Love Salad Surgery

A Convenient Peace
by News Hound

Of all the things that unsettle me about the tenuous peace we have formed with the changelings, the greatest is this: it has happened too easily.

Their race was one of secrecy. Any written account of them from the last era was filed under ‘legend’, any sighting discredited as the talk of a fraud or a madmare. Even after the attack on Canterlot, they remained invisible to soldier and citizen alike, save for the unspoken whisper from stranger to stranger that asked “are you one of them?”. Fear turned to distrust, distrust turned to anger; the populace stirred itself into a frenzy while the changelings watched from afar.

Now, apropos of nothing, a new king has come forward, bearing a calm smile and speaking as though the last few years were no more than a dream. He sat with our diarchs as would any foreign dignitary, and a new relationship was forged with nary a drop of blood spilt. The exact details of the treaty are known only to the princesses, but we understand this much: there will be no reparations, but no war, either.

From the furtive glances I shared with those in the palace yesterday, the meaning is obvious: peace has become convenient to the changelings, and will continue for only as long as it so remains.

⁂

The newspaper sat on the breakfast table, stance unshifting under the gaze of the three alicorns above it. They each wore a different expression, having had the article read aloud; Twilight’s face was filled with dismay, Celestia’s with contempt (undermined somewhat by her continuing to chew her pancakes), and Luna’s with what could only be described as deadpan indifference.

Twilight was the first to speak. “How can they write this!? This is–”

“To be expected, I am afraid,” Celestia finished curtly.

“Indeed. I recall hearing similar things said upon my return,” Luna observed, jabbing ineffectually at her breakfast.

“You don’t seem all that upset, Luna.”

“I assure you, Twilight, I am utterly enraged,” Luna responded in a monotone that would have had Maud Pie stoically nodding in approval. “Incidentally, try not to look directly at the newspaper. My sister is attempting to set it aflame with her gaze alone.”

Twilight blinked. “Has that ever happened?”

“Once,” Luna stated plainly. “The sunglass was invented shortly afterwards.”

“It’s almost slander,” Celestia spat, “but there isn’t much we can do. No matter how well this visit goes, they’ll find a way to make it sound like we’re about to go to war.”

“Indeed. Kindly pass the horoscopes; I wish to sneer at them.”

Celestia complied, leaving Twilight to pour over the editorial. “And what do they mean about peace being ‘convenient’?”

“Think of it like a friendship problem,” Celestia suggested brightly. “A very, very big friendship problem...”

“Friendship between who? These ponies have never even met the changelings!”

“But of course. They read the papers, and learn that the changelings should be avoided, and that the only credible source of information is but a subscription away. How convenient for business,” Luna said, eyes fixed on her section. “Hmm. Apparently, a great discomfort will cause me to grow as a pony. Sister, are these berries underripe again?”

“Well, what if they did?” Celestia pressed, steadfastly ignoring her sister. “Is there something the changelings could do here in Canterlot?”

“You would have our esteemed guests caper for the amusement of the nobility? Hardly a way to start the relationship on an even hoofing.”

“I don’t hear you suggesting anything,” Celestia shot back.

Luna shrugged. “Simply wait it out. The more of these visits that happen without incident, the more this fearmongering will be seen for what it is.”

“There would have to be a reason for those visits, though. Twilight, you said Ms. Fey had plenty to teach you. Perhaps you could arrange some interviews over a period of time? It would be a good show of how peace could benefit us.”

“How utterly benevolent of you, sister. I’m sure Ms. Fey approves.”

“Well, we don’t have to put it to her like that…”

“Too late,” Luna sang.

“What?” Celestia’s eyes darted around. “She isn’t at the door, is she?”

“No,” Luna answered calmly. “I believe she is, in fact, the fruit selection.”

In response to which, the bowl at the center of the table burst into flames, spraying the room with an assortment of projectile citrus fruits. A second later, the changeling in question stood proud upon the table, mane dotted with pistachio shells and an unfortunate banana speared on her horn.

“Morning, girls!”

“Ms. Fey!” Celestia exclaimed with a start. Then: “Which part of you was I eating just now!?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know...” Fey answered with a wink. “But the answer’s ‘yes’, princess; I’d love to be your guinea pig. Now–” she leapt deftly from the table, shaking herself clean of organic shrapnel and extricating the banana “–what was this about our public image?”

Celestia looked on in disbelief for a half second before closing her mouth and composing herself. “It’s nothing too drastic, Ms. Fey. A small subset of journalists–”

“–Are leaning on hysteria and making it sound like you’re planning another attack.”

“Luna!”

“Well, track record and all that,” Fey said with a casual wave of the hoof. “Anyway, Twilight–” she turned to face the mare in question.

Twilight was sitting motionless, eyes wide open, pupils shrunk to pinpricks, one hoof raised and wings flared in preparation to flee. A strangled noise escaped from her throat.

“Has this–” Fey motioned towards her “–happened before?”

“She might be a moment. Can we take a message?” Luna offered.

“Oh, well, if she could meet us in the library when she’s… y’know?”

“We’ll let her know.”

“Ta. Bye, then!” And with that, she pranced to the door, and was gone.

Celestia stifled a cough. “Well. She seemed… lively.”

“A little more energy to be going on, I suspect,” Luna replied, her attention already returning to her pancakes. “I believe she spent the night at Ember’s.”

“...Ember’s?”

“Oh, like you don’t know.”

⁂

Twilight strode through the lavish corridors of Canterlot Castle on autopilot, eyes glaring at nothing in particular. The various staff who saw her pass took one look at that furrowed brow and knew exactly what it meant. Twilight Sparkle, foremost prodigy of her generation, was utterly consumed by some great mental exercise, and would see neither food nor rest until it was solved. Silently, each of them speculated what great mystery might have so enraptured their princess.

No matter what great question they might have come up with, however, they were all wrong. The great enigma that weighed on Twilight’s mind was, in fact, decorum.

She wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about Fey’s sudden appearance at breakfast. Anger, at the betrayal of her trust and their privacy? Outrage, at the salacious remark she made towards her princess? Indignation, at the fact that she was about to have that banana? She delved into each emotion, like she was trying on a hat, but none of them seemed to settle; as though a stray gust of wind might send them flying, and return her to the state of nonchalance that seemed so very inappropriate.

Those thoughts were enough to occupy her until she approached the north wing, where they were replaced with:

Since when does a library have a guard?

She approached the armoured stallion, who – true to form – stoically ignored her and kept staring forwards.

“Excuse me.”

The guard’s eyes darted to her, as though only just noticing her. He hesitated for a moment before giving a clipped:

“Yes, ma’am?”

That’s ‘yes, Princess’ to you, Twilight mentally chided; but she wasn’t about to demand he rephrase it. Not when there were more important matters at hoof. Such as:

“This library does not have a guard post.”

“Yes it does, ma’am,” the guard countered. “I am a guard, and I am guarding it.” Then, after a moment’s pause: “Ma’am.”

Twilight’s brow dropped like a fluid level. “What, exactly, are you guarding?”

“The books, ma’am.”

“The books,” Twilight echoed.

“You cannot place a price on knowledge, ma’am. I am charged with ensuring that no miscreant makes off with any of the books within.”

“The books in this library are on public loan.”

The guard considered this for a moment. “I am ensuring that the books do not escape. Ma’am.”

“Is there any risk of the books escaping?”

“A very great risk, ma’am. Twenty-hour watch, we have.”

“Guard watches are always stationed in pairs in the castle.”

The guard glanced to the spot at the other side of the door. It was empty. “Of course, ma’am.”

“Then where is your partner?”

“She’s at home with the kids, ma’am.”

Twilight resisted the urge to nurse the headache that she felt approaching. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the changeling delegation, would it?”

“No,” the guard asserted. “Ma’am,” he elaborated.

Twilight snapped. “I’ve had enough of this. What’s your name, guard?”

“Private Browsing, ma’am.”

“Private–” Twilight’s brow flatlined “–Browsing…”

“Yes, ma’am.” With a burst of flame, the guard was gone, and Fey stood in his place, a cocky grin on her face. “Right this way, your highness.”

Shaking her head clear, Twilight watched her disappear into the library. Bracing herself, she followed behind, ready to see chaos behind the door.

What she found was… perfectly orderly. Around the room were changelings of various sizes and shades of neon, some pouring over a book at their hooves, some scanning the shelves. Lounging on a beanbag were two foals (nymphs?), and next to them, buried in a much thicker tome, was King Thorax.

“Look lively, everyling!” Fey barked. “We have royalty!”

At her cue, each face peered up, and there soon followed a flurry of movement; some tried to readjust their posture into something more proper, others determinedly buried their noses back into their reading materials, hoping not to be seen.

In the back of her mind, Twilight was aware that Fey was trying to put her on the spot. But, though she hadn’t realised it, the changeling had crossed a line; one which Twilight would have no compunction in upholding.

“Fey,” she hissed, locking eyes with the changeling, “this is a library.” With a glare she made a zipping motion near her lips.

To her surprise, Fey actually shrunk back at the scolding. “Oh. Sorry,” she replied, voice much softer.

“We’re the only ones here, actually,” came a voice from the other side of the room.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Twilight snapped. “Um, I mean– King Thorax!”

“Just Thorax, Twilight,” he corrected, chuckling. “Not that Fey will let me forget.”

“His Royal Highness decided he needed to read your favourite bedtime story,” Fey faux-whispered to Twilight. Sure enough, the tome in front of him bore the title of Myths and Monsters: A Comprehensive Guide to Equestrian Folklore that is Definitely Not Real.

“Didn’t you say you knew the pony who wrote this, Twilight?”

“Oh, um– yeah!” Twilight replied, smiling a little too much. “Maypole. We used to talk all the time.”

“Used to? Did something happen?”

“No, it’s just…” Twilight scuffed a hoof against the floor. “Over the years, he’s had to remove a few sections. Because of– well, me.”

Thorax flipped to the front of the book. “This is this year’s edition. What did he remove?”

“Oh, y’know…” Twilight rubbed the back of her head, intensely studying the floor. “Just a little section about Nightmare Moon. And Discord. And the Crystal Empire. And, uh… changelings.”

“Really...?” Fey purred.

“Most of it’s still really good!” Twilight hurriedly exclaimed. “There’s still the section about–” she stole a quick glance at the table of contents “–windigoes! They aren’t real!” Then, more softly: “Probably.”

“Well, as amusing as it is to watch you squirm – and might I add, it is – that’s not why I brought you here.”

“Oh?” Twilight looked to Thorax for clarification.

The king drew in a deep breath, centering himself. “I hear from Fey that our visit hasn’t been entirely welcome.”

“That’s–” Twilight deflated like a balloon. “It’s just one article…”

“One article voicing what, I can attest, a number of ponies are thinking,” Fey said. “And if his highness had been willing to let me scout ahead before we rolled right up to your doorstep, I might have been able to find that out without all this happening.”

“As it stands,” Thorax carried on, “we don’t know exactly how to proceed. If our gatherers are ousted for revealing themselves as changelings, we lose our supply of love, and…”

“And we starve,” Fey finished, the jollity gone from her voice. “Unless we know that we’ll be accepted in our own forms, we can’t come out of the shadows.”

“But unless you come out of the shadows, there’s no chance of being accepted,” Twilight realised. “It’s a catch twenty-two.”

“We can sustain ourselves for now – just – but it leaves us vulnerable. We need another to speak on our behalf.” And there, Thorax’s gaze came to rest squarely on Twilight.

“M-me?” Twilight squeaked. “I don’t know if I can represent an entire race…”

“Twilight, trust me–” Fey put a comforting hoof on Twilight’s withers, and locked her with a sympathetic gaze “–you can’t.”

“...What.”

“Legally. A princess cannot also be the official representative of a foreign power, after all.” Fey smirked. “That, and you tend to freeze up when someling steals your banana.”

Thorax blinked. “Uh, Fey? There are nymphs present.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Twilight pressed, trying to fight the blush coming to her cheeks.

“Just as Celestia said; we arrange a few meetings so that interaction between us is known, and in between them, you go about your business while showing the world how not-drained-of-love you are. You’ll be our representative, just not officially.”

“I thought you just said you didn’t think I could handle it.”

“That’s what we’ll be teaching you. Well, I say ‘we’–” Fey spared a glance at Thorax “–some of us could do with learning a little camera sense.” She turned back to Twilight. “So, what’cha say?”

It took her only a second to think about it. “Yes.”

Fey tilted her head. “Yes? That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Twilight asserted. “I want to help you and this seems like a good way to do it.”

The changeling sat on her haunches, the wind taken out of her wings. “Huh. Y’know, I had this whole thing ready for when you um’d and ah’d over it.” For an instant, Twilight could swear she saw a pout. “But we’ll skip past that! You need training, and we have the means.” She rapped her hoof against the floor, and the two nymphs sprang to her side.

Twilight arched an eyebrow. “What are you teaching me, exactly?”

“The art of counter-journalism,” Fey answered grandly. “You must be able to answer the demands of the press, no matter their questions.”

Twilight regarded the children. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Fey demanded.

“I assumed you’d be trying to make me freeze up again.”

“Well, if that’s what you want–”

“I’ll take the nymphs.”

“Very well. Bairn, Pruri; your questions, please.”

“You’ve prepped them, haven’t you?”

“Nope,” Fey answered brightly. “Journalists may be trained in the art of asking difficult questions, but children are its masters.”

She couldn’t exactly argue with that.

“Well, lil’lings,” Fey prompted, “have you anything to ask our princess?”

Twilight tensed, mentally compiling a list of every difficult question that they might conceive and ways that she might–

“What are windigoes?” asked one.

The list was promptly abandoned.

“Wh- windigoes?” Twilight echoed. “Oh, they’re mythical creatures that feed on hate and fear...” She launched into a summary of the Hearthswarming Pageant; ending with: “and that’s how Equestria was made!”

“Founded,” corrected someone. She quickly realised it was herself.

It was only now that she noticed Fey’s expression. The changeling was sat on her side, legs neatly folded as she listened. Her face was unnervingly calm, and when she noticed Twilight’s gaze, it turned into a knowing smile.

Just wait, it said.

“So, windigoes get stronger the more negative emotions there are around them?” Pruri summarised.

“Exactly!”

“Kind of like changelings?”

“...What?”

“Yeah, like how changelings feed on love and friendship, but the other way around. Hey, Miss Princess, do you think changelings could feed on fear as well?”

The colour drained from Twilight’s face, just as Fey’s gained a Cheshire grin. Thorax had– had turned into one of the books. Presumably the one that was sweating.

“Well,” she floundered, “we don’t actually know much about how changelings gather love…”

“Aww,” the nymphs moaned in unison. “But aren’t you supposed to be the really smart princess who knows everything?”

“Well, some things I–” she stopped mid-sentence. The nymphs waited with baited breath. Fey retained her smug sense of schadenfreude.

That is, until Twilight gained a grin of her own.

“You see, kids,” she began, “the relationship between ponies and changelings is still very new, and there’s a lot we don’t know about each other. But it would be a great benefit to Equestria if we could learn, and if someling were to volunteer…”

⁂

“I’ve gotta admit, I’m impressed,” Fey muttered as she was led down the corridor. “You turned the tables on that one pretty well.”

“It’s something Princess Celestia always does; instead of admitting something is in a poor state, emphasise how you’re working to improve it.” Twilight paused mid-stride. “Now that I say it out loud, that sounds…”

“Cynical?” Fey offered.

“Princess Celestia isn’t cynical!”

“Oh, I know. It’s just a pity every politician from here to Dodge Junction tries to act like her.” She shrugged at Twilight’s pointed glare. “What? Everyone in office tries to put a positive spin on what they’re doing. They just realise they’re talking out of their–”

“You’re saying she’s naive,” Twilight growled, unconsciously increasing her pace.

“I’m saying she just invited a squad of changelings into the heart of her kingdom without even being sure they had peaceful intent.”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“Very well. Shall we talk about what experiments you’re going to perform on me once you have me in your dungeon?”

For some reason, this simple question necessitated Twilight to remove her face from the floor to which it had been planted.

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” came her muffled response.

“Of course not. It’s a good excuse to get away from the nymphs, though.” Fey turned back to waggle her eyebrows at Twilight. “I imagine you have some questions that you don’t want kids hearing.”

“I hadn’t,” Twilight replied, picking herself up, “but I get the feeling they’ll be answered anyway.”

⁂

The Science Dungeon of Canterlot was not officially named as such; during Twilight’s years as Celestia’s student, the increasing likelihood that a spell or potion would blow up in her face required her to conduct part of her research from inside a secure location. Hence, a basement floor chiselled from the rock of Mount Canterlot had been repurposed to suit her needs. While the young student had insisted upon the aforementioned name, those who heard the tremors resulting from her experiments would simply refer to it as “The Twilight Zone”.

Fey drank the room in as she was led down the steps. On the treads of the stairs were echoes of years-old giddiness; on the risers, the scent of weary satisfaction, with the occasional splash of frustration. At the base, the walls were lined with workbenches bearing Bunsen burners, racks of laboratory glassware, and seismometers measuring… something.

“The problem is that we won’t have anything to go on; we could never figure out how to quantify ‘love’, much less detect it,” Twilight said, almost to herself. “Any ideas?”

“Nope. Like I said, we didn’t have any textbooks on the subject; we just learned by example.” Fey watched Twilight pace around the room. “So, if you don’t have a theory, where are you going to start?”

“Oh,” Twilight replied nonchalantly, “I’m going to measure everything.” It wasn’t until she realised that Fey hadn’t responded that she turned to see the changeling looking at her like she’d grown a second horn. “Hey, I’ve done it before.”

“I… see.”

“Right!” With that cry, the seismometer rattled into life, with Twilight stood to one side. “We just need to establish a control, and then we can get started.”

“Works for me. So, how are you going to produce love? Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I’ll ask you to transform into one of my friends in just a moment,” Twilight responded, ignoring the bait. “Okay, most of the readings have settled on an average. We can move on to see what happens when I approach you in your own form.” With that, she stepped into the center of the room. “So… feel anything?”

“Lots. Changelings can detect more than just love, you know.”

“Oh, of course. That’s going to make this difficult, then.”

“Not if we focus on a single emotion.” It took all of a glance at Fey for Twilight to realise.

“I… suppose we should talk about that. If we’re going to learn about you.” For a moment, she took an interest at the floor, before her head suddenly jerked back up. “Actually, wait. You’ve been acting weird all morning. Why?”

Fey grinned at the diversion, but didn’t object. “I wanted to see how you reacted when ponies tried to get under your skin. You’ve got a sharp tongue on you, when you think to use it.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Oh, nothing; if you never have to, say, hold your own in a hard interview.” Twilight’s shoulders slumped. Fey continued: “You need to hold your own when someone tries to back you into a corner, Twilight.”

“I know. It’s just… hard to get out of that mindset.”

“Keep your objectives in mind. Don’t let them get you stuck on a tangent. So, when a certain alicorn tries to keep me from talking about my… skills–” and Twilight couldn’t have missed the emphasis she placed on that word “–it’s just a case of sticking to that lovely little subject.”

Twilight tried – and failed – to keep her expression constant. Finally, she sighed. With a flare of her horn, the seismometer was silenced, and the room returned to its prior stillness.

“No point in measurements until I know what I’m looking for,” she reasoned aloud.

Fey nodded, gesturing with a hoof for Twilight to sit across from her. When she complied, the changeling tilted her head upwards, closed her eyes, and… remained sat as she was.

It was a minute before Twilight decided to break the silence. “So… you were going to tell me–”

“About how I gather love, yes.” Fey opened her eyes, her face a picture of still contentment. Twilight couldn’t help but think of how many times she had seen Celestia wear that smile, as though relishing the simple act of waiting for a pot of tea to brew. “I thought a practical demonstration might be in order, in part.”

“A practical?” Twilight echoed. “You’re not–”

“No. Not unless–” a glare answered the question before it could be finished. “Well, then. This usually takes a while, but since I don’t have to worry about being noticed, I can push a little harder.” She raised a hoof before Twilight could inquire further. “Just breathe deep. Tell me what you feel.”

Twilight emptied her lungs, and drew in a full breath. When nothing made itself evident, she repeated the action; her eyelids slowly closed as she settled into a calming, steady series of–

“Pheromones,” she realised aloud.

“Yes. It depends on the pony, but the effect is usually calming. Also dulls the mind, unless you fight it.”

“It’s… nice,” Twilight observed. Silently, she noted how easy it was to simply relax, even with the promise of fresh knowledge in front of her.

Fey hummed in affirmation. “Enjoy it. We have all the time in the world to go through this.”

And she did. Twilight allowed her mind to slow, basking in the rare pleasure of doing nothing. With no clock in earshot, there was no way of knowing if the seconds themselves hadn’t become languid. She breathed deep of the fluid calm; the indulgent stillness.

A soft voice came from above her. “So many ponies never give themselves the chance to relax. Their lives are a constant deluge of events, whether they be for the mare to set in motion, or to react to.”

There it was. Knowledge. That blissful, comforting tone that set her so at happiness. Twilight latched onto it, hanging on every word.

“So, when rest is imposed on a pony, her first response is to resist; to cling to the sense of busyness and productivity. But with persistence, she enters a state of which she is unfamiliar. The sense of peaceful slowness is disarming, and the uninitiated find it all too easy to simply… relax.”

The word hung in the air, as the speaker paused for emphasis. It lingered in Twilight’s mind, as she patiently awaited yet more of that melodic monologue.

“With relaxation comes suggestion; with careful placement and repetition, a word can be emphasised so that it carries greater meaning. When a mare is suggestible, she may be told to relax. And she will do so, because the word has become a suggestion.” A warm, downy wing settled over Twilight’s back in a familiar embrace. With a hum of contentment, she nuzzled into it.

“Context begins to fade. It becomes easy to focus on the now; to not question circumstances. With that in place, a sequence of suggestions can draw the listener to any desired thought or feeling. Each suggestion must simply be a short progression from the next, so that no one leap of logic is too great.

“A suggestion can be stated, or conveyed by instating a new context over the existing one. It is easier to draw the listener into a situation with which they are already familiar; by implementing certain characteristics of the situation, the listener will assume that the situation as a whole is in effect.”

“Simulacra theory…” Twilight murmured.

“Very good, my faithful student.”

Now, Fey may have been expecting one of any number of responses from Twilight at that phrase. A swell of pride at the praise, a whiff of nostalgia for an old epithet… but she was not expecting the alicorn to moan.

It immediately occurred to her how perilous it was to continue; how much trust, from so many influential ponies, stood to be lost if she continued to tread this sensitive path. She knew full well what her king would have wanted her to do…

And she also knew a source of great banter when she saw it.

The changeling breathed deep of the emotions that had sprung forth at the phrase. Sure enough, there was the oaky wine of a pony in subspace, free of concerns about the outside world, the day that had just been; anything but the thought of their master.

It was enough, certainly, for her to be going on.

“Twilight, I’d like you to open your eyes.”

She did so. Her gaze was glassy, even delirious, as she looked up at her mentor with unrestrained affection; not unlike a pet, awaiting the command of its owner.

Fey smiled down at her through a coat of white fur. “I’d like you to tell me what you were doing when you came in here, Twilight.”

Twilight blinked slowly as she tore her gaze away, glancing to a shadowed corner of the roof in the left of her vision. “I was coming down here with Fey,” she said at an even keel. “We were going to talk about…” She trailed off, eyes widening as realisation dawned. She paused for just a moment, before exclaiming:

“Oh.”

“Indeed,” Fey replied, still in the voice and visage of Celestia, “so you can see how one can be brought into a more suggestible state. Once there, they are unlikely to question the proposal of some company for the night.”

Twilight cringed. “Could you not talk about that while looking like… her? It feels weird.”

“Oh?” Fey asked in as innocent a tone as she could muster. “And why is that, my faithful student?”

For the second time that day, Twilight completely froze in place. Fey resisted the urge to blink.

“You know,” she finally replied. “Oh Celestia, you know.”

“I had my suspicions,” Fey said casually. “It was Luna who confirmed them for me.”

“She told you?”

She shrugged. “It’s funny how much ponies will divulge when they think you already know.”

Twilight frowned. “You tricked her.”

“And then she bade me pry as I pleased. Not sure why, but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that you’re in love with a pony you can’t even bring yourself to hear talking dirty.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Twilight demanded.

“Everything. If you can’t bring yourself to accept that your lover has flaws and desires just as you do, then who are you in love with? Princess Celestia… or just Celestia?”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that. What makes you think you know more about her than I do?”

“Because you haven’t seen her like I have.” Fey’s smile turned predatory on Celestia’s face in a way Twilight had never seen before. It rooted her to the spot. “Tell me, Twilight, when you make love to your princess, are you ever… on top?”

“I– no, I’m not.”

“Always the subordinate. Always the student,” she stated. “Too afraid to even consider anything else.” Twilight made to reply, but she cut her off again. “Look at me, Twilight. If you’re not afraid, then look at your mentor.”

Twilight said nothing, but closed her mouth, meeting Fey with a hard gaze. At the unspoken signal, ‘Celestia’ sat couchant in front of Twilight, then lowered her head so that she was gazing up at her. Her eyes suddenly became half-lidded and glazed as they brimmed with–

Twilight should have had to tense every muscle in her neck to keep from looking away… but she couldn’t. The sight before her was utterly transfixing.

“Please, Twilight…” ‘Celestia’ crooned in a soft, longing tone, “fuck me.”

The room fell silent. Twilight sat, staring wide-eyed at the figure prostrated before her, the mewling plea echoing in her ears. It was only the wave of emerald fire that returned Fey to her own self that broke the spell.

“Hmm. Not the reaction I was expecting, I have to say,” she remarked, casually checking her hoof. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you rather enjoyed hearing that.”

“Ridiculous,” Twilight stated, all emotion filtered from her voice. “Like Celestia would ever act like that. Like she would ever be so… so–”

“Desperate? Oh, Twilight,” Fey chuckled.

“Let me tell you a story…”