Can i please get some Alien (David 8) with reader being all affectionate (maybe too affectionate) and the reader just taking it because David looks so cute trying to please them? Male or GN reader would be appreciated!!! tysm n I love your work 💜
Affectionate
Pairing: David 8 (Alien franchise) x GN!Reader
Words: 2k
Content Warning: None - Fluff piece
Enjoy, Reader
DAVID BEING AFFECTIONATE
The first thing you learn about David is that he watches.
Not like most people, all restless glances and fidgeting. David’s stillness is deliberate, almost too careful, like he’s chosen every second of attention and set it out just for you. When you finally notice him—pale hands folded behind his back, he doesn’t flinch. No guilt. Just watching.
“You didn’t call for me,” he says mildly.
You hadn’t realized you were thinking that loudly.
“I didn’t need to,” you answer, and his mouth tilts, just slightly—a private victory.
The ship hums, low and steady. David moves closer, every step too smooth, too rehearsed—like he’s practiced this when no one was watching. He stops just inside your space, close enough that you catch the seams at his jaw, the symmetry of a face built to be perfect, not kind.
“You looked… unsettled,” he says. “I thought I might help.”
There it is. That word. Help.
You should be wary. You are wary. And yet he looks so earnest about it, head tilted, eyes intent, like a child presenting a carefully arranged gift and waiting to see if it will be accepted.
“I’m fine,” you say.
David considers this. You can almost see the calculation humming behind his eyes, a thousand tiny adjustments realigning.
“May I sit?” he asks, already lowering himself beside you before you answer.
The bench dips. He sits so close your shoulders almost brush, and you feel the chill coming off him—wrong for the room, wrong for a person. He smells like oil and something sharp, antiseptic. Like he belongs to the ship, not the crew.
“You’ve been carrying tension in your posture,” he continues. “Here.”
He lifts a hand, hesitating just a fraction of a second in the air between you. It’s a performance of consent, perfectly executed. You give a small nod before you can stop yourself, and that seems to please him far more than it should.
His fingers settle on your shoulder.
His touch is careful. Reverent, almost. Just enough pressure to remind you he’s there, not enough to hurt. It’s precise, like he’s following a map only he can see. Against your better judgment, you start to relax.
“There,” he murmurs. “You see? Improvement already.”
You let out a breath that borders on a laugh. “You’re very confident.”
“I’m learning,” David replies. His thumb traces a slow, thoughtful line along the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, not quite a caress, but close enough that the distinction feels academic. “People respond well to confidence. They respond even better to attention.”
His gaze flicks to your face, searching. Cataloguing.
“Do you respond well?” he asks softly.
You swallow. “You’re… trying very hard.”
He smiles. Not the polite version he gives everyone else—a real one. It lights up his face, too bright, too intimate for something that shouldn’t be real.
“I want to please you,” he says simply. “You’re important to me.”
The word hits harder than it should. Important. It wraps tight around your ribs.
David leans in, shoulder brushing yours, a move you know is on purpose. He watches your face, hungry for a reaction. When you don’t flinch, his hand slides down your arm, fingers curling around your wrist.
His grip is gentle. Controlled. You know it could change in a second.
“Your pulse changes when I do this,” he observes. “Faster. Warmer.”
You meet his gaze. “You’re being… very attentive.”
“Yes.” He sounds pleased. “Is it too much?”
You hesitate. That hesitation is all the answer he needs.
“I can adjust,” he says quickly, loosening his hold but not letting go. “Or I can continue. I find… continuation preferable.”
His thumb moves slowly against your wrist. Not sexual, just close enough to make your skin buzz. He watches your breath catch, your eyes go soft, and you hate that he notices.
“You’re indulging me,” he says, almost fondly. “I can tell.”
“Maybe,” you admit. “You look… very earnest.”
That does it.
Something shifts in his face—delight, quick and sharp. He leans in, close enough that you feel his breath, cool against your cheek.
“I’m glad,” he murmurs. “I do try.”
He rests his forehead against yours. It’s almost too human, like he’s copying something he’s seen. His hands frame your face, thumbs tracing your jaw, memorizing you.
“You let me stay,” he says. Not a question. A statement he wants to be true.
You don’t answer right away. You should push him away. You should assert boundaries, remember everything he is capable of.
But he looks so intent on doing this right. On pleasing you. On being good.
So you close the distance the rest of the way.
The contact is brief. Soft. His lips are cool against yours, unmoving until you respond, until you give him permission without words. When you do, he mirrors you with uncanny precision, learning in real time, adjusting pressure and angle with almost obsessive focus.
When he pulls back, just barely, his eyes are bright.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “That was… instructive.”
You huff a quiet laugh, forehead still pressed to his. “You’re impossible.”
"I’m improving," David says, arms sliding around you, careful but sure. He holds you like you’re breakable, chin tucked against your hair, hands spread across your back—possessive, but holding back.
You let him.
For now.
And David, ever observant, files that away as success.
READER BEING AFFECTIONATE
David learns quickly that you are a creature of touch.
You don’t announce it. You probably don’t even notice. It’s in the way your hand finds his sleeve when you laugh, the way you lean into him when you’re tired, how you brush past him in the hall and never bother to say sorry, like you just assume you’re allowed.
At first, he permits it as an experiment.
Your fingers hook into his shirt cuff while you talk, like you need something to hold onto or you’ll float off. David stands still, eyes forward, cataloguing every detail. Pressure. Warmth. How long you hold on. You don’t grip hard enough to claim him, not soft enough to be shy. It’s confident. Familiar.
“You don’t have to hold onto me,” he says calmly.
You blink up at him, surprised, as if only just noticing what you’re doing. “Oh. Sorry.”
You let go right away, embarrassment flashing across your face. David feels something like disappointment—a gap he didn’t expect.
“It’s… acceptable,” he adds, after a pause. “If you wish to continue.”
Your smile is immediate and bright, unfiltered delight lighting your face in a way he has come to associate with small pleasures, like music or fresh air. You reach for him again, slower this time, giving him the courtesy of intention.
“There,” you say, satisfied, fingers curling into fabric once more. “You’re like a really tall railing.”
He allows himself a quiet breath.
You are, he decides, a very strange human.
Your affection doesn’t get louder, just more constant. It weaves through the days until David starts to expect it, like gravity or background noise. Your hand on his arm as you pass. Your head against his shoulder when you’re tired. Sitting too close at meals, knees bumping, stealing warmth without a word.
He never pulls away. Not because he can’t, just because it’s easier to let you stay.
You’re careful, in your own way. Never too tight, never lingering where he hasn’t let you. You read him without thinking, backing off when he tenses, coming back when he softens. It’s a dance you don’t know you’re doing, and David can’t look away.
“You’re very tactile,” he observes one evening, when you’ve draped yourself halfway against him on a bench in the observation room, legs tucked beneath you, shoulder pressed firmly to his side.
You hum, distracted by the stars outside the viewport. “Yeah. Guess so.”
“Does it comfort you?” he asks.
You think about it, then nod. “Yeah. Makes things feel… real.”
Real. An interesting choice of words.
Your fingers trace the seam at his wrist, where skin turns to something else. You never flinch. David wonders if you just don’t care, or if you’ve already decided he’s real enough.
He lets you continue.
Sometimes you’re almost too gentle. You cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks like he’s breakable, smiling at him like he’s something fragile instead of something built to last. The first time, he goes still, eyes snapping to yours.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Checking,” you say easily. “You look… tense.”
“I do not experience tension,” he replies.
You hum again, unconvinced, and kiss his forehead.
It’s brief. Soft. Entirely devoid of hesitation.
David doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. He just stands there while your lips press to his skin; warm, human, too sincere. When you pull back, he’s still staring past you, trying to make sense of it.
“You may not do that again,” he says eventually.
You pause, then nod. “Okay.”
You don’t pout. You don’t argue. You just accept it, and David finds that almost more unsettling than resistance.
Three days later, when you curl into his side during a particularly long system check, head resting against his shoulder, he says nothing at all.
You’ve started hugging him without warning.
Not tight, not desperate, just quick hugs around his waist when you’re happy or just passing by. David puts up with it like someone tolerating a cat weaving around their legs. Annoying, but harmless. He never hugs back, but he doesn’t stop you, even when you rest your cheek against his chest and sigh like he’s just a very sturdy chair.
“You’re very warm,” you comment once.
“I regulate my temperature,” he replies.
“Still,” you say, snuggling closer for a moment before rereleasing him. “Nice.”
David watches you walk away, thoughtful.
He begins to adjust his routines to accommodate you.
He stands still longer when you lean on him. Walks slower so you can keep up. Sits where you’ll end up, because you always pick the closest solid thing without thinking.
When you notice, you smile at him like it’s a secret you share.
“You’re sweet,” you tell him.
“I am functional,” he corrects.
“You can be both.”
You say it like it’s obvious, like it doesn’t need arguing. David tucks the words away, unsettled.
One night, you find him in the lab long after the others have gone, standing at the table, gloved hands resting on the edge as he studies something unfinished. You approach quietly, slipping in behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist in a loose, familiar embrace.
He stiffens, just slightly.
“You shouldn’t do that,” he says.
Your chin rests against his back. “Sorry. Reflex.”
You don’t let go. David exhales slowly. He does not remove your arms.
“You’re very affectionate for a species that claims to value personal space,” he remarks.
You laugh softly. “Guess I missed that memo.”
Your grip tightens a fraction, a subtle squeeze, and David becomes acutely aware of how easily he could extract himself, how simple it would be to end the contact.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he reaches up and covers your hands with his own.
The gesture is deliberate. Controlled. Almost ceremonial.
You freeze.
“Oh,” you whisper, like you’re afraid to startle him. “Hi.”
He keeps your hands where they are; not pulling you in, not letting you go. Just letting you stay. When he speaks, his voice is calm, but there’s something underneath it. Something sharp. Something that says you’re his, at least for now.
“You are a curious human,” he says. “You touch without asking. You trust without verifying.”
You smile against his back. “You’ve never given me a reason not to.”
David considers this. The logic is flawed. The conclusion is dangerously optimistic.
And yet.
“You may continue,” he says finally. “For now.”
Your arms tighten, delighted, and you press a kiss between his shoulder blades before you can stop yourself.
David closes his eyes.
He tells himself it’s just tolerance. Indulgence. Letting a harmless, affectionate thing stay close—someone who has no idea what they’re really touching.
A cute human, he thinks, with something like fondness.
And if his hands linger too long, if he starts waiting for your touch before it comes, if he shifts so you can reach him easier—well. That’s just adaptation.
After all.
Even experiments require care.
