Chapter Text
Alien | Ovipos/Tentacles
"There's at least three patients that are waiting to be discharged. C'mon, get them cleared out, ASAP." Langdon's voice isn't quite a bellow as he barks at the lingering group underneath the patient board.
Even so, it's enough to draw the attention of several nurses in the central hub, and Robby watches as Perlah and Princess exchange amused, if slightly pointed, looks.
"He's been on a tear all week," Robby mutters, mostly to himself, but Jesse's head comes up at the words.
"He's been fine to me, sounds like a personal problem." He's reaching for an iPad from the charger before Robby can respond, and he ducks off to one of his patients in central 13 with a knowing glance.
There's a burst of low, amused sounding Tagalog behind him, and he sends an wry look over his shoulders at the two nurses. As he opens his mouth, Perlah cuts him off.
"He's just in that special time in life, Robby. Aren't you a doctor? You should know."
Robby snorts, brows raising incredulously. "What, he's on his period? Aren't you charming."
Perlah sends a knowing glance at Robby, and in the fast clip of words she exchanges with Princess, the only one Robby recognizes is 'eggy'.
"Enough gossip, I just saw Mr. Vaulte trying to stand up and his bed alarm is about to start blaring." Dana's voice is a soothing honk, but Robby's still caught on the previous conversation.
Eggy. Right.
It was one of those things that had felt so normal it was still a little bizarre to think about in context. The Pirates were in a perpetual rebuild, the coffee stand near him started charging extra for almond milk, and the alien race of Struvians came out publicly in 1970 in the middle of the Nixon presidency.
He remembers listening to his Grandma complain around the dinner table about the neighbor who had turned out to be— well, a little more foreign than she'd realized. Or his roommate laughing at the memory of his brother's affront when he'd announced his engagement to a Struvian he'd met in one of their chemistry classes.
It was a routine part of daily life, somehow, while still seeming just atypical enough that it was hard to forget. Still, by the time he'd made it to college, it was more normal than not.
The Struvian studies minor had initially been something to fill out credits. Humanities, mostly, but he'd taken a summer semester to complete all the astronomy and history classes it had required, too.
Struve 2398 A and B, a pair of stars just under 12 light-years away in the constellation Draco, each with a single planet to their name. Unremarkable, until the space race had been real enough to force the members of the alien species to reveal themselves, and expose their attempts to try to integrate into humanity to breed.
Nixon's response to hippies had seemed like child's play when that particular tidbit came out.
Once the initial shock had worn off, and the only semi-ironic rally cries to nuke the moon had died down, it had been ultimately— good. Great, even. The rapidly shrinking population on Struve could avoid a genetic bottleneck that destroyed their species, and humans?
Aeronautical advancement, greater fidelity in deep space communication, a battery of biological developments that had streamlined dozens of pharmaceutical innovations; it was hard to point to one single crowning achievement. Robby had sat rapt in classes listening to the specifics of anatomy, the dynamic camouflage that let them hide in plain sight that had been more similar to octopuses skin than marine biologists really knew what to do with, the implications for evolutionary biology, and considered more than once switching his post-grad plans away from med school to something a little more far-out.
It was hard to forget the 'came to Earth to breed' element, however.
It wasn't exactly clear when scientists on Struve determined the genetic marker in humans that meant they could partake in clutching a nest of eggs. Despite every other diplomatic stride made between the species, that was one detail that never quite got cleared up. Still, a few years after their official disclosure, reports of the first successful reproduction had made international news. After that, the Struvians had gotten a little less guarded with details about the process.
So. He'd almost forgotten.
The last time Langdon's had gotten… hormonal, Robby hadn't been around. But he'd heard stories about it from some of the more tenured nurses, passed around the proverbial water cooler when Langdon's had gotten grouchy.
"This is nothing compared to a couple years ago," Muttered with just enough lascivious amusement to drag the attention away from their attending, at least for a moment.
Robby didn't advertise his own interest in the other species. It was somewhere between hobby and slightly morbid fascination, and the last thing he wants is Langdon's assuming he was there to ogle him. He's his friend. At least, he thinks he is.
Robby doesn't let himself hesitate any longer near the nurses. He sends a slightly guilty glance up at the board, and heads to discharge his patient that's been waiting for his instructions.
Langdon is better the next day.
He's worse the one after that.
It's not consistent, and not even particularly noteworthy, if Perlah's voice hadn't embedded itself in the back of Robby's mind.
Eggy.
He'd known about that before he got his minor, to be fair. The specifics of clutching had become somewhere between a scientific marvel and tabloid gossip fare.
About 18% of the human race had the particular genetic marker that allowed genomic transfer between the species. Continuous contact with a mucous membrane for a little longer than 72 hours, and there was enough genetic exchange that future offspring could be shuttled away to breeding colonies on Struve B, and both parents would be on their way.
(Parenting customs certainly varied dramatically, among other things.)
The method of getting mucous membrane contact was the juicier bit.
Being filled up with what amounted to eggs by an alien species for the continuation of their own species does sound like the plot of a bad sci-fi thriller. Even as the much more boring reality of it wore on, regulated and standardized and streamlined into something that looked a lot more like IVF than an outtake from a b sci-fi movie, the occasional giggle over the concept wasn't exactly surprising.
So the thought that his boss was in the preparatory phase, broody and crabby and cranky as his body worked overtime, triggered by some combination of genetics and timing and whatever other secrets Struvians were keeping up their sleeves is a monolith in Robby's mind.
Every time Langdon's pauses to glance up at the board and his arms cross over his chest, Robby can't help but glance at the way his scrub top pulls just a little tighter across his front. When Langdon's sticks a hand in the front pocket of his sweatshirt and in a subtle move, presses his palm flat against his slightly curved stomach, Robby feels himself staring, something warm creeping up his throat and making it hard to look away.
Langdon is being normal. Robby is the one who's being weird.
Robby had gotten tested in undergrad, a few classes into studying for his minor.
He'd been curious, and when he'd gone into the student health center for an only mildly mortifying STI panel, he'd checked the box for the blood screen test without thinking too much about it.
The second vial of blood they'd drawn had been forgotten by the time the exam was over, blocked out by the more awkward swab process on a cold exam table clad only in a thin gown, but when the results had come in from the clinic, the second notification blinking on his screen had reminded him. It was a curiosity, nothing more.
STR20A: MUTATION DETECTED
CARRIER STATUS: POSITIVE
The letters started coming soon after that.
Nothing too pressuring, just explanations of what this result meant, resources for if your partner was Struvian, next steps, and a thick catalogue explaining your rights as you were added to the genetic catalogue registry.
There was an entire developing law field dedicated exclusively to genetic protections, especially as the second and third generation of— offspring? Children? Alien-human hybrids? Became more and more common. The US census had scrambled to decide how to add the data to their collection, and if it fell under the same 70 year protection as all the other information.
None of it really mattered, ultimately. Male carriers had an entirely different outlook, compared to women. The last he'd heard, the process had been developed, but it wasn't quite as— streamlined as it was for women. He'd let his cousins know. They might be carriers, too.
It's not until Robby's staring up at the facade of the hospital in front of him that he realizes exactly how deeply he's gotten himself in what had seemed like an obvious solution.
The state of his bank account had been an unfortunate reality check, after undergrad. It had been a whirlwind, going by faster than he'd expected and painfully slow at times, but he'd scraped by with a minimum of loans thanks to his meager savings and a need-based scholarship that had kept him solvent, if not living the most luxurious lifestyle.
But medical school was an entirely different ballgame. He'd gotten acceptances from University of Washington, Harvard, and UPitt— a list that had left him almost giddy as the envelopes came in, one after the other after the other, fat and overstuffed and unmistakable 'you're in' letters.
The reality of paying for those names had drained his excitement quickly enough that by the time he'd graduated with his bachelor's degree, the question of 'what next?' left him with a sour stomach and stammering excuses.
The catalogue he'd requested, full of informative, glossy infographics and happy looking stock photos of couples had come only two days after he'd put his address into the website, and he'd poured over it for the better part of a month before he'd finally registered with the program.
Full tuition coverage, for undergrad or graduate studies, and special stipends for medical programs, including grants during residency. Health care coverage, free of cost. An amazing deal for anyone who presented with a positive carrier status and the necessary genome mutation. That, and registering as a willing carrier and consenting to all that it entailed.
Robby recites the selection rates that had been highlighted in the first few pages of the catalogue as he steps through the front door at the hospital, as he speaks to the well dressed woman (Struvian?) at the front desk, and is sent to a bay of elevators towards the appropriate floor. He clings to that, how proceeding didn't mean he'd be used, that only 43% of people who went through with it were chosen.
He'd snorted at the language they'd used. "Chosen," instead of "volunteered to be used by a broody Struvian", and "contributing to the development and growth of the inter-species fellowship" instead of "bred". It was nice to know PR existed in both species.
But still, less likely than a coin flip. It wasn't terrible.
"Alright, Mr. Robinavitch. I just want to confirm you can hear me." The voice crackles over the speaker in the room, disembodied and a little too loud.
"Uh— yeah. Loud and clear," Robby says to the ceiling, laying prone on his back with his hands settled on his stomach.
"Good. We're going to walk you through a few positions, mostly holding your breath on an inhale or an exhale, and get the first of the imaging we need. If you need a break, just say so, and we can pause."
The room he's in is relatively small, quiet and dim, and he's certain its equipped with enough sensors and monitors that every tiny twitch is documented in some shape or form. On his back on the bed, he can't see the door he came in through, but the wide, mirrored window on the far wall is framed between his knees.
"Legs straight, please," the same voice calls, a little perfunctory. "And hands above your head."
He shuffles at the instructions, his cheeks pinking slightly. He's spent the last three months following a regime of medications and injections, blood tests and urine samples, all in preparation for if he'd ever be chosen. The imaging was part of the final check, making sure that everything was… in order.
The ability to get clear imaging without the hassle of a MRI or the radiation of a CT scan was one of those tiny things that had been part of the cross-species exchange. A medical revolution, if not a miracle, but with little between his bare body and the chill of the room, he was having a hard time taking in the wonder. Robby didn't see any devices, or notice any change in the room, when the voice comes through again.
"Okay, Mr. Robinavitch. Deep breath in, and hold on three… two…"
It's not until the third set of instructions that he notices the sound. It's low and rumbling, just barely on the cusp of audible, and it makes his molars vibrate in the back of his jaw.
"I—" Robby starts, eyes scanning the corners of the room for some sign of a speaker, as if that was the person he was talking to. He doesn't realize he's started to sit up until the voice crackles to life again.
"That's part of the process, sir. Please relax back down."
It's easier said than done. The sound penetrates deep, and the sensation is odd enough that Robby wants to move, to try and shift to get comfortable like there was a rock underneath his back instead of a smooth, slightly padded table.
He's been walked through two more inhales and exhales, shifted into a new position, when the sound gets— more. Deeper, somehow. Resonant.
Robby jerks like he's been shocked, and lets out a shaky, startled moan as something low in his gut tightens. It's almost cramping, and his hand shifts to clutch his stomach.
"Mr. Robinavitch—" The voice starts, slightly louder but with no more emotion than any other time it's spoken. "You need to hold still."
"Shit—" Robby gasps, sweat breaking out across his forehead and hands left clammy as he shifts to try and get purchase on the table below him. He'd been warned about this. About the process of imaging the product of all their hard work.
A clutching pouch seemed like the more revolting phrase one could have chosen to describe it, but it was unfortunately accurate: a separate organ just off the intestines meant to mimic a womb, generated with suggestive stem cell programmings and some biological engineering advances that Struvians had been working on for a few hundred years, apparently. A regime of therapeutics and pharmaceuticals, taken on schedule, and you could grow an organ. Medically profound, and not just for breeding purposes.
Robby had followed the procedures diligently, but up until now, it could have been saline he'd been injecting for all the changes he'd noticed.
Now, though, he couldn't be mistaken. He wants to shift, press his face against the bed and try to brace through the low vibrations that felt like they were rattling his hips and forcing something tender in him lower and further down into his pelvis. The cramping was gone, but pressure had replaced it, the overly full sensation of needing to pee combined with something completely alien to Robby. It's arousal, he's mortified to realize, and he spares a glance at the mirrored window on the wall as his hardening cock starts to tent the material of his gown luridly.
"I— Can we pause? Fuck— I need to stop—" Robby gets out between ragged inhales, mild panic as his breathing doesn't feel deep enough, like the air in the room isn't carrying enough oxygen to his brain. Stupid, he knows you don't notice hypoxia, you just get stupider— He feels plenty stupid, now, with his hands working to avoid his own erection and a bunch of stupid aliens on the other side of the glass watching him get off on a medical experiment.
"Almost done, Mr. Robinavitch. Please, try to hold still."
He can't breathe. The pressure in his pelvis and his stomach won't let him get enough oxygen, apparently taking up some crucial pocket of his torso and keeping his lung from filling, and his cock won't stop leaking as he responds to that infuriating buzz—
The thin gown clings to his skin as he tugs at it impotently. It's stuck to his skin with his own panicked sweat, the same thing dripping down his brow and into his eyes in stinging rivulets. His hips twitch and jerk, trying to get away from that pressure, overwhelming and all consuming, and he just needs—
It stops. As suddenly as it started, the sensation vanishes, leaving the room in echoing silence besides the wet, rough sounds of his own breathing.
"Alright, Mr. Robinavitch, we're all finished."
It's like a cord has been cut, and Robby nods, eyes squeezing shut with a pathetic sounding whine, and he pushes the gown up and over his stomach to reach his own cock.
Whatever they'd done to him, accidental or purposeful, it didn't matter. Not when the feeling of his own hand on his overheated skin felt as good as it did. He almost jerks away from it, the sensation too raw and tied somewhere lower in his gut, but he moans anyways, and strokes over himself roughly.
It's not the same as the buzzing. It's not as intense, thank God, but it's the same location— pressing inward and low in a way that Robby's never associated with arousal. It's deep enough that it feels good, like pressing on a bruise, and he fucks up into his fingers with an unmistakable whimper.
"Fuck—" He gasps out, heat building and growing, balls tightening and all of it shamelessly on display for whoever was watching on the far side of the mirror. Let them, he thinks, almost delirious with need. He was in the fucking breeding program, for fuck's sake, let them see what that meant for humans.
When he comes, it's so forceful it's almost painful, come spilling in hot streaks over his knuckles and stomach, making a mess of the thin gown and hitting Robby so intensely that he thinks he might black out.
It's later, when he's gotten cleaned up and redressed, and sitting with a tiny plastic container of orange juice, that he regains enough coherence to clarify something.
He's being observed by a well dressed woman in long slacks and a tidy looking bun, her eyes trained on the tablet in front of her. He's not in the same room as before, this one looking more like a waiting room in any doctor's office he's ever visited, but he's got no doubt that he's still under just as much surveillance as he was before. He clears his throat quietly. When she looks up, there's a note of mild curiosity in her expression.
"In the— uh. Imaging?" He starts, voice a little peaked. "Did everything, um. Develop as needed?"
The woman's face is placid, but Robby can't quite escape the sensation she wants to laugh. He'd been introduced to her earlier, and while he can't quite remember for certain, he thinks she's been the one monitoring his case from the beginning.
"It all developed perfectly," she says, a tiny smile tugging at her lips as she uses his words. "Really, Mr. Robinavitch. Textbook."
Robby nods, and his eyes drop back down to the juice in his hand. The aluminum lid is tugged back enough that it curls over his fingers, and he pokes at it absentmindedly as he considers.
"And, if I get selected, is there anything else that— happens? In terms of preparation?" The program coordinators had been a little vague on that front.
She folds the cover of her tablet back over the screen as she adjusts herself in the seat. Struvians, especially second and third generations, looked so human it was almost impossible to notice any differences. Part of it was that terrifyingly impressive biological camouflage, but a lot of it was just the success of the program. When she meets his gaze, he's certain that she's one of those more naturalized generations.
"This might sound a little trite, but, in your case, no." She shakes her head, and glances over her shoulder, towards the door and the hall that led to the examination room Robby had come from earlier. "Carrier status isn't the only part of this equation, nor is the induced puberty. Everyone handles it just a little differently." She returns her gaze to Robby, and there's something in it that keeps him pinned to the chair, eyes fixed on hers.
"No, Mr. Robinavitch. I think that if you are selected, when the time comes, your body will guide you in exactly what you need to do."
The memory of that orgasm, of jerking himself off like he had no other choice, the vibrating pressure low in his abdomen that felt like a promise—
Robby's cheeks are pink, and he nods as he holds her gaze. She'd watched him. He's got no doubt of it.
"I, uh. I think you're probably right."