Co-Pilots
Seurat, all of dusk and autumn-gold, tail-feathers looking noticeably tussled, stepped into the hydroponics bay. The door swishing shut behind her, automatically. Making that clean, crisp sound. With a bit of a ‘whoosh' tacked in. It was like a coda, an exclamation mark: I have now entered a new space! A new room! A new realm!
Were there trained furs that actually designed these starship-noises? Like the hum of the warp core? The chirrup of comm-badges? Those door whooshes? Or were they all random byproducts? Maybe I should ask Adele, she noted ...
... as her sharp foot-talons tapped. Tapped. As she moved. Step by light, springy step. Birds had that airy way of walking, being creatures of flight. There was a certain skipping or bobbing rhythm involved, rather than just a plain, straightforward gait. It was kind of elegant. And when she ran? It looked like a kind of an unintentional dance. Which why she didn't run unless she had to.
Tap-tap-a. Tap-tap-a.
Most of the prey species ‘blunted' or filed-down their claws. Predators didn't. Birds? Not usually. It affected the balance of the stride. And grip. Of course, it also meant that she tore holes in their bed-sheets. At least once a week. But, uh ...
... most of the ship was carpeted. Even the bridge and engineering. Furs didn't wear shoes, after all. So, floors were adorned for comfort. Generally. But the hydroponics bay wasn't, what with all the dirt, plants, and stuff like that. Carpet would just get ruined in here. In the center of the bay, there was actually a low, blue force field that served as a fence, with a little ‘hill' of grass inside. That you could sit on, lay back. Look at the ceiling and pretend there were clouds instead of overhead lights and water-misters. There was even a small tree or two. It was as wide as two or three shuttles. A nice-sized spot in a nice, little bay. Here in the belly of the ship.
But the best thing about it was the ...
... the, uh ...
... wait.
A squint.
The shelves against the walls.
Empty hooks.
"Where the hell are the flowers?" she asked, in a very un-flowery, un-ladylike manner. " ... bee!" she chirped, squeezing her eyes shut. She was half-guessing. Call it instinct. She just knew. And she face-palmed herself. With a talon-hand. For just a moment. In a small gesture of frustration. Calm down, calm down. Her eyes reopened, narrowing, searching for ...
... yes. Just on the other side of the ‘hill.'
... an antennae-waving, mirror-eyed head. Which slowly peeked into view. "Ah. Pointillism bird."
" ... what do you think you're doing?"
"Pardon?"
"The flowers. They were in ... pots. Hanging vessels." A head-shake. "Where are they?" She flapped her yellow-black wings, walking onto the grassy ‘knoll.' Almost skipping over the top.
"They were not having togetherness. I moved them to ensure it." His many arms opened. In a gesture of, uh ... openness.
She clacked her beak. Seeing, now, that he'd taken every flower vessel in the room and put them in a cluster.
"They are much, much happy, now," he buzzed. "I have kissed them all."
"You stuck your tongue inside all those flowers?"
"They taste of sweets."
"Bee ... " A sigh. Remember, Seurat, be understanding (and, no, she told herself ... that is not a pun). " ... you can get nectar from the food processors," she said, trying to ‘soften' her tone. "I can show you how. You just have to ask. You can eat hummingbird food or something."
He looked up, with a degree of obliviousness. And that alien quality that insects had about them. So hard to decipher, to figure out. You couldn't read his facial expressions or determine his mood. His eyes gave away nothing. "Processed sweets?" A ‘psh' sound. Waving an arm. "I only eat organic."
"These flowers are not for deep-throating."
An annoyed buzz. His stinger pulsing. His yellow-black, caution-striped body doing a wiggle.
"Come on," the goldfinch said, with a slight chirp. "We gotta move ‘em back."
"They do not wish it. What is this greenness room for? If not for using?"
"It's for growing supplementary fruits and vegetables for the Mess Hall. And for emergency use, and ... some furs just like the real thing. And flowers and stuff. It's just to keep a little bit of nature with us."
A sage nod. "I see." He straightened his upper half, sitting on his shins and knees. "I keep flowers with me, then."
"Well ... how about no? Monrovia will have a fit," Seurat said. "I don't wanna get on her bad side."
"Monroe ... vee-uh?" His wings went zip-zip.
"Yeah. A salamander. She's in charge of hydroponics. She gets very flustered when things are rearranged without her knowledge. I don't wanna be responsible for her having a freak-out ... cause my husband's the doctor, and she'll go to him for a ‘calm me down' hypo. Last time, Briscoe just gave her a placebo. She didn't know the difference." Pause. " ... between you and me, I think she's in denial about something."
"Oh?" he buzzed.
A hesitation. "Well. She's the only ‘mated' fur whose mate isn't actually on the ship ... I mean, that's kinda weird. Right? Very rare, you know. For someone to take a deep-space assignment without bringing their mate." She lowered her voice. "I mean, I couldn't do it ... I couldn't last. Long-term, long-distance relationships?" A shake-head. Bad idea, was the bird's opinion.
"Hmm ... " He stroked his chin.
"I think she married another salamander. If she married before she went into space ... which she did. Most mate-ships that start in space? Are mixed-species," she told him. Cause he probably didn't know. "You go to any planet or colony or station ... they'll mostly be same-species. It's kinda interesting, really. I guess it's because, if you're living on a planet with millions of your own species, it's much easier to end up with one. Subconsciously or not. If you're on a ship with only, like, a paw-ful? Your chances aren't so good. And you're more apt to take what you can get. Or, uh ... that doesn't sound right, but ... you know, on a ship you're much more likely to end up with someone different. That's what I mean," she insisted. "It's like a cocktail on a starship."
Gossamer wings flitted. "Cocktail?" he echoed, voice going to a higher pitch. That was a bit too much information for him! "Mammal love-make details are of no interest to me. Silly. And messy."
"I wasn't giving details," the goldfinch replied, grinding her beak. Almost tempted to stick out her tongue. Don't be childish, Seurat. "I'm just saying. Furs are sexual creatures. Affected by laws of attraction. But those laws ... they're bent by circumstance." A pause. "And I'm not a mammal. I'm a bird."
"Your love-mate is a mammal."
"He is, yeah."
"Can you make offsprings?" the bee asked.
The question caught her off-guard. " ... uh ... no. We can't. Actually."
"Do you wish it?"
"None of your business." A beak-frown. But answering, "I love him. I wasn't gonna NOT marry him cause of that. If we want, we can adopt, or ... artificially ... "
" ... bees only do one way," he said, interrupting. "Only eggs. Only from the majesties. A majesty who can't make offsprings is dethroned. A male who cannot give offsprings? Is of no use, either."
"I guess hive insects don't really care who they end up with, do they? No real relationships? Cause everyone's ... the same? The Queen cranks you out like something from a production line ... " Ouch, Seurat. That came out like an insult. She winced.
"We are as one. But ... " A small hesitation. " ... some of us are more ‘one' than other ones."
She didn't respond to that, only half-understanding. Just nodding quietly. Almost feeling like she should say ‘I'm sorry' or something. He was clearly an ‘odd-bee.' Maybe his species had sent him here on purpose. If you didn't fit into the hive? Then the hive had no need for you. That was kinda sad.
"I miss the floral things. I was most surprised to find them." A poignant pause. "May I keep one?"
A sigh, and an eventual nod. "Alright. One," she stressed.
Buzz, b-z-z-z, were the sounds of joy.
"I, uh, really shouldn't speak bad about furs. Or gossip, anyway. Like I was." A chirp. "Monrovia's an amphibian. Maybe they're just weird by default. I mean, she has to moisturize her skin several times a day ... don't know why amphibians even want to go into space. You think they'd be loathe to leave their wetlands." A head-shake. " ... something must've happened." A momentary silence. "None of my business," Seurat decided, taking a deep breath. "I'll tell her I gave you one flower, though. Cause she'll definitely notice," Seurat added, picking up a flower pot. Or ‘vessel,' to be more accurate. Moving it. And then fetching another one. "I don't mean to bang heads with you, either. Just so you don't get the wrong idea. I'm not mean."
"No. You are just a grouse and grump."
"I'm just sorta, like ... hard-beaked? I guess," she admitted, ignoring him. "That's probably why I'm with Briscoe in the first place. He's a toned, tattooed roo from ... a world of fighting tribes. I go for rough and tumble. Rugged. Cause that's sorta how I am, myself." A pause. "Not that I can't be soft and feminine. I mean, I'm a singer. I can woo ... I can do all that jazz." She nodded, certainly. "I can be elegant. But I'm a pilot, you know? Seat of your pants kinda ... fly-girl. Yeah. I'm a fly-girl." She smiled. That was pretty apt, wasn't it? I don't know why I didn't think of that before ...
... buzzing, and reluctantly helping her move the flowers back to their original locations (mostly; it was hard to remember which shelves they'd been on before, so some amount of guessing was involved), the bee said, "I am not used to femme-males. We have not many in my species."
"I gathered as much."
"Majesty is a pampered thing. She gets what she wants. When she wants. Cause everyone wants to please her."
"Including you?"
A buzz-buzzy head-tilt. Antennae waving. As he probed a flower. And then put it down. " ... yes."
"Is that a chemical/hormone thing? Telepathic? Like, you have no control ... over her control? Over you?" Pause. "That made sense in my head."
"She is a very influential majesty, yes. Is Majesty. There is more than one, but ... mine is very charisma-having." A fuzzy fidgeting. "But she is spoiled."
"You love/hate her, huh?"
"It is a complicated connection." He seemed oddly uncomfortable.
"You glad to get away from it, then? Ultimately?" the bird asked, trying to be friendly. "You're sorta free ... you can be what you want, now. Do what you want. As a member of this crew. You should be happy."
The bee didn't reply immediately. Should. "Yes. Things are much laxer here. Back home, if they knew I was consorting with a beak-face ... I would be reprimanded. And relegated to worker-bee. Here, though? I am given a flower for associating with ... "
" ... not a beak-face," she finished. "By the way. I'm a goldfinch."
A wave of the hand. "Same."
"No," she stressed. "One is a little insulting ... "
" ... but true."
"I don't care if it's true." Her feathers ruffled. "Look, would you like it if I called you, uh ... I don't know ... needle-rump?" she said. Of him having a stinger.
"Yes."
" ... well ... " She bumbled. Uh, okay ... " ... well ... you're not supposed to. Look, call me Seurat. And I'll call you ... " She paused, in the midst of flower-rearranging. Standing up and clacking her beak. " ... I don't know your name."
"Bee."
"You've gotta have a name, though."
" ... bee."
"Come on. Tell me." A pause, and then a joking, one-eye-squinting, "Don't make me eat you."
He gave her a funny look at that. The humor half-escaping him. " ... Diyet."
"Diyet, like ... die-et, or ... dee-eht?"
"The latter."
" ... m'kay." A moment of silence. "Okay. Well, that's good to know. See. Now, we're on the same page here." The goldfinch resumed the task at hand. Or, uh, wing.
"Your tail-feathers are much-misaligned," Diyet observed.
"Oh. Eh ... Briscoe was kinda groping my rump. H-heh. I had to leave, though. He needed a plant from here. For an experiment. My reward for bringing it back to him is ... "
" ... no hear, no hear," the bee said, buzzing.
" ... hot bird-on-mammal mating, missionary-style," Seurat said, very loudly. Chirping it. "On a bio-bed, in sickbay ... "
" ... la-la-la!"
She giggle-warbled, and ...
... Peyton leaned back. Lazily. Utter laziness (or, to be accurate: helplessness). His eyes, unfocused, could barely make out the stars. Though he tried. The ship was back at warp, on the snow rabbit border. S-sorta ... like his heart. Really. Which was jack-hammering excitedly in his chest, his b-body. In a swivel-chair. In his ready room. That's where he was ...
... r-right?
His mind blanked out for a brief moment.
Mm.
He n-nodded. Short, sharp breaths. Yeah. Yeah ...
... a muffled, sultry squeak from below. Really, it was more like a chitter. A chitter-squeak. There should be a separate word for ... for ... that sound. Sound. Was music to his tall, twiddling ears. Those flushing lobes. It was the cutest noise. And the most earnest. And affectionate. And downright delicious. It made him hungrier. Hornier. And he looked down.
He was getting muzzle.
Adele was. There. Down there. Giving.
B-between.
His knees ...
... her tongue. Swirled, slowly, sloppily. Round the steadily-drooling head of his reddened rabbit-ness. His tingling, throbbing essence. Lathering, licking, lips. Slipped. An easy friction, with all her drool. Down a bit, and then further, ‘til his penis was simply gone from view. Completely in her muzzle and throat.
A tense inhale from him, cause, oh, gosh, oh, he knew, knew she was about to ...
... suck.
" ... y-a-ah!"
Suck.
His glacial-colored toes curled. Buckteeth jutting, biting his lip. " ... m-m ... mm," he went, quivering, quieting himself. At least a little. B-bit ...
... slide and slip, and an eyes-closed, luscious muzzle-twist.
His eyes watered at the expert move.
Adele, cheeks flushed with warmth, with sensual satisfaction (t-this was going well, wasn't it), reached out with a paw. Fishing, finding his own. Reddish-brown to snowy-white. Both having black pads. Blunted claws. Fingers meshed. And they held to each other in that sweet, little way. That additional connection, that other anchor. Her second paw hugging round his legs for a moment. And then pulling back. Finding its way to his belly ...
... pressing.
Rubbing.
He touched her head. Her head-fur, and those angular, cocked ears. He traced the edges with a finger. One ear and then the other. Feel how they quivered? Feel the subtleties of their movements? His free paw couldn't make up its mind. No, it took its own sweet time. Cupping her cheek, now. Tilting her head. The warmth of the pulse in her neck. The dip of her shoulder. She was truly beautiful. Maybe not as svelte or supple as a snow rabbit. If he was being honest, he would say she wasn't necessarily gorgeous. But she was cute. There was a kind of ... kinda ... d-distinction. Um. When ...
... squirrel paw squeezed rabbit paw tighter. As her muzzle audibly did things. He could hear her. It. This. And they weren't loud sounds. No. But they were there. And it made it more erotic. Just like her squeaks. Going back to those.
And, dapper rabbit, he sighed through the nose, in the beginnings of love-throes. Really. C-close. Now. If she kept this up. He warned her of that. By trying to grab and tug at her big, bushy tail. That luxurious thing. That was probably the most striking part of her body. It was incredibly hard to miss. So obvious. Squirrel-tails were like high-end appendages. The ones you envied. The ones you wanted to touch when they walked into the room. They simply had an allure. A black-and-white film star femme fatale quality. And, oh, he had hers. It was his. And he tugged, t-tugged. Weakly ... please, please ...
... a squeak of recognition. A true squeak this time. And she suckled her way up, up, u-up, and ... off ... huff. Huffing, head bowing to the side. Looking down. " ... oh." She licked her lips. And caught her breath. "O-oh ... "
" ... A-adele," the snow rabbit muttered. " ... L-lord." He shook his head. His rabbit-hood was twitching. He had to stay perfectly still, he felt, to avoid ... a-avoid ...
" ... yeah?" she managed, looking up. On her shins and knees, still, between his legs. On the carpet.
His mind blanked out again.
"H-heh ... Peyton?"
Ice-blue eyes blinked.
"You alright?" she asked, with a beaming smile. For she knew. She could see. He was happy. And it was because of her, and it made her heart swell. Figuratively, anyway. Maybe even literally. Anything was possible, right?
A dizzy nod. " ... y-yes. I, uh ... "
" ... I think I've swallowed a whole cup of pre," she noted. "I guess I'm doin' good."
" ... my apologies."
An airy, happy giggle. The kind you only made when all your defenses were down. The kind you only made when you were in love. "Don't be, silly," she whispered, tenderly, squeezing his paw. She was still holding onto it. "I don't mind. I mean ... I enjoy this." She breezily swiped at her glistening whiskers. "I know you certainly do."
"Yes. Yes ... " A contented mew, utterly relaxed. Leaning even further back in his comfy chair. Commenting, by the way, that, "I do believe this is the comfiest chair on the ship."
"Heh. Yeah?"
"Yes," he said, again. With a little more focus. "My chair on the bridge? It makes me antsy. I think it was designed that way ... "
" ... to keep the captain on his toes?"
"Would be logical."
"Logical, yes. But ... fun?"
"Logic can be fun," was the sly, boyish assurance. His emotions restrained. But evident. Oh, so evident. Just beneath the surface, glowing. Yes. But ...
" ... I can never melt you, can I? Fully?" she asked, very quietly.
"I am afraid not. Unless you wish me to turn feral."
" ... don't think I want that," she agreed, beginning to touch his lower body. Kind of distractedly, at first, but soon becoming more purposeful.
"Only psychological illness or ... certain radiation exposures," he said, academically, "can override the psychological ‘freeze' my species carries. Our emotions are suppressed. But I can," he assured, "feel ... and express those feelings. Surely, you know this by now."
"I do ... I know you well enough." An inhale. " ... what about love?"
A hesitation. " ... you fear I could not possibly love you?"
"I fear that ... " She trailed. " ... you know I love you. I've wanted to, and ... right now, at least, I'm at a point where I have no doubts about it. And the intensity ... "
He sighed as he felt her playing with his tightened, furry sac. His thick groin-fur. Her fingers curling, gently tugging.
" ... but I'm waiting for you to know, without a doubt, that you love me, too. Enough to where you can ... give me that kiss." They'd had their mouths on each other's bodies. All over. Really. But they hadn't met lips-to-lips. Not yet. Not quite. She'd told him, back when their entanglement had started, to save that for when he really meant it. That his kiss would be his confession. His declaration.
"I should like to kiss you, Adele," he said, honestly.
"Then do it," was the sultry, insistent plea.
" ... I simply ... am worried about hurting you. I have a certain nature. Rabbits ... "
" ... have trouble with infidelity. They open-breed. I know." Her dainty, rodent muzzle drifted. Pecking audible kisses to the underside of his stiffness (which, right now, had receded to a ‘semi-stiffness'). Up and down the flesh. Not the head, but the rest of it. Her nose bumping, sniffing. Whiskers grazing and twitching. " ... you were rock-hard. Until we started talking."
" ... I sometimes think with my penis." A dip of his shoulders. "Again: I am a male rabbit."
"That's a cliché. Or a stereotype ... "
" ... based in truth, in this instance."
She swallowed, breathing deeply of his scent. "I know what temptation is like. I'm not ... mad that you ... " She put both paws on his hips. His pants were around his ankles. He still had his shirt on. " ... I'm not mad about your past. Or your thoughts. I don't care. What I care about," she said, earnestly, vulnerably, "is that maybe you want the promise of those things ... more than you want the reality of me."
A head-shake. Tender in gesture. "That is not true, Adele ... darling," he said. Whispered. "I am simply having a hard time dropping or changing a lifestyle I have lived for countless years. What if I mate you and have a moment of weakness? And betray you? I am worried about hurting you."
"As long as you don't betray me with your heart," she said. Pulling back and mouthing his knee. "I can be open-minded, you know. I'm not gonna demand that any potential mate adhere to my rules or ... you know, or have them hit the road, otherwise. I can compromise. But you have to compromise with me," she stressed, "if we're gonna be fair."
"A middle-ground."
" ... yeah." They'd talked about this before. Several times, really. But it kept coming back up. It still needed to be addressed. Communication was key, right? In good relationships?
" ... if and when I do deliver you that kiss, to your lips? I do not want you to have to ask for it. Or see it coming. It will happen because the moment is so ripe that the only thing to do," he whispered, "is to sate my appetite by taking that sparkling taste of you."
Her eyes watered. She nodded. Slowly.
" ... is that upsetting?" he asked, with confusion.
A head-shake and a sniffle. "It's really passionate." She held her own tail for a moment. And then let it go. "You might not know it. But it sounded like it ... I mean, to me." A deep sigh. "Oh, my gosh, I've never been in a relationship like this. This isn't simple. This isn't ... this is so hard to figure out. What we are and ... " She trailed.
He rubbed her cheek with his thumb.
She tilted her head into that tiny touch. " ... I'm sorta glad, though, to be honest. That our romance isn't so traditional. Cause I've learned a lot. And I know, if I do end up as your mate, I'm gonna appreciate it much more than I would've ... if you'd agreed from the start. Or if this all had happened like a fairy tale."
"Some fairy tales are quite grim in their original writings."
"H-heh ... that so?"
"Yes."
"Well, I guess I'm going to be illogical and say I don't care." She sat back on her heels. Wearing only a bra and panties. Her tail swish-swished, stirring the air with its softness. " ... oh, uh ... I think I'll be ready," she commented, while she remembered, "with the wasp shield generator? By the way? I can try and install it tomorrow. We can't be at warp, though. I recommend, uh, getting behind a moon or something. Someplace out of sight. In case we have trouble. So we won't draw attention." Her arms hooked round his legs. Strong, loping, hopping ... ooh, rabbit-legs. Built for speed. For humping. " ... you're hot," she panted, randomly.
A mew of mirth. "Thank you."
She smiled, goofily, resting her chin against his thigh. Her cheek, too. She just stared at his masculinity. Which was pretty much limp, now. For a few seconds. Then she sat up (on her knees, at least) straighter. Looking to his chest. " ... that okay, though? The shield plan?"
"Yes," was the immediate, trusting response. "The sooner we get it working, the better. It could be a decisive advantage in any encounter with the, uh ... uh ... "
" ... yellow jackets," she supplied.
"Mm-m," he went, nodding. Giving another sigh. "If they want mischief, we shall give it to them. I'm sure we can come up with some creative schemes."
"You think we should be more concerned?"
"About the yellow jackets? If they are not working as a whole, but only in rogue packs? Then they are less a threat than if, say ... "
" ... they were unified. Yeah. But, still, what they did to that bee ship ... "
" ... the bee ship is not Majestic," he said, proudly. This was his vessel. He was its Captain. "We may not be a cruiser or a warship. But, for a patrol craft, we are very well-equipped."
"Then Majestic must take after her Captain," was the squirrel's slow, steamy retort. Oh, yes. She was a shy, neurotic thing. Was the squirrel. But, right now, as comfortable and aroused as she felt? It made her act a little loopier. " ... or am I wrong?"
"Adele ... darling," he simply went, using that term of affection.
"Yeah?" she went, hopefully, paws rubbing on his hips. Nose against his belly. She breathed of his soft, snow-white fur. Again. Such a pure color. Such a wonderful, soft feeling. And, oh, the warmth.
" ... now that I dwell on it further: as comfortable as this chair is, I would be remiss if I did not ask you to share in that comfort. However, it might be a tight squeeze, so ... "
" ... I'd probably have sit on your lap?"
"Yes." A lazy head-tilt. "Of course, it might be easier to sit at a straddle ... and, by chance, you might wish to remove your undergarments ... "
She was already doing so, giving a playful return order of, "Take off your shirt. I'm an engineer. I don't ride things unless I can see beneath the hood."
A rabbit-purr ...
... from Annika.
Drawn out, reverberating. As always, as often. Thanks to the roving paws of her earnest, eager mouse. Prompting her own paws to return the favor, as her arms went loosely around his grey-furred neck. In what could only be deemed a big, big hug.
Dennison, rodent buckteeth grazing through her neck-fur, mutter-mumbled, cutely bumbling over sweet, succulent words. ‘I love you's' and such. Soon admitting, " ... I've never made out on the bridge before." He admitted this in his light, effeminate tone, which was ever-tinged with a slice of squeak.
She had. Made out ... on the bridge before. But didn't tell him this. Because it was before they'd mated. It had been with Peyton. In the Captain's chair. Which was, truth be told, not that comfortable a chair. Though you'd think it would be ...
" ... you, uh, think we'll get caught?" A few pecks. On her soft, snowy neck. " ... m-mm." She smelled nice. Fresh. Maybe like pines. Winter wonderland kind of scents. Was there peppermint in that? "You used that candy cane shampoo ... in your fur ... "
" ... I did, yes." She felt a warmth in her breasts. Her temperature rising. "As for getting caught? Probably not." Her head leaned. A sigh. Allowing the peppering smooches. "The Captain will not be leaving his ready room anytime soon, and it is the lunch hour. We are the only ones here." The Captain and Adele, of course, were doing their, uh ... thing. Humphrey, in one of the ship's breeding parties, had gone to whatever random snow rabbit's quarters. To do his thing. Seurat was probably in sickbay. Doing hers. So ...
"I forgot it was lunch." Mouthing her cheek. His mouse-tail waver-waved. Wavered. As his meek muzzle matted her face-fur with his saliva. "I guess cause I'm only hungry for you ... " A cheesy sentiment. Even he knew that. But I'm a mouse. I can get away with it. When you were cute, you used it to your advantage, sometimes.
And she eye-smiled. Knowing that, yes, he could. Get away with such things. " ... m-m, well, you are full of scurry-ness," she stressed. "That must burn a lot of energy. It must give you quite an appetite."
" ... it does," he whispered, rubbing her lower back. His chest pressing to her breasts. "You have no idea."
"I am a rabbit, Dennison," she reminded her husband. "And I share your bed. I think I have inkling." Her bobtail flicked. Simply.
"Not ‘bout scurry," he murmured, stubbornly. His very breath washing over her chin.
"About appetites. Obviously." Her voice was barely audible. She wasn't sure whether to lean back. Or lean forward. " ... I wonder: is scurry in any way equitable to hop?"
"If anyone's qualified to find out, it's us ... yeah?" he mused. "But, uh, I think we should already know the answer." He began to suck on her chin. And drifted, soon enough, to her lower lip. Touching. But not sucking or kissing yet. "Given how often our scurry and hop has ... "
" ... collided?"
"I was gonna say fused. That sounded more sensual. More fateful."
"Fused. Full furry fusion?" she posed, raising a brow. "I like that. It is poetic." And an eye-smile as she tilted her head. "You know what other word starts with ‘F' ... "
" ... mm, don't say it."
"I'm going to."
"I'll stop you," he replied, shyly.
" ... go ahead and ... " ... try, she thought (for it could no longer be said). As his lips pressed, meshed, taking her voice away. Not gingerly, either, but passionately. This was a deep kiss he was drawing her into. This was something far from timid. Her lower lip suddenly caught between both of his. Suckling, he let it go. Went for the upper lip. And, then, segueing from that to a general all-over mouthing. Saliva-strung smacks. She could taste him. That wetness, that moist maw. The heat, and the tap of his buckteeth against hers. The tickle of his whiskers on her cheeks. Her own whiskers not as pronounced. They tangled, though, in the end, as he ...
... " ... mm." Backed her. To the wall. And the computer consoles and schematics that were embedded within and around it. A paw on the small of her back. The other paw feeling at her breasts (through her shirt and bra).
" ... mm-f," Annika fumbled, her holy flame of a white bobtail (what a thing!) flickering. Burning. Brightly. Rump sliding across a smooth computer-top. Unintentionally pressing many buttons. Beep-a-bop-bop-BOP! B-b-beep ... beep ... " ... hmm." She pressed back. Hotly. Her own whiskers glistening. His drool or hers? She wasn't sure. She could barely see it out of the corner of her half-opened, dilating eyes. Her rump lifting, and she ...
... turned the tables.
The mouse, now, was pinned. To the tactical console. " ... uh, A-annika," he quickly panted, with a loud smack. Panting. " ... I ... I don't want my tail to accidentally raise the shields. Or something."
"No. I suppose shields must be lowered," the rabbit decreed, logically, "when there is no threat." She began unbuckling his pants. "That is what you would call tactical innuendo, by the way," she added.
" ... really h-hard to miss. H-heh ... I got that." He swallowed and looked around, wide-eyed. His big, dishy ears flooding with blood. Capillaries beginning to show round the rims. " ... what if someone comes in? What are we going to do, exactly?"
"Fuse," she whispered. The word dripping off her tongue. The same tongue that was forcing itself back into the mouse's mouth.
" ... um-m ... " He sighed through his very sniffy, very twitchy. Pink. Nose. Paws fumbling with her shirt. Pulling it up her back. Exposing it. " ... mm, Annika, for real," he managed to squeak. "Someone's going to walk in, and ... "
... she reached past him. With a paw. And, almost without looking, tap-a-tapped. Tap. Tap. Ba-beep. And a chirrup sound. "I have locked every door that empties into the bridge with my access codes. We will not be interrupted."
"Y-you can do that?" the earthy-scented mouse went, shyly. His natural submissive nature ... kinda turned on. Well, a lot. Turned on. He almost swooned. His knees wobbled together.
"Yes."
He swallowed. Whiskers twitching. Tail wavering like a wild, fleshy rope. "Oh, boy," he mouthed. "What if we bump into the panels again? Uh, if I accidentally fire torpedoes ... or we fall on a console that ejects the warp core?"
"That will not happen. I assure you." Her supple hips slanted. "No, the only thing that that will end up ejecting ... will be ... "
" ... o-okay, I get it ... I get it," he insisted, haphazardly, speaking over her very suggestive words. " ... me."
"Mm-hmm. You." A mew-sound. "No need to blush. You are simply giving me such easy serves. I can't resist volleying them back." Wordplay was fun, wasn't it?
"So, you're keeping score? W-who's winning ... "
"I believe we are currently even. I am spotting you some points." Her paw in his pants. And their muzzles locking. Yes. Again. Succulent and sucking, leaning and twisting.
They went quiet for a moment moment.
A breathless kind of kiss.
Oh, he almost, almost ... wanted to almost bring her to the floor, the carpet, did Dennison. But stayed upright. At her bidding. And then the kiss finally broke, his forehead going to hers. And their noses touched. And their arms went around each other's backs. Playing around, messing around. In bare fur? And their clothes were halfway off? Yes. They kinda were.
There was only one thing left to do, in the rodent's mind, before they totally gave in to their star-crossed desires: "Computer? Could you please," he started, looking up the ceiling.
She licked his cheek. Literally. Licked it. " ... cute."
" ... turn off the lights?"
A whir-whir-whir. Of descending nature. And, with the lights off? Not only did they have a better semblance of privacy and intimacy. But the stars streaming on the main view-screen were illuminated. And, Lord, it was romantic.
"Annika?"
"Yes?" she breathed, turning around. Putting her back to him.
He knew what to do. He was very well-trained. Undoing the bra. Saying, whilst nipping at her nape, "Since you're chief of security, if we do get in trouble ... can I share your same cell in the brig?" Her bra falling to the floor, he felt up her breasts from behind. Groping the mounds. Thumbing the nipples. Oh, he wanted to suck those ...
... mew!
And purr. From her.
And, " ... oh, y-yes ... definitely," she went, naked. And loving it. Turning around, breasts wobbling. Tugging at his briefs. And then pulling him toward her. Her bobtail got stuck, mid-flicker, between the bulkhead and her rump. His chest squishing those ... aforementioned breasts. And she lifted a single leg, wrapping it around his waist. They were going to do this standing up. Yes. "That can be arranged ... "
... in the back of sickbay, around the corner, half-lit.
Only bare foot-paws (and talons) and legs visible from the main door, everything clean, tidy, and so ...
... arranged. Yes. H-he ... rearranged her. Slightly. Big, strong roo-paws. Sweaty paws. The pads were damp. She could feel that. On her feathery hips. Their bodies were getting perilously close to the edge of the bio-bed. And Briscoe, sure and simply, maneuvered them back into center, s-squaring his point of entry, and lowering himself back down. Angling forward with a h-hopping ...
" ... a-ah," she moaned, talon-feet to the air.
... tail-lumbering hump. "H-huh," he managed, smiling. "H-hey, Surry?"
"W-what," she mumbled, only half-listening.
"You're a ... h-huh. Fucking. Pretty bird." His eyes rolled back. Head twisting. " ... a-ah. Know that?" His hips pulling back, and dipping forward. Grinding, colliding. His tufted, tight sac slapped against her vulva.
She didn't respond. She just ... w-well, not verbally. Responding. She just wrapped her winged arms around his neck and back. Just held on. A little tighter, her grip. A little more desperate. She may have been a ‘fly-girl,' yeah. She could ... o-okay, she had an attitude. Sometimes. But, in spite of that ... in spite ... plain, vanilla. Missionary sex. Was her utter favorite ...
... she liked being beneath her mate's rugged, toned, furry body. Feeling his every move. Mounted. Being able to kiss a-and ... to hug. Fully. Not partially, but fully. She liked that. She liked the way his chest-fur slid over her nipples. And, oh, that felt so good. Oh. Just the weight (and heat) of him. She liked tracing the tattoos on his back with her talons. She couldn't see them. But had their positions memorized, basically. She did. And ...
... and she liked when he did the work.
Let him do the work.
She just laid there, h-happily. Holding on. Oh. It d-didn't get better ...
... than this.
His thick. Thick, veined penis. Plum-pink and alight with sensitivity. Her accommodating vaginal walls. Were so smooth, so slickly, steamily ... s-smooth ... so smooth, the motion, the in-and-out ...
... he was a doctor.
He knew why this felt so good. He did, but ...
... he was still so dumb and helpless. In a sort of awe.
Still, though. Lord.
Unable to resist.
... m-m ... do what nature wants. It's scheming. It's plotting. And, oh, it'll reward you good. Good. If you just follow along.
The roo chuckled.
And, beneath him, the goldfinch heard. She had no visible ears. They were just holes in the side of her head. But she heard. His warm amusement (at something unknown to her). The ‘slick-slick' squelching of their joined genitals. The rustling of feathers against fur. Baited breaths. Noises that bodies only made when in friction. Such sweet, dripping friction. She began to whimper.
" ... h-hun, you're ... dribbling on the bio-bed again," Briscoe panted warmly. His groin-fur, too. Wetness. Running down his shaft and into his sac-fur.
"I k-know ... I know," she whispered, in sexual bliss, her vagina starting to contract. Little preliminary spasms. The verge. Of orgasm. The little earthquake lurking, waiting. Wanting to be released.
He arched his back, raising his muzzle. Happy eyes. Fully shut. Forward, deep hump. " ... o-oh. Yeah," he sighed, pulling back. " ... I'm jus' teasin' ya," he whispered. Sucking on her beak. "I love a wet pussy ... " Again, forward hump. Shaky, hilting. And chest collapsing. "H-hah ... ah." His nose to her downy cheek. Lovely. Love you. He whispered. He hoped she heard. As he ejaculated, lost in punching waves of bliss. That crashed upon him. Repeatedly. " ... oh. Oh-h." Pant. " ... mm." Pant, p-pant ...
... she swore she could feel the ropes of hot, white kangaroo. Semen. Painting, pelting her raw, organic walls. Her cervix dipped. As her pelvis shook. As her vagina began to m-milk, milk ... him, and in doing so. The flutters! Oh. This was ... " ... p-per-chik-chik-chik!" she cheeped. Her instinctual animal sound, the native goldfinch call. It sang out. " ... o-ree, o-ree ... r-ree ... " Such. Pleasure. She exclaimed. Until, hazy, panting, glazed. Dazed. She came down from it. She descended into the ‘after.' The glow. Afterglow. " ... oh, Briscoe."
"I know. I know," he whispered. After a few seconds. "Me, too." He suckled on her beak-tip. Suckle. Stop. Suckle. Eyes darting up. Waiting for hers to open.
They finally did.
" ... if I could give you eggs, Surry ... " He trailed, a bit randomly. " ... you know I would."
"Why do you, uh ... what makes you say that?" she whispered, blinking. Her eyes a bit cloudy. She had to blink several times.
"I don't know. I just ... I guess I was just thinking. Nature's real reason for sex." A pause. "I would fulfill that reason. Give you eggs."
" ... you don't need to. I know you can't. But ... you wouldn't need to, even if you could. Let nature have its reasons for this. Let us wrest it, seize it back ... make our own. Make it. The act. And the reasons. Like we have been doing. New reasons, new meanings every day ... " Wow, I get really poetic-sounding when I'm in afterglow, don't I?
" ... in the course of the journey of our space-faring love," he finished. Improvising the words. "Fine by me, then." A toothy grin. He wasn't going to contradict that.
A giggle-chirp, shifting beneath him.
"Loved the finch-call, by the way."
"Did ya?"
"Yep. Much more pleasing than my roo-sounds," he teased, nibbling on her cheek. Referring to his own grunts and ‘tut-tuts.' His sturdy balance of a tail gave a flop or two. "You make me a very happy. I love you," he whispered. Again. By one of her ears.
"Love you, too." An easy sigh, still laying beneath him. Very lazily. Tracing his tattoos once more, once more. "You know ... I'm a pilot, so I guess that makes you my co-pilot." A playful look. "When you think about it ... "
A nuzzle. He liked the sound of that. "Mm. Who's going to fly us to the shower, then? You or me? Don't co-pilots split duties?"
"I can't carry you," she said, smartly. "But, as I recall, you can easily carry me."
"I guess I'll have to do the piloting, then," he went, getting up (and off her). "But you gotta clean up the bio-bed before you go back to the bridge," he quickly added, before she could object, picking her up. In his arms. "Thrusters on full!" he declared, taking bouncy, bold roo-hops. To the shower in his office. Sometimes, it was hard to believe he was a medical professional. The way he acted. He was such a desert boy.
Wings around his neck, the goldfinch chirped and squealed, laughing, "D-don't you dare drop me, mister ... " ... but he never had. And he never would. Because good co-pilots never let you crash. They were your parachute.