A 26th Century Affini in President Bush's Court

American Idiots

by apes

Tags: #cw:noncon #cw:george_w_bush #dom:plant #egregious_southland_tales_references #Human_Domestication_Guide #pov:bottom #pov:top #cw:guns #dom:female #dom:internalized_imperialism #drugs #f/f #f/nb #hypnosis #multiple_partners #petplay #scifi #sub:female #sub:nb
See spoiler tags : #trans_egg #transgender_characters

When Marty awoke, something was wrong. Which is to say, something was right. Typically he woke up to his brother yammering at him in slurred tones carried on uneven breaths laden with alcohol, yelling about this or that thing he did or didn’t do, this or that characteristic he was or was not embodying. The sun would beam down through the damaged, stained, off-white vertical blinds precisely in such a manner that it would via blackbody radiation raise the temperature of the decayed leather couch he slept on, making it a precise combination of not just hot, but strangely sticky. Sticky in such a way that extricating himself from the couch took genuine and concerted effort, and had to be done delicately, lest he leave painful marks and stains on his body, imprints of the patterns of flaking and ripping that flowed through the couch like veins.

Thus, he would typically take a few minutes of melancholic contemplation before attempting to undo the strange fusion of flesh and leather that had instantiated itself the night before - but such contemplation brought little extra comfort, as it would force him to contend with the obnoxious stink of his brother’s apartment, a concoction so horrible that any girls or otherwise he brought over would need to be plied like shy animals to take the first few steps in. A delirious olfactory cocktail of tobacco, rotting food, dirty clothes, marijuana of the worst quality, and a burned-in sadness so deep and ingrained in everyone that lived there that it took on a distinct scent of its own. His mouth would mumble a set of stock phrases no matter how lucid he was to appease his brother’s meandering lectures, a ‘yeah’ here and a ‘got it’ there, though they would come out sounding more like ‘mmmyehhh’ and ‘gaaaahzit’. Even after he would work up the wherewithal to leave the couch, it would be, on average, at least about half an hour before he was actually ready to do anything of value - not to say he really ever did anything of value, at least if your conception of value is a capitalist one. No, that would come after nuking a few frozen breakfast sandwiches in the microwave while sparking up a joint and finishing whatever last dregs of stale, cold coffee his brother made that morning were still shifting around in the instant coffee maker’s pot - it should be specified that most of the time Marty woke up between one and three in the afternoon.

And so, as Marty woke up to comfort, stillness, and just the right amount of warmth surrounding him, he immediately knew something was gravely wrong. Unlike his compatriot, who would most likely - and was presently, though unbeknownst to Marty - greet such an awakening with peaceful acceptance, trying to snuggle himself as deep into that warmth as he could, Marty was of much more a mind to immediately begin questioning what in the hell was happening. His eyes darted around, he started to struggle against his restraints, but a voice preempted him before he was able to get more than a single murmur of confusion out. A voice that, if Marty awoke in more typical circumstances, he would assume was no more than a strange piece of a strange dream.

“Oh, petal, sweet petal, don’t worry, I know what you’ve been through, I understand now, and I’m so, so sorry that you’ve lost your beloved Cookie Hashplant. I’m here to help, though, and we’ll find it right quick, we’ll find your wonderful weed.” The voice was smiling. Why did Marty know that? How did Marty know that? It was this quandary which forced him to actually perform something resembling an inspection of his surroundings, revealing a thicket of dark green vines that he was suspended in, with little lighter buds here and there that reminded him of something he was far too familiar with. His still-sluggish brain worked overtime to try to figure out what in the hell the voice meant, before, through the strangely chemical haze, an answer was delivered of a memory, of a plant bounding at him while Francis declared it’s intentions to indulge in a little bit of toking up. A decayed neuron then synced that memory with the day’s quest to find their stashed weed, and after an agonizingly slow time trying to rub mental rocks together, a fire finally caught. Francis was telling the truth. The alien had come for our weed. Francis must’ve informed the alien the weed was missing. The alien had then declared its intentions to assist. Okay, that made no sense, but it made enough sense for making no sense, which made sense. There was one thing that didn’t add up, though, one hole in an otherwise impossibly possible theory - what the hell happened to Marty, why did he go to sleep, and why did he wake up in this vine dimension? These questions and yet more were condensed into a single, shaky, “What?”

Effortlessly managing to hold close both of the darlings at the same time, giving them pets and squeezes aplenty, another pang of momentary sadness took Rosales as she thought of just how adorable the two were, and just how lucky Mx. Hashplant was. Even when rattled by awful circumstance, by being forcibly separated from their owner, by having no one to tell them that everything was going to be alright and they needn’t worry their pretty little heads for a moment, they still put on the bravest, cutest faces, and tried their best to understand what was happening. So lost in this thought was she that it wasn’t her who answered Marty’s question, but his pinnate, who had sheepishly and somewhat mournfully pushed himself away from her doting affection as Rosales lifted the boy off of his shoulder and back into the combustion vehicle he was previously in, though she couldn’t resist but to keep a few vines near him, for what she told herself was to ensure that he could be dealt with if he started screaming again.

“Dude, you went fucking gonzo, I was leading uh… whatever her name is over here and you started screaming and yelling, so she calmed you down, put you to sleep. Don’t worry man, she’s here to help, she’s gonna find our weed. You were only out for a few minutes though, tops.” Francis’ typically mellow tone was even calmer and slower than usual, and he couldn’t help but bear a dopey smile on his face for reasons he couldn’t begin to articulate, other than that generally, he felt good right now.

“He is right, sweetness, but I must correct a specific detail - it’s been the better part of a Standard Terran Hour since I injected you with the Class-Z. Of which I am very sorry for its necessity, and I pledge to keep such interventions to be only as required, requested, or upon your weed’s preference.” Another light chuckle rumbled through Rosales’ form. She was getting an almost perverse amount of enjoyment out of joining in with the two calling Mx. Hashplant a weed - something felt good about taking the word’s power, proving the inevitability of any real resistance to the Compact. In time, even the most rotten and mean-spirited feralists would come to love their weeds, and said weeds would always, always cherish their florets.

Marty tried to raise any kind of anything in protest but could only muster an “Okay,” before having delivered another rather potent thought through the haze he still found his mind in - they had burned an entire goddamn hour in this stupid forest, and were no closer to finding the fucking weed. He took a deep breath in, and tried to compose some eloquent thoughts on the matter. “We burned an entire goddamn hour in this stupid forest and are no closer to finding the fucking weed?” 

Rosales took one of the spare vines she had left near Marty and patted him on the head with it, to which his look of confusion and slight anger only deepened. It was hard to not want to comfort him, given all he’d been through. “Not at all! While the two of you were enjoying some much-needed relaxation, I was working on fixing up my tablet, after I poked around and saw you didn’t have one of your own. Unfortunately, it looks like we are indeed out of range of any-”

Her melodic patter was suddenly cut off by a very tinny yet very loud rendition of Green Day’s American Idiot, emanating from somewhere within the truck. Marty let out a quick “Ah shit, that’s mine, gimme a sec,” before plunging his head down into the footwell, rummaging around for the source of the noise while Billie Joe Armstrong’s heavily bitcrushed and compressed voice echoed through the forest. Francis often admonished him for always having his ringtone cranked up so loud, but with Marty’s propensity for napping, it was necessary to make sure he didn’t miss any important calls. At least that’s what Marty told Francis - as an unemployed layabout, he didn’t get too many important calls other than those from his dealer and his brother. Who was, in fact, the person calling him at that moment, as Marty finally found his flip phone sandwiched in the crack between the center console and the driver side seat. His brother’s voice came out very quiet at first, then very loud, as he switched on speaker mode. 

“-my fucking truck! It’s the only reason you have a roof over your head, you-” Just as Rosales had been cut off by the intrusion of the phone, her intrusion cut off Marty’s brother as she spoke up herself.

“Excuse me, feisty darling, who might you be?” Something was audibly caught in his throat as he heard the affini’s wonderfully impassioned tones. The sophont on the other end of the primitive communicator was obviously quite mad, could he be the reason for the two florets’ dispossession from their owner?

“Oh fuck, shit. Marty, you didn’t tell me you found a lady friend! My name is Alexander Kefauver, though someone with as pretty a voice as you can call me Alex. What may I call you, other than baby, sweetheart, or beloved?” Marty shot a look of revulsion at Francis, who just smirked and shrugged his shoulders. Bastard.

In very short order, as soon as this Alex knew that an affini was listening, he had changed his tune from abusive rage to slick flattery. What a poor little thing, who could only pretend to be kind when responsible authorities were around. One would shudder to think of all the mean things he thought of himself, if that previous line was any indication of how he treated other sophonts. Well, at the very least, Rosales had him on the backfoot, and it was time to use that to her advantage. “My name is Rosales Cannabaceae, Twelfth Bloom, she/her. Now, and please do answer honestly, did you have anything to do with these two wonderful terrans losing their beloved weed, Cookie Hashplant?” 

Marty swore he could hear a vein pop as Alex offered a rejoinder, powerless to stop him as he entered conversational repartee with the alien. “Goddamnit Marty, the moment you find a pretty girl you immediately draft her into your stupid quest. I’m never going to get lucky like this. No, Rosie - can I call you Rosie - no, I didn’t have anything to do with those stupid losers losing their weed. Whatever happened to it was probably their fault anyways. Maybe it ran away, I don’t know, and more importantly, I don’t care. But even more importantly, why don’t you all get your pretty little asses back here, with my work truck, so I can get to know Rosie a little better.” The words betrayed a tight grimace as he simultaneously tried to express kindness and hints of romantic intent to Rosales and menace and terror to Marty - and Francis, secondarily. Unfortunately, Alex was a notoriously bad flirt, and so both parties received both messages, to largely the same reaction, with varying levels of intensity. Marty glared daggers at the still insufferably smirking Francis, despondent that first contact was being interrupted by his brother’s inane flirtations. Francis, for his part, had grown used to Alex’s antics, and had grown a similar acceptance to Rosales’ presence - he supposed he had to have, after cuddling up with her for so long a time without even realizing it. Really, could anyone fault him for indulging a little bit?

To the giver of said cuddles, however, the matter was much more grave - this Alex was shaping up to be something of a tough customer, a feralist of the cutest sort, a feralist who genuinely believed that he was slick enough to charm and outwit an affini. It was always the most adorable thing when they got all twisted up in their web of words and realized they never had any hope of talking their way out of domestication. What was not adorable, however, was what he had done to Marty and Francis - such rude words for such wonderful sophonts! To imply that an affini would ever willingly abandon their floret was an offense of the highest order, and furthermore so blatantly ridiculous it could only be sweetly chuckled at. Yet, it was obvious he knew more than he was letting on, so if Rosales was to ever figure out what had happened to her or Marty and Francis, heading his way wasn’t the worst idea. “I suppose we shall get our pretty little behinds, as you so put it, over towards you. You seem most fascinating, Alex, and I would love to speak more with you. We’ll be over shortly.” Somehow, Marty could hear Alex doing a fist-pump. He shrunk further in his seat.

“Yeah. I guess we will. See you soon, man.” Marty had never sounded more defeated in his life, hitting the end call button once the last words finally squeaked through his mouth. He buried his head in his hands as a vine began to stroke his back gently.

“There there, sweetness, I know he seems a horrible beast now, but I’ll be there to protect you. No harm will come upon you, I swear upon the Everbloom. I’ll just have a nice chat with little Alexander, help him understand some things, and then we’ll find your weed. That sound okay?” All he could do was nod quietly as Francis swung open the passenger side door, beaming as he extended an arm to invite Rosales into the backseat. Francis got even more pats on the head for this most adorable performance. He slammed the door shut and Marty revved up the engine, trying his best to remember the way back to his brother’s apartment.

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