Never an Act
The raccoon shifted on his back, the sleeves of his uniform rolled up past his elbows. "Okay. Okay, we're gonna figure this out," he whispered to himself, swallowing, blinking a few times, and his ringed, black and grey tail swishing out of the way. Before it came swishing, like it had a mind of its own, right back in front of his masked face. Fully obscuring his view of the open panel-space. "Stop it," Mortimer said simply, frowning and swatting his bushy appendage aside. This time, it stayed away. And, taking a deep breath, the raccoon re-focused his efforts. He had his upper body inside an access panel, and his black-padded, brown-furred paws reached up to tug on some circuitry. Carefully, gingerly. Tug, tugging, not wanting to get shocked this time. Not wanting to get ...
... z-z-ZAP!
... shocked this time!
" ... dammit!" he barked, jerking his paws back, body twisting. His tail wildly wavered. His head, on instinct, raised fully up, and ...
... bump!
" ... ow. Ow." He sighed and laid back down, flat on his back again, sucking on his blunt-clawed fingers. "Dang, stupid ... damn ... "
" ... darn?" Peregrine supplied innocently, all wide-eyed and stepping into the room, whiskers twitching in that ever-active way. Full of mousey cuteness. "Everything okay, commander?" Mortimer's rank was actually lieutenant-commander, but for the sake of brevity, furs with such rank were normally just called 'commander,' unless the situation warranted more precise detail.
" ... what? Oh, uh ... sorry. Didn't see you there," Mortimer said, sighing, eventually squirming out from the open panel and pushing himself up to a sit. A sigh, twisting to face the mouse. "Sir, this ship isn't even of Federation design." He almost threw his paws up in an exasperated gesture. But refrained from doing so, not wanting to appear incompetent. He was a good engineer. He just got distracted very easily. Like, by shiny objects. And, of course, ships were built with lots of shiny, little pieces. Shiny objects and sex. With those things taking up half his brain-space, how was he supposed to fully concentrate on solving mysteries that only spawned other mysteries, hmm? Seriously? Like, for instance, how come this ship had completely stopped working mere minutes after docking? "I don't know where those opossums got this thing, or if they built it themselves, but ... you know, it's gonna take me a while. It's almost like it's treating me as a foreign 'invader' or something. I mean, I've been shocked five times ... "
The grey-furred mouse, tugging absently at his uniform, smoothing the fabric, nodded quietly. His long, silky-pink tail snaking harmlessly around, and his big ears all a-swivel. Eyes wide in the dimness. Gazing to the floor, and then to the raccoon. "You can't access their flight plan, even? Sensor library? We never found out why they stopped here. I assume they're on a trade route, judging by their cargo."
"What's their cargo?"
"Self-sealing stem bolts, sand peas, and some kind of alcohol. Uh, from what I can tell. Petra checked all the containers, just to be sure nothing illegal was in them."
Mortimer just nodded, licking at his paw-pads for a moment. Licking them, then swiping at his cheeks, in an errant grooming motion. "I can't even get the lights to turn on. I've been using these portable lamps. Paw beacons." He stopped grooming. His paws tasted like circuitry. He frowned. Bleh.
" ... well, Prancer thinks they might have safeguarded everything here to respond to their touch only. Like, their own bio-signs. Or maybe their scent, or ... their presence, anyway. So ... "
"Yeah?" Mortimer blinked, scooting fully against a bulkhead, propping his back against it, and drawing his knees and legs to his chest. Raising his eyes. "Why would they do that? Paranoia? Are opossums xenophobes?"
"I don't know much about opossums," the mouse admitted. "They're creatures of the night. They're melodramatic."
"I'll say," Mortimer went, frowning, looking around.
"Prancer found these little devices on the sides of their necks," the mouse explained, in his soft, effeminate voice, a bit squeakily, gesturing to his own neck, pantomiming it. "Little nodes. That's why she's so sure of the connection. Between them and their ship. Cause, the moment they played dead ... "
" ... their ship lost all power, too," the raccoon realized, squinting, looking around. "Can she remove the nodes?"
"Yes, but ... "
" ... you don't want the opossums to freak out on you when they wake up."
A quiet, squeaky nod, his tail snaking in the dimness. "We'd rather have their permission. After all, it's their bodies."
Mortimer sighed, squinting again, mind churning. "I mean, it would make sense from a standpoint of ... " He trailed. " ... actually, it doesn't make sense at all. Unless they're totally paranoid about their ship being hijacked by predators. Cause, linking your mind into a computer? Might be beneficial if you had an advanced ship. This isn't an advanced ship. It would give them a negligible advantage. And what if the ship got fried, or blown up? How would that affect the opossums?"
Again, the mouse sheepishly admitted that he didn't know. "I'm a commander, not an engineer."
A chuckling, little smile, the raccoon nodding. "Suppose that's true." A pause. "Still, what scared them into 'playing dead'? You? I mean, you were the one that greeted them. No one's scared of mouses. And I doubt Petra frightened them, either."
"Pirates," the mouse said, vaguely. Elaborating with, "That's what did it, I think. They saw Milka, and ... she admits that, in the past, when she was with the salamanders, they attacked several opossum merchants. No doubt being the only 'otter pirate' in the sector will get you recognized wherever you go. They saw her, somehow recognized her face. Maybe she terrorized them in the past. I don't know, but ... for whatever reason, they got scared, and then they all sort of fainted."
"All at once?"
"Well, that's the funny thing. It was sort of a domino effect?" Peregrine said, almost making it a question, whiskers twitching. "One fainted, then two. Within ten seconds, they'd all gone down."
The raccoon rolled his eyes, shaking his head.
"I know. Like I said: melodramatic. And, I mean, if anyone should be fainting, it's me."
"Mouses do have a reputation for being anxious," Mortimer said, nodding, having been thinking the same thing. "I always thought all that 'play dead' stuff was just an act? They actually fainted? Like, eyes rolling up into heads and just falling over? All eight of them?"
"Mm-hmm. It was no fun dragging them to the infirmary, I can tell you that. They're not heavy, but they're ... not exactly trim, either. But they're alive. Prancer says they're just in a deep, trance-like state. They'll snap out of it in a few hours. When they do, their ship should come back online, as well. And then we'll got some answers as to why they stopped here in the first place." They'd contacted the station about half an hour before they'd arrived in the system, asking to dock and stay at the station. Peregrine, seeing no reason to turn them away, and Petra detecting that their ship wasn't a tactical threat, agreed. Things had been going fine until they'd seen Milka on the Promenade.
Mortimer shook his head a bit. "Well, I'd never hook my body up to a ship. And I'm an engineer! So, don't know why they would ... "
The mouse only twitched. "Ask them when they wake. I don't really wanna talk to them, to be honest. They creep me out. They're all ... " A shiver-squeak. " ... contorted, muscles locked up, fangs open. They have pretty sharp teeth. They really look like they're ... " He trailed, not liking to say the word 'dead.' " ... but, yeah."
The raccoon, after a few more seconds looked to the mouse. "So, this thing doesn't need repairs, after all, then? I don't have to stay here anymore?"
Peregrine nodded quietly. "You're free to leave. Take a break. Just remember that the lower gravity stabilizers went on the fritz last night."
A chuckle. "Heh! Eh, tell me about it. Me and Seldovia were, uh ... " He tapped the side of his nose and gave a knowing wink. " ... it was pretty good, you know. So good I felt like I was floating." More chuckles. "Turned out I really was! The gravity net went out. Then it came back on, and we bounced back onto the bed. Good thing we weren't ... "
" ... yeah," the mouse said, obscuring the next, extremely 'expressive' word.
" ... in the shower! Else we might've sprained something."
"Well, just look at it?"
"I will, I will ... " He began to gather up his tools into his toolkit. "I assume Milka's feeling a bit bad. That why Benji's not here?" The nutria had been 'conscripted' by Mortimer, a month or so ago, to be his engineering assistant, even though Benji knew nothing about engineering. "I could've used his help."
"Milka's feeling kinda guilty for scaring the opossums, yeah. Benji's comforting her."
"Comforting or 'comforting'?" the raccoon asked, with a cheeky grin. Shiny objects and sex. Honestly. And, oh, he did have a certain cheekiness that he'd no doubt gotten from his wife. He and Seldovia were more alike than they were different. That was readily apparent when you got to know them. They made a very good pair. One could listen to them banter for hours.
The mouse, being as modest as he was, just blushed, his ears going rosy-pink. "I, uh, didn't stick around long enough to find out."
"Heh. Eh, yeah ... so, uh ... " Mortimer nodded, looking around some more. "Well, I'm going to Ops, then. I'll run some station-wide scans from up there. See what needs to be on today's repair list."
"Okay."
"Alright, well ... " The raccoon got to his bare foot-paws, taking a deep breath. "Why'd you come up her to tell me all this, anyway? Why not use the comm-badge?"
"I'm full of scurry today." A whisker-twitching nod. "Need to move around. Besides, a commander ought to stroll his own station, you know? I gotta know every nook and cranny of this place."
"Sounds like the task of an engineer. I gotta know every nook and cranny of this place, too."
"I gotta know the station's personality, its moods," the mouse said, smiling slightly. He tilted his mousey, grey-furred head. "You just gotta know her body."
"Heh. Eh ... " A sly, eye-darting smile. "Don't know if that's an entirely apt allusion, but ... " He looked to the mouse, whispering, " ... it's not far off base." A wink. And, with that, the raccoon, supplies and beacons gathered, padded out through the docking hatch, the mouse scurrying closely after him.
" ... it's not your fault."
Milka gave her husband one of those 'looks.' Her head in her paws, her elbows on the tabletop.
"Well, uh ... not entirely, anyway," the nutria offered, lamely. His whiskers twitched. And, sighing, he insisted, "You know what I mean, though. You've not been a pirate for months. You've changed. I know you have, cause I've seen it." He swallowed, voice getting quieter, his short tail moving from side to side before stopping. "Not just seen it, but felt it." A webbed paw went to the otter's arm.
She turned her head. They were sitting at one of the tables in the open space near the 'repli-mat,' which had food processors along the walls. The infirmary doors could be seen from here. It was on the lower level of the Promenade. Up above, on the second level, were the holo-suites, as well as the windows that looked out at the planet below, and all the stars hovering beyond. You could even see the docking pylons from there, and the opossum ship floating at one of them.
"I mean it," Benji whispered, even more quietly than before. His small, roundish ears perked atop his brown-furred head.
"That's not even the issue, darling. It's ... " The otter took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair, staring blankly at the wall for a minute. Her own fur a richer brown. And her own tail bigger, like a sturdy rudder sticking out from behind her and her chair. She soon blinked and returned her focus to him. "I'd left that behind. I'd moved on."
"That's just what I said. You're not who the opossums think you are. Not anymore. Maybe not ever," Benji declared. "You were never like those salamanders. You were just in a bad situation, and you did what you had to," he said, "so that you could survive. And when the right time came, you got out. And you saved my life in the process," he added, unable to forget that. "I owe you everything." A gentle pause. "You did what you had to," he repeated.
"I keep telling myself that," she whispered. "But I scared them. I mean, they saw me and, like, freaked out. And then just fainted." A sigh, looking sad. "I scared them. You know? I mean, that's ... I didn't even say anything. They just saw me, recognized me. I mean, in the past, did I ... hurt them? Did I beat them, or did I board their ships and, like ... I don't remember what I did to them to make them so scared of me, Benji. But they remember," she stressed. "Which means it must've been bad." Another dejected sigh, her black, diamond-shaped nose sniffing a few times.
"But, like I said," he told her, taking her own webbed paws in his, meeting her eyes as closely as he could. "Like I said, that's not you anymore. That otter who used to be a freewheeling pirate? That's not you. That's someone else. Cause you're different."
"Gonna tell me all about redemption and all that, saved through faith? I know about that, Benji. And I believe it," she insisted. Being that she was, like him, a Christian. "But, you know, that doesn't stop me from feeling bad. I don't know if it's guilt or remorse, but ... "
He waited for her to say it.
" ... if they can be that scared of me, then so could you. If I could do something to hurt them that badly, that they would faint on me? Then what am I capable of? What if I end up scaring you like that?"
"You won't," he insisted, putting his nose to her forearm. Closing his eyes and mouthing at her fur. "You won't," he whispered. "Anyway, they're probably overreacting. The commander said their species profile says they're melodramatic creatures, anyway. And if anyone should know about what to be afraid of and not be afraid of, it's a mouse."
"I didn't hurt Peregrine. He has no reason to be afraid of me. I hurt those opossums."
"Do you remember doing that?" Benji pressed.
"No. No, I don't, but ... I mean, why don't I? Did I block it out? Or ... "
" ... maybe it didn't happen. The colony you were taken from when you were younger, maybe they took other otters from there. On other ships."
"I would've know about that. No, those opossums didn't mistake me for someone else."
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" Benji said. "Lament?"
Milka thought for a moment. "I'm going to apologize," she whispered, locking her husband's eyes. "I'm going to ask them to forgive me."
"What if they don't?"
"Then they don't. But I owe them something, at least. If I want to be a new fur, live a new life with you," she whispered, "here on this station? A new home, a new ... new everything ... " She trailed, picking back up with, "then I have to take care of my old, lingering problems. I can't pretend I never did bad things. I have to own up to them."
Benji sighed, nodding quietly. "Just don't even think, though, that because you may have done bad things ... that you're bad." His paws squeezed at hers. "Cause I know you've been redeemed. I know I love you deeply."
And Milka's eyes looked him over. Her husband, the nutria. A rodent, but not a common one, and one often viewed as undistinguished. But, to her, he was something special, a poetic soul with a great deal of empathy and understanding. And a strong sense of faith. And that was something she dearly needed. That was something that helped her to move beyond her old life. Something that helped her to be happy.
" ... so, uh, you wanna have lunch? The food processors are right over there," Benji said. "We can talk while we eat? About whatever's on your mind?"
"You sure you can handle the mind of an ex-pirate otter?"
"I've been able to handle it thus far. Opossums may faint on you, darling, but the only fainting I'm gonna be doing around you is the 'swooning' kind." He smiled brightly.
And the otter, in spite of herself, smiled in return, and scooted her chair back, padding to the food processors to get their lunch.
Amelie sighed quietly, resting against one of the bulkheads in Ops, ice-blue eyes shut and ears twiddling atop her head. Twiddle-twiddle. Oh, those slender rabbit ears, with the white fur and pink interiors and charcoal tips. So pretty. Just like her holy-white flame of a bobtail. Everything about her, in fact, seemed like some kind of pretty, or some kind of purity. Some kind of pleasant. It felt so, so pleasant. Which was something Wheldon was very aware of as he kissed down her body, lifting the shirt of her uniform a little bit, so he could mouth softly and wetly at her bare belly-fur. Lovely, lovely belly, on his lovely, tasty wife, and ...
... they both jerked to attention, Wheldon having to quickly get up from his knees. Bodies pulling apart when they heard the lift whir-whirring up, up into view, coming to a stop.
" ... what are you doing here?" Wheldon demanded of Mortimer. The rabbit's ears were still hot. But, unlike a mouse's ears, rabbit-ears were hard to gage, cause they had fur on them. Hopefully, the flushing couldn't be seen.
"Not having as much fun as I'm sure you two were about to have," was the raccoon's response, not missing a beat. He smiled. Nodding at Amelie's wrinkled shirt, which was lifted a few inches above her waist. "You're showing your belly button there," he told her.
Hot beneath her cheek-fur, she just gave a simple, formal nod, smoothing her clothing down.
"We're on our lunch break," Wheldon defended insistently, ever the one to be outspoken. And stubborn, perhaps. He was panting lightly, trying to slow his excited heart.
"Mm-hmm." The raccoon padded around the main display table, up a few steps, going to the engineering consoles. "Just need to run a few scans of the lower level, and I'm out of here. I need to fix the gravity stabilizers. They went out again last night."
"Yeah, we noticed," Wheldon admitted. His refreshing, tea-colored fur seeming less like iced tea and more like hot tea. His bobtail flickered left to right, left to right. Almost in tune with Amelie's bobtail, which was also flickering.
"No bumps or bruises, I trust?" Mortimer asked, still smiling. Seeing that both rabbits were ear-waggling and tail-flicking and all that. It was really rather cute. Not 'mousey cute,' but cute, nonetheless.
"We fell back into bed. We were sleeping."
"Sleeping. I got it."
"We were!"
"Alright, alright ... " A chuckle, the raccoon's fingers flying over the controls, tapping at buttons. Beep-a-beep. Beep-a. " ... mm, you hear about those opossums?"
"Yes," Amelie said, primly, padding to the nearest railing and leaning against it. Her voice was calm and precise as she said, "Frankly, I would rather host sugar gliders. They may be incredibly hyper and overreact to most everything, but they do it adorably. And with innocence. Fainting in a contorted 'dead' position the moment you get scared, however ... is not adorable," she insisted, furrowing her brow with consternation.
"Does that even work? With predators?" Wheldon asked, looking to his wife.
"From my personal experience, I would say no," the snow rabbit said, referring back to the war between her species and the Arctic foxes, as well as the war between the snow rabbits and wasps. The snow rabbits had won both conflicts, emerging, through those victories, as the quadrant's biggest power. They'd gone, basically, from relative isolationists to the dominant force in regional politics in the span of a mere five years.
The Federation, naturally, intensely resented that, especially after losing the brief border skirmish between the two. Ambassador Russo, assigned to the Federation Home-world, was working to bridge the gap, however. Just like Amelie herself was doing, though on a less 'epic' stage. Still, she truly believed that, by becoming a part of this crew (and, by extension, this family), she'd accomplished something, at least.
"I doubt," Amelie continued, "any true predator would fall for such an 'act'." A pause. "Though not all predators operate on a high level of intellect. Some tend to opt for mere instinct. I suppose the opossums could, theoretically, trick one's instinct. One's senses, anyway. I do not know." A sigh. "But dragging and carrying them through the Promenade into the infirmary was not my idea of time well spent. I would have preferred to have left them where they were."
"They really grate your nerves that much?" Mortimer asked, finishing up with his scans, tapping a few more controls. His eyes darted over the read-outs.
"I am always a champion of politeness and decorum, as you know. I love being an ambassador, dealing with other species. I learn quite a lot." A sigh. "However, arriving enigmatically and fainting on purpose is simply bad manners. There is no other way of putting it."
Wheldon, giving a sigh of his own, said, "Well, don't worry about it. Petra will take care of them."
"I'm sure, after she does, they'll be wishing they had behaved more eloquently," Amelie said, nodding. For Petra, being a rat, had a tendency for bluntness and scrappiness. She was probably going to give the opossums a verbal what-for, or at least demand some answers. She was a good tactical officer. Security of the station and its crew came first, and if the opossums represented any threat, she'd soon find out.
Mortimer, ringed tail swishing some, angular ears cocked, stepped away from the engineering station, nodding. "Well, maybe Milka really did terrorize them before, back when she was a pirate. Maybe they were genuinely scared."
"As scared as mouses get? I do not see the commander pulling histrionics like that," Amelie said. "Not in public, anyway."
"Well, true, but ... we don't know what Milka did to them, do we? It could've been really bad, for all we know. Enough to make anyone scared. Those pirates can be pretty ruthless, you know. And she was one of them."
"I fancy myself a good judge of behavior," Amelie said, stepping away from the railing and drifting over to Wheldon. "I believe, when pushed, furs are capable of anything. Even prey can be made to commit violent acts if their survival instincts are flared deeply enough." A pause. "I fought. I had no choice."
"The Arctic foxes and all that? You drew blood?" Mortimer asked, before he could stop himself.
"She doesn't wanna talk about it," Wheldon interrupted, very protectively.
"It is alright," the snow rabbit tenderly whispered to her husband. And, looking over to Mortimer, she finished, "Yes. I was pushed to fight. Most every young snow rabbit was. And all I am saying is that: you do not know what you are capable of doing until you are pushed to the edge of sanity. Until you are completely removed from your comfort zone. However, just as I like to think that I am not the same rabbit that fought in those wars, I do not think Milka, as we know her, is the same otter that was formerly a pirate."
"We're getting a little too philosophical for me. I just came for the scans, and, uh ... to make small-talk."
"I have a penchant for debate," was Amelie's eye-smiling head-tilt.
"I noticed."
"You gonna leave, now?" Wheldon asked the raccoon, perking.
"Yep." The raccoon made his way back to the lift, and said, "You two, uh ... have a good lunch."
As Mortimer was whisked downward, Amelie and Wheldon locked eyes and smiled in their own ways, moving back together. Oh, they were going to have a great lunch, and ...
... a greater dessert. That's what this was, as they came together, against the bedroom wall. A little clumsily, perhaps, but it didn't matter. Oh, cause no one could see, and no one could hear (though, admittedly, Hyacinth made a mental note that the opossums would probably have guest quarters on the habitat ring, possibly right down the corridor; so, perhaps she and Desmond should try to keep somewhat quiet the next few days, if they could help it; and that was the problem: oftentimes, they couldn't!). But, oh, it proceeded as it always did, as it always would, with fluid, mutual motions, more groping and bumping, dripping warmly of wet, kissing desire. They'd already eaten lunch. Now, time for the rest.
The cow was the one with her backside to the wall, pinned. Her body bigger than her husband's. Cows weren't exactly trim. But she wasn't overweight, either. Just supple. Just nicely, sweetly supple, with such a gentle, docile personality, and those deep, doe-like eyes and flapping ears. She was such a calming influence. So easygoing. So, so ...
... enamored with her, was Desmond. The rabbit in front, bare, trimmer belly sliding, sliding, fur meshing with hers. Her fur a little shorter, and a grayish, so-soft color. His fur like something warm and sweet, something a little darker than tan. Their pelts meshed. The feeling of that. The convergence of softness and the mingling of scents, and, oh, how it felt for his paws to be moving up and down her sides.
And how it felt to have her sigh at that, and to arch, arch those feminine hips. Her whole body, even, arching under his practiced touch, making those loose, healthy (so healthy) breasts wobble a bit, hanging as they were, free of any restraint or covering. The nipples a little hard. Showing traces of dampness, perhaps. Maybe a stray drop of milk. For femme cows, upon reaching puberty, began constant lactation until menopause. And, that being the case, they needed milking. By paw, by muzzle, by machine. Oh, there was nothing, to the cow, as sweet as cradling her husband's head as he suckled her breasts. It was such an intimate, innocent thing. Just the simple hugging, the simple suckling, the simple holding. Oh, she longed for that.
And Desmond planned on giving it to her, hips beginning to sway, arms beginning to slip fully around her, hugging her to him. He was sighing, now, trying to keep his breath steady, and his ears felt slightly tingly as they waggled atop his head. Waggle-waggle, bobtail flickering behind him. Oh, he was a happy, hop-ful, hopeful cottontail. Oh, he was head over foot-paws in love. This was heady, midday romance!
Hyacinth, heart swelling with emotion, panted heavily, audibly, her ropy tail whip-whipping back and forth, the brushy tip (oh, like a paintbrush) making an audible 'swish' sound as it moved through the comfortable air of their quarters, half-lit by the few, dimmed lights they'd left on. Half in bold, blanketing shadows. Her tail was mostly hitting the wall, now, seeming to paint invisible pictures of passion on the bulkhead.
Desmond, eyes closed, mewed as he leaned more fully against her, hugging tightly, now, lifting one of his toffee-furred foot-paws, one of those loping, rabbit legs, and running his bare, curling toes up and down Hyacinth's lower leg, to her ankle, across her smooth, black hoof, and back to her ankle again. Working one leg, one side of her.
The cow huffed, giving a throaty 'mm' sound. Somewhat like a moo, only not given fuller expression. She felt him lower the caressing foot-paw back to the carpet and switch to the other. Caressing her other leg with his other foot-paw, getting all limbs involved, in such a hugging, hanging tangle, in such a clutching, needy way. Until she, arching out against him, allowed her hoof-like hands to stray up, up his back, to his shoulder-blades. Eventually, eventually to the back of his head, clutching at his head-fur, panting, seeming to signify, with the breaths flaring her bovine nose, 'please, please, oh, please.'
And he nodded. He didn't need to be told. He just nodded, head cradled, and muzzle probing, opening. Mouthing on the mound of one breast. The warm, pliable, beautiful thing, mouthing to the nipple, 'til his tongue peeked out, tracing the hardened, deep-pink nub. Then slipping his warm, loosened lips over it, tongue to the tip as he suckle, suckle, sucked.
" ... ah," she sighed, head hanging. She licked her lips, breathing in deeply through the nose. "Ah." The soft suckling, after a few moments, triggering whatever 'let-down' reflex that allowed her creamy milk to flow.
Upon getting the first taste, the rabbit only suckled harder, more, more, more hungrily, tenderly.
The cow, heart hammering, raised her muzzle, ears flap-flapping against her head, and ... " ... m-moo ... mm ... m-m ... "
The rabbit, panting, slipped to the other nipple. To even out the pleasure, to milk her as best he could, the milk having a very relaxing, feel-good effect on him, almost like a drug, almost like he was getting a little bit drunk. Which made it harder just to stand here, propped up against her and against the wall.
And the cow's knees, indeed, began to buckle, too. She wanted to lay down. She wanted more.
And, oh, he was happy to oblige, as breathless, as dizzy as he was, he stepped backward, shuffling, lips wet with milk, whiskers weighed down with little droplets of it. He pulled her back, back, to the bed.
She pitched forward.
And he, to accommodate that, spread his legs, and his arms, giggle-mewing. Getting beneath her as if he were the femme, and latching his limbs around her.
She giggled with him, at a shimmy, crawling, getting fully onto the bed. Until she was raised up on all fours over him, sinking into the mattress and the cool, navy-blue sheets. Breasts heaving, she locked eyes.
And he tilted his head to the side. Once, twice. Tilting.
She nodded. He wanted her to roll over. And, so, lowering down, she did, and stared up at the ceiling as she felt the rabbit crawl between her legs, positioning himself, draping over her body in a missionary position, beginning to hug her, beginning to press and grind his hips.
The brown Swiss, panting, feeling so hot, so flushed beneath her fur, spread her legs and hugged him round the back. Everything leading up to this, everything careening, blurring into this.
Into her. Sliding, sliding, slipping his rabbit-hood into her, her natural, feminine sheath, which enveloped him with steamy slickness. So, so velvety. He sucked air as he drew his hips back, and then shivered as he plunged forward, the motion so easy, so beautiful pleasurable.
" ... mm, hmm," she went, weakly lifting her hips up, up against him, trying to counter any motions he gave.
And he humped softly against her, pressing her hips back down to the sheets, making sure to grind to her. Oh, hips to hips, trying to stimulate her clitoris as best he could, always keeping in mind her pleasure, her pace. Trying not to get too carried away with his own rampant need to breed. Rabbits bred manically. Cows more slowly. So, oh, he took it slow, as slow as he could, savoring each succulent moment of their union. The way her vagina smoothed and pressed over the contours of his penis, fitting like a glove, making it tingle, making it drip steady droplets of pre, which only lubricated the motion more, more. Oh, more.
It was hard to tell, sometimes, how tangible such a thing was. There were only so many words one could use to describe such a thing, such a coming together of mind, body, and soul, such a spiritual act. There were only so many words. And, eventually, the words became too clichéd. Eventually, one had to just stop thinking. Don't think, Desmond. Don't think. Just be. Oh, just do.
A moo, helpless, lingering in the air, lingering in his ears, hooves against the backs of his bare, lope-worthy legs.
His foot-paws pressed to the sheets, to give him extra purchase as he pushed forward, forward, staying there, and then easing back a few inches, keeping the head inside her. And then sinking, hilting, pulling back, eyes closed and cheeks literally burning beneath the fur, ears tingling and whiskers drooping, and everything losing cohesion. Everything melting, including his heart, which he'd always freely given to her. And was freely giving to her again, right now, right here, with no sense of obligation or fear. Just a freedom only known in the confines of such faithful devotion.
It went on for a few more minutes, this rhythmic, bodily poetry, until it reached its dearly-desired climax.
The rabbit, as he often did, lost it first, writhing, gaping, hugging her tightly and body going lax. He hilted inside her wet, sopping femininity, feeling it ripple and milk him. Feeling it. Oh, oh, losing it, mewing and sighing onto her cheek, breathing something unintelligible as his muzzle screwed and scrunched in pleasure. Rabbit-hood spurting, spurting seed, sowing her, ejaculation after ejaculation. " ... uh, uh! Mm ... " Weak, whimpering mews. " ... mm. Mm."
She held on, shaking with sudden, almost violent spasms, which simply flooded through her lower body, the effects felt in all her extremities. Drawing wet, fluttering moos, drawing visceral, squelching sounds, drawing nectar, drawing convulsions. "Oh, oh ... mm ... m-moo!"
The sounds rang in the rabbit's ears as he panted, panted, and just laid there, laid on her comforting, supple body, feeling his own heartbeat. Feeling the pulse in his very paws. He could barely move. Oh, he could barely move.
And she, beneath him, smiled with utter, exhausted contentment. And whispered, with what energy she had, of her love for him.
He whispered it back.
And, together, they laid there like that. For a few minutes more, before they had to disentangle to shower. After all, they had to return to duty. But, oh, their minds and hearts, even when they left the bed, were going to be lost in the daydreams of what they'd done there, and what they'd do there again!
"Apology accepted," said the lead opossum, nodding quietly. "Though you did give us quite a fright. It may take us days to get over it. In fact, I still feel a little bit faint."
"Well, I wish you the best," was all Milka said, trying not to frown. She hadn't even spoken a word to them. Not earlier, anyway. They'd just seen her walking toward them, and they'd pulled out the 'play dead' card. And, upon waking up in the infirmary here, they weren't keen on letting the matter go, despite her humble request for forgiveness. As bad as she felt about the things she'd done as an ex-pirate, she had to believe that some furs, like these opossums, were simply addicted to pseudo-drama.
"Of all the places in all the sector! A ghost of pirates past!" the opossum wailed, lifting his muzzle to the ceiling.
"Thanks," the otter said dully, nodding, glancing to Petra. "I'm going, now."
"Y'best do so," the rat said, briskly. "Stick around outside, though? You may be needed for a tour ... but, right now, I don't want any witnesses when my nerves finally snap."
"What was that?" another opossum asked, making an exaggerated face.
Milka just smiled and nodded, padding away, pretty rudder-tail dragging behind her.
Petra, squinting in her no-nonsense way, came round in front of the opossums, who were all sitting on bio-beds, acting like they needed extra-special treatment. They'd asked Prancer to get them 'ice cream, and maybe some pillows; our state of shock may last quite a long time.' "Now, 'bout this 'node' business."
"I have no idea to what you're ... "
" ... those things on your necks. You're tied up to your ship or somethin'?"
"Not permanently. It's just a harmless, little measure. With all the predators out there, we need to protect our assets. We are traders, after all. If they kill us, then they kill our ship. Or, rather, we die ... then our ship stops working. The nodes are tied to our bio-signs. If we play dead, it plays dead."
"Yeah, I figured that part out," the rat said, whiskers twitching, and her grayish-brown fur a bit ruffled. "What happens if the ship blows up? Will you blow up, too?" She hadn't meant it in any humorous way, though it came out in a 'dark humor' sort of tone.
Which made Prancer, back turned and arranging her hypos several feet away, giggle-squeak. She quickly stifled it. As a doctor, of course, she didn't find any suggestion of violence funny. It was simply Petra's personality. She was really rather endearing. The sort that could bowl you over. The opossums didn't know what they were in for if they thought they were going to flummox her.
"Mm?" the rat prodded, nose sniffing and whiskers twitching.
"We will not 'blow up'," the lead opossum said, frowning. "The ship is tied to us, not the other way around."
"Well, just don't go puttin' those things on our station, and then tyin' yourselves to our computer core."
"My dear rodent, are you accusing us of plotting sabotage?"
"I'm sayin' keep your nodes to yourself," was Petra's decree, nodding, and then straightening up. "That bein' said, you're free to stay for a few days. You got our full hospitality."
"Which is clearly," one of the opossum's murmured, sarcastically, "five star."
Petra, ears swiveling, heard this. "We're a space station, not a hotel. We're not here to cater exclusively to your whims. But we do want to help and be friendly." She straightened her uniform a bit. "We're just not accustomed to furs coming and pullin' stunts on us. In the past, stunts have never led to anything good."
"We meant no disrespect," the lead opossum insisted, with somewhat of a too-good tone. In his mind, these other furs clearly didn't appreciate good acting.
"Mm," was the rat's only response, and she sighed, glancing to Prancer. "They free to go?"
"Mm-hmm," the cinnamon-furred squirrel responded, nodding.
Petra, turning her head back to the opossums, nodded, and gestured for the door, "Milka will show you round the station."
"What?" several of them went, grunting in displeasure.
"Well, I just thought that, since you don't trust her, and since she finds your dispositions unruly and uppity and ... "
The lead opossum frowned.
" ... then the best way to remedy everyone's concerns is to pair y'all together. That way you can keep an eye on each other. Besides, I'm sure you have some catching up to do."
"Very well," the lead opossum said, accepting the situation for what it was. "I suppose we have all our fainting out of our systems for today. I think we may be able to handle your pirate." He stood, gesturing his compatriots to leave the room. Saying to Petra before he followed them out, "Rumor has it that your staff usually throws a nice dinner in the ward room? For docked ships?"
"Sometimes."
"Well, tell your Commander that we'd be honored if you'd throw us a dinner in our honor."
Prancer, still arranging hypos, giggle-squeaked again. Quickly covering her muzzle. But still shaking in tail-flagging mirth.
Petra just sighed. "I'll see to it."
"Excellent," the opossum said, smiling and patting Petra on the shoulder. "Now, that's good service. Keep it up."
And, with that, he walked away. When he was completely out of the room, the rat looked to Prancer and said, "What're you laughin' at?"
"I just never saw you making a good concierge. But, you know, now that I think about is: concierge, constable. Both start with 'C,' both have nine-letters."
"That's where the similarities end," the rat assured. "Now, I'm gonna go tell Perry that we gotta throw these furs a dinner. Just to keep the peace."
Prancer giggle-squeaked a few more times, nodding. " ... alright. Well, no doubt you'll be wanting Nin's services as cook?"
"You two just be on the ready. I don't even know what opossums eat." A pause, and then a cheeky smile. "Tell Nin to emphasize his porcupine-y-ness ... maybe our guests will be a little nicer if they think they might get a quill in the rump."
"You weren't this belligerent toward the sugar gliders," Prancer said, lightly, smiling, her angular ears cocked atop her head.
"Well, sweetness in one thing. I like sweetness. But I don't like," the rat said, proceeding to make for the door, "sour. And, no," she added, just for good measure, "I'm never sour. I'm spicy." And that was her final word for the moment, as she slipped out of view.
Prancer just grinned and returned to her open-walled office, contacting Nin and filling him in on their change in dinner plans. And, leaving the office area of the infirmary, she emerged back into the medical area, and was just about to finish refilling her hypos and save the scans she'd done on the opossums, when the door swished open. She turned her head and saw Mortimer and Seldovia, both looking sheepish, and both of them limping a bit.
"We, uh ... look, don't even ask," the raccoon said, avoiding eye contact. "Gravity stabilizer room. Electrical malfunction. Playfulness. And, uh ... "
" ... 'all fall down,' huh?" Prancer finished, whiskers twitching. Flushing at the image. Mortimer and Seldovia had probably, by now, bred in every room on the station. And in every situation, too. It made her and Nin's breeding look positively tame by comparison, despite the fact that Prancer's body was more agile than anyone's.
"Just patch us up," the raccoon said, sheepishly, settling onto a bio-bed.
Seldovia, sitting beside him, looking winded, and her luxurious, black-furred and white-striped tail looking matted, mouthed to Prancer, without sound, 'It was so worth it.'
And the squirrel, smelling it on the both of them, could only nod and smile. And try, despite the distracting scent and sudden thoughts of Nin, to focus on her scanner. Oh, she had no doubt that Seldovia was telling the truth. She'd simply take the skunk's word for it. Cause one thing was for certain: Mortimer and Seldovia, and even most of the other furs on the station, might get a little carried away, at times, but it was always in the name of love. And that was never an act.