'Cause I Like You, Silly!
“Poke . . .”
You feel her finger dig into your ribs, but once again, the teacher didn't see, so she gets away with it. You're not sure how much more of this you can take; the classroom is full, so there are no empty desks to move to, and you've already asked to be excused to the restroom twice this class, so any more will look suspicious. Pretty much all of your avoidance tactics have been expended, and this energetic girl with puffy pink hair next to you will still not let up.
You'd think she was kind of cute if she didn't pick on you like this all the time.
“Poke . . .”
“Stop it . . .”
Your angry muttering is drawing more attention than her annoying behavior is, and you feel stares from your classmates burning into you from all sides. You make the attempt to ignore her and reach for your pencil to jot down the notes on the board. But when your hand goes out, it touches the bare wood of your desk. The pencil you just had is gone. You pick up your notebook, you check your seat and under your desk, your feel the space behind your ear where you sometimes hang it when not in use, but it doesn't turn up.
As if things couldn't get any more frustrating.
“Poke . . .”
“Knock it off!”
Your angry growl catches the attention of the whole class, including the teacher. She calls your name and asks you if something is wrong, but more in a stern, “would you like to share with the rest of the class” kind of fashion. You glance over and see the pink-haired girl, Pinkie Pie, you think her name is, sitting quietly at her desk, a golden halo hanging above her head (How does she do that stuff?! you ask yourself with a grimace). Seeing as how she looks like she knows nothing of what's going on, trying to accuse her now will make you look bad. Plus, whining about it wouldn't feel very mature, anyway. In the end, you just sigh and say that nothing's wrong, and you finally give up on your missing pencil and pull a fresh one from your backpack under your desk. The teacher returns to conveying today's lesson, and you return to taking notes, but that doesn't stop the occasional unamused glance aimed at you.
Or the barrage of pokes in the ribs from Pinkie Pie's finger.
“Poke . . .”
You give another quiet sigh and roll your eyes as you wait and hope class will end soon.
Finally, the bell rings, and you're the first to leave the classroom. You're still upset over Pinkie Pie bugging you in class, but it's for more reasons than just today. It seems like every time she sees you, she has to take a minute to mess with you somehow. If you pass her in the hall, she'll tickle your ribs and scream “GOOSE MONSTER!!” When you're in the cafeteria eating lunch, she'll sneak up behind your chair and give you a noogie. Last week, you saw a piece of paper taped to your locker that read “Look Behind You”. You were dumb enough to do so, and when you did, there she was, ready to yell “BOO!” and scare the ever-loving daylights out of you.
Her reasons for this, however, are even stranger. Yesterday, after she'd “goosed” you in the hall again, you'd asked her why she did it, and she'd replied as if you didn't think it was obvious: “'Cause I like you, silly!” That was all she'd said, as if it was the only answer she'd needed. It didn't make sense to you, at least not as much as you feel it should have. She likes you? Why would she think that this is the type of behavior people exhibit with that in mind? And did she expect you to like her back? As annoying as she is, you don't think you should, but she clearly doesn't have any ill intentions, so you're just not sure.
Again, you think to yourself, she'd be cuter if she didn't do things like—
“OW!”
You feel a sharp pinprick in your backside, and you turn to see none other than that pesky pink girl standing there, grinning and holding a sharp pencil in her hand.
Your pencil.
“Hi, cutie!” Pinkie chirps as she tosses you your pencil back. “Thought you might want this! I saw it fall off your desk in class today, and I thought, 'Uh-oh, you dropped it! What a silly pants!' But that was after I gave you those pokes from earlier. I like pokes! It's a fun, silly way to say hi! Kinda like on FaceHoof, but real life! Are you on FaceHoof? Can I add you? Would you like to add me? It's like, 'friends list on FaceHoof, just add Pinkie!' Like a recipe, and I'm the secret ingredient! I love baking! Cupcakes are my favorite! I bake cupcakes and bring them to school every time one of my friends has a birthday! When's your birthday? I could bake you some 'FaceHoof-poke, add-me-in-your-friend-recipe, never-drop-your- pencil-again BIRTHDAY CUPCAKES!!”
As she's speaking, you can't help but feel a specific phrase reverberate through your mind: What the hell is she talking about?!
She seems to notice that you aren't responding, and looks at you strangely for a minute in your silence. Her smile quickly returns when she asks, “You know what's fun?”
You hesitate to guess.
“WEDGIES!!”
She then reaches out to you, her hands aimed directly at your waist.
“Wait, wait! What . . . . ?”
Upon your word, she stops. That confused look returns, but her hands remain frozen and sticking out, about to reach for your underwear. “What?”
“Why would you want to do that . . . ?”
There is an awkward pause, and for a moment, you can swear you see a faint blush on Pinkie's face. “'Cause I like you, silly!”
You can't figure out for the life of you what is going on, and the sense behind her reason. Wedgies? Over a crush? That's the most random, nonsensical thing you've ever heard.
Finally, she shrugs and says, “Eh, whatever. But wedgies are fun! You don't know what you're missing!” She then throws her arms around you, and continues happily, “Be sure to keep an eye on that rascally old pencil! Sorry about your tushie! Bye!” And with that, she kisses you on the cheek, turns around, and skips away, her fluffy coif bouncing along with her movements.
You stare after her (trying to ignore that she has a cute butt), trying to comprehend this enigma of a girl and her unusual behavior. “What was that all about?” you ask out loud, as if it will help you come up with an answer. She annoys you all through class, and yet appears to be friendly, or at least doesn't seem to be upset with you. She pokes you with your own pencil one minute, then offers to bake you cupcakes for your birthday (the date of which, she doesn't even know). She threatens you with a wedgie, then give you a hug and a kiss and apologizes for poking your backside with a sharp object.
Shaking your head, you put your pencil away and turn and make your way to your next class before the next bell. Hopefully, she won't be that weird next time. And if she's telling the truth and really does like you, then you hope she'll be less random about it next time.
On the way, you give a quick rub to the spot where the pencil poked you, hoping no one can see you.
The next day seems to be a bit less Pinkie-centric, at the very least. Aside from her walking up to you, patting you hard on the back and smiling at you, she hasn't come near you once today. While still weird, that's actually fairly tame by comparison. You start hoping things won't be quite as vexing as yesterday.
But you quickly find your day devolving before your eyes.
While at your locker before your first class, Bon-Bon, who had been passing by behind you at the time, had stopped and pinched your side for some reason. During a science experiment in Chemistry class, your lab partner, Lyra, had done the same thing while the two of you sat at your station, pinching your right thigh hard. When you'd turned to ask her why, she had simply muttered with a grin, “Just reading the sign.” At the time, your focus on the project at hand was more important than asking, “What sign?”
In Cooking class, one of the girls had finished a batch of muffins (she was nice, you always liked her), and gave you one along with the rest of the class. Passing by behind you, though, she had stopped, and for the same unknown reason, balled up her fist and gave you a light, though still surprisingly forceful, punch on the shoulder.
“Ow!” you had responded, gripping your shoulder. “What was that for?”
“Oh, sorry!” she had answered, looking worried, “I think I might have misread!”
It's not until you're on your way to the locker rooms for Gym class that you learn what's going on. In the hall connecting the two locker rooms (one big door leading to the boys' locker room on the left, and another on the right for the girls' locker room), Octavia passes by you and eyes you from behind. You turn and catch her looking, and ask why.
She approaches you with an almost pitying grin and reaches behind you, and you are surprised to feel something peel of your back. “You do know you've been wearing this all day, don't you?” she asks, handing you the object that had been stuck to your back.
You take it and look it over: it's a sheet of loose-leaf notebook paper that had been taped to your back. You see big, blocky letters scrawled out on it, and you read the message aloud:
“PINCH ME, I'M A HOTTIE”
Almost on cue, Octavia reaches behind you and pinches your butt before turning to leave. She glances back at you and snickers before winking and disappearing behind the girls' locker room door.
Once your blush subsides, you give a frustrated groan and look over the paper some more, hoping to learn to whom it belongs. Immediately, your eyes fall on a tiny design drawn in the lower corner, beneath the message. It looks like a tiny face, eyes shut tight, mouth in a wide, toothy grin, within a frame of large, bouncy curls . . .
“Pinkie . . . .”
“HI, CUTIE!”
You jump, startled at the loud, high-pitched greeting. You turn to see Pinkie Pie, her face sporting an identical grin to the one she'd drawn on the paper.
“I see you got my note!” she squeaked with pride. “I've seen you getting pinchy-pinchies all day! Nice to know everyone agrees!” She then begins giggling and snorting cutely, like a younger sister whose adorable little prank worked on an older sibling.
You are at a complete loss for words. Pinkie Pie is giving you more reasons to scratch your head every time you look at her. She does the strangest things, acts in the weirdest ways, and never seems to stop giggling or smiling.
Even when her behavior could be misconstrued as harassment.
There's another brief pause, something that gets awkwardly common with the two of you, and the silence breaks with Pinkie once again asking, “You know what's fun?”
“Please, don't . . .”
“WEDGIES!!”
“PINKIE!” you scream over her, and she freezes in place again, looking at you in surprise. You sigh in exasperation and ask her to shut up and listen for just a few minutes.
It takes a few seconds to register, but her response seems positive, “Okie-dokie, Lokie!” She stands up straight and grins at you, the stretching of her face almost seeming to give off the squeaking sound effect of a rubber toy.
That's when you feel you have to stand firm. You have to find out what's going on inside that bizarre little mind of hers. You take a deep breath, and ask her why she's doing this.
“'Cause wedgies are fun!” Pinkie repeats, adding in a low tone, “and kinda kinky-Pinkie . . .”
You shake your head, interrupting her by saying that that's not it. You bring it to her straight—the pranks, the poking, the noogies, the tickling, the disturbing enthusiasm for wedgies—you ask her what it all means—what it really means.
Pinkie stares at you for a long time, as if she'd been slapped in the face by some creature she'd never before laid eyes on. After another uncomfortable pause, Pinkie's smile returns instantly as she repeats in that same obvious tone:
“'Cause I like you, silly!”
You release a frustrated sigh. You expected this, but it doesn't satisfy your need to understand:
“. . . . Are you serious?”
“Sure!” Pinkie replies, beaming, “I tease you and play around with you, and tickle you and poke you in your cutie-patootie, 'cause it's fun! I love having fun, especially with you! 'Cause I think you're a cutie, and I really like you, and I wanna make you smile!”
You slowly lean back until your back hits the wall behind you; your lack of understanding has now become a lack of a response, and you feel as though you are stunned somehow. She seems like she means it, and you're almost disappointed with yourself over how you could have seen any different meaning. Pinkie may have been obnoxious in the past, but she didn't have some kind of vendetta against you, not in the slightest. On the contrary, she straight-up admitted, multiple times, she'd had a crush on you. You'd always thought she was cute, with kind of a nice little body, but you'd always been put off by her teasing, whether she really liked you or not.
Now that you know for sure, you feel you have to speak your mind here and now. You tell her as gently, yet firmly as you can that you appreciate her feelings and are flattered by them, but you can't stand the teasing anymore. You mention that she needs to be more careful with your feelings if she really does like you, and that you can only respond to her if she takes them into consideration more often.
Pinkie seems to pick up on your distress, but in the wrong way. “Oh . . . . o-okay . . .” she struggles to speak, and as she does, a noticeable change comes over her. Right before your eyes, her pink hair goes from being curly, poofy, and lively, to being straight, limp and lifeless. “You just . . . don't like me . . .” she struggles, sounding depressed and heartbroken. “I understand. I'm sorry. I'll try not to bother you anymore . . .” She then looks down at the ground, turns, and slowly makes her way to the girls' locker room door.
This sight hurts you inside, in a way you hardly expected. You had no idea how emotional Pinkie Pie could be, especially with someone she really likes. “Wait!” you call after her, reaching out a hand to her shoulder. When you touch her, she stops, but doesn't turn. “I never said I didn't like you,” you explain, “I just can't say that I do for sure. Not after all of this.”
You hear Pinkie sniff before she answers, “I . . . I really do like you, you know. I just wanted to make you smile. It's what I love, and it's what I do best, and when you don't smile, how . . . how can I?”
This is a shocking display of emotion to you. You quickly realize that you may have been too hard on Pinkie Pie. Her feelings are genuine, even if she went about displaying them all wrong, and you never considered for a moment how fragile she could be. You realize then that, despite her seemingly inextinguishable glee, she's still human, and has feelings just like anyone else. You also realize that, in your attempt to get Pinkie to consider your feelings, you neglected to consider hers.
“I'm sorry,” you tell her with a low, yet genuine voice, “I . . . I wish I could make this up to you somehow . . .” Slowly, you begin to realize how close you are to Pinkie. Her hair gives off an odd, yet pleasant smell of cotton candy and nachos. Her arms are hanging limply at her sides. Her straight hair gives you a new look at the contours of her shoulders and back, and you are surprised at how attracted you are to them. Her legs are a little shaky and pressed together under her pink party skirt, just one more part of her you are quite entranced by. You are reminded of how cute she is, and she has nothing but the purest intentions for you. Now, you feel privileged to have such a nice—if a little random—girl trying so hard to make your day a little brighter.
Knowing you're still behind her, you are struck with an idea. “Hey,” you whisper in her ear, “you know what's fun?”
“What?”
“WEDGIES!”
Your fingertips sink past her skirt and hook into the waistband of her panties, and you pull with all your might.
“Ooooh!” she squeals, her legs now squeezed together as she waves her arms and wavers on the spot. “OooooOOOOOOooh! OOOH! WHOA! OOOOOooh!” The wedgie seems to be pulling Pinkie's hips and butt in the direction of your grip, putting her in a silly pose. Her toes are now pointed inward, her knees are touching, and she's bending slightly forward a bit more with each second of playful tugging. Just the feel of her hot pink cotton panties, the look of the curve of her backside beneath her skirt, the shrill, sexy sound of her squeals, it all quickly melds your slowly-growing love with your quickly-growing lust.
And Pinkie doesn't seem to object. Rather, she sounds like she's fighting off giggles. In fact, just the act of you yanking against her underwear seems to be driving even her hair wild—it's quickly regaining its lost vibrant bounce.
“Oh! OOOooh! WHOOOOOOOoooooaa! OooooOOOOOOoooooOOOOOH! OUCH!”
Her last sound responds to you letting go of her panties, letting them snap against her butt and back into place; she stands up straight immediately after. She turns around and looks at you with wide eyes, her hands swiftly fly to her back, and she wiggles in place as she slips her hands down her skirt to readjust her panties. All the while, she stares at you with that same shocked stare, as if she had never expected that to happen in a million years.
Finally, her underwear back in place, Pinkie's smile slowly creeps back over her face as she speaks, her voice half-excited, half-aroused, “That was fun . . .”
You agree, adding that she was right before in saying that it was even a little, “kinky-Pinkie”.
Pinkie's smile reaches maximum width, and she releases a loud, high-pitched “SQUEEEEEEE”. She then runs to you, wraps her arms around you, and presses her lips to yours in a sudden, ecstatic frenzy of a kiss.
Your eyes stay open for a few seconds, overwhelmed by Pinkie's sudden passion. But you remember that nothing Pinkie does is entirely predictable, and you find yourself okay with it—you were probably going to kiss her yourself any moment anyway (though, not nearly this suddenly). Your eyes slowly close, and you return her passionate kiss, caressing her hips and brushing your hand against the tip of her lively pink curls behind her. You hold her close, and she squeezes her body against yours. Your hands run over her hips, legs and butt, while hers follow a similar path, but with a much wider, erratic pattern. You hold her warm, tingling body close to you, while her legs wrap around your waist—
You stop when you feel it. You pull your lips away from Pinkie's, and she continues down your face and neck when you try to get her attention, “Uhh . . . Pinkie?”
“Yeah?” She stops kissing you and looks right into your eyes with an excited grin, as if she hadn't just been making out with you. By her tone, she looks ready to lend you a cup of sugar instead of a moment of passion.
“Uhh . . . you're kinda hurting my back . . .”
It's true—in her desire, Pinkie seems to have latched onto you quite tightly, and she appears to have left the floor. Her arms grasp you around the neck, and her legs are wrapped around your waist, as if her body has clamped down on yours.
Pinkie glances down at the floor, then looks back at you with a blush and an alluring smile. “Guess I just got carried away,” she says coyly. A few seconds before her legs unravel from around you, you feel yet another pinch to your backside, and you glance behind you for a second—remembering a second too late that Pinkie's arms are still wrapped around your neck.
“Was that . . . . were those your toes?”
Pinkie's grin widens and she bites her lip in a mischievous manner. You look down as her feet touch the floor, and see that her boots are still on. Your confusion is strong, as it usually is with Pinkie and her seemingly impossible hi-jinx. But after a short pause, in which you find yourself charmed by Pinkie's flirty face, you shrug, throw logic out the window, and sink into another kiss with the cute little party girl. Her arms are still around your neck, and your hands fly to her thighs, giving her a tickle and making her giggle. Your hands slowly slide up her skirt, and she gives a sexy squeal, “OOOoooooh!”
Finally, after a few seconds of finagling and finessing, Pinkie pulls her lips off of yours long enough to gasp and glance down at her ankles. She looks back up at you with that same mischievous grin, a devilish glint in her eyes. “Why, you silly banana, that's not a wedgie,” she scolds you playfully, continuing in a low, lusty voice:
“My undies are supposed to go up, not down . . . .”
Applejack passes by the cafeteria on her way out, and catches a sight in the corner of her eye. She looks out to a table, and sees her friend Rarity standing next to it, her crush standing right next to her. A busy hand finds and pinches her backside, and she turns, an amorous look on her face, before she receives a kiss. Next to her, sitting in a chair, is Fluttershy—or rather, she's sitting in the lap of the chair's occupant. They glance at the kissing pair standing next to them, Fluttershy blushes and snuggles up, and she, too, receives a passionate kiss.
“That's my girls,” Applejack says to herself proudly, glad that things are working out for them. She feels a little jealous that they had each had someone in their lives, but on the plus side, their attempts to find love had been successful. That was reason enough to be happy for them, and it was more than enough to push away petty envy fairly easily.
Remembering that the farm hand position interviewees would start coming by the farm today, Applejack presses on, eager to get that business done. She hopes she doesn't bump into Rainbow Dash again; she'd seemed terribly upset earlier when she'd seen her. Of course, she'd had business of her own, and Applejack smiles to herself as she imagines what it could be. After all, even Dash never got that angry over some game or competition.
And after all, what other reason would she have to chase someone all over the school?
