Your Waifu's Butt Is On Fire
But Seriously, That's Pretty Hot
Perks of dating a god? Ponies don’t mess with you, you get to live in a castle, that expense account. Cons? The spotlight; she’s always busy; and if you two ever fought, they would need an electron microscope to find your ashes.
Celestia has a public and a private face. You learned that early. Her smile, her cadence, and her affability are public. They are who she has to be. You know a different side. You know the tired Celestia, the messy Celestia, and the grumpy Celestia. That’s why you two are a couple. She can show you sides of herself no one else sees.
She trusts you to keep those sides of herself confidential. When ponies interview you, regal formality, deific aloofness, and consortly discretion are the least of your duties. Let nothing slip.
And she trusts you with something else. This is crucial. See, Celestia, like everyone else, is fragile, flawed. Resilience is easy to expect of others. It’s an easy way to avoid thinking about the structural pressures foisted upon royalty. It makes moralizing easy. But the stresses are there, and while it’s convenient to unload every problem under the sun onto Celestia, everyone has their limits.
How do you know? Because Celestia’s butt is smoldering.
Sure, the occasional wisp isn’t unusual. Sometimes she stands stand and her cushion looks like its been left on a stovetop. Once, she got into the bath with you and it turned from tepid into a jacuzzi. But this time is different. As you stand beside her throne, you strain to keep your eyes forward. Celestia, Luna bless her, is wearing a smile as she listens to Fancy Pants complain about the upper tax bracket.
Every reference to self-made ponies, opportunity costs, government theft, and other rich pony memes elicits another plume of smoke. But Celestia continues to smile. Her smile looks more genuine than your genuine smiles. And yet…
“Thank you, Fancy Pants. Your advice is highly valued in this court,” Celestia says. You’ve attended enough of these to know what that means: Get out of my sight you insufferable twit.
Fancy pants concludes his tirade with the same overwide, dramatic bow as every noble and leaves the chamber. You look to Celestia. You expect her to drop her smile, pray she will, but she does not. Her rear is an exhaust now, a steady stream of smoke. The sizzle makes you cringe. That’s the fifth silk cushion this month.
“Celestia,” you start. The quiver in your voice is unintended.
“Yes, dear?” She says, eyes forward.
“Are you alright?” You want to hug her, but that’s inappropriate for the throne room.
“Hm? Yes, of course I am. I do enjoy hearing from my subjects.”
You know that’s a lie. “It’s just… you’re smoking.”
Celestia turns her head. “Oops. You know how those spicy quesadillas go right through me.” She stands and descended the dais. You follow, shoulders back, head high, chest out. Posture has been ingrained in you. You want to argue it’s more than lunch, but it’s inappropriate to speak freely during official duties.
Celestia’s next task brings her before a crowd. She has to give a speech and then open a new public theater. The crowd is large and charged. You feel a little relieved. Events like these are uneventful. Celestia just needs to read her speech, cut the ribbon, and wave. She proceeds so with uncompromised poise. Her rear isn’t even smoking anymore. You breathe an easy sigh.
Celestia comes to the end of her address, voice calm. “… And so, it is my great honor to officially open the Twilight Sparkle Center for—"
“Down with the diarchy!” A voice rises from the crowd.
You shift in place. Oh no.
Celestia casts a stoic eye toward the crowd, then continues. “The Twilight Sparkle Center for Creative—”
“The heliocentric model is right! The diarchy is based on lies! Open your eyes, ponies!”
The crowd murmurs. You scan it for the pony with the two-ton balls. Or you begin to, but you smell a fireplace. You look to Celestia and swallow horror. There’s a small blue flame dancing above her plot. You look around. No one else seems to notice. You’re used to smoke and ruined furniture, but this is the first time you’ve seen flames, real flames.
You have to think fast.
“We are the Equestrian Liberation Front and we speak for all Equestrians when we say we’re tired of paying for a defunct institution!” A group of ponies at the crowd’s rear stand and lift a banner of raised hooves and a fractured Equestrian flag.
You roll your eyes and hiss at the pony holding golden scissors beside you. “Pass them to me.”
He’s staring at the crowd in dumb disbelief. You take the scissors from him and approach Celestia’s side. “Alright, time for the ribbon cutting.” You use the opportunity to brush your hand across her butt and smother the fire. It is, as expected, painful.
Celestia looks at you, eyes questioning, but you lift the scissors and smile.
“Indeed,” she says and turns toward the ribbon. In the moment her back is to the audience, you nod to the royal guards positioning themselves around the hecklers. The group and their banners vanish.
Celestia cuts the ribbon to neighs and stomping hooves.
After the ceremony, you join Celestia for dinner at the castle. She’s hosting EEA officials, a working dinner discussing education legislation. You sit to her right, quiet but attentive, as is your place. The dinner has been incident free to this point. Across from you at the long dining hall table is Chancellor Neighsay, your least favorite pony. He reminds you of a cartoon mouse.
The bureaucrats line the long, dining hall table. Each come with a sub-department and a list of funding priorities. Celestia listens and assents where needed, between sips of red wine. And when no one else is looking, she slips you a wink and a smile that could melt steel beams. And on it goes, each official in turn, until the conversation returns to Chancellor Neighsay.
He stands and clears his throat. The other ponies cease eating and drinking. “As you know, Your Majesty, we have been closely monitoring your school’s compliance with EEA rules, and we regret to inform you that it’s,” he narrowed his eyes, “unsatisfactory.”
The room gasps. Celestia casts Neighsay an impassive look. You squeeze your fork.
“Chancellor, my school has been certified compliant every year for the last decade. Our procedures have not changed in that time. I see to it personally that every class follows the approved curriculum.”
“And as of the last school year, that would have been sufficient. But EEA standards have changed in that time. We are a kinder, gentler EEA, and we have determined your curriculum is too rigid. You will need to resubmit your curriculum according to the EEA’s updated guidelines before the new term if you seek recertification.” A server places a slice of pie in front of him as he sits.
“Chancellor, that is in a moon,” Celestia says.
You look to her and tense. She seems alright, at least she isn’t smoking.
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” Neighsay says. He puts a piece of pie in his mouth, then spits it out. “Awful.”
“Is there a problem, Chancellor?” Celestia says.
“The apples used in this pie must be overripened. Dispose of it.” He pushes his plate to the side and a server removes it. “Well, this has been a productive meeting. We look forward to hearing your funding commitments, and to your updated curriculum.”
Neighsay and the other bureaucrats file from the room, chattering among themselves in soft, self-satisfied tones. You and Celestia are alone with the castle staff. She unfurls her wings and slouches.
“It’s over,” you say. “Uh, you feeling okay?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine.” She gestures to a passing servant with her wing. “Please bring me some of that delicious looking apple pie.”
You scan her body again. All seems well. You rest your hand atop her hoof. “There were some close calls today. I thought you were going to spontaneously combust.”
Celestia giggles and looks at you, eyes shining love. “You worry too much. I assure you, I am in perfect control of my emotions.”
“Princess,” the serving mare says, “we’re out of apple pie.”
Celestia’s face becomes placid. “I see.”
“C-Celestia?” You rub your thumb against her hoof. Her features are stone.
“No more pie,” she says.
“It’s alright, you can eat cake,” you say.
“But. I. Wanted. PIE!” Celestia’s mane and tail explode in flame.
Pain splinters your hand and you snatch it away.
The serving mare and a couple of table-bussing colts panic, yell, and flee. You push backward before you’re caught by the fire devouring the table cloth.
Celestia is standing, her chair a pile of ashes, eyes like the sun’s surface. She lifts her horn and the windows lining the dining hall shatter, then she’s gone through one of the broken frames and into the night sky.
You lift your head and shake away glass. Guards and castle staff are peeking in.
You look at them. “Ah, ha. She’s just playing a prank. Don’t worry about it! I’ll… I’ll be right back.”
You rush into the Canterlot streets. You dart between corners, eyes trained up. How hard can an angry immortal be to find?
Hard, you learn.
You look for twenty unsuccessful minutes. The streets are empty, thank Celestia. Though you pray your thanks aren’t literal.
While resting at an intersection, you hear a familiar, cocky voice beyond a hedge wall. You spread the shrubs and see Fancypants with his marefirend, Fleur, relaxing in a hot tub. This must be his estate. And you see something else that raises every hackle: Celestia is atop the roof, eyes trained on the ponies below.
You dive through the hedges. Fancy and Fleur start.
“What is the meaning of this?” Fancy says. His jaw drops when he realizes who you are. “R-royal consort. What an honor to—”
“Yeah, yeah, big honor,” you say. You glance up and see flame gathering in Celestia’s nostrils. “I need you two to join me inside. Now!” You pick up both ponies, one per arm, and dash into the open glass door a moment before flame consumes the hot tub.
“My Whirlmaster!” Fancy yells. You drop him and run back outside. Celestia is gone. Shit. You dive through the hole you made in the hedges, Fancypants cursing after you.
You sprint down the street, eyes up. You’re so distracted, when you take a turn a hair too sharp you smack into a brown stallion.
“Woah. Hey, sorry about that.” He says, then stares wide-eyed at you. “Oh, buck! I know you! Guys, look.”
You rub your head and look up. There are a lot of ponies now. They encircle you.
“That’s the royal consort,” a grey stallion says.
“Celestia will be wrapped around our hooves if we have ‘em,” a pink mare says.
You snort. “What are you talking about? Oof!” Your head is bagged and you’re hoisted onto someone’s back. They have a cheerful chat while they’re “kidnapping” you. You’re dropped not long after and have your bag removed. You’re in a basement, you think, or maybe a shed? Lots of shelves.
“Sorry about that, but ELF headquarters has to remain secret,” the brown stallion says. “Can I get you anything? I think we have lemonade.”
You sigh. “I don’t have time for this.” You stand; it’s not like they bothered to bind you. “Where’s the exit?”
The stallion shakes his head. “We can’t let you go. You’re our ticket to a huge strategic victory over the diarchy.”
You fold your arms. “Look, I’m sure your cause is noble and all that, but I’m really busy tonight. I’ve got to…” You pause. It feels like someone directed a heater at you. “Does this place have a furnace?”
“Uhh, no?”
A chill displaces the heat. “Get out!” You yell. The ponies around you look shocked and confused, but you don’t wait for compliance. You push past them and out the first door you find. They follow you, yelling about not letting you go, until the building bursts into a fireball behind them.
You’re sent careening forward, fire licking at your back. The ELF is scattered around you, but at least they’re all alive. Probably. You stumble to your feet in time to see the direction Celestia’s flying. She’s going toward the city center.
You run through a few alleys, onto a main road, and trail her. Although at this point you’re sure you know where she’s going.
When you approach the EEA building, it’s already burning. You drop to your knees. You’re too late. How could Celestia do this? How many innocent ponies had their lives taken by this cruel, barbaric act?
“Royal consort?” You hear a punchable voice say. You look up. Chancellor Neighsay is standing over you, an apple strudel floating beside him.
You jump to your feet and grasp him by the withers. “Chancellor! You’re alive? But the building…”
“Oh yes, that.” He rolls his eyes. “This happens about once a month. It’s part of the reason the EEA is facing budgetary shortfalls.”
“But if you’re here, and the building was already on fire, then…” A shadow passes above you. You gasp and push the Chancellor’s head into the dirt as a jet of flame grazes you from above.
“What are you doing, consort?” Neighsay protests. He’s lifting his head again, but you push it back down.
“Uh, you have something in your mane. Just getting it out for you.”
Celestia lands before you, eyes blank pallets of flame, hooves scorching the ground. She steps forward and her hoofprints smolder.
“Is there somepony there? Will you let me up, consort?” Neighsay says.
“Uh, one second!” You look around, then spot the discarded strudel an arm’s length away. Why the hell not?
Celestia marches with purpose. She lifts her head and her horn glows and swirls with flame. She points it at the Chancellor. One chance.
You scoop the strudel as her horn ignites and throw it at her. Celestia stops in place and snatches it from the air with her magic. She looks at you, then sniffs it. She takes a bite.
You watch, your heart like an agitated animal against your rib cage. Neighsay wiggles uncomfortably.
“Consort, please,” he says.
“Shh.”
Celestia finishes chewing. She swallows.
Poof.
Celestia’s flames dissipate. Her mane and tail regain their aurora and the ground beneath her cools. She takes another bite of the strudel and chews, smiling.
Your tension evaporates and you fall back on your ass. Chancellor Neighsay lifts his head and gasps.
“Finally! What were you doing consort?” He turns toward the princess and jumps. “P-princess Celestia. What are you doing here? … Is that my strudel?”
You stand and brush dirt from your pants. “Thank you for your assistance, Chancellor,” you say.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he says.
“Exactly.” You walk to Celestia.
“Hello, dear. Are you ready for bed?” Celestia says.
You run your fingers through her mane. “Gladly.”
You walk with your almighty marefriend, leaving Chancellor Neighsay and his burning building.
The next morning you sit across from Celestia at breakfast, reading the paper. The top headline: Unexplained Canterlot Fires. Experts are unsure of their origins, but witnesses agree it’s the royal consort’s fault.
You groan, fold the paper, and flip it headline-down.
Celestia giggles from across the table.
“And what’s so funny?” you ask, annoyance shooting through you.
“I was just thinking,” Celestia stands and trots to your side. She presses her lips to your forehead. “Apfel much better now.”
You don’t laugh.