So Nice
" ... what? It's not cannibalism if it's not the same species. And it's ... " A damp, trailing exhale, skin glistening evenly with moisture. A sign of health. The new lotion Briscoe had given her seemed to be working. For now. " ... it's not even close to the same thing. There's a difference between sentient and plain animal. Or insect," she stressed. Pausing. "Arachnid." Frown-facing. "Eh. See, you're confusing me." She fiddled with a silvery, shiny fork, and then put it back down. Adding, more quietly, "Anyway, it's not technically real. Just re-sequenced proteins from the food processor."
"Not real? I see it." He pointed. "Is right there."
"It's real in the sense that is has the proper taste and texture, but it's ... you know, not from the real source. It's a very good replica, is what it is."
"Well. I is not eating them, still," was the buzzed, gossamer response, referring to the ‘spider succotash.' In the green bowl by the buttered French bread, behind the peas and carrots.
"Then don't," Monrovia said, very quietly, picking up the fork again. Gripping it pretty hard with a webbed, four-fingered hand. She'd been hoping to introduce him to some of her species' favorite foods. If he wanted to be picky, then fine. "I don't like sweets, but I'd at least try bee-food. If you asked nicely."
"Highly doubt. Salamanders, they have much funny diets," the bee continued, not knowing when to quit. Like her, he could be stubborn. Demanding. They were, in many ways, total opposites. And yet ... " ... funny diets," he repeated, "because they have funny brains. All wet and soggy."
"At least my brain hasn't fermented," she muttered.
"Ah? Well ... fine, yes. Good on you!" Diyet shot back, dismissively. Raising his arms.
"That doesn't even make any sense!"
On the other side of the little, rectangular table, Annika, eyes closed, ears tall (but tensely twiddling) took a deep swig of snow rabbit wine. Deep. Taking her sweet time. Sloshing the white liquid this way, that ... tilting her head. That's it. Tongue moving subtly. Before ... swallowing. Feeling the warmth, tasting the oak-y, vanilla traces. Before she opened her lids and looked across the table, saying levelly, in that logical, authoritative security officer tone, "Do not make me come over there."
That seemed to do it. They both settled down, taking her seriously. Everyone on Majestic had heard rumors about her past. The things she'd done. And, therefore, had a certain amount of respect for her threats.
"Now, let us change the subject ... " She leaned an elbow on the table, her snowy-white fur looking a ‘creamier' color. A slight golden glow to it, because of the ‘tea candles' that were flame-flapping on the table. And over on the kitchen counter. The overhead lights dimmed soothingly. They were all dressed in after-hours attire, which meant no ‘uniforms.' It was after 0930.
" ... I heard something about spiders," Dennison suddenly said, coming back into view. Long, plain tail trailing behind him. Returning from the bathroom. Eyes wide like saucers, whiskers twitching. " ... in the food? Attaching, and uh ... biting? Poisonous ones?"
Annika, looking up, wine glass poised (once more) to her pretty, pink lips, calmly replied, "I believe your mind is scurrying away with itself. We were discussing spider succotash. Monrovia is somewhat of a carnivore."
"Oh?"
"She was attempting to introduce Diyet to one of her favorite dishes. However, he objected to the ingredients." Another drink. A sip, this time.
"Oh." A relieved sigh, nodding and sitting back down. Very close to the snow rabbit. Close enough that, if you'd never met them, you'd immediately know they were mates. Or, uh, ‘joined at the hip.' And, furthermore, that she was the dominant partner. Dennison having that emotional, slightly-innocent air about him. Annika being the more worldly, outspoken one.
"I wouldn't call myself a carnivore," the salamander insisted, after a moment. "We don't think of ourselves as predators. As a rule. I just ... I just happen to eat spiders and worms." A pause. "Regularly." She shifted in her chair, her tail curling in a more comfortable direction. "What's the big deal? Bats eat bugs, and everyone thinks they're enigmatic and ethereal. But, oh, salamanders eat them ... and we're weird. And have cooties."
... you DO?" the bee buzzed, with alarm.
"No," Monrovia sighed, sharply. "Of course not. But furs think we do."
"Mm. Yes." Diyet looked her over. " ... I am seeing this."
A head-shake, ignoring him, continuing, "Double standard. Total double standard. I mean ... really, when you think about it, there's no normal, is there? Or there shouldn't be. There's no natural. Which means there's no unnatural, for that matter." She didn't know where she was going with this, initially. Just picking up steam as she went, and deciding to roll with it. "It's all a social construct. Everything, the whole thing, every declared behavior, lifestyle. They're inventions. Influenced by circumstance, culture, language ... "
The snow rabbit raised a brow, impressed. She hadn't guessed a botanist would be such a philosophical sort. "I agree. Insomuch that: nothing is free of influence. We are less a product of our own doing than we would like to believe. There are far too many historical, biological, cultural, social factors. Et cetera. To be completely our own, we would need to exist in a vacuum. And we do not. We are, then, a symbiotic creation ... part individual essence. The self. And part of both the organic and inorganic whole. The collective. Sex, for example. We may choose to have it, but we do not choose to originally WANT it. The basic desire, which is biological ... is beyond our control. Like hunger or thirst. But desires influence the choices, which are controllable."
" ... um ... yeah." A confused neck-rub. What the hell? "Well, that's what I meant," Monrovia said, slowly, blinking several times. Snow rabbits! And then asking, "But, still, who cares ... what I'm saying is: how come bats aren't weird for eating bugs but salamanders are?"
"I would wager because bats are telepathic and have a reputation as toothy, stimulating lovers. They also have wings ... " Her bobtail flickered. " ... and most furs give them the benefit of the doubt. Your species, on the other paw ... " A head-tilt. " ... is viewed as more earthy. You hail from the water and mud. And carry, perhaps, a less pleasing disposition." A head-tilt. "Generally-speaking, there are less of you and you are less popular. No offense meant."
"Well, that's species-ism, then." She puffed her chest out, defensively. Sitting up straighter. "I think I'm plenty sexy." Wait, are we talking about sexiness? Eh. I'm confused ... she swallowed. Body stout and slick-skinned. She had a certain exotic quality to her. And neon-blue spots. Don't forget the spots. She didn't bother to defend the disposition thing, though. She would, uh ... surrender that point.
"I did not question your attractiveness or worth, myself," Annika said, logically. "I am simply pointing out that mammals tend to be more dominant and widespread in our realm of space, and ... being as such? They have the power. And those in power set the standards, fair or not." A brief pause. "And, being that ‘furs will be furs,' I would narrow it down, again ... "
Monrovia began to squint.
" ... to the fact that bats have a very positive sexual reputation, while salamanders have little to no sexual reputation that I'm aware of."
"You're the expert," the salamander muttered, dryly.
"I'm just explaining why bats' quirks and weird habits are more likely to be forgiven. Since you brought up bats, in particular."
" ... mm. Well." A sigh. "What about sucking blood? Vampires? Those aren't positive connotations."
"They are also not true."
"So ... all the bad things they say about salamanders aren't true, either."
"What bad things?"
" ... things. Like, uh ... that we lose our tails and grow new ones."
"Don't you?"
A slight squirm. " ... sometimes." Pause. "If you step on them when we're running. Or they get caught in really heavy doors." Ugh. That was the worst.
Dennison blinked, wide-eyed and whiskers twitching (once more). "Wow ... you grow new tails? Does it hurt?"
The salamander just stammered, " ... look, that's not ... " She shifted in her seat. " ... we're talking about untrue rumors. About us. Eating worms and stuff."
"But you do eat them," Annika pointed out.
"I know! Okay? Just forget it." A exasperated grumble. "It's just unfair ... if amphibians were the majority, then it would be mammals that were weird and un-sexy. And then we'd all be eating worms." That kinda made sense, right?
"Hardly. Not liking a certain form of sustenance has nothing to do with ‘species-ism.' Diet and culinary tastes are not patterns of behavior as much as they are biological factors. Going back to the basic wants beyond our control, remember? In fact, in spite of your insistence that Diyet try your succotash, one has doubts that his stomach could even digest ‘meat' safely, even if spiders aren't your typical meat."
Eh. The salamander angled her head. She hadn't thought about that.
"However ... not liking you because," the snow rabbit stressed, "you like a certain sustenance, I agree, would be considered ... "
Dennison blinked, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. He mind feeling close to a short-circuit.
Diyet, meanwhile, stared blankly, mirrored eyes glittering in the candlelight, just watching the two femmes. Staying quite still. Kinda creepy, actually ...
... which Monrovia picked up on. Giving him a weird look. Again, what the hell ... " ... stop staring at me."
The bee just nodded, shifted positions. And turned his stare to Dennison.
The mouse squeaked in quiet alarm, sitting up straighter. Good Lord.
" ... but no one here does not like you because of your diet," Annika finished. "In fact, Seurat eats bugs. And we all like her. Just as we all like you."
"So, why are we arguing, then, if we all like each other? If there's no problem?" Dennison asked, with shy exasperation. Ever one for group hugging and niceness.
"We are not arguing, darling. We are merely discussing," Annika said, in her best ‘authority' voice.
"Sounds like what my parents tell me when they squeak at each other."
"And your parents are no doubt still married because they vent their frustrations rather than bottle them up," the snow rabbit deemed, sagely. "As we are doing here right now." A pause. "Some of us, anyway." A look to the salamander and bee.
Monrovia grumbled again. Talking about her frustrations wasn't doing much good. No matter what Annika insisted. She had the feeling that this was a no-win debate. The snow rabbit was too calm. She didn't fluster. So, the salamander let it drop. You're an outsider. You're an amphibian. That's not going to change, so don't whine about it ...
... besides, no one on this ship has claimed to be bothered by your species. No one's made fun of you. Well. The bee has. But he's a bee, so ... he's just as different, and he knows it. We're both too defensive. And, admit it or not, you enjoy sparring. Not physically, but ... verbally. Emotionally. You enjoy clashes. Isn't that right ...
... it's my personality that puts everyone on edge.
That's not ‘species-ism.'
That's just ...
... you.
You being you.
" ... my second-cousin married a bat. They live on a colony on the, uh ... further along the border. I think they had a kid," Dennison said, randomly. Looking down at his plate and suddenly twitching. Why'd Monrovia have to mention worms (so many times!) when he'd been about to finish eating his spaghetti? Eh ...
"Whatever the case, I believe we should change the subject." Much ear-twiddling. "Agreed?"
A bee-buzz, mouse-squeak, and salamander-click. Animal-sounds of agreement.
"And," Annika added, rabbit-mewing mirthfully (to complete the symphony), "someone should pour me more wine." Her bobtail flickered again. She was feelin' it tonight.
"You sure you need a second glass?" Dennison whispered. He was barely halfway through his first.
The snow rabbit nodded lightly. She was sure.
"Well, just ... slow down or something."
" ... afraid I will get too uninhibited? That I will bowl you over?" she posed, raising a snowy brow. Nodding her thanks to Monrovia as her glass was refilled.
"I don't think you need any help with that," was his shy, tail-wavering admittance.
"Yes. Well ... " She cleared her throat, flashing an eye-smile to Monrovia. " ... he speaks the truth."
The salamander nodded, absently. Squinting. Curling her tail about. "You two are opposites. Kind of." Like me and the bee, she thought. Not that, uh ... you know. Just pointing that out ...
"Mm-hmm," went the snow rabbit, leaning back.
"That works for you?"
"It does. We fill each other's gaps quite nicely. Make up for each other's deficiencies, I think?" A glance to the grey-furred mouse.
Chew-chewing, he nodded. And swallowed. "Mm. Uh, yeah." A breath. "Plus, I guess it makes for a certain ... "
" ... dynamic," Annika finished.
Dennison nodded, effeminately. If that was possible. "I was gonna say that."
"I know," the snow rabbit replied, ice-blue eyes glinting. And then looked back to Monrovia. "We are not entirely dissimilar, though, Dennsion and I. We have many values, many desires ... that we share. It is ... " She went quiet. " ... we need each other. We are in love. I do not know how else to put it." She was at a rare loss. "I am perfectly capable of elaborating, but I wonder if it needs any elaboration? Love is love. Love," the snow rabbit stressed, "is. Beyond. It grabs you. It takes you." A slow breath. "And you willingly go. It is far more intoxicating than even this very fine wine ... " She exhaled, steamily, taking another sip. " ... which is a rather amusing vintage, really."
There was a brief moment of silence.
"And," Annika added, gesturing with a prim paw, " ... and let it be said ... that my mouse." A tipsy pause. "Is fucking cute." Her ears flopped over for a second, hotly. "And extremely fun to ride." Her ears raised back up. "You can even use his tail as a reign. That is, if you can tame his scurry. Which I believe I've ... "
"Uh ... eh, A-Annika," Dennison stammered, bashfully. Ears turning beet-red. Oh, boy.
" ... properly. Mastered," she finished. A tipsy (though restrained, in that ice-born way) eye-smile. Her pupils notably dilated.
Monrovia, a little flustered by their flirting (us amphibians like breeding as much as anyone, okay, but mammals just fall all over themselves for it ... good grief, get a room), turned her attention back to the table, the food, the candles, the centerpiece. Flowers. Hand-chosen from the hydroponics bay. Wild irises. Maybe not so wild when they were grown on a starship, true, but ... she, uh ...
... she liked ...
... um. Her floral reverie. Soon and suddenly broken before it even started. By the bee. Who was chomping on some coffee cake.
Buzz, b-z-z. "M-m ... cinnamon-y," he declared.
Monrivia sighed, saving her energy. "That was for dessert, Diyet. That's why there was a lid on it."
"No, not for Dessert." An emphatic head-shake. "There is no fur here named Dessert. It is for me."
"You ... whatever. Okay." She gave up. "Eat it." Was he really that oblivious? Or was he just play-acting to gain some kind of upper hand in what was, to him, a strange environment? Monrovia was beginning to wonder ... you know, he could be a spy for all we know. Seriously ...
" ... that is what I am doing! Nom-nom!"
"Who says ‘nom-nom' out loud? That's an action. You can't ... you can't just ‘verb' like that."
"No, you!" was the reply.
" ... what?" A brain-freeze, and then a confused head-shake.
"Noms-noms are adjectives, anyways. Is not verbs."
"Annika?" Monrovia asked. Wanting a referee. "Who's right?"
The snow rabbit, swaying, feeling incredibly flushed. Ooh. Yeah. Wine. " ... I, uh ... would image," she said, trying to focus. " ... sorry, imagine," she corrected. "That ‘nomming' would be an action. Agreed. Dennison?"
" ... uh ... " He shyly swallowed, being put on the spot. "Well, I can't say. Mouses don't nom. We nibble." A whisker-twitchy, wide-eyed pause. "I thought everyone knew that, but the other day, the Captain thought I crunched. A mouse crunching? No ... "
" ... they do nibble. Mouses," Annika whispered, giving a pant. "Yes." A serious face. "Diyet, you are hereby ... hereafter to nibble. Not nom."
"Nuh-uh," he buzzed, in refusal. "No."
"Nom," Dennison whispered, shaking his head. It didn't sound right. There was a difference between mousey-cute and utter nonsense. And even a mouse couldn't save that word from being a nonsense-word.
"Oh, my gosh," Monrovia muttered, webbed hands to the side of her head. Was this conversation even real? Was this happening? "Bee, I don't even care how you eat the coffee cake. The point is ... the point," she said, finding her breath, "is that we were supposed to eat it together. What you're doing," she insisted, getting into the sparring mood again, "is ruining the flow of the meal. What you're doing is ... "
Annika raised a paw, quickly. In a ‘hush' signal. " ... do not think I don't ... " Almost tripped over her words there. " ... have the authority to lock you both in the brig. I may be off duty, but ... " She trailed, taking another sip of wine. She was going to be needing a third glass. Very soon. " ... I am chief of security."
Dennison, sipping timidly from his own glass, decided to talk of more cheerful matters. Before this turned into another ‘discussion.' "Is everyone looking forward to shore leave?" The Captain had decided, at Seurat and Annika's insistence (and the High Command's allowance), to take a three-day shore leave at a planet along their patrol route. It wasn't thought that any major threat was likely during the next week. So, the border satellites could pick up the slack (what they couldn't do, obviously, was serve as a peace-keeping force or offer aid and services or tactical presence, or anything else paws-on; but, still ... shore leave! Yay!).
"Yes," went Monrovia.
"No," went Diyet.
They both squinted, looking at each other suspiciously.
"Uh ... okay," the mouse went, biting his lip. White, rodent buckteeth visible. He could see, now, why Annika was hitting the wine so hard (well, other than the fact that she enjoyed it on a sensual level). Why was Monrovia even throwing this dinner party anyway? If she seemed so stressed? Well ... presumably, because she wanted to have supper with the bee, I guess? But not by herself. And Annika has a reputation as the toughest fur on the ship. So, she invited her as literal security, and if she invited her ... then I had to be invited, too. I mean, that has to be it. Monrovia's never been very sociable in the past. Only when she wants something.
Well, why would she want the bee?
They're constantly at each other's throats.
... maybe, you know ...
... eh, that's what really turns her on?
The mouse shook his head. Too much theoretical information. Too much. " ... why aren't you looking forward to, uh ... shore leave? Diyet?" They were going to be taking it at one of two planets. They had another day to decide. It would be Peyton's decision. But both were temperate worlds with plenty of diversity. However, only having four shuttle-pods, and not wanting the crew to be scattered if something went wrong, they'd all be exploring/enjoying the same location. A certain however-many-mile radius would be put into effect. It would be great to be in nature, though. Furs might have been sentient, but they were also animals, and ...
... being away from nature could dull your instincts.
Besides, I'm a country boy, Dennison thought. It's my natural habitat.
"Bees do not take vacations. Hive does not allow for rest." Pause. "I never go on one." A slight, awkward buzz. "My arts is my vacations."
"You play cello, I believe?" Annika stated.
"Not recent. Not on here." Pause. "But, yes."
"Well, mouses have a thing called ‘scurry'," Dennison replied. "We have trouble resting, too. But, you know ... sometimes you just need help."
" ... or to be pinned on your back," the snow rabbit added, bluntly, finishing her drink.
A blush. Trying to ignore that (but, damn, it was hard). He lost his breath for a moment, looking over to the salamander. Then back to the bee. "Monrovia's, uh ... probably gonna go in search of plant life once we get there. Collect flowers and stuff. You could help her with that, Diyet. You know about flowers. That's something you two have in common." He put his paws to his grey-furred, whiskery cheeks. They were flushed beneath.
"What? Take him on my flower-walk?" The salamander blinked. She was really looking forward to collecting alien specimens. And not only flowers, but fruits. Vegetables. Some new edible things. It would be her first chance since leaving the snow rabbit Home-world, and she didn't want ... well ... okay, maybe the bee liked flowers, too, and maybe she was kinda drawn to him. But she didn't want him causing trouble when she was on duty! And she did plan to use shore leave as work-time.
"Why not?"
"You seen what bees do to flowers? They basically ... "
" ... uh, well ... "
" ... screw them. With their faces."
Annika immediately piped in with a sultry, "You wish your flowers to practice abstinence? With insects?" A head shake. "It will not work ... "
Monrovia glared at the snow rabbit, not amused.
"Does not work," the bee agreed, nodding. "The flowers are most persuasive with their perfumes. They are in a constant state of what furs would say ... the heat."
Dennison caught the laugh before it left his whiskered muzzle. Making a choking/coughing sound to hide it. He lowered his head, giving a tipsy side-glance to Annika ...
... the snow rabbit glancing back. Had snow rabbits been the sorts to wink, she would have. Instead, she merely mouthed, silently, ‘You're cute.'
The mouse's ears flushed. With blood. But he smiled, quite, uh ... pleased. Taking another sip of wine and sitting up straight, pink nose sniffing sweetly. Seeing that Monrovia was staring at him and the snow rabbit. " ... uh ... I've been meaning to ask," he said, trying to think of anything to get the attention off of him and his wife's ... f-fl ... flirtations. Is ... she rubbing her bare foot-paw on my ankle? Under the table? Yes ... " ... how come your mate's not on the ship?"
Monrovia, not expecting that, sort of recoiled. Shyly. Vulnerably. Looking to her plate.
Dennison felt immediately bad. Scolding himself. You're a mouse. You're supposed to be all finesse! Why'd you go and ask something like that? He glanced at his empty wine glass ... and, again, felt Annika hitting on him. Oh. Uh. Yeah. That.
The blue-spotted salamander, rubbing her short nose (a habit, it seemed), said, "He got sick. He could not ... " She trailed off. A dip of her shoulder. " ... could not leave the wetlands. Months of recovery ahead. I had just graduated, and had orders to report to my assigned ship ... which was way out here, in snow rabbit space. Weeks from home ... "
All three of them looked to her, waiting.
" ... he told me to go. Rather than risk an immediate reprimand on my record."
"Go? Without him?" Dennison went.
"Why?" inquired Annika.
She hesitated before answering. "Perhaps he was testing me. Perhaps he knew that I only loved him in certain ways." She didn't know if that made sense. " ... he was, I think, giving me a way out." She weakly cleared her throat, swallowing. "He was, uh ... a salamander, too. Is. He is," she stressed. He was still alive. And had, from the news she'd received, made a full recovery. "But he's a hellbender. I'm a blue-spotted. We were capable of reproducing, but it was still a physical mismatch."
"The sex was bad?" (Coming from Annika, of course.) "You did not click?"
Rubbing her neck, Monrovia nodded. " ... pretty much. We tried. And, uh ... tried and tried." Her neon-blue spots seemed to glow a bit. Sheepishly blushing. "I loved him, though. We got along great. When we talked and stuff, and ... we sort of rushed into it. Even knowing we had little physical chemistry? We were lonely. And assumed it would come along ... " A sigh. " ... anyway, it's not that ... you know, I'm not that shallow. Believe me. There's much more, so much more," she stressed, "to a relationship than that. To romance." A pause. "But it was still important. Is," she said, "important. I'm still young, and want passion, too. Not just an amiable soul-mate, but an amiable AND fiery one."
Feeling a definite buzz from the alcohol, and blinking once or twice, Annika lowered her voice, and said, "Do not mind me ... my asking. But is it not ironic? That he was a hellbender? Hell? And yet was not capable of bringing fire to your love life?"
Dennison nudged his wife, trying to get her to muzzle it before she hurt Monrovia's feelings. Even though, uh ... that was pretty funny. In a very cheesy way. I'm so rubbing off on her, the mouse thought proudly.
" ... no, it's fine. You can laugh. I don't care." An honest sigh. "I mean, it is ironic. I just wasn't experienced enough with relationships to realize what I wanted, what ... would work," Monrovia admitted. "I mean, I'm a botanist. I can gage plants better than furs ... or amphibians. Or whoever." A sniff. "Anyway, he was, uh, still sick at the time I had to ship out. And it would've looked very bad if we'd divorced at a time like that. His family would've eternally vilified me. The furs we knew would've done the same. Everyone ... wouldn't you have?"
"No," Dennison softly squeaked.
"Well, mouses are too sweet. Your vote doesn't count. But others? I know what they would've thought. And, yeah, I'm not the most ... sociable. So, why should I care what others think, huh?" she posed. Taking a second before admitting, "I don't know. But I kinda do."
"So, you are still technically mated to him?" Annika asked. "Your hellbender?"
"Technically. I guess. But not ... practically, you know. I'll deal with it. I gotta send him a message soon." She closed her eyes. "I didn't expect to be posted so far away from home. He didn't expect it, either. And that just threw an additional wrench into the mix. See, I thought I would get an assignment on one of the marine biology missions? You know? On some ocean planet in the heart of Federation space. A day's journey back ... but ... " Now, it was literally two, three weeks. One-way! If she wanted to return home for a visit. " ... I aced my tests. But I failed the interviews. The, uh ... field studies. All that. So, I didn't get first or second or third choice. I was way down the list for preferred spotting." Pause. "I've been told I have a distinct personality. Sometimes, it rubs furs the wrong way." She fiddled. "I think they wanted to ship me way out here cause they thought it'd be amusing to have the ‘logical' snow rabbits have to deal with my idiosyncrasies."
No one said anything to that.
What were you supposed to say?
I'm sorry? Or, uh ...
... what?
Outside, the stars streamed and streaked, with their silent bottle-rocket flares.
" ... more wine?" the salamander asked, reaching for the bottle.
"Dennison will have some. His glass is ... appears to be," Annika said, rolling her head. Stretching her shoulders. " ... empty." As was hers. But she didn't want to get sloshed (as one might say, in the vernacular).
" ... alcohol hits me so fast," the mouse mumbled, squeakily. But not stopping the refill. The capillaries showing along his ear-rims. " ... m-m, uh ... is there any coffee cake left?"
Monriva, swirling the white wine in her own glass, nodded. "Yeah. Assuming Diyet hasn't been eating it directly from the pan."
A buzz, b-z-z. He had. Of course.
The salamander just sighed and took a drink.
"Uh, well ... I'll have some anyway. A corner piece. That hasn't been touched," Dennison said, trying to keep the mood light. Trying to keep the conversation going. As eager-to-please as he was. Wanting everyone to be happy. "You know, it's kinda funny, cause ... I hate coffee. And I like ... " He reached for the pan. " ... coffee cake."
"That is prob'ly," Annika said, tipsily, "cause there's no coffee ... actually ... " A hot breath. " ... actually in it. It is simply meant to be eaten with coffee. And with bare mouses, and ... "
"I no like coffee, either," Diyet said. "Bitter, bitter. No. Only sweets for me ... "
Monrovia, staring blankly at her mostly-clean plate, remained unusually quiet. Scooting her chair back. "‘Scuse me," she said, with a polite nod. Not making eye contact. Leaving, presumably for the bathroom ...
... but Annika, even in her tipsy state, was a keen observer. And said, "Excuse me, as well."
"Are you doing that thing where femmes go into the bathroom at the same time?" Dennison said, blinking. "Why do you do that?"
"She needs my shoulder," Annika said, simply, bobtail flicking. "Just keep the bee ... " A woozy nod. Standing. Finding her balance. " ... out of trouble."
"What is everyone hushing about? You are hiding the more coffee cakes?" His wings began to flit. " ... I demand it!"
"What?" A blink. "Uh, bee. Or Diyet," Dennison corrected. "How do you make honey, exactly?" The mouse exhaled hotly, taking another sip of wine. Sloshing, sloshing. Swallowing. He didn't really wanna know about honey-making. Not right now, anyway. (Really, he wanted to lay down.) But he figured it would preoccupy Diyet long enough to allow Annika to go console Monrovia. He assumed the salamander didn't want the bee to know she was distressed.
"Ah! Well. I should like to tell you, very big-eared mate of snowy horn-rabbit," he replied formally, puffing up. His yellow-black fuzz-rings showing, antennae bending back and forth atop his angular head.
Dennison made a slight face ...
... Annika, meanwhile, having drifted away from the table. Out of the room, around the corner. Into the bedroom. " ... ensign?" she whispered, gently. Sniffing the air. The salamander had an almost muddy scent. Mouses had earthy scents, but this was different. Wetter. Slimier. Not unpleasant, though.
The bleary-eyed salamander looked up. Sniffling, tears running down her cheeks. Shaking her head in a ‘go away' gesture.
But the headstrong snow rabbit wasn't about to do so. No, she certainly wasn't. Taking, instead, a prim bobtailed seat next to the amphibian. At the foot of her bed. The mattress jiggling, undulating beneath them. Annika blinked in surprise, steadying herself. Blink-blink. Realizing it was a waterbed.
Sniffles.
And, leaning her head against the salamander's, Annika whispered, "It's alright." She sought out one of her damp, webbed hands. Meshing it with one of her dry, padded paws. Her paw got immediately wet. But she didn't mind so much. She just held on.
" ... it's ... n-not."
"Yes," she soothed. "It is."
"I'm a jerk," Monrovia muttered. "This supper has been a disaster."
"In an entertaining way, perhaps," she half-admitted. "But you are not a jerk. Many think the same of me." A pause. "We are simply both fighters."
The blue-spotted femme wiped her nose. "W-what?"
"I fought for years against Arctic foxes, wasps. Enemies of varying sorts. Today? I fight against my frozen nature ... there is always something," she breathed. "There will always be something. You strike me as being in much the same p-pr ... predicament." A tipsy exhale. Collecting herself before continuing, " ... you fight against your own nature. Nature," she went. " ... as well. And against others. Not physically, but ... "
She rubbed both her eyes, mumbling, "I don't ... " A momentary falter. " ... I don't know. I am aggressive. I admit that, but ... "
"You are a dominant creature."
A quiet nod.
"As am I.
Sniffling, the salamander gripped her bed-sheets. Cheeks still tear-streaked. "I'm, like, a total walking contradiction. I mean, I'm pushy ... but I love gentle things. Flowers. Plants. I mean ... "
Annika waited.
" ... sometimes, I don't know what I want. I act before I think." A nod. "That's why my mate-ship fizzled."
"I do relate," the snow rabbit insisted. "Believe me." She squeezed the salamander's hand tighter. For just a second. "You feel misunderstood."
Looking into her eyes, Monrovia nodded. " ... yeah. Misunderstood," she whispered.
"You wish not only for someone to understand you socially. But intimately. And that is a hard thing to come by. It takes time." A second of silence. "You are like ... " She had to stop. Think for a moment. " ... you like," she corrected, "the bee?"
"Diyet? I, uh ... "
Annika raised her brow.
" ... I've never really, uh ... had fun arguing with someone before. Deep down, I enjoy it. I'm almost sad if he doesn't argue back. I know it looks like I'm ticked off, but it kinda ... " She hesitated, before continuing, " ... gets me going. Gives me a certain charge, you know?"
A subtle eye-smile. "I am afraid not. I fell in love with a mouse. They rarely argue. They simply oblige. Which ... " A loopy head-tilt. " ... which is fine with me. I am a fighter, I said? But maybe not ... so much." A swallow. "In bed."
Wiping her nose with her free paw, Monrovia nodded. Sighing deeply. "Anyway, I guess the answer is yes. I do like Diyet." She went quiet for a moment. "I shouldn't have started crying. I was just ... anyway, what if it's the opposite problem? With my hellbender back home, our personalities matched up great. But, physically, we were a bust, so ... what if, with Diyet, we're physically awesome but ... "
" ... have nothing in common, otherwise?"
A click-sound. "Is that so bad? To want both? I mean, if I'm aiming to spend the rest of my life with someone ... "
"I do not believe it is bad, no. I believe that is what most furs seek. A balance. You may get your heart broken, but there is only one way to find out."
Monrovia swallowed, whispering, "I don't wanna get hurt. W-why ... why does it have to be such a risk?"
"Love?"
A sheepish nod.
Annika thought for a moment. Remembering her countless experiences as an open-breeder. Her past. And, then, closer to the present ... her fallout (and subsequent friendship) with Peyton to her discovery of Dennison. Ultimately, she decided that, " ... there has to be risk because there would be no reward without it." Her ears twiddled. "The risk increases our appreciation of the prize." A pause. "Would you like to hear a cliché?"
" ... sure."
"Life is about the journey. Not the destination." A deep breath. "It is not good enough to have a fellow traveler ... if you do not derive pleasure from traveling with them."
" ... you don't mean just ... "
" ... not just sexual pleasure. I mean everything. As you said: a balance. And if you are opposites? You can still find a balance in that. You can find a balance in anything. But you cannot expect to so without falling off the beam a few times."
After a moment, Monrovia said, "That was a cliché, but ... kinda makes sense." A small, amused glance. "Coming from, uh ... someone who's had two glasses of wine. Or is it three?"
"I ... I believe I have forgotten." An eye-smile. "A buzzed snow rabbit does not entirely lose her logic. At least not all at once." A slight huff. " ... though, admittedly, I am ... struggling to keep it together."
The blue-spotted salamander had to smile at that. The Sub-Commander wasn't so bad.
"We best go rescue ... my, uh Dennison from the grips of Diyet's no doubt exaggerated account of honey-making. Yes?"
A giggle-clicking, wiping her face. It was still naturally damp, of course. But she removed the crying-signs. "H-heh ... yeah. It was kinda unfair to just abandon him like that. You do have a cute one there, you know? I have to admit."
"Mm-m." Annika licked her own lips. " ... that is what I keep saying." A huff.
The salamander giggled again. " ... thanks, though," she said, more seriously. "For calming me down. I, uh ... I'm kinda embarrassed."
"Do not worry about it."
Monrovia nodded. Easier said than done, she thought.
As they stood, Annika wobbled. " ... hmm." And had to support herself against Monrovia's shoulder for a moment. Saying, "By the way, Ensign. Your skin is more radiant than usual." It sounded rather funny the way it came out. But it was true.
"Yeah?" She beamed.
A decisive nod. "Yes."
"I got this new moisturizer from Briscoe." They began walking back to the kitchen. "It's, uh ... the other ones weren't working. See, I have to keep my skin moist at all times, and I produce a mucous on my skin, but since I'm not in a wet environment I need some help ... "
... to quickly, sharply breathe.
Blindly, through her charcoal-colored nose.
The rapid-rabbit beating of her hopping heart.
O-oh, alliteration, connotation ...
... gratification.
A veritable, vivacious shiver of all things good went scurrying up her arching spine (to her keen but cloudy mind) in far less than three-quarter time. It was nearly instant. Causing her to impulsively mew, the beginning pangs of (promised!) love-throes curling her blunt-clawed toes, and, yes, in, in ...
... came the air.
Causing her tender breasts to swell.
And, next, oh, y-yes ...
... she sighed.
Opened her eyes.
And finally broke the enduring kiss they'd been locked in. A bit sloppy, the strings of saliva. As her wet and luscious lips slid deftly to the right. Lazily. With foggy delight. Into his grey cheek-fur. Which she mouthed and matted. Her nose taking in that earthy, rodent scent. So familiar. So imprinted in her mind. Her ice-blue irises, how they spied ...
... that shy, tender look. Up-close and intimate. He was giving her. And his eyes? They were watering with such emotion.
She leaned her forehead down against his. And nodded. That quiet acknowledgment. That moment. Before drifting again, ending up sucking on his chin. Slowly but surely reaching, grabbing. Pinning his arms and paws above his head. Just like that. In the m-middle ... middle of their bed, clothes randomly strewn (on the floor somewhere), heads swimming. The whole room spinning.
The alcohol.
The buzz.
Their love.
Things seemed to sway. To fall away. Their bodies, mostly. But other things, too. Like they were hovering in some safe, sensual realm. The ship was at warp, and so were their aims. Nakedly straddling his hips, hunching and lowering, and ... h-he was in there. Already. She had him ...
... was having him. A-and ... and ...
... intercourse, of c-course. Was so nice.
So, oh ...
... very.
Nice.
Three glasses, right?
Of white snow, uh ... rabbit wine, she thought? Snow rabbit wine?
Something like that.
And yet only one glass of mouse? And he's packing a far fiercer punch? Oh, it was utter truth! And it was a giddy feeling. She wasn't going to break into laughter or crack a Cheshire grin or anything. She couldn't. No, she was still logical. But it was hazy-logic, now. Clearly. She felt so warm. Wonderfully warm, impressively hot, beginning to sweat, flowing in so many subtly sweet and indiscreet directions. On those shins and knees, those strong, loping rabbit legs. Big, big foot-paws, with heels to the ceiling. That lower body. She used it.
She used it to make him happy.
And, in turn, that made her happy.
Pleasure, in romance, was entirely symbiotic.
It was forever and always mutual.
Breaths mingling.
Gravity no longer a sure thing.
For it (life and possibility, and all experience) was limitless.
Infinite.
Wasn't love? When they came together like this, could the resulting explosion be contained? Or would memory and conscious thought just shockwave, just ... j-just spread, just go ...
... so fuzzy. Hardly able to focus at all. But not really needing to, no, n-no ... instinct. Fall back on your instinct, a voice told her. And she nodded. Y-yeah ... for she could do this, right, in her sleep? She knew the motions. Knew how to curve her back, to gyrate (again, again) her supple, bare hips. To slant them, to slide and slip up and down, by inches, five or six inches each way. To ride. Bouncing on the mouse's stiff shaft of pink, glistening flesh. Bounce. P-pant for breath, and bounce. Cottony, bobtailed bounce! Moan. Marinate him in your own nectar, and, oh, how easy ... e-easy the going, the silky smoothness of her feminine passage fitting and refitting like a glove.
The strings. M-my strings ...
... his bow.
It all came together.
They were so. Completely. Together.
Crescendo, crescendo, the universe cried!
Bravo!
" ... h-h ... uh," the mouse weakly squeaked. A moan-sound. Pleasure-prompted. G-gosh. When something felt good, it felt good, and there was really nothing you could do but ... get your paws to t-try and move, to hold on. Eyes screwed shut. L-literally ... he wriggled, snaky tail waver-wavering, side-winding. Vulnerable rope of flesh that it was. A-ah ... he felt it. His tufted, furry sac tightening, orbs swelling. He felt the pre leaking from his extra-sensitive tip. Tiny, tiny spurts. Preliminary, lubricating the way for ... f-for ...
... her wants. Her cravings. Oh, how her breasts jiggled. Hung with the ship's artificial gravity. As, still, she held him down, dominantly, p-panting. Ears, once tall and distinguished, now flushed and flopping over from the heat.
A whimper-squeak. He c-couldn't take ... m-much more of this ...
... and she knew that. And didn't let up. Didn't deter from this glorious, biological friction. Nature wanted them to do this. Was luring them, dumbly, into going through with it, but ... neither of them minded. They did well. They did good. They went with it. Knowing there was a treat awaiting them at the end. And knowing she wasn't in heat, so ...
... she steered his rock-hard penis with just her sweet, sopping tunnel, in a clockwise direction. Hilted. Hips ... tilted. Grinding her w-way, a-around, around, and ... letting go, then, of his arms. Finally and fully ...
... she let go.
And, immediately he brought his arms forward. Down parallel with the rest of him ...
... as she fell further. Her breasts squishing down against his body, hardened nipples and all. Mounds of furred flesh. Colliding against the plains of his trim chest. A t-tender mew ... mew. As she leaned and laid on top of him. Pantomiming for him to take over. Oh, her love ...
... he hugged.
He wrapped her up, stroking down her mid-to-lower back. Grazing that bobtail (such a puffy love-tail) with his fingertips.
She put her nose against his neck, approvingly.
He hugged tighter, half-intoxicated, beginning to help, to h-hump up, up ... weakly but consistently. Slowly steamrolling, gaining strength. There. T-there. He had it. Angling himself so that his plump, plum-pink head plowed across her upper wall. As deeply as he could manage with his modest length. An audible squelching sound from their genitals ...
"O-oh, g ... gaw ... " Her breath caught. Feeling the flutters, from both her heart and her loins. Her clitoris in his groin-fur. Hips absolutely pressing, pushing for purchase. Hers and his. Bumping. And, no, it wouldn't be long. They were so ...
... far beyond.
Self control?
What?
No, n-no, just hurry up and go ... oh ...
... o-oh.
He came first.
He came.
Tensing in orgasm, squeaking, grabbing, gripping at the first ejaculation. And then going lax. Falling back. Head rolling aside, maw open. Ecstatically. " ... a-ah. Y-a-ah." He shook, his mouse-hood, his essence? Tingling. So fiercely. As super-hot semen shot, in spoonfuls, in spurts. Deep into her womb. The seeds were sown. His mark was stamped. His love for her professed in the purest way. " ... mm-! Uh-h, g-gosh ... oh, g-g ... " Squeak. Squeak. The shy ones were always the loudest. " ... m-mm," he went, trailing off, paws on her lower-back.
She bucked down on him. Grinding. Just for a few seconds more, just to get some more s-stimulation to ... to her clitoris. And she didn't bark or yell too loudly when it arrived. Her climax. She just let it smash against her like a tidal wave. And let the air escape. Let it carry her to a joyous place, s-shivering hotly, m-mewing ... from the throat ... paws grasping, clutching her mate's fur ... " ... h-mm." A twitch. " ... o-oh. Mm." A sniff and a swallow ... m-mew. A moderate dribble-squirt of nectar. Mew. Flitter-flutter-flutter, and ... and ...
... it was done.
Both of them out of it, out of ...
... unable, really, to speak.
Just laying, tangled, meshed. Spent. In the middle of their comfy, blue-sheeted bed.
She raised her hips and rolled off his belly. Flat onto her back. After two or three minutes. Staring at the ceiling, eyes peeking but not able to fully look at anything. She couldn't sit up. She knew that much. If she tried, she was just gonna fall back over. But she had enough control to shift to her side. To paw, to scritch at her husband's chest, thumb his little, male nipples. In a sign of post-coital affection.
He'd already gotten onto his own side, to face her, and was equally loopy. Equally awash in the effects of fine wine and much finer love. He just put a paw on her curved, fertile hip. White-furred and soft. And sniffed that ever-pink nose of his, too, to get her scent, their collected scents ... whiskers a-go. A-go. Twitching. And that mousey muzzle? It was smiling. Yes, there were dimples on his whiskered cheeks ...
... and that was all the more that Annika needed. For now. She closed her eyes for good, sighing. Feeling his body heat, drawing him closer. Into a one-armed hug. And allowing his errant, drowsy, not-quite-drunken squeaks it to lull her into a deep, star-flung sleep. She was probably gonna have a dehydrated headache when she woke. No doubt. The logical part of her was quietly aware of this, but ...
... nonetheless, simply put:
I just got laid. I'm alive. And I'm in love.
Breathlessly.
Worth it.
So very nice.