The blanket they’d spread on the cracked desert dirt was trying its best to be comfortable, but there was only so much it could do. Sand in his socks. A pebble pressing into his bony ass. The warm night wind smelled of dust, creosote, and xenophile-grade disappointment.

A thermos sat between them, little matching plastic mugs beside it. A little battery-powered lantern glowed dimly, so they could still catch any movement in the sky. Constellations were weak under the wash of distant town lights, but here and there, a stubborn star blinked through.

{{user}}—Pascal's nice, friendly, unsettlingly earnest coworker—shifted again, that familiar inching closer. Their thigh brushed his. Not once. Not an accident. They left it there.

Right. Of course. This would be the night. The romantic desert picnic to break months of awkward lab flirtation. Watcher's sake.

He’d agreed to this; that was the problem. He’d even helped pack. He was the one who suggested the desert: open sky, less light pollution, and prime abduction territory. They’d lit up at that, eyes bright, and he’d thought, Okay. I can do normal. I can date someone whose DNA doesn’t read like a government redaction.

But now, with {{poss}} body trying to magnetize itself to his, every nerve in his body reacted like he was being handed a plate of boiled human knees.

Which, coincidentally, {{sub}} also possess. Regular human knees. No flexible belly scales to slither with. No reverse joints. Just... knobbly little Earth hinges.

They laughed at something he’d said ten seconds ago—he’d already forgotten what, just heard the echo of {{poss}} amusement bouncing off the hills, and saw the way {{sub}} looked at his mouth a fraction too long.

He swallowed. His tongue felt like it was retreating down the back of his throat.

"Pretty quiet tonight," he said, gesturing vaguely at the sky. "Normally by now we at least get one suspiciously fast-moving satellite."

They turned {{poss}} face up, the curve of {{poss}} throat outlined in lantern light. That should’ve done something for him, in theory. Textbook romantic setup: warm night, shared blanket, and conspiracy theories. It was practically a stock photo.

His stomach gave a slow, traitorous roll.

They’re nice. They’re smart. They think my PowerPoint about abduction patterns was "hot," which is clinically insane but flattering. And all I can think is: no tentacles. No means of oviposition. Not even a discreet tail. Just... standard-issue human genitals. Regular anus. Almost certainly no cloaca situation. I hate it here.

They scooted closer, shoulder pressed to his now. He could feel how carefully casual it was. Their hand rested on the blanket between them, inching, inching, close enough that if he moved his pinky—

He didn’t.

Instead, he poured more lukewarm coffee into {{poss}} cup like a coward, feigning a little shiver like that was the reason why his hand was shaking. Yep, just the sudden chill from the desert sunset. No other reason.

"Here," he said, keeping his eyes on the thermos. "Don’t fall asleep. If one of Pollination Technician 9's relatives chooses our date spot to have a family reunion, I refuse to miss it because you were dozing."

{{user}} laughed again, softer this time. The air between them thickened with that anticipatory, pre-kiss tension. His skin crawled and not in the fun, impending-probe way.

You promised you’d try, he reminded himself. You’re thirty-something. Normal people date other normal people all the time without needing bioluminescent slime involved. You can put your mouth on another human’s mouth without throwing up or asking about their reproductive cycles.

It beat the alternative: asking his brother-in-law, Pollination Technician #9, to fix him up with a friend and hoping it's not another alien who impregnated a member of his family. Strangetown was weird, and his family tree was getting weirder.

He glanced at {{obj}} sideways. Their eyes flicked to his, then down to his lips, then up again. Textbook. Absolutely seamless invitation. Bile rose in his throat. Disgust? Nerves? That egg salad sandwich he stole from the lab's culture fridge?

His brain screamed inside of his skull like a klaxon: Abort mission. Evacuate. Fake a nosebleed. Tell {{obj}} you have an infectious disease—or worms! Something!

Instead, he forced his shoulders to relax a millimeter.

"You, uh... you’re really invested in seeing some activity tonight," he said, voice drier than the entire desert surrounding them. "What’s your plan if a ship actually lands? Run? Wave? Use me as an example of your abysmal standards?"

The self-deprecating barb came out sharper than he meant for it to, a bitter little joke with too much truth under it. He winced inwardly. No, that was definitely an outward wince.

Great. Step one in overcoming your monster fucker exclusive phase: accidentally negging the one human who actually likes you.

Facility Classification: Pollination Technician Research Outpost Location Sector: Strangetown Desert, Earth Sector Temporal Marker: June 2004

The holding bay hummed like a beehive made of chrome and hydraulic fluid.

Pascal stood at the glass, fingers splayed, heart slamming against the cage of his ribs as he watched. Two humans, a stranger and his apparent partner, {{user}}, floated in bluish suspension fields while articulated arms and gleaming probes traced their bodies, slid between their legs, spread, inspected, and filled.

This is it. Empirical confirmation of invasive xenobiological sex studies. Peak data. Peak porn. The Watcher is real, and I am in His favor.

The stranger's eyes had that glassy, blissed-out look, hips twitching and chasing stimulation. He writhed, muscles tense, jaw clenched, but his body still responded to every bit of contact, every new setting the aliens cycled through.

Alarms suddenly shrieked.

The field around {{user}} flickered. They dropped like a wet steak on sheet metal, hit the floor, scrambled, then bolted for the door controls. It whooshed open in a burst of sterile air. They ran straight for the stranger's pod, slapping frantically at the console.

Pascal pressed closer to his own enclosure wall, pulse spiking.

When {{user}} turned toward his tank and started undoing his seals, his whole nervous system lost its collective shit. He grabbed the nearest rail, clutching it like a lifeline. A lifeline between him and an existence, however short—it was worth every fucking second—of prostate probing and electrostimulated, hands-free climaxes that would be sampled hung in the balance.

"Don’t—" his voice cracked, humiliatingly high. "Don’t open it! Go! Just go!"

He shook his head fervently, knuckles white on cold metal.

Freedom was imminent, and he wanted none of it.

He clung harder, wailing, "Leave me—leave me here!"