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The beaver sucked in hot, humid air, teetering on the tips of her bare, slightly-webbed foot-paws. Stretching to her brown-furred, blunt-clawed toes. "Eh ... " A whoosh of air, exhaling. Her breath, as it often did, discreetly whistling past her big, white buckteeth. A sound her husband adored, but which she, herself, hardly realized she made. It was almost a background sound to her. Her broad, textured paddle-tail raised a few inches before falling back down with a soft 'pat,' and she simultaneously returned to her foot-paw pads, shaking her head.

The mouse, whiskers twitching, saw this.

Her own whiskers, though not as active, drooped with agitation. Affected, as they were, by the eighty-eight degree weather. That's what the thermometer outside the bombed-out bank had read, an hour earlier: eighty-eight. But who was to say the thermometer was even working? Was mercury infallible? It could, in reality, be hotter. But the beaver didn't want to think about that. She was squinting at her own reflection, half-naked in front of a streaky mirror that had a narrow crack jagging across the bottom. " ... I can't get the button done." A chitter, making a further face. "They won't fit."

Rye, sitting at the end of the sunken, old bed, twitched a bit more, whiskers also drooping from the August heat. He nodded in thought, twisting and reaching into the pile of clothes he'd recently gathered, which he'd dumped, haphazardly, in the middle of the mattress here. The bed in this particular house, a two story house, painted lavender on the outside and calcium-white on the inside, had no sheets. Or, rather, there had been sheets, but they'd been rather moth-eaten and worn, so Rye had tugged them all off, tossing them aside. Kicking up a lot of dust in the process, which had made him sneeze three times.

Amandy found mouse-sneezes to be pinnacles of cuteness: Rye would pause, pause, lift his sniffy, pink nose, twitch a bit. His eyes would begin to water and narrow, and his head would sway this way and that, barely, barely, 'ah, ah ... ' He'd stop and sniffle-squeak, as if he'd conquered it, and then, ' ... ah-choo!' It was a sound of rushing, squeaky air. Such a soft, wispy noise, leaving him sniffling and rubbing his eyes afterward, and making his ropy tail to flail about for a moment.

She wanted, in so many words, to eat him up after sneezes. In the best possible way, of course. And the mouse, not knowing why, was left bewildered and flustered, which only made the cuteness fiercer and more irresistible. Which only increased her desire. All because of sneezes.

Anyhow, the sheets were on the floor in a corner, by the half-open, empty closet. Best they not get in the way, being that the mouse and beaver would be 'using' the mattress Rye was currently sitting on. Oh, yes, 'using' it. At some point before they left the house, surely. After Amandy was done trying on clothes.

Rye, for her benefit, sifted through the pile of pants, checking their sizes and squinting at faded tags. "Maybe, uh, khaki shorts would be looser," he said, finding a pair and gently tossing them over to her. "I think this one's two sizes bigger than those last ones you tried on. Those, uh, jean shorts," he said, dishy ears swiveling at the songbirds in the lush oak and maple trees outside, through the closed windows. There were orioles, as well, in the sycamores, but they'd gone rather quiet. Hummingbirds had been seen sipping from some of the wildflowers. It was a ripe time for birds, and for all life: plants, bugs, everything.

In fact, the two furs had, much earlier in the summer, planted a garden with some of the seeds they'd gathered over the colder months. They were growing corn, melons, strawberries, beans, peas, sunflowers, and a few other things. A lot of the houses had garden tools in the porches, so they used those for weeding and such. The only real problems were the leaf-eaters and potato-beetles and other garden pests: they ate the leaves of the vegetables, and there was no powder or repellent to make them leave. There were probably varied chemicals in some of Kempton's abandoned buildings, but most of it had to be decades, a century old, and the mouse didn't trust sprinkling it on things they would eventually eat. The mouse and beaver just had to hope that the bugs didn't ruin too much of their dearly-tended food. The yields, thus far, had been adequate.

But the self-grown food was a nice addition to the mushrooms and bark and wild things they frequently gathered. Their diets were much better in the summer. And, overall, they were much healthier. Rye felt his whiskers had more 'glisten' to them than they'd had in the winter and spring. And maybe his tail felt smoother, too. He kept telling Amandy that this was the case, asking her to feel his tail to make sure. She would always giggle at this. Mouses were, in large part, creatures of finesse, prone to obsessive-compulsions about tidiness and such. Rye didn't realize how carried away he got. But she did, and would often point it out to him. Not that she entirely minded.

But, in the present, right now, there was a quiet little sigh as she nodded and caught the khaki shorts he'd tossed. The problem, as far as her clothing went, was her bulging belly. She was six months pregnant. And, of course, she'd gained some weight because of it. Most of it around her belly and waist. Her breasts, too, hanging a bit heavier. As a result, she'd been slowly outgrowing her clothes. And because they didn't have the resources or know-how to knit her a completely new wardrobe every few weeks, they were going on a treasure hunt of sorts. Sifting through the old, abandoned houses in their private, little ghost town, opening bureaus, dressers, closets. Some of the clothing they found had invariably been made drab and ineffective by time, but enough of it was wearable.

" ... you sure you're okay?" the mouse asked quietly, still sitting in his demure, mousey way, his big, fleshy ears arched atop his head. His forehead fur appeared darker than the rest of his fur, simply because it was matted lightly with sweat. A sweat droplet or two trickling off his whiskers, as well. He sighed, licking his paw-pads and swiping at them. Lick, swipe, swipe, grooming his whiskers clean of sweat. It was cooler in here than it was outside. Somewhat. And, back in their home, the Restaurant and Sundries, the attic had become like a sauna. Because the shingles on the roof were black and absorbed all the heat. So, he and Amandy were forced to sleep downstairs between the tables and chairs. The bank, by this point, had become too precarious to even enter. It was liable to fall apart at any moment. Best stay away from it. "Amandy?"

"I'm fine," was the nodding response. "Just a little ... "

" ... frustrated?" he supplied, with wide, innocent eyes. Blue-grey eyes, with such soothing depths. "Or, uh ... "

" ... yeah. Well, I can't fit into my pants. Wouldn't that upset you?" was all she said, making a bit of a face. She'd been making lots of faces today. And she scolded herself about that. Telling herself to calm down, to have perspective. But, sometimes, emotion got in the way of reason. If making faces helps me feel better, I'll make faces, was her self-response, putting a paw on her neck and making a 'bleh' face. "So sweaty. Eh ... " She lowered her arm and lifted one foot-paw off the threadbare carpet. Sticking one leg through the khaki shorts. Shifting her weight and halfway eying herself in the mirror.

Rye groomed his whiskers a little bit more, stopping now and then to stretch his foot-paws and wriggle his bare toes.

"Makes me feel ... well, more than anything," she continued, as she put her other foot-paw into the other pant-leg, "rather helpless. Not the heat, but the, uh, weight. I have no control over my body anymore. That's the frustration." She began to pull the shorts up her legs, up her thighs. "You know? The heat doesn't help, I guess, but ... " A slight squirm. " ... summer's too pretty and bountiful to be mad at. And I'd much rather have the heat than the frostbitten cold. Or, at least, I think I would. Sometimes, I don't know ... I'd rather it be fall or spring. Where everything is in-between. Not too hot, not too cold?" A pause. "I'm rambling, aren't I?"

"A little," was the honest response. And, taking a sniffy-nosed breath, he added, "I like all the seasons."

"I know. They're all beautiful, and ... better," she sighed, "than having it be warm all year long. The beauty inherent in variety, right? More spices of life? I don't know." Her round-ish ears perked. "I'm just in a mood," was all she said, sighing again.

Rye understood. He, himself, often got into 'moods.' He did as best he could to relate to her. Or, at least, as best he could considering he wasn't a femme or pregnant or any of those things. The male body was, though there was nothing wrong with the fact, physiologically simpler. Not for the first time, he assured her, "I still find you attractive. A lot. Your belly only makes it better, kind of. In a way. Honestly, it's ... I don't mind." A deep breath, fiddling with his paws.

Amandy raised and lowered her paddle-tail as her husband talked. She listened quietly, swallowing.

"Cause," he was continuing, "I know you've got our baby in there. That you're swelling with the result of our love. I look at you, and I don't see that you're bigger. I don't see that you're 'losing control over you're body,' as you seem to think. I don't see faults. I only see that you ... that you," he repeated, ears flushing, "are full of love. Besides, however much I love your body, it wouldn't matter if I didn't love your mind or heart or, uh, soul, and ... I mean, those are the things that matter most. And I love all those things." A pause, saying yet again, simply, "I love you." Maybe that sounded cheesy or simplistic. He didn't know. But he'd wanted to say it, anyway. Communication was important in any relationship. Better to say such things and feel silly than never say them at all, right?

The beaver flushed beneath her rich, brown pelt, tilting her head, looking at him via the dusty surface of the mirror before turning her head. Halfway watching him. Not quite making eye contact, but looking in his direction. "But even if you feel that way, I feel different." A pause. "I'm heavier, Rye. And not just physically. There's a weight on my shoulders, you know? I've never done this. And I don't have little cousins or siblings or ... you know, so I don't know anything about babies. And in our situation? There's so many things that can go wrong, and it's such a pressure. It makes me feel heavy. I pray about it every night, just like you do, but that doesn't stop the 'what if' thoughts from stirring up and around like dead leaves."

The mouse's turn to listen, ears swiveling atop his head, going swivel-swivel without a sound.

"I feel ... I don't know. So, it's not just the physical stuff. It's the emotional stuff, too. The fear."

"I know," he breathed, sympathetically. He had many anxieties about their baby, and he wasn't the one who had to carry or birth it. "I can't imagine, uh ... how it feels. To have all that swirling in you."

A small sigh, admitting, "I don't mind it. Being pregnant, I mean. Like, how else is it gonna happen? It's nature. It's the way things are. I'm a femme. I like being a femme, and I'm honored that I can carry our baby. That I'll be a mother. All those things. Those are spiritual things, and God's blessed me ... that I may bear fruit," she whispered. "So, I don't lament it. But it's not easy. It hasn't been thus far, and it's only going to get harder. And scarier."

"I'll be there, though. With you," he promised, "the whole time. I'll take care of you however I can. I'd do anything for you."

A little nod, with a tender smile "Mm ... I know, sweetie." A sigh, looking down at her bare foot-paws, the smile fading. "You know my ankles get swollen in the morning? I don't even know why. I'm ... and after I give birth, I'm gonna have stretch-marks beneath my fur, aren't I? I won't be able to shed all the pounds, I don't think. Maybe most, but not all. My breasts are gonna hang different," she continued, prattling on. And, sighing, shifting on her foot-paws, she said, "I know that sounds real superficial, but I just ... I don't know," she admitted, turning her attention back to the mirror. "And I'm worried it's gonna happen again. I mean, I think we might want more children, maybe, depending on how this goes, and especially if we leave Kempton and join other furs ... but we gotta be really, really careful, cause I don't wanna go into labor and get pregnant again three weeks after."

"I'll, uh ... put that cotton-fluff from the cottonwood trees," he said, "that we collected in the spring ... I'll put that in my nose when you come into heat, and I won't smell you, and then I'll be able to keep my paws off you."

"What about the part where I feel like there's fire in my loins and I'm crying and begging for you to take me? When I lose all control?"

"Uh ... I'll put cottonwood in my ears?"

A cheeky grin, squinting at him. "Even without smelling and hearing me, you're a male, and you're not gonna be able to resist my heat. Besides, you like how it smells. It drives you as crazy as it drives me. No, we'll just have to be very, very careful ... stick to muzzles. We'll write it down on pieces of paper and leave them all around: muzzles and paws, muzzles and paws."

Rye, with gentle humor, commented, "My mouse-hood's already feeling left out."

A chuckle. "Heh ... well, I'll make it up to it," she promised, "alright?"

"Mm." A pause. "Oh, ears. Muzzles and paws and ears. I got ears ... we can do ears during heats?"

"We can do ears," she agreed.

The mouse giggle-squeaked. And added, playfully, "And breasts! I like those," he said, rather innocently.

A chuckle. "Breasts, yeah." A deep exhale from her, growing more serious. "I know there was some herb they used for birth control, back where I came from. My, uh ... the mate I had who passed away, he put me on it after we married. But it only grew a certain time of year. You crushed it up and drank it. I can't remember ... the library still has all those books, right?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Well, we can do some research in there. Or, uh, if we seriously join a village or something, they'll probably have something I can take." A pause. "Listen to me, mm? I haven't even had this baby and I'm worried about having another one. I don't know why I brought all this up. I'm beginning to worry like a mouse, huh?"

"I didn't wanna say it," Rye replied, honestly. "But, uh ... " A little nod. " ... a little, yeah. You really are. We call it 'mousey anxiety'."

"Ah, yeah, that's right." A heavy exhale. And a smile. "We really rub off on each other, mm?"

"I don't mind it," he said, with a smile. The smile softening and slipping away as he tilted his head and watched her. "You gonna put those shorts on or leave them halfway up your thighs?"

"I'm getting to it, I'm getting to it," she insisted. "I just got swept away in thought." A pause. "What was I saying, again? At the start?"

" ... uh, you're losing control?"

"Yes. Yes, it's the lack of control that bothers me. I'm not used to having my body run wild on me, for better or for worse. I'm used to being, uh, more in ... " As she talked, she finally tugged at the khaki shorts. Up, up. They easily slipped up to her waist. A slight, sudden smile. "Hey," she breathed, doing the zipper. And buttoning the button. "Hey, they fit." The smile turned into a relieved beam, and she turned around. "Look ... " She gestured at her hips, and then swayed in a slow circle, showing them off. The pants, at the back, had to stop right below her tail. Which covered her rump just enough. Beaver-tails were rather big. They didn't fit through most 'tail-gaps' built into the back of clothes, chairs, et cetera.

The wheat-furred mouse gave her a soft, little smile, and whispered, "Mm. You, uh, look beautiful. Even if you've got ... well, whatever you think you've got. It doesn't matter to me. " A deep, squeaky breath. "I love you," he repeated, the breath escaping in a squeaky sigh as he said it. For a true romantic, as he was, saying 'I love you,' no matter how you varied it, never got old. He just hoped she never tired of hearing it. She insisted, daily, that she wouldn't.

For the moment, though, she just gave a sheepish expression. "Even if I have fleas?" was all she asked. Earlier in the week, she'd felt crazily itchy. It'd been fleas. There were no flea medicines or gels or anything, not in today's fractured, technology-backward society. Surely, there were herbs or something, but Rye and Amandy, at least, didn't have access to them. The only way to keep fleas away was to comb your fur a lot, to wash thoroughly. Which they'd done. But she'd gone in the woods last week, to gather lots of bark and twigs for her to chew on. And to whittle and make things with. Rye's job at crib-building had been sweet but inaccurate. And she, being a beaver, had made it a personal project to show him how to work wonders with wood. She'd been shuffling through brush and undergrowth, gathering sticks. And that's when she must've caught them.

"I love you even with fleas," he insisted, nodding. "And, anyway, better fleas than ticks, right?" He gave a helpful smile.

"Ticks normally come in one. Fleas come in circuses."

"Yeah, but ticks can kill you. Fleas might be, uh ... annoying, and scary," the mouse said. Pausing. "And itchy. And ... "

" ... alright," the beaver said, scrunching her muzzle, narrowing her brown eyes.

The mouse's ears went rosy-pink. "Eh ... well, what I mean is: ticks can make you really, really sick. I don't want you to get sick." A twitch of worry. "We should really bathe in the creek every time we come out of the woods. In the summer, anyway."

She nodded. "Yeah ... " A pause. And then she started up again, unable to let it go. "Just, you know, how embarrassing is it for you, okay, to sleep with a beaver ... and wake up with fleas, mm?" she posed, because that's what'd happened. They'd made love, fur meshing, grinding, bumping. Strands of each other's shed fur sticking to each other. And, so, Rye had woken up, a day later, having caught her fleas. They'd spent most of the day scrubbing and combing and soaking in the creek, trying not to think about their blood being sucked. Rye especially. The thought of his blood being sucked made him freak out a little bit. More than a little bit. So Amandy kept him occupied with conversation, sultry or otherwise.

"Well, they're gone," he told her, twitching weakly, skin crawling with the memory. A small, sweaty shudder. "We got rid of them."

"I could get them again," she said, tilting her head. And realizing, suddenly, "You know what? I'm catching your stubbornness, too! Mousey anxiety and mousey stubbornness. You catch my fleas, and I catch you." She had to smile at this. "I just can't get over that, you know? I mean, since we met, you've ... I mean, you've gotten calmer, better, and I've gotten less rigid and cynical. I don't know. I like what we do to each other. Not just how we make each other feel, but the impacts we make."

The mouse smiled, biting his lip, whiskers twitching.

Amandy, her paddle-tail lazily slapping on the floor, added, "And I'm sorry, sweetie, about going on and on."

"No, it's fine. I mean, I never used to talk as much as I do, now. I mean ... you brought me a little bit out of my shell. I don't mind listening to you. I'd ... you know, I'd feel hurt if you didn't wanna talk to me. Besides, I've nowhere urgent to go. I've time to listen." A tender smile.

"Mm. I just ... I'm so grateful," she breathed, "for your patience, and I love you, too, okay? So much. I don't mean to spend so much time trying to convince you that you shouldn't love me. Cause I don't want you to stop. I'm just ... "

" ... pregnant?"

A chuckle, pointing a paw at him. "Careful. Don't be blaming all my problems on hormones. You'll give me a ready-made excuse to act however I want."

A giggle-squeak, quickly looking out the side-window, and then shyly back to her. "I was just teasing."

"I know," she breathed, sighing. And then taking in air through her muzzle.

"Darling?"

"Yeah?" she asked, adjusting her khaki shorts for a moment, and then glancing to him.

"I said I loved you. So, maybe, uh," he continued, suddenly getting quite flustered, his ears flushing a notably deeper shade of pink. "Maybe take your pants back off, and ... and get into bed with me? And I can show you," he whispered, barely audible, "how much I do?"

"Show me, huh? And just how would you go about doing that?" She smiled cheekily.

There was no hesitation as he responded, with his tail snaking about and his ears swiveling, "By giving myself to you."

She couldn't keep her eyes from watering at this. A slight sniffle. "Rye," she breathed, breath shaking. She closed her eyes and smiled so brightly, nodding and mouthing back, without a sound, "Thank you."

The mouse flushed at her simple show of gratitude. And nodded in response.

And, a second or so later, she was wriggling and kicking out of her new khaki shorts, lifting her arms and peeling her short-sleeve t-shirt off, leaving only her bra and panties as she shuffled to the bed. Giggle-chittering a little bit as she saw the mouse wriggle and squirm in his own rodent way, getting out of his jean shorts and white, cotton briefs. He hadn't been wearing a shirt. He rarely did in the summer. His straw hat, to protect his ears, was hanging at the headboard of the bed-frame.

Amandy, pausing at the foot of the bed, finally slipped her furred fingers beneath the elastic of her panty-band, on both sides of her hips, slowly peeling them down. Making an intimate show of it. Down her thighs, to her knees, and then letting them slip by themselves the rest of the way down. Allowing her, finally, to step out of them. One foot-paw at a time, lifting, stepping, as her paws and arms wormed about to unhook and discard her bra. 'Til she was fully, wonderfully naked. Which, considering how warm it was today, felt refreshing. Certainly less restrictive. Now, if only they could make love in the creek, in the cool, encompassing water. They'd done that before, of course, several times. But, right now, an old, busted bed would have to do.

The mouse's soft, wheat-furred chest rose and fell, eyes drinking her in, her pregnant belly and loose, supple breasts, her hips, and that lovely paddle-tail. He loved, sometimes, to just sit behind her and skim his paw-pads over her tail, to feel the surface of it, to scritch-scratch at the base. She loved to be touched there. It made her shoulders arch and her head lean back. Also, there was her pelt, designed to be rich, luxurious. Water simply slid off it. Even when she got wet, the water didn't soak into her like it would soak into him. Oh, everything about her. The sheer, simple sensuality of her, her suggestions and intents, her gestures, her words. How she moved and how she smiled, and how she was crawling into bed.

"Mm. Now, my mouse wants to have sex with his beaver, huh?"

"I, uh ... well, I wanna ... " He swallowed, trying to find his breath. Pushed flat to his back, now, with her on all fours above him.

" ... have sex?" Her black nose touched, so barely, to his pink one. "Mm?"

" ... b-breed."

A chuckling smile, lowering down. Not to lay atop him, but just to bump against him. Her bulging belly touching his trim one, their fur meshing. It wasn't shedding season, but being summer, being hot, they were always losing some amount of fur. Their pelts weren't as thick as they were during fall or winter. Shedding season was that time of year when you mass-shed, usually after the end of spring. So, they'd already gotten through it. It had been, predictably, a mess. Finding strands of fur in your food, or in your muzzle while making love, and having to stop mid-act, often close to orgasm, just to get fur off your tongue. The feel of fur-strands on your tongue, no matter how small or thin they were, could drive you crazy. "You can say it, Rye. You wanna ... "

" ... make love," he offered, giving a shy look, whiskers twitching daintily.

"Rye, sweetie," the beaver breathed, lowering her body even more, sprawling fully on top of him. She covered him with her weight and form, and he, on submissive instinct, spread his legs and arms and wrapped them around her. As if he were the femme. She chuckled gleefully at the action, nipping at his cheek with her buckteeth. "It's okay to say 'sex'. It's not as romantic a word as some of its synonyms, maybe, but it's not a bad word, okay? I think it's got some spice to it. Just say it once. You wanna ... "

" ... mate," he offered, shyly and evasively. But somewhat playfully, now, as well. " ... mate with you." His silky, snaky tail side-winded on the mattress, the tip of it trailing off the bed itself.

"You wanna," she breathed, giggling into one of his big, dishy ears, "have ... heh, sex with me. Say it. Mm ... " Her groin bumped against his, his fur meshing with her in the most intimate of ways, in the most intimate of regions. The beaver angling her hip-grinding to stimulate her hooded clitoris, even if indirectly. "Mm." Her husband's lighter, wheat-colored fur, and her richer, bark-colored fur contrasted in the lemon-yellow light that streamed through the windows, the dust motes swimming in the light-rays. Amandy gave a playful, slow-grinding hump, panting, throat a bit dry, fur dampening.

Rye squirmed and squeaked, growing increasingly excited. In more ways than one. His legs still spread and wrapped around hers, and his arms still around her back, with his paws near her shoulder-blades, blunt-clawed fingers digging in.

"Say it," she breathed, in rather sultry fashion, her powerful teeth grazing his ear-flesh, the erogenous, rosy flesh of his lobe. Graze, graze, and nip with such care. She knew how much his ears meant to him. Not as much as his mouse-hood did, no. But, honestly, it was close. A mouse's ears were a big deal to a mouse, and she treated them with reverence, her tongue-tip poking around. She half expected her tongue to sizzle as it touched the lobe. His ears got that hot.

"I, uh ... ah ... " A collapse of breath, toes curling. And sucking the air back in with a throaty squeak. Sounding so hazy.

" ... don't be so modest," she breathed, right into to his ear canal. Her moist, warm breath washing over him. At a tender whisper. "I'm your wife. We're in love. You wanna have sex with me. Right? Sweetie?" She blew a directed breath of air right into his ear-hole.

" ... ah." The mouse's muzzle came open, gaping. " ... ah," he went, again, paws shaking as they clutched her back. His foot-paws stretched desperately, and his chest heaved beneath her pregnant belly and breasts.

" ... wow," she breathed, smiling. Feeling a flush of pleasure, herself. Not because she'd been stimulated. But because she'd given him pleasure. "Guess you were really worked up." She'd never brought him to ear-gasm that quickly. But that's what he'd had. An 'orgasm of the ears,' as it were, a pleasure that filtered down in the form of tingling heat. A different feeling than the pleasure from his mouse-hood. Perhaps not as intensely powerful, but rather effective, nonetheless.

Rye panted weakly, fur soaking with a bit more sweat. "Uh, A-amandy," he stammered.

"You want more?" she breathed, lifting her muzzle, grazing his lips, now. Grazing, pressing. Her head tilted as they exchanged a simple kiss. "Mm ... " Simple, sweet, sustaining. He sustained her in so many ways, and the mere taste of him, as wet and wriggly as it was, only made her crave that him that much worse. A good kind of 'worse.' As clichéd as it was, she had him bad, and it was so, so good. "Oh," she breathed, lip-smacking, sucking on his chin. "More?" she asked again.

A weak nod, his head-fur rustling on the mattress. "Mm ... mm-hmm." Squeaky chitters from the throat, his tail snaking through the sheets and coiling round one of her ankles. His foot-paws bumping lazily, playfully with hers, and his five-inch, circumcised mouse-hood almost fully-stiff in her hip-fur, sliding up against her bulging belly, beading glistening drops of wetness to her pelt.

Another giggle, her paddle-tail raising and lowering. "Then you gotta say it."

"Why?" A heavy flush, his ears still rosy, rosy pink. Even though he'd had an ear-gasm, the blood hadn't left. It would stay as long as his overall arousal stayed. And the gorging of blood made his hearing pulse, pulse. Every loud sound seemed to vibrate. Every whisper seemed to linger. Oh, yes, a mouse's ears were dynamic.

"Why? Cause I like to see you blush. Cause I think you've got a cute, wispy voice ... and I wanna hear your words. I wanna hear what you want. Tell me," she said, licking her dry lips before resuming her nipping and nibbling along his neck, under his chin. " ... what you ... want."

"I ... " His arms were hugging tightly around her back, his fingers splayed, paws running through her fur. "I, uh ... wanna ... oh," he squeaked. Beavers were excellent erotic nibblers. No other furs came close. They had those buckteeth, of course, and were practiced gnawers of wood and other materials. So, when it came to gnawing fur and flesh? Well, it was incredibly sexy. She was steamily nibbling and gnawing all the way to his left ear-base. The opposite ear. The ear she'd been working on earlier had been the right ear. He couldn't take it anymore. He needed her. Badly. " ... I ... I wanna have sex with you," he blurted, in his effeminate tone.

"Mm," was her beaver-purr, trying to keep back the giggles. "Well, uh, what are you ... "

He threw his weight around her, rolling her over. To her back. The bed creaked and groaned, shaking a bit, and the mouse's limbs unwrapped from her. He didn't stay flat atop her body, not entirely. Even his tail uncoiled from her ankle to snake free. No, he was moving. He had something in mind.

" ... w-waiting for," she eventually finished, on delay, finding herself staring at the water-stained ceiling, with the cracks running all through the plaster. She swallowed, licking her lips again, lifting her head a tiny bit. Just to see where he was going. As if she couldn't feel it, already. The way his paws were stroking and positioning themselves. Belly, thighs, knees. The way his muzzle was trailing down her stomach, mouthing, sucking at it. At her fur, all of her, to the thicker, more tufted fur of her groin, sifting through it. Until he got to the heated, treasured slit of flesh.

"Gorgeous," he breathed. "So ... gorgeous." His fingers delicately traced up and down the line of her vulva. Just his fingertips, feeling the heat, the softness. The two fingers stopping, delicately spreading the labia. His pupils, dilating as far as they could go, took it in. Before closing, his tongue peeking out, muzzle melting forward. Everything blurring. Everything leading to fullest touch. He had to take a lick. At least a lick. But the lick always led to more. As it did, now, in this case, where his muzzle was soon tilting, pressing, smacking hungrily. He was, quite eagerly, eating her out.

"Oh ... oh, yeah." Amandy rolled her head to the side. "Huh ... "

Rye, doing something he normally didn't do, kept his eyes completely open while he gave her muzzle. Normally, he closed them, either halfway or all the way, just so his other senses could strengthen and take priority. Just so he could lose his imagination in pure touch. But he kept his eyes open this time, darting them slightly upward, so that he could watch her face. And, when she opened her eyes, he did just that: met her gaze. From several feet down her body, he met her gaze. Her pregnant belly sloped in the way, almost so they couldn't see each other's lips or noses. Just glimpses of the eyes. And that made it more erotic. It was such a fierce, intimate eye-lock, of the pleasured and the pleasure-giver, husband and wife, intertwined souls with full knowledge of each other's bodies and personalities. And desires.

The beaver felt hot, hotter, grabbing for a pillow. Propping it, distractedly, beneath her head. And then bringing her arms back forward, keeping eye-contact the whole time. As best she could, anyway. Every few seconds, her eyes would involuntarily dart or close, and she'd have to refocus. Her nipples, meanwhile, were getting hard as the mouse 'muzzled' her with primal, prey-like passion, teasing her clitoris with his tongue-tip, eyes still in her direction. Still. He really didn't look away. Not at all. Even as he muzzle-humped, her, squeaking from the throat and bringing her, ultimately, to a sharp, juicy orgasm. Intense, quick flutters, vagina in spasms, and dribbling clear femme-juice to his whiskers and lips.

"Ohn, nuhh ... nuh ..." A shivery gasp for air, her paws grasping at his shoulders. " ... oh, boy," she breathed, panting for several seconds. And taking several seconds more to gain her composure, shaking the haze out of her head, feeling a drunken glow. "I, uh ... the way you l-looked at me," she breathed, still in after-tremors, "really made me ... " A swallow. " ... hotter."

The mouse nodded, having felt that, too, and feeling uncontrollably amorous, shaking his head to regain his composure. Drunk, as he was, on her taste and scent, weakly sitting up. "Uh, I, uh ... s-sit in my lap?" he suggested, barely able to put the words together. They almost tangled as they spilled from his lips.

Amandy, grinning, gave no objection, and reached her paws out. "Mm?" she went, indicating for him to help her sit up.

He did so, taking her paws. Tenderly squeezing, pulling her up. And, once up, she swung her legs and slipped to a sit on the side of the bed. Just as the mouse did. But the beaver didn't stay in her sit. She stood, turning her naked body around, her tail dragging behind her, her breasts wobbling a bit. And she got on her knees right over Rye's lap. Her knees on the mattress, and then her legs, one by one, coming out from under her. So she was actually sitting in his lap. Lifting her hips, finally, in a weak, little movement, to get above him, and ...

... the mouse read the invitation and took it, and bumped up, rising, pulling her shoulders down, and sinking himself up into her. Just like that. The sheer bliss of penetration swept over him, making him hold his breath. He always savored those first moments. The punch of pleasure, the full realization of what they were doing and what it meant spiritually. Oh, dear God, thank you for this.

She panted on his neck, at her reverse straddle, his mouse-hood at a full hilt within her. Her knees were bent, foot-paws hovering an inch or so off the mattress. Her arms around his neck, she bounced lightly, lightly. Chittering while she did so, getting hotter, hotter. Her entire pelt damp with sweat.

And he, moaning from the close, tangled intercourse, bounced with her. "Uh ... mm," were his weak pleasure-sounds. "Mm ... " His penis smothered with such slight, gyrating frictions. This wasn't the full-length in-and-out they usually did, with the slow, complete strokes provided by humping. This was short, haphazard, staccato, his mouse-hood maybe moving only an inch with each shift of his hips. Hardly pulling out. But it didn't matter, because the beaver's heavier hips were rolling, pressing, sinking on his.

It was so stiff and sensitive a pleasure, one to make him catch his breath and make the world fall away, to make him wriggle like nothing else, desire spilling out with every thought, every breath, every gesture, everything. It was, at this moment, everything. Nothing else mattered but being with her, in her, sowing her. Her. Nothing else mattered but her. And being, through this physical union, a part of her. The mouse clung, hips at a shimmy and a shake.

Amandy panted, breaths whistling past her buckteeth, her weight held up by her husband's loving grasp. Such trust she had in him. Were his grip to slip, she'd fall backward off the bed, to the floor. But he hugged and held her there, so tightly, so lovingly. All while filling her loins, hotly, hotly brushing her walls with his stiffness. The friction of his mouse-hood inside her femininity. And the counter-friction of her femininity around his mouse-hood, giving them mutual, symbiotic pleasure. Everything he felt was fueled by what she felt. The more he stimulated her, the more stimulated he, himself, became. As if they were careening, spinning, wildly like dervishes or tops, into a bright peak of something best left to animal sounds.

"Oh ... ohn, oh!" Rye finally moaned, feeling a shivery, squeaky joy, tingling his whiskers, numbing his fire-hot ears. Everything wonderfully, wearily weak. He sagged. "Oh ... " Body flushed from the ejaculations. Mouse-hood jerking hard, spurting, spurting. As he coated her already-full womb with steamy-white mouse-seed. Sweaty, shaking, clutching with bewildered huffs.

"Mm ... oh, yes. Yes," the beaver mumbled, nodding her approval, gurgling as she was caught in the full, wave-like spasms of her second orgasm. A slower, more simmering climax than her first one. One that lingered and soaked into every limb. Making her feel lazy instead of twitchy. Making her, literally, to melt. She felt like she was melting. Like she was a puddle or pool of beaver, undone by the sheer heat of her mouse's body and love.

And, both having endured the fruits of their union, they fell quiet, panting, breathing, nuzzling, nose-touching.

Finally, after what must've been five minutes, she broke the silence. "I ... I can't stay in this position," she breathed, with a goofy grin on her face, "much longer, darling."

"Oh, uh ... r-right," he said, and he leaned back, back, to his own back.

"Ooh," the beaver sighed, rolling off the mouse and to her own back. "Oh, that was ... good." She still wore the grin. She couldn't get it off her muzzle. She was flooded with 'afterglow' chemicals. She felt like she was floating.

The mouse, also in the grip of afterglow, could only roll his head this way and that, sniffing the after-scent of sex in the air. And seeing, out of the corner of his eye, that his excess semen was dribbling out of her, trickling down her thighs. "Mm ... it was," he agreed. "Mm." He swallowed, pulling his legs and foot-paws all the way onto the bed, shifting, squirming, wriggling right next to her. "I wanna snuggle," he whispered, barely audible.

Amandy could only smile and breathe deeply, as they hugged and nuzzled, snuggling gently. They nosed each other, stroked each other's sides, bumped foot-paws, scratched at tail-bases. Grabbed rumps. Remaining wordless all the while. And, with nothing pressing, eventually fell asleep in each other's arms.

... eyes opened.

And closed.

Opened, weakly, barely. And closed again.

And opened once more. The mouse stirring awake, pink nose sniffing the stuffy bedroom air, which still smelled of sex. Sex and fur and dust and trapped, indoor heat. But, in the end of it, Rye didn't mind. He just gave a mouse-grunt and rolled onto his side, blinking some more. " ... when did you wake up?" he whispered, lightly, seeing that his wife's head was propped up by a pillow or two, her legs bent, foot-paws flat on the mattress. She was munching on cattails, in relaxed, lazy fashion, still completely bare.

" ... 'bout twenty minutes ago, I think." Munch, munch. "You looked so peaceful. I didn't wanna wake you," she responded, with another chew and a swallow. "I grabbed the basket we left out in the shade, in the yard. That had some of the, uh, food we collected yesterday, or that we made, or ... you know, cause I know you always need to nibble something after we ... "

" ... not always," the mouse quickly interrupted, paws rubbing at his eyes. Still feeling a little bit sleepy. "I don't always get hungry after."

"You don't, hmm? Let's see," she said, crunching on a cattail stalk. "Mm." Chomp. "Mm, good sex, good nap," she said, using her free paw to finger-point, "equals hungry mouses. And that's you," she said, pointing at him. A teasing, tender glint in her eyes.

Rye made an embarrassed little face, whiskers twitching. "Can we not call it 'sex?' Like ... just sounds so strong."

"Well, it's a strong act, isn't it?" A raised brow.

A nod of agreement. "I know, but ... breed, mate, make love, you know, those sound softer. I'm just more comfortable saying those."

"Cause mouses are soft and cute and prefer softer words?" A smile. "Alright. I'll try not to use the 'S' word, okay? But I can't promise it won't slip out." She chuckled. Some of her husband's quirks were just darling. He was so, so modest. Even sitting here, smelling of breeding, with no clothes on, he was still so modest. And, goodness, it was cute.

A small squeak, and he piped back up, quietly, "What'd you bring for me? Did you already say?" His pink nose sniffed the air repeatedly.

A chuckle. "Strawberries. Some of that flat bread we made. Few other things. Mm ... here," she said, sighing as she reached for one of their food baskets. And handing it over to him. Saying, as she leaned back onto her pillows, "There's plenty of cattails, though."

"You know I can't," he said. He'd tried them. And he'd thrown them back up. That had been seriously un-fun. "I can't digest them."

"Mm." Chew-chew. "Wonder why? I can, and ... mm, we're both rodents," she said, swallowing. A small shake of the head. "Love these things."

"I think," the mouse said, placing a strawberry in his muzzle, and using his rodent buckteeth to bite off the berry. Using his tongue, then, to work the berry further into his muzzle, over to one of his cheeks, where his molars crushed down on it. The sweet juice spilling all over his tongue and taste buds, trickling down his throat. He closed his eyes and sighed. Fresh strawberries. "Oh, my gosh," he mumbled, chewing, swallowing.

Amandy just giggle-chittered, rubbing her own belly, watching her husband eat. "You were saying something?"

"Mm?" A blink, having swallowed the berry, the green stem-part left in his fingers. He tossed it back into the basket. "Mm. Well ... just, you know, I may want a little nibble after, uh, making love, but I just want a nibble. You get ravenous."

" ... ravenous, huh?" A grin, buckteeth framing her muzzle. "I'm ravenous?"

"And ravishing," he added, for good measure, his pink tail snaking in the air behind his pert, furry rump.

She grabbed at his mouse-tail but missed, and then giggle-chittered, eating more of the cattail she had in her other paw. Reaching the puffy 'tail' part of the cattail, she sunk her teeth in, wetting the fluff with her saliva and sucking the juices out. Not swallowing it, just sucking. "Mm," she went, and when she pulled the cattail away from her muzzle. "Well, you're delicious. How 'bout that?" she asked him, smiling easily.

A slight squeak, reaching for another strawberry. Sniffing the berry, and then the air, and then her. Only responding, "I think, with all the scents in this room, I'm getting dizzy." He sucked on the berry before biting it off from the stem, chew-chew-chewing. "I need some air."

The beaver gave a quiet, sighing nod. "Yeah. I know what you mean ... why didn't we open the windows again?"

"Wasp nests under the roof, remember? We saw them coming in. Or, uh, they might've been those mud dabber things. I don't know." A shiver. "I don't want them near me. Ever." More shivers, shaking his head. He was absolutely terrified of wasps. They made his blood run cold.

"Mm." A swallow, and she slowly, slowly sat up. "Well, come on, sweetie. Let's go back home. And I won't let any wasps get you. You're too sweet for me to share with bugs, be them fleas, wasps, or whatnot." Swinging her legs over the side of the mattress, she giggle-chittered, pat-patting her paddle-tail on the bed. "Besides, I make a good fly-swatter," she said, of her tail. "Don't you think?"

As evening was approaching, they were sitting just inside the Sundries, a few feet from the windows, at one of the little, round tables. One of the wooden tables. The mouse in one chair, the beaver in another, facing each other's direction. A candle flickered softly in the middle of it all. The wax being a neutral, beeswax color. There were wildflowers, too, in a vase, orange and yellow lilies being among them, as well as some kind of blue flower. It was really pretty, and it smelled nice, but Rye didn't know what it was.

The mouse's nose, unable to help itself, kept sniffing at the perfume-like scent of the flowers. Sniff-sniffing, whiskers twitching, while his head was slightly lowered, his paw moving, moving. He was, as he did every night, writing. And, while he did so, his tail was wriggling absently through the tail-gap in the back of his chair, and his bare foot-paws were on the tips of their toes, legs bent back a bit. Every so often, he would give a squirm or a private, little squeak, his ears were perfectly arching.

Amandy, eyes watching over him now and then, was half-fiddling with some wood-sticks. Nothing too serious. She was just chewing, arranging. Trying to make something out of nothing, perhaps. She wasn't as artistic as Rye was. She was handy with her paws, but her handiness came from obvious, necessary things. She could build a dam but not a sculpture. Beavers were, after all, industrious creatures. And, aside from being practical, they liked to be busy. They liked to work. Not that they didn't enjoy relaxing. She loved to relax, especially with her mouse. But, when they weren't gathering food, patrolling the town, or making love, she sometimes wondered what to do with herself. Used to, she'd had her balloon. She'd patrolled the land. But, now, she was sitting and fiddling with sticks.

"Are you okay?" Rye suddenly asked. He always asked that. He must ask her, the beaver internally wagered, twenty times a day.

A small, patient smile on her part. "You sure you're not telepathic? Sure you're not a bat?"

A slight pause. Then, "You've seen me naked," was all Rye could say, demurely.

"Mm. You're right. I can vouch that you're a mouse. All," she emphasized, "mouse." A grin. "Mm ... but you're got this empathic thing. You're so in tune to my emotions."

"Well, mouses are emotional creatures," was his simple, quiet response, as if it were common knowledge. And it mostly was. "I'm more effeminate than not. It's just ... like, the kind of stuff I notice. I pay attention." His whiskers twitched a bit. And, a little absently, he licked his paw-pads, lick, licking, and then grooming. Swiping his saliva-wetted paws against his whiskers.

"That's so cute," the beaver breathed.

The mouse stopped, self-consciously. It wasn't he first time he'd started grooming his whiskers today. He did it all the time.

"No, no ... keep doing it," she said. "Please? I really like, uh ... heh." She smiled, leaning back in her chair. "I like watching you do that. It's so sweet."

"Why? I mean, why's it, uh, sweet?" A breath. "I mean, that's not why I do it ... to be sweet. I do it cause my instinct makes me."

"Cause mouses are fastidious, and you like to be squeaky-clean," she recited, nodding. "I know. But it doesn't matter why you do it. It's still the cutest thing." The word cute, perhaps, could be thrown around too much. Could be knocked up and overused. But there was no overdoing the word 'cute' with mouses, no. It never got old with them.

Rye, pausing, whiskers twitching, took a breath and slowly resumed his grooming, taking his right paw. Licking the pad or palm of it repeatedly, and then swiping at the whiskers on the right side of his muzzle. He then switched to the left paw.

"It's just so mousey," she continued, softly inhaling through the nose. "I suppose it would be, though. I'm rambling again. Mm ... " She tilted her head, watching him some more. Sitting in silence, while the flame flapped on top of the candle, the wax melting, slowly trickling down the side. "It's such a gentle thing. You," she breathed, still not able to let it go, "are such a gentle thing. I can't describe," she continued, "how gentle your touch is. I feel like I'm gonna melt when you run your paws down my back, down my sides, across my belly. Down between my legs." A pause. "You have such a delicate touch." By the time she'd stopped, she'd been at a whisper.

The mouse paused, mid-grooming, his ears growing a rosier pink.

"I want our baby to have your gentility. I want it to be like you."

Biting his lip, the mouse said nothing for a moment. And, then, "I'd rather she be like you. Sturdy, competent, level-headed. If she's like me, she's gonna ... you know, be full of scurry, obsess and panic about things. You know, all those things."

"You don't do those things nearly as much as you think you do. You're really very mature," she told him, sincerely. "Very caring and faithful. And, as for scurry? What's wrong with a good bout of scurry, hmm?" Her paddle tail patted, lightly, against the back of her chair. "You know what ... wait, wait. You said 'she?' You think it's gonna be a girl?" she asked, curiously.

"I'm not sure. I mean ... well, I don't know any more than you."

"But you want a girl?"

A slight pause before the mouse nodded.

Amandy smiled. "I'd rather have a boy, to be honest. But I don't think I'm gonna care once, you know ... once it's here. It's gonna be beautiful no matter what. Precious," she breathed, "no matter what. And every time I look at it, I'm sure I'll see part of you and part of me. As if our love was, like ... well, you always put it better than me." A sigh. "You have a poetry in your soul."

Rye shook his head modestly.

"You do. Rye, I read what you write ... and listen to all you recite to me, and the ways you tell me you love me, and ... you know, you've got that capacity. I'm just a plain, old beaver. I'm not as good at thinking that way." She ran her paw-pads along the tabletop. "You know, my species, they build lots of dams and wooden things. But we build them based on patterns of all that's already been built. We take the design, what we see, and we copy it. We do the practical thing." A pause. "You can take a thought or idea or feeling that's already there," she told him, "and make it more than it was before."

The mouse, eyes quietly darting, looked up to her and said, barely audible, "I'm not that ... mm, it's just," he said, stammering. "I'm not as good as all that, as ... you're better than me," he insisted. "You're sturdier, more well-rounded," he repeated, insisting those were better qualities.

"But you're dreamier."

"That's not always a good thing," he replied. "I can have my ears in the clouds, and I can float away, or ... or, even," he said, "cave in on myself. I've spent much of my life in isolation. Inside my own head." A pause. "I don't want our baby to be like that. I want her ... or him," he added, "to grow up with their foot-paws on the ground. Dreaminess is a luxury in our world. It doesn't help you survive."

"No, but it makes the survival worthwhile," was Amandy's un-hesitating response, squarely meeting his gaze. Not looking away, not flinching. Continuing, "Love is dreamy, isn't it? It's not grounded. I mean, it needs some of that. It needs to be balanced, but ... it needs to be able to float and fly. After we make love, sometimes," she said, "I can barely move. I feel like I'm floating out of myself. I'm just floored. And whether or not that's practical, I don't care."

The mouse, again, flushed. And twitched. He wasn't sure what to say. Other than, "I do love you."

" ... I love you, too," she whispered back, looking at him with her soft, brown eyes. "I didn't mean to launch into that. That, uh ... well, all that philosophy. I just have so much time to think."

After a moment, Rye responded, "We both do." And, tilting his head, breathing in deeply through his pink, sniffy nose, asked, "Is that a bad thing?"

"Sometimes." A pause. "I mean, I'm fiddling with sticks here ... I don't even know what I'm trying to do. I should be outside," she said, looking out the window. "If only the mosquitoes weren't so bad right now." She grimaced. Past week or so, the mosquitoes had been out in force. Rye was more vulnerable to them than her, of course, with his bare, fleshy ears and his fleshy, ropy tail. So, he'd been staying inside. And the beaver didn't feel like going outside and wandering about all by herself. Not because she was afraid of any danger, necessarily. But mostly because it was lonely. To walk around a ghost town all by yourself at sunset? And, also, she wasn't immune to bug-bites herself: her paddle-tail was ripe for biting. That's where the mosquitoes always flocked to, when they came to her body. " ... stupid bugs," she said, sighing.

"They'll be gone in a week or two. It's almost September."

" ... yeah. Well, it's fine in the middle of the day. It's just in the evening that they come out. And the evenings are so nice. I just wanna sit out there ... mm." A pause. "You just have to understand that, before I came here, before I met you, you know, it's ... I had my balloon. I was a scout for our village. And my, uh ... well, my mate," she said, of her first husband, who'd died along with her family, "built dams. And I helped him when I wasn't flying, so ... I didn't have so much time to think. And, here? I do have the time. And that's not bad. I mean, it's probably good, but ... sometimes, I just wanna be occupied all the time."

He looked to her, listening, his dishy ears arched atop his head. "You don't feel we do anything? I mean, we're busy all the time."

"I know, I know. It's ... it's just a different kind of busy. I guess that doesn't make sense." A sigh. "I know we were joking about this earlier, but even if you haven't rubbing off on me, I've always felt a tangible anxiety. I've always carried some of that around. I'm a rodent, too. I know it's less controllable for you, and maybe fiercer, but ... so, you know," she said, "what it's like: when you think too much, I mean? When you have too much time." A breath. "The anxiety enters the void. And it taunts you."

"It starts to eat at you," he agreed. "But love is the antidote to that. I feel I'm better than I was before, and I, uh ... hope you ... "

" ... feel the same," she asked, "about myself? I do. Knowing you has made me better." A quiet nod, staring at him a bit. "And you've made my faith stronger, too. I mean, from the day we've met, you've really helped my faith. The way you think, the way you approach it. I'm a better Christian because of you."

His blue-grey eyes, so wide and innocent, looked to her.

"Anyway, uh, I just ... changing the subject, you know, you always tell me how you love me? You do it so eloquently. With the same eloquence you talk about Christ with. You've a glass-like delicacy about you, and it's like crystal. I wish I could be the same."

"But if you were the same, then you wouldn't be you, and I don't," the mouse stammered, "love you because you're like me. I love you because you're like you." A squeak or two. "I don't care how you tell me, when it comes to saying 'I love you' or all that. It's how you show me. And, uh ... you show me," he breathed, "as well as I could want. I've no doubt in my mind how you feel. You, uh ... you make it pretty clear. It doesn't matter if your words aren't flowery as mine." A deep breath. "Anyway, that's ... I don't know," he said, looking down at his papers. And at his pencil. He'd gnawed on the pencil a bit. He really tried not to. But he ended up doing it, anyway. Luckily, there were more pencils to be had, both in the abandoned library and post office. And plenty of pens, as well.

They were both quiet for a moment, the candle-flame flicker-flapping from the stirring of their very breaths. And making their whiskers seem shinier, making the light, in the bottom floor of the Restaurant and Sundries, seem so bold and golden. Such heavy, romantic shadows. Outside, the sky melting into different colors and the crickets and cicadas beginning to sound. You could hear them through the walls. Those were the best kinds of bugs. The friendly bugs. The good bugs. Like the lightning bugs that were beginning to blink on and off, like champagne bubbles floating above the earth, like the world was drunk on mirth and beauty and redemptive promise. God's beauty, indeed, in every invisible caress of the breeze, silently sighing of His plan.

"I didn't mean to sound like I was complaining," Amandy said, piping back up. Liking the shared silence, but having too much on her mind. And needing to get it off. "I mean, I'm not bored. Just surviving day to day is a full-time job for us, and ... but we're not part of a community. We don't really have set, specific roles here. In a village, we'd have set roles or jobs or parts to play, and ... here, it's more basic, more general. Each and everything, nothing specific."

The mouse twitched in slight confusion. "I, uh ... what?" he asked, blinking, beginning to chew on his pencil.

Amandy hesitated before admitting, "I miss being a part of something bigger. A village, a place, or ... I mean, you're enough," she breathed, "for me. You, God, those relationships. But faith requires fellowship, communion. You can't have those things with only two furs. We need to be a part of a community." A breath. "It would just be nice to have other furs, you know, to talk to, relate to, who could help us ... make our survival a bit easier."

Rye, unblinking, nodded quietly.

"That scares you," she said, "doesn't it?"

"Uh ... "

" ... you don't wanna leave here? Ever?"

"It's my home," was all the mouse said. "Our home."

"I know," she breathed, shifting in her chair, her paddle-tail lightly moving. "I'm just asking you, seriously, as your wife: do you really think it's a good idea that we stay in Kempton forever? I mean, don't we have to leave," she asked, quietly, "at some point?"

The mouse swallowed, wriggling a little. An eventual, barely-made nod. "At, uh, some point," he admitted, "probably."

"I think, when the baby comes, when the baby," Amandy said, "is growing up? We need to be around other furs. Who can help us raise her ... or him. So she can grow up with other babies, have friends, peers, and ... it's just healthy, you know? You said it yourself: you don't want our baby to become isolated or to cave in on herself."

" ... I did say that," he whispered, nodding barely, breathing in through his pink nose.

"And we'd have safety in numbers. We wouldn't have to forage for food everyday, because we'd have other furs to help share those tasks, and ... " She trailed. And then picked back up with, "It's just something we have to address. We're gonna have to leave Kempton at some point. We're gonna have to find other furs. It doesn't have to be a group of our species. Doesn't have to be mouses or beavers. Maybe we join up with some muskrats? Just, uh, fellow prey, you know? I think it'd better for us in the long run." A pause. "I think we'd be happier."

" ... maybe," Rye said, very quietly, "they could come here?"

Amandy looked to her husband with concern. "Maybe," she whispered. She saw, not for the first time, that the mouse harbored some deep, psychological pains. Deep, deep down, he was hurting. Badly. And this town, for many years, had been his shelter. His safe place. He'd come to associate Kempton with safety. And their love, true, had healed a good deal of that, but some of it remained. "You're scared of leaving here, aren't you?"

His eyes watered lightly. "We ... well, we don't have to go," he said, "if others come to us."

"And I agree with that," she said, gently. "But what if they don't? We can't just wait around, just the two of us ... not when the baby's here. It'll be different a child. We can't live the same way. I mean, to carry all that food and water back from the woods and creek? With a newborn baby? In the frigid winter weather? I'd have to stay here, in the Sundries, and be with the baby ... and you'd have to forage and get water all by yourself. I mean, it's a hard enough job with two furs, but just you? You'd strain yourself. You'd be so exhausted. You might get sick. I ... " A sigh. "Just, you know, I got three months before I, uh ... give birth," she breathed. "We just have to seriously start thinking if we can spend the winter here by ourselves. If it were just us? Then fine. We did that last winter. We can do that. But with a baby ... we might need help. And if help doesn't come to us, we're gonna have to, you know ... the beaver village I come from? We could walk there in less than a week, depending on how fast we went."

"What if they're not there?" Rye breathed, a bit starkly. "What if the predators got them? Or they got sick, or ... "

" ... well, we'll have to have faith that they are, indeed, there. And, if not, then ... well, I don't know. It's a risk. It's a risk leaving," she admitted, but not letting him interrupt, she stressed, "but it's an equal risk staying."

The mouse just twitched at this. Not really able to refute it. But not knowing what to say.

"Rye?"

He looked up, blinking.

"I love you, alright? Very, very much. I'm just wanting what's best for us. I mean, I ... I know how attached you are to this place, but I'm just saying, is all, that we have to start thinking about it. That's all I'm saying."

Another quiet nod, swallowing, whiskers weakly twitching. Telling her, "I'll go wherever you go. I'll do whatever you want me to. I ... just need you," he breathed, shakily, "more than I need this town. So, uh ... "

" ... sweetie," she said, meshing her furred fingers with his. "Sweetie, I'm not trying to make you do anything. I don't want it to be my decision. I want it to be our decision. I'm just telling you that we can't not," she stressed, "talk about it. About the future. We have to start making concrete plans." She squeezed his paws, sighing through her black, beaver-ish nose. "But let's change the subject, okay? We can worry about all that in a few weeks."

" ... okay," he mouthed. He was quiet for a moment. And, when Amandy started to pull her paws away, he shook his head, eyes watering. He squeezed his paws tighter. He didn't want to let go. He couldn't let go.

The beaver, barely audible said, "You wanna lay down with me?"

A wordless nod, still holding to her paws.

"You don't have to let go," she promised, whispering soothingly. "Let's just get up and, uh ... to the mattress by the wall, okay?"

He nodded, shakily blowing out the candle. It was dim outside, but not quite dark, as they both shuffled across the tiled floor, holding paws. Sinking, eventually, to the mattress, where she hugged him to her swelling breasts and belly. Still with her clothes on. Both of them dressed. They were quiet for a moment, just holding, snuggling. Until the mouse spoke up, trying to lighten the mood.

" ... about that house we were in?" Rye said, whiskers twitching, nose in her neck-fur. Breathing of her scent. As he'd told her the day they'd met, he liked the way she smelled. "Who do you think lived in there? I thought I could write a story, maybe, about it ... "

The beaver scrunched her features, in playful thought, her paws scratching at his shirt, lifting it up his back. "Lived there? Uh ... well, the outside was lavender, right? I'd say a rabbit."

"Rabbits like purple?" He felt his shirt lifted, and let her do it. And even squirmed a bit, helping her out. Until she'd gotten it off him.

"Well, they like pastels."

A nod, but then a blink. "Since when?" He pulled at her own shirt, paws sliding up her belly, working beneath her bra. Wanting the bra off before the shirt. Getting, perhaps, a tiny bit impatient.

"Well, I don't know." A soft sigh. "I don't really hang around many rabbits. I just know that they're sex-addled and like pastels."

The mouse wasn't sure this made any sense, and said so. "I like soft colors. Perhaps it was a mouse house?" He got the bra undone, tugging it, and feeling the beaver's paws unbuttoning, unzipping his shorts. A slight squeak.

"A mouse house would've been cozier, though."

"Mm. You're right ... you're," he breathed, "right." His eyes closed and his body went a bit lax. She'd worked one paw into his briefs, lightly grasping and squeezing his semi-limp mouse-hood. The other paw working its blunt-clawed, brown-furred fingers gently into his muzzle. Having traced his lips before slipping two fingers in, letting him suck on them. To suckle softly, to wet her fur.

" ... let's relax, okay?" she whispered into his ear. For, as relaxation was, as peace was, as goodness and light were, as joy was, as pleasure was? As all those things were, so the mouse was to her. She did her best to tell him this, in little whispers. Making the mouse to melt into their mattress. Perhaps their future was uncertain. But they had faith. And that allowed them, in the present, to fully lose themselves in their steamy, summer love.