Moira #1: Two Wolves

I’ve been continuing to wrestle with writer’s block—while the Kani story is “flowing” a bit more than it was, it’s still not nearly as easy writing as Saida and Autumn, for reasons which remain a little mystifying.

While I was working on S&A, I wrote a trashy vignette called “Size Doesn’t Matter,” which I described as,

It’s the (deliberate) antithesis of the sort of work I most often do: it’s not long, not thoughtful, has little characterization and no plot to speak of. It’s pretty much just about finding buttons of like-minded people and giving those buttons a firm whack.

That became a series of vignettes, each one a bit different but still following the motif of a giant mouse woman having her way with whatever was around her. The vignettes developed a direction and end game, but it wasn’t a conventional plot, and had no real thematic argument. Try and peel back the layers of meaning and you’d just get eaten by a mouse.

Well, my buttons are often pressed by “prey” species acting as predators, and the one who’s been pressing mine in my head recently has been a rabbit who is emphatically more like the vignette mouse than like any of my other bunny characters. I’ve made a few jokes and comments about her, thought about images…

…and a vignette happened. So, here it is.

A few notes/warnings:

1. Vore vore vore. Vore? Vore.
2. While there may well be more vignettes about this bunny (I'm quite aware there are capital-Q Questions suggested by the ending), no guarantees.
3. Try and peel back the layers of meaning and you’ll just get eaten by a wild hare.

This has been sucking away my brainpower and I did start the post-screenplay phrase of this Patreon by warning y’all that my output might be cheerfully chaotic for a while, right? So meet the as-yet-unnamed dangerous bunny. (I have a couple ideas for her name but haven’t settled yet. It won’t be a Secret Important Reveal, though.)

* * *

Two Wolves

“Wooo!”

“Yeah!”

The rabbit woman looks over at whoever’s making that godawful noise. They’re not looking at her, though. Two wolves are playing an ancient coin-op video game. Basketball, it looks like. Great.

“No!” one yells, pounding the side of the machine at the same time the other shouts, “Aww yeah!”

She sighs heavily, and downs the rest of her pint of beer in one gulp, slamming the pint glass on the counter in front of her for effect. Look, loud wolves: disgruntled bunny. You don’t want to make the bunny angry, do you?

They don’t look over at her. There’s only two other patrons in the bar, both mice, and they’re not looking at either her or the game-bros.

The cat behind the bar looks up, though. He’s in a checked, unbuttoned flannel shirt, because of course he is. “Something else for you?”

This isn’t actually a bar, it’s a microbrewery. It’s in a warehouse on the edge of whatever town this is in; the “tasting room” is just one side of the warehouse turned into a bar with a half-dozen counter seats and a few bench tables, separated from the brewing area by a simple rope. Like most of these places, it’s insufferably hip, but the beer is good. It took her a while after she got here to find there was good beer; all the big brand names taste like barley water. The problem with insufferably hip warehouse brewery tasting rooms, though, is insufferable hipsters.

“Yeah, in a second,” she tells the cat, rising to her paws. He nods, and she can see he’s staring at her while trying his best to hide it. It’s fine. She’s got a body that invites stares, a brown hare with a build a sibling once called “big everywhere.” Big hips. Big chest. Big muscles. Six-foot-three. Hip-hugging jeans and a chest-hugging tee don’t do anything to dissuade the stare.

She walks to the wolves. They’re still engrossed in their game. They both shout “awwww!” in unison at something on the screen.

“Hey.” She claps a hand on each of their shoulders, making both jump and turn around. “Would you mind keeping it down, please?”

“We’re just havin’ fun,” one wolf protests. “Mind your own business, lady.” He’s taller than she is, but lanky, not as big.

The other one’s stockier but shorter. He’s staring at her and not at all trying to hide it. “Yeah, we’d mind. You want we should be paying attention to you?”

“All I want is a few peaceful beers. It’s fine if you enjoy your game—”

“Thanks for your permission,” the tall one says. The stocky one howls. Literally.

“Let me try this a different way. If you keep shouting, I’m gonna swallow you both whole, okay?”

The stocky wolf’s ears skew. The tall one gives her an incredulous look. “What the hell kind of goofy threat is—”

The video game makes some kind of bleep bloop whistle noise and they turn back to it. “Aw, man!” the short one growls.

When she sits down again the cat is giving her a raised-brow look. “What the hell kind of goofy threat was that?”

“I did ask nicely.”

“Ohhhhh!” both wolves shout in unison.

The rabbit grits her teeth, glaring in their direction.

The stocky one looks back over his shoulder with a challenging leer. “Wait ’til after the game, baby, and you can swallow me all you want.” He thrusts his hips suggestively.

“Hey,” the cat says loudly. “None of that.” The wolf snorts, and immediately gets sucked back into his game.

She sighs, pushes back her stool, stands.

The cat raises his hands. “Come on, lady, don’t start a fight.”

“Oh, it won’t be much of a fight at all.” She looks up at the warehouse ceiling, back and forth at the walls, walks to about the center of the bar area.

Then she drops to all fours, and abruptly she’s taking up most of the space. What doesn’t get pushed aside by her body—the benches, their matching tables, the two other patrons—gets blown back by displaced air. Glasses shatter. A tin sign reading “Beer: Proof that God wants us to be happy” clatters to the concrete floor.

If she could stand, she’d be nearly forty feet head to toes. She couldn’t stand without smashing her head on the warehouse roof, but she clearly isn’t interested in standing. Her very pretty, very large, very snarling head is within a couple yards of the wolves and their video game. They’re still so engrossed in it that the stocky one hasn’t even turned around despite the soft thunderclap behind him and the pained cry of one of the mice who ended up under the rabbit’s right knee. Maybe he didn’t hear it over his own enthusiastic scream.

He does hear the lanky one scream “Holy shit!” in a way that sounds more terrified than enthusiastic, though. He turns, looks ahead at the rabbit’s breasts, up at her face, and his jaw falls slack.

She slams a fist between both of them into the machine, smashing it in a shower of sparks and glass. “Game over. Swallowing time.”

The lanky one yelps and stumbles backward. The stocky one just makes a soft, voiceless squeak.

Her now bone-rattling alto voice drips sarcasm. “If only you’d been able to make that noise a few minutes ago.” Then she opens her muzzle wide, and glomps it down over his head and shoulders.

The lanky one turns tail and bolts–slamming right into one of her hands. Her fingers close around him, and she slides backward to sit up, legs to the side, throwing her head back and swallowing hard as she straightens. Her ears just miss the ceiling. This lets the mouse go, but he stays where he is, just staring up. The other mouse has already fled.

“Holy shit!” the lanky one screams again, pushing at her fingers futilely and staring upward at the bulge in the rabbit’s throat the other wolf’s head and shoulders make. He’s squirming visibly, legs kicking wildly outside her mouth, one to either side of her buck teeth.

Another swallow, and his legs disappear. Her lips close. The bulge in her throat flexes.

Another swallow. The bulge disappears.

“Holy shit you actually—no, please, I’ll be quiet, I’ll be quiet!” The other wolf kicks and squirms in her hand, to no avail, as she lifts him toward her muzzle.

She clamps her jaws around his foot-paws, sucking them in, and swallows his legs, pinning his arms to his sides with two fingers so they get pulled into his mouth and held in place.

“No!” he screams, wriggling against her tongue. Those are the only two motions he can make: wriggling and screaming.

Another swallow. Now his face is against her tongue, and he’s looking out at the back of her teeth. Slowly, deliberately, she closes her mouth.

“Wolves are not rabbit food!” he yells.

A final swallow. She looks down at her belly. “I’m a hare. You know how you can tell the difference?” She gives her stomach a slap. “Hares are bigger.”

The beertender has been cowering behind the bar, but he sees an opportunity and makes a break for it, wailing, dashing for an exit near one of her paws. She glances down and simply straightens that leg, catching him between that paw and the wall. “I have two wolves in me,” she says calmly, “and I’m going to need plenty of beer to wash them down.”

He says something muffled.

She curls her toes around him. “Speak up.”

“Yes! Yes!”

She lifts him up and pivots that leg, carrying him over to behind the bar, and drops him. “Pour two pints of something strong and bitter.”

As he nervously—but so quickly—does as ordered, she picks up the benches and tables, righting them, then changes back to the size she’d been when she entered. She walks to the mouse, who’s still sitting on the floor, staring up with an awestruck expression. “Come on,” she says with a sigh, leaning down and hauling him to his paws. “No worshippers. I’m retired.” She heads back to her seat, guiding the mouse into the seat next to her.

Both beers have been poured. They look and smell like double IPAs. The cat stands at attention, visibly shaking. “R-retired?” he gets out. “From… from what?”

“Being a goddess.” She stops, looking to her side and then down. The mouse is kneeling on the floor by her paws, looking up adoringly. “Oh, dammit. I said…” She sighs heavily, shakes her head, and knocks back half of one of the pints.