The Amorous Adventures of Scootaloo's Helmet

Sweetie Belle lay on her back, her eyes locked closed. Don't open, don't look. Whatever it is, don't look. The strap lay across her face, tickling her nose. She held still, but the fibers of the chinstrap tickled her nostrils. No. No. No. Please. No.

She sneezed.

The instant the filly's lips parted, the chinstrap thrust into her mouth, filling her with a strange taste of dirt and sweat. Unclean. Vile. The Unicorn lay paralyzed with fear, trying to fight back without moving as the fibers brushed the back of her throat. Her curious tongue rolled against the object in he mouth. The rough texture pressed to the roof of her mouth as it forced its way further back until it tickled her tonsils.

She gagged, trying to clear it away. Silent tears slid down the white face. It was a taste that would never leave her mouth. No matter how many times she might brush her teeth or how many coffee beans she'd chew, it would be there. A permanent reminder of her defilement at the hands of her friend's helmet.

“Helmet! Noooo!” Scootaloo cried in anguish, as much despairing at the betrayal of yet another piece of headgear as at her friend’s distress. It lay there, silently smug as its strap probed the deepest regions of Sweetie Belle’s virgin throat.

Sweetie Belle licked at the helmet, begging for the moment to end. Begging to breathe again and be free. What would her sister say if she knew? She wanted to bite down, but knew it would make no difference. Her teeth, her whole body was useless.

Scootaloo’s orange wings had folded down again, and her face was buried in her hooves. How could this be happening?
The filly couldn’t understand. Did her mane smell bad? Why couldn't she ever have anything for herself? Everything and everpony just wanted to take from her. No, she told herself. Her helmet was just doing what it had to. That’s right. It didn’t mean anything, it was just making a point to the Unicorn. It was alright. Oh, Celestia, make it be alright. Scootaloo pressed her hooves against her eyes until they ached.

The moment came. Sweetie Belle’s tonsils could take no more of the helmets ceaseless tickling, and she gagged, twisting her head as first saliva and then vomit spatter-spread across the floor. Thin fluid grew thicker as it rolled from her mouth; chunks of carrot and traces of blood from her tortured throat join the yellow fluid. The puddle matted to her fur, joining her tears and defiling her once white coat.

As the Unicorn heaved and tossed, the helmet left her chest and rolled away contentedly. Having completed its foul labor, it came back to rest before Scootaloo. The mustache stood proud on the brim of the sport's apparel, pointed directly at the orange filly. It still wanted more.

“No, helmet, I’m not old enough to go all the way yet.”

The helmet didn’t respond, only sat in silent preparation. Though it had just finished with the Unicorn, it was still hard. Helmets are like that because they are made of hard materials.

Scootaloo sobbed, terrified for her sake and the sake of her still vomiting friend, but her young heart still loved the thing before her. She gripped the helmet in her hooves, still slick with her friend’s saliva and vomit and gently moved it toward her secret spot.

The mustached tickled her, and she felt blood rushing downward in response. The orange Pegasus, against her will, felt her wings stiffening again. Her own body was betraying her as the brim parted her virginal folds.

“Please,” she asked one last time. One last prayer for herself.

The helmet didn’t respond. It had no mercy.

Rainbow Dash's entire day had been spent in a zombified state. She had pushed through overly specific interrogations from Strange Fixture about her juvenile affair, the movements of weather patrol, and her paperwork without paying attention to any details. She might have to pay for her lack of attention later, but it didn't matter. Only one thing was on her mind, returning home to the helmet of her life.

She burst through her door, sing-songing, “Scootaloo’s helmet, I’m home.”

The words struck her. Scootaloo’s helmet. Even after last night, she still knew it wasn’t hers. The Pegasus hadn’t paid for it, hadn’t picked the one helmet out of hundreds of others in the sporting goods store. She’d only seen it on a little, orange head and grabbed it.

She found the helmet in the living room where she had left it. The headgear rested by the window. The opening for a filly-sized head was pointed outward, like a dog staring from a window or a bird in a cage.

“Were you thinking about her?” Rainbow Dash asked, knowing the answer to the question already.

The helmet didn’t respond. How could it express its feelings in words? Especially since it didn’t have a mouth.

“But this can’t be about her. We’re made for each other.”

The helmet didn’t have to point out the obvious flaw in that reasoning. It was a filly’s helmet, not a mare’s. It had been fit for Scootaloo, and it always would be hers.

“I don’t know how I can live without you,” Rainbow Dash pleaded, dropping to her knees before the helmet. Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes.

The headgear maintained its stoic silence in the face of her words.

“Fine.” The Pegasus stood up and tearfully gave her first love a tender kiss. “If you must go, then there is nothing I can do to stop you. I could never hold you prisoner.”

Rainbow Dash gripped the helmet in her mouth and carried it to the front porch. She set it down and whispered into its earflap, “I’ll always love you.”

She then performed the ceremonial Kicking of the Former Lover Off Your Front Porch as Hard as You Can.

Applebloom entered the tree house to find Scootaloo tearfully humping a helmet and Sweetie Belle curled into the fetal position, sobbing in a puddle of her own vomit.

Sometimes, the yellow Earth Pony imagined what her life must look like to an outsider. If someone were in the distance, silently observing her and her friends, what would they think? Would they laugh or cringe at the embarrassment of her misadventures? It wasn't often that the filly experienced such self-reflection, but sometimes in the night, feeling tree sap patch her fur to the covers, she couldn't help but wonder.

Walking into the tree house, she realized they'd probably just be confused.

“What, exactly, are y’all doing?”

“The helmet is evil! Save yourself!” Sweetie Belle cried from the floor.

“He isn’t evil!” Scootaloo protested. The distraction threw off her inexperienced rhythm and the helmet tumbled away.

It came to rest before Applebloom, slick with the body fluids of two fillies. Its chinstrap was strung out before it, a silent invitation.

"It's a helmet," Applebloom said after a long moment. She reached out with her front hooves and gingerly picked the object up.

The helmet glared back in baleful silence, daring her to break eye contact.

"Hel-met," she stretched the syllables out, as if trying to understand it herself.

"It's evil!" Sweetie Belle wailed.

"He's not. He's just misunderstood."

"No," said Applebloom.

The sound of that hated word, said in the same unemotional tone Rainbow Dash had used, caused Scootaloo to break down completely.

Applebloom turned to stare at her sobbing friends, and then looked back at the helmet.

"Run away while you can!" Sweetie Belle wailed, "just leave us!"

The last statement was too much for Applebloom. She held the helmet up before her two friends and released a torrent of words that she had heard her brother use once when applebucking a particularly difficult tree.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU FUCKING MORONS?! IT'S A FUCKING HELMET! LOOK AT IT! IT'S A FUCKING HELMET! IT CAN'T DO ANYTHING! WHY DOES NO ONE SEEM TO UNDERSTAND THAT IT IS JUST A FUCKING HELMET?” Applebloom shook the helmet between her hooves as she screamed, "AM I THE ONLY ONE HERE WHO ISN'T A COMPLETE, FUCKING IDIOT?!"

Sweetie Belle tried to moan one last warning, but it was too late. The helmet, greased as it was, slid free of Applebloom's hooves. It leapt up and smashed into the yellow snout, drawing blood. Applebloom reeled away from the attack on two legs. She stumbled over a chair and smacked the back of her head on a table.

The helmet bounced free and came to rest, triumphantly, in front of the door. The three fillies were all here, its harem was complete.

Scootaloo's once and future helmet soared through the air in silence. It's chinstrap fluttered behind it in the wind.

Like an avenging angel, it parted the air before it and sought its master in her hour of need.

Hopefully, it wouldn't be too late.

The floorboards rubbed against Scootaloo's orange belly as she slid across the floor toward her helmet. There was no hope for her, but maybe if she offered herself entirely as a sacrifice, she could save the lives of her friends.

Her crawl was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass as her old helmet hurled itself into the room.

“Helmet! No! It’s too dangerous!” Scootaloo cried as the purple plastic bounced against the wooden floor.

The helmet didn't listen. The helmet never listened to her.

Scootaloo reeled back in shock as her two lovers collided, clattering across the floor.

Chinstraps flailed wildly, slapping against plastic and each other in a display of ferocious, territorial violence. They rolled across the floor, bound together in rage. First the mustached helmet was on top, pressing its opponent down to the floor and then they reversed. The old helmet swung its strap across, tearing the mustache of its foe loose. They broke apart and rejoined.

Their deadly momentum carried them out the open door and onto the edge of the tree house’s porch. The mustached helmet vanished over the edge, but stopped in the air. It hung by its chinstrap, which had become entwined with that of its rival.

An ENSI approved helmet is a life saving device, not a life taking one. It couldn't kill its rival, no matter how much it may want to. The old helmet hung suspended in the air, gloating at the weakness of its foe.

But, a helmet only saves one life, and that is the life of its owner. Even ENSI doesn't rate helmets for their ability to save other participants in a collision.

The straps released each other and the mustached helmet plummeted to its death. There was a thunk as it struck a rock below.

Scootaloo ran over and gripped her helmet in her hooves, holding it close.

“You came back for me,” she wept.

Sweetie Belle dragged herself over to where Applebloom was lying on the floor, a trickle of blood leaking from the back of her head.

“Are you okay?” Sweetie Belle whispered hoarsely.

“What is wrong with y'all idiots?” Applebloom groaned, rubbing the back of her head and wondering, not for the first time, why she hadn’t just stuck around with Twist. She may have had that lisp, a cutie mark, and generally been annoying, but at least the red maned pony wasn’t completely insane.

Applejack peeked her head through the window of the tree house, holding a section of the helmet in her mouth. She spat it onto the ground before speaking, “Hey did y’all see the orange one? Her family was asking about her, and then I found this broken … helmet …”

She paused. The orange one, her younger sister, and the goofy Unicorn were all laying on the floor. They were panting heavily. Scootaloo appeared to be making out with a helmet, her barely pubescent vagina dripping on the floor. Applebloom was in Sweetie Belle’s hooves, and the entire room stank of adolescent pheromones.

Also, she realized what tasted familiar about the purple helmet section she’d carried in her mouth. It tasted like Twilight’s …

But it was her sister’s …

And they were ...

“Ok. It is good to see that y’all are ok. And that I am ok. And I’m very sorry. I should have,” the tan mare tried to smile it off, “really should have knocked before peeking in.”

The three fillies were frozen in place, staring at the adult who had suddenly walked into their world.

“I’m gonna go, um, gonna go kick some trees. I,” she stumbled slightly at the edge of the steps, “I hope y’all will remember to wash your hooves before … wash up before dinner. Ok, Applebloom? I’m … I’ll remember to knock next time.”

After the elder Apple sister was gone, Sweetie Belle turned to Scootaloo and pointed at the helmet fragment.

“See! I told you it wasn’t safe to wear a non-ENSI approved helmet. That would have provided no protection in a crash.”