D'Argo kicked at the door of the storage compartment, spat a vile-sounding Luxan curse that Crichton's translator microbes absolutely refused to touch, and resumed pacing.

Crichton spoke up from his vantage point, sitting cross-legged atop a stack of crates. "You need to calm down before you pop an aneurysm or something, D'Argo. We'll get out when we get out. Moya can't help it."

"Moya and her frelling pregnancy," D'Argo muttered darkly, shoving a DRD trapped with them aside with his foot and pacing back across the cramped chamber. "Why she decides to lock all the doors on this tier when we're moving cargo in here is completely beyond me."

"Who knows? She's a ship, she's pregnant -- who knows what kind of mood swings she's having? Just relax a little, all that pacing makes me want to hurl."

D'Argo cocked his head and shot Crichton a look of mingled disgust, incomprehension, and grudging amusement. Crichton inclined his head apologetically, spreading his hands in both submission and appeasement. D'Argo heaved a gusty sigh and sat down across from him, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes.

A moment later he opened them, darting an aggravated glance at Crichton.

"What the hezmana are you /doing/?"

"Tapping my fingers. I was thinking of this old Bob Marley song, see, and it goes like -- "

"Spare me. If you begin to sing aloud I will be forced to kill you."

"Damn, get off the rag sometime, why don't you?" Crichton snapped.

D'Argo hissed menacingly, and Crichton sighed and shook his head. "You ought to see a doctor about that."

"What?" D'Argo asked.

"You must have been born without a sense of humor. I hear they can do amazing things with personality transplants these days, and you definitely need one."

"Shut up."

"Ahhh --" Crichton waved his hand dismissively, scowling.

"Pardon me if my sense of humor does not extend to being locked up in a stinking cargo hold with /you/. Now /shut up/." D'Argo said, murderous finality in his voice.

Crichton jumped down from the crates and walked around a little, stretching his legs and thinking evil thoughts about singing "I'm Hen'ery The Eighth I Am" just to fuck with D'Argo. /So humorless, goddamn! It's a shame/, Crichton mused, /because he's cute, in a way. Humorless, but cute./

Crichton turned his back to the nearest wall and slid down, sprawling in a comfortable heap at the bottom. Truth be told, he wasn't any happier than D'Argo was about being cooped up in here, especially given their track record and luck lately. /The way things are going, next we'll be invaded by murderous Smurfs from space or something/, John thought. But he was trying to make the best of it, even if D'Argo's caged tiger imitation was starting to wear thin. Messing with D'Argo by irritating the hell out of him was just a pale form of amusement compared to what he really wanted to do to him.

/Nope, Johnny, don't go there. You've never stooped to hitting on straight guys before, let's not start now./

Crichton had known since junior high that he liked men, but it was just easier to go with the flow and date women, considering that he wanted to be in the Space Program someday. Don't ask, don't tell, act like a good, all-American boy. After pretending long enough, he had convinced himself that it was just a phase, and by the time Alex had come along, he really felt like he could pull it off -- live straight and married and have kids and never once think about how he used to go home after football practice in high school and jack off, furious with himself for needing to and furious at the world for making him ashamed of needing to.

But then Alex had chosen her job at Stanford over him, and he had gone a little crazy. Even though by then he was already slated for the Farscape project, and had moved to a lonely little Houston apartment without her, he had risked it all, going to Montrose and the bars obsessively. He hadn't cared who saw him, hadn't cared who found out. It would have almost been a relief, at that point, to have someone catch him and make him stop.

But no one ever did. DK knew, and nagged him about the bars, worrying at him like a mother hen, but no one else ever caught on. DK had even gone to bars with him, figuring that he could protect John somehow, save him from himself, who knew what DK thought he was doing? The look on Deke's face the first time someone tried to pick him up had been priceless, almost worth the constant nagging.

What /had/ he been doing? Nothing, just looking, despite the fact that DK obviously thought he was having wild sex with anything with a dick. DK probably had vague, unformed fears that John was sticking his business in every gloryhole he could find, dropping to his knees and sucking anything that got waved in his face. In reality, he was flirting a little, getting a taste here and a taste there, kisses in the hallway outside the bathroom, a grope maybe...but mostly drinking too many expensive beers and watching the crowds surge around him, turning down offers to dance, to suck, to fuck. Then going home, alone. To replay the faces behind closed eyes while he brought himself off in an empty bed.

He sometimes wondered just what the hell he was waiting for. The right man? That was a laugh. All of it was funny, in a way. Not funny ha-ha, but funny strange. It was like...it was like it just wasn't /time/ yet. For what, John had no idea. /You waited too long, John Boy. Too late now./ Now he was here, on a ship with only one other male -- well, Spanky was a male, but definitely /not/ his type -- and a woman who reminded him so much of Alex with her prickly, sharp edges and not-too-carefully-hidden neuroses that he wanted her almost by reflex because she seemed so much like home. /Like that will ever happen. I've got about as much chance with Aeryn as I do with D'Argo./

D'Argo was a constant source of amusement for John these days. He wanted him, no getting around that -- once you got used to the alien thing, it was easy to let your eyes linger on shoulders and muscular arms and a narrow waist, to wonder just what sleeping with him would be like, what it would be like to be taken, to take. But D'Argo was also so damn solemn, so humorless, that picking at him was a way of letting off all that steam before it drove him nuts.

John knew he had zero chance with him. D'Argo would probably sooner skewer him with that security-blanket sword of his than react favorably to a pass, so John watched him and let it slide. Things weren't much different here, actually. He was still just looking, thanks. /I'm the only gay virgin in the Uncharted Territories/, John thought sourly. /I should get a fucking medal./

He watched D'Argo pacing, noting absently the way the big Luxan's muscles flexed and writhed under his tunic as he stalked back and forth, muttering a string of unintelligible curses constantly under his breath. The rings and the tattoos and the sheer /alienness/ of him fascinated John, and he knew that at times D'Argo caught him looking, but never said anything. /So he's not interested. It's not a crime to look./

He settled back against the wall, humming under his breath and happily cataloging all the places he wondered if Luxans differed from humans, even while feeling a certain amusement at himself for even thinking about it. Consequently, he was totally lost in thought when D'Argo stopped, sniffing the air loudly.

"Crichton, I've been meaning to ask you something. Now is as good a time as any."

"Huh?" John returned, startled and suddenly nervous. /D'Argo is talking to me, and we aren't about to die or anything. This can't be good./ "What?"

"I have noticed lately that when you are around me, your scent changes."

"Uh-huh. Sorry. My deodorant stopped working, right?" /OK, that door can open any time now, Moya. Yesterday, before this conversation started, would be nice./

"I am serious, Crichton," D'Argo said, stopping the pacing and standing over him -- looming, actually. John got to his feet and slipped past D'Argo, moving to the other side of the compartment.

"You're /always/ serious, D'Argo. You need to lighten up a little."

"You have not answered my question, Crichton."

"You never asked me one! You made a statement, you didn't ask me jack shit!" John said, now the one doing the cornered pacing.

"Oh." D'Argo stopped, mentally replaying the last few minutes of conversation. Talking to Crichton was confusing at best, but usually simply maddening. He opened his mouth to ask his original question, but Crichton interrupted, speaking desperately toward the ceiling.

"Pilot! Can't you get the door open yet?"

"I am sorry, Commander Crichton, Moya still has not regained complete control of the utilities on that tier. It is unlikely to change for the next few arns, as she is having difficulty maintaining the atmospherics on that level as well, due to her pregnancy."

"Crap." Slow suffocation would be preferable to this, John thought. Whatever D'Argo's getting at, I don't think I want to hear it.

"Ah, I remember what I was going to ask," D'Argo said, looking pleased with himself.

"What?" John asked suspiciously, more certain than ever that it was not a Good Thing D'Argo was going to ask.

"Why does your scent change around me?"

"Change how?" John asked.

"You smell as if you are thinking of coupling, as if you are in heat for a mate."

"Um." John said. /Suspicion confirmed. This is bad./

"I at first thought it was just the way human males smelled. You emit the same scent around Aeryn at times. But never Rygel, very rarely Zhaan, and never with any being we have met planetside. So it must be some kind of mating instinct. Is that so?"

"Shit."

"Why do you say that so often, Crichton? Is it some kind of utilitarian word, the way you greet us with 'Hey'?" D'Argo asked, face creased in puzzlement.

"Can we stick with one question at a time here? What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?"

D'Argo stayed silent. It was usually better to not fall into the trap of asking Crichton to explain his Erp nonsense -- a lesson they had all learned through painful experience.

Silence. Crichton had stopped pacing and was staring fixedly at the wall, his face red and flushed. That scent of desire was still there, but mixed now with the tang of anger and shame. D'Argo did not understand, and was just about to ask for clarification when Crichton spoke.

"Look, D'Argo...I guess I might as well tell you. I'm gay."

D'Argo rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Crichton, I don't give a frelling dren how happy you are! I want to know why you smell that way."

To his surprise, Crichton began to choke, turning an even more vibrant red. D'Argo moved toward him to thump him on the back but stopped in his tracks when Crichton let out a whooping bray of laughter, bending over and holding his belly as he giggled helplessly.

"That was fucking priceless! Happy! Fuck, that's it, I'm one happy motherfucker!" Crichton sank down the wall again, snickering. "I'm a happy homo!" More laughter. "Damn, D'Argo, it's a good thing I took a piss before we got stuck in here or I'd be sitting in a puddle. Happy...shit." He looked up at D'Argo, who was standing over him, hands on hips, looking as if he could not make up his mind to be confused, furious, or a combination of both.

"Explain," D'Argo commanded.

"OK, the deal is that I like men," John said.

"And? I like men as well. That does not explain why you smell as if you want to frell my brains out and have never seen fit to tell me so."

"No, no, no -- I /like/ men." Crichton said, carefully emphasizing "like."

"Yes? /And/?"

"I don't think you get it, D'Argo -- "

"I have never 'gotten' anything you say, Crichton! I also like men. What does that have to do with this?"

"I mean, you asshole, that I am sexually attracted to other men! Want me to draw you a goddamn picture?"

"Oh." D'Argo said.

"Yeah, /oh/. Now that you've completely humiliated me, can we drop the subject?"

D'Argo thought for a moment. "And you are sexually attracted to me?"

"Yes," Crichton said sullenly. "You gonna kick my ass now?"

"No," D'Argo answered, looking confused again. "Why should I be angered? It would have been polite of you to say something to me about it, however."

"Yeah, right. 'Hey, D'Argo -- wanna fuck?' That would have been real polite."

"No," D'Argo began gently, as if instructing a wayward child, "Among Luxans, it is considered polite to at least acknowledge sexual desire for another, even if it is not acted upon, since we are sensitive to the changes in personal scent. It is not so with humans?"

"No. Especially if the person you're attracted to is the same sex."

"Why?" D'Argo looked more puzzled than ever.

"Because -- well -- you aren't supposed to be attracted to somebody who's the same sex. It's wrong. Or at least most people think it is."

"I see. Luxans believe that it is not the gender which is important -- it is the spirit inside. It is not uncommon for warriors to have male lovers, or for women to take female lovers...they call them 'heart-sisters.' Loving the same sex is taboo among humans?"

"Big time. I'm mostly attracted to men, but I always dated women because I was just supposed to. It was easier." John looked up and saw that D'Argo's puzzled expression had softened to one he was unaccustomed to seeing on the big Luxan's face, and so it took him a moment to identify it as compassion.

"And this...taboo...is why you never approached me about your attraction?" D'Argo asked.

"Yeah," John answered. "Back on earth, if you made a pass -- " D'Argo frowned, and John hastily clarified. " -- expressed your attraction to a man who wasn't gay, who didn't like men too, you would probably get the crap beaten out of you. I was afraid if I said anything about it you'd chop me in half with that sword of yours."

D'Argo relaxed a little and squatted in front of John, putting himself at eye level. "No, John. I would not have. I assumed that you were attracted to me physically, but found me unpleasant to spend time with. I could not think of another reason why you would not have approached me."

"You're not mad?" John asked, searching D'Argo's face.

"No. I am quite pleased, in fact. I find you attractive. Confusing, but attractive." He smiled, and John found himself forgetting that he had ever thought D'Argo was humorless and solemn. D'Argo's eyes held a warmth and secret amusement that he had never noticed before, and he felt desire for him thread through his veins, surprised when D'Argo seemed to scent it in the air. He leaned closer to him, cocking his head slightly as if he was wondering what John would taste like.

"So if I had said something, you would have said -- "

"I would have said yes, I want to 'fuck' you," D'Argo answered, stumbling a little over the unfamiliar word.

John felt his face stretching into a wide smile of disbelief and wonder. /I think I just got whacked with the goofy stick. D'Argo said he wants to fuck me. When did this conversation take a left turn into La-La Land?/

D'Argo watched him for a moment, smiling back, and then reached out one hand to touch John's cheek, testing the texture of his skin, trailing a fingertip along his cheekbone.

"Well?" D'Argo asked finally.

"Well, what?" John said, leaning into the caress, feeling his eyes slipping closed.

"Is there some ritual that your people follow when they couple for the first time?"

"Oh. No. We just...do it. Um. D'Argo?"

"What?"

"Are you sure you want to do this? You want to -- to fuck me? I mean, are we on the same page here?"

D'Argo sighed. "I will never, never understand you."

"I mean, you want to...have sex with me. Penetrate me, I guess is what I mean." John was blushing again, and D'Argo smiled.

"Or you can penetrate me, if you prefer. I would enjoy either." D'Argo's hand trailed down from John's cheek to the collar of his T-shirt, stroking the exposed flesh of his throat, and John shuddered.

"Well...actually, if you get right down to it...I've never done it. With a man, at least." John spoke fast and low, looking down at his hands, clenched tightly in his lap.

"Never." D'Argo said quietly. Not a question, this -- just a repetition, as if he were dumbfounded by it.

"OK, look, if you'd rather not get into all this, we don't have to, we can just pretend this conversation never happened, let's just forget it." John started to get up, and D'Argo gently pushed him back down.

"I will /not/ forget it, John Crichton. Do you want me to be your first?" D'Argo shifted his grip from John's shoulder to grasp his chin and forced his face up to his.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." John looked up, meeting D'Argo's eyes, and that hot rush of desire hit him all over again. "When? Now?"

"No. We will require time, and privacy. If we ever get out of this frelling cargo hold, you will come to my quarters during the sleep cycle. Agreed?"

John nodded, struck speechless. D'Argo grinned, amused by a silent Crichton, and leaned forward to kiss John softly on the lips. John jumped, startled for a moment, and then kissed him back, hesitantly. They parted, John looking at him with that strangely alluring flush spreading across his cheeks, and before D'Argo could comment on it, Pilot's voice spoke out.

"I have good news -- Moya has regained control of the utilities on your tier, and is attempting to open the door as we speak."

"Thank you, Pilot," D'Argo said, and rose to his feet, extending a hand to help John up as well. Behind him, he could hear the hiss and thump of the door opening, and leaned toward John.

"Come to my quarters later on, John Crichton. I will be waiting for you." He turned and walked out, leaving a bemused and nervous human behind him.

* * * * * *

John stomped back into his quarters, wishing mightily for a good old fashioned door to slam. Really hard. The kind of top-of-the-line doorslamming that only a solid-core wooden door could provide, the kind that shook the whole fucking house on its foundation and whose bang! would echo sonorously in the ear. Passing your hand over a door control just didn't have the same kind of oomph.

He settled for kicking the table, and then wished immediately that he hadn't. His foot hurt, the table remained unmoved either by the force of his kick or the depth of his frustration, and he wasn't sure if the table was just a piece of furniture or part of Moya. He froze, wondering if Pilot was going to reprimand him for kicking the damned ship, and relaxed when no chastisement was forthcoming.

He could not relax completely, however. The rest of the ship was silent and dim, and on any other night, he would probably be the only one still awake. /Well, not night, sleep cycle/, he amended silently. Still, at this time, he'd be the only one up. But this was not any other sleep cycle. He had an appointment to keep in D'Argo's quarters, but he couldn't just /go/ to D'argo's quarters, because that little toad Rygel was still up, stuffing his face in the galley. Every time he went out in the corridor to listen, he could hear Rygel chomping away at whatever disgusting delicacy he had found this time. Hence, the stomping in and out of his quarters.

The last thing he needed was to run into Rygel on his way to skulk into D'Argo's cell so that he could get his brains fucked out. Or, God forbid, have Rygel wander past, full of food cubes, and see what was going on in there. Which was another reason, he realized, that old-fashioned doors might not be such a bad idea around here. With the cell doors closed, even if he was doing nothing more shocking than sitting around, he felt as if he was on display in a gilded cage. Not to mention that having the DRDs running around meant he was virtually the star of a 24 hour webcam -- a Pilotcam? /Oh, no, no, let's not imagine Pilot watching this, no, turn that thought off./

He tried to organize his thoughts into some semblance of order about just what he was getting himself into, exactly what D'Argo had been offering and if it was such a good idea, but every time he tried, the big head lost out to the little one. His brain insisted, as it had numerous times over the last few arns, on conjuring up wild speculations of just what he and D'Argo might be doing right now if Rygel wasn't such a pig.

He shifted uncomfortably. Painfully hard couldn't even begin to cover the state of his cock right now. Sitting down was damn near impossible with pants on, unless he wanted to break something, or sit around with his fly unzipped -- he saw, in his mind's eye, D'Argo unzipping his pants and reaching in to stroke his cock, and he felt himself twitch in reaction -- and walking around just made it even worse. His boxers and pants rubbed against painfully sensitized flesh and made him even harder.

He moved over to the bed and lay down carefully, stretching out and trying to relax. /As soon as I hear Rygel go back to his quarters, I'll get up/, he promised himself, but it wasn't long before his tired and overwhelmed brain gave up and he slipped into sleep.

* * * * * *

John woke with a start, feeling that fuzzy-headed, sweaty, uncomfortable, fell-asleep-when-you-shouldn't-have feeling. He glanced up at the clock -- four arns into the sleep cycle -- and down at his cock, which was still hard. Shit. D'Argo was probably pissed as hell now, since he no doubt assumed John had stood him up. Going over there now would probably get his ass kicked, not fucked. /I better just let it lie, talk to him in the morning/, John thought, settling back against the pillows.

After a moment, he got up and undressed, deciding that the best thing to do would be to go back to sleep. He stripped down to his boxers, hesitated, and took them off as well. /Get rid of this problem of mine, THEN go to sleep/, he amended silently, glancing down at his hardon. Laying down on the bed again, he threw one arm over his eyes, pulling the sheets up with the other and then sliding it down beneath them.

/I'm never gonna sleep if I don't take care of this/, he thought. /Once again, the last gay virgin resorts to jacking off. Shit, I am so pathetic./ He wrapped his hand around the base of his cock, stroking slowly upward and back down in a measured, leisurely rhythm, pausing to run his fingertips around the crown. In his mind, he pictured a hot, willing mouth following the path his hand took, tongue swirling around to tease the slit in the head. He removed his arm from over his face, keeping his eyes tightly closed, adding his other hand to the sensation.

He dragged the first two fingers of one hand down the underside of the shaft, imagining the tongue licking down his length, closing his other hand in a fist around the head and squeezing gently. He had played this game with himself over and over, trying to simulate the kind of blowjob he had always wanted: a knowledgeable, practiced suck from a man who knew what to do, what felt good. He'd gotten head from women before, but none of them had ever seemed to know exactly what to once they got down there. Either they took "sucking cock" too literally and made him feel as if he'd stuck his dick in a vacuum cleaner, or they were too tentative and gentle to give any real sensation.

Speeding up the strokes a little, he let his mind wander, dropping his free hand down to cup his balls. /I wonder how D'Argo would feel, how he would do this/, he thought, and a wave of regret for screwing up his chance to find out mingled with a bright, searing rush of desire washed over him. Losing all control, all objectivity about picturing some unspecified someone doing this to him, he gave in and pumped his cock hard, seeing flashes behind his closed eyes of D'Argo sucking him, turning him over and fucking him, sweaty, wild, driving into him. Moaning between clenched teeth, he plunged his hand up and down on his cock, rushing toward coming, simultaneously more turned on than he had ever imagined being and disgusted with himself for jacking off furiously to D'Argo's image in his mind.

"John?"

The voice came from close by, and John gasped and snatched his hand away from himself, scrabbling for the sheets that had slid away, down his body. He opened his eyes -- D'Argo stood by the side of his bed, shirtless, wearing loose black pants. Watching him.

"D'Argo, I was just -- I -- "

"I smelled you, smelled your desire." D'Argo knelt on one knee by the bed, looking into his eyes steadily. "I need to know, John. Did you change your mind?" He paused, searching John's eyes again. "Or did you lose your nerve?"

"I was waiting for Rygel to -- and I fell asleep waiting -- and godammit, I hate when you look at me like that. Yes, I lost my nerve." He pulled the sheet up higher, closing his eyes and wishing D'Argo would just go away and leave him with his shame. A warrior like D'Argo would have no respect for him after an admission of cowardice like that. Things would go back to the way they had always been -- D'Argo feeling disgust for such a weak, primitive human. And he would be left wanting something he could never have.

"John." He felt the sheet being pulled away, and he opened his eyes to see D'Argo leaning closer to him, filling John's vision with his exotic, alien features and flooding his senses with his spicy scent, with the warmth almost baking off of him.

"If you wish for me to stop, say so." D'Argo's voice was low and soothing, the rumble that John had so often found frightening softened into something warm and rich and seductive. He wanted to respond, to say something, anything, but D'Argo seemed to understand when the words refused to come.

"There is no shame in fearing the unknown, John. Dishonor comes when we allow fear to rule us." The hand that had pulled away the sheet came to rest on John's bare chest. "Yes or no?"

"yes," John whispered, and felt himself flinch when the hand was removed from his skin -- he resisted the urge to glance down to see if a mark showed on his chest from the heat and promise in D'Argo's touch. Instead, he looked up at D'Argo, watching as he stripped off the pants he wore and slipped into the bed with him. After a few moments of turning and shifting to give D'Argo room, John ended up lying on his side, looking at the being sharing his bed.

D'Argo's skin almost glowed, a few shades darker than the slick gold sheets they lay on, and John noticed for the first time that he had unbraided his mustaches, leaving them to flow in a rippling tide over the tattoos that lined the side of his chest from throat to belly. He glanced back up at D'Argo's face, and D'Argo nodded, as if he understood that John just needed to look, to examine him.

Reassured, he continued looking, noting the fine dusting of light red hair, the same color as the long hair that hung down D'Argo's back, over his chest and stomach. The pattern of the hair narrowed to a point above a set of five ridges across D'Argo's lower belly, stopping there completely. Curious, he reached out and brushed a finger along the topmost ridge, jumping a little when D'Argo gave a gasping sigh under the touch. D'Argo's cock twitched, drawing John's attention. John noted with relief that it was about equal in size to his own, but differed in that it was smoother, having no discernible ridge around the head. Looking closer, John saw that it also had a faint ring of scar tissue where the crown of his own cock would have been, presumably from D'Argo's self-performed circumcision as a young boy.

John stroked the ridge on D'Argo's belly again, and D'Argo moaned, his cock pulsing against his leg. John glanced back up at D'Argo, and he read the question on John's face immediately.

"They are called mivonks. They produce ejaculate and sperm." He paused, reaching down to jar John's hand into movement again, and John complied, his touch drawing another gasping noise of pleasure from D'Argo. "And they are very sensitive," D'Argo added, his voice slightly shaky.

For some reason, the shaky note to D'Argo's voice, and the obvious pleasure in John's touch it implied, freed him somehow. John nudged D'Argo over onto his back and knelt next to him, exploring his body with his hands, leaning down to taste the skin of D'Argo's throat, marveling inwardly at a sweetness where he had expected salty sweat. D'Argo's skin was much warmer than his own, startlingly so -- suddenly John needed to feel that heated skin against every inch of his own, and he swung one leg over D'Argo's hips, straddling him and pressing against him.

They gasped in unison as their cocks came into contact, and D'Argo reached down between their bodies, feeling cautiously past John's hard cock and cupping his balls in the palm of his hand. John moaned, dropping his face to the hollow of D'Argo's throat and nipping lightly at the tough, smooth skin there.

"John, what -- ?"

"Are those?" John finished for him. "They're called testicles, the same thing as your mivonks, just outside my body instead of inside," John thrust his hips as he said 'mivonks', and the head of his cock skated across the sensitive ridges. D'Argo laughed, the sound rumbling in John's ears, and squeezed experimentally with the hand cupping John's balls.

"Oh, man...they're...also...very sensitive," John gasped.

D'Argo pulled his hand away, wrapping his arms around John and turning them both over, moving to lie at John's side. For the first time, John was very aware of the difference in their sizes, of how easily D'Argo could lift him, of how strange it was to lie beside someone bigger and stronger than he was. It should have bothered him, but he found the disparity exciting. Standing, D'Argo towered over him by a good seven or eight inches, but lying next to him, faces level, he could feel D'Argo's hardness against him at midthigh. Looking up at him, he realized they had not even kissed yet, so he wound his fingers in the long hair beneath the tentacles and pulled D'Argo's face down to his for a kiss.

D'Argo kissed him back for a moment, then pulled away.

"What's the matter? Don't Luxans kiss?" John asked.

"Of course we do. But I have not had a chance to look at you yet," D'Argo answered, stroking one hand from John's chest down to his thigh.

"Oh. Okay," John settled back, realizing that he must have had the same expression on his face a few minutes ago, as he had looked at D'Argo for the first time. D'Argo was studying him closely, carding his fingers through the hair on John's chest, rubbing his thumb over one nipple and smiling when John murmured appreciatively.

D'Argo seemed fascinated by the hair on John's chest, so much thicker than the fine down on his own. He followed the path of curls down to John's groin, seeming to marvel again at the wiry pubic hair he encountered. Finally, he wrapped his hand around John's cock, scooting down so that he could look at it as he stroked and petted it, testing the flared rim of the head with a moistened finger. He glanced up at John's loud moan when he licked his finger again and probed at the slit, drawing his finger back to taste the clear fluid leaking from it.

"You taste different," he commented, and John laughed unsteadily, aching for D'Argo to stop fucking around and do something.

"Yeah, I probably do." John squirmed on the bed, thrusting his hips up and pushing his cock into D'Argo's loosely-curled fist. D'Argo smiled, tightening his grip and sliding his hand, with excruciating slowness, down the length of John's shaft.

"Jesus, D'Argo, have some pity on me, and quit teasing me like that," John said, on the heels of a hissing sigh.

"Fine," D'Argo murmured, and moved up to lie face to face with John again. He reached for one of John's hands, and brought it to his cock, guiding John to stroke him in time with his motions on John's own cock. John caught on to the idea and they began to stroke each other, curled fingers grazing and glancing off as they tried to match the other's rhythm. John twined his free arm around D'Argo's shoulders, pulling himself forward so that he could kiss him, the intensity of the kiss rising as the speed of their hands increased and grew erratic, almost convulsive.

Both of them were moaning into the other's mouth, bodies moving together, leaving barely enough room for the frantic hands trapped between them. John came first, throwing his head back and letting loose a long cry, and at the first feel of hot wetness on his belly and hand, D'Argo followed him into it, their voices rising and falling in unison.

Panting harshly, John relaxed, feeling boneless and melted. D'Argo lay next to him, eyes closed, his forehead pressed against John's. After a moment, John realized his hand was still wrapped around D'Argo's cock, and he squeezed gently, milking the last of D'Argo's thin, slightly rose-colored come from him.

"How did you know to do that?" D'Argo asked, and John raised his eyes, having been caught up in watching his hand on D'Argo's slowly softening shaft.

"What? I just wanted to."

"It's similar to my blood. It must be clear, or there is a chance of infection." D'Argo explained softly, looking down at John's hand on himself. John rested his forehead against D'Argo's again for a moment, both of them watching him stroke and pull gently until the fluid being forced out was clear and no trace of the rosy tint remained.

"Like that?" John asked, bringing his fingers to his mouth and tasting, tentatively. It tasted like mown grass smelled -- sharp but pleasant, almost like John had imagined the color green would taste when he was a child.

D'Argo murmured something indistinct in response to John's question, his breathing evening out and becoming a regular, tidal rush in John's ear. John lay awake for a while longer, waiting for it to become awkward and for the guilt or remorse or fill-in-the-blank to hit him. When it didn't, he fell asleep as well, and in his half-dreaming mind he lay with D'Argo under a clear sky in a field of cut grass, smelling that scent mixed with the salty tang of an ocean somewhere just out of his view.

END "Happy and Gay"