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Flick!

Flicker-flick ...

... flick-flicker, flicker ... flicker-flicker-flicker ...

... until it became a visible whir, projecting from somewhere overhead. Until the pictures started moving. Little reels (and little lights). A silent dream. Playing like a silent film, crackle-reeling ... in his motoring, mousey mind. With a pure, burning black and white, and shadows that swooned in moon-like beams of light.

Maybe they were outside, the two of them.

Maybe by a marsh.

Field looked around, trying to be sure ... blinking innocently. As if this weren't ENTIRELY out of place. But just enough ...

Adelaide was a bit more relaxed. She had a dress on. Straps on the shoulders (the kind that could be easily, softly slipped off). She was holding flowers. They could've been pink, like her fur ... had they (flowers and fur) not been shades of grey (like everything else here).

INTER-TITLE (Field): "You're having the same dream ... aren't you? This isn't just me ... "

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): "I'm here ... " The bat nodded, her eyes sparkling. Her telepathy, often, in the middle of dark, deep nights ... connecting their minds. Sometimes, they were more aware of it than others. Sometimes, oblivious. But, this time ... it seemed to be an obvious dream. Seemed to be a little too ...

INTER-TITLE (Field): "I'm opening my muzzle, and I'm talking ... but no sounds come out."

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): "Yeah ... I can't hear anything, either ... "

INTER-TITLE (Field): "If we can't hear each others voices, how do we KNOW what ... we're saying? I mean, I KNOW what you're saying, but I can't hear you ... and I can't see those cards in front of the camera." A pause. And whisker-twitching nose-sniffing. "I don't see any cameras ... I don't ... "

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): "Well, it IS a dream ... " A tilt of her head. And a smile. "Calm down," she said. Saying without sound. Speaking the words, but ...

... his dishy, satellite-like ears were swiveling. To the left. To the right. Swivel-swivel. This way, and ...

... music. Music that had a bit of static to it. A bit of melodrama (a bit?) ... well, at least it had presence. At least it wasn't 'sonic wallpaper' ...

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): "I hear the music, too ... " She answered before he could ask. Her own ears, angular and swept-back. Listening.

The mouse looked to his mate.

She looked back.

His eyes widened a bit, pupils dilated in this grey haze. As if asking 'what' ...

... through a tilt of her head, and a raising of her eyes, gestures of her muzzle, facial expressions, and ...

... the mouse blinked. Knowing what she was implying. He flushed, looking around. Sure, they were in a grassy clearing next to a pond, and there were cattails, and there was moonlight. And, sure, there were stars above, twinkling like lit coals, and ... that music that was filtering over everything, it was definitely romantic, there was no denying that ...

The mouse turned a bit, his ears flushed. They swivelled slower when they got hot. And he would pant a bit, and his whiskers, they were all over the place, all with their twitching. His nose with his sniffing.

She held out a paw, her paw-pad up ... and opened her winged arms. A 'why not' ...

The honey-tan mouse (his fur a light-grey, in this dream-scape) bit his lip.

INTER-TITLE (Field): "Are we allowed?"

A grin. Showing her white, toothy teeth. Her fangs. Which showed up sharply in the cinematography of this.

INTER-TITLE (Field): "But it's a ... silent film. It's an old film ... "

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): "How do we know it's not pre-Code?" A grin, and a head tilt, and her eyes raising.

The mouse's pink tail (looking shiny and light, a bit white) moved about behind him, in steady contemplation.

INTER-TITLE (Field): "It must be ... I mean ... what, this is ... 1926? 1927? Or before? Must be ... "

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): "Then we've nothing to worry about. Dream won't get censored ... " She grinned, still, at him. Her eyes seemingly raised. Seemingly waiting.

The mouse nodded.

The music was at a steady, soft pace, like an undercurrent. As if building, building ... slowly simmering. Waiting for a move to be made.

And Field looked around. And took in a breath. He could've sworn, based on the breeze running through his fur (a light breeze, lightly through his fur), that they were outdoors. In real nature. But that moon ... looked fake. No way that was a real moon, and all this mist? Where was this mist coming from? It looked like it was being spewed out of a fog-making machine ... but that water. That water was real. And those cattails were real, and the grass felt real under his bare foot-paws, and ...

The bat was sitting. She put down her flowers (which conveniently disappeared a moment later, so as not to get crushed by what was to come).

The mouse was standing. Gaining his bearings. The scenery becoming clearer to him, and their situation becoming more 'normal' to him. And he began to relax, just breathing, just looking around. Just listening to the music that was meant to accompany the two of them.

Adelaide gave her mate a look-over. An up-and-down. He was, like she was, dressed a bit formally ... how else would one dress in a silent film?

The music seemed to hang for a bit. Waiting, waiting ... come on, come on ...

INTER-TITLE (Field): "It's kind of romantic ... " Had his voice been audible (and not displayed on card), it would've come off as a whisper. As wispy. That airy, effeminate wondering, that ... cuteness.

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): " ... cute ... you're cute." She deflated a bit. The sound not audible, but the action ... was that of a sigh. Of air rushing out of her breasts and muzzle. A sigh. And an inhale.

The mouse flushed, and ... padded toward her. And slowly got down to his knees, and then to his rump. So that he was, eventually, sitting right beside her. So that, now, the cattails towered over them. Cheeky plants. Spying like this. Giving them no privacy. Knowing that the two furs 'got it bad,' and that ain't good ...

... unless it could be defused.

And it could.

And was about to be.

The mouse, wide-eyed, his blue-greys bright (in this light; weren't eyes always purer, more poignant ... when in black and white light) ... his gaze flickered over her. Over her winged arms. And the soft, filmy wings ... attaching her arms to her sides, and ... and ...

... her own eyes darted in their subtle ways. Reading his whisker-twitches and his tail-snakes. Reading his body language. Mice could be shy and timid. And they, instinctively, used a heavy amount of body language ... to subconsciously communicate. She'd become an expert on reading it. On reading him.

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): "You're like ... like my Rosetta Stone for mouses ... " A smile spread across her muzzle. And she giggle-chittered. The sounds not audible, only showing up as ... a silent picture of her laughing. And imagining the sound made it all the more dreamy ... than if it could actually be heard.

Field spoke her name. A soundless word. But readable on his lips.

She mouthed back a 'what' ...

INTER-TITLE (Field): "If we're starring in this dream, who's ... well, who's directing it?"

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): "I think you know the answer to that ... " Her reply, her muzzle ... had the expression of thoughtfulness. Maturity. A strong spirituality.

And Field nodded softly. And smiled shyly. And nodded again, looking up to her ... a close-up of his muzzle. Smiling, happy, and his eyes shining. As if to intimate 'look what you do for me' ...

The mouse's muzzle went to hers, to kiss, and ... stopped a breath short.

INTER-TITLE (Field): "What about the baby?"

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): "What about her?"

INTER-TITLE (Field): "Where is ... if we're here, then where is ... "

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): "Akira's in her crib, safe and snug. Just like how we're actually in our bed. This is OUR dream, Field ... she's having one of her own ... now, come on. Relax. Loosen up. It's a dream." Somehow, as this went on and on, as the seconds ticked by, it was getting harder and harder to think of it as a dream ... the mind was buying into it. "It's a dream," she repeated, "for us. For us ... " Her paws went to his shoulders. And ... moved about a bit. And her eyes darted. Looking to find a way to get that white, button-up shirt off of him.

The mouse, flushing, fur giving off more heat than before ...

... was soon on all fours. Over her.

The bat lying on her back in the wild, dew-wetted grass. While he hovered above her like he did. While her paws undid the buttons of his shirt. Until she gave him a nod.

And he sat up a bit, at a straddle, now, of her waist, and slung his shoulders back. Letting his shirt slip off.

She smiled widely, whispering something too muted to be picked up on a title-card ...

... and Field giggled (in this sound-vacuum) at what he'd read on her lips, at what he'd heard from her mind, and he looked away. And then looked back at her. His eyes crinkling.

The pink-furred bat raised one eye. As if to go 'mm?' ...

And a giggle-squeaking nod from him ...

The incessant, symphonic background music, by now, was beginning to swell ... as if tied to the beating of their hearts. The rate, and the pace ... and the anticipation on each, furry face.

Cue the strings!

Go for more heartfelt ... give a bell-like sound. Give a sense of play.

But the background started to blur a bit, and the focus started to veer to the right, and ...

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): "Hey ... "

The focus stopped. And went back to them.

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): "Where do you think you're going?"

INTER-TITLE (Field): "Who are you talking to ... " His voice, unaired, a whisper. Him bare from the waist up. And straddling her still.

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): "The camera ... or ... our ... whatever. Things were starting to blur. I think one of us was starting to wake up."

INTER-TITLE (Field): "Probably me." He was the lightest sleeper of the two.

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): "Well, I'm pinning you to slumber's bed, darling ... " Her telepathic skills, her tendrils, slipping out, redoubling their hold on him.

And the mouse had no qualms with that. Shirtless, soon pant-less, and wriggling off of her, to her side ...

... where he pawed at her dress. And slowly peeled it off of her.

Her fingers slipping beneath the elastic band of his white briefs. Tugging, tugging ...

... undoing her bra, his fingers, and ...

... hers, pulling, pulling, and ...

... undressing in a hazy sea of black and white. Of grey. In a nature-like (couldn't it be nature?) set. In their mind, in this silent, dreamy land. Their whispers and their little huffs and sounds lost (except to each other, as close as they were). Their paws rubbing through fur, their noses in each other's necks, and arms going round, and starting to wrap, and bodies starting to roll (this way, and slightly that way).

Heated union.

God-given expression. Of creation, passion; an extension of full, frontal knowing.

Leave all worries here. Check into each other, and don't worry about locking the door. For your faith has saved you. Go in peace ...

... into wet, tilting kisses. Such a heat that wilted resolve (were any of it left to be wilted). The view of them sharp, clear, with a bit of static. A bit of the scratchy, quick lines. A bit of the vibration from that whir-whir-flicker-flicker-flick.

Flicker-flicker-flick ...

And, from that point, everything seemed to spiral.

Seemed to move in a slightly-faster speed. Maybe fueled by need, or maybe antique projection. But each touch, each kiss, each motion ... seemed to happen in a faster-than-realistic frame of actual movement. And yet they were no worse for breath. No less breathless than they would've been ... on any normal, color-prone, audible occasion.

The mouse's tail was free. Was hanging in the air, above him, like a fishing line. Like a wayward, dangling rope. Just asking to be tugged on. Like one of those slacked ropes on a trolley-car. Pull it, sound the whistle ... pull it, sound the squeak!

INTER-TITLE (Field): "Squeak!"

Silent, mirthful chitters from her. Mouthing something that was only shared between the two of them ...

... and that prompted the mouse to have a go at her wings. Trying to tickle the filmier parts of them, and ... she threw her arms around him. Hugging him from beneath. And tried to throw her weight to her left. Tried to roll him over, to put herself on top.

He fought her.

They playfully (lazily) 'wrestled' in their higher, crackling, flickering speed. The light that surrounded them seemed to be dim around the edges. In the middle of every view, it was glowing. Just purely glowing. Like ... something ethereal. But on the perimeters, everything started to fade, started to get dark.

They both clung to each other, the struggling stopping, and the lip-sucking starting. They'd be silly, so and so, to ever let go.

They were in love.

And it showed in the delicate mouse-nibbles to her neck.

And it showed in the rising and falling on her freed breasts. And how his paws would fondle them.

And it showed in how he whispered into her ear. And how she would chitter back.

And it showed in how she bestowed all her confidence to him ... how she soothed over his fears (without him fulling realizing the extent of her mental control over him; but, it wasn't a matter of contention ... he welcomed her in).

The mist that was curling in from somewhere ... got a bit thicker. Seemed to flow all around them, isolating them in a tiny, glistening clearing. And the cattails would bend when their stems were whacked at with Field's live-wire of a tail.

Adelaide's pink-lemonade, carnation-colored fur ... so perfectly pale in this grey-scale scheme. So milky. So soft, and so perfect. It was almost more pure.

What was it about the bleeding away of color that made gave everything more weight? That made everything more permanent?

But, oh, to have that color back! The spark, and the lush vibrancy. Oh, he wouldn't give up the pinks of her ... not for anything.

Nor would she relinquish his honey-tan.

But, for now, they made love in a colorless realm. In a silent dream.

And so began their long, uncut scene ... no jump-cuts, no music video editing. Just a long, lingering shot. A shot that smoldered with them, because of them ...

... two heated, furry creatures, clinging in the wet grass. Clasping, gasping, making every kiss and every clutch ...

... to last and last. To last.

Hold on. Hold on ...

... to her. And tilt your head. And put your lips on hers. And steal her breath. And give her your breath, in return.

They were soon lost in the build-up. But not enough to go unstructured into the greatest act. No, the black and white, the tone, the tempo, the old-tradition of this dream ...

... don't try anything lusty.

Don't try anything with edge.

Just make love with her. Just do it. As softly, as sweetly, as succulently as you can. Savor your mate. Your partner given by Fate.

She knew where he was going. And, still laid out on her back, her winged arms wrapped around behind him, her paws moving from his shoulder blades, fingers trailing down the outline of his spine, and to his tail-base. And stopping. And then filtering back up. Holding on, but not staying still.

He slipped his trim, slender form, with all his energy (oh, ceaseless energy!) between her parted, lit legs. He was, by now, stiff enough for this (all that anticipation, and all that kissing, and ... oh, he was ... was ... ) ...

... she drew in a breath. In an almost slower motion, she drew in a breath. And held it.

And he slipped in. To the warm, surrounding moistness that was hers. Her femininity. Oh, such a part of her beauty, and ... he stayed there. Trying, maybe, to think, to appreciate this. Trying to make sense of it.

But what was there to make sense of?

Male and female, now becoming one ... flesh. One fur. Joining in a spiritual endeavor of intimacy, of closeness, creating pleasure (and who knew what else).

There was nothing academic about that. Science could ruin what it wished, but it couldn't TOUCH love ... say what you want about chemicals, hormones, genes ...

... but nothing could touch this. Not when it was happening.

It was greater than thought.

Immune.

And in that immunity, safety, and ... assurance, and ... sweet, sweet sighs. And weak meetings of the eyes.

The mouse angling forward, grinding slowly, in such a simmering way, his hips to hers. Making sure (as much as he could) to rub up against her little, swollen nub ... and gaging his success by the flaring of her breaths. And by her swallows. And sticking close enough to her so that his chest-fur softly smoothed over her nipples. Chest to breasts.

She held to him. And closed her eyes. And slowly rocked back into the earth. And the urge to bite, it came with ease. Simply, the mating milk dripping from her fangs. Simply, the welling, pulsing need to ... bite, bite, bite ...

... he arched a bit as the fangs went (unannounced) in. Into his neck. Causing him to deflate of breath. Causing him to shiver. His tail going momentarily erect, and then going limp, and then flopping again. Wave, wave. Waver-wave.

The stepped-up, glowing, black-and-white of their coming-together was, by now, becoming so intense ... that they failed to realize there was no color. Failed to realize there was no sound. So involved, so intense, so much love. So close they were ...

... that they failed to notice anything was different.

For it felt right. And felt ... like anything and everything.

They were, in essence, blind to all around. Everything that surrounded.

Oh, what lovely, summer lovers ... as the leaves began to fall! They'd have no problems getting through winter. Not when they could make such heat.

Field bucked at her. Bucking his hips forward. Little rocks, and little humps.

Adelaide drooling from the muzzle, her teeth embedded in him, joining them mind, body, everything. She felt what he felt. He felt ... what she felt.

They knew each other. In mind, memory, and matter.

But this was a dream, right? Wasn't it ... so ... how did that work? Sharing the same dream, they were ALREADY in a linked, joined state, so who could they further join? How deep inside each other could they really go?

Could they go so far as to get lost in love?

And would it matter if they did?

Buck, buck ...

... and little huffs from her. Little sounds that, alas, did not register.

But the music!

The near-forgotten music, which they, themselves, were now oblivious to, was swelling like a falling rain. Rising, rising, violins ... strings. Horns. Brasses! Give me your brasses ... French horn, where are you! But, no, calm down ... give it back to the strings ... swell, swell, swell! Oh, romance lives!

Minutes, minutes ...

... more?

How was time counted when time was timeless?

They didn't know ... didn't care. Didn't think. Just did.

With sweating, fur-matting urgency. With paw-swiping, finger-clutching desperation. With tail-waving speed, and with ... with tiny neck-turns, and with foot-paws wordlessly, silently rubbing, bumping together (as if making a secret rendezvous without the rest of their bodies knowing). Oh, such touch!

But, oh, more so ... the heated, rippling wetness of her tunnel. The dripping, searing pleasure he was finding there, as he slid back and forth, back and forth, in and out, and ... pant, pant, pant ... how could anything be so sensitive?

And how, she sighed, could anything drive her to such heights? His hips still angling to stimulate her more sensitive spots ... the mouse knowing, remember her pleasure. Knowing it, and feeling it, too (on top of his own) ... and ... and ...

... no sounds of squelching. No sounds of fur rubbing. No sounds of pleasure from the throats. No squeaks. No chitters.

Just the music.

Oh, make all the sounds you want, and know what they are ... but everything is swallowed up. Everything is refined, filtered, to this pure, poetic visual.

To this moment of shivering and shaking.

Moment of tremors! Body-shaking!

He sowed spurts of seed ... and writhed, burning, yearning, at the point of fulfillment. Beside himself.

And she squeezed around him, milking him dry ... wanting, needing, instinctively or not, everything he was giving.

This wasn't one-sided. It was mutual.

It took two.

Two to create, to make ... anything. Life. Love.

Oh, just enough ...

... for now. Just enough for them to reel and blink, satisfied, with watery eyes having been squeezed shut. Enough to sigh and pant.

Her withdrawing her teeth from him.

And him withdrawing his maleness from her. The mouse all soft and fut-matted, the tingling bolts of physical bliss having left him with an internal buzz.

And her own spasms having left their residual echoes ...

... so that they both had to just lay there. Beside each other. Just breathing.

And was there anything left to say? Right now? After this? Before they were swallowed back into the string of coming-and-going dreams that made up their sleep?

Neither could think of any words. Not to do it justice.

They'd simply felt it. In their eyes ...

... and how he nosed her affectionately.

... and how she held to him protectively.

Oh, it had ALL been felt. Leave the words for the morning. For the sleepy hellos, and the audible I love you's ...

... for love, this night, had been expressed in silence. In black and white.

And they were quiet. For several minutes.

And before they were swallowed back into warm, black unconsciousness, the bat couldn't resist ... another kiss. Soft and pressing. Wet and messy.

His whiskers twitched. His nose flared.

The claws of her foot-paws dug into the soil.

INTER-TITLE (Field): "Squeak!"

The bat smiled and ... pulled back. To breathe. And to ...

INTER-TITLE (Adelaide): "Chitter!"

Both of them, then, descended into laughter ... all the sounds gone. Falling down as text. And, surely, when all the sounds came back (and tumbled down), they'd lay foundations ...

... for ear-feasts.

But that would come (in living Technicolor!) in the morning.

Now, to slip (and fade) away into grey, glowing, pulsing, crackling ...

... quiet.

Oh, what a fuel was rest!