For the Win
With a pitiful, dejected sigh and whiskers weakly drooping, he pressed the 'off' button, slinking away from the television and falling quietly on the couch, where he closed his eyes and curled himself into a mousey ball.
Aria, drying the popcorn bowl (having just washed it), gave a quiet, concerned ear-waggle. The snow rabbit finished her task and left the little kitchen nook of their fourth-story apartment. "Are you alright?" was her gentle, calm inquiry.
A muffled squeak-sound, still curled up, eyes still closed. Even his long, silky-pink tail was held close to his body. Only his ears, big and dishy, seemed to jut out.
"I see," was all the snow rabbit could think to say. She stood for a moment, a bit uncertain. She'd watched the same game as him, hadn't she? Rooted for the same team he'd rooted for. Yet his reaction to their team's loss was in sharp contrast to hers. But wasn't that to be expected? He practically twitches with emotion. He wears it on his fur. You, however, Aria told herself, are slightly frozen-through, analytical, composed. And he's a life-long Hoosier. You are not.
The meadow mouse's body gave subtle movements with each of his breaths. And his whiskers twitched silently.
Aria eventually took a seat beside him, putting a paw on his horizontal form. "It is just one game," she said, quite logically. "A regular-season game, at that."
No response.
"You are worried about home-field advantage? About a rematch on the road?"
Barely-visible whisker-twitches.
"Clearly, we would win a second meeting."
What sounded like a squeak.
Her ears made a scissor-like open-and-close motion. "I am serious. In the snow and elements? Did you not see our running game tonight? They, in contrast, have no running game. You cannot throw 'long balls' in the snow. The team that just beat us ... is us," she said, "two years ago. And you remember how that turned out." A tilt of her head. "Besides, as history tells: hubris always leads to a fall. And our rival has an unhealthy excess of hubris."
Mumble-mumble-squeak.
Her tall, antennae-like ears (white-furred with charcoal-colored tips and soft, pink interiors) stood on end, twiddling a bit.
Muffle-mumble-chitter-chitter.
"I am a fan, as well. I watched the entire game with you," she said, in her so-cool, so-level tone. In that sensuous snow rabbit way of hers.
Chitter-chitter-mumble-squeak.
"Yes, I know you despise New England. Though I wonder if that's too strong a word. Perhaps you merely dislike them?" she suggested.
A strong shake of the head, his head-fur rustling on the fabric of the couch-cushions.
"Well, perhaps you are simply ... "
Another shake of the head.
And Aria tilted her head, raising a brow. "I see." A pause, and the faintest of eye-smiles. Mouses could be most stubborn sometimes. And, paw still on his side, she gently caressed him.
He sighed.
It was just after eight-o'clock, dark outside, slightly chilly. The skyline in its modest, electrical dress (which was still, in the end of it, garish enough to eclipse the stars). And, inside, here in their mouse-den of an apartment, only a few lights were on, creating shadow-pools which swallowed up the sides and corners of the room. It was a Sunday night in early November. That time of year when everything seemed to be waning or falling away. The time of year that left you desperate for growth. The time of year when loneliness was deadly. But, thankfully, Ross wasn't alone.
"Darling ... "
He gave no response. Just weak twitches.
" ... at the risk," Aria continued, undeterred, "of sounding cliche: the season's not over. Our team is very capable. As I recall, the Colts lost four games last year, and they still won the title. And I am aware," she said again, not allowing him to interrupt, "it was a loss to our biggest rival. But that does not change the fact that, objectively, it is ... "
Chitter-sniffle-squeak.
A light exhale, her paw slipping under the cool, meshed fabric of his blue and white jersey. " ... I know." A pause. "I admit, as close as we are, as much as we've rubbed off on each other ... " They'd been married for a year and a half, both of them living and working in Indianapolis while attending school (him for photography and her for engineering). As soon as they could graduate and get better jobs, they planned on moving to the countryside and having a baby. But such plans were years away. Sometimes, success seemed so far off. " ... there are moments when I don't quite understand why you feel what you feel. When I don't understand how to relate to it."
She could feel emotions, of course. They were just repressed. They had to be. A God-given mechanism for their own protection, as snow rabbits' emotions, at their fullest, were rather feral. Because of the harsh, Arctic environment her species originated from. They could only feel through a crystalline filter. A filter that could thaw, but could never melt. And the meadow mouse was her 'thaw.' And she, in turn? She was his calmness. She was an antidote to his rampant anxiety.
"Darling?"
Ross, sighing again, finally spoke coherently (that is, with words instead of mouse-sounds), whispering, " ... it's not your fault. I'm just ... " He trailed for a moment, before finishing, " ... I'm just ... "
" ... there's nothing wrong with being emotional."
" ... too messed-up."
"You are not messed-up," Aria assured, not missing a beat, paws sliding through his soft, dark-brown fur. "Alright?" she breathed. "Mm?" Her fingers splayed, and she scratched at his pelt just a bit.
A weak squeak.
"As for the team, they will be fine. As I said, if finishing the first half of the season as defending champions, with a 7 and 1 record ... if that is considered disappointing? Then perhaps we've been spoiled by success. You must put it into perspective. Mm? Darling ... it's only sports." She didn't patronize him by taking that sentence any further. She knew the mouse was aware of life's difficulties, life's pains. That he was aware of trauma and loss.
" ... I know," he went, very quietly, his eyes still closed. "I know." The fact that she was making complete sense made him want to frown. "I just ... " He twitched in abject frustration. " ... this game?" He tensed. "Any other loss to any other team ... " A deep breath. " ... in any other year, Aria. I'm serious." A sigh. "No ground to lose this year. No margin for error. I want ... "
" ... I know. What diehard fan doesn't? Just relax ... relax," she whispered, her paw going down, down, and then back up his side, and over to his belly. A soft mew-sound from her, trying to shush him, trying to calm him down.
The mouse swallowed, eyes venturing to peek open. Cautiously, though, as if the world might have imploded, or as if the city-sounds might be wailing (and who was to say they weren't).
"There you go," she said, eye-smiling. Glad to see she'd made a difference.
"Aria ... "
" ... yes?"
"My scurry went away." A sad sigh, whiskers weakly twitching, body remaining drained of energy. He had this look about him, this aura.
Aria felt the strongest desire to scoop him up and cuddle him and never him let him go. And, by marrying him, hadn't she, on a spiritual level, done just that? Wrapped him up, with the intent on never letting go? 'Til death do us part?
"It went away," was the whimper-squeak. He sounded close to tears.
"It did not go away," she assured him. "It is merely recharging. Or hiding, perhaps." Her holy-white flame of a bobtail flicker-flicked behind her. "It is well within reach. I shall reach it for you," she promised, still petting him, still providing her presence.
Another sigh.
A momentary pause. "Stay here," she finally told him, stroking his belly before daintily leaving the couch.
He swallowed, sniffing his nose and blinking a few times, turning his head to watch her go. To watch her pad the few, simple steps to the refrigerator. To watch her open it and lean forward, her rump and tail visible (and pretty). And though the mouse was still curled up in a forlorn fashion, he wasn't as withdrawn as before. He continued to watch her, biting his lip demurely, submissively.
Aria silently and primly removed a block of sharp cheddar cheese from the fridge, closing the door, going to the counter. Flicking on the sink-light. And, lit by that pale, neon glow, she removed the orange-yellow cheese from its plastic bag and took a cutting knife out of the silverware drawer.
Ross's nose began to sniff curiously.
She sliced little cubes and slivers of cheese. And put them in a cereal bowl. Putting the cheese-block back in its plastic, and putting the plastic back in the fridge, she then turned off the sink-light and brought the bowl of cheese-pieces (as well as her steamy self) back to the couch, where she took a dainty seat, tail flickering promptly.
Sniffs and twitches, and Ross's tail began to snake, thin and silky, pink and bare, moving like a wayward electrical wire.
"It seems," she observed, with restrained mirth, "you are coming to life." A playful paw reached for his tail.
One of those obstinate head-shakes, moving his tail just out of her reach. "I'm not," he assured, wearing a sullen face. Trying to, anyway. It was getting harder to maintain.
"You aren't?" was the playful pose, head leaning to the side.
"Mm-mm." Another shake of the head.
"Ah. Well, indeed, now that you mention it ... " She gave him a thorough, practiced look-over, squinting for show ... " ... yes, you do appear rather resigned. I suppose there is only one thing for it ... " Eyes fully opening, she reached into the cheese bowl, bringing a piece to her own lips. Letting it touch. Letting the scent of the food drift to her nose. A deep inhale, her black nose sniffing two or three times. But she stopped before going any further. "I suppose I shall have to eat all this cheese myself," she whispered, as if holding a private conversation.
"What?" A whisker-twitching squeak, uncurling a bit, dark-blue eyes all mousey-wide with innocent alarm.
She looked to him. "Darling, I am simply looking out for your own well-being. In the static state you are, by your own admission, still mired in? Such delicious cheese would almost certainly be a shock to your system. But as I have already cut it, and do not believe in wasting such good food, well ... I shall just have to eat it all myself."
"You can't!" was the cute, bewildered objection, uncurling even more, ears beginning to swivel. Tail beginning to side-wind. His whiskers twitched, and his nose sniffed. Indeed, it was like he'd crawled out of a cave, come out of a shell. Indeed, come back to life, scurry and all.
"No?" the snow rabbit's eyes almost seemed to glow with warmth. Finding this quite amusing. Expertly consoling her husband without him fully knowing she was consoling him. The only way to get around mousey stubbornness: was with snow rabbit patience. "And, pray tell, why not?"
"B-because," he stammered, making a mouse-face. His whiskers twitched, and he stared at the cheese, and then at her, and then back at the cheese. And then her. "Aria!"
"That is not a good reason." Her lips opened, and she placed the cheese piece on her tongue. And then closed her muzzle and chew-chewed. "Mm." A sigh, closing her eyes for show, savoring the flavor. Then nodding and confirming, "Most satisfying."
The mouse, by this point, had become extremely excitable. Which is to say: he had returned to normal. Whiskers twitching, nose sniffing. All the mousey motions coming back. And he sat up, biting his lip, pupils dilating, looking to her with such cuteness. Cuteness that could bowl one over with a force that even the best defensive sports team couldn't match.
Aria gave a weak, willing sigh, having no choice but to relent. But relenting with conditions: "I feed you the cheese."
A fervent nod.
"And you admit that, having sufficiently grieved over the game, you will leave your depression?"
"I have, I have," he insisted, rather hurriedly, nose sniffing feverishly.
"You admit," she said, finally, "that pride is no consolation for love? Say it ... " She raised a brow.
"Pride," he repeated, in his soft, effeminate voice, "is no consolation ... "
" ... for love," she enunciated.
" ... for love," he finished, nodding.
She nodded. "And, also, that I have brought your scurry back?"
The mouse smiled for what seemed like the first time all evening. The smile turning into a beam. "I admit it," he breathed genuinely, in his wispy, little tone. "You ... you just ... "
" ... I 'just' what?"
"You just know to keep me from ... imploding," he breathed, finding that it was the most suitable word for what he meant. He bit his lip. "Maybe I didn't want to be cheered up. Maybe I wanted to stay miserable"
"I decided to take the chance," she said, warmly, "that you didn't wish to. And, besides, I share a bed, a home, and a life with you. If you are miserable? Then I am, too. I will have," she assured, "none of it. We are too blessed. And there will be other games. Bigger games. Understood?"
"Understood," he repeated, shyly, nodding quietly.
"Good." A clear breath. "Now, let us celebrate this victory of love ... mm?" She took another piece of cheese between her white, furry fingers, and placed it against his lips. "Open," she mouthed, without sound.
His muzzle willingly did so.
And she placed the cheese inside.
Muzzle closing, and some chew-chew-chewing. And he swallowed, sighing. That was good. Cheese was good. He loved cheese. And he loved her. Witnessed by the fact that, all the while, he was locking eyes. His dark-blues to her ice-blues. A shared gaze. A so-familiar gaze. Oh, one that wasn't quickly broken as she fed him another piece of cheese, and another. And, with each piece she fed him, he seemed to melt with glee, as if the color were returning to the fleshy lobes of his ears. They seemed a bit flushed, did they not? Or was it Aria's imagination?
Soon, though, the bowl was empty.
And, with nothing else for it, he took to nibbling on her, instead. His appetite not completely fed. Nibbling, with rodent buckteeth on her wrist, her arm, gently, so gently, sniffing up her arm to her jersey-covered shoulder. And words, at this point, would've been clumsy and uncouth. He simply acted. By tugging on her jersey.
And she reacted by lifting her arms.
And he peeled it off her, tossing it aside. Removing his own jersey, as well. Leaving him in jean shorts and cotton briefs. Leaving her in a bra and khaki shorts (and panties, as well, of course).
She eyed him, almost hungrily. Certainly hungrily, actually. No 'almost' about it. And she slid, slid forward, into him, breaking the pure silence by breathing (out of necessity), "I know I just coaxed you into sitting up ... but you are going to have to lay down again."
That said it all. That sent his imagination into fireworks. Oh, to lay down again? The mouse had no qualms with this!
No qualms, either, with the resulting touching of lips.
And bumping of hips.
Which led to him being on his back on the couch cushions, with her at a lazy sprawl atop of him, her foot-paws playfully bumping (and toes playfully rubbing) his own. Neither of them could be accused of any 'delay of game.' No, they commenced with the kissing right away. Trading saliva, trading control. She pressed, she tilted, she worked him, and then eased up and let her jaw go slack, letting him press, tilt, and work. Both of them playing offense.
Her muzzle coming down to his, tilting just a tiny bit, lips parting. Lips coming back together. Lips pressing to and sucking his. A loose, wet friction if ever there was one, and each lingering, eye-fluttering lip-lock worth several touchdowns, surely. The heat and scent and taste of tongue-tip to tongue-tip. And the sound of flaring, sniffing noses and toes still touching, and his arms around her back, her snow-white belly-fur meshing with his muddy-brown belly-fur.
Oh, so much!
Until they stopped to fully breathe. Because they had to. And because both became so overwhelmed by the sensual stimuli that neither could truly think.
Lazy, hazy exhales washed over each other's cheeks. Whiskers intimately brushed and touched in that so-soft, marshmallow-light feeling.
Bodies wonderfully willing and wildly weak.
Again, the relative silence could've been filled with words, with dizzy poetry, with blabber-mousing. But neither of them wished to break the trance they'd tangoed themselves into. Neither of them wished to interrupt this clock-eating drive into the depths of each other.
Their hearts all a-flutter, they went from kissing to fully stripping.
She arched atop of him. His paws fumbling at her bra. Undo it, undo it, his mind was telling him. Undone. Paws down her back, her lovely (he groped it) rump, fingers beneath the band of her panties, taking them down, down, to where she could twist and daintily kick them off.
Ross's breath was becoming audible. His wife sucking, nibbling on his neck, her soft, bare breasts pressing down on his rising and falling chest. He got his jean shorts unbuttoned. Down went the zipper. Off came his pants. Briefs following briefly (appropriately enough!).
Now naked, now bare.
In the fur.
And no sickly city-dark or schizophrenic November air could hold them back. No, not a loss in a big game, even. Nothing, no, could stop them from throbbing with a desire that made the throat a bit dry. That made for a heart-hammering, clammy-pawed heat, an uneasiness of erotic proportions, something so instinctual and right that the force of it could only be safely and properly felt in the all-containing confines of love.
Oh, in love.
Oh, yes, yes ...
" ... yes," was Aria's errant, panting breath, her naked body comfortably atop his, hips gently gyrating, grinding, writhing, his paws roving up and down her beautiful sides, then her back, down the outline of her spine. All the way to her fluffy tail. His muzzle nibbling on her cheek. Making her feel steamy. So, so ...
... sweetly, he began to slide and shimmy, squirming, hugging her tight, rotating their positions until he was on top, licking and matting her neck-fur. Slide down, down. Eagerly mouthing her breasts, sucking her hardening, pink nipples. Fondling those lovely mounds, and eventually kissing his way past them (he made a mental note to start spending more time playing with her breasts). Further down, down.
The snow rabbit sucked in air, knowing where this was going. Knowing where he was going. Knowing, knowing, going. And her pulse picking up with anticipation. A rabbit-mew, eyes half-open, body arching as the mouse peppered her belly with kisses and breaths.
They were, the two of them, very much like that.
Like salt and pepper.
Logic and not.
Fire and ice.
Each complimenting the other, making up for each other's deficiencies. Each blessed. Surely blessed, dear God, for having this. Is there a name for such fierce, welling gratitude? Is there a name, dear Jesus, for redemption so humbling that it floors both body and heart? That even poetry does no justice to the sheer magnificence of it?
And the mouse was there, doing his thing, and gladly so, working her with finesse. His pert, rural-bred rump wiggling a bit behind him, his tail hanging in the air like a fishing line. But the front of him snugged down, right between her legs. With sweet, succulent sucks to her pouting petal-lips, lingering licks up and down, and little grazes of her hooded nub. Little skirts and barely-touches, letting her know he knew her feel-best spots. And, oh, he was going to make sure she fully felt it.
The snow rabbit, warm thighs parted, knees bent, lolled her head to the side, eyes shut and muzzle open. Weak mews. Mew, mew. Trying to steady her breath, but unable, unwilling, not wanting it to be stop. Such a thing were mouse muzzles! That they made for utter niceness between femme legs. Oh, yes, such eager, time-taking finesse, it was ... oh, it was ...
... intoxicating. Hot. Juicy. Erotic, full of scent. Full of her. Ross shiver-squeaked, two fingers slipping in and out of her slicked tunnel, senses pin-wheeling as he brought her to fruition with a stray lick to her now-peeking clitoris.
"Oh ... oh ... " Her white-furred belly arched, and ears twiddled, muzzle mewing with soft, sultry bliss, such tremors wracking her lower parts. Such spasms that excited her heart.
A few errant licks from him, clear liquid dribbling from his twitching whisker-tips. And, from his dilated pupils and heavy breathing, one could tell he was literally drunk on snow rabbit. If, indeed, such a thing was possible. Drunk on the femme sex. Drunk on his need for more than what he'd just done. For, oh, had mouse-parts that throbbed for an equal share of love-laced fun. Oh, yes, yes.
A few seconds of settling, and ...
" ... w-water," Aria breathed, "break." Her fur lightly-matted with sweat, her muzzle dry. Ice-furs dehydrating quicker.
Ross, squeaking, slid off the couch, teetering weakly and nakedly to the barely-lit sink, quietly filing a water glass to the top. The clink of ice cubes sinking. Then going back to his wife.
She drank in gulps. And sighed heavily, putting the glass safely aside. And then meeting his eyes.
And, oh, like the furs they were, they were back at it.
This time, the mouse was pinned, kept on his back, and the healthy snow rabbit, in quite a state, getting to a needy straddle of him. And he didn't require much coaxing.
"Oh ... mm, A-aria ... "
A throaty rabbit-purr from her, slowly sinking down on his modest, circumcised mouse-hood. All four and a half inches of cute stiffness. A perfect fit. As it brushed her walls, filling her, giving her what she needed. And her slick, steamy, rippling femininity giving him what he needed, in return.
He squeaked and held helplessly to her pretty, clockwise moving hips. As she rotated them. And then stopped, and then lightly bounced, lightly, lightly, huffing, overcome with pleasure.
Both of them.
Overcome.
His half-open, delighted eyes drinking in the gorgeous sight of her bare, hanging breasts. Own breaths erratic, full of little gasps and mouse-moans. For his sensitive flesh was being ridden, and there was no end to how good this was feeling. Oh, gosh, oh ...
" ... ah. Ah." Rise, fall, leaning forward, arms straight and paws to his chest, propping herself up. Tail flicking above her rump.
He bucked weakly back up at her. Once or twice.
But she held him down, letting him know that she was doing the work here. He was supposed to relax.
And, so, sighing, squirming happily, he did, his mouse-hood swallowed up and snugged by her vaginal walls. So completely, so fluidly. So beautifully.
And, by now, her straddle had become an artful thing. She was a snow rabbit. She knew more than a bit about sex. She knew how to make it look (and, oh, feel!) good. She knew, and ...
" ... oh, oh," he squeaked, coming close. Close, closer. His eyes squeezing shut and his ears burning hot (gorged with blood as they were). "Uh ... uh, huh," he huffed, twitching weakly, body tingling with pleasure as the ejaculations hit. Spurt, spurt. Twitch. As he sowed her from beneath.
And as she, mewing lightly through her second orgasm, sighed and hung her head, drooling noticeably. "Oh ... "
Ross weakly swallowed, fingers trying to hold to her hips. But his paws had gone all wobbly. And his tail was limply trailing off the couch-cushions and to the carpeted floor. But, though refreshingly spent, he had enough in him to say, for her ears only, "I love you ... "
A happy eye-smile, looking weakly down at him, feeling the seed trickling out of her body from the spot of their still-intact union. "As do I love you, as well," she breathed, "Ross." A swallow, glancing down, and then back to his eyes. "We shall need to shower. After I get another drink of water." Her breath was returning.
A little nod. And he smiled at her, so lovingly, so tenderly.
Thank you, Lord, for this. Oh, let it never stop.
And, eventually, they gingerly disentangled, getting off the couch. He hugged her from behind as she got some more water. And then they shuffled to the bathroom, into the shower, where they stood under the warm, streaming water, necking and whispering things to each other. Private things. Intimate things. Everything.
And, oh, though their team had lost today, it was hardly a crippling loss. There would be other days. Other games. Other times. And, though their teams may stumble and lose? Their love could not. Had not. Would not. Ever.
Indeed, their love was always a sure-fire bet for the win.