God damn do you hate Wednesdays.
You wipe sweat from your brow as you take the final left before you get to your apartment. It’s been a long day of hard labor and it’s finally time to go home. Thank the weirdly tall horse gods. Work on the Apples’ farm has made you feel every single muscle in your body, and a few you didn’t even know you had. In particular there’s this one by your groin that you’ve never noticed before. You’ve decided to name that muscle “Ted” because why not.
To be honest, you feel like a mess, and the only thing for it is to kick back with a beer and pretend that you don’t have to get up at 6AM the next day, and that there are still two more days of work before the weekend. Damn your dextrous fingers and their apple-picking abilities. You might even take off your pants if you're feeling particularly sweaty and air out the ol' mutton dagger. Farm work can get it pretty disgusting after a while.
You open the door to your small apartment and trudge in, kicking off your muddy boots by the front mat. With a practiced flick of your wrist, you turn on the light and…
A pair of large, pale blue eyes stare up at you from the floor in the middle of the room.
They blink at you. You blink back.
Then, your tired body catches up with your panicking brain and you leap backwards a few feet with a startled yelp. The coatrack by the door crashes over and you scrabble for balance with your back against the door. Jesus christ, how did a pony get inside your house? And who…
Oh.
It’s Fluttershy. No surprise there.
Since you got here, Fluttershy has been hard to pry away from you. It’s obvious that she has a thing for you, though you don’t know why, considering there’s basically no reason for it and it’s not supported by any context clues in the plot of this story at all. Either way, she has been clinging to your leg, trying to trick you into kissing her and, most of all, trying to get you to fuck her. As in, flashing her buttery vagina in your face, making constant sexual innuendo, and constantly asking what your fetish is. In fact, you’ve woken up to find her unzipping your pants more than once in the last few months. And she'd almost gotten your dick into her mouth, but you slapped her away with it the moment you woke up. Unfortunately, she kind of seemed to like that.
She’s cute and all, with the big cartoony eyes and completely illogically sized wings, but horses are not for sexual. Besides, her obsession with you is kind of a little really very creepy.
You let out an exasperated sigh and you feel your muscles finally relax around you.
“H-hi there!” she stutters out, seeming not to notice that you’re still regaining color and that your chest is still heaving from momentary panic.
“Fluttershy, how the fuck did you get in here?”
She shrugs at you.
Oh…I just asked Twilight to let me in. She has a skeleton key to every home in Ponyville.”
File that under frightening things to do something about later, focus on this situation first.
“Okay well…uh…leave?”
She looks hurt at your words, but you long ago stopped feeling any pity for this pony, or the countless others who seem to invade your personal space at will. They might not all be trying to fuck you, but they're just somehow everywhere! If Pinkie every pops up through your toilet again, you swear to god, you’ll have to sue the water company or something.
“Are…you sure?” she asks.
“Pretty sure, it’s been a long day. Leave.”
“B-but-”
“Out.”
“B-but-”
You move towards her to push her out the door by force, and she backs away with a quick step. She doesn't look like she'll put up much of a fight, though she may try to make it so that it seems like a bondage scene. Never mind that, you just have to grab her and-
“Booze!” she suddenly blurts out.
You freeze.
She has your attention.
Probably knowing that she’s finally done something right, Fluttershy rushes on, blushing profusely all the while.
“Well, I know you always drink beer, but I figured you were sick of it, and so I got you something stronger…like what you used to have on earth and I though, maybe, we could drink together while you relax?”
Your heart warms a little, as if someone was gently coating it in Bengay.
“What sort of alcohol are we talking here?”
“…scotch?”
If she wasn’t a pony, you might actually consider banging her on the spot. Never mind the home invasion, never mind the fact that she seems to know your daily schedule right down to what you drink, and never mind that she came to your place of business and asked if she could help you “relax your fingers” via sucking on them. Right now, she’s a pretty okay dude. You hesitate, then nod approvingly.
“Okay, Scotch it is. You can stay. For one glass.”
She lights up.
“You mean it??”
“One. Glass. Only.”
She nods fervently.
“Of course, of course! Here let me pour you a glass and we can sit down and you can tell me about your day!”
"Don't push it."
"O-okay, sorry."
You sit back in your worn, favorite chair and watch as the pony goes to your kitchen counter. As you follow her motions, she lifts a large, glass bottle with the number 18 stenciled on it in gold, and pulls off a white ribbon she's put around it so that it looks like a gift. You can’t see the brand, but you know damn well that it’s got to be a single malt. Well aged. Probably in a sherry cask, or at least you hope so. It's what you love the most, and you're somehow sure that she's gone out of her way to make sure everything is perfect.
As she uses her teeth to pull the cork, with a twist and pop so satisfying that it's akin to the sound of a woman moaning your name during sex, you feel your heart skip a beat. You smell a rich, warm, caramel-charcoal aroma waft across the room to your nostrils. It caresses you, seductively, and you let out a sigh of wanting.
All at once, you can’t help but feel a certain gratitude, a certain adoration of the little yellow pegasus. The demure way she stands there, the way she holds the bottle so gingerly. There’s a sway in her hips, a soft affection in her gaze. She's even being so polite that she's keeping her pussy covered with her tail, which is unusual for her. Usually she'd be spreading that shit for you in a heartbeat, no matter what you would try to do to stop her.
Maybe…maybe you’ve been wrong about her. Sure she’s aggressive, but maybe you should give her a chance. It could be that she’s just trying to liquor you up right now and then jump on your dick once you’re half passed out, but...you love scotch. She took the time to find that out, because she cares about you. Someone here finally cares about you. You feel a pang of sorrow over the way you’ve treated her.
You nod to yourself as you make a decision. Yes, tonight, you’ll give her a hug, maybe a long, passionate kiss. You’ll let her cling to you, cuddle the warmth of your body, and say nice things to her as you drink together by the firelight. And then, late at night, you’ll show her the full depth of your thankfulness by finally allowing her to-
Fluttershy drops a pair of ice cubes into the glasses and begins to pour the scotch over them.
Your mind stops functioning. Your heart goes cold in our chest, like the icy-hot part of the Bengay is finally kicking in.
She just poured 18 year old single malt scotch over ice.
Wordlessly, you stand and walk over to the mare. She smiles at you at first, then looks bewildered as you snatch the bottle from her. You stroke it with one finger, lovingly, and lean your face close to it.
“I promise baby, she won’t hurt you anymore,” you whisper.
Then, you set the bottle down and grab Fluttershy around the middle. She struggles to protest, but you’ll have none of it. She cries for you to wait, but before she can stop you, you open the door and toss her unceremoniously out of your house. You glare at her bedraggled form, blinking up at you in confusion from the ground.
“You’re a monster,” you tell her.
Then you slam the door behind you and return to the much-mistreated bottle of scotch. Not now, not in a million years are you ever going to let that dumb horse get the D now.
Clearly she has a problem with alcohol abuse.
-End-
Author's Note
I have a fever. I started writing. I don't know why. This exists now. It has no point, no rising action, no purpose other than to exist. Go read Fluttershy Wants In Your Pants. I'm going to go force-feed myself cough drops until I can no longer feel my face.
Hope you enjoyed this.
-Pencil
