#monstersmut

The last stool had been empty for twenty minutes already. You were wiping down the counter, the rag moving in slow circles across the polished wood, when the bell above the door chimed.

You looked up. Of course.

He always came at closing time. Never early enough to bother the other customers, never late enough to find the door locked. Just at that precise moment when you were alone and tired and ready to go home.

The man was tall, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than your monthly rent. His hair was dark, combed back neatly, and his skin had that particular pallor that some people mistook for anemia or too many hours in an office. You knew better now. You'd known for about three months, ever since he first walked in and ordered something you didn't serve.

"Mister...," you said, setting the rag aside. "We're closing."

"I'm aware." He walked toward the bar, his steps measured and deliberate. "I won't keep you long."

He settled onto the stool, adjusting his cuffs with practiced precision. You already knew what was coming. The same conversation every few weeks, always at this hour, always when you were alone.

"I need a drink," he said.

"We have whiskey. Vodka. Some wine too"

"Not that kind of drink."

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. "Mister, you know I can't serve what you're asking for."

Three months of this. Three months of him coming in, ordering something you couldn't provide, and leaving with that same polite smile when you refused. He never pushed. He never argued. He just showed up, asked, and accepted your answer like a gentleman accepting bad weather.

But tonight felt different. Maybe because you were tired. Maybe because the bar was empty and the city outside was quiet, and there was something about the way the streetlight caught his face that made him look almost lonely.

"Mister." You gulped, not sure anymore. "I still can't serve what you're asking."

"I know." He tilted his head, studying you. "But I also know you have a storage room in the back. And I know you close in five minutes."

Your heart did something complicated in your chest. A skip, then a flutter, then a steady thump that felt too loud in the quiet room.

"That's not something I do."

"I'm not asking you to make it a habit."

"Why me?" you asked. "Surely you have other options."

He considered the question carefully, which you appreciated. Most people just said whatever came to mind first. This man, or whatever he was, seemed like the type who weighed every word before releasing it.

"You're clean," he said finally. "I can tell. You take care of yourself. You don't smoke, you drink moderately, and I've never seen you touch anything harder than coffee during your shifts." He paused. "Also, you're kind. You let the homeless man off the street use your bathroom last winter when every other business on this block turned him away. I saw that."

You remembered that night. The man had been shivering, covered in snow, and you'd let him warm up in the back for an hour before the police came to take him to a shelter. You hadn't thought anyone noticed.

"Three months," you said slowly. "You've been watching me for three months?"

"I'm a patient man." He smiled again, and this time it reached his eyes. Just barely. "I had to be sure."

The bar was empty. The clock on the wall ticked past closing time, and outside, the city hummed its usual nighttime melody.

You made a decision.

"Follow me."

The storage room was small, cramped with boxes of liquor and stacked chairs and a mop bucket that never seemed to dry properly. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting everything in a yellow glow that made the space feel smaller than it was.

He followed you inside, closing the door behind him. The click of the lock echoed in the tight space.

You rolled up your sleeve, exposing the pale skin of your forearm. The veins were visible underneath, blue lines traced against flesh in the dim light. You'd thought about this moment before, in the abstract way people think about unlikely scenarios. Never seriously. Never expecting it to actually happen.

He stepped closer, his movements slow and careful. He reached out and took your wrist, his fingers cool against your skin.

"Thank you," he said, and he sounded genuine. "This is not something I take lightly."

"Just do it."

He brought your arm to his lips, and for a moment, nothing happened. Just his breath against your skin, cool and steady. Then his mouth opened, and you felt the sharp pinch of teeth breaking through.

The pain was immediate but brief. A sting, then a warmth that spread outward from the wound. You watched, half-fascinated and half-horrified, as his mouth pressed against your arm. He didn't suck, not aggressively. Instead, he seemed to let the blood flow naturally, taking slow and deliberate draws that made your head spin.

The world narrowed to the sensation of his mouth on your skin. The warmth of your own blood leaving your body. The strange intimacy of standing in a storage room with a man you barely knew, giving him something that felt almost sacred.

He drank slowly, as though savoring it. Minutes passed, or maybe seconds. Time lost its shape in that small yellow room.

When he finally pulled away, you expected him to stop there. To wipe his mouth and thank you and leave. But he didn't.

He leaned in again, and his lips pressed against the wound. Not to drink this time. To kiss it.

The gesture was so tender, so unexpected, that your breath caught in your throat. His lips lingered on your skin, soft and cool, and when he pulled back, the wound had stopped bleeding. He'd sealed it somehow, with his saliva or his tongue or something you didn't understand.

"There," he said quietly. "That should heal quickly."

He released your wrist and stepped back, giving you space. His eyes were darker now, the pupils dilated, but his expression remained calm and composed.

"Thank you," he said. "That was... more than I expected."

You lowered your sleeve, feeling lightheaded. "You're welcome."

He reached into his jacket. His hand emerged with a handkerchief, crisp and white, which he offered to you.

"For your arm. In case it stains."

You took it, not knowing what else to do. The fabric was soft, expensive, monogrammed with what probably were his initials.

"Is there anything I can offer you in return?" he asked. "A tip, perhaps, for the service?"

The question hung in the air between you. You should have said no. Should have thanked him and sent him on his way. That would have been the smart thing, the safe thing.

But you didn't.

"I'm open to suggestions," you heard yourself say.

Something shifted in his expression. A flicker of interest, of hunger, though not the same hunger he'd walked in with. This was something else entirely.

"I could show you," he said, his voice dropping lower, "what it feels like to be wanted. To be taken care of." He stepped closer again, his hand reaching up to cup your face. His palm was cool against your cheek. "If you'd let me."

Your heart hammered in your chest. The storage room felt smaller, warmer, charged with an energy that made your skin prickle.

"Yes," you said.

He kissed you then, slow and deliberate, the way he'd drunk from you. His mouth was cool but not cold, tasting faintly of copper. Your blood, still on his lips. The thought should have disgusted you. Instead, it sent a thrill through your body that settled somewhere deep in your stomach.

His hands found your waist, guiding you backward until your back hit the wall. Boxes rattled somewhere behind him, a bottle clinking against another bottle. The sound was distant, unimportant.

His hands moved to the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, exposing your skin to the cool air. His fingers traced along your waist, your ribs, mapping the contours of your body with an attention that made you shiver.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "I knew you would be."

His mouth found your neck, pressing kisses along the curve where your shoulder met your throat. His teeth grazed your skin, not breaking it, just teasing. A reminder of what he was, what he could do.

Your hands gripped his shoulders, feeling the expensive fabric of his jacket beneath your fingers. He was solid, real, even if the rest of this felt like a dream.

He turned you around, pressing your palms flat against the wall. The storage room door stared back at you, locked, a flimsy barrier between this moment and the rest of the world.

His hands worked at his belt, the sound of metal sliding against leather sharp in the quiet room. Then his fingers found the waistband of your pants, sliding them down with your underwear.

"You have no idea," he said, his voice rough but still polite, still controlled, "how long I've wanted this."

His hands gripped your hips, steadying you. You felt the pressure of him against you, the cool touch of his skin, and then he pushed inside.

The sound you made was not a word. It was something deeper, more primal, torn from your throat without permission. He filled you, stretching you in a way that made your knees weak.

"Shh," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "I know. Take a moment."

He stayed still, letting you adjust, his hands warm on your hips even through the coolness of his skin. Patient. Always patient.

When you moved against him, a small shift of your hips, he took it as permission. He began to move, slow at first, each thrust measured and deliberate. His breath was cool against your neck, his body pressed against your back, hemming you in against the wall.

"You feel incredible," he said, the words almost a whisper. "I knew you would. I could tell, just by looking at you."

Your hands scraped against the wall, searching for purchase. The pleasure built slowly, a wave rising from somewhere deep inside you.

"Tell me what you need," he said, his voice still that same polite murmur. "I want to give you what you need."

Faster. Deeper. The words wouldn't form properly on your lips, so you pushed back against him instead, showing him through movement what you couldn't say.

He understood. His thrusts grew harder, faster, the rhythm of his body driving you toward the edge. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you steady, keeping you close.

"That's it," he said. "Let go. I've got you."

And you did. The wave crested and broke, pleasure flooding through you in hot waves that made your vision blur. You cried out, the sound muffled by your own hand, by the wall, by the sheer intensity of the moment.

He followed moments later, his body tensing against yours, a low groan escaping his lips. He stayed inside you, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against the back of your neck.

The silence that followed was heavy. Intimate. The kind of silence that felt more honest than words.

He pulled out slowly, carefully, and you felt the sudden emptiness like a loss. Your legs gave out, and you slid down the wall, sitting on the cold floor of the storage room.

He knelt beside you, adjusting his clothes with practiced efficiency. Then he turned to you, his expression soft in a way you hadn't seen before.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

You couldn't answer. Your body was still trembling, your mind still catching up to what had just happened. Tears had gathered in your eyes, the kind that came after intense pleasure, and they spilled over before you could stop them.

He saw the tears. Something in his face shifted — concern, maybe, or tenderness. He reached out and brushed the tears away with his thumb, his touch impossibly gentle.

"It's alright," he said quietly. "That happens sometimes. It's just your body processing everything."

He leaned in and kissed your cheek, a soft press of lips against your skin. Then he pulled back and smiled, a real smile this time, one that made him look almost human.

"Thank you," he said. "For everything."

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand. "You're welcome."

He stood and straightened his jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles with practiced ease. At the door, he paused, looking back at you.

"I'll come more often," he said.

Then he unlocked the door and slipped out, leaving you alone in the yellow light of the storage room, your body still humming with the memory of his touch.

Hope you enjoyed

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 led 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 wouldn’t 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 the 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 enough 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 couldn't take his eyes off you was enough 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."

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. You grimaced. 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 crewmates had tried to convince you was edible. The doors loomed ahead, and 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 that 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 millimeter. 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 exchanged, not a single thanks before he left. You rolled your eyes, turning back to the ship, which was now pulsing 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. “At 19. 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 sceptical look.

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

“It's just... a metaphor. I guess. 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 surprisingly warm.

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

"In our culture, if you're 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 thought about it. Never wanted a female who 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.