Him.
Of all the ponies in the world, it had to be him.
Those complete and utter asshats…
I burst through another cloud as I soar along the coastline, heading south, putting as much distance between me and that stinking party as possible. If anything gets in my way, so be it, but clouds don’t offer the same resistance punching bags do, and especially not when they’re white and wispy, instead of dark and… thundery.
Is that even a word?
I don’t think it is, but whatever; I’m sticking to it. I’m too tired to think of another.
And I’ve been just that ever since this morning. And last night. All because of him and his… Ugh. It hurts just thinking about it. Not emotionally or anything like that — I mean on some deep, metaphysical level.
The way he acted…
The way they acted…
For the love of the all things good and merciful, why did it have to be like that?
Another drowsy wave washes over me, and I blink and shake my head. When that doesn’t work, I stop flapping my wings and let gravity take over, and the sudden feeling of weightlessness snaps me out of the spell for good. Or for now, at least — I’ve lost count of how many times it’s happened since I started, and if this trip takes any longer, I might actually have a pretty serious problem on my hooves.
Thankfully, though, as I pull out from the manoeuvre, the shore takes on a familiar shape, and I realise that, at long last, I’m that much closer to home. Just a few more minutes and I’ll be at the northern point of Horseshoe Bay, and I can finally, finally scratch this incessant little itch and just relax. That’s all I need — a moment to unwind. That’s what the party was meant to be, but then…
I snort and flap a little harder. The sooner I get home, the better.
Busting another cloud, the village of Redcliff comes into view, and I remember part of the reason why I chose to move here.
Like most places in Equestria, ‘quaint’ would be a perfectly acceptable description. To me, though, it deserves a little more praise. Especially now, in the evening, where the surrounding waters turn gold, and dance and ripple with the glinting light of the setting sun. The rose-coloured marble of the cliffs, to which the village owes its name, seem to glow like translucent crystal.
Redcliff itself consists of no more than a couple dozen dwellings, with an old lighthouse at the peak of its gentle slope. It’s a quiet place, a good few minutes’ walking distance between each building, some old, some new, all charming in their own special way.
You never see picket fences in Cloudsdale. Or at least, not unless somepony has way too much time on their hooves. In other words, the antisocial, the lazy, and the lonely.
Well, I’m not sure if get-togethers with that lot will ever be up my alley ever again, but I’m not antisocial, or lazy.
Or lonely.
Sweet stars above, I’m not lonely anymore.
And it’s in that company I wish to find relief.
I spy our house and begin my descent, feeling the air warm as I approach the ground, and all the subtle changes in the wind with my feathertips. I adjust accordingly, smoothing the dive to little more than a gentle glide in a soft breeze, and land with a casual trot on the cobblestone road just outside the fence. White picket, for good measure.
Unfortunately, it seems I’ve arrived at a very inconvenient time; as the rushing air comes to a standstill, the thumping of the stereo makes itself known, and I groan and hang my head. He had to pick now, of all times, to indulge himself. And it’s not even a good song — just bass and noise and all this synthetic trash. It’s enough to make my head feel heavy again, but not with sleep: with annoyance. A bad party, a night awake and almost a full day of flying, and this is the welcome I get?
Out of the frying pan and into the kitchen, I guess, or however that saying goes.
I’ll just have to break a few eggs, then.
I unlatch the gate and march up the stepping stones to the front door. Every hoof forward, the thumping grows louder, and the heaviness in my head pounds with it, like they’re both conspiring against me.
Seriously, how in the world is this crap popular where he’s from? Or even here, in Equestria, as a matter of fact? And why now? Why couldn’t it have been tomorrow, when I’ll be in a better mood? And why — merciful Sisters, why — did it have to be his favourite band?
…Oh, great — just bloody great — he’s singing along. And he’s hitting the high notes!
This idiot has a death wish, I swear.
I fiddle with my saddlebags, reaching a wingtip in to retrieve the key, and immediately drop it in the dirt.
Always something.
With another, throatier groan, I sweep it up and aim it for the lock. I miss. I try again, and miss. And again, and miss. For a fourth time, and strike home, but it’s the key to the tool shed.
I bang my head against the door with a growl, which only inflames the throbbing inside, and after a moment to recover, I heave the saddlebags off with the other wing and rummage through them on the floor. Toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, shampoo, conditioner, hairbrush, perfume, a souvenir Manehattan snow globe, some stolen chocolates — one of which has split its wrapper and melted all over my favourite pyjamas — and finally, the second key.
I hate it, for some reason.
As the pounding inside my head and the house continues, I shove the key in the lock, twist, hear and feel the latch come free, then pull the handle and slam the door open.
The headache grows even worse.
I stomp inside, dragging the bags behind me, then pick out the key and kick the door shut again, also with a loud bang.
Not loud enough, it seems; the ‘music’ is still playing. Either that or he’s too in the zone.
Or he really wants to be buried alive.
Continuing a little further, I leave the tiles of the hallway and reach the thin carpet of the living room. It’s a small, humble abode, neither rich nor poor, and I’d be tempted to reminisce if I weren’t so damn pissed, and hadn’t found the cause of my suffering dancing his arse off, shirtless.
The noise has dipped and is building up again — a break in the storm — all the while a chorus is urging their listeners to do something with our imaginations. Their enabler has his back turned to me, stepping in time with the beat from left foot to right to left, leading with his hips in fluid motions, and his whole body following in much the same fashion. A slave to the rhythm, some might call him. Bloody annoying, more like.
…But at the same time… I’d be lying if I said my breath didn’t hitch. Because… well, damn… I’m struggling for words. It’s been too long since I remembered how much this boy could move. We’ve danced a few times before, just for the heck of it, and in terms of sheer flexibility, he has me beat. Put that down to nature or nurture, but this is coming from an ex-Wonderbolt; flexibility is what I’m about. Speed too, but… Oh, gosh…
Sweet Celestia, those hips…
And then the music starts up again, at full volume, blasting through the house and no doubt a good distance beyond. I cringe at the sound, sitting down, folding my ears back and covering them with my hooves. How the windows haven’t shattered already, I have no idea — or his eardrums, for that matter — and I open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind. But as soon as I do, I bite my tongue and, again, simply stare.
Well, gawk, I suppose.
He’s still moving in time with the beat, but even more fluid than before, like water. No, more than water: like… I don’t know. Something more slippery than water. Frictionless opal, maybe — I’ve heard of it during one of the Canterlot galas — a substance that, when polished to perfection, would slip and slide forever.
Now, this guy?
He might not be perfect, I’ll admit, but if it doesn’t have the moves… Because his moves are the only things keeping me from chewing his ear off right now. And I’m not sure whether to love him or hate him even more for it. But that’s a relationship for you, I guess.
My relationship, at least. Hundreds, thousands, millions of others probably haven’t gone through the same hurdles as us, but… here we stand. Together, somehow. He puts up with me and I tolerate him, and at the end of the day, we snuggle up with each other, in the bed, on the couch, or by the fire, and just… be.
…It’s not healthy to be this reflective when you’ve gone a whole day without sleep, is it?
The underlying music dies down to just the chorus and its clapping, to which he sings, claps and dances along, and finishes off with a series of hip sways and arm movements — way too precise to be improvised. Afterwards, he holds his pose, panting, then stands up straight and pumps his fists into the air.
His celebration is cut short, however, when my saddlebags catch him in the back of the head.
He tumbles forward with a startled yelp and turns around on the floor to see his attacker, only to find me leaning over the back of the sofa, glaring at him. He’s stunned, gaping at me with an open mouth and a mixture of emotions swimming in his wide… captivating eyes, from panic and confusion to outrage and relief.
I say captivating because they’re not exactly stunning, or necessarily all that attractive; they’re too small, by this world’s standards, and aren’t nearly as colourful as one might hope. It’s not a bad thing — just a point of interest, and something I’ll just have to get used to. A pony is only the sum of their parts, after all. Even if they aren’t, strictly speaking, a pony.
He continues to stare at me, lost for words, though his eyes narrow and his lips tighten and curl, as if a question is on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t rightly ask it.
So, I make a pre-emptive strike.
“You, me, bed, now.”
Instantly, his confusion is replaced with bewilderment and a blank, unfocussed stare, and his mouth hangs open again.
I don’t bother waiting for an answer, dropping down from the couch and storming off to the bedroom. He’ll follow soon enough. Given the option, they always do. It doesn’t matter what tribe or what species you are; we’re all governed by the same base desires, so if there’s an opportunity where the good outweighs the bad, you take it. Just because you’re from another world doesn’t make it any different.
No more than a few strides away, I quickly pass through the open doorway and hop up onto the bed, facing the living room, forelegs crossed and hindlegs and tail dangling over the edge, granting him a decent view when he comes around the corner.
It’s a deceptively large space, the bedroom, for such a small house, amplified by the fact we’ve never really had need for a king-size bed: a double’s done pretty well so far, even if its frame squeaks a little too much. And if we don’t feel like sharing, we flip a coin for the sofa. That’s mostly on the worst days in summer, though — only one fight has ever gotten to that point before, few and far between as they are.
The bed itself is dyed in various shades of purple, my favourite colour; darker for the quilt and lighter for the pillows and sheets. He chose it. He didn’t need to — I even told him so — but he did it anyway. One of quite easily dozens of gifts and concessions he’s made for me over these past two years. His way of saying thank you, he put it, for saving his life, and for always being there for him afterwards.
I’ve said and keep saying that it really isn’t necessary, but he keeps on giving, and keeps on conceding. And secretly, my objections are more token than serious. I mean, I did save his life, so I feel I’m entitled to hang it over his head. If not forever, then at least for as long as we’re together. And I see no end on the horizon just yet.
Honestly, I hope I never do.
No couple does, I know — or triple, or quad, if you’re into that sort of thing — but still, this is my life. I’m happy with the way things are. Now, if only he’d get off his lazy butt and make me a little happier…
But he doesn’t, and as the seconds stretch into a minute, there’s still no sign of him.
My frown deepens. My neck slumps. My forelegs tighten their grip. My wings shift in place. My back hooves swing idly. My tail flicks in agitation. All the while, as the frustration builds, I stare at the doorway and wait. And wait. And wait. And one minute becomes two.
“Well?”
Finally, I hear him stand up. Clumsily, of course, either from exhaustion or the shock, though I doubt the latter because, really, what’s there to process? I’m back, I’ve said hello, and I’ve invited him to share a good time — to blow off some steam. Most ponies would jump at a chance like that, especially with a former star.
Granted, my status never really caught his attention, having never seen or heard of the Wonderbolts before the day he fell from the sky, and that was one of reasons I liked being around him. But…
…Where was I going with this?
Great, I can’t even think straight anymore. The sooner he gets here, the better.
A few footsteps later, I see his face again. Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t meet my eyes with excitement, but disappointed bemusement, as if silently judging me.
It kind of takes the wind out of my sails. “What?”
He doesn’t reply, sighing softly and leaning against the doorframe, stretching the corner of his mouth. Not into a smirk, but a look that just screams ‘yep, this one’s a doozy’.
“What?” I demand, unfolding my forelegs and shrugging. “I’m here, I’m yours. Take me.”
“No hello?”
I blink. “What do you mean? Of course I said hello.”
“No, that was assault. I could take you to court for that.”
I roll my eyes. “Quit being such a baby.”
“Pot calling the kettle black, much?”
“Excuse me?”
He winces, drawing his head back slightly, looking away and twisting his lips as if tasting a lemon for the first time.
On impulse, I bite my tongue again. It was a stupid thing to get mad about — he’s only trying to help. But as far as I’m concerned, the only help I need involves the two of us shutting up and losing ourselves, right here, right now.
“What I was trying to say,” he continues, returning to me a few moments later, “is that I don’t appreciate having a bag thrown at me as soon as you come back home.”
“Well, I had to get your attention somehow.”
“Yeah, sure — you could’ve just said hello.”
I huff and look to my left. Whether it’s in shame or frustration, I can’t tell.
“So, what gives?”
Grudgingly, but not spitefully, I meet his gaze again, and hold it. Even as I slowly spread my thighs a little further apart, making my intentions that much clearer, I hold his gaze and never change my expression.
His does, however. But instead of looking where I want him to, or even taking a fleeting, curious, instinctive glance, all the affection I see in his face fades to disappointment. His eyelids lower, he nods to himself, then pats the doorframe and turns to wander off.
“Don’t walk away from me!”
“I’m not playing this game.”
“What game?”
He catches himself midstride and swings back to me, meeting my eyes and looking nowhere else. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Just be honest with me.”
I narrow my eyes and stare at him for a good, long while. “Fine,” I say, putting my forehooves on the edge of the bed and leaning forward. “I want you to lose the pants, come over here, and rut me silly.”
A genuine smirk sneaks its way across his lips. But again, to my surprise, it’s not the reaction I was expecting: it’s a mischievous smirk — almost taunting — and he shakes his head and folds his arms. “No.”
I blink, taken aback. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“You told me to be honest, so I was!”
“Sure. But you weren’t being completely honest, were you?”
“Oh, come on. I flagged you down, I gave you the go-ahead — you didn’t need this many greenlights when we first went at it.”
His face sours. “I thought we agreed never to bring that up.”
“I don’t care!” I flail my forelegs. “How many signs do you need?!”
“Well, stiff wings would be a start.”
I pause again, taken aback once more, then peer down at my side, spread a wing, and give it a gentle stretch or two. Like he said, and much to my dismay, I feel no tightness in any of its joints. A little sore, perhaps, but not in a good way — that’s the fatigue setting in.
I return to him, and he meets my gaze with an eyebrow raised knowingly.
“I know what I want.”
“Maybe, maybe. But how about we try my way instead?”
“And what’s that?”
In a few nonchalant strides, he strolls into the room and walks right by me, then sits on his side of the bed, shimmies to the centre, and lies on the pillows with his back against the headboard, feet almost touching my rump. When he’s finally settled, he taps his chest and spreads his arms out wide, inviting me closer.
“You want me on top?”
His arms flop and looks away with a heavy sigh. “No, Fleetfoot,” he says wearily, then turns back to me with longing in his eyes. “I want a cuddle.”
“…You can’t be serious.”
“If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be asking.”
I blink at him, then hang my head and rub my temples.
“So, shall we?”
I groan. On top of everything I’ve been through, he wants me to humiliate myself. It’s not that we haven’t cuddled before, because we have — and, oh, how I’ve enjoyed them — but this isn’t the right time for one. It doesn’t feel like it, anyway. I just want a quick, sweet release, shared with the company and loving embrace of the one pony I thought I’d never find. And in some ways, keep rediscovering.
But if he won’t give me the satisfaction, then at the very least, I can take what he’s offering: the comfort. A shoulder to lean on. Just as I’d been for him so long ago.
Eventually, reluctantly, I slide onto the bed fully and roll over, then stand up and plod along toward him, head hanging low. When I reach the nook between his legs, I turn around and sit down, and I can’t help but slouch with the knowledge that I have, on some level, lost the argument.
His hands gently weave between my barrel and forelegs, and in one slow, soft, smooth motion, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me in for a hug. As I lie against him, he bows his head and nuzzles into the right side of my neck, and I feel his chest rise as he takes a long, deep sniff.
It almost makes me shudder, honestly. Almost.
“Good evening, Fleetybee,” he whispers into my fur, then gives me a light kiss just below the cheek. “How’re you doing?”
“I feel like ass.”
“Aw, don’t be like that.” He runs his fingers through the fur on my chest in small, soft circles. “At least you smell nice.”
“I haven’t had a bath in two days.”
“Details, details.”
I don’t respond, too focussed on being frustrated, both at him for refusing temptation, and at myself for giving in. At the same time, though, I’d be lying if I said that the warmth of an open palm on my chest, toying with my fur, isn’t enjoyable. If only slightly. But it still isn’t what I’m after.
“So, what brought you back so early?”
“Ugh.” I let my head slump back onto his shoulder. “Do I need a reason?”
His ministrations cease.
I pick my head up and lean as far away from him as I can without breaking contact, trying to get a clear view of his face.
He looks at me sternly. “Do you want me to sleep on the couch?” he asks, raising an eyebrow without a hint of humour. “Because I’ll gladly do that if you keep this up.”
“No!” I blurt out, then quickly shut my mouth. That sounded desperate, and I silently curse myself for letting that tone slip through.
The fact is not lost on him, and the faintest of smirks tugs at his lips. “Then settle down,” he says soothingly. “Relax. It’s just a question, Fleet. It’s not going to hurt you.”
I glance away and lower my ears, hoping to look as meek as possible, and hoping to hide how much it bothers me. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s why we should,” he says with a smile. “So, do you want me to keep going, or…?”
I hold his gaze for a while, risking a brief glance every now and then to slake some innate curiosity. The frazzled hair on his head. The bare skin of his chest. The fullness of his lips…
Sweet Celestia, those lips…
Once again, and with as much internal protest, I slowly lean back in and lie against him, feeling somewhat out of place. But that’s just silly, because… I’m in control here. I’m not doing him a favour — that’s his job, and he’s not going to talk me out of getting what I want: he and I, together in bliss, with the troubles of the world fading away from us.
His ministrations resume, but somehow smaller, softer, even more tender. “What happened, Fleetybee?” he quietly asks, his tone distant, yet engrossed. Rapt. Spellbound. “What’s got you so worked up?”
I’m the one in control. I’m the one in charge. But damn it, why is it so hard to say no to this boy? You’d think that, for as long and as well as we’ve known each other, I’d have grown used to his ploys and his tactics and his even subtler ways of coaxing out the truth… but I haven’t. Not to say that I don’t enjoy them. It’s just…
Am I really so easy to read?
“…There was this guy…” I grumble, lowering my eyes to the left, as if I can’t meet the gaze of some invisible face in front of me.
“What kind of guy?”
I try to groan again, but it comes out more like a sigh. I can’t be that relaxed already, can I?
Regardless, it’s a fair question, and I really should explain. The problem is the only way I can think of doing it involves a topic that he generally prefers buried. We’ve had chats about it before — some good, some bad — but it’s still a sore point for him, and neither of us like bringing it up.
I bring a hoof to the hand on my chest and hold it there, just in case. “When you were back home… like, your real home… did you ever have that one pony you never wanted to see again, under any circumstance?”
The air changes, and his slow, gentle rubbing ceases once more.
My heart almost skips a beat.
“…I suppose,” he says grudgingly, and begins rubbing again. “But I could say the same for a few people around here, too.”
Huh. Better than how most convos about it would go. He might be getting over it after all.
“Anyway, I take it this ‘guy’ showed up uninvited?”
“No. Well, yes.” Damn it, this warmth is making me lose my composure. “I mean, he showed up and he was invited.”
“Ah. A friend of a friend, I take it?”
“…Kinda-sorta, but not really.”
“You’ll have to be more specific than that.”
I sigh again. Intentionally, this time. “I don’t know. It was just a mess.”
He pulls a hand back and starts massaging my left shoulder. He can’t reach as deeply as I might like from so close, and he’s no expert by any stretch of the imagination — nopony beats Bulk Biceps — but the very feeling of his fingers pressing through my fur and into my skin…
A tingle runs down to my tail and I let out a quiet grunt on impulse, half-closing my eyes and allowing myself to rock back and forth with his efforts.
Merciful Sisters… why? Just… why?
Why does he have to be so good to me?
“How about you start from the beginning?”
I sigh once more, his words dragging me from the spell his affection weaves. “Well, if you want the full story…”
“Hey, I’m asking; if I can’t handle it, that’s my fault.”
At that, I smirk, then look up in thought as I recount the events that led me here. “The flight to Manehattan was pretty uneventful — got there around about five. Dash beat me to the hotel, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Yeah. I guess she had the same idea as me. Next morning, Thunderlane arrived, then Blaze, the Streak twins, Misty, Surprise, Silver, Soarin and Spits — the whole shebang.”
“Spitfire was one of the last ones?”
“Yeah,” I chuckle, “go figure. Trust the host to be late for her own reunion.”
“Doesn’t sound like her.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised; she can be pretty chill off duty. You should’ve seen her that night at the bar, singing karaoke and doing the macarena with High Winds and Hurricane.”
He buries his face into my neck again, smiling, and his long breath out seeps through my fur and warms my skin. “I’ll take your word for it.”
I think I’m starting to feel a little sweaty. But I need to stay focussed. “So, everything was going fine. We shared a few drinks, had a few laughs, caught up with everypony. Surprise bought us all snow globes.”
“Of course she did.”
“Yeah, classic Surprise. Sun Chaser’s thinking about settling down with somepony.”
“Does she have someone in mind?”
“Not yet. Or if she does, she didn’t say anything. Also, Dash asked how you were doing.”
He pulls back and looks at my curiously. “Really? Rainbow?”
“Yeah. Why?”
He pauses, then shakes his head and leans in again. “Nothing, nothing. I guess I’m just a little surprised you lot are still talking about me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Well, what do you expect? You’re a big part of my life — you’re bound to come up eventually.”
He pauses again, then wraps both arms around my barrel and holds me close, kissing my neck. “You say the sweetest things.”
Oh, gosh, I actually said that out loud, didn’t I?
I mean… well, he is a big part of my life, and he does mean a lot to me. But…
…Wait, why am I complaining? He’s hugging me. It feels nice. Everything is fine.
I am in control.
I give him a gentle, playful pat. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
In return, he gives me a gentle squeeze, then releases me from his embrace. Before I can whine, however, and before I can catch myself before I do, he begins to knead my back; fingers, knuckles and thumb, from withers to croup.
It takes my breath away in a long, enthralled moan.
“Whatever you say, Fleetybee,” he whispers amusedly. “Whatever you say.”
Whatever I say indeed…
“So, it’s all going well, but then this guy shows up?”
Oh, right, I’m telling a story. “Yeah,” I say, almost panting with just how good a wing massage feels. “A long, long time ago, when I signed up to join the Wonderbolts, he was there. We… knew each other.”
“Intimately?”
“WHAT?!” I swing my head round and shoot him a rancorous look. “Ew! Gross! No! Of course not!”
He raises a hand defensively. “I’m just curious. You said you knew him, so—”
“And that’s the first thing you think of?!”
“Says the girl who barges in like she owns the place, skips the formalities, and spreads her legs like there’s no tomorrow.”
It takes a moment for the words to sink in, and when they do, I turn away and frown at the blanket. “I’m not that basic,” I murmur. “I’m just…”
“Worked up?”
“…Yeah.” I sigh, then peek at him from the corner of my eye. “And for the record, I do own the place.”
“Ah, that’s right; I’m just a glorified houseguest, aren’t I?”
“On paper. To me, you’re a little more than that.”
He puts a hand over his heart and looks at me with a deeply flattered smile.
Damn it, I said that out loud too. I turn back to the sheets and pout. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“And what’s that?”
Not wanting to dignify him with a response, I keep my mouth shut.
Four fingertips reach over and rest on the back of my neck, then slowly comb down my spine, just barely missing the sweet spot between my wings. Their touch is as soft as soft can be, but for all my body cares, they may as well be the teeth of a dragon, and I shiver with the contact, closing my eyes and biting my lip.
“You are so cute when you’re flustered.”
And there it is: the dreaded C-word; something I’ll never escape.
I hate it. And at the same time — though I’ll never admit it, of course — I love it.
Confound this boy, he drives me to wage war against myself.
He resumes massaging my back — properly; none of that teasing nonsense. “So, you knew him from when you were a trainee?”
I open my eyes again and let my lower lip go. As much as it pains me to remember that I am, in fact, earthbound, I still have a story to tell. “I knew him well enough.”
“Oh. So, he was a jerk?”
“That’s putting it lightly. He was loudmouthed and full of crap, and had a massive ego to boot. A grade-A, bona fide douche.”
“Sounds fun.”
“It wasn’t. Kept flaunting his pedigree heritage all over the damn place, as if it means something anymore. Like, the assessors were supposed to go easier on him, or he was supposed to get a free pass for screwing up, or the rest of us had to accept him, just because he claims descent from one of the great pegasi families of yore. Oh, and you would not believe the crap he pulled to come onto the other recruits.”
“Oh, I think I would. I’m just not sure I want to know.”
“Trust me, you don’t.” A particularly egregious memory of touching hooves and ‘accidental’ snout-bumping comes to mind. “Can’t believe it worked a few times, too.”
“For real?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry, it never got serious, but I don’t know what those ponies saw in him. He was even hitting on two at once without telling them about each other.”
“Whoa. That’s…”
“Shallow, I know. He dropped out about two months into the programme, because it just wasn’t what he expected, though he says they kicked him. And that was the last I saw of him until last night.”
“How’d he get invited?”
“Spitfire.” I sigh. “Must’ve let slip last reunion that I miss some of my old reservist buddies. She’s probably been cooking this up since then, going through old records and whatnot. So, there we were, sitting, chatting, singing and everything, then he announced himself, and Spitty ran to introduce him. I avoided him, and he didn’t go out of his way to bother me. As far as I was concerned, that was fine.
“But then he sat down next to me and ordered two scotches. And… for a while, I was a little surprised, because he seemed genuinely civil. Tried to apologise. Even made me laugh, once.”
“And then…?
I sigh again and slump a little lower. “And then he made a move on me.”
The massage stops. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Not even five minutes after saying sorry for being a douche, he goes and bes a douche. Leans over, already drunk, and whispers in my ear…”
***
Hey, girl, are you whipping up a tornado? Because you’re blowing me away.
How about we head to your place and make the beast with four wings?
***
The barest fraction of a snicker squeaks out of his nose and I glare back at him.
“I’m not laughing,” he says, trying to hide a very obvious smile. “It’s just… that was so bad. Like, not even cringe-worthy; just plain bad.”
“Somepony hits on your significant other and this is how you react?”
His smile fades. What takes its place isn’t a completely serious expression, but one that’s at least considering the weight of my words. “Well, did he know you’re already taken?”
“Your arrival dominated news for twelve whole months, and our first kiss took up an extra three. You’d have to be as thick as Celestia to miss it.”
“But that’s exactly what he is, isn’t he?”
I open my mouth, but the answer dies at the back of my throat and I turn away.
“You stayed true to yourself.” He gives my shoulders a tender squeeze. “To me, that’s all that matters.”
“Why give him the benefit of the doubt?” I grumble dejectedly.
“Because that’s how justice works.”
“Not where I’m concerned.”
“Oh really? You want me to go to Manehattan and send him your regards?”
My ears droop a little further. “I beat you to it.”
He pulls me a little closer to face him, and meets my eyes with a sad, disapproving, but otherwise sympathetic look. “Fleetybee…”
“He had it coming,” I protest feebly. “That slap was twenty years in the making.”
Silently, he peers into me a little while longer. “Did it shut him up, at least?”
“Yeah.” I sigh once more, heavier than all the times before, and turn away again. “Thing is, though… when the others came over and asked what happened… he said it was all just a big misunderstanding. And they liked him so much already that they let him stay.”
“Really? Soarin, Dash and Spits too?”
“Of course not — they were pretty on edge about the whole thing. But after a while, when everypony had a few more drinks in them, they all forgot. I couldn’t handle the atmosphere, so I turned in early. And then…”
“…And then…?”
I close my eyes and hang my head. “And then they took it to Wind Waker’s room. Just… shouting and screaming and loud talking, all night long. I remember waking up five times before I decided to pack my things and head home, twice to the boom-boom-boom of a stereo.”
“…Ah…”
A cheeky smirk threatens to break out across my lips, but I force it down and give his hand a soothing pat. “It’s okay. You didn’t know.”
“Still…”
“You didn’t know,” I assure, sitting up and leaning back so I fall onto his chest again, and into another warm embrace. From there, I gaze into his eyes. Small though they are, they never hide how big his heart is, and sometimes how easily it can break. “I just… overreacted.”
“Maybe.” He softly smiles and holds my left hoof as the other hand rubs my barrel. “To be fair, though, I’m surprised you weren’t even angrier.”
I smile too. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Pfft. Please, Fleetybee; a mad pone is a sad pone, and a sad pone is a bad pone. But a glad pone?” He gives me a sly, playful grin. “Now, that is the right pone for me.”
I want to roll my eyes. I really, really do. But I can’t. Instead, I feel myself drawn to him, slowly pulling myself upwards, closing my eyes, and eventually pressing my lips against his, and his pressing back. And everything… melts. Like ice to a flame. Like snow in the sun. Like butter on toast. Like sorbet on the tongue.
This is what I’ve been after. This is what I want.
This is what I want?
…
…
…
…
…
Yes.
Yes, I suppose it is.
Something gentle.
Something quiet.
He and I, together in bliss, with the troubles of the world fading away from us.
I’m so lost, in fact, that I almost don’t feel his hand slide to my belly, letting the relative coolness of the air take its place. I consider protesting, but my breath hitches when I feel him cup something he may or may not have meant to. “Philip,” I call, breaking the kiss and looking at him through half-lidded eyes, “what’re you doing?”
“You don’t like it?”
I linger on him for a moment, then peer down to where he’s holding me. “Well, I don’t not like it, but…”
“You just want a hug?”
I stare a little longer, observing the subtle ways I conform to his fingers, then blink and return to him. “Why do you like them so much?”
He shrugs. “They’re cute, I guess.”
“Cute?”
“Soft, supple; take your pick.”
“But… why would anypony like teats?”
He rolls his eyes. “Do you have to call them that?”
“Well, that’s what they are, aren’t they?”
“…Sure, but…” He pauses, then glances away and shakes his head. “Look, I don’t know why; I just do. It’s the same with you and your contacts.”
I blink again, feeling a little awkward for being put in the spotlight. “What about them?”
“Well, I’ve always said green looks good on you, but—”
“Purple’s my favourite colour.”
“Exactly.” He looks down and watches as his hand moves up to my side, pulling me closer for another cuddle. “We all have our kinks. Some less raunchy than others, but kinks all the same.”
The embrace catches me off-guard somewhat, as do his words, but eventually, the surprise ebbs away, and I can’t help but smile once more and try to hug him back. So close to him already, and from this angle, it’s difficult, but I manage squeeze the hand that holds my hoof, hug the arm that crosses my barrel, close my eyes, and nuzzle into his neck.
Heaven can wait. I’m happy right here.
That is, at least, until I feel that hand on my side slip a little further, reaching under my wing. And the rebellious limb, impulsive and predictable, opens a little to welcome it. And the second his fingertips reach the joint, I’m struck with a wave of warmth that rolls over my body, leaving a cool, fuzzy, pleasant shiver in its wake. I press into him, hindlegs twitching, as if to escape the sensation, and a needy, desperate whimper escapes me.
“So cute,” he whispers, and continues to knead the joint and all the muscles surrounding it.
More waves, this time from inside, building to a heat that warms my brows and cheeks and chest and back and… other parts, all the way down to my rear hooves, both of which are straining to kick out, grinding into the blanket for some kind of purchase, and finding nothing.
Secretly, I’m not sure they even want to.
“Stop,” I beg, then tap the arm across my barrel and try a little louder. “Please, stop.”
Instantly, his ministrations cease, though his hand remains where it is, resting so very comfortably around the base of an outstretched wing.
As nice a feeling as it is, however, I’m getting a little too hot for my liking, so I heave myself up and pull away from him, sitting on my haunches, staring into nowhere, trying to catch my breath.
“You alright?”
A thin sheen of sweat is already forming on my forehead and cheeks. My left thigh is shuddering slightly, and almost uncontrollably. My left wing feels like it’s touched fire, and it’s too painful to completely fold again, despite not being entirely stiff, and the other fairly unaffected. My heart pounds against my ribs like a bell, and my chest heaves with every breath I take. “Yeah,” I pant, nodding weakly. “I just need to cool off for a minute.”
“Oh. So… you’re not up for it anymore?”
I pause, still staring at nothing in particular, then turn back to him and raise an eyebrow. “Not up for what?”
“Well…” his gaze drifts lower, “you know…”
I follow it down my body, past my shoulders, withers, wings, croup, flank, all the way to my rump. Baffled, I blink at it a few times before looking up at him again, and seeing… something in his eyes. I know I’ve seen it before, on any number of occasions, but for some reason, I can’t put a hoof on it.
He notices my silence and returns to me. “Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”
I narrow my eyes in confusion, then widen them in realisation, and the other, slacker wing suddenly feels a whole lot harder. “Now?” I ask, more than a little flustered, struggling to keep my tensing haunches in check.
“Sure. I mean, if that’s what you want.”
The urge to hide my rear from him overwhelms me, but I remain seated, and I give him a knowing, appraising look. Or at least, the best one I can while my body works against me. “You just wanted me to calm down, didn’t you?”
An equally knowing smile, tinged with a hint of guilt, breaks out across his lips, and he leans forward and weaves his arms under my wings, grabbing my shoulders. “Can you really blame me?” he wonders absently, before burying his face into my withers.
My wings shoot out and I shut my eyes and gasp — actually gasp — as his nose and cheeks press into that sweet spot he’d been teasing for so long. And the more he rubs and strokes and simply breathes, the more my back bends, arching as far away from him as it can, and the weaker my forelegs become, giving in to the rippling, almost painful sensation that sweeps through me, from tail to quivering feathertip. The only break I’m given is a brief one, where he lifts himself and sit on his knees and gain a better angle.
I slide to the bed, helpless against the kissing, caressing barrage, panting heavily as an ocean of warmth envelops me — so hot that I can feel the sweat seep through my fur.
He gives my shoulders a squeeze, continuing his ministrations, before sliding his hands back to the base of my wings, rubbing the muscles and squeezing the joints too — all met with sharp breaths and high-pitched grunts.
And then he begins to stroke the wings proper.
“No…!” I cry, shaking my head with what little strength I can muster. “No, please…! Enough…! No more…!”
Once again, in an instant, everything stops. This time, however, he pulls away, leaving my back alone and planting his hands either side of me.
I take the opportunity to catch my breath for a few long moments, letting the shivers that rattle my body die down, then drag myself forward, prop myself up on my forehooves, and slowly turn around, careful not to catch my wings on the blanket.
He watches on with rapt interest, slightly red in the face, but never looking hungry. In fact, he seems almost reverent, even as his eyes wander all over my body, and even to the place that yearns for his attention.
“Not like this,” I pant, shaking my head again. “Not like this. Just give me a minute.”
His eyes meet mine and he pauses, then nods, and then crawls a little further and lies on his side, head on my belly, hugging my hindleg close to his chest, using me as a pillow. So tantalisingly close, and yet so restrained.
That thought alone sends a new wave of shivers through me as I slide down to the bed. It’s less intense than before, though, and confines itself to my upper body — thank Celestia — but it makes flattening my wings that much tricker. As soon as my back touches the blanket, however, the shivering fades away, and all I have to focus on is the shortness of my breath, the warmth in my chest, the weight on my stomach, and the ache in my wings.
I reach my forehooves down and lay them on his head and neck. Why, I don’t know. Some form of reassurance, perhaps, as if to say I’m not mad at him, for whatever reason, and whatever I’ve done to give him that impression. Which I’m sure isn’t the case, because, really, why would he think that? I wasn’t scolding him, just informing him.
At least, that’s how I think I sounded…
“You know I’m not mad at you, right?”
“I know,” he whispers, running a hand along the top edge of my inner thigh.
I bite my lip and shut my eyes as all my limbs tense up, wings straining to stand tall and proud. “Enough, enough,” I urgently plead, tapping his head. “I can’t calm down if you do that.”
“You just want me to hold you?”
“Yeah.” I nod vigorously. “Yeah, just hold me.”
He removes his hand and wraps his arm around my hindleg, hugging it even closer, even tighter, even… more.
Oh my gosh… O merciful Sisters… O sweet stars above… what did I do to deserve this boy?
Time passes. Seconds stretch into minutes. For all I care, they could be hours, days, even weeks. It’s hard to keep track of the world when I’ve made a new one for myself, right here, in the comfort of my home, and in the loving warmth of his embrace.
It’s peaceful. And, eventually, I feel my wings lose their stiffness. Not completely, though — that would be too easy — but I can rest them on the bed without much pain, and bend and flex them in slow, deliberate motions. Too far in and the tension builds again, like a taut cable. But despite the dying fire in certain parts of my body, I never lose that… sense of being absent. Of timelessness. Of serenity.
Ecstasy. Pure and simple.
“You know, you never told me his name.”
It takes a moment for the words to register, and even longer to remember that I’m supposed to respond. “Why do you want to know?”
He shrugs. “Maybe we’ll meet each other, someday.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re actually planning on beating him up?”
“Nah, just chew him out a little — give him a piece of my mind, mano a mano.”
Another moment passes, and then I smile. We’re a strange pair, and not just because we’re two different species; neither of us have ever really fit into a typical relationship. Or at least, how I understand the popular image of one to be. In short, I’m not always testy, and he’s not always diplomatic. But somehow, we get by.
I really ought to check what it’s like for other ponies. Better yet, what it’s like for interspecies couples. I’ve heard of pony-griffon pairings, and hippogriffs have this weird seapony transformation thing — which must sometimes make it super awkward in the bedroom— but I can only think of one I know personally.
Unless I also count that dragon in Ponyville. Last I heard from Dash, he’d finally found somepony, who happened to be an actual pony, but she’d been pretty tipsy, and it was hard to tell if the lucky mare had been a fashionista, or Twilight’s pupil, or a farmer, or Rainbow’s little sister.
It may be a little presumptuous of me, but if I can’t answer these questions for myself, getting Rainbow to tap that guy on the shoulder might be a string I’ll want to pull.
“So?”
I blink and snap out of my reverie, realising once more that I am, in fact, of this world, and that I still have an obligation to answer. “Flash Sentry,” I murmur with a sigh, then look off to the corner of the ceiling.
“My god, he even sounds like a jerk.”
That gets a snort out of me, and I smile again. “Yeah. He even said he almost hit it off with a princess.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
He chuckles too, then adjusts his position on the bed and on my belly, softly, slowly swirling a finger around my navel. And when I grow used to the odd, tingling, yet ultimately pleasing sensation, everything falls quiet and still once again.
For the longest time, I sought these moments. For the longest time, I thought I’d find them in the Wonderbolts. In flying and speed and stunts. Travelling all over Equestria, and later, the world. Performing to crowds of hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands. Hearing my name chanted by choirs of fans, plastered on the billboards of Manehattan and the other big cities.
For the longest time, I thought I was happy. I really, genuinely felt it. But it wasn’t until this big goof dropped into my life — quite literally — that I realised something was missing. Somepony. Someone. And I never would’ve guessed it; I’d never been the romantic type, or ever thought I wanted something like this, much less with a creature as bizarre as him.
It surprised us both, really. Crept up on us, slowly but surely. Until, one day, outside the Lunar Bean Café in Fillydelphia… it pounced.
I’d ordered a standard latte — prepared with my cutie mark on the surface, because the barista was sweet on me — and he’d ordered a tall glass of apple juice. The conversation was nothing special; we complained about our weeks, shared a few laughs over stupid jokes, reminisced on times gone by, both distant and recent, and sipped our drinks when we had nothing to say. But it was after I’d finished my coffee when it happened.
I caught myself staring.
First, into the empty cup, thinking how very odd that as soon as I reached the bottom, I’d have no reason to stay. Cloudsdale was waiting for me, as were the Wonderbolts, and fame and fortune and all the perks of being a star. But if I did leave, like I had so many times before, all I’d ever do from that moment forth was count the hours ‘til next week, or think of some random occasion to celebrate. And if he ever asked any questions, I’d put it down to the active social life I didn’t actually have.
Second… at him.
He was looking to his left, my right, peering over the balcony to watch the hustle and bustle of the street below. I’m still not sure what it was — the sunlight in his hair, perhaps, or the faint smile on his lips, which used to be so very rare, once upon a time — but something about him caught my eye. And that was when I decided, right then and there, even if I didn’t completely know or want to admit it, that this stranger-turned-friend… was more than a friend.
Something warm and firm finds itself between my legs, and my breath hitches once again.
Much, much more…
I smile lewdly. “You really like them, don’t you?”
“What can I say?” he purrs, then looks up to me with a grin. “They have their appeal.”
…The look in his eyes…
It sends my heart aflutter.
“So, do you want to, uh… pick up where we left off?”
I linger on him, still riding a high of emotion, with my smile becoming less randy and more affectionate. And then I take a hoof away from him and gently wave him closer.
Without a hint of hesitation, he obeys. Slowly. Teasingly. Oh so seductively. Crawling over me with the same enchanted look, and never breaking eye contact.
When he comes far enough, I wave him even closer.
Once again, he obeys, lying down on top of me, leaving us both a little breathing space by propping himself on his elbows.
I lean up and kiss him on the lips — those full, delectable lips — and close my eyes as everything melts away again.
He leans into the kiss too, and although I know he wants more, he also knows I’ve never been a fan of tongue.
When enough moments have passed, I break away and meet his gaze with half-lidded eyes, and purr ever so quietly, “I want to do… whatever you want.”
His rapt expression becomes cheeky. “Oh, you don’t want to go down that road, sister.”
I put a hoof to his mouth and grin just a little bit wider. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Cheeky turns dreamy.
“Just one tiny question, though,” I whisper as a new thought and an old memory strike me at once. “You have shaved down there, haven’t you?”
He doesn’t reply, still staring on in a dreamy trance. But then, ever so slightly, his smile fades. And then he turns away and rolls his eyes and heavily sighs, the spell completely broken.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
He pouts and gives me the stink eye.
“Go on, then,” I say with a smile, shooing him off with another wave. “Chop-chop.”
With a deep, throaty, exaggerated groan, he rolls over to my left and stands up from the edge of the bed. “You just had to ruin it.”
“Well, excuse me if I don’t like being tickled,” I retort in mock outrage. “If you hadn’t calmed me down, maybe I wouldn’t have cared.”
“Oh, so this is on me, is it?”
I shrug. “Kind of.”
He stares at me a little while longer, then shakes his head and rolls his eyes again, strolling to the door. “The things I do for you…” he mutters, before heading into the lounge for the bathroom.
I watch him go with a playful, amused, almost wicked grin. It’s not every day I have him so readily wrapped around my hoof, so I relish the feeling of control — for what it’s worth — and ponder the nature of the coming engagement. How should I pose? What would his reaction be? How would things progress from there?
…Would it be any good?
Wait, what am I saying? Of course it’ll be good; it’s with him. And judging by how hot and bothered I am, this is the most stimulated I’ve been in a long, long time. As far as my body’s concerned, we can do no wrong.
I sit up and look down at myself. My fur is matted — sticking to itself from all those hugs and kisses and sweet, sweet caresses, each haphazard pattern telling its own little story. There’s no way I can straighten it all out in what time I have left — not that he’d care too much, anyway, knowing him — so I do the next best thing.
I roll onto my stomach, stretch out my wings, and begin to preen. There seems to be only a few feathers out of place, though, thankfully, twisted from either the flight back or tumbling around on the bed, and I either straighten them out or pluck them and spit them over the side. Normally, I’d keep them in a pile where I can see them, and maybe add them to my collection, but I want to be ready before he is. To look my best just for him.
I pause.
He’d said something about that before, hadn’t he? About what looks good on me.
Something about…
I roll back over and wiggle up to the head of the bed on my rump. The quilt and pillows are still quite warm where we were cuddling, and I take comfort in the memory as I reach over to the nightstand and open the drawer. From the drawer, I take out a small plastic case with two compartments, and unscrew the lids. I widen my eyes and pluck the contacts from them, then place them in their respective slots, add a drop of fluid from a bottle on the nightstand, redo the caps and put the case away.
Just for him.
When all is said and done, I finish off preening, wipe myself down, then snuggle into the pillows with my wings outstretched.
I hear him exit from the bathroom.
My heart begins to pound again — not just in anticipation, but also anxiety. I can do better than this. And if he’s been teasing me all this time, it’s only fair I get him back. So, tuck my tail in, pull the voluminous bundle of hair close, hugging it and hiding my intimates from sight, and give the doorway a great, big dose of puppy-dog eyes.
I may not like being called cute, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be.
A new sound breaks my concentration, however — the sound of a guitar being softly strummed.
The little bastard had switched the stereo on again!
I scowl and open my mouth to protest, but the words vanish when a second guitar joins the first, and I look off to my left with a dopey smile as I realise what song it is. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the only good track he ever brought over from his world.
He reappears in the doorway, leaning against the frame, grinning haughtily.
“Really?” I ask in flattered disbelief. “You’re playing What’s Up?”
“It’s your favourite, isn’t it?” He shrugs half-heartedly. “Personally, I’ve always preferred the He-Man cover.”
I turn back to him and gently shake my head. “You have… atrocious taste.”
“Well, hey, I found you, didn’t I?”
…And there goes my heart again.
“So, you ready?”
I pause for a moment, then slide a little further down so that my hindlegs are raised ever so slightly, wiggling my rump for emphasis, and hide my snout behind my tail, giving him the cutest, coyest look, I can.
His expression changes instantly, from smug satisfaction to absolute enthrallment, and he all but glides across the floor and crawls up the bed towards me. His movements are slow, but desperate, and his eyes are needy, but awed. It’s as if he can’t believe his luck, and is scared this perfect little moment will vanish, taking me with it.
My chest is practically burning. I swear, my heart can’t take much more of this.
When he reaches me again, standing over me on his hands and knees, he stops and stares, gazing into me like… like he’d finally found his purpose — his meaning in life. Like I had something to do with it. And as the seconds slip by, he brings a hand to my brow and softly sweeps aside a few stray hairs. “You are…” he breathes, and drifts off, lost in a world of his own.
I’m about to burst. My eyes are beginning to well up.
He seems to take notice, blinking himself out of his silent reverie. “You are so beautiful.”
My legs and wings are shivering, barely able to contain themselves from wrapping around him and taking him right here and now. But I decide to tempt fate even further, slowly angling my head a little lower, and holding the end of my tail in my mouth.
He gives me a pained, adoring look, before closing his eyes and pecking me on the nose.
A tiny squeak escapes me as my smile grows tenfold, and that’s all the warning he gets before my limbs snatch him up like powerful magnets, and I pull him even closer for a good, proper, wet and wonderful kiss.
I don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep tonight either.
Author's Note
Use imagination as a destination
Use imagination as a destination
Long as you believe, then you hold they key
Use imagination and arrive
Justice; Pleasure
