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.
This is my first ever post on Tumblr so I really hope you liked my story.
