Azoor

Warnings : No warnings for this part, the smut is coming in the next parts

Also, English is not my first langage !

If you spot any mistakes, feel free to let me know! I'd love to improve my English (and the story).

There will be 3 parts !

You tightened the last bolt on the starfighter's port stabilizer, your fingers aching from the hours of precision work. The ship gleamed under the hangar's harsh lights, its lines sharp and aggressive like the man who flew it. Captain Rex's ship. You'd spent the better part of the rotation on it, tweaking calibrations that most mechanics would have overlooked.

The hangar was quiet now. Most of the 501st clones were either in the mess hall or catching sleep in their temporary barracks. The rotation had been slow, and you'd taken advantage of the peace to focus on the task. The ship deserved attention. The pilot deserved it more.

You wiped your hands on the rag hanging from your belt and stepped back, inspecting your work. The stabilizer sat perfectly aligned. The hyperdrive motivator hummed clean. You'd replaced the coolant lines yourself, rerouted the auxiliary power conduit, and recalibrated the targeting systems. The ship would fly smoother than it had in weeks.

"Looks good."

The voice came from behind you, low and tired. You knew it already. You'd heard it giving orders across the hangar earlier, but now it carried a softer edge.

You turned. Captain Rex stood a few paces away, his armor still on but his helmet tucked under his arm. His hair was cropped short, regulation style, and shadows sat under his eyes. He looked exhausted. He also looked like someone had carved him from stone and forgot to add the soft parts.

"Thanks," you said. "She should handle better now. The port stabilizer was throwing off your trajectory by about two degrees. Nothing critical, but it would've worn down the gyro over time."

He stepped closer, running his hand along the hull. The gesture was almost reverent. His fingers traced the carbon scoring marks, relics of battles you'd never witnessed.

"Two degrees," he repeated. "I didn't notice."

"Most pilots wouldn't. But you would've felt it eventually, in a tight turn or a heavy atmosphere."

He turned to face you, and the full weight of his attention settled on your shoulders. His eyes were brown. Deep brown, like the old woods on planets you'd only read about. There was something careful in his gaze, the way he looked at you like he was cataloging every detail.

"Appreciate it," he said. "The boys and I have been running non-stop. Having a ship that actually works is a luxury."

You wanted to say something clever. Something that would make him smile or laugh or look at you differently. Instead you just shrugged. "It's my job."

A silence stretched between you. The kind that felt thick enough to push against. He was standing close. Closer than necessary. You could smell the recycled air from his armor, the faint metallic tang of blaster residue, and underneath it something clean and warm that was just him.

He reached for the tool kit on the crate beside you. At the same time, you reached for the same crate to set down your rag.

Your fingers brushed his.

The contact was brief. A whisper of skin against skin. But it sent a current through you that had nothing to do with static electricity. You froze. He froze too, his hand hovering mid-air.

You looked up at him. He was looking at your hand. Then his eyes lifted to yours, and something shifted in his expression. The careful soldier mask cracked, just a little.

"Sorry," you muttered, though you weren't sorry at all.

"No problem," he said. His voice was rougher now. He didn't pull his hand away.

You let your fingers linger on the crate, close to his. Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. Your heart was hammering, and you were suddenly very aware of how your coverall fit against your chest, how your hands were still greasy from work, how your hair had probably escaped its tie hours ago.

His hands. You'd thought about his hands before. The way they gripped his blasters, the way they moved when he gestured during briefings. But now they were right there, within touching distance. Strong hands. Calloused. Capable. The kind of hands that could probably take you apart piece by piece, if he wanted to. The kind of hands that you were seeing in your more filthy dreams.

Your thoughts slipped further. They always did around him. You imagined those hands on your waist, on your hips, sliding under the rough fabric of your coverall. You imagined his mouth, that serious mouth, pressed against your neck while his fingers worked the fastenings of your clothes. His body against yours, hard and warm, the armor discarded somewhere on the floor. He would be careful at first, measured, the way he approached everything. But you didn't want careful. You wanted him to lose that control, just once. To grip you hard enough to leave marks. To make you forget every reason why this was a terrible idea.

You swallowed. The thoughts were getting too loud. They were going to show on your face eventually.

"Are you off duty?" you asked. The question came out before you could stop it.

He blinked, surprised. "Technically, yes. We're resting for the rotation. Why?"

"Drink," you said. "In my quarters. I've got a bottle of spotchka I've been saving for something special."

You watched him process the invitation. His jaw tightened. A muscle in his neck twitched. He was weighing something, calculating odds like he would in a battle simulation. You could see the moment his training told him to refuse. But you could also see the moment when something else, something more stubborn, pushed back.

"Your quarters," he repeated. "That's not exactly regulation."

"Neither is leaving a ship with a misaligned stabilizer," you said. "But people do what they need to do."

He almost smiled. Almost. The corner of his mouth twitched, and you counted it as a victory.

"Lead the way," he said.

You turned before he could change his mind, walking toward the corridor that led to the personnel quarters. The hangar doors slid shut behind you as you stepped into the hallway. His footsteps followed, steady and measured. A soldier's gait. You tried to match it, but your legs were shorter, and your steps felt frantic in comparison.

The quarters were cramped. A cot, a small table, a storage locker, a sonic shower. Your home for the duration of the war. You gestured for him to sit on the cot while you dug the bottle of spotchka from under your bunk.

He sat on the edge of the cot, his forearms resting on his knees, his helmet placed on the floor beside him. He looked too big for the space. Too sharp. Like a predator that had wandered into a cage meant for something smaller.

You poured two cups and handed him one. His fingers brushed yours again, deliberately this time. He held the contact for a moment longer than necessary.

"To good ships," you said, raising your cup.

"To good mechanics," he replied.

The spotchka burned going down. He didn't flinch. Clones were built for worse stuff.

You sat beside him on the cot. The mattress dipped under his weight, pulling you closer. His shoulder brushed yours. You could feel the heat of him through his blacks, the thin layer of fabric that separated his skin from the armor.

"I shouldn't be here," he said quietly.

"No," you agreed. "But you are."

He turned to face you. His eyes were searching yours, looking for something. Hesitation. Doubt. Permission.

You gave him none of those.

He leaned in slowly, like he was giving you every chance to pull away. You didn't. His lips met yours, and the spotchka taste mixed with something sharper. He kissed like he flew starfighters—intense, precise, holding nothing back. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek, and you melted into him.

Your hands found his chest. The fabric of his blacks was rough under your fingers. You wanted to peel it off him, to feel skin and scars and the heat of a body that wasn't designed for softness. He groaned against your mouth, and the sound sent a thrill down your spine.

The comm unit on his wrist beeped.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours for a second. His breath was ragged. The comm beeped again, more insistent.

"Sir," a voice crackled through the speaker. "We've got an update from command. Priority channel."

Rex straightened. The soldier snapped back into place, the transformation almost violent to witness. He grabbed his helmet, stood, and paused at the door.

"I have to—"

"Go," you said. Your voice was steadier than you expected.

He lingered for a heartbeat, then he was gone. The door slid shut behind him, leaving you alone in the small room with an empty cup and the ghost of his mouth on yours.

You touched your lips. They were still warm.

The exhilaration flooded through you, bright and sharp. He had kissed you. He had wanted to stay. For a moment, he had forgotten about duty and the war and everything else.

Then the fear settled in, cold and heavy.

You had jeopardized his career. If anyone found out—if his brothers saw something, if the wrong person noticed—he could lose his command. He could be reassigned. Court-martialed. You knew the rules. Fraternization between clones and civilians was strictly forbidden. The Republic had no room for complications like this.

You sat on the cot, staring at the door, and wondered if you had just ruined the only thing that made him feel like something more than a weapon.

​​This story takes place in an imaginary universe, but it's heavily inspired by Mass Effect.

It’s a 2-part alien x reader (for now, because I might write a bonus part with more smut)The alien is an oc, but no real background about him is given (because who cares, we're here for his d-).

I drew him because I like to draw but feel free to imagine him (even tho some physical details are given in the story)

Also, English is not my first langage !

If you spot any mistakes, feel free to let me know! I'd love to improve my English (and the story).

Warnings (for both part but mostly part 2) :

MDNI (+18), afab reader, alien cock, mention of alien way of breeding, story starting soft and ending wild, piv, fluff, smut, blowjob, oral (both are recieving), definitly alien kink, green dick, no protection used (wrap it before you tap it), no use of y/n, alien oc, long plot for the porn

The door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss that seemed louder than it should have been in the small space of your quarters.

You watched him take in the room. It wasn't much—a narrow cot against the far wall, a desk cluttered with datapads and spare parts, a locker where you kept your clothes and the few personal items you'd accumulated over the years. A holoprint of a sunset on some colony world you'd visited once, the name long forgotten. A plant that had somehow survived despite your neglect.

Kharlas moved through the space like he was cataloguing it, his yellow eyes passing over each object with that same clinical attention he'd given your welding. He stopped at the desk, picking up a small circuit board you'd been repairing.

“You live simply,” he said.

“It's a station. Nobody lives with excess here.” You watched him set the circuit board down, his fingers tracing the edge of a datapad. “What did you expect?”

He turned to face you, and something in his posture shifted. The way he held himself, the angle of his head—it reminded you of how he'd looked when he first approached you in the hangar. Careful. Measuring.

“I do not know what I expected,” he said. “Your broadcasts show many things. Large homes, open spaces, rooms filled with objects people collect over a lifetime. But those are likely curated images.”

“Mostly. The wealthy colonies have that kind of space. Out here, you learn to live with what fits in a single room.” You gestured around you. “This is luxury compared to some quarters I've seen.”

He took a step closer, then another. The room felt smaller with him in it, his height and the breadth of his shoulders making the space seem almost cramped.

“You leaded me here,” he said. "Why ?"

The question caught you off guard.

“Because I wanted to,” you said. “Because dinner was good, and I wanted to continue talking. Is that enough?”

He considered this, his head tilting in that birdlike way you were starting to recognize. “For most of my species, it would not be. We do not invite others into our private spaces without purpose. It implies an expectation.”

“What kind of expectation?”

He stepped closer again. Close enough that you could see the texture of his skin up close—not smooth like you'd thought, but covered in the faintest pattern of tiny ridges. Close enough that you could smell him, something clean and slightly herbal, nothing like the recycled air of the station.

“Intimacy,” he said. “Physical intimacy. The kind that leads to mating, or at least to the exploration of it.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He said it so directly, no hesitation, no reading between the lines. Just a statement of fact.

“Is that why you followed me?” you asked. Your heart was beating like it was trying to get out of you.

*Please say yes.*

“I followed because you asked me to.” A pause. “But I also followed because I wanted to learn. I told you this already. I have never met a human before. I want to understand how your species experiences intimacy, how you connect with each other on a physical level.”

“You want a demonstration.”

He didn't flinch. “Yes.”

The word hung in the air between you. You could feel the heat coming off him, standing this close, could see the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. The green of his skin seemed to deepen slightly, a subtle shift in color that you hadn't noticed before.

“Your skin changed color,” you said, trying to change subject. To give yourself time to process what was happening.

He looked down at his own arm, then back at you. “It does that. When I experience strong emotions. I thought I mentioned this at dinner.”

“You mentioned it could change color. You didn't say what the colors meant.”

“Green is my resting state. Darker green means arousal. Or anger. The two are sometimes difficult to distinguish.”

You laughed, the sound surprising you. “That sounds inconvenient.”

“It has its complications.” He reached out, his hand hovering near your face, not quite touching. “May I?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

His fingers brushed your cheek, feather-light. The touch was warm, warmer than human skin would have been, and you felt a shiver run through you that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

“Your skin is soft,” he said. “Softer than I expected. Our texts describe humans as having a thin epidermal layer, but I did not imagine it would feel like this.”

“What did you imagine?”

“More resistance. Like the surface of a fruit that has not yet ripened.” His hand moved from your cheek to your jaw, tracing the line of it. “This is different. More pliable.”

You reached up and caught his hand, turning it over in yours. His palm was broader than yours, the skin there much thicker, rougher. Calluses in places you didn't recognize, probably from handling weapons or the controls of his ship.

“What about you?” you asked. “Can I touch you?”

*Stupid question when you're already touching him*

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he took your hand and pressed it flat against his chest, over the spot where a human heart would be.

The first thing you noticed was the heat. His body radiated warmth through the fabric of his undersuit. The second thing was the rhythm—two distinct pulses, not quite synchronized, beating against your palm in a counterpoint that felt almost musical.

“Two hearts,” you said.

“One for each lung. They work in sequence, not simultaneously. The left pumps while the right rests.” He placed his own hand over yours, pressing it harder against him. “Can you feel the difference?”

You could. One beat was stronger, the other fainter, like an echo. You closed your eyes and focused on it, letting the sensation fill your awareness.

“That's incredible. You're incr-”

“For you, perhaps. For me, it is simply how I am built.” He cut you, released your hand and stepped back, just enough to look at you properly. “I want to see you. All of you. Will you let me?”

Your heart hammered in your chest, a single frantic rhythm compared to his dual one. The room felt too warm, the air too thin. It felt like too much and not enouth at the same time. But you nodded anyway, reaching for the fastenings of your coveralls.

His eyes tracked your movements with an intensity that made your fingers fumble. The zipper caught, and you had to stop and pull it free before continuing. When the fabric parted, you shrugged the coveralls off your shoulders, letting them fall to the floor.

You stood before him in your undershirt and shorts, suddenly aware of how plain they were. Functional, like everything else in your life. Nothing designed to impress.

He reached out, touching the fabric of your undershirt with the same careful curiosity. “It is very thin.”

“It's meant to be comfortable, not protective.”

He tugged at the hem, a gentle pull that asked a question. You lifted your arms, and he drew the shirt up and over your head, letting it join your coveralls on the floor.

His gaze traveled down your body, taking in the curve of your breasts, the plane of your stomach, the faint scars you'd accumulated over years of working with machinery and not always being careful enough. His expression was unreadable, but the color of his skin had deepened to a richer green, almost dark enough to be called forest.

“Different,” he said finally. “From what I expected.”

“Different how?”

Not a blush, not a smile, not a lip biting. It was hard to read him, to see if he liked what was standing in front of him. But the simple fact that he coudn't take his eyes off you was enouth to turn you on.

“More... vulnerable. The bone structure, the way the muscle sits over it. There is less protection than our species has.” He reached out, his fingers tracing a line from your collarbone down to your sternum. “But also more beautiful than the diagrams suggested.”

*Was it a compliment ?*

You laughed, a nervous sound.

He stepped closer, his hands finding your waist, pulling you against him. The heat of his body through his undersuit was almost overwhelming. “I want to touch you more. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes.”

His hands moved over you slowly, deliberately, mapping the landscape of your body with softness. He traced the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips. Every touch was measured, almost scientific, but his skin had darkened further, and his breathing had grown heavier.

“You tremble,” he said.

“I'm nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because I've never done this with someone who wasn't human. Because I don't know what you expect, what you want, whether I'm doing any of this right.” The words came out in a rush. “Because I brought you here and I don't know what happens next.”

He tilted his head, that birdlike gesture that was becoming familiar. “What happens next is what we choose to happen. There are no rules here. No expectations beyond the ones we create together. I won't push you. And I have time. Enough time for tonight, at least.”

His hands slid down to your waist, then lower, cupping your hips. He nudged a knee between your thighs, spreading you open, and the pressure of his leg against you was a promise.

“But I do want something,” he said. “I want to know what your body feels like. I want to know what sounds you make, what reactions you have, what gives you pleasure. I want to learn you the way I learn a new ship's systems—by taking you apart and understanding how each piece works.”

Your breath caught. “That's... very direct.”

“I am a direct person. Or at least I've been told.” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “Now. Will you let me learn you?”

The answer was already forming on your lips, but instead of speaking it, you reached for the fastenings of his undersuit. The clasps were different from human ones, requiring a specific sequence of movements to release. He guided your hands through the process, patient even as your fingers fumbled.

The suit fell away, revealing the body beneath.

His chest was broad, the muscles defined but not in the way human muscles were. They seemed to flow into each other, softer edges, more organic. His skin was the same green but with subtle patterns running across his torso, lines that seemed to shift as he breathed.

And below his waist, you saw the evidence of his arousal.

And oh lord it was big.

It stood upright, thick and longer than any human equivalent. The color was the same green as the rest of his skin, but the shape was different—not perfectly cylindrical but slightly tapered, with subtle ridges running along the length. Small bumps dotted the surface, each one a slightly darker shade than the surrounding skin. The tip was darker still, almost brown, with a small opening at the center.

You reached out, your fingers hovering near it. “Can I touch you?”

“I would like that.”

Your hand closed around him. The skin was warm, almost hot, and the texture was unlike anything you'd experienced. The bumps were soft but present, giving the surface a kind of grain that felt intriguing against your palm. The ridges provided natural grip as your hand moved along his length.

He made a sound, low in his throat. A groan, you realized, that rumbled through his chest and vibrated against your palm.

“Good?” you asked, proud of the reaction you were getting from this stoïc individual.

“Very good.” His voice was deeper now, rougher. “Continue.”

You tightened your grip slightly, experimenting with the pressure. Another groan, this one louder. His hand came up, resting on the top of your head, not pushing but present, a reminder that he was there.

The thought of tasting him crossed your mind. The way he'd reacted to your touch, the sounds he made, the warmth of his skin against your hand—you wanted more. You wanted to know what he tasted like, what sounds you could draw from him with your mouth.

You could ask him. Or you could surprise him. Try to get a better reaction from the green man.

You lowered yourself to your knees, the deck plates cold against your bare legs. He was at eye level now, that beautiful alien body standing before you.

You leaned forward and took him into your mouth.

The taste was strange—not unpleasant, but different. There was a saltiness to it, mixed with something herbal, something that reminded you of the soup he'd brought you. The skin was warm against your tongue, the bumps creating a texture that made your mouth feel full in a way you hadn't expected.

His hand on your head tightened, fingers curling into your hair. Another groan escaped him, longer this time, and you felt a shudder run through his body.

"What... Why are yo-"He was cut mid-sentence by his own breathing.

You moved your head, taking him deeper, learning the rhythm that made him react. His breathing grew ragged, his hips beginning to move in small, instinctive thrusts. The sounds he made filled the small space, a language of pleasure that needed no translation.

After a time, he pulled away gently, his hand cupping your chin and lifting your face to meet his gaze.

“Your turn,” he said with a deep voice.

He guided you to the cot, pressing you down onto the thin mattress. The fabric was rough against your back, but you barely noticed. His mouth found yours, and the kiss was different from anything you'd imagined. His lips were softer than they looked, but the texture was wrong, almost rubbery, and his tongue—if that's what it was—was longer and more flexible than any human tongue.

He kissed down your body, slow and deliberate, his mouth tracing the same path his hands had taken earlier. He paused at your breasts, his tongue circling each nipple until you arched into him, then continued lower, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your stomach.

When his mouth reached the junction of your thighs, you held your breath.

He looked up at you. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just... explore. Learn.”

He smiled. A strange expression on his face, one that stretched his lips in a way that seemed almost unnatural, but the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable. Then he lowered his head and pressed his mouth against you.

The sensation was overwhelming. His tongue was longer than a human one, reaching places you didn't know existed inside you. It moved in patterns that felt alien and right, probing and circling and stroking in ways that had you gripping the thin sheets beneath you.

Your orgasm built slowly, a pressure that grew with each movement of his mouth. You tried to warn him, to tell him you were close, but the words came out as incoherent sounds. He seemed to understand anyway, his tongue pressing harder, faster, until the pressure crested and broke.

You came against his face with a cry that echoed off the metal walls.

He pulled away slowly, his chin glistening, his skin flushed a deep, rich green. He crawled up the length of your body, his mouth finding yours again. You tasted yourself on his lips, strange and intimate.

He pinned you against the mattress, his body covering yours, the weight of him pressing you into the cot. His arousal pressed against your thigh, a reminder that he hadn't finished.

“Do you want it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you want it inside you?”

“Yes.” Your voice was barely a whisper. “I want it inside.”

He positioned himself between your legs, the head of him pressing against your entrance. He paused, meeting your eyes.

And then he pushed inside.

The stretch was immediate, a fullness that made you gasp. He was larger than any human lover you ever had, the ridges and bumps creating sensations that sent sparks through your entire body. He moved slowly at first, letting you adjust, his mouth catching your gasps in a series of soft, sloppy kisses.

Then he began to move.

The rhythm started slow, a gentle rocking that built a new pressure deep inside you. His hands found yours, fingers interlacing, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your head. His body moved against yours, the warmth of him surrounding you.

The pace increased. His thrusts grew deeper, harder, the cot creaking beneath you. The sounds he made filled your ears—grunts and groans that mixed with your own moans until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

“Close,” you managed. “Are you close?”

“Yes.” His voice was strained, barely recognizable. “Where? Where do you want it?”

“Inside. I want it inside.”

He groaned, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. His pace became sloppy, losing rhythm, and you felt him tense above you.

He came inside you with a shudder that shook his entire body. You felt the warmth of him spreading through you, filling you in a way that felt almost primal. His mouth found yours, kissing you deeply as the last tremors passed through him.

He collapsed beside you, pulling you against his chest. The dual beat of his hearts pulsed against your back, a steady counterpoint to your own racing pulse.

You lay there, tangled together, the small room quiet except for the sound of your breathing.

"You know, I could get used to some human intimacy."

"Well if you bring me more damaged ships... I guess that could work as a kind of payment."

Hey! Here is my very first Tumblr post, I hope you’re gonna like it ^^

It’s a 2-part alien x reader (for now, because I might write a bonus part with more smut)

​This story takes place in an imaginary universe, but it's heavily inspired by Mass Effect.

The alien is an oc, but no real background about him is given (because who cares, we're here for his d-).

I drew him because I like to draw but feel free to imagine him (even tho some physical details are given in the story)

Also, English is not my first langage !

If you spot any mistakes, feel free to let me know! I'd love to improve my English (and the story).

Warnings (for both part but mostly part 2) :

MDNI (+18), afab reader, alien cock, mention of alien way of breeding, story starting soft and ending wild, piv, fluff, smut, blowjob, oral (both are recieving), definitly alien kink, green dick, no protection used (wrap it before you tap it), no use of y/n, alien oc, long plot for the porn

The bipper on your belt chirped twice, then fell silent.

You wiped grease from your fingers onto your coveralls before fishing it out, squinting at the display. *Report to Hangar 7 immediately. Priority repair—high-ranking military client. Authorized by station command.*

High-ranking military. That meant paperwork. That meant someone watching over your shoulder while you worked. That meant, probably, a lot of noise about deadlines and protocols and security clearances you'd have to fake your way through.

You shoved the bipper back onto your belt and grabbed your tool belt from the hook by the door.

The corridors of Level 6 had the same smell they always did, a mix of recycled air and industrial lubricant and the faint sourness of too many bodies passing through too small a space. The lighting panels flickered in stretches, casting the walkway into alternating pools of brightness and shadow. One of them had been dead for a month now, and nobody had bothered to replace it.

Hangar 7 was at the far end of the sector, past the cargo holds and the crew quarters and the little noodle shop that one of your crewmate had tried to convince you was edible. The doors loomed ahead, massive sliding panels of reinforced steel that groaned when they opened. The sound echoed through the space beyond.

You stepped inside and stopped.

The ship sat in the center of the hangar, taking up most of the available floor space. It wasn't like anything you'd worked on before. The hull was a kind of mottled grey-green, and it looked... Organic. Like something that had grown rather than been built, covered in ridges and what appeared to be actual tissue layered over whatever frame held it together. Scorch marks ran along one side, deep gouges that had cut through the outer membrane and into whatever lay beneath. The damage was extensive, more than you'd expect from a ship that had managed to land under its own power.

A figure stepped out from behind the vessel.

He was tall, easily a head above you, with skin the color of new leaves just after rain. Emerald green, smooth and matte. His eyes were a deeper shade of yellow, set in a face that was human enough to be familiar but different enough to make you look twice. He wore combat gear—dark grey and various shades of green armour plating over a flexible undersuit, the kind of thing that meant business.

“You are the mechanic,” he said. His voice came out accented, the standard shaped by a throat that didn't naturally form those sounds. “I was told you would come.”

“That's me.” You gestured at the ship, already walking toward it, letting your eyes trace the damage. “What happened to this thing?”

He followed you without answering immediately. When he spoke, it was careful and measured. “We encountered resistance near the border. The weapons they used were not standard. I barely made it here.”

We. That implied there had been others. You didn't ask what had happened to them.

Up close, the vessel was even stranger. The hull surface had a tacky quality, like dried resin. You ran your hand over a section near the main damage, feeling the slight warmth coming off it. The alloy—if you could call it that—was layered, almost like scales, each one overlapping the next.

The crack was bad. About a meter long, running from the nose cone down toward the underside, with smaller fractures radiating outward like spiderwebs. The edges were charred and curled, showing a honeycomb structure beneath.

“I need to see how deep this goes,” you said, more to yourself than to him.

You knelt down, feeling the deck plates cold against your knees, and pulled out your handheld scanner. The device hummed as you ran it along the length of the crack, watching the readings appear on your little screen.

The damage went through three layers of what the scanner identified as *living membrane*, then into a structural lattice that seemed to be part organic, part something else entirely. The readings didn't match anything in your database.

That was going to be a problem.

You set the scanner aside and reached for your plasma welder, checking the charge level. Full. Good. The heat would have to be precise—too hot and you'd damage the living tissue; too cold and the seal wouldn't hold against vacuum. You adjusted the settings, dialing down to a range that felt right based on the scanner data.

“I will watch,” the alien said. He stood a few meters back, arms crossed, his dark-yellow eyes fixed on you.

The first seam took longer than it should have. The material was tricky, responding to the heat in ways that weren't in any manual. You had to adjust the welder's output twice, finding the sweet spot where the edges began to fuse without burning the membrane. The smell was strange, not like burnt metal but something closer to cooking meat, mixed with a chemical tang you couldn't identify.

He said nothing the whole time. Just stood there, watching.

You kept your focus on the seam, letting the work take over, trying to ignore his stare.

The crack began to close, the edges pulling together as the heat softened them, the membrane knitting itself into a seal that would hold. It wasn't pretty, but it would work.

When you finished the first pass, you sat back on your heels and wiped sweat from your forehead. The hangar was warm, and the plasma torch had only made it worse.

The alien hadn't moved. Not a milimeter. Those damn soldiers.

You set down the plasma welder and flexed your fingers, working the stiffness out of them. The seam had sealed reasonably well, though you'd need at least two more passes to make it spaceworthy. Maybe three, depending on how the membrane settled.

You glanced up. The alien was looking at you, and seeing you moving, he tilted his face in a puppy-like expression... Almost cute.

But the eye contact didn't lasted, and he turned over left for the closest hangar exit.

Not a word exanged, not a single thanks before he leaved. You roll your eyes, turning back to the ship, which was now pulseing faintly, that organic quality making you uneasy in a way you couldn't quite name. You turned back to the crack, running your fingers along the fused edge. Still warm. The material had taken the weld better than expected, the living cells integrating with the sealant you'd applied.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. You were so focused on inspecting the seam that you didn't hear him return.

“For you.”

His voice came from behind you, and you turned to find him holding a tray. It was simple metal, the kind mess halls used, but on it sat a small stack of nutrient bars and a single packet of synth-juice. The bars were an unfamiliar colour, a pale tan that reminded you of dried paste.

He held the tray out toward you, his arm extended but not quite offering it into your space. Like he wasn't sure if you'd take it.

You hesitated. The rules about accepting food from station personnel were strict enough. From an unknown alien soldier in a classified warship? Probably not covered by any regulation you'd read.

But he was cute with this tray of food. Handsome, even.

And your stomach growled anyway.

You reached out and took one of the bars, turning it over in your hand. It had no branding, no wrapper, just a dense block of whatever they used for field rations.

"Thank you. That's... Very nice."

You bit into it. The texture was gritty, the taste vaguely sweet with an undertone of something herbal. Not terrible. Edible.

He remained standing where he was, the tray still in his hands, watching you with those dark eyes. He didn't say anything. Didn't move to leave.

You took another bite, then set the bar down beside your tools and picked up the welder again. The work needed to continue, and he could stand there as long as he wanted. You'd had worse audiences. With this emerald skin, those yellow eyes, those abs showing under the tight tissue- Shit.

The second seam went smoother. You'd found the rhythm now, the way the membrane responded to heat, the exact pressure needed to coax the edges together without burning them. The welder hummed in your hand, and the smell of cooked tissue filled the air again.

He still watched. Silent. Still.

You tried to ignore the weight of his gaze and focused on the crack. Twenty minutes passed. The seam was nearly done when you heard his footsteps receding.

This time you didn't look up.

He returned faster than before, maybe five minutes, and you heard the clink of metal as he set something down on the deck beside you. You glanced over. A second tray. This one held different colored bars—darker, almost reddish—and a packet that was warm to the touch, steam rising from its sealed edge. Soup.

You set down the welder and turned to face him properly. He was already walking back toward a crate near the hangar wall, settling onto it like he planned to stay.

The laugh escaped before you could stop it. Soft, surprised, more air than sound.

He looked up at the noise, tilting his head slightly.

This cute move of his, again.

You shook your head and reached for the soup packet, peeling open the seal. The smell hit you immediately—some kind of broth, rich and savoury, with chunks of what might have been vegetables floating in it. You brought it to your lips and took a careful sip. Hot. Salty. Good.

“You don't have to keep feeding me,” you said, though you took another sip.

He didn't respond. Just watched.

You finished half the soup and set the packet aside, picking the welder back up. The third seam would be the deepest, where the crack reached into the structural lattice. You needed steady hands for that.

Fifteen minutes passed. Your shoulders ached from the crouched position, and your eyes burned from staring at the bright line of the weld. You paused to blink, to stretch your neck, to breathe.

When you looked toward him, he was already walking over.

A third tray materialized beside you, this one smaller. On it sat three cubes of something that shimmered faintly, each one about the size of your thumb, coated in a thin crystalline sheen. Dessert cubes. You had no idea what they were made of, but they caught the hangar's dim light and scattered it into tiny rainbows.

You laughed again, louder this time. “You're going to make me fat.”

He didn't smile—his face didn't seem built for it—but something shifted in his posture. A relaxation, maybe. Or curiosity.

“I have never met a human before,” he said. The words came out slowly, like he was still learning how to shape them. “I wanted to learn what you prefer.”

You looked at the three trays, the half-eaten bar, the cooling soup, the shimmering dessert cubes. Then back at him, at his scarred green face and his careful distance and the way he'd said *learn what you prefer* like it was a mission objective.

“You're doing a good job,” you said, and picked up the welder again.

You held up a hand, palm out, before he could walk away again.

“I'm full. Really. I can't eat another thing.”

Kharlas stopped mid-turn, his head tilting at an angle that seemed almost birdlike. The motion drew your attention to the column of his throat, the way the green skin shifted as he swallowed, the subtle ridges running along his jawline.

“I apologize if I overstepped,” he said, and there was something careful in his voice. “I wanted to make sure you had adequate sustenance. You worked for over an hour without stopping.”

You set the welder down fully and stood, wincing as your knees protested the movement. The hangar's recycled air felt cool against your face after the heat of the torch. You rolled your shoulders, working out the stiffness.

“You said I'm the first human you've met.”

He nodded, once. “I have studied your species. Read your literature, watched your broadcasts and holostreams. But this is the first time I have spoken to one directly. The first time I have been able to observe how you live, what you value.”

“So the food was research.”

“Partly.” He paused. “I also wanted to stay.”

The words hung in the air between you, and you found yourself holding your breath for a moment longer than necessary. There was something disarming about the way he said it. No flirtation, no subtext. Just a statement of fact, delivered with the same precision he'd used to describe the damage to his ship.

You smiled, surprising yourself. “Well, your research worked. But next time, let me buy you real food. There's a diner on Level 4, nothing fancy, but the cook knows what she's doing. Better than nutrient bars and soup packets.”

He considered this, his head tilting again, slower this time. “You would share a meal with me?”

“I just spent an hour welding your ship back together. I figure I've earned the right to see you eat something that isn't military rations.” You wiped your hands on your coveralls. “Nineteen hundred hours. Meet me at the junction outside Hangar 7. I'll take you there.”

“I will be there.”

You grabbed your tool belt and headed for the door, feeling his gaze on your back the whole way. The groan of the hangar doors closing behind you felt like a release, like surfacing from deep water.

The diner was called Jun's, and it occupied a corner of Level 4 that most people walked past without noticing. The sign flickered, the booths were patched with tape, and the menu hadn't been updated in six years. But Jun herself worked the grill, and she made a noodle dish that had gotten you through more bad shifts than you could count.

You arrived a few minutes early, taking a booth near the back where the lighting was dim enough to be private. The other patrons—a cargo hauler nursing a drink, two techs arguing over a datapad—paid you no attention.

He arrived at exactly 19:00 hours. You watched him walk through the door, his frame ducking slightly under the low frame, his eyes scanning the room with the same methodical attention he'd given your welding. When he spotted you, he crossed the floor in long, quiet strides.

He slid into the booth across from you, his movements careful, like he was still learning how human furniture worked. The lights above caught the scar on his face, throwing it into sharp relief.

“You came,” you said.

“I said I would.” he said as he took place, facing you.

A pause. Then he leaned forward slightly, his yellow eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made you suddenly aware of how close the booth brought you together.

“I heard a joke once,” he said, “in one of your broadcasts. A human lays a metal egg, and from it hatches a ship. I did not understand it, but the audience laughed.”

Laughter you had to hold back with effort. “We don't lay eggs.”

“No?”

“No. Humans are mammals. We give live birth.” You said with a sceptic look.

He processed this, his brow furrowing slightly. “Then what is the significance of the metal egg?”

“It's just... a metaphor. A ship comes out of a shell, like a bird from an egg. It's not literal.”

“I see.” He didn't sound convinced. “Your species has many metaphors I find difficult to parse.”

The conversation drifted from there. He ordered what you ordered—the noodle dish, extra spice—and you found yourself explaining more about human biology as the questions kept coming. He wanted to know about reproduction, gestation, the mechanics of how your species kept itself alive across generations. His questions were direct, clinical, fired off with a curiosity that had no filter.

“Your species uses internal fertilization,” he said, gesturing with his chopsticks in a way that made you certain he'd learned to use them from a video tutorial. “The male deposits genetic material inside the female's body, where it merges with the egg. Correct?”

“That's... yes. That's basically right.”

“Our species does it differently.” He set down his chopsticks. “We release genetic material into water. Or, in space, into a gel medium. The embryo develops externally, attached to a nutrient sac, until it reaches a certain size.”

He demonstrated with his hands, shaping the air into something round and invisible. His fingers moved with surprising grace, describing curves and volumes that made the process sound almost artistic.

“The sac is transparent,” he continued, “so you can watch the offspring grow. The color changes as it matures. Have you ever seen a human embryo develop?”

“I mean, I've... seen diagrams.”

“Diagrams.” He seemed to taste the word. “Do they show the fingers forming? The eyes? The heartbeat?”

“Some do.”

“We record the entire process. Many families keep the recordings as heirlooms.” He leaned in. “Your species keeps photographs of the birth itself?”

The conversation spun out from there, gaining momentum as you found yourself describing human anatomy in terms you'd never used aloud. The way organs developed, the purpose of the placenta, the evolutionary quirks that made your species what it was. He countered with descriptions of his own biology—the dual circulatory system, the way his skin changed color in response to emotional states, the fact that his species could survive brief exposure to vacuum.

You didn't realize how much time had passed until you noticed Jun wiping down the counter and realized you were the only customers left.

You laughed, pushing your empty bowl aside. “I think we broke my appetite twice over.”

He looked down at his own empty bowl, then back at you. Something shifted in his posture, that same relaxation you'd noticed in the hangar.

“I have not spoken this much in months,” he said.

“Neither have I.”

The booth felt smaller now, the space between you charged with something more comfortable. You reached across and placed a few credits on the table, enough to cover both meals plus a generous tip.

“Come on,” you said, sliding out of the booth. “I'll walk you back.”

He rose to follow you, and you led him out of the diner into the empty corridor. The lights were dimmer this late, the station settling into its night cycle. Your footsteps echoed against the metal deck plates.

"So... About the human gestation... What does it feels like to feel a life grow **inside** you ?"

"Ummm, I actually never had any baby. I'm single you know."

"Sorry." He said looking at you, his hand raising to touch your shoulder.

His large hand was suprisingly warm.

"What's thit sorry for exactly ? It's cool to be single, you're free !"

"In our culture, if your childless and not a politician or a warrior, you're a loser. Not that I agree but-"

"What about you ? You have a family ?" You cut him with curiosity.

"No. Actually i never tought about it. Never wanted a female that wanted this life either. I'm always busy with work... And it's usually not really what we could define as easy missions."

As he was speaking, and as you were listening, you realised you weren't walking toward Hangar 7.

You walked toward the residential sector, toward your quarters, and when you glanced back, he was still following, his dark eyes fixed on you with that same patient intensity.

The door to your quarters slid open, and you stepped inside, holding it for him.

He followed without hesitation, and the door closed behind you.

Hope you enjoyed! Part 2 is coming very soon.