Not Even the Lightning Bugs
It was warm, a summer's evening. Early July, still in the season of fireflies (or, as Field preferred to call them: lightning bugs). They dizzied and dazzled, blinked on and off, neon yellow-green with phosphorescence, bobbing like little, electric champagne bubbles above the verdant fields and pastures. How many were there? Did they number like the stars? Where did they sleep during the day? They had to be the most innocent of bugs. Providing such beauty, doing no harm. As if God had made them exclusively for such a purpose: to give enjoyment to others. To put on pleasing shows.
Spark-a-park, they went.
Blinkity-blinkity-blink.
The air was still, no real breeze to speak of. It wasn't as hot as it'd been a few weeks ago, when mid-90's had been the daily occurrence. Today, low 80's, wispy clouds. The kind of clouds that obscured the sun just enough to make good photography impossible. Creating a hazy half-light that drove the eyes mad. Either be bright or be dim, sky. Don't play shade-games with my eyes! It was cooler, now, obviously. At twilight. As the sun was dipping closer to its horizon-bed. But even though it was 8:25, it wouldn't be totally dark for another hour, hour and a half. Daylight savings time making long summer days even longer. And there was a full moon tonight, wasn't there? So maybe not so totally dark, after all.
But nature surrounded, like a flower, flourishing. God's infinite, intricate grace painted, proclaimed. And, oh, in this rural isolation, and in the midst of such love, resting in his own home, Field could only feel humbled and blessed. To complain or harbor any bit of cynicism would be a disservice, would be blasphemy. He was content.
He sat in the kitchen, at the table, sipping a glass of raspberry iced tea and talking to his wife, Adelaide (the pink-furred bat). Their daughter, Akira, a mouse-bat (or bat-mouse, depending on who you asked; Field adamantly declared her to be a mouse-bat, which is what her legal designation was; Adelaide, though, would insist on Akira being a bat-mouse; it wasn't a contentious argument, just a bit of fun, recurring teasing).
Their daughter was in her high-chair munching on bugs (which made Field wrinkle his nose; but bats' diets required insects, and Akira was half-bat). His daughter eating bugs was one thing. But when Adelaide tried to slip bugs into his own food (as she very often did), he would get worked up. She would playfully put them in spaghetti sauce, muffins, soups. Each time, hoping the mouse wouldn't notice. But with his incessantly sniff-twitching nose, he always did. Which brought about much wide-eyed squeaking as he daintily tried to pick them out, posing, 'I kiss a muzzle and lick a tongue that eats bugs!' Adelaide would just giggle-chitter, her deep-pink eyes sparkling, replying, 'And you usually enjoy it, too. Your problem is you think too much.' A wink. 'Thinking works you up.' And the mouse, in turn, would just give a begrudging smile.
Anyhow, husband and wife talked.
" ... but I weed-eated, mainly. For most of the morning, until lunch." A sudden pause. And whiskers twitch-twitching, one of Field's paws slowly traced the edge of the wooden table. Blunt-clawed, furred fingers moving, moving. Stopping. He cleared his throat, blinking a few times, blue-grey eyes going a bit distant. Before he blinked again and his gaze cleared up. "Or is it weed-ate? Weed-eat, weed-eated? Weed-ate?" Field made a frown-face, biting his lip. "I'm just not sure," he whispered, as if this were of great concern. He had obsessive-compulsive tendencies. They'd been, at one time, extremely bad. Before he'd met Adelaide. But in the two years they'd been married, she'd eased him up, smoothed him over. And a lot of those nervous tics and compulsions and melted away, resulting in a more confident creature.
Adelaide just smiled, not bothering to hide her amusement. She was sitting in a chair close to him. A lick of her lips, and, "Does my mouse find himself in a grammatical conundrum? Mm?" Her sharp, pearly-white fangs were visible. Oh, but what those fangs could (and would, later) do!
"Yes," was the sighing response, with more whisker-twitches of consternation. He met her gaze. Whiskers twitching, twitching, as a rodent's whiskers were prone to do. Even in sleep, even in repose, his nose and whiskers were ever-active. It was the cutest thing. Adelaide never tired of it.
"Gonna be able to gnaw a hole in this one? Enough to wriggle out of?" she asked.
"I don't know," he went, with worry in his tone.
Adelaide bit back her mirthful chitters. But her pink eyes seemed to sparkle. She leaned back in her chair, letting out a soft, little breath.
"Gonna drive me crazy, now," Field continued, quietly. "Not knowing whether it's weed-eated or weed-ate. There's no such word as eated, but it's a weed-eater, so I weed-eated with it, right?" Eyes a bit wide, he looked to her again. As if wanting her to give a judgment.
So, she did. But, knowing that to say something like 'does it matter' would only make him feel bad (and she never wanted that), she indulged him with a kind, "Weed-eated. I'm pretty sure it's weed-eated."
Relaxing, the mouse gave a sigh. "Mm. That sounds right. Yeah." Another breath, leaning back in his own chair. And he smiled. Both of them with easy postures, unrushed intentions. Both of them simmering. Summer, after all, was the sultriest season, was it not? Maybe winter was steamy. And maybe autumn was spicy. And maybe spring was, well, springy. But summer was definitely a time for sultriness.
Adelaide smiled back at him, giving him an obvious wink. As if to say: obsessive-compulsive mind-scurrying thwarted! A tongue-ful, to be sure. Even when not said. And her wink also letting him know that his quirks weren't as bad as he believed them to be. That his differences didn't put her off. He needed constant reassurance, constant reminding. Constant care. Mouses were very fragile creatures. To some, not worth the effort. But the love and emotion they gave back to you? Was worth the investment. She'd come to know as much. And, besides, bats were flighty, headstrong things, with a tendency for dominance and taking other furs under their wings. And Field, being shy and submissive, was perfect for 'wing undertaking,' as it were.
"Anyway, after, we ... "
" ... so, what'd you do?" Adelaide asked, raising a brow.
" ... well, we did some pruning," he continued. His thin, silky-pink tail snaked a bit behind his chair. This way and that, as if with a mind of its own. What a tail to grab, to reel in! What a thing to watch! "Hoed the tomatoes, cucumbers. The back patch of corn? Too many thistles there. The spray didn't get 'em or something." A slight, tired yawn. He loved being outdoors all day, rather than being stuck in a building. He loved working in the countryside, very close to home. But all-day manual, physical labor did tucker one out. It used up quite a bit of his mousey scurry. But, oh, even so, there was plenty of scurry left! He was, indeed, one hundred percent pure-bred field mouse. If there was one thing he had plenty of, it was scurry. "Thistles are the worst. Even when you're wearing gloves," Field went, trailing. The honey-tan mouse worked at an apple orchard/farm market a mile from their rural home. Another pause. And, tilting his head, he said, "But when I weed-eat, you know, I'm always afraid I'm gonna hurt the toads. They hide in those. And the bees, too. They like those little, white clovers. You know? The purple-white clovers?"
The pink-furred bat nodded.
"And those are in with the weeds, so I try to make sure I don't weed-eat the clovers if bees are on 'em. And if any toads hop out, I pick 'em up and put 'em somewhere else."
"You've always been overly-gentle," was Adelaide's knowing whisper. Field couldn't bring himself to hurt a thing. He was, as she'd said, so, so gentle. An effeminate, artistic soul, he had a light, caring touch. He had a lot of finesse. The one thing he would lash out at, though: wasps. He was acutely terrified of wasps. To the point where he couldn't bring himself to approach them with a flyswatter. He had to grab a can of bug-spray and tremble all over as he tried to get them from across the room. If Adelaide was around, she'd step in and take care of it for him. Often joking, 'I'd eat it for you, and take care of it that way, but I'm afraid bats don't eat things with stingers.'
So, no wasps. Definitely not. But he actually liked bees. A beekeeper had once kept bee-boxes on his family's farm. He'd often get close to them and watch, big, dishy ears swiveling back and forth at the drone. Plus, bees made honey. And they didn't hurt you unless you threatened them. Wasps didn't need any motivation. Even if you were leaving them alone, wasps would come for you. They were territorial and aggressive. Bees were passive and respectful. At least, in his experience.
Adelaide continued, when Field didn't say anything to her remark, "Overly-gentle's not a bad thing, of course. You know that. You shouldn't think it equates to weakness or lack of masculinity."
"I'm not the most masculine male, though," he whispered.
"Masculine enough," she said, with a knowing smile, "in the right places and the right ways." And, more seriously, "You're a good husband to me. And a good father to Akira."
His ears went a bit rosy-pink, as they always did when he was complimented. Even by her. Even being as intimate as they were, she still made him blush. He was simply that modest, that shy. And he didn't take compliments extremely well. He would just shake his head, try to defer them, insist that he didn't deserve them. But Adelaide would give them anyway. After all, he complimented her so often, in both poetry and prose. In touch. In many ways.
And, perking up, a light, little voice, from her high-chair at the other end of the table, chittered out, "Bumble!"
Field giggle-squeaked quietly, looking over to his daughter (who was one and a half years old). "No bumbles, no. Honey. Honeybees."
"Bumble!" She threw her mauve-furred, winged arms up, giggling. "Bzz, bzz, bzz," she went. Her wings, like her mother's, were velvety-soft, membrane-like, running down her sides and arms.
"She's got your stubbornness in her," Field said, looking over to his wife. "I tell her they were honeybees, and she says 'bumble'."
"That's not being stubborn, darling." A slow grin. "And I'm not stubborn. I just know what I want and I keep after it until I get it. That's called being persistent," she added, as an aside.
"Persistently stubborn?" Field smiled back at her, whiskers all a-twitch. His ears swivelled. Swivel-swivel.
"You're gonna rile me up. That what you want?"
A slight tilt of his head, his smile getting bigger. "You're telepathic. You know what I want before I do."
"You didn't answer the question."
A giggle-squeak, and he turned his head. A deep breath, looking back to her. He felt good. He felt really good. "Do I want to rile you up?" Head tilting the opposite way, whiskers still twitching. "I do," he whispered. "In certain ways."
"Certain ways," was her whispered echo. Knowing what those certain ways were. And knowing they would have to wait. Just a bit longer. Akira wasn't quite sleepy yet. She wasn't gonna sit still in her crib. She needed a bath, as well. And, plus, Adelaide and Field still had a conversation to finish. Taking time to just sit and talk was important. And she wasn't gonna rush over it. There would be time enough for other things. And, besides, the more they simmered here, the more anticipation they built up, the better the release, right?
"Anyway," Field said, looking to his dear daughter. "Honeybees, bees, bees. Honey. Honeybees."
"Bzz, bzz!" was Akira's response, giving several gurgles.
"She just likes saying 'bumble'," Adelaide eventually decided. "I don't blame her. It is a fun word, isn't it?"
"Bumble!" Akira went (yet again). "Bzz, bzz ... "
" ... bzz," Field finished for Akira. "You don't wanna be a bumble-bat, Akira, do you? Do you?" he went. "No, you wanna be a honey-mouse. Mm-hmm. You wanna be my honey-mouse. So, say honey. Honey," he urged.
"Honey-mouse? Mm," Adelaide went, while Akira grabbed at more bugs with her little paws. She was almost done with her meal. She also had a sippy-cup of milk. "Bumble-bat sounds cuter, you know. But I admit that honey-mouse has a definite spot of sweetness to it." Chitter-sounds. "So, I won't argue with you on this one."
"I'm so relieved."
"She can be a honey-mouse every other weekend. The rest of the time, she's a bat-mouse. How 'bout that?"
"A honey-mouse-bat, you mean?"
"Don't get started," she pink-furred bat insisted, licking her fangs. "I'm just in the mood."
"Mood?" He raised a brow, feigning innocence.
"To indulge in a bit of heated back and forth. Debate, that is. Debate," she insisted, with a smooth whisper.
"Debate, huh? Well, sure. I'm sure that's, uh ... " A giggle-squeak, and he shook his head. "Mm," he went, picking up his glass. There was cool, wet condensation on it, which felt rather nice on his paw-pads. He sipped from the raspberry iced tea, his favorite drink.
"Anyway, all this talk of bees," Adelaide said, getting back on topic. "I never understood the difference. Honey and bumble? Aren't they the same thing?"
Field's eyes widened, whiskers twitching.. "Adelaide, please. You better be ... "
" ... joking," she supplied, winking. A sustained giggle-chitter. "Joking. I'm not gonna go city-fur on you. I'm a good an' proper rural soul," she said, with a bit of twang in her voice. "I know my bees."
"Prove it." He playfully squinted his eyes at her.
"Bumble bees are bigger, fuzzier, and ... well, bumblier."
"Bumblier's not a word," was the mouse's insistence. He was the writer, after all. And he should know!
"Says who? Find a dictionary that says it's not, and ... "
" ... we don't have a dictionary," Field said.
"Well, then who's to say 'bumblier' isn't a word?"
"Cause it's not."
"That's almost snow rabbit-quality logic there, that is. 'Cause it's not.' Got anything to back that up with?"
"Adelaide ... " A bit of a face. "Look, I'm just saying ... bumblier? It sounds cute. I admit. Okay, it sounds cute, but that doesn't mean it's a word."
"But it should be. You agree on that?"
He just smiled back at her. And gave a slight nod. "I suppose it should," he whispered, eyes fixated on her, gaze sparking with romance.
"Mm-hmm. After all, many rules can and have been bent, grammatical or otherwise," she whispered, in an almost sultry fashion, "in the name of cuteness." Her eyes darted up and down his body. "So, 'bumblier' it is."
"Bumblier," Field whispered back, giving a slight nod. And, taking a deep breath through his pink, sniffy nose, he polished off the rest of his tea. "Okay, okay," he relented, putting the glass down. "But go on," he prodded. "Bees?"
"Bumbles are hairier, bigger. They hum. Honeybees are smaller, less furry, and they drone."
The mouse gave a satisfied nod. "Good."
"Do I get a gold star?"
"All out of those. I'll have to give you something else."
A sudden, hot grin. "Like a squeaky toy?"
His ears went rosy-pink. "Adelaide ... not in front of Akira."
A giggle-chitter. "She doesn't know what it means. Do you, Akira?" Adelaide asked, looking to their daughter.
Akira, reveling in the sudden attention, with both her parents looking her way, threw up her winged arms again, chitter-gurgling, going, "Bumble!"
Adelaide, looking back to her husband, said, "See?"
"Still ... " He smiled, though, biting back the giggle-squeaks. "She's got your telepathy. She knows what we're thinking."
"Doesn't mean she understands it. Anyway, my telepathy's stronger than hers. She's only half-bat. I can keep her under control, keep her out of our minds when necessary." Looking back to their daughter, she gave a sigh. "Now, if only I could get her to stay in bed, mm? Stay asleep? You got your daddy's mousey energy, that's for sure. You're all scurry, twitch, and wriggle, little girl."
Akira gave a cute, innocent look, making a few sounds and holding to her sippy-cup.
"Yeah, I'm talkin' 'bout you. Mm-hmm. You heard me."
"Mama ... bzz, bzz, bzz."
"That right, huh?" Adelaide giggle-chittered. "I go bzz, bzz, bzz? I don't think so. I think you're bein' quite silly."
A shake of the head.
"I think you're askin' for it, too. Mama goes chitter-chitter-chit. And, maybe, sometimes, chitter-squeak. Can you say that? Make chitter-sounds."
"Bzz, bzz, bzz!"
A shake of the head, and a patient, amused sigh. "My little bat-mouse ... "
" ... mouse-bat," Field corrected quietly. And then added, "Honey-mouse-bat."
"It's not a weekend, is it?" Adelaide asked. "Every other weekend, she's a honey-mouse-bat. It's a Monday night."
"Still ... "
" ... yes, Akira, still. You heard daddy. You're not a bee. You don't go 'bzz, bzz, bzz.' Don't make me use my feelers on ya." Adelaide began to reach into her daughter's mind with her emotional feelers, giving her daughter a few emotional 'tickles,' infusing her with giggly, feel good-feelings. Which had the desired effect, making their child to giggle-chitter quite profusely. And when Adelaide eased up, she said, "There you go. I knew you could chitter."
"And squeak," Field added. "There were plenty of squeaks."
"Yes, and squeaks. Chitters and squeaks." Adelaide turned to look at her husband. "We can both do both, I know, but ... how 'bout, tonight, I supply most of the chitters, and you supply most of the squeaks?"
"Akira's not in bed yet. Hasn't had her bath."
"I'm just sayin' ... you like organization. You like plans. I'm givin' you the plan." A wink. "Now, if you'll do the dishes and clean the kitchen, I'll give her that bath."
The mouse nodded, scooting back in his chair. Getting to a stand. But Adelaide beat him to it, already out of her chair, already standing, and already planting a quick, stolen kiss to the mouse's lips. Sweet, moist, simple. Putting her paws on his shoulders and keeping his rump on the chair. And, breaking it to breathe, she gave a soft, lingering sigh. "Just to, uh ... tide us over. Mm?" She nose-nuzzled the top of his head, between his big, cute ears. And she planted a little, delicate kiss there, as well. "Love you," she whispered, her eyes closed.
"I love you, too," he whispered back, with such tenderness. And, after a few seconds, his eyes opened, and he moved his head. Looking up at her. Not really to say anything else. But just to meet her eyes. Just to lock gazes and offer her a smile. And there had been plenty of those tonight (smiles). And, oh, there would be plenty more. They were both very blessed, indeed.
And Adelaide padded away, her bare foot-paws slightly scuffing on the linoleum floor of this old, country kitchen. And she lifted Akira up out of her high-chair. "Up ya go. Wash-time. Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm."
Field sighed, looking around at the table and the sink. Time to clean. But he was a very tidy creature. Mouses were. Keeping things spotless wasn't a chore. It was instinct. So, he had no problem with it. And, as he did so, he made sure to thank God for this moment, and for every moment. For this day, this night. For every wonder and delight. Oh, thank you, Lord. I am truly grateful.
It was an hour and a half later. And all was still quiet on the rural front. Well, mostly. Except for a mouse and bat in the moonlit dark, in bed. They were having trouble staying quiet. They were having trouble keeping their expressions to themselves.
"Oh ... oh," were her breathless, dizzy pants, muzzle-sucking, wing-wrapping. Close to him. Closer, closer, hotter. So that their fur meshed. Her carnation-pink fur with his honey-tan. Their limbs brushing, foot-paws touching as toes curled and uncurled.
The mouse, bare, pert rump exposed to the moon-dappled, bedroom air, sucked on her cheek. And pressed his hips to hers. No penetration. Not yet. That'd bring on her urge to bite. She'd have to sink her fangs in. Which would limit their freedom of movement. Oh, he wanted to get bitten. No mistake. But it could wait just a bit. They could simmer a bit more, a bit more. They could kiss and roll about, couldn't they, just savoring the warmth and feel of each other, just getting tastes?
"Field," the bat breathed, on her back. Her winged arms were around him, enveloping, keeping him horizontal atop her.
The mouse knew. Intuitively, as well as through her telepathy. And her body language. He knew, and was wordlessly wriggling down, down.
Her wing-hug loosened, arms letting go. Legs instinctively parting. And raising, as well. Not because they needed to be raised. But just on instinct.
Field gently put his paws on her thighs, guiding her legs back down. Down to the sheets. Foot-paws to the sheets. Her knees still bent, though, and legs parted. His paws still on her thighs, he gave soft, little rubs. Everything was coming in quick, hot, brief flashes. Images. Moments. Everything was hard to grasp. It was like the haziest, most wonderful of dreams. Passing them by like a blown fog, and yet searing into their minds. How anything could be both untenable and purely tangible all at once, it was hard to say. Only that making love was the most unreal of dreams and the most real of pleasures. It pulled the senses in every direction. It spun the compass needle of the mind in endless circles.
Oh, it made one giddy!
Adelaide sighed. "Oh, oh ... " Her head turned to the side, and she let out a huge, deep breath. "Oh," she went again, with more desperation. For her husband's muzzle went where it was needed. Went where it wanted to go. Went between her legs, to her femininity.
He took those first, precious licks. Those tentative licks. To get a feel, a taste for things. To take her temperature. He always started out that way. Letting his nose, meanwhile, drink of the strong sex-scent. Making him heady. Making him to lick more. Until, unable to stop himself, he pressed in. His pink, sniff-twitching nose slipping through her labia, sniffing her vulva. Squeaks. Errant sounds, modest tongue licking more, more. Lips joining in. He was an expert lip-nibbler. Muzzle-lips nibbling her petal-lips, and also her clitoris, trying to tease it out of its hood. Good clitoris. Good, good, good. Suckle it softly, press your tongue-tip to it.
A slight gasp, Adelaide's body tensing in sensitive pleasure, pounding pleasure. Her paws clutched at the navy-blue bed-sheets. She gave a sex-loving chitter-moan. "Ah, ahn ... " Her eyes squeezed shut. She felt hot, hotter, fur matting with sweat. Felt ...
... Field delicately tracing her vaginal opening with two furry fingertips. Trace, trace, slip. Fingertips slipping in, fingers following. Into the searing-hot, so-wet muscle, the raw pink of it enveloping his digits, rippling around them. It was so smooth. Her walls were incredibly smooth. Slick. Steamy. He shivered, the two fingers stopping when they were embedded past the knuckles. Then they curled. Upward, they curled, pressing, moving back and forth over that spot. Her spot.
"Ohh, g-gosh ... ohn, n-nahh, ah ... "
Field, head swimming, body throbbing, mouse-hood erect and dribbling on the sheets, lowered his muzzle an inch, getting back inside her vulva. A few hungry suckles, drifting back up, up, back to her clitoris. Lips parting, slipping over it, and ...
" ... uhh! Uh!" was the cry, her thighs clamping against his head. As if a furry vice. More to make sure, maybe, he didn't pull that muzzle away. She broke down into echo-bursts, high, rapid-fire chitters that bounced all about. "Uh, uhn ... nnh, nn," she chittered, breasts heaving. Oh, pleasure, pleasure. Perfect. Pleasure. She had an orgasm.
Field, drunk on her scent and taste, felt her femininity tremble. Felt the heat of her internal spasms. Tasted the nectar that absently squirted out. Though she was the one in climax, not him, it could be said that he was enjoying this just as much as she was. And not just because, loving her, he took pride and joy in giving her pleasure. But also because, though it might sound a bit crude, he loved her pussy. Without question.
"Oh ... uh. Ooh," she went, her tremors dying down to little aftershocks. "Oh," she breathed, "darling ... " Her eyes closed, and her head rolled to the side. A pure, beaming smile melted upon her muzzle. And, eyes still closed, she whispered (as she always did), "Thank you. Oh, thank you ... oh, that felt good." Good, as an adjective, didn't do the orgasm justice. But it was all she could come up with at the moment. She was rather hazy, understandably. And she loosened her thigh-hold on her husband.
And he came up, slowly, for air. To lock her gaze. And, with a shimmy, he was above her on all fours, lowering, lowering down. Until his belly-fur was meshed with her again. And he was nibbling gently on her neck.
"You, uh ... you sure," she panted, lightly, speaking at a moonlit whisper, "you don't want me to return the favor?"
"Mm. Tomorrow? Will you?"
Her paws gripped his rump. "You know it," she promised, without hesitation. Was there anything more natural and satisfying than being naked in bed with your love in the middle of the night? Wasn't that perfect poetry? "Did I, uh ... or, uh, you work yourself," she managed to ask, "up? That how come?"
"I can't wait. I gotta ... need to," he breathed, sucking on her cheek, now. He trailed for a moment, before picking back up with, "Be in you."
"Then," she went, still catching her breath, her pink forehead-fur matted with light sweat, "by all means ... by all means," she whispered, "get in." Her legs raising a bit, now. And, this time, he didn't guide them back down. He simply slid his trim, fit hips forward, five-inch, circumcised mouse-hood finding its mark on the first try. Sometimes, he had trouble with that. Sometimes, he had to use his paw to steady himself as he pushed in. But, this time, for whatever reason, he slid right in. Just right in.
It was bliss. Her vagina was bliss. And he gave effeminate, pleasured whimper-squeaks as his penis-flesh disappeared into her vaginal muscles. A perfect fit. Her tunnel snugged every bit of him. And, in turn, his mouse-hood brushed every bit of her walls. "Oh. Ohn, oh," were his weak, little moans, savoring the union. He was one with her. Their bodies were joined. But she was a bat, and with bats? The union was about to get a whole lot fiercer. A whole lot fuller.
Adelaide was already dripping mating milk from her fangs, licking her lips, then licking a spot on Field's neck-fur. Her saliva producing a numbing agent that sank into the skin beneath. She hungrily prepared him for her bite.
The mouse, meanwhile, gently pulled his hips back. A few inches of his mouse-hood reappearing, the flesh glistening wetly with her juices. A heavy sigh, and he pushed back in. Into the heat. Into her. He whimper-squeaked. The pleasure. Oh. He settled to a temporary hilt, lightly huffing, wriggling so that his furry sac nestled to her fleshy petal-lips.
And, at that point, she bit.
Field wriggled.
Her winged arms wrapped around him, holding him still. The mating milk leaking into his bloodstream, already passing through his heart, pumped through, pumped around. And thoughts, feelings, sensations, memories. The merger began, linked as intimately as possible. And, that being so, they made succulent, shared love. Full of heat, full of need. Oblivious to all but each other. And not even the lightning bugs couldn't glow like how their hearts were glowing. No, not even the lightning bugs.