Picture Perfect

by GenericUsername

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life
Length: 1539

Spitfire and Fleetfoot at a photo shoot

Spitfire and Fleetfoot at a photo shoot.

Written as a part of Peregrine Caged's The Album. This is by far the worst piece on the album, the other ones are actually pretty damn good, so go check it out!

Edited by LoreOfAMadMusician
Art by johnjoseco

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2012-10-10 21:20:01 UTC

Picture Perfect

The cameras had been snapping for 20 minutes, but Spitfire had been in the studio since the morning. Makeup had taken hours. Every hair in her fiery mane had to be exactly right and every breath she took resulted in four mares assaulting her to try and fix the one hair that moved a hundredth of an inch too far to the side. When the chief photographer, a really fat, ugly pink earth pony with pinprick eyes, clad in a light green scarf, was finally pleased with the way she looked Fleetfoot coughed, causing the Germane pony to scream in his harsh language and the aids to jump her to try and fix whatever imaginary fault the cough had created. This was taking picture perfect to a whole new level, and for what? A failing magazine trying to boost their sales with saucy images of a couple of Wonderbolts. Of course it had to be the captain and their fastest flier.

        “Hmmmm... Nein, not good enough. Look more sexy,” the fat pink ball of an earth pony said in his broken Equestrian.

        “What?” Spitfire asked, irritation creeping into her voice as her patience began to run low. Seriously, what was up with all these Germane photographers? Last week she had to pose in a ridiculously tight bikini while this creepy Photo Finish stood and admired herself. All she wanted to do at this point was go back home to Rainbow Dash.

        “Fly...foot...”

        “Fleetfoot!” Spitfire corrected him.

        “Ja ja, watever,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hoof. “Ze blue mare is a natural. Sie looks ze way ponies want you to look, and sie is not even trying. Sie is selling magazines right now. You, not so much. You are pretty, but you don't want it enough. Look more like you want it.”

“Of course every creepy old buck will buy magazines with Fleetfoot,” Spitfire thought to herself. “She's gorgeous and barely legal.” Shaking her head, making one of the aids whimper, Spitfire repositioned herself. She flared her wings and folded them back softly, arching her back and assumed her best bedroom-face. Fleetfoot leaned in and looked as cute as she possibly could.

        “Nein, not good enough,” the earth pony said, adjusting his scarf. Spitfire leaned half an inch to the left. “Hmm...” She tried leaning an inch to the right. “Hmm...” She tried arching her back so far it hurt. “Ja... besser...” Spitfire had no idea what that meant but tried to look at the camera the same way she looked at Rainbow Dash. As she did this the pink ball exploded.

        Screaming, his short legged propelled him higher up in the air than should be physically possible. “Das ist perfekt! Wunderschön! Fantastich!” As he landed with an impact that shook the entire building the two camerabucks began snapping.

        Happy to finally please the fat pony, Spitfire kept her sultry gaze fixed at the cameras and extended a wing, wrapping it around Fleetfoot. At this the arctic blue mare gave a small 'eep' and blushed. As she did, scarf clad ball exclaimed something in his foreign tongue and the cameras began snapping even more furiously. With her wing Spitfire pulled Fleetfoot in close and gave her a small lick on the nose. This elicited another 'eep' from from Fleetfoot and caused her blush to deepen to a dark crimson, contrasting strongly against her bright, blue coat.

        At this the cameras snapping peaked and the pink ball exclaimed something that Spitfire thought was a happy sound. At least, compared to the rest of his babbling it sounded pretty happy.

        As the cameras stopped snapping Spitfire let go of Fleetfoot, but the young mare didn't move.

        “Hey Fleet, something wrong?” Spitfire asked softly. Spitfire wasn't stupid, and the glances she'd gotten from Fleetfoot in the showers hadn't eluded her. Nor the stuttering and fumbling whenever they talked one on one. Poor mare, it had to have been awful for her.. It was a stupid idea from the beginning. Fleetfoot was too young and way too shy for stuff like this. Maybe that lick was a little too far?

        Looking at the petrified mare in front of her told Spitfire it was definitely too far.

        “I... uhm... I...” Fleetfoot tried, her white mane covering her eyes. “I actually liked it. Or, I like you. It. I liked it. I liked the lick, not you. Or well, I like you but...” she trailed of, doing her best to hide behind her mane.

        “Look Fleet, I'm sorry,” Spitfire said. “I just thought that if we give him a couple of nice picture we could be done with this, I didn't mean for it like that.”

        While Spitfire apologized, the chief photographer had been discussing in hushed rapid fire

Germane with his aides. Now he stumbled over to Spitfire and Fleetfoot.

        “Just a few more,” he said.

        “What?” Spitfire complained. “I thought we were done.”

        “Nein, we saved ze best for last. Ze kiss!” he said with a face splitting grin.

“What!?” the two mares exclaimed in unison.

        “Ja, ze kiss. We were promised a kiss by your manager,” he said smugly, his grin never faltering.

        “Yeah, well, since you're not getting a kiss, are we done here?” Spitfire countered.

        “Your manager said you'd kiss, so you have...”

        “Look here you perverted mudpony,” Spitfire snapped, flaring up in anger. “Fleet doesn't have to do anything! For your information I'm going to skin the featherbrain they call our manager alive, and if you don't watch your tongue I'll skin you to!”

        With the grin finally falling from his face Spitfire turned to walk away.

        “Nein! Nein! Nein! Niemand schreit mich so an!” he roared, his pink face turning a darker hue.

        “Could you stop speaking Germane, Celestia damn it!” Spitfire screamed, spinning back to face him.

        “Uh... guys?” Fleetfoot tried.

        “Warum kannst du nicht...”

        “Guys?

        “This isn't a bucking porno!”

        “Guys, please...”

        “Du hast keine wahl...”

        “Everypony shut up!” Fleetfoot screamed, slamming her hoof down. Complete silence fell on the room. “I... uhm... I,” she began, a new blush spreading across cheeks. “I actually wouldn't mind a...uhm... a kiss,” she finished, her blush intensifying.

        And just like that, the fat pink cheeks were once again split by a grin, his mood restored. The aids rushed over to a dumbstruck Spitfire to fix her up.

        “Uh, you sure, Fleet?” Spitfire asked.

        “Y-yes. I mean, it's just for the magazine. Right?” The blue mare said with a trembling smile, doing a pretty terrible job at trying to act casual.

        “Ugh fuck,” Spitfire thought to herself as the aids filled her lungs with hairspray. “This is so coming back to bite me in the flank when I have to tell her off and break her heart.” She shook her head. “And it's a complete gamble with Rainbow Dash. Either she freaks out hates me for a week or she finds it hot. Ugh, sweet Celestia, why did I get out of bed this morning?”

        “Very well,” Spitfire said as the aids stepped away. “You ready?” Fleetfoot gulped and nodded.

        Slowly, swaying her hips and with a look dripping of sultriness, Spitfire walked closer. When their muzzles were just inches apart both mares closed their eyes. Half an inch apart, Spitfire could feel Fleetfoot's ragged breath on her muzzle. She waited there for a moment, teasing everypony in the room. Then she pressed their muzzles together, lips locking.

        One second. The cameras were snapping like crazy

        Two seconds. The camera buttons were being pressed so rapidly that it seemed as if they would catch fire and the pink pony's eyes were about to pop out of his skull.

        Three seconds. The buttons were being pressed faster than Neighton's laws allowed.

        Spitfire broke the kiss, a thin strand of saliva connecting their mouths. She tenderly gazed into Fleetfoot's eyes. It was the perfect picture; a picture sure to sell thousands upon thousands of magazines.

        Before the camerabuck's hooves could achieve the speed of light and before the now profusely sweating scarf clad ball's eyes could pop out of their sockets. Way after the young arctic blue pegasus had fallen deeply in love the moment was broken by the sound of clapping. In the doorway stood the Wonderbolt's PR manager, smiling broadly and clapping.

        Spitfire broke her tender eye contact with Fleetfoot and glared pure death at the unicorn in the doorway.

***

“Dashie, I'm home!” Spitfire called out, closing the door the their luxurious apartment in Cloudsdale's finest quarter. No answer. “Huh.”

        Spitfire checked the kitchen. Empty. She continued to their living room, but froze in the doorway. On the couch, with a magazine in front of her, was Rainbow Dash. The rainbow maned mare's face was completely devoid of expressions as she slowly flipped through the increasingly saucy images of the Wonderbolt's captain and the winner of this year's Wonderbolt's Derby.

        As she reached the final image, the one of the two mares lovingly gazing into each other's eyes, a thin strand of saliva connecting them, she froze completely. Spitfire didn't dare say a single word and the seconds felt like eons.

        Then, with a soft 'pomf' Rainbow's wings shot wide. “So... awesome,” she squeaked.