PiE/HiE Short Stories - The Earth/Equus Treaties

VanHoover, Equestria | Southside Suburbs, A Rainy Evening

In the quaint late-afternoon, a light rain peppers the sky on the east-coast city of Vanhoover, suffering yet another of it's numerous storms that drift inland from the Lunar Ocean. With most of the cities occupants tucking away for the rest of the evening, or hurrying home after a long day of work, the residential streets that line the outer edges of the Vanhoover downtown district are especially quiet. The far-off high rises are still ever-present as they loom beyond the roofs of the variously-colored, single-floor houses that densely populate this sector of the city. Pools of rainwater trickle and puddle in the crevices between the sidewalk and the streets, a soggy pony dog-walker trying to hurry their pet into pooping on a patch of grass, inevitably getting soaked as they wait.

Brent squints through the windows curtains, frowning before letting them fall. He forgot to check his weather schedule, and now he couldn't go and grab any snacks. Great. Well, that's what he gets or whatever. Groaning as he sticks an arm up and behind his head with a big stretch, he meanders back into the depths of his dimly-lit living room, and one of the only places with functional electricity. Cords from an out-back generator slowly run into the room, powering a couple of things. Ponies had some technology that was just better to use out of location all convenience, like one of their gem-powered ice boxes rather than a traditional fridge, but for things like his television, he kept it old-school.

"Still weird, ponies owning pets." Brent scoffs aloud to himself, staving off the boredom thrust so readily upon him.

As one of the few Humans that didn't stay around Canterlot, or moved Eastward, which was typically considered a much more Human-accepting and accessible region. Every second month or so there was a general shipment of requested items for the Humans that made the lackluster choice to move out West instead of East, like trying to tide them over until the developmental promises were actually made. Like what flickered on his TV right now.

Beckoning of Obligation 6, another dry and stale import from Earth quietly chirps it's main-menu trills in the background. Another soulless mid-tier, too many gigabytes game where a gruff military man stands beside a dated popstar, looping through their idle animations while upcoming DLC flickers in the corner. Speaking of flickering... Brent sighs loudly as the lights in his house weakly pulse, threatening to plunge his abode into darkness. The TV clicks shut on it's own, though Brent only rolls his eyes.

Campaign was alright, but he'd beaten it three times. The Multi-player button sat there, taunting him with the fact he couldn't touch it. All the so-promised infrastructure that Earth had promised was refocused to go out East, trying to meet the bulk of the demand. No internet, no properly consistent grid of power. No cell service. Brent's handwriting was getting better at least, with the amount of letters he had to keep scribbling up for things instead of just texting or calling.

Brent kicks his feet up, falling back on the couch with a loud and heavy thud, resting his legs on the coffee table. The couch creaks under his weight, the largest of the pony-style couches he could afford. Wasn't that great, but at least he had something to sit on. He fumbles around for his charger, and a few dry pokes prove he's not getting a consistent charge. Whatever.

Internet and a basic power-line was promised to finally route out his way... two months ago? But just like everything else out here, Fillydelphia and Baltimare took priority. So much for that. Brent doesn't even know of any other humans in the area, though that might be more his fault. He's not particularly social, as evident by his job. Or lack thereof. The shipments they send out are usually pretty generous with that they jam in there, and odd jobs help recoup any bits he needs for shit like food or whatever junk he wants from the stores. The last shipment just came in days ago, so he wasn't due for another for a good while now. Fine by him, they usually didn't skimp on the requested items at least. Like coffee.

He's considering just going out back killing the generator for a few hours, maybe even taking a nap to get through this garbage weather faster, when he swears he hears a noise past the dull pitter-patter of rain on his roof.

He squints, trying to piece out the sound through the white noise.

...

Knock knock-knock.

The winding grunt that escapes him as he sits up voices his disgruntlement with the disturbance. Who the hell would be knocking in this weather, at this time?

Pushing up and off his knees, Brent scratches the rough stubble on his face, pushing aside thoughts of needing to shave as he reaches the front door.

"Yeah, yeah... what'd'ya want?" The lock clicks, Brent pulling the door open fully. Crime was so negligible around here, he didn't even have a chain on his door or anything of the sort. Ponies in ski masks and crowbar just weren't really a thing around here, and the last time Brent heard of a crime in the area, some pony had just forgotten to give back something they borrowed. Well, excluding the large-scale crime like a robbery from the local museum, but that hardly affected him. When the Ponies pulled shit, they always went big. He wasn't getting mugged anytime soon.

He blinks slowly, staring down at the hooded, very blue intruder stood shivering in the rain on his no-solicitors doormat. Deep-blue, damp fur peered out from under the equally soaked black-and-white hoodie that does it's damndest to try and keep this dumb Pony dry. It's not doing very good. Her blueish-greenish-cyanish-whateverish mane is practically drooping over her face, either styled that way... no, there's the water drops. Also soaked.

"H-hey Brent." The Pony meakly manages to mutter, scratching one of their forelimbs with a hoof and scrunching their hoodie sleeve.

"Blueberry Brisket."
He leans to the side, taking account of the shivering, folded wings that are tucked tightly against their body.
"You responsible for this weather?" He tsks, resting on the doorframe and crossing his arms.

"Y-you know I don't w-work in weather, B-Brent!" It's a dry, but weak retort. She can't exactly be very spicy when he's got something she wants.

Brent tsks loudly, tongue in cheek as he looks past her, glancing around for signs of anyone else. The rain had chased everyone else away from the drizzling streets, leaving just a needy mare on his steps. He knows exactly why she's here, and why she winds up at his front door every week. It's always for the exact same thing. She's even got that same, nervously expectant look as she fidgets, her unapologetic stare practically burning a hole through him. And he was just looking forward to that nap, too.

"Anyone follow you?" He steps aside, making room for her.
"And wipe your hooves."

She practically launches inside, quickly screeching to a stop just a touch too late, overshooting his entryway and getting wet hooves on his carpet. She quickly backpedals, trying to undo the damage already done. Brent just shakes his head, shutting and locking the door.

"Nope! I d-double, and e-even triple checked, just like you asked! I... I d-did good, right?" She announces proudly spinning around to stare up at him. Brent almost swears her tail is starting to wag.

Seriously?

"D-does that mean I...?" She asks, leaning her head down.

Brent rolls his eyes, squats down, and pats the top of her head through her hood.
"Not while you're still soaked. You know where the towels are, get dried off. I'll prepare it."

Even through the damp cloth barrier of her hoodie that wards his hand from directly touching mane nor fur, Blueberry Brisket practically melts at even the most miniscule contact, nearly losing her footing as she buckles. It's an action that lasts only a mere moment, before Brent pulls away, standing and drying his hand off on his shirt.

"Mm...oh, mare, t-that's..."
Blueberry's eyes flash wide open as she realizes it's already over, looking up in a sudden, needy panic.

The fleeting moment that it was slips away, and Blueberry's voice raises.
"W-why did you--?!"

"Go dry off, and hang the hoodie over the side of the bathtub." Brent sternly nods down the hallway, cutting her off. His tone quickly crumbles whatever surge of resistance she felt, her gaze falling back down in a sign of obedience. She's quick to nod, Brent watching her dissappear around the corner and into his bathroom.

Brent muses to himself as he hears the distant rustling of Blueberry getting undressed. It wasn't easy to put on one of those Pegasus brand hoodies with the wing-holes, so he had some time to prepare.

An older, comfortable blanket pulled from the closet to be draped across the floor, to be laid on and to protect his floor from any... messes. Meanwhile, an unlabeled orange candle is set on the middle of the coffee table, lit with an old, half-empty lighter that takes one too many strikes to get going, just enough to be annoying. Brent wasn't much for candles himself but with Ponies being so sensitive to smell... it was a sensation his little sidejob couldn't afford to ignore. Every sensory advantage he could get, he would take. Taking out his phone, he checks the battery. Fourty percent... should be enough. He flips through it until he gets to his music app, opening a specific Playlist that some might call 'sensual', setting it on the table to add some ambience to the rain.

Then, the second to last step. Checking that she's still in the bathroom, he reaches upward and digs into one of his higher kitchen cabinets, pulling a bag of something that had been tucked behind a few nondescript snacks. Some serious pony contraband.

Sugarcubes.

Ponies had to show ID when purchasing them, same with salt licks and other amusingly horse-like treats. He knew a guy who knew a pony who knew a pony that could get him a bag of sugar. They weren't cheap, but they kept quiet. It was easy enough to make the stuff at home, just using an ice tray he messed with. Sugarcubes that didn't add to the 'watched' amount. No judgement, no no repercussions. Just hard, crunchy sugar.

At one point, Brent even tried getting into making Salt Licks, but he couldn't get them to stick together without crumbling, and the lack of internet didn't help him figure things out. Not that he should go searching that kind of stuff up, anyway. Probably monitored.

He sets a shallow bowl of the forbidden cubes close to the candle, along with the final few touches, unrolled from a velcro kit that held some tools. Namely, grooming brushes.

Blueberry Brisket slowly and quietly steps out from the hallway, hair sticking out in matted and bemusing directions from an awkward drying -- but that would be taken care of soon. Her almost meek expression is quick to change to a blushing, nervous excitement when she sees the state of the living room.
"T-thank you. Are... are we...?"

"The usual?" Brent asks, nodding at the assortment.

"Y-yes! Please!" She quickly stammers, stamping her hooves.

"Fine. Usual price, you can pay when it's done. Get settled." He pats the spot on the floor with his foot, to which she excitedly joins him. The couch would probably be more comfortable for her size, but the floor gives him a deeper range. A mare with more self respect wouldn't so readily lay herself out on a man's floor, but Brent can easily see that's the last thing on her mind, the fervent bright-blue blush contrasting her dark-blue furred face a clear indication of the embarrassment she's burying down. All for the sake of desperate, taboo cravings that leave her shivering in anticipation, repeatedly looking back and up at Brent, though she glances away any time their eyes meet.

He can see it written plain as day across her face. She's so close. She needs it. Wringing her front hooves as she's laid on her stomach, forced to do nothing but wait under his scrutinizing gaze.

"Now... where do I start?" Brent's voice drops an octave, turning husky as he slowly circles her, rolling his sleeves. Every time he speaks, each pause, she flinches. Her wings are loosely draped open, barely stopping themselves from touching the ground. No part of her now bare body is spared from his view, Blueberry Brisket is well aware what she's subjecting herself to out of a pitiable desperation.

"M...my..." Blueberry mumbles.

"Hm? Speak up."

"M-my fur. Please. My fur." She manages to stutter out, raising her voice a little too loud. She shrinks down, realizing her mistake.

"Alright. Look forward." He instructs coldly, Blueberry taking sharp breath as she hears the clatter of something being picked up behind her, his shadow casting over her as he nears.

It'd excruciating, the tense wait. He's right there, standing over her. Looking her over. Watching her. Waiting. Teasing.

Then he kneels beside her, still clearly looming over her even when he lowers himself.

"Open." It's a short, firm command that sends a shiver of excitement up her spine. She swallows hard, bracing herself as she listens obediently, holding her mouth agape, eyes closed.

Almost.

Any moment now.

Brent pops one of the sugarcubes in her mouth, before holding out the brush he picked up from his kit. He settles himself beside her, one hand on her back for support, the other carefully raking through the fur that had become quite the mess from the mixture of rain, clothes and a rough drying.

"Mm!~"
A long, happy sigh escapes Blueberry Brisket as she chews on the delectable treat, practically going limp on the floor from the dual barrage. The ultimate, forbidden treat, and something she couldn't get anywhere else.

Brent's hand settles on her head, right between the ears, scratching firmly.

"Oh, Mare..." She hums, leaning into it as hard as she can, the prickly brush working out the knots on her back, carefully weaving between her wings.

"None of my other customers ask for anything like this, Blueberry." Brent feels like he should at least comment about it, shaking his head. The other neighborhood ponies just buy his sugarcubes, or at most, ask for a quick brush or a braid, on the account of how deftly he can manage with his hands.

Blueberry Brisket on the other hand... she has little to say about the peculiar specifics of what she'd like out of this exchange. Lonely, maybe. Whatever. She always pays good, anyway.