Photogenic
"Left?" was the snow rabbit's light, feminine breath. Half-question and half-echo. One foot-paw off the ground, toes curled. As she waited for an answer.
" ... just a little bit," Ross finally nodded, distractedly.
"My left ... or yours?"
"Yeah ... well, my left. Your right." A pause. Whiskers twitching. "Um ... right there," he declared, with a satisfied nod. "Yeah."
Aria, standing loosely, lowered her foot-paw back down. Raising, in its place, a snowy brow. Which she furrowed. Opening and closing her prim, charcoal-padded paws before resting them on her unclothed hips, matter-of-factly. "You have lost me."
The meadow mouse sighed and stood up, almost matching her posture. Gesture for gesture. Paws going akimbo to his own hips. Trim, effeminate (but certainly male) hips, covered with earthy-brown fur. A slightly-muddy color. Having been on his knees, he stretched for a few seconds. To get the circulation back. "I'm just trying to center you. Like, at an angle."
"A contradiction of terms."
"No, like ... have your body centrally-located." He was pointing, now. "But running diagonally across the frame. I'm going to tilt the camera, but I still want you to lean a bit." He was in the process of taking a picture, of course. A dual self-portrait. Of himself and his Arctic wife (himself of Midwestern breeding).
He was actually gonna take more than one. He needed at least eight of them for this project, which was for a color photo class. The twenty-five year old mouse was studying to be a photographer, and had a year left before he would graduate from art school. "I need you to be ... like, I need you to be in front of the sun. But not totally. Like an eclipse. We have to do this right now, so we can get the proper silhouette. And the color of the leaves and blue sky, and ... it's going to be great," he assured. Tail waver-wavering like a downed electrical line.
"I've no doubt." She watched that tail. Those motions. "But you are giving confusing directions," she said, simply. "You can, at times, be obsessively anxious." Her holy-white flame of a cottony bobtail put on its own show: flicker-flicking once or twice. Or thrice, even, behind and above her pert bottom. She slanted the weight of her supple hips to one side. Contrapposto, or counterpoise. Which, in the silhouetted lighting, accentuated her curves. And that pent-up lower body strength that rabbits possessed (what with legs built for loping and hopping).
"Well, maybe. Okay," he admitted. "But you're just ... " A quick breath. " ... I think I'm being pretty clear. You're just not focusing." He swallowed as he said this. He had to blink and clear his throat. She was standing in a sultry manner. Again. Definitely. That ‘I'm all ears and legs and you know it' manner. She was always trying to seduce him, somehow. Loved messing with him. Flustering him, more precisely. So she could, in her own words, ‘un-fluster' him. Like defusing a bomb. Only, well, ... defusing a mouse. Sexually. That kind of thing. Yeah. Something like that ...
" ... and how would you know?" she challenged, with restrained playfulness.
"Cause you're naked. And ... "
" ... at your request," she quickly added, "mind. Let that be clear." Not that she'd needed any bidding, but ...
" ... and," he repeated. He lowered his wispy voice, in spite of the fact that they were in the middle of the woods. Unwatched and unseen but by each other (and God, in His omniscient guises). " ... and nipples don't get as stiff as yours are ... unless their owner isn't focusing. Or unless it's cold." A pause, for effect. Even crossing his arms to appear more serious. "And it's 72 degrees."
A mellow mew of mirth, turning her head. And gazing down the dried-up creek-bed. " ... when you are bare as well, darling, am I to help where my focus goes?" She looked back to him. Directly, with confident ice-blue eyes. "And how can you tell they're stiff when I'm completely backlit? My breasts are in shadow. And wouldn't you need to touch them to be certain?"
"I've, uh ... had experience enough with them. With yours," he said, with obvious, stammering bashfulness, "to guess. I'm pretty sure I'm right." Pretty sure. They'd been married four years, now. Long enough to accurately predict each other's reactions to given situations, be them verbal, emotional, or physical.
"I won't offer a denial," Aria replied, warmly. Always a little restrained. Snow rabbits coming from the ice. The far North. Making them a little frozen over, in spots. Their emotions never seeping through in full force, but always held back. Not by choice, but by whatever genetic/psychological device nature had given them. To protect them from themselves. Snow rabbits had such raw, fierce emotions deep down that, without that ‘freeze' to filter them through, to act as a civil shield ... they would become close to feral.
" ... well," was all Ross was able to say. Letting the word hang.
She kept going. "I won't, but I will say: that these shots you're aiming to take are being staged quite sensually. You want them to be erotic."
"Tastefully. Classically," he injected, "sensual."
"Is that your concept? The sensuality of Antiquity, given contemporary color?" she pressed, logically, her tall, antenna-like ears giving a few distinct waggles.
"Well, uh ... " ... what ... " ... well, I wouldn't put it as academically as that." A swallow, kneeling back down. Glancing over at his clothes. And then up and down the creek-bed. They were at his parents' farm. They were out of town (at a cousin's wedding) for the weekend, and he and Aria were house-sitting.
"How would you put it?" She glanced up the bigger-than-your-head sycamore leaves as she said this. Sycamores were an iconic Hoosier symbol. The snow rabbit had admittedly been oblivious to this (and other realities of ‘Hoosier-ness') before coming here. Before meeting her mouse. It was all quite quirky, to her logical mind.
A deep, squeaky breath. Whiskers twitching and ever-so-glistening in the mid/late afternoon streaming sunlight. Such a strong light. Oh, so bright. A late-summer glow. That you wished you could hold onto, somehow, for just a little while longer. " ... how love is ... well, romantic love. Passionate love. How it's organic. How it's a part of ... how our environment accentuates that, and ... and ... " A frustrated huff. " ... you're putting me on the spot here. I know what it's about. It's my work." The rodent had a very poetic, artistic mind. And could write down his thoughts in such flowing prose. But when he had to say those thoughts out loud? He sometimes got tongue-tied and ... well, shy. Even with those he was comfortable around. And he was more comfortable around Aria than anyone he'd ever known. " ... I know what it's about," he repeated. "You can read my artist statement when I write it."
"I intend to. I just want to hear it from the mouse's maw."
"Well, I'm telling you," he insisted. " ... it's ... kinda abstract. I'm trying to express how natural feelings. Love, say. While a part of nature ... can actually, whilst amidst it ... "
" ... amidst nature."
" ... yes. That, amidst it ... " I've said ‘amidst' too many times, now. It's not sounding like a real word anymore, Ross thought to himself. And sighed. " ... it overshadows it. I mean, literally. The natural feelings come to mean more than the nature which gave rise to them. So, in the photograph, the silhouette of our entwined bodies ... steals nature's spotlight. We, in love, transcend our physical confines. Like a glowing, symbiotic thing, we ... you know ... " He trailed off. " ... I guess it's too cliché," he said, self-deprecatingly. "There's no tension to this. They won't like it during critique." He swiped at his whiskers a few times. "My professor warned me not to make this too ‘cheesecake'."
"Cheesecake?" Aria echoed, with immediate mirth.
" ... yeah. You know. Standard ‘look at me, I'm naked in nature' glamour shots."
"I thought that was ‘beefcake'."
"Well, when it's effeminate mouses, I guess it's cheesecake," Ross said, with cheek-hot embarrassment.
A few tiny mews! If snow rabbits hadn't been so emotionally controlled, she would've had a giggle-fit. She continued to lean against the chalky sycamore. Balancing on one foot-paw again, daintily, before glancing back to her husband. "That is quite romantic, all the same." A pause. "And everyone knows of mouses' tendencies to be cheesy. I'm sure they won't mind such a project from you. As long as that's not all you do."
"It's not. You know that."
A head-tilt of acknowledgment.
"A lot of photo projects are about ... psychological conflicts, political tensions, social commentary, all that. I mean, I've done that. Agricultural ghost towns. The struggle of being a rural artist." He motor-boated his lips. Sighing. "I'm just not political. I'm faithful, but not necessarily ‘religious.' And I've ... I'm too shy to be involved in any social scene. I'm just not a confrontational, outspoken creature. Mouses aren't. Well ... most of us aren't," he added. "So, it's hard to come up with new material all the time." A ‘whatever' whisker-twitch. "But this is what I'm doing right now, so ... "
"Well, as I said: it is romantic."
"I know. I mean ... I hope so. It's supposed to be."
"Indeed," was her serene nod.
" ... well ... " Back on his knees, he began looking through the camera again. Manually focusing. Needing to get the very silhouette of their bodies in focus. While the background and foreground were slightly blurred, like a dream. " ... the photographs will express what ... they're not replacements for words. But they'll be a nice complement to them."
A simple rabbit-purr. From her.
Ross felt himself getting hotter. Rays of light in his face. And Aria's body standing there, up on the creek-side, elevated a foot or so from the ‘bed.' Leaning. Like that. " ... that's it," he whispered, giving a weak nod. "Hold it."
"Are you going to be in front of me or behind?"
"Well ... " He leaned back, his pert farm boy rump resting on his heels. That long, fleshy rope-tail wavering about with no clear direction in mind. " ... gonna get you by yourself. A few times. Then me by myself ... then us together. Cause I need some variation, and ... even if it's subtle. I might change the angle, too, but ... the color's gonna be fabulous. Those leaves behind you, and the sky that's peeking through? It's gonna be naturally saturated. No doctoring. I don't doctor my stuff," he qualified. "And cause you're standing in front of those blue patches, your body ... I mean, the whole outline. Is just there. I'm gonna try and quicken the shutter speed enough that you can't make out any shadow-details on your body itself, but ... you might be able to. I'm glad I'm shooting this digitally. I couldn't do this with film."
"I am sure you could."
An adamant head-shake. "No ... no, I'm too obsessive to work with film. You were right. I can be patient. I can slow down. But," he amended. "I have to scurry. I have this ... "
" ... I know," she soothed, nodding. "Mousey motor."
" ... this works better for me. More control, more room for experimentation and error, more on-the-fly versatility and, uh ... instant results. Quicker. Way less expensive. In the long run." Well, it was all expensive. Photography. Art. Ridiculously so, considering artists made no money in the first place. Ross could barely afford to be one. Let alone make a living as one. He was afraid of where this ‘career-track' would take him. " ... I understand film. They made us use it the first two years. I still use it, sometimes. But, you know, I can appreciate something and not like it."
"Of course."
" ... um ... hold still."
"You told me that already."
"Well, turn your rump off or something. You're starting to sway."
"I am horny." A glowing eye-smile.
" ... uh ... I ... I know." An exhale. Lord. "Aria. Just ... work with me here. For a few more minutes? Setting this up was the hardest part. Just stay still. I'm gonna start shooting, now."
"Now?" she teased.
"Yes, now."
" ... shooting?" she went, not letting up. Because she couldn't help herself. "Is that a euphemism?" Her rabbit-y buckteeth showed at this. Her tall, proper rabbit-ears doing a few waggles.
"No," was the immediate, insistent response. Clearing his throat. "Now, on the count of three ... extend your arm a bit more. So that the sun is just peeking outside your breast and beneath the, uh ... okay." A nod. "Okay. One, two ... "
" ... there is a lady-beetle on my ear-tip."
" ... three," he went, undeterred. Pressing the shutter. Ker-snap! "Okay, again. One, two ... " Ker-snap! Ker-snap! Two quick shots. Then a few more ... just one more. And he leaned back, browsing through the results. "Alright. Yeah, this is great." It had taken a few dozen practice shots to even be able to get the right settings, but ... the results were worth it. "I got ‘em, now." A bright smile. "I can get good prints from these. I'm pretty sure."
A nod, flicking her ears. And the bug (the lady-beetle) finally flew off. "It could have crawled inside my ear, you know."
Ross tried to hold back that innocent, continued smile. He was unsuccessful. Dimples showing on his whiskery, muddy-furred cheeks. Pink nose sniffing constantly. And big, fleshy ears glowing in this particular light. And swiveling. Catching all the warmth, which only made his body hotter. As if those ears were solar panels or something. As if you could set his temperature by them. And who was to say you couldn't?
"Your turn, I take it? To pose?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Do you want me to press the shutter?" Aria asked. "Or are you going to use the automatic timer?"
"Well ... uh, sure. You can do it. Just don't move the camera. And don't move," he added, quickly, "from your spot right there ... yet. Until I can take over your position. I've focused it perfectly. I don't wanna have to mess with it again." It wasn't that hard, really, but still ... he didn't to have to re-shoot any of this. He was, for the most part, exclusively an outdoor photographer. Totally reliant upon the elements. Today was a perfect day. Totally clear. You couldn't guarantee conditions would be like this tomorrow, the rest of the week, the rest of the month. And that they would be like this, more importantly, when the mouse actually had the free time to take more ‘shots.'
His heart was hammering. When he got into this mode, this hurry-hurry-create-and-make mode? It was stressful. Exhilarating, but stressful. You sort of lost yourself, went into a zone. It was a very spiritual thing, as lame as that sounded. It was a rush. It was in those moments, those vigorous, breathless moments that, in spite of all his reservations and fears about doing this, taking such a risk as to be an artist ... he felt, nonetheless, that he was doing the right thing.
It made him passionate.
But, then, he was a passionate creature.
Aria waited, knowing he was lost in thought (cause he often was), eyes following her comically-frantic mouse as he scurried to her. Without clothes. In the woods here. But, still, in spite of their privacy, acting like they were being spied upon. Moving very cautiously, constantly looking around. This made her smile, and she side-stepped slightly as he took her place. "You cut a charming silhouette," she noted, as she hopped a step or two away. Turning around, backing up. Putting her paws in front of her and making a ‘viewfinder' with them (something that bugged Ross). "Very," she emphasized, sultrily, "charming. That effeminate posture combined with that masculine form? You are like Donatello's bronze David."
He swiped at his whiskers, mumbling. " ... am not."
"Are. Yes."
"Aria, the sun's going down."
"At a minimal rate."
"Well, this is all about lighting ... I mean, these pictures. That's the key. So ... "
" ... I will take the shots," she assured, lightly, as she knelt down behind the camera. Which was sturdy and angled atop its tripod. "Do you think the creek will come back?"
"What?"
"The creek. We are standing where it used to be." Which meant, of course, some careful treading. Bare foot-paws and rocks could be a painful combination if you weren't careful.
"Yeah. It usually does," he answered. Feeling like he'd already told her this before. He was pretty sure he had. "Around October ... it only dries up in, like, July through September." He'd grown up here. This was his home. He knew it extremely well. Its features. Its ways.
And she was not oblivious to that, mentioning aloud, "Though you do not speak of it, you have an almost ... romantic relationship with your home. This land. The fields. I miss Alaska, but it does not claim my heart like Indiana claims yours."
" ... my heart is yours," he defended, shyly. "Fully given."
"I am not jealous. Your home is not the ‘other woman,' but ... you are intimate with it. Nonetheless. As I observe it."
" ... well ... what do you want me to say?"
She didn't really answer that. Ears twiddling tall, with their white-furred, fleshy-pink interiors. And charcoal tips. She raised a brow, logically.
"If it came down to my home, my environs ... or you?" he went, genuinely. "You would win every time." A pause. "I would follow you. I don't think I should have to say that. I ... you should know," he stammered.
"I do," she soothed, eye-smiling. "Though, to pose a silly question: if you are so intimate and comfortable with your home, and your home with you? Then why do you keep looking around as if your nakedness is a vulnerability?"
" ... habit. Modesty."
"Does being modest allow for the self-declaration of modesty?" she teased. Knowing full well that he was. Modest. That is to say.
" ... um ... I don't know." He rubbed his neck. "My family doesn't think you're modest, though," he went, changing subjects a bit. "They still think you're a sexpot. Out to corrupt the innocence of mouses like me."
"The only sex pots I know of are Moche," Aria said, smartly. "And I learned of them from you."
A giggle-squeak. "Well, voluptuous, then. You, uh ... you're pretty. And young."
"Is twenty-five young?"
" ... I think we're young until we're thirty. At least, according to society. I plan on being young at heart forever. And active until the end. Deal?"
A little mew. "Mm. A worthwhile plan, indeed." She swayed some more. "I find it amusing, I have to say. Your family's reaction to me."
"Well, they're used to you, though. I think they realize ... I mean, it's been four years. We aren't a spring fling."
"No, we are not," she whispered. "We are open year-round."
"H-heh ... "
"I am, anyway. I open and you ... "
" ... y-yeah. Yeah, I know." He cleared his throat. Squeakily. Wide-eyed and breathing deep.
"Anyway, darling ... "
" ... yes?" A quick breath. Holding it. Whiskers a-twitch.
"Relax," she soothed, with genuine care.
He blew the breath out. It came with a slight chitter. And a nod, as well. " ... I am. I'm trying." A pause. "I am," he decided.
"Good. Now, let me ask ... "
A whisker-twitch.
" ... you're going to share these pictures in front of your class. You're not embarrassed?"
"Why would I be?"
"The mere mention of sex makes you bumble. It is incredibly cute, but ... for you, it is a very private, reverent, idealized act. You put it on a pedestal." A pause. "As you put me on one."
"We're not ‘mating' in these pictures."
"But they are sexual," she repeated. "The connotations are clear."
"I'm a country mouse. I'm rooted. Physically. To the land. To ... the touch of things. The feel and texture of things. I'm ... just as physical a creature as you are. I just have a different way of, uh ... suggesting it. I guess." A pause. "Besides, I'm trying to push myself. To be more open. To get more comfortable expressing my personality." A pause. Twitching. "My ears are gonna be red as beets the whole critique, though." He wasn't gonna deny that. "It'll be uncomfortable, but ... I'll get through it."
An eye-smile. "Now, on the count of three ... "
" ... wait, can you see my whole arm?" he asked, leaning against the sycamore. "My paw's not out of the frame, is it? My whole body has to be ... "
" ... comfortably in view, yes." A raised brow, raising a paw in a ‘stop' motion. To demand quietness. And the mouse obeyed. He could do ‘quiet' very well. One of the traits of his species. And she held up one finger, two ... ker-snap! Ker-snap!
Ross, saying nothing, shifted his hips a bit. But kept his upper body in place. To ensure that the silhouette effect remained. " ... I am silhouetted, right?" he had to ask, breaking the silence.
"Mm-hmm." A simple nod. Holding up one finger, two ... ker-snap! Ker-snap! And again. "Are you sure you're going to be able to get eight prints out of these?"
"Yes. Well, and if I can't," he said, "I can put the one of us together in the middle. Surrounded by the ones of you and me. And the central one can be color, and it can all shift to black and white the further it gets from the center." A pause, having a brainstorm. "Yeah. Yeah, and the ones on the outsides will be just this scene with ... no one in it. Just the background, you know? And it'll read like a linear narrative. Going from the outsides to ... uh, to inside."
She nodded. "I think I understand.
"Yeah." A pause. "They turn out? You look at them yet?" A chitter. "Maybe, if these turn out, I can submit a diptych to the student show."
Browsing through them, she nodded. "As far as I can tell, they are suitable. Now," she said, taking a breath and standing up. Rising to the tips of her blunt-clawed toes. Lowering down and taking a single hop forward. "The ones with the both of us." The ones she was looking forward to the most.
" ... you, uh ... gotta set the timer for that. For these," he corrected. "Uh, those." He rubbed his cheeks. His paw-pads were getting sweaty. Seriously. "The timer only goes ten seconds. The kind of camera I have, anyway. So, after each shot, one of us is gonna have to jump back to the camera, reset the timer, press the shutter, and then get back into position on the bank here."
"I shall do it. You stay still."
He half-suspected she was volunteering cause she knew, quickly moving back-and-forth between the camera and the tree (on the lush creek-bank) ... well, it would cause her breasts to, uh, wobble? Jiggle? Was there a non-silly word to describe gravity's effect on the breasts of a moving femme?
"Ready?" she went.
A nod. Sighing through his ever-active nose. Tail wavering erratically, trying to shake a fly. Or some kind of insect. Both he and Aria had taken their monthly doses of flea and tick medicine earlier in the week. They should've been protected from anything insidious. But, still, that didn't stop bugs from bugging.
She pressed the shutter.
The camera began to beep. Beep. Beep.
She hopped.
He extended an arm.
"What position?" she hurriedly whispered. Her breath cascading over his chin. Paws going to his trim, rural hips. Rubbing more than a little bit. And then sliding to his lower back. In such a singular, quick motion. She made physical contact seem so effortless and easy. She may not have been an artist, herself. But she knew the art of touching.
"Your rump to the camera, and ... "
... beep. Beep.
" ... my arms around you. One of my legs wrapped around, uh ... submissively. We'll try other ... "
... beep.
" ... positions."
Ker-snap!
" ... I'll be right back," Aria promised.
"I know," he mouthed, leaning against the tree trunk with an extended arm. Hips slanting. A deep, squeaky sigh as he watched her hop off the creek-bank. Hop. Into the dirt and leaves of the dried-up bed. She carefully avoided the bigger rocks. Pads making a rustling sound on the stones. And, sure enough, her breasts moved. In a lazy, to and fro. Up and down. Subtle and ... like snowy mounds. With pink peaks. Warm and solid. Beating with life.
Ross couldn't really express how ... how swiftly that hypnotized him. How it lulled him.
Timer, shutter, hopping back.
"Side view," Ross mumbled, " ... this time."
" ... what?" She could barely hear him. His voice so soft, so intimate. So swallowed up by the gentle breeze and bird-sounds.
" ... side," was all he said, putting his paws there. Halfway up her sides, turning, nuzzling her. Nose to nose, and he almost forgot about the beeping until it came to a sudden halt with a ...
... ker-snap!
And, again, she pulled away from him. But, this time, it was a little bit harder. And with each shot they did, it became even more so. Loathe to pull away. Loathe for even nine feet of separation.
His front to the camera. Her hugging him from behind.
Ker-snap!
Her arms around his neck. Her legs around his waist.
Ker-snap!
A long, lingering kiss, tilting, almost leaning into the tree. And neither heard the beeping this time. No. Neither. Or the shutter-snap. Neither heard the mockingbird landing in the branches above them, sensing that he would soon have new material to steal. Those mammals looked excitable. And excitable mammals, the bird knew, were prone to noises.
The kiss broke with a saliva-stringing, velvet-soft smack.
Ross swallowed, inhaling. Immediately tipsy with the taste of rabbit. Leaning his forehead to hers. " ... I think we're done," he told her. His mind moving through molasses. Think ... try and t-think ... but, no, just sigh as ...
... her fingers curled in his neck-fur, at his nape. A gentle tug, and then a stroke right down his spine. "With what, exactly," was her immediate question. That came out as a statement.
" ... the ... the, uh, pictures. Taking."
Her paw smoothly slid all the way down to his rump, his tail-base. And she wrapped up that tail at the root. And then stroked halfway up the long length. Bringing the whole thing with her arm as she hugged him again, fully. " ... what was that?" she coaxed.
" ... you're so beautiful," he blurted.
"That's not what you were saying ... " Her belly arched to his.
" ... well, I am. I am. Now. Cause you are." Short sentences. Shorter breaths. "I m-mean, not just physically. That, too, yeah, but ... smart, sharp, strong."
"I inspire alliteration in you. I like that," she ribbed. Eyes glinting.
He nipped at her neck with his rodent buckteeth, slowly waltzing in a circle with her. Almost. Seemingly. Mumbling, "I love you. And I'm not ever going to let you forget it. Come storm or trial. In poetic words, in painted gestures, in pictured states of being. I'm not letting up. My fervor will remain," he vowed, "longer than the sun. And h-how ... how much hotter it will be ... "
A slow, simmering breath. "Such a sweet thing you are. Darling." A paw to his cheek. Touched. "I could eat you up ... " Was she panting, now? " ... in fact, I believe I shall." A long paw-stroke down his back. "Do not try and stop me," she went, ending all conversation.
Her hips conveying her intent, the pretty snow rabbit sank to her haunches. Not her shins or knees. Haunches. Paws sliding up and down the backs of the mouse's legs, thighs, before ...
... inhale. Short. Sudden.
An audible ‘suckle' sound. Just like that. No patience. Just action. Just the tip. Just the blunt, circumcised, plum-pink head. At first. Suckling him in, gradually, like one would do with a popsicle. What flavor, she didn't know. Had she not been so distracted, she would've been able to come up with a witty answer to that. Working her way halfway down that modest, mousey length (an average five inches; but thicker than normal). ‘Til she was all the way. ‘Til she had him completely (and more than mostly-stiff) inside her hot, twisting muzzle.
His knees shook. Helplessly.
Her grip on his backside tightened. Kneading those rump-cheeks.
Through half-open eyes, he squeaked, raising up a bit. On the tips of his toes. And then lowering. He looked out across the low-lying, empty creek-bed The colors. The light. The cast shadows. The pleasure that was hazing his perceptions of it all. The pleasure. There was no other word. It just was. Was. Is. Oh!
She was bobbing her head, steadily, using that tongue. To direct and push, to cradle. Angling her approaches. Giving incredibly long sucks on her departures, her pull-backs, and then ... t-then ... bobbing, bobbing, b-bobtail. Cotton-y. Flickering. Animatedly.
He saw it. Watched it. Her rump. It waggled. M-moaning ... hunching forward. Losing his breath. And his arms like stilts on her shoulders.
She sat up a bit taller. So he wouldn't have to lean over so steeply. And went down to the base of his member. And sucked. Up. An inch, two, three ... and suckled her way right off the tip. Tracing the ‘ridge' of his head with her tongue. As far around as she could, panting, and ...
... s-squeak.
Sucking on the side of the shaft. Eyes peering so hotly up at him. Lustily at him. Animal-like at him. He could've wilted. Truly.
Still, no words.
None were needed yet.
She only took his hips, again. Gripped them more. Tugged them down. Pulled. And then went for his paws, as well. Anything to get him to the ground, so she could crawl over the top of him hungrily. That's what she did. Lowering, hugging, holding him close. And then rolling her weight to the right. Away from the creek-bank a bit (they didn't want to roll down into the rocks).
Huffs and squeaks.
Bumping of paw-feets.
Mouse on top, now, without comment, without protest, hips already seeking to dip. Fur against fur. Muddy-brown to snowy-white. Heat against heat. He sought to become one with her. His only endeavor. Lord, that it be fulfilled. That this, yes, was not a dream.
This was enflamed, sun-setting reality.
The two of them, though prey, hunting for every ounce of the other.
Oh, expression.
Purest art.
This was their mutual masterwork.
Their love and devotion, performed.
In undying unison.
Her snowy thighs fell apart. Like icebergs did from glaciers. Like ‘furry warming.' She thawed. She opened.
And he, beside himself in familiar excitement, mumbled her name. Like it was a cure-all word. Like it had special powers. And it did, to him. Didn't it? Yes? A rabbit by any other name? No. Not so. But Aria? His Aria was his song, his sonata (didn't matter that arias weren't sonatas, no, no). Yes. Y-yes, she was his song, one he was only too glad to memorize. To get stuck in his head. To play.
Her heels were rubbing up and down the backs of his legs, urging. Bidding. Fingers raking up his lower back, dancing up his spine. And a lilting mew. That was, in effect, more like a moan ...
... as the mouse took his invitation and scurried with it, burying himself with a ‘knife-through-butter' ease. Between her legs, into that inviting, wonderful tunnel. Her femininity. Her sex. Oh. He slowly, as slowly as he could ... pulled back. Savoring it. The exquisite, shocking wetness (she'd been telling the truth about being horny, to be this wet so early), the furnace-heat, the fit-like-a-glove velvety-ness of her raw smoothness. Oh. " ... o-oh," he sighed, heavenly, pushing forward. With sensitivity. Blood coursing. The beginnings of a true hump. Pulling back and then drawn, magnetically, forward once more, again, again.
Until a genuine rhythm was built, until the two of them were writhing in the dirt, leaves, and grass. In the heat, the shadow, the sun. Somewhat silhouetted, even whilst laying down. But completely oblivious to all of it. Each and every landscaped detail. There was only each other. Right now, they were the entirety of conscious existence.
Aria's muzzle, her face, her squinting eyes. All registered those rabbit-y qualities. There was a lusty element to sex that rabbits couldn't get enough of. And, here, now, oh, she was getting it, loving it, whining and bucking her hips upward, her vagina flushed and fluttering in subtle, increasing ways.
The way she and her mouse were out here, in nature, primitive. This age-old, instinctive tussle. How sweaty his paw-pads were. How earthy his scent. How sharply he was breathing. How his belly heaved against her own. Those squeaks. Those dusty, toe-curled paw-feet, pushing off the soil, using the earth as leverage to get as deep into her essence as he could possibly get. That desperate desire. That hot, gyrating rump of his. That long tail that could be pulled like a chain or leash. She reached. She did. She pulled it. Gently, but repeatedly, letting her boy know he was doing a damn good job of pleasing his girl.
Yes. Aria sighed out, eyes finally shutting as Ross's chest began, with each repeated thrust, to rub over her hardened nipples. They'd been hard for a while. And, oh, she very nearly ‘barked' out. Instead, she held herself to a gratified purr, limb-wrapping her mouse. My mouse, she thought. My cuteness. My adorable twitches. My mousey motor. And no one can take him away from me, oh, n-no ... oh, yes. Yes ... y-yes ...
... Ross, squeaking erratically (and getting quite loud about it; the shy ones were always ‘squeakers'), nonetheless tempered her. H-her ...
... lust/love.
With his love/lust.
His utter passion. In the way he caressed her, still, still. Never ceasing to rub, to grind, to slide. Taking particular care to grind his hips against her clitoris. Directly or indirectly. Just as long as he knew he was getting it.
Her weak gasps for air ...
... let him know he was. He knew. And, yes, kept doing it, all while angling his shaft to slide along her upper wall. Oh, it made him wriggle. The sensations. Only rodents could wriggle like this. Surely. And the way he kissed her? As if she was a fine wine. Finer. Finest. As if she were sustenance itself. Luscious locking of wet lips. Suckles and smacks and whisker-tangling dips into her body. And sloppy, quick retreats, moving back in for even longer engagements.
Spiritual. Union.
Furry. Fusion.
All that was joyous, right, and good.
Her continued to partake of her.
Until ... u-until ...
... she simply overwhelmed him.
He succumbed to her wonder.
Her wiles.
In a flashing, fierce moments, he came to that peak, that promise, that punctuating moment. Where pleasure because PLEASURE. Became stunning reward for doing exactly what nature had deviously wanted/plotted for you to do. And maybe, yes, he was (in part) helpless to instinct, biology. But it wasn't just that he was feeling good. That he was having sex. It was that it was because of her. With her. It was her. It was Aria. And, for her, it was him.
It was them.
Us.
Together.
Poetry in the heart.
Pictures in the head.
Such stimuli, s-such ... relentless ...
... ejaculations.
"Oh. O-oh ... " An effeminate squeak. Wild and serene at the same time. Ears burning-red hot, capillaries lacing the rims. The heat. The flushed-beneath-the-fur cheeks. The drooping whiskers. The wayward tail. " ... o-h-h, n-nah ... ah. Ah!" Each spurt of semen like a firework of joy going off inside of him. He couldn't comprehend. He couldn't contain. Steamy-white mouse-seeds flooding his wife's waiting womb. She was sown. He was, oh, was ... so. So. Satisfied. Was there anything in life so right as this? His arms around her? His body like a raw nerve? Her fur in his very mouth as he sucked on her cheek, panting, so beautifully weak?
Her body g-got what it wanted. And ... a-and the rabbit, squirming beneath him, couldn't resist the pull of love's gravity. She had to (wanted to!) follow him over that edge. And, yes, she did, her tunnel filled, wracked with tremors. Little earthquakes! Shockwaves of bliss and squirts of nectar, and such l-loss ... of ... breath. Like she was floating. Vagina fluttering with so much more force than ... o-h. Lord. Yes. P-panting for sweet, relieved breath, ears floppy and lazy. And thirty. She mewed. Oh. He'd driven her into veritable thirst!
Ross made whimper-sounds as her tunnel massaged his length. As their wet, individual essences mingled with waning, spent energies. He gave soft, dizzy squeaks.
Purrs. 

Chitters.
And her lips. Hers. Smacking against his. " ... t-that ... was excellent," she whispered, hotly. " ... Ross."
" ... y-yeah." A nose-sniff. "Aria?"
"Yes?"
" ... I love you." Those words could've pierced darkest night. Could've pierced pure steel. That's how strong they were in this moment.
"As do I ... love you," she soothed, "as well."
The meadow mouse beamed at this. In afterglow. Dimples, they did show.
They hugged and nuzzled for a good five minutes. With their arms and noses. Cheek to cheek. And, eventually, began to speak in hushed, private tones, saying things only meant for each other.
While the mocker, meanwhile, nearly-forgotten in the branches above, marveled at the symphony those two had performed. It was not like that with birds! He had a lot of rehearsing to do ... and he silently flapped off. To do it.
" ... you know," Aria said, casually, toes rubbing against his ankles. Still beneath her husband on the ground. "It's a shame we didn't get pictures of THAT."
"As souvenirs?" Ross joked, pulling out of her. And flopping down at her side.
"No, you left me with quite a bit of those," she said, referring to the semen that was dripping out of her and pooling in the dirt. Sticking to her thigh-fur. " ... no, but one of these days I should like to see what it looks like. Our love-making. From outside ourselves. Outside the dream, the silhouette. I bet it would be just as beautiful as the view from inside."
A dawning smile from him.
An eye-twinkle from her, placing a peck, a tiny kiss. To his lips. Before they finally got up. Their breaths caught and bodies still humming. Fetching clothes and camera-stuffs. And walking out of the woods, paw-in-paw. Feeling quite satisfied with the results of their ‘work.'
Their photogenic love.