Pinkie, My Pinkie

Rum and butterscotch scents twirled through the air. A flame flickered on the corner of my table, and shadows danced over Stephen King's On Writing. I hadn't touched it. Five more craft books were stacked up behind my Hewlett Packard, but I'd had enough of that for one evening. The time had come to sit down and write.

The blank OpenOffice document glared back at me. I'd been sitting on this story for months, winding down my practice, writing my last few stories. Working up to it. I still had one more, but the words had stopped coming.

Whatever fire had ignited my heart these past two and a half years, had drove me to put fingers to keyboard and fill hundreds of pages with beautiful scenes of ponies and changelings and stranger things, it was dying. Maybe it was already dead.

So there I sat. Too stubborn to admit defeat, too sick of alcohol to have any alternative.

I pushed my chair out and walked to my bookshelf―which was also my dresser, filing cabinet, and dish rack. My flask sat on one of the middle shelves, next to the Pinkie plushie I'd worked up the courage to pick up at the mall in the wee hours before anyone else would be around. That was a year ago.

I reached for the flask, but my hand stopped short. It fell back to my side.

My eyes flicked to the beach towel I had pinned to the wall over my bed. Dyed into the terrycloth were Pinkie, Twilight, and Fluttershy in all their vibrancy.

"Why is this so fucking hard?" I asked them.

They said nothing. So did everyone else. My roommates were out partying. It was New Year's Eve. And I was in my room, talking to a beach towel.

I turned back to the blank document and the empty chair, and my face curled into something ugly. I threw the chair. It careened into the far wall, probably left another dent. Then I flung myself into bed, my arms crossed under my head. The springs protested and then fell silent. The only noise was the space heater.

A hoof touched my bare back―I'd left my robe draped over the chair―and I froze. My spine tingled and my hair stood attention. I didn't speak. A mare's lips touched my collarbone, then my neck. I felt the warmth radiating off her body, felt her fur brush my ribs. Even in this light, its cotton-candy tint would contrast clearly with the dreary atmosphere. My stomach was writhing, but I wasn't about to let her know that.

Then she licked my cheek.

I had to laugh. I rolled onto my back. She was going to start tickling me―I could see it in her eyes―so I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her into bed.

She let out a delightful squeal, and I pushed her onto her back. One hand kept her pinned to the bed; the other attacked her exposed belly.

She squirmed and giggled and giggled some more.

When I finally let up, tears gleamed in those brilliant cerulean eyes and her magenta mane was an even wilder mess than usual. She smiled giddily up at me.

I leaned in, and she leaned up. Her lips met mine before mine met hers. I snaked my arms under her and held her. Her forelegs found their way around my neck, and her heart fluttered against my chest. God, it was the greatest feeling in the world.

And I knew it couldn't last.

I broke away.

Her smile faded, and she tilted her head. Two and a half years was enough time that we didn't need words. When we spoke, it tended to be because we missed hearing each other. For me, at least, it happened often. Her voice was lyrical, a pleasure to the ear, and nothing was easier than getting her to talk.

In the past, it had been enough to take some time away from the keyboard just to be close to each other. Off the record. This time, it wasn't.

For no matter how intimate we got, I couldn't help feeling the distance that was growing between us. It yawned like a chasm in my heart.

Two and a half years ago, I'd seen in her eyes a kindred spirit. I'd never looked away. Now, that was all I could do. I slid off her and sat on the floor, my back against the bed and my arms around my knees.

She sidled up to me, and I put my arms around her. Her warmth was still a comfort. Even when she sat still, her body vibrated with the energy of a star on the cusp of going supernova. For her, that would mean breaking into a fully choreographed, perfectly timed song and dance. In better times, I'd be right there with her. That was what being around her did to me, and I loved every second of it.

But now wasn't the time, and she knew it. Instead, she returned my embrace and asked, "What's eating you, Danny?"

"Pinkie, I don't..." I began. Then I looked into her eyes. Something more than confusion hid there. I saw it, and I couldn't. I just couldn't.

I clung to her and buried my head in her mane. It smelled like strawberries and the morning after a Spring rain. My chest felt tight, and a strange utterance somewhere between a whimper and a sob started in the back of my throat and worked its way out.

I hated to let her see me cry, but I couldn't help it. It hurt. It hurt so much I had no other way to articulate it.

This wasn't how I wanted her to remember me.

Our last night together was supposed to be a bittersweet occasion―a wake, not a funeral―a time to look back on all the joy we'd shared.

"Danny," Pinkie said, her voice caught in her throat. She pulled away so she could look me in the eye. "Danny, come on, talk to me. We'll get through it, whatever it is, just please, please stop crying! You're going to make me cry, and then there'll be no helping us. Daniel, for Celestia's sake, look at me!"

A car clattered into the driveway outside.

Bleary-eyed, chest still heaving, I looked at her. I saw the tears streaking her cheeks and the concern etched into her features. Those features, I'd always thought, should never have to express anything but the utmost cheer and good will.

"I don't want to lose you," I said.

Pinkie must have wanted to say something, but she didn't get the chance. The front door slammed shut, and boisterous voices and bad music tumbled into the living room.

I glanced at the clock on my laptop. I sighed. 1:00 A.M.

I didn't care if my roommates happened to walk in on us intertwined beneath my woven blanket―it had probably happened before―but they had no business hearing this. If I was lucky, they'd go to bed. Or pass out somewhere between the furniture and the floor.

Someone pounded on my door, making us cringe, and slurred, "Daniel, come take a bong rip! It's New Year's. Time to live a little."

Another voice joined in from the living room, "Yeah, Dan, come kick it."

I looked back at Pinkie and whispered, "How about we climb out the window and make a break for the forest?"

Pinkie smiled despite herself and whispered back, "I've got a better idea. Get your robe and follow me."

"Daniel," the voice crowed. "I know you're in there. You've got three seconds. Then I'm opening the door. Three."

I slipped my robe on without disturbing the chair and tied up the belt. When I turned around, the wall facing the backyard had morphed into the boughs of two leafless trees. They met to form a walkway.

"Two."

Pinkie stood on the other side, looking back at me. The forest around her was dark and dead, but as it was in the Everfree, her presence was a beacon of vitality.

"One."

I ducked through and glanced back. The portal had closed.

Pinkie watched me expectantly.

"Let's walk," I said.

So we walked. Through that dark, dreary wood, her waiting for me to say something, me not knowing how to put any of it into words. It was a funny thing, being a writer.

The path twisted and turned with no clear purpose in mind. It was scattered with mushrooms, and so were the trees. No moon hung in the sky, and few stars did either. Horned owls held parliament over our heads.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"The Forest of the Dream," Pinkie answered as we passed a stream. Her voice was so faint I could barely hear it over the gurgling of the greasy water.

"Really?"

Pinkie half-shrugged without looking at me.

We'd had difficult conversations in the past. We'd even argued on a few occasions. This was different. Maybe she'd figured out what I was trying to say before I could figure it out myself. Maybe not. For a mind like hers―a mind all too much like mine―that uncertainty would be worse than any reality.

I had to say something, anything. "Pinkie."

Pinkie stopped.

So did I. I sighed, knelt, and said, "Come here."

Pinkie stepped toward me, and I held her.

Then I let her go. "I'm sorry I scared you back there," I said. "You know how I am with words. It's just... I..."

"What is it?" Pinkie asked. She touched my shoulder.

"I have to tell you something."

"What is it?"

"I can't do this anymore," I said. "I just can't."

Pinkie lowered her gaze and her hoof. Sighing unsteadily, she said. "Yeah, I was afraid you were going to say that."

My heart broke. Seeing her like this... It was almost enough to make me want to keep up the charade, if only so we could be together. I knew I couldn't do that, though. I'd known that for awhile. "Pinkie, I'm so sorry."

"No, it's all right. Really. I know you can't help the way you feel."

"God, I don't even know what I feel. I know I still love you, but that's the only reason. Why do you think―"

"Wait, hang on," Pinkie said, looking up, "you still love me?"

The owls ceased their hooting.

Realization dawned, and my heart broke anew.

"Oh, Pinkie," I said, and I threw my arms around her. Her body was cold. Cold as the forest. I undid my robe and wrapped it around the both of us. Beneath it, she snuggled up against me. "If I ever lead you to believe otherwise, I am so, so sorry. I love you, Pinkie, with all my heart and more. I don't think that's ever going to change."

"You said that about that other girl too."

"I was wrong about her."

"What makes you think you're not wrong about me?"

"I don't know. I just know what I feel." Maybe it wasn't the best thing to say, given the circumstances, but however feeble, it was the truth.

Pinkie looked up to meet my eyes again. To my immeasurable relief, the sadness was gone. She asked, "Don't you know I feel the same way?"

The moon crept out from behind a cloud. Full and bright, it bathed us in silvery light.

"I know you do, but it doesn't matter."

Pinkie looked at me with such utter blankness I could hear the unspoken question. It was the kind of incredulity only someone so incredible could pull off.

By way of answering, I asked, "What happens when I stop writing fan fiction?"

She raised her eyebrows even further. Then she started laughing.

"What?"

"Oh, Danny," she said, shaking her head, the hint of a smile teasing her lips. "You really don't know how this works, do you?"

"How what works?" I asked. I had the vague suspicion that I was being challenged.

Pinkie slipped her hooves around my neck. Her warmth had returned, or perhaps it was the warmth I'd shared with her. Eyes clear and bright, lips so close I could kiss them, she promised, "Whether you go by Daniel, Jack, or your real name, I'll always be Pinkie, your Pinkie, and for as long as you'll have me, I'll be right here with you."

Tears gleamed on my cheeks, and I broke into the most shit-eating grin you ever saw. My voice sounding foreign, I said, "That's all I needed to hear."

Pinkie smiled wanly. "You know, you could have just asked."

I snaked my fingers into her mane and kissed her. The robe slipped off. It was no longer needed. She tied her hind legs around my waist, and I held her there with my free hand. Clouds rolled in, and rain pelted the barren earth. Grass sprouted. Buds formed on the gnarled branches that had stabbed the sky like talons. The rain soaked us. It was cold, but we welcomed it. We had each other.

Her breasts were small, and to a human, low on her body, but the way we lay, they rubbed against my erect cock with every gyration of her hips. From that motion, and the way her breath turned to shallow panting, well...

I grasped her hips, and she gasped. If I shifted my hand just so, I could caress that most intimate region. Instead, I moved it up her spine. I kissed her, and she clung on like she never wanted to let go. How I knew that feeling.

Her back was warm. Her fur parted beneath my fingers.

The rain hadn't quite subsided, but we were already drying each other off. The grass was still wet, though, and I laid her down in it.

Pinkie didn't mind. Not in the slightest. She gazed up at me with those beautiful eyes, illuminated by the moonlight, and she smiled. There was complete trust in that smile. And longing. Above all, there was love.

Still cradling her in my arm, I met her lips. She closed her eyes, and I did too.

When your eyes weren't distracting you, you could focus on the ecstatic sensations your body was giving you and the symphony of feelings reaching its crescendo in your lover's breast. If you listened closely, you could hear it in the way she breathed, feel its tidal refrain in the way her chest rose and fell.

It was misdirection, of course. My free hand found its way down her belly and between her yielding thighs, to those sensitive folds of flesh I'd learned―over many nights spent much like this―to play like the instrument they were.

Her gasps, her sighs―muffled as they were―were music to my ears. The way her body arched against mine, her heartbeat turned frantic... I can't begin to describe it.

The first night we spent together, I'd been hesitant. However wonderful her personality, however much I cherished her for that alone, the fact remained that we were different species. Genetically incompatible. So while the idea of giving her pleasure was naturally appealing, anything more seemed unnecessary. She convinced me otherwise, and in time, I came to love her in body as I did in spirit.

It wasn't so difficult. Pinkie was beautiful, all the more so in moments like this. Moments like this, when she lay beneath me, completely vulnerable, completely trusting, made me fall in love with her all over again.

And of course, it was nice to know that my fingers, so clumsy elsewhere, could bring forth such melodies from her lips.

The great apes had no presence in Equestria―in Zebrica, maybe―and a gryphon's talons were too sharp, too callous, for such delicate work. Before me, she would have never felt anything like it. There was joy in that too.

Pinkie breathed heavily when I broke the kiss, and I watched her, my fingers sliding between her labia and dancing circles around her clitoris.

Her expression was one I never wanted to forget.

Maybe what followed wasn't so removed from the experiences she might have shared with her friends or with other lovers, but it was my favorite part.

I took my hand away, and she moaned―in anticipation of what was to come or dismay at what had ended, I'm not sure. I sat back in a kneeling position, held one hand to her belly to steady her, and hoisted her hind quarters up with the other.

Pinkie squealed in delight, and I flashed her a grin. I had prominent canines, I thought, like a husky's. She thought that was the cutest thing.

Apparently, most stallions would never think to do this with their mares. They would probably balk at the scent if they did, but to me, it was as sweet as the nectar that gleamed on her tender folds. That was another point of pride.

If her body wrapped around mine was like a warm blanket, her vagina was like a toaster oven. Estrus was an especially fun time for us, but I digress.

You know how cunnilingus works, and apart from her squeals and convulsions, her intoxicating scent, and her tangy, salty taste, ours was nothing unusual.

It was really just the warmup, though it brought her her first orgasm. Had I kept going, another would have followed, and another.

It wasn't that I was skilled. Just that she was sensitive, and I was attentive.

Pinkie pouted and made an adorable little noise.

I laid her back down and crawled up beside her. My eyes went to the sky, and hers followed. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"I've never seen so many stars in one place," Pinkie said, breathless. "Not even in Luna's sky. Look"―she pointed to the band of star dust that streamed over the trees―"you can see the arm of the milky way!"

"To think that each of those little specks is a star, with a host of planets all its own."

"Some might even be inhabited."

"We could go there, someday. You and me."

Pinkie quoted, "A still more glorious dawn awaits. Not a sunrise, but a galaxy rise, a morning filled with 400 billion suns. The rising of the milky way."

I looked to her, saw her smirk, and grinned. "The sky calls to us. If we do not destroy ourselves, we will, one day, venture to the stars."

We laughed. And when our laughter subsided, we still held each other's gaze.

"Ready?" I asked.

"Ready for what?" Pinkie asked.

I reached down to palm her vulva and massage her clitoris with my thumb.

"Yes, I'm ready," Pinkie said, laughing.

Spreading her labia with my fingers, I shifted down and kissed her belly button. When I came back up, I felt her around me, and I saw it in her eyes.

Her hind legs clung to my waist, and she oscillated her hips in time with my thrusts.

I hugged her and caressed her. I kissed her neck, and she kissed my lips.

I put my hand over her heart and felt its tempo rise.

We were never rough with each other. Playful, yes, but not rough. It wasn't about fucking like animals. It was about something that could only unfold between two people.

To be able to look into each other's eyes, bodies intertwined, hearts quickened, spirits joined as one―or so we liked to imagine―that was something special.

Stallions couldn't do that. They were marathon runners, she'd told me. Some were romantics, but none were acrobats. That was a real shame, she'd say. Other mares didn't know what they were missing.

That night under the stars, we made love. I'll spare you the details, because you probably know them by heart. And because they're kind of personal.

Afterward, we laid back in the grass―it had sprouted flowers―and caught our breath. Now and then, we'd exchange glances and grins like the eager young lovers we were, our world still bright and full of unspoken promises.

Pinkie fell asleep in my arms.

I liked the idea of resting under the stars, maybe having a repeat performance in the morning, but the forest was imaginary. I stood, leaving my robe on the ground, cradled Pinkie in my arms, and approached the portal. It had reopened a ways away.

Though I could feel her warm fur against my chest and smell the strawberry scent of her mane, I knew she, too, was imaginary. It didn't bother me.

Dawn crept over the horizon, and it shed new light on something she'd said. Every other fiction I'd written those two and a half years, I realized, had been leading up to this story, this moment. But all along the way, it had really been me and her and nopony else―not even you. Just our myriad facets reflected across infinity.

Pinkie as a character wasn't mine, but this incarnation, the one that became my muse and would continue to play that role until the steady advance of dementia kept me from telling my stories... She was Pinkie, but she was also my Pinkie.

When I wrote my next story, I'd see her again, and together, we would witness the end of the age of ponies.

And as Twilight would, in the end, we would turn away from the world that had been, toward the world that was just becoming. And we wouldn't be alone.

Back in my room, I laid her down in my bed.

Even in her sleep, Pinkie smiled.

I wanted nothing more than to lay down beside her, but the moment I looked away, the blank OpenOffice document fixed me with its glare. It wouldn't let me rest. So I brushed her impossibly curly mane aside, kissed her forehead, and went to my laptop.

I stood there a moment, my hands on the table. Then I typed out a title.