It was a relatively quiet day at the Five Lamps. There was still a heavy beat in the upper levels, but instead of loud bass underscoring music, it was a softer drumbeat, and it lay under no strings, voices, or obviously synthesized tones, but a mix of wind instruments – sometimes cheerful, others almost plaintive.

That fit the mood of Founders Day. Yes, it had been a triumphant moment when the first colony ships touched down on Hematite, the first colony to be jointly settled by humans and tavarri since the two races had made peace after the tense, if not quite violent, days of first contact; but not everyone who had embarked survived the journey, and not all those who landed lived to see the colony become prosperous in its own right. Those had been uncertain days, and Founders Day was set aside both to celebrate and to solemnly remember.

Arverik hadn’t been one of the first wave of colonists – he was much too young for that. But the colony had still been shorthanded when he’d left his clan behind, and the biosphere had been young and rudimentary. There was more growth outside the cities now, entire functioning food chains – they’d been carefully designed to form a whole that was compatible with both races of colonists. That design had definitely been done with an eye towards biological fitness, not just visual appeal, and it showed good signs that it would continue spreading across the planet even without further intervention on the colonists’ parts.

He’d done some work as a construction hand, back in those early days; no master builder he, but there’d been plenty of grunt work that needed to be done, and that simple labour had been his way of quietly snubbing the clan that had raised him only to turn him out for being just a little bit different; tasks less proper for a well-reared clan scion would be hard to name. When the rush of construction had slowed, he’d sought other humble work – not so much by inclination anymore as for a lack of special skill. He’d been a few years at the cannery now, and he remembered the frustration of feeling like everyone around him knew more than he did, while he was too unsure of himself to even push for education.

Now he was a maintenance supervisor for a facility in a town that hadn’t even existed back in those unconfident days, and he had a mechanic’s certification what would allow him to seek work elsewhere if he so chose – on his own terms, as a tradesman rather than a labourer, if not a particularly expert one.

He knew who he had to thank for that change in his status, and he raised a glass of iceberry wine now at the thought of them. He’d taken his leave-time back here in part to pay them a visit, as he had from time to time since that memorable first encounter. Dani and Ian had met him in this very building, still a virgin if not exactly an innocent, and while relieving him of that condition was the most obvious thing they’d done for him, it had been the first step on the path to true confidence, not only in his personal life, but in other areas too. They’d pushed him towards getting his certification, helped him choose a school, and helped him wind down (in ways both salacious and otherwise) when the combined stresses of work and school threatened to overwhelm him. In a very real sense, he owed them a great deal, even though they’d not given him anything more in the way of material aid than the gifts friends and sometime lovers might give one another – and those he’d reciprocated in.

No, what he owed them was nothing so measurable as monetary wealth. But they’d also made plain that whatever debt he might feel, it was one that he ought to pay forward to others who might be in need, not back to them.

He drained his glass, set it gently on the bar top, and closed his eyes, letting the beat wash over him, the rhythms of his body settling into the same meter. Ethanol didn’t affect tavarri nearly as strongly as it did humans, not kilo for kilo, and he was fairly big for a tavar in breadth if not height, significantly more massive than most male humans; but a chemical intoxicant was almost redundant anyway, next to the synaesthetic effects such a pervasive beat had on many tavarri that immersed themselves in it.

Arverik knew by now that he was more susceptible to it than most. He surrendered to that beat now, the drums and flutes and reeds sending a whirl of colour, motion, taste, and even ghostly touch over him. It was the touch that made him snap out of it, a trailing chord like fingers down his spine – a sensation that reminded him entirely too much of a lover’s touch for his comfort in a public place. In places like this one that only consenting adults were permitted to enter, Hematite had relaxed decency laws compared to what he’d known in his former clan (and much more relaxed than what he’d heard of pre-space human societies), but Arverik himself liked to maintain a demeanour of at least some self-control.

Which made it a bit awkward when, in the process of reacquainting himself with his surroundings, he noticed that he was being closely watched from a booth some distance away.

Arverik had cultivated a striking appearance since his earliest days at the Five Lamps: ink-black fur marked with fine crosswise white stripes on his torso, a white band along his snout, head, and down his spine to the base of his tail, seven white bands along that tail and a white tail-tuft, all those natural contrasts amplified and brought into slightly neater-than-natural lines by the careful application of dye and gloss; black enamel and gold caps on his outer, curling horns (back in the earlier days he’d used silver, but he was doing well enough for himself these days to afford a bit fancier ornamentation), polish and pearl inlay on the inner, lyre-shaped pair that proclaimed him as physically male, both pairs carefully polished as near to perfect symmetry as he could manage; broad and muscular, he might have been the picture of Clan Shukarat if he’d been born with green eyes instead of his own anomalous amber. (Those eyes weren’t why he’d parted ways from the clan – that had come later – but they’d drawn him enough negative attention that, once on his own, he’d not even considered trying to mask them with coloured contact lenses.)

Dani had helped break him of the mental habit of assuming people weren’t looking at him – while he was still careful not to assume any given bystander was observing him, or even if they were, that they liked what they saw, he had enough experience by now to really know, deep down, that yes, he was striking and eye-catching; and at that point, he’d been better able to notice when people were looking at him.

And if this male tavar wasn’t looking at him and appreciating him, he was a sweetmelon.

The other male had a more humble look about him. His fur was a somewhat dusty-looking grey-brown with darker mottling; he was on the slim side rather than Arverik’s heavyset, but so far as Arverik could tell while he was sitting down and some distance off, was comparable in height. He lacked the well-defined markings that were the hallmark of the tavarri clans, but he looked healthy and fit, and if his cargo vest and short trousers were simpler than Arverik’s kilt and fancier, less pocket-strewn vest, his clothes looked clean and well-kept. His eyes were wide, ears focused intently forward, mouth slightly open as he drew in a deep breath – yes, he was definitely intent on what he saw.

His right ear was pierced, twice by silver studs, one set with a red stone and one with yellow, and again with a bronze hoop that bore two more stones of the same colours. The colonists of Hematite – especially the tavarri, though some of the humans had adopted the same code – had come up with a fairly extensive language of such earrings to announce their overall relationship status and predilections. Arverik was no expert in that particular sort of expression, but those two needed no explanation, because he wore signals drawn from the same set. A silver stud like those declared his availability for casual sex, with the setting saying who he’d be interested in; Arverik’s own singular stud carried a fire opal, as neither race nor gender was all that much of a barrier to him on that score. The bronze hoop signalled that he was also open to exploring a longer-term relationship. Clear stones signalled an interest in males – red for humans, yellow for tavarri; Arverik’s own ring bore a garnet and topaz. Opaque stones of blue and green would mark female humans and tavarri respectively, and there were some less common combinations for gender-flavours that didn’t quite fit into the neat binaries. There were also different cuts – the people who’d put that code together had considered colour-blindness when devising it – but Arverik’s eyes weren’t quite good enough to make out that detail in dim light from across the room.

In all, this other fellow was pleasing enough to look at for his attention to be flattering, and the basic markers, at least, pointed to some overall compatibility; so Arverik let his eyes narrow a bit and his ears, also aimed forward, splay out and down a little, curling his tail towards the stool beside him. The unfamiliar male stiffened – visible even at a distance – and his eyes got even wider, ears furling back – not in dismay, Arverik didn’t think, but in disbelief.

Well, not so many moons back, Arverik had been the sort who found it hard to believe that an attractive person would be interested in him. While it wouldn’t do to open a conversation on the assumption that the stranger did find him physically attractive, it might still be best to make the first move. Fortunately, his bout of synaesthetic pleasure hadn’t gone so far into the erotic as to make for a potentially-embarrassing appearance that he was assuming such attraction, at least not with the loose fit and heavy fabric of his kilt; if it did show, hopefully the fellow would draw the correct conclusion that Arverik found him appealing, not that he thought the other already his for the taking. One last glance at the bartop revealed that his empty glass had already been taken away while he was distracted. He slid off his stool and started across the sparsely-populated room.

The fellow was definitely getting excited now – and that look of disbelief was waning as it became that much clearer that Arverik’s attention couldn’t possibly have been focused on anyone else. He drew a breath and sat up straighter, metal-capped clawtips drumming on the tabletop, from the outside in, once each; his tail, Arverik noticed, was curled around a leg of his stool – this particular stretch of booths was built to accommodate tavarri tails better than would human-style benches – and even that wasn’t enough to keep its tufted tip from twitching.

Suddenly reminded of how he’d felt when Dani and Ian had first appeared by his table, a few floors down at this very place, Arverik felt a fair bit of sympathy for the man. “Shalaa,” he greeted, bowing his head.

“Shalaa,” the other man responded, his voice a bit lighter than Arverik’s own, with a bit of a burr to it that seemed to run right down Arverik’s spine. “Sorry for staring – I can tell you’ve taken some pains to look impressive, and it’s working, but I usually try to be more subtle.” His ears splayed out to the sides – still embarrassed, maybe, but with a definite note of good humour under it. “Have a seat, if you’d like.”

That was one invitation Arverik didn’t need to hear twice; he slid into place on the other side of the table. He took a breath to offer a drink, only for the other fellow to beat him to it; he couldn’t help but chuckle. When the stranger fell silent again to let him speak, he took the chance. “I’ll have an iceberry wine if you’ll permit me to get the round after.”

“Deal.” The dappled male pushed partway out of his seat, waving to catch the attention of one of the servers, then settled back in. “Clanborn, are you? Shukarat, if I remember right?”

Oh. This fellow had to be a mixblood himself, but if he knew the clans and their usual tells in that much detail, this might get… awkward. Best to know the full extent of the damage right away, he supposed. “Born, yes. Arverik vir Shukarat. But I don’t run in those circles anymore.”

“Fine by me,” the other fellow assured him, then paused for a moment to give his order to the tavarri woman who’d answered his wave. Once she’d gone about her business, he went on, “Sorry. I’m normally a bit more… composed than this, but I have to admit that if I were to make a list of things I found most physically appealing, without including anything mutually exclusive, you’d match pretty much the whole list.”

Yes, Arverik was aware that he was striking, but that was praise on a whole different level; his ears flicked back, flushed and hot. “Goodness. You should know you’re quite appealing in turn!”

“Well, now!” The stranger let out a rumble, interrupted by something that might reasonably be described as chittering; the tavarri equivalent of a chuckle. “If I’d known you would say that, I might have met you halfway across the floor.” He leaned forward, adding in a lower, breathier voice, “To ask if I could ride you then and there.”

The shiver that chased down Arverik’s spine had nothing to do with the beat this time. “I’m normally too, well… shy, I suppose, for that sort of thing. But I will admit to sometimes thinking, before some kind people made me truly appreciate that I do tend to catch the eye for better or worse, that if I ran into myself on the dance floor, I’d make an exception.” His ears splayed. “The clan was unkind, and I was a bit of a mess by the time I got away from them. I like to think I’m doing better these days, though.” A grin stole across his muzzle. “Maybe I should consider loosening up a bit more. When you put it that way, I admit you make it sound appealing.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” the stranger said with another chuckle, “if I see you around here again. I know I haven’t seen you around here before, and as far as I’m concerned, that is regrettable, but do you think it’s enough to your taste that you’ll be back?”

“Oh, it’s plenty to my taste,” Arverik assured him. “I used to be here fairly frequently – sometimes to eat, more often just to see and be seen – but I live over in Three Forks these days. Came back to visit a friend for Founders’ Day.”

The other male’s ears perked. “Oh, that’s not too far,” he mused, sounding hopeful. “But I can see why you wouldn’t just drop in here for a drink more often.” He paused again as their drinks were delivered, started to reach for his, and then paused, blinking. “Oh. Sorry, all blood seems to have left that part of my brain that handles manners. I’m Kenvar Tal’Kranshir,” he offered, holding up his right hand, palm forward, fingers pointed up and splayed.

Kranshir – the word meant, simply, “forest” in one tavarri language – was the nearest major tavarri world; probably half if not more of Hematite’s tavarri settlers were from there, though some of them would probably use a clan name instead of the world’s. Automatically Arverik extended his left hand to meet Kenvar’s right, palm towards palm, but the last hand’s breadth of movement was on autopilot. Kenvar… why did he know that name?

It hit him just as their palms met. “Do you… happen to know a human man named Ian?”

Now he had Kenvar’s full attention. “You could say that,” he said carefully.

Arverik couldn’t help but grin again. “Intimately?”

A chittering laugh. “I didn’t think it was my place to reveal that detail if he hadn’t, but yes.”

“So do I,” said Arverik. “In fact, he’s who I was here to meet. He and his partner… they helped me come to terms with myself.”

“Well, that explains why he told me he was busy last night,” Kenvar observed. “And if he wanted to keep a friendship going – or whatever else – that tells me you’re probably good people.”

It dawned on Arverik that Kenvar hadn’t made a move to pull his hand away. He thought it was just a matter of getting distracted by this diversion about their mutual friend-and-lover; but when Arverik tilted his hand just a bit and let his fingers slip between the other male’s, Kenvar met the clasp in kind. It was a good, comfortable feeling; Arverik let out a low, contented rumble. “I do trust his judgement about people. Of course, it was to my benefit.”

Kenvar squeezed his hand a little more. Still gently, nowhere near enough to be uncomfortable. “Do you have arrangements for tonight?”

“I hadn’t yet,” Arverik stressed, daring to presume where that was leading.

“I have a home up in Greystone Tower,” his new companion said. “Once we’ve had our drinks, think I could tempt you into staying the night? I’d like to get properly – and thoroughly – acquainted.”

“That sounds quite fine indeed,” Arverik replied, wondering if Kenvar’s apartment was high enough to have a good view; the residential tower was the biggest single building in town by quite a margin, a symbol of the colony’s growing industrial base and access to better building technology. But starting with a few drinks might still be in order.

Well, maybe they could get a bit of a head start. “Meanwhile,” he offered, “perhaps you might join me on this side?” The booth was built to seat two on each side, after all.

In answer Kenvar drew a breath, paused just a moment – to unwind his tail, maybe – and then, grabbing his drink, slipped out and around the table. Arverik shifted over to make room; their fingers disentangled, but their hands did not break contact. Instead, they slid past each other, up one another’s arms. There was a pleasing, wiry strength in Kenvar’s arm; whatever it was he did for a living, he plainly didn’t neglect his body. And there was not, in fact, any significant amount of actual dust on his fur; it was just the light tips that gave him that look.

Kenvar’s whiskers splayed. “Ian’s probably mentioned that I can be… pretty forward…”

In point of fact, Ian had related that Kenvar had offered to give him head at first sight, but Arverik saw no reason to belabour the point that the other male was already conceding.

“…but I am trying to keep that in check these days. I’ll be glad to follow your invitation, but please tell me if I push too hard at some point; I try not to, but I can get… caught up in things.”

What the hell. Like he’d already said, maybe he should lighten up a little. He leaned in a bit closer, nudging his snout against the other male’s, giving a light lick over his muzzle. His left hand had worked its way over to Kenvar’s left shoulder, and now gave a squeeze there; he turned inward, right hand slipping down and under the tablecloth, and found a hefty ridge in the other male’s shorts.

Kenvar shivered against him, breath slipping out in a groan over Arverik’s jaw. “This is a bit convenient,” he murmured, turning towards the ex-Clanner in turn. “My left is my dominant hand.” And, indeed, he was quite deft, loosening Arverik’s kilt by touch alone.

They didn’t actually do much; once he’d loosened his partner’s belt and gotten his hand under those trousers, Arverik was quite content to just feel the other male warm and hard in his grasp, and so, it seemed, was Kenvar in turn. Their breaths mingled, both settling into the rhythm of the music but in opposite phase; somehow, drawing a wisp of the other male’s breath into his own lungs felt very right.

It was easily one of the most comfortable moments of intimacy he’d ever shared. And that boded well for what might happen when they didn’t have Arverik’s long habits of discretion hampering him.

Arverik closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, laden with his new acquaintance’s scent – clean male, nicely accented by whatever he used to keep his fur thus clean, and very, very pleasingly accented by a whiff of sex. But he made himself mentally step back from that brink, his breath wafting out in a long sigh. “If we’re to have those drinks first,” he mused, “perhaps we should be about it. Put that step behind us.”

“Can’t argue with that plan.” Kenvar’s hand gave Arverik’s shaft a firm squeeze, then slipped up and away, fingertips trailing along its very underside in the process. The touch sent a shiver through him, and it felt only right to give voice to a deep groan; Kenvar muffled his answering rumble against the side of Arverik’s neck.

Despite his own words, making himself let go of the other male’s firm warmth was far from easy. He couldn’t help but let his touch linger, fingertips gliding up and down Kenvar’s healthy length a couple times, and the way the slimmer male trembled, not-quite-stifling a whimper, was as much an encouragement to continue in that vein as was the slick moisture that met his fingers. It would be so easy to keep going, to take a preview of Kenvar’s release, and at this point he doubted the man would complain; but neither of them were well-positioned to avoid making a mess in the process, and in the end, discretion won out. He brought his hand away with a wistful sigh.

It would have been similarly easy to gulp down his drink, but even if both of them knew they found each other appealing and were eager to move to a more comfortable venue, it would seem a shame to waste a good drink that way. So he took a mental step back from the brink, sat up a bit straighter, and lifted his wineglass in a human-style toast; to what, exactly, didn’t seem to need specifying. It was good wine, sweet and tart and other, subtler flavours mingling with the alcohol, none of them so strong as to drown the others out; and while some measure of his attention stayed firmly upon the pleasing bulk and warmth of the man in the curve of his arm and the music commanded a measure more, he let the wine dominate his senses otherwise.

So it was that by the time he finished his glass, he was in a fit state to refasten his kilt.

“I did promise you the next round,” he mused as he set the glass down. Part of him knew it was a silly thing to be quibbling about, but he had made the offer, and honesty was an ideal he strove towards; how could he expect others to be trustworthy if he was not himself? It’d be nice to just get out of here in favour of somewhere more private, but he’d promised. Well, he’d said, anyway, but he shouldn’t say things he didn’t intend to follow up on, however informally.

Kenvar took a breath, but then paused, giving him a quizzical look. “I was going to say it’s not a big deal, but… hrrr. Instead of just letting go of that offer, how about fulfilling it somewhere or sometime else?”

It was such a simple solution, Arverik was actually a little embarrassed that it hadn’t occurred to him already, but it solved that dilemma neatly. And in truth, if he didn’t need to arrange for lodgings tonight, that freed up a chunk of the budget he’d allowed for this trip. The evening wasn’t yet so far along that all the shops would be closed. “Perhaps I could pick up something on the way!”

“If it’ll soothe your conscience, I’ll be glad to make a bit of a detour.” Kenvar’s snout nudged Arverik’s jaw. “Your bill here already settled?”

“Paid up front,” Arverik confirmed, relieved that the other man wasn’t going to make things awkward by actually brushing the offer aside. Oh, to be sure, he’d mentioned that the thought had crossed his mind, but a mention wasn’t the same as an invocation; that distinction was just as – he admitted, at least to himself – weirdly important in Arverik’s mind as was his own fulfillment of that off-the-cuff promise. He was working with Arverik’s foibles, not dismissing them as silly (even if they were).

Which didn’t in the least lessen Arverik’s eagerness to be somewhere private with him.

“I’ll just be a few seconds, then…” Kenvar leaned over a bit to peer at the little console built into the outward edge of the table and tap in a few instructions, then waved his left hand – not a card or device, just his empty hand – over the reader; the console chirped softly in response. “There,” he said, slipping off his seat and tugging his belt a bit tighter as he did.

Following, Arverik glanced from the reader to Kenvar’s hand. “I admit, convenient as that seems like it could be, I’ve never quite dared offer my financial information to any device I happen to handle.”

“It doesn’t,” Kenvar replied. “Computers, and data security in particular, are my specialty – so, on the one hand, I know exactly how much work goes into even the basic chip implants to keep them from being read on the sly, and on the other, I don’t have just a basic chip; I’ve got haptic feedback rigs in both hands, and the banking chip’s out of the circuit unless I specifically turn it on, and then only for a few seconds.”

Arverik felt his ears furling back and forced them upright again. His own technical expertise, however hard-won, was quite limited, and he knew it; here was someone who lived and breathed it – and quite enjoyed it, if the enthusiasm as he’d gone into those details was anything to judge by. It was hard not to feel a bit intimidated by it. Oh, it was hardly the first time he’d run into someone with advanced training – Ian and Dani came to mind, and a handful of other partners since – but Kenvar’s particular brand of expertise was that much closer to what Arverik did.

Not for the first time, he reminded himself that his job skills weren’t what had caught his prospective new partner’s attention. He thought back to the stunned disbelief on Kenvar’s face as he realised Arverik was approaching him. If Arverik found Kenvar’s technical credentials intimidating, it seemed that Kenvar found him daunting on a much deeper level, and he’d be well-served to remember that – to avoid running roughshod over the other man over some foolish conceit that if he took the time to ask what was appropriate, Kenvar would see his inexperience and lose interest.

His feet had stalled as those thoughts ran through his head, and a few steps ahead of him, Kenvar had paused and was giving him a quizzical look; Arverik took a breath and hustled forward those few steps to catch up, then settled into an easy stride at the other man’s side. “Apologies. I mentioned that the clan had left me in an unpleasant state, and part of that is an impression that anyone who demonstrates technical competence is more fit than I am for, well, pretty much anything I might try to do.”

“This is a young colony world,” Kenvar pointed out. “Even jobs that’d be handled by robots and computers on more developed worlds need living hands behind them here, and they’re vital to keeping the place running and developing. Last I checked the news, we’re still having a labour shortage.” He slowed a bit, pressing his hand against Arverik’s cheek. “Though if you want to train up, I can respect that, too. I’m always learning, myself, and wouldn’t mind a bit more company in that.”

A starker contrast to the clan’s mindset that they knew everything worth knowing would be hard to find.

They parted slightly, by necessity, at the stairs; humans might be able to comfortably use them two abreast, but it’d be an uncomfortable squeeze at best for adult tavarri. Kenvar was lean for a tavar, but he wasn’t that small, and Arverik himself was quite a bit heavier-set. Arverik let him, as the host, take the lead; a few steps down, Kenvar said over his shoulder, “If you don’t mind telling, what do you do for a living?”

“Maintenance shift supervisor at ECS’s North Point plant,” Arverik replied. It was a thing he knew he ought to be proud of – had been proud of, not only when he landed the promotion to supervisor but most of the time since, and as recently as a quarter hour ago. He couldn’t help but wonder, now, if Kenvar heard the shame in that admission as clearly as he himself did.

Perhaps he did, because he paused on the landing, turning around. “Hey, now – that doesn’t sound like an unqualified, menial sort of job.”

“And I do know that,” Arverik insisted — for whose benefit? Hard to say. “Apologies; apparently I hadn’t silenced that part of myself that thought I wasn’t truly qualified for it quite as thoroughly as I’d thought.”

The look Kenvar gave him was inscrutable, but after a moment the dappled male just started moving again. He offered no more comment on the subject – an acknowledgement, perhaps, that it wasn’t the sort of thing that could be reasoned through. Instead, he said, “Not that you’ve given me the impression you’re set on luxury, but I hope you won’t mind my place being a bit… sparse. I’ve pretty much always been guest, not host, since I moved in there – which isn’t as often as you might think from how I was when I met Ian, anyway – so I haven’t had much call to dress the place up.”

“That should be fine. You’ve probably got more room, at least, than I do,” Arverik mused. Greystone Tower was big; modern construction materials and methods made it easy to build upwards, and Hematite wasn’t very populous yet. Now that they’d got their industrial base this far, it would’ve been easy to build far more homes in towers like that than there were people who needed them – and that without considering the more well-to-do who’d rather have a separate house all their own. They had no particular reason to make their units small and cramped. “As long as there’s enough room to move, it won’t be a problem.”

“That,” said Kenvar as he pushed the door open to the evening air, “I definitely have.”

It would’ve been hard to get lost even without a guide; Greystone Tower loomed over the city, and nothing but the very thickest of fog could possibly obscure it from the streets. In time, as more such buildings rose alongside it, that might change, but for now letting his host lead was little more than a polite formality.

Little more, but not nothing more: Kenvar did know where one could find intoxicants even at this hour on Founders’ Day. Arverik’s eye was drawn to a bottle of iceberry wine from a particular vintner he knew to be quite good; Kenvar at first tried to demur, claiming it to be too dear a treat to spend on him, but let himself be talked into it without much difficulty. Though he did insist that Arverik take with him whatever they didn’t get through before they parted ways.

Back on the street, Kenvar glanced up at the ascending bulk of the tower, then paused, reaching up to put his palm against Arverik’s cheek. It was a casual sort of intimacy – the sort even passing friends might use with one another – but with what they’d already discussed doing and after the way he’d reacted to the mere sight of Arverik, that light touch was nonetheless electrifying; his breath caught, ears tilting forward.

Nor was his tense anticipation in any way lessened when Kenvar breathed, “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been to not just pull you into a side alley for an early taste?” His tongue, slipping forth to dab at his lips, lent some quiet emphasis to the query – as well as suggesting just how literally he meant the word ‘taste.’

Arverik shivered. For one moment, on pure reflex, he was about to stifle the groan that threatened to slip out of him; he throttled that impulse and let the sound loose unashamed. By way of reply, he murmured back, “If you keep talking like that, the first portion’s going to go entirely to waste.” It was an exaggeration; while he had, on one memorable occasion, been brought to climax without a single touch to what would normally be classified as an erogenous zone, he had not ever been sent over the edge by words alone. But that question had awakened such a rush of seething need that he almost felt it could happen anyway.

By the look on Kenvar’s face, Arverik’s response hadn’t made that temptation any easier to resist. A warm breath whuffed over Arverik’s whiskers, his host’s eyes slipping shut, an answering shiver chasing through him. Kenvar’s other hand alit on Arverik’s belt, and for a moment Arverik thought he was going to let temptation become reality; then, with a soft whimper, the dappled male took a step back.

“We’re almost there,” Kenvar said. “Might as well get some real privacy so we can do this right.”

Once upon a time, Arverik might have pointed out – if he’d been able to summon the nerve to speak at all – that the course Kenvar was shying away from felt plenty “right” to him; now he confined himself to a small smile that he’d simply trust would get the point across. If he’d have been happy to have Kenvar pull him aside and blow him, he was also quite eager to see just what, in his host’s mind, did qualify as “right.” He nosed at the departing fingers, then stood straight, or at least as straight as tavarri ever did with their slight natural stoop, and let Kenvar take the lead again.

It was neither surprising nor unwelcome that Kenvar led him the rest of the way at a hustle verging on a lope; the better to get properly ensconced sooner rather than later. Part of his mind did note, with some anticipation, that once past the security door, Kenvar took him to the express elevators and slapped the button for floor 120; that promised to be quite the view indeed… once he had any interest in seeing the scenery rather than his host. They had the car to themselves; while they rode, they settled against one another, and Arverik felt the swell of Kenvar’s erection under his fingers before he was quite aware of his hand moving. He almost tried to worm his hand in for a direct touch, pads against skin rather than a layer or two of cloth in the way, and the moan in the other male’s throat pushed him even closer to doing so; but the elevator was already slowing. With a somewhat regretful sigh, he shifted his hand over to his host’s hip instead.

That was just as well, because it turned out to not be a simple matter of stumbling down the hall to a particular door; Kenvar’s apartment was a floor down and then three turnings away from the descending stairwell. The lock clicked in response to Kenvar’s hand waving over the pad, and it was hard to say which of them pulled the other through.

There was just enough time for the door to close and latch behind them and for Arverik to note an exterior window before Kenvar’s hands settled on his guest’s belt. “So…” His head was ducked down a bit, snout aimed at Arverik’s collarbone. “Intellectually, I know a lot of the old-style clan mentality is, well…”

Perhaps he was struggling for a way to say it politely, not quite knowing for sure just how far from the typical “old-style clan mentality” Arverik actually was, his earlier remarks notwithstanding. “Bullshit?” he supplied with a grin, hands settling on his host’s shoulders.

A whuff of a laugh. “That works. But there’s some part of me that still has this… I don’t know, silly fantasy about being, well… owned.”

For a moment it didn’t parse – why in the world, in any world, would anyone want to live under the clans? It had been bad enough for Arverik, and he had been certifiably pure-blooded, just unlucky enough to be born with a minor mutation in his eye colour!

But before he could put words to his confusion, it melted away under the realisation that living in that system wasn’t what Kenvar wanted. No, he didn’t want Arverik to treat him like a true clansman would – not least because no self-respecting clanner would be caught dead socializing with a mixblood, never mind being intimate with one! No, he didn’t want the real thing.

What he wanted was a semblance of it – a fantasy, as he’d said. It needn’t have much to do with reality; in fact, the real thing would probably kill his libido about as fast as it would Arverik’s. He wanted to feel subservient for a time – just for a time, before they both got back to their normal lives.

What Arverik finally said out loud was, “You want me to play the part of an imperious master.”

They way Kenvar ducked his head, ears furled back, could have been jumping right into the role, but the stiffness of his shoulders under Arverik’s fingers suggested it had more to do with shame. “Well… yeah. If you’re okay with that. I mean,” the words started to spill out faster and faster, “I know you said the clan wasn’t very good to you, so I’d understand if it’s uncomfortable, and even without that I know not everyone’s comfortable in that sort of role anyway, but it’s this thing that’s been bouncing around my head for so long I guess I thought—”

Arverik was somewhat bemused, but also strangely heartened, by this demonstration that he didn’t have a monopoly on anxiety. Not that he wanted his host to suffer through it, but… well. A touch to Kenvar’s nose brought this torrent of words to a stammering halt, but on his own Kenvar didn’t seem much inclined to lift his head, so Arverik tucked fingers under his jaw. He didn’t forcibly pull the other man’s chin up, but he didn’t have to; hesitantly, Kenvar lifted his head, eyes wide and uncertain.

“It’s all right,” he said softly. “I think I know what you’re after. Hearing it new, it may sound a bit silly to me, but one thing I’ve learned lately is that sometimes, sex is a bit silly. It’s not something I’ve done before, but if that’s all right with you, I think I could give it a try. For a little.”

“For a little,” Kenvar echoed, ears lifting a bit.

“So long as I get some time to just be me,” Arverik went on with a smile.

“Definitely. That’s what I got interested in in the first place.”

“In that case…” Arverik took a deep breath – for courage? – and lifted his hand away, brushing it over Kenvar’s jaw. In what he might once have thought of as his finest Shukarat pureblood tones, he went on, “What can one such as you do for me?”

Under his other hand, Kenvar quivered. “Ah, Master, he breathed, “please, let me please you. Let me taste you…” Even as the whisper slipped out of him, he sank to his knees, pressing forward as he did. His snout pressed up against Arverik’s collarbone, fingers busily working his “master’s” vest open so he could nuzzle and lick at the bare chest beneath.

It was, for Arverik, a very new way of dealing with a lover, but the excitement driving Kenvar’s laboured breaths was infectious. Arverik had at first thought to stay aloof, but the other male’s touch just felt too good for him to stay any less responsive than “restrained;” a low, throaty rumble was slipping out of him before Kenvar’s snout got past his ribs. By the time his host-cum-”servant’s” hands got down to his belt, his kilt was feeling more than a little uncomfortable, but nimble fingers loosening the restrictive cloth brought a blessed end to that; his breath wafted out of him in a sigh of relief.

Without further ado, Kenvar took the tip of Arverik’s cock in his mouth – Arverik grunted, firmly reminding himself that he didn’t need to hold back quite as much as he usually would – and started to slide down it. That was just as well, really, because Arverik probably wouldn’t have lasted long under less direct attentions; as it was, he took hold of the other male’s skull, mindful of the ears but otherwise making himself grip quite a bit harder than his usual, and shoved himself in to the hilt. There was no artifice whatsoever in the half-groan, half-growl that slipped out of him as he shot over the other male’s tongue and down his gullet. Kenvar was trembling under him – at least he didn’t think that was all on him – and his rough tongue was doing things to Arverik’s taper that he’d never felt anyone do with their mouth already full.

Kenvar kept him riding that high of pleasure for the best part of a minute. He tried to say in role — to accept this pleasure as his due, the one providing it merely a means to an end; when normally he would pull back and give his partner a chance to breathe, now he glanced down through slitted eyes to see that Kenvar didn’t seem to be in actual distress and just tightened his grip a bit further, shoving in as deep as he could. How much of that actually showed through – or even if it was the “right” thing to do – was far, far beyond his orgasm-addled ability to judge.

Eventually, despite Kenvar’s excellent efforts, the sensations ebbed — he rather doubted Kenvar was being any easier on him, but its impact on him was waning; his long-ago comparative xenology classes had explained that part of tavarri sexual response as giving opportunity and incentive to find another partner rather than spending more time and sperm on a single partner than they could possibly need to conceive. Whatever the case, it was time to change things up a little, to give that part of his brain some time to forget that particular stimulus. He pulled himself back and out with a groan of pleasure that hardly needed exaggeration or embellishment, tugged a bit on the other male’s horns, and let his erection rest atop Kenvar’s snout for a moment, gazing down at him and drawing a deep breath — slowly, to give his scrambled mind precious time to get in order. What would a “proper” Clanner say to a servant who’d shown distinction? Faint praise at best if he acknowledged them at all, honestly; that didn’t seem much fun to either party at a moment like this.

More like how he would treat a lower-ranking Clanner, perhaps. And that was something Arverik had plenty of experience with; he’d never thought he could turn it into a good thing, but sometimes the universe was a silly place. That thought let some wry humour creep into his voice. “Well, it seems you might have some uses after all.” Wait, was that going too far? He hadn’t meant it to sound like—

Apparently it was fine; Kenvar shivered, stifling a whimper. “Is… is the Master pleased, then?”

“Hrrr…” He tried to make it sound like he was considering the question; what he was actually considering was his phrasing, because his pleasure was self-evident. The man was good with his tongue, so good that Arverik rather hoped he’d be willing to offer some tips later on. He ran out of breath for his dithering purr, and had to take a new breath in; that seemed as good a time as any to say something. “That was… an acceptable start. Come; I want to get a good look at you.” He couldn’t say which of the doors out of the main room led to the bedroom with much confidence, and if he was trying to appear in control he didn’t want to guess only to be wrong and need to turn around, but he did see a comfortable-looking chair farther in. He slipped out of his sandals and left them there by the door. A few strides in, he slowed down a bit to unwind his kilt the rest of the way. He shrugged out of his vest, and just when he was contemplating whether it’d be better to drop his clothes aside with casual unconcern or to hang them somewhere with at least some dignity, felt a tug on them; that solved that handily. He let go and sauntered the last few steps across the room, gazing out through the window at the city far, far below, a scattering of lights that glimmered as though to mimic the starry sky above.

Landfall, as the capital was called, was far and away the biggest city on Hematite — but that wasn’t really saying much. Its population was still in the low hundreds of thousands, and while there were a few other big towers being built, Greystone was the only one that was inhabited; the others had only a few navigation lights at their summits. Light pollution was kept as low as feasible. There were a lot more stars in that sky than Arverik had grown up with, and he never tired of the sight.

Leaning on the back of the chair, he took in the view for a few moments, hearing Kenvar move about. Fabric rustling, then just fur and footsteps; then breathing, soft and slightly irregular, maybe a bit anxious. He resisted the urge to turn right back towards his host, to apologize for letting himself be distracted; instead, he spent a few more idle moments wondering how much of that anxiety was affected.

When he figured his persona would be good and ready to get that “good look” he’d demanded, he took a step back, turning and sinking into the chair in a single smooth motion. Kenvar stood squarely in front of the chair, a couple steps away – enough to give his “master” the appropriate amount of personal space; he looked down at Kenvar’s feet and nodded slowly, hoping that would be enough cue to suggest that it was the respectful distance he approved of, and let his gaze track up from there. Especially for someone in an intellectual field of work, Kenvar was in excellent tone, and not just in his arms; he obviously didn’t slouch his exercise. With legs like that, despite being on the lean side, he could probably carry another full-grown tavar for a good distance. Or hold one up long enough to make for a similar exertion, which suggested some nice possibilities for later, when Arverik could break character and just worry about being himself instead.

Plainly, whatever anxiety the other male might be feeling wasn’t enough to kill his libido, for he still stood proudly erect, a bit of moisture gleaming on his bare teal skin. Arverik started to lick his lips, but stopped himself with his jaws just slightly parted. “Eager to please, I see,” he said instead.

“Always,” Kenvar breathed. Oh, yes; anxious he might be, but it was definitely in the “anxious to do more” sense. His excitement was almost palpable, even before he went on, slightly louder, “Please, Master, let me please you.”

The rest of his body lived up to the promise his arms and legs had offered; under the dappled fur, lush and well-cared-for in itself, he was a fine example of tavarri health. He stood with his hands clasped behind him, tail-tuft flicking about his heels. His mouth was slightly parted, eyes wide and dark. Arverik wanted little more than to shove him into the chair and ride him, but even if he might still be in control that way, it didn’t quite feel in keeping with the image he was cultivating; hopefully there’d be time for something like that before they parted ways.

For the time being, he’d just have to settle for the reverse. “Well,” he mused, leaning back in his seat and letting his tail settle in its channel, “I’ve seen what one end of you can do.” He almost went on with How about we but deleted that equitable start before it passed his lips. “Work down from there. I would know what your other end is like, and the more capable your hands are, the easier it’ll be for you.” It might or might not have had evolutionary value, but the slipperiness of tavarri semen was something Arverik had had plenty of cause to appreciate in recent years.

“As you wish,” Kenvar whispered, taking a few steps forward and kneeling before his guests. He was true to his word, or perhaps more precisely, to Arverik’s; though his tongue dabbed at his lips and his head dipped close enough for his breaths to wash over Arverik’s wet flesh, he did not, in fact, put his mouth back in play. He started with no more intimate contact than those breaths, his hands instead running along his “master’s” legs as though that contact alone was what kept him alive. Soon enough, though – before Arverik could issue more than a few appreciative rumbles, before he could even consider feigning impatience – his hands shifted. One went upwards, exploring Arverik’s stomach and chest, but the other cupped under the striped male’s balls, cradled them a moment, then slid upwards, fingertips passing over the sheath that had been irrelevant by the time the pair got in the door, and then gliding along the underside of his tapering length to its peak.

It went on from there. The caress turned into a stroke, then a squeeze, then a few moments of vigorous pumping before easing back again. Kenvar adapted with aplomb to Arverik bucking up into his grip, twisting under his touch, and kept right on stroking, with enough force behind his touch that it was all Arverik could do to keep from outright squirming, yet never so much that it was uncomfortable.

It got quite a bit easier, of course, when a fresh rush of orgasm sent more slick semen flowing over cock and stroking fingers alike, the latter shifting, twisting, to get the stuff all over. And again he was doing enough different things to keep Arverik spurting for a good while.

If it went on as long as the first bout, he probably wouldn’t be able to avoid some rather out-of-character squirming; when he was good and slick and plenty of the surplus was dampening his fur, he reached down — a bid to touch Kenvar’s wrist turned mid-gesture to seizing it, and his free hand tucked under the mixblood’s jaw, forcing his gaze upwards. “I should think that will suffice.”

“Yes, sir,” came the husky reply. Kenvar rose mostly-upright, with Arverik’s hand following his jaw as it went; where he’d been kneeling between his guest’s knees, in a few moments he stood astride Arverik’s hips. Arverik shifted his grip instead to the other male’s rump, free hand on his own length.

Most of his experience in this particular pose had been with humans – a way to give his smaller lovers some measure of extra control – but he’d had enough time with tavarri by now to still be confident, and Kenvar knew what he was about, too. They acted almost as one, slipping together without a single false step, as though they’d been rehearsing for ages. It was glorious.

For the next minute or two, staying in character was pretty far from Arverik’s mind; the other man just felt too good, on and around and against him. The most he could do on that score was keep his tail from trying to twine with his partner’s as they bucked against one another, as his spunk pulsed into his partner, as Kenvar’s length rubbed against his stomach and left a damp furrow in turn. It was only as that stimulus, too, started to get a bit muted that he was able to even think of what he’d do next.

He started by leaning around Kenvar’s horns for a nip at one ear. “Now that you’ve got me thoroughly prepared,” he hissed into it, “I think it’s time I had a bit more leverage.”

Kenvar shuddered atop him. “I-if my bed would p-p-please you,” he paused to swallow, “it’s through the nearer door on your left.”

An explanation instead of any move to lead the way? Maybe he didn’t want to pull apart. Well, that was something Arverik could agree with and indulge, at least for the moment. It did take some care – “master by blood right” or no, he was not going to risk doing either of them a harm by being clumsy now. He put one hand firmly at the base of Kenvar’s spine, just far enough up to give him something to lean back against as much as to press down on; with Kenvar’s hands already planting themselves against the seat back past Arverik’s shoulders (plainly this wasn’t his first time doing this particular stunt, either!), Arverik used his left hand to push up from the seat, slowly and carefully. Kenvar’s arms wrapped around his shoulders about halfway through the motion, and the arm he’d been pushing up with instead shifted to wrap under Kenvar’s shoulders.

It might not be an approved carry for any great distance, but it’d get the job done, and it let them stay together as Arverik carried his lover to the door in question, every step sending a fresh surge of pleasure through him – through both of them, if Kenvar’s whimpering was any indication. The door was ajar; a nudge with his shoulder got it open enough to pass through, and there was enough light coming in from the main room for a tavar’s keen night vision to make out the bed – and the absence of any impediment between it and the door. That’d have to do.

He was starting to run low on stamina, but he should still have enough in him for a dramatic finish. He dumped Kenvar onto the bed crosswise, pulling out in the process and groaning as a result, but he forced that groan to turn into a growl and flipped the other man over. He found his place and shoved back in with a haste that had only a little to do with his role, putting his weight behind the motion and winding up with his head up by Kenvar’s nape.

Well, that presented a pretty obvious possibility, didn’t it? He tilted his head and, after a few nips – it not being terribly easy to aim when he was already thrusting – got a good grip on his “servant’s” scruff, and at that point his growl rose to a snarl and he cut loose. With so much spunk already between them, there wasn’t much friction to speak of, and while Kenvar cried out under him, it didn’t sound like actual distress, so he kept at it. Again and again he came, each spurt shoved deep in by the next thrust, and there was still enough spilling out at the back of his strokes to dribble down and dampen his sheath a bit further. In the darkness, it was so easy to lose himself to the rhythm of his thrusts, to let it take the world away until all that was left was the warm body under him, his lover’s cries ringing in his ears, his own grunts and growls more heard than felt undercutting them.

He couldn’t possibly sustain that intensity for long, but this time, his legs gave out before his lust did, and he slumped atop his lover, shuddering as his orgasm kept raging on in full force.

Some time later, Kenvar’s hand squirmed up to touch his cheek. “That was glorious. Thank you. But you sound like you need some water.”

Was that his breath that was sounding so rough? He tried to assent and coughed; with the endorphins ebbing, it quickly became apparent that his throat felt like someone had taken a rasp to it. “Please,” he managed. At some point in the intervening time, he’d slipped out and gone soft, in what order he couldn’t possibly say; just flopping over and letting Kenvar free felt like a major exertion all of a sudden. Kenvar’s nose nudged his own, and then he heard the other man moving away. A cupboard opening and closing, then the heavier, mag-sealed door of a refrigerator; liquid pouring, twice.

By the time Kenvar came back into the room, Arverik was at least feeling up to sitting up on the edge of the bed, though he was feeling rather wobbly even for that; his host pressed a cool glass into his hand. “Crimfruit juice,” he said. “Should help replenish and ease the sting a bit.”

The yellow-skinned, red-pulped fruit was the nearest equivalent to Earth citrus on the tavar homeworld of Dawn; slightly astringent and more than slightly tart, it also served tavarri as a mild topical anaesthetic. Arverik didn’t keep it in stock all that much, because a number of his lovers were human and it was not safe for human consumption, but he was certainly glad to have it available now; he gulped down a few well-chilled swallows before he felt up to speaking again. “Been in this situation before, have you?”

A laugh. “Overexerted in bed, yes. Not so much the specifics.” Kenvar shifted, an arm slipping around Arverik just under the shoulders.

He leaned back, draping an arm in turn over his new lover’s shoulders. “It was… a bit outside my usual,” he confessed.

Fingers touched his cheek. “I could tell. Hopefully you won’t read this as criticism – I’m more satisfied than I think I could possibly say – but I could feel you holding back from some things, pushing yourself to others. Unaccustomed or no, though, you were magnificent. Thank you.”

Getting off was very fine, but companionable moments like this were what Arverik really treasured. “Happy to oblige. Sometimes it’s good to step outside your usual, no?”

Kenvar’s whiskers splayed; so did his ears. “So I hear. And if there’s any particular hankerings I can help you satisfy, I hope I’ll have plenty of opportunity to repay the favour.”

“I certainly hope this won’t be my only visit,” Arverik replied, nudging his nose against his host’s. “And while my own home is quite a bit smaller, I think it could still be nice to be host in turn, if you find yourself in Three Forks at some point.”

“I hear the Manifold Falls are a sight to see,” Kenvar said.

That was where the Slate River spilled over Drummer’s Ridge, immediately after the forks that gave the town its name. “They are that,” Arverik replied.

Kenvar’s hand shifted and gave a pat to his shoulder. “But we’ve still got tomorrow, hmm? Meanwhile, I think both of us could use a wash – and as you were working harder than I was, how about you get the first go at it while I change the sheets?”

Now that he mentioned it, the smell of semen was pretty strong on the air. Odds were good that even beyond whatever Arverik had contributed, Kenvar had made a pretty conspicuous mess on the sheets. Arverik laughed. “You might find me asleep by the time you finish yours, in that case.”

“I’ll be careful joining you, then.”

It really did sound like a wonderful end to the day.