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Prancer quietly sipped her cold, tangy orange juice, which was fresh from the food processor. Sip after sip. Daintily so, holding the clear glass with both paws. She always liked juice when she woke up. A drink with a friendly bite. Something citrus, or even white grape juice. Things sweet enough to make her eyes pop open. Though it was true that rodents couldn't handle as much sugar as other furs. Too much, and they'd go on manic 'sugar highs,' followed by energy-draining 'crashes.' She'd treated many sugar-happy rodents in her time, including herself. Wasn't fun. Orange juice honestly wasn't likely to cause her any problems. But, all the same, she was sipping it, not gulping it. Being a doctor, she was always one for moderation when it came to her diet.

" ... you feeling better?" Ninilchik eventually asked, spooning some frosted 'shredded wheat' into his own muzzle. Chew-chewing, with a few droplets of milk dribbling from his lips as he looked to her. Seated, as they were, on opposite sides of their little, round table in the 'kitchen area' of their quarters, here on the habitat ring. They'd both woken up about fifteen minutes ago. They weren't on duty for another hour, 0900 station time.

The cinnamon-furred squirrel, lowering her juice-glass down to the tabletop, watching the liquid as it sloshed a tiny, tiny bit, gave a quiet, gentle nod. "I am," she whispered. And she met his eyes. "I'm okay." Her whiskers gave a few errant twitches, her angular ears cocked atop her head.

"Reason I ask, you know, is, uh ... cause of what happened," the porcupine went, trailing, swallowing. His spoon clinking at the bottom of his cereal bowl. The hum of the station's power core could be faintly heard in the background of everything, almost like a hum you'd grown too accustomed with to notice.

"Yeah," was all she breathed, closing her eyes. Nodding a bit, before her eyes reopened. She put on a smile. "I'm fine, though."

"I'm just ... "

" ... a porcupine. With a pelt full of quills and a need to protect and defend that which you love," she finished for him, smiling warmly. "A rodent to defend all rodents."

He flushed beneath his brownish fur.

" ... I appreciate that, you know," she continued, more quietly. Almost barely audible. "I really do." She licked her lips and breathed in through her black, sniffy nose. It'd been a few days since she'd lost the otter-patient in the infirmary. The night or so after, she'd been unable to sleep, constantly jarred awake by night terrors. Bad dreams. She couldn't remember them, exactly, only that they involved her being hunted. Separated from Nin and hunted by predators, including death itself. The nightmares had made her paws shake. But she hadn't had them last night. Not with Nin's paws in her bare pelt the whole time, his nose against her neck, his whole body spooned up behind her. Taking an audible, deep breath in the wakeful present, Prancer licked her lips and tilted her head, telling him, "You make me feel safe. I don't think I ever felt safer than I did last night."

" ... well, I, uh, didn't do anything I don't normally do," he confessed. "I just wanna take care of you."

She smiled, biting her lip. And she nodded, swallowing.

"If I didn't have quills," he asked, honestly, "would you feel as safe with me? I mean, knowing I have those things, and ... makes me an atypical rodent, doesn't it? Rodents being ultimate prey, but porcupines having the ultimate weapons?"

"Makes you unique."

"Lots of species are unique, though. You're a doctor. You know that."

"You're the most unique to me," she assured. "And you're not any more defined by your quills than Peregrine's defined by cheese."

"You said he was allergic."

"Intolerant." A quiet, smiling nod. "Yeah. Does that make him less a mouse? Less a commander? Less our friend?"

"No ... "

" ... then, if you lost your quills, you'd be no less a porcupine, no less my mate. No less in my heart."

"And what if you forgot how to be agile? And became clumsy, and lost your grace?" he posed, teasingly turning the question around on her.

"That's not gonna happen," was the squirrel's giggle-squeaking insistence.

"Pretty confident, aren't you?"

"I have to be," she said. And, this time, there were no giggle-squeaks. There was a serious fire in her eyes. "If I don't have confidence, it's ... then I can't handle what I have to face."

"Just don't lose yourself in 'the job' ... maybe you should talk to Amelie. She almost did that, remember? She was obsessed with those ruins on the planet. She let go of all that, and look how mellow she is now."

"My job is to fight death. If I let go ... others suffer. There's a difference." The squirrel swallowed, closing her eyes and rubbing her forehead. A sigh, amending, "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to ... shoot down your advice. It's good advice," she assured, sitting up a bit straighter, her paws going back to her juice glass. "And I know I'm not the only fur on this station who has to deal with stress, or ... you know, we all have our responsibilities. We all have our own demons. I'm not so arrogant as to assume that mine are 'harder' or 'more noble' than anyone else's."

Ninilchik just nodded, and lightly responded, " ... well ... this is getting rather heavy for breakfast conversation, don't you think? I mean, we've established you're fine and I'm some kind of quilled safety net ... "

A muzzle-closed giggle.

" ... let's move on?"

"To what?"

"Well, I don't think I've told you directly yet, at least not since we woke up: but I love you very much," he told her, warmly, both unassuming, and unpretentious.

Her smile, this time, was brighter, less tired. Just hearing him say that seemed to refresh her in some way. In a way that a good breakfast never could. And she whispered back at him, eyes meeting, "I love you, too."

Nin, returning to and finishing off his cereal, gave a few chews and a swallow, reaching for his own juice-glass. He was having orange juice, same as her. "You haven't started on your tail ... "

" ... mm?" A blink, having been lost in thought. Lost in thoughts of him, to be exact. Her pupils had become notably dilated, and her tail flagged about some. "My tail?" It flagged even more, being the center of attention, now.

"You spend half an hour every morning grooming it. Normally, you start as soon as your foot-paws swing out of bed." A little breath, and a warm look, leaning back in his chair. "Haven't seen you touch it yet. Why's that?"

"I don't know," she admitted, quietly, smoothing at her shirt. She was only wearing a shirt. Nothing else.

"You need help with it?" Nin, brow raised, was only wearing shorts and briefs. There was no point in getting into their uniforms yet. Not if things went as they usually went after breakfast. And, oh, they were going to.

"Grooming?"

The porcupine, his so-sharp quills in a flat, locked 'safety' position, nestled in with his fur, just went, "Mm-hmm." His own tail was club-like, and rested on the carpet behind his chair, sticking through the 'tail-gap' built into the chair's backside.

Prancer, not having stuck her own tail through her chair's tail-gap, quietly brought it forward and into her arms, almost hugging it to her breasts. "Well ... "

" ... not like I haven't helped you before."

"I know. I'm just ... " She bit her lip, smiling, eyes darting. " ... you know how I am."

"How squirrels are, you mean? About their tails?"

"They're our pride and joy. It's ... I'm very picky about how it looks. It has to look perfect."

"I don't know. You're usually pretty easygoing. You work your tail to perfection, but that doesn't mean you're fussy."

"I guess not." It was true that she wasn't that much a perfectionist. She was organized, but not obsessively so.

Nin, after a few seconds of silence, chuckled. "Though I have noticed that, uh, you and Seldovia ... "

" ... that's not even true." A shake of the head, already knowing where this was going.

" ... are getting more competitive lately."

"We are not," Prancer insisted, trying not to giggle-squeak. Still hugging her tail to her front-side.

" ... you are, too. If any two species have luxurious, 'to-swoon-for' tails, it's skunks and squirrels, right?"

"Well, I'm sure other species might wanna throw their tails into that contest, but ... "

" ... generally. Generally speaking. You and Seldovia got the most salivated-over tails on the station."

"What about Amelie?"

"It's Amelie's overall body that gets salivated over. The composure she has. That regal hoppy-ness. It's not her tail that does it."

"So, you'd know, would you?"

He raised his paws, smiling, in an 'innocent' gesture. "I"m just a good observer. Some things are common knowledge."

"Like who's got the 'hottest' tail, huh?" A smile, squinting some.

"Well, we all know that's you."

"Seldovia thinks it's her." Prancer felt a little silly even arguing this point. Did it really matter who has the 'best' tail? It was all subjective, anyway, and not really all that important. But, sometimes, one couldn't help but be a little silly about things. Sometimes, it was healthy.

"Which was what I was saying," Nin continued, nodding. "I swear you try to 'outdo' each other. I mean, have you seen the way Seldovia moves around?"

"She's very sultry," Prancer admitted, nodding. And she finally un-hugged her tail, clearing her throat. "Look, if she wants to walk around the station swaying her hips and rump in front of everyone's noses, then fine. I'm not going to resort to that. I don't need to. She's just ... " Whiskers twitching, the squirrel rubbed a paw against her black, sniffy nose, which had a momentary itch. Done scratching it, she continued, " ... Seldovia's a flirt. She's bold, cheeky. She's devoted to Mortimer, of course, but ... she likes to show off. I don't like to."

"Then why were you wearing bows in your tail yesterday?"

"You said they were pretty."

"They were," Nin whispered, honestly, smiling so warmly. "They really were." She'd worn simple, baby-blue bows in her tail-fur. Just a few of them toward the bushy, arching tip. With the strings of the bows tapering all around, moving as her tail moved, like little streamers. "I'd never, uh ... before we showered last night, taking those bows off one by one? My belly to yours, and your tail between us, and ... "

Prancer flushed.

" ... was really romantic," he whispered. "You really are pretty," he told her, again. Because it was the truth. "My arboreal acrobat."

She couldn't help but smile at this. "If I'm an arboreal acrobat, what's that make you?" she teased.

"A balloon-popper?"

Giggle-squeaks, leaning back in her chair. "Heh ... eh, I dunno. I guess so. I don't know. That a euphemism for something?"

"Of course not." His eyes glinted.

A slight chitter, saying, "Well, I'd say you're more like ... well, I don't know. Just something to do with your body being as sharp as your mind, but ... " A pause. " ... I think I've noticed, lately, that I don't let myself get as close to other furs, you know? I mean, Seldovia and Amelie are good friends. Wheldon and Mortimer, all that. But ... I mean, I'm friends with everyone on the station, but it's not to where I'll tell them personal things. It's not to where I'll joke around with them outside of the infirmary."

"I think almost all the rodents on the station are like that, to be honest: you, me, Peregrine, Benji ... we're all a little more insulated than the others." A pause. "Well, except Petra. But rats are scrappy. She's ... but, you know, for the most part, I think it's just in our instinct to play it quieter, safer." Another pause. And then saying, "No one thinks badly of you. Whatever you think is your fault, it's ... well, it's not. You've not done anything wrong."

"I feel like I could do more."

"How?"

"I don't know," the squirrel confessed, blowing out air, and then tilting her head to admit, "I got us back on the no-good-for-breakfast line of conversation ... "

" ... it's fine," he insisted. "Besides, if anyone should feel like he doesn't do enough, it's me. I mean, I'm just ... you're way smarter than me. I mean, you're a doctor. What am I? I mean, I just do odds and ends, and ... I'm the station's 'morale and hospitality officer,' now."

"But you said you wanted to be. I mean, you told Peregrine yes. Anyway, it's needed. We can't become a hub for living and trade if ... furs come here and don't enjoy themselves. You're a big part of why they do. You put together great meals, great itineraries of, like ... activities to do. I mean, you're a good host."

"That just goes back to us porcupines liking to make others feel safe and comfortable, I guess."

"I guess so." A warm, squeaky smile. "But, obviously some things are best left," she said, quietly, fiddling with her spoon, and then putting it down. Finishing, " ... some things are best left unanalyzed. I don't need to know why your 'porcupine-y-ness,' as Petra calls it, is what it is, or ... why I am like how I am, or ... " Her whiskers twitched, trying to word this. And feeling, perhaps, like she was simply repeating things she'd already said. " ... but I don't want to 'explain away' your love, or your kindness, especially. I don't want to compartmentalize it with scientific procedure. I take it on faith, and ... and I know," she said, barely audible now, "that it has meaning. I feel like I mean more when I'm with you."

This rendered Nin a little speechless. Of course, he was her husband, and he was used to hearing her say such things. They were in love, obviously, but ...

" ... you're flustered."

"A little."

"Why?" she breathed, elbows on the table, now, leaning forward.

"You're, uh ... looking at me like I'm a pile of acorns. Or like I'm a tree to hitch to."

Giggle-squeaks!

"Well, it's that 'nibbling' look ... ."

Sighing heavily, she licked her lips and asked, eyes darting about before returning to his face. "So, uh ... am I supposed to stop or something?"

The porcupine could only shake his head: no. No, he went, without words. She didn't need to stop.

Prancer swallowed, her paws beginning to feel sweaty. She felt like she was nearing her 'peak.' The time when furs needed to breed. Because, oh, her desire for Nin was a total need. But it was also mixed in with pure want. She needed him, wanted him, craved him. Adored him. In more ways than she could reliably expound upon.

" ... darling?" was Nin's dry-throated breath. His breathing slightly, slightly audible, and his bare chest rising and falling.

" ... yeah?" she mouthed.

"I'm done with breakfast."

" ... are you sure?" she asked, sincerely, locking gazes. There was nothing else in the room except for him. And her. But, for all poetic purposes, so lost were they in each other's very presence, the very scent and air of each other, that it was like a magnetic pull. They were on a collision course for each other. They both knew it. It was only a matter of time. For, oh, the very knowledge of each other, the very feel, the very weight. The very taste. They wanted. Want. Such want. And, oh, the desire to know each other more, more! Constantly, they wanted more.

"Maybe ... maybe we could finish this on, uh ... " He tilted his head at the living room, which directly opened up into the kitchen-area. The oval-like windows along the walls showed the vast depths of starry space. And, as the station rotated, brought the planet into huge-eyed view. The couch was up against that windowed wall. " ... the couch."

Prancer nodded, feeling dizzy, getting out of her chair, guided by the porcupine to the vicinity of the couch. But not sitting or laying down yet. Still standing, he reached around, lifting her shirt up. Up, up, and all the way off. "There we go," Nin breathed, licking his lips, unbuttoning his shorts. His white, cotton briefs soon sliding down his body, with his pants, both of them kicked gently aside. Then, all barriers removed, he sighed and settled on his knees behind her. "My beautiful squirrel. More beautiful than a thousand flowers," he told her, kissing her soft rump-cheeks, mouthing, wetting them, paws on her bare hips. He gently pulled, pulled at her, his lips straying into the fluffy fur of her glorious tail. Even when not fully groomed, it was a thing to behold, a thing to bury the nose in, to run your fingers through. A thing that gave Prancer's body such eye-pleasing balance.

She willingly sank down with him, down to her own knees, pitching forward a little. And then a lot. To all fours. Raising that bushy, flagging tail, pulling it away from his nose and lips. Her sudden body language was expressive and unmistakable.

" ... you, uh ... we can do lots of foreplay," Nin breathed. "I really want to savor you." His cheeks felt so hot. His quills tingled at the bases, even though they were safely locked into flat, harmless positions.

Chitters, her tail fully upright, twirling in place. " ... I'm a little impatient this morning," was all she could say.

"I can see that." A swallow. " ... well, if you really feel ... " A swallow, deciding not to question her. They'd 'savor' each other later. Right now, why not jump in, like into the most refreshing, coolest water? Or into a bed of flowers? Into a situation fully, readily ripe, where the fruit of desire could be bitten right away. " ... okay," he agreed, nodding fervently, now, draping himself behind her, bare belly to her back. His belly-fur meshing with her back-fur, their scents mingling, his club-like tail raising up and lowering, and her tail hanging off to the side like a furry banner.

Perhaps, Prancer though, in the very back of her mind, this isn't the most civil position for a professional doctor to be in. Perhaps Nin was right. Maybe we should savor and simmer. But, oh, passion spoke too loudly, and too soon, and sometimes it just had to be heeded. Sometimes, you had to let it bowl you over right out of the gate. Their love, though having been expressed time and time again, was full of playful variation, full of sparking, guessing wonder.

The porcupine, panting, draped over her, doggy-style, bringing his hips preciously forward, taking a few seconds to slip his porcupine-hood (Prancer had teasingly nicknamed it his 'pine-cone,' saying that, if male mouses had 'squeaky toys,' then surely male porcupines have 'pine-cones'; Nin was never sure whether to be amused by this or not). But, regardless, he slipped through her welcoming vulva, right into her sweet, feminine tunnel, which he gladly buried himself in, sighing heavily as he hugged her, paws on her breasts. Oh, he kissed her nape, whispering ...

" ... oh, oh." They came out as soft, simple sighs, sounds of dainty, effeminate joy, of pleasured contentment. The grey-furred, rain-furred mouse was resting on his trim, rural side, vulnerable and naked in the strewn sheets of their bed, with his eyes half-closed and whiskers weakly twitching. Twitching, twitching.

The rat, just as naked, and not the least bit shy about it, was lying right next to him, right beside him. Facing, though, in the opposite direction. Pillows spread about.

Peregrine sighed again, without vocalization this time, easing his hips forward. By maybe just an inch or two. His fur so, so warm, and mousey soft. Everything about him harboring an air of innocence. The way he responded, the way he moved. It was all so cute.

"Mm ... hmm-hmm," Petra hummed, sultrily, reverberating from the throat as her husband's mousey penis slid through her wet, loosened lips, which were opened in a simple ring around the hard, fire-hot flesh. She gladly smothered it with her tongue, too, lovingly supporting the underside of the shaft before, tongue-flicking, she pushed his member to the roof of her maw, before rolling her neck a bit, positioning his blunted, deep-pink head against the inside of her slick cheek, letting it leak its clear pre there.

The mouse, with a squeaky, breath-catching inhale, just drew his hips back. Just an inch or two, just barely. Taking extra care to avoid her buckteeth as he did so. Feeling them graze his flesh just the tiniest bit. It made him shiver. And he stopped, before easing back in, swallowing, sighing heavily, now. A squeaky huff, a paw on his wife's brown and grey-furred side, his nose probing between her legs. He'd been sniffing at her for quite some time, nuzzle-nosing her not-so-subtly. But she'd purposely kept her legs closed. In part to tease him, to work him up, and also because she wanted to 'take care of him' first. It was also a instinctual cue of dominance, one Peregrine recognized and submitted to (by not forcibly attempting to pry her legs open). They were both rodents, and both prey, true. And the two highest-ranking officers on the station. But Peregrine was submissive to the rat. Not in terms of 'position,' necessarily. He 'topped' her a good two-thirds of the time. But in terms of initiative and tempo, Petra was usually in control. She was a few inches taller than him, and had a more outgoing personality. Among other things.

She began, without warning, to outright suckle on his mouse-hood. The five-inch, circumcised thing, such a modest organ, but she adored it. The very taste of it on her tongue, the presence, weight, and texture of it. Her husband's very essence marinating in her muzzle, sloshing in a slick suck-sucking mixture of her saliva and his own pre. Occasionally giving a short, little swallow, constantly sniffing through her pink, active nose. Thinking about how, time and time again, he'd used that simple organ to play her like a fiddle. Oh, she felt incredibly hot. Her own whiskers twitched, and her tail began to sway, sway, and move. It was very versatile, and it snaked very close to one of Peregrine's big, dishy ears, which were very rosy-pink with blood.

The mouse's breath caught as he felt his wife's tail-tip 'tracing' veiled patterns on the outsides of his lobes, before it skirted around and began stroking along the insides, circling, circling, closing in on one of his ear-holes. Stimulating the short, invisible hairs near the ear canal, and making his hearing to pulse, pulse. He could hear his own pulse. And his ears began to tingle with purest heat. Pleasured heat. It was almost too much to take. His cheeks and forehead seemed to burn. " ... oh, oh ... " The mouse, stimulated in multiple ways, began to pant in simple, weak, dizzy pleasure, eyes fully shutting. His breaths more shallow than before. His penis gave one of those indescribable 'tingles,' which seemed to spread like ripples in a pond, all through him, making his very cheeks and whiskers to shiver in a hot-cold sensation. One that made him suck air deeply into his muzzle. Oh, gosh. Oh, gosh ... !

The rat, her unmistakable, solidly-built rump (good for groping) facing the bedroom door, pulled her tail back, letting it trail and hang off the side of the bed and to the carpet. Letting his ears rest. But not letting his mouse-hood do the same. Not yet. She gave a few light 'bobs' of her muzzle, bob, bob-bobbing on Peregrine's stiffness. Just a few more times, a few more times, before she pulled back to the head, just the head. And placed her tongue over the slit and wriggled her tongue-tip. Oh, but she was enjoying this. It was hard to want to actually stop.

Peregrine's resulting, sharpening moans were muffled, his muzzle pressing right to Petra's mons, against her groin, where most species' body-fur always tended to be thicker. His nose and lips were buried in that. Errant squeaks and buckets of scent, only making him hazier. He began to whimper-squeak and grab at her rump and tail and anything he could touch, almost desperately, eyes watering (even while shut). "Mm ... mm!" His squeaks seemed to be higher-pitched than before, like he was being driven to a wild, whirling state of being.

And that was her sign. To ease up, to lessen the touch of her tongue, to stop the suckling, and to let his member just sit in her muzzle for a few seconds. Savoring such special intimacy. Such a close, vulnerable moment as this. Before she slowly, slowly slipped off. Hearing, in the process, his squeaks returning to their normal pitch. His breath shaking as his mouse-hood stiffly tick-ticked. Little, barely-seen jerks, with single drops of pre beading at the head. From the looks of it, he'd been about fifteen, twenty seconds from full-on orgasm. And he was panting deliriously, almost in shock, having been brought to such a succulent high, only to have it stop just before it totally hit.

" ... y-you liked, huh?" She couldn't see his response, being faced away from him, and still on her side. But she could feel it. Feel his nose running up and down through her groin-fur as his head nodded, nodded. Which made her chuckle. "Mm ... my squeaky thing," she whispered, mouthing at his tufted, furry sac, sucking one of the orbs between her lips, eyes shutting. Before letting it go and continuing, "Knew ya didn't wanna finish there ... s'why I stopped ... " After a second, she felt another nod against her groin. Which prompted another easy chuckle. "Though I'm sure you wouldn't have complained if I'd brought ya over the edge, anyway," she said.

A little chitter.

" ... I know," she said, giving a chitter-squeak of her own.

Chitter-chitter.

Squeak, was her response, communicating in basic rodent sounds. Not anywhere near as efficient or complex as spoken language. But they could tell what the other meant, just by the tone and pitch and duration of the utterances. Besides, Peregrine really couldn't form any words yet. He was still finding his breath.

Petra smiled. She enjoyed flustering him. She had to admit it. She remembered when they'd first met. They'd been a little standoffish. She'd flustered him several times with her bluntness. He'd shied away. Certainly, neither had honestly guessed they'd end up as mates, so in love, so comfortably sinking into the sheets and pillows, whispering privately to each other in the midst of after-breakfast love-making. Had they really envisioned that when they'd first met eyes? Could they have? Regardless, months later, it was hard to imagine life without each other. They were a sizzling pair, working in tandem, filling each other's gaps, bestowing what the other lacked. And strengthening each other's faith. Oh, truly, they were each other's point and counterpoint.

"You seem really relaxed there, hun. Got your breath back?"

" ... mm. Think so," was his quiet, squeaky reply. "Oh, my gosh, that was amazing. W-what you were doing ... "

"Not mad that I didn't finish ya off? I know how frustratin' it can be to get that close and then ... not get it."

"Not upset," he insisted. "You do that to me all the time. I'm used to it."

"Heh ... s'pose so.

A swallow, and a breath. "Yeah, you like to work me up, to get me at full-scurry, for, uh ... for 'deeper' things."

"Deeper things?" she asked, eyes closed, grinning. "Deeper in what?"

" ... mm ... Petra," he said, tolerantly.

"You enjoy 'deeper things' just as much. You didn't wanna finish in my muzzle," she told him, knowing it to be the case.

"No, I didn't ... I wanted to, uh ... " A blush, feeling silly for saying it, but, " ... sow you."

" ... so romantic," the rat sighed. "Mm. Perry ... "

" ... mm?"

"Heh ... eh, just glad you're enjoyin' my, uh ... appreciations," she whispered back at him, sighing happily, almost proudly. She was a rodent, and had her share of anxieties, to be sure. But mouses were notorious for their anxiety problems. And she was glad that, over time, she'd been able to relieve Peregrine of some of his 'twitches.' Only some of them (some just had to be lived with, as hard as they were to bear). The bad twitches. He must always keep the good ones! "Now, come on. I know you're itchin' to do your thing, in return ... " She licked her lips and, eyes closing, raised her leg.

" ... I think you're itching just as much for me to do it," was the quiet, smiling response. A sigh of relief as her leg lifted, giving him easy access to her femininity. He wasted no time. He'd been craving this ever since he'd woken up. In a mere second, his tongue was there, wetly, gingerly probing at her vulva, giving those tender, tentative licks he always started with. The first tastes. Slathering his saliva all over.

" ... y-you're, uh, kinda ... more'n right 'bout that," she said, voice descending to a pleased mumble. As she felt her labia traced, wetted, loved. As she felt, finally, his tongue slip between those petal-like folds, to the entrance to her vagina. Just inside it, licking, licking, stopping now and then to let his lips suck. Peregrine didn't have the most-versatile tongue. Mouse-tongues weren't like dog-tongues or bat-tongues or any of those. But he was so earnest, and she enjoyed it. Male mouses had a reputation for giving muzzle, after all, and it wasn't for no reason. They were so gentle and patient, was why. So empathetic, like they could read your body language, and know what you wanted. And this act, itself, was oh-so-gentle, patient, free of pretense or worry. Even that mousey bashfulness that so often gripped mouses during breeding had, thus far, remained dormant. Oh, theirs was a very comfortable, very intimate marriage, full of such abundant warmth. Oh, how far they'd come, and, oh ... " ... oh," she panted.

He licked and lapped, muzzle tilting, bumping, muzzle-humping. For a minute, a minute more, not stopping. His muzzle pressing again, again, easing, and breath blown in directed, little jets over her vulva before he dug back in, licking up, up the line of it, and then tongue dipping back down into it, back to her honey-pot.

"Oh, Perry," the rat breathed, deliciously drawing air, her erect clitoris being the next thing lavished by the mouse's tongue-tip, which swirled and went in circles around the nub, occasionally grazing it directly, lips pursed over it. Suck, suck. The heat and moisture, and the skirting friction. " ... oh. Oh ... " The moans increased as two of his fingers slipped into her vagina, curling, probing, rubbing at her walls for her sensitive spot. Rub, rub, beginning to drift in and out. " ... uh ... " Her belly arched, and her toes curled. Having worked herself up while giving him muzzle, she was already on the edge of ... b-bliss ... " ... oh, uh!" Chitters, gasping, her walls flutter, flutter, fluttering, in sudden, spreading spasms. " ... uh, n-nuh ... uh ... " Her leg involuntarily came down, trapping her husband's muzzle against her pussy.

His eyes shut, rolling back in his head, seemingly, as a few errant squirts of femme-nectar trickled to his lips, his tongue. The taste. Her. Of her. He drank it up, panting, pulling his fingers out, tongue tracing down, down to where they'd been, taking their place.

Petra went still, went calm. But only for a moment. As she, weak-kneed and panting, rolled with her husband. Rolled, squeaking, wriggling in that rodent way, both of them bare and wanting, hot and sweaty-pawed, beyond any point of civil stopping. Only wilder passion, now, carrying them through like momentum. Toward something bigger, greater, something of fused forms and mutual pleasures.

Peregrine squeaked, bewildered, hazy-headed and foggy-eyed, on his back. Petra on top, hunched over, and she'd mounted him before he'd had time to react. His response a few seconds delayed: sudden, gasping squeaks, and a few squirms.

But, oh, it was some kind of heaven, surely, as she gyrating her hips in a clockwise fashion. For a moment, a moment, and then commencing with the simple 'up and down,' rising, falling. By mere inches, but it was enough to cause a mutual friction that felt as big as miles.

Paws on her sides, trying to pull her down atop of him, please, please, pull down. He squeaked.

She leaned forward, forward, and finally did so. Laying atop of him.

The mouse spread his legs and adjusted his hips accordingly, and easily begin to thrust in and out of her. Short, little motions. A slight squelching sound coming from the source of their beautiful union, as his mouse-hood, deep-pink and glistening with her juices, and a vein showing on the side of the shaft, became visible. And disappeared into her body, and then pulled back out, keeping the head inside, and then plunged back in, angled in such a way as to give them both a good deal of pleasure.

Petra, head on Peregrine's bare, grey-furred shoulder, sighed through the nose. Heavily so. Eyes lazily shut. And muzzle in a helpless, hapless smile. Oh, she smiled broadly, half-whispering, half-moaning incoherently into one of his beet-red, capillary-showing ears, " ... I f-feel ... like I've known you," she panted, "forever ... " A shaky, squeaky breath. " ... like b'fore we met was all in ... black-an'-white, and now ... " Her body arched. " ... life's all color."

The mouse, so touched by this, could only hold to her, eyes watering, hips angling, pressing, easing up, his sac wetted by her juices, nestling to her vulva, pulling back. Hips coming forward again. Back. Again, forward, in such a steady, in-and-out motion, steady, succulent. She was so steamy inside, enveloping his mouse-hood like a velvet glove, rippling, dripping. It was too much. Her scent in his nose, her breath in his ear, her very weight and naked presence atop his body. She overwhelmed him in the best possible way. Everything tangible, everything palpable. Everything leading to the firework of love.

She held to him, almost feeling it, feeling the twitches. And definitely feeling the desperate grinding of his hips before his body went lax with sensitivity, as his mouse-hood jerk, jerked, spurting steamy-white spoonfuls of mouse-seed at her womb (though she was not in heat). His tail was limp, only after flailing over to hers, her thicker, more versatile, maneuverable tail able to coil around his, intertwining them as she joined him in his physical high, her walls fluttering again, as they had before, this time in a softer, lazier way. Less drastic. But, oh, no less warm, and no less good. It actually seemed to last longer this time, and she moaned onto her husband's shoulder, almost drooling. " ... oh. Oh, yeah ... "

" ... hmm. Mm," were his weak, squeaky sounds, mouse-hood very sensitive, almost entirely spent, now, having been wonderfully milked by the rat's femininity.

"Mm." She nosed his neck, sighing heavily, and then giggle-chittering. "Oh, Perry. Hun ... "

" ... I love you," he breathed, with unabashed romance. Hugging her from beneath, nuzzling and nosing her cheek and neck.

" ... love ya, too. My mousey ... squeaky mousey," she breathed, "mouse." Giggling at her own silliness, but feeling awash with 'afterglow,' and just breathing of his earthy, sweat-matted scent. "Mm," she went, happily. "Heh. Y'know, we still got a whole day 'head of us, an' ... heh, we already wiped ourselves out!"

A giggle-squeak from him, blushing hotly. "We might've done," he admitted. "But we normally get our scurry back. Don't underestimate scurry."

" ... I'll try not to," she assured, teasingly.

After a minute of just laying there, hugging, nosily nuzzling, and engaging in all sorts of quiet, dainty touching, the mouse then breathed, "Well, uh ... we better shower, though. We got a station to run."

"Heh. Yeah, we do. But, hey, we're the two rankin' officers. We're in charge, aren't we? We wanna be a few minutes late," she breathed, nosing his neck. " ... then who's gonna object? They gonna mutiny on us? Besides, y'know the rest of the crew's doin' the same thing right now ... "

" ... still," the mouse went, that mousey modesty finally hitting him. He blushed beneath the fur, cheeks hot. Shyly squeaking, eyes closing.

"Mm-hmm," Petra went, still smiling. Grinning, almost, in that pure, rat-like way. "Well, then, that bein' the case, I'm gonna get you all squeaky, squeaky clean," she promised, "in the shower, mm? You're gonna be smellin' earthy-fresh ... " Taking a deep breath through the nose, and ...

... whimpering as he ejaculated, crying out, arching his back in scrunch-muzzled ecstasy, grunting a bit. To a hip-stopping, sac-deep hilt of her tunnel, which was practically sopping. It was an amazing sensation. And he gave a coon-bark or two, almost on instinct, as his semen pelted, pelted the skunk's cervix.

The skunk, panting, shaking, mewed. Mew-mew ... mew. Her pussy letting loose, fluttering wildly, making her blunt-clawed fingers to dig into Morty's back, as her head rolled aside ... " ... ah, ahnn ... ah!"

Mortimer panted against her neck, fur-matted body so entwined with hers, so, so close to hers. It was like they were one.

" ... oh. Oh," she breathed, tapering off. Oh, sweaty-pawed, sweaty-tailed. Basically, her entire pelt matted.

" ... darling," he went, catching his breath, slobbering on her cheek. "Y-you ... you were great."

She swallowed, flushing. "You, too ... mm ... w-why the compliments?"

"Just giving credit where credit is due. I don't have any ulterior motives, if that's what you're thinking."

"You sure? You don't want another 'spray' of skunk-scent?"

"You got anymore?" he asked, brightly.

"All out," she said, honestly, giggling lightly. "No, you got the whole of me ... "

"Well, it was, like ... you were really energetic this morning. You got my nose good. You're like a, uh ... a dynamo or something, sometimes. You never stop."

"Dynamo? That an engineering term?"

"Does it matter if it is?"

" ... no."

" ... mm," he went, breathing deeply. " ... you smell so good," he whispered. "I can't even explain when you, uh, spray ... I mean, like, you smell better than a flower garden."

A soft, little smile. "Aw ... "

"You do. Uh ... I, uh ... " Shifting his hips, the raccoon slipped out of her body. Making a scrunch-sound as he did so.

"Aw, that's so ... mm, so cute. You make that sound every time you do that," Seldovia breathed, sultrily, paws in her husband's grey and black fur. And brown, too. He was like a patchwork of masks and rings, was the raccoon. She never tired of staring at his body.

" ... cute?" Mortimer asked, swallowing, flopping down next to her. Panting and staring at the ceiling, his forehead-fur matted with sweat. He sighed dreamily, stretching his foot-paws and toes.

" ... mm-hmm. Wow, you are pleased, huh?"

"Aren't you?" he asked honestly, turning his head, meeting her eyes.

A bold, cheeky grin. "Obviously," she whispered, pecking a little kiss on his nose. " ... but the cuteness? That grunt you make when you pull out of me?"

The raccoon flushed, turning his head back to the ceiling. "It ... my thing gets very sensitive after I ... you know, after it happens." His slightly bashful way of saying that, after climax, his coon-hood got sharply sensitive. For a few minutes, he didn't want to move it.

"Then why'd you pull out?" she cooed. "Stay in for a bit, mm?"

"I was shrinking ... starting to, anyway."

"You know, I don't know what it is, but ... you're leaving me a lot of seed lately."

"I've always left you lots," he said, eyes closed, breathing in and out. His tone was almost a 'bragging' tone.

"Heh ... well, I got semen streaming out of me. All down my thighs. Gonna have to wash the sheets."

"We wash 'em every day, anyway."

"You being argumentative?" A raised, playful brow, her bold, striped skunk-tail trapped beneath her back and above the sheets.

"No," he argued, stubbornly.

The skunk giggle-purred. "Mm. That's my boy ... " She shifted onto her side, draping an arm across her husband's chest and belly. "Likes silly arguments, shiny things, and ... skunk pheromones," she breathed.

" ... don't see how any-fur couldn't like the last one. And the first two? Seems perfectly normal to me." He shifted his own body, getting to his side, as well, facing her, chest to her breasts, and his own arm draping over her own side. His trusting, masked face looking into her bold, striped one. Her fur more luxurious. His more 'normal.'

"You get my present yesterday?"

He bit back a smile. "Yes," he said, simply.

"And?"

"And I would've been sitting in that corridor, staring at that stem-bolt all day, if Benji hadn't come and rescued me."

The skunk purred with delight, hugging him, whispering, "So adorable." She had slipped an extra-shiny stem-bolt into Mortimer's toolkit, mixing it in with his engineering tools, beneath them all. When the raccoon had opened the kit, while updating the particle strength of the phase turrets (in preparation for any potential pirate attacks), and had sifted through the tools, his eyes caught sight of the extra-shiny stem-bolt. Shiny object! Shiny objects are good, his mind seemed to say, with a certain amount of glee. He'd grabbed it, eyes widening, and had proceeded to stare at it and touch it and hold it up to the lights and rub it against his cheeks. For maybe a good ten minutes, he'd been doing that, until Benji, arriving to assist him, had snapped him out of it. Mortimer had felt extremely silly, afterward.

" ... well, it lost me ten minutes of productivity." He was blushing as he said this.

"Breeding three times a day loses you a lot more than that, and you don't mind the breeding."

" ... well," he relented.

" ... so, what's one shiny object going to hurt? You deserve a shiny object now and then. You know you love them," was the skunk's tempting, cheeky tease.

"They put me in a giddy trance, though."

"I know." A chuckle-purr, her tail freed, and beginning to waft about, so luxuriously, behind her. "It makes me wanna ... like, throw myself at you, or get you on all fours and 'ravish' you."

"Ravish me?"

" ... well, maybe you'd be the one doing the ravishing. But you know what I mean."

"I've never known you to not heed an impulse," the raccoon said, staring into her eyes, nose touching hers. Lips so, so close. He could almost taste her.

"Think I should resist? That what you want?" the skunk whispered, her luxurious, night-and-day tail rising up like a sail behind her. Before settling back down to the sheets. Her breasts, hanging loosely, like white mounds.

"Saying you're incorrigible. Even more than me."

"That's an argument that neither of us is gonna win, darling. I think that one's a draw," the skunk breathed, kissing his lips, in a sweet, simmering meeting of maws. They could definitely taste each other, now.

Amelie was the first one to arrive in Ops, all prim and pretty, tall-eared and bob-tailed. She and Wheldon had eaten breakfast (very fulfilling), done their breeding (very, very fulfilling!), and showered. And were ready for all the tasks on tab for this morning. For it was mid-morning, now, 0910. Apparently, all her friends were running behind schedule. But she wouldn't begrudge them the odd 'late start.' She'd had a few of those (with Wheldon, of course) before. The other day, in fact.

As far as itinerary, any new guests shouldn't be arriving until tonight. That would give the snow rabbit time to analyze some more scans of the planet below. Not because it was a priority for her. But because it was something that needed doing. Peregrine didn't want anyone physically going down there right now. He wanted all runabouts and crew-furs present, in case of pirate attack. Besides, the crew's primary focus, right now, was to turn this station into a stopping-point, a community on the frontier. They were getting closer toward that goal. Amelie was proud to be a part of that. Though no new furs had decided to 'lay anchor' on the station, word had definitely spread that Redwing was a good place to stop at, if only for rest and relaxation. None of the shops on the Promenade were open, of course.

While the snow rabbit was lost in thought, the lift whirred into view. Her husband, Wheldon, was in it. With Desmond, the station's third rabbit. And Desmond looked rather wobbly.

"Is he ill?" Amelie asked, raising a brow.

Wheldon made a face, shaking his head. "Tipsy," he went, with a dry, exasperated look. "On ... "

" ... cow's milk," Amelie finished, nodding. That should've been her first notion. Sighing and stepping away from her station, she went to help her husband carry the other rabbit. "Does Hyacinth know you're out of your quarters?" she asked Desmond, gently grabbing one of his arms. Wheldon holding the other.

" ... I hopped!" was all Desmond said, ears twiddling in aimless fashion. His toffee-colored fur still a bit damp. "I feel ... mm ... " He began to hop away, his loping legs and big, rabbit foot-paws starting to bounce, but Wheldon restrained him.

"Oh, no, you don't. You're gonna end up running into something, or falling over a railing."

"I feel perfectly walkingly able to ... walkable," Desmond said, smiling, nodding. Obviously having mixed up his words. " ... I had a shower in the milk," he admitted.

Amelie raised a brow. "That is highly unlikely."

"I did!"

"I believe you had 'milk in the shower,' is what you meant," the snow rabbit corrected, her bobtail flicking like a holy-white flame, and her ears twiddling some. Twiddle-twiddle.

"How much milk does Hyacinth make, anyway?" Wheldon posed. "She's like a fountain of the stuff ... "

" ... she is a cow," Amelie said, as they guided Desmond to a chair. "We had her milk just the other day, did we not? You seemed to enjoy it."

"I did. I'm just ... I mean, you'd think, with breasts like those ... "

" ... yes?" Amelie asked, raising her brow.

" ... well, I dunno. Just, uh ... I dunno," he said, wisely sidetracking himself. And not finishing whatever thought had been in his head.

"If you want me to have bigger breasts, and to produce milk, as well, you'll have to get me pregnant," Amelie said.

"I plan on it. Someday, I mean," Wheldon amended. Being serious about it, too. "I do wanna have a baby with you."

Amelie, sitting the quiet, hazy Desmond down in a chair near the comm station, looked to Wheldon. "A baby?"

"Three."

"Three?" Amelie straightened, eye-smiling. "You want me to have three babies?"

"Us. We'd have ... well, you'd 'have,' but it'd be our family. I'd take care of all of you, and ... I mean, not right now. In a few years, though, don't you think? When the station's bustling and little settlements are being made on the planet? We could live in nature together on the planet, or even stay up here, and ... just with our family, and ... "

" ... that is," Amelie breathed, leaning closer to her husband, "a very romantic, very appealing ... " She swallowed, breathing deep. " ... scenario."

"It's what I want," was Wheldon's honest, returned whisper.

" ... and you shall have it. As you said, though: in a few years. There is no rush."

"I'd never dream of rushing you."

"No? You have been known to be very over-eager."

"I'm a rabbit," Wheldon said, smiling widely.

"Really?" was her dry, eye-sparking tease.

Desmond, blinking a few times, tried to stand up and move away. "I'm not even milking on tips ... tipsy."

"You are tipsy on milk, yes," Amelie insisted, logically. "Sit down."

" ... dunno what the big deal even is, in ... what'n it is."

"Desmond, we just don't want you to fall over something or stick your paw in some exposed circuitry or something," Wheldon said. "Besides, you should see Amelie when she has your wife's milk."

"Wheldon ... "

" ... she gets really, really ... uh ... "

Amelie was looking at her husband with a level, stern, unblinking gaze.

" ... uh, she's always well-behaved."

"Indeed," Amelie said, ears waggling and bobtail flickering. But she eye-smiled as she said this. And, Wheldon catching that, giggle-mewed. Snow rabbits were very composed, true, and liked to keep that composure when in public. But, in private, during breeding, they could 'let go' a little bit. Thaw a little. Never melt, but thaw. For a while, anyway. Breeding, for them, was more than biological release, it was also emotional release. The purest form of expression for snow rabbits. And Amelie supposed it must be the purest form of expression for every-fur. What could be purer than the melding together of bodies, in the name of love?

"Does Hyacinth know you're already up here?" Wheldon asked Desmond.

" ... we were getting dressed. I got dressed first, and I up'n hopped ... in."

"You felt like hopping?" Amelie asked.

"Mm." A light, lazy, hazy-headed nod, fully sitting down, again, relaxing, eyes shut.

"His shirt's on inside out," Wheldon noted. "Us rabbits can lope, though. I mean, if he's tipsy on milk, he could've out-paced Hyacinth easy."

As if on cue, the lift whirred back into view, the brown Swiss stepping off, ears flapping against her doe-eyed, bovine head, hoof-like hands adjusting her shirt. Her notable breasts moving slightly, even in spite of her bra and uniform. "Darling, there you are." A light, throaty moo-sound. "I don't know what got into him," the cow explained, calmly, soothingly, looking to Amelie. "He normally just lays in bed, all sprawled out ... after he's had his milk. Or just stays in my lap. He drank in the shower this time, and ... while we were drying off, he bounced away."

"He claimed he had a desire to 'hop'. I suggest you sit with him in the commander's office. There is a couch in there. It is currently vacant," Amelie said, helpfully.

"Okay. He'll be fine in about ten minutes. It'll wear off," Hyacinth assured. The cow gave one of those big, docile smiles, helping Desmond up to his foot-paws, leading him into the Commander's office, which overlooked Ops.

Which left Amelie and Wheldon alone in the main room here, no one else having arrived yet. They were probably still showering and dressing.

"You've never acted silly like that, have you, darling?" Wheldon teased after a moment, gently taking his wife's paw and kissing it. Eyes closed, and kissing, kissing her paw, before lifting his muzzle, reopening his eyes to meet her gaze.

"If I have, it must've been because of you."

"Saying I'm your whisky? I'm your wine? I'm your cow's milk?"

"Among other things."

"Mm ... that's so romantic to say," Wheldon went, sucking on her fingers. "Mm."

"I shall not be able to work my computer consoles," was her prim observation, "if you are sucking on my paw."

"Oh, well," was Wheldon's response, eyes sparkling as he continued to suck on her fingers, a paw going to her uniform and rubbing round the back of it.

Closing her eyes, the snow rabbit sat on the edge of the computer console, and nodded, kissing her husband's head, mouthing at his head-fur. Oh, well, indeed. Such was the lovely tapestry of life.