Winter-Born
The room was sterile and white. Chilly. And the color of eggshells.
"You were caught trying to infiltrate one of our bases," said Oliver. Sitting across from him.
The Arctic fox tilted his head at the snow rabbit. Replying, "So goes the claim."
"So goes the fact. You were caught on surveillance records."
"Anyone can fabricate records. I'm a fox," was the reply. "I'm guilty by association. My fur is white. I'm a predator ... therefore, you brand me guilty."
"You are on our world. Why?" Oliver asked cooly.
The fox (who had not, thus far, given his name), shrugged.
Oliver squinted. The snow rabbit was an engineer by trade. But had a background in interrogation. In special Ops. He'd been called on to investigate this latest development in this cold war. The snow rabbits and Arctic foxes lived on ice worlds. In bordering systems. Often, there were border skirmishes. In the past, there had been war, but ... it was now a cold one. In a lull. Feeling as if it could erupt at any time. This was a chess game.
"Are you afraid, rabbit?"
Oliver narrowed his eyes.
"Wanna un-do my restraints?" The fox lifted his paws. He wore cuffs. Around his paws AND his foot-paws. And was in a chair behind a desk. Sitting opposite Oliver.
"I don't believe so," was Oliver's response.
"Pity, that. I'm in the mood to scuffle."
"You were after tactical information. Our fleet deployments. Our border patrols. Our satellite frequencies," Oliver dictated, reading from a computer pad. He looked up at the fox, raising his brow. "This also states that you attempted to ... "
"That is a LIE. I did nothing of the sort."
"As you say." Oliver tilted his head, but his eyes were smiling ... seemingly pinning the fox in place.
The florescent lighting in the room was bright. Radiated of white. Their fur was white. The walls. The table. Everything. All of it winter-born. As Oliver was. Winter-born. And winter-bred. He was of the ice. As was this fox, but ... this fox was a predator, and a spy. And he needed to be dealt with accordingly. But Oliver was patient ...
"You attempted," Oliver continued, "to seduce one of femmes. In the process, you blew your cover." The rabbit cocked his head. "I wouldn't worry about it. You're not the first fur love has made a fool of."
"It was not love," the fox emphasized.
"So, you admit to seducing her?"
The fox huffed. "I needed access codes. She seemed ... flowery enough. I underestimated her cold resolve."
"As you underestimate the resolve of us all. We may be prey, fox, but ... we are more resilient than most. And more perceptive," Oliver added, tapping buttons on his pad. Blinking. Saying, "There is enough evidence here ... to convict you of espionage. You will be incarcerated near the Southern Pole. For a period of five years. After which, you will be set free ... any second offense, however, will get you a lifetime sentence."
The fox's eyes held fear. The Southern Pole. The snow rabbits had two incarceration facilities for vulpine spies and prisoners of war: the North Pole facility. And the South. No one ever escaped from the South Pole. No one, anyway, who had lived long enough to reach the atmosphere.
"We take crimes against the state," Oliver said, in his detached, crystalline tone. He was a Northerner. It was apparent in his inflections. In his dialect. In the way he spoke. With a misty, icy evenness. "We take such crimes ... very seriously. I suggest, in future, you think twice before attempting to compromise us."
"They'll come for me ... you can't do this," the fox growled. Showing his teeth. The predator in him welling. Lashing out. Wanting blood. Wanting limb.
"They may ... and we can. Regardless, you have been sentenced." The rabbit stood from his seat. Nodded. Eyes blank. Eyes a pale, pale blue. "Good day." And he turned and left, the fox snarling, vowing blood. Vowing to "stain your fur red" ...
Oliver had received such threats before. The prey in him ... was terrified. Pounded. But his emotional cool, his icy exterior ... masked any such fear. The fear was there. But it was buried. Controlled. And Oliver, icy-eyed, leaving vapor clouds upon every exhale, walked the corridors of the grounded intelligence station (which was in the snow-swept plains of the North-Central continent, the second-smallest continent on their world). Snow-Fall Nine was the station's name. One of 11 such gigantic, metallic hubs ... built and maintained around the planet. From which the snow rabbits monitored their borders. Relayed information (in tandem with the seven space stations nestled in orbit). Dealt with prisoners. And so on.
The interior of Snow-Fall Nine was just as cold, nearly, as the outside. The snow rabbits liked it cold. They were of the cold. It was in their blood. And, though their blood was warm, they often referred to themselves as "cold-blooded." Not in the sense of being cruel. But in being of a certain nature. A certain heritage. Of which they were very proud. Of which ...
" ... you are to be commended. Your interrogation went well," said a voice.
Oliver paused. Nodded in the white-white light. "He only began to talk after I raised the temperature in the room ... by fifty degrees." Arctic creatures, snow creatures ... furs of the ice ... had a low tolerance of heat. Their worst fear was fire. Was burning. There was no worse pain than a burn. And no worse way to die ... than by fire. Or by heat.
"Still, you gathered enough evidence to convict him," said the other rabbit. A femme. "Still, we knew he was guilty ... without talking to him. They all are. But as the law says, we must give them a hearing to prove their innocence." No fox, in the history of these hearings ... had been successful in "proving" his innocence. To the snow rabbits, this was not corrupt. This was simply due to all Arctic foxes having something to hide. Why else would they be caught in snow rabbit space? Why else would ...
" ... you care to join me?" Oliver posed.
"For?" The femme waggled her slender, long ears, which stood stiffly atop her head.
"A bowl of soup?" was the suggestion. Snow rabbits loved soup. They would have it often. For nearly every meal, in fact. At least once a day. Soup was warm. The steam that rose from it ... was hypnotizing to watch. And though they were at union with the chill, the snow rabbits, like any fur, like any prey, especially, needed some warmth to survive. They found it in food. Food was nourishment, and heat was energy ... and so, the cold-minded snow rabbits fed themselves with warmer things.
The femme nodded. Her name was Annika. Oliver was familiar with her. They were acquaintances. "I would enjoy that."
Oliver nodded. Smiling with his eyes. Snow rabbits rarely smiled with their muzzles. Not unless they were exceedingly loose. No, they used their eyes. Shining, soft, silky eyes ... pale, pale in color. As if the cold had bled the color away. Leaving a trace, a hint of color. A taste. Like a few drops of flavor in a glass of clear water. Enough to make you come back for more. Keep drinking of it. Keep looking into those eyes. There was something haunting about the eyes of a snow rabbit.
The two snow rabbits went to the base's cafeteria. Which was sparse at this time of day (this world having 28-hour days, and it being mid-morning). The soup was a serve-yourself affair. Steaming, chrome-colored pots on glowing burners. With silver ladles resting inside each pot. There were many soups: cream of broccoli, cream of potato ... tomato. Cheese, even. Poultry noodle. Regular noodle. Rice.
Oliver, putting a bowl on a plate ... holding the plate with one paw, dished three ladle-fulls of potato soup. And, setting his soup down, looked to Annika, asking, "For you?"
"I will have tomato," she answered.
He nodded. Scooped her soup, grabbing a bowl of oyster crackers (for the both of them), as well as mugs of hot chocolate. And they went and found a table near the windows. A booth.
"I have never had potato soup," she said, nodding at his meal.
"It is surprisingly good."
"I like a soup with color. Color is so rare," she said. Everything on this world was white. Or some kind of ... off-white. Or grey. "It's almost blinding," she said, staring at the earthy, brick-red of her soup. Stirring it with a spoon. Steam rose from it, curling, wisping through the air.
Oliver, staring at his own soup, stirred it, too. "I find color hurts my eyes. Too flamboyant."
"You don't like color?" She looked up at him.
"I do," he said, looking back. "But in doses."
"What is your favorite color?" she pressed, smiling with her eyes. And he could've sworn ... her muzzle showed the slightest bit of a smile, too. Showed some kind of warmth toward him.
"I am fond," he said slowly, thinking for a moment. "Of blue," he finished.
"Blue is cool. It is like the sky ... when the sky isn't overcast, that is."
He tilted his head in acknowledgment. "Am I to assume, then, that your favorite color is red?"
She nodded. "It's ... the color of blood. Of life. The force of life ... I think that the force of life, the heart of life, it must be red. It is a color I am greatly ... attracted to."
Oliver lifted a spoonful of soup to his mouth. Took it in. It was warm. They almost melted on his tongue, the potatoes ... little potato chunks. In white creamy soup. And he breathed the aroma of it. He had not eaten breakfast this morning. He never ate before an interrogation. He found that eating, in such instances, was a liability. He was prey. And, when confronting predators in such a situation ... he had to do things that prey were not accustomed to doing. Sometimes, it made him sick to think of it ... of the things he had done. And would do again. To protect his fellow furs. His fellow snow rabbits. Regardless, having food in the stomach when trying to break the will of a predator ... was not advisable. Not unless one wished to bring the food back up.
Annika daintily took the tomato soup to her own mouth. Sipping silently of it. Some snow rabbits slurped their soup. Some spilled it. She ate it in such a refined manner ... that Oliver was sure she was making an art of it. And he felt self-conscious, suddenly, eating his own soup. As if he were being sloppier. As if we were not doing it properly. As if ...
" ... you need some crackers?" she asked, sliding the bowl across the booth.
"Thank you," was his soft reply. Whiskers twitching. Nose sniffing. The scent of soup, of nourishment. Of warmth. And of her. She was warmth, too. She could be nourishment, too.
Annika, looking down at the liquid in her bowl, sensed the welling desire from her companion. Sensed what was starting to burn inside him. Furs were, as a rule, extremely sensual creatures. Furs of the ice ... were no exception. They, however, dealt with the desire differently. For them, it was subtle. Being that their emotions had been frozen over, their emotions existing, but ... not in the fore ... they felt it. Back there. Stirring in their bodies. Their souls. Their ...
" ... soup is good today."
"It's the same soup," Annika offered, looking up again. "That is served everyday."
"But it is especially good today," he said.
For a moment, Annika was unsure what he'd meant by "it is especially good today" ... be it the soup. Or her. She was certain, dead certain, he was referring to her. For this was how snow rabbits flirted. In roundabout, crystalline ways. With restraint.
They ate, for a bit, in silence. Outside, it was, as usual, a grey-white. And windy. And flurries flew through the air. Building to all the snow that was already there. Compacting the ice beneath it all.
"Perhaps we should have ... dessert," Oliver suggested.
"What do you suggest?"
"Something hot," was the rabbit's level reply.
And she could see the heat in his eyes ... and felt a tingle in her thighs. And, so, she agreed. Like all furs, she needed to breed. She was not going to turn him down. He was a very admirable fur. She respected him a great deal, and even ... was very fond of him. Snow-furs didn't love like other furs did. And snow rabbits didn't love like other prey did. Their love wasn't romantic ... in the sense that would've been considered normal. It was born of need. Of need of warmth. Of touch. In this environment, in the ice, in the cold, one NEEDED some kind of warmth to off-set all the chill. They still had hearts. Beating hearts. They needed them filled. But it was hard to feel crazed, burning love ... when one's emotions were snowed-in. When one had been conditioned, through generations, to live life at a stoic, detached pace. When one was so hell-bent on basic survival.
The walk to Oliver's room was a very quiet one. The scuffle of their white, furry foot-paws, which were thick-padded, thick-furred. The breathing of them ... their breaths. The slight, slight hum of each and every florescent light. The walk was a quiet one. Quietly tense. Quietly baited. Quietly waiting ...
... for the door to open. The door to close.
For both of them to cautiously (almost timidly) work their paws beneath their clothes. For Oliver to push her to the wall. Hungrily (as though they he hadn't just eaten).
Muzzle-to-muzzle, in a kiss. Lips needing, wanting ... this!
And the air in the room was kept at a chill. With each exhale, their breath showed. Crystalline vapor clouds. As if their dreams were given physical form. As if, with each breath, their souls were giving their exhaust. As if they were one with the air. As if ...
" ... I didn't realize," Oliver panted, panting onto her cheek. Her chilly, white (so white) cheek. "How much I wanted this ... " His voice was earnest. Was quiet. And his breath was so, so warm. As was his touch. As was his now-bare body against hers. Both of them standing, though. Standing. With her back to the wall, and with him leaning up against her. Keeping her there. Upright and pinned.
"Neither did I," she managed to say, swallowing, raising her twitching, sniffing nose to the ceiling. As Oliver sucked and wetted the pure-white fur of her neck. Her fur was soft. Was unbelievably soft. There were no adjectives for this kind of softness. Oliver couldn't think of any. He simply buried his nose in it. Breathed. In. Out. Breathed ... and ran his paws through the fur on her sides. On her lower back. On her rump. Up, down ... his paw-pads sliding through silky, warm fur. Through her clean, clean pelt.
The male rabbit's stiff rabbit-hood, pink, shy, shivering (and she could've imagined it giving off steam ... with how much blood was in there) ... it nestled in the fur of her lower belly. Right on her waist. And Oliver instinctually rose to the tips of his foot-paws ... and lowered down. Rose, lowered, letting the sensitive flesh of his maleness slide through the softness of her fur. And it drove him mad. Made him all the more in want of her ...
Beads of pre, crystal clear (like shards of ice) collected to her fur ... and Annika sighed, sighing, huffing, each breath giving vapor, giving a heated, writhing puffing. She breathed, breathed, legs parting, going wider ... as Oliver's paw (more calloused than hers; he'd had a rough life, and his body was rugged for it) ... as his paw, the fingers of his paw ... traced her white, furry folds. Where her fur was shortest. Where it was its most velvety. Where, beneath it, you could almost see the blushing pink of flesh. A more delicate shade of pink than was on her nose. Or on her ears. Or on her paw-pads.
She clutched his shoulders, giving him downward pushes ... indicating she wanted to do this at a lie-down. Indicating that her knees were weak. She would not be able to stand through this. The pleasure would cause her legs to give way.
Oliver nodded haphazardly, and he hugged her to himself ... white fur to white fur, sniffy nose to hers. Long, slender foot-paws, powerful rabbit legs (built for running, built for speed, built for stamina) bumping to hers. And he brought her to the floor. To the cool white of the carpet. Where she, on her back, looked to him with a silent plea. That almost seemed to say, "Melt me."
He slid between her spread legs. His rabbit-hood stiff and aching. Needing. More than ready. And he bumped his tip to her folds. The heat was shocking. The heat coming from her ... was unlike any he had felt. And he pushed forward. An inch. Into her opening, which parted, which swallowed him up ...
"Oh ... " Oliver huffed. "Oh, Annika ... " He couldn't stop himself. Couldn't resist. He slid, slickly, organ now coated with her juices, all the way into her. Where he went to his hilt. And huffed, hanging his head. He whimpered, rubbing her face cheek-to-cheek, tilting, kissing her cheek, her lips, her nose. Tasting every ounce of her fur. Of her warmth.
Her arms went round his back. In need.
And he pulled in inch or so back ... and humped.
"Uh," she huffed. Eyes closing. She approved. The way her legs wrapped round him, digging into her rump ... oh, she approved.
Oliver felt his fur begin to mat with sweat. The heat he was giving off, and the heat he was getting from her ... was more than the chill of the room could contain. More than the chill of their hearts could restrain.
Annika rocked back at his motions. They were a tangle of fur, of form. He was plowing into her with masculine ease. As if he were designed to do just this. And nothing else but this. Nothing else but to make love to her.
Their white bob-tails twitched very slightly ... their whiskers waggled. Their ears burned to their tips.
Oliver huffed, huffed ... made a chitter sound ... was getting nearer. Getting closer. Oh, so close ... !
He fumbled a paw down between them. Just to feel it. Just so her fingers could brush his cock as it went in and out, in and out. So, she could feel that rhythm with her paws. So she could give a tug at his white, furry sac. Tug, tug ...
"Uh, uh ... "
She let go and ... hugged him round the back once more. Just holding to him now. Clinging to him ... as he tweaked one of her pink, stiff nipples with his fingers. As his chest rubbed over them. As the fur of his chest slid over her breasts with each inward thrust. With each manic dig into her heat. Her sex. Her ...
... orgasm was welling. Her eyes watered. She had to close them.
The rabbit thrust with vigor now. His legs were built for it. Rabbits had excellent lower body strength, and he could've done this for hours more ... without ever tiring. But his body wasn't going to be denied this pleasure. This shared pleasure. No, it was going to have it ... have it ...
" ... ah, ah! Ohh ... uhnn," Oliver grunted, shivering. Shivering! He huffed, exhaling vapor. "Uhmm ... " His throat was dry. Eyes shut. Body shaking. Movements erratic as ... his cock tickled from base to tip, and then ... spasm, spasm! Muscles twitching, and it spat spurt after spurt of steaming hot male's milk. White, wet semen ... sowing into her femininity. Oliver sagged over her, on top of her, whimpering as he endured this. Never more willing to endure anything ...
His sounds, his motions, his weight on top of her, his climaxing inside her, it ... brought her there, too. Finally there. Finally to where she arched, gasped, huffing, "Oh ... oh!" she panted. "Mm ... " She swallowed, having to clear her throat. Huff, huff. Puff! Her limbs weakly stayed round his body. Keeping him there. Not wanting to lose him. Or this. She allowed her orgasm to filter through her consciousness. To brush every nerve of her. She rode it through ...
And, afterwards, minutes later, when they finally opened their eyes ...
" ... th-thank you," Oliver stammered, feeling floored. Feeling more than he'd ever felt before.
She nodded a very slight, very weak nod, nuzzling her pink nose to his. Out of great affection. Out of incredible gratitude. "Any," she breathed, "time ... my love," she added. Afraid to add it. Afraid he would think it was silly. But she did feel it. It must be love. This must be love.
And he returned it. Whispering his love back into her ear. Erasing her every fear of rejection and isolation.
And they hugged. Snugging on the carpet, bare ... in the air that they had warmed. Each of them, in their furry form, adamant on exploring this further. Exploring each other. And the possibilities inherent in each others eyes.