Getting Braeburned

Getting Braeburned

You walk out into the back of ranch, thanking Celestia for the Texas Rangers cap nudged tightly on your head. You still have to squint a little your eyes to keep out the mid-day sun as you make your way to the fence, holding your tray of two sparkling lemonades closely. You chuckle to yourself at how you’ve ended up more as a weird combination of cook, companion, and errand-boy than another simple ranch worker. It makes sense, after all, since some things earth ponies just do better. For a lot of other things, a human comes in handy.

You run through a mental checklist of the other things that you have to do today— from collecting eggs from the chickens to picking up some new hunks of hay. You feel surprised at how you’ve gotten so used to ranch life after growing up in the Texas suburbs, getting your degree in writing and reading through all these poems. Your old self would have pictured this manual labor as enjoyable as drinking lighter fluid.

But life here feels more like a vacation on that desert-y San Diego resort place where your folks came from than pure, mindless ranch work. Braeburn appreciates having someone so tall and with such dexterity in his “handooves”, as Braeburn called them, as well as with the knack for “them fancy mathematics”. Your partnership means a lot to both of you.

You glance left and right for your friend, seeing nothing but a flat mixture of dirt and grass for a while around. Your eyes bounce around the batches of trees and bushes going along the fence, which was such an oddity for a desert town such as Appleloosa. Your mind replays that little speech from Dusk Mites, “the smartest unicorn ‘round these here parts” as Braeburn said, about how whatever magical force brought you to Equestria gave the earth around your then unconscious body an “inverse burn”. For yards and yards around, bountiful green growth sprang up out of nowhere and just kept spreading.

A low moan that you hear snaps you out of your little daydream. You lean over a big bunch of bushes. You spy two sunny yellow hooves sticking out, jiggling a bit. You set the tray down neatly in a patch of mossy rock and move around some branches. Braeburn curls about around the grass, eyes suddenly blinking.

“Ugh, what in tarnation happened this mornin’?” he asks, rubbing his hooves against his eyes and tossing his soft, golden brown mane around. You shrug as you both lock eyes. He grins that funny little “come here, buddy” smile that you’ve gotten used to, and you reach out to pull him up.

“I think you meant ‘what happened last night’, sheesh,” you say. It’s Braeburn’s turn to shrug as he leans up against the fence, flecks of whitewash rubbing off against his worn brown vest. You lean a little to the side and snatch his cowpony hat right out of a young maple’s branches. Braeburn silently hops up and almost magically seems to pop his hat back on his head, his moves still pretty tipsy.

You flash back to your first party in Appleloosa a few weeks ago— a welcoming event that Braeburn had hoped would warm the other ponies up to you. Things didn’t exactly go so well. Both of you could hardly understand why buffalo, dragons, and ponies living together worked more or less okay but a mostly hairless ape on two legs attracted such fear and mistrust. You wince as you recall Braeburn’s drunken arguments on your behalf, five parts embarrassing for every one part sweet. Last night probably was different, instead involving Braeburn’s ceaseless efforts to woo about anything with a pulse and a dress.

“Hey, thanks partner,” he says as he eyes the tray. He leans down, immediately freezing before his hoof even touches the glass. “Aw, shoot!” He gives his side a playful smack of a hoof. “Ah ain’t been gardenin’ this mornin’, even though ah promised… and ah promised again and again. Mah cuz’ is gonna kill me.”

You pick up the glass and hold it right in front of Braeburn’s face. He has to drink something or he’ll start losing it in the afternoon desert heat. He knows that too, and he gulps it down. You do the same. You get the weirdest feeling watching him swig his lemonade, dripping sticky yellow stuff along the sides of his face and into his frizzy mane. Before he catches you just gazing at him, you mosey on down the fence to a big cardboard box full of rusty tools. He follows you a few feet behind, bumping up against the fence posts for support.

You alternate between looking back at him and glaring at the watering cans as you pick them up. It makes sense, of course, for you to feel so attached to that handsome stallion. He had been the first pony to find you. You had lied there on the desert ground barely breathing, helpless and exposed, until he nudged his face right down on yours.

You toss a dull grey hoe over to Braeburn. He fumbles to his hind hooves, but he manages to catch it while making a forced smile as if he’s still feeling alright. His goofy facial expression makes you flash back to that moment five weeks ago when Braeburn splashed his canteen right into your face, snapping you back to life, before giving you the kindest and happiest “Howdy, and welcome!” greeting that you had seen anywhere besides Disneyland.

A few days ago, he mentioned sort of offhand that you had looked “pretty darn cute just sleepin’ there, like a lost rabbit needin’ a home”. That had to explain why Braeburn welcomed you to Appleloosa without any hesitation or anything, treating you as kindly as a Ponyville tourist, unlike the other skittish ponies around you. Still, your feelings towards him have gotten so... complex. It's not just that he gave you a place to stay and a good job to work at. You have never felt such joy from doing nothing more than gazing at another creature in your entire life. Not even your old ex-girlfriend back on Earth made you feel like this.

“Right, let’s get… right to work…” Braeburn says, bringing you back to reality. He steps a little bit over the fence to the other side. You turn around. You tell yourself: whatever odd feelings pop up in your heart, you’d never let it ruin your friendship.

A loud cry causes you to flip around. You see the stallion curling around a fence-post, biting his lip in pain. You drop the canteens and rush over. He winces as you try to pick his left side up and balance him gently against the grass, his vest twisting in your arms.

“Dang it, mah blasted shoulder’s actin’ up again,” Braeburn grouses. He shifts backwards a few inches, his hat falling behind his head and his mane fluttering over his eyes. The scene gives you that same odd, happy-yet-hungry-sort of feeling inside. “Could ya… uh…” He brings his front hooves together, putting on a sheepish expression. His voice shrinks to a whisper. “Massage mah side again? All over?”

You laugh out at Braeburn’s nervousness. You wonder how, three days since his injury with you helping him time and time again, he still feels like there’s something wrong with you just touching him— as if you haven’t been seen playing hoofball together by dozens of ponies before. He seems to calm down just as you get relaxed, and you bring both your hands over to his shoulder. You spread out your fingers and dig them into his body’s light, coarse fur.

“Thanks, partner,” he says. He reflexively stretches his neck and hind hooves out as you keep going. You look over at his jiggling lip on his face, breaths turning into soft pants, and you can’t help but laugh again. He always gets so blasted worked up over such a small gesture. As your hands move on, Braeburn rolls his eyes, and you rub your fingers across in spirals along his left shoulder.

“I’m guessin’ I’ll hafta open up a place right nexta Strawberry Pop’s ‘house of ill repute’ soon,” you mutter, pressing down with both hands as you go from his shoulder along his side and up to his chest. Although a Californian at heart, despite your hat, your sarcastic play on Texan and pony drawls brings a smile to Braeburn’s face.

“Might as well,” he replies, curling in the grass again as you keep massaging, “and getcha some good bits for ya’lls… skills.” He pretends to punch you with that last word, and you hold his hoof with your hands. “It’s just the contrast, partner, that’s all.” Braeburn wiggles and tosses his handsome mane across his face as he talks.

You see Braeburn glance over to the side for you to keep going, and your hands thoughtlessly slide down his hoof along his chest back to his left shoulder. “Contrast,” you repeat. You have a hard time forming a conscious thought as you find yourself moving down inch by inch closer to his face, perched over him with his back to the ground.

Contrast... That word haunts your mind as your massage goes on. You’ve never put it that way before, but it makes perfect sense. It’s not just that your backgrounds and personalities couldn’t be more different. It’s not just that your soft, colder, pale-ish hands— made from flicking around pages of poetry all your life— feel unbelievably nice against his calloused, warm, muscular body— made from years of ranch work— for both of you.

Contrast... It’s not just that you can find endless ways to curl your fingers inside his fur, pressing your palms down and taking in his warmth. It’s not just that his mane seems to naturally want to nestle itself around your skin without you even moving, the golden strands feeling almost like thousands of tiny kisses. It’s not just that a big whiff of his scent from week after week of hard work as well as a good look at that rancher’s tan going around his body gives you the oddest sensation. You know there’s more to it than that.

Braeburn can't hold himself back much more, pants building up louder and louder. Your faces go down inches from each other. His eyes close shut, clearly the pleasure blows his mind. You do the same. You realize that you’re suddenly realizing something, deep inside.

The contrast goes beyond just the sensation of hooves on hands to represent something in your hearts— the fact that you’ve felt so lost, so isolated, so lonely, and so unwelcome ever since popping up in Equestria while Braeburn has been so grounded, so connected, so friendly, and so welcoming. It sounds almost elemental between the two of you, like a hot poker melting a block of ice. You feel so blessed to have him in your life.

“Hey, there!” Braeburn calls out, shifting in place and popping his hat back onto his golden mane. You immediately freeze. Your heart goes from a steady beat to something like a jackhammer.

Your thoughts shoot through your mind like a meteor shower. Oh, no. I took it too far. I’m going too far. You can feel the color draining out of your face. Damn it! We’re both straight, for Celestia’s sake! What the hell is wrong with me, ruining our friendship like this!

“Sorry, I’ve, uh…” you say, so ashamed and barely able to open your mouth. You feel as if someone put freezing wet towels all over your body, sucking the energy out of you.

“Could you, please,” Braeburn interrupts, jostling all four of his hooves around with grass torn out of the ground. You look back into his big, sweet eyes. The stallion perches his hooves up in a submissive pose as he goes on. “Please, partner, just… keep goin’…” He glances down at his body. “Keep touchin’ with those talented handooves, but not just mah shoulder. Everywhere.”

“Sure,” you say. You take a deep breath, and you run both hands slowly down his chest, fingers curling left and right. He rewards you with a low grunt. You press both hands down, and he smiles once again. The smile fades a few seconds later, however, and you can tell that something inside him seems to tell him that what you’re both doing is wrong.

“Braeburn,” you say, clasping your hands against the sides around his belly. You get a good look into his eyes, those giant pools of green that you want to just dive into and feel sheltered by forever. “You don’t have to hold back anymore.”

“Anymore…” he mutters. You can see his chest heaving, his heart beating like crazy at the same time.

“I’m yours,” you say as you press your arms onto him, “I’ve always been yours. Whatever you want from me.” You take a gulp, watching as the low breeze flutters around Braeburn's flowing golden mane.

Braeburn bends his head up. You hesitate, but you suddenly can’t believe your eyes. You see him cry a little. Your hands reflexively go up his neck over to the sides of his head, his wonderful mane dancing along your wrists.

“TOUCH ME!” Braeburn screams. You recoil back for a second before he clutches your arms and legs with his hooves, drawing you in. You scrape your fingernails down the sides of his cheeks to the back of his neck, and he purrs almost like a tiger. “Touch me! Touch me! Oh, dear Celestia, don’t you stop… touch faster… touch harder…” He jerks around left and right as you flick against him. “Use those talented hands of yours, oh, please! Please! Your hands! Haaaaaaaaaannnnnddddsssssss!”

You watch drool pour out of his mouth as you obey. Whatever separation between the two of you has completely disappeared, and you feel every last inch of him that you can think of. Your fingers nudge inside his mane, behind his head, around his back, down his sides, and up his front hooves.

Time becomes meaningless. Braeburn seems to totally lose it— mouth hung open, eyes popped out, and shivers erupting through him every few seconds. His rhythmic grunts feel like perfect music to your ears. You keep going, knowing in the back of your mind that something will happen very soon that could bring everything to a screeching halt once again. You couldn't care less. You've never felt such affection for someone else for a long, long time.

A little gooey splash suddenly rubs up against your shirt. You freeze. Braeburn lets out a loud cough, and he throws his hooves against the ground. You stand up straight, knees buckling, as Braeburn backs up against the fence. You can barely look at him anymore; you totally focus right down on your midriff.

Right there, right on the bottom blue circle of that three-colored mod target on your ‘The Who’ shirt, sits a small white stain. You hold the side of your shirt with your left hand as you touch the stain with your right hand. It feels like an out of body experience, everything moving slowly underneath a translucent white light.

You hold up your fingers before your eyes, rubbing the sticky stuff on your thumb. You know that feeling— something similar to how you ended most lonely girlfriend-less nights that you had back on earth. Yet it’s so, so different right now.

Braeburn came. At least, he sort of came. He dripped some pre-cum on you. On you.

You force yourself to breathe, your head swimming in raw emotion. You shut your eyes tightly. You hear Braeburn panting besides you, but you force that out of your mind.

“I have a stallion’s semen on my shirt,” you mutter.

A stallion.

A male pony.

Male.

Pony.

Semen.

You let out a faint scream, scraping your fingers against your shirt. You feel yourself falling down to the ground, and your legs swing over to smack the fence. You flash back to the bullies in High School, taunting you.

“You a fag, paint chips?” you hear them holler. You got over the “anti-tard” nickname “paint chips”, it doesn’t hold up very well now when applied to a Phi Theta Kappa member. Yet ever last little “fag” burned into your subconscious like a nail onto a mental chalkboard forever. Your mind replays all those conversations with your parents, ranging from “Don’t get that cellphone color. It’s too swishy.” to “Don’t bring up your aunt by marriage into this. There are no queers in our family.” to “That haircut’s too gay.”

You force your eyes open. What you see makes you feel even crazier than all of those inner voices. Your eyes lock along Braeburn’s belly. Your eyes slowly move down his thick, dark brown rod over to his fuzzy golden-brown balls. You take a deep breath as you look back up his two-and-a-half foot colthood at the tip, little white drops still coming out of the end.

“Please, partner,” Braeburn says, clearly just as overwhelmed as you, “Sorry, ah just feel deeply sorry.” He curls his head down, tears beginning to form beneath his eyes. "Ah know that you're... you're not ah... ah... one of those..."

You open your mouth to say something, but you can’t even think. You tell yourself that you shouldn’t feel this way. Your subconscious screams at you that to feel this way about another guy is despicable, going against everything that you thought as you grew up, but for it to be another horse, with a horse’s own parts in the mix, is simply insane. Whatever the ponies in Equestria do, the authorities on Earth would lock you up for even talking about such a thing.

You shut your eyes again. You walk over to Braeburn Out of nowhere, some little spark of conscience bubbles up from deep inside. Like a DJ’s set starting over a huge party, that one voice overcomes all of the niggling little doubts in your mind. Eyes still shut, you sit right in front of Braeburn. You hear him breathing hard and feel his back hooves now curling against your legs, your own feet digging into the dry grass.

“Just open your eyes,” you whisper, so quietly that you can barely even hear it yourself, “And whatever you think, what your true heart thinks of him deep down, will be what you think forever.” You take a huge breath, so deep that you can smell Braeburn’s rancher’s scent once again. You open your eyes.

He looks every little bit as handsome and charming as the moment you first met him, when he rescued you for no reason other than the goodness of his heart. You focus on those angelic eyes once again, sparkling in pure beauty just like two big emeralds. Your eyes move down his muscular, rugged face to his warm smile. He can feel you now. More than that, it seems as if his thoughts and yours and vise versa. You look up at his mane, blowing as if on cue through the gentle breeze. You take in his wonderful body, wearing that rustic big vest of his that you always made fun of but kind of envied.

You can't even begin to describe him with all the poetry that you've read. You could label him as a 'guy', a 'horse', a 'pony', or anything else in the dictionary. None of that really means anything. All that you care about is that Braeburn is the most beautiful thing that you've ever laid eyes on. Whatever way with words you have, all that comes to mind is the horribly cliched three.

"I love you."

Braeburn opens his mouth to respond. Not even a second has gone by before you shove your face into his. Your lips lock, and you drink in that wonderful taste of his: apples, not sugary and sweet but savory and deep. He puts his hooves around your neck, and you grip them hard, squeezing so intensely that he nearly winces in pain.

You kiss again and again, feeling such a build-up as if a volcano would go off inside of you. You move your arms around and press his body close against his, feeling his rock-hard colthood bounce up against your belly and chest. Somehow, it only makes you want to kiss even deeper. You twist your heads left and right as you make out, feeling his mane rub all over your head and groaning from the pleasure.

As your hands move down to Braeburn's sides, he starts running his tongue inside your mouth. The taste just builds up. You return the favor, and you almost feel your mind begin to melt. Your ex-girlfriend was nothing compared to this handsome wonder. You begin pressing him down against the grass, propping his body back in that wonderful supplicant pose.

The kissing continues, but you just know that you have to move on to something more... something especially satisfying. Even through your thick shorts, you feel the thing between your own legs pressing up against Braeburn's colthood. He seems so warm, so hot that you almost feel burned while touching him.

You suddenly break the kiss. Braeburn gazes back at you, a slimy trail dripping off from his open mouth to your lips. He lets out a soft whine for a moment before he watches your head tilt down. You shiver as if by reflex as you eye his throbbing colthood. You hesitate, mind totally blank, as Braeburn just nods. You reach out. You grasp it with both hands like a baseball bat.

Braeburn lets out a huge scream. You feel snapped out of the situation for a moment, hands still holding down firmly. He jerks around for a moment, hooves flailing before they lock against your chest and belly.

"Is something the matter out there, Braeburn?" hollers out Truffles Treats from the house across the field.

"Nope!" the two of you yell back simultaneously. You both remain perfectly still for a painful twenty seconds until Truffles calls out something mostly unintelligible. You hope that that will be the end of it.

You cough. Braeburn twists a bit to the side, and you let go of him. You both look sheepishly at each other.

"The barn locks, right?" you both say at the same time. You both nod, and you speed down along the fence as fast as your hooves and feet will carry you.