Chapters As Princess Luna's foot connected with the side of his head, Spike decided that he hated Mondays.
Pain flared through his skull like lightning through water, and the nineteen year-old hit the mat with a cry of hurt. His bare shoulder collided with the rough foam of the gym's padded floor, and he curled inward, clutching his head.
Disoriented, Spike didn't register his mentor and sparring partner standing above him, frowning.
Princess Luna unwound the bandages around her fists, grimacing as she encountered more than one unsightly shade of red. "That is your third straight loss," she commented, and her disapproval was palpable. "I did not think your hibernation would be so taxing on your performance."
He groaned. "I think it's less about my hibernation and more about learning martial arts from a sadist warrior princess." Spike rolled onto his feet, wincing at the pain. His muscle shirt was drenched in sweat, and his hair hung low with perspiration. He shrugged away from his teacher's touch. "It's fine," he said, not fine. "I'm just a little disoriented."
Luna nodded, moving to a pile of belongings just behind their sparring mat. She discarded her dirty bandages and re-wrapped her hands in fresh linen. As opposed to her visibly fatigued student, the Princess, also in a muscle shirt and loosened exercise pants, was perfectly composed, free of a single drop of sweat. "Are you ready to continue?"
Spike snorted. "Is the sun going to rise tomorrow?"
The Princess smirked, readying her fists as she settled into her stance. Her student mirrored her pose.
Luna allowed the stress to wash from her body, her face blanking and her body preparing to engage once more.
Fast as thought, Spike darted forward, fists open to grapple his mentor. A blur to the naked eye, he lashed out at Luna's abdomen, seeking to knock the breath out of her. To his surprise, she didn't dodge his blow: instead, she curled into the punch, reducing the damage while locking her body around his and rendering his torso immobile, leaving his arms and legs robbed of momentum.
With one deceptively strong hand, she took advantage of his moment of shocked surprise and yanked his arm out to its full extent. Her face in a state of impassive detachment, Princess Luna delivered two rapid blows to the pit of her opponent's arm. As he cried out in pain, she pushed upward into his chest, completing the same maneuver that Spike himself had failed to perform. Breath rushed out of the young man's mouth, and he clenched onto his partner's arm in an attempt to stay upright.
Luna could only sigh in disappointment. She pried her student's fingers off of her arm and pushed him onto his back. "We're done with sparring for now," she announced. Her firm, bare foot connected with his side as she flipped him onto his stomach. "Push ups," she commanded, uncaring of Spike's groans of protest. She sat on his muscled back, indifferent.
A click of the Moon Goddess's fingers summoned a book to her hand, and the snap reverberated in the nigh-abandoned gym. The sun was on the cusp of setting, and Luna absently thought that her sister had done a more marvelous job than usual, framing the horizon in a skyline full of splendor. The great ball of fire kissed the edge of the world, blessing those fortunate enough to view it with an impression of heat and hearth.
The Princess sighed, and she barely registered the movements of her protege beneath her, even as he moved further into his count of push ups.
"On second thought," she said, patting Spike's shoulder, "that's enough for today."
"Oh thank God," he breathed, collapsing onto the mat for the umpteenth time that afternoon. He massaged his temples, groaning as he felt the tensions of the day finally catch up with him.
Luna got up from her seat on the young man's back, instead opting to sit next to him. She lay prostrate on the ground, arms crossed as she laid her head upon them. Her eyes widened in unadulterated love of the sky. Their sky.
The Princess sighed. "To think that I once wanted to do away with this...magnificence. " She could vaguely feel Spike's eyes on her, watching her as they were prone to do when she was feeling particularly self-reflective. She glanced at his face, and smiled serenely when she saw the reflection of the setting sun touch upon him. His countenance was glowing, and his only thought was of her.
"I have seen many wonderful things, Spike," she said, settling into the mat next to him. "Oceans of sand, lightning that pierces the earth, strange lovers in wild places..." She chuckled. "Yet, in all my years, my bias remains the same." Luna smiled. "All the earth is a trifling thing before my sister in her summer."
Spike yawned. "Yeah, well," he said, laying his hand across his friend's back, "I hear that the nighttime skyline out here is breathtaking."
Luna smiled, though she knew he couldn't see it. "Do not think to patronize me," she murmured.
Spike was silent for a moment, and Luna thought she had offended him. Before she could open her mouth to say anything, he spoke. "Ever since I got back, you know," he said, his voice low and contemplative, "I've looked at the night sky whenever I got the chance."
The Moon Goddess blinked slowly. "Really now?" she asked, and a feeling like warmth spread outward from her chest.
The green-haired drake shrugged. "Someone asked me what I thought when I saw them, so I started thinking about it."
The Princess nudged him with her shoulder. "Pray tell, then, what do you see?"
Spike burrowed further into her, and a hand found its way over her waist. "A lot of things," he said, shrugging again. "I see diners, I see my friends." He sighed as he hugged his mentor closer to him, a kind of security blanket. "I feel the excitement in the air, I can hear jazz playing—"
"Jazz?" the Princess asked, leaning back and blinking. She seemed confused.
Spike stared at her, mouth slightly ajar and realized that, despite the time that she had been back on earth, Luna still hadn't fully come to terms with all of the changes that had occurred. Naturally, modern music wouldn't be one of them.
He grinned.
After they both had bathed, the two met in the atrium of the royal hall of Canterlot Castle.
"Here," Spike said, handing Princess Luna a pair of headphones and a small listening device. "This ," he said, pausing and grinning for effect, "is jazz."
Princess Luna smiled in appreciation, though she still seemed apprehensive. She was garbed in her traditional dress-robes of the night, a sinuous dark blue garment that seemed to drift across her body as easily as moonlight. She was prepared to hold night court—which was always a brief affair, compared to her sister's—and was loath to see her student go. "What kind of music is it?" she asked, fiddling with the earbud as she placed it in her ear.
"Well," Spike said, taking her hand and showing her how to operate the device, "it's," he struggled to find the words, "I guess you could say it's a lot like the city."
"The city?" Luna asked, twirling the cord around a pale finger. The music started to flow into her ear, a slow, sonorous rhythm of lazy, bugling trumpets.
"It's about excitement and emotions," Spike explained, smiling as the Princess started to slowly spin in place. "It's about elegance and it's got a lot of soul in it. It's for the nightlife."
Luna hummed. "Nightlife. There is a fine phrase." Her eyes closed as the song picked up. It was slow and smooth, like a pleasant wine that flowed through her spirit. She started to hand the device back to Spike, only for him to insist that she keep it. "Very well, then," she said, her face full of gratitude. "I enjoy your jazz."
"I'll take you to a club sometime," Spike promised, smiling.
"Sometime," she confirmed. She sighed. "But not this time. The throne awaits." She held a hand to her student's shoulder, stroking it. "I will eagerly await our next encounter," she said, smiling sincerely.
"You know it," Spike said, beaming. He hugged his closest friend, ever conscious of her sigh and her hand.
The two of them parted, and as Spike tightened his jacket around his shoulders and headed out into the nightlife of Canterlot, he gazed toward the horizon.
The sun had set.
Luna yawned as she left the throne room. She nodded her thanks to her guards, bidding them a good night—or a good morning, rather—and refusing an escort when one was offered. Sweet as they were, Luna, unlike her sister, wasn't one for needless formalities.
She made her way through the corridor and onto the overpass, stepping out into the cool, crisp air of the infant morning.
Almost unconsciously, she reached for the headphones in the folds of her dress and brought them to her ears. Her heels and rear ached from sitting still for so long, but the last thing she needed was to stretch her limbs so early in the morning.
As she fumbled for the play button on the strange thing that passed as a phone these days, she found herself nearing Spike's suite.
She blinked. Has he always been this far down the corridor? She could've sworn that she'd purposefully roomed him nearer to her own quarters, just for safety's sake.
A monstrous sound rumbled from within the suite, and Luna had to restrain herself from darting in as she realized, in a somewhat amused fashion, that Spike was merely snoring.
I'll just check in on him, she thought, lightly pushing on the door so it wouldn't creak. She reached beneath her dress, cursing the shuffle of the fabric as she removed her heels. Carefully setting them off to the side, she padded forward on the balls of her feet, relaxing only once she reached the carpet near his bed.
The room wasn't the same as it had been when he had first gone to sleep nearly five years ago. Out of an increasing sense of attachment—among other senses—Luna had arranged for Spike to live near the inner palace, in a small, warm cottage that she knew he would prefer. It was well-heated, comfy, and only a few meters from the staircase that would lead to her own living tower.
The room was dark, to Luna's liking, and it was strong with his aroma. Already the ambient heat of the bedroom seeped through her dress and into her muscles.
She watched him as he slept. His hair was tussled, a far cry from the stiff mess it was whenever he was awake. He wore a simple t-shirt, barely visible under the dark purple covers of his circular bed.
Luna sighed, smiling tiredly as she watched her student rest. He wasn't dreaming—she'd know if he was—but simply unconscious, dead to the world.
After a time, she realized that she had been standing there for longer than was proper, and glanced backwards, her feet rooted to the spot. She bit her lip. I really don't feel like walking back to my room, she thought. The sensible part of her mind reasoned that she could simply teleport back should she so choose, but she managed to put it to bed by assuring herself that doing so would wake her young charge and rob him of his much-needed rest.
We all need our sleep, Luna thought, making up her mind. She slackened her limbs as she quietly shrugged off her dress, pulling it over her shoulders.
Moments later, she only wore a breezy, dark blue shift, and a pair of much-loved boyshorts. She repressed a sigh, glad that she had chosen not to wear a bra to night court.
She exhaled heavily as she backed into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body press into her. Perhaps instinctively, his arms wrapped around her, as if cradling a pillow, and their bodies seemed to align perfectly.
His snores ceased, and the rumble in his chest rocked Luna to sleep.
As he awoke to the gaze of an angry Sun Goddess, Spike decided that he didn't care much for Tuesdays either.
Celestia, garbed in her traditional robes, was furious. The fringes of the white garment were smoking, while the eyes of the Princess were narrowed and flinty. If looks could kill, Spike knew he'd be a burning cadaver of a man, dragon powers be damned.
"Release my sister," she said, her voice deceptively calm.
Spike blinked. "I don't—" he started to protest, only to feel a shifting in his sheets. He cursed inwardly as a wisp of ethereal blue hair, as it had to be. drifted past his face. He struggled to tell his other boss that he honestly had no idea why her younger sister was in his bed, woefully underdressed, but to no avail.
Celestia, eyes still fiery with imminent retribution, fixed him with such a glare of blatant resentment and utter reproach that Spike simply sat, uncomprehending, before realizing her gaze for what it was. He was so unused to the idea of Celestia showing open dislike that he had never actually pictured what it would be like to be on the receiving end of it.
While her unwitting partner sat still in his bed, Luna finally came to, yawning and tugging on her partner. "Come back to bed," she grumbled, feeling a nervous tickle in her stomach as she uttered a phrase that she had longed to speak for many years.
"Luna," Celestia spoke, more than a little irritated.
The Moon Princess finally noticed the room's third occupant, and her good mood soured almost immediately. "Do you mind?" she asked, hugging a nervous Spike closer to her, her arm wrapping around his torso.
"You didn't lower the moon this morning," Celestia stated stiffly. Her arms hung to her sides, in stark contrast to her usually regal and motherly composure. "You weren't in your room, so I went looking for you." She didn't change her stance at all, neither did she alter her tone, but Spike shivered as a nigh-imperceptible note of extreme displeasure danced around her words. "Imagine my surprise when I find you here."
Luna got up in bed, frowning. "If you have something to say, Celestia, spit it out. Don't be shy."
"Oh, I have many things to say," the Princess replied, not missing a beat, "but present company requires that I filter my expressions."
The younger sister rolled onto her knees, crossing her arms and mirroring her sibling's posture. "Spike is as good as family to me. You need not take such measures for him, sister. " Spike blanched behind his mentor, though he knew enough not to speak up and worsen his already terrible position.
Celestia's face warped, as if she had suddenly bit into something distasteful. "I wasn't talking about him." At Luna's surprised reaction, Celestia's hand flared with her signature aura of golden magic, and with a pop! the younger Princess disappeared from sight. Quickly, Celestia held a hand upward, narrowing her eyes slightly as a beam of light shot towards the ceiling of the room and exploded. Sparks raced over the architecture, sinking into various spots and making the building hum with magic.
Opening her eyes, Celestia turned to Spike, who was wide-eyed and frozen on the bed. "I've warded the room. There will be no interruptions from Luna now." She stalked closer to Spike, fixing him with a glare. "In the interest of fairness, I will allow you to explain, without any meddling on the part of my sister."
Swallowing, Spike marshaled his thoughts, scattered though they were. He exhaled, then spoke. "I said goodnight to your sister before her night court started, then I did some homework and went to bed." He held his hands up in protest. "My guess is, she stopped in to check on me, then for whatever reason, decided to spend the night here."
The Sun Goddess continued to eye him as he spoke, never blinking, never moving. Once he finished, Celestia cracked her knuckles. "So, you're saying that nothing came of my sister's visit?"
Spike snorted. "If it did, I'm a hell of a heavy sleeper."
Celestia did not look amused. "I will thank you not to make such crude jokes."
The drake shrugged. "Part of the charm, Princess. Can't turn it off yet."
"You seem fond of taking unwelcome liberties, as of late. Such as your informality with me." She crossed her arms.
"Luna taught me to loosen up. Does wonders for my health."
"Dragons are known for their hardy constitutions," Celestia agreed. "Suppose you simply needed to sleep it off."
Spike stared at his ruler, and felt the beginning of a biting enmity towards the Princess. The sense of aggressive attraction he felt towards Luna, even Twilight, when he was upset with either of them was nonexistent with Celestia. Somehow, he was certain that the older, taller woman felt the same way about him. "You know," he said, "when I was on my own, I used to ask myself how you would react if you were in my shoes, so I'd end up doing the right thing. I never knew 'overreacting' was on the table."
"Let me be perfectly clear, Spike," Celestia said, unfolding her arms and walking slowly to the doorway. "If I have any reason to believe that you are even the slightest bit improper towards my sister," she narrowed her eyes at him, "the consequences will be dire." She turned away from him and walked out of the room. "You may not care about disappointing me, but you would dearly regret crossing me."
The spell broke as Celestia swept out of the room, and moments later, Luna reappeared, red-faced and angry. "That double-faced harlot ! Why, the next time I see Celestia, I—"
She froze as she turned and saw Spike glaring at her. The Princess winced, uncharacteristically shy. "I pray she wasn't too harsh on you?"
"Oh ," Spike said, disgruntled, "she was plenty harsh. Scathing, even." He shrugged away from his mentor when she reached for him.
"I had no idea she would react the way she did, dearest," she explained, frowning. Suddenly, she felt incredibly vulnerable in her shift, though she knew that Spike had seen her in less. She held her arms in an uncomfortable self-embrace, kneading her fingers together. "Allow me to make it up to you somehow. Would you like to forgo your training today?"
But her student remained as iron. "I think you should go," Spike said, staring just below her neckline.
Luna's eyes widened as if she had been struck. She squinted, feeling her entire face burn, her eyes feeling as if acid would surely come pouring out. "I—," she coughed into her elbow, "I don't suppose we could talk about it?"
Spike got up from his bed, staring at his teacher the whole while. "I'm going to take a shower."
Luna stared at him, sobering in her melancholy. "Spike, I," she said, reaching again for his arm, "I didn't mean to get you in trouble, I swear ." She swallowed. "I just wanted to be close to you."
But he was already stalking away from her, disappearing behind the door of his bathroom.
With a sigh of utter frustration, Luna gathered her clothes and left.
He was ignoring her.
Despite Luna's best efforts, Spike subverted each of her attempts to corner him and force a conversation between the two of them. She would pursue him around a corner, only to find an empty hallway and the acrid smell of smoke. She was more than capable of finding him, but catching him was a different matter entirely. The fact that she was confined to a dress only worsened her luck.
As the day wore on, she gradually lost hope of improving her situation. Her mood worsened as the hours ticked past, and she cursed herself as the day wound to an end, with no progress to show for its passing.
Sighing, Luna buried her head in her hands. "I give up," she muttered to herself, and not for the first time was she glad that the castle's activities died down during the night. Devoid of purpose and intent, she cleared her mind and started walking.
She wandered through the castle, vanishing from the common routes and remembering for herself the old ones, from when their home was new and mysterious. She meandered through passageways so narrow that she could touch both walls with her shoulders, to corridors so wide that the clack of a heel would cause a chorus of echoes. She ascended and descended countless staircases, contemplative and unfeeling. The call of the dreamscape beckoned Luna to a world only she knew, but she refused its summons, so was her indifference. Luna traveled for what felt like hours, in the endless maze that was Canterlot Castle, the sound of her footsteps her only companion. She found herself in a room overlooking the city, with the moon in prominent view over the star-studded skyline.
Then, when one became two, and she knew she was not alone, Luna turned and faced whoever had decided to follow her.
"Luna," Celestia murmured, stepping toward her sister, "where are you going?" The Sun Princess appeared to be the same composed ruler that appeared to her subjects, but Luna knew what to look for, and knew that her sister was masking an inner conflict that caused her no small amount of distress.
The Moon Princess simply blinked, unseeing, as if her sister was an apparition, an illusion to be ignored. She was in no mood for dealing with Celestia at the moment, and she had every wish for her sister to know that.
"Sister," the older sibling pressed, now frowning openly, "what troubles you? You should be resting."
"It is not for you to decide what I should do," Luna finally answered, and Celestia knew her cool remark to have another meaning, as was her sister's fashion.
"It is the duty of the older sister to watch out for the younger," Celestia spoke softly, her voice reaching across the corridor.
"A truism if ever there was one," Luna replied, breaking their eye contact and gazing out the window, into her night. "But age is not so remarkable to me these days." She crossed her arms. "Do not play this game with me, Celestia. You were never as clever as me."
The older sister chuckled in a subdued manner. "I think you will find I've improved over the years."
Luna ignored the obvious retort, that a millennium of practice would do wonders for one's performance, and instead turned to face her sister. "I understand your concern, sister, but let me make myself perfectly clear." She felt no satisfaction at Celestia's blank stare. "Regardless of what you deem wise, I will pursue who I wish. You are my senior, but I am by no means subservient to you."
Celestia blinked calmly, as if she had expected this answer. "I only wish the best for you, Luna."
Her sister simply stared. "So you say." At Celestia's silent look of displeasure, Luna continued. "However, I am not determined to oppose you merely out of spite." She turned, breaking their eye contact. "Tomorrow, I will send Spike on his first patrol of the country."
Celestia's mouth pursed in surprise. "What brought this on? Surely this isn't some random whim of yours."
Luna shook her head in the negative. "This is an eventuality that I had continued to put off. I am loathe to part with him, but I always intended to send Spike off on his own, to see how he would function in his new capacity."
"And you've thought about this?"
"At length."
Celestia frowned, shifting her weight to one leg as she cocked her head slightly. "I cannot say I am displeased," she confessed, and the corridor rang silently with quiet. "Still," she said after several moments, "I will defer to your judgment in this matter."
"You may find," Luna droned, "that doing so produces favorable results."
Celestia gracefully conceded the point with a nod of her head. She turned her gaze toward the city. "It's funny," Celestia said, hugging herself. "We're so old. I , am so very old. I did my fair share of traveling when you were gone." She sighed. "Few things make me feel happier than looking at the night sky."
Luna glanced sideways at her sister, her eyes placed mysteriously on the horizon.
She found him on the balcony.
For whatever reason, the young drake decided not to run from her. Luna approached him, her hair in a ponytail, in her same dress from earlier.
"Why didn't you run?" she asked, calmly. Her hands were folded behind her back.
"You smell different," he answered, not looking at her. He was dressed in a warm-looking parka, purple and covered with plenty of fur.
"You're always running," she thought aloud, to the mild confusion of her student. "Whether it's to something or away from it is anyone's guess."
"Do you have something for me?"
She nodded. "You start your tour of the country tomorrow. Rather, this following day."
Spike turned to her, frowning. "So soon?"
"I've kept you in Canterlot too long; it is time for you to return to the world outside and put into practice what I have taught you."
"Where would I be going?"
A grimace. "I would advise against returning to your previous home so soon, but I will not decide for you. I would, however, suggest touring Manehattan before coming back for an evaluation of your duties. It is of sufficient size to test your mettle."
"And this doesn't have anything to do with today?"
"I never said it didn't."
The young man fumed silently, his first show of emotion in hours. The show of anger oddly comforted Luna. "It's not my fault that-"
"I think that we both need some time apart," Luna interjected, frowning. She watched as Spike's gaze softened, before it returned to its former indifferent frame. She rubbed his elbow, smiling awkwardly. "We have spent a great deal of time together, and while I do not regret it," she added at his affronted look, "alternative interactions would do us both some good."
After an extended silence, Spike relaxed. "If you think it's best," he shrugged, "then alright." He didn't seem happy, far from it, but it was a far cry better than earlier.
Luna smiled, grasping him lightly on his side. Suddenly, she frowned. "You have something on your cheek."
Spike blinked. "What? What side is it on?"
The Princess shook her head. "It looks like a smudge of ash. Lean in, I'll get it for you." As he leaned in, Luna grasped him about the neck and pulled his mouth to hers.
At first he struggled. Luna clasped her hands about his face, drawing him nearer, while her reluctant partner tried to push her away without deliberately hurting her. She steadily wore down his defenses, massaging her lips against his, until his arms had slackened and he allowed her passage into his mouth. Her lips collided against his, tugging and savoring, committing his texture to memory. Her arms looped around his neck, and she absently relished the feel of his muscles flexing against her.
Spike started to pull away, only for Luna to tug him closer, their bodies mashing together. Her tongue kneaded his, even as she burrowed into his chest with her own . After giving him one last tug, she pulled away, breathing only slightly as her partner gasped for air.
The young Fire Drake leaned against the railing, eyes widened and lips bruised red. He rubbed his mouth as inhaled steadily, looking up at his mentor. He motioned at her to explain herself, as he was still trying to comprehend what had just happened.
"Forgive me," Luna said, placing a hand over her mouth to hide her smile. "Your assignment will a long one, possibly bordering on months. I had to get that out of my system."
"What about your sister?" he asked, straightening up and patting his sweating forehead.
Luna smiled, turning to face the giant window where she knew her sister was watching, possibly furiously so. "Celestia is stubborn, but she would not oppose me so openly in such a matter. Especially when you are out of her reach." She swiveled back to Spike, her gaze softening. "Now go. Be vigilant, but do not overwork yourself. See your friends, and have your fun." Her tone was more than suggestive. "You and I have many years to sort out what may or may not be, and I am not so selfish as to snatch you out of your youth."
Spike nodded, rubbing his shoulder as he glanced up at the gargantuan window that framed a great tower. "And what about when I get back?"
"You will have to take me to a 'jazz club', as you promised," she said, beaming brilliantly. Luna sighed, turning to gaze at the swath of stars that dotted her sky. "May it be the start of many magnificent nights."
As he shuffled past the scampering locals of the age-old megacity, Spike's first impression of Manehattan was that whoever designed the metropolis clearly struggled with attention-deficit disorder.
"First order of business," Spike said to himself, glancing over a map, "is find a place to stay." The straps of his backpack, his only luggage, dug into his shoulders.
The nineteen year-old sighed audibly, leaning on the inside of an old brick tunnel as he looked out into the busy streets of Manehattan. He had found out the hard way that matching lines on a paper to the urban sprawl of a city the size of three Canterlots, wasn't a task that should be attempted on the fly. "I'm gonna fucking starve."
"Oh, don't be so dramatic," came a voice from behind. A man strutted past Spike, stopping momentarily to observe his surroundings and adjust his black peacoat. "You'll be fine; the city isn't that hard to understand."
The young drake raised an eyebrow. "What makes you—"
The gentleman turned around.
"—Fancy Pants. Naturally." Spike exhaled, relieved. He brushed his stiff green hair back, looking up at his acquaintance. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but what brings you out here?"
The blue-haired socialite—or Arch Mage, as Spike had come to know him—was clad in his usual ensemble of black formal wear, with an accompanying lavender bowtie and white dress shirt, which served to camouflage his deceptively solid build. "Just a short visit, as it were." He frowned as he fingered his pocket, pulling out a cloth with which he wiped his ever-present monocle. "Checking in on a friend who's hit a rough patch." As Spike nodded in comprehension, the older man shifted his weight. "I wasn't expecting to run into you, but rumor has it you've hit a rough patch yourself." He inclined his head almost imperceptibly, signalling for Spike to clarify.
His mind drifted back to the events of yesterday; Celestia's uncharacteristic hostility, Luna's incessant attachment to him, and the consequences of either sister's disposition towards him.
He felt a headache coming on. "Long story," he said, crossing his arms and frowning.
Fancy Pants shrugged, pocketing his square of cloth. "Long stories go well over coffee," he replied, gesturing to a cafe across the street.
"And so now, her sister pretty much wants my head on a pike," Spike finished, leaning onto his crossed arms, eyes tracing the swirl of steam lazily winding its way up from his coffee cup. He sighed, rubbing his sides while glancing out the window with a vacant expression.
Manehattan never lost its pace; even as the night wore on, as evidenced by the bloody sunset working its way down the horizon, neither the noises nor the civilians showed any intentions of winding down for the coming darkness.
Luna would love it here, Spike thought to himself, watching as yet another Manehattenite strutted past the glass window of the cafe, utterly absorbed in their daily affairs. The noise of the city was incessant, but had a pleasant rhythm to it. Sound boomed from the cars not fifteen feet from where Spike sat, jarring the windows and rattling the interior of the small, retro-themed diner.
"I see," Fancy Pants said, mirroring Spike's pose on the opposite side of the table. He frowned, stirring his coffee while entertaining a contemplative appearance. "That doesn't seem quite right."
"How do you figure?" Spike asked, shuffling his feet restlessly. He scooted further into the red, chipped booth as he caught another glance from one of the diner's patrons. The maroon-haired young woman turned and whispered excitedly to her friend. "Considering the circumstances, I'd say she wasn't exactly overreacting."
Fancy Pants shook his head. "You misunderstand me. While your situation with Luna is certainly less than favorable, it isn't like Celestia to act with open hostility." He placed his coffee spoon to the side, folding his hands together and placing his head over them. "At most, she would appear irritated. She's not the kind to—to," he struggled to find the word, rolling his eyes and gesturing with his hands.
"Get pissed off?" Spike ventured.
The socialite shrugged. "More or less."
"I dunno," Spike said, frown deepening as the pair of women at the counter turned to openly stare at him. "All things considered, I can't really fault the Princess for it. I show up out of nowhere, eat up all of her sister's free time, unleash an eldritch abomination on her kingdom, and make her think I'm a manwhore."
"You are a manwhore."
"Well, yeah," he conceded, "but that's just it. Who wouldn't get upset if a guy known for sleeping around turned up in bed with your sister?"
The blue-haired gentleman shook his head. "That's not the point, Spike; you need to see the Princess for who she is." He took a short draught from his coffee cup before continuing. "The two sisters are centuries old; this kind of situation would hardly be new to Celestia. She does not hate so easily."
A snort. "Could've fooled me."
Fancy Pants continued. "Even if it were a novel occurrence, there are only two reasons she would act so rashly."
"Reasons being?" Spike asked, mildly intrigued.
"One, she genuinely believes you shouldn't be involved with her sister, for previously stated reasons or otherwise."
No surprise there, Spike thought, shrugging inwardly. She wouldn't have tried to get me to marry Twilight if she thought I should hang around Luna.
"Or two," Fancy Pants continued, holding up two fingers, "she's trying to scare you away from your commitments."
At this, Spike blinked. "What? Why? "
The Arch Mage shrugged. "It's anyone's guess. Pure speculation on my part, but I have reason to believe that Celestia is trying to make absolutely sure that you know what you're getting into." He finished off his coffee and pushed the glass to the side. "You're in for a very long career should you stay with your mentor."
"Assuming I don't die," Spike muttered.
"Case in point," Fancy Pants said. "Celestia has known you since you were a child, Spike. Questionable choices aside, is it really so hard to believe that she wants to choose the least risky course, for both you and her sister's sake?" He got up from the table, leaving a bill to pay for the meal.
Spike shrugged in uncertainty. "When you say it like that, I guess it makes sense. But you'd think she'd trust her own sister's choices a bit more." He was anxious to be gone; the same maroon-haired woman from before seemed to be hyping herself up to make her way over for a conversation, and the young man was in no mood for small talk.
"It's a necessary precaution, I'd wager," Fancy Pants asserted, smoothing any remaining crumbs from off of his suit. "After all, she's seen her sister jealous before."
Spike frowned, opting to keep his opinions to himself as he followed the older man out of the small restaurant. A glance to an approaching window showed him the woman's anxious fidgeting, before she sat back down in her seat, defeated by hesitation.
"Come again," the cashier drawled from behind the counter.
"What are you going to do, now that you're here?"
Spike shrugged. "Haven't really figured that out yet." He swung his legs lazily over a dropoff, the back of his calves gently scraping the sloped concrete of the balcony the two men rested on. "The city's bigger than Canterlot, but I'd be able to tell if something out of the ordinary was going on." Getting up from his seat, he dusted the back of his shorts and settled beside his mentor. "I'll check out the scene around here for tonight, and hit up law enforcement first thing in the morning."
Fancy Pants eyed the sun, which was now a distant, shimmering sliver of scarlet in the distance. Slowly, with a jerky movement akin to nervousness, he took a slow drag from a pipe. Smoothly exhaling, he blew a ring of smoke into the air, then another, smaller one in succession. His posture seemed to relax. "Understood." His eyes crinkled in a familiar smile, the first Spike had seen since the two men had met that day. "See to it that you do your job, and do it favorably! But this journey of yours is a blessing as well." His smile quirked knowingly. "Behave as a young man should."
Spike cocked a finger gun at his older friend and winked. "Duly noted. How long are you planning to be in town?"
The Arch Mage shrugged. "Anywhere from a day to a week. Possibly more." He tapped out the base of his pipe, depositing the ash into a nearby tray. "I'm calling on an old friend, and I don't know what to expect." Turning to Spike, he appraised the young drake silently. "You should find a hotel to stay the night, before it gets much darker."
The young man snorted in mirth. "And waste the money? I don't think so." A flame started to race outward from his chest, before consuming him completely, until a stream of a nebulous purple cloud remained.
As it raced away, Fancy Pants called after him: "Make sure she doesn't have a girlfriend this time!"
The smell struck him as soon as he entered the room.
For a podunk, out-of-the-way jazz club, the establishment that Spike entered was decently populated. Eyes wide, nose a-scrunch, the young drake made his way to the front of the dark building, through the sparsely gathered crowds of beatniks, regulars, and what appeared to be local college students. Ignoring whatever stares were directed his way, he continued his search, his view roaming over the throngs of the unremarkable.
What was that? he thought to himself. I know I smelled something—
He knew that no one else in the room would relate to the sensation he had just experienced—no one but a dragon—but the scent irrevocably reminded Spike of a roaring bonfire. It gave an impression of passion and raw, visceral confidence. If he had to place a name to the feeling, it would be that of a runner's high.
The hairs on the back of Spike's neck stood rigid, as captivated as he was. Regardless of his wishes, however, his search seemed fruitless.
Eyes still scanning the room, he took note of the group of musicians that was preparing to leave the stage. A tall, dark-haired woman, clad in a black tuxedo jacket, skirt, and stockings leaned down to store her bow. Spike, momentarily distracted, noted her instrument—a cello—and absently wondered if she had been the source of the aroma that had marked him so strongly. As if she were aware of his eyes on her, the cellist raised her head, finding him almost instantly. Their gazes met, and Spike knew that she wasn't the one he was looking for. Frowning, he glanced over her frame once more, before turning and heading towards the bar.
He felt the cellist's gaze on his back, but his focus was elsewhere. The woman on fire—the aroma was undeniably, unapologetically female —was somewhere deep in a group of people, which made it all but impossible to distinguish her from a distance.
Sighing, he retreated to the counter, when it hit him again, nearly twice as strong as before.
Spike reeled back on his feet, his arms flailing, searching for something to latch on to. She's close, he thought, nostrils flaring. His hands found purchase, and as he grasped the strangely-textured surface, he glanced to his left. A shock of warm, piercing orange—
"Hey, asshole!"
A strong, rough hand grasped him painfully about the wrist, spinning him to face his assailant. A furious pair of pale green eyes widened in recognition, before narrowing back into slits. "You. I remember you from before."
Spike winced, recalling the young woman's face from his visit to the diner earlier that day. As opposed to before, where she had appeared nothing short of enthralled, the maroon-haired beauty looked irritated at best. She wore a pair of flattering short-shorts and a form-fitting red tank-top, both of which served to emphasize her curvaceous, if not bulky figure. Her skin was tan and freckled, unusual for a city-dweller, though her thick accent clearly labeled her as a Manehattenite. Her maroon hair combover gave off the impression of a reformed tomboy, and her composure spoke volumes of her conviction.
She was sweating.
"Can I help you...?" Spike asked. Close up, the young woman was certainly more attractive than Spike had previously given her credit for, but she wasn't the one he was looking for. The scent that had captured his attention so strongly was fading...
The young woman gestured to her chest, and Spike noticed the wet stain on her top that he had somehow glanced over. He blinked. "I made you lactate?"
She looked at him incredulously. "No, you idiot! You pushed me into my drink!" She was right, of course; her tanktop smelled strongly of alcohol.
"Oh, right," Spike said, remembering the odd surface he'd tried to use to balance himself with earlier. "That was your back?"
The girl snorted. "Definitely wasn't my front."
The young drake frowned. "My bad." He caught the bartender's eye. "Can I get a glass of water?"
As the man behind the bar complied, the red-headed young woman next to him squinted. "Really? " At his questioning glance, she continued. "If you're gonna buy me a drink as an apology, th' least you could do is not skimp on it."
Spike raised his eyebrow. "Who said I'm buying you a drink?" As the bartender handed him the glass, he struggled not to laugh at the girl's increasingly frustrated expression. He could tell by her scowl that his new acquaintance was rapidly losing patience with him.
This is fun, he thought to himself, before chucking the contents of the glass directly onto the girl's chest.
The redheaded young woman gasped in shock, arms outstretched and eyes widened in disbelief. "You... "
Before she could think to react angrily, Spike reached forward and poked her shirt with a single finger.
"What the—" she started to say, before flinching. She looked down, unbelieving when she saw that her shirt had dried. She looked back up at the stranger in front of her.
"Couldn't clean you up with just alcohol on your shirt," he explained, shrugging. "Otherwise you would've got set on fire." He smiled slightly at her baffled expression.
"How did you do that?" she asked, her anger forgotten as she leaned forward, intensely curious.
Spike's mind drifted first to the cellist, who had long since left the stage and had vanished from sight, and then to the oddity that was whoever had evoked such a strong scent. The smell, however intoxicating, was fading quickly, and he doubted that he'd be able to find her in this crowd.
Instead, he returned his attention to the third stranger in front of him. They were roughly the same size, and if his gut instinct was right—
"Wouldn't you like to know?" he answered, half-smirking. And for the second time that day, he turned and walked away from her, heading for the door.
Intrigued, the girl kept her eyes trained on him, reaching for her purse one, two, three times before snatching it and hurrying after his retreating figure.
From looking at him, you wouldn't be able to tell that Fancy Pants was nervous.
The blue-haired gentleman stood calmly on the stoop of a once-prestigious mansion-house, adjusting his bowtie and checking to see that, yes, he was presentable. He inhaled deeply to calm his nerves, and decided to eschew whatever rehearsed speeches he had come up with on the way there—what was he thinking? The woman he had come to see had been a socialite longer than he'd been a man, and as such, she'd smell insincerity coming from a mile away.
Given the circumstances, he thought to himself, she's likely had her fill of frauds for the moment.
His eyes seized on the fading condition of the old building—Valencia had always preferred the old parts of Manehattan, and while the structure had its charms, the lack of upkeep, as evidenced by the fading brick and encroaching moss, lent the looming edifice an air bordering on derelict. It had been some time since he'd laid eyes on it, and the passage of time showed heavily, even in the warm glow of the creeping sunset.
Gathering himself up, Fancy Pants lent forward and rapped on the front door before he could think to stop himself.
Deep breaths, he repeated internally.
After a time, he heard a set of footsteps approach—a clack of heels on hardwood—and suddenly a surge of memories came back to Fancy Pants, unwarranted and unadulterated: seeing her from the kitchen, one blazing hot afternoon in a Manehattan restaurant that she would later come to frequent; learning from lazy late afternoon waitresses that she also came from the upper class—a socialite, just like his mother—and was looking for help around the house; celebrating silently when his hours had been cut, going to her table as she prepared to leave, since her husband didn't accompany her during the day; introducing himself, eager and shaky, explaining that he had heard she was looking for workers, that yes , he would love to work as their butler; the first of few times he felt satisfaction in confessing that he came from a family of socialites himself—her lips pursing in a silent "Ah" , her eyes hinting at the whir of gears working behind them...
Being introduced to her limited family and expanding staff, learning from the older butler more than his father had ever taught him, picking up other skills by assisting his fellow workers; his stomach dropping into his chest at being told to call her by her given name; stammering to the window washer on his way up the stairs to take an early leave, he would get the fourth floor, they were friends after all; washing the windows for over an hour while he did his best to nonchalantly peer at his employer, clad in her form-fitting stripped one piece on the penthouse's swimming pool, reading some book for beginning philanthropists; his mortification at finding that no, those windows weren't tinted, and yes, her sunglasses had hidden the fact that she had tracked his movements the moment he appeared to observe her; his nervous laughter as she chuckled good-naturedly with him, some hint of female satisfaction on her face, her assurance that she wouldn't tell on him to her husband...
Fancy Pants tugged the sleeve of his jacket down; those were always the most vivid memories for him, being the earliest. He'd been keen of mind enough at that age to catalog his experiences, which was wise of him; the rest of his time with Valencia and his subsequent worldly education seemed a blur in comparison: the butler's passing, which was marked with no small amount of sorrow on Fancy's part—the funeral was bittersweet, as he remembered sourly the loss of a father figure, but it was also the first time Valencia had hugged him—his eventual admission that he had better start looking for more dignified levels of work if he intended to earn the life he wanted. He remembered with alacrity the offer her husband had made him to take Fancy under his wing and make him his apprentice, but a refusal was in order—he wouldn't dishonor his employer of several years, not when being near his wife would be no shortage of torture. A noble but solemn farewell, his last hug from the beauty he spent his late adolescence pining after—about the shoulders, he recalled, petulantly—and traveling.
Building connections, learning, yes, but always traveling.
Knowing what he knew now, he always feared coming back to this place; letting his dreams of the past affect his judgment was a fate he did his best to avoid.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the door shifted, a heavy clunk signalling the turning of a lock, and for the first time in far too long, Fancy Pants laid eyes on the first woman he'd ever loved.
She blinked in recognition, lips parting slightly as she took in her guest's appearance. "...Fancy?" she questioned, leaning on the door absently.
"In the flesh," he said, grinning wistfully.
Instantly, he regretted his choice to come. She had always been beautiful, to be sure, but nostalgia had kept her beauty far better than time had. Part of this he attributed to her circumstances, as the woman he had come to know always refused to be seen except at her best. As soon as he laid eyes on her, he knew that there would be no good-old days, no going back to their youth in his visit.
She wore a faded orange sundress, with wonderfully-aged silver bangles and a pearl necklace about her well-exhibited collarbone. Her heels were white and in need of buffing, her apricot hair done up in her familiar elegant beehive. She smelled strongly of citrus.
"You're so big now," she murmured, and a bit of warmth seemed to seep back into her frame, before squelching somewhere about her chest, as if she suddenly remembered that it was her solemn duty to be miserable. She smiled, but it didn't seem to reach her eyes. "What can I do for you?"
Fancy Pants drank in her sight—his first impression of her was that of an aged movie star, elegant and well-preserved. Her breathed in her scent, mingled with the smell of dust from her unattended housing and odor of old wood. Immediately, he was in his element.
He smiled. "I just got in town and thought I'd drop by."
"You've never dropped by before," she answered casually. She crossed her arms, staring directly at him. "How long has it been since we've last met? Ten years, give or take?"
Fancy Pants coughed. "Twenty, roughly speaking."
Her eyes widened in mock-surprise. "Twenty, you say? Quite a long time to go without speaking." She rolled her eyes patronizingly. "I suppose you're going to tell me that you always meant to visit, but work kept you busy."
The blue-haired gentleman shook his head politely. "On the contrary, I had every opportunity to come visit. I simply chose not to."
This response she hadn't expected, as evidenced by the slightly surprised look on her face. "Really, now? Why avoid—me?" she asked, rather jarringly changing her choice of words at the last moment.
Fancy Pants shrugged. "I'd be happy to tell you over dinner," he suggested.
The orange-haired socialite snorted, an act which betrayed how positively sour she felt. "Has it occurred to you that I might have prior engagements for tonight?"
Fancy Pants smiled disarmingly. "Of course I have. I just don't care." At her incredulous look, he continued. "Mind you, I'm not taking no for an answer: I am going to make you enjoy yourself, even if I have to force my company on you." He looked her up and down openly, gaze lingering at the appropriate intervals and recalling how she loved to be gleaned at by appraising eyes. "Are you ready to go out?"
For a moment, it seemed likely that she was going to tell him off—something along the lines of making assumptions and daring to demand her time after so many years—but it seemed equally likely that she would swing to either extreme. After all, their bond had been a fairly close one, and knowing Valencia as he did, she had dearly missed being adored by suitors.
Indeed, she seemed to be stuck in indecision, brow furrowing as she debated the costs of allowing herself to have an evening of fun with an old friend, however neglectful he had been.
Finally, she relented, muttering, "...not my best dinner dress...be down momentarily...." As she retreated, she turned back to Fancy Pants. Her arms were still crossed, but she seemed reluctant to meet his gaze. "Would you like to come inside," she proposed, equally reluctant in her suggestion.
Fancy Pants froze, his mouth caught in a thin smile. After a moment, she looked at his face, wondering at his silence. Abruptly, he answered, "I'd prefer to stay outside, if it's fine with you."
Valencia frowned, as if offended. Softly, Fancy Pants added, "I'd rather remember it as it was."
Her gaze softened, and she nodded gently. "I understand." A feeling of empathy passed through the two of them, and Valencia turned away, not bothering to close the door behind her. "I'll just be a moment." A ball of nervous heat found its way into her stomach, and as she took to the stairs, the hairs on the back of her neck bristled. She could feel him watching her leave, as was their undeclared ritual when they were younger, and the creak of the dusty stairs didn't seem to declare her solitude so rudely.
For the first time in many days, Valencia Orange wasn't alone.
The girl had finally caught up with Spike, and she was heaving for the effort.
He acknowledged her with a glance, as if he had fully expected her to follow. They were near an old playground, lit by a number of lone, faithful streetlights. Older buildings surrounded them on both sides of the street.
"How long are you in town?" she asked, bending over and exhaling heavily, clutching her purse through a thin sheen of sweat.
"Dunno," he answered casually, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I'm here on work, so at least a week, I'd think." He looked at her, none-too-subtly observing the healthy flush of her face as she gazed up at him. A drop of sweat trickled down from her chin, disappearing between her respectable cleavage. He noted that the edges of her rose-red bra were showing, accentuating the glow produced by the light of the lamps on her bosom.
She noticed him looking her over, and if Spike was right, her face turned somewhat hopeful. "You gotta place to stay?" She finally stood up, looking at him intently.
Spike turned fully to her, his expression blank. "Not yet. Why?"
She shifted awkwardly, tapping one foot on the ground and thumbing the handle of her purse. "I was asking cause, y'know...my sister works nights, and if you need a place to crash..." She trailed off, looking up at him silently through a curtain of hair.
Spike began walking again, and, having caught her breath, the girl followed. "You barely know me," he commented offhand.
"You don't seem like a bad person, and I can take care of myself," she retorted.
He looked over his shoulder. "And you're suggesting this just to be neighborly?" She said nothing to this, settling for a sulky expression. "I'm not saying no—" at this she looked up, eyes widened, "—it's just generally not a good idea to invite strangers to your house."
"Call it couch surfing," she said, frowning. She shivered, conscious of a gust of wind that whistled lethargically down the street. "Look, I get the feeling you're a good guy, a-and," she hugged herself as a shield from the cold, "shit , I ain't never did this before—"
Spike could practically feel the awkwardness emanating from the young woman—growing up, he'd known his share of tomboys who'd had trouble showing their affections. Because despite his best intentions, he could tell she'd developed a crush in the small amount of time she'd known him. Sighing internally, he said, "If I'm going to crash at your place, I should probably get your name first."
A great deal of stress visibly lifted from the girl's shoulders, and she laughed nervously. "Sorry, it's just..." she bowed her head, "I'm...Babs." She looked down, antsy, as if waiting for him to make fun of her. "I know, sounds like a fuckin' cartoon name or somethin'."
When she'd gone silent, Spike stepped closer to her. "I'm Spike," he replied, nudging her in the shoulder. He slipped a protective arm around her waist, and he felt her go rigid at what he could only guess was a foreign sensation to her. "Come on, let's get you out of the cold."
"My house isn't far from here," she muttered, leaning none too gently into his arm as they moved.
They traveled for close to fifteen minutes, before stopping at a set of stone steps leading up to an apartment wedged between several of its counterparts. Babs took to the stairs, nervously searching through her purse for her set of keys. The light from the lamp above the doorpost framed her, throwing her tall, curvy figure into sharp focus. Somehow, Spike knew she had always been on the bulky side, and wasn't quite yet used to her newly adult body.
"She's gonna kill me," she muttered under her breath as she opened the door, walking inside and gulping as her companion followed suit.
The apartment, while larger than Spike had anticipated, was cast into shadow. All was dark except for a light above the stove, which gave little indication of where one could walk without obstacles.
"This way," Babs said lowly, walking determinedly down a narrow hallway. She opened a door, wincing at its noisy creak, and flicked a light on. She exhaled heavily, turning around to welcome her guest. "So, this is my place," she said, with uncharacteristic timidity. She threw her purse on the far side of her bed, a queen-sized mattress with a quilt which was decorated in squares of white and red, with the odd ornament of apples here and there. "Make yourself at home."
Babs knelt down to remove her shoes, her face rushing red with heat and nervous energy. She nearly fainted at the sound of her partner sitting on her bed—a boy, a boy , on her bed—straining the coils and shifting the bedding.
"Hey," he said, and God his voice was crisp, "Babs."
She turned, grasping her elbow rigidly. "Yeah?"
He was laid out on her bed, head nearly to her pillows, contemplative. As opposed to her, he looked perfectly calm, if not concerned.
He reached out a hand—it was softer than she would've thought a boy's hand would be, softer than her own, at least—and grasped her by the hem of the shorts, pulling her down with him. His deep green eyes met hers—were they always that slanted?—and he rubbed the base of her spine gently. "You don't have to do this if you don't want to, you know," and Babs was almost certain that her head had combusted into flames. "I can go sleep on the couch."
She struggled to swallow past the lump in her throat. "You—you don't want to?" Of course he doesn't, she thought to herself, the fuck were you thinking, look at you—
"I'm fine with it," he assured her, and instantly the voice in her head went silent, "but you have to make sure you're making a good decision." He looked sympathetic, as if he'd been in her shoes once, and knew how pathetically out-of-tune she must've felt.
Babs looked down at him, breathing deeply. The pit in her stomach never went away, but with his words, she felt a measure of control seep back into her limbs. "I—," she started to say, but couldn't find any words. Instead, she steadied herself, getting up from the bed and reaching for the wall. Her hands found a remote, and pressed down on a unassuming green button. The lights dimmed down ever so slightly, enough for the soft light to illuminate the outlines of their figures, enough for the two of them to see each other's faces.
"This is the best decision," she said softly, and a hot thrill ran up and down her spine as she felt his strong arms close around her waist.
He said nothing, pulling her down on top of him so that she straddled his waist. She groaned in satisfaction—by all reckonings, she was long overdue for this, having been waiting ever since she discovered boys, really saw them. Her hands encircled his neck, roughly brushing his collarbone and feeling the taut skin over his cheekbones.
His breath was hot, uncommonly hot, even as it brushed over her tanktop and seeped through to her skin. He pressed his face forward into her chest, his tongue finding its way into her cleavage as his hands pulled demandingly at her belt.
She grunted, suddenly hot and entirely too sweaty in her clothes. Babs' fingers brushed through her partner's hair, aggressively searching his scalp as she wondered when the right time would be to pull his head back and kiss him.
Spike's hand struggled momentarily at the girl's belt, only for one of her hands to come down and undo the latch that held her shorts in place. With eager but moderated effort, he pulled them and her undergarments down, savoring her gasp as he palmed her sizable ass. He kneaded the globes of flesh patiently, satisfied with her reactions as well as her pleasant weight on top of him.
Without warning, Babs leaned back, placing both of her hands on her partner's chest as she pushed him forcibly to the mattress. The only hint of her intentions was a quick exhale of breath. Her mouth brushed against his, and for a moment she marveled at the experience. His lips were strangely pliable, and as she opened her mouth in slight surprise, he took the gesture as an invitation and pushed into her with mulled determination.
"Mmf," she grunted into his mouth, but he didn't release her. Babs inhaled through her nose as the kiss deepened, her tongue brushing with blatant inexperience against his. One hand moved to grasp her by the head, and as their lips and tongues mashed together, Spike shifted the two of them until he laid on top. All too soon, the kiss was broken, and her partner, heaving, sat up above her, illuminated by the room's gentle light.
"Wow," Babs said, brushing her sweaty hair back. Her eyes were widened, and she distractedly noticed a breeze below her hips.
"Yeah," Spike answered, grinning. He moved his hands downward, grasping the bottom of his shirt and pulling it over his head.
"Wow ," Babs repeated, eyes bugging out of her head. He was deceptively muscled, going by his lean, rippling chest and developed bone structure. She wondered at a scar on his stomach, before raising her eyes back to meet his. "Can I?"
Spike chuckled warmly, laying down beside her and propping his head up on his hand. "Knock yourself out."
Eagerly, Babs sat up next to her newfound lover, her hands roaming inquisitively over every inch of his muscle, grappling at whatever she found interesting. Spike, to her satisfaction, didn't look annoyed—rather, he seemed pleased that she was devoting as much attention to him as she was.
Getting up, she placed her hands on either side of his waist. She grinned in anticipation, even as she caught his amused stare. "What?" he asked.
"Can I—" she gulped, before glancing down at his crotch, and back up to him. Her face was flushed, and she giggled, which she'd never known herself to do. "Can I give you head ?" she whispered. The phrase sounded infinitely more scandalous out loud than in her head.
"Please do," he said, and he motioned for her to continue.
With gusto, she unbuckled his pants, brushing her hair back as she unzipped his shorts and glanced his boxers. She swallowed at the outline of his bulge, before summoning her daring and unmasking him.
"Oh wow," she breathed, absently registering the effect her breath had on his member. She grasped it gently by the base—it was a respectable size and girth, which helped her to not be too intimidated—and noted that her partner lacked any pubic hair. Not that she was complaining, considering what she was about to do.
"Look at me," he called. She glanced at him, confused. "Look at me when you do it," he breathed, leaning up on both elbows.
She nodded obediently, maintaining their eye contact as she took him into her mouth. She cherished his hiss, only later noting the taste of his cock. It was blander than she thought it would be—it was slightly salty, but the shape and texture were immediately more interesting. She swirled her tongue around the tip before moving ever so slowly towards the base, licking all the while. She had watched enough porn to guess at what she was supposed to do, though no amount of watching could have prepared her for his size. She only managed to take roughly three fourths of his member into her mouth, and though she knew by his groans and shiftings he was enjoying her work, her deepest wish at that moment was that she could deepthroat him.
Babs felt his cock pulse in her throat, to her pleasure. The vein at the bottom of his dick thrummed, and Spike shivered as Babs took a moment to exhale, her hot breath wrapping around his wet member. Dutifully, Babs whipped off her shirt and removed her bra with practiced ease. Grinning, she licked every side of his cock with vigor, coating it in a new layer of saliva, before taking it between her breasts and pumping. Her partner groaned, and feelings of female pride jolted through Babs' mind—no more teasing from her classmates, she was officially a woman now, she'd made a grown man writhe under her, now who was the virgin—
As Spike came closer and closer to orgasm, Babs' determination became singular, and she was deadset on getting what she wanted.
All over me, she thought, pumping the throbbing cock between her breasts with fervor, all over my face and my tits, give me that money shot—
With a groan, Spike leaned into her chest, cock spasming as it spilled heavily onto his partner's torso. Mouth wide open, Babs managed to catch some of the deceptively hot liquid—rather bitter and spongy, she thought—while the rest coated her breasts and neck. A deep, aching sense of satisfaction rose up from in her hips, and she didn't even try to fight the feeling of accomplishment as she cleaned herself. She'd landed a grown man—a damn good-looking grown man at that—and pleasured him with her mouth and breasts, getting him to spill over and into her within a matter of minutes. And now...
She shivered with nervous delight. She got back onto the bed, reaching over her recovering partner for a pillow, which she placed under her chest and hugged dearly as she positioned herself.
"Not bad," Spike breathed, audibly impressed. He brushed his hair back, grinning as Babs flushed.
"I can't believe I finally did it," she admitted, burying her head into the mattress.
"What did you do?" Spike teased, sitting up and rubbing the girl's ass in circles.
She mumbled something into the bed.
"Didn't catch that," Spike said, smirking.
Her feet lifted up, bending back over her rear in exasperation. "I just sucked your dick, " she breathed, almost unbelieving. "I never thought I'd do it," she said, feeling delightfully dirty. "I just had a guy in my mouth, and I loved it."
Spike grinned, standing now as he got behind her. "What now?" he asked innocently, both hands on her ass, pinching and grasping at her flesh, spreading her so he could see her, wet and winking at him.
Babs breathed heavily. "Don't you fucking dare make me say it."
"Say it, or I won't do it," he said, leaning against her. "Say what I'm about to do to you. You know you want to."
The redheaded girl groaned, kicking her feet up again, her soles brushing against his thighs. "You're gonna fuck me, " she confessed, shivering at hearing the words come from her own mouth. "You're gonna fuck me into the ground and you won't stop even if I ask you to—"
"No, I won't."
"—you're gonna rail me until my ass turns red and I'm moaning like a whore. " She blew her hair out of her face, crossing her legs at the knees and clinching him. "Fuck, I shouldn't be doing this—"
Instead of answering, Spike lined up with her folds, and pushed.
Gasping, Babs instantly tensed, nearly curling into a ball until Spike grasped her by the shoulder. "Don't," he warned.
"It hurts, it fucking hurts ," she gasped, squinting in pain. Stabbing pain pierced her and it was all she could do not to scream out.
"Don't tense up, " Spike repeated, "it makes it hurt worse."
She shivered, breathing in sharp breathes before attempting to listen to him. "There we go," Spike coaxed, gently rubbing her back. He leaned closer, speaking into her ear. "I'm not gonna hurt you, okay? I'm right here with you, Babs, understand?"
"Yeah," she said, still wincing. The pain was receding, but not at all slowly. She wrapped her head in her hands. "I'm sorry, I'm such a little bitch—"
"Stop putting yourself down," Spike commanded, grasping her by the chin and forcing her to look up at him.
"But—"
"Do I look like I choose anyone but the best?" he asked, glaring.
Babs looked sullenly up at him, before shaking her head. She rubbed an encroaching tear away.
"I'm going to start moving now," he warned, and Babs nodded, muttering "Okay" before turning back towards the wall, clenching her pillow.
Slowly, Spike thrust into his partner, grasping her ass and widening it to ease his passage. Babs whimpered, but kept from crying out.
He moved in silence for the next few minutes, thumbing the space above her rear. Gradually the soft cries died out, replaced with an awkward quiet, the soft thmp of their colliding bodies being the only source of noise.
"So," Spike said conversationally, "how bout them Wonderbolts?"
"Shut up and fuck me," Babs grunted, moving forward slightly with each thrust.
"You sure?"
"I think so, yeah."
"Cause I'm about to jump all up in this," he warned.
"Dude, just tear it up," she said huskily.
"Can do," he said, readying himself for the onslaught. "Bite down on something."
Babs' bare feet planted themselves on the carpet, toes scrunching in anticipation.
Without warning, Spike once again pushed into his partner, willingly ignoring her groans.
She was tight, almost unbearably so. After so many months of going without sex, being reintroduced so suddenly, with a virgin no less, Spike was already nearly ready to spill.
Her insides were filled with ambient heat, and Babs' moans, gaining higher pitch with each second, did a wonderful job at blocking out some of the lewder sounds of their lovemaking.
"Ungh!" she grunted into the pillow, struggling to keep her feet planted on the floor as her partner railed into her. The feeling of being so violently invaded, over and over, was completely foreign. All of her size and strength was pointless, she realized with hastened glee, she was at this beautiful stranger's mercy—
"Fuuuuck, " she cried, feeling him lay into her rapidly now, her ass red with friction. She punched the mattress and bit viciously into her pillow, feeling the agonizing helplessness of her willful submission.
He was bending over her now, his chest pressed to her back so that she couldn't keep her stance and her feet stretched out behind her, flailing. His mouth descended onto her neck, biting and sucking as his hands sought out great handfuls of her breasts. He tweaked her wherever he could, basking in her heat and unceasingly beating into her throbbing vagina. With each thrust, it became harder to pull back, he was sure she was trying her damnedest to memorize every contour of his dick each time he fucked her—
"I'm cumming," she grunted, reaching out onto the mattress and clenching with her nails so hard she thought they would break. "I'm about to cum, Spike, I swear I'm gonna cum all over your cock—"
Suddenly, Spike pulled back, to the confusion and anger of his partner. "Don't you fucking dare st—" she started to say, only to be flipped onto her back so that she was facing him.
"I want to see your face," he growled, reentering her with an unapologetic thrust.
Babs made a choking sound, arms grasping the edge of the bed before circling around her partner's neck and seizing him possessively. Her legs followed suit, grasping his waist and hugging the two of them together.
She was cumming. All too soon she was cumming, and she was made aware of every detail of her body. The sweat, the bed drenched beneath them with sweat, her hair matted to her forehead with sweat, her throbbing cunt violently clamping around its intruder, the shiver of electricity and wet heat pouring from her hips, her scream as her partner continued to fuck her, really fuck her as if he didn't care how she felt.
Still Spike ravished her, pushing her head back and capturing her with a maddening kiss, beating her tongue savagely even as his thrusts grew more erratic and her breasts shook tumultuously with overwhelming force.
Babs broke the kiss, shouting in a voice that was undeniably feminine. "Fuck! FUCK, DADDY! "
"Damn right," he said into her ear, yanking her hair back, adoring her squeal as her back arched and her hips spasmed. Several powerful strokes later, he felt it swelling from deep in his crotch, surging forth with painful speed. His dick emerged from her shivering pussy, just in time to paint her stomach with several bursts of semen. Spike shivered, groaning heavily as his legs tensed and untensed, his waist vibrating as his spilled his load onto his exhausted partner.
They sat like that for a while, panting, feeling the breath of each other on their sweat-drenched bodies. Spike's muscles nearly gave out, and it was only the thought that he really didn't want any of his own jizz on his abs that he managed to stay above his partner.
"Holy shit," Babs breathed, chest heaving. She swore she could hear her own heartbeat.
"Worth the wait?" Spike asked, grinning boyishly down at her. His wet hair plastered his forehead, obscuring his vision.
"Hell the fuck yes it was," she giggled, moving a rough hand to rub her forehead as she glanced distractedly at the ceiling. "Man, I'm gonna have to change these sheets or something." She exhaled. "Fucking's work, man."
Spike snorted. "You're telling me." He got up from the bed and stretched.
Babs grabbed a tissue from a box on her bedstand and wiped off her stomach. "What do we do now?" She was positively glowing, despite the aching in her crotch. It was a soreness she'd very gladly wear, though, as evidence of her conquest.
Spike raised his eyebrow. "Now?" He tugged her up with one hand, so that they were centimeters away from each other. The tips of her breasts brushed his chest, and the two of them, stark naked, looked intently into each other, eyes lidded.
Without ceremony, Spike pushed her gently down to her knees, until she was level with his crotch. "Now," he said, grinning naughtily, "I teach you how to deepthroat."
In the time that Valencia had fully prepared herself for dinner, Manehattan had been covered under a blanket of darkness. The humid warmth of summer billowed in from an open window; high up in her room, a luxurious studio apartment which took up the entirety of the top floor, the orange-haired socialite surveyed the street and its inhabitants.
Only anger—acidic, familiar, long-held anger—and spite kept the Orange woman's hands from shaking as her eyes traced the figure of the blue-haired gentleman so many floors beneath her. Fingers clicking methodically about her ear lobes—these damned clasps —her cyan blue gaze moved tirelessly as she shuffled to complete her look.
It was as if a sheet of gauze had fallen over her mind—since her once-employee turned Arch Mage appeared on her doorstep not fifteen minutes ago, the world had taken on a hazy, dreamlike quality. Everything had become surreal, to a disorienting degree.
Valencia blinked, and suddenly she was being escorted into a waiting limousine, with no recollection of how she got there. Fancy Pants released her forearm, smiling with only a hint of nervousness as he sat across from her.
The car began to move, and the Orange socialite could absently hear the crunching of the asphalt under the tires, the air flushing from the corner vents in the vehicle. Fancy Pants' lips were moving as he spoke—he had certainly filled out, Valencia was sure his black suit hid much of his bulk—but she didn't bother to listen to what was being said. Doubtless he was spewing anxious filler before addressing his main topic of interest.
The acid grew in her throat again; after years and years of small talk, Valencia had found that she had little patience for it these days.
"Why?" she asked, interrupting her partner's flow of speech. She sat up in her seat, fixing him in place with a lazy but powerful gaze.
"I beg your pardon?" Fancy Pants asked, disquieted but not offended.
Valencia crossed her legs, a motion that wasn't lost on her date. Her fingernails, painted bright white, planted themselves firmly around her purse. "Why did you come back?" She watched his face, watching for signs of dishonesty. "Tell the truth," she added, rather harshly.
The blue-haired man met her gaze comfortably, before leaning back, arms outstretched on the seat. "I came to check on you."
Manehattan's draining summer heat did nothing to improve Valencia's mood; the surreal quality of the night refused to lift, and as she crafted her response, it felt as if she were hearing another person speaking with her voice.
With detached precision, she asserted, "Why not 'check on me' earlier?" She felt she should be angrier, but already she felt too weary and apathetic to get her hackles up. "Why wait until now?" Valencia asked, almost certain she knew the answer.
Fancy Pants had the nerve to look at her as if she had asked something obvious. "You weren't divorced before now."
Valencia jerked, as if she had been struck. Blinking, she stared at Fancy Pants as a sense of clarity washed over her.
The car remained silent for several moments; she hadn't expected him to broach the topic so brazenly.
She leaned against the window, feeling the cool glass against her sweating forehead. "No," she muttered, "I wasn't."
The remainder of their drive was silent, if not mercifully short. Valencia blinked tiredly as her eyes roved over her surroundings; she hadn't bothered keeping track of whatever direction they were going. Doubtless Fancy would have chosen an high-class restaurant on the Upper East Side, likely a bistro, to give them some privacy to catch up—
She blinked again, sitting up in her seat and rubbing the sleep from her arm. "This isn't the East Side." They were still in the heart of downtown Manehattan, outside a modest diner on the corner of a busy street.
Fancy Pants smiled as he opened the door and got out. He extended a hand to her. "You were expecting an elite restaurant, I presume."
She took his hand and allowed herself to be lifted up from her seat, being sure to untangle her legs. "That was the assumption, yes."
The Arch Mage said a few quick words to the limo driver, handing him a roll of bills and waving as he drove off. "It crossed my mind earlier, going there." He shrugged, half-grinning. "But I realized that that seemed a bit...pretentious ."
She accepted his hand resting comfortably above the small of her back, guiding her towards the door. "How do you mean?" she asked, squinting. The bright lights of the homely little diner were disorienting after the subtle dark of the city.
They entered. "I would have thought that, following your separation, any number of your aristocrat friends would have tried the same." Fancy Pants surveyed her as they got into a booth, facing each other. "I don't believe they were successful."
Valencia simply stared at him, poise forgotten as, once again, Fancy Pants managed to subvert her expectations. After a pregnant silence, she shifted in her seat, placing her forearms on the speckled tabletop. "It's astounding how a thing like divorce can show you how superficial people are." She stared at her partner's neckline, tracing his collarbone while she fingered her own. "Every man that I was on speaking terms with took me to dinner on the Upper East Side." She frowned. "Most wanted to 'strike while the iron was hot', as it were." She glanced at Fancy's eyes briefly before returning to his neckline; his gaze was understanding, if not unnerving.
"And the women?" Fancy asked softly.
"Gossip is a fruitful indulgence," she answered with mock-loftiness, "until you find yourself the topic. I had no idea that so many women knew my husband was a scoundrel; I wish they would've told me beforehand, might've saved myself quite the mess."
The conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence, in the midst of which a waitress came and took their orders. When she had left, Fancy reached his hand halfway across the table, thumbing hers. By his gaze, she could tell he meant to ask her a question.
Sighing, Valencia said, "I never told them the real reason we had our marriage annulled." She felt her hand being caressed gently, and was suddenly grateful for the contact. Taking a deep breath, she returned her gaze to the tabletop. "Gardner always wanted children, you know."
She heard Fancy Pants exhale heavily, felt his grip tighten on her hand.
After a time, she asked quietly, "Aren't you going to say something?"
The Arch Mage leaned back in his seat, propping one leg on top of the other and drumming his fingers on the table. He sighed heavily. "What an ass. "
Whatever Valencia had expected him to say, that wasn't it. She sat upright in her chair, having never heard Fancy curse before. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your husband of twenty-odd years, despite years of utmost devotion and presumably amazing—" Valencia raised an eyebrow, "—conversations , I was going to say conversations." Fancy sighed, adjusting his spectacle and peering at his date. "At the risk of offending your affection for dear Gardner, his decision was both inconsiderate and uncalled for, so yes, I think I am quite entitled to call the man an ass."
A sense of nervous agreement built in Valencia's chest, but she didn't voice it. "I was under the impression you used to look up to my—him," she corrected hastily.
"Don't misunderstand me," Fancy Pants said, holding up his spare hand, "I have nothing but respect for the man I knew, and I have no intentions to assassinate his character." He slightly loosened his grip on Valencia's hand, noting that she grasped his harder in return. "But...giving up on your partner of so long, for such a setback...." The Arch Mage shook his head. "Selfish."
Valencia felt the sudden urge to defend her ex-husband, only to discover, with mild bemusement, that she felt no need to do so anymore.
"Yes," she admitted softly, "I suppose it was." She smiled weakly in response to Fancy Pant's grin.
Soon afterward, their food arrived, and their dialogue began in earnest. "So," the blue-haired gentleman asked after sipping his coffee, "how are you keeping busy these days? Still holding to the champagne life?"
"Not so much as before," Valencia said, raising a glass of water to her lips. "I run the manse as a fairly inclusive bed and breakfast." She kept her eyes on her partner as she drank.
"Truly?" Fancy Pants asked mildly. At her nod, he exhaled. "Just how inclusive are you?"
The socialite placed both hands in her lap and smiled brightly. "Octavia Melody and her friend are currently rooming for the duration of their stay in Manehattan."
The Arch Mage sat up in his seat, eyes widened. "The cello player?"
"The very same." Valencia sat forward, all too eager to once again to delve into her gossiping vice. "She's enjoyed it greatly so far, and I'm sure she'll recommend it to her peers."
Fancy Pants smiled warmly, his food forgotten. "That's excellent news."
"That's not all the news," Valencia continued, nearly beaming. "I've got the Wonderbolts booked all through next week as well." By her excitement and eagerness to see his reaction, it was clear that this was the meat of her point.
Fancy Pants indulged her much-needed bragging, showing surprise and given light compliments when appropriate. As their conversation wore on, the darkness of night became steadily thicker, until the streetlights of Manehattan were all that pierced the inky blackness.
"Dear me, would you look at the time," Fancy Pants said, eyeing his wristwatch. "It's well past midnight." He grinned apologetically at his date. "Funny thing, catching up. Seems to make the hours zoom by."
"It was time well spent," Valencia said, with an emotion bordering on warmth. She sighed contentedly, rubbing her shoulder. "For such a quaint little place, I rather enjoyed dining here."
Fancy Pants only smiled wanly. After a moment, he said lightly, "You don't remember this place, then."
Valencia stared at him, startled. "Why would I remember it? I've never been here before."
"Yes, you have," the Arch Mage corrected gently. "See, over there, by the window?"
"I don't..." she started to say, before her eyes widened. She looked back to Fancy Pants, mouth slightly ajar. "This is where we met."
Fancy Pants smiled, getting up and leaving a small mound of bills to pay for their dinner. "I count myself lucky, you know." One hand held Valencia's firmly, the other on her shoulder as he helped her from the booth. "If I hadn't seen you that day, I wouldn't have been set on the path that I followed. I never would've realized my potential."
Valencia smiled at him as they walked to the door. "Hm, never is a strong word. You were always driven, I'm sure you would've found a way." She leered conspiratorially at him, curious as his arm resumed its position around her elbow. "Where are you spending the night?"
"I made reservations at a hotel not too far from here," he said, somewhat anxiously.
A moment of silence lapsed between the two of them, during which their ride appeared in the distance. Hesitantly, Valencia started to speak. "If you wanted—"
"I shouldn't," Fancy interrupted, frowning slightly. He fingered his necktie absently. "We just met back up; it would be best if we rationed out our time together."
"Of course," Valencia said immediately, nodding her head. "I understand."
The Arch Mage smiled at her beatifically. Slightly tightening his grip on her elbow, he asked, "Will you be busy tomorrow?"
Valencia shook her head. "Other than the guests that I'm expecting, I have nothing scheduled." She noted absently to clear all of her appointments for that following day.
Fancy Pants beamed. "Excellent." He reached forward, opening the car's rear door as it drove up. "I'll be by in the early afternoon."
Realizing that he didn't intend to travel with her back to her home, Valencia gave her escort a modest smile and removed her arm from his. "Until then."
As the bathroom door nearly broke down under the abuse of a rain of angry blows, Spike knew that his Wednesday would be off to a poor start.
Sighing, the green-haired youth cranked the shower to a halt, shaking droplets of water from his body as he left the small enclosure. The sound of furious pounding ceased, replaced by what appeared to be a yelling match held by two women just outside the door.
He had planned to be well on his way before his one-time partner's sister came home, but evidently, he hadn't spent his time wisely enough.
Let's get this over with, he thought.
With no small amount of apprehension, Spike pulled on his undergarments and pants—he hadn't worn a shirt that morning—before inhaling heavily and opening the painted white portal.
Immediately his eyes trained on the woman in front of him. Like Babs, she was abnormally tall and bulky for a woman, but made up for a lack of femininity with curvaceousness. It occurred to him that, if not for her ruffled lime-green hair and lack of freckles, she could have passed for a rather pale Applejack.
The green-haired woman's face was contorted in anger, before warping to one of shock. She stepped forward, lips parted as she stared at Spike's face. Hesitantly, she whispered, "Spike?"
He blinked, startled. Behind her, Babs froze, eyes widened.
As the young man scrambled to answer, the woman brightened and grasped him about the shoulders. "Why, I reckon it is you! How ya been, y'old so n' so?" She turned to Babs, smiling heartily. "Why didn't you say he was the one spending the night here?"
Babs crossed her arms, glaring at Spike. "I didn't know you two knew each other."
Seemingly unaware of the other woman's ire, Babs' sister wrapped an arm around Spike's bare shoulder. "'Course we know each other!" She nudged him on the side with her hip. "Wasn't much talking at the time, mind," she said, chuckling.
Eyes bulging, Spike turned to the woman he was very sure he hadn't met before. "Hey, uh—"
"Red Gala."
"Right, of course," Spike said, highly conscious of the woman's arm on his shoulders. "Obviously, I remember where we met, but, uh, why don't you tell Babs about it?" He caught the younger sister's malevolent eye. "Now? "
"Not much to tell," Red said, turning to face her seething sister. "Few years back we were havin' the family reunion at cousin AJ's shack, before the Summer Sun Celebration." She pointed at Spike. "This one popped up right before lunch, 'long with that purple-haired brain come from Canterlot."
Spike's eyes widened in recognition. "That's right! I thought you looked familiar!" He turned to look at Babs triumphantly.
She rolled her eyes, but looked relieved. "Whatever," she muttered, arms crossed.
Red smiled at her sister, before turning back to their guest. "Last I saw of you, you weren't much higher than my hips!" She nudged him in the side, eyeing his bare chest playfully. "You ain't wasted much time filling out, I see—"
"Hey Red, I think I smell something burning," Babs said, jerking her head towards the kitchen.
The older woman tensed, releasing her grip on Spike as she darted for the kitchen, cursing.
Babs turned to Spike, no longer upset but visibly put off. She pushed him in the chest, knocking him softly into the wall behind him. "You never told me you knew my sister, jerk." Her hands lingered on his bare chest.
"I didn't know I knew your sister, jerk," Spike replied, pushing her back. She grinned at him, leaning close. "What were you two arguing about?"
Babs shrugged, her hand circling his waist. "Red doesn't like me inviting people over without her permission, especially strangers."
"Especially handsome strangers," Spike corrected, pompously sticking out his chest.
"Yeah, whatever, handsome ," the redhead snorted, smacking him with the palm of her hand. "Come on, we've got a couple minutes," she said, pulling him into her room across the hall.
Spike struggled to regain his breath from her blow. "Geez, warn me next time you do that," he wheezed, closing the door. "...like hi-fiving a gorilla."
Babs pushed her partner onto the bed, deftly undoing his belt and zipper before reaching through his boxers and grasping his length in her hand. She looked up at him rebelliously, pumping his cock in her hand and smirking. Her mouth brushed brusquely against the tip, coaxing it with the flat of her tongue, before circling his manhood and wetting it entirely with saliva. She cherished her partner's sighs as he leaned back on the bed, allowing her to work.
Babs drew back, gripping him by the base and blowing coolly onto his cock. Spike groaned, absently registering his partner's movements as the curvy young woman climbed onto the bed with him, her palm massaging him the entire time. Finally, her head was directly above his, her eyes following his as one hand rubbed his chest and the other none-too-gently fondled his crotch.
"You shoulda seen Red's face when she found out I landed ya," she said in an undertone.
Spike cracked an eye open, smirking as he sat up. "Who landed who, now?"
"You heard me," she murmured lowly. "I'm the one who took you home with me, kid."
"I just needed a place to crash for the night," Spike protested, shoving up against her. "I didn't mind putting out a little if it meant a free bed."
Babs laughed. "You say that like it's easy."
Spike simply smiled at her, blinking slowly.
The redheaded young woman stared, surprised. "I could've been an axe murderer or something, y'know."
Now it was Spike's turn to laugh. He grasped Babs under her arms, pulling her up. "You? " He patted her side patronizingly. "You were the least threatening person in that whole club! That's why I chose you, ya big softie!"
Babs frowned at her partner, shifting nervously. "Who're you calling big?"
His hands found her bottom and grasped at it roughly through her shorts. "Take a guess."
Smirking, the larger teenager lowered her head, full lips on her partner's neck. She bit down gently on his skin as her hand encircled the base of his cock, tugging slightly on his balls as she slowly jerked him off. Her heart pounded in her chest as he groaned, content to let her work. Spike's fingers found their way into her nest of strawberry hair, hugging her close as she tended to him. His groans rose in volume as the curvaceous young woman on top of him pulled at his manhood, stroking him even as her ample chest pressed into his.
"You close?" she whispered into his ear, slowing her motions.
"Yes ," he hissed back, trying and failing to keep from involuntarily thrusting into her hands.
Grinning, Babs pushed herself up from the bed, retreating until she was kneeling on the floor on both of her knees. When Spike, irritated, sat up to stare at her, she spread his legs apart, and after a moment of preparation, took his cock into her waiting mouth. She ignored his moan and focused on the hurried lesson the two of them had taken part in late last night.
And so it was that Red Gala opened the door to Babs' room, found her unexpected guest balls deep in her sister's mouth, and promptly slammed the door shut.
*pop* "RED !"
"BREAKFAST IS READY GO WASH YOUR HANDS!"
The two teenagers shuffled awkwardly into the kitchen, mumbling "sorry" as they bumped into one another.
Red Gala was waiting for them, chewing on her pile of pancakes behind the counter. Her eyes narrowed upon seeing the both of them pointedly ignore her burning stare.
"How's it hanging, you two?" she asked. Spike winced, glancing up at her before returning his gaze to the table where he sat.
Both Babs and Spike remained determinedly silent.
Sighing, Red Gala turned to her sister. "I'm tired from last night, B, so I'm gonna need you to get your chores done 'fore you head out to work tonight."
"What do you need me to do," Babs asked flatly.
"Churn the butter—"
"Oh come off it !" she barked, face flushed.
But there was no stopping the older woman now. "What would the family say, knowing you got an ol' friend alone just so you could get a belly full of marrow?"
"The fuck does that mean—"
"I'm just glad Ma and Pa ain't alive to see y'alls nonsense," the green-haired woman said, near to angry tears. "Their baby girl, carryin' on, locking legs n' swappin' gravy—"
Spike slowly put his fork down, no longer interested in eating.
"The hell's your damage?" Babs asked, highly embarrassed and angry. "I'm allowed to see guys when I want!"
"Not when it means bringin' em to our home and dishin' out tongue baths you ain't!" Red retorted. "I'm your big sister—"
"Half- sister!"
"Can I—" Spike started to say, before quailing under the furious glares of the two women. "Nevermind."
"I think you should step out for a minute, Spike," Red Gala said, breathing heavily through her nose. Babs glanced at him, momentarily frowning apologetically, before turning back to her sister.
"Sure thing," he said, glad to have a reason to leave the two feuding women to themselves.
He walked about the house, careful to remain out of earshot of the two sisters; their continued yelling from earlier that day had ceased, and even he would have had to struggle to make out what they were saying now.
For the moment, he was content to wander the apartment, contemplating how his current predicament would work itself out.
Should've just stayed at a hotel, he thought sourly to himself. He knew he would have to do so eventually, as spending a week with his one-night stand was unreasonable as well as unlikely, especially given his new-found knowledge of her relation to Applejack.
He hovered near the front door, preparing to shove out for a minute of fresh air in Manehattan's late morning atmosphere. "Stepping out," he called to the women in the kitchen, before turning the handle and swinging the door on its axle.
Instead of walking across the threshold, however, he looked up at the figure across from it, tawny hand poised to knock.
SHIT.
A pair of piercing, accusatory green eyes pinned Spike in place, as their owner towered over him. After a moment of stunned silence, the young Fire Drake spoke. "I can explain."
"Ya've got five seconds 'fore I gut ya," McIntosh growled, staring down the younger man as he blocked the only exit.
