glowing patterns with her fingertips, following the neural pathways that pulse brighter under her touch. Each contact point sends feedback through our bond, creating loops of shared sensation that amplify with every passing second. “You’re like a living constellation. My own personal light show.”
The poetic comparison sends warmth through circuits I did not know existed, emotional processing centers that respond to beauty, to art, to being seen as something more than functional design. No one has ever described my physiological responses as beautiful before. The technicians who created me catalogued them clinically—bioluminescent displays indicating emotional arousal, bioelectric generation for various practical applications, tactile sensitivity optimized for bonding compatibility. But Kaylee sees art where they saw mere function, wonder where they saw specifications.
“You are my constellation,” I tell her, meaning every word while simultaneously discovering that the sensitive spot just below her ear responds remarkably well to gentle bioelectric stimulation. “My guide star in the darkness. My North Star.”
She kisses me again, softer this time but with an intensity that speaks of deeper currents, and through our bond flows something more profound than desire—affection, gratitude, the beginning of what humans call love. The emotion is so powerful it makes my secondary heart stutter in its rhythm, and mybioluminescence flares bright enough to make her blink in surprise.
“We should discuss our next destination,” I say without much conviction, even as my tendrils continue their increasingly creative exploration of her rapidly warming skin. One appendage has discovered the remarkable sensitivity of her inner wrist, another is investigating the acoustics involved in finding the precise pressure to make her breath catch, and a third has somehow located the spot where her neck meets her shoulder that seems directly connected to every other sensitive area of her body.
“Absolutely,” she agrees, making no effort to disengage from our current activities while her own hands conduct what could generously be termed reconnaissance of my chest and shoulders. “Very important. Strategic planning is... is essential for...” Her voice trails off as I demonstrate a particularly effective application of bioelectric pulse patterns.
“Resource allocation,” I add helpfully, finding the sensitive spot at the base of her throat that makes her gasp and arch against me with gratifying enthusiasm.
“Supply assessment,” she manages, though her voice is becoming increasingly breathless and her strategic planning seems to involve removing my shirt entirely, which I assist with by carefully coordinating my tendrils to facilitate the process.
“Threat analysis,” I continue, while simultaneously conducting a very different kind of analysis involving the fascinating way her pulse quickens when I apply gentle bioelectric stimulation to specific nerve clusters, the optimal pressure required to make her say my name in that particular breathless tone, and the precise combination of touches that makes her body curve against mine like she was designed specifically for this purpose.
“You’re very thorough,” she observes, though her tone suggests she finds my thoroughness entirely appropriate and possibly insufficient to her current requirements.
“I was designed for precision,” I inform her seriously, demonstrating said precision by finding three additional sensitive areas in rapid succession—behind her ear, along her collarbone, and the particularly responsive spot where her ribs meet her sternum that makes her make that soft sound of surprise and pleasure that’s rapidly becoming my favorite noise in the known galaxy.
