The Long And Short Of It

Anonymous couldn’t find the motivation to get up. He just laid there, chuckling to himself at the internal schadenfreude.

Of course you just charged into the mares’ locker room like a maniac, of fucking course.

‘Wait... does that even matter? It’s not like ponies care about others seeing them undress, am I even breaking an actual taboo here?’

“Is he alright? He hit the ground pretty hard there,” a new voice asked. Anon could hear hooves on the tile as more of the team approached him.

“We should probably call a doctor. Stallions have hollow bones, he might have broken something,” another voice spoke up.

“You idiot!” A third shouted, “He’s a unicorn! We’re the ones with semi-hollow bones!”

With said unicorn both wanting to end their asides and itching to get this awkward introduction over with, Anon let out a loud groan before forcing himself to his hooves. He doubted anything was seriously injured, but man was he sore. Having finally centered himself, he took in his surroundings and discovered they were exactly what he’d expected: something akin to a high-tier YMCA locker room, full of mares doing all the things he’d expect someone to be doing in a locker room. Undressing, stretching, showering…

And yet, nearly all of them had frozen in place, their eyes locked on him in awkward silence as he worked up the nerve to break the ice. Anonymous had never been particularly uncomfortable in front of crowds, but he couldn’t help but find their looks just the slightest bit unnerving. Capping off that feeling was the range of expressions he saw. Over to his right, the reactions he was getting were what he’d expect to see if a girl just barged into a fraternity locker room. The further left he looked however, the more they seemed to be... afraid? Some of them were even grimacing as they looked at his side.

‘Oh God, did I, like, cut myself open on a loose piece of tile or something?’

Hurriedly checking his side, Anon suddenly noticed he was covered in pins. Most of them were stuck to his saddlebag, but a few had managed to cling to his bare, fur coated self as well. They must’ve been magic or something, because he certainly didn’t feel like there were half a dozen pins jammed into his skin.

‘Wait a second, I recognize these! They’re from that dude I plowed into earlier!’

And taking a closer look at them, Anon realized they were covered in absolutely terrible slogans.
“Down With The Matriarchy” was okay, he supposed, but “Penis Power?” ‘Really?’

“It’s one of those guys Legal Ease warned us about!” one of the mares abruptly screamed. “Everypony, scatter!”
Almost all of the previously frozen ponies exploded into movement. Tearing their way past Anon, they went for doors, windows, lockers — anything that would put a barrier between him and them. Before he could even get a word out, the once packed room was practically a ghost town. Of the over a dozen mares originally in view, only a scant few remained. And by the sound of it, these mares must’ve been the bravest of the brave.

...Or the ones least concerned with legal repercussions.

Anon opened his mouth intending to clear up the misunderstanding, but the remaining mares didn’t give him a chance.

“Well well well,” said Spitfire as she strutted toward him, “what do we have here?” She openly started sizing him up, and he was sure she’d be trying to look down on him if he wasn’t so tall.

Stopping in front of the stallion, the Wonderbolt struck a pose Anonymous recognized immediately. It was the same pose Pike made whenever she wanted him to look at her chest fuzz, with her head pulled back while thrusting her chest forward. Spitfire had already unzipped her suit until it was below her chest, so it kind of worked, but her fur was all matted from being pressed by the suit and covered in sweat. Her actual tuft was much smaller than Pike’s too, and not in a cute way like Cut’s was. Frankly, Anonymous wasn’t entirely sure what Spitfire was even going for here. Sexy? Intimidating?

Either way, it wasn’t working.

“Come to hear some of our “locker room talk” with your own ears?”

Anonymous almost answered with a very enthusiastic “no,” but something stopped him. He may not have been all that familiar with the Wonderbolts, but what he’d seen seemed like a pretty serious departure from their public personas, especially Spitfire: she’d seemed like nothing but a consummate professional before now. But he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised: no matter the planet, jocks will be jocks. She even used the “locker room talk” meme! And just like back home, Anon was sure all kinds of shit was said behind closed doors that the team would never let slip in public — especially to someone like a reporter.

But with someone else — say, a random stallionist who barged into the locker room? That’s as far from a reporter as it gets! If Anon had been a reporter in the fifties, he sure as shit wouldn’t have used “hearsay from a feminist” as his source. And nobody else would either. The team would know that, too. And that meant they’d have no PR filter, and no reason to hold anything back.

‘Every off-color opinion and spicy detail, laid bare…’

The thought made him salivate. It seemed that the idiot at the entrance had accidentally given Anonymous a golden opportunity for an undercover investigation, and he was going to take it!

Thanking his lucky stars that they somehow hadn’t already noticed it, he quietly used his magic to fold the press pass on his hat in upon itself. A part of him was really looking forward to this: for once, he had a legitimate reason to antagonize an annoying source.

‘Just better make sure I don’t get too in character…’

Wanting to start strong, Anon made sure to do something he knew would get under Spitfire’s skin. Rising up to his full height, he made a deliberate show of looking down at Spitfire’s tuft. He could see her grinning at the edge of his vision, until one of his eyebrows went up. Anonymous stared down at that ratty-ass tuft like it was an unexpected hairball in his shower drain, and just when Spitfire got the picture, only then did he look up at her face.

‘She’s sure not grinning anymore!’

“As a matter of fact, I did. Especially anything pertaining to one particular stallion...”

“...Wind Rider.”

Fleetfoot, third wing of the Wonderbolts, had only heard one sentence from this oversized colt and she was already holding back tears of laughter.

‘Sweet Celestia, I wasn’t expecting this kind of after show entertainment!’

She’d never confess it, but she had to admit she was a little worried at first. The way he charged in, she almost could’ve been fooled into thinking he had some serious business. But it turned out that his “serious business” was Wind Rider. Wind Bucking Rider! Nopony gives a buck about Wind Rider! No pony! Only the most deranged stallionists would even consider that old stallion worth their energy, and this dude was waaay too calm to fit into that category.

Way too attractive, too.

No, Fleetfoot knew what he was really here for. Unlike Spits, Fleet had hung out with her fair share of stallions; by now she’d acquired an acute understanding of how they operated in the sheets AND the streets. And stallionists are creatures of pride. They want— no, they need to feel like they’re the ones in control. But at the end of the day they’re still stallions, and every stallion eventually gets a craving that brings them back to the shellfish buffet.

‘He’s clearly got it bad too! Running in here like a stallion possessed, and practically throwing himself at my hooves…’

And the way he stared down Spits’ tuft? Sure he tried to play it cool, but Fleetfoot, and everypony else, saw it all. He wasn’t fooling anypony! Well, okay, Spits looked like she was absolutely seething so he probably fooled her, but that’s besides the point; it was clearly an act, meant to keep up the stallion’s pride, just like this Wind Rider stuff.

But that was fine with her; she’d played this game before.

Spits was trying to stand tall enough to look him in the eyes, so she was obviously playing the bad cop, so Fleetfoot would play good cop; before they knew it, the two of them would have a good old fashioned gang bang on their hooves!

‘Buck hitting up the dress club, this is how you unwind after a show!’

Anonymous really wished he’d gone ahead and learned that mind reading spell after all. Sure, Pike was right, and it probably would have made him “a massive pain in the flank,” but God, he’d kill to know what exactly Spitfire was thinking. The mare was two-thirds your size and knew it, yet she was putting every angry atom of her being toward standing high enough on her tip-toes so that she could look him in the eye.

And failing, of course.

‘Aren’t most mares shorter than most stallions anyway? Why would this of all things be a point of pri— woah hey what the fuck!?’

Something had just brushed against his fucking nuts! It felt like someone’s tail, and after whipping his head around, he saw it was someone’s tail!

Fleetfoot’s.

Apparently while he was busy with Spitfire she thought it appropriate to circle around behind him and swat his nuts as she passed by.

That was disconcerting, to say the least.

What’s even worse is she did not look like someone who just got caught tickling someone else’s nuts. If anything, she looked confident; like that was the right move.

‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’

Abruptly, she pulled in close beside him. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to clearly violate his personal space.

“Now what’s a handsome guy like you want with somepony like that?” she asked.

It was times like this that keenly reminded Anonymous that he was still far from used to the opposite sex being the forward ones. For the briefest of moments, his eyes were probably the size of dinner plates as he hastily stumbled back.

‘Shit, I’m breaking character! Come on Anon, she may be attractive but she just touched your balls without asking! Remember that righteous anger and channel it!’

Anon physically straightened himself out and glared at Fleet as hard as he could. “I want to know why he did it!” And considering what had just happened, he had a perfect line of inquiry. Angrily pointing between the two of them, he shouted, “And I want to know what you all did to him!”

The two mares rolled their eyes—which, while not unexpected, still wasn’t really the reaction he was gunning for.

“Oh please,” Spitfire said, hawking the words out like a loogie, “like we’d need to do anything to get that old churl going.”

Anonymous just barely caught the tail end of Fleetfoot shooting Spitfire one nasty look before she turned to him. “What Spits is trying to say is, you’ve got us all wrong! We didn’t do anything to that poor stallion.”

‘This coming from the bitch who just tickled my balls? As if! Do these people think I’m fucking stupid?’

‘...Of course they do, I’m a stallion.’

‘No, no!’

He needed to remember: as far as they knew, he was a stallionist not just a stallion; there’s a difference! But even with the caricature in mind, there was more than a little genuine bitterness in Anon’s voice as he shouted back, “Don’t bullshit me! Everyone’s heard about what you did to Bench Warmer.” It was a lie, of course; he had no idea what happened to Bench Warmer. But he certainly felt like he knew enough to make an educated guess!

Spitfire apparently disagreed. “WHAT!? The only thing we “did” for that ungrateful bastard was a favor!” By the end of her statement, Spitfire the drill sergeant had come out just a little. And honestly? It was kind of terrifying. However, it wasn’t so terrifying that Anonymous wasn’t completely enraptured. The Wind Rider thing might end up being a bust, but he’d certainly be willing to settle for the inside scoop on Bench Warmer. He wasn’t that picky!

Making things even better was the visible horror on Fleetfoot’s face. “Spitfi—”

“I don’t care what Legal says, Fleet,” Spitfire swiftly cut the other mare off in her firm, drill-sergeant tone. “The facts are on our side!”

If he wasn’t worried about breaking cover, he would’ve been drooling. Anonymous was a shark, and they’d just chummed the water. This was an ongoing investigation and yet Spitfire was clearly ready to spill everything. All she needed was a little push!

“What facts?” Anon drawled in the most condescending tone he possibly could. Fleetfoot tried to put herself between the two of them, but it was all in vain. Anon knew he’d won as the fiery mare pushed past Fleet in order to angrily shove herself in his face.

“He wants to tell everypony we benched him because he’s a stallion? Horseapples! We’ve got his performance stats on record. If a mare flew like that she wouldn’t even make the bench!”

The sweet taste of victory was quickly turning to ash in Anon’s mouth. He knew he wouldn’t like the answer, but he was in too deep to stop now.

“So why keep him on the team at all?”

“Becau—”

This time, Fleetfoot took no chances and forced her entire hoof into Spitfire’s mouth. Keeping the momentum up, she shoved Spitfire out of Anon’s way and stepped in to take her place. “Because,” she continued for Spitfire, “we at the Wonderbolts realize our team is a little mare heavy! So we wanted to give that uh... promising young stallion a real chance to shine! Despite his, ahem, questionable performance record.”

Anonymous stood there in silence as his mind begrudgingly processed what he’d just heard. It took him all of two seconds to figure out the real reason why.

“So it’s because he was hot.”

Fleetfoot awkwardly scratched at the back of her neck. Refusing to look him in the eye, she only managed a weak, “Well....”

“...I won’t feed you manure and pretend like your stories will get front page billing.”

Anonymous, the freshly minted Unicorn, had finally found someone willing to hire him. Although from where he was standing, “willing” felt like a bit of a stretch.

“Or, probably second or third page billing for that matter. But! You’ll have an editorial all to yourself! Gossip, fashion, all the things you stallions like to write and read about.”

He’d been throwing himself at every employer he could think of for months, and this is where he’d ended up: sitting in front of J. Jargon Justification of the Canterlot Canteror. Not as an apprentice reporter to be trained up of course, just the gossip writer. That’s it.

He could refuse, and continue fruitlessly struggling and hoping that someone else would give him a chance, or he could accept a new position here as the token stallion. But considering how most of the businesses in Canterlot had already turned him down, it wasn’t much of a choice, really.

“And the mares will just love having you around!”

Anon choked down the grimace that tried to make its way on to his face. Considering the way they were eyeing him up as he walked in, he was sure they would. Swallowing his last bit of pride, he put on a fake smile and raised a hoof.

‘Remember, it’s a bump, not a shake!’

“Sounds great boss, when do I start?”

‘Wow.’

Anonymous had to admit, that hit a LOT closer to home than he’d been expecting. Apparently he had a lot more in common with this Bench Warmer than he’d presumed. And that revelation left him stunned. Fact is, being eye candy was likely the only reason he’d made it past those first few months with Jargon. She certainly wasn’t keeping him around for what he wrote, she didn’t even read it!

‘Probably still doesn’t.’

“That’s horrible.” Anon hadn’t even meant to say that out loud; it just slipped out. The line between him and this stallionist character had just blurred considerably.

‘Is it even still there?’

“Oh don’t be dramatic,” Spitfire scoffed. “Aren’t you types always harping on getting more stallions in the workforce?”

“Yeah, come on,” Fleetfoot said while placing a “comforting” hoof on his withers. “We were just creating a job for him! A very lucrative job at that.”

Anon physically recoiled, a magic hand shoving the mare’s hoof away. He was going all in, now! “It’s demeaning is what it is! Would you two seriously be fine being stuck doing nothing all day just so some people could stare you down!? People who only want to fuck you and nothing else?!”

Spitfire and Fleetfoot shared only the briefest of glances between each other before turning back to Anon.

“Yeah,” they said in perfect sync.

“Well...!” Whatever pathetic diatribe he was about to spew died in his throat.

‘Yeah, of course that was their response.’

They hadn’t been there; they had no idea what it’s actually like. To them, it probably sounded great! Shit, it would have sounded great to Anonymous just two years ago too! But he knew better now, and he’d bet his own nuts that he knew exactly how Bench Warmer felt. The only real difference was that Anon was ingenuitive enough, and lucky enough, to excel in spite of it all. With Bench, who knows how long he’d stay stuck there?

‘Wait, what’s this feeling in my chest? Is this empathy? For these annoying stallions? For the feminists back home?! Oh God, do I actually understand where they’re coming from!?’

Like a character in an HP Lovecraft novel, he could feel his mind buckling under the weight of the revelation. Forget the interview, he needed a moment to process this.

In Fleetfoot’s professional opinion, this was going great! If things kept along this path, there was a real good chance she and Spitfire would be gettin' laid tonight!

‘Oh yeah!’

Sure, things got a little dicey once Spits started spilling the beans about Seat Warmer. However, Fleet felt things had turned out for the best. She thought he was really gonna let her have it there for a moment, but it seemed her flawless logic had stunned him into silence! She’d never managed that with a stallionist before, and even then, they’d usually still let her hit it, too. That was no excuse to rest on her haunches though; a deal was only sealed when the key was IN the lock, and his silent ponderings were providing her with the perfect opportunity to actually plan their next move. Leaning towards the Captain, Fleetfoot beckoned for her to huddle up.

“Psssst, hey Spits!” Fleet whispered in her ear.

Spitfire spared one last bewildered look towards the stallion before leaning in towards her. “What is it?”

Fleet quickly glanced back at the stallion herself to make sure he was still stunned before she continued.

He was.

“That was great! At first I wasn’t sure what you were thinking by bringing up Seat—Ahem, Bench Warmer, but that was really inspired!”

Spitfire silently stares at her, which obviously meant she’d given Fleet permission to continue.

“I think if we keep up this good cop bad cop routine, this’ll be a done deal!” Fleet paused, wanting to give Spitfire a chance to give her own thoughts on their progress. She blinked at her owlishly instead.

“Fleetfoot, what the buck are you talking about?”

Fleet rolled her eyes; of course Spits knew what she was talking about. What, had she not been trying to get him in bed this whole time? “Hello? Getting this guy to sleep with us?”

Spitfire’s eyes went wide as she stumbled back, rapidly looking between Fleetfoot and the stallionist. And for the first time in her life, Fleet saw Spitfire balk at the suggestion.

“Wha— You think this guy’s going to sleep with us? Are you insane?!” Clearly uncaring whether or not he noticed, Spits pointed a hoof right at him. “He busts in here talking about Wind Rider and Bench... Fleet, I’m pretty sure he hates us!”

“Oh p~lease!” Fleet scoffed, dismissively waving a hoof. “That’s how every desperate stallionist acts! And that’s all it is: an act.”

Fleet could tell Spits didn’t believe her by how high her Commander’s brow was raised. In a surprisingly touching act however, she placed a hoof on Fleet’s withers. Pulling herself even closer, she began to whisper. “Be honest, has this whole thing with Bench Warmer gotten to your head? Last thing I need is my wingmare going AWOL here.”

Fleet dismissively knocked her hoof away. “I’m sorry, how many stallionists have you slept with again?” Spitfire started to answer, but Fleet cut her off when she caught the stallion coming to in the corner of her eye. Fleet knew the answer anyway: it’s zero! “Hey, there’s a can in your bag right?”

Spits looked offended that she’d even ask. “Of course!”

“Great! Keep playing rough with him, but follow my lead.”

‘Am I a bad person?’

‘No, no, I’m just psyching myself out. I’m too in my own head is all. Just gotta—oh shit I’m WAY too into my own head, there’s still a damn interview going on!’

The adrenaline rush that came with that realization helpfully brought Anonymous right back into the moment; he could have a crisis of beliefs later! Thankfully his “subjects” seemed less than begrieved by the sudden lapse of conversation. In fact, Fleetfoot looked positively ecstatic!

Anon did not like that.

“Say, you don’t mind if Spits and I do a few stretches while we talk, do you? It’s always best to limber up after a hard workout.” After Fleet’s remarks, Anon was, admittedly, very tempted to end the interview right then and there. But, objectively speaking, this plan had been a complete success for him.

Mental anguish notwithstanding, of course.

In a surprisingly brief time, Anon had been given more than enough information that he could easily turn the Bench Warmer scandal on its head. If he pushed just a little bit further, he was sure he could find something useful about Wind Rider.

‘Forget quitting while I’m ahead, this is my chance!’

Hopping back into the moment, he tried to avoid thinking about how his honest answer and the stallionist character’s answer were one and the same. “If you insist.”

Fleetfoot grinned and immediately made for the nearest bench, but Anon noticed Spitfire hanging back. For the briefest of moments, he could see her worriedly looking between himself and Fleetfoot, before silently following the other mare’s lead. ‘Hm, that’s unexpected.’ It made him wonder if something had happened while he was distracted.

Putting that thought aside, Anon followed behind them without resistance. It didn’t take them long to pick out a spot, and before he knew what was happening, they’d started posing. He was expecting them to try something, but so far it seemed like they were actually doing regular old post-workout stretches. They’d even zipped their flight suits back up to the neck!

It might be too much to hope they’d give up on sexually harassing him, though.

Fleetfoot, stretching out her back legs like a cat, started things off for him. “So you wanted to know more about Wind Rider, right? What he was like?”

Now Anon was really suspicious. This was too easy. “As a matter of fact, I would.”

“Ha! No you don’t,” Spitfire barked as she pulled a forehoof behind her head. “The dude was a massive dick.”

Fleetfoot spread her wings wide as she responded, “I wouldn’t say it like that but the Captain is right. It may sound silly, but he was a straight up misogynist.”

‘Ha! Now that’s a word I haven’t heard in a long time.’

“Pffft, really?” Once again the persona reflected Anon’s honest thoughts.

Fleetfoot leaned back, and for the first time, he noticed just how insanely tight the suits were. He’d always thought that Silken had taken a few liberties with her Wonderbolts recreations, but now he wasn’t so sure.

“Surely you heard what he did,” the blue mare continued, “if he’d gotten away with it, that would have been the end of Cadet Dash’s career! Just because he didn’t want her name to replace his.”

”It’s not like he was subtle about it either,” said Spitfire, Captain of the Wonderbolts, picking up where Fleetfoot left off. She was still completely unsure about this featherbrained scheme that Fleet had cooked up, but she was right: Spitfire had never managed to bag a stallionist before. He’d also stuck around, against all odds, so maybe she was on to something after all. Bending in a way that was sure to show off her back legs, Spitfire continued. “Sure he could act the part in public, but get one cider in him and the bitter old stallion would jump right out. I nearly had to escort him off base at our reunion three years ago after he threatened to go up on stage.”

Spitfire noticed as Fleetfoot looked over to her. “I always thought you did escort him out.”

‘Ha! Of course that’d be the version Fleet remembers, she was trashed.’

Heck, she was the reason he threatened to go up on stage to begin with.

“Nah,” Spitfire answered, “Nimbus talked him down and he left. Thank Celestia.”

The green stallion “hms” from behind her. Twisting around to look at him, it seemed like he wasn’t paying attention to their bodies at all. Which is what she’d assumed from the moment he scoffed at her tuft. Most stallions would have been tripping over themselves for a view like that, and he just popped an eyebrow.

‘Maybe Fleet’s flown the coop after all.’

“Nimbus who? I didn’t see her on the program,” he continued.

Fleet jumped in, eager to try to steer the conversation. “Nimble Nimbus, she’s out with an injury right now.” What she didn’t mention is that it was possibly a career ending one. Not that it was particularly bad, but because Nimbus had turned twenty-nine last year. Most mares have already retired by then, and that’s without having injuries that put them out for most of the season!

“He was such an ornery guy,” Fleet said. “Nimble was the only mare he tolerated and he still barely liked her.”

Spitfire kept her mouth shut for the moment, completely unsure where Fleet was going with this. Thankfully, she seemed like she was actually going somewhere. “That’s what happens to stallions that grow old alone I suppose. They get all gray and bitter.”

She quickly shot Spitfire a wink, and she realized that’s the signal. Reaching a hoof under the bench, she grabbed for her gym bag...

To be honest, Anonymous hadn’t been paying attention to most of what Fleetfoot was saying. The moment she’d given him a name, he’d tuned her out.

‘Nimble Nimbus.’

It sounded like she was the pony he should talk to if he actually wanted to get anything useful about Wind Rider. And that was more than reason enough for Anon to finally leave; he’d gotten everything he came for.

‘I’ll just excuse myself and—’

Anon was startled out of his thoughts by a sudden, sharp hiss. Quickly checking around, he couldn’t quite pinpoint where it came from. It almost sounded like it came from them, but he didn’t see any sort of can on them.

‘Oh shit, Fleetfoot’s still talking.’

“It would be such a shame for a sweet guy like you to end up like that too, wouldn’t it?”

Before Anon could figure out what she was talking about, Fleet and Spitefire did what Anon was assuming they’d been planning to do since he walked over there. Stretching out like cats, they leaned their front halves down, while allowing their backsides to jut out. And holy shit he’d thought their suits were tight before! He could practically see the entirety of their—

‘Wait, what’s that smell? It almost smells like... OH JESUS CHRIST!’

Fleetfoot could barely contain her excitement as the anticipation built.

And built.

Aaaaand built.

“Hrrk”

‘Dang it, I’d like to get at least one wolf whistle in my life!’

At least that reaction was new, she supposed. It sounded like somepony holding in a cough, but that’d be a wildly abnormal reaction, to say the least! Losing to her own curiosity, Fleet peeked around over her shoulder.

The stallion had pressed himself up against the wall as he clearly tried to hold back a cough, and his eyes seemed wide and... afraid?

‘Oh Tartarus, was I coming on too strong after all?’

Wait, no, those were tears forming at the corners of his eyes, and she’d certainly never made a stallion cry by being too forward. Something else was up…

Suddenly the dam broke, and all at once he descended in a raucous coughing fit. A fit that was growing worse by the second.

Spitfire had noticed too, and had completely abandoned her pose. “Hey, are you alright?”

The only response she got was the cough growing even worse, and the occasional gag.

Suddenly, it all made sense.

Sprinting over to Spitfire’s gym bag, Fleet began tearing it apart looking for the can.

‘Come on, where did she put it!?’

Giving up the search, Fleet shouted, “What color was that!?”

Spits seemed fairly preoccupied with scanning the room for a first aid kit, but she managed an answer right as the stallion’s gagging reached a crescendo. “Green?”

Fleet knew it was not the right time, but she felt her temper boil over nonetheless. “GREEN AXEL BODYSPRAY!? HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU—”

“HurUUUUUAAAAAGHAGHUUUUUUH”

Fleetfoot never even saw the vomit coming.