Blue Angel
Twilight, ship-side, past eleven.
The lights ranging from ‘dim' to ‘off' in the snow rabbit's cool-aired, comfortably-cushioned quarters, casting everything in half-shadows and half-glows. Almost an allusion of candlelight, if you used your imagination. While the stars, like harp strings, vibrated a heavenly accord in the midst of their passing outside the horizontal, oval-shaped windows.
It was an infinity unfathomable. That so many worlds hung in this black, borderless box, this ‘space.' And that, furthermore, there were so many suns to warm them. Had God not known when to quit? Had He been like a crazed, obsessive writer? Who couldn't put His pen down? Was the act of creation an exhausting addiction for Him? How else to explain such bountiful reality?
In the face of such wonder, such soul-seeking, it seems pointless to maintain my shield of cynicism, Annika thought. Despite my experiences. Despite the many burns, the many bites. The wounds. The scars which I bear. Was faith, as they claimed, enough to make a fur clean? To make a fur brand new?
Was love?
Enough for me?
Closing her eyes, arching her exposed belly ever-so-slightly upward. Feeling a padded, grey-furred paw sliding beneath her back. Near the small of her back. She sighed. Clearly, Denison thought so. He thought that love was all things fresh and vibrant, all things wonderful and soft. He probably thought it could calculate mathematical equations and bake cookies, too. That it was some kind of all-powerful force, she mused. Thinking non-stop, even as she was easing her body back down to the sheets. Feeling that his paw had remained under her. That he was hugging her waist, now, his muzzle hovering above her snow-white belly button.
The big-eared, delicate mouse, only in white, cotton briefs, his long, ropy flesh-tail hovering above his pert bottom like a melt-y, living question mark, mouthed at her belly, now. Wetly. Repeatedly. Not kissing, not licking, just mouthing about, until he was suckling patches of her gorgeous pelt. And it was a gorgeous pelt. It was the kind of fur that you noticed from the other side of a big, big room. That had an extra sort of ‘rightness' when your fingers combed through it. The kind you just had to touch.
Annika sighed.
And he segued into peppery, liberally-planted kisses. Before resting his chin near one of her hips, eyes half-open. Looking to the sheets. Confessing, not for the first time (no, not at all), in his effeminate, airy voice, so tender that it warmed one's cheeks, " ... I love you."
She hadn't yet said it back. And knew, in part, that his heart was hanging on the response. And that each time she failed to provide it ... he felt a ‘hurt' inside. A pang. She did not wish to hurt him. He was so very sweet and kind. But, despite the words being on the tip of her tongue, she couldn't quite spit them out. Not quite yet. So close, but ...
... the mouse knew she was holding back. Twitching, he just nodded, giving another kiss to her belly. He could wait for her. With her. Even though every fiber of his being was hoping that tonight was the night. Please, oh, please ... let tonight be the night. But love was patient, right? It didn't fade on a whim. It didn't get discouraged so easily. And, hey, mouses were known to for their cute streaks of ‘stubbornness,' so ... " ... I'm not giving up on you," he told her, aloud. Still not making eye contact. But still touching her in those soft, finesse-y ways. Mouses were all about finesse. ‘Rough' was never a word associated with them.
Her turn to nod. Her head-fur making a rustling-sound on her own pillow. As she adjusted the position of her body (not nude, but halfway there ... in her bra and panties, only), getting more comfortable. Her bobtail had been pinned beneath her backside at an odd angle. "I know," was her eventual whisper. Truth be told, she wanted to say it. Those three words. Back to him. Right now, even. She had just never said them before, and it was not something she knew how to do. True, they were just words, just sounds. It was just language. But they came with a weight and responsibility that she, in part, did not trust herself to carry.
This is what she wanted. After leaving her old ways behind. But now that she was here, in bed, at night, with one who truly wanted her and only her, the only thing she could think about was letting him down. Failing him. Crushing him. She'd told Peyton, earlier in the day, that she was an iron butterfly. A warrior. Pretty and prim on the outside, but it was the inside that made her a fighter. And a control freak. It was just not in her nature to submit to anything. And, no, Denison wasn't asking her to submit to him. He was the submissive one here. He was a mouse, after all.
It wasn't him she needed to submit to.
It was Fate.
I feel more like a predator than prey. It makes me ill to acknowledge, but it is, by far, the truth. She told herself. I stopped being merely ‘prey' ... years ago. I had to change my nature in order to win. To survive. I had no choice. I am afraid Denison does not see this, or if he does: he is choosing, in his romanticism, to ignore it, to push past it. To look beyond my flaws and idealize my ‘beauties.' Is that simply what they call ‘kindness,' or ‘goodness of heart'?"
Or, as I fear, is he putting his well-being in my paws, naively.
And what if I damage him.
But didn't you scold the Captain for just that? You insisted he was going to damage Adele's heart. If you think you are going to damage Denison's, what does that make you? A hypocrite? How can you give other snow rabbits advice about love, about commitment, if you're still holding back? Where is the logic in that? How can you go on and on about how something tastes, demanding that others try it, if you have not eaten it yourself?
I suppose, she replied, to her own mind, it is because love is instinctual. Inherent. I need not taste it to know of its power. I need not swallow it to know of its benefits. I need not have experienced it to know that it must be shared. That it makes lives better. That it makes life, itself, better.
So, perhaps Denison, then, is right in his thinking: love is an all-powerful force. It can do anything. Even heal a snared rabbit.
I think, Annika, you are equally as concerned about your own heart being damaged. As you are about Denison's. Giving him your heart, while not submissive, is an act of ‘submission.' If that even makes sense. It is something you crave to do, but something that you feel too damaged for.
Why is he so smitten with me, anyway? I have heard his reasons. But, still, I have a hard time accepting them.
He would want my frozen heart? So he can get frostbite?
He wishes to thaw it for you. He is being selfless.
But what if it cracks? My heart? My sanity? And I become feral? Losing the last shreds of what makes me prey, of what makes me not just a rabbit but a snow rabbit? And I become a mere animal? She swallowed. Blinking repeatedly and leaving the swimming pool of her thoughts long enough ...
... to realize that he was kissing her belly again. And holding to both her hips, gently scratching at her pelt.
You are over-thinking this, Annika, she told herself. You are making excuses. Perhaps it comes down to the fact that: love requires a degree of faith. A leap. A hop. Into the unknown. And you do not trust that your faith is strong enough to complete such a move without a painful fall.
Peyton is right. You do not ‘trust.'
You cannot let go of the lesser ... long enough to take hold of the greater. Because your grip is to tight.
" ... are you alright? You're being so quiet," Denison whispered. His whiskers began to twitch. They'd actually been fairly still for the past few minutes. He'd been lulling himself into a sweet, hazy dream-state, tasting her, touching her, being with her. But, now, they twitched. Those mousey whiskers. As he raised his chin off her belly. " ... d-do you ... not like this? Should I stop?" he asked. Eyes watering. "I thought it would feel good ... if, uh, uh ... " He began to sit up, so embarrassed. Ears burning as he fumbled for his pants.
She intercepted him. With a big, loping foot-paw. A strong rabbit-leg. Kicking the pants off the bed. And then moving the foot-paw, itself, flat against his chest, bending her knee and leg to do so. "Denison," she whispered. "Stay," she ordered. In her restrained but dominant way. "Return to me."
He nodded, shyly obeying. On his shins and knees. Still in his underwear. Hesitating this time. Biting his lip. Looking down at her body. Before gently returning his paws to her fur. Closing his eyes and spreading his fingers, sliding them up to her covered breasts. Wriggling so that he was eventually on all fours, on paws and knees, over her laying self. " ... y-you're sure? That you like this?"
"I do," she mouthed, looking up at him. Their noses a few inches apart. Hers black and calm, and his pink and sniff-y. "I assure you, I have never been touched with such gentility. Not in my life. It feels ... " A sigh. " ... quite good." She didn't know the last time her body had felt so relaxed. Her mind? Well, that was a different story. It was always running through maze-logics and analyzing. Much like Denison's mind, really. His is always turning, scurrying. You could almost hear the squeaky-wheel spinning in his brain, sometimes. Another thing we have in common, Annika realized: we are both deep thinkers. Philosophers, in our own, simple ways.
A shy, dimpled smile. Biting his lip. "I'm so glad," he went, happy that she was happy. "I think you're beautiful," he blurted, beginning to open up again. He was like a flower, really. In that regard. Unfurling in the presence of light or warmth. "I don't want my snow angel to feel blue."
"I am not a snow angel. Or an angel of any sort."
"I think you are," he said, sweetly.
"Denison ... " A sigh. There was no use arguing with him. He wasn't going to change his mind. Even if she told him secrets. Memories. Pains. No matter what she did, he wasn't going to be dissuaded. I suppose, Annika realized, that is a hallmark true devotion. Not giving up on someone. Even when they ask you to.
" ... I want to nibble on your nape. Sometime. It doesn't have to be now, but sometime I want to. And then put a lily-flower in your tail ... or around your ear." A sniffy-sniff. "You smell like vanilla. I love vanilla ... your fur reminds me of vanilla ice cream. And it tastes just as nice."
Lord, is this mouse for real? Seriously? Or is he a figment of my imagination? How do you make them this sweet? I should like to know the recipe. Calories be damned.
A soft snuggle-nuzzle-nuzzle ... squeak.
Annika more than allowed it, head raising, propped herself up on her elbows, moving directly nose to nose with him. Wrapping her arms around his back. Her tall, charcoal-tipped ears like silhouettes in front of the window just behind her bed. "You said, earlier," she whispered against his cheek, "that you had a surprise for me? I hope it is more pleasant than the hypo-spray."
It hadn't hurt, no. But she just hated being injected with stuff. It went back to her time on the front lines. Behind the lines, rather. When she'd been interrogated. It had happened more than once. The Arctic foxes had injected her with drugs to make her talk. And to make her more ‘receptive' to their ... advances. She shuddered every time someone pressed a hypo to her arm. It gave her chills. But she could never admit this. It would be too great a sign of weakness and frailty. And, as a Sub-Commander with high-ranking security clearance, she could show no signs of weakness. They didn't trust you with classified information if you couldn't ignore your wounds.
" ... m-mm?" he went, shifting his weight from one hip to the other, simultaneously leaning with her and holding her up. Oh, it was like being in mid-swoon. He didn't know if they were going up or down.
"You said you had ... "
" ... oh!" he squeaked, snapping out of his revelry. A few hazy-hazed blinks. "Oh, yeah. Uh ... I left ‘em in the kitchen area. I thought you might've smelled them on me."
"Them? Plural?" An eye-smile. For his sake more than hers. She didn't want him to think that she wasn't enjoying his company. She didn't want to let him down. "You brought multiple surprises?"
"Dozens." A giggle-squeak, rubbing his ever-active nose to hers. "Kinda. It's, uh ... I'll ... go get ‘em. You'll see," he said, a little breathlessly. Having a hard time pulling away from her body. Didn't have the willpower, really. But, somehow, he managed, getting to his bare foot-paws on the carpeted floor, and ...
" ... are you alright?" she asked. Sitting up, now, folding her legs beneath her. He looked like he was about to fall over.
"D-dizzy. Uh, ears," he explained, sheepishly. His big, fleshy, erogenous ‘dishes.' They'd begun rushing, gorging with blood. True, he and Annika hadn't necessarily been, uh ... you know. But, still, they'd been touching, at least, and he'd been feeling so romantic and amorous that his ears had started to turn sensitive. The emotions were enough to turn him on.
Giving a slight mew. Gesturing, motioning him off. With a paw. Go on, she indicated. Go on.
He returned that mew with a bright squeak. Scurrying off, every appendage (tail, ears, whiskers, nose) in some sort of activity.
When he was out of the room, the snow rabbit put a paw to her head. Quickly. As if she'd been fighting the urge while he'd been present. Feeling, again, that same sudden rush of exhaustion she'd felt in the Mess Hall. I am ... n-not stressed, she told herself. I just need to relax. Alright? She nodded, nodded to herself. But her paw-pads were sweating again. Just like before. She wiped them on her sides, looking up to the doorway, composing herself just before ...
... the mouse returned. Cradling a smooth, white bowl in his paws, filled with deep-blue, dew-dropped ...
" ... blueberries." Annika sat up straighter. Nose beginning to sniff. Her perfect, fluffy bobtail flicker-flicked like a white flame. That brought her energy level up a bit.
"Mm-hmm. From the plants in the hydroponics bay. I picked them myself. That's why I mentioned ... you know, thought you might've smelled it on me. But I guess blueberries don't have that strong a smell." A dimpled, wide-eyed smile. "Your favorite food, right?" he went, eagerly. Setting the bowl near her knees. And crawling back onto the bed. With her. To be with her.
" ... yes, but ... I never actually told you that." She sounded humbled.
"Not in so many words. But I'm a listener. I got big ears, remember? I picked up on hints, and ... I just put it all together. I didn't bring any whipped cream, cause I know you like the taste of just the berries. You always eat them plain. Unfiltered. Unfettered." He breathed those last two words. As if they had multiple applications. "I want to feed them to you."
Annika, looking into his eyes, at those words, at that promise, began to sizzle. Nay, simmer. Outright. She breathed in deep, and felt what rabbits feel when they start to get ‘rabbit-y.' Oh, yes. Arousal had never been hard for her to feel. Her species had heightened virility, after all. That was their ‘advantage.' But, before, the wants, the desires, the needs, they'd always been brought on by mere physical cues. This time was different. This time, something clicked. Like a switch being flipped.
True, the physical was still there. She felt it. But, oh, the sheer passion and romance behind the mouse's suggestion ... was ... making her wetter than the touching had made her. Wet. Between the legs. She swallowed. And it wasn't just the suggestion, no. It was the fur making it. It was him. It was Denison. And that was just the nudge she needed. It was just what she needed ...
... as he looked to her. Didn't say anything further. For the moment. Just picked up a plump, ripe blueberry, holding it between his furred thumb and forefinger, and placed it against her closed lips. You could hear a squeak coming from his throat. And almost hear his beating heart. As he held that berry. And he didn't push it in. Just moved it, slowly, this way and that, as if tracing a pattern. Rubbing it, is what he was doing. Right against her. And because the flesh of the berry was wet, it was making the snow rabbit's lips glisten. With water. With a hint of juice.
She breathed in deeply. The subtle scent of the fruit hanging below her charcoal nose. That nose, yes. Was going. Was in full use. Almost as much as his own, now. Her inhales and exhales were gradually becoming audible. His whiskers gave a few random twitches.
Suddenly, he held the blueberry still.
And she opened her lips, waiting, wanting.
He placed it on the tip of her tongue. Prodding the berry toward the inside of her cheek, one of her cheeks. With a fingertip.
The lips closed. With his fingertip still inside, yes, and their eyes, pupils dilated, making such contact as hadn't yet been made between them. Annika and Denison looked at each other from so very short a distance. Eyes with drifting lids, but they didn't shut. They didn't blink. As she'd felt a moment ago, she felt again: that this was a turning point, somehow. A recognition. An understanding.
An understanding that, as she suckled on his fingertip, was communicated furthermore by the paw she placed on his left hip. The way her fingers were curling around the band of his briefs. And the tug she gave them was so deceptively dainty. She could've yanked them, torn them. Used her blunted claws to slice them open, even, if she had really wanted to. But she just gave the smallest of tugs. It was enough to let him know she was ready.
The mouse's heart leapt in his chest. For a few seconds, he felt overcome. He almost lost his breath.
And she gently, arms around his back in a hug, pushed his finger out of her maw with her tongue. And began chewing on the single berry. Finally. It was like a prelude to consummation, eating this. Juicy, sweet blueberry, with that cool, mellow aftertaste. She swallowed and sighed, and immediately launched into a muzzle-tilting, head-on kiss of Denison's lips. And she vowed, as their lips meshed, that she would make this the single longest kiss they'd ever shared.
His eyes closed. Lower lip suckled on. She had his lower lip between both of hers, and he gave a throaty squeak. Wet, sucking, sucking, sustained for so long before the smacking started. Saliva exchanged, swallowed. Deep breaths! Smack. Sounds. The kisses breaking again, again, only to start up once more, saliva stringing, now, and glistening on twitching, tangling whisker-tips.
It was dizzying.
It was transcendent.
And it took him several seconds of post lip-lock nose-nuzzling before he could muster the focus to say, again, " ... I ... I l-love you." A shaky swallow. Knowing that, this time, she would say it back. His ears swiveled. He was ready to hear it.
And hear it, he did.
"As do I ... love you," she said, in that proper snow rabbit way. Speaking as if a weight had been lifted from her, " ... love you, as well, my mouse." A paw reeling in his tail. Giving a good stroke down the length. "Rest assured." Had that been so hard to say? You're still here, Annika. You didn't crack and fall into icy shards. You're still here.
... s-shiver from him. At the tail-stroking.
Her other paw, meanwhile, went to one of his. Fingers meshing. As she held his paw in hers, and whispered, right against his cheek, "Mates, correct?"
An immediate nod. " ... mates."
"I do not know the customs," she said, panting against his cheek, "involved ... I assume there are vows?"
" ... y-yeah. Yeah. We gotta hold both paws." He nodded, nodded, own paws trembling as she offered both of hers. " ... the words are really simple. Uh, traditional. Just repeat after ... y-you just ... "
" ... calm down," she soothed, with rising mirth. "I will not hop away. Our blueberry bowl is still full," she teased. "We have much more to eat ... " She let the promise of that hang in the rarified bedroom air.
"I k-know. I'm just ... so excited," he breathed, emotionally, eyes watering. But a ‘happy' watering. There was no doubt about that. "I n-need you so bad ... "
She kissed his nose-tip, with a serenity that pushed aside those underlying stresses (which weren't going to go away; but, for now, she could ignore them). "That I can see. And feel. The need is mutual." Another nose-kiss. It was funny: she had never kissed anyone on the nose before. Maybe because no one's nose had been cute enough to entice her into doing so.
The kisses made him cutely sniff, head tilting up. Up and back a bit.
And, forehead-to-forehead, paws-in-paws, they said the words. Vows. Whatever you wanted to call them. In essence, they verbally professed their mutual love. Mutual love, turning, once more ... to mutual hunger. As they went back to the blueberries. As he placed another upon her lips.
She ate.
And, oh, he fed.
But they were about to switch roles. Soon, soon. The snow rabbit was just waiting for the right moment to turn the tables on him ...
... as they melted from their semi-upright positions. To move in swoons and dips to a more horizontal state of being. With the snow rabbit on her back and the mouse on his belly. On hers. Belly to belly. Taking the biggest blueberry he could find ...
... a mew. Mew. Waiting. Opening her muzzle for him, hungrily ...
... as, between his buckteeth, he held a deep-blue berry. So, so carefully, as to not penetrate the skin and spill the juice. Careful not to bite. As, with those teeth, he placed it in her mouth. Exchanging it with a tango of tongues and a resounding kiss. A sucking, audible, so-wet kiss. Ending with a breathless pull-apart.
And her chewing, swallowing.
And him sitting up, now, at a straddle of her hips. Reaching behind her back to unhook her bra. His fingers fumbling, at first. But he soon got it, peeling the barrier away. Gently sitting it aside and looking down with a sigh. His paws moving to cradle those globes of furred flesh. Those snowy mounds. The pink peaks. Supple as they were, hanging loosely without their clothed support. He caressed them, round and around, and shifted his position yet again, ropy-tailed rump sticking into the air a bit as he hunched over and kissed both nipples. Repeatedly. Unable to resist the temptation to eventually take each one into his muzzle. And suckle.
Annika sighed, eyes closing, nose pointing toward the ceiling. Her nipples were hardening. And each suckle prompted more delicious sensitivity. Something good, something nice, but it only made her crave more. She wanted more. One paw clutching her bed-sheets. The other going to the back of her mate's head, stroking his head-fur encouragingly.
This went on for about a minute before he sat up again. Hunched over her, panting squeakily. Looking down and realizing that her paws had moved. She was working his briefs down ...
" ... l-lift. Lift your hips." And then a quick amendment of, "Put the blueberries ... the bowl. O-on the bedside stand first ... we will finish eating them later," she promised.
A hazy nod, panting. Doing so. Moving the blueberry bowl to a safe location. Safe from spilling. And then lifting his hips, too. His semi-erect mouse-hood peeking into view. Blunt, plum-pinking head first, and then the rest of it. Modest and circumcised but nicely thick. A simple thing, but ... so a-appealing ...
" ... o-oh, nice," the snow rabbit exhaled. She tugged, tugged. Wanting more, wanting all of it. All of him.
He wriggled. Nodding. Briefs down his thighs, past his knees, and finally being kicked off. Unlike her bra, his underwear went off the bed. Onto the floor somewhere. And, now, hers. Her panties. Time to get her stripped off. And, doing the most romantic thing he could think of, he lowered his body flat to hers, went ‘shimmy-shimmy' down her form, and used his buckteeth. To begin peeling those panties right off her hips. Gently pulling them down with his muzzle. He had to end up using his fingers, too, but ... all the same. The passion of the gesture had been understood.
And Annika knew what was going to happen next. That ‘turning the tables' she'd been planning for. And, look ... she didn't even need to coax him. He was turning those tables for her. It was his turn to ‘eat.' She was already spreading her legs. The panties had already slipped past her ankles, already dropped. His paws were already on her thighs. Already ready, so ready ...
... the mouse had been longing for this for the past two months. And, in spite of his feverish wish to indulge immediately, he planned on savoring it. Savoring her. Or, uh ... he'd try. Anyway. To take his time. So, he went for her groin-fur, first. A good enough place to start. The tufted white fur that covered her mons. He mouthed it. Just like he'd been mouthing her belly earlier. With his paws caressing her thighs all the while. And, slowly, he poked his modest tongue out. Licking his way down. The fur around her vulva. There was that fuzzy ‘line,' of sorts, where the fur gave way to flesh. And he traced it with his tongue-tip, getting an initial estimates of her sex's flexibility, its size, its texture. Its scent. Readying himself to journey deeper.
The snow rabbit found herself laying back, just enjoying it. Just letting it happen. Giving no instructions. Making no moves of her own. Which was very unusual for her. She just reached for his blood-filled ears, fingers gently curling round the edges. So carefully. She knew they were sensitive. Mewing in soft approval. As she felt, finally, her labia gently, wetly parted. His tongue exploring in there. In one incredibly-slow lick, lazing past her vagina, and trailing up to her clitoris. He covered it all in a big lick.
Denison's eyes, as he got into this, into her ... were shut. Only half by choice. As he took another full, gradual lick. Another. The heat. The taste. More, m-more, tongue twirling down to her vagina, peeking, poking inside, he began ‘scooping' out her moisture with his broad tongue. Lusciously lapping. He was, quite literally, ‘eating her out.'
Which led to her hips beginning to rock, gently. Gently. Humping his muzzle. " ... m-mm." A breath. " ... mm." O-oh ... that felt nice ... yes ...
" ... hmm." He hooked his arms and elbows around her thighs, wriggling his body. Trim, grey-furred chest heaving for breath, nose flaring, getting as deep as he could. Which maybe wasn't all that deep. It wasn't like he had a dog-tongue or anything. But no matter, no. As he shifted from ‘eating' to ‘nibbling,' lip-nibbling, suckling on her labia, working his way up, up her sex. By mere inches. Her swollen clitoris. That jewel. Perfect, darling bud of her body. It, too, was introduced to his tongue. His saliva. His breath. For the first time. And he made sure that ‘first time' was memorable.
Her muzzle h-hung open, now ... as he was tapping her special spot. A few times. And then circling his tongue around it, round it. Not touching it. Coming close, but not quite. Teasingly. Before tapping it with his wet tongue tip, right on the top, a few times more. Two furred fingers easing into her looser-than-not vagina, curling at the knuckles, fingertips pressing to and rubbing against her smooth, slick upper vaginal wall. Stopping only to move in and out in a small ‘thrusting' motion. Muzzle, then, to cap it off, finally going for it.
He surrounded her erect little treasure.
" ... a-ah. Ah."
He was suckling. Softly. Succulently. Without signs of ceasing.
" ... o-oh, n-nah ... ah!" A whine. Belly raising, eyes screwing shut. As she realized that he had her. H-he ... had her, and wasn't going to let up until she'd gone off like a firework. He was seriously intent on pleasuring her. Totally ignoring his own body, not even touching his now-erect mouse-hood. She felt her mate's paw on that belly, now, protectively keeping her in place. Probably because she was beginning to buck upward with a bit too much force. "A-ah!" Annika felt her whiskers tingle. Her ear-tips went numb, and ... s-she ... drooled. A bit. From the side of her muzzle. "U-uh ... " As her walls quaked and her muscles fluttered. Oh, g-gosh ... ah. A-as she panted and trembled in sweet, sweet orgasm. Oh! Oh ...
She'd received muzzle before. Countless times. But mostly from rabbits, and not to be crude, but ... well, male rabbits were ridiculously horny. They were too eager for intercourse (by the way, she loved intercourse ... no misunderstanding there). That's not to say there wasn't foreplay among rabbits. There was. Oh, there was, but ... b-but no one had ever treated her sex, her femininity, like it was a full-course meal. She had been ‘eaten' before. But Denison had just DINED on her. Outright dined on her ... a-and it made her paws tremble.
Y-yes.
" ... h-m ... hmm," the mouse huffed, squeakily, whiskers glistening with countless droplets. His chin and cheek-fur wet. Licking his lips. He pulled back. And lowered his head, as if in exhausted, silent prayer. Upper body propped up by his forearms and elbows. " ... mm." He tried to find his breath.
A mew. " ... w-where ... did you learn to do that?" she whispered.
He looked up. Shyly. " ... uh. Just ... " Mumble-mumble, mousey-mumble. It sounded like ‘holo-suite.' But he quickly qualified that with, " ... mouses are good at, uh, oral. Though ... "
"I believe I know of the reputation, but ... " A sigh. Looking up at the ceiling. " ... there are so many ‘furry clichés.' Stereotypes. Myths. About every species." Felines were lazy, dogs were stupid, skunks smelled, foxes were sneaky, bats sucked blood, etc. The list went on. "It is hard to know which ones are true. And which ones are ‘tall tales'." An eye-smile. "I guess I now know of two that are ... that are, it seems, literal truth." The one about rabbits, of course. And the one about mouses. " ... I suppose it is because you are so eager to please. So emotional."
"Mm. Eh ... I, uh, don't know." He bit his lower lip. Too modest to want to be praised much. He just wanted to do it to her, and ... her sounds of pleasure would be his reward. She didn't have to give him anything else. " ... you taste great. Strong," he admitted, "but ... I really like it." The beaming became tinged with shyness, now. "It was enjoyable. To do that to you. I've wanted to make you happy and give you pleasure. I know you have pains that you hide even from me ... I don't know what they are. But I know it's something."
She closed her eyes at this. Tensing.
"But I want to make you better. One happy moment at a time. Whatever anyone did bad to you, I'll reverse it with something good."
Her eyes opened. That was, perhaps, naïve thinking. But his heart was in such a right place. That she could not help but mouth ... ‘thank you.'
A little nod, whiskers a-twitch. His touches indicating that she was ‘welcome.'
"You like the taste of me?" she pressed. Finding that interesting.
" ... uh-huh." A shy squeak. "Why?"
"Mm ... well, snow rabbits are an acquired taste. I have been told. In more ways than one," she agreed. "You must have a very wise palate."
Eyes glowed. That she would say that. " ... h-heh. Yeah." A swooning look. "Do you need ice water? I know rabbits need more water than other furs."
"I can wait on water."
"W-we're, uh, not stopping, are we? For anything else?" he asked, touching her forearms with his fingers. Looking down. Eager to keep going.
"Stopping?" An eye-smile, sitting up. And nudging his chin upward with her paw. "Darling, you are now mated to a rabbit ... remember the true clichés? We are one of them."
" ... I, uh. I know." A shy giggle-squeak.
"I think," she assured, inching at him, crawling all over him, nakedly, sensuously, "that you are about to ‘know' a great deal more." Push!
Mmf! S-squeak!
"I prefer my males on their back," she said simply, playfully. It had been a long time since she'd felt comfortable enough to be this playful with any-fur. "Not always, but often. Is that a problem?" she asked, cocking a brow. Waggling a single ear. It had been an issue for many of the male snow rabbits. Who, themselves, had been quite dominant, and had felt uncomfortable submitting to her so fully.
An adoring, wowed breath from the rodent (from the sultriness with which she'd nakedly pinned him to the bed), incredibly aroused, shaking his head adamantly. "N-no ... no. Not a problem." A quick breath. "No."
"Good," she purred, pawing at his chest, claws of both paws harmlessly pressing against his tiny male nipples. "Good ... " She sighed the word, this time. And licked her lips, straddling his trim waist. Her thighs were strong. Rabbits. Had healthy leg muscles, for sure. And as she tensed and prepared to ride him ...
... the mouse was already sweating. His throat was already dry. Oh, boy. H-mm ... mm, he held to her hips. Paws weak.
"You alright down there?" she asked, with restrained mirth.
" ... y-yeah. I'm here," he replied. Voice floating away. Oh, he'd never been so erect in his life. His pink, pink mouse-penis was rock-hard. At just over five inches. "I c-can't ... I need you to raise your tail. The tip is, uh ... "
"Of course," she breathed. It had been fully lowered, having swooned (more like wilted) downward after her first orgasm. She flicked it back up, giving him easier, more visible access. " ... Denison?" she asked, beginning to lower. Meeting his eyes.
"Yes?"
"I know we are different." She let that hang in the air. It needed to be said. Because it was true. Just because they were mates didn't mean they were suddenly more similar. "But I am glad that, together, we seem to be finding ... " She trailed. Touched his cheek with his paws. " ... a middle ground."
He beamed up at her. Dimples on his furry, whiskery cheeks.
She closed her eyes and breathed deep, nodding. Here we go. She'd been calming down a bit, but that was going, going, gone. The lust stewing, giving way to romantic yearning. Spawning passion. She lowered, wriggling her hips. " ... m-mh, oh." A pant, feeling the penetration. The joining of his ‘essence' into hers. One fur, one form.
Utter. Fusion.
Snowy muzzle raising, scrunching in the beginning waves of pleasure. The feeling of fullness. They would get a lot stronger. A lot fiercer. Oh, this was going to get so much better, but even so ... e-even so, there was nothing like those first few seconds. That dazed beginning. Where you had to collect yourself. Where the best kind of friction was kindled and fanned to fiery flame.
Pushing up, his stiffness slipped into her wet, warm opening. With a wet-wet sound. To a hilt. She was hot. So hot, so comfortable. And the sensitivity of his flesh against her raw muscle made him gasp. " ... o-oh. Oh."
She grinded her hips, in a downward push-pushing motion. Mewing.
Prompting him to squeakily buck up, up.
And they collided like this, groin-fur meshing, fluids dripping and exchanging. Little squelch-sounds from their genitals. Breaths and squeak/mews from their maws. For a few seconds, they bumped. Bumped and bumped.
Before the snow rabbit lifted. Squeezing his hips and his middle with those gloriously hop-hoppy legs of hers, she lifted her hips, her rump. Just a few inches. And dropped back down. Her bobtail flickering all the while, the whole while. It was like an eternal flame. Signaling their intercourse. Burning to their love.
He felt her hunch over, her paws, arms like stilts. Gently on his chest. Thumbs over his nipples, a paw-pad over his heart. She kept him pinned down as she rode in a roundabout way, switching gears every so often. Clockwise, counter-clockwise, and then simple up-and-down.
Up and down. Feeling his furry, tufted sac tightening and nestling to her pouting petal-lips.
He was s-squeaking and clutching to the fur on her sides. Now and then managing to move a paw a-and ... touch at her clitoris a little bit. As best he could manage. Before holding to her again.
She was protectively bowing her head. Breasts dangling and wiggling over his chest. His muzzle. As they rocked together until they could rock no more, and ... a-and ...
" ... h-huh! Uh!" C-chitter ... shiver-chitter, sucking air, penis jerking. Twitching. Spurting mouse-seeds by the steamy-white spoonful. Sowing the depths of her femininity, to her very womb. The joy of each ejaculation was evident in his trembling. The joy, yes, and the gratitude.
And the joy was soon met. And matched. As her own body began to milk him for everything he was worth, rippling, muscles hit by a biological earthquake. Little tremors and shocks, fluid dribbling from her vagina. Her clitoris tingling. Her second orgasm, just as good as the first, if not better. " ... o-oh." Huff! "Oh ... h-huh." She arched her back. "Hmm!"
And he held to that back. He held her.
And she maintained that arching position, thighs squeezing him strongly, before finally ... finally ... she sighed and went a bit limp. A bit lax. And slumped over, breasts squishing down against his chest. "Mm ... "
"O-oh, Annika," he breathed, emotionally, flushed. Feeling so much. Physically, emotionally. He hugged her tight. Trying not to get all watery-eyed.
And she just nuzzled into him. She stayed with him. Laid with him. And did not dare pull away. Oh, no. Not an inch. Not shifting positions until he got limp ... and she had to raise her hips. And, in doing so, directed herself to slip to his side, side-by-side ...
... eventually, he got up.
And fetched her some ice water and returned to bed.
And as she drank, he began to pull the sheets and blankets around them. Snuggling against her side, nuzzling, nosing, touching toes. Sharing every bit of warmth and affection he had to give ...
... and getting the same from her in return.
The ship was still moving, still on patrol. And the stars, around it, were still streaking. All was in continual motion. All except the two of them. Their motion, for the moment, had ended. Now came the rest. Now came the afterglow. And, oh, the mouse had never been so happy.
Their love had been consummated. Their journey together had truly begun.
And his ‘blue angel,' at least for the moment ...
... was blue no more.