Twilight the Ram

by Fiddlebottoms

Rating: mature
Tags: Twilight Sparkle, Sad, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Romance, Original Character, Sex, Death
Length: 1666

Some stories just end.

After a week long holiday, two ponies are left with an answer, but they can't recall the question.

Dedicated to Twifight Sparkill.

Published 2012-11-26 04:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2012-11-26 04:20:01 UTC

Twilight the Ram

His lips tingled at the caress of her magic. The purple glow wrapped around both of their cigarettes, holding them in place. Normally, only unicorns such as the mare beside him smoked, but this week had not been normal.

She lowered their cigarettes at the same time, as if she had forgotten about the other one. As the cylinder slid out of his mouth, he turned his head. Her eyes were closed, thin sheets of purple skin over violet orbs. Scrutiny could almost reveal the hours old tracks down her fur, slightly matted hairs pinched together with remembered tears.

He stretched his neck toward destination he had in mind, reaching over the cleft between their legs. Her mane smelled of lilacs, and the scent made him feel complete and content.

His jaw brushed against the gentle curve of her back, and she waved his face away, as if he were a wasp, only interested in administering an unwelcome sting. When his face returned forward, the cigarette was there, waiting. It had been ashed for him. She was so thoughtful when she thought only of herself. He slid his lips around the perfect roundness, pulling in fresh smoke.

Last Friday, the raw smoke going directly down his lungs would have burned, but now his throat had been calloused. He slid his lips open after breathing and let the second-hand fog fall out. The air was heavy with cold and faint moisture, and it forced the fumes to stick together in a white curtain before his eyes.

When the smoke finished passing toward the ceiling, the fire was still there. The logs blackened and half-eaten, but still giving what they had. The gramophone in the corner rattled on a slow, turning course. The slow, hollow sound of a drum tip-toed under muttered voices and a long, pitiful whine. Like a dog that has been kicked so long it no longer differentiates the individual moments of pain and only lives as a continual insult to its lost dignity.

The cigarette was gone, burned down to the filter, a tiny brown cylinder with a glowing red tip. She dropped it from her mouth in disgust, and ground on it with a hoof. He watched the motion eagerly. For a moment, the excited glimmer of virginity returned to his eyes.

The mare caught the expression and shook her head in disgust. She lifted her hoof from the carpet, but did not hurry to tuck the leg back under her. She left it outstretched, the muscles taut and flexible. Under soft, purple fur, the lines curved up to a place between her legs.

As soon as she felt his eyes following those lines, she pulled the leg back, covering herself with casual disdain. The stain remained on the carpet, a strange, dark splotch against the deep red.

“Why do they have a mirror over the desk?” she asked, turning her head to the latest irritation. He didn't follow her gaze, only kept his eyes locked on the rose streak down the back of her head. On the edges, the streak's brilliance faded until it became one with the darker purple of her disordered mane.

He was so distracted by the vanishing color, that it took him a moment to realize a response was expected from his mouth. It would be the first time since dinner, two hours ago.

“I don’t think it is over the desk, so much as it is by the door. The room isn't that big.”

“They call this a suite?” she asked no one in particular. Her mouth curled into a hard line as she looked around the room. A fireplace, a large bed, the kitchenette in which a half-empty bottle of champagne sat, flat and forgotten. There had been no flutes, and so it rested beside two plastic cups. “It is a suite, but it is so small.”

“Cozy,” he couldn’t remember this being an issue last Friday. “They call it cozy.”

“Whatever,” the unicorn sighed and leaned back, her horn glowing slightly as the back of the couch collapsed. She rolled onto what had once been the back of the couch, pushing one of the pillows off to the floor with her rear hooves. She pulled a blanket over her against the winter cold and pushed her head into the other pillow, goring the fabric with her horn.

“If we called room service, they might be able to fix the heater,” he said, but the door between them was closed again. From where she lay on her side, she levitated a new log into the fireplace. The heat increased uncomfortably, reaching across the couple inches to where he sat.

The smoke poured up the chimney, with just enough remaining in the room to cover the smell of cigarettes. This was supposed to be a non-smoking room. It had been, until an hour ago. Now the little sign thanking them for not smoking was pulled flat on its end table, with a nearly empty packet of slims tossed onto it.

He moved away from the fire, and stretched out behind her, cautious in case she would snap at him. Or maybe slowly, in the hopes that it would drive her to snap at him. There was no reaction, even as he laid a leg over her side.

He pulled her closer, and felt her shoulders pressing out against his forelegs. Was she curling up to defend herself or pushing her body into his? She said nothing, so he pushed his chest in closer till it touched her back. Her mane smelled of lilacs, and the scent made him feel complete and content.

They lay there for an indeterminate time. The log burned in grumbling torment as he moved one hoof to the top of her blanket. Slowly, he pushed it down her side, feeling the gentle bumps of her rib cage as the blanket bunched lower and lower.

Before he reached her haunches, she rolled over onto her back. The sudden movement forced his hoof onto her exposed stomach, and he pulled back the gesture. She turned her head the rest of the way to face him, and he could smell her breath. It wasn’t as pleasant as her mane, reeking of cigarettes and mixed booze. A scrap of something, or maybe a hair, was between two of her teeth. They each watched the other's face, waiting for some kind of reaction.

“I’m hungry,” she said after a moment.

“I think there might be some whipped cream left in the fridge.”

“I’m not that hungry,” she turned her face upward, staring at the speckled ceiling. Her eyes traced the cartography of its surface, the random bumps and contours.

Was she trying to order them? To apply some logic to the random spray, or was she just waiting for the next thought to enter her mind. Her ears perked at a sound from outside, a late wagon rolling up the drive way. Then, they drooped back to the sides of her head. They were like little trap doors over her canals, judging the outside by an internal swirl.

The packet of cigarettes floated across the room, letting one last fag fall out of its hiding place. There wasn’t enough left for both of them.

“Do you want it?” she asked the ceiling. It was a simple gesture of politeness, mindless and uncontemplated.

“No,” he replied.

She lit it and drew on the end of the cigarette. Her magic left the fag, and it hung between sealed lips. There was no visible movement, only the occasional escape of smoke from her nostrils.

He could feel her breathing, her sides expanding then compressing against his chest. He squeezed as tight as he dared while he waited. The cigarette burned itself out, expiring halfway down its body from lack of use. She didn't use her magic this time, only spitting the butt out to fall unnoticed.

She rolled away from him and pushed her hooves under her body. As she stood, she drew an ominous creak from the couch.

The two figures remained paralyzed by the moment. Between his vantage point and the light of the fire, he could see the gentle curve of her chest, toward her stomach and vanishing into indistinct shadows. The shame shadows that concealed her face, except the glinting of her eyes.

She lowered her head gently, parting her lips over sparkling white teeth. She bit through the pillow. Magic could have done this just as easily, but some faint remembrance of intimacy remained.

He felt her legs swing over his, and the delicate tickle of her tail as it swept across him. Her hips pressed against his, and her hooves pressed down on the pillow as it covered his face. She never spoke a word, and he wouldn’t have dreamed of demanding an explanation.

Their chests met, pushing into one another. He could feel the weight of her whole body, a slim, silly little thing. There was a burr stuck to the inside of her left hind leg, he could feel it jabbing through his fur and into him. Her heartbeat accelerated, its ruthless pound echoing through her ribs, as his stuttered to a stop.

Instinctively, his body spasmed under her, his back arcing and pushing his ribs into her. Deep thrashes born in his midsection traveled to his limbs as his lungs swelled to the point of bursting. Then even his instincts stopped fighting. There was nothing but calm now. The pillow smelled of lilacs, and the scent made him feel complete and content.

The next morning, the bottle of champagne was completely empty, and the sun slid across the body where it lay on the couch. The pillow was still resting across his face, her dried saliva on one side and his dried blood on the other.

The fire was burnt out, but the record kept spinning.

The room smelled of lilacs, and it was almost empty but content.