a small fic about a puppy and a bunny, set in xenopavilia's mothership, which is like a
fully automated luxury gay space communism kinda deal with lots of weird girls and weird sex.
it was supposed to be a multi-part fic, but i never got around to writing more, and it somewhat
evolved into my puppysister oc stories.
it was born out of a chat full of horny animal girls spinning these two emojis
around in our heads until we went crazy.
cw: blood
One week, on the dot, since your fuck-up.
You knew it'd happen - something would, sooner or later. Your big, stupid snout and wonky paws, your awkward ears or cumbersome tail. Every part of you has challenged your long-term peace for as long as you can remember.
This time it was your teeth.
It'd been maybe a month? Or two? Since your new roommate moved into your quarters. Some mixup had happened in the xenobiology bay and knocked the whole southeastern accommodation wing out of commission until it'd been fully cleaned. You always knew living alone in a two-person hub was too good to be true, so you weren't at all surprised when you received a communication that another crewmate was being transferred over from the broken wing.
But she was a bunny, and you were a dog.
She was short and stout, the little thing, and maybe a full foot shorter than you (not counting your ears). Quiet, reserved. Barely said a word when she moved into your dormitory, to the point that you might've not even known she was there, were it not for the muffled clacking of keys coming through the bravo bedroom door.
For the next several days, you'd only catch glimpses and snippets of her life, short flashes from odd angles that'd nip at your tongue from curiosity. Washing a mug at the sink, reading her phone during breakfast, folding some sporty-looking tank top that one time she left her door cricked open. You weren't trying to peek!
Your good sense had been telling you to let her be. She didn't choose to come live with you, after all - she didn't seem interested in being present any more than strictly necessary until her old habitat cleared up. Moving to ostensibly a stranger's house, a predator's to boot, where everything smells like them. No hiding houses, no soft flooring. You'd caught yourself wondering if you could be doing something more to make the quarters more appealing to her, but you weren't about to knock on her door to do it. She barely even acknowledged your existence. You corteously assumed she was treating you the way she'd like to be treated.
But... sometimes.
Every once in a blue moon, you'd exchange more than glances. Not much! An extra word, a silent nod. Your antsiness invariably crept up your spine and controlled your mouth, puppeteered your paws, desperate for a hint of camaraderie between you two. You'd raise your evening coffee in a toast and ask "you want one?" She'd think for a split-second, tapping the tip of her toe on the leg of the table once, twice, and finishing with a nod. You'd visibly and exaggeratedly roll your eyes at the morning broadcasts, and she'd scoff in unison, the corners of her mouth creeping up enough to let her buck teeth show. You'd leave a hay-flavored granola bar on the table and come back at night to find it transformed into a chewy milk bone, the kind you never pick up because they only have them in one vending machine at the other end of the ship from your commute. "I always pass by these on my way to engineering," she'd say. "Let me know if you like them."
Day by day, propped up by tiny gestures, you'd begun establishing the start of an idea of a concept of a rapport with her.
So of course you had to go and fuck it up.
That day, you'd only barely shambled out of bed and into the kitchen, mouth dry and shirt half-twisted backwards, when you found a pair of dolphin shorts haphazardly tossed on one of the kitchen chairs. Pink with white accents, speckled with gray fur. You'd seen her wear these before in particularly warm days, but she wasn't the type to leave used clothes lying around.
Unwelcome thoughts bubbled up into your head. You realized you'd actually never seen any of her clothes by themselves - she did her own laundry and kept all her personal belongings tucked firmly within her room, so you'd never thought about it long enough to chance realizing that she didn't just spin in place and magically swap outfits. Like a Sim.
You'd picked up the shorts without thinking and was midway through rubbing the soft fabric between your paw beans, letting the stuck fur brush against yours, before realizing you were picturing the curves along her back rubbing on the elastic band. You hadn't managed to get a single sniff of her - not on the utensils or furniture. She just didn't get out of her room enough. You were nose-blind to her, and it made her feel like twice as much of a stranger.
No one was watching. Your chest burned with wondering. It'd be so easy to just... lift it up to your snout, and...
You snapped your arms firmly forward to jolt it away from you, the tips of your ears burning with embarrassment. Were you about to...? Jesus. If you weren't scared of being a bad roommate before, you had just unlocked a whole new set of actions you absolutely couldn't just follow your instincts about. You left the shorts right where they were and washed your hands, inwardly terrified of catching yourself sniffing your hands, like a giant creep.
That morning's events felt sticky in your head. You'd resorted to just accepting that you're a giant pervert and working through that, in hopes that it'd be easier than returning your thoughts to your roommate. Your colleague at the science sector had to snap their fingers in front of you to startle you awake, asking why you were acting so absentminded. You just joked about breaking into the xenodrug cargo hold again.
The night fell, and back at home, you were sleepily chipping away at your report for the day. She sat on the opposite end of the couch, turned to you, having brought her laptop to work away from her room for a change.
"I thought you'd be scarier."
Her sudden voice, high but husky, jabbed into your heart and snapped your concentration away from your clipboard. You kept your composure enough not to look, but your ears had already given you away, pointing directly at her. You were committed to keeping the conversation light and casual, and absolutely not give away that you were seconds away from sniffing her used shorts earlier.
"Hey, I'm plenty scary!"
She hummed.
"It's true!" You continued. "Look, I got the claws and the scary piercing eyes, y'see? I got the teeth!" You playfully bared your canines and pointed at them.
She replied with a lighthearted tone and a half-mocking smile. "You kind of got the teeth."
This was perfect. A conversation starter from her was already a miracle - and now she was responding to your bits! It would've been one thing for you both to silently stay in your corners forever, but she was responsive and showing a willingness to have some back-and-forth. You had picked up a reflex to analyze social situations, and this had all the signs of one going well, so you figured continuing the joke was the obvious move.
"Of course I do! See? Hashaaa!" You gave a big smile. "Scary."
She giggled without looking up from her laptop.
You lifted off your seat and set a fake-outraged tone. "You don't buy it, huh?!" Your clipboard moved off to the side on its own, and for a second you thought of the easiest practical joke to play on her.
You saw her exposed calf stretched on the couch.
You leaned over, gnashed your teeth, and lightly sank them on her.
Lightly. Keyword lightly. It was supposed to be.
You only heard a high-pitched squeal, more like a whistle than a voice, before you felt a small shock of warmth creep down your tongue. You quickly pulled away, feeling an unmistakable iron bite coating the very edge of your taste buds. You looked down. The taste had just barely reached the tip of your synapses when your vision cleared enough to see a thin trickle of deep-red blood oozing down her leg.
Your neck snapped sideways to look at her. She was clutching her laptop close to her chest, eyes wider than thought possible, immobile, gazing down at you, her blood coating the sharp point of your left canine. It was like time was frozen, your eyes meeting for a lifetime, processing the fact that your first mutual touch was blood-drawing violence.
And then. The smell. Oh, my god, the smell.
You'd only been around preys incidentally, so you couldn't have been sure. But it was an intoxicating concoction hitting your snout, a sharp mix of fresh blood, paralyzing fear, and...
You- you can't even muster up the thoughts for it - you know it couldn't have been true, or you must've gotten it mixed up at some point, or other girls just smelled completely different to each other. But for that split second.
You could swear to god she smelled like the horniest fucking thing on the ship.
The instant passed and she contracted her leg away with a kind of ridiculous speed, erratically picking her laptop and herself off the couch and sprinting into her room, slamming the door. You didn't know what to do but to sit there and stare. It ate at you. Bitter seconds became minutes as you lay motionless, staring at the closed door, replaying what happened in your head. The jokes. The gnashing. You shouldn't have started talking about your teeth. No- No! You shouldn't have fucking bitten her!
You pulled yourself to your feet and walked up to her door, hovering your knuckle just inches away. What can you even say? Sorry? Oh my god, why did she smell like sex? Her blood, her- her blood...
Her blood tasted so fucking good.
You cover your own mouth. This is too much. What is wrong with you? You shakily step away from her door. You don't even know what you could say to her right now, you don't know if you could hold yourself up with the noxious mixture of emotions swirling around in your head, threatening to tip over and spill all over the floor. You rushed to your room, closed the door, and locked it.
You didn't go to work the next day. You laid on your bed, barely getting any sleep, for the next who-knows-how-many hours, until you heard her leave her room and go out the door. Only then could you muster up the stomach to eat anything. You hid again before she came back home, the quiet sounds of dishes and locks calling out to you, whining at you to take the moment to talk to her, to say anything. You got up from your bed, and touched the door handle, but recoiled at the last second.
The day after that, you saw her. She didn't look over to you. You didn't say anything.
And now it's been a week. You haven't said a single word to each other. You haven't shared a meal, because she takes food into her room. You agonized, night after night, about what to say to her to make the situation right again, ask her if she was ok, if she was seriously hurt, to say sorry for being so weird and hurting her. You simulated all of it in your head, the awkward pauses, the rejections, the invitations. In your mind, she admitted she liked it. She slapped you. She reported you to security and you got kicked out of the Mothership. She pulled you into her room. She became your best friend. She never talked to you again.
You're lost in thought again, only half-there, organizing groceries into the kitchen cabinet, when she gets home after work and silently places her papers on the kitchen counter. You only nominally register her being there.
Her familiar voice, so far gone from your mind at this point, rips you away from your fantasizing and back to reality. Your ears jolt toward her when your eyes couldn't.
"Lana."
