Shivered Timbers' Sexty Minute Ponies

Celebrating You
by Shivered Timbers

(Prompt: Scootaloo hooks up with an older mare, not Rainbow Dash.)

"Miss Cheerilee?"

A familiar voice raises to the surface memories that have not breathed air in over a decade.

"Can it be?" She turns, smiles, eyes widen in surprise as the face matches the voice. It's older, filled out, but still bright-eyed, determined, wild. "Scootaloo!"

"Hello, Miss Cheerilee!" The younger mare in her exuberance embraces her elder, nearly knocks her off her hooves. They laugh, hug tightly. The older mare holds her at arm's length to get a good look at her. How time changes a filly.

"Whatever brings you back to Ponyville?"

"I had some time and wanted to visit old friends. I've already seen Apple Bloom and the others; I wanted to save the best for last."

A laugh at the notion of being 'the best'. "You flatter me!"

"I mean it." That smile suggests a mare who has been searching for quite some time for a reason to smile so wide. "Are you free right now? Oh, please say yes! I was hoping we could catch up!"

She casts a quick glance to her shopping list. This does not go unnoticed. A nod will do for a shrug.

"I suppose I am! Anything for... an old friend."

They go to a café. The younger one orders alcohol with practiced nonchalance and the first crack forms in the image of the pegasus filly with tiny wings. The older one decides not doing the same would be awkward, but finds she's lost her taste for it. Her drink, nursed to sweating, becomes an offering to the younger's headlong tumble into drunkenness. She orders a third after that.

Drinking does not preclude talking, however. She feels she has little to offer besides the mundanities of life in a community that is growing, but nevertheless rural. Small town trends are simply small in comparison to the jet-setting of a world traveler, the glamour of fame, the heights of tall buildings in big cities and their lofty occupants. A long and winding trail is talked across and beyond Equestria, and she finds herself caught up in a longing she had thought long dead.

There is no trick nor trap to Ponyville. One does not go there to stagnate and die alone. It simply has a slower life than that of the coastal cities, or even the regal capitol. Yet now, like a filly taking her first steps beyond her mother's protective shadow, she cannot imagine what life had ever had in store for her from within confines she had never been asked to look beyond. Starry-eyed, she is now the eager youngster seated before the teachings of the wizened sage.

"And that's why I just had to see you, Miss Cheerilee."

"I think we're both old enough that you needn't call me 'Miss' anymore." What had she just said? Goodness, but that should be addressed. "But... I don't understand."

"Cheerilee, then." The lopsidedness of the smile suggests mirth more than inebriation. "Don't you see, Cheerilee? If it hadn't been for you, I never would have gotten as far as I have. After my friends, even Rainbow Dash..." She hiccups. It's cute. "None of them could handle what happened to me and they just said things to make me feel better. But you?"

She leans forward, nearly loses her balance as the chair tips sideways. Tiny wings flare to keep her balance, a remembrance that part of the filly from yesteryear will never vanish. Now her face is flushed, eyes drop to the side. The hooves tap together ever so faintly, again and again.

"You always knew what to say. And it's what you said to me all those years ago that gave me the kick in the flank I needed to get over my problems and look at what I could do instead of what I couldn't."

She wracks her brain, but the dust has grown too thick, paths through the cobwebs no longer lead anywhere unnecessary for the daily life of a spinster schoolmarm. Somewhere in there, an orange filly is straining to see her. "What did I say?"

A murmur. "Lean closer, I'll whisper it."

They both lean in, and she does whisper, but the phrase in this context makes no sense. Then there is the sensation of gentle lips pressing against hers. It is so fleeting a moment, so ethereal, such a violation of all her expectations, of her beliefs, that she cannot be certain it has happened.

"I thought it was high time I came back and showed you how much I appreciated you. What you did for me." The eyes still have not raised to meet her own. "I can only think of one way, the only way to really show you what you mean to me. Cheerilee."

The name is added as an afterthought, as though she might be afraid the older mare has wandered off, lost in the clouds or the crowds, or the myriad market stalls hawking their wares, shouts breaking concentration like hammers. Singled out, like an iceberg, her name rises to her and informs her of just what she has missed.

That she would even suggest such a thing, that there is no better way to show appreciation; what's become of her? All those tales of fame and fortune fade into a dirtied sheet, a hotel room, muffled moans in the night.

"I couldn't... What are you saying?"

The eyes raise, and with them, moisture. "I love you, Cheerilee. Please."

In the cobwebs, the filly rears her head. Voices shout at her, beg her, implore her. It's wrong!

"We're both adults," she persists, "you said it yourself. You've taught me so much, but you're no longer my teacher. I just want this one time with you. It would mean everything to me."

Can she possibly say no? Or yes? There is a cold numbness, like shock from hitting the water after breaking through ice. Her body moves in two directions at once and her eyelids are heavy.

"You're drunk."

"Yes. But I still wanted this when I was sober."

No words come. She stands.

This hotel room is clean. Its sheets are clean. They are neatly folded, and white because they have not yet been sullied. They are a blank canvas, awaiting the potential screamed out in the silence ahead of her. She still feels like something is pressing against her, holding her back.

"You can always say no."

Having come this far, how can she? She shuffles across the carpeting, beige and dull, deposits her bags on the floor along the way and herself on the bed, like she is the empty sack. The springs creak as a weight approaches from behind her, and then there is kissing against her neck, hooves on her chest, the scent and warmth of a body nearby.

"I'm too old." Even in her ears, it sounds fake, unsure of itself.

A purr. "You're never too old. If I'm the only one who tells you you're beautiful, the world is full of cowards and liars."

Hot breath in her ear forces her eyes closed. The words creep on, husky, filling the room.

"With age comes wisdom, and with wisdom, beauty. It's what life's taught me. Wisdom and beauty should be celebrated." A kiss upon her ear, another on her cheek. "I'm celebrating you, Cheerilee."

Her name should not be spoken so, not by this mare. It is a blasphemy, an upset of the natural order of things. Yet the anticipation of breaking taboo is more thrilling than the fantasy of living in splendor. Her body gives in, the touches increase in daring. She has not even touched herself in this way in quite a long time. She thought she was too old.

A warm flower awakens within her, and she is on her back, sampling the other mare as she herself is sampled. No thought fills her head save the here, the now, the lick, the touch, the kiss, the pleasure, the pleasure, the pleasure.

Yes.

Hot weight presses her down into the comforter, flattens her not to diminish her but to spread her out, to make there be more of her, to make her malleable, to be shaped by carnal elation into a new form. The youth of the heart grows outward, fed by the youth of the lover. Entranced, she forgets herself, and lives.

Yes!

The taste is adventure, the exotic. No apple smells so sweet, no river so salty, no snowfall so clean. Ripples spread out from her end to her center and rejoin her limbs, echo through the fabric of her being. That center coalesces, emerges, bursts forth, from the tight cocoon into showers of light and sound, overwhelming.

Oh, yes!

Moaning turns to panting, turns to turning and kissing and tongues and juices and spit and caresses and love. No prompting is needed for her partner to celebrate her once more; she is well versed in these matters. Again the fireworks resound within her, for each stroke is masterfully wrought, the paintbrush filled, yes, with love. What a love she had sought and thought unfit for her, or she unfit for it. To find it here...

When the bursting has calmed, the seas settled, the bed stained and wrinkled, the sheet like fog; when the limbs entwine and hold them close, she thinks. What has she done? It was not illegal. Was it immoral? Beyond the realm of judgments, it was entirely worthwhile. Something inside her has opened; the student now the teacher has returned to share the lesson once shared with her, and it has blossomed from the sharing.

Yet there is something missing. Something is wrong. She lies on her back, clutching the frail form that whimpers in sleep, that shivers despite her warmth, and cries, silently. Scootaloo, what have they made you do? You cannot mend such a break with these acts. How many mares have you said that to? How many believed you? Even if you love me, I will never be who you need me to be.

With unsaid well-wishes, she extricates herself, folds the top sheet, tucks it in. With footsteps silent as death, she retrieves her bags, opens the door, closes it, braces it so that only the tiniest click sounds in the room. There are so many cracks in the image the filly can no longer be seen, yet she's there.

With shame creeping into her features, regret clawing at her heart, she leaves, and loneliness fills the quiet emptiness in her wake.