Morning Glory
Unaided by any alarm, the sleepy squirrel suddenly stirred. Breathing slowly, at first. Drifting out, out ... eyes side-darting beneath their lids ...
... and drifting, like the tide, pulled by gregarious gravity. Back in. Back to being ...
... zonked.
Minutes passed.
Maybe ten, twelve minutes.
‘Til consciousness returned. Eyes began darting again, but remained closed. She was sorta awake, now. Sorta. Laying completely still for a few more moments. Minutes. Maybe. It was always a chore. Getting to sleep, convincing her mind to slow down? To surrender? To turn off? But waking up was even more difficult, sometimes.
Am I truly tired or not, she wondered? She couldn't decide. Am I escaping from the grips of a good sleep, or a bad sleep? I got, like, seven hours. Seven and a half? Went to bed just before midnight. But it's quality over quantity, isn't it? I should be fine ...
... she just needed some orange juice. Needed to do some stretches, scamper round a bit (for squirrels scampered; it was often assumed, mistakenly, that they scurried, but, no ... mouses scurried, squirrels scampered; it all stemmed from a basic rodent energy, but there was a difference). She'd have to groom her tail, of course. No need to shower, though. She'd done that last night, right before bed, and ... and after, uh ...
... well.
Sex.
There. I said it, she told herself. So, no ...
... she hadn't showered alone.
Obviously.
But she had gotten squeaky-clean.
Her thoughts drifted, in a whirling, swirling way, round and about. Often stopping on dreamier, random things. Trees. I could hug a tree right now. I could climb one. Maybe I should go to the holo-suite and do that ... you know, sometime? Take Peyton with me. Make him climb, too. H-heh ...
... yeah, I gotta do that.
Mm-m. Hmm.
You know, I used to wear bows in my tail ...
... gosh, I wish I could have roasted almonds. But I need to watch my figure. But, oh, coated with cinnamon. And sugar. Toasty, fireplace kind of taste. Toasty. Like how it is here in bed, so warm and ... and that hum. Of the warp core? Her warp core. Mine. My engines, she thought, possessively. Listen to them purr. Listen to Majestic. She's got a soul. A personality, a feel.
Are you serious? You make it sound you're in a relationship. With the, uh, ship. Relationship? Ship? Um ...
... well, really, it is kinda like that. If you think about it. Which I am.
A thought-pause.
And, then: so, if you're in a relationship with the ship, with Majestic, and you're sleeping with the Captain? Does that mean you're in a love triangle? And when you ...
" ... just ... stop it, Adele," she mumbled to herself, out loud.
And it all began to dissolve.
As, like a flower at dawn, she began to finally, truly unfurl. Peeking open her eyes. Yes. That's right. Open, open ... close them. Open. And blink. And, yeah ...
... staying open.
I'm awake.
Officially!
In the midst of her (0730 hours) grogginess, though, she still had to rub the sleep from her eyes. With her paws. While, from a left-side fur-ball fetal position (so cozy!), she began to wriggle into something a little less compact, a little more ‘spread.' Opting for her soft, auburn belly. Bare. Belly. In the fur and oh, so comfortable. And, in the process, becoming half-exposed. The sheets and covers strewn ...
... as if they'd been kicked aside.
As if the bed had been abandoned by its other occupant.
" ... P-peyton?" she slurred, turning her head. Seeing her snow rabbit, uh ... partner? Wasn't there. She hated that word. Partner. It sounded so clinical. So dismissive. A ‘partner' indicated something or someone that could be easily replaced or exchanged. Faceless. So, lover, maybe, was a little more apt? That sounded super-lusty, though. Like it was all and ONLY physical. Well ... you do have that. With him. Lust? That's necessary for passion. Love without lust is what? Devoid of energy? Love and lust were symbiotic, at least when it came to romance. They fed off each other.
She couldn't say he was her mate. That's what she wanted to call him, obviously. What she wanted him to be. But he wouldn't agree to that (to this point), so ...
... I guess I could say he's my boyfriend. I'd just feel a little school-girlish calling him ‘boyfriend.' Like we're going steady or something. I'm an adult, right? I'm twenty-five.
She blinked. Staring out the bedroom window. The stars slicing by, streaming. Swords of stars. Really beautiful. But you became immune to it. Or, rather, you got so used to it, seeing it day after day, that the beauty started to become almost ... ordinary. Maybe that was true for everything. Long-term exposure to anything beautiful? Grandeur became expected. Or something ...
... I don't know.
Or maybe it's the opposite. The fine wine thing.
Anyway, I guess you could say you're the ‘Captain's femme,' she continued.
Hearken back to the old space and seafaring days when the captain had his, uh ... femme of choice. Who often didn't even have a job. That just stayed in his cabin. Simply because he was the captain. And the femme obliged because it gave her some advantage, or at least kept her close to the inner power circle. But, uh ...
... that sounds kinda ... loose.
I'm not like that.
What are we, then? Peyton and me?
She shook her head, slowly.
We're happy, she decided.
Happy.
Yeah.
And that made her smile, because ...
... it was the truth.
And maybe she wanted their relationship to be validated, ratified, sealed. But, right now, she was happy. And that mattered more. Not to be selfish, but it did. I've been an anxious, screwball squirrel. For so long. Now, I've got a hoppy rabbit who makes me happy, and I don't know what to call him other than ...
... Peyton.
Darling.
Mm-m ... he, uh ...
... anyway, he wasn't here. So.
And she began to recall, as her mind became sharper, that he'd had a sub-space comm meeting with Admiral Flint? Right? Or was it a conference call. To update the mission status, border patrol scans, fleet locations. All that upper-echelon leader stuff. At 0700. He'd probably gone to his ready room to do that.
Which meant no waking up to nuzzles on her nape, and ... breeding before breakfast. He'll make it up to me, though. He's too horny not to want to. And I'm too addicted to him to not want the same. It feels good. He feels good. Why can't you just leave it to something as simple as that?
We have a very physical connection. From the start, when I was in heat and he, uh, got me through it? It's been very tangible. Tactile. Visceral. But, then, she stated obviously, we're furs. Walking a very fine line between civil and animal. I mean, that's ... we have bodies. We have desires. Those are important. Yes. Just remember. For you, as emotional as you are, as an engineer ...
... you crave an understanding of how things work, why they work. The reasons. Concepts.
She was a spiritual fur, too. To be honest. She had faith. She needed that emotion. That philosophy. Heart, mind, and soul. With the body. To make it all-fulfilling, all-consuming. The passionate flame that was romance. The fire! Alight! Something, something, poetic mumbling. Yes ...
... I think we have that, Adele told herself.
Oh, we do.
Even if it makes me loopy, I love being in love.
A happy squeak, rolling onto her back, now, kicking the sheets. The blankets. A single kick, and then a few lighter, additional ones, so that her whole body was exposed. She looked, longingly, at the ceiling. And then mouthed out, ‘One, two ... three.' Using her squirrel agility to sit up without using her arms or paws. "My species is supposed to be acrobatic. Dancing from limb to limb ... well, ancestrally, anyway," she said, aloud. And raised both arms, high, high ... and let them flop to her sides. "So, why don't I feel like I'm versatile? Peyton says I am." He'd gotten her into a few, uh, ‘interesting' positions. Lately. H-heh ... uh, heh. "But I don't know ... "
She swung her legs and foot-paws out of bed. And stood, almost bounced. Bounded upward. Bobbing on the tips of her blunt-clawed, furred toes. The sole-pads on her foot-paws pressing down into the carpet as she lowered, standing flat. Twisting from side to side. Little ‘get-going' exercises.
When finished, she strode out of the bedroom. Darting directly into the bathroom. First things first.
And, then, after that? Into the living space and kitchen (which opened into each other). "I hope talking to yourself isn't a sign of insanity. I don't wanna be locked up."
No response, of course.
So, she responded, quite normally, "I think you're okay. As long as you don't start referring to yourself in the third person." A pause. "Or is that, uh, third FUR-son?" A uncertain nod, drumming her fingers against the bulkhead near the food processor. "Computer. Bowl of wheat flakes with honey nut clusters. Whole milk. Bowl of assorted fruit ... wait, wait," she said. "Last time I said that, you gave me grapefruit and mango." Her whisker-twitchy, reddish-brown muzzle scrunched up. "I hate those. Um ... blueberries, cantaloupe, and kiwi." A pause, tail swish-swishing in a flag-waving way. She murmured, now. "That's grains, dairy, fruit ... oh, and orange juice," she said, piping back up. That's all I really need, right? She didn't eat meat. And vegetables weren't good with breakfast.
The food processor whirred.
Whirred.
And glowed.
And her food appeared.
"Thank you," she said, with a polite nod, taking the plates, bowls, all that. One by one. And setting them on the table. " ... gosh, I'm still not dressed." A pause. "Is it lazy to eat naked?"
She decided, uh ...
... nope!
So, she ate. Quietly and not that quickly.
And, as she did, she glanced around their quarters. Their quarters. Ours. She hadn't officially moved in. A lot of her stuff was still back in her own space, the one originally assigned to her. It was just that, uh ... well, I guess I sorta have moved in. Maybe I should really get all my things? Have him help me. Maybe you can do that tonight ...
... I have a lot of stuff, she realized.
She liked collecting.
The newest item in her collection was still Peyton's gold medal. That he'd given her a little while back. She had that featured prominently on her shelf.
A small sigh.
I really should ‘move-move' ... I mean, I want to. But would it even make sense? If we're not mates? If we're just ... ‘just-just?' Just whatever we are? Is that enough to justify ...
... stop it. You're tongue-twisting yourself in your head, Adele.
She paused her thoughts for a moment. I have more stuff than Peyton. But I'm sure he won't mind. I mean, I'll organize it well. I'll make it work. If I can't, I'll have Dennison do it. Effeminate male mouses should be good at that, right? They're all artsy and stuff. I mean, have you seen Annika's quarters since Dennison mated her? Place looks awesome. And incredibly tidy ...
... but how will the other snow rabbits react?
The red squirrel was already having on-and-off trouble with her engineering staff, which was about two-thirds snow rabbits (and, within that, about half male, half femme). All of them open-breeders. Pretty much every femme in her department had slept with Peyton before. More than once. Yeah ... uh ...
... awkward.
Really. At times, it was just ...
... they didn't like being ‘deprived' of the Captain's company. I mean, they didn't understand why he was ‘off limits.' Why anyone would even want monogamy. There were plenty of other rabbits on the ship. To be with. But, still. The Captain was well-liked amongst his crew. He wasn't hard-nosed. He was easygoing, let furs do their thing. He didn't try to regulate everyone's day. He was friendly ...
... good in bed.
The squirrel blushed. Couldn't resist thinking that last part. When something's true, it's true, okay? Want me to pretend it's not? Want me to pretend it's not an influence?
Well, at least none of the other snow rabbits have accused me of getting preferential treatment, pulling strings, etc. At least none of them have picked physical fights with me, cause squirrel agility be damned ... they'd win. Snow rabbit legs? I've seen femme snow rabbits kick predators across rooms. Not on Majestic, but ... and not to mention the males' leg strength (cause I don't think they'd dare strike a femme). The femmes would strike a femme. They can kick. Adele shook her head. Don't wanna get on their bad side ...
... so, don't.
Be nice to them. Just be yourself.
I mean, look at you and Annika.
You've become almost best friends (in a friendly ‘girlfriend' kind of way). Once you got to talking, once you got to spending time with each other. Now, I rely on her for advice, and just ... it wasn't that hard. Initially, yes. But not once you got going. So, if you can become friends with Annika, you can befriend the other snow rabbits, too.
Adele nodded to herself.
Well, I'll worry about that later.
I have to stay on schedule.
They were testing the new wasp shield generator today. By using a shuttle-pod with weapons on ultra-low. And firing at Majestic (with its shields raised). That was the only way to field-test the thing. And they had to be able to use it immediately. No telling when the yellow jackets would show up. Them or any other threat. Border patrol wasn't an inherently safe assignment. A lot of skirmishes and unrest and smuggling happened on borders.
However, Majestic hadn't encountered any major trouble since launch. And the squirrel hoped it would stay that way. But the law of averages pretty much guaranteed it wouldn't.
Finished with her breakfast, she brought everything back to the food processor. And it whisked the empty dishes/etc. away.
Then a squeaky scamper back to the bedroom.
To turn off the computer-alarm (that would've eventually woken her up had she not woken up herself).
To slip into her panties. And bra.
The rest of her clothes, her uniform.
And, before she left for engineering ...
... her tail.
Last but not least.
That big, luxurious, fluffy, very, very furry, arched, reddish-brown tail. Big tail. Like a banner, a blanket. It bounced behind her like a fashion statement. She was really proud of her tail. And, to keep it healthy, you shampooed, conditioned. You brushed. Which is what she did right now: brushing it evenly, smoothly, getting the loose strands out.
She glanced down at the bed.
The sheets were navy-blue. Her loose strands of fur didn't show up, but ...
... Peyton's white fur sure did.
She felt a little sorry for the Ops department. Which was in charge of keeping the ship clean. All the loose fur and, uh ... stuff from breeding. (Ship operations included ensuring good work safety and hygiene.) However, again, Dennison was in charge of Ops. And mouses were full of finesse and tidiness. He probably annoyed his staff (which was smaller than the engineering and security staffs) with his obsessive tendencies. But Annika was mellowing him. They were mellowing each other. That was becoming obvious.
I wonder if Peyton and I mellow each other.
I wonder ...
A small smile, brushing, and fluffing her tail a bit more. And then blowing out a breath. She really had to go. Big day. Okay, okay ...
... deep inhale.
And she scampered for the main door, which whooshed open, leaving the squirrel to (more calmly) continue on ...
... on and on. And on.
Briscoe opened his tan muzzle to get in a word edgewise, but was thwarted.
" ... cause the last lotion I had wasn't working. It was kinda gunky. You know what gunky is?" Monrovia asked, gliding alongside him.
A tut-tut sound from the kangaroo, shaking his head. He'd just left his quarters to start his duty-shift in sickbay. When, en route to the turbo-lift, the salamander had bumped into him. On purpose. Proceeding to follow him, naturally.
"It's, like, all ... greasy. Uh-h," she went, shivering. "I felt like I was oiled up. I don't need that. But I do," she stressed, "need to be kept moist at all times. All," she stressed, "times. My skin dries out very easily. It's very uncomfortable. It's ... "
" ... I know. I realize that. I've been your doctor for how many months, now?" he went, cutting her off as they rounded a corner. Approaching the sickbay doors. The roo hopped forward, the doors swishing apart. He entered, long, limber balance-tail dragging behind him. He raised it so that it hovered a few inches off the floor.
The amphibian followed, semi-waddling.
" ... I can give you something else. I mean, there's dozens of moisturizing lotions. The problem is you're never happy with them. After a week or two, you come back and want another." He went into his office, tapped a few console-buttons, and then came back out. "I mean, these are proven, medically-tested things. One of them HAS to work."
"But they haven't," she said, with a sigh.
"Look, none of this is going to be a perfect substitute for water ... which is what you're wanting."
"It's not a demand. It's a necessity. My skin has to stay moist. My species ... "
" ... developed in wetlands. Yes. I know," he repeated. For what felt like the tenth time.
"Not many leave that habitat. Mammals are the dominant explorers, the roamers, the seekers. Amphibians? We stay put. Usually. I mean, hardly any of us serve aboard ships. The ones that do are almost exclusively assigned to catalogue water-worlds and alien oceans ... where our abilities and services are most valuable." A sad, little pause. She hadn't been able to get one of those assignments. For various reasons she didn't want to think about. Rubbing her short nose with a four-fingered hand. She had four fingers on her webbed hands. Five (toes) on her webbed feet. " ... I'm trying to grow water lilies in the hydroponics bay. You know that?"
A small head-shake.
She nodded. " ... yeah. Um. Maybe you should develop a skin-moisturizer for amphibious creatures ... patent it ... maybe you would win a medical prize! I can be your test patient." An excited nod, a nod, nibbling on her fingers, absently, squinting her large eyes. "Yes. I can see this ... "
" ... I really don't want to," Briscoe said, honestly. He did lots of projects, yeah. Cause, on a ship of forty furs, there were some days when no one was sick or needed medical attention. So, he kept productive with research. Which he then documented and sent back to Federation Medical. They published it, circulated it, and other doctors would get back to him with their own takes. But most of the stuff he did was, uh ... either related to desert life (since he came from a desert planet) or, more often than not, interspecies sex, particularly mammal/avian (being that he had daily experience with this!).
The papers he compiled about that, needless to say, got ten times more attention than the ones about desert health matters. But he certainly wasn't complaining. Regardless, he wasn't really interested in developing new kinds of moisturizers. That didn't sound like much fun.
"Oh. I see." She blinked her eyes, slowly. Twice.
He sighed. It wasn't that he disliked Monrovia. She was, if he was being honest (as a warm-blooded male mammal) ... kinda exotic. Different. Striking. The roo had seen her naked. He'd seen everyone on the ship ‘in the fur.' The crew was required to have a monthly physical. So, he could vouch that she had a nice physique. If you went for short, stout femmes. That cute-but-not-hot look.
She was a blue-spotted salamander, to be precise, and her glistening skin had this navy-blue, jet-black hue to it. With neon-blue spots. Her body-build was, indeed, shortish. With a long tail. She was shorter than Seurat, even ... and Seurat was almost a foot shorter than Briscoe.
No, the doctor's problem with Monrovia was her personality. Which was, well ... demanding. Impatient. A little bit oblivious. She wasn't mean. She was just so caught up in being an outsider, being removed from her element. A ‘salamander out of water,' if you will. Maybe she was just so overwhelmed, and maybe her defense mechanism was to overwhelm others? He didn't know, but ...
... or, hell, maybe she just needs to get laid.
Her mate's not on the ship.
I wouldn't last a day! I swear ...
... she must be using the holo-suite. (He could only imagine the kind of programs they had for amphibians. Could they breed underwater?) But, still, when your mind knows it's a simulation? Your body doesn't get the same satisfaction. There's a psychological gap there. She's gotta be needing the real thing ...
"Look, I'll give you a different bottle. I got some, uh ... " He went to a side-cabinet. Slid it open. " ... got some clear, aloe-textured stuff ... it's not actually aloe. Just has that consistency. It's not greasy. But it might dry more quickly than you'd like. You'd have to apply it three times a day."
Her spotted tail curved.
"That okay?"
" ... sure."
"Ensign," the roo said, sighing again. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I'm sorry, okay? You just ambushed me. It's still early in the morning ... " He was trying to soften up, but ...
... her tail curved the other way. She either wasn't buying it, or wasn't in the mood to be forgiving.
The roo frowned. I don't need any drama. I'm going to stay above this. I'm not, he insisted, going to feel bad. I was feeling great when I left my quarters. I am going to have a great day. "Here," he said, handing her the bottle of ‘lotion.'
She took it.
And he wondered, not for the first time, how she applied her lotions to her back. Her arms were kinda stubby. No way she could reach back there on her own. She turned to go, but then stopped ...
... as the doors swished open.
And in came Diyet.
"A bee!" Monrovia exclaimed, eyes popping. Backing up, startled. She'd heard about him, of course. Everyone knew a bee had been granted asylum aboard Majestic. To help with rogue insect threats, and to be an ambassador, and ... maybe cause his Hive had shipped him out to simply get rid of him, but ... " ... you took one of my flowers, didn't you? The forget-me-nots?"
" ... you forget?" His mirrored eyes glinted.
"No, you took the forget-me-nots. You," she stressed, pointing.
"I not forget," the bee insisted, shaking his fuzz-fuzzed head. "No. No, I remember. I took flower." He began to nod, now. Nod, nod, antennae waving.
" ... but ... no, the name of the flower was ... "
" ... I forget."
"No, but I know what the name was. I just told you." Her voice started to rise.
"If you remember, then why is you mad that I forget? Remember yourself!" The bee raised two arms in a sort of ‘two-armed salute.' Buzzing, b-z-z-z. He turned to leave, completely spacing the reason he'd come here in the first place. But he stopped as the door swished back open, unable to resist getting the last word in. "Anyhow, pointillism bird gave me some to take."
"What?" the salamander went.
"Seurat," Briscoe supplied, of his wife. Almost chuckling. And, looking from the bee. To the salamander. And then back to the bee, and then ...
" ... oh. Well. Yeah, she did mention something about that. Something about there was one less flower. And some bee. But I thought she meant you took it without telling." Monrovia began rubbing her nose again. "I don't know. I was ... breaking out. My skin. I was only half-hearing her ... "
" ... what is it you wanted, Diyet?" Briscoe asked, straddling a swivel-stool, now. Tail jutting out behind him.
"There are no good nectars in your food-makers." His stinger began to waggle. The yellow-and-black striped caution-rings on his body vibrating. "I demand it!"
"I'm a doctor. Not a concierge," the roo said, definitively. Not intimidated in the least. He'd grown up in loosely-warring tribes. Bees didn't scare him. "How ‘bout you go bug someone on the Ops staff ... " ... ha! Bug, he laughed to himself. " ... or, no, Monrovia, you go with him. Get him some nectar. So he doesn't sting anyone."
"B-but," the salamander began to stammer.
"Look, maybe he can pollinate your flowers," Briscoe continued, with a broad, chuckling wink.
" ... what?" she replied, blinking in confusion.
"Trust me." He, being bigger than both of them, began to nudge them through the open door with his big foot-paws. "Now, come on. I have work to do ... go, go ... "
The salamander and bee, chittering and buzzing in mutual, orchestral consternation, shook their heads and complained as they got kicked out. Soon finding themselves alone in the carpeted, soothingly-lit corridor.
"Well!" Monrovia clicked.
"Yes! Well!" Diyet buzzed.
And they looked to each other, and then ...
... looked away.
And then back to each other again ...
" ... mind the nacelles."
"I see them."
A prim pause. And, then, peering over at the read-outs, "Our velocity for such a sharp turn is ... "
" ... Sub-Commander, I'm a bird," Seurat stressed, clacking her orange, conical beak.
A raised brow from the co-pilot's seat, ears standing tall. "Meaning?"
"Don't tell me how to fly." Tap-a. Tap. "I don't tell you how to hop."
"I was merely trying to be helpful." The snow rabbit leaned back in her chair. Folding her paws in her lap. "I, too, can pilot a vessel. I had much practice when I was younger ... during the war years."
"Yeah?" Only half-paying attention. Taking them away from Majestic, then turning them around. Slowing speed to half-thrusters and heading back.
A quiet nod.
Seurat waited for her to elaborate, but ...
... nothing.
"Coming to full stop ... off the port," the songbird announced, in a sing-song tone. "So, what's the plan?"
"Once Adele has raised and checked the status of the wasp shield, we will test it."
"By firing on our own ship?" This had sounded like a ludicrous idea earlier. And was sounding even more so right now. "Seriously?"
"We need these shields. We cannot afford a two-week trip to Home-world to have them lab-tested." A pause. "So, a field test will have to suffice."
"So, what if these shields don't work, and we end up causing damage?"
"We will not. We will use the lowest energy-setting possible for the phase canon. As chief of security and," she added, "first officer ... I would not carry forth a plan if I thought it would put my ship and crew-mates in danger." The snow rabbit turned her ice-blue eyes to the goldfinch's dark ones. "Besides, I have full trust in Adele. The shields will work."
" ... I see." A beak-clack, leaning back. Blowing out a deep breath. And inhaling before mentioning, "You and she have become good friends, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"Well ... I mean, how come you and I aren't friends?"
"Are we not?" was the blink.
"We are. But ... not close friends. You know what I mean? We both serve on the bridge. We see each other every day. But we don't hang out. You hang out with Adele ... "
"She and I have more in common."
"Like having both been banged by our Captain?"
"Yes," the snow rabbit said, without embarrassment. "For a start. Why do you ask?"
A hesitation. " ... I don't know." An uncomfortable fidget. "I'm sorry. About saying that just now. I shouldn't have ... "
Annika's charcoal-tipped ears twiddled. Backed by white fur. The interiors a soft, fleshy pink. "Apology accepted," was the whisper.
" ... I guess I wonder if I'm really that hard-beaked. I mean, I know I am. But to the point that I intimidate furs?"
"You do not intimidate me. Or Diyet. Or Briscoe. Or ... "
" ... yeah, but I meant, like ... that's not who I mean. I don't know," she said, again. "I get a kick out of charged encounters. I mean, me and Briscoe? We both have strong personalities. We sizzle. Simmer. It's great." A shy smile. And a sigh. "But, like, the prey furs? Your husband. Adele. All of them." She tilted her head. "I think I intimidate them. Which is weird, cause songbirds are technically prey. I mean ... we're not hawks or kestrels, you know?"
"I believe you are well-liked. You are simply ... feisty. Which is not a problem as I see it."
" ... feisty. Hmm. Alright." The bird closed her eyes. "Why are we doing this test so early in the morning? Couldn't we wait ‘til after lunch?" Eyes reopened.
"We do not need to get behind schedule on our border monitoring. So, we are getting this out of the way quickly. And firstly."
"Well, it's not like we're circling the whole of snow rabbit space. We only have a fragment of the border. We go one way. Take three days ... stop. Turn around. Go the other way. We have a chunk. Not the whole thing. Who cares if we're few hours behind schedule?"
"The High Command."
" ... well, they sound like they have icicle up their ... "
" ... Lieutenant," was the stern interruption.
"Sorry, sorry ... Sub-Commander."
"Our space must be monitored. Accurately."
"Aren't we in a time of peace, now?"
"If we were, would we have acquired a wasp shield generator off the Arctic hare black market? Maybe I spent too much of my youth engaged in conflict, but I do not let my guard down. Even in times of peace." Really, the only time her guard was completely down ... was with Dennsion. His cuteness. It had a way of lulling her. Not to mention that she loved him.
A blink. "You know ... you have a way of saying incredibly long, formal sentences in really ... "
" ... yes?"
" ... elegant ways," she finished. "Like, I want to get mad at you. I want to think you're being pompous. But you manage to sound so convincing that I can't help but ... you know, agree with you."
A head-bob. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." The bird sniffed and closed her eyes again. Not having a nose to sniff with. Just holes in her upper beak. But, still. "And I'm not naïve. I know there are threats. I know the yellow jackets are out there. But ... "
" ... you also knew Majestic was a patrol-ship when you agreed to the assignment."
"I'm not complaining. I like deep space. So does Briscoe. I mean ... we took this assignment together. Much better than being on a Federation ship ... those things are top-heavy with predators. Even after the Civil War? Predators still control the majority. It's like things are never going to change there. But prey controls the snow rabbit High Command. Prey IS the High Command, so ... you know. I feel far more comfortable allying myself with that."
Annika nodded. "Sensible."
"As for Majestic? Much better than being on some mid-range frigate or some ... cruiser with bigger crews and busybody jobs. At least, out here, we're encountering new things. Providing a vital, paws-on ... or, uh, wings-on service. Get a bit dirty. I like that. And we have a small enough crew and are far enough away from any government big-wigs that we sorta can do what we want ... maybe not entirely. But sorta."
" ... true. I used to be assigned to a space station in orbit of Home-World. It was far more bureaucratic. Far more regulated. Red tape. Deep-space assignments are more like ‘frontier' postings, in comparison."
"Mm-mm." She smoothed at some of her dusky-yellow and black wing-feathers. "I'd just like to be on an away team once in a while. See some real sky. If catch get my drift ... "
Annika stretched her bare foot-paws. Lazily. "You want shore leave."
"We haven't had one since we left your Home-world. How many months ago was that? Three? Four?"
A pause. And, then, "I will talk to Peyton about planning one in the coming weeks."
A beak-smile, saying ...
" ... Meira, are you sure you replaced that gel pack? This table-monitor is on the fritz. Again." The squirrel sighed. And sank to her knees. Quickly flopping onto her back, bushy tail getting pinned between herself and the carpeted floor as she squirmed beneath the main ‘pool' monitor. So named because it was pool table shaped and close to the entrance of engineering. Where people gathered round for staff meetings. And to read important telemetry. "Meira?"
No answer.
" ... Meira ... " Bonk! Hitting her head. " ... freaking ... dammit," the squirrel chattered, gingerly reemerging. Rubbing herself. Whiskers a-twitch and angular ears cocking. She slowly stood up.
"You called?" came the snow rabbit's voice. Serene and sudden.
Adele jumped. Squeak! " ... ah! Gosh. Don't sneak up on me like that ... "
" ... understood." A singular whisker-twitch.
"Look ... " Take a breath, Adele. Calm down. Your rodent anxiety is starting to flare. " ... just replace the gel pack for this table here. We're gonna test the new shield generator in a few minutes. You put the old one in the cargo bay, right?"
"Yes. It is stored. And secure. Should we need to reinstall it ... we can do so in under two hours."
"Alright." A pause, noticing the snow rabbit's charcoal nose was sniffing. "What?"
"Nothing."
"No, what ... "
" ... you did not shower this morning."
"Eh ... I didn't need to."
"You smell clean. That is not in question."
A sigh of relief. "Good. I mean, I'm a rodent. I'm pretty fastidious. Freaks me out if I'm somehow not." She paused, considering. And realizing, " ... oh. Oh, I see ... uh. Look."
"I have become used to it."
"Well ... " A stammer. Peyton's scent. His rabbit scent. It was on her pelt. " ... I didn't even notice. To be honest. I've ... " ... become used to it, she finished, silently. And, hey, your scent's probably on him. I mean, that would only make sense, right? Every fur on the ship wears a semblance of some other fur's scent. I mean ... cause not many on this ship sleep alone. That was just the way of it. No reason to be embarrassed.
"It is not unpleasant to the nose. It is ... nice." Meira folded her paws in front of her. She remembered that scent well.
Adele, glancing shyly over at the lavendar-glowing, cylindrical warp core, wasn't sure what to say. She really tried not to think about the fact that ... Peyton had been inside so many of, uh, the femmes. The snow rabbits, anyway. She was open-minded about it, now, and not upset, but ... still, do I have to think about it? Do I have to be reminded about the fact every day? Her whiskers twitched. And she looked back to Meira.
"I like you well enough. You have my respect, being my superior. And your relationship with the Captain is your prerogative. And his. You both know what you are doing. But there some femmes that ... "
" ... are gonna have to get over it." A weak chitter. "Isn't holding grudges illogical?"
"Yes. But while we, as a species, are more logical than most," Meira admitted, "we are not without our flaws."
"Yet I still accepted this assignment anyway," was Adele's gently-ribbing response. "Even knowing that."
Meira returned that with an ice-blue eye-smile.
And the squirrel, somehow, felt reassured. Started to feel good again. Not that she'd ever stopped, by the way. But, still. She was getting that agile bounce back, already forgetting she'd bumped her head. "Gel pack?"
"Yes, ma'am." The ensign hopped off, bobtail flickering.
" ... heh." Deep breath. "Okay." She tapped her comm-badge, which was on her uniform-shirt. "Adele to bridge." Her bushy tail flagged about briefly.
"Bridge," came Peyton's voice.
"We're ready when you are."
"Firing," Annika announced, blunt-clawed, snow-white fingers on the shuttle controls. "One burst at five seconds in three, two ... one ... "
Seurat sat up straighter, feeling the little vessel hum as a ruby-red shaft of light shot out from just beneath the shuttle-nose. Piercing through space. And impacting against the side-shields of Majestic, causing a hazy-blue sight.
"Beam steady. Steady ... " A nod, a nod. " ... burst complete."
"I can't believe we're doing this. This feels so weird. Firing on our own ship," Seuart whispered.
"Telemetry coming in," Annika went, professionally. Tap-tapping, eyes darting deftly ...
" ... shields only down two percent," Dennison announced, from Tactical. Filling in for his wife. His whiskers twitched as he looked up. He didn't really know what he was doing at this station, to be perfectly honest, but the other security officers were in the armory, or monitoring the power-flow to the shield generator. And Peyton had reassured him that he would ‘do in a crunch.' To which the mouse had replied, ‘Mouses nibble. I don't know the first thing about crunching!' But the Captain was undeterred by such cuteness. So ... " ... I don't know what our old shields would've been like after a hit like that ... "
Peyton, brow raised, turned to the main viewer. Seeing an image of the floating shuttle. "Annika?"
"Four percent," came her voice, over the comm channel. "Would've been the old rate of weakening ... by my calculations."
"So, you're saying these shields are twice as strong? I thought they'd be higher than that."
"The more power we can give them, the stronger they'll be. But we only have so much power to spare. I suggest we not get too greedy. We could risk short-circuiting some of our systems."
Adele, also on the comm, replied, "She's probably right. But, you know, that's only the first test ... we should try a few more times to get a better idea."
Peyton nodded (though neither of the femmes could see the motion). "Agreed. Continue." Bobbing. Restlessly.
Dennison, long, ropy flesh-tail side-winding behind him, said, "When I pace, it means I'm nervous." He saw the Captain walking back and forth. Bobtail flicking constantly. Stretching those big, loping foot-paws and legs of his. "You're, uh ... not nervous, are you? Sir?"
"No."
" ... so, uh, why are you ... "
Peyton looked up, simply. An ‘expression' on his muzzle.
" ... oh." A pause. "Okay," was all the mouse said, shyly. His dishy ears turning rosy-pink. Unintentionally adorable modesty.
The Captain, looking away from the mouse, eye-smiled. Yes. I am horny, he reasoned. That was the reason for the pacing. He and Adele hadn't bred this morning. He'd had that conference call, and ... but I can control myself. I did not get my own starship by lacking at least a certain amount of self-discipline ...
... but, oh, all the same.
His thoughts.
A head-shake, sighing through the nose. Regaining his focus as he heard Annika's voice telling them to brace for impact. And, sure enough, the ship shook. Lightly. Only a minor tremor.
" ... shields down an additional, uh ... three, no ... four percent," Dennison proclaimed. "But the beam was stronger this time. They could still fire on us another fifteen times or so, and the beams still wouldn't penetrate to the hull."
A nod from the captain. Paws beginning to sweat. Penetration. Dammit, Dennison. Why'd you have to say that. And he'd said it innocently, too, not realizing ... " ... alright. I think this is going to work. Agreed, Adele?" he said, over the comm.
"Agreed. Yeah. All our readings are excellent down here. For all the hours we've put into this, it's paying off."
"Mm-m ... yes," the snow rabbit went, nodding, nodding. And taking a seat in his chair. In the middle of the bridge. He shifted about, trying to get comfortable, bobtail raised. Drumming his fingers on the arm-rest. Drumming, drumming ... and turning his head, slowly. Toward the back of the bridge.
The mouse turned his own head quickly, whiskers a-twitch-twitch. As if he hadn't been staring. Eavesdropping on the sounds with those keen and eager ears of his (which, by the way, were still blushing).
Peyton eye-smiled, saying nothing. Just looking to the main viewer again. They were behind a moon, a small moon. Which orbited an inhospitable, rocky world. It was a barren system. A good place to safely test their systems.
"Firing the third beam," Annika piped up, "in three, two ... "
... shudder-shake.
Dennison gripped the tactical console, anxiously. " ... uh ... another six percent. And that was the same setting. Five-second burst."
"We have to assume the enemy won't be able to lock onto us for a full five seconds during any given shot. But we also have to assume the energy will be using much more powerful weapons," Peyton said, aloud. "If we are making evasive maneuvers ... I think the numbers are satisfactory. It does not mean we are impervious during a fire-fight, but ... we will be as formidable as the flagship would be," he said, of Arctic, which was twice as big in size and crew. "I think," he said aloud, standing back up. Blowing out air. " ... we are done. All agreed?"
The various parties on the comm gave their agreements.
"Good ... um, Adele?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you free? For a moment?" Peyton said nothing more. The comm was still open on multiple channels. And, even if it weren't, there were other furs in engineering who could hear the squirrel's comm-badge. He couldn't exactly say ... what he was wanting to say. He was hoping she would get the hint. Please. And come to his ready room.
Like, uh ...
... now. Right now, preferably. Right ...
" ... now, see, it's simple. Hummingbird nectar number five. That's the one you order. It gives it to you," Monrovia told the bee, matter-of-factly. At a table in the Mess Hall. Which was sparsely-populated, being mid-morning. Chef was nowhere to be seen. Only one other fur was even in here. A snow rabbit, reading a computer pad in the far corner. Eating some kind of carrot-colored concoction.
"It is fakerment nectar." He pushed it away, gossamer wings blurring.
"I'm telling you ... " A sigh. Pushing it back. " ... it's as good as real. Trust me. I mean, I eat and drink stuff from that thing. And I'm still alive."
"You have drying skins!"
"That has nothing to do with my diet. I'm a wetland," she stressed, almost spitting, "creature. And this ship is not wet. If anything, it's a few degrees too cold for my liking. I keep my quarters warmer, moister, but ... " A sigh. And she sat down, shaking her head. " ... the rest of the ship can't be like that. And I spend a lot of time outside my quarters."
"Why not they make ship comfortable for you?"
"I guess because ... comfortable for me is a little uncomfortable for everyone else. And everyone else is a mammal. Aside from a couple or birds. I mean, I'm fine with it. I knew what I was getting into when I accepted this post. It wasn't my first choice, but ... " A pause. Looking to the food processor. "I need some water. Excuse me ... " The blue-spotted salamander got up, flustered.
"Bees are not much for water."
"Well, I guess that makes us opposites." Though, strangely, the doctor seemed to have hinted that they'd get along or something. But, then, he'd probably just said that to get them out of sickbay. All I wanted was my moisturizer ... and this stuff better work. Or that cocky, tattooed roo's gonna hear about it.
Diyet, antennae bending, watched as she got a glass of ice water from the food processor. In a tall, clear glass. Her spots seemed to illuminate when hit by direct light. It was quite eye-catching, he admitted. Like bright flowers. She walked back and returned to the seat opposite him with a sigh.
She sipped. "Mm. Lovely," she went, smacking her lips.
" ... but it has no tastes," the bee insisted, incredulously. "Plain water?"
"So?"
"Where is the sweets?"
"In your glass. Presumably. That's, like, a one-quarter sugar mixture ... you know that? I can't believe you're drinking that. Don't ... eh, don't. Stop," she went, as the bee took a big gulp. " ... bleh." The salamander stuck her tongue out. And turned her short nose. Nostrils flaring.
" ... bleh!" the bee went back.
Monrovia, frowning, stuck her tongue out more. Giving him a ‘raspberry' of sorts. " ... mm-m!"
A frustrated buzz, waving an arm. "Eh. You wins." He didn't exactly have a normal version of a tongue. "You have a much bigger tongue. With a bigger mouth and a bigger head and ... "
" ... at least I don't have a big rump."
"My rump? You want my rump to sting at you?"
"I thought bees could only sting once ... "
" ... maybe you are keen to find out!"
The snow rabbit in the corner of the room glanced up, ears standing tall.
And the bee and salamander, seeing they were drawing his attention, quieted down. Mumbling. Looking down at their respective drinks.
They remained quiet for a moment.
Until Monrovia said, " ... I did something for you. So, maybe you should ... "
" ... what you do?" was the buzzing demand.
A sigh! "Showed you how to use the food processor? Hello? You've almost polished off that glass. You're welcome, by the way."
"You are right. I am," he said, not getting that she was wanting a ‘thank you.'
" ... anyway, since I did something for you ... "
He looked up.
" ... I need someone to rub this lotion on my back. I can't reach. I got ... stubby hands and stuff," she went, embarrassed. "I mean, my skin should glisten. With a gentle dew-layer of moistness ... I need to keep it like that. To stay healthy, and, uh ... retain any good looks I may or may not have." She was a little bit obsessive-compulsive. Maybe. A lot.
"Mm." He just nodded. "Very well. I will lube your back."
" ... eh. That's ... not exactly a good choice of words," she went, uncomfortably. Frowning.
"Take off your upper garments."
"What?" she went, blinking, seeing him get out of his chair. Standing next to her. " ... no, no. Not here. Bee ... Diyet," she corrected, seeing (out of the corner of her eye) that the snow rabbit in the corner had become very interested, now. Figures. " ... look, sit down. Okay?"
He did so, confused.
She tilted her head. He was a bumbling thing, wasn't he? Well, he is a bee, Monrovia. What do you expect? But, somehow, that wasn't all bad. He was an outsider, too. She could relate to that, at least. Yeah, she ...
... huffed ... r-repeatedly, laying her chin on the sinking cushions. Between her pads-down, finger-splayed paws. Pretty much on all fours, but just using the couch to support her upper body. Much more comfortable this way, and, yeah, maybe it was lazy, but who cares ... o-oh, gosh. W-who. Cares. Another huff, rocked forward. F-forward. She sucked in air.
Peyton, equally in the fur, equally without concern, was on his shins and knees behind her. In what amounted to a doggy-style position, basically. He had one paw currently on her hip. The other, arm extended, curling beneath and sifting through her tufted groin-fur, her mons, dabbing down for her clitoris every few seconds, sorta grazing it ... a bit ...
... the squirrel's nipples hardened.
The couch was up against the windowless wall. With a few potted plants on either side. And various decorations and personal possessions. The lights were still fully on, but the door was locked. And they were keeping mostly quiet (knowing that the bridge was close to fully-staffed right now, still before the lunch-hour; but neither of them could wait ‘til then ... to do this) ... mostly q-quiet, mostly ...
... ‘cept for throaty, little squeaks.
He humped, humped, strongly and simply. He was not a jackrabbit, but ... h-he could act like one. When he wanted. And, yes, he wanted. Not really bothering, this time, to make anything lasting or poetic out of this. These positions, this time of day? His mood? It had all precluded the notion of foreplay. No doubt they would make up for it later, with something longer, more sensual, but ... right now? Yeah ...
... y-yeah.
He just wanted to hump.
Pretty m-much ...
... " ... h-huh," he panted, beginning to hang his head. His ears, flushed and hot, began to ‘wilt.' Drooping over from their tall, antennae positions. Flopping some. Dangling about. " ... n-h-h," he gritted, retracting his paw from beneath her. So that he could grip both hips and just grind. Deeply. He h-had to. Hold on. He was getting some incredibly deep penetration here. It was succulent. Furnace-like heat! Sopping and all-surround ... s-stimulation, his deep-pink, fleshy penis a bright contrast to his glacial-white fur (with the charcoal fringes). As it appeared and disappeared, glistening more and more with each pull-back. Slick-slicking audibly with each additional forward push.
Adele just kept her position. Eyes shut. Her tail raised, beginning to flag and flutter. Her tunnel milking him subtly. B-but more obviously, maybe ... as he went ...
... and, yeah, that didn't escape him. Her body's responses. He fed off those. He loved them. And, oh, her big, bushy, bouncy tail? Right in front of his eyes, in front of his black nose. In front of his muzzled face. Wafting her scent, tickling his whiskers. Brushing his cheeks. He would've hugged it, stroked it ... r-right now, really, but ... that would've meant letting go of her feminine hips. Which would've decreased the leverage of his thrusts, so ... n-no, for now, he just stared at that tail. He'd touch it afterward ... w-which would be quite soon, cause he was close. Already. So. Close. He looked down, with dilated eyes ...
... at that rump.
Her ‘presented' rear.
He nodded, nodded ... yeah. N-nice. Maybe she didn't have a svelte backside, but she had a, uh, healthy one. Indeed.
The red squirrel, sensing his near-peaking excitement, and wanting to hurry herself up, began to buck her stared-at bottom into his groin. Back, back. Countering his motions. Meeting him. B-bump, bump, fur meshing. She felt his tightening, furry sac slap against her fleshy, pouting vulva. The resulting shivers, the heat they were both giving off, the ratcheting tension of palpable, beating hearts, and tingling desires, the sharing of fluids, the ... and ... and ... she fumbled. Unable to resist. One of her own paws s-shakily going down. She began to rub her clitoris, h-herself, desperately and ... there we go ... there ... o-oh. Oh, gosh ...
" ... mm-m, m-uh," was the moan. From behind her. The rabbit bucking again, draping over her back like a wild animal. Hugging round her belly (from behind). Hump, hump ... hump ... nibbling on her nape as they writhed primally.
She whimpered. And c-ch ... chattered. And it washed over her like a wave. Wham! The pleasure. In waves. That crashed, one by one, against the shore of her consciousness. Her tail stood tall for a few, tantalizing seconds more, before dangling off to the side. Cast away, absently. Her vagina in dribbling spasms. Reverberating ones. Like pond ripples ... " ... a-h, n-ah," she muttered, voice half-muffled against the couch. Again, trying not to be too loud. But, d-dammit ... come on ...
... Peyton was panting. Loudly. As he finished. "H-huh. Uh ... u-h ... " He squirmed, sounds trailing off, hips weakly pressing, hilting. Staying as close as possible. Keeping as deep into her as he could. Ensuring all that seed pooled in her womb. Good thing she wasn't in heat. He nodded weakly, done. D-done. Licking his lips, feeling his penis, his essence. Tingling. T-tingling ... " ... as always, I ... I thank you. Darling." Still in that raw, animal position, he sucked on the back of her neck.
A swallowing nod. Eyes shut. Ears cocked. "Mm-h-hmm ... " Her breasts, a bit squished, shifted. As she moved by mere inches.
The snow rabbit waited for half a minute, and then shimmied. Pulling back. Flopping out. Putting a paw beneath her, quickly, to catch the semen that dribbled, molasses-like, back out. " ... t-towel," he whispered.
Dazed, she stretched. Reached for it. It was on the left arm of the couch. And, without looking behind her, she tossed it back.
He caught it with his free paw, and then wiped his, uh ... wet paw. Against it. And laid it out. " ... you were pleased?" he asked, hopefully.
"H-heh ... yes," she responded, emphatically. With warmth. Smiling. Turning around. Sitting on the towel, now. Which had been spread out beneath her. She opened her arms, vulnerably.
He did not hesitate to lean forward.
And she hugged him, around the neck. Drawing him cheek to cheek. "Why wouldn't I be pleased?"
"You prefer foreplay. Sensuality. That was a bit of a simplified quickie." A pause. "At least compared to what we normally do."
"Sometimes, that's all one needs," she said, lightly, broadly. "Besides, it was hot." She was reassured that he was thinking about her feelings. Thinking about her wants and desires ... and not just his own. She wanted to say ‘I love you.' So badly. But held it back, just because ... well ... this time, she wanted to hear it back. And she didn't know if she could handle NOT hearing it. So, she just didn't say it.
" ... you mean a great deal to me, Adele," he told her, nose to nose. Whispering. Sensing that she wanted some kind of declaration. She often seemed to want that after sex. "My affection for you is ... it is ... "
" ... I know," she whispered back, paws stroking down his upper back. Past his shoulder blades. The feel of his fur. It was really silky. A bit matted by sweat, in spots, but ... " ... I know." She nodded. She didn't want him to confess his love and say ‘be my eternal mate' because he'd been goaded or nudged into it. She wanted it to come naturally. On a whim. From the heart. "Peyton ... "
" ... yes?"
"Um." She faltered a bit. Suddenly nervous. " ... I was wondering ... you know, um, my stuff. My quarters. If maybe ... "
He waited, stroking her nape.
" ... I'm basically staying over every night. I wondered if I could just move in." A pause, paws trembling. "M-more, uh ... permanently."
He inhaled, breathing deeply of her scent. Against her cheek. And gave a quiet, sure nod.
She beamed. With relief. Tightening her hug. " ... okay."
And he pulled back a bit, gently extracting himself from her arms. So that he could reach for her tail. And pull it toward him. Stroking, petting, combing through it with his fingers. Mouthing, "We best shower and return to duty."
A gradual nod. "Mm-hmm ... "
He leaned forward and kissed her tail. The arched tip. Several times. Before letting it go. Before standing, nakedly, strong-legged. Tall-eared. And extending a white, black-padded paw ...
... she took it. Immediately.
And he pulled her up, leading her into the bathroom, into the sonic shower-stall. Where they didn't say much, really. Not this time. Not now. Just stood beneath the jetting stream. Soaking, swaying in slow circles. His bobtail flicker-flicked water-droplets every which way, while hers got water-logged and drifted down and to the side. Their whiskers touched as they ‘nosed.' His toes rubbed against one of her ankles, and she nibbled, with rodent buckteeth, on his jaw-line.
In the end, the shower took longer than the breeding, but ...
... oh, what did it matter?
The ship was back at warp, now. The stars streaming again. Majestic's patrol route resumed. The shield ‘gambit' had worked. The captain and his chief engineer were feeling swimmingly good ...
... and the day wasn't even half over.