This AppleDash scene is pretty much as sexually explicit as I'm willing to get.

Applejack looked at the bed. Well, she’d heard of mares doing that, so seeing Rainbow Dash do it had not been much of a surprise. Not as much of a surprise as it would otherwise have been, at any rate. But, good grief, at least stallions could aim; it was practically what their anatomy was for.

She tore off the drenched sheets.

“Rainbow, I’m pretty sure you ain’t supposed to need towels during,” she said.

“Warmarmyrmtrgdabr?” said Rainbow Dash, around a toothbrush.

Applejack looked at her.

Rainbow Dash was exactly as scruffy as when they had finished. Only the smallest concession to cleanup had been made, and that, as she had put into graphic detail, was because she didn’t like it getting sticky. She could have had the decency to at least blush about the mess, but no, she just stood there with a look of vague interest.

A foam of toothpaste and saliva dribbled from the corner of her mouth as she scrubbed. She grinned, which made it worse.

“Warmarngyargarndomgmufthlidngafluh?”

Applejack laughed and said, “I might.”

Rainbow Dash turned back into the bathroom, spat, rinsed, gargled as loudly as she could for the look of the thing, spat again, wiped her lips on a towel, and set down the toothbrush.

Applejack’s toothbrush.

“Floor’s cold,” said Rainbow Dash. “I like it cold when I sleep.”

“You could’ve asked,” said Applejack, looking at the toothbrush.

Rainbow Dash squinted and wore a kind of smirk.

“Really?” she said. “After all that, you’re gonna complain about sharing a toothbrush?”

“It’s unhygienic.”

“Shoulda brushed first thing, then?”

Applejack’s cheeks went hot.

“That ain’t what I meant, and you know it,” she said, but without much conviction. Toothbrushes were cheap.

* * *

Here's some Octavia/Vinyl Scratch. I was a music major. I've done some professional classical gigs and still dabble every now and then. Most of us are basically nuts and, well... just not like the way I usually see Octavia portrayed.

Octavia set down her collins glass, sucked on her cigarette, and considered Vinyl Scratch with an expression that suggested she was about to trade national secrets.

“No,” she said, and thought.

“No,” she repeated, and thought some more.

“No,” she said again. “Ego does come into it, of course. If you want to make a living, you’ve got to go after it like the world will come to an end if you don’t. That’s probably what it’s like for most in the liberal arts. Classical musicians? Most of us are neurotic weirdos with an odd sense of humor. It’s a kind of self-defense. You’ve got to be at least a little crazy if you want to think you have a chance.”

She took a pull at her drink.

“I mean, some of the oboe players I’ve known. Wow.”

She smiled at Vinyl Scratch.

“And that includes me,” she said. “Just a warning. You know, in case you thought ‘classical’ meant ‘classy’. I like a dirty joke as much as anybody else. Hell, I can probably tell a worse Aristocrats joke than any you’ve heard.”

“Oh, really?” said Vinyl Scratch. She grinned, drained her beer, and thunked the glass onto the bar. “Try me.”

Octavia tried her.

“--’The Aristocrats!’” said Octavia, five minutes later.

The patrons immediately around the pair had gone silent. Several of them looked nauseous.

Octavia wore a smug smile and took a long drag from her cigarette. She watched Vinyl Scratch, made sure their eyes met, and then she blew the most provocative column of smoke she could manage, complete, as such things require, with a knowing, side-to-side waggle of the head.

“Why, yes, it was good for me,” she said.

Vinyl Scratch started to laugh.

Octavia said nothing, kept smiling, and tapped off some ashes.

“I don’t get it,” said a bystander.

Vinyl Scratch was shaking.

“I mean, what was that bit about the parsnips?” said the bystander.

Vinyl Scratch was pounding a hoof on the bartop. There were tears in her eyes. She hugged herself and started rocking back and forth.

“Oi!” said the barkeep. “You want to watch--”

Too late. Vinyl Scratch slid off her stool and fell to the floor, where she curled up and rolled, laughing, and laughing, and laughing.

Octavia winked at the barkeep, stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray, and climbed off her own stool to hoist Vinyl Scratch back to her hooves and get a noseful of alcoholic breath.

“I’ll just help her home, shall I?” she said, once she was sure her charge was reasonably stable. “Er, check?”

The barkeep scribbled the total, circled it a few times, and slapped it onto the counter.

“And you’re out of here if I ever hear language like that again,” he said.

* * *

Some more RariJack. Again, this is pretty much as explicit as I'm comfortable writing.

Applejack stepped alongside Rarity, close, very close. Her snout met Rarity’s neck, and she gently brushed through it, breathing slow and easy, and watching the unicorn work.

“The perfume’s nice, sugarcube, but I wish you didn’t wear it,” she said.

“Oh?” said Rarity. Her heart raced, but she spoke as casually as she could.

“Covers you up.”

There was some more brushing through the mane, and then Applejack’s snout traveled up Rarity’s neck until it was just behind an ear. Lips met flesh. It wasn’t a kiss, but rather a vague, affectionate mouthing that would have done nothing for either if their blood had not already been hot. She pressed her nostrils right against the base of Rarity’s ear, and then she drew a long, deep breath, savoring. Rarity shivered as she heard the sniff so close, felt the suction of air tease her fur and raise gooseflesh. Her ear flicked.

“So, uh,” said Applejack.

“Hmm?”

Rarity took off her glasses, put them in their case, made a pretense of clearing up her work table, and waited.

It was always better when Applejack initiated. She was very nearly as bad at metaphor as she was at lying, so she never bothered with either. Straight to the point, that was the answer.

“You see, I ain’t gotten off in a while, and it’s been a long week, so I was thinking--”

Rarity tackled her.

* * *

And, lastly, some Pinkie Pie/Big Macintosh, via Applejack. It's my third favorite.

“--and he’s got one end of the lettuce, and I’ve got the other, and we’re nibbling away, and--”

Applejack let the monologue flow over her. Macintosh and Pinkie Pie was a strange pairing, but they both seemed happy about it, which was the important thing. Yes. That was the important thing. Her brother had his own life and it was up to him what he did with it. Life was about choices, after all; her sisterly duty to stick her nose in only came up when the choice he made was obviously dumb. Not that there was anything dumb about this one! Macintosh rarely made dumb choices. It was just unexpected, that was all.

“--and he’s blushing, and he looks so shy and cute, and I’m all blushy, too, and he--”

Applejack nodded.

“--and he’s so much bigger than me, you know, and I’m feeling all vulnerable, and--”

Applejack kept on nodding and did her best to fill her mind with white noise. It was too weird. Too much. Yes, she would have to deal with it, but not now. Now she was just learning about it, processing it. She responded automatically with words like “Hmm!” and “Well!” and “Golly!”

“--and then we had sex!” said Pinkie Pie.

That broke through.

There was a long, crowded silence.

Pinkie Pie was the queen of bad jokes, worse puns, and ridiculously oblique euphemisms. It was always jarring to find out just how blunt she could be about the things that really did need a subtle touch.

“I didn’t need to know that,” said Applejack, weakly. “I really didn’t.”

“It took a bit of work, but he’s--”

“Yes, sugarcube. You’re both adults. You can do what you like. Just--”

“--he’s such a sweetie about it, and--”

“Please stop.”

“--he does this thing where--”

“Pinkie!”

“Hi!”

Applejack breathed slowly.

“You’re talking. About. My brother,” she said, as slow and even as she could manage.

It was then, finally, that she made eye contact with Pinkie Pie.

It was like trying to look at the sun.

Pinkie Pie could give you a look more focused than the harmonics of a wind instrument. Those bright blue eyes would bore into you--and the cliché was deserved--as if she were ticking off every single lie, every single hurt, every single injustice, and, in general, each and every single thing you could possibly have done to tarnish your soul, if you believed in souls. Worst of all, it came with a smile that suggested, with complete accuracy, that she knew a lot more than she was letting on. It was one hell of a look, and when given, you stayed looked at, tacked to a sort of mental billboard.

“Yes, I am," said Pinkie Pie. "That’s sort of the point. Because, I mean, I haven’t asked, but I’m pretty sure I’m his first."

She poked Applejack.

“And we both care about him,” she said, poking again.

“And this is important,” she said, with another poke.

“And you--”

Poke.

“--weren’t--”

Poke.

“--listening.”

“So, wait,” said Applejack, unable to conceal the hope in her voice, "does that mean you didn't really--"

“That’s our business, thank you, AJ, but at least now you’re paying attention.”

Author's Note

Edit 12/29/13: Fair comment that I don't differentiate enough between scenes and the notes associated with them. The bold and asterisks are a quick fix, but maybe they'll help.