FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The sun glimmered and glinted off the tranquil, smooth-flowing creek-water, bouncing, shimmering, refracting as if in a mirror, and generally defying most adjectives. Most, but not all. A smooth daffodil-yellow, almost with a fragrance. If April sunshine could have a smell, it would smell like that. Like daffodils. And would wear the same color dresses, surely, as opposed to anything bold or golden. This kind of light was, by essence, airy. Tempered by recent spring showers. A dampness that still showed itself in the slightly muddy puddles that dotted the countryside.

For the weather was in good spirits today, sun-rays beaming with lemon-drop sweetness. It was one of those days that played, in tandem with the air, light, and everything else, with your whiskers. Your whiskers felt it most. They felt the energy, the movements, the temperatures. It was all in the whiskers. The resulting warmth enough to make them twitch in a lazier way than normal. Enough to make you forget, if only for a moment, how harsh the winter had been. And how overbearing the summer might become.

Rye, in revelry of all this, giving God his silent gratitude for each and every blessing, sat on the sand and dirt of the creek-bank. He need not seek mirth and beauty. Such things had been graced to him. In the form of this day, and in the form of his love. The mouse was totally bare, in the fur, his clothes off in the grass somewhere, and the breeze running its fingers through his soft, wheat-colored pelt. With his knees bent and legs drawn up closer to his chest, his arms hugging them. Just hugging his legs to his body, keeping his mouse-hood and loose, tufted sac hidden just out of sight, warmly tucked between his thighs. All while his tail side-winded in the sand like a harmless snake. He felt so comfortable. Indicated, constantly, but little, squeaky exhales.

Deep and deeper thoughts were fading in and out of his mind. Deeper memories, as well, like haunting sighs. But he had an age-old faith. And had romance, as well. A love that was no longer new. A few months old, his mate-ship to Amandy, but still as fresh as it could ever be. He felt as much, anyway, and got the same impression from her. He was simply flooded by things like that, like love, faith, hope, everything of idea and spirit, everything intangible, all the things that would never fade. He let it all wash over him, knowing his soul, too, was among them. Among the never-fading things. His soul and hers. Life was always eternal. But, oh, it felt more so with the arrival of spring.

Hence the freewheeling poetry of his thoughts.

In any case, the mouse was feeling particularly swoon-ful. And maybe that wasn't a word. Maybe it never had been, never would be. He should know, still being an avid reader of the dictionary. And being a writer, himself. No, maybe it wasn't a word. But it really should be. And he told her so.

"Swoon-ful?" Amandy asked, from the middle of the creek. The beaver was wading, sloshing around, grabbing at the spaced, errant cattail plants, her own paddle-tail floating on the surface of it all. Before her body sank to a semi-sit, her arms and paws paddling, keeping her rump off the creek-bed. Paddle, paddle, and then twisting her position, getting to her knees and resting there. The water, now, coming up just past her breasts. Her rich-brown fur appeared darker when wet. "Suppose it should be. A word, I mean. But how are you gonna enforce that?"

"Enforce it?" A little blink. His ears gave the slightest of swivels, acting like sun-umbrellas. It wouldn't be a problem today, the sun a cool-warm and unthreatening, but when the dry, ninety-plus heats of summer came, the mouse had to be very careful about his ears and tail. Being bare flesh, they had no protection from sunburn. And there was obviously no sun lotion to be had. Normally, he'd use a big straw hat for his head, one that he could tuck his ears under. And then loop his tail around his waist and keep it under his shirt. Such techniques worked but were rather uncomfortable. Big ears and long tails weren't necessarily designed for stuffing beneath clothing in searing weather.

"Well, I mean, how are you gonna introduce a new word into the vernacular when, uh ... there's no one around to introduce it to? I mean, the population's rather sparse. That's not gonna change during our lifetimes ... not by a large number, anyway," she added, with a soft, knowing smile.

"Well, uh, I don't know. But, all the same, that's how I'm feeling. There's nothing else to accurately describe," the wheat-furred mouse explained, quietly, casually, "how I feel at this very moment." His voice, with its wispiness, its airiness, seemed to float away. Almost like he had those big, dishy of his stuck up in the clouds. But it was a good thing to see. When Amandy had first met him, he'd been far more reserved, far more serious. He hadn't smiled nearly so often. But they'd gotten through the winter. Them and their love. They'd survived. And, now, spring was here, and the mouse's all-around mood was greatly improving. He seemed, more than anything, to be mellowing.

"You gonna join me?" she asked, skimming the surface of the cool water with her paws. Skim-skimming, and then plunging them back under. Still resting on her knees and shins. Her paddle-tail was also submerged. "We didn't come here just to laze about."

"I know," he breathed. When the weather was colder, not having electricity or running water, and living in the ghost town of Kempton, they had to bathe and wash by carrying buckets of creek water back to the Restaurant and Sundries. That was their home. They'd warm the water by the fireplace and use towels and rags and empty glasses to douse and scrub themselves. Now that the weather was brighter and warmer, they could do their bathing out in the open, just by staying in the creek. Instead of bringing it to them. They still needed their drinking water from here, and they still needed to collect nuts, berries, bark, mushrooms, grains, flower bulbs, and other edibles, so they needed to come this way most every day. Might as well wash at the same time.

"So, you gonna come in?"

"I just wanna watch you," he breathed, tail-tip poking into the water, "a little bit more."

"You got a thing about me, you know. Almost like you're my husband or something. Almost like you find me attractive," she joked, giving a bucktoothed grin, absently smoothing her belly-fur under the water. Absently, for a few seconds. It had become a habit. "Anyway, you're just scared the water's too cold. Don't think I don't see your tail dipping into it every minute or so, trying to gage the temperature or something."

"Just wanna know what I'm in for." A pause. "And, as for having a thing about you, you're lovely. I tell you every day."

"And I very much appreciate it," she replied, smiling, giving a soft sigh. "I'm just trying to get you to see that, while you're looking at me like a 'swoon-ful'," she said, using Rye's new word, "lover, you're not quite acting like one. Any 'swoon-ful' lover would get in the creek and sweep me away. Right now, with abandon. Leaving nothing else for it."

"I'm gearing up for that," was his head-lolling reply. "'Swoon-ful' lovers don't have to be impatient or reckless, do they?"

"Not necessarily."

"I'm just giving us time to simmer. You can't boil over unless you're brought to a simmer first, right?"

The beaver grinned, chuckling, her buckteeth extremely obvious. "So, it's gonna happen, huh? We're gonna boil over?"

His eyes closed. A beaming smile plastered on his muzzle, the mouse nodded, head lolling to the point that he could catch sun on his forehead and cheeks at the same time. Head leaning back. And, breathing deep, he brought it back forward, opening his eyes.

Amandy giggle-chittered, making a few beaver-sounds. When she giggled or laughed, she made a faint whistling sound. The result of the air rushing past her big, white buckteeth. Rye loved that sound. Oh, he adored it. It was so unique, so faint, yet so familiar. Some of the nicest things about love were the subtle, surrounding details, the little daily things you noticed about your partner. The way they bit their lip or tugged at their whiskers, or they way they carried their tail. The way they looked at you when they turned their head. The way they could communicate feeling and desire without a single word at all.

Sometimes, so much was said with glances.

But, still, other times, words meant everything.

He remembered, two months ago, when she'd told him ...

" ... I missed my heat. Rye ... " The beaver was wringing her paws, eyes darting with a scared, revelatory weight. She shuffled back and forth on her bare foot-paws, her textured paddle-tail dragging lightly on the chilly, tiled floor as she moved. Moving between the various tables in the Restaurant and Sundries. And she stopped, catching her breath, gesturing and insisting, "It should've come three days ago. At least. Three or four days ago."

"It's been a month? Already?" was all the mouse could ask, only halfway understanding what she was saying. Not because he was stupid or slow. But because it was the last thing he'd expected to hear upon walking through the door. Upon coming back from his daily rounds, from lots of sniffing and searching round the town, making sure no predators were in the vicinity. Making sure there were no strange scents. That nothing had been taken from the local, abandoned buildings. That nothing had been vandalized.

It was always possible that, in the depths of the night, some roamer could waltz into town, prowl the streets, and take things. And, of course, there wasn't any law to dictate that it couldn't be done. It wasn't like Rye had any legal claim to the town of Kempton. It wasn't like there were any actual laws, for that matter. But, still, he had to protect this place. Cause if someone ever did come and start doing those things, they may come back. And they may bring friends. And the mouse, being prey, knew that the last thing he wanted to face was a mob of nomadic predators. And, if they were going to come? At least the mouse wanted to know about it. Wanted to be ready for it. So, he walked in a circle around the town every day, blue-grey eyes peeled, big, fleshy ears swiveling, just staying alert for anything that had happened or potentially could happen.

" ... Rye? Are, you, uh ... Rye?" Amandy went, her voice breaking. She swallowed, breathing deeply through her black nose. She was dressed in one of his shirts. Not one that had originally been his. But, rather, one he'd found. When Amandy had crashed here in her balloon five weeks before, she'd been carrying a backpack of clothes and such. But not enough for a long stay anywhere. The mouse, though, having been here a long time, and having scrabbled all through the empty, decaying houses, had gathered more clothing for her.

The houses around this nowhere-town were good for sifting through. And, to this day, he still sifted and searched through some of them. On some days, he would take Amandy and they would just browse through the houses, telling out-loud stories of what they thought had gone on in the various rooms, about who had lived there, what they'd eaten for their suppers. And Rye would take their stories and write them down and read them back to his wife before bed, by candlelight. The mattresses they slept on, in fact, had been taken from those houses, among other things. And, sometimes, they made love in the nicer houses, the ones that hadn't rotted or collapsed too much. They'd bred on a saggy couch the other day, in a room with sea-green walls and a smashed television set.

But the mouse, years before the beaver had come, had chosen to live in the Sundries over the houses because the Sundries actually overlooked the main street, having a better view of anything that came into town. And, plus, the railroad track ran right in front of the used-to-be restaurant, and the track led to the creek and woods in one direction and into huge, endless flatlands in the other. It was just a better location. And Amandy seemed to like it, as well.

Anyway, the beaver was wearing, today, a flannel shirt he'd found in a house that had sideboards painted the same color as robin eggs. It was long-sleeved and warm. But the beaver kept the sleeves rolled up, cause the shirt was actually a size too big for her, and the cuffs of the sleeves kept slipping over her paws. She liked the shirt, though, because when they lit a nice fire in the fireplace, she could take her bra and pants and panties off and just wear the shirt. Almost like a nightshirt. "Rye ... "

"I'm here," he whispered. An odd thing to say, maybe. He was obviously standing in the room. Obviously in his wife's presence. But, still, that's what he said. "I'm here," he repeated. "No, it's ... three weeks. It's only been three weeks, though. Since your last heat, right?" His whiskers twitched, twitched, and his tail snaked behind him. He hadn't worn a tail-sock or ear-mittens today. It was, for a change, in the lower forties. Chilly, but not too cold. All of this according to the still-working thermometer outside the half-bombed bank building. It had mercury in it that rose and fell to tell the temperature in Fahrenheit and Celsius. But the mouse only knew how to read the Fahrenheit side. The day was, though warmer, still a slate-grey, still murky. And more than muddy from the snow and ice that had melted and froze and re-melted during the course of the season.

"It's been a month," the beaver whispered, a bit testy. Which wasn't like her. And it wasn't because she was mad at him, or upset with him. Rather, because she was only now coming to terms with her condition. Which, for the past several days, she'd slowly begun to guess at. She was almost certain of it now. And with that certainty came a wellspring of emotion. She'd dealt with a lot during her life. The loss of her family, and the death of her first husband. And finding a new husband in Rye, after being shot down and stranded in this ghost town. All, seemingly, the result of God's paw. She'd come to terms with so much. But she'd never, ever missed a heat. Not in the twelve years she'd been having them. And, when a femme missed a heat, it meant only one thing. And she wasn't sure she was ready for that 'one thing,' no matter how much a miracle it would be. She wasn't sure, in their impoverished, isolated situation, it was for the best. Was she ready for that? Were they, as a couple, ready for that?

But it didn't come down to readiness.

It came down to reality.

"I'm pregnant," she breathed, finally saying it outright. Her eyes watered and closed. "I'm ... I know we didn't mean for this to happen, but, uh, I'm ... " A few sniffles, breath shaking softly. She gave some beaver-chitters.

The mouse twitched quietly, watching her, seeing her reactions. Opening and closing his muzzle, trying to think of something to say. His words were getting caught. "But, uh ... "

"A month," was her silent repeat, nodding, driving the point home. And saying it more tenderly this time. "I think I would know." She took a deep, shaky breath.

The mouse swallowed, eyes wide. Feeling a little bit stupid. But still in a trance-like state. The first thing he'd heard upon entering the room, even before he'd been able to say 'hello' to her, was, 'I missed my heat.' It wasn't the news that had him so flustered, necessarily. It was the out-of-nowhere-ness.

Amandy stared at a tabletop, having daintily taken a seat, her paddle-tail flat against the back of the chair. Staring, as she did, at an unlit candle, saying, "It, uh, must've been that time when, uh ... we were in the cold all day, gathering food? Carried all those buckets of icy water back to bathe and drink and cook with, and we were so tired. Like we were drunk on insomnia or exhaustion, or something, cause ... "

" ... I remember that night," he supplied, slipping into the seat across from her. He bit his lip again. His whiskers twitched, and his paws reached across the table, taking each of her paws in his. Giving such tender, little squeezes. "Your scent was so strong." His pink, sniffy nose twitched at the memory. "It smelled so good. I couldn't keep my paws off you. And, uh ... you kept throwing yourself at me, like you were on fire." Pause. "Which, I guess you must've felt like you were."

Amandy nodded quietly.

"We gave each other muzzle, but I don't remember doing, uh ..."

"I do," she replied, eyes flickering to his. Her rich, brown eyes, which were lightly glistening. "Or, at least," she corrected, "I think I do. I had a really strong dream. That you bred me. I woke up, and I ... just thought it was a nice dream. Cause, going to sleep, we'd been pawing and making out, and ... then I don't remember anything after that. Not clearly. I just thought we fell asleep. But I guess we, uh ... "

"You're ... wait, you're, uh, saying ... "

" ... I'm saying we were both so tired and horny that I don't think we knew what we were doing. You were half-asleep when you mounted me. I was half-asleep when I let you." A breath. "We fell into a hard slumber after, so the memories didn't really stick, and, uh, it seemed like a dream when we woke." A pause. "It obviously wasn't." A deeper breath. "Cause, other than that, you didn't breed me the whole heat. We made a conscious effort to stick to muzzles and paws. I know we did. So, unless it happened that night, I don't know when we it did ... and, obviously, it can only be you."

The mouse nodded quietly, squeezing her paws a little bit harder, and closing his eyes for a moment. Gaining his bearings. "Darling," he went, eyes opening, giving her the softest of smile. "I'm ... I'm not sure what to say. Only that I'm happy. I really am," he insisted.

The beaver, yet again, nodded quietly.

"You just caught me offguard. And I ... " His whiskers twitched, and he swallowed. "Come here ... "

She felt a lump in her throat, weakly slipping out of her chair, shuffling to the other side of the round table and crying quietly as she sank into his lap.

"I love you," he breathed, into her neck-fur, and against her cheek. "I love you ... it's gonna be alright." He was speaking with so much more confidence and calmness than he'd possessed before meeting her. Months ago, before they'd met, before they'd mated, he never would've been able to summon up this kind of tranquility. But love had a way of soothing even the fiercest of twitchy creatures.

"I'm scared," she managed, shaking. Her muzzle buried against his neck, her body shifting positions, going to a reverse straddle of him. Throwing her arms around his neck and shoulders. "We're in no condition to ... can we raise a baby in this? In all this? I mean ... we were so careful, too," she said, sniffling, trying to keep her composure. "We made so sure," she emphasized, "that we wouldn't breed." They'd had to. They had no form of birth control, no pills, nothing else. They'd had to rely on self-control. And that'd obviously failed. The beaver mumbled a few things, incoherent whispers, fears, concerns, bewilderments. "What if it hurts? What if it goes wrong? What if something happens ... " All the wild, wayward possibilities of physical pain and loss crept into her mind. She'd lost her family. What if she lost her baby? Wasn't that possible? Her diet, for one, wasn't the richest in vitamins and nutrients. They ate what they could find, anything that was nourishing. They couldn't afford to be picky. And when she gave labor? There were no pain-killers. It was going to be a painful birth. So many fears. But what if, what if, what if this, that, and ...

... all her whispered worries slipped into the mouse's keen, pink ears, and with each one of those whispers, he whispered back to her: "I love you," "It'll be okay," and, "I'm so happy. Darling, you're gonna have our baby, okay, and it's gonna be beautiful ... and I'm not going anywhere. I'll be with you."

After a few minutes of this, after hearing his positive affections, and receiving more of the same in the form of rubs and touches and dainty, errant kisses, the beaver began to relax. A sniffle, and a smile coming onto her muzzle. "You're really ... you're not upset?"

"Why should I be?" he breathed, eyes closed, hugging her firmly. "I mean, I'm the one responsible, aren't I?"

"Partly." A smiling sniffle. "Eh, I don't know," she breathed, in regards to who was more to blame, or if blame even need be affixed. Which, she believed, it really didn't. She leaned fully into his hug. "I mean, I just, uh ... I don't know," she said again. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, or that I didn't break it more gently. I shouldn't have just blurted it to you as soon as you walked in the door. I should've, uh, waited 'til supper, 'til the candles were lit ... "

" ... it's alright," he insisted. "I'm over the shock. And, now that I am, it's ... it's just ... " He smiled brightly, breathing onto her cheek. " ... it's more than I ever could've asked for. A child is a blessing," he told her. "Made with God's wonder and our love ... and I'm glad to have one with you. I really am, okay? Alright?"

The beaver felt her heart swim. And her smile seemed to glow. "I wonder if it's gonna be a girl or a boy."

The mouse giggle-squeaked. "Or have your paddle-tail?"

"Or your big ears?"

And, from that point, they launched into an excited, bright exchange of wonderments, wondering this, that, and the other, blurting out plans and ideas, talking about possible names. Until, eventually, they both trailed off, and sat there, the beaver still reverse-straddling him in the chair.

Him kissing her forehead softly, again and again.

And her breathing of his mousey scent.

In the present, Rye sighed. An easy, wistful sigh, born of contentment, something precious in the midst of a life of hardship.

"Darling?"

"Mm?" A few blinks.

" ... lost in thought there?" A slight rippling of the water as she moved her bare shoulders. "What were you thinking about?" the beaver asked, beginning to swim in little circles, from one end of the creek to the other. It was only, at this bend, about ten feet from bank to bank. And only a few feet deep. You could see to the bottom. The water was clear enough. And, now and then, little minnow-fishes would swim by. They'd seen a snapping turtle the other day. Rye had almost picked it up with mousey curiosity. Thankfully, Amandy knew her water-dwellers, and had stopped him just in time. Else he would've gotten his fingers crushed by the turtle's powerful jaw.

"'Bout us," was his simple response, as he stretched his legs. A squeaky sound, and a heavy sigh, and he swung himself about, finally crab-crawling into the water. "Ooh, eh ... cold."

A chuckle. "Not that cold. I've felt much colder."

"You got a pelt made for keeping water out. I don't. I get soaked to the bone."

"Well, that just means I get to spend lots of time drying you out afterward, doesn't it?" she whispered, raising a brow, goosing him. Grabbing his rump and squeezing the pert, wheat-furred cheeks.

Which made him squeak and spin around, splashing her.

"H-hey!" She laughed, raising her big paddle-tail, and ...

" ... no! Eek!"

PAT-PAT-PAT! She slapped the water with her broad tail again and again, smacking the water, sending waves at the mouse.

He giggle-squeaked and stumbled back, sputtering, treading water, and finally sitting close to the bank, the water just a little ways up his belly. Everything else submerged beneath. "Mm ... I got droplets weighing down my whisker-tips. All because of you. I was trying to get in slowly."

"Best to get in all at once. More thrilling that way," the beaver assured. "After all, shouldn't I know?"

The mouse just giggle-squeaked and nodded, giving her no further encouragement. Keeping his muzzle shut. For the moment, anyway ...

... because, ten minutes later, his mousey muzzle was anything but shut. He and Amandy sprawled nakedly in the spring grass, several feet away from the bank, their fur damp, matted wet. But slowly, naturally sun-drying, cleaner, fresher than before. She, in particular, rendered flat on her back by the mouse's initial guidance. Her head lolling this way and that in the green, returning grass, the wild, rural grass, and her brown eyes half-open, staring out into the deep blue of the sky and over, now and then, at the emptied town on the horizon, down the railroad track. You could just make out some of the buildings from here. But, oh, all that she saw couldn't match what she felt.

Rye was willingly dragging his tongue up her vulva, over the perimeter of fuzz that separated the feminine flesh from the tufted fur of her groin. A few simple sucks at the fur, and then back to the fuzz, and then the flesh. Lazily, lusciously, up, up to her clitoris. His tongue was modest. Mouse-tongues tended to be. He couldn't stick it that far out of his muzzle, but what he lacked in versatility he made up in eagerness, earnestness. Mouses were patient, eager-to-please creatures, more submissive than not. That gave the males of the species a notorious reputation for being good at, as it was more crudely put, 'pussy-eating.'

"Uh, nuh ... " A weak breath, sucking air. The beaver's half-wet paws sliding through the grass, dirt affixing to her damp, furry fingers.

Rye squeaked in response, his actions driven by such practiced want. He took his tongue-tip and traced it delicately round and round, in careful circles, circling her clitoris but not quite touching it. And, then, as if on accident, veering his tongue to slide across the little shaft itself. Full-on contact for several steamy seconds.

"Ah ... huh," the beaver breathed, with another gasp, as well as a huff. Her head lolling to the opposite direction, eyes closing for the moment. She released another heavy breath, her bare, supple breasts rising and falling, her nipples hardening from the erotic thoughts she was having.

He teased her special spot for a bit longer, before trickling, trailing down, down, back down her vulva, worming his tongue inside the labia, the soft, velvety petal-lips, muzzle pressing, tilting. He sucked a little. And kissed a little. And nibbled quite a lot, using his lips but never his buckteeth. Though he did allow the said teeth to graze her flesh, ever so carefully graze it. All of these motions leading up to him lapping, as best he could, at the opening of her vagina, which was warm and leaking little droplets. And which had a scent that was driving him wild. Muzzle getting so close, so close, he slurped her up.

He adored her body, as he adored her mind. As he adored all of her. And he showed that adoration, expressed it, made a show of it, taking his sweet, tasty time, loving the heat, the distinct scent, the way his actions made her react. And the arousal it brought to his own body, as well, stiffening his mouse-hood and racing his heart and rushing his blood. It was an act of pleasure that, while he was doing it, made him lose some degree of awareness. He knew what he was doing, of course, and how he was doing it. But it was almost effortless. As if instinct, at some point, took over. The animal side of him. Allowing the civil side to simply lean back enjoy it. And perhaps all love-making was like that, be it muzzle or intercourse or whatever else they daily did. Perhaps all of it was more instinct than intellect.

But without the intellect present to provide the poetry, without the heart to provide the love, without the soul to provide the spirituality, the instinct didn't mean as much. The instinct, without all that, had no context. But, oh, he had all those things, all of them, in all their ways and means, and as his wet, warm tongue licked and as his lips nibbled her flesh, and as his whiskers brushed against her tufted groin-fur, he could only give a squeak.

Squeak.

She heard his squeaks. And loved them. Such sounds, such light, indescribable sounds. Could a squeak even be captured in prose? It was the bell of cuteness, the note of innocence, the key of sensuality. It was so many things in so many moments. And, Amandy, hazily pondering the depth of squeaks, quivered and quavered, writhing from the ministrations. Her thought process soon derailing as the promise of orgasm began to breach. She surrendered to the joy of it. Mental coherence, certainly, could wait for another time.

She gave her usual beaver-sounds, little grunts and clicks, little chitters. Little sounds, and her breaths constantly, rapidly audible, her toes curling and uncurling in the grass as her femininity shuddered in spasms. Sheer spasms, flinging, flooding pleasure through her groin, through the entirety of her body. "Ahn, nahh ... ah," she reacted, air whistling past her buckteeth. Her paddle-tail flat on the earth, pinned down by her back, seemed to flush. Her thighs, warm and already-spread, inched apart just a bit more. As far as they could go. Her paws shaking as they reached down to return the favor in some form or fashion.

A squeak, sharply inhaling, as Rye felt his ears grabbed. Fingers clutching to the rims, and a thumb wagging along the interior flesh of one to the lobes. Left lobe. Tingling, gorging with blood, flushing a deep shade of rosy-pink. The erogenous sensitivity of his ears was strong enough to make him slow his pace, to stop, flustered, panting in his airy way. Femme-juice dribbling from his lips and whisker-tips. A few, for-good-measure swipes with his tongue, and he fully stopped for breath. Giving her some recovery time, as well, lifting his muzzle off her groin, his eyes weakly darted up to hers. So hazy, his gaze, and so intent. So consumed by his desire for her.

She nodded weakly, raising a paw, moving two of her fingers in a circular motion. An indication for him to turn himself around. For him to get flip from his belly to his back. And, as the mouse hypnotically obliged, the beaver chuckled softly, sighing with heavy contentment.

Rye, now on his back, panting squeakily, quite worked up, scanned her body as the beaver got to her knees and crawled the short distance to him. He saw those beautiful breasts wobbling with gravity. The same breasts he daily sucked and mouthed at. Those beautiful, feminine things. He eyed her belly, also. She was pregnant, after all, even if it wasn't overly-showing yet. And that made him, in recent weeks, become somewhat overprotective.

That was one of the reasons that they'd decided to stay in Kempton rather than set out to find another village of prey, be it the beaver village she'd come from if, indeed, it was still there, or any other place along the way. Rye hadn't wanted her to be walking all day long, every day for maybe a week or more, if she was pregnant. Worrying also, aside from dehydration or malnourishment, that such a long journey might be plagued by sudden tornadoes or rain storms, and what if she caught a bad cold, and et cetera?

She'd insisted that she was, in fact, not disabled by her condition. She'd only gained a few pounds so far. It wasn't like she was close to waddling. Though she appreciated his protectiveness, and found it very sweet, she did find that the mouse loved to worry. He was naturally anxious. She'd known that from the start, of course. It only made sense he'd be over-cautious. But, even so, it sometimes tried her patience. They'd had more than a few minor arguments over it. All the same, she'd agreed they might as well stay put. In and around the town. After all, spring was here. Summer would follow. She'd give birth in mid-fall. And that would give them time to travel before winter, if they really needed to. But, honestly, was there any rush?

They'd both become so attached to their little, private ghost-town, and at least it was familiar. At least it was safe, wasn't it?

No, they couldn't leave.

No, they ...

... were in easy, slow contact, the beaver hunched sweetly over the mouse, paws resting on his belly and hips, muzzle-mouthing at his tufted, wet sac, before lip-grazing his pink, stiff shaft, mouthing again, sucking on the side of the stiffness, slipping her head back, back, up, and then down, taking the gorged, circumcised tip between her lips. Being very careful about it. Watching the placement of her buckteeth. She also knew how sensitive his head was. A direct, singular assault would be too much for him. When she'd first given him muzzle, a few months ago, she hadn't known that. And he'd squeaked painfully and kept trying to pull out of her maw. She'd finally gotten him to communicate his desires and feelings as well as she'd been communicating her own. So, now, if something didn't feel right, he'd tell her and guide her into fixing it.

But, now, she took it slowly. And, paws stroking up his sides and down again, she gripped the bottom of his furry, mousey body, feeling him wriggle, feeling his tail snaking in the grass beside them like a fishing line of sorts. And she used her tongue to paint saliva-strewn pictures of the imaginary, erotic sort along his head and upper shaft, doing it lightly, lightly. Not too much pressure.

The mouse squeaked heatedly from the throat.

So, of course, she kept doing it, grunting from her own throat, and stopping the licking and teasing. And getting to the thick of things, bobbing, bobbing down, back up. Her lips in a loose, wet ring, so warm as they slid down his flesh and back up. In a fully-confident rhythm. Her tongue working the underside of his shaft as she did so. Loving the sheer taste and heat of his masculinity, and driving him, driving him to ...

... writhe in the grass. To suck air, to squeak in higher, desperate pitches, and his hips lightly lifting.

She pressed them back down, muzzle sinking all the way, waiting for it, waiting for it.

"Ah, ah! Ahn ... nn," he squeaked, weakly. Panting and shiver-shaking. His paws trembled. "Mm ... "

The beaver sighed heavily through her black nose as she felt his organ jerk against her tongue, spurt after spurt of thick, steamy mouse-seed shooting against the roof of her muzzle and pelting the back of her throat. She let it collect and pool there. 'Til she had no choice but to swallow. Then letting it pool again. This time, not swallowing, but sloshing it around, letting it touch all her taste buds, as well as the insides of her cheeks. "Mm ... hmm." And another swallow, excess seed dripping from her lips as she gave a few errant bobs and then slipped off his member.

"Oh, my ... gosh," the mouse whispered, bare chest rising and falling. Trying to catch his breath. His mouse-hood glistening and giving stray jerks.

" ... heh, you like that? Huh?" the beaver asked, panting, sitting up on her knees.

A weak swallow and squeak. "Y-you could, uh, say that ... "

Amandy giggle-chittered and reached for his paws, helping him to sit up. Giving him a long, lingering hug before taking him back into the creek, where they washed off a second time.

Half an hour later, they were dry, dressed, and walking back home. Rye carrying two buckets of creek-water to boil for drinking and cooking purposes. They no longer needed to haul bathing water back, obviously, with it being warm enough to walk out here and swim. But the mouse held one bucket in each paw, walking a bit stiffly, having to stop every minute or so to put the buckets down and rest his arms. Amandy, meanwhile, carried a basket of all the food they'd collected: nuts, mushrooms, bark, even yellow dandelions. They could make a nice dandelion salad. They were both rodents and both vegetarians, so they didn't mind overdosing on plant-heavy meals.

But, as they walked, the sky began to darken a bit, and clouds began to roll in from the west. Rather forbidding clouds, in fact.

"That looks like more than rain," Amandy said, squinting. And, sure enough, a lightning bolt flashed way off on the horizon. Taking several seconds for the resulting boom of thunder to reach their ears.

Rye's heart picked up pace. His mousey anxiety flaring at the thought of a bad storm. Spring was, after all, a ripe time for tornadoes. "Um, uh ... we better hurry," was all he could say, his throat getting dry. He swallowed, whiskers wildly twitching.

"We'll get back in time," the beaver assured, more calmly, staying beside him. And trying to count the wooden planks on the railroad track as they walked along it. Stepping from one to the other, but soon losing count as she looked ahead. They walked another minute before Rye had to stop and rest his arms again, the water buckets sloshing as he put them down.

The mouse's big, fleshy ears swiveled and arched atop his head, listening to the distant storm-sounds. Trying to ascertain how far away it was. How fast it was moving. How big it was.

" ... darling?"

"Mm?" A frightened, little twitch, blinking several times. "What?"

" ... I said, 'we better keep going.' We're almost there, okay? You zoned out on me."

A weak nod. "I'm sorry," he whispered, taking a deep breath, and picking up the buckets again. Shuffling forward, step by step, his bare foot-paws treading carefully. But as quickly as they could, nonetheless.

And, sure enough, they got there. Into town, right to the Restaurant and Sundries. And Amandy opened the door, leaving it open as she set the food-basket on one of the tables. Rye putting the water-buckets down and carefully pushing them across the tiled floor, away from the windows, and ...

" ... Rye?" the beaver asked, seeing him go all strange. Seeing him stiffen, his tail freezing in place and his nose sniffing something fierce.

" ... s-stay here," was all he said, barely audible.

"Rye, what's ... wrong," she went, sniffing the air herself, and discovering the answer: another fur's scent. There was another fur here. Not in the building, not in the Sundries, but close by. Maybe in one of the buildings across the street. And it smelled like a predator. There was no mistaking the powerful, virile smell of a male predator. Probably a canine or fox or something.

"I'm ... I think it's coming from the bank," he whispered, of the scent. Nodding across the street.

"Rye, don't go over there," the beaver said, immediately. She was prey, too. And just because beavers were more level-headed than mouses, that didn't mean she didn't feel fear. She felt it. Was, indeed, starting to feel it now. "Rye, come on," she said, trying to pull him out of the open doorway. The clouds were thickening and beginning to cover the town, the thunder rolling like some kind of heavy cry. And sprinkles of rain dotted the big windows of the room, the windows that had the words 'Restaurant & Sundries' on them.

"J-just, darling, just ... I gotta see. I can't let anyone hurt you."

"I'm fine. I'll be fine. Just stay with me. We can lock the doors."

"I have to check. I have to know what's going on," the mouse whispered, with more bravery than he felt. But his wife was pregnant. With his baby. And he would do anything to protect her. And if that meant trying to lure and lull a predator out of town? Then he'd be the bait. But he couldn't allow a strange predator to stay lurking across the street. And maybe there was the rare chance that the predator was a good predator, a friendly one. One of the ones, maybe, that didn't hunt prey. They were known to exist. Many predators could be civil, couldn't they? Regardless, there was only one way to find out. He thought, momentarily, about bringing the rifle along. But with lightning forking through the air, it probably wasn't a good idea to carry a metal tube with gunpowder in it through the open air.

"Rye ... "

" ... Amandy, when the rain comes, it'll wash the scent away. If I don't try and find out who's over there right now," the mouse said, whiskers twitching nervously, tail snaking out of control, "then we might not find out ... we won't be able to smell him after it rains. Not 'til it dries. He might use that time to sneak up on us, or ... I have to find out who it is," he whispered, "right now."

The beaver, eyes darting, nodding lightly. There was no use in holding a prolonged argument about this. She was, by now, more than accustomed to mousey stubbornness. Rye wasn't going to listen to her. He was going to go over there. "Be careful ... look, darling," she said, paws grabbing to his shirt, and her muzzle meeting his cheek. A lingering, eyes-closed kiss, one that slipped, by the end of it, all the way to his lips. Breaking with a smack-smack sound. "Just be careful," she breathed, pulling back.

"Lock the doors?"

"I will. I'll, uh ... wait by them. To let you in when you, uh ... "

" ... well, don't stand too close if the storm ... if it gets worse, in case the winds blow the windows out, or ... "

" ... hey," she whispered, lifting his chin with a paw. "I'll be okay. Just do what you need to. I'll be here."

A small smile, nodding, taking a deep breath, and then steeling himself before scurrying out the open doorway and into the rain. For it was, now, raining. More than sprinkling. Not a hard rain. Not yet. But, oh, water was falling, and the sky was dark and churning overhead, with the sounds of light thunder.

The mouse, raindrops clinging to his whisker-tips, scurried and scampered, as mouses were prone to do, across the street, over the railroad track, and into the bottom floor of the old, brick-red bank. The building, while still standing, was on shaky foundations. The bottom part of the west wall blown out. Part of the roof missing. From the bombs, of course. The stairs were sturdy enough to walk up, but some parts of the floors were almost ready to give way. If enough pressure was given to them.

The mouse, twitching, timidly went up the first flight of stairs, keeping his paws clutched to the railings. And, emerging on the second floor, he scanned it. Raising his pink, sniffy nose, smelling the air. The scent was strong, but it wasn't on this floor. It was one floor up. The third floor, which was the top floor. The mouse panted. Not from exertion, but from anxiety. Dear Lord, please give me strength. Please let this be okay, he prayed, as he went up more stairs, peeking out into the open area of the third floor, and ...

... BOOM!

"Eek!" the mouse squealed, twitching, throwing himself against the wall. He shook with fear, panting heavily. Craning his neck up, he saw the hole in the roof. Through it, the storm clouds. The rain was coming in. The sound he'd heard had been a sharp crack of thunder. The preceding lightning having tingled his whiskers with electricity. "Calm down, calm down," he whispered to himself, knowing the predator was on this floor. But because the rain was entering the building, it was already washing away the scents up here. And he sniffed fiercely as he ventured away from the stairs and through the lobby-like area. There were a few office-like rooms. All the doors closed. The predator was in one of those rooms. The mouse was sure of it.

But which room? And what to do when he found him?

Best not to think too much about it, Rye decided, or you'll just freeze in place. Just start opening doors. Moving through the lobby, he carefully skirted the center of the floor. He'd known, from having such keen hearing, that the boards were about to give way in the very center. He'd heard them creaking as he'd approached, his bare foot-paws wet and fur-matted, treading carefully around the edges of the space. And, reaching for the furthest door from the stairs, the mouse ...

... was shoved back. Violently. Into the wall. A pained, surprised squeak, hitting his head and slumping to the floor. A bewildered pant, trying to get up. And seeing ...

... a wild, haggard coyote towering over him. With rusty brown-red fur, one eye colored yellow and the other brown. "Think you were gonna sneak up on me, huh? Just like that? Think I'm stupid?"

The mouse didn't say anything. Just twitched and shook.

"Nature built me to hunt the likes of you." A huff. "I knew you were approaching before you even entered the building."

"W-what are you, uh ... "

" ... speak up," the coyote demanded, squinting, giving the mouse a little kick.

Rye squeaked, pushing himself to a sit, and using the wall to pull himself to a stand. He panted, rubbing his head for a moment before glaring at the coyote. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

The coyote tilted his neck. "What's it matter to you?"

"I ... I live here," the mouse said.

"So?" was the indifferent, toneless response. The angular ears cocked atop his head.

"S-so, I just wanna know what you're ... "

" ... I'm a nomad," the coyote interrupted, discreetly studying his own, sharp claws, as if making sure they were ready for action. And then he looked back up to the rodent. "I live alone, hunt alone. I go where I please. And I answer to no one."

The mouse nodded quietly, wiping a paw across his muzzle. Checking to see if there was any blood. There wasn't. "Am I, uh, supposed to be impressed by that?" he asked, with more boldness than he possessed.

The coyote showed his teeth, giving a twisted, little smile. "I don't know. Are you?"

"No," Rye replied, with an unmistakable glare this time.

"Good. That's good, mouse. Hate me," the coyote breathed, inching closer. Now standing only a foot away. "It's more fun when the prey hate you. It makes the resulting struggle," he posed, "more epic. More satisfying."

"I don't hate you," the mouse insisted. "I ... I don't."

"Ah, I forgot. You're one of those religious furs, huh? You don't hate? Or, rather, you do, but you're too pious to admit it?"

"Think what you want," was all the mouse replied, whiskers quivering. His back literally to the wall. The rain coming into the lobby and the thunder rolling quietly, as if building up to a greater, eventual boom.

The coyote, tilting his head the other way, his multi-colored eyes squinting, sniffed the mouse with his ultra-powerful nose. "You're wet, but I can smell enough on you," he breathed, "to guess ... " He grinned and backed away, tail wagging with self-satisfaction, disappearing into the room for a moment. And reemerging with a half-finished project of wooden bars and beams. " ... this yours, huh?"

The mouse, in his anxiety, hadn't realized the coyote had been hiding in the same room he'd been storing his surprise in. It was for Amandy. It was ... " ... t-that's a crib. For my baby." A shaky pause. "Put it down." He'd gnawed, with his own teeth, all the bars for the sides. He worked on a little bit more every few days.

"Aw, a crib. You're gonna be a daddy, huh? Who's the mommy ... " A few more sniffs. " ... a beaver?"

Rye said nothing.

"She's a beaver, isn't she?"

"Put it down, please," the mouse whispered, almost vulnerably.

The coyote shrugged and threw the crib back into the room. Breaking two or three of the side-bars in the process.

The mouse's eyes watered heavily.

"Beavers," the coyote said, looking back to the mouse. "They're supple things, aren't they? Bet she's got some solid tail ... but what are a beaver," he asked, "and a mouse doing alone in a ghost town, huh? Mated, no less? Prey aren't solitary. Why are you here ... "

The mouse sniffled, shaking his head. He wasn't going to give the coyote anything. Not willingly. He only asked, barely audible, "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" was the counter. The coyote wanting the mouse to talk. Wanting to prod him into fiercer responses. His tail wagged and his nose sniffed. "Hmm?" was the impatient prod.

"Y-you ... I came to see who was here, and you're ... you're going to kill me," the mouse guessed. Quite accurately, too. "You're going to eat me," he whispered. And the thought of such a thing was ten times worse than the thought of mere death. "Why?"

"Because I can," was the first response. Following it with, "It's the order of things. I'm made to hunt you. You're made to run from me. It's the most basic kind of tension. It's natural. It's right ... "

The mouse just shook his head, twitching, further pressing to the wall. As if, maybe, it would open up and let him escape.

" ... then what is it, mouse? Am I a monster for wanting to do what my instinct suggests?"

"Instinct doesn't always have to be followed," was Rye's response, not meeting the coyote's eyes. "That's what separates us from mere animals: is that we understand that. That we understand," he whispered, "that desire doesn't have to be acted on just because it's felt."

"And what desire would that be? Carnal? Sexual? The desire to eat? Where does one draw the line between good and bad desire? Who's to decide? I feel an irresistible compulsion to hunt prey. To consume them. God put that there, didn't He? Are you saying God made a mistake?"

"It's ... it wasn't the intent," the mouse replied, stammering. "Predators have all the t-tools to ... to protect prey. To guard them. To keep them safe. But, instead, everything fell. And, now, you use those tools meant for protecting us to hunt us. It's not supposed to be this way."

"But it is, mouse. It has been, and it is ... and it will be. And nothing you tell me right now is going to change my mind. Look at me," the coyote said, growling. "I'm hungry. I need meat. You," he said, jabbing a paw at the mouse's chest, "are meat."

"W-why didn't you just ... go into my home, then, and wait for us there? And then kill us in our sleep?"

"You would've smelled me before you entered the building," was the coyote's response. "I hoped to hide, and at least ... pick you off one by one. Rather than trying to take both at the same time, or risking being ambushed. I know how to hunt," was the assurance. "I got you here, didn't I? Alone and defenseless? I get you out of the way, and no one's around to stop me from breeding that femme of yours, whether she likes it or not. She can't overpower me. Nor can you, for that matter." A lusty smile that simply repulsed the mouse. That made his ears to burn. If he hadn't felt hatred before, he was extremely close to it. And maybe that's why the coyote was saying these things. As he'd admitted a minute ago, he wanted the mouse to hate him. He fed off that. "Yeah, I like to play with my food before I eat it. Some might say that's a feline quality, but coyotes have always been wildcards." A chuckle. "So, you see, your curiosity and desire to make peace is going to be your undoing."

"Those things aren't weaknesses," Rye shot back passionately, fiercely.

"So, they're strengths, are they?" the coyote said, chuckling, teeth baring.

"Mercy is a strength. If you were half as strong as you think yourself to be, you'd show it to me."

"Mercy?" A raised brow and a shake of the head. "You're trying to put philosophy ahead of instinct. One's intangible. The other's not. I don't have your faith. I don't want it. I go with what I can feel, see, smell ... and, to be frank, I've had quite enough of ... "

The mouse, seeing the coyote was distracted with his little monologue, chose the moment to bolt. Jerking to the side, scurrying, scampering fast, down the wet, chilly hall, out into the lobby area, ropy tail trailing wildly behind him. He skirted, careful to avoid the center. To run around the perimeters of the room.

And the coyote, in hot, heavy pursuit, laughed at the mouse's zigzag escape pattern. Thinking that the mouse was trying to throw him off. Not realizing that Rye was consciously avoiding the weak spots in the floorboards.

The mouse had just reached the stairs.

The coyote was seconds away from catching up. But, unfortunately for him, chose to run in a straight line through the middle of the room. It would successfully close the gap. He'd catch the mouse. Or he would've: had the center of the floor not collapsed under his charging weight. A yip and a yowl, and heavy falling sounds. The coyote falling, in fact, through the second floor as well. Ending up on the bottom floor with a sickening crack of neck-bones.

Rye winced sharply, tears in his eyes, shaking quietly. He could hear his heart beating in his ears. Thump-a-thump-a-thump! Breathing with baited, anxiety-filled breaths. After a full minute, he crept to the middle of the room, slowly, slowly, peering over the edge of the hole that was now there. And looking down in the dimness. The coyote was dead. Multi-colored eyes wide open.

The mouse looked away and carefully, carefully crept around the edges of the room. Going down the hallway again, into the room where the coyote had been. And emerging with the crib. Tucking the broken pieces into his shirt-pockets and carrying the rest. And creeping back to the stairs. Reaching the bottom level, he quietly, stonily dragged the coyote out of the building and out of the town. It took a few minutes. The turkey vultures would get him when the sun came out.

Rye felt, in many ways, brutal. Over what had happened, over the sheer darkness of it. Over the tension that remained. Over the knowledge that, in the future, more predators might come, in heavier numbers. With no government and no laws, there no nothing to keep him and Amandy safe. And death, like a plague, hung over it all. But it wasn't to be victorious. Not in the presence of faith, of purest Light. Not with the knowledge that death had no true hold on them, because they both had eternal life. The comfort and knowledge of such things, the promises of their risen Savior, gave the mouse and beaver certain wisdoms, allowed them to progress beyond the more primal callings of prey existence.

And, so, that's what Rye did.

He progressed.

And walked back to the Sundries, across the street from the bombed-out bank, his fur was soaked with rainwater, and droplets were flinging off his twitching whisker-tips. His ears were more white than pink.

Amandy quickly unlocked, unbolted, and opened the door. "You okay?" she asked, quickly, her tone of voice containing many unasked questions. "Rye? What happened?"

The mouse, smiling softly, only said, "I'm making a crib. It was gonna be ... a, uh, a present," he said, "for you." He held it out. "It, uh ... got a bit broken, but, uh ... " And though it wasn't readily obvious because of all the raindrops dripping down his pelt, there were tears there. It was only when his light voice began to break did the beaver realize he was crying.

She took the crib-pieces and gently set them aside, soon wrapping her arms around her mate, smelling the scent of coyote on him. She didn't ask him where the coyote was, or how it had happened. The silent implication was that he was dead. That any threat, for the moment, was gone. That they were, even in the midst of this spring storm, safe. "The crib's wonderful, darling. Thank you," she breathed, kissing his soggy-furred cheek, "so much. I love you ... okay? Everything's gonna be okay."

And, smiling, hugging her, and kicking the door shut with a foot-paw, keeping the rain and thunder out, the mouse truly believed it to be so.