Excuse the Fire
"Ross."
"Yeah ... " Whiskers twitching, looking up. In that familiar ... so familiar. Ever-willing, wide-eyed way. Sitting at the kitchen table, his long, pink ropy-tail sticking through the 'tail-gap' in the chair-back, casting itself about. Here, in the only lit room in the house (had to save on the electricity bill, somehow).
"If knowledge is, indeed, power, as our parents ... as society rigorously raised us to believe ... " Stretching one leg, then the other. It was cold out, but she was wearing shorts. That Arctic breeding of hers. Bare foot-paws on tiled floor. Bobtail flickering, rump notably jutting. She may have been a siren. But she was a philosophical siren. " ... then how can it be," she posed, semi-rhetorically, "that we both have college degrees, and yet there is not a single carrot in our refrigerator?"
"Um ... " Whiskers twitching.
Not waiting for the answer, she gave a slight huff. Shutting the handled door. Pushing it, maybe. Would be more apt. One of the magnets skewing from the (frustrated) force of it. She waited a moment. Before reluctantly 'un-tilting' it. There. That's better.
"At least we have cheese?" Ross provided, lamely.
"Shredded," was the dry response. Turning her head. Giving him a look.
A pause. Innocently adding, "Better than nothing." He turned his own vision ... to the tabletop. And began cutting something out of the newspaper. With dull scissors. "We get our checks tomorrow." Which would be Friday. It was currently Thursday night, after dark. They'd had soup and salad for supper. And pumpkin bread. "We can go to the grocery on Saturday. We have enough 'til then."
A sage nod. Walking one way. Stopping. Turning, elegantly. Almost spinning. What was that called ... a pirouette? "I am not asking for 'ease.' That would devalue life, and I dare say ... would cause a loss of perspective. Hardship, in varying degrees, is the stimulus for growth. It is a motivator."
Nodding, himself, letting her make her point. Taking the image he'd 'clipped' and taping it to a cardboard backing. Strategically. Working on one of his sports collages. (Great Hoosier sports moments.) "Game's almost on," he reminded.
"Butler, yes." Ross's favorite basketball team. "You are changing the subject."
"And you're acting like me," he said, with a slight smile.
A raised brow, sauntering toward him. "Oh, I am?" Her buckteeth showing. Ears standing tall, parting ... and closing the gap. "Implying, I assume, that I am being 'stubborn' ... mousey stubbornness?"
"You kinda are. That's, uh, normally me, and then you're the one who ... well." A breath. "Defuses it."
"With my charms."
" ... your charms," he echoed, breathily.
An eye-smile, looking around the kitchen. And then back to him. "I have said before: you rub off on me ... you are contagious."
"So are you. In a good way," he added, softly.
"The best way," she agreed. Nothing else if not confident. "You are a much more 'mellow' mouse ... "
Ross's big, rounded ears swiveled, momentarily manic. Mind-boggle from the long alliteration!
" ... than when we first met."
"Am I? That much?"
"Much. More comfortable with yourself, and ... with others." A pause, considering. "So, if I have 'loosened' you, I suppose that means you've 'tightened' me ... " A frown. Or as near as snow rabbits could get, with their more 'limited' means of emotional expression. " ... though I would prefer another word." Nudging his shoulder, with a paw. "Artist. Supply me ... "
" ... h-heh. Okay. Uh ... tamed you?"
Raising her chin. "Do I seem a domesticated rabbit? Tame? Try again." They had left the city at the first opportunity, after all. Lived in a little, old house in the countryside now. Sure, a small tornado would probably blow it away, but ... it was theirs. It was home. They both preferred the 'rural' life. "Nor do I consider you a domesticated mouse. No ... not quite 'wild,' maybe, not yet, but ... I am getting you there." Whiskers giving a singular twitch. "More often at night, I find ... " Hints of playful sarcasm in her tone. " ... all day on the weekends."
He caught her drift, as it were. Blushing. In the ears, notably.
She kept going. Feeling cheeky. "I love country boys. I always have ... " A shiver. They were so ... fresh. Like new fruit. Tended to be sweet. Never fell 'far from the tree.' Or, indeed, had never been 'harvested' at all ... they were normally fit, too, from manual labor. And so on, so on.
He wasn't sure how to respond to that. Aside from blushing, of course. He was obviously a country boy. But he also knew she'd had many 'partners' before meeting him. Way more than he could count on both paws. He didn't know the exact number, because he didn't want to know (even though he was okay with it, it was ... awkward to think that other males had been in his wife) ... and because she probably didn't know, herself. Rabbits were very promiscuous. No secret there. Mouses tended to be the opposite, and Ross ... he fit that rule (or was it a stereotype). Intimacy being a spiritual act first. (And 'fun' second and third.) Had been inexperienced (not entirely, but ... for the most part) when he'd met her, and ...
" ... though most have had an accent. Even back home ... though not as pronounced as here in the Midwest. A 'twang,' as it were." Tilting her antennae-eared head. "You don't, do you." A pause. She knew he was self-conscious about his voice. It was soft. Wispy. Not deep or masculine. And he had a slight lisp, at times. But she loved to listen to him. When he got really poetic, really insightful, really ... when we was feeling it? That artistic, sensual buzz? And just spilled everything to her?
" ... uh." A glance at the clock. He didn't mind thinking about sex. But, still. "The game. I really need to get the radio ... " He hadn't missed a Butler game in six years. He was very passionate about his teams.
" ... it's in the bedroom." Because it also doubled as their alarm clock.
" ... h-heh." He had to giggle. Just ... shyly, though. "Aria. Come on. I ... it's still early. It's not even ... " A squeak. " ... only a few minutes 'til seven."
Bobtail flickering again, cottony. Full of fluff. Not acknowledging his statement, directly, but easing up. Slightly. " ... what are you adding to your collage?"
"Just a few old articles I found."
Arched brow. "You are taping over Colts images ... "
" ... just ones from this year. Nothing important ... " His tone changing.
" ... still upset?" They'd been losing, lately. The close ones. The ones they used to always win. Already the most losses they'd had in nine years. And the season wasn't over yet. Not good.
"I'm not thinking about them right now." A bit tense. But, of course, he was, and had to add, "Football is a cruel, lusty sport. It's all about the moment. N-never ... no consolation after defeat. It's all or nothing." A deep breath. "Now, basketball ... that is romantic. I mean, there's a ballet to it, a movement, geometry, ball through hoop, constant motion. Where the little guy can still make a difference. Where miracles can happen. And racing. Indy Car racing ... the 500, the speed, such scurry, sight, and spectacle ... that is romantic. In a bold, Hemingway kind of ... bravado way. Those things. But football?" Whiskers twitching, shaking his head, grinding his teeth.
Mewing with mirth. "How long have you been bottling that up?"
"Well, I could keep going ... "
" ... I am keenly aware," she assured. "Still. Now, who's being 'mousey stubbornness'? Hmm?" Nose to his neck. Whispering. "What rubbed off you and onto me ... is now back on you. We are coming full circle, I think ... "
" ... yeah," was the simple, quiet mouse-sound, scooting his chair back. Slowly. To get up. To get the radio ... moving around her, his wife, in a wanting way, mind hazing ...
... fast forward a day.
Two, in fact. Saturday, now.
And move past ... around the silhouettes, yes, and o'er the final flares of fading, late-day winter-light (well, almost winter ... first week of December was close enough) streaming through the cold, glassy windows. There they were, again. But no longer in the kitchen. The two of them. Social responsibilities and work and whatnot. All done, all accounted for. (They'd even made a grocery run much earlier, before noon.) Though the concerns, as always, lingered and blurred ...
( ... so hard for an artist to find a job, why did I decide I was good at this ... I can't make art anymore ... have how much in student loans ... can't afford to have a baby; maybe we'll never have children, after all ... the doctors said our species were barely compatible; would you care if we never had one ... I only need you ... your family wants us to come over for Thanksgiving, and they do not approve of me ... they do, too Aria ... they think I'm corrupting you. Still. After how many years? They are unbearably conservative. Their innocent mouse with a worldly rabbit. They look at me as if I'm liable to hump you to the table every time they leave the room ... I don't find that suggestion to be a, uh, p-problem ... ) ...
... concerns. But dreams, too. And tomorrow was Sunday, the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Put everything on the backburner. Simmer. Slowly, surely ... simmer. Oh, the plans they had, and how it all began ...
... here, initiated by her (as if often was), in a string of moments.
With a dainty dip, and a slow, sensual slant (revealing the complete camber of her pure, white-furred hips), she stepped out of her pants. Faded blue jeans, frayed at the cuffs. One black-padded foot-paw at a time. And, oh, what foot-paws, big and long. Bouncy, hoppy things, beneath lithe, loping legs. She was one hundred percent rabbit (snow rabbit, of course), and there was no mistaking it. Nor the fact that she was very ... very. Female. The removal of sky-blue panties aided in that obvious assessment. (Though she kept her legs together, still, the promise nestled between them was tangible in the air. Especially to her mate. Which, with the onset of foreplay, was very much the point.) Her shirt long gone. Letting her bra ultimately loosen, linger, and making a show of her blunt-clawed fingers lazily tugging one side, the other ... deep breath. And it toppled, the garment, leaving her completely. Finally. 'In the fur.'
The brown (muddy-furred) mouse caught his breath, at last. Blue-grey eyes on her, dilated. Totally rapt. Extra-whiskery, twitchy muzzle giving an approving, high-pitched squeak. A sound more instinctual than conscious. But emitted, nonetheless. (Couldn't really help it. Had to say something, right? And when words failed ... )
Tall, white ears twiddling (to their charcoal tips), she noticed. Assuredly. A raised brow, in response, paws to those fertile hips ... elbows bent with practiced, playful impatience. And that cool, Northern logic of hers. She was a frontier fur, by breeding. The Alaskan Interior. Accustomed to the elements, to everything. Strong, independent. Never doubting what she wanted. Among the many reasons he was attracted to her. "Are you waiting for something?"
A head-shake. "N-no." Why is it ... why is it, Ross wondered, I'm always the one getting flustered. Me. The male. I'm always under her spell, and she ... hops all over me. H-how come I can't 'use my wiles' on her, in return? Arms raising. Tugging, hurriedly, at his t-shirt. Get it off. D-dammit ... there. A toss. Fumbling with his belt-buckle ...
" ... slow down," she whispered, soothingly. "Let me savor the 'reveal'."
"You already know what's down there," he replied, with that hint (that major hint) of 'mousey shyness.' Pausing. Pants still up. Still on.
"Just as you," she countered, "knew what was here ... " Paws gesturing, with a flourish, up and down her body. " ... but your eyes lit up, all the same, when I undressed. I want the same pleasure from you ... go," she advised, still gently, but with a dominant tone (and she was, no mistake, the dominant partner), "slowly."
"Are you flirting with me?" he asked, dimples beginning to show.
"Ross. Snow rabbits do not flirt." Standing up prim and proper.
"No?" he challenged, the dimples begetting an outright smile. Whiskers twitching (as they always did, always).
"We lust," was her simple, direct response. Ice-blue eyes glinting.
Ross s-swallowed. Sucked air. And, uh ... nodded. "R-right. Yes." Of course.
"Which, as my husband for ... three years," she reminded. "You should be well aware."
"I am. Very. Much aware," he assured, immediately. "I'm just all hazy-headed, all of a sudden. And it's more romantic to call it 'flirting' ... than 'lusting' ... "
She could've argued the point. But did not. "You are very sweet." The truth. Affection, adoration. "As for your haziness ... a sudden rush of blood to the head, perhaps."
He blushed more (if he had not been doing so before), hotly, ears, big and dish-y, going rosy-pink. She wasn't speaking about the head on his shoulders. He could tell from her tone, the way she said it ... the cadence in her voice. Goodness, she was in a mood. His sensitive, sniff-y nose could smell it, even. She wasn't quite in heat, but ... who knows. Don't question it, Ross. Don't be stupid. Just ... go with it (with her, rather) ... it's more than safe. You're more than in love. Just kiss her and shut up ...
... and you do fluster her, you know. All the time. She just expresses it in such a different way ... you express it with stammers, blushes. You melt all over. Get your 'squeak' on everything. You cutely fall head over heels. But Aria? The more flustered she gets, the more 'honed' she becomes, the more fixated, as if ... she feeds off the sexual energy. Channels it so acutely, funnels it in such a, uh ... potent. Uh, well. Rabbit-y way. Makes perfect sense ...
"Darling?"
"Mm?" Blink. Twitch. Squeak?
"You with me?"
"Mm-hmm." A wispy sound.
She twirled her right paw, her first two fingers. In a circular motion. "Your clothes. Are still in the way." Tiny statements, punctuated by audible breaths. And if he didn't hurry up, "I can pin you to the wall whenever I wish." A reminder, if anything.
"I'm stronger," he replied, harmlessly. Had to defend his male honor, somehow. Even if I am an effeminate, artistic ... sorta bisexual ... not normal guy.
"Upper body, yes. Lower half, however ... " Bobbing on the tips of her white-furred toes. "I do not wish to have to kick your scurry into gear. Is what I am saying."
"But, uh, you just told me to ... " Lowering his voice, to a hush. As if someone would hear them. " ... to undress slowly."
"Not this slowly," she said, buckteeth showing. Exhaling. Audibly.
He swallowed, nodding ... getting his head out of the clouds. Mm, clouds. White, cottony ... clouds, her tail. Bobtail. Like a flame. Excuse the fire. Just allow the flame. Go. Yes. To the flame ...
... she took a smooth step backward, teasingly. At his pursuit. Make him chase you a little bit. Even if it's just a few inches. You got him by an invisible 'leash.' (His desire, that is. His penis wasn't that invisible ... not at the moment) ... have fun with that. With him. An intimate abandon that can only be experienced with someone you know, you trust.
As he took a stumbling, squeaky step forward, kicking, wriggling. Out of those clothes. Oh, longing for summer days, with full, fiery fields of wheat. And lush grass under paw-feet. And woods to wile away the hours in, with creeks to wade and ... oh, the flowered perfume in the air after love was made, as if nature itself approved. Of him and Aria, doing 'it' in the wild iris patch. Lord. He missed that.
Winter was not his favorite season (even if Aria, being a snow rabbit, obviously adored it ... playing in the snow ... Ross, chitter-chattering, teeth clattering, saying ... I ... I can't take it out ... it's, like, twenty degrees ... why do you think male snow rabbits are lazy at foreplay, was her response, letting that sink in ... the indication being that they, the males, went into the warmth as soon as possible, not to get frostbit, but to get seeping hot nectar ... covering their bits, and so, straight to intercourse ... also, they had snowball fights. Also ... ) ... playing in the snow, yes. They'd done it. Much rather loll in the sun, though, Ross mused, with a sigh. But being stuck indoors didn't have to be all bad ...
... as they finally met, front-to-front, (with a bodily bump, gentle but insistent), her mere presence inciting him. The touch, now, lifting him into a sublime little madness. Squeaks, asunder. Paws on her hips. And one paw, in particular, reaching further round. 'Til her bobtail was found, and he sunk his fingers into the fluff, giving a grope ... a grope, a pull. Pulling her closer, closer, still. Twisting his long-whiskered muzzle (twitchy whiskers, too, tangling with and tickling her own) locking. And the result of this: a luscious, seven-second kiss. Ending with a smack. A sigh (two sighs), and his nose pressing to her cheek, desperately ... " ... oh, I love you."
Arms loosely around his neck, head leaning whichever way gravity wanted it to go, ears still tall. But beginning to bow (from heat). " ... I love you, as well." So proper, her language. That 'freeze' of hers, inside, that logic. Coexisting with that raw animal instinct. She was a delightful enigma ...
... and the mouse, to her, with delightfully simple. On the outside. Quietly philosophical, deeply so. On the inside. You had to coax all that out, though. He never gave it on his own volition. She liked that. Earning his trust, protecting him. Getting his guard down. She liked being the only one he let inside. It gave her a very special feeling. One she couldn't quite define. One she'd felt when they'd first met ...
... three years back.
At school. The university. A breezy spring day.
And, she, hop-stepping, in stride, to catch him in time. Before he went out the door. "Sir? Mouse?"
A few heads turned. Mouses weren't exactly an endangered species in Indiana, especially in the rural areas. Yes, this was the city. But, all the same ... there were still so many (and rodents, in general), she couldn't remember his name. Because she'd never heard it, had she? I don't think so. He never talks in class. So quiet. Probably painfully shy, the poor thing, and ... " ... s-sir," she panted, loping. Cutting him off just before he left the building. Thrusting a grey bag (with a black stripe) at him. Not meaning to be rude about it, but ... mouses were supposed to have good ears, right? "You did not turn when I called ... " Furrowing her brow.
He blinked, taking the bag. "I ... n-no one ever calls for me," was his quiet excuse. Fully realizing, now ... " ... my camera! Oh." A tone of self-scolding, almost immediately. Putting his free paw to his forehead. Rubbing. Closing his eyes, whiskers agitated. He looked very frazzled. Handsome, trim ... healthy. But stressed. So stressed ... from loneliness, perhaps? Likely. But also other things. Things bottled up very deep. " ... s-sorry. Uh, thanks ... I really gotta go to ... "
" ... not so fast." Impulsively placing her paw on his arm, stopping him. Not knowing why she did it. But not second-guessing herself, either. And seeing his anxiety flare. Did he think she was going to hurt him? Or was he just embarrassed cause they were in front of the door, and being watched by passersby, and ... " ... come on," she said, quietly, tugging him aside. Over against a wall. A bench ... " ... sit." A command.
He hesitated. But obeyed. (He was clearly a submissive male. But, then, mouses were the most prey-like of prey ... wasn't that what they said?) Twitching up a storm.
"You are a photographer?"
A blink of surprise. Looking down. And up. "How'd you know?" He had a light voice. And that, combined with his body language, his sensitive demeanor. It wouldn't be off-base to say he was effeminate, as well. And, being a rabbit, she immediately wondered ... about his sexuality. She could normally tell. Bisexual. With a strong leaning toward females. Mm ... yes, if she had to guess. But she wasn't about ask him ... she did have a sense of decorum, after all. Even if her instincts got the best of it (a lot).
"You have this camera bag with you nearly every class-period. And when we leave, you scurry toward the art school. Simple logic."
"You watch where I scurry?" Ropy tail flailed, in surprise.
"It is good prey's duty ... to keep an eye on one's surroundings." A clipped breath. "I grew up around Arctic foxes and polar bears. They weren't always peaceful neighbors."
"I, uh ... suppose not." He swallowed, looking down at his bare foot-paws. "This is a six hundred dollar camera. It's ... I mean, I'd be lost without it. My mind. Was just, uh ... have a lot on my mind," he decided to say. Not elaborating. Why was she keeping him here? This is making my paw-pads sweat. I need to go ...
"You do look tense." Analyzing him, curiously. Charcoal nose giving a sniff or two. Earthy scent. Hmm.
An awkward nod, not making eye contact. Getting up, and ...
... his wrist. She held to it. Waited for him to sit back down.
A deep exhale. And he did. "Miss, I should r-really ... "
" ... Aria." A strikingly serene and pretty name. As sing-song as its origins indicated.
Looking to her, making eye contact. For the first time.
"Aria." Her name, clearly. And just as clearly waiting for his.
A pause. "Ross."
An eye-smile from her. That thing that snow rabbits did. That certain magical thing where ... barely a movement of their muzzles. But their eyes glowed, warmly. Or so it seemed. "A distinguished, handsome name. Unique ... but not obscure. I like it."
He glanced at the door, and ... fiddled with his camera bag. The strap. Twitching. He really didn't know what to say. At all. And the more seconds that went by without something being said, being done, the more he began to panic, and ...
" ... what kind of pictures do you take?"
"Mm? Huh? Uh. Oh ... "
A mew of mirth. "Is that the beginning of a melody, or ... "
" ... uh, art pictures." A sniff. "Fine art. Portraits, a lot. Self-portraits. Um ... just ... anything."
"Anything?" A cocked brow, immediately scheming ...
... which had led, after several days of gentle kneading (or needling, even) him, after classes, taking him to lunch, getting him back to her apartment. Finally. About half-a-month after they'd officially met. Telling him to bring his camera, too. He used that thing like a shield, a psychological barrier. As a child used a stuffed animal. He felt safe as long as he had that camera, the poor mouse. And he was so naïve. He was going to get very badly hurt by someone, if he hadn't already (and she one hundred percent suspected that he had, as frantically closed-off as he was). She could keep that from happening again ... the snow rabbit quite liked him, you see. And what was wrong with that?
He was polite. Intelligent (but very quiet about it). Passionate (but afraid to show it). He was many, many things that she wasn't, and ... he was different. Perhaps he could fill in some of her gaps. She had never been in love before. Had never 'devoted' to anyone for very long. Snow rabbits, as a rule, did not 'love.' They did not take mates. They were a very casual species. But she'd moved here, far away from home, to get away from the stagnation of all that. To change. To have something better ... wouldn't hurt to try, anyway.
Assuming he was willing to 'try,' too.
... and, well. He was attractive. (She would be lying if she'd said this was not a factor in her interest. It definitely was.) Trim, tall, in shape. Obviously a healthy eater. He wasn't necessarily hot, no. Wouldn't say that. But cute. Yes. Cuter than hot. Those big ears, long tail, whiskers ... soft, muddy-hued fur. All that. And she'd never 'been' with cute. Was very curious, to say the least.
"Show me your pictures," she said, to start.
And he did. Hesitantly, but ... he did. Brought some albums, even. Flipping through the prints. Most of them digital inkjets. Rural life. The seasons. Nice, pretty shots specific to the region. Nothing she hadn't seen before, though. But the self-portraits. She had not seen images like this ... as sensitive as this. And, anyway, whenever you saw sensual, sensitive portraits, it was always females. In art. Rarely was 'the gaze' turned entirely on the male. The first few were clothed, but ... they soon became more 'revealing.' And he began to clam up, pausing and ... holding his tail in his paws.
"You wouldn't have brought these here," she whispered, gently, "if you didn't want me to see."
He looked up.
She put her fingers, daintily, against his whiskers. Tracing them to the tips. Still whispering. Almost barely audible, now. "What's wrong?"
Eyes watering. Saying nothing. Her touch. He let go of his tail, leaning his head toward her. A sniffle.
"You don't have to tell me all at once ... " She turned the page for him. This one. He was completely ... in the fur. Sprawled in leaves, dappled in light. It was a glorious, unabashedly romantic image. Very idealized. Had to have been from last autumn.
His ears were as red as beets. Capillaries popping round the rims.
" ... adorable," she breathed. Heart skipping a beat. The color. The sun, the ... figure. He definitely had an eye for composition. "But, also, with meaning ... not just pretty. But it says something ... " Looking to him, waiting. Waiting. For him to start talking. Come on ...
" ... well, uh ... I ... I k-kinda think. That it s-says ... " And he talked about it. Just that one picture. And in talking about the picture? Was really talking about himself. Through the filter of the lens. Stopping short several times, being very careful about what he said. And, eventually, during a moment of silence, he asked, " ... what c-could I possibly offer you ... that would match what you offer me?"
"Aside from your heart? Your innocence? Your artistry?" More than enough, those things. Couldn't he see that?
He was silent. Nary a squeak.
" ... may I offer a critique?" she asked, privately. After a moment.
A blink. A blush. " ... yes."
"Your self-portraits are most enjoyable." Letting that hang. Adding, "But they are missing something ... " A rabbit-y mew. " ... something important."
"Missing what?" With concern. He'd finally shown these images to someone, and ... and she thought they were lacking? Was it angle, composition, um ... concept? Setting? He began to scold himself.
But she took one of his paws, and then both his paws ... eyes glowing with restrained excitement. He really didn't know what she meant. (And, for some reason, that turned her on.) But he soon would. He was going to get a very. Very enjoyable. Education. "Do you trust me?"
A nervous nod.
"Then let me show you ... "
... how it's done.
How you move, I move ... and you, again. How we settle into rhythm. How we hit our strides. This is a tango. A duet. Watch what I do. Respond to it. Keep your eye on me. Her arching, pelted back accepting his paws, his touch. Up to her shoulder blades. Down to that ... small. That small (of her back). Above her tail, between her hips. And she had to mew. To be caressed like this ... he was terribly tender. She'd felt affection before, from partners. But he was touching her like it was something sacred. Like it meant something more than mere contact.
It was ten minutes later (than when she'd taken his paws and asked him that question). Maybe fifteen. Hard to tell. Clothes draping over the arm of her couch. On the floor, too. Wherever they'd been tossed. Haphazardly, at first, then more slowly. Slow down. The world's not going to end before you finish this. You're still going to be here. Maturely, their passionate embers did stir. And stir. Flaring. Again, again, an emotional ebb ...
" ... I ... l-like you," the mouse whispered, under his breath. Vulnerably. As if afraid the words would break. "A lot," he added, quickly. With a squeak (as a verbal punctuation mark).
Wanting to say something sultry, at first. But his confession had been so innocent. She simply said, instead, "I like you, too ... "
A nuzzle from him. A heavy nuzzle.
Her paws petting down his body. Those trim hips.
It was simple, really. What happened next. What they ended up doing.
She used those incredible 'hoppy' legs of hers.
Got to a straddle.
And rode him.
He s-sat, sighing, leaning back, mouthing the mound of her breast (the one above her heart, the warmest one ... or so he felt), her arms around his neck. As her supple hips bounced. Bobtailed bottom. Up, up ... crashing down. A wet, squelchy sound. Searing-hot, velvety pussy. Over and over (and atop and around!) his shockingly stiff, sensitive penis.
So good for the both of them.
W-weak squeaks, bucking up. Now and then. Erratically. Maw sliding up to her neck. Buckteeth going to work. N-nibbling, sweetly. Quickening the very pulse that vibrated his lips. A paw reaching down. He was ... he was. Fumbling for her clitoris ...
... and, oh, she appreciated that. It tingled, almost immediately. A full-body mew. Oh, h-he ... was a keeper. Her head rolling. Oh. B-bounce, bounce, and then ... then. Stop. Snugly grinding, downward, and around. Like a clock. Round and ... round, and up, up ... crash back down. Steer that joystick of his. Take him places he didn't know he could go ...
... years later, back in the present, here on the first weekend of December. With a stronger sense of intimacy. With a radiant love. She rode him again. This time in their shared bed. Hunched over, almost horizontal. Hips slanting slightly, by inches. Mere inches. Up and down. P-panting. " ... h ... huh ... "
Throughout this, his whispers, peppering her bare, delicious shoulder. Telling her, " ... I ... I want you. On your back." He said a few other things, too. Things only meant for her ears. Things he had never said to anyone else, not in his entire life, his entire twenty-six years. "Mm-h."
And she whispered her response. A single baited, passionate sentence. A plea. "Fuck me."
A whimper-squeak, groping a breast. Thumb settling on the nipple. Which he proceeded, softly, to press.
Her paws going to the back of his head, making a shush-sound, and ... still on top. " ... o-oh." But easing, laying back. Sprawling back, rolling off. Hugging. Tugging. Ears twiddled or swiveled (depending). Bringing him with her. Everything a melting, moonless blur.
And he fell out of her sopping sex for a few seconds (too many) ... hips bumping, limbs latching. Rolling. Fur meshing, strands shedding onto each other, onto the sheets ... where they stuck. Where his blunted claws dug as his foot-paws pushed for purchase. Oh. He was back in, slickly, easily. N-nodding to himself. Beginning to piston.
It was poetry, how they moved.
Animal and timeless.
An age-old act made new, each time, someway, somehow. And though they were twenty-six, now, no longer twenty-three (as when they met), they were still young. (That was still young, right?) They were still vibrantly, awesome alive.
They did what the universe bid them to do.
They made love.
Until they no longer could, until it was too much. Until ...
... him, first. The high-pitched squeaks, the tensing. His brown-furred rump-cheeks rolling, raising in her fumbling paws. Ropy tail flailing, to top it off. She was urging him. Pulling at him. And he went. He gladly, gleefully went. Colliding, gliding. Losing air, losing momentum ... as his penis tingled with an explosive feeling, he completely faltered to a trembling stop. Hilting, grinding. Snug and deep. His whole body limp, lighting up with pleasure as his mouse-hood shot burst after burst. After spurt. Of steamy-white mouse semen. Covering her walls, washing her cervix ... he filled her. And, oh, Lord, the pleasure. He s-squeaked. W-whined, too ... drooling, huffing. " ... uh. U-uh." Squeak. "A-h ... " Twitch. Short breath. " ... ah! AH-h ... "
That last sweet, wavering moan of his was enough to send her over the edge. She'd been teetering there, wonderfully, in that space between maddening ecstasy and aching need. And that uninhibited, vulnerable pleasure-sound was like the feather that knocked her over. Her walls clamping down, suddenly, with an almost violent need ... r-rippling, waves of shocking heat. Flung throughout her body, her paw-pads sweaty, her ears flopping over. Nipples diamond-hard. Clitoris a raw, raging spot ... and, bless him, Ross, the way he was laying on her, his fur was ... w-was rising and falling on it, with his breaths. His wriggles. Her vagina wracked with tremors. Like an earthquake. She held on. Held on to him ... and endured it ...
... a short, shaky breath. Drunk on her scent. Nose on her neck. Squeak.
Her damp paws sliding helplessly up his bare back. " ... o-oh. Oh." Gasp. "N-nh ... h-h ... " Toes curling, legs around the backs of his thighs, and ... and ... " ... oh-n." A final sigh. Final. Mew. Head rolling aside, eyes half-open, dilated so wide it was almost comically sensual. Her femininity still milking him. She'd gotten every drop. They both knew it. But it still shook, slightly, as if to make absolutely sure.
Then the afterglow.
He began sniffing. Instinctually. That pink, ever-active mousey nose of his, whiskers beginning to twitch again. At their normal rate. As he nuzzled her adoringly. Again professing his love. His undying love. Only you, for the rest of my life, every day. And every hour that's already passed? It's only you.
Touched, she returned the sentiments. Wordlessly, with a soft, delicate kiss to his lips. A touch so light. But so heavy with expression.
A smack-sound. And he licked his own lips ... and then hers, and kissed her back. Harder. Longer ...
... she squirmed, her lithe, loping rabbit legs tightening their grip. Arms still round his neck. Her bobtail wanted to flick. It really did. But was pinned between her rump and the now-wet sheets (more her fluids than his ... causing the dampness, to be honest; though all the 'sticky' was entirely his fault).
Eventually, he dismounted. Shrinking to the point where he had no choice. Laying beside her, devotedly. Still recovering.
She stayed on her back, not really wanting to move. Just lay. I feel lazy. Is there anything better than this ...
" ... Aria," he went, after a while, a paw on her belly. Scritching randomly. Tail snaking, side-winding in the strewn, navy-blue sheets.
"Mm-hmm?" An errant sound, ears twiddling to the tips. On her pillow. Her eyes were closed.
"I know you think we're poor, but ... I feel so rich. Right now."
A warm feeling coursed through her. Emanating from her Arctic soul, even through the 'freeze.' And she opened those ice-blue eyes, and in the darkness (the glowing darkness) of their modest bedroom, in their squeaky bed, she moved, after all ... turning, rolling ... to lay atop him, possessively, and to say, "Does that mean we have 'hearts of gold'?"
A joyous little giggle-squeak. And another. Hugging her from below, rosy-eared, nose to nose. "Since I never run out of love to spend on you, I would have to say ... that it's a distinct possibility." He nodded, for good measure.
"Logical," she went, playfully, nose in his cheek-fur. Nuzzling. "Very logical, indeed." A satisfied mew. "I told you I am rubbing off on you ... "