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Sipping hot, mulled cider from a Styrofoam cup, the winter-dressed mouse (wearing a jacket, wooly hat, ear mittens ... and, yes, even a full-length tail-sock) stood beneath the red-painted porch of the country farm market. Work was done for the day. Finally. As a trusted employee, he had a key. So, he was the last one here. It was after 6 PM. Already inky dark. Rainy and in the low-40's, with a breeze. One of those nights where all your plans were in a holding pattern. Where you survived on the stored sustenance of hopes and dreams.

His long whiskers twitch-twitched, glistening a ghostly bit (from the cold, slanting drizzle), ever-pink nose sniffing thoroughly. As it often did. (Mouse noses were prone to activity; just one of many so-dubbed ‘mousey motions.') The steam from his drink, meanwhile, wafted about his wheat-furred cheeks. It was a pleasant, cinnamon-spicy aroma. A little ginger, too? And orange, maybe? He began nibbling on the edge of the disposable cup. With his big, rodent buckteeth.

Distractedly.

Nibble-nibble.

Pause.

Nibble.

Then making a slight face. Styrofoam isn't for eating, Field. Even if you are hungry. To which he thought-replied (as sanely as he could): I'm not even eating it, am I? Can't a mouse nibble anything anymore? Goodness.

He made himself stop, though. Didn't want to break the cup and have the cider leak out. That wouldn't be good. He shook his head at the image, shifting his weight from one trim hip to the other. And that led to a sort of swaying. Back and forth, tail like a metronome. Shaking slightly. Snaking. Waving.

Another small sip. Barely audible. He wasn't one to slurp. He hated when furs slurped their drinks. Or soup. Slurp, slurp, slurp. No, sir. I have sensitive ears, he reasoned. I don't need grating sounds. I need nice noises. Like, uh ... squeaks and chitters. And purrs and murrs. And the crackle of a nice fire. Well, a corn stove fire, anyway. There wasn't any crackle to that. More like a ‘whir.' Cause of the augur. Okay, corn stove fires. Indy Car engines! For sure. Yes. Um, wheat stalks blowing and bowing in a breeze. That rustling, wavy sound? Corn stalks, also. Field sounds. Music my namesakes make.

How's that for a tongue-twister?

Pause.

Sip.

Slow breath.

I think I like cider slushes more than hot cider, he thought.

Yeah, I think I do.

Just that, you know, tonight's not a ‘slush' night. Else I would've gotten that, instead.

Another pause.

I wonder if they're really gonna sell cider donuts next year? I could totally go for that. Now and then. Don't wanna gorge or anything. I gotta keep my fit figure.

He licked his lips.

I could go for some ...

... he looked around. Discreetly. Before he finished the thought ...

... I could go for some pussy.

Eating.

I, uh ... that'd take care of the cold AND the hunger.

Wouldn't it?

Mm ...

... sorry, he apologized. To himself. Quickly. Sorry. Cause he was making himself blush. And he rubbed at his cheeks with his free paw. Blowing out air. Clearing his throat. And still swaying, mind.

Still swaying.

Continuing to keep himself warm (and occupied) until his winged wife arrived to pick him up. Yeah. Waiting. Which, hopefully, wouldn't be a long wait. She was running a few minutes behind. But he tried not to dwell on that. Instead, just a squeaky, little sigh (and not the first), gradually losing himself in thought. Slowly. Again (yes, again). Swaying more and more. He was prone (quite often) to much and many imaginings. To put it whimsically. Being the dreamy, artistic sort. Being a romantic. Maybe they weren't the most sophisticated imaginings ...

... but, still.

That's what they were.

He thought of the game (the glorious game!) from the other day. As a Hoosier, he couldn't help but come back to that. Vividly. Yes, yes, another never-say-die, heroic comeback by the home-state Colts! Against the arrogant, most-hated rival. The Patriots. He was seriously going to remember that night forever. What a stunning result. And, furthermore, what satisfaction the mouse took in seeing the media fall over itself to make excuses for New England. Giving the Colts no credit for stopping them. For turning the tables. For scoring more freaking points. For actually winning the game!

"Who owns who, huh? Who's in whose head?" he mumble-muttered out loud.

Pause.

"Man, that was great," he whispered, grinning. Buckteeth jutting out of his mouth. Dimples showing on his twitchy cheeks. It was. It had been awesome. Still, he didn't want to play them again. In the playoffs. Which he just knew was going to happen. He knew it. Totally. This rivalry was too literary, too epic to not come to that. But he absolutely dreaded the possibility, all the same. It was too stressful. It was seriously going to do him a mischief.

Anyway, don't think that far ahead.

What happens with you, right, is that you get all tipsy and drunk off your teams' successes? Then you get a bit overconfident. And then when they DO lose, you get all crushed and curl up in a ball. You just gotta enjoy it without getting carried away. Which, really, was easier said than done. Cause he was a sensitive, emotional thing. The anxious type. Though nowhere near as anxious as he used to be. He'd certainly matured over the years.

A huff, sending moisture-droplets blowing off his whisker-tips. Yes. Field, despite his quietness, his shyness, was a very competitive mouse. Maybe even because of that, come to think of it. He had a devotion to him, a seriousness. A drive. And got attached to things.

Much squeaking had gone on during that contest. Oh, yes. Much of it angry and despondent, to start. And then slowly dawning into euphoria. Not that he hadn't believed they could win. His Cardiac Colts. But he'd certainly been prepared for the worst. His teams, all his Hoosier teams, had reputations. As ‘chokers.' It was hard to shake a stigma like that. Even after disproving it once or twice. You had to repeatedly buck that trend before you could shake all doubts.

Repeatedly.

It was an instant classic, though. That game. One of the best of all time. Much squeaking, indeed. And, uh ...

... afterward.

As well.

There had been.

He and Adelaide (okay, especially Field, mostly Field) had been pretty high on adrenaline. Neither had been able to sleep. Physically primed. Emotionally stoked. And the resulting, well-after-midnight celebration had been, uh ... um ...

... mm-m.

Sex.

With bats.

Oh, gosh.

Field almost dropped his cider cup. Right then and there, at the memory. It bobbled in his paws, the contents sloshing. Bashfully, he cleared his throat and looked around. His heart was already beating faster. Faster. Already in a state of ‘pre-swoon.' Not that ... not that love-making (to put it more politely) wasn't great all the time. But it had been extra-great on Sunday night. It was, like ... well, Monday morning, technically. But it had been such a coronation of building, rising desire. Viscerally physical. (He wondered if those two words meant the same thing.) It had been a quaking release of the inexpressible.

It had been ...

... just ... y-yeah.

He swallowed.

Headlights.

Blink?

And the rural-bred mouse (bred, breeding ... h-mm) blinked more, squinting. Clumsily shaking himself out of his head. Out of his pleasing daydreams. Or, uh, evening-dreams. Back into more immediate reality. Field, you're an effeminate male. You're not supposed to have all these testosterone-heavy thoughts: sex and sports!

Behave yourself.

Be good.

Come on.

He bit back a smile. Almost a mischievous one, at that.

Putting a paw above his eyes, now. Looking. Not able to discern the outline and color of their old, dusty pick-up truck. Not until it slowed and turned onto the gravel parking lot, the tires crunching on the rocks. Coming to a gradual stop. Adelaide giving a pink-pawed, cast-in-shadow wave from the driver's seat. And, what was more, giving him a ‘caress' with those telepathic ‘feelers' of hers. That mental presence. That slight force. Like an emotional nuzzle that floated into his head. Not able to be described, really, but ...

... something that comforted him greatly.

He sighed.

Mm-hmm.

And immediately (and excitedly) scurried for the passenger side, getting in, shutting the door. Putting on his seatbelt (even though the drive home was only a mile) and whispering, "Hey." In that soft, wispy way of his. There was no mistaking his effeminate qualities. It was in his voice and mannerisms. His sensitivity. His artistry. And though he wasn't telepathic like his wife, he was very empathic. Very observant. A good listener (with those ears, he had to be).

Still, I'm male, he thought.

And I like it.

Maybe not machismo male, but ...

... Adelaide, regardless, was the dominant partner in this mate-ship. And there had never been any challenge to that on Field's part.

"Hey, yourself," was the warm response. Followed immediately with, "What you smiling about?"

"Seeing you," he said, innocently. With a small, squeaky swoon.

"Aw ... " Sweet thing, she thought. " ... sorry if I was a little late. Ketchy's at our house. Her and Denali. They're gonna have supper with us, since ... you have tomorrow off, right?"

"Mm-hmm." He wriggled a bit, adjusting the seatbelt strap. "Thankfully. I worked in the store today, mostly. But I had to spend a few hours in the melon patch. Sticky-purrs galore! And they got on me!"

"I think you're about to give me an exaggerated account of a great sticky-burr battle."

" ... no." Pause. " ... they got all on me," he went, quickly, almost forgetting to breathe, wide-eyed and unintentionally cute, "and I took the hoe and cut the burr-plants up. And then I threw them. And then I dropped old melons on them, too."

"And I bet they'll think twice about sticking to you again," she teased.

"Well, they should." Whiskers twitching. Eyes still wide. Before blinking and returning to normal. "I hate sticky-burrs. It's bad enough that we have to take flea and tick medicines, but ... why can't they come up with a burr-repellent? To keep burrs off?"

"Now that's just being silly," she said, warmly.

"No. If they can land on the moon forty years ago ... "

" ... Field."

" ... they can come up with something to keep sticky burrs out of fur today. I swear, there was, like, twenty-hundred on me."

"That's not even a number."

"Well ... maybe not," he decided. "But that's the only thing I can think of to describe how many sticky ... "

" ... darling, you're obsessing," she went, gently. The mouse had a tendency to do that. She often had to take him by the tail and reel him back in. Sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively. "Like I was saying, I don't have to be at work ‘til noon tomorrow, so ... thought we'd all do something together. You and me and Ketchy and Denali. Tonight. Since you're gonna be setting up all your grandma's Christmas stuff this weekend. So, we can't do much then." Field's grandmother had loads of German Christmas dishes. And other decorations. And always put them up in time for Thanksgiving. It took days, literally. All of it was in her basement, in plastic containers.

"That's fine." A little nod. "That where Akira is? With them?" He'd noticed their daughter wasn't in the truck. Their four year-old. Their mauve-furred mouse-bat. She always made her presence known. That was a polite way of saying: she was a paw-ful.

"Mm-hmm."

Another nod, and then a deep, comically cute breath. "When are we getting our tree? Our Christmas tree?"

"Next weekend. Not this one, but ... next. That's when we usually do it. Few days after Thanksgiving." A pause, giving him a glance. "That's when we both get our next paychecks, too. How about I put it like that."

"H-heh. Yeah ... well, I'm not being impatient. I mean, it's not like I live for the winter. For the holidays. I'm not one for big, honkin' ... twenty, thirty-fur get togethers. And stuff." He looked out the window. "You know how weird my family is. How conservative and stuff."

"Mm-hmm," was Adelaide's response. She knew. It had taken them a few years to accept that Field had married a bat. Even then, they were wary of her, as if she was secretly a vampire or something.

"It's always politics and religion at the table. Always ... feuds and stuff. I don't know. They don't communicate very well." Whiskers twitched again. "I didn't ... until I met you."

"That's not true. You were never a bad communicator. You were just very shy."

"You helped me to open up, though."

She smiled, eyes on the road.

"But this isn't even my favorite time of the year," he continued. "I like summer the most."

"I know. Cause you can go around outside all day. With no shirt." A deliberate pause. "And less than that, sometimes."

"Not just that," he defended, shyly, ears turning rosy-pink beneath their ‘mittens.' He didn't even bother to refute her words. Only qualify them. "No, I like ... I like being outside, in general. And playing. And ... scurrying. You can do more. And there's fresh fruits and vegetables. And auto races," he said. "I like all the seasons. I like having every one of them." That was one thing Indiana had: all four seasons. " ... I just, you know, don't like the ice and getting stuck inside and ... getting colds." A pause, continuing, "We're always financially struggling. And it just seems more pressing in the winter. You know? I mean, the mood is different. It just seems harder than the summer. Like the walls begin to close in on us."

"I know. Don't worry about it."

"I'm not ... I'm just saying, is all."

"Well, I think you're a little hyped up. Just calm down, mm?" she prodded, turning onto their gravel road. The rain had picked up in the past minute. Hitting the windshield with audible pat-pat-pats. The windshield wipers swishing this way. And that. This way. That.

Very hypnotic.

Field looked at them, and ...

... blinked.

Several times.

Whiskers going every which way.

Adelaide giggle-chittered. "You're so damn adorable. You don't even know it." Her voice took on a sultriness. The kind that came with intimate whispers. The Indiana bat (that was her actual species; though she'd been born in Australia) could see their old farm-house, now, through the rain, the darkness. She could see the lights. "Slow day, I take it? At the orchard? Aside from burr infestations?"

"We had some customers." A pause. Deep breath. And sighing, whiskers going every which way. "Not that many, honestly. Mostly just storing up on cider and frozen pies. I didn't find any wheat pennies, either. I'm at 107, now ... so, I guess I can't complain." The farm market would be closing for the season in another week. Which meant, for Field, less money to earn. In the past, he would work at Adelaide's library (in town) during the winter. When they needed him. But he wasn't sure they would this year. In fact, he was pretty certain they wouldn't. He would find something. He would manage. The both of them would. Well, the three of them (when you included Akira).

The only good thing, he supposed, was that he'd be able to spend more time with their daughter. As it was, now, they took turns watching her. Staying at home. They sometimes left her with Field's parents, but they didn't like to rely on them overly-much anymore. And they obviously couldn't afford to pay anyone to watch her. And really didn't want to, even if they could.

They were very good at managing their finances, though.

Making do with that they had.

Winter, as Field had said, was always harder than summer, but they had never failed to get through it.

He had faith.

I have faith.

Even if it was a more metaphysical, open faith than it used to be. Less dogmatic, nowadays. Maybe more, uh ... mouse-matic. He chided himself mentally for even thinking such a cheesy joke.

Be serious, Field.

Seriously.

Adelaide turned the truck into their driveway. "Butler plays Minnesota tomorrow night. They have a rodent mascot."

"Minnesota? Yeah, golden gophers." A frown-face. "I don't root for gophers."

"Only mouses, huh?"

"Well, no teams have mouse mascots." The frown disappeared. Replaced by an earnest look of wonderment. "Missed opportunity, if you ask me! I mean, for real ... "

Adelaide chuckled lightly. "What about bats, huh?"

"I like bats," he whispered, certainly.

"How much?"

A shy giggle. " ... uh ... a lot. A big lot."

Her fangs showed.

" ... Butler better win, though," he commented. His competitive juices began to flow again. His expression changing on a dime. "It's a big game."

She gave him a look as she parked. "You say that about every game. In every sport."

"That's cause it's always true!" was the squeaky insistence.

"Okay, okay ... whatever you say. My trim, toned ... mm-m, earthy, tail-socked gentle-mouse." A hot chitter-sound. Hotter. Hottest. "You're so demure, yet ... so passionate, on the other paw." She rubbed her neck. "And, then, just now and then, you get feisty. Like right now."

"I'm not bein' feisty ... "

"You are." A slight nod. "Not that I don't prefer my passionate, sweet romantic. My submissive thing. I believe I do. But, uh ... h-heh. Sometimes, you know ... it's nice to turn the tables a bit. Spice of life and all. Variety. And ... " Rambling, she turned off the key. And took it out. " ... I can't resist you in those winter get-ups. You know that. Tail-sock and ear-mittens?" A breath. "It's making me horny," she said, very bluntly. "You look like a whiskered Christmas present. I have this animal urge to unwrap you. Under a tree."

"Adelaide ... " A big-time blush beneath his cheek-fur. Looking to his left, and then to his right. And then back to her.

"Modesty. Mm-m ... good, good ... "

He rubbed his cheeks, ears burning beneath those mittens, taking off his seatbelt and only saying, "We have guests over. We can't ... we can't do that right now." A swallow. "Can we?" A quick twitch. "No, no ... no, we can't. I, uh, don't think." Another twitch. "Well, maybe ... well, no," he decided. Oh, boy.

She extended those telepathic feelers. Again. Into his head. Whispering, "Says who?"

" ... good ... d-decorum. Says." A slow inhale. Eyes closing. "Oh, my gosh ... w-what are you doing." He lost his breath.

"Making you feel good. Don't fight it."

His chest filled with air. Inhaling. Her telepathic feelers, those invisible fingers, that prowess. Combing through his consciousness. He didn't understand how that worked. What energies were involved. But ... " ... I'm gonna ... melt," he mouthed. Barely audible. Feeling extremely amorous. Latently, he had already been. But she was using her abilities to bring all of that to the immediate foreground. All of it. Desire. Emotion. Making it very hard for him to think.

"Mm-m?" She stopped with the telepathic stimulation. "Melt away, mousey."

"B-but ... "

"But our love is art, and art ... is beyond decorum, beyond legislation," she went, leaning in. And tilting her head, pressing into him. Grabbing his sides with her winged arms. Pulling him into a smoldering, succulent kiss, which lasted maybe about six seconds. " ... oh," she sighed, leaning back. Letting him go. A cheeky, playful grin. "But there's something to be said for the right time and the ... right place, I guess," she whispered. "For self-control." She pulled back a bit. "Just take that as a taste of what's to come."

A slightly-dumb, submissive nod. A taste. Of what was to, uh ... wait. Hold on. "Tastes like ... " And then a sudden frown-face, slipping out of his revelry. " ... tastes like crickets!" Bats needed bugs in their diet. He didn't like them. In fact, he pretty much didn't eat meat. But Adelaide, cause she was a toothy cheek, would slip them into his food sometimes. And get him to unwittingly eat them, too. "You had cricket chips earlier. I can tell."

"Heh! Right ... " Affection spilling out of her gaze. " ... come on," she whispered, lovingly. And they got out of the truck and hurried for the house. Through the rain.

And, as soon as they got past the front door ...

" ... daddy!"

"Mmf!" went Field, almost toppling over. As Akira launched herself, with a great scurry-flap, at his leg. And latched on. Looking up with a toothy, little grin of her own. That was Adelaide's grin, alright. Akira had gotten some of Field's physical features. But the smile was Adelaide's. It was so revealing, so humbling to see things like that, to recognize them. In your child. The tangible byproducts of love. That which you've given to the world. More than your career or your art. That is your legacy, right there. Hugging your leg.

"You smells like gall-uh ah-pulls, da. I wanna lotsa cider." She let go of him and snatched his empty, lightweight cup. "S'all gone!" was her disappointed pout. Sticking her nose into it. Sniffing. Very mouse-like. And she tossed the cup aside, shaking her head. This was no good. This was no good, at all.

"Akira, don't make messes. Please," Field went, whiskers twitching. He picked up the cup. Not much of a mess. But, still. The house was usually very tidy. He saw to that. Mouses couldn't handle anything less.

"I'm pretty sure daddy's not a ‘gala,' sweetie," Adelaide chimed in, smartly, smoothly. Steamily. Not-so-discreetly glancing at her husband's soft, short, honey-tan fur. Her angular, swept-back ears perking a little. Her rudder-ish tail giving a few steers as she slanted her weight to one fertile, curved hip. "No, he's definitely ... " Her dexterous tongue hung out of her maw for a moment, between those sharp, pearly-white fangs. And it came back in as she finished, " ... definitely a golden delicious."

"How's come?" Akira asked, wide-eyed. Looking up. Now, that was a very Field-like expression. No mistake.

The bat just grinned at her husband, whilst responding, verbally, to her daughter. One of those hungry ‘I am going to eat you' grins. "Cause mommy's a connoisseur."

"Wha? Con sir?" the mouse-bat went, frown-facing. She shook her head and flapped her winged arms again, scurrying. In a circle, at first, and then away. Mommy and daddy didn't make sense a lot of the times, did they? And Akira was hungry. So, she went toward the kitchen ...

... just as Ketchy came out of it. "Whoa, there ... h-heh." The brown squirrel side-stepped with quick, perfect agility. Having a limber body. Her luxurious bush-tail flittering behind her. "You two fine with spaghetti? Or, uh ... rotini, I mean? And bread? I think you have celery in the fridge, too," she asked her friends. "Am I supposed to look through your fridge? I'm afraid I'm gonna open a container and find bugs."

"You will," Field said, quietly, with a frown.

Adelaide chittered. "You're fine, Ketchy. And you don't need to prepare anything. Field can do it."

"She can't cook," the mouse said, tilting his head at his mate. "She burns grilled cheese when she makes it for me."

"Don't listen to him," the bat told the brown squirrel.

Ketchy waved a paw. Those two were flirting, right? Were they ever not? The squirrel only said, "Denali's got it. The kitchen stuff. Akira's been helping him."

"That's very domesticated of him," Adelaide teased, of Ketchy's husband (who was an otter). "Preparing supper."

"He comes from a family where preparing meals is a passion. Only, they eat lots of fish. They have a hundred different ways to serve it." A slight head-tilt. "He's okay with pasta, though."

"So's Field," Adelaide said, turning Ketchy's words into double-entendre. The pink-furred bat was in rare form tonight. Yes, this was one of those nights. It might've been cold and miserable outside, but inside? It was simmering with the promise of something great. She added, licking her fangs, "He's also okay with ... chocolate, whipped cream, and ... "

" ... Adelaide." His ear-mittens were off, now. And those fleshy dishes turned a deep shade of pink. Almost beet-red.

Ketchy chittered with mirth, putting a paw in front of her muzzle. " ... well ... I ... I shouldn't be saying this." She lowered her voice, making sure her otter was still out of the room. "But I tend to prefer Denali with caramel," she said, pronouncing is ‘car-mull.' In her Hoosier dialect. "Uh ... you know what I mean? When I'm ‘snacking' on him? I mean, if we even use food. Which isn't really that often, honestly. But, you know ... "

"Heh! I do. I do ... always a good choice. Though sticky," Adelaide agreed, as they began to move toward the kitchen. "Field goes great with vanilla."

"You should try vanilla icing, then. Like the kind you put on cakes? Maybe even, uh, feed him vanilla wafers while ... you feed on the icing."

"Ooh ... " Adelaide perked with approval. Making a mental note.

"Frankly, if you don't mind me saying," the squirrel added, feeling compelled. "Field reminds me of butterscotch. That fur. His personality."

Adelaide stretched her winged arms. " ... that, too," she breathed, hotly. "That, too." A nod. "Butterscotch? That's, like ... sunshine in the mouth. That's what it tastes like. I know what you mean. Field and butterscotch pudding." A veritable purr. Nodding. "Yeah, vanilla is sweet and pure. Butterscotch is warm and mellow. He's like a mix of those. Flavors. I don't think he's got any chocolate in him at all. Cause ... chocolate ... "

" ... is a little more decadent," Ketchy added, with a chitter.

"It can be."

"What does that make you?" Ketchy pressed.

"Cotton candy." A grin.

Field, standing shyly to the side, ears beet-red and pulsing with blood, said, "I, uh ... I ... " Stammering. " ... I don't know what we're talking about anymore, but I need some water." He wriggled in between the two femmes. Holding his breath. And then sighing once he got past them and into the kitchen. While they stayed just outside the entrance, doing that girl-talk or whatever it was. Not that Field and Adelaide didn't talk that way, themselves, but ...

... well, it was different when others joined in.

It was more awkward.

For me, anyway.

" ... hey, Field," Denali said, from the stove. "I picked up a stowaway."

The mouse's dimples began to show on his furred cheeks. He put his paws on his hips. Rather effeminately. "Akira, get off."

"But I's wanna sail somewheres!"

"Otters aren't boats."

"They has rudders!" Akira insisted. And she was, indeed, hugging that rudder-tail of Denali's. Big an' sturdy, fur colored a rich-brown.

"Come on. Be a good girl," the mouse went, prying his daughter off their guest. Apologizing for her.

"Don't worry about it. My brother's kid, Wobby ... well, Wabash. Rhine and Ori's son? He's more a paw-ful than Akira is. Believe me. I'm not entirely unused to it."

Akira, removed from Denali's tail, began to grab at her dad's. Reeling it in like it was a fishing line. And tugging on it.

Field's eyes widened a bit with each tug. But, otherwise, he ignored her (or tried to), asking the otter, "Need any help?"

"Naw. Everything's almost done. Nothing too fancy. Table's set, so ... just a few more minutes of boiling and baking."

The mouse nodded, whiskers a-twitch, and then ...

" ... daaaaaaaddy."

"What?" He finally turned and took his own tail from her. Holding it protectively.

"I'm hung-REE!"

"I know. Just hold on," he said, softly. "Go see mommy. Or, uh ... go play with Ketchy's tail, instead."

The mouse-bat scurried off.

And Field exhaled. With slight exhaustion. Smiling bashfully at the otter before fetching a glass of water. At the sink. "I love her. It's just ... sometimes ... I need a few moments, you know? To recover. I've had a long day, too." He took a few sips of the water. No ice. And then put the glass down.

"Heh. Well, she's growing up fast."

A small twitch. "That she is," the mouse whispered. "Yeah." He rubbed his face. "Mm. It's already dark. I mean, that makes it feel like the day is ... it messes me up. When it's dark all the time. I don't know if the day's longer or shorter."

"Still twenty-four hours. It's all psychological."

"I guess." He nodded, leaning against the kitchen table. "Um, hey ... I was gonna ask you something. A favor."

"Yeah?" The otter raised a brow, turning off the burners on the stove. And then turning off the oven. Opening it. Putting on a ‘paw-glove.' Removing a pan of buttered garlic bread.

"Well, Christmas is coming up."

A nod, turning around to face the mouse. Leaning against the stove. He was a few inches taller.

"I can't get Adelaide anything ... without her finding out what it is." He tried to explain this without stumbling over his words. "Cause, uh, when ... " A shy look. " ... cause when we're intimate, we telepathically, uh ... and stuff. Things."

The otter was amused. "Things? Go on ... "

A twitchy, honey-tan breath. " ... like, well ... bottom line is that she ends up with all my memories and stuff. I mean, she can sense things normally. General things. But when those fangs go in my neck? She has access to all specifics. Details. And vice versa."

A casual grin. "So, when you fuck, you're joining more than body? But mind? I already knew that." Not from experience, but ... just common knowledge. In fact, the otter often teased the mouse about it. Specifically wanting to know what orgasm felt like for femmes. Field knew. Because of that telepathic link with Adelaide. Not only did their memories merge during intercourse, but their physical sensations did, too. They could literally feel each other's ... pleasure.

And the otter didn't know any other guy mated to a bat, so ... Field was the only one who could personally tell him. Well, Ketchy could tell him. Obviously. But Field could tell him from a male's perspective. He could compare the two.

Not that it was vital to know, but, uh ...

... the otter was curious.

"I know, but ... are you listening? Denali?"

A blink. Pupils dilated. "Yeah ... yeah, sure." He put on a serious face. "Yes."

The mouse squinted, tilting his head. "Mm," he went. "And we don't ... F-word," he said, too modest to say such a thing. "We make love."

"Ah." An understanding nod. And then a sly, "Yeah, right. Come on, Field. You can say it. You're not gonna get your mouth washed out with soap."

He just bit back a smile. It wasn't that he never, ever cursed. But it was a rare thing for him. Clearing his throat, continuing, "Anyway, so she'll know what I'm getting her. And I want it to be a surprise this year."

"But if you tell me what to get her on your behalf, she'll still know," Denali pointed out, smartly. Rudder-tail steering back and forth. Like, well ... a rudder.

"Yes, but not if I give you, like, a list of five things ... and you randomly choose ONE of them. Then she'll have an idea, but she won't know for sure."

"I don't know, Field," the otter went. "This sounds like a plot on one of those sitcoms. It's gonna go hilariously wrong."

"No, no. It won't. I promise," he assured, squeakily. "Anyway, I could ask my parents, but ... they ... you're more understanding. It's easier to talk to you."

"Heh. Thanks. I guess." A genuine smile.

"So, you'll do it? I mean, I'll give you a list next time I see you, and ... you choose something off there. I'll give you the money for it, of course. And then you buy it, give it to me, and I hide it, and ... no, wait. Dammit." A twitch.

"Heh. Not the F-word, but ... it's a start," Denali said.

"Mm?" A blink. "Oh. Well ... Adelaide says I'm feisty today. I didn't think I was. But I guess that's proof of it."

A chuckle.

"But she'll know where I've hidden it. The gift. Okay, you have to buy it and hide it on my behalf, and then ... before Christmas, I'll pick it up. Cause she's toothy. She'll get into it before-paw, if she's able. Or at least try and peek."

The otter just nodded. "No secrets between you two, huh? Ever?"

"Kinda impossible," the mouse said. "It's why bats have the lowest divorce rate of any furry species. Full disclosure, and ... very intimate ... very intimate kinds of knowing. It's fierce. It's full-out. It's ... addicting. Like a drug." He clasped his paws together, fingers meshing. "Like symbiosis. They say that when bats DO break up, they go through withdrawals. Like, actual withdrawals. From not having that, uh ... " ... well ... no reason to go on about too many details.

He shuddered to think of being without her, though. Adelaide. They'd been married five years, now. They'd come a long way together. He was in love with her so badly. So much. He was sure that if she ever died, he'd die the day after. From the grief ... and, really, that would be kinda romantic ...

... in a morbid kind of way.

But, still.

Romantic.

"I'll help you out, yeah," Denali said.

A blink from the mouse. Snapping himself out of his head (once more). "M'kay. Thanks." A friendly smile. "I appreciate it." His long, flesh-ropy tail began to side-wind.

"But ... you gotta tell me."

" ... tell you?" was his feigned naivety. Which wasn't that hard. Mouses had innocence down pat.

"Yeah." The otter rubbed a paw-pad on his black, diamond-shaped nose, and then let it fall back down to his side. Waiting. Raising a brow, in a worldly way. "Tell me."

"I, uh ... w-well ... " Shy, squeaky stammering, now.

" ... look, just whisper it in my ear. You're making it into a bigger deal than it really is. We're furs. It's not gonna shock me."

"I know it's not. It's just ... not that simple, uh ... Denali. I can't ... details like that. I mean, it's hard to describe ... " His wispy voice faded in and out. " ... I'm not good with words." Much stammering.

"Write it down, then."

Whiskers twitched. Biting his lip. Blue-grey eyes widening. His big, dishy ears swiveling.

"Uh-uh. You're not gonna ‘cute' me into changing the terms here. That's the deal. You gotta tell me."

Field blew out a breath. Deeply. Cheeks hot beneath his fur. " ... fine ... fine. I can't believe I'm doing this," he whispered, fetching a piece of paper off the Hoosier cabinet. And a pencil. Biting his lip (yet again) with those rodent buckteeth. And scribbling. Looking to the kitchen entryway. Adelaide and Ketchy must've gone to the couch. They weren't standing there anymore.

The otter perked. He'd been trying to get this out of Field for a while. "Heh. You're writin' a lot there. That complicated?"

"It, uh ... not complicated. I just have a hard time being concise," he admitted, truthfully. He tended to think too much. Way too much. He could never simplify his thoughts. But he eventually finished writing, folding the piece of paper and handing it over. "There you go."

Denali reached for it.

Field kept his fingers on it. For just a moment. " ... I wrote a poetic description. Not a blunt one. I didn't wanna be crude."

"I think I can handle some metaphor," he responded. Tugging the note.

And Field nodded, letting go.

And the otter read it. Raising a brow. Grinning. And giving a slight whistle sound. " ... really?"

Field gave a brief, flustered nod, not making eye contact. " ... y-yeah." A deep breath. "I think so, anyway. I mean, that's how I'd compare them."

The otter chuckled, satisfied, pocketing the paper and saying, "'Kay, then. Better strain the noodles and all that. Vegetables. Get everything on the table."

"I'm totally starving," the mouse admitted. He was. I am. Honestly. In more ways than one, but ...

... she was glad they'd skipped dessert. S-so glad. Oh. Cause it had left room for this. Yes, this. Her pink toes curled, drunkenly, in relaxed bliss (though she wasn't really drunk; it just felt like it) ...

... those toes happening to be in the mouse's wet mouth.

" ... t-that tickles just a little, little bit," she said, lightly, but not really caring. Hardly even knowing what she was saying.

A squeak-sound from the throat. Muffled. He suckled, eyes shut, both paws on her leg. Softly. Caressing the underside. Rubbing down, round, to the insides. Thighs. He had such a gentle, consistent touch. The way his paws moved. The way his body flowed into hers. He always did it so reverently.

Her winged arms, with the velvety membranes, were spread open on the bedspread for a savory, singular moment. As she breathed. As she imagined time freezing. Just this, forever. As she registered her own heartbeat. Breasts loosely rising and falling before she moved those arms, those paws. Folded them back up, and forward. To the mouse's head. His head-fur. Fingers grazing his ear-lobes. Those delicate dishes. Just letting him know, subtly, that ...

... her love was not to be outdone by her lust.

There was, in their ‘laying' together, such inherent trust.

There was beauty.

It was a few hours after supper. Just after 10 PM. The rain was falling harder than it had all day. Slanting, slapping against the shingles. Streaming down the windows. But neither of them noticed much. They were too hazily, lazily preoccupied. They'd finally gotten Akira to fall asleep (having to resort to some telepathic persuasion on Adelaide's part). But they, themselves, were not yet tired. Or maybe they were. With the hours they worked, they had to be. But they certainly weren't going to admit it. They certainly weren't going to let it affect them. Not here. Not now. Not when they had so much to share and express.

Not when there was so much left.

Their clothes were on the floor.

Forgotten, dismissed.

Nakedness.

" ... oh, Field," she breathed. He'd spent a few minutes (four or five) making out with her pussy. To put it frankly. But had come up for air, involving himself in other things. His pink nose sniffing wildly. " ... y-you done with ... your breather? Cause I wouldn't mind. I wouldn't." A swallow. "If you went back down ... " She gently retracted her foot-paw. Blunt-clawed toes matted wet with saliva. Uncurling.

An obedient nod, panting. Just at the thought. Whiskers twitching. Glistening with what could only have been the bat's own juices. " ... Adelaide," he went, before proceeding.

"Yeah?"

"You said I was, uh ... well, earlier, you said I was like a golden delicious?" A pause. As she looked to him, deeply. With those pink eyes. "I t-think I know what apple you are." His paws went to her knees. As he sat on his shins. While she, in turn, laid back.

A tender chitter. "You do, huh?"

Nodding like a silhouette in the dimness of the bedroom. Tail trailing off the edge of the bed. Like a rope.

"And what would that be?" she asked, with continued warmth.

"Like, uh, not a specific one. Necessarily. But you know how you get apples ... I'll say autumn apples, in the case. And you make applesauce with them? And then you add in red hots? And you melt them in the sauce ‘til it gets ... "

" ... pink," she finished for him. With a very toothy grin. Nodding, her head-fur rustling on their pillows. Their shared pillows. Her carnation, watermelon, cotton candy pink fur. Bare. All of it. Feminine and free. And appearing slightly darker in the lack of light than it actually was.

"Pink," he echoed. "So, yeah. You're like applesauce with red hots. Cause you're saucy, hot, and, uh ... pink," he repeated.

"H-heh! Heh, Field ... " She chattered ‘til she shook. Loving that image. That sentiment.

Dimples showing, he glanced over at the wall. And then their bedroom window. The rain. Still falling. While his heartbeats, his temperature ... all of it rose. Trying not to laugh, himself, before looking back to her. "I mean, that's what I think, anyway. If I'm being honest."

"That is a VERY mousey thing to say," she observed, happily. "And I'm very flattered."

He reached out for both her paws, silently.

She gave them.

He squeezed and smiled. "I love you," he whispered, his voice wispy. Effeminate.

"I love you, too." No hesitation to the response. Just utter ease. "Now," she said, clearing her throat. "Come on," she urged. Full of urges. "You have work to do." Shifting her hips, swallowing, and laying back again. Legs sinking. Heels to the sheets, but knees falling apart. Opening. Even with the simplicity of the motions, it all felt feverish. And it wasn't long before those heels were lifted back up, though. Finding their way, somehow, onto the mouse's upper back ...

... or something.

Somewhere.

Everything was blurring, anyhow.

... as he, flat on his belly, pushed his active nose between her labia. Muttering with confident passion, before he completely dove in, that, "I don't consider this work."

The statement made her paw-pads sweat.

His head tilting, tongue beginning to peek, and then a slow, sensual swipe. Up, up, between. In and around. Lick, l-lick, and then back out ... and back up, stopping just before her clitoris. Stopping. And his lips just slipping over it. Not sucking, just s-surrounding, strategically touching it with his tongue-tip. Tip. Tap, t-tap ...

... her winged arms opened again. In reaction. In the sheets.

His whiskers in her thick groin-fur. Twitching. As he began to suck, now, outright, two fingers slipping into her femininity (inches below), and ...

" ... oh, gosh ... o-oh, gosh," Ketchy cried, airily, in the backseat of their car, as Denali h-humped her. Sharply. Shortly. With otter playfulness. Confidence. The wheels rocking. The loose seatbelts clanking. The windows fogging up. And then suddenly slowing, easing. All of it. Just like that. Into lazy, intermittent thrusts. Leaving her walls to flutter sporadically, pouting with moisture. Sensitive. Snugging every bit of his healthy, drooling shaft.

They'd made it home.

But they, uh ... hadn't made it to the house.

Obviously.

Well, hey, at least we made it to the backseat, Ketchy reasoned.

That exhibited some self-control, right?

" ... u-uh." The otter sighed, swallowed. " ... d-damn door," he went, almost chuckling. His rudder-tail was long and thick. It wasn't fully fitting back here. "We should get a truck. You can have sex in the backs ... of t-trucks. Easier." It'd been a while since they'd done it in here, even. Impulse had struck, and it was so wet out. Why not crawl into the back seat and have some ...

" ... so, o-open it," she suggested, paws on his back. Fingers spreading, closing. Clutching fur. Near his shoulder-blades. Sweaty paw pads. "If you want."

" ... the door? Still raining," he whispered, hunching over her. Mouthing at her chin. Pecking. A sustained suck, his rounded ears perking. "Hear it?" he panted, lifting his head. Making their noses to touch.

The heat they were both giving off.

Was tremendous.

A weak nod. The constant pitter-pitter, which seemed to rhythmically complement the patter-patter of her heart. Angular ears cocked atop her head. Heavy sigh. " ... w-when did you ever ... breed in the back of a truck?" she asked, curiously. Cause they certainly hadn't.

"Before ... uh, before we met." A pause, licking her whiskers. " ... don't worry ‘bout it ... she had nothin' on you, babe." It'd been a raccoon, actually. His lips smoothly slid to hers. Meshing. A sustained, sloppy kiss. Smack. " ... ‘sides, that was ... eight years ago. I was, like, seventeen. Didn't meet you ‘til I was twenty."

"I'm not jealous," she assured, quietly. Holding him close. Breathing in deeply of his riparian scent. The squirrel's vagina quivered slightly. Again. Around his ‘essence.' She closed her eyes, head rolling. " ... j-just curious ... "

" ... you know you weren't my first," he reminded. "But ... " He really wasn't one for overly-sappy sentiments. But he felt he had to say it, just cause Ketchy was the sort of rodent who needed constant reassurance. " ... you are and will always be my last."

A loving smile, trying not to ‘aw,' before playfully telling him, "We can't afford a truck."

The otter chuckled. "We'll borrow someone's. Field and Adelaide's."

Her bushy tail, half-pinned beneath her, flittered. Mostly matted. She was damp with sweat, by now. "Think they'd go for that?"

" ... heh. Adelaide would. Field would take some convincing, but ... mouses are all finesse. You just gotta work him slowly. But he can be worked," the otter assured.

A giggle-squeak. Smiling, biting her lip. She took a few breaths through her black nose. " ... m-mm ... you feel good," she whispered, cause she wanted to. Cause it just came out. She half-expected him to laugh at that. Her old insecurities, perhaps. Lingering. But she quickly shoved them aside. She was moving beyond that. She'd made so much progress as an individual. After so many years of self-doubt and deprecation. Denali appreciated her. And that helped her to appreciate herself.

His webbed paws stroked down her sides. In a strong, singular motion. Causing her to involuntarily arch. He inhaled, pulling back, his shaft reappearing, dripping wet. A vein showing on the side. All of it exposed to air, except the extra-sensitive head. Which stayed in. " ... you're the sweetest thing ... Ketchikan," he drawled, using her full name. "I love you. And, trust me: y-you ... feel ... " He pushed his penis back into her vagina. All the way. " ... even b-better," he whimpered. The head of his member tingled. Oh, dear God. He had to compose himself. Had to, h-had to ...

... sigh. She sighed, smiled, and nodded. Shyly. Paws clutching his back-fur. "Love you, too."

" ... m-mm, now ... hold on," he warned, nodding, doing a silent count, and ...

... the car began rocking again.

Rocking ...

... on its springs.

The bed creaked.

While she, like moon-tide, like an undulating, wavy sea of pink. Crashed upon him, time and again. Her supple, soft-cheeked rear bouncing behind her. Little grunts. Hunched over as she was, riding him, in the process of biting him in the neck. Oh, yes ...

... having.

Sex.

The rodent wriggled happily, buck naked, his stiff, modest penis angling into her sweet sanctuary. Her hot, heavenly honey-pot.

She wrapped those winged arms right around him, holding him still. Keeping him in place (stay still, darling) as those sharp pearly-whites positioned. Pierced. Sank into the strategically saliva-numbed part of his neck. The spot she'd licked.

" ... n-nh," Field gritted.

But she didn't let go. Didn't let up. He wriggled for a few seconds more before settling. Finally. The fangs were in, successfully. In. A milky substance dripping from the hollow tips and into his bloodstream, passing through his heart in a matter of seconds. Cementing the entirety of their union. Not just emotional or physical, but mental, as well. Every thought, memory, desire. Shared. Every physical reaction. Doubly experienced. Every emotion becoming saturated to the point of intoxication.

Everything.

Telepathic union.

Yes, that which was this: full furry fusion.

They writhed as one.

Undulating in the dark.

Her gyrating hips steering his penis in a clockwise pattern, once, twice, before ...

... b-bounce, bounce. Short breath. Bounce.

F-field couldn't help it. He ... h-he started humping up at her. Bucking back. Air whistling past his buckteeth as he sucked it in. And then sighed it (deeply!) out. The exhales tinged with squeaks as ...

... seed.

Spurting.

Into that furnace, that tunnel, that velvety passage.

" ... f ... oh. F-uh ... uh," the otter mumbled. A breathless, trembling whisper. The fur on his neck stood up. His penis tingling with pure pleasure. Jerking. O-once, twice. Three. A ... a few ... " ... m-mm. Mm." He arched. Tension! Before utter relaxation, going lax. " ... uh!" Drooling slightly, tongue peeking out, his breath shaking against the squirrel's neck. "Oh."

Ketchy couldn't respond.

She had no breath.

It was her orgasm, in fact, that had ... b-brought on his.

She'd peaked first.

Little aftershocks, now, remnants of fiercer, vaginal spasms, made her spout soft, unintelligible sounds. Squeak noises. Her limbs weak. Her breasts tender. She could sense, faintly, that the cushion here, in the back seat of their car, had been doused. She'd leaked a bit. Well. A lot. And was leaking even more. Dripping out of her vagina, slowly, like molasses, the sweet seeds of life. S-slow. Drip. Slow ...

... drip.

Denali nipped.

At her neck.

A shiver ran up the squirrel's spine. Her breath shook. Her pretty, bushy tail was trapped beneath her, or between her body and something. She didn't know. She'd find it eventually. Her sweaty paws, her matted fur. She rubbed. And nuzzled. And nosed at him.

Nothing was immediately said.

Nothing needed to be.

Her eyes watered, and she held tightly.

" ... sweetie," the otter finally whispered, forehead to forehead.

She smiled, and ...

... the mouse helplessly lost it, himself, gasping, whiskers quivering as he ejaculated. With a sharp squeak! Each burst of steamy-white seed sending a lightning bolt of pleasure up his spine. He arched. Even with his back on the sheets. Oh, his naked, furry body. Arched! He held to her. From below, he bucked up. Up. Hilting. But the s-sensitivity. Of his h-head ... forced him to stop moving. And just lay there. And submissively filled her womb. " ... a-ah, ah ... n-n-huh!"

Adelaide, fangs still in his neck, moaned. And quivered.

" ... o-oh ... oh ... "

"Mm, m-m," she responded, almost grunting, unable to hold back the tidal wave. Sensations. So scintillating, so irresistible. Slamming into her from every angle, every viewpoint. His body. Hers. Their minds. The link. The telepathic entwining of their consciousnesses. Too much. It was all too much for her to endure any longer, and, oh, hence why ... yes, why ... s-she ...

... s-squeak. He was squeaking. He felt what was happening to her. He anticipated. He knew what was coming. Just as they'd experienced his together, mutually, their bodies and minds as one. So they experienced hers, as well. In unison.

Tumbling over the edge.

Orgasm.

Again (her second of the night).

The word and the thing.

Nature's greatest reward.

Her vagina rippling and fluttering like a pond after the surface had been breached. Or a pool, or the sea. After you dove in. The splash you left behind. The wake. It was like too many metaphors to sanely name. It just was. It just is. S-so very ... good ... her body utterly flushed. With a relieving heat. She didn't squirt much. But, damn, the spasms were fierce. Milking her love's cock for every last drop. Oh, g-g ... g-good thing she was on a pill.

Oh, oh ...

... yes.

The pleasure.

To her fingertips.

Her winged arms, the membranes? They got all tingly.

Her head swam, and her fangs seemed to simmer in her husband's neck. She could only moan from the throat for a little bit longer. Her sounds muffled against his honey-tan neck.

Field shook.

And, like that, it was over.

They had segued into afterglow.

She caressed his sides. Softly. Swallowing, having to wait another minute before slowly pulling her head back. The fangs. A deft, practiced motion, and they were safely out. No bruise, no pain. She licked at the spot of the bite with her tongue and then drifted, soon locking lips.

Messily.

A suck, suck.

Audible sucking. Tongues touching. Smacking as they parted. Short breaths. Then, without further delay, resuming the kiss. Until they got too dizzy and had to stop. Had to just lay there and pant, one on top of the other, paws on lower backs, on sides, everywhere curved and bare. Anywhere that was a good, warm paw-hold.

He smiled. Beamed, rather. Dimples showing on his tired, whiskered cheeks. He was spent. Truly. He couldn't hide that fact, no, as he weakly nosed at her cheek. Against her chin. Whispering, voice fading in and out, as a finger intimately reaching down between their bodies, circling her clitoris, " ... don't make me get up." His way of saying, basically, ‘Let's fall asleep. Right now. Together. In each other's arms. We can shower in the morning.' The finger came to a stop. Right on top. Oh, of her precious bud.

Adelaide gently nudged her hips against his finger. Rubbing. S-shivering in delight. It was so sensitive. That place. R-right now. " ... . I'm h-here," she whispered back. A short shimmy, getting off him. And, instead, laying by his side. "I'm here. You're not goin' anywhere. You're mine, mousey," she said, dominantly, playfully. "Got it?"

He turned, in response, to face her. Moving to nibble at her neck with his rodent buckteeth. Mumbling, his paw now resting affectionately on the curve of her hip. Instead of her groin. Mumbling, "Yes, ma'am."

A lazy grin. Her pretty pink paws going to his pert, farm boy rump, gently kneading there. Groping. The honey-tan fur. Tracing his tail-base with an errant finger. As she said, before they allowed themselves the luxury of shared rest, " ... that would've turned any apple into sauce, there ... darling."

Lowering his head to one of her breasts, mouthing at a nipple, he could only reply, with an equal sense of play, " ... I guess ‘golden' and ‘red hots,' stirred in the same pot ... " Referring to him and her. " ... equals deliciousness."

Eyes closed, already feeling the tug of slumber, she telepathically ‘thought' back to him: And you said I can't cook ...