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This page is a curated collection of artworks, gifted art, and thrilling stories featuring this dashing character.", "count": "37", "submission_left_submission_id": "3758565", "submission_left_file_name": "5809892_TGA5000_midnight_solutions.rtf" }, { "pool_id": "85615", "name": "TGA5000's Inkbunny Pics & Gifts Galore: A Curated Collection", "description": "Welcome to my TGA5000's Inkbunny Pics & Gifts Galore page, a vibrant gallery brimming with the joyful creations and heartwarming gestures of our artistic community!", "count": "75", "submission_left_submission_id": "3758565", "submission_left_file_name": "5809892_TGA5000_midnight_solutions.rtf" } ], "description": "In the quiet dust of 1890 Green River, With Mama and Papa Mousekewitz away for the weekend, their eldest daughter Tanya finds herself restless under the watchful eye of James Roberts—the rugged fox hired to mind the shop and keep trouble at bay. But when night falls and the little ones sleep, temptation strikes harder than a desert heatwave. What begins with stolen glances in the violin workshop spirals into a feverish tryst—bathroom walls steaming, apron strings loosened, and desperate hushes muffled against skin. James takes her rough where no suitor ever dared, while Tanya discovers just how far her body can bend to the rhythm of his touch.\n\nJames Roberts The Fox © @TGA5000\n\nAn American Tail © Universal\n\n", "description_bbcode_parsed": "In the quiet dust of 1890 Green River, With Mama and Papa Mousekewitz away for the weekend, their eldest daughter Tanya finds herself restless under the watchful eye of James Roberts—the rugged fox hired to mind the shop and keep trouble at bay. But when night falls and the little ones sleep, temptation strikes harder than a desert heatwave. What begins with stolen glances in the violin workshop spirals into a feverish tryst—bathroom walls steaming, apron strings loosened, and desperate hushes muffled against skin. James takes her rough where no suitor ever dared, while Tanya discovers just how far her body can bend to the rhythm of his touch.

James Roberts The Fox © \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
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\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tTGA5000\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t		\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tTGA5000\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t


An American Tail © Universal

", "writing": "The old saloon piano tinkled faintly through the thin walls of Mousekewitz Fine Violins, its off-key melodies drifting in from the dusty street as James Roberts adjusted his black cowboy hat in the hallway mirror. Behind him, the shop smelled of rosin and aged wood, violins hanging like dormant bats in their cases. Tanya Mousekewitz’s silhouette moved behind the frosted kitchen door—her apron strings untied, swaying with each step as she hummed a Russian lullaby meant for Yasha. James’s gloved fingers lingered on the doorknob, his ears twitching at the distant creak of Fievel’s bunkbed upstairs. The house held its breath. \n\nTanya’s reflection caught the lantern light when she turned, her bare shoulders glowing amber beneath the apron’s loose drape. She startled, a half-smile playing on her muzzle as she pressed a flour-dusted paw to her chest. \"You’re supposed to be checking the locks,\" she whispered, but the way her tail curled around her thigh betrayed her. James stepped closer, the floorboards groaning under his boots as he traced the edge of her apron with a claw. \"Locks can wait,\" he murmured, catching the scent of lavender soap and something warmer beneath. \n\nThe kitchen clock’s pendulum swung like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. Tanya’s breath hitched when James’s teeth grazed the tip of her ear, her paws fisting in his shirt as he backed her against the icebox. Its metal chilled her fur through the apron, a contrast to the heat pooling low in her belly. Outside, a coyote yipped, and for a wild moment, she wondered if Fievel would wake—until James’s tongue flicked the hollow of her throat, reducing her thoughts to static. Her sandals scraped the floor as she arched into him. \n\nSomewhere above, a floorboard creaked—Fievel turning in his sleep, or Yasha sighing into her thumb. Tanya froze, ears swiveling toward the sound, but James’s chuckle rumbled against her collarbone. \"Quiet as church mice,\" he promised, sliding a hand down to grip the base of her tail. The coarse fur there stood on end as he tugged just enough to make her whimper. Her apron rustled, slipping sideways to reveal the swell of her breast, and James didn’t hesitate. He palmed her, thumb brushing a nipple already stiff with anticipation. \"The kitchen's too risky,\" she breathed, but her hips rocked forward anyway. \n\nThe hallway to the bathroom was dark, the moon casting long shadows through the lace curtains. James nipped at Tanya’s shoulder as she fumbled with the door, her tail flicking impatiently against his thigh. Inside, the tin bathtub gleamed like a promise, and she turned to face him, her paws already working at his belt. \"Papa’s shaving soap,\" she teased, nodding to the jar on the shelf, \"smells better than you.\" James growled, lifting her onto the sink’s edge with one hand as the other yanked her apron aside. The porcelain was cold against her backside, but all she felt was the slick press of his cock between her cheeks, blunt and demanding. Tanya bit her lip to stifle a moan. The house slept on.\n\nDownstairs, the icebox hummed softly as James’s thrusts sent Tanya’s sandals clattering to the floor. She hooked her ankles around his hips, her claws scoring his back through the fabric of his shirt. The mirror fogged with their breath, obscuring their reflections—just as well, since the sight of his knot swelling at her tailhole would’ve made her whine louder. James muffled her sounds with a kiss, his tongue tangling with hers as his hips stuttered. When he came, it was with a shudder that rattled the medicine bottles on the shelf, his seed painting her insides thick and hot. Tanya sagged against him, her own climax a quiet tremor beneath her fur.\n\nBack in the kitchen, Tanya knelt on the braided rug, her breasts heaving as James guided his cock between them. The apron pooled around her waist, useless now, as she pressed her softness together around him. \"Missed this,\" he grunted, thumbing her nipples until they ached. The wooden sandals lay forgotten by the stove, one overturned like a discarded cup. Each stroke smeared across her sternum, glistening in the lamplight, and when he spilled over her collarbone, she licked a stripe up to her chin without breaking eye contact. Fievel’s boots thumped overhead—just once—and they froze, listening. Silence. James wiped his mess across her cheek with a smirk.\n\nTanya’s bunk creaked under their combined weight as James buried his muzzle between her thighs. The sheets smelled of her—hay and salt and something sweet—and he inhaled deeply before dragging his tongue through her folds. Fievel’s snores from the top bunk were steady, a metronome to the wet sounds between Tanya’s legs. Her paws twisted in the quilt as James suckled her clit, her thighs trembling against his ears. When she came, it was with a soundless cry, her back bowing off the mattress as slick soaked the linen beneath her. James lapped at her until she shoved him away, oversensitive and gasping. Outside, a distant train whistle blew, but neither heard it over the rush of blood in their ears.\n\nYasha stirred in the nursery down the hall, her sleepy whimper carrying through the thin walls. Tanya froze, ears twitching toward the sound, but James just nuzzled the inside of her thigh. \"She’ll settle,\" he murmured, tracing the curve of her hip with a claw. The pantalettes crumpled at the foot of the bunk were still damp where he’d peeled them off, the lace torn in one corner from his teeth. Tanya bit her lip, watching as James licked his fingers clean, her taste lingering on his tongue. The clock on the dresser ticked toward dawn, its hands blurry in the lamplight.\n\nDownstairs, the shop’s front bell jingled faintly in the predawn breeze—someone had forgotten to latch it properly after all. James’s ears flicked toward the sound, but Tanya pulled him back by his bandana, her teeth sharp on his lower lip. \"Let them steal a fiddle,\" she whispered against his mouth, her tail curling around his wrist. The hem of her apron was still crusted with his spend, the fabric stiff where it brushed her thigh. James groaned into her kiss, his cock heavy against her belly, already hardening again despite the hour. Somewhere, a rooster crowed, but the bedsprings’ creak drowned it out.\n\nThe first sliver of sun caught the dust motes swirling above the bunkbed, turning them to gold as James rolled Tanya onto her stomach. Her tail flicked up instinctively, the white tip twitching in invitation, and he didn’t hesitate. His claws dug into her hips as he sheathed himself in her again, this time slick with her arousal. Fievel mumbled something in his sleep above them, one boot dangling over the edge of the bunk, but James only bent lower over Tanya’s back, his breath hot on her neck. \"Quiet,\" he reminded her, though his own growl was anything but. The bedframe’s rhythmic knock against the wall sounded like a heartbeat.\n\nYasha’s whimpers grew louder down the hall, punctuated by the wet smack of flesh meeting flesh. Tanya buried her face in the pillow to muffle her moans, but James wrenched her head back by her ponytail, exposing her throat. \"Wanna hear you,\" he rasped, his thrusts turning jagged. The green hair tie snapped, sending dark strands tumbling over her shoulders as she arched beneath him. Outside, a wagon wheel squeaked past the shop—too early for customers, but close enough to make James’s ears flatten. He came with a snarl, his knot locking them together as Tanya’s claws shredded the sheet beneath her.\n\nDawn painted the kitchen in pale yellows when Tanya finally staggered downstairs, her apron askew and her sandals left behind in the bedroom. James lounged at the table, hat tipped low as he sipped from Mama’s good china. The teacup looked absurd in his large paws, but the smirk he gave her was anything but. \"Sleep well?\" he drawled, kicking out a chair for her. Tanya’s thighs stuck to the wood as she sat, her own cup trembling in her grip. The front of her apron was streaked with dried come, the evidence of their night impossible to hide. Upstairs, Fievel’s boots hit the floor with a thud.\n\nThe shop bell jingled properly this time as Fievel barreled into the kitchen, his red sweatshirt rumpled from sleep. \"I dreamed a bear was shaking the house!\" he announced, skidding to a halt when he saw James’s boots propped on the table. Tanya choked on her tea, her ears burning as James just tipped his hat back. \"Just the wind, kid,\" he said smoothly, though his tail flicked against Tanya’s ankle under the table. Fievel squinted between them, nose twitching at the strange musk in the air, but Yasha’s wail from the nursery distracted him. As he scampered off, James’s hand slid up Tanya’s thigh, his claws pricking through her fur. The clock struck seven.\n\nUpstairs, the smell of hot oats and maple syrup couldn’t mask the scent of sex clinging to the bedsheets. Tanya bundled the linens into the washbasin with trembling paws, her tail fluffing when James leaned in the doorway watching her. \"Mama’ll notice the stains,\" she hissed, scrubbing at the fabric until her knuckles ached. James just chuckled, plucking a stray hair from her shoulder—his, unmistakably coarse between his fingers. \"Tell her Yasha had an accident,\" he murmured, tucking it into his shirt pocket like a trophy. The floorboards groaned under his boots as he stepped closer, his breath hot on her nape. Downstairs, Fievel’s off-key singing covered the wet sound of James’s tongue in her ear.\n\nThe washtub water had gone cold by the time Tanya wrung out the sheets, her paws pink from scrubbing. James’s shadow loomed behind her in the morning light, his belt buckle pressing into the small of her back as he reached around to squeeze her breasts. \"Still sore?\" he teased, thumbing her nipples through the apron. Tanya elbowed him, her heart hammering when the back door creaked open—only for Fievel to barrel in with Yasha on his hip, her diaper sagging. \"She’s hungry,\" he announced, oblivious to how James’s hand vanished under Tanya’s skirt. The baby mouse blinked at them, her tiny nose wrinkling at the musk. James’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. \"We’ll fix breakfast,\" he said, though his claws dug possessively into Tanya’s thigh.\n\nBy noon, the shop’s front room was thick with the scent of varnish and fresh bowhair as James tuned a violin for a rancher’s daughter. Tanya pretended not to notice how his eyes tracked her every time she bent to adjust a music stand, her apron strings fluttering with each movement. When the customer left, he cornered her behind the cello cabinet, his teeth on the back of her neck before the bell finished ringing. \"One more round before your folks get back,\" he growled, paw already under her skirt. Tanya’s protest died in her throat when his fingers found her slick—apparently, her body hadn’t gotten the memo about being spent. Outside, wagon wheels rattled closer. James didn’t slow down.\n\nUpstairs, Fievel’s shadow paused at the top landing, his ears twitching at the muffled gasps below. \"Tanya?\" he called, scratching his head when no one answered. The cellar door creaked ominously, and he tiptoed toward it, drawn by the rhythmic thumping against the wood. Just as his paw touched the knob, Yasha’s wail split the air from the nursery, sending him scrambling back. Behind the cellar door, James muffled Tanya’s moan with his palm, his thrusts never faltering even as her claws shredded his shirtfront. The shelves of aging wine trembled with each snap of his hips.\n\nThe Mousekewitz’s wagon rolled into town as James knotted Tanya against the cider barrels, her apron rucked up around her waist. \"They’re here,\" she panted, her ears flat against her skull as the front gate squeaked open. James just chuckled, biting her shoulder as he ground deeper, the barrel’s staves digging into her back. \"Then you’d better stay quiet, darlin’,\" he murmured, his tail flicking lazily as Mama’s voice carried from the porch. Tanya’s whimper was lost in the sound of Papa unloading luggage, her thighs shaking around James’s waist.\n\nBy the time the cellar door opened, Tanya was \"sorting inventory\" with remarkable diligence, her fur suspiciously damp around the collar. James leaned against the counter, polishing a viola with exaggerated care as Mama bustled in with armfuls of fabric. \"No troubles?\" she asked, patting Tanya’s cheek. Behind them, James’s tail brushed the back of Tanya’s knees, his smirk hidden by his hat brim. \"Not a one,\" Tanya squeaked, her paws clenching around a bundle of sheet music. Across the room, Fievel stared at the cellar door, his nose twitching at the unfamiliar musk. James tipped his hat. \"Real peaceful,\" he lied.\n\nThe bathtub still held their fingerprints in the steam on the mirror when Papa went to shave that evening. He frowned at the smudged glass, then at the inexplicable bite marks on the soap dish. Downstairs, James stretched his legs under the dinner table, his boot toe tracing circles on Tanya’s ankle beneath her skirt. Mama’s borscht went cold as Tanya fumbled her spoon, the broth splashing onto her apron—the blue one, freshly washed but still faintly stained if you knew where to look. Yasha banged her cup on the highchair, her pink bow askew. \"Such a quiet weekend,\" Mama mused, oblivious to how James’s claws were pricking holes in the tablecloth under his napkin.\n\nThat night, as the family retired, James \"checked the locks\" one last time—lingering in the hallway where Tanya’s scent clung heaviest. She appeared like a shadow in her bedroom doorway, her frilly pantalettes peeking beneath the hem of her nightgown. James’s ears twitched toward Papa’s snores down the hall as he crowded her against the doorframe, his belt buckle digging into her belly. \"Tomorrow,\" Tanya breathed, but her tail curled around his wrist anyway. Somewhere, a floorboard creaked—Fievel’s room, or maybe Yasha’s—but James only nipped Tanya’s earlobe. \"Tonight,\" he corrected, palming her through the thin fabric. The house held its breath.\n\nThe predawn light caught James saddling his horse out front, his shirt still untucked from last night’s escapades. Tanya watched from the upstairs window, her borrowed cowboy hat tipped low over her tousled fur. Below, Mama waved from the porch, none the wiser as James tipped his hat with a grin. \"Y’all take care now,\" he called, his gaze sliding up to the window where Tanya’s silhouette retreated. Fievel’s face appeared beside hers, squinting at the road. \"That fox smells funny,\" he declared. Tanya’s ears burned as James spurred his horse into a gallop, his laughter carried away in the wind. The shop bell jingled faintly in his wake.\n\nBack in the kitchen, Tanya scrubbed at the breakfast dishes until her paws ached, the soap bubbles popping like secrets exposed. Mama hummed as she kneaded dough, her spectacles fogged with steam. \"Such a gentleman, that Mr. Roberts,\" she mused, flicking flour from her apron. Tanya’s tail puffed when Fievel slid into the room, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air near her skirts. \"Why’s your apron smell like—\" She shoved a biscuit in his mouth. \"Eat,\" she hissed, her claws leaving crescents in the butter. Across the room, Yasha babbled into her oatmeal, a drop of it landing squarely on Papa’s ledger. \n\nUpstairs in the bedroom, Tanya smoothed the freshly laundered sheets with trembling paws, the memory of James’s weight still imprinted in the mattress springs. Fievel’s boots thumped overhead as he jumped on his bunk, sending a dusting of lint drifting down. \"Your bed’s all wobbly,\" he complained, peering over the edge. Tanya yanked the quilt taut. \"It’s old,\" she snapped, tucking the corners with military precision. The scent of lavender soap couldn’t quite mask the musk clinging to the pillowcase, and she stuffed it into the wash basket just as Mama’s footsteps creaked on the stairs. Outside, a jaybird sang—the same pitch as James’s groan when he’d—\n\nThe shop’s ledger lay open on the counter, its pages pristine except for one corner—creased from where Tanya had gripped it last night, her back arched against the display case. Papa adjusted his spectacles, frowning at the smudged ink. \"Mice don’t sweat,\" he muttered, rubbing at the damp stain. Behind him, Tanya nearly dropped a stack of sheet music, her ears flattening as Fievel crouched to examine the floorboards. \"There’s claw marks here,\" he announced, tracing grooves that definitely hadn’t been there before. James’s spurs jingled in Tanya’s memory, the rhythm matching her pounding heart as Mama called from the kitchen: \"Who wants pie?\"\n\nYasha’s highchair wobbled as she banged her spoon, a glob of mashed peas landing in Tanya’s lap. She jumped like she’d been scalded, the cold mush seeping through her skirt to the tender skin beneath—skin still sensitive from James’s stubble. Fievel’s nose wrinkled. \"You smell like… saddle leather?\" Tanya’s paw shot out to mop the spill, knocking over the salt cellar. The granules scattered like tiny bones across the table, forming shapes that suspiciously resembled pawprints leading toward the cellar. Mama’s humming faltered as she bent to retrieve the salt. \"Strange,\" she murmured, brushing a coarse red hair from the rim.\n\nThe bathwater turned murky as Tanya scrubbed at her thighs, the washcloth rough against the faint bruises circling her hips. Outside the door, Fievel’s shadow paused. \"Why’s the lock sticky?\" he asked, jiggling the doorknob. Tanya’s tail lashed, sending suds flying. \"Go polish your harmonica!\" she barked, sinking lower until the waterline swallowed her blush. Through the wall, Papa’s razor scraped against his whiskers—the same rhythm as James’s teeth down her spine. A knock made her slosh. \"Hurry up,\" Fievel whined. \"I gotta pee.\" Tanya stared at the bath’s copper faucet, its curve glinting like a fox’s smirk.\n\nDusk painted the shop’s front window crimson when Tanya caught her reflection adjusting her neckerchief—too late to hide the bite mark purpling under her fur. The bell jingled as a customer entered, but her paws stilled on the violin strings when she recognized the scent: sagebrush and gun oil. James leaned against the doorframe, his hat dusted with trail dirt, a fresh scratch bisecting his cheek. \"Forgot my gloves,\" he drawled, holding up one white fabric square. Tanya’s breath hitched—it was crusted with something decidedly not rosin. Behind the counter, Fievel’s ears perked. \"That’s Mama’s good handkerchief!\" James tipped his hat lower. \"My mistake.\"\n\nThe cellar door groaned like a living thing as James backed Tanya down the stairs, his spurs catching on the third step. Someone—Fievel, probably—had left a lantern burning by the cider press, casting their shadows huge and tangled against the stone wall. James’s teeth found the same spot on her throat as before, earning a hiss. \"You’re worse than a tomcat,\" Tanya muttered, even as her claws dug into his shoulders. Above them, the floorboards creaked under Mama’s footsteps. James nipped her earlobe. \"Then quit smellin’ like catnip,\" he growled, yanking her skirt up with one hand while the other covered her mouth.\n\nYasha’s wail pierced through the ceiling beams like an accusation. Tanya froze, her ears swiveling toward the sound, but James just pressed harder between her thighs. \"She’ll wear herself out,\" he murmured against her collarbone, his tongue lapping at the sweat there. The cider barrels rattled with each thrust, their hollow thumps echoing off the stone. Somewhere above, a chair scraped—Papa getting up from supper—and Tanya’s tail puffed. James chuckled darkly, palming her breast through the fabric. \"Scared, little mouse?\" She answered by sinking her teeth into his wrist, the coppery tang of blood mingling with their musk.\n\nDawn found Tanya scrubbing the cellar steps with lye soap, her knees bruised from the gravel. James’s glove—the one he’d \"come back for\"—lay abandoned by the pickle crock, stiff with fluids that definitely weren’t rosin. Upstairs, Fievel’s harmonica wheezed through an off-key rendition of \"Oh! Susanna,\" punctuated by Yasha’s giggles. The shop bell jingled again, but this time it was just the wind. Or maybe James, circling back like the coyote he was. Tanya’s tail flicked at the thought, stirring the dust at her feet. Somewhere, a floorboard creaked. The house held its breath.\n\nMama’s rolling pin thumped against the pie crust in rhythm with Tanya’s pulse as she folded laundry in the kitchen. The sheets smelled of lavender now, but the memory of James’s musk clung to the fibers like a stain. Fievel’s nose twitched when he passed the basket. \"Why’s your washing smell like—\" Tanya shoved a sock in his mouth. \"Hush,\" she hissed, her claws pricking holes in Papa’s union suit. Outside, a horse whinnied—too high-pitched to be James’s stallion, but her ears pricked anyway. Mama’s humming faltered as she glanced out the window. \"That fox left his bandana on the fence,\" she murmured. Tanya’s tail puffed. The fence groaned.\n\nYasha’s crib rattled with her fussing as Tanya changed her diaper, the pins slipping in her trembling paws. The nursery smelled of talc and milk, but underneath—something muskier, wilder. Fievel’s shadow darkened the doorway. \"Your bed’s still wobbly,\" he announced, scratching his ear. Tanya tied Yasha’s bow with more force than necessary. \"It’s the springs,\" she muttered, though they both knew better. Downstairs, the shop bell jingled—a real customer this time—but Tanya’s ears caught the telltale jangle of spurs beneath the chatter. Fievel’s nose wrinkled. \"That fox came back for his—\" Tanya tossed a rattle at him. It missed, rolling under the crib where a single, coarse red hair gleamed in the sunlight.\n\nThe washtub water turned opaque as Tanya scrubbed James’s bandana—the one Mama had found—against the washboard. Her knuckles bled into the suds, the sting nothing compared to the ache between her thighs. Behind her, the cellar door creaked on its hinges, though no one had touched it. Fievel’s harmonica squeaked to a halt upstairs. \"You’re gonna wear a hole in that fabric,\" Mama chided, but Tanya only scrubbed harder. Outside, a horse’s whinny cut through the afternoon heat—closer this time, familiar. The clothesline snapped in the sudden breeze, sending droplets flying. One landed on Tanya’s muzzle. Salt. Or sweat. Or something else entirely.\n\nUpstairs, Yasha’s crib springs squeaked under her weight as she bounced, her tiny claws clutching the rails. Tanya’s reflection in the nursery mirror was all wild eyes and mussed fur, the high collar of her dress doing little to hide the scratches down her back. Fievel’s shadow loomed in the doorway. \"Your bed’s not just wobbly,\" he whispered, holding up a snapped coil from the mattress. \"It’s busted.\" Tanya snatched it from his paw, the metal still warm from— \"Yasha did it,\" she lied, stuffing the evidence into her apron pocket. The baby mouse gurgled innocently, her pink bow askew. Downstairs, the shop bell jingled. Then jingled again. And again.\n\nThe cellar smelled of damp earth and spilled cider when Tanya descended to fetch preserves, the steps groaning under her weight. Someone—James, undoubtedly—had left claw marks in the oak beam overhead, deep enough to catch her fingernails. She traced them absently, her pulse thrumming in time with the thuds from above—Fievel’s boots, probably. Or maybe Papa’s ledger slamming shut. Or maybe— The back door creaked open, letting in a draft that guttered the lantern. Tanya’s tail bristled. No one else was home. The cellar door clicked shut behind her. The house held its breath.\n\nDusk painted the shop’s front window amber when Tanya caught movement in the glass—not her reflection, but a shadow too tall for Fievel, too broad for Papa. James’s gloved hand splayed against the pane from outside, his breath fogging the glass where her cheek had been moments before. Inside, the ledger lay open to yesterday’s page, the ink blurred where Tanya’s sweat—or something slicker—had dripped onto the numbers. Upstairs, Yasha squealed. The floorboards creaked. Outside, James’s spurs jingled once, twice, then went silent. Tanya’s claws unsheathed involuntarily, scoring the countertop. Somewhere, a rooster crowed. It was hours past dawn.\n\nThe saloon piano next door struck a discordant note as James shouldered through the back door, his hat brim shadowing his eyes. Tanya’s pulse hammered in her throat—Mama was kneading dough three feet away, her spectacles fogged with steam. James licked a drop of cider off his thumb, slow, deliberate, his gaze locked on Tanya’s apron strings. They trembled. So did her knees. Mama hummed. The oven door squeaked open. James stepped closer, his boot toe nudging Tanya’s sandal. “Forgot my—” Mama turned. “Bandana?” Tanya blurted, shoving the scrap of green fabric at his chest. It stuck to his sweat-damp shirt. James’s smirk tasted like sin. “That’s the one.”\n\nThe cellar stairs groaned under their combined weight, each step a thunderclap in Tanya’s ears. James’s teeth found the same spot below her ear—the one that made her legs give out—just as Fievel’s voice carried down the stairwell. “Tanya? Mama needs the cinnamon!” James nipped her earlobe. “Tell him you’re sorting apples,” he murmured, yanking her skirt up with one hand. The cider barrel’s metal band dug into her back, a counterpoint to the heat of his palm sliding up her thigh. Somewhere above, Fievel’s boots thumped toward the cellar door. Tanya’s breath hitched. James didn’t slow down. The latch rattled. “It’s locked!” she called, her voice cracking. James’s chuckle vibrated against her collarbone. “Smart mouse.”\n\nDawn found the shop’s porch swing rocking in a breeze that didn’t exist, its chains squeaking in time with Tanya’s pulse. James’s scent clung to the wood where he’d pinned her against the railing, his hat discarded on the bench beside them. Inside, the clock struck six. Mama’s rolling pin thumped against dough. Somewhere, a horse whinnied—too far away to be his, but Tanya’s tail fluffed anyway. James traced the bite mark purpling under her fur with his thumb. “Next time,” he promised, though they both knew there’d be no next time—Papa’s wagon was already rolling up the street. James tipped his hat to the approaching dust cloud. Tanya’s claws left half-moons in the porch rail. The swing creaked on.\n\nYasha’s bib was crusted with oatmeal when Tanya strapped her into the highchair, her paws trembling as she knotted the strings. The kitchen smelled of burning sugar and gunpowder—James’s bandana still smoldered in the stove where she’d tossed it. Mama hummed as she poured coffee, oblivious to how the steam curled exactly like the smoke between Tanya’s thighs last night. Fievel’s nose wrinkled as he slid into his seat. “Why’s the porch smell like—” Tanya slammed his juice down hard enough to slosh. “Drink,” she ordered. Outside, a spur jingled once against the fencepost. The butter knife clattered from her grip.\n\nThe washtub water turned gray as Tanya scrubbed James’s fingerprints from the porch rail, the lye soap eating at her claws. Upstairs, Fievel’s harmonica wheezed through an off-key tune, punctuated by Yasha’s giggles. Mama’s shadow fell across the suds. “Such a help, Mr. Roberts,” she mused, nodding to the freshly oiled hinges on the shop door—the ones James had “fixed” while Tanya’s back was against them. Tanya’s ears burned. The washboard screeched. Somewhere beyond the fence, a horse snorted. Mama’s spectacles fogged as she bent to retrieve a stray sock—one with claw marks through the heel. The house held its breath.\n\nThe shop bell jingled at noon, but it was only Mrs. O’Reilly buying strings, her perfume failing to mask the musk still clinging to the display case. Tanya’s paws shook as she wrapped the purchase, the paper crinkling like the sheets she’d shoved into the wash. Outside, a shadow passed the window—too tall for Fievel, too broad for Papa. James’s gloved hand pressed against the glass briefly, leaving a smear that might’ve been sweat or spit. The ledger’s pages fluttered in the sudden draft, flipping to yesterday’s entry where the numbers blurred inexplicably. Somewhere, a floorboard creaked. Tanya’s claws unsheathed. The bell jingled again.", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "The old saloon piano tinkled faintly through the thin walls of Mousekewitz Fine Violins, its off-key melodies drifting in from the dusty street as James Roberts adjusted his black cowboy hat in the hallway mirror. Behind him, the shop smelled of rosin and aged wood, violins hanging like dormant bats in their cases. Tanya Mousekewitz’s silhouette moved behind the frosted kitchen door—her apron strings untied, swaying with each step as she hummed a Russian lullaby meant for Yasha. James’s gloved fingers lingered on the doorknob, his ears twitching at the distant creak of Fievel’s bunkbed upstairs. The house held its breath.  

Tanya’s reflection caught the lantern light when she turned, her bare shoulders glowing amber beneath the apron’s loose drape. She startled, a half-smile playing on her muzzle as she pressed a flour-dusted paw to her chest. "You’re supposed to be checking the locks," she whispered, but the way her tail curled around her thigh betrayed her. James stepped closer, the floorboards groaning under his boots as he traced the edge of her apron with a claw. "Locks can wait," he murmured, catching the scent of lavender soap and something warmer beneath.  

The kitchen clock’s pendulum swung like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. Tanya’s breath hitched when James’s teeth grazed the tip of her ear, her paws fisting in his shirt as he backed her against the icebox. Its metal chilled her fur through the apron, a contrast to the heat pooling low in her belly. Outside, a coyote yipped, and for a wild moment, she wondered if Fievel would wake—until James’s tongue flicked the hollow of her throat, reducing her thoughts to static. Her sandals scraped the floor as she arched into him.  

Somewhere above, a floorboard creaked—Fievel turning in his sleep, or Yasha sighing into her thumb. Tanya froze, ears swiveling toward the sound, but James’s chuckle rumbled against her collarbone. "Quiet as church mice," he promised, sliding a hand down to grip the base of her tail. The coarse fur there stood on end as he tugged just enough to make her whimper. Her apron rustled, slipping sideways to reveal the swell of her breast, and James didn’t hesitate. He palmed her, thumb brushing a nipple already stiff with anticipation. "The kitchen's too risky," she breathed, but her hips rocked forward anyway.  

The hallway to the bathroom was dark, the moon casting long shadows through the lace curtains. James nipped at Tanya’s shoulder as she fumbled with the door, her tail flicking impatiently against his thigh. Inside, the tin bathtub gleamed like a promise, and she turned to face him, her paws already working at his belt. "Papa’s shaving soap," she teased, nodding to the jar on the shelf, "smells better than you." James growled, lifting her onto the sink’s edge with one hand as the other yanked her apron aside. The porcelain was cold against her backside, but all she felt was the slick press of his cock between her cheeks, blunt and demanding. Tanya bit her lip to stifle a moan. The house slept on.

Downstairs, the icebox hummed softly as James’s thrusts sent Tanya’s sandals clattering to the floor. She hooked her ankles around his hips, her claws scoring his back through the fabric of his shirt. The mirror fogged with their breath, obscuring their reflections—just as well, since the sight of his knot swelling at her tailhole would’ve made her whine louder. James muffled her sounds with a kiss, his tongue tangling with hers as his hips stuttered. When he came, it was with a shudder that rattled the medicine bottles on the shelf, his seed painting her insides thick and hot. Tanya sagged against him, her own climax a quiet tremor beneath her fur.

Back in the kitchen, Tanya knelt on the braided rug, her breasts heaving as James guided his cock between them. The apron pooled around her waist, useless now, as she pressed her softness together around him. "Missed this," he grunted, thumbing her nipples until they ached. The wooden sandals lay forgotten by the stove, one overturned like a discarded cup. Each stroke smeared across her sternum, glistening in the lamplight, and when he spilled over her collarbone, she licked a stripe up to her chin without breaking eye contact. Fievel’s boots thumped overhead—just once—and they froze, listening. Silence. James wiped his mess across her cheek with a smirk.

Tanya’s bunk creaked under their combined weight as James buried his muzzle between her thighs. The sheets smelled of her—hay and salt and something sweet—and he inhaled deeply before dragging his tongue through her folds. Fievel’s snores from the top bunk were steady, a metronome to the wet sounds between Tanya’s legs. Her paws twisted in the quilt as James suckled her clit, her thighs trembling against his ears. When she came, it was with a soundless cry, her back bowing off the mattress as slick soaked the linen beneath her. James lapped at her until she shoved him away, oversensitive and gasping. Outside, a distant train whistle blew, but neither heard it over the rush of blood in their ears.

Yasha stirred in the nursery down the hall, her sleepy whimper carrying through the thin walls. Tanya froze, ears twitching toward the sound, but James just nuzzled the inside of her thigh. "She’ll settle," he murmured, tracing the curve of her hip with a claw. The pantalettes crumpled at the foot of the bunk were still damp where he’d peeled them off, the lace torn in one corner from his teeth. Tanya bit her lip, watching as James licked his fingers clean, her taste lingering on his tongue. The clock on the dresser ticked toward dawn, its hands blurry in the lamplight.

Downstairs, the shop’s front bell jingled faintly in the predawn breeze—someone had forgotten to latch it properly after all. James’s ears flicked toward the sound, but Tanya pulled him back by his bandana, her teeth sharp on his lower lip. "Let them steal a fiddle," she whispered against his mouth, her tail curling around his wrist. The hem of her apron was still crusted with his spend, the fabric stiff where it brushed her thigh. James groaned into her kiss, his cock heavy against her belly, already hardening again despite the hour. Somewhere, a rooster crowed, but the bedsprings’ creak drowned it out.

The first sliver of sun caught the dust motes swirling above the bunkbed, turning them to gold as James rolled Tanya onto her stomach. Her tail flicked up instinctively, the white tip twitching in invitation, and he didn’t hesitate. His claws dug into her hips as he sheathed himself in her again, this time slick with her arousal. Fievel mumbled something in his sleep above them, one boot dangling over the edge of the bunk, but James only bent lower over Tanya’s back, his breath hot on her neck. "Quiet," he reminded her, though his own growl was anything but. The bedframe’s rhythmic knock against the wall sounded like a heartbeat.

Yasha’s whimpers grew louder down the hall, punctuated by the wet smack of flesh meeting flesh. Tanya buried her face in the pillow to muffle her moans, but James wrenched her head back by her ponytail, exposing her throat. "Wanna hear you," he rasped, his thrusts turning jagged. The green hair tie snapped, sending dark strands tumbling over her shoulders as she arched beneath him. Outside, a wagon wheel squeaked past the shop—too early for customers, but close enough to make James’s ears flatten. He came with a snarl, his knot locking them together as Tanya’s claws shredded the sheet beneath her.

Dawn painted the kitchen in pale yellows when Tanya finally staggered downstairs, her apron askew and her sandals left behind in the bedroom. James lounged at the table, hat tipped low as he sipped from Mama’s good china. The teacup looked absurd in his large paws, but the smirk he gave her was anything but. "Sleep well?" he drawled, kicking out a chair for her. Tanya’s thighs stuck to the wood as she sat, her own cup trembling in her grip. The front of her apron was streaked with dried come, the evidence of their night impossible to hide. Upstairs, Fievel’s boots hit the floor with a thud.

The shop bell jingled properly this time as Fievel barreled into the kitchen, his red sweatshirt rumpled from sleep. "I dreamed a bear was shaking the house!" he announced, skidding to a halt when he saw James’s boots propped on the table. Tanya choked on her tea, her ears burning as James just tipped his hat back. "Just the wind, kid," he said smoothly, though his tail flicked against Tanya’s ankle under the table. Fievel squinted between them, nose twitching at the strange musk in the air, but Yasha’s wail from the nursery distracted him. As he scampered off, James’s hand slid up Tanya’s thigh, his claws pricking through her fur. The clock struck seven.

Upstairs, the smell of hot oats and maple syrup couldn’t mask the scent of sex clinging to the bedsheets. Tanya bundled the linens into the washbasin with trembling paws, her tail fluffing when James leaned in the doorway watching her. "Mama’ll notice the stains," she hissed, scrubbing at the fabric until her knuckles ached. James just chuckled, plucking a stray hair from her shoulder—his, unmistakably coarse between his fingers. "Tell her Yasha had an accident," he murmured, tucking it into his shirt pocket like a trophy. The floorboards groaned under his boots as he stepped closer, his breath hot on her nape. Downstairs, Fievel’s off-key singing covered the wet sound of James’s tongue in her ear.

The washtub water had gone cold by the time Tanya wrung out the sheets, her paws pink from scrubbing. James’s shadow loomed behind her in the morning light, his belt buckle pressing into the small of her back as he reached around to squeeze her breasts. "Still sore?" he teased, thumbing her nipples through the apron. Tanya elbowed him, her heart hammering when the back door creaked open—only for Fievel to barrel in with Yasha on his hip, her diaper sagging. "She’s hungry," he announced, oblivious to how James’s hand vanished under Tanya’s skirt. The baby mouse blinked at them, her tiny nose wrinkling at the musk. James’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "We’ll fix breakfast," he said, though his claws dug possessively into Tanya’s thigh.

By noon, the shop’s front room was thick with the scent of varnish and fresh bowhair as James tuned a violin for a rancher’s daughter. Tanya pretended not to notice how his eyes tracked her every time she bent to adjust a music stand, her apron strings fluttering with each movement. When the customer left, he cornered her behind the cello cabinet, his teeth on the back of her neck before the bell finished ringing. "One more round before your folks get back," he growled, paw already under her skirt. Tanya’s protest died in her throat when his fingers found her slick—apparently, her body hadn’t gotten the memo about being spent. Outside, wagon wheels rattled closer. James didn’t slow down.

Upstairs, Fievel’s shadow paused at the top landing, his ears twitching at the muffled gasps below. "Tanya?" he called, scratching his head when no one answered. The cellar door creaked ominously, and he tiptoed toward it, drawn by the rhythmic thumping against the wood. Just as his paw touched the knob, Yasha’s wail split the air from the nursery, sending him scrambling back. Behind the cellar door, James muffled Tanya’s moan with his palm, his thrusts never faltering even as her claws shredded his shirtfront. The shelves of aging wine trembled with each snap of his hips.

The Mousekewitz’s wagon rolled into town as James knotted Tanya against the cider barrels, her apron rucked up around her waist. "They’re here," she panted, her ears flat against her skull as the front gate squeaked open. James just chuckled, biting her shoulder as he ground deeper, the barrel’s staves digging into her back. "Then you’d better stay quiet, darlin’," he murmured, his tail flicking lazily as Mama’s voice carried from the porch. Tanya’s whimper was lost in the sound of Papa unloading luggage, her thighs shaking around James’s waist.

By the time the cellar door opened, Tanya was "sorting inventory" with remarkable diligence, her fur suspiciously damp around the collar. James leaned against the counter, polishing a viola with exaggerated care as Mama bustled in with armfuls of fabric. "No troubles?" she asked, patting Tanya’s cheek. Behind them, James’s tail brushed the back of Tanya’s knees, his smirk hidden by his hat brim. "Not a one," Tanya squeaked, her paws clenching around a bundle of sheet music. Across the room, Fievel stared at the cellar door, his nose twitching at the unfamiliar musk. James tipped his hat. "Real peaceful," he lied.

The bathtub still held their fingerprints in the steam on the mirror when Papa went to shave that evening. He frowned at the smudged glass, then at the inexplicable bite marks on the soap dish. Downstairs, James stretched his legs under the dinner table, his boot toe tracing circles on Tanya’s ankle beneath her skirt. Mama’s borscht went cold as Tanya fumbled her spoon, the broth splashing onto her apron—the blue one, freshly washed but still faintly stained if you knew where to look. Yasha banged her cup on the highchair, her pink bow askew. "Such a quiet weekend," Mama mused, oblivious to how James’s claws were pricking holes in the tablecloth under his napkin.

That night, as the family retired, James "checked the locks" one last time—lingering in the hallway where Tanya’s scent clung heaviest. She appeared like a shadow in her bedroom doorway, her frilly pantalettes peeking beneath the hem of her nightgown. James’s ears twitched toward Papa’s snores down the hall as he crowded her against the doorframe, his belt buckle digging into her belly. "Tomorrow," Tanya breathed, but her tail curled around his wrist anyway. Somewhere, a floorboard creaked—Fievel’s room, or maybe Yasha’s—but James only nipped Tanya’s earlobe. "Tonight," he corrected, palming her through the thin fabric. The house held its breath.

The predawn light caught James saddling his horse out front, his shirt still untucked from last night’s escapades. Tanya watched from the upstairs window, her borrowed cowboy hat tipped low over her tousled fur. Below, Mama waved from the porch, none the wiser as James tipped his hat with a grin. "Y’all take care now," he called, his gaze sliding up to the window where Tanya’s silhouette retreated. Fievel’s face appeared beside hers, squinting at the road. "That fox smells funny," he declared. Tanya’s ears burned as James spurred his horse into a gallop, his laughter carried away in the wind. The shop bell jingled faintly in his wake.

Back in the kitchen, Tanya scrubbed at the breakfast dishes until her paws ached, the soap bubbles popping like secrets exposed. Mama hummed as she kneaded dough, her spectacles fogged with steam. "Such a gentleman, that Mr. Roberts," she mused, flicking flour from her apron. Tanya’s tail puffed when Fievel slid into the room, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air near her skirts. "Why’s your apron smell like—" She shoved a biscuit in his mouth. "Eat," she hissed, her claws leaving crescents in the butter. Across the room, Yasha babbled into her oatmeal, a drop of it landing squarely on Papa’s ledger.

Upstairs in the bedroom, Tanya smoothed the freshly laundered sheets with trembling paws, the memory of James’s weight still imprinted in the mattress springs. Fievel’s boots thumped overhead as he jumped on his bunk, sending a dusting of lint drifting down. "Your bed’s all wobbly," he complained, peering over the edge. Tanya yanked the quilt taut. "It’s old," she snapped, tucking the corners with military precision. The scent of lavender soap couldn’t quite mask the musk clinging to the pillowcase, and she stuffed it into the wash basket just as Mama’s footsteps creaked on the stairs. Outside, a jaybird sang—the same pitch as James’s groan when he’d—

The shop’s ledger lay open on the counter, its pages pristine except for one corner—creased from where Tanya had gripped it last night, her back arched against the display case. Papa adjusted his spectacles, frowning at the smudged ink. "Mice don’t sweat," he muttered, rubbing at the damp stain. Behind him, Tanya nearly dropped a stack of sheet music, her ears flattening as Fievel crouched to examine the floorboards. "There’s claw marks here," he announced, tracing grooves that definitely hadn’t been there before. James’s spurs jingled in Tanya’s memory, the rhythm matching her pounding heart as Mama called from the kitchen: "Who wants pie?"

Yasha’s highchair wobbled as she banged her spoon, a glob of mashed peas landing in Tanya’s lap. She jumped like she’d been scalded, the cold mush seeping through her skirt to the tender skin beneath—skin still sensitive from James’s stubble. Fievel’s nose wrinkled. "You smell like… saddle leather?" Tanya’s paw shot out to mop the spill, knocking over the salt cellar. The granules scattered like tiny bones across the table, forming shapes that suspiciously resembled pawprints leading toward the cellar. Mama’s humming faltered as she bent to retrieve the salt. "Strange," she murmured, brushing a coarse red hair from the rim.

The bathwater turned murky as Tanya scrubbed at her thighs, the washcloth rough against the faint bruises circling her hips. Outside the door, Fievel’s shadow paused. "Why’s the lock sticky?" he asked, jiggling the doorknob. Tanya’s tail lashed, sending suds flying. "Go polish your harmonica!" she barked, sinking lower until the waterline swallowed her blush. Through the wall, Papa’s razor scraped against his whiskers—the same rhythm as James’s teeth down her spine. A knock made her slosh. "Hurry up," Fievel whined. "I gotta pee." Tanya stared at the bath’s copper faucet, its curve glinting like a fox’s smirk.

Dusk painted the shop’s front window crimson when Tanya caught her reflection adjusting her neckerchief—too late to hide the bite mark purpling under her fur. The bell jingled as a customer entered, but her paws stilled on the violin strings when she recognized the scent: sagebrush and gun oil. James leaned against the doorframe, his hat dusted with trail dirt, a fresh scratch bisecting his cheek. "Forgot my gloves," he drawled, holding up one white fabric square. Tanya’s breath hitched—it was crusted with something decidedly not rosin. Behind the counter, Fievel’s ears perked. "That’s Mama’s good handkerchief!" James tipped his hat lower. "My mistake."

The cellar door groaned like a living thing as James backed Tanya down the stairs, his spurs catching on the third step. Someone—Fievel, probably—had left a lantern burning by the cider press, casting their shadows huge and tangled against the stone wall. James’s teeth found the same spot on her throat as before, earning a hiss. "You’re worse than a tomcat," Tanya muttered, even as her claws dug into his shoulders. Above them, the floorboards creaked under Mama’s footsteps. James nipped her earlobe. "Then quit smellin’ like catnip," he growled, yanking her skirt up with one hand while the other covered her mouth.

Yasha’s wail pierced through the ceiling beams like an accusation. Tanya froze, her ears swiveling toward the sound, but James just pressed harder between her thighs. "She’ll wear herself out," he murmured against her collarbone, his tongue lapping at the sweat there. The cider barrels rattled with each thrust, their hollow thumps echoing off the stone. Somewhere above, a chair scraped—Papa getting up from supper—and Tanya’s tail puffed. James chuckled darkly, palming her breast through the fabric. "Scared, little mouse?" She answered by sinking her teeth into his wrist, the coppery tang of blood mingling with their musk.

Dawn found Tanya scrubbing the cellar steps with lye soap, her knees bruised from the gravel. James’s glove—the one he’d "come back for"—lay abandoned by the pickle crock, stiff with fluids that definitely weren’t rosin. Upstairs, Fievel’s harmonica wheezed through an off-key rendition of "Oh! Susanna," punctuated by Yasha’s giggles. The shop bell jingled again, but this time it was just the wind. Or maybe James, circling back like the coyote he was. Tanya’s tail flicked at the thought, stirring the dust at her feet. Somewhere, a floorboard creaked. The house held its breath.

Mama’s rolling pin thumped against the pie crust in rhythm with Tanya’s pulse as she folded laundry in the kitchen. The sheets smelled of lavender now, but the memory of James’s musk clung to the fibers like a stain. Fievel’s nose twitched when he passed the basket. "Why’s your washing smell like—" Tanya shoved a sock in his mouth. "Hush," she hissed, her claws pricking holes in Papa’s union suit. Outside, a horse whinnied—too high-pitched to be James’s stallion, but her ears pricked anyway. Mama’s humming faltered as she glanced out the window. "That fox left his bandana on the fence," she murmured. Tanya’s tail puffed. The fence groaned.

Yasha’s crib rattled with her fussing as Tanya changed her diaper, the pins slipping in her trembling paws. The nursery smelled of talc and milk, but underneath—something muskier, wilder. Fievel’s shadow darkened the doorway. "Your bed’s still wobbly," he announced, scratching his ear. Tanya tied Yasha’s bow with more force than necessary. "It’s the springs," she muttered, though they both knew better. Downstairs, the shop bell jingled—a real customer this time—but Tanya’s ears caught the telltale jangle of spurs beneath the chatter. Fievel’s nose wrinkled. "That fox came back for his—" Tanya tossed a rattle at him. It missed, rolling under the crib where a single, coarse red hair gleamed in the sunlight.

The washtub water turned opaque as Tanya scrubbed James’s bandana—the one Mama had found—against the washboard. Her knuckles bled into the suds, the sting nothing compared to the ache between her thighs. Behind her, the cellar door creaked on its hinges, though no one had touched it. Fievel’s harmonica squeaked to a halt upstairs. "You’re gonna wear a hole in that fabric," Mama chided, but Tanya only scrubbed harder. Outside, a horse’s whinny cut through the afternoon heat—closer this time, familiar. The clothesline snapped in the sudden breeze, sending droplets flying. One landed on Tanya’s muzzle. Salt. Or sweat. Or something else entirely.

Upstairs, Yasha’s crib springs squeaked under her weight as she bounced, her tiny claws clutching the rails. Tanya’s reflection in the nursery mirror was all wild eyes and mussed fur, the high collar of her dress doing little to hide the scratches down her back. Fievel’s shadow loomed in the doorway. "Your bed’s not just wobbly," he whispered, holding up a snapped coil from the mattress. "It’s busted." Tanya snatched it from his paw, the metal still warm from— "Yasha did it," she lied, stuffing the evidence into her apron pocket. The baby mouse gurgled innocently, her pink bow askew. Downstairs, the shop bell jingled. Then jingled again. And again.

The cellar smelled of damp earth and spilled cider when Tanya descended to fetch preserves, the steps groaning under her weight. Someone—James, undoubtedly—had left claw marks in the oak beam overhead, deep enough to catch her fingernails. She traced them absently, her pulse thrumming in time with the thuds from above—Fievel’s boots, probably. Or maybe Papa’s ledger slamming shut. Or maybe— The back door creaked open, letting in a draft that guttered the lantern. Tanya’s tail bristled. No one else was home. The cellar door clicked shut behind her. The house held its breath.

Dusk painted the shop’s front window amber when Tanya caught movement in the glass—not her reflection, but a shadow too tall for Fievel, too broad for Papa. James’s gloved hand splayed against the pane from outside, his breath fogging the glass where her cheek had been moments before. Inside, the ledger lay open to yesterday’s page, the ink blurred where Tanya’s sweat—or something slicker—had dripped onto the numbers. Upstairs, Yasha squealed. The floorboards creaked. Outside, James’s spurs jingled once, twice, then went silent. Tanya’s claws unsheathed involuntarily, scoring the countertop. Somewhere, a rooster crowed. It was hours past dawn.

The saloon piano next door struck a discordant note as James shouldered through the back door, his hat brim shadowing his eyes. Tanya’s pulse hammered in her throat—Mama was kneading dough three feet away, her spectacles fogged with steam. James licked a drop of cider off his thumb, slow, deliberate, his gaze locked on Tanya’s apron strings. They trembled. So did her knees. Mama hummed. The oven door squeaked open. James stepped closer, his boot toe nudging Tanya’s sandal. “Forgot my—” Mama turned. “Bandana?” Tanya blurted, shoving the scrap of green fabric at his chest. It stuck to his sweat-damp shirt. James’s smirk tasted like sin. “That’s the one.”

The cellar stairs groaned under their combined weight, each step a thunderclap in Tanya’s ears. James’s teeth found the same spot below her ear—the one that made her legs give out—just as Fievel’s voice carried down the stairwell. “Tanya? Mama needs the cinnamon!” James nipped her earlobe. “Tell him you’re sorting apples,” he murmured, yanking her skirt up with one hand. The cider barrel’s metal band dug into her back, a counterpoint to the heat of his palm sliding up her thigh. Somewhere above, Fievel’s boots thumped toward the cellar door. Tanya’s breath hitched. James didn’t slow down. The latch rattled. “It’s locked!” she called, her voice cracking. James’s chuckle vibrated against her collarbone. “Smart mouse.”

Dawn found the shop’s porch swing rocking in a breeze that didn’t exist, its chains squeaking in time with Tanya’s pulse. James’s scent clung to the wood where he’d pinned her against the railing, his hat discarded on the bench beside them. Inside, the clock struck six. Mama’s rolling pin thumped against dough. Somewhere, a horse whinnied—too far away to be his, but Tanya’s tail fluffed anyway. James traced the bite mark purpling under her fur with his thumb. “Next time,” he promised, though they both knew there’d be no next time—Papa’s wagon was already rolling up the street. James tipped his hat to the approaching dust cloud. Tanya’s claws left half-moons in the porch rail. The swing creaked on.

Yasha’s bib was crusted with oatmeal when Tanya strapped her into the highchair, her paws trembling as she knotted the strings. The kitchen smelled of burning sugar and gunpowder—James’s bandana still smoldered in the stove where she’d tossed it. Mama hummed as she poured coffee, oblivious to how the steam curled exactly like the smoke between Tanya’s thighs last night. Fievel’s nose wrinkled as he slid into his seat. “Why’s the porch smell like—” Tanya slammed his juice down hard enough to slosh. “Drink,” she ordered. Outside, a spur jingled once against the fencepost. The butter knife clattered from her grip.

The washtub water turned gray as Tanya scrubbed James’s fingerprints from the porch rail, the lye soap eating at her claws. Upstairs, Fievel’s harmonica wheezed through an off-key tune, punctuated by Yasha’s giggles. Mama’s shadow fell across the suds. “Such a help, Mr. Roberts,” she mused, nodding to the freshly oiled hinges on the shop door—the ones James had “fixed” while Tanya’s back was against them. Tanya’s ears burned. The washboard screeched. Somewhere beyond the fence, a horse snorted. Mama’s spectacles fogged as she bent to retrieve a stray sock—one with claw marks through the heel. The house held its breath.

The shop bell jingled at noon, but it was only Mrs. O’Reilly buying strings, her perfume failing to mask the musk still clinging to the display case. Tanya’s paws shook as she wrapped the purchase, the paper crinkling like the sheets she’d shoved into the wash. Outside, a shadow passed the window—too tall for Fievel, too broad for Papa. James’s gloved hand pressed against the glass briefly, leaving a smear that might’ve been sweat or spit. The ledger’s pages fluttered in the sudden draft, flipping to yesterday’s entry where the numbers blurred inexplicably. Somewhere, a floorboard creaked. Tanya’s claws unsheathed. The bell jingled again.", "pools_count": 2, "title": "Midnight Strings in Green River", "deleted": "f", "public": "t", "mimetype": "text/rtf", "pagecount": "1", "rating_id": "2", "rating_name": "Adult", "ratings": [ { "content_tag_id": "4", "name": "Sexual Themes", "description": "Erotic imagery, sexual activity or arousal", "rating_id": "2" } ], "submission_type_id": "12", "type_name": "Writing - Document", "guest_block": "f", "friends_only": "f", "comments_count": "0", "views": "3" }