So Sings the Choir
"Hello, ship."
Silent beeps, silent chirrups. And a few console-blinks.
"You remember me?" Graham asked. In a soft tone. He padded, in his bare foot-paws, from the back of the bridge to the front. "You look beautiful ... " His voice trailed, with familiar reverence. And an audible breath. "I see they've, uh, changed the carpet." He looked down. And shifted one of his foot-paws a bit, running his white-furred, blunt-clawed toes back and forth, back and forth. "Soft," he whispered, with a happy sigh. "And a slightly deeper shade of blue." A breath. Slowly, through the nose, an inhale. And then an exhale through the muzzle. The air was crisp, clean. Being freshly-recycled by the environmental control systems.
A moment of silence.
"I've missed you," the snow rabbit admitted. His bobtail flicker-flicked like a holy-white (and rejuvenated) flame. And, after a moment, Graham padded to the captain's chair. His captain's chair. It, too, was new. Same design. Same size. But he could tell it was new. It was the kind of thing a captain noticed. "And ... hello, chair," he whispered, putting his paw on the arm-rest. Which had tiny computer screens on it. And he winced a bit, remembering how he'd severely burned his paws when the screens on his old chair had exploded in a mess of sparks. But, still, he caressed the arm-rest. It hadn't been the ship's fault.
"Should I leave you two alone?"
Graham blinked, a bit surprised, and looked up. "Darling ... "
" ... checking on the progress?" She stepped out of the open lift. The doors swishing shut behind her (with that whooshing sound).
A slight, polite head-nod. "Yes." A breath, and he straightened his posture. "Repairs won't be finished for another week, but ... I had to peek. They've only done the bridge, B-Deck, and C-Deck, but ... she looks healthy." A breath. And he held it. And sighed it out. "I just hope that ... she will not need repairing again. At least," he added, "not anytime soon."
"I am sure our missions will be ... less hectic than the ones of late," Ada assured. "I would not worry about it."
"With responsibility comes a certain degree of worry. It is inherited."
Ada nodded in return, eye-smiling. "True. But does not Christ bear that? Have you not given up your burdens?"
"I have."
"Then I assure you," she said, brightly, "that no matter the mission, and no matter the outcome ... you will hold. This ship will hold. All," she whispered, "will hold. And all that is broken will be fixed." A contented, little sigh. And looking around the bridge. And a few blinks. Her bobtail flickered. "The carpet is a slightly darker shade of blue than it used to be. Is it not?"
"It is. Do you approve?" His eyes darted over her.
"I think I do, yes. It is ... pleasing. The color," she noticed, "of our eyes."
"You are right," Graham noticed, at a whisper. And this prompted an eye-smile from him. And a relaxed, rested sigh of his own. He was feeling much better than before. Doing much better than before. Over the past few days, he'd begun to mend. And was returning to his normal self. Whatever that was. But, truly, was there any 'self' to return to? To fall back on? He had grown, had changed. Even in the past few weeks. Slow changes. And slow maturations. Maybe the same as before. But maybe a little bit wiser.
"You never answered my question," Ada noted, padding to the railing behind the captain's chair. Putting her paws on the silvery railing, leaning seductively forward. Her furry-white ears, with their pink interiors and charcoal fringes, waggled. Waggle-waggle. "Should I leave you two alone?" was her repeat.
"Me and Yellowknife?" A gleaming, playful eye-smile, now. His cool, black nose giving a singular sniff. And his whiskers giving a singular twitch.
"Yes. You and Yellowknife."
"We are only friends, I assure you," was the polite, civil tease. The restrained ribbing.
"You were caressing her," Ada noted. "The chair ... " A nod.
"A moment of weakness. I was simply ... showing my affection." A nod. "A captain and his ship are said to share the same fate. They are said to be inseparable."
"So I have heard," Ada acknowledged.
"I have to know my ship. And she has to know me."
"That much," she admitted, "I understand. However, personification can be taken to extremes ... your ship will only go so far. It has not the soul you do. You are much brighter. Of much greater worth. And, in the end of it all, it is you ... and not the ship," she observed, "that will break beyond the farthest star."
"So sings the choir," he agreed, tilting his head in acknowledgment.
"So, in any case, I shall not lose you," she whispered, her voice equally playful as his was being, yes, but with a sudden tinge of seriousness. "I shall not lose you to a ship ... now," she assured, "or ever. I will not let you go down with one. Not if I can help it."
"So, the only one I am to be ... going down with," he offered, diplomatically, "is you?"
"Take that," she whispered, "as you will."
"Even as an innuendo?"
"It is not meant to be taken as such, but ... take that," she repeated, "as you will." Had snow rabbits been prone to wink, she would've winked. Instead, she just waggled her ears at him. "But, yes." An eye-smile. "The only one you shall be going down with is me."
"Well, I do assure you ... that my love for you far surpasses the love I have for this ship. You have nothing to worry about."
"Indeed not?"
"Indeed not. And you know as much. There should be no ... "
" ... doubt in my mind. There is no doubt. I am just giving you a ... reminder," she said, looking to him. Warmly. "I do know how you 'command' types get carried away."
"True enough."
"And, anyway, I needn't worry about such ... competition," she said, looking around again. "A big framework of metal and circuitry can only offer so much ... in the way," she whispered, meeting his eyes, "of fulfilment." A pause. "And pleasure," she added.
"Very," he whispered, "true." A bright eye-smile. As bright as he'd given in weeks.
And it relieved her so. To see him as such. To see him recovering. Regaining his confidence, his uniqueness. Crawling out of the dampness, the darkness. All that had been recently plaguing him. She was glad to have her husband back at his peak, in tip-top shape. For she loved him so. She loved him dearly. And his pain was her pain. And his joy was her joy. As long as they both should last.
"Try it. Just TRY it."
"Is that a dare? Are you ... "
" ... come on. Yes. Yes, it's a dare. I dare you," she egged, taking a defensive posture. Her big, brushy tail arched behind her. "No way you can ... "
... the marmot already breaking to the right. Faking it, the orange ball bounce-bouncing, and he sent it through his legs. From his right paw to his left paw, suddenly breaking to the left, and reaching the hoop, leaning back. A shot. A fade-away from the paint, and the ball bouncing off the glass. And ...
... swish!
Bounce-bounce-bounce.
"Well," Talkeetna said, panting, paws going to her hips. She squinted, trying to figure this one out. "Well, you got lucky there."
"Lucky, huh? Listen, we can do this again and again and ... "
" ... I just want to be fair on you, darling. I have to let you score SOME points."
"You did not LET me make that basket. You just couldn't stop me."
"Yeah, cause I didn't want to."
"You were the one that dared me to make it," he pointed out. "Why spend all that time riling me up ... if you weren't gonna try and stop me?"
"I was, uh ... look, who said we have to be rational here," the red squirrel said. And she made a funny, giggle-squeaking face, her whiskers all a-twitch. "I just don't like losing."
"I know you don't," the marmot whispered, smiling. And giving a marmot-whistle. His brushy tail brush-brushing in the air. They were in one of the station's simulation rooms. A simulation of a gym. With windows on the walls, at the tops, letting in the light. And the bleachers all empty. And sounds all echoing, going into the corners and coming back to them.
"Well, if you ... " The red squirrel was interrupted by a ...
... chirrup!
A sigh. And she tapped her comm-badge. "Yeah?"
"Sub-commander Talkeetna?" asked a snow rabbit voice. Not a snow rabbit that Talkeetna knew.
"Yes," she said, squinting.
"You are needed in ward room five."
"For what?"
"You are being summoned."
The channel was cut.
And Talkeetna looked to her husband. "Summoned?" she whispered. Not liking the sound of that word.
He tossed her the basketball.
She caught it.
"Want me to come with you?"
"Well ... " She dribbled the ball. Bounce-bounce-bounce. "They didn't say I, uh ... couldn't bring you along." She turned toward the basket. And took the shot. It bounced off the back of the rim. And off to the side, to the wooden floor. Bounce-bounce-bounce. And, sucking in air, and looking to the marmot, she said, "Just not my game, is it?"
"Not today," he whispered.
A slight nod. Her mind trailing. A meeting in ward room five? Why? She was on shore leave. Why would they be summoning her to ward room five?
"You made it sound urgent," Graham said, sitting in one of the cushioned chairs. Looking to Admiral Flint, who was standing in front of the eye-shaped windows that lined the wall.
"It is simply a matter of security," the Admiral stated, looking to the captain. And then to Talkeetna. As well as Antioch, who was sitting beside her. "I simply require you to be aware of the situation."
"So, how can a ship that big just ... go missing? And, anyway, isn't she ALWAYS missing?" Talkeetna asked.
"This is different. There were ... circumstances," Admiral Flint said, "behind the Illustrious's disappearance." He proceeded to explain. Or tried to. There wasn't much concrete information to go on.
"So, why are we concerned about this?" Antioch asked. "I mean, not to sound ... callous, but ... "
" ... the High Command had come to view Illustrious as ... well, under OUR jurisdiction. Kalmbach worked with us during the wasp war. He gave us information, and ... " The admiral sighed, trailing. And he shook his head. "Our species appreciates order. And he is as un-orderly as they come. We do not appreciate his actions. We asked him to help with the Federation border fighting, and he did not, so ... and then we learned of this incident." A pause. "The Federation wanted him dead."
"So, he's dead?" Talkeetna asked, eyes wide. "But I thought you said he was just ... "
" ... missing. Destroyed. We're not sure. Simply put: Kalmbach is a rogue force. I doubt he would work against us, but ... how can we be entirely sure? You know the type. He's a snow leopard. He could do anything at any given time. And, that being the case, we have to run under the assumption that he poses a potential security threat. I just wanted you to be aware of the situation. A ship that big, with that many crew-furs ... and it falls off the face of the universe?"
"So, this is just a case of a missing ship?" Antioch ached.
"Not entirely. There is another ... facet," he allowed, "to this." A pause. "There are rumors of a 'ghost ship.' Several long-distance freighters have sworn they have seen a 'behemoth' out in the in-between regions of space ... between here and the Federation."
"A ghost ship?" Ada said, speaking for the first time.
"One would assume it to be Illustrious, but the freighters report that ... the warp signature is not the same. Nor is the name on the hull. The Federation, from our intelligence reports, is extremely concerned. It is not one of theirs. Whatever the case, I thought it best that you be alerted."
"Does this mean, then, that we are to be back on border patrol?" Graham asked. "If you are telling us this, then that means Yellowknife will be out there."
"Not exactly."
"So, what will our assignment be?" Ada asked, curious. Her ears waggling.
"A mixture of things. Arctic is handling the diplomatic issues with the Arctic foxes, so you are not needed there. And I believe you have spent too much time on the border ... after all you've been through, I thought you'd appreciate being posted closer to home."
"That would be nice," Graham admitted.
"However, the exact details of your assignment have not been finalized. I will ... get back to you," he said, with a tilt of his head, "on that. In the meantime, I suggest you enjoy your leave."
His big, fleshy, dish-ears arched. Swivelled. Swivel-swivel. His head raising up a bit. "What was that?" was the wispy, wide-eyed whisper, whiskers all a-twitch.
Azalea, head propped up by a few, comfy-white pillows, whispered back, "Nothing ... don't worry." She was panting lightly.
Emerson remained still (or as still as a mouse could, which was not very).
Rumble-bumble-boom!
"Thunder!" was the airy, tail-wavering squeak. His pink, ropy tail flailing. A sharp, inward breath. "It's ... "
" ... hey. Hey. Calm down," she implored, brushing her warm thighs against his cheeks. Letting his whiskers make contact with her soft, brownish/greyish fur. For his head was, indeed, between her legs. Her bare legs. She gave a whimper-chitter, desperately wanting him to continue doing what he'd been doing.
A whisker-twitching, nose-sniffing, "It's ... it's thundering. Azalea ... " A pause. Ears slightly swiveling. More and more. "There's rain on the roof!" he squeaked.
She had to smile. At the innocence. His innocence. And, no, she didn't like it when he got scared, but it did accentuate his cuteness. "I know. I can hear it," was the western jumping mouse's response. Her own ears swiveling. A soft breath. And a sigh. Both of them in bed, in the dimness of this, their room. They were on the snow rabbit Home-world, actually, sharing a two-bedroom cabin with Seward and Aisling.
The two snow rabbits had been unable to find a single-bedroom cabin on such short notice. For the simple fact that very few cabins were 'one-bedroom' cabins. Because snow rabbits, as a rule, did not go on 'one-on-one' getaways. No, an isolated, rural house like this had multiple bedrooms to accommodate the multiple members of breeding parties. Basically, the cabin was meant to house 'orgies,' not private romances.
In any case, Seward and Aisling had needed another couple to stay in the cabin in order to be cleared to rent it. So, they'd asked the mouses, feeling they would be the least difficult cabin-mates.
"Well ... "
" ... well, it's spring here. It's a spring storm. It's outside, and it's not," was the soothing assurance, "gonna get us." Truth, be told, she felt the anxiety, too. But she was dealing with it better. Or, rather, was being less obvious about it.
"Mm. Well ... "
"Relax?" was the hopeful suggestion. Her heart pounding. She really, really wanted him to continue his 'ministrations.'
Emerson seemed to think for a moment.
Another low rumble of thunder. And the sound, now, of raindrops pat-pat-pattering on the windows. It was a soothing, humbling sound.
"Now, take a deep breath," Azalea said. "In through the nose and out through the muzzle."
A swallow, and another nod. And he did so.
"Good. Good," she whispered. "Now, uh ... " Her heart hammered in her breasts, and her paws clutched at the white sheets. "Please, uh ... you know ... please," was all she said. It came out as a plea. Her legs were still parted, willingly, allowing access. A squeaky sound, her tail side-winding on the sheets, her soft, furry belly rising and falling.
Emerson's eyes, pupils dilating so widely, widely, settled his gaze back on his wife's body. Her femininity, more specifically. Her sex. The flushed, velvety pink flesh, the folds like flower-petals. All of it so delicate. So ingrained into his instinct. His mind. Between her legs, he was hypnotized. And he drank her in further. The swelling little nub at the top of it all, poking out of its hood. He looked at that. Eyes darting. And her vagina. Hot, steamy, muscular tunnel. He licked his lips. Repeatedly. Panting. In a growing daze. The thunder, now, lost to him. His focus having returned to more important 'matters.'
"E-emerson, I'm ... I'm not a museum piece. You can touch, you know. Look AND touch," she said, needing his 'care.' A heavy sigh.
A weak squeak of acknowledgment. And he went into motion. Muzzle slinking, pushing forward. Into contact with her groin. Mouthing, sucking on the tufted, curlier, thicker fur that covered her mons. Huffing, eyes half-open, he tilted his muzzle and mouthed, mouthed, dampening her soft groin-fur with his saliva. And getting a nose-ful of her pheromones with every sniff.
A few light pants from Azalea, her head rolling to the side. Whiskers brushing against the pillowcases.
Emerson lusciously licked (with his modest tongue) around the perimeter of her vulva, now. Where the tufted fur gave way to pink flesh. There was a ring of 'fuzz' that served as a transition between fur and flesh, and he traced it. Lick, lick. Down, around, up. It felt silky on his tongue. And he licked, eyes closed, now. And moving back up, up. Tilting his muzzle the other way, nose sniffing fiercely, whiskers twitch-twitching against her labia. And he opened his lips a bit. Just enough to surround her clitoris.
Azalea tensed.
Suckle-suckle.
"Uh," was the squeaky cry. Unable to be helped. "Uh ... huh." Her eyes watered shut as the mouse began to paint the tip of her nub with his tongue-tip. Wet, hot tongue touching the super-sensitive, rigid piece of flesh. "Uh!" Her hips raised off the sheets, and then lowered back down, her long, thin tail going all over (with a mind of its own).
Emerson went for a moment longer. A moment longer. Before sliding down. An inch or two. Huffing, squeaking airily, hotly, and proceeding to simply break down and eat her pussy. There was nothing else for it. It was what he wanted! It was what he did. With greedy nibbles, sucks, mouths, and licks. Nose and muzzle buried in it, moaning from the throat in a squeaky way, getting the full, slightly-salty taste of her. And, his saliva mixing in, the taste getting more basic. But, still, it tasted of her. Of heat. Of sex. Of something primally sweet. And it was more an animal act, this. Was this civil?
Not civil, no.
But it needn't be.
For it was love, unleashed. Love, unchained. Love, let out. A fusion of mind, matter, want, form. Everything. Whatever was there. All he wanted was her. Her words, her touch, her body, her heart. And through taste and touch, he had her. And he could not get enough. He wanted more and more.
It was passion.
Within the confines of their married bond, their devotion, their faith. Oh, blessed, this act. Oh, Lord, bless this act. May we be drawn even closer to each other through this intimacy. May we come to love each other more and more. May we become as one. Oh, may we be pleasured. May we be safe havens for each other. Our arms as harbors. Our hearts docking together in the seas of our love. Our feelings like bats, all a-flutter, coming home to roost in our souls, where feelings are purified.
Oh, this was purity. In more than intent.
His tail wavered about in the air behind him, like a fishing line. Or a very happy snake. His muzzle pressing, easing. Pressing. Easing. Tongue slobbering on her folds, and lips nibbling every bit of flesh. Lick. Lick. Suck.
"Oh ... oh," Azalea breathed, eyes shut. Breasts heaving. The pleasure so warm, so tender. So good. So, so good. "Oh!"
The male mouse's tongue, now, trying very hard to lick-lap at the entrance to her vagina. There were juices there. Trickling out. He whimper-squeaked as he tried to lick them up. His entire consciousness flooded with femme mouse. Femininity. Sex. Azalea. "Oh ... Azalea," he went, panting hard, pulling his muzzle back. Licking his lips. His body was hot, fur matting with sweat. And his 'squeaky toy,' all five circumcised inches of it, was very pink, ticking ever-upward with blood, and drooling a single bead of pre from the slit. "I ... I ... " A desperate whimper-squeak. "I ... need to sow you. I wanna sow you," he panted, desperately, in a pleasured fog.
"Oh." A huff. A nod. "Then ... sow me," she breathed. "Come 'ere," she went, arms reaching out. She swallowed, looking so needy. Almost as needy as he looked. Both of them mouses. Vulnerable, emotional creatures, live-wires of energy. Survivors. You could put a mouse through a wringer, and you still couldn't kill its faith. Its spirit.
And the male mouse, all squeaking, all twitching, slid over the top of her body. Their bellies touching, belly-fur meshing. Her breasts squishing beneath his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, as best he could. Touching her all over.
She adjusted her legs.
He adjusted his hips.
A few moments of bumping and grinding. Panting and whimper-whining. The rain still drum-drumming on the glass windowpanes.
Sharp breaths!
Twitches!
And union was achieved.
Emerson shivered so hotly, pink nose sniffing, sniffing. "Ohhh ... ohh," he moaned effeminately, his mouse-hood smothered, covered by so-hot, so-wet, raw muscle. Raw femininity pulsing around his shaft. It felt so good. "Oh ... oh," he went, eyes screwed shut. His furry sac hung somewhat loosely, snugged to her vulva. Some of her femme-juices glistening as they trickled onto his sac-fur. His tail went all erect, and then went lax, and then snapped around. His whiskers brushed her own.
She tilted her head, and pressed her lips to his. Stole a kiss.
He stole one back.
And they traded little, whisker-touching kisses for a whole minute, it seemed. With their eyes closed and their bodies hot, and both of them being slowly tugged at by the tides of this. But their faith anchored them. Gave this purpose and meaning, and gave them the hope and knowledge of eternal life. Their love would truly never end. It was such a comfort to know that. To know that love was not merely imagined, and not merely fleeting. But a real, infinite force, one of such mystery.
"Mm. Mm," went Azalea, her arms and paws wrapped around his trim, bare back. Sucking on his lower lip. She clutched at the fur below his shoulder blades. Her genitals tingling, with that simmering feeling of 'fullness.' Soon to get fuller.
Emerson, getting over the initial daze, panting incessantly, gave another smack-smack before pulling his lips back to pant. Pant. And he began to move his hips. Began to pull back. And push forward. His stiff organ making a slick-slick sound as it slid in and out of her honey pot. It was such a simple motion. In and out. Back and forth. So simple. So plainly pure. For they were making love. And though both of them were flooded with a great deal of lust, it was, indeed, tempered by love. And it only served to strengthen that love. Lust was merely love's servant, after all.
Azalea, holding on, squeaked. Chittered. As she was gently (he was always gentle) driven into. As she was bred. As they made love on a world far from their homes, in a warm, rain-free bed in a cabin in the middle of the snow rabbit wilderness.
In the next room, the two snow rabbits were equally engaged. And equally oblivious to the spring storm that was passing overhead, with its rain and thunder-heads.
"Ah ... ahn. Nn," went Seward, erratically, on his back. Flat on his back. Or mostly. As his head, propped up by a pillow, was slightly raised. And, with Aisling's body slumped forward on top of his, he was able to suckle on a nipple.
The femme snow rabbit was at a pitched-forward straddle, shins and knees (of her strong, rabbit legs) on the cool, wrinkled sheets. Her groin, her hips pressed down, down. His penis inside her body. And the motions, the tempo, all of it under her control. She knew what she was doing. She lifted, slightly, and lowered fully. Again and again, a soft, steady 'bouncing' motion. "Uh ... uh," she panted, bouncing her hips, riding him, riding him. Mew! And then slowing down so she could lean up, up. Pulling her breasts away from his muzzle.
"W-wh ... " A weak mew, blinking. Wanting the nipple back. His bobtail, pinned between his backside and the mattress, tried to flicker.
She put a paw to his lips. Gently. To shush him.
And he opened his lips and suckled on her fingers, instead. Her furry, blunt-clawed fingers.
She sighed at this. Letting him do it. It was a nice sensation. (Though not as nice, granted, as the sensations coming from between their legs. But, still, nice was nice, and she loved all the kinds of nice!) She began to grind, grind her hips down against his, in a clockwise motion. In essence, steering his encompassed penis in little circles with her body, as if it were a 'joystick' (and it was, ultimately).
Mew! Mew.
Grind, grind. Sweaty, fur-matted grinding. Snowy-white fur to snowy-white fur, the heat, the pulsing, throbbing heat! They were both virile. Healthy. They both had so much steam inside of them. Both from the virility and from their emotional freezes. And, perhaps, in a way, snow rabbits used sex to vent the emotions that they could not express. Perhaps they transferred some of that emotional energy into their breeding. Was that why they were so virile? But, no, regular rabbits were just as virile as snow rabbits. It was rabbits, in general. Freezes or no freezes.
Rabbits were rabbits.
And, surely, such a gift (of virility) was a special one to have. Indeed, neither of them were complaining. Mouses had cuteness. Squirrels had agility. Felines had barbs. Canines had knots. And so on and so on. And rabbits were extra-horny.
But it was, wasn't it, a dichotomy. That such civil, logical creatures, such self-controlled creatures as snow rabbits were forced to break down (four times daily) into messy, grabbing, mewing, animalistic things. Such a transformation. Such a change going from here to there. But, oh, there was a beauty in that.
And, again, it came back to expression.
Snow rabbits could not express their emotions.
And, so, their main and purest form of expression, their main outlet, was sex.
And it was that way with most furs.
Sex was expression.
Of love.
Devotion.
Need.
Want.
Many, many things expressed in this. Many, many things that kept this from being a random act of 'bump in the night.'
It was, instead, a merging of souls. An exchanging of light.
He began to squirm, paws going to her bare, furry hips. He gripped them, holding to her. As if afraid to let go. Lest the pleasure stop. Lest the beauty go away. And, oh, what beauty and pleasure!
She mewed, herself, feeling his shaft brushing her walls. Every bit of his flesh contacting every bit of her muscle. Her vagina lightly rippling around his member as her own arousal increased.
And they went. And went.
Rocking the bed a tiny bit.
Their waggle-ears wilting from the heat of it, and both of them panting for water, water, water. They had to stop for a water break. And start up again. And stop once more (water, water). Finally, ready to make a go at the finale, the climax.
Ready!
His muzzle scrunched into a helpless, overwhelmed expression. A rabbit-bark ringing out. Another. Declarative sounds, followed by a string of mews, as he ejaculated with a spurt, spurt. A huff. A moan. And another spurt. Steamy-white rabbit seed filling her womb (though she was not in heat). And Seward sighed, feeling those blissful, electric jolts of pleasure shooting to his extremities. Mew. Oh, mew. He clutched at her fur, swallowing, muzzle opening. Pant, pant. A few lingering jerks of his member, and he just lay there, letting the pleasure wash over him. The satisfaction of having sown his love.
She stopped her movements, all of them (be it by instinct of conscious thought), which allowed his semen to better pelt her womb. Her fingers fiddled with her clitoris, and, "Uh ... uh." Mews. Rubbing, and hunched over, she felt the flutters begin. The spasms. The tremors. Like heated waves washing over her, knocking her senseless. So that she had no choice but to lay flat atop her husband while her vaginal muscles rippled and quaked, while the pleasure tingled her. While she mewed, mewed, and while she leaked of fluid, her bobtail flicker-flicker-flickering! Her ears drooped. "Oh ... oh," she gasped, giving a groan.
Seward's arms went around her back. He hugged her.
Her eyes blinked. And then closed. As she took deeper, stabilizing breaths. "Seward," she went. Just to say his name. Just to hear his response.
"Aisling ... I love you."
"As do I ... love you," she panted, "as well." A swallow. "Oh, thank you ... " So warm. As they laid there, together, unmoving, still joined.
He stroked her back with tenderness. Feeling her soft, scented fur. "It is I ... who should be thanking you," he responded humbly.
They were both grateful.
And both satisfied.
Oh, so satisfied!
Oh, thank you, dear God.
Oh, how beautiful comes our rest!
In the morning, in the kitchen, Emerson held a mug of orange juice with both paws. Taking delicate, dainty sips. He wore just shorts. His grain-colored fur a bit matted from a long night's sleep (and other activities). His tail hanging behind him like an unmoving, wayward fishing line.
And in stepped Seward (also only wearing shorts), giving a yawn and reaching, stopping to stretch. Leaning against the kitchen counter, extending his powerful legs behind him, bare foot-paws pushing off the floor. A groan of pleasant exertion. His muscles moving, straining. And he sighed as he eased up.
Emerson, mid-sip, watched. Blinking.
Eventually, the snow rabbit turned his head. "Good morning," was the polite nod.
"Good morning," was the shy reply, his whiskers twitching. And his nose sniffing the air. Seward hadn't showered after breeding last night. That was very evident. But, then, realized Emerson, you didn't shower, either. His nose probably knows that as well as yours.
"Is Azalea still sleeping?"
A nod.
"So is Aisling." A pronounced eye-smile. "I suppose we 'tuckered' them out."
His ears turned rosy-pink. "Well, I'm just ... a really light sleeper. I always wake up before Azalea does."
"I was making what they call a 'joke' ... though perhaps I am not very good at it."
"Oh, well ... yeah. I suppose we DID tucker them out. If, uh ... you put it that way." A breath. "As for humor, you'd be better off getting Cordova and Kempton to teach you jokes. They're laugh-a-minute," the mouse said. Though there was somewhat of a 'roll-eyes' tone in his voice.
A nod. And Seward went to the food processor, tapping a few buttons. "Carrot juice. Chilled." A whir, and a glow, and he removed the glass of carrot juice from the processor. Taking a healthy swig. "Have you ever had this?"
"Carrot juice?"
A nod.
"No, uh ... I only like fruit juice. I'm drinking ... "
" ... orange juice, yes. It is a bit too acidic for my taste. I prefer something more basic."
"Well, there are some good juices."
"Our world, as you've no doubt noticed, isn't the best for growing fruits ... as a result, my species prefers vegetables. Though I do like fruit. I am not saying that I don't." A pause. And he took another gulp of his carrot juice. "We were wondering ... " A trail.
Emerson, confused, blinked. And waited for a moment. Before asking, "Uh ... wondering what?"
"Aisling and myself. We were wondering which one of you has the cuter squeak." An arched brow, a singular whisker-twitch, and a few tail-flickers.
"Oh, uh ... oh. You, uh ... through the walls," he realized, remembering. His ears went rosy-pink, swiveling just a bit. Seward and Aisling must've heard the mouses breeding. Through the walls. (And he knew they must've cause he and Azalea had heard the snow rabbits.)
"The wooden walls of this cabin are not star-ship bulkheads. They are not soundproof in any way."
"Yeah." A pause. "Well, I gotta say that, on the ship? Those walls aren't entirely soundproof, either, if you know, uh ... you know?"
An eye-smile and a nod. "I do know. A night does not go by when I do not hear 'activity' through some bulkhead or another."
"But, uh ... I , uh ... " The mouse pause. He looked down at his own bare foot-paws, wriggling his toes a bit. "I didn't know snow rabbits could bark like that. I knew about the mews, but ... " He looked up, shyly.
An enigmatic head-tilt. "We can 'rabbit-bark.' At times. When we are very, very excited. But, yes, the 'mew' is our signature sound. Just as the 'squeak' is yours. But, like your species, we can make a few other noises ...
"Makes sense," Emerson whispered, biting his lip. He cleared his throat. And sipped at his orange juice again. A moment of silence. "So, the, uh ... the, uh ... "
" ... sex?"
A shy, blushing nod.
" ... most definitely, it was good," was Seward's sighing mew. Of satisfaction. And he looked the field mouse over. "You needn't be so shy. Talking of such things. I AM a rabbit. We are notoriously virile. Discussing breeding is ... not taboo."
"Well, I know. But it's ... I have a tendency to blush. Mouses are a bit more modest. Not that ... not to mean that you aren't modest. But ... "
" ... it is alright. I understand what you are saying." Seward downed the rest of his carrot juice and put the glass in the sink. And, looking to Emerson, asked, "How about you?"
"What?"
"Was it good for you? Last night? The sex?"
" ... yes. Uh ... uh-huh." A lip-biting nod. "Yes," was the sighing whisper. "Well, it always is. But it was so, so nice to be in a room. In a house. And not on a ship or a station, for a change. You know? To know that nature was outside my window? I mean, I was afraid of the storm, but ... once I let that go, I had a really good time. It just ... I slept better, too."
Seward eye-smiled, looking the mouse over. "I know the feeling."
"Well, thanks for inviting me and Azeala."
"You are most welcome. It is a pleasure to have your company. Later today, I thought the four of us could go on a wilderness walk ... pack our lunches. And then part and find separate places to 'do what furs do,' and then get back together. Walk some more. Make a day of it. Since you and your wife have never been on our Home-world, there are many plant and bird species I should like to point out to you. And perhaps the moons will rise during the daylight."
"Alright." A smile.
A pause. Considering the mouse, looking him over. "We have never really conversed, you and I. We serve aboard the same ship, but ... I do not really know you. Or Azalea. Not as much as I know some of the other crew-furs."
"We're kind of shy. At least ... well, I'm shy, anyway." A pause. "And Azalea and I are both operations officers."
"I know as much." The snow rabbit went to the food processor again. And ordered another glass of carrot juice (chilled). And he raised his new glass. "Friends?"
"Friends." Emerson smiled, dimples showing on his furry, grain-colored cheeks. He nodded, raising his orange juice mug. And then withdrawing it, he took another sip.
"You are taking an awfully long time with that orange juice."
"I am?"
"Yes. I have already finished one glass of carrot juice, and you are still not finished with your first glass of orange juice."
"Well ... " Emerson looked at his glass. "I guess I ... sip. I sip. I nibble. That's what mouses do. It's just habit, I guess. I don't even realize I do it ... I ... mm," he went, whiskers twitching.
"It is not a problem at all. Just an intriguing observation. My species, we have very ... voracious," he offered, "appetites. Not just when it comes to breeding. But to food and drink, as well."
Emerson nodded, listening.
Seward closed his eyes, trailing for a moment. "How long have you been married?" he asked, opening his eyes.
"Uh ... like, a year. Why?"
"As you know, my marriage is only weeks old. And ... I rely on Antioch to give me advice. On how a relationship should work. But, as I look around, I see that every relationship is ... different. I think it would benefit me to get multiple perspectives."
"Well ... "
" ... I would just like your permission to come to you. If I need ... advice," he repeated. "I am trying to be less detached. I am trying to emotionally-invest in those around me. And I am longing to form bonds of Christian fellowship. And your faith, as I have observed, is very pure. It ... it does inspire me. That kind of bright devotion."
"Really?" the mouse asked, shyly.
"Really." A nod. "Anyway, as I said," he repeated, lifting his glass. "Friends," was the statement.
Emerson nodded. And took a deep breath. "Well, as far as choosing your friends, Antioch probably has a more stable head on him. I know he does. So ... "
" ... why do you that?" A curious blink.
"Do what?"
"I have noticed it several times. And not just this morning, but when we all had supper last night. You are constantly putting yourself down. Not in obvious, harsh ways, but ... subtly, you are constantly degrading your abilities and your personality."
Emerson bit his lip, his eyes darting.
Seward straightened, concerned. "I am sorry. I did not mean to ... "
" ... no. No, it's okay," was the weak whisper. A swallow, and he fiddled with his tail. "You're right. But, uh ... I'm just not sure how to answer you. I don't know why I do that." He lifted his head and met the snow rabbit's gaze. "I just have ... self-esteem problems."
"And how do you deal with them?"
"With ... well, with God. My Savior. And ... Azalea." A pause. "I'm not the independent type. For too long, though, I ... I had to be. I was alone. And I'm not built to be. And it was ... painful," he whispered. "I just got lots of scars." He didn't elaborate on where those scars came from. What incidents. What traumas.
Seward nodded thoughtfully. Telling him, "I have scars, as well. Every-fur does. But no matter how much 'make-up' you apply to a scar, it does not change the fact that the scar is there."
"I know. I don't ... scurry," he said, "from my problems. I do lots of scurrying. But I try not to scurry away from ... you know, those kinds of things. I try to deal with them."
"You do not seem the type who would brush anything aside, no."
"I'll take that as a compliment, I guess."
"As you should." A head-tilt. And he looked around, and said, "Well ... what shall we do, now?"
"Well, you said you wanted relationship advice?"
The snow rabbit nodded.
"Well, one thing that I like to do for Azalea is to cook for her. Like, uh ... well, Azalea and Aisling are both still sleeping. So, I think we should cook a big, nice breakfast, and have it all ready for when they wake up."
An eye-smile. "That sounds like a good idea. I had not thought of that. I was simply going to wait until Aisling woke up ... "
" ... well, romance never waits." A smile, and a little squeaky sound. "But we can't just get the finished foods from the food processor. We should, uh, replicate the ingredients. And make something from scratch. Muffins. Waffles. Something. I don't think the cupboards are stocked with non-processed foods ... so, we'll have to replicate the fruit and stuff."
"Indeed," Seward stated, looking around.
"We'll think of something. We'll ... " The mouse finally finished his orange juice. And set the glass aside, on the counter. " ... we'll make them a really nice breakfast. They'll be impressed," he said, smiling.
Seward tilted his head. "Well, you must lead the way on this. I am not very useful in a kitchen."
"Alright. Well, first, would you check for a frying pan down there ... " A pointing of his paw.
And, so, the two male furs, their pelts messed and matted, casually dressed in their shorts, and as fully awake as they were going to be, moved to and fro, talking (about their wives, about Yellowknife, about nature, about faith, and lots of other things), gathering ingredients to make some kind of breakfast.