A grunt.

The vixen tilted her head a bit. Her white tail swished in the dim, evening-lit confines of the room.

Neither of them noticed the stars outside the windows.

Neither of them cared.

Ural brushed his teeth along her nape, exhaling through his slightly-damp, black nose, and breathing, "You smell like prey ... " A sighing complaint. And one that he made consistently, every time they bred. He always said, before they started, "You smell like prey ... "

And she always gave the same response: "Have you smelled yourself, lately?" Her voice was quiet and cool, and with no sign of hesitation or apprehension. She may have been a femme, but Ural didn't scare her. She could put up a fight if she needed to, and he knew it.

"No ... "

Her eyes closed. "It's not like we can help it. Their scent is everywhere ... they," she emphasized, "are everywhere."

"Plainly." A simple, one-word statement of reluctant acceptance.

Her nose sniffed the air a bit. "Perhaps we should shower."

"No. I don't want to wait."

"If the scent bothers you ... "

" ... delaying breeding," he assured, with a huff, and a throaty growl-sound, "bothers me more."

Volga turned her head a bit more, a bit more. And then turned her whole body, facing him, now, and showing her teeth in a display of amusement. "You are extremely predictable."

"Predictable?"

"Yes. I find it strangely ... comforting," she managed. "Having to stumble through guesswork to get to sex is ... is a huge bother. Don't you think? I suppose you make it so much easier for us. I suppose I should be grateful."

His eyes glinted, in a feral, hungry way. "My predictability is comforting?" was all he said.

"Yes." A throaty growl, and her paws went to his chest. Her sharp, glinting claws, black like her paw pads, contrasting with her snowy-white fur. "Mm ... but I think you must be worked up," she whispered, "to the point of hazy thinking. You often are. It is a weakness of yours," she told him, "becoming distracted when ... "

"I have no weaknesses," he interrupted, his eyes steely. Meeting hers. His posture was most adamant.

"No?"

"No," he said, with a forceful sound. "And do not think, vixen, that you can control any part of me. Do not think you know me well enough ... or have enough of my affections," he promised, "to take advantage of me."

"I would never dream," she said, very quietly, in an almost calculated fashion, "of taking advantage of you, Ural."

A shake of the head. "No, you wouldn't. You wouldn't dream it. You would simply do it." A pause. A breath. "And I am telling you not to try ... I wouldn't wish to hurt you. You are too appealing," he said, eyes darting over her naked, furry body, "to look at. Even if you consistently try my patience."

"An impatient vixen?" A toothy grin, and she pressed her nose into his fur. And began to nip at him. "Am I, really ... "

A throaty growl, light and lusty.

Their bodies continued to bump. Their arousal continuing to grow. She felt a growing wetness between her legs. She smelled it.

And he smelled it, too, and it was working him up. Oh, he was getting greedier.

They were in their quarters, in the bedroom. Standing beside the bed. Not having committed to lying down. Still standing, still nipping at each other, still wresting for dominance.

" ... I was simply, earlier, referring to the fact," Volga continued, returning to the original topic, "that showering does not have to delay our breeding. We can have sex in the shower. Yet you didn't acknowledge such an option ... "

A pause.

"Ural ... "

"I slipped," he said, "the last time ... "

" ... and bruised your rump." A chuckle. "Yes, I remember. Back on the moon. Back when we first met."

"We will not breed in the shower," was his reiteration. "And do not," he said, showing his teeth a bit more, "laugh at me."

"I'm laughing at the memory," she assured cooly, "of you. Not at you, yourself."

"Your are speaking in twists and turns. You know very well what you are laughing at ... and I am telling you," he whispered, "to stop."

"And if I don't?" Her voice was silky. Demanding. Daring.

"You may think very highly of your strength, but I am still," he told her, "the male here."

"That is extremely hard," she said, almost in an innuendo-like fashion, her paw gripping his fox-hood, "to forget." She grinned powerfully.

A pleasured, hot shiver from him. "R-remove your paw ... you're trying to best me."

A slow squeeze.

"Ah," he breathed.

"Yes, you are the male, but ... you can be easily," she growled, "steered." She, as she spoke, did just that. Steered his stiffness, slightly, in a clockwise direction.

A throaty growl, his muzzle pointing up. And then lowering. As he gripped her wrist. Hard. "Lay off ... for now ... "

She stopped her motions. But didn't remove her paw. Just grinned.

And he squeezed her wrist harder.

Until she had no choice but to let go of him. Teasing him wasn't worth getting a broken wrist.

He glared at her.

"Try me," she said, in an almost benign, daring way. "Try me ... "

"Is that a request?" His body was pressing to hers, belly-to-belly. His paws going behind her, to her rump, claws digging into her fur. Making her to arch and lean closer into him, and making her big, swishy tail to flick this way and that.

She didn't answer his question. Just continued the free-flow of fur and form. Just ran her paws up and down his back, now. The pads of her paws on his fur. She liked the strength he gave. The tone of his body, and the muscles beneath it all. She liked the growls that were coming from his throat, and the scent of his rising arousal. She liked his fox-hood. She liked that knot. She liked the primal connection of being physically tied, of being held, being sown. She liked, also, that it wasn't simply her that was being tied to him.

He needed her just as much. He wanted inside her body as much as she wanted him inside.

They were on equal footing with their desires.

But as to how they exerted those desires? In that venue, both foxes felt, in their heads, that they had the advantage. I can woo the other better. I can use my body to bring the other to submission.

I can win this.

I can get what I want.

"Volga ... "

Her angular ears cocked atop her head. And her nose flared as she breathed in, grinding with him, swaying, tugging him, in a teasing way, to the shower.

But he resisted, trying to pull her to the bed. Saying, again, "Volga ... "

" ... what," she breathed, almost panting it. "What ... "

"You worry me ... you, and ... you and that chipmunk. You and the other furs on this ship. You talk too openly with them."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"That is how," she panted, her paws to his rump, her claws digging in. "That is how you gain their trust."

He gave a light, light yip. And, licking at her neck, he shook his head. "No," he panted. "No, we do not need," he insisted, "their trust. We need their respect ... trust comes later."

"They will not respect you," Volga stated, giving him a sharp pull, sending them tumbling a few feet. Neither of them tripping. Both of them staying on their feet. "They will not respect you until they trust you," she said, her eyes meeting his.

A growl. And he pulled her back. Back. Back, closer to the bed, teeth gritting. "I do not want you being corrupted," he said, paws around her waist, licking, lapping at her neck, breathing, "by ... by their ideas."

"Ideas ... " Her muzzle went up, pointing to the ceiling. She closed her eyes, and she exhaled deeply. "Oh ... " Her heartbeat picked up, up, up. And her tail swished faster.

"Ideas," he repeated, giving her a sharp pull, spinning his weight, shifting, and ...

" ... oomph." Her breath momentarily knocked out of her. Finding herself, now, flat on her back, on the sheets of their bed. Her breasts heaving, and her eyes squinting. She looked up to him.

And he leaned over her, teeth bared. "Ideas," he said, once more. "Like ... " He hesitated, as if not wanting to even say the word. " ... like love."

"Love?" she whispered. The word was not one often spoken by her tongue. It sounded strange to say.

"Yes." He stared at her. Hard. And leaned over her more, and then joined her on the bed.

She squirmed backward, fully onto the mattress.

And he hovered over her, on all fours, making sure she didn't try to get off. Making sure she didn't try to get away. "You know what I mean," he said, barely audible. Almost mouthing the words.

"I do not." She twisted a bit.

He lowered his weight, his body, to rest himself horizontally on top of her, pinning her down. For he was heavier. "You do ... you do, vixen ... you like to talk to them."

"To the prey?"

"Stop playing dumb ... yes, the prey. You talk to them, and you are starting to make friends ... you are a femme. I do not trust your judgment."

A scoffing laugh, almost a bark, and her eyes shining with lust. "No? No, you do not trust my judgement ... and I am having sex with you? Perhaps THAT," she said, bitingly, "is bad judgment on my part, as well."

His claws dug into her arms. Hard. Almost to the point of pricking blood.

She squirmed, body rustling on the sheets.

"Intimating that," he said, "WAS bad judgment. And dangerous, as well. Do NOT insult me ... " He huffed, huffed. "And you know I'm the best breeder you have ... that you've ever," he insisted, "had. You won't leave me." He loosened his grip.

She said nothing. No, she wouldn't leave him. He was right about that. "It's not like you are going to leave me, either," was her counter. Damning him with that reality.

"I am simply warning you," he repeated, not acknowledging her last remark, trying to control his breath. His erection was very evident between her legs. Oh, he was ready. But was holding back, holding back. For, again, this was about control. She wanted it. She wanted him. And he was going to hold himself back.

Which one of them would break first?

Which one would whimper in need?

Ural was determined it would not be him. So, he kept talking. Kept saying, "I think the prey will attempt ... to needle," he panted, "you. They like to share their ... Christian faith," he said. He breathed for a bit, the rigid sensitivity between his legs becoming distracting. It took great self-control to not move his hips, just a little bit. Just to rub through her fur, even. Just to give himself some kind of friction. "They may confuse you. Try and change you ... "

"Prey do not," Volga insisted, her tail swishing on the sheets, in alluring fashion. "They do not confuse me."

"But they could ... and they may. And I am telling you to watch yourself."

"And you," she countered, "are above reproach? I have seen you eating lunches with that ... that engineer. Alabaster, is it ... "

"Having a relationship with prey is not the same thing," was the assurance, "as buying into their beliefs ... "

"Who said I was going to buy into ... "

" ... you could. You might. It is a worry ... of mine," he breathed, gnawing on her neck.

She winced a bit. He wasn't going easy with his teeth. But, the predator she was, she wasn't completely averse to a little pain. And she didn't fight him.

"Just promise me you'll be careful ... "

She panted, her loins aching. Needing to be filled. She needed his presence, his motion. Her body needed his own. She needed that pleasure. But, still, she kept herself from asking, and kept any whimpers from her throat. And said, "Promise ... promise you? Your voice almost sounds ... you almost sound concerned, Ural, about my welfare ... "

"I am ... "

"But isn't that affection? Isn't that ... and isn't affection a form of love? Perhaps it is YOU who needs to be careful," she said, turning the tables on him, and grinning, and wrapping her paws around his back, pulling him down atop of her. "Perhaps it is you who needs to be careful about being influenced," she said, lightly moaning as he pressed his hips to hers, as he began grinding against her a bit. " ... influenced," she finally finished, "by prey."

"I am not showing," he panted desperately, "affection. I am simply ... "

" ... what, Ural?" she breathed, her voice catching. Catching with desire. With lust. With anticipation. With power. "What?"

"I ... I am simply," he said, and he shook his head, gritting his teeth. "I ... need it. I need you. To breed. I ... "

" ... say no more," she assured, in a silky, pleased tone. Oh, she'd won. This time, she'd won. Every time they bred, this struggle occurred. Both of them trying to take the emotional high ground. Both of them trying to best each other with words and touches. And, oh, this time, she'd won, and she gave a yip of pleasure, her head rolling aside as she spread her legs for him.

He wasted no time. But his cheeks burned in a forced submission.

And Volga chuckled, giving another pleasured yip to the ceiling, this one louder, and her limbs wrapped around him.

Ural, growling, gave her what she wanted. And what he wanted.

What they both needed.

He gave her his body. But nothing more. No, nothing more. And he ...



... giggle-squeaked shyly, eyes going from the window, where the beautiful stars were streaming by in sword-like streaks of flashing, thrusting light, flaring and flaming before their eyes. Eyes, though, finding something more beautiful than those stars. Eyes going from the window, and then to her. To Aria.

"What?" she asked, eye-smiling suggestively. Arctic was on its way back to the snow rabbit home-world, where it would lead the Arctic fox relocation (from the second moon to the new ice world they'd found). But, in transit, they had some time. Some time to forget about all this. All this predator/prey tension, and all the recent wars, and the current political upheavals off in the Furry Federation. And, with the baby finally asleep, well, they could forget about parental responsibility, as well, for a little while. Oh, they were settling into a proper, needy mood. They were still young. Even after all this, they were still only twenty-two. Still young. Still beating. Still thriving. Love could grip you like a wildfire, sometimes. Oh, but it could. And, Aria, breathing, thinking these things, asked again, "What? You are ... staring," she said, "at me. As if I am a bit of cheese."

"What? Cheese ... no, you're much better than cheese. No, you'd be a pastry, a big, glorious cake ... or something. You'd be something much sweeter ... "

"Sweeter?" She enjoyed prodding him into silly conversations. She, herself, couldn't express humor like he did. And she enjoyed his humor. His genuine gentleness. She enjoyed seeing those dimples on his cheeks.

"Yes ... " His eyes darted over her. "Sweeter. Anyway, I ... I didn't say I was looking at you like you were a scrumptious dessert." A grin. "Even if you are, in a way ... "

"You did not have to say anything. I can read you too well," the snow rabbit assured, arms going around his neck. She leaned closer. Her black nose to his pink nose. Their noses nuzzling. And her eyes closing as she admitted, "I do so enjoy the feel of mouse-whiskers twitching so quietly, so softly, against my own." An almost-shivering breath, her antennae ears waggling so slightly. So gently.

The meadow mouse exhaled. Almost melting against her. His tail snaking around, wavering, and his foot-paws shuffling. As he began to sway with her in a meandering, little circle.

"I do so enjoy that," she said again, her voice soft, softer. "I believe it is something poems could be written about."

"Yeah?" A shy, eyes-so-close look. And a swallow.

"Yes." Her eye-smile was a simmering thing.

"Well, you, uh ... you got parts I could write poems about, too ... you know," he told her.

And her eye-smile seemed to intensify, still. "Is that so? Which parts?" Her holy-white flame of a bobtail gave a flicker-flick or two. As her hips slid to the left. And then to the right. As she moved back and forth with him, in place, and moving a step this way, and stopping. Swaying there, instead.

Ross simply nodded, telling her, "Uh ... I'm too modest," he whispered, "to say." Giving a gentle peck to her neck. His eyes closed. And he repeated the action, and kissed down to her shoulder blades. And, breathing deeply through the nose, he whispered, "Yes ... oh, yes," he sighed. And he nodded genuinely, his muzzle on her shoulder. And his head soon resting there. "I am too modest to say ... "

"Too modest to say it, but not too modest to write it," she stated, in her analytical way. "I suppose, then, the only thing for it ... is to have you write them. Write me these poems of these parts of mine," she whispered, feeling so comfortable, feeling she could trust him with anything. Oh, she may, inside, have a ‘freeze' holding her back, but he'd softened the sharp edges of her iciness. Oh, he had. And, oh, in return, she'd built his confidence, and given him inspiration. Given him her own love.

Love for love. They were partners, husband and wife, of an equal, spiritual measure. God bless this matrimony. For, oh, young Christian soldiers, you have much left to face. Much left to endure. You will need each other. May your love be your sword. May it protect you.

She put her paw on the back of his head. One paw there, and the other on his bare back. And she closed her eyes as they continued to sway.

"Aria," he breathed, in a light, squeaky voice.

"Yes?" she breathed back.

The mouse lifted his head, eyes watery. "I, uh ... " His nose fumbled against hers. And his whiskers still twitching. "I, uh ... I love you more every day. You're like a fire that grows brighter, warming me more, and ... I can't ... hardly think, sometimes, when you're around, because all I want is to be burrowed away with you. Sometimes, I wish we could do that. Just burrow. I ... you know, I ... "

" ... I know," she whispered, taking over for him, saying, "I do know. You inspire the same feelings in me."

A little nod, and his lips brushed hers.

Her eyes went to a close.

And he kissed. A sensual, soft, sucking kiss. And he exhaled sharply when their lips broke. "Oh ... " He licked his own lips, and then at hers, and then swayed, awkwardly, toward the bed. Were they going to the bed? He was hardly aware of it. He was simply going. Simply moving with her, and simply saying, "Some would ... would call my love for you an obsession," he breathed, sucking on her neck, his thin, snaky tail moving behind her, moving like a rope around their waists. "I call it ... commitment. I call it ... just ... love," he went, and ...

... she gave a mew. A delicate rabbit-mew. As she found herself on the sheets. As her head got a bit dizzier. As her body got a bit hotter.

"What's a mouse to do," he whispered, falling beside her. Sinking with her. Saying, "I ... I love you."

"As do I," she said, as she often did, "love you, too." Her voice still in that proper, snow rabbit tone, but oh, how much heat it betrayed.

And his paws went to her. To her belly. To her lactating breasts. Feeling the rising and falling of her breaths, her lungs. And her heartbeat. He put his paw over her breast, over her heart, and held it there. And closed his eyes. And just felt it.

Thump-a-thump. Thump-a-thump.

She exhaled.

He inhaled, sliding his paw away. To the sheets. So that he could slide closer to her, so that they could tangle. So that their lips could meet, again, in that haphazard, helpless way, that way of sweet relief.

Do not stop, now.

Do not let up, now.

Oh, but, yes, surely, God was the first and last romantic. Surely, something of such pleasure could not be so random. So much meaning could not come from a lack of design. Oh, thank you, Lord, for what love is, and what it can do, and what it's doing.

She was smoldering, now, and needed a bit of water. She reached for the water bottle beside the bed. And used her teeth to tug the nipple open, drinking a bit.

And the mouse watched her. Watched some of the water droplets miss her lips and trickle down, even down her whisker-tips, where they glistened like little worlds before being flicked off with a purposeful flick.

"Sometimes," he confided, swallowing, "I feel like that ... like a water droplet," he whispered.

She, done with the bottle, put it aside, scooting back so that her head could rest on a pillow. And her eyes looking to his.

"Like, so small, like crystal ... clinging, burning up."

"And quenching my thirst," she supplied, knowingly, eyes sparkling.

"Quenching your thirst ... oh, I ... " He crawled over her again, settling his body down atop of hers. "You know what I am without your love ... "

"I do not know, but ... I ... I believe," she breathed, "you are going to tell me, anyway ... "

A slight giggle-squeak. "I am. I am," he whispered. "Cause, without your love, I'm, like ... like, a brittle, dried leaf hanging from a winter tree. But, with it, with you, I'm a flower, a flowering," he said, "flower."

She eye-smiled at his cuteness. At his impromptu poetry. "But am I not a wisp of winter? I am of the snow, the ice. A snow rabbit. How can a flower flourish in the presence of winter?"

"Uh ... maybe I'm, uh, a snow flower."

Her eyes smiled with mirth.

"Maybe," he said, grinning with his muzzle. Watching her eyes. He never tired of seeing her eyes do that bright, little thing they did. He never tired of looking into them, of getting lost in those orbs.

"Your pupils," she whispered with observation, "are heavily-dilated."

"Uh-huh," was his dazed exhale. "Oh ... " His body against hers. So snug. So warm. Fur meshing with fur, and scents mingling. Oh, heat. Oh, union.

"I believe you are losing cohesion ... "

" ... c-cohesion," he went, her paws running softly up and down his sides. And he arched and gave an airy squeak.

"Your poetry is tumbling end over end. As is your mind. You can hardly think up one word before the other is coming out of your muzzle ... you are a scurrying artist. And a scurrying lover. And it is my job," she assured him, "to tame you."

"Tame me ... I need ... "

" ... tamed. Oh, yes. I do believe mouses have motors that always go and go, and they never stop. And were I not here to corral you, you may be up a wall. You may be on the ceiling. You may be lost in your own head."

A giggling, squeaky nod, and kissing her chin. "Oh ... yes, that's ... that's mostly true, I'm sure."

"Yes ... "

"But, darling," he went, in his soft, wispy way. His voice almost being lost amid their rising panting. "Darling ... "

" ... yes?" Her paws clutched to him. Clutched to presence. Clutched to familiarity. Clutched to comfort. Clutched to want and need. How many things was he to her? He was too many things to list.

" ... darling, if cohesion is, uh ... uh ... " A kiss to her. Lips on her fur. Nose flaring, whiskers twitching, and his dishy, fleshy mouse ears gorging with blood, so that the capillaries started to show. "Uh, if cohesion," he finally managed squeakily, "if it's the ... the forces and the things that hold us, that stick us together, then ... my cohesion's perfectly fine. Because I can't get my paws off you. I can't get my mind away from you, either. I think our love is a tie that eternally binds," he confessed.

She panted, swallowing, her head turning to the side as he nibbled on her neck. "I cannot," she whispered, "argue with that ... "

For it must be true.

Oh, it must be true. It is.

It is, indeed, true. Oh, yes. Oh ...

... yes.

So, the words faltering, they proceeded toward their union. Toward the most pleasurable and desirable merging. Toward a cohesion that went by the name of ‘love.' And the stars outside the window kept streaming as the ship kept moving, as the meadow mouse and snow rabbit kept making love. Everything whirling.

Everything alive.

Everything on its way.