Taming Strange. Or: How I learned to stop worrying and make love in public

Hold please lived a quiet, if a little lonely life in Trottingham. She had saved like a miser in Canterlot so that she could retire early. She always thought she'd be retiring with a husband, but that never panned out. She grew spices in her garden, and sold them at the local farmer's market to keep herself busy.

One day while on her way to the farmer's market to ply her wares, she suddenly dropped her basket of fresh ground basil, when she saw the absolute last face she thought she would see, Grasping Hoof, Dean of Royal Canterlot University, her old boss. She couldn't believe her eyes.

She started to stammer his name, but he merely collected her dropped basil and basket in his magic, and levitated them to her. She fell silent with disbelief. She noticed just how thinned and haggard he looked. Despite hating the pony with a passion her entire career, she felt genuinely sorry for the unicorn. He didn't say a word to her the entire time either. He just picked up her dropped goods, handed them to her, and walked away in silence. She only sold two jars of fresh ground organic basil the entire market day, two more than usual, but all she could do the rest of that day was think of the off white unicorn.

Several weeks passed, and she'd almost forgotten the incident when who should happen to appear at her stand but the very same stallion. He asked in a voice robbed of its normal domineering tone, "Pardon me ma'am, but what goes good with.-" He looked in his bag with its haphazard assortment of vegetables. "This?" He held up the bag.

She couldn't help but stare at his emaciated face. Was this the pony that had terrorized an entire University for thirty years? Somepony who didn't even know the names of common produce. She looked into his bag and saw that there was nothing that in any combination could make a meal, much less one that could be improved with her seasonings. It looked like he had just grabbed one vegetable off of every booth as he'd walked by.

Her pity was so great, that despite the terrible way he had treated everypony in his employ, and all the things he'd done, she closed up her booth and led him around the market by the hoof, helping him pick out produce that would produce meals. "Really ma'am, I thank you. I've just, umm. I've never actually had to do this for myself before," he said, his voice tempered with a bashfulness she'd never witnessed.

Hold Please resisted the urge to snark, "I'm sure you haven't." Instead she opted to do the neighborly thing, and offered to teach him a few recipes she knew. If you had asked her while she was making ponies wait needlessly at her old job, if she'd ever in a thousand years cook for her boss, she'd probably have said only to poison the fat bastard. Yet there she was helping him carry produce, and chatting about what they would yield.

They arrived at Grasping Hoof's abode, and Hold Please stopped dead in her tracks from shock. The house was tiny. It wasn't small, it wasn't cozy, it was teensy. The paint was cracked, the roof needed to be reshingled, the screen door was torn, and it was fucking small. Hold please stared mouth agape at the former Dean, and marveled that a pony who used to own a country home outside Canterlot, and lived in a penthouse suite downtown, could possibly reside in a glorified cardboard box.

She reluctantly entered, then had to stand awkwardly in the doorway for a few moments. She could barely see. She lit her horn to help her find a light switch, but then noticed the lights were already on. The cracker box was sparsely furnished. A chair by the fireplace, and a single chair at a table was all she could see. "Well, first things first, let's get some more light to work by,"
she said, trying to distract herself from the omnipresent air of dinginess.

Hold Please's horn lit up, and the dusty curtains were opened bringing some much needed light into the house. Now that she could see properly it seemed somehow less dingy, almost but not quite pleasant. They placed their produce down in the kitchen, and she started opening cabinets looking for cutlery and crockery, but found none. "Umm, Sir? Where do you keep your knives, also I'll need a cutting board and skillet.”

Grasping Hoof shifted uncomfortably. "Well, umm, yes. Well I uh, I didn't seem to bring any in my move from-" She saw a pained look of memory flash across his face. "Anyway I'll just go and-"

She held up a hoof for silence. "No, no. I'll go get some of my spares. I live right up the road. Just use your magic to start peeling those onions, and crush that garlic, and by the time you're done with that I'll be back.”

He shook his head. "No, ma'am really I- I couldn't ask you to-“

"No, no. I insist. Besides.-" She flashed him the warmest smile he'd ever seen. "It's nice to have somepony to cook with." She had said it as a throw away compliment, but as she trotted down the path towards her house, it struck her that she'd actually meant it. She still didn't trust Grasping Hoof, as she'd known him for years, but this hardly seemed like the same pony. She remembered the pained look on his face, when speaking about his move, and wondered what could've possibly happened.

She quickened her pace towards her home, and upon arriving gathered up a few cookbooks, all titled " something something for one", and several pieces of standard kitchenware. The perpetually unused dishes had always mocked her with their presence, so she was glad to be rid of them. She entered and exited her house three times in quick succession, as every time she'd start back towards Grasping Hoof's cracker box she'd think of another essential no home should be without. She returned to her former boss' tiny house, and put the several bags of Housewares down on the small table. Grasping Hoof gawked at the plethora of bags. "What's all this then?"

Hold Please realized she might have gone a bit overboard with her donations. She blushed as she sheepishly explained, "Oh well, wouldn't wanna forget something and have to go back for it. Besides they're just my spares. Just consider it a house warming present."

Grasping Hoof was taken aback by her generosity. "Really, you are too kind Mrs?"

She blushed at the title. "Hold Please. Miss Hold Please." She thought to herself, "He really doesn't remember me." He passed her every single day on the way to his office, and the now skinny bastard had the gall to not remember her. She expected this to bother her, but she realized all of a sudden it didn't. He'd not been rude or condescending to her once since he'd been in Trottingham.

She showed him step by step how to prepare parmesan crusted fried zucchini. The dish was plated, but instead of eating it he stood there awkwardly. "Umm, where's your portion?" She blinked a few times in surprise. She'd only ever cooked for herself or for a few friends, never for specifically two.

"Oh, well I'm not particularly hungry," she lied, having not eaten all day.

"Please, Miss." He had to think about how to phrase her name. "Miss Please. I can't just sit here, and eat in front of you, after you've been so kind." He cut the meal in half. "Won't you join me, please?" He asked, pleading with his sunken eyes. She noticed for the very first time in her life that they were a shining steel grey. Hold Please blushed, but then sat down. Grasping Hoof dragged the chair by the fireplace over to the table and they began their half meal. Grasping Hoof let out a small noise of appreciation. "This is delightful!" He ate heartily, and quickly finished. He rose and returned to the kitchen. "We simply must make this again." He trotted over to the kitchen, and began going through the steps she'd told him. He only messed up twice and she corrected him. They ate the second half of their meal and chatted about matters in Trottingham.

The two talked and laughed late into the evening, not realizing the hour until Hold Please's yawns overwhelmed the conversation. She kept excusing herself, but every time she'd start to leave she'd remember some interesting tidbit and the conversation would start up again. Grasping Hoof blushed slightly and timidly extended a hoof. "Well madam, I can't let you walk home all alone at night. Please, allow me to escort you home," he said not looking directly at her.

The two walked down the moonlit paths to Hold Please's house and continued to talk on her doorstep for a long while. Finally Grasping Hoof gained a pensive air that drew her attention. "Well ma'am, I was just wondering. Well, umm, I mean, I quite enjoyed this afternoon, and was wondering if you'd like to do this again sometime. I mean not with me leaving out the garlic of course." They chuckled at the earlier blunder. "But I do mean dinner. Somewhere in town, I mean." He grinned nervously. She again showed him that smile that warmed him so. "But Hoof, I love cooking with you. Why don't you come over for dinner here tomorrow, and we'll make something together again?" She blushed. "And please, call me Holdy.

He inhaled deeply with excitement, not remembering he'd never actually introduced himself. "That would be lovely ma-. I mean Holdy."

They said their goodnights and Hold Please shut the door gently behind her. She couldn't believe it. She'd just spent a delightful day with the pony that had terrorized RCU for thirty years. More than that however, she had a date! With a stallion! She could hardly sleep that night with anticipation.

The two made a habit of having dinner at each other's houses and chatting cheerily late into the night until one day, almost offhoffedly, Grasping Hoof suggested it'd be easier if they just lived in the same house. Hold Please blushed deeply as she said, "Hoofy? Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

He knelt in front of her. "If you would accept the hoof of an old fat pony." She tackled him to the floor and buried him alive with kisses. They were married three weeks later, and soon enough Hold Please was big with foal. The news came as quite a shock to both of them as she thought she was past foal bearing age. Grasping Hoof couldn't have been happier with the news. He frenetically darted about the doctor's office with thought. "Oh so much to do! Neither of our houses are big enough for a family, they must be sold! Ah but my house is in no condition for sale. I'll have to reshingle the roof, and.- Oh so much to do. SO MUCH TO DO!" Having to go back to work filled him with a new energy like he'd never felt before.

He obtained a position at Trottingham high school for troubled youths. It paid poorly, and the clientele were beyond terrible, but he attacked each day with a vigor he'd never known in Canterlot. He regained a healthy weight, no longer plagued with remorse, but filled with a hearty appetite for good home cooked meals prepared with his loving wife, and lots of hard work.

Soon his first colt was joined by two others. Picturesque had three brothers she would never meet and Octavia three uncles. Grasping Hoof's favorite thing in the world became coming home from work and being tackled into the grass by his three colts. Hold Please finally had what she'd always wanted, a family to call her own. Grasping Hoof got what he never knew he lacked, a deep and abiding contentment with what he had. The two lived happily the rest of their days. They never discussed why Grasping Hoof had moved to Trottingham, and Hold Please never revealed she'd worked for him for over two decades. She didn't care, they were here now, and that's all that mattered.

At Royal Canterlot University the sound of a quill scratching against parchment was the only sound audible in the dorm, now vacant of Haycartes, occupied instead by the two unicorns. Wordsmith wrote furiously for the second time in his life. He was indeed a lauded poet, but his chief vice was that he was too lazy to ever write anything down. The events of the last several weeks had robbed him of sleep though, so he had woken up and filled the room with the sound of scratching. Sawbones groggily complained. "Smithy come back to bed."

Wordsmith didn't stop his scribbling. "Sorry Boney dear. This couplet's been stuck in my head all evening, and I don't think I'll be able to sleep without getting it onto paper." Sawbones frowned at the lack of snuggles and decided it was appropriate to be a bit rude. He slipped under the desk and started to distract the poet with his mouth. Wordsmith tried to resist his lover's attentions, but the quill scratched slower and slower until his hooves drifted down to his lover's head. He felt the pressure building and he tilted his head back, but just before receiving gratification, Sawbones stood up and shuffled back to bed.

Wordsmith ground his teeth. "Really? Can you really be that petty?"

Sawbones yawned as he got back under the covers. "If you want me to continue you'll just have to get back into bed with me." Wordsmith decided poetry could wait.

Wordsmith would go on to write books of poetry under the pen name Nom du Plume. He gained a small but devoted following in poetic circles, but was never terribly popular with the public at large. Sawbones would go on to serve as a surgeon at Canterlot General. They would still meet with Haycartes' either at the Breached Barrel, or at their houses for drinks and arguements. They remained the best of friends throughout their lives. The two never married, but lived together peacefully for the rest of their days.

In Calneigh, on the edge of the frontier of Prançe, Royal Blue could hardly contain his excitement. He changed trains as he was instructed until he reached Maresailles, and at the estate of Le Comtess du Assoiffé. He didn't care how he got there, he was just happy to be there.

The meeting with Octavia's grandmother was awkward to say the least. Roy had to stand on her doorstep for a full thirty minutes as she read and reread Octavia's letter. "She has the gall to not write for months, then dump some stranger on me? Yes I know he helped with her amours, but she should've at least introduced me to her first." The old salt whined internally.

She looked Roy up and down like a connoisseur inspects a piece of art. "Well, at least he seems energetic. If he's going to stay here he's going to pay for it." Roy was allowed inside and spent his first day seeing as many sights and tours as he possibly could with the translator and guide provided by his new Land mare. That night however he was made aware of his rent obligations. He was ridden like a jockey by a pony at least thrice his age and twice his lust. There's the expression ''fucked to death'', but this was a near thing. He wasn't actually required to please the Lady of the house, but he didn't think to argue the issue, that would've seemed rude. He awoke late that afternoon and only was able to take in a bit of the local wine scene before returning to the family estate.

Again his will and vitality were tested in bed, and he barely managed to survive. The Lady of the house was insatiable. He knew he had to relocate if he ever wanted to return home in one piece. He took his broken speech, few remaining bits and his burning loins to the cheapest hotel he could find and rented a room for the rest of the week. The Lady of the house was more disappointed than heart broken. "Octavia's going to get a stern talking to about this."

Royal Blue resumed his sight seeing but a problem quickly arose. The tourist attractions all started blending together. The sample wines and cheeses started to taste the same. The old ponies with their Haywaiian shirts and socks with sandals became more and more obnoxious. He sat outside the Neighpoleon museum sighing to himself. He'd heard of this phenomenon and couldn't believe it was happening to him. He'd been obsessed with Prançe since he saw Cirque de Solneigh as a colt. Now he was at the epicenter of the cultural world yet here he sat drinking bad wine and listening to this obnoxious pony playing the same two sappy chords on his accordion.

He couldn't stand it anymore. He may not be from Prançe but he damn sure knew what accordion music was supposed to sound like. He summoned all of his prodigious bulk and stomped over to the street performer, his professional courtesy gone. He was no longer Roy the bouncer, he was Royal Bleu the Prancofile. He snatched the accordion out of the performer's hooves and smashed it to pieces on the pavement. He shouted at the terrified pony in Equestrian common, his smattering of Prench being thoroughly exhausted, "Stop disrespecting the long and glorious tradition of accordion music that Prançe is famous for!"

The performer scrambled away calling for the gendarmes. Roy called after him, "And learn a new fuckin chord too!" He threw down the remnant of accordion he still held in his hoof to punctuate the point. He stared at the retreating pony and sighed heavily. Maybe he should just pack it in and go home. Prançe clearly wasn't the land of romance, culture, and cuisine he had built it up to be in his mind. Apparently it's was the land of insatiably horny old mares, lame tourist traps, and bad wine.

He felt a hoof on his shoulder that was too gentle to be a gendarme. He turned and saw a greyed old pony smiling sympathetically at him. He spoke in Equestrian common. "Prançe not living up to your expectations?" He said warmly.

Roy sighed heavily. "Is it that obvious?"

The newcomer chuckled. "It happens more than you'd think. Equestrians come seeking wonder, romance, and excellent cuisine. Instead they get.-"

The two spoke simultaneously. "Bad wine, bad cheese and bad accordion music!" Roy laughed heartily, glad at having somepony who understood. Scroll chuckled to himself glad to have somepony you speak Equestrian common with.

"My name is Scroll Scribe, I'm the director of historical verification here at the museum. You'd better come with me, assaulting a street performer is a capital offence in Prançe." Roy couldn't tell if he was joking or not. He didn't seem to be.

They entered the museum and slipped into a small office crammed floor to ceiling with ancient looking scrolls, artifacts and empty bottles of wine. Scroll rummaged through his desk and pulled out a dusty bottle. "Here we go, no offense but you seem like a novice when it comes to wine. Start here." He poured them both a glass and they toasted.

Roy drained half the glass at once and licked his lips. "Now that's what I'm talking about!" He cheered.

He tried to finish the glass but his hoof was arrested in a magical glow. "No no no no no! One doesn't inhale a soixante-sept. Inhale, note it's hidden subtleties, swirl it for a moment, let it breathe, then sip." He demonstrated and sighed contentedly.

Roy smelled the wine not knowing what he was supposed to be smelling for, but it did smell rather good. He did as he was instructed and sipped gently. His eyes went wide and he stared disbelieving at his glass. "What the fuck! It's a completely different flavor!"

Scroll laughed to himself. The uninitiated innocence of the lumbering earth pony was thoroughly refreshing. "So what brings you to Maresailles Mr?"

"Bleu, Royal Bleu." The two talked late into the night and went through several bottles of excellent wine. The name Royal Bleu as well as Roy's cutie mark of three fleur des lis intrigued the historian. The two dug through old dusty genealogies and it was found at length that Royal Bleu was a very very VERY distant branch of the ancient Royal household of the house of Bleu. He had no authority mind you, nor was he owned a pension, but the prancofile was thrilled to have a connection to the place he idolized so.

Scroll Scribe gave Roy the cultural experience he craved so much. They went to cafes by the sea, black and white films that had Roy weeping like a filly, and art galleries that expressed the true beating heart of Prançe. They never found good accordion music though, turns out that's just a myth. Who knew?

Scroll Scribe had come to Prançe in exile, but teaching somepony about it gave him a new appreciation for his adopted home. One night after a few bottles of very good wine Scroll Scribe told Roy as much, and Roy gushed about how much he appreciated Scribe's tutelage on the local culture. The cycle of compliments got out of control as the two scooted closer and closer until finally their mouths connected and the conversation was forgotten.

Roy suddenly found himself in that most time honoured tradition of Prançe, a secret forbidden romance. He suddenly, with absolutely no help from a certain head of historical accuracy, found himself the head of security at the museum. Coworker relationships were strictly verboten, which was practically a guarantor that three quarters of the staff were sleeping with each other.

Roy would never return to Canterlot rather he settled in Maresailles. Scroll Scribe and he would never marry as that would ruin the romance, but they loved each other for the rest of their days. Behind their wives backs. Prançe is weird and terrible.

In the country house outside of Canterlot the sound of a new filly crying could be heard. Octavia's younger sister Chordnelia was born happy and healthy. She continued the family tradition of not completing her education, much to her father's frothing rage, deciding rather to become the lead guitarist in a metal band called Maneowar. She would visit Ponyville anytime the tour was in the area and her and Vinyl were fierce rivals in drinking contests, all of which they lost to Octavia.

In the small village of Ponyville. Vinyl Scratch gritted her teeth under the weight of lifting three large crates of recording equipment. "Damnit babe! I said get off your ass and fuckin help me! Use your earth pony strength or something!" She gently put the crates down and flopped heavily onto a stack of boxes all marked "fragile" as the couch was covered with several boxes stacked on it.

As it turned out the land want just cheap, it was free. Ponyville was granted by the princess as a homesteading area to encourage settlement. The couple literally just had to pay for a fifteen bit building permit, and the cost of materials. The building materials were dirt cheap as well as half the town had to be rebuilt recently, causing a shortage that when filled meant there was a surplus they couldn't get rid of.

The house had an awkward split down the middle, one half brown, one half blue. It was an eyesore, but it was their eyesore, and they couldn't have been happier with it. Octavia's natural strength as an earth pony combined with Vinyl's magic made short work of moving, when Octavia didn't slip away to scratch away at her cello.

"Sorry love, I just can't stop thinking about our song." She scratched out a few odd sounds on her cello.

Vinyl rolled her eyes. "Yes babe, I'm the fuckin best. Now get up and."

"No no no, hold on, I've almost got it, listen listen." She scratched out the first several seconds of song. Of a dubstep song. On a cello. Acoustically. Vinyl's horn arced for the first time since they'd been in Ponyville. The DJ used her near exhausted magic to snatch the cello out of her lover's hooves and scrambled on top of her. They slumped to the floor and christened their new home, door open, for anypony to hear, not a care in the world.

They lay on the floor in each other's hooves, panting heavily, terribly pleased with their lives. They had each other, they had their dream house, they had rather good sex on a regular basis. A thought occurred to Octavia and she started to giggle to herself. Vinyl decided to take the bait. "What?"

Octavia looked deeply into the eyes she loved so much and asked, "Say it again."

Vinyl kissed her once. "I love you."

Octavia chuckled and rolled her eyes. "No love not that. The other thing."

Vinyl was instantly on her hooves. "OH FUCK OFF!" She started to trot away testily.

Octavia tugged at her back hooves. "Oh please love. Please? Mon petite Cherie Vinyl."

Vinyl rounded on her. "DON'T YOU FUCKIN START WITH THAT!" she shouted, blood mounting to her cheeks.

Octavia rolled onto her back playfully. "Ne commence pas quoi?"

Vinyl groaned. "Uuuugh. Fine!" She blushed heavily. "Step one find fuckable pony. Step two eat ass. Repeat."

Octavia shook with laughter. "H-ho-how is that all you knew of love?"

Vinyl frowned and started rummaging through a box labeled "spare tools." Octavia got to her hooves. "Seriously why would you ever put your tongue.- Why are you looking at me like that?" Vinyl was levitating an enema bag, a marital aid, a riding crop, and a can of whipped cream. Vinyl looked her dead in the eye and licked her lips.

Octavia's face went white as a sheet and her pupils shrank to the size of pinpricks. She scrambled towards the door screaming, "VINYL NO! VINYL DON'T YOU DARE! VINYL AAAAAH!" She was dragged by the back hooves back through the door which was magically slammed shut. Half an hour later the two exited the house. Octavia's face was a pale thousand yard stare.

Vinyl walked out brushing her teeth. "Shay ish," she said over her tooth brush.

Octavia stared hard at the ground, face now as crimson as Vinyl's eyes. " I don't want to."

Vinyl's eyes blazed and the riding crop levitated back out. "SAY ISH!"

Octavia screamed, "J'ADORE QUAND TU LANCES LA LANGUE DE MA FILLE!"

"Damn right you do bitch."