punchdrunk lovesick singalong
It starts at your house.
Dad is gone for work; Mom is gone. Period.
That means you can have anyone you want over.
Of course, there's really only one pony you want there.
Said she'd be there at sundown; showed up an hour late. Makes sense, after all; bars open at five.
But, honestly? Isn't anywhere near as drunk as you're used to seeing her, and she's in a good mood; instant after you open the door, she's already flung herself against you.
You can smell sharp, acrid honey as she nuzzles the nape of your neck—okay, she had mead—and the brush of her hooves against your sides as they curl against your coat makes your legs weaker than if you had sunk your hooves into a thundercloud and turned yourself into a conductor.
Dad won't be back for a couple days.Whole weekend at the very least to yourselves. You and Berry trot side by side to the living room, the mare bumping and grinding against you the whole way.
Partially from affection; mostly from the booze.
Her eyes flick to the cabinet on the far end of the parlor, and you smirk despite yourself. "All yours." You say, soft.
Berry licks her lips, her eyes shining with the same carnal light a cat's does right before it dives on a particularly plump rat. "The old stallion won't mind?"
"I don't care," you say, and you mean it.
She leans down and presses the flat of her snout against yours. Velvetine fur against course. Looking into your eyes. Mouths barely an inch apart.
"What would I do without you?" she asks.
"Get drunk somewhere else.” You both laugh. Berry turns her head, ever so slight.
Your lips lock.
It’s absolutely electric. It’s the best feeling ever. You suspect you may be biased; she's the only mare you've ever kissed. Still, every time you get to feel her soft, alcohol-tinged lips against yours—tongue flicking into your mouth and brushed across the tips of your teeth—it's like someone plunged a live wire in each ear. Burning, fizzling, rushing rivulets of energy, twenty cups of coffee and a shock from a faulty wire to boot.
You can almost see the sparks that arc between the two of you as she breaks her lips from yours for just a moment, every few moments, interspersing the sensation with those little, agony-laden gaps to make each time she returns all the sweeter.
Berry leans into you, full force, and you stumble back, already so light on your hooves from getting lost in her that you tumble over onto the couch with no effort. Falls atop you; she's heavier than you are.
The pressure is amazing. Firm, intentional, restrained—if barely. She could sink right into you...
On your back. Your chest and hers pressed together. Underbellies meet. Every breath pushing against you.
Lifting you up.
You plant your muzzle on her neck, mouth open just enough for your teeth to graze the skin;
she gasps softly, and an errant movement of her hoof to the center of your chest causes you to do the same. She paws the fluff for a moment, her partially focused eyes tracing over the rolling ripples of fur.
"You're such a gorgeous filly," she says, voice catching in her throat slightly as if she were scared to say it.
You smile.
You don't believe her, of course; you hate yourself, and you know how hideous you are. You do believe that she believes that you're gorgeous. So you smile, and it's real, and somehow it feels like the sun is gently bathing you despite it having set hours ago.
Berry's tail curls around your leg. You bite your lip, eyes widening for a second as the silken hair coils around your tensed limb. Your face feels so hot—almost uncomfortably hot, but what's more is the strange swooping sensation in your gut, like you'd just dropped from a window.
The ground rushes up to meet you.
The light tingling in your legs takes control, and they brace around Berry's hips, that crackling energy climbing through you as lightning across the clouds. Berry whinnies softly, her eyelids fluttering as she draws herself ever closer, grasp of her hooves tightening—
And she's caught you before you hit the ground.
The two of you never left the couch the entire time, the exhilarated wash overtaking you nearly enough to push you over the edge.
oh right. that.
"Don't you want anything to drink?" you grunt softly as you push yourself a bit further against the couch, legs clamping together and not necessarily with Berry's body in mind.
"Oh, I can think of something," Berry drawls seductively, her words dripping with nectar so thick it’s almost real enough for you to drink.
She mashes your muzzles together, much more clumsy than that first kiss, yet the rough and sloppy additions here have hooked you in deeper than ever.
Even though it's almost gutturally unpleasant when your teeth knock together, it still sends your heart thundering in your ears. Even though there's gross rivulets of saliva dribbling down from your mouths and mixing into an unseemly froth, it's the hottest thing ever.
That twisting in your gut takes hold again.
A twitch.
A pull.
You swallow hard, breaking yourself from the kiss and inhaling sharply. With gasping breath, just for a second, Berry looks over you with lidded eyes and a hungry mouth. Her back is arching every now and again as she grinds herself against you—tail hiking, then flicking, then swatting to playfully bat and swash your rear.
“N-no, really,” you insist, moaning under each word as she swats her tail against you with steady tempo. “Nngh—D-Dad’s g-got g-good s-stuff.”
Berry pauses, her rear giving an involuntary twitch, eager to continue. Chewing on her bottom lip, her brow creases further with each motion of her jaw.
“Alright, I guess,” Berry says, slowly rolling off you and getting to her hooves. “Never pass up another drink~” You can almost hear the tilde hanging in the air. How wanton.
The electricity crackles inside you.
She leans down and kisses your cheek before ambling over to the cabinet and drunkenly fumbling with the lock. You lay there, panting on the couch—vision swimming like you were the one drinking.
Head cocked slightly askew. Eyes half open. Watching Berry’s backside saunter back and forth, swaying in lazy arcs as her tail hikes up and down. Teasing you. Letting you see what’s underneath, in brief flashes—
A new smell hits your nose. A maddening scent that dissolves your mind into fog.
It’s lavender, and it’s hay, and it’s freshly cut grass, and your mouth is watering
but you stay
where you are
And she gets the cabinet unlocked. That nicest bottle of Merlot, which isn’t even really that nice all things considered, is still the best on what your dad pulls in. It’s hers now; past those lips which are so fervently on the bottle like they were on you not moments ago—and for some reason, that roaring lightning in your chest is sparking out to arc across your limbs.
Caught on the circuit, she forms the conduit for you without so much as anything but a few guzzled gulps.
You stumble over yourself from the couch to her. Rearing on your hind legs, you wrap your arms around her shoulders and nuzzle her mane. Inhaling, you can smell she hasn’t washed it yet today.
It’s pleasant, though. It’s that smell of hay and grass clippings but stronger, headier; earthy and natural. You cough a little, eyes unable to focus as you clutch her tighter—and then you feel warm, damp glass prod the side of your muzzle.
Slow, and more than a bit awkward, you turn your head and feel the bottle tip against your lips.
You never drink.
But this time you partake in the temple of plenty, and your mouth overflows.
A new warmth spreads through you, a hoof smoothing out the fabric of stress in your body from the muscles to the mind. You giggle around the neck, and purple blossoms down your chin.
Berry pulls the bottle away and leans forward, mouth open—extends her tongue and laps the wine gently from your face. A soft moan escapes her as she tastes the mix of alcohol and your sweat.
Time startstospeedup!
Or ma yb e s l
o w d o w n?
I t’s ki
n d of a bl ur, h
one
stl
y.
One minute you're with her by the cabinet, floating in that bubbly warm wash of the wine, vapid giggling from one another punctuating little bats of the hoof and swipes of the tail. The next, the record player is on, needle skipping over the warped vinyl—and you and her danced to "Cecilia", just like you did with your mother. Stomping loud, you filled the kitchen up with each other.
And then, by the table, you fell, and she lifted you—
Sat you down and held your hoof while you laughed through the aching in your side and you kissed, and kissed, and kissed again until you cried—
You felt the unnatural weight between your legs and in the haze of the Merlot you couldn't control your contempt—
Sinking your head against the table you grit your teeth and asked her, hiccuping,
"Do you see where I used to be a colt?"
You brush your mane over your face so she can't look you in the eyes.
The hoof holding yours draws tight
and the other is on your chest again
playing with that tuft of fur
There’s a pause, a long pause, a pause so long you can’t help but to shift a glance between the palings of your ragged mane—and in the second your amber eyes met the deep purple you wondered if this was some catastrophic mistake.
The current overrides your resistance, bursting through your capacity, and you start to radiate an incandescence of self-loathing and fear that should have been love for this mare—this mare, so much older than you, you who are not even grown enough to move away from the deep abyss your mother left you and your father to drown in—
The mistakes you’ve made, everything that lead you to here, rushing along in an endless loop along that out-of-control, pulsing charge—
She starts to speak, and the current is grounded.
"I've had it in my mouth."
Her head is on your shoulder.
"I've swallowed the evidence down."
And now your chest.
"And no one but us—”
And now your leg...
"—will ever know what I've found."
Then she folded you out of your envelop, read every word that written across your surface, sealed you back up, and mailed you to yourself.
Laying there, hours later, on the couch again—coated in sweat and tears and Celestia-knows-what-else, quivering like a baby bird in the snow—you drifted off to sleep beside Berry Punch.
And just before you did—in that hypnagogic drift between drunkenness and sleep—
you believed for just one moment that maybe you were gorgeous,
and that maybe there was heaven in her hooves.
