Cosy.

That’s how I feel as he opens the door to his apartment, despite the slight sting of sleep pricking at my eyes. I guess the exhaustion of a good late night party is finally getting to me, as nonsensical as it may be; I’m an athlete, after all — I’ve spent a decent chunk of my life pushing myself to my physical limits. A simple birthday bash shouldn’t be this mentally draining. And yet, that all too familiar fuzziness is hanging over my head, like a weighted blanket threatening to ensnare me in the warm, sweet embrace of slumber.

I’m not nearly at the point where I’ll nod off at the drop of a hat, but it’s there, ever present, and if the rest of the night doesn’t prove to be so entertaining, perhaps I’ll have to invite myself to stay. I’ve had enough time in the air to know that flying and sleep deprivation do not go well together.

“That was fun,” Philip comments, stepping inside and flicking on the living room lights, then dimming them to a more agreeable level. “At least, it looked like you were having fun.”

“Oh, I was,” I reply, rubbing my eye with a wingtip as I follow him through, hooves travelling from carpet to floorboards. “Believe me, that… that was nothing like I’m used to when it comes to birthdays. Usually, it’s just me and the Bolts lazing around and sharing a few drinks.”

He shuts and locks the door behind me, then cocks an eyebrow and smirks. “So, your average workday, huh?”

“Shut up.” I lean over and lightly headbutt him in the hip. “You know how it is.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, you do. It’s not always fun and games over at the Academy. Sure, maybe you’ve made the cut and joined Equestria’s most elite flying unit, but if you can’t live up to that responsibility, there’s usually a reservist with your name on them.”

“Like the teeth of a shark, there’s a never-ending supply.”

I snort. “Well, that’s an analogy I’ll never unhear.”

“Because it’s true?”

“Unfortunately, so it seems.”

He hums and smiles, satisfied, then turns and heads towards the combined space of the lounge, dining room and kitchen, the sofa and entertainment system on the left, the table and chairs on the right. Without shoes, his feet hardly make a sound on the smooth, varnished flooring. “If there’s one thing I know for certain, Fleetybee, it’s that no matter how many times we portray the apocalypse on screen, we’re never going to run out of people. There’ll always be someone there to fill the gap.”

“Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes as I trail behind him. “And Rainbow’s been after my job the second we let her in.”

“Oh-ho, so that’s why you three were heaping all your clothes on her, right? To teach her a lesson about the chain of command?”

I waver for a beat, tilting my head up to him as my brows furrow confusedly for a moment, then blink in realisation and continue shadowing him. “Actually, no. That was just a happy accident. I mean, happy for us, but not for her.”

“Then why’d you do it?”

I shrug. “Because.”

He turns around to look at me in surprise as he reaches the island counter. “So, you, Soarin and Spitfire treated her like some packanimal just for the heck of it?”

“Whaaat? No.” I come to a halt and smile at him innocently. “I mean, they’re my commanding officers, so I was just following their lead. It’s not my fault if there was some collateral damage in the form of a bruised ego. And besides, it was funny. Did you see the look on her face?”

“Mortified.”

“Exactly.” I trot a little closer and hop onto a stool, folding my forelegs against the edge of the counter. “Nothing beats watching the high and mighty taken down a peg or two.”

He smirks, eyes gleaming with mirth. “And Rainbow’s both, is she?”

“Well, she’s on the shorter side of things, sure, but if you get her talking about herself, you’ll wish you’d clogged your ears with superglue.”

“Oof.” He winces. “Getting a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

I pause, then shrug again, looking away. “Eh. I’m an asshole sometimes. One of the many pitfalls of stardom, if you’d believe it; you start getting entitled.”

“Entitled to act like a douche to your fellow fliers?”

“Yes, actually.” I return to him with an amicable smile. “Before RD came along, we had nicknames based on our biggest, most humiliating moments while flying in the Wonderbolts. Rainbow Dash became Rainbow Crash. Soarin was Clipper.”

He cocks his eyebrow again. “And what was yours?”

My smile narrows into a smirk while I squint and point a hoof at him. “Oh no, don’t think I’m telling you, big guy. Letting you call me Fleetybee is punishing enough — no way I’m letting—”

He snaps his fingers. “Flatfoot.”

I blink with widening eyes, jaw dropping, the cool brush of chilling feathers running down my spine.

He blinks in a similar sentiment, his face ending up much the same as mine.

“…You didn’t just guess that, did you?”

“…And if I said I did?”

I blink once more, then lower my gaze with a gentle frown. “Huh.”

He pauses, waiting for the stunned air between us to slowly dissipate — for the atmosphere to return to normal. And then he chuckles and sets his ukulele on the countertop, swinging back and strolling around the island toward the fridge. “Well, isn’t that something?” he muses aloud as he opens it, retrieving two mugs of our favourite flavour of milkshake and slides one over to me, shutting the door with his heel. “Maybe it’s a sign. You know, that we’re more in synch than we realise.”

I catch the mug in a hoof, the cream and caramelised popcorn on top swaying a little as it comes to a sudden stop. Mine, like his, has a striped, curly straw sticking out of it — a childish addition, but sometimes the silly things make stuff all the more special. It also smells less appetising than I know it’ll taste, but such are the perils of refrigeration. “So, what? That song you sang, about this being destiny… that was you legitimately questioning whether—”

“No.” He shakes his head and leans on the island as well, taking a small nibble from the cream of his milkshake. “Hell no. I’m not delving into that subject, because there’s already enough contradictions that both free will and fate seem to be just as unlikely.”

I snort. “Because that makes sense.”

“Precisely. Why can’t this world just make up its mind?”

“Because ponies like you won’t leave well enough alone.”

He smiles, saluting with his mug. “Well then, here’s to that, or else we’ll never know what possibilities await us.”

I smile in turn, then idly salute with my own. “And where would we be without your sense of adventure?”

He hums again, his smile widening, then taps the counter with a finger as he stares into the distance beyond me in thought. “I’m not sure,” he confesses, still on the light side of things, but clearly giving the notion what respect he thinks it deserves. “Not sure I want to think about it either, to be honest. But with that said… I’d argue that you’re the most adventurous between the two of us.”

“How so?”

“Well, you made the first move, didn’t you? Told me you liked me while we were sitting in that bar up in the Empire. Took a lot of nerve, I bet, coming out and saying that.”

I remember. I remember it well. The smell of wood and salted fries, and alcohol of various varieties and quantities. And the heaviness in the air and tightness in my chest, as if the atmosphere itself were wrapping two very powerful forelegs around my barrel and squeezing with every breath I took. And the aftertaste of whatever drink I’d been sipping. And the feeling of the cushioned seat and backrest. And how close everything felt, and… intimate. And the way he held my hoof, and how he smiled…

The slightly embarrassed flutter of a giggle escapes me and I look down, a smile rising to my lips just as a warmth rises to my cheeks. “So what if it did?” I say, reaching a hoof up and tentatively brushing back my forelock.

“So… nothing.” He shrugs. “Just a thought. If it weren’t for you, I might never have been slapped with that kind of ultimatum: do I accept that my best friend has feelings for me?”

I huff a laugh. “Way to sap all the romance out of it.”

“Well, I mean, was it romantic?”

“It was to me.” I pout in mock indignation, and in a way that I hope looks at least marginally adorable. Not enough for him to have a heart attack, but enough to weaken his resolve somewhat. To what end, I don’t know. Probably just a little fun. “You said yes.”

“Correction, Fleetybee: I said that we were good.” He points and nods toward me to emphasise his victory. “And it was sweet. Terribly, terribly sweet, and I still need to get you back for it. But I wasn’t completely sold on the idea of having a pony girlfriend yet.”

“But how could you not have been?” I query enticingly, leaning a little closer and resting my chin on a hoof, batting my eyelashes and grinning as sweetly as I can manage. “Am I not everything you’d want in a mare?”

He pauses, then takes a sip of his milkshake through his straw. “You’re many things, Fleet,” he quietly says, staring past the creamy surface and into the void where thoughts are had. And then he returns to me, just as warm and appreciative, but with his smile having shrunk just a touch. “Beautiful. Compassionate. Selectively empathetic. So many qualities that I simply can’t put into words. And I never thought I’d find myself saying this but… yes, you are indeed the mare of my dreams.”

“Not Princess Luna?”

“Luna?!” He laughs and slaps the counter, shaking his head. “Oh my god, that’s… that’s an idea right there. But fortunately for you, Fleet, no, she’s not on my radar. Trust me, dating you has been enough of a rollercoaster ride that I don’t need to be thinking about anybody else in my life, let alone royalty.”

“I guess you’ll have to settle for stardom.”

“A tragedy, I know.” He leans closer in turn and his eyes grow half-lidded. “But I could learn to live with that.”

I’m sure he could. He may be a slow learner, but he’s come a long way. We both have. And what a journey it’s been, from strangers to friends to something… more. Sentimental hogwash, I know, but I’m nowhere near letting myself get swept off my hooves over some pretty words. He can make me blush, he can make me swoon, but I won't melt like butter on his account. For as fast as I fly, I like taking things slow between us — grants me the opportunity to milk a good feeling for all its worth.

Some might call that cruel, but I don’t see him complaining. Personally, I think it shows integrity on my part, and some strength of character.

“So,” he begins again, standing back up and calmly, casually strolling around the counter for the lounge, “one more movie before you hit the road?”

I chuckle, rubbing an eye with a wingtip. I’d honestly escorted him home just because I wanted to spend a little while longer with him — make the most out of the night and ride this warm, bubbling high I’ve had ever since he sang to me on the beach. “One more movie and I might just pass out,” I reply, yawning shortly after and hopping down from the stool, mug in hoof.

“No harm in that.” He sets his milkshake on the DVD cabinet and kneels down to open a drawer and browse. “You’re welcome to stay the night if you want.”

I shrug, though I know he can’t see it. “If it’s not too much trouble, I guess.”

“Oh my god, Fleet, we’re dating,” he exclaims good-naturedly, looking over his shoulder to me and smiling amusedly. “I like you, you like me. We like each other. We’ve held hands, kissed, made out… done other things we’d best not mention in polite company. You get the picture. Offering you a place to sleep is, like, the bare minimum of what it takes to be a good boyfriend, let alone a good person. Of course it’s no trouble.”

“Okay, alright, I’ll crash here.” I laugh and hop up onto the sofa’s peninsula, then stroll across the cushioned seating until I find a good place to sit, at the very end on the opposite side, a few small pillows between me and the armrest. And then a point an idle hoof at him. “But if this makes it to the press somehow, I’m blaming you.”

He scoffs, returning to the search. “You’re a few days late to the party.”

I pause, brows creasing slightly as I cock my head. “What do you mean?”

He peers at me again and quirks an eyebrow. “You haven’t been paying attention?”

My thoughtful frown deepens. “To what?”

He lingers on me, then takes a slow, deep breath in and out as he switches back to the drawer, momentarily inspecting a DVD cover, but deciding against it. “I don’t know why, but they’re… starting to increase coverage on us,” he says, running a finger down the line of cases, hunting for a title we both would enjoy. “This early morning entertainment show, they had your photo next to mine, and they were talking about our latest public sighting, and asking the crowd whether we will or won’t. Haven’t seen that for a while.”

I roll my eyes and groan. “Why are you even watching that crap?”

“Because I get up early and I want to know what kind of traffic I can expect. You know, like, if a camera guy is going to pop out of the bushes and flash me.”

I snicker.

“Oh, grow up,” he grumbles, glancing at me with a scowl, but I can tell by the tone of his voice and the faint, upward curl of his lips that he can see the humour in it too. “You know what I mean. Heck, you were there for some of them too.”

And I remember them well enough — some overzealous or simply downright obnoxious reporter pushing their luck and risking a hoof to the jaw, if Philip’s guards didn’t get to them first. Twice I recall being blinded, and twice I’ve seen our shocked expressions make the front page of the latest gossip magazine. “Any idea why they’d be taking a sudden interest?”

“I told you, I don’t know.” He shrugs. “But if I had to guess, maybe it’s because we’re spending more time together.” He turns back and waves a hand between himself and I. “More open about… this.”

My eyebrow quirks again as I take a sip from my milkshake. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“It makes me conscious. Of the fact I’m dating you.”

I wait patiently. Expectantly. Surely he has more to say than that.

He glances at me once more, but he finds his gaze lingering and lets out a sigh through his nose, turning around and sitting cross-legged on the exposed floorboards between the cabinet and the shaggy rug. “It’s not ideal, is what I’m trying to say,” he quietly explains, then looks away and rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, setting aside the fact that you’re a celebrity, and my only claim to fame is that I’m the only one of my kind here… I don’t want the world watching me. Watching us. Expecting us to… I don’t know what.”

Nodding pensively, I take my time and try to think of something to say — something with some actual weight behind it, like it’s worth pondering over. “What was that you said a while ago in Whinney? Something about not caring so much about what the world thinks?”

“That was different,” he replies decisively, though it doesn’t come across as snappish or defensive, and part of that comes from the fact he isn’t looking me in the eye. “You thought something bad would happen if the world found out about us, if they hadn’t already. I was trying to calm you down. Now they’re catching wind of how things have been progressing, and…”

Again, I wait. But when it’s clear he needs a little motivation, I do just that. “And?”

Philip keeps his gaze on the rug, and I can’t tell if he’s brooding or hesitating. “I don’t know,” he finally says with a shrug and a gentle shake of his head. “I just don’t want them getting all up in our business.”

“Neither do I.” I slowly nod. “But… that’s the price of being a star.”

“Or being saved by one.”

My ears twitch, and I can’t help smirking mischievously. “So, what, you’re saying I’m a punishment?”

He snaps to me, eyes wide but not in shock — more out of a genuine sense of surprise that I’d ever consider saying something like that; he knows I’m only joking, but he’s taking it to heart. “No,” he breathes, limply shaking his head, then clambers to his feet and rushes in a crouched stance toward me. “No, no, far from it.”

A flutter of surprise takes flight in my core, tickling my barrel, withers and the base of my wings, and I watch him closely as he sits beside me and stares at the ground with a determined, but altogether hesitant look. He has something to get off his chest and he needs and wants to say it, but isn’t sure how to phrase it.

Not yet.

But after wringing his thumb for a few seconds, he turns to face me a little more squarely and looks me in the eye with a sense of heartfelt earnesty. “Fleetfoot, I love you,” he says plainly, and although he doesn’t smile, I can hear it in his voice. “I love you, and I love that I can say that without a shred of doubt, and I will always love you so long as you keep being who you are. And I’ll never, ever ask you to change.”

In some ways, expected. In some ways, not. But there has to be more to this. There always is. “I feel like there’s a but coming."

“No buts.” He shakes his head again. “I just need to accept that, whether I like it or not, for better or worse… a relationship with you is an inherently public affair. That’s an idea I’m just not used to — all those prying eyes and… stuff.”

I pause, brows creasing in concern. “Do you want it all to go away?”

“I want…” he begins, but soon drifts off, his eyes slowly travelling from mine to my snout, muzzle, lips, cheeks, tracing the outline of my face all the way up to the tips of my ears. He doesn’t appear rapt, exactly, but it does appear like he’s realising something about me — losing himself, in a way.

My chest feels warmer. Heavier. An invisible string is being pulled, urging me closer.

Eventually, though, he regains focus, and before I can complain — not that I honestly mind all that much — he takes the milkshake from my hoof and leans over to rest it on the floor. Then he returns to me and takes my hooves into his hands and gives them a gentle, comfortable squeeze. “I want whatever you want,” he answers resolutely, though it’s quiet and tender; a tone that begs me to hug him close. “I want you to be happy, and feel safe and loved… and to never think I’d want anything less than that. And if—”

I dart forward and silence him with a kiss, wings twitching at my sides.

His startled mumble quickly subsides, fading into a satisfied hum. And when I break away, his eyes stay closed for a moment longer, savouring the feeling, and possibly the taste of vanilla. “Let me guess,” he murmurs contentedly, smiling. “I talk too much.”

I let loose a small giggle. I know he likes those. “Maybe.”

His eyes glide open, and he gazes into mine for a while as if put under a spell. But gradually, its effectiveness wanes, and the warm, comfortable air between us lightens into something more serious, like his entrancing smile. “But still, that all makes sense, doesn’t it?’

A shame that good things must come to an end. I sigh and lower my attention to our joined hands. “It does,” I confess, ears angling back a touch. “I’m just worried you’re putting me on a pedestal.”

“Well, why shouldn’t I?” He sidles a little closer, his expression grateful. Imploring. “You saved my life, Fleet. My time with you here has been amazing. Letting you live your life the way you want is the least I can do, don’t you think?”

My lips press together and my wings tuck in. “So long as it doesn’t hurt you.”

“Trust me, Fleet, I’ll learn to live with it. It may take some time, but I’ll get there eventually. If I can do it once, I can do it again. I just want what’s best for you.”

“I know. And I don’t want to pressure you into this either.”

He gently nods, his soft smile widening a fraction. But then his attention drifts to the pendant around my neck, and the bracelet around my fetlock. And as the seconds drag on, the very same smile dwindles into obscurity, replaced by a somewhat troubled, intensely reflective look. “Speaking of pressure, I have to ask…”

I kind of wish I hadn’t ditched my shirt and shorts on the beach right now; him looking anywhere below the shoulders feels… revealing. Which isn’t an entirely bad thing, I remind myself: we’ve gone further than this before, so this is completely safe. He can’t see anything if I don’t allow him.

“…What you were saying about your clothes, back at the fire pit…” he continues, looking up to me with concern. “Was that really it? You’ve just been wearing stuff to look nice?”

“And so you didn’t feel uncomfortable,” I quickly add, but hopefully not like I’m trying to cover something up. “You know, like, so there’s at least somepony else who’s all dressed up.”

Doubt seeps through. However, he does his best to make sure that I know he’s not accusing me of anything. “Even though I’ve seen you… bare before. Plenty of times. And not because you were… afraid?”

A nerve is plucked inside of me, perking my ears and stiffening my wings and tail. “…Afraid?”

“To let me see you… as I saw you. On… that morning.”

I pause.

I hesitate.

And then I look away, ears folding and wings shuffling as I slowly pull my hooves from his grasp, facing him side-on, sitting on my haunches. My lips twist unpleasantly while an unsettling feeling bubbles up from below — not the rotten one like so many times before, but a sense of unease. Of ice-cold pinpricks from my head to my tail, which radiate through me like a breeze damp fur. They piece through all the way to to stomach, and fester there in a disconcerting cocktail of an emotion I can’t quite place. But whatever its name, it’s not good.

I was being truthful out there. I really was. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

And now I’ve been caught out.

“Oh my god,” he whispers to himself in stunned realisation, then immediately reaches out to touch me, and just as immediately yanks back, his hands shaking and eyes wide as he tries in vain to decide what to do. “Fleet, I am so, so sorry.”

The impulse to shy away increases, but I only let it materialise as a wince. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is. Or was, or whatever.” He balls his hands into fists and rests them on his knees, clearly agitated, but exercising restraint as best as he can manage. And he sits like that for a while, trying to calm himself down, until he feels steady enough to speak again. “Look, I don’t care if you say it’s water under the bridge, or it’s okay because everything turned out fine in the end: no one should ever, ever be scared into fearing their own body. And to think that I did that to you—”

“Philip, stop.” I turn my head and face him at an angle. “I’m not afraid anymore.”

He blinks at me, hesitating, then glances away and leans a little closer, like asking an embarrassing question. Memories of the tram station in Baltimare spring to mind. “…Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I answer calmly, for as much a sense of calm as I can muster. These are unpleasant thoughts, and everypony on the beach did their best to help me combat them, even if they didn’t know the full extent. I can’t let their effort go to waste. And besides…

A heat rises in my cheeks as my forehooves fidget and I look away again, smiling shyly.

“I… wouldn’t have offered to give you a peek if I didn’t think I could handle it.”

The silence that follows is as telling as it is humid, and after a lengthy pause, I hear him let out a bashful chuckle. “I guess you’re right.”

That makes me smile all the harder. I can’t say why, I just do. But I also know that if he’s bringing this up again, despite his promise to me back in Whinneyapolis, there has to be a good reason behind it — something gone unaddressed. And I don’t doubt there has been, knowing how hard we’ve tried to deny that particular morning’s existence; issues unresolved, concerns unaddressed.

A failure of communication.

Just this once. You can bend the rules just this once.

“Philip…”

In the corner of my periphery, I see him turn my way.

Slowly, I turn to meet him too, ears still low, chest still tight, a certain sense of anxiety coursing through my core. “When you said those things… they hurt. A lot. And I ran away because… I didn’t know how to deal with it.” Hesitantly, I shimmy over just a tad and lay a hoof his closest knee. “I’d… wounded you… and I didn’t want to risk making a bad situation worse. I couldn’t think straight, and you weren’t in the mood to listen. I want to say it’s nopony’s fault, but that just sounds like I’m deflecting responsibility. But if I say it’s both our fault… that feels like I’m casting blame where there shouldn’t be any.”

“But I was at fault, Fleet.” His hands relax, and one of them lays over my outstretched hoof. “I told you in Las Pegasus, I shouldn’t have acted like that. You were my best friend, and I treated you like crap — like you took advantage of me.”

“I did, though, didn’t I?”

“I don’t care how it happened.”

I blink, ears rising, drawing my head back a little way.

“It did. That’s what matters.” He swivels around to face me directly, then adds his other hand to my shoulder, his fingers and thumb applying just enough pressure to feel reassuring, matching the beholden look in his eyes, and the small, sincere grin on his lips. “Like you said, it was an honest mistake. I’m just glad that, now, after everything, I can sit down with you and hold your hoof and look into your eyes and tell you that… I’m so, so happy to have you in my life. You complete me, Fleet.”

My lips part, and I feel somewhat empty. Not it a bad way, just… empty. Slightly warm, perhaps. But then I finally finish processing what he’d said in its entirety, and I realise what a cliché line he’d ended on, and that prompts me into action. “No, Philip. I don’t complete you.” I shake my head and lower my gaze, though my tone is surprisingly flattered, though thankfully not terribly obvious. “We were happy before we met each other. And when we did… we were happy staying as friends.”

“Did we ever stop?”

“…We didn’t need to be anything more than that.”

“But we are.” A curled finger reaches under my chin and gently guides me to face him again, and his kind, empathetic smile. “And I think that I’m a better person for it. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here, yeah, but if it weren’t for you… I’d never have met you. And I know how cheesy it’s going to sound, but I mean this from the bottom of my heart, Fleet: you make me feel things I never thought possible. Not just for a pony, but… anyone.”

A shaky, barely held together smile of my own creeps up on me.

Why does he do this to me? How? Every damn time, I’m certain there’s nothing he could say to phase me — that I’m the one meant to reassure him. But somehow, it always flips back and forth, and it always ends with him saying something sweet, and I’m left basking in the warmth of an invisible sun, its rays wrapping me up and like fresh drycleaning. And sometimes, like now, it tugs at my eyes to let loose a tear or two.

I really have found a good one.

The hand on under my chin floats up to cup my cheek, and I can tell he’s fighting back some of his own. “I love you, Fleetfoot,” he whispers, as if speaking any louder would cause his voice to break. “And for the record, I find you very—”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

And so he does, like a spring-loaded trap whose tension has been building since long before we walked through the doorway. It’s sudden, it’s bold… and it’s wonderful. Eager. Raw.

I squeal giddily.

The scent of vanilla is on his lips as I lean back and pull him closer, a hoof around his neck and another under his arm, reaching his shoulder. The pressure of his nose against mine is noticeable, but not unpleasant — I’ve grown used to it at this point, and it’s nice to share what little breath we can. To feel the air between us grow humid. It’s like a drug in its own right. And, oh, how addictive it is.

I’m hooked. I have been for a long time now, even before he gazed at me from the other side of the table and told me I look nice. Star-crossed lovers we may be, if the morning we don’t talk about is anything to go by, but I found him and he found me, and maybe we’ve helped each other find ourselves.

What the heck is that supposed to mean?

I don’t know, and I don’t care; it sure feels good thinking it.

No time for thinking, though. Not with him so close. So present. So… there. Here, with me, my lips toying with his, and his with mine, and our tongues teasing with them, but never venturing further than the teeth. Maybe I’ve grown braver, or maybe it’s just for tonight — this marvelous blend of a birthday gone right and some quality time with him, giving me the bravado to entertain the thought of breaking my own rules. But I’m still conscious enough to know my limits and preferences.

I won’t be a slave to temptation, tempting as it may be.

At what point I closed my eyes, I can’t be sure, but I open them as the back of my head reaches a pillow on the armrest, now fully reclined, and I examine him closely.

If he closed his, I don’t know, but as soon as we meet each other’s drunken, half-lidded gaze, our smiles widen to grins, and he picks up the pace — the intensity. He constantly switches focus from me to my snout, as if he could actually watch himself go at me, and was getting all the more excited for it. And somehow, this pleases me, knowing that he isn’t doing all this just for my sake. If I told him to stop, I’d basically be kicking a puppy.

Can’t have that.

I feel his legs shuffle into a kneeling position, supporting his upper body as a hand travels from the cushion underneath me to the space between my jaw and nape, his fingers in my mane, supporting my neck, massaging it in subtle, soothing motions. The same happens with the other hand not long after, but focussing on my withers, and all the while, his toying and teasing continues. It’s warm, welcome, and stars above, he knows how to make me feel appreciated.

I can’t let him have all the fun, but my hooves aren’t nearly so dextrous. My wings are, however, and as I do my best to match his enthusiasm and increasingly heated breath, my heart hammering, I unfurl and reach them up to his back. Not to pull him in, because I don’t need him crushing me, but just to… rest there. Be there. Tell him that I’m here, I’m aware, and I know who he is and what he means to me, and what I mean to him, and that he’s doing a good job and shouldn’t let up.

Funny how actions speak louder than words — say more than they ever can.

Better tell him I’m paying attention.

The feathertips spread up and down the fabric of his hoodie, gently but firmly pressing and rubbing, massaging his back as best they can, returning the favour.

He hums, closing his eyes and pausing his efforts as he soaks it in, which gives me the perfect opportunity to snatch as many deep kisses as I can manage. “That’s nice,” he remarks, partly muffled by my mouth over his. “You’re good at that.”

I giggle, nose pressed right against his cheek. “You learn a thing or two in the locker room. Sore muscles and the like.”

“Oh, and I’m aching for you.”

Another giggle. “Only one cure for that.”

His eyes open again, small and half-lidded, but extremely expressive, and they tell me he’s hanging on every word like it were honey.

Another kiss. “More of this.”

He takes a deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth, and as he does so, he shudders — I feel it through my wings too. “I love you.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Because I do.”

He gives me a peck on the side of the snout.

“And I’ll keep saying it, because it’s true.”

A second on the cheek.

“And because it can’t be said enough.”

A third on the jawline.

“I love you, Fleetybee.”

The neck.

“So.”

Lower.

“So.”

Lower.

“Very.”

Lower.

“Much.”

And then he reaches the point between my neck and shoulder, and buries his face in it, humming again with a satisfied sigh, and the heat of his breath permeates my fur and seeps through to the skin beneath. And all the while, one hand has continuously kneaded my withers, and the other has steadily travelled southwards, now rubbing the side of my barrel, close to…

Should I warn him?

His little finger brushes past the base of my wing for only the briefest, most fleeting of touches, but my breath hitches all the same. The trail of kisses was definitely a pleasant experience, each peck ringing throughout my body like windchimes in a winter breeze, but that glancing blow was something else entirely — a lick of flames, a taste of fire. Doesn’t hurt that massaging the muscles beneath them puts me on a simmer, and I clamp my eyes shut and moan through a bit lip.

My back arches toward him somewhat, and I hold on tight as I slowly begin to wriggle our mutual grasp, partly to find a more comfortable position, partly to beg him not to stop, and partly because I just can’t help myself. No way for me to give him any pecks on the cheek as recompense from this angle, but I still have my wings.

One of them, anyway; the other is fidgeting and trying hard not to stiffen. I slide the free one down his back and slip it under the jacket — it’s easier for him to feel me through his shirt than padded cotton. “You’re good at this too,” a murmur, pressing and rubbing my cheek against the back of his head.

“Practice makes perfect,” he mumbles into me, blindly reaching the hand on my withers up through my mane. But he knows where he’s going — grown familiar enough with my form that he doesn’t need to see — and eventually, he finds his mark: my ear, where he pinches it and gently but firmly strokes it up and down and all around.

That makes me shudder, and although it twitches and pins back under his ministrations, I grin and hum contentedly, pressing against him all the more. “Always room for improvement, isn’t there?”

“Always.” It’s an automatic response, and when he lifts his head to lock lips with mine again, his eyes tell me that he’s found himself in something of a trance, no longer focussed on me, but the connection — the feeling. How my snout wrinkles just a little whenever he pushes in, and savouring whenever I hold him there.

“Always,” he repeats, but quieter, more distant, and his efforts slow to a halt. “This is… You’re—”

“Shush,” I softly whisper, imagining that I’ve put a feather to his mouth silence him, then reach up and give him another quick peck on the cheek before bringing my muzzle to his ear. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“I love you.”

“And I love you,” I say, then give the top edge of his ear a quick, sensual, tentative lick, just to see how he’d react.

A low, guttural groan escapes him as his eyes flutter shut and his whole body gently shivers, leaning in the odd way you do when part of you wants to shy away from something, but you stay there, relishing it. “Oh jeez…”

I giggle. Either he hadn’t been expecting that, or he really did get something out of it. In any case, I might have to remember that for later. But for now, I resume the kisses and smooches and teasing and toying, delighting in how easy he is to stun — how stunning I am to him.

Slowly, he begins to return my affection, but sloppier. Needier. And with every kiss comes a moan, and his hands begin to work their magic again; the one resting by my ear slides back down to my withers, and the one at my side grips the base of my wing, its thumb digging and grinding into the muscles just below the joint.

Eyes squeezed shut, I gasp, exposing my throat to him as the sharp breath I take rushes in, and comes out in a stuttered whimper. A fierce heat courses through me, stiffening every limb to where they all quiver from the strain. He’s never touched me there before. I forgot about that part. Stars above, I am so out of practice when it comes to this kind of thing.

But I’m glad, at least, that it’s happening with him.

Though I never gave him any forewarning, he doesn’t seem to question what he just did, and appears only to be encouraged, kissing and moaning and nuzzling me under the chin. He smells me, takes in my scent — he’s always had a thing for that — and rocks and sways as he does his best to hold me near. To close the limited distance between our bodies. His chest, my barrel; flesh separated by fur and fabric.

It tingles. Everything. The probing fingertips — so foreign; so enticing — how they poke and prod and trail cool, pleasantly ticklish lines wherever they go, whatever they do. They’re blunt, recently trimmed, but for all I care, they may as well be sharp as dragon claws, but so restrained that they never pierce the skin. And the thought makes me tremble and sigh, my efforts to massage him and hold him close in kind soon falling by the wayside as I’m lost to the sensation of his indulgence.

The hand around my wing slides lower to my loin, supporting my hindquarters.

With the pressure gone, I’m finally able to come down from the intensity of whatever I’m supposed to call that high — that sweltering, exciting, intoxicating paradise. The heat remains in my brows, ears, cheeks, chest… other places I’d rather not mention right now, and strangely enough, even the very tips of my feathers. I can’t massage him anymore — they’re too rigid, and feel like they’ve been held over an open fire. They tremble like it too. Instead, my forehooves pull him in, belly to belly, and my hindlegs finally shift from their relaxed, splayed position to hug him by the waist, further locking him in place, telling him that I need him here, with me; I need to feel him. His weight, his skin, his touch, his… Everything.

Him.

Always him.

His hand wanders lower. Reaches my flank. Rubs in firm circles.

I tense up, grunting, eyes squeezing shut all the harder, and I do my best to bury my snout in his hair — to take in his scent as much as he’s taking mine. And he smells of… strawberries. Artificial, but strawberries; the cologne faded a long time ago, but the shampoo remains, and he always liked the kiddy stuff more than what they advertise for adults. He’s funny like that, but in a sweet way. Right now, it’s as heady as tequila.

Lower still, his hand goes. To my rump.

It gropes me.

And then my eyes open. They don’t snap wide, or bulge. They just… open. And I find myself staring with blurred vision over the fuzzy outline of his head and heaving torso, feeling the warmth of his palm and fingers fondle and knead.

It’s… nice.

I like it.

But it’s also…

Well…

We’ve been here before, haven’t we? A few days ago, on the carpet, just over there. I shoved him off because I didn’t want to risk the situation escalating, and I still think that was the right call — we promised we’d take things slow, and I was standing by it; I needed to be sure that it was what I wanted. Back then, I wasn’t — first times of any sort are always fraught with second guesses — but now…

I mean, it wouldn’t be hard for him to just…

It’s right there…

I am bare...

And… would I really mind all that much? Complain? Protest? Object?

The tension in my hindlegs, tail, and the soft, warm pulse between all three doesn’t seem to think so. Neither does the cool, subtle sheen of sweat on my brows and cheeks, or the tightness in my chest, or the heaviness in my heart and how heavily it pounds, like every beat is the chiming of a bell, and I’m stuck inside the echo chamber. And I have the sudden, silly fantasy that if I stay as I am… maybe I won’t have to decide. Maybe I’ve already made my mind up, and I’m just waiting for him to take the hint. Lead the way. Take charge. Take… me.

But I need to be sure. We both do. And judging by the way he’s slowed himself down, and his hand isn’t grasping anymore but simply resting… holding… I think he’s come to that realisation as well. And when he gradually lifts himself to look at me in the eyes, his face flushed as he quietly pants, I know he’s thinking along the same lines as I am.

“What do you think?” I softly ask, just to be safe.

He pauses, blinking, then lets his gaze wander along the outline of my face, neck, upper body, barrel, and maybe allows himself to catch a brief glimpse of something — or two somethings — a little lower than my belly. “I think I like how firm you are,” he says with an anxious, short-lived chuckle, giving my rump an equally short-lived, but not unappreciated squeeze. But then his eyes return to mine, and his hesitation shows. “But I also think… we’ve been here before.”

Not quite what I’d meant, but it gives me a chance to collect myself a little more. And if he has something to say, I may as well listen; that’s what special someponies do, even when it interrupts the flow of things. But this isn’t so much an interruption as it is a breather — a period of mutual respite. We’re both okay. No frustration yet.

“It was my birthday,” he continues, watching the hand from my withers drift over my shoulder and down to play with the fur on my chest, which puffs up at his touch, and his breath hitches somewhat at the sight of it. “A… song was sung. We went back to mine. Someone asked for a kiss, then…”

Ah. So, it’s the similarities that are tripping him over. But he doesn’t seem too sad talking about it — more like it’s all a curious notion that begs further thought, and he’s entertaining it, though it doesn’t quite entertain him; pensive, but too lost in the moment — in me — to feel as sullen as he normally would.

His ministrations cease, and he looks up at me again, but empathetic now, as well as enraptured. “What do you think?”

I hear a lot of follow-up questions in my head after that; should we stop? Are the parallels to great for us? Has he killed the mood? Are we always going to have this conversation whenever we get this far, and will it always stop us? And what about him? Do I like his butt, or… anything else about him?

But he doesn’t ask them, and that means he’s only after some general thoughts, and probably my opinion on where we should go from here. What we should do. What I want.

The onus is on me now; I am in control. And I think that… it’s been a long, long time since we first admitted that we like each other as more than just friends. We’ve spent plenty of afternoons together, and some mornings and evenings, and they’ve been rather pleasant to say the least. We’ve also had some mishaps, and points where we failed to act in a mature, appropriate manner. But through it all… here we now stand.

Well, rest. In a very inappropriate, very compromising position. Indirectly asking if, perhaps…

I mean… if he asked me, I…

…I don’t think I’d say no.

The warmth in me rises to a burning heat, and my face, chest… the entirety of my upper body feels like it’s being lit on fire, like an absolutely ferocious blush had coloured all my fur red-hot; I know just what to say, what to do… and it’s dumb, but I’m doing it anyway, because I can’t think of anything better, and… I know what I want. Who I want.

Stars above, this so embarrassing.

But I love him.

And I think it would be nice if we… maybe…

I slowly slide my forelegs away from him and curl them up before me, not unlike I’m begging, but with one hoof over the other — perhaps a learned behaviour from him and how he holds his thumb. And then, bowing my head toward a little way, still looking up at him, but now with big, wide, puppy dog eyes and a shaky, playful, hopefully not too nervous smile, I coyly mumble:

“Want to give this girl another birthday present?”

Silence.

His breathing has stopped.

His eyes are widening.

His jaw is dropping.

Of course, none of it happens in the sudden, dramatic, exaggerated fashion they do on TV or in the movies, but it may as well; he’s stunned, simply put. Shocked, but not in a negative way, like he’s pushing the knowledge that he’d heard me loud and clear as far away as possible. No, this is something else.

He is awestruck. Captivated, enthralled, spellbound.

Mesmerised.

I’d laid on the table for him a very enticing offer — told him that I’m ready and willing, if only he’d take me up on it. And my heart beats heavily at the thought that, behind those small, brown, entranced eyes, the little cogs in his head have been thrown for a loop; had I actually said what we know I said? Am I truly as ready as I say I am? Is this indeed what the entire night had built towards?

Or am I the one asking those questions?

This is a pretty big step, after all.

Is this really what I want?

…

…

…

…

…

Yes.

Yes, I think it is.

“Should we… take this to your room?” I carefully, quietly, anxiously whisper.

He continues staring, his expression never changing.

…Stars, I haven’t broken him have I?

Wouldn’t be the first time. Funny and, in a way, flattering, but not ideal; there’s so much more he could be doing instead, if only I were a little less striking. And I take a guilty pleasure in how vain that makes me sound, even though I know that’s what he’s stuck on.

But then he slowly backs away, his hands leaving my rump and withers as he stands, letting the relative coolness of the room take over, making me feel just that little bit more vulnerable. But before the thought that I’d said something wrong takes root, he steps closer, facing me from the left, and bows down, wrapping an arm around my croup, and another around my shoulders, careful of my tense, but not entirely stiff wings. And then, without a sound or the barest hint of any effort, he lifts me from the sofa and cradles me. And his eyes never break contact with mine.

A fluttering, instinctive chuckle dies in the back of my throat, and it comes out more like a stuttered breath; I feel weightless, floating through the air without the need of my wings, and all the while, the warmth inside me grows to almost unbearable temperatures.

I give a dopey, even giddy smile. Scarcely able to believe that, after all this time, this could finally be happening, and he — the strangest, most foreign, most lovable pony I know — is actually saying yes. I popped the question, and he answered.

Merciful Sisters, it’s weird to be thinking about this. I feel like ponies could be watching, listening. This building complex houses hundreds, easily. Any one of them could be awake, even at this hour, on the floor above, below, in the apartment on the other side of the hall, or a door down. They could be sipping milkshakes themselves, completely unaware. Or they could be imagining what their neighbours are up to. Heavens above, they could be… Probably are…

…Some might be up to something very similar.

Celestia, I feel naughty. If my ears aren’t on fire, they sure as heck should be.

He turns in place, holding me both literally and figuratively in an almost reverent embrace, glancing away only occasionally when he starts taking his first few steps in the direction of the bedroom. They’re cautious, tentative, as if I’ll shatter into a million pieces, and it only makes my heart beat harder, knowing he cares about me so. The air is tense and confusing — a swirling mixture of so many emotions and sensations at once: fear, trepidation, wary excitement, desire. Palpable, heavy to breathe, weighing on my barrel like iron weights pulling me down to the depths of the ocean. But I don’t resist.

He has me. He’d never let me go. Not in the ways that matter.

I look at his chest, and how broad it seems despite us being a similar size, and how positively different he is to so many other creatures; I remember what I saw a few days ago, and the vast tracts of bare skin. So obvious — so clearly in unison with the rest of his body — and yet so… bizzare. Inviting, strangely. And, equally as strange, I find myself resting my head against it.

It’s… comforting.

Yeah, it’s comforting.

Another silent, breathless chuckle; stars, when did this become so easy for me? To just… relax and… let him take me someplace secret, where we’ll do things nopony will have to know — things I never had any interest in for seventeen years. But the drought I’d been so happy to let be is over, and here I am in his arms, soon to be on his bed.

“Oh dear,” I absently whisper to myself, and my ears perk up in case he’d heard me, which he doesn’t appear to have. Rare thing, for a thought like that just bursts out of me like I don’t know any better. But what’s the point of being embarrassed? This whole situation is embarrassing!

And… I’m loving it.

Through the doorway, into the room. Not much further to go.

His bed is large — much too big for a single pony — the blanket and pillows flaxen, decorated in vine-like patterns of earthly reds, greens and blues. That’s where it’ll happen, that welcoming, comfortable-looking place. My hindlegs cross, but there’s only so much they can cover without the help of my tail, and they bobble with every step he takes, slowly coming loose. It’s too much effort, pretending to be modest; we’re way beyond that point. No use denying it.

And then he turns sideways, and gently lays me down with as much grace as he can manage. And it’s like I’ve been swept ashore upon a tropical tide, the still, shallow water warmed by the sun and immensely soothing. And it doesn’t matter if I’m putting too much thought into how all of this feels, because it’s happening. And as he pulls away to stand again, then leans over me and sets a fist on either side, his lap pressed against my rump, I notice the look on his face hasn’t changed; he’s still as engrossed as ever.

Is he even conscious anymore, or just running on autopilot?

“You still there?”

“Oh, I’m always here, sister.” He smiles with a hint of trepidation. “Just admiring the view.”

I smile too, just as restless. Talking dirty is very different from a dirty joke, because then you can’t bluff any more than you can back yourself up; no team to carry me here, only me and him and… however long we have before the tension grows too much to bear. And all the while, we see how tense we can make it — how tense we can make each other. “Well, there’d be a lot more to see if you’d just… look a little lower.”

He shakes his head. “You tempt me, Fleet. You tempt me good. But as much as I’d like to… what’s the main course without an entrée?”

Oh, he loves his wordplay, doesn’t he? Quick with his tongue when it counts.

Could be useful in other ways…

“What do you have in mind?” I question innocently, curling and crossing my forelegs like I’d done before.

He hums, looking up for a moment in exaggerated thought. “Why don’t you decide? It’s… your night, after all. I’m just along for the ride.”

“Oh, so this is a favour, is it?” I wiggle my rump, grinding the cheeks of my flanks into him, and giggling to myself when I watch him instantly tense up and squeeze his eyes shut. It’s adorable, in a way. “You’re not doing this because you want to?”

“Believe me, Fleet,” he murmurs huskily after a short pause, then opens his eyes again to show me a slightly pained look, “you’re making it very hard for me to resist you.”

“I bet that’s not the only thing I’m making hard.”

He keels forward with a barely stifled snort, covering his mouth. “Oh my god, did you seriously just do that?”

I grin, eyes narrowing knowingly as I wiggle a little more. “Well, am I wrong?”

The hand pulls back and grabs my flank — not a slap, but definitely harder than he normally would — and I let out a soft grunt as I feel his fingers dig in as far as they can go. But like he said, I’m firm. Not that it’s a terribly appropriate thing to brag about, and not that I’ve compared myself to many others’ backsides. I know I have a bigger rear than Rainbow, at the very least. But then again, who doesn’t? “You’re not wrong, Fleetybee,” he says slowly, almost fully composed again, “but my question still stands: what would you like me to do?”

I pause. He did say he likes the girl dictating the terms, but somehow, I’m still a little taken aback: even with me in a position like this, he doesn’t want to risk upsetting me, however slight my discomfort may be.

But that might be too strong a word for it — implies I’d be put off by whatever he had in store. For all I know, it could be a welcome surprise, like what he did with my teats. I could even ask if he’d like to give it another shot right now, because Celestia knows that was an experience. Might tide us over for a while until we’re ready to kick it up a notch.

But that would just be playing it safe. We both know he’d like doing that, and we both know I wouldn’t mind it. And I know it isn’t the best idea to get experimental on the first go, especially with the species discrepancy, but that doesn’t mean we can… test the waters, so to speak. And as the thought of what I’m about to say crosses my mind, another breathless giggle and a small, dopey grin snakes its way across my muzzle, my cheeks and ears burning, a gaping pit of giddy anxiety opening within my chest.

“S-s-suck my feathers.”

“…What?”

“Please.”

The emptiness expands, makes me feel more vulnerable.

Ever since my… awakening, shall we say, some twenty-one years ago, when I had the misfortune of hearing what my parents were doing in the other room, I’d admittedly always been a little curious. By itself, it did practically nothing — preening without a purpose, basically — but when combined with other personal activities… it almost felt salacious. And considering how heated I got from simply having my wingtip held…

“I want to know what it feels like when somepony else does it,” I shakily whisper, on the verge of sounding needy. “When… you do it.”

His eyes are wide, stunned again, looking straight at, or perhaps, through me. Hesitant, surely, but not because he’s off-put — at least, that’s not how he appears to be —more that he’s just processing what he heard and is trying to formulate a response, verbal or physical. And then his gaze slowly drifts to my side.

My wings aren’t splayed, but they are open somewhat, not quite relaxed enough to fold all the way in. And they twitch every now and then, the feathers shivering as if they themselves are cold, despite the air inside the bedroom feeling lukewarm at the very least. And my body, of course, is something else entirely.

But it wouldn’t be fair if I make him do all the work, and I begin to unfurl my left wing and reach it up.

His right hand catches it before it gets very far, however, but before the pang of worry compels me to ask if I’d been too forward, he silently gulps and pulls it toward him, glancing up at me for assurance. Whether he meant it for his sake or mine, I can’t tell — quite a bit harder when you’re only offered a fleeting glimpse. All I know is that, right now, my heart is practically aflutter, every pulse almost painful to feel.

Merciful Sisters, he’s doing it.

There’s a second of hesitation before he brings it to his mouth, which stretches on for a long moment, and then what feels like a short while. And then he looks at me properly without moving his head, either asking for permission or my guarantee that this is what I want.

I bite my lip and nod in small, stiff motions.

He returns to the wing. He licks his parted lips. He takes quiet breath. And then he slowly pulls it that little bit further, closing the distance between the tips of endmost primaries and his open mouth — pitch black in the limited light bleeding through the doorway behind him, but no less enticing.

And then it gently shuts, and I feel the soft tug on the quills that only confirm what I see: he’s holding my feathers — holding me — in his mouth. And I can’t rightly explain why, but the idea and sight makes me shudder. “Oh my…” I say absently, and I can’t bring myself to feel ashamed enough to try covering it up.

His expression brightens somewhat, smirking, but returns again to the wing and makes a show of gradually, teasingly sliding the primaries out, only to open his mouth once more and repeat the whole process. And without any good reason I can possibly think of, I find it immeasurably satisfying. And that must surely be the understatement of the century, or at the very least the wrong word for how I feel.

My breathing is getting faster. The warmth inside me rises. Everywhere; face, ears, chest, wings, all the other parts that are begging at a whisper’s pitch for me to somehow translate all this general affection into something more animal. More carnal.

But I’ll let them go unanswered for now. I’m quite happy where I am, even if I’m close to drawing blood with how hard I’m biting my lip.

“Having fun?” Philip queries after the stars know how many repetitions; ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred — doesn’t matter. He’s sucking my feathers for Celestia’s sake! How much better could this possibly get?!

I nod. Vigorously.

He chuckles. “You definitely look the part. Never seen you this red in the face before.”

“You’re very good at that.”

“Feather-sucking?”

I nod again, just as enthusiastic.

“Hmm.” He inspects the primaries, turning them this way and that in slow, deliberate movements. “It’s… strange, I’ll admit. A good kind of strange, though — like sucking a finger, I guess, but… more tender. And it’s interesting, being the one who’s doing the sucking for once. Just don’t expect me to get them further than halfway, alright? I’m pretty sure I have a gag reflex.”

“Shut up,” I retort with a giggle, punctuating the order by batting him with the other wing. “You’re ruining it.”

“What’s there to ruin?” he asks, chuckling as he tries and fails to swat my wing away in time. He settles for brushing his hair back, then lets go and leans over me with his fists on either side, smiling. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” He reaches out and daintily grabs a forehoof, laying the other hand over it as he stands more upright, using the bed and my rump for a little extra support. “And no matter how many times you say otherwise, I’ll keep saying it. Do you know why?”

This is a setup for something cheesy, without a doubt. But screw it, I’ll bite. Can’t be worse than all the other piece of shit one-liners he’s spouted day after day, week after week, somehow never losing their misbegotten charm. “Why?”

Through the dimness, I see his grin shrink to a humble smile, and his eyes stay locked with mine as he bows his head and gives the edge of my hoof a long, fond, heartwarming kiss. And when he breaks away, his expression changes: it’s still sincere, and clearly adoring, but now there’s an element of outspoken insistence; whatever he’s about to say, he needs me to understand.

“Because I love you,” he states, plain and simple. “And that’s all there is to it.”

…And the bastard has done it again. Just when I thought I had my heart under control, he toys with it like a kitten does with a ball of yarn, and it’s sent all over the place, unravelling so completely that I’m not sure I’ll ever get it together again. “I hate you,” I say ineffectually, with all the striking power of a newborn foal. And my voice is starting to catch in the back of my throat. “I hate you so much.”

“Well then, if you despise me so…” Philip bows forward and kisses my hoof once more, twice, thrice, and a fourth time higher up, on the fetlock itself, where I feel his warm breath on my skin beneath the fur. A fifth goes even higher, and I realise what he’s planning. “Tell me to stop.”

I don’t dare say no.

He huffs a small, quiet laugh through his nose, then returns his attention to my foreleg and resumes blazing a trail of kisses all the way up to the bend of the elbow, and further still to my shoulder.

By this point, he’s leaning so far forward that my hindlegs can’t give him any more room so long as they’re between us, so I edge them out from under his stomach and let them hang around his waist instead. Quite the compromising position, and if I were in a more sensible state of mind, perhaps I’d care. But I’m not, and I don’t, because his journey continues along the shoulder toward my chest, where he takes the opportunity to bury his face and release my hoof to rub his hands up my sides.

And, admittedly, there’s something else.

He’s unintentionally applying just enough pressure to my cooch to keep me at a simmer.

I don’t dare say anything about that either.

Closing my eyes, I hum contentedly and smile, letting my head rest on the blanket as I lay a hoof on the back of his. “Keep going,” I murmur in a dreamy haze. “I like it, but… please, don’t keep me waiting.”

A soft groan escapes him — the pleased kind, more gruff than a moan — and he looks up at me from a sideways angle. “That worked up, huh?”

“Don’t make me think about it,” I softly warn, opening my eyes once more to narrow slits and peering down over my snout to him. “I just know that… I really want you. Right now.”

“Oh.” His smirk falls, and his brows faintly rise. “So… we’re done with foreplay, then?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just…” My head flops back as I blow a humid sigh, then breathe heavily for a few moments before looking down at him again, this time with an insistent yet imploring gaze. “I’m sorry, Philip, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… I’m really horny right now. And all of… this?” I quickly, limply gesture to us both. “It’s not making me any better.”

Philip pauses. “Okay,” he utters weakly, then nods to himself and clears his throat, blinking and refocussing on me. “Okay. I can do that. Just… let me finish up, alright?”

“Thank you,” I whisper sincerely, almost instinctively, a relieved, demure smile slithering across my lips. “Thank you…”

He nods once more, seeming a little more encouraged, if red in the face, then looks down at my chest and begins his kissing, caressing journey anew. He starts at my chest from where he’d left off, and slowly, sensually travels southward, his hands stroking my sides all the way up to my shoulders and withers in long, smooth motions, sometimes rubbing in circles. Occasionally, his fingertips tease the sensitive patches under my wings, which always makes my breath stutter and hitch; I supposed he’s already picked up how nice it feels. A slow learner in some respect, but in others…

Just goes to show where his priorities lie.

I chuckle. Partly because of the thought, but mostly because he’s reached the top of my stomach, and he isn’t stopping. Further down, warmer and warmer, coolness of a delicate sheen of sweat slickening my brows as it feels like, at any moment, he could bite into my extremely vulnerable underbelly. I guess that’s the primal part of my brain kicking in, from the days when ponies had to worry about that sort of thing, but we’ve since grown past that innate fear — now it’s not much more than a strangely compelling thrill.

Further still, around my navel, backing up a little way and taking a knee to gain a better angle, his chest pressed between my legs, my thighs around his shoulders. Gradually, bit by bit, we’re getting closer — closer to the inevitable, immeasurably alluring conclusion, where he’d…

Stars, I’m shivering just thinking about it.

Ever southward he goes, his hands now on my flanks, his mouth now dangerously, enticingly close to the twin mounds he so inexplicably covets. And when he reaches them, he pauses, studying them with the same sort of interest he’d had when I’d given him his first proper glimpse: he isn’t sure he should he gawking, but he can’t bring himself to look away either. And every slow, humid breath through his parted lips makes me all the more conscious of how exposed they are, and how unusual it is to find a pony who’d give them more than a single thought.

He doesn’t want to keep me waiting, but he can’t get over them either.

There’s only one way to settle this, then, even if it means putting my own ambitions on hold. And who knows? Maybe I’ll actually have some fun like last time.

His tongue pokes out to moisten his lips.

…Oh yeah, I’m definitely going to have some fun.

“Go for it.”

He looks up at me, no less entranced.

“You heard me,” I purr, and bubbles boil in my chest, their heat rippling through my body, my entire head a sweltering mess. And I lower my eyelids to half-mast in an evocative way for emphasis. “You know you want to.”

During the brief moment of tense respite, his eyes narrow and he smirks roguishly. But then it ends, and he dives in, ploughing his face between my teats and huffing, low and gruff.

A tiny, startled squeak escapes me, which quickly morphs into a series of bashful giggles; he’s blowing raspberries into the exposed flesh, and it feels… weird. Not off-putting, but certainly not like anything I’ve ever experienced or fantasised about. I didn’t know there could be a good kind of awkward.

Raspberries become kisses, and unlike the ones he’d used when travelling down, these are proper snogs, using his tongue as well as his lips to playfully nibble at the mounds, eyes fluttering shut and humming and grunting with blithe, carefree gusto. And the sheer, unexpected enthusiasm with which continues his unapologetic endeavour… Sweet Celestia, his moans and groans are as exhilarating as the sensation of his teeth brushing up against the skin, every touch spreading a cool, fuzzy tingle throughout my lower half, going as far as my rear hooves and the tip of my tail.

It’s sloppy, it’s strange, and it’s utterly, bizarrely delightful. And it’s making me wonder whether I’d be as into it as I apparently am if he hadn’t mistaken me during our mutual exploration session — if this has always been a secret kink of mine, or I’m only enjoying it because he is.

It’s certainly getting me more than a little aroused.

And then his mouth climbs higher and higher up the left teat — only an inch or three — until it engulfs the tip and begins to suck.

My eyes go wide and my jaw drops in a silent gasp. Not in an overwhelming sense of pleasure, though there is something… intriguing about the sensation, but in genuine astonishment. Kneading was one thing, kissing and massaging was another, but actively doing that? I never would’ve imagined this happening, and definitely not on the first night — even with his… unusual tastes. More than anything, because this isn’t really all that pleasurable, ostensibly, it’s the absolute audacity that’s getting to me, and making my cheeks flush and ears burn and wings tense up and flitter, and forelegs and hindlegs stiffen and tremble.

If this is what I can expect going forward… sweet, merciful stars above, why would I ever want to take even a single step back?

I’m loving foreign.

He lets the tip go, panting quietly, his breath cooling off the wet patches left behind and sending me into another shivering fit, my teeth chattering as I grin up at the ceiling. And then he resumes his southerly course, backing up as he pecks his way further down, shifting his focus to my inner thigh as he enters the region of my groin. He massages my flanks, digging his fingers in as his efforts slow, growing less needy and more tender. Devoted. Reverent, in a sense, as if he wanted to savour every waking moment before he finally reached his ultimate destination.

I shut my eyes and bite my lip, breathing heavily through my nose and bracing myself by hugging my barrel tightly, quaking all the while like an Abyssinian stranded in the middle of the Frozen North.

And when his tongue and lips at long last touch the outward edge of that twitching, winking, frankly eager entrance, each pulse a soft tingle aimed directly at my core… he pauses. His breath tingles and teases — so close, yet so far — but he doesn’t go for the kill. Maybe he needs some extra encouragement.

“Well?” I query, chest heaving and stuttering on every exhalation. “What are you waiting for? You wouldn’t leave a girl hanging, would you?”

“Fleet…” he hoarsely, absently murmurs. “You’re… Oh my god…”

I quirk an eyebrow, then open my eyes and lift my head to look down at him.

He takes notice and glances up, but only for a fleeting moment, returning to gawk with an open mouth at whatever has frozen him up; the answer is obvious, but he’s seen my private parts before, so it’s not like he should be that dazed all over again.

Unless, of course, there’s something different.

And as the seconds drag on, that difference becomes all the more apparent.

I reach a hoof down and, in his face and unashamedly so — much to my own surprise — drag it up along my folds, too focussed to get much pleasure out of the action, then bring it closer and inspect the edge. But I already know what I’ll discover by the faint shimmer of a short-lived string of fluid: I am soaked. Almost, if not just as bad as the time I got back home from our little escapade, where I barged open my cumulus door and locked it behind me, then rushed for the bathroom and locked that door too.

I’d never been so voracious in my entire life. Easily rubbed half a dozen out in the next hour, and only stopped to fetch a drink of water and see if I couldn’t handle a few more. By the time I thought I’d finally gotten everything out of my system, I was a sweaty, quivering mess, wings aching from being so constantly rigid, legs shaky and barely able to support my own weight, and my hindquarters completely and utterly drenched. It took all of next morning to totally wash out the funky smell, and even then, I decided to give it another three or four shots.

This boy does things to me, and the steamy memories of those hot, humid, downright blissful hours only makes me shudder all the harder. But they also serve as a warning — one I’d be foolish not to heed, for both our sakes.

“Philip, get some towels.”

He blinks at me. “What?”

“Towels,” I repeat, meeting his gaze, teeth chattering as I do my best to restrain myself — to think straight and keep my mind on what we need, rather than what we want. “You have some spares, don’t you?”

He blinks again, then gulps and furrows his brows in confusion. “Yeah. Why?”

“Because when I… peak… I get very wet.”

Once more, he blinks. And then his eyes widen, he draws his head back, mouth agape, and his bottom lip quivering. “You mean you… You’re a—”

“Mm-hmm.” I stiffly, vigorously nod. “And we don’t want to be ruining your sheets, do we?”

He stares vacantly for a few seconds, then suddenly bolts upright and strides for the entrance to his bathroom to the right of the bed. His attention lingers on me for the first few steps, then switches to the path ahead of him, where he then reaches through the doorway and flicks on the light switch, then disappears inside.

Taking the opportunity presented, and now with some extra illumination, I wipe my hoof thoroughly on my stomach and hoist myself up and roll over and stand on the bed, then unsteadily plod across for the pillows at the head. My wings are tall now, rising every minute, and I’m so lightheaded that it feels like their added weight could topple me over at any moment, or the mattress could give out beneath me.

Or I could simply trip over and land with my face buried in the blanket any my rump stuck in the air. Which would probably be an inviting sight for him, and… it might be something I’d enjoy… but being mounted from behind is so basic — practically the norm, the way I hear it, from what little I’ve cared to hear; heck, it’s the only position they describe in sex ed. Tonight, if this is what we’re doing, which we almost certainly are, I want it to be special. To see him, and have him see me. And if that means doing things unorthodox, then so be it. Screw the rules, because we’re already as far from a normal couple as we can get.

I am in control.

Deviating for a moment to take off my pendant and bracelet, I rest them on the nightstand, then mosey over to my intended destination and flop into my flank. From there, I do my best to flatten my wing so I can turn and lie on my back with my head between the pillows.

“Hey,” he calls from out of sight in the bathroom, sounding somewhat winded, “before we do anything, I just want to be clear: you’re sure we won’t need, uh… protection?”

I huff at the bedroom window ahead of me, opposite of the en suite. The curtains were already closed before we came in, so we won’t need to worry about any onlookers. Not that what we do in our spare time is anypony else’s business. “Yes, I’m sure, Philip,” I reply, trying and largely succeeding in keeping whatever frustration I feel out of my voice, then give my wing a solid, rather painful tug and flop down. Uncomfortable for the time being, but I’m quite certain I won’t be complaining soon enough. “Even if we were compatible, I’m not in heat at the moment, so it’d be next to impossible anyway.”

“Heat?”

“Estrus. You know, like… the prime time to have a foal.”

He pauses. “Well then, what about me? Don’t I need—”

“If you’re talking about condoms, Philip, please don’t take this the wrong way, but they literally wouldn’t make any your size.”

“Oh.” He pauses again, and I can practically hear him looking down at himself. “Well, that’s exactly what I needed to hear, isn’t it?”

“Stars above,” I exclaim with an amused smile, slapping the back of a hoof to my forehead, “don’t tell me you’re that insecure about it.”

“What? No.” He chuckles and pokes his head out from the doorway, and I see that his shoulder is bare — shirtless at the very least. “Told you before, didn’t I? Of course I’m not nearly as impressive as your big, hunky stallions. Just the way things are.”

Taking the mickey out of the situation, then. That’s fine. A little odd to hear and see him acting so nonchalant about the whole thing, but he has been here for almost two years — plenty of time to come to terms with certain things, even if some wounds might not have healed completely.

…No, I’m not going there. Not tonight. In one way or another, I’ve been waiting a long time for this, and I won’t let some bad thoughts that have no place here ruin it. This is our moment — his and mine — and we’re going to have some fun. A lot of fun, if the restlessness in my core has anything to say about it.

Merciful Sisters, I sound nothing like my old self. To her, sex was sacrosanct: both something that should rarely ever be discussed, and a special occasion reserved for only the most special of ponies. But now? I sound like I’m giving it as much thought as any other pastime, like flying, or a casual date.

No, I want this to be a special occasion, shared with the most special of ponies. And it is. I just need to get myself in the mood for that kind of mentality. No more jokes, no more tangents, except for one final hurdle. Just so we can put the subject to rest once and for all.

“Look, if you’re that worried about it… just say when you’re close and pull out.” I shrug and shake my head, glancing away briefly. “Really, I won’t kick up a fuss if you do. And I’m sorry, but the more I think about this, the more icky I feel, so if we could please hurry up and get on with it…”

He widens his eyes and shuts his mouth, possibly gulping, but it’s difficult to tell with the light pouring in from behind him. Nevertheless, he strides out from the bathroom with two blue towels folded under his arm, switching off the lights behind him and turning on the nearest bedside lamp, basking the room in a soft, neutral glow. With a knee on the mattress and a foot on the floor, he spreads the first towel underneath my tail.

“Thank you,” I whisper earnestly, making sure to lift my hindlegs enough for him.

He looks up at me in acknowledgement, but offers no reply. Even less so when his eyes spy my privates again, and his mouth hangs open as he lets out a throaty whuff, and his gaze grows distant.

Great. When he’s not cracking one-liners, he’s getting hypnotised by female anatomy. I know it’s almost been two years, and part of me is genuinely flattered that he finds me so literally breathtaking… but seriously, how desperate could he be? I mean, I’m certainly ready and willing, but I wouldn’t say I’m frothing at the mouth like he may as well be. “Keep going,” I beckon in a sing-song voice, wiggling my rear a little.

That seems to snap him out of his trance, and he shakes his head and blinks a few times, then shuffles closer and wedges his hands under my croup, raising my lower half to create enough space for the second towel. And when he’s done, my rump lies within his lap, hindlegs once again around his waist, his eyes trained on mine, his chest stuttering with every breath.

His yearning is almost palpable. Celestia, it would be so easy for him to just reach up and tease me open with a finger or two, and then plunge them in and out and swirl them all about…

I shudder, and my wings press into the mattress ever harder. I’m almost tempted to tell him to forget taking off his shorts, and instead just go to town on me any way he likes — never mind his satisfaction; I need a release ASAP.

“Could I ask you something?”

I blink, and try to get my thoughts in order. “Y-y-yeah?”

“Do you think we could… do this without your contacts?”

I blink again with slowly rising brows. “My contacts?”

He takes a forehoof with a hand and lays the other over it, but never looks away. Not even for the briefest instant. “Please,” he implores at a whisper’s pitch. “If we’re doing this, I… I want to see all of you. The real you. The you I saw at my bedside in Ponyville. The you I’ve always wanted to see ever since.”

My heart beats heavier, and my cheeks, already flushed, are blushing even harder. “Really?”

“Yes,” he answers devoutly, bowing to plant a kiss on my hoof. But even so, his eyes continue to watch mine with care and adoration. “I keep wondering when I’ll see them again. Maybe tonight is as good a time as any.”

Such a simple request, and quite easily dismissable. But conversely… it could be granted quite easily as well. And really, would it be so bad to spice things up a little? I mean, I don’t think it’d do all that much for me, but for his sake… if it makes me seem more… desirable… “You’ll have to do it,” I quickly reply before my voice breaks and I lead him on to how hot under the collar this is making me. “Hooves are too big, and my wings… aren’t so flexible anymore.”

He pauses, a flash of uncertainty crossing his face. “Are you sure?”

“You want them gone, right?”

Another pause, another flash. “If it’s not too much to ask.”

“It isn’t. But you’ll have to do the deed, alright? Carefully, please.”

He hesitates, but eventually nods, then leans forward, his stomach almost lying on top of me, and cautiously reaches a finger and a thumb.

This isn’t how I imagined our night turning out, and I’m pretty sure the wide-eyed look I’m forced to give him isn’t the most attractive either, but if this makes the night more special for him… then really, who am I to argue? He has his preferences, and if it doesn’t hurt me or make me feel unsafe, then indulging him is the least I can do. I’m not above a little experimentation.

His hand is steady as it approaches, and as it brushes past my lower eyelashes, I strain to keep their fluttering in check — to keep the window of opportunity open, so neither of us panic and I end up partially blind. But the tip of his thumb finds the edge of the plastic, and his finger keeps it steady as he lifts it away, and once he stores it safely within the grasp of his other hand, he does the same for the second. And the moment he plucks my other contact free, he stops and stares.

I blink once more, glancing from left to right as if I don’t know what he could possibly be gawking at. “What?” I query ineffectually. “What’s the matter?”

“…You…”

The ways he says that, so… lost. Transfixed. As if nothing in the world exists except for me and him and the eyes he peers into — the gaze he holds so gently, so tenderly, like it would vanish if he so much as breathed. It fills my barrel with a warmth that spreads throughout me, but not the sort that begs him to hurry up with anything.

No, this warmth begs for something else:

Eternity.

For this second, this moment, this little snapshot in time to stretch on and on and never end, and for the world outside to melt away.

Like ice to a flame, or snow in the sun.

Like butter on toast, or sorbet on the tongue.

I’ll have to remember that if I write another song.

His free hand softly sweeps a few stray hairs from my brow, then trails down the side of my face to cup my cheek. “You are so beautiful,” he finally finishes at a whisper’s pitch, his smile small, soft, earnest… a thousand words rolled into a single action, and what a captivating sight it is.

I wrap a hoof around his neck and pull him in for a kiss.

It takes him by surprise, and his startled grunt is muffled by my lips on his, which quickly turns into a hummed chuckle. And with every new attempt, every nip and tease, his humming become more needy, more hungry, more desperate, until he drops all pretence and plainly and simply moans.

I do too, and wrap my other hoof around his back to keep him close as my hindlegs lock around his waist, like I’m trying to give him the biggest, tightest hug possible. I don’t think about any of this, I just do — it comes to me instinctively, and feels almost as natural as flying, despite never having been in this situation for nearly two decades. Even then, I don’t think I was much good. Can’t tell if I’m any good now either, but I’m too elated to care, and he’s certainly not complaining.

Each breath he takes, he shares with me, and his hands run all over my body — down my neck to my shoulders, withers, sides, rubbing and massaging, caressing and kneading. One goes as far as my flanks and rump, and isn’t shy about giving them a firm squeeze, which makes me groan a little and swish my hiking tail. Even now, I never spare a thought for what it all means, too swept up in how delightfully heated this all feels. Even when his hand slips away to fiddle with something just out of reach, and something unbuttons and unzips, and fabric shifts, and he sidles further into me and…

My eyes snap open and I break the kiss, staring directly at him.

His eyes flutter open and he stares at me with a slightly panicked sense of confusion.

I look down.

So does he.

His shorts have come undone, and what they’ve been keeping hidden has missed its mark and lies at an angle on my groin, between my thighs. It’s stiff, and its tip is wet, and it bobs faintly whenever I wink, its base pressed flat against my cooch. The hair is… visually distracting, and somewhat ticklish… but it isn’t horrible. I’m just surprised that I hadn’t seen this coming, even though this is where we’d always been heading the second he picked me up.

I look up.

He meets my gaze, and in his eyes, I see a question.

I can only answer.

“Please.”

He lingers on me, breathing silently as his jaw quivers weakly in the dim light, part of him seemingly not there — not present. Running on impulse as much as conscious thought. But then he blinks and shuts his mouth and gulps, then looks down again and shifts his weight back, sliding free from me and using a hand to readjust.

And then he slips inside.

It’s a quick entry, and a slow, eye-widening, breathtaking remainder that clamps a vice around my barrel and stiffens my limbs to the point where they’re all quivering. My heart rattles against my ribs like a jackhammer as I feel an inch, then two, then three, deeper and deeper and steadily losing count as I concurrently lose the will to care; it’s there, and it’s going in, and I’m sure the weeks of mounting anticipation is exaggerating everything, but it feels so…

There has to be a word for it.

If there is, I can’t think of it right now — too absorbed in the moment and knowledge that, after however long I’ve been awaiting this, it’s finally happening. And, oh, is it enrapturing.

Is that the word?

Can’t be stuffed — let’s say it is and roll with it.

He shuts his eyes and furrows his brows, laying a hand on and gripping my shoulder as he breathes in and lets out a stuttered, euphoric sigh, his mouth open and lips curling in an expression bordering pained. “Oh my… god…”

“Keep going,” I quietly whimper — such an effortless action that I think it actually may have been subconscious. “Keep going.”

He nods, sliding the same hand gently to the point between my withers and nape as the other slithers across the blanket for the pillows, his body gradually falling toward me, and edging himself all the deeper. And when he comes to rest on his elbows, his head drooping over my shoulder and his torso pressed up against mine, our chests rising and falling and shivering and shuddering at odd times, never synchronised, he gives his hips a smooth, solid, easy thrust, and he bottoms out.

A tiny squeak escapes me, in the face of all my best efforts to keep myself composed, and I shut my eyes and cover my mouth with a hoof as if that would take everything back, all the while a blissful buzz racks my entire being. I feel my lower lips twitch, winking in small, fleeting, almost reticent motions, as if my own body were shy to admit how special this is, the heat in my core doubling in intensity, radiating its glow throughout me.

“Sweet mother of mercy, that feels amazing…”

Despite the situation, the flutter of an anxious giggle bubbles up, and so does a bizarrely flattered warmth in my cheeks and ears.

He isn’t massive. Not by a longshot. In fact, there’s more than enough space for him to… jiggle it around, if he so wished — though the thought alone is rather embarrassing, more so for how silly it sounds than anything else. And the feeling of his bush pressed against the bare skin of my entrance, tickling the tender flesh inside whenever I wink is marginally distracting. But to simply have him there, inside me…

I tremble with a euphoric sigh, and whether I meant to or not — I can barely tell where consciousness ends and instinct kicks in — that constricts the passage around him.

He lets out a whimpered grunt, arching his back downward and raising his head, and if he weren’t pressed up right against me, I’m sure I’d have seen the most adorably stimulated grimace. “Holy—”

“Shush,” I whisper, drawing out the command as musically as I can manage in my lecherous state, shakily smiling with half-lidded eyes at the back of his head. I gently pat him on the shoulder with a hoof as the other sneaks under his arm and hugs him closer, and my wings strain to stand tall with how reassuring I’m being. “Just let it happen. Let it happen.”

He stays where he is for a while, panting heavily, then buries his face into the crook of my neck and reaches his free hand down to his rear, where he wiggles his hips from side to side and fiddles with the waistband of his shorts and underwear, trying to pull them lower.

The feeling of him shifting about inside me is enough to keep me tense, but the feeling of his groin grinding against mine, even with the itchy hairs, and his thighs rubbing against my rump…

I shut my eyes and smile as I tremble and clench again.

“Guh.” His body freezes stiff. “Oh, sister, you have no idea how good that feels.”

My smile widens; as a matter of fact, I think I do. But simply hearing that from him, along with his fervent moaning, and the pressure of his fingers on my nape, and his chest on mine, and his warm breath in my fur, and the soft, faint tingle as his stomach teases the tips of my teats… it all blends together into the drunken buzz of ecstasy. And I want more of it.

Stars, if I knew how good this would feel, maybe I wouldn’t have been so cagey about it.

No time like the present.

“You like that?” I murmur, an unsteady quaver in my voice.

He nods into me and mumbles something incomprehensible, if it was ever meant to be heard.

A chill cuts through the heat like water to a hot iron, running across my withers and up and down my spine. He isn’t a gibbering wreck yet — though the thought is intriguing — but to think that I’m too good for words is a foreign, yet immensely satisfying feeling. “Want to…” I begin, then find myself gasping a little as I apparently hadn’t been breathing properly for a while. “Want to keep going?”

He’s already pretty still, but now he seems even more so. “Do you?”

I hesitate, but only for a brief moment. I’m grateful that he’d ask me — I really am — and that he’s always concerned for how I feel about everything and always wants my input. But sometimes… perhaps I wouldn’t mind if he not only seized the initiative, but held it. The problem, I guess, is that I’ve always been there to question him, or offer him an opportunity to doubt himself within a safe environment.

What he needs, I suppose, is a little encouragement — something that appeals to his primal side, which he has shown to me on occasion, and how enticing it can be. And I don’t need to make a fancy speech to do that.

I smirk again, tightening my grip on his torso, narrowing my eyes in that way you do when you know something will work and you know it will benefit you, then slowly, quietly grind my nethers against him in an upwards, then downwards, motion. The hair around his crotch is a noticeable irritation, always prickly and getting into places I don’t want it to, but the sensation of dragging my winking bean against him, and of his length shifting about inside, still hilted, more than makes up for it.

And his resultant shudder and long, drawn-out groan. They’re nice too.

I didn’t expect him to push into me, though, trying to edge himself deeper.

“Oh,” I uselessly exclaim, eyes widening at the ceiling as I feel him stiffen, his rounded tip touching and stroking me just right. “Oh my…”

He emits a single, low, soft grunt — the stifled sound of a chuckle, judging by the smile he etches into my fur — soon followed by kiss and a light nibble on my neck that sends another chill down my spine. If he’s a biter, I’ll have to condition him out of it, because that certainly isn’t my cup of tea, but for now, it isn’t that bad — a little thrill and nothing more. I can appreciate that.

His hips wiggle some more, and his knees readjust to help slide his shorts and undies further down, and whether he’d intended it or not, this puts more pressure on me. There’s not much more of himself to sink in, but the sheer weight of him bearing down on me, and the fingertips digging into my withers, and the fact that he’s there, doing this to me… It’s like a sauna in my head right now, and my nethers, and everywhere; humid, inescapable, hot, heavy — pleasurable. Sisters, if I could catch this feeling in a bottle…

“Oh my stars, yes.” My grip tightens, and my eyes flutter shut as I focus on the feeling — the burning in my core and the ache in my wings. “Sweet heavens above, right there. Right there, that’s good.”

And then the wiggling stops, and the pressure lets up.

It’s still nice, certainly, but…

I open my eyes a smidge and peer at him. “…W-why… why’d you—”

But then he cuts me off by pulling his hips back, only to push in again.

My breath catches, more so in surprise than delight, but the effect is practically the same, and the slight numbness I feel when he hilts himself once more quickly dissolves into cool, fuzzy shivers of satisfaction. “Oh my gosh…”

And again, he pulls back, and pushes in — a slow motion, followed by a fast one — so fast that I can hear the faint squelch of sticky fluids, and feel it spreading further and further outward when he repeats the action a third time, and then a fourth. They were irregular at first, without rhyme or rhythm, but now he’s picking up a pace, and it’s the tender sort: needy and powerful, but restrained and unaggressive. And he works his hips like they’re pistons in a steam engine.

My inner thighs clamp around his waist, and my hindlegs do their best to lock behind his back. I’m not flexible enough to entirely succeed, but I need to secure my position here, beneath him, and let him have his fun and let me have my fun, because this is, without a doubt, fun.

It’s making me squirm just thinking about it, let alone feeling and hearing and smelling; my natural musk — tart, but also somewhat sweet, like vanilla in hay — mixed with the scent of his shampoo and deodorant giving way to sweat. Whose sweat, I can’t rightly say, because for all I know, we might both be guilty, but I never thought it could smell so… nice.

Or maybe I’m just telling myself I like it for the sake of the occasion.

Doesn’t matter; whether I like it or not, it’s there, and I’d better get used to it, because I’m sure as heck liking everything else about this: his cadenced movements, the soft clap and rub of flesh, the heat in my core that burns all the way to the tips of my ears, wings, hooves and tail… What’s not to love about this?

Except the hairs. Those, I could do without.

But still, nine out of ten isn’t bad at all, and I suck on my lip to make sure an upcoming groan is nothing more than close-mouthed moan. I’m not sure why, but I kind of like the idea of trying to keep this whole thing quiet — just between us, and nopony else, not that anypony would actively be listening.

And still his tempo never falters, the hand he’d used to pull down his pants now squeezing and groping my flank and forcing me to tense up even more, which results in another grunt from him, and finally, there’s a reprieve.

“Oh, you’re very good at this,” I murmur huskily, giving his shoulder another gentle pat and softly rubbing his sides. Even my hindlegs caress his waist, for what little good I imagine it doing — more for my sake, I reckon, to keep him moving inside me, and to keep the steam in the sauna flowing.

He doesn’t reply, taking several long, deep breaths with his face buried into the base of my neck, raising the humidity beneath my fur. And then, without much ceremony, the hand on my flank strokes its way up my side to the sensitive patch just below the wing, then digs its fingers in and swirls them around in small, slow, firm circles.

I stifle a yelp, but only just, and channel it into a mute whimper, eyes squeezing shut as my entire body seizes up under this new, electrifying sensation.

He grunts again as I clench around him once more, then immediately resumes thrusting, now at a quicker pace. No deeper than before, but the strength, the hunger… Sisters, it’s like a whole other beast has awoken, and he isn’t afraid of getting just a little rough.

Can’t be sure which way I like it, though. Not yet. And right now, I’m in no mood to complain.

My hindlegs and forehooves grind into him hard, trying to find the best angle to hold him — to grant him access to as much of me as he can take. And while there’s no real way that he could go any deeper, I relish the feeling of him delving in again and again, each attempt ending in a solid smack, and the juicy sound of moisture dampening my lower lips; each attempt warm and chilling and invigorating and thrilling and, oh, how I never want it to end!

Why would I ever want it to? It’s with him! My own; the one who found me as much as I found him, and whose company I’ve always enjoyed no matter where, no matter when. And after almost two whole years, it’s finally happening.

Now I’m feeling about as dizzy as I am excited, and it’s an exhilarating experience.

But it could be so much more.

“S-s-sit up,” I stutter, patting his shoulder yet again as he continues pumping away. “Please. I-I-I want to see your face.”

His rhythm slows, coming to a halt midway through an outward pull. And part of me feels empty — yearning for that sense of being filled; a strange sensation, especially as my walls relax, all the while the winking only intensifies. His chest heaves and spasms with every breath, like mine, but less composed, more irregular. His fingers remain where they are, teasing the sweet spot, supporting my withers, but no longer move.

A pause follows.

He’s heard me loud and clear, he’s just… getting himself together.

Still, better safe than sorry.

“Y-y-you good?”

He nods. It’s stiff, but a nod.

“You still want…” I begin, but my voice catches, and I gulp to clear and moisten my throat. “You still want to keep going?”

Another pause follows — silence, except for our combined panting, and my feathers twitching and flittering against the blanket, and the rigid swish of my tail. But then he brings his knees in, wedging them beneath either side of my rump, and I’m able to breathe a little easier as he uses the leverage to remove his chest from mine. Cool air fills the space, tickles the fur, and as he lifts himself, his length slides in and he bottoms out once more; crotch against cooch, frustratingly stimulating.

I put a forehoof over my barrel, perhaps to feel my heart as I stretch and squirm in place, and the other, much to my surprise… reaches for the mounds just below my stomach, as if I were about to fondle them. I tell myself that I’m only trying to cover up, but that still begs the question of why, and now that they’re in my grasp, the temptation to just… feel them… is hard to ignore.

Stars, I hope he hasn’t started me on a dark path of foreign kinks and fetishes.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I croak with yet another breathless giggle, eyes opening to halfway.

His are still closed, even as his hands slide down my body to the sides of my belly, finding grip on the leading edge of my flanks, just in front of my own hips. And again, without much ceremony, he leans forward as he pulls back, then drives into me once more, thighs and groin slapping against mine in a firm, wet, meaty whack.

I grunt myself and shut my eyes, and I let my breath go in a long, shaky moan as he dives in over and over — not nearly as fast and zealous as before, or even instinctive, dare I say, but still forceful and potent; there won’t be any bruises tonight, if I have anything to say about it, but it’s entirely possible that I’ll be aching in the morning.

But I can’t think too far ahead, or I’ll lose track of how fantastic this moment feels. Celestia, was it always this erotic, or has it really been so long that I’d forgotten how good having something inside me felt? Not that I’ve ever craved it in any sense of the word, of course, but… Merciful Sisters, the sensation of him moving about so freely, grinding along a slick, velvety interior, making noises that shouldn’t be heard and pasting the dampness onto the flesh and fur around the entrance…

I shudder for the umpteenth time this night, not that he seems to notice, and throwing all caution to the wind, I unsteadily smile with an open mouth and peer at him through heavy-lidded eyes. “Do that… that thing with my… with my teats again,” I stammer through my laboured breath. “I liked that.”

He doesn’t reply, continuing instead to thrust and plunge and huff and plain and simply rock my world — the whole room melting away to just me and him, and whatever bliss we can find in each other.

Probably hadn’t heard me, too lost in his own little slice of heaven. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ll have had to snap him out of a daze, and the thought draws another giggle out of me. “Philip?” I coo as well as I’m able, considering the circumstances. “You there, hun?”

He nods quickly, stiffly, and only once. At least he isn’t totally gone. But when he finishes giving his response, I finally notice that… something seems slightly odd about him; his brows are creased and his lips are pressed together, and while this wouldn’t normally be a concern — not that any of this is normal — his overall expression comes off as… agitated. Tense. And not in a good way.

“Philip?” I call again, somehow regaining some composure in this pleasantly humid haze, which is now only making it more difficult to think straight. But I don’t tell him to stop just yet, in case I’ve misread the situation. And besides, it still feels nice. “Philip, is… is something wrong?”

He shakes his head, no less rigid than before, and scrunches up his face a little more, and the next few thrusts are harder, stronger… but they lack something. I can’t pinpoint what, but I know it was there when he started, and it isn’t there anymore. And although his determination to keep things going is welcome, and it threatens to derail my train of thought from instant to instant, I can’t ignore this.

And then I hear something from him, beside the general smack of our bodies and his rhythmic, controlled panting; something he whispers to himself with every exhalation. It’s mumbled — he barely moves his lips — but if I listen closely…

“Come on… Come on… Come on… Don’t stop…”

My ears perk up, and an anxious chill radiates in shivering waves from my core, widening my eyes, slackening my hindlegs, making the passage he drives himself into feel hollow and tighter all at once. “You’re not… close, are you?”

Again, he shakes his head, and it just as inflexible as before.

Whether that’s a relief or not, I’m not sure, and I don’t spare it a second thought either. “Then… what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he quietly, curtly answers, shaking his head for a third time, and without much difference compared to the last two. But the curtness isn’t directed at me — I’m sure it isn’t; it’s aimed at something else. Something that can’t be seen. “Nothing. I’m… I’m fine.”

“Then look at me,” I softly plead, reaching out a trembling hoof to gently touch his cheek. “Please.”

He flinches, grimacing as his head turns sharply away from my touch, snatching my fetlock in his hand to keep it from a second attempt, struggling to maintain balance and momentum, huffing through his nose, diving into me as far as he’s able to go.

His grasp is firm, and… that scares me a little. All this time, he’s only ever been tender and slow and sensual, and I’ve never had to worry about him physically doing anything to hurt me. Ever since we made up, all he’s ever concerned himself with is my happiness balanced with his, never forcing something on me and never daring to threaten any violence. Not really. Some teasing here and there, but no legitimate danger.

This isn’t the Philip who started making love to me. This Philip doesn’t mean to do me harm either; actions speak louder than words, and his strong grip and his expression tells me all I need to know, even with how difficult it is to focus with him continuously pumping away: this Philip is desperate, clinging on to something so he doesn’t have to face something else. And I think I know what.

Gradually, I regain some more control over myself, closing my mouth and knitting my brows together, giving him a look of pity, as my ears pin back, even though I know he can’t see it. Not yet. “Open your eyes, Philip,” I placidly implore, sparing a tentative glance at the hand around my fetlock. “Please. I want to see them.”

His pace slows, becomes less rhythmic. But he doesn’t stop. He’s composing himself, trying to calm down, focussing on his breathing by limiting his exertions. But he can only do so much before, inevitably, guilt weighs on him — makes itself evident on his face — and makes him feel compelled to act.

Carefully, and with a heavy air of caution about him, his eyelids part.

First, a sliver of shadow.

Then, a crack.

Finally, his gaze meets mine in full, and peering through the gloom… are the two brown eyes that have captivated me since our very first meeting. They aren’t stunning, or necessarily all that attractive, but I’ve come to appreciate them, in their own way.

And they look sad. Caring. Ashamed. Despairing. Conflicted, and struggling to come to terms with a very simple fact, for as much kindness and compassion I know they hold; he doesn’t want this… this… this uneasiness bubbling up within him, but the sleeping dogs have been awoken, and he can’t put them back to bed anytime soon. Especially not on his own.

Now he slows to a halt, hilted within, but it doesn’t feel pleasurable anymore; it’s there, like his hand around my foreleg, and all the stimulation is being sapped away by an air of tension that settles between us.

At this point, it’s fruitless to ask, but I do so anyway. Perhaps out of some misbegotten sense of politeness, as if part of me can’t fathom the answer without his word. “What’s wrong?”

His jaw is quivering, teeth chattering behind slightly parted lips. His eyes shift — not immediately, but, again, gradually, and with no small amount of hesitation — their focus drifting up, down, side to side, tracing the outline of my face. They see a lot they like. And he and I both know that’s exactly the problem.

“I love you, Fleet,” he whispers, peering into me once more with upturned brows, and quaver in his voice. “I… want you.” And then his attention wanders southward, to where we’re both connected. “But…”

A lead weight drops inside me, builds a lump in my throat.

There’s only one possible way that sentence could end.

“…I’m a tiny horse,” I finish, swallowing what little pride I have left, but refusing to sound all that indignant about it, because I’m not; this isn’t his fault. It’s been a problem that’s stared us in our literal faces from the moment we saw each other, and he warned me before about how he was afraid reality would come crashing down on him. He is what he is, I am what I am, and like it or not, we can’t change that.

No matter how hard you try, there are some stains you just can’t wash out.

He avoids my eyes, and my body, sheepishly and ruefully staring off into a shadowy corner on the far side of the room. “And I think it’s because… you’re also my friend.”

I blink, feeling largely numb. But then the words sink in, and the whispers of confusion make themselves known upon my softly creasing brows.

“My best friend,” he clarifies, perhaps a touch more confident — enough, it seems, to meet my gaze again. “Like… you’re so many things to me. And you’re amazing, and I love you for that. And… I want to do this with you.”

“…But?”

“…I don’t know if I can.” He silently gulps, then looks down to my barrel with a troubled expression. “It feels… wrong. Like I’m doing this to you, not… with.”

I blink once more, and some of the weight is lifted. Not all of it, but a fair amount. Enough to feel something genuine again: warmth. A deep, rising warmth that spreads from my chest like syrup on pancakes, or whatever saccharine metaphor I’m supposed to use. Yes, what he’s saying isn’t the most encouraging, but it’s not as bad as I thought. I think. I’m pretty sure it isn’t. No less delicate, certainly, but… I can work with this. I’ve dealt with worse, and I didn’t give up then either.

I am in control.

Gulping in a similar fashion, I take a few deep breaths to get my thoughts in order, then gently pull my hoof from his grasp and place it under his chin. The air is humid, and feels ever more damp. Or maybe that’s just the sweat on my brows, cheeks and forelegs. And as I draw his focus back to me, I give him a small, weary, but hopefully sympathetic smile.

“Do you trust me?”

He pauses, watching me with a yearning look from behind upturned brows, lips parting, seemingly mesmerised once again. Sometimes, he really can be too easy.

He nods.

I let my breath go, trying to quell the anticipation building in my core — to stop it from getting the better of me, however that would supposedly happen. Biting my lip serves the same purpose, but judging by the faint sparkle of interest in his eyes, it has the added bonus of making me look that much more enticing. And that, strangely, grants me the courage to wrap my other hoof around his nape, and slowly, sensually bring him in for a kiss.

His eyes flutter closed again and his lips begin teasing mine. Not with any sense of needy desperation, but… calm. Tender. Like his usual self, so soft and restrained and… oh, how I love this boy.

I know we say it over and over, but I really, truly love him, and the many ways he makes me feel, for better and for worse, and how it's always never enough.

And because I love him, and because he loves me, I must do what needs doing, if he doesn’t want to throw the towel in just yet either.

The hoof under his chin slides down and hooks around his back, pulling him closer, allowing me just enough leverage to sway him over to the left.

His eyes open again, glancing down as if he could properly see the hoof, then returning to me with a look of recognition, which soon fades into a slight sense of bashful obedience, as well as a hint of excitement; he’ll cooperate, even if he isn’t totally sold on the plan itself, and whether it’ll do the trick.

A leap of faith. That’s all I ask. If this doesn’t work, we’ll call it a night. It’ll have ended in disappointment, sure, but at least we’d get to say we tried, and that it was fun for a while. Not all first times get to be so lucky, or even — stars forgive me for thinking such hedonistic thoughts — last as long as we have.

Further left I take him, despite the painful strain of a wing joint being forced to bend against its will, rolling him onto his side where we smooch a little longer. And then, with a soft groan of effort, I wedge my hindleg between him and the blanket, anchor my hoof around his shoulder, and carefully hoist myself up, gently pushing him onto his back, straddling him, wings free and tall.

And all the while, I make certain that he never slips out.

Finally, I break the kiss, sitting up, inspecting, and perhaps appreciating this shift in perspective. His bare chest welcomes me, and I rest my hooves on it for support, just above his rounded stomach — so much more defined than my own, complete with its curiously indented navel.

You don’t get to do this with a stallion every day, that’s for sure.

“So, uh…” I quietly, awkwardly chuckle, then notice a few hairs dangling in my vision and fling my mane back. “How’s this?”

His hands, with nowhere else to go, find themselves lying over my hooves once more, and he practically gawks at me with wide, slowly blinking eyes, his gaze drifting up and down and all around, like he can hardly believe what he’s seeing. His mouth is open a little way, breathing deeply and heatedly, and when he spies with his little eyes that I’m still winking on occasion, sending tiny jolts of pleasure up into my core, he shudders and sighs.

“Ay dios mio…”

I giggle, but not loud enough that it could be considered unapologetic — this is still a pretty awkward situation, after all, even though it’s… kinda-sorta cute of him, to talk in that foreign tongue of his. Español, if I recall correctly. “Better, you think?” I absently wonder aloud, bowing my head slightly to gain a better view of myself and see what he’s seeing. “I mean, this is pretty new to me, but I’ve heard about it. Maybe. And you won’t have to do anything if I just… you know…”

He looks at me.

I look at him.

There’s another pause, if not complete stillness.

And then, gently, I rock my hips back.

He squeezes my hooves with a gasp, shutting his eyes, his entire body tensing up, including a soft twitch from within, which only prompts the passage to tighten around him and makes me grunt and bite my lip.

“Mm, much better,” I hum, eyelashes fluttering to halfway closed, peering down at him with what I trust to be a seductive gaze. “So, is this… more to your liking?”

He stiffly nods. His expression treads a fine line between pain and bliss.

A cool fuzziness rises and bubbles away in my chest, trickling down my spine as far as my flanks, groin and croup, and my tail swishes idly between his legs. It really shouldn’t affect me as much as it does anymore, but I guess part of me will never get over how speechless I can make him, either through my words, my songs or — again, stars forgive me — my physique.

But it wasn’t always like that, was it?

And look how far you’ve come.

…Yes. Yes, things are different now, and I am, undoubtedly, thankful for it. Just a strange thought, I suppose, to think about how long it’s been, and what mental gymnastics we’ve had to pull to reach this point; I didn’t always want him, and he didn’t always want me. And yet, here we are. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I love you,” I quietly say, then continue rocking my hips back and forth in slow, sensual motions, making it harder to keep my eyes open and stay locked with his gaze, and forcing me to take deeper, more heated breaths. “I love you… so much.”

His breathing grows more laboured as well, and he, too, tries maintaining eye contact. But his resolve gives out after only a few seconds, biting his lip, letting his head flop into the pillows with a guttural moan as his hands climb my forelegs and firmly grip the upper ends of my fetlocks.

Overwhelmed, I suspect — I don’t detect the same air about him as he had when he was purposely avoiding me… and that makes me smile and encourages me to up my game. So, I do just that, leaning forward, putting some more of my weight on his torso so my hindlegs don’t have to work so hard, grinding my crotch into his, spreading the damp, ignoring the hairs, hearing the sounds we make together, feeling him inside me.

Sisters, I could almost kiss him for letting me do this.

Warmth finds its way to my head again, burning my cheeks and brows, setting my ears alight, practically bringing the sweat on all of them to a simmer, sizzling away as I continue my efforts without reservation; I’ve waited so long for this, I just never knew it — needed this sooner than I thought I wanted it — and with every rock, every sway, every movement I make, I savour the sensation and try to heighten it.

Harder and harder, side to side, a little wiggle here and a little shiver there, hooves pawing and rubbing at his torso as I close my eyes for the time being and focus on the feeling. There’s more I can do, I know, but I want to just… challenge myself, I guess — see what’s possible with only a few moves available. Besides a strangely compelling sense of curiosity, there’s no real reason to do this, but… I want to. And it helps me build a rhythm, like he had. And also like him, I take it slow. Forceful and needy, but slow. Agonisingly so, and it hurts good.

My teeth chatter as I groan and shudder, wings more tense than steel cables pulled to breaking point — so taut that they quiver under their own stress. Their joints send a pleasant, tingling ache into my withers, which echoes and resonates throughout my body, cramping up my flanks and thighs and every muscle in between.

Philip lets out a vocal, gasping grunt, tightening his grip for an instant as he rides out the ecstasy. Then, his eyes open to halfway, and while he lacks the resolution to lift his head from the pillows, he at least meets my gaze again, and shares with me a pleading look. He, too, shivers, but more faintly, like a cold gust had swept through and he isn’t wearing enough to protect himself… which is a pretty self-evident analogy, but the point still stands: although he says nothing, it’s clear that he’s enjoying this as much as I am.

And then he starts getting adventurous, his hands slowly wandering up my forelegs in long, smooth, firm motions, grabbing and kneading and massaging, fingers ploughing through the fur to the skin beneath. His nails add a delightful prickle to the paths he carves all the way to my shoulders, where he continues stroking and caressing and lessening the tension even as it mounts within me.

Relaxation and excitement. Never thought the two could coexist at once — always one or the other at any given moment — but here he is, proving me wrong yet again. And like so many things about him and about what he’s shown me is possible, I want more of it. And that desire, that yearning only grows ever more intense when the hand on my left leaves my shoulder and travels up my neck to cup my cheek, leaving ruffled fur and a cool, satisfying chill in its wake.

I close my eyes and lean into it, rubbing against his palm, welcoming, cherishing his touch, and letting out a stuttered, euphoric sigh that makes me feel as light as the clouds I walk on. A lone bead of sweat descends from my brow, soon absorbed by the bridge of my snout, and I quickly realise that I’ve lost track of time — I can’t remember how long it’s been since we started. Mere minutes? Half an hour? Surely not a full one, let alone two; I’m a tough nut to crack, but not that tough.

I also realise that I’ve slackened off, letting myself get so lost in his embrace that now I’m only moving in small, tender motions, so minute that it could scarcely be called sex; doing, but not feeling it. And while it isn’t bad at all, because I’m just happy to be here with him… we didn’t come here just to fool around.

A faint smirk lazily crosses my muzzle, drunk on the bliss I’ve found myself in, before it fades with a quiet gulp as I pick up the pace and move my hips like I’d originally intended, finding myself comfortable in a faster, more hungry tempo. It’s forced at first, but when I catch a taste of that carnal passion once again, it all slides back into place, and it takes very little effort to convince myself to raise my hips and bring them down.

His body goes stiff as he lets out a low, raspy, protracted groan while I take my time and try my hardest to consciously clamp around him, tail twitching and swishing as I do. I grit my teeth and smile as well — shakily, of course, because the sensation of his length gliding against the slickness of my folds is… is so natural, so… so gripping; so many things at once that it’s almost impossible to describe, and I’m racked with the most intense, the most heated shudder yet as I take him to the fullest extent he’ll go.

Ceasing the soothing ministrations upon my shoulder, he waits for the trembling to stop, or at least patter out to a more manageable level, before breathing once more with a deep, silent gasp.

I’m not sure who’s faring worse, but I sure as heck don’t plan on stopping, so I allow myself a short, inaudible chuckle and raise my hindquarters and lower them again, and again and again and again. And the drive, the need for more only increases, and the wet kiss of flesh steadily fills my ears — fuels the fire raging at my core. It’s less about excitement now than it is about… release. From stress, from the world, from myself. From everything. And it’s coming. Slowly.

Merciful Sisters, I hope it never does. I don’t want this to end.

But I soldier on, hindlegs pumping my rump like a piston, fast enough to satisfy, not enough to relieve, and always with an added sway. There’s a cadenced pattern to my panting too — a trick to keep the stamina high, taught in basic Wonderbolt training. And that’s a little funny, come to think of it, how I’m translating experience I’ve gained in my career to forward my agenda in a totally different context.

But I don’t focus on that. No, it’s the pleasure that I’m after. Yes, the perpetual, self-defeating pursuit of boundless pleasure, where everything you’ve ever wanted can become yours for a moment, if only you had the will to seize it. And right now, I’m feeling a mite famished.

I slide myself down his shaft and begin grinding into him once more, dragging my winking bean against his bushy crotch — slightly bothersome, but so much better than nothing. And the juicy sounds of our connected bodies…

If only we were close enough to kiss, and if only he could fondle my teats from that angle…

Well, I suppose I could, but… it’s his thing, not mine. Not yet, at least. Not yet.

And then the hand on my cheek leaves, and it taps my shoulder.

I don’t know when I’d shut my eyes, but I come to a halt and open them, peering down at him.

His face… is practically beet red, so flush for so long that a thin but definite sheen of sweat coats pretty much all of his bare skin. His brows are furrowed in an upturned manner, his mouth hangs open and his jaw quivers, and his stomach wobbles with every breath. And if nothing else, his gaze tells me everything I need to know.

“You close?”

The words hang in the air, plain, and yet profound.

And then he stiffly nods.

“Me too.”

Silence follows, and anticipation bubbles up — the question of where we go from here. And of course, in a way, the answer is blatantly obvious: we formulated a plan, and now we have to act on it; we’re only waiting for either one of us to give the word.

But neither of us do.

Maybe we’re just too anxious.

Maybe.

…

…

…

…

…

Unless…

…

…

…

…

…

“…Do you want it inside?”

More silence.

Absolute stillness.

His eyes slowly widen, his expression slowly softens.

Mesmerised.

“…Me too,” I finish, then gradually begin to sway once more, building momentum, pumping up and down, back and forth, rolling my hips in smooth, rounded motions, using him as much as possible.

His breathing starts off in a similar manner, synchronised with the pace I’m setting, becoming progressively louder and less composed the more I do — the more of him I take. His grip on my shoulders grows firmer, fingers digging through the fur and into the skin, letting go momentarily and grasping again to find better handholds, and all the while, his eyes flutter shut against his will, and he buries his head into the pillows some more.

…Gosh, that’s so hot.

It’s not the control I take pleasure in, although being able to do things myself is nice, but seeing him so… lost… To know that he’s losing himself in me… To think that at any point, he might just…

I shudder. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve done that. And these are all thoughts I wouldn’t normally like, but it seems that context changes a pony — makes them wish for silly, depraved things and lets all restraint fall by the wayside. Impulse takes over, and it takes the form of passion — not a hunger, or a thirst, but a drive. An urge. An itch. Something that nags at me, compels me to act because I know that whatever happens, I’ll find that release I’m after; an end to the restlessness bubbling and boiling away in my core, stomach, chest, wings — my very being.

Rising, falling, harder and harder, flesh slapping in sharp, wet noises, an addictive ache surfacing in my crotch and emanating upwards, making me shiver even more intensely. My thighs are starting to burn, and there’s a soft sting in my tail from hiking so high and flapping about so much.

But no matter what, I never stop.

I need him.

And then his hands begin to shift, one climbing to clutch at my withers, and the other stroking along my side, teasing the sensitive patch beneath the wing, sending a humid wave rippling through me. It continues down, past my hips, and finds its resting place on my flank, groping and massaging and, oh, how I love it.

My whole body moves now, bobbing, swaying, rocking, rolling, grinding, fucking. No romance here anymore; there’s no room for it. All that matters is that we get what we both want: climax. Rapture. The end to something and the beginning of something else — labels without names, just pure sensation.

And then his hips start moving too.

It takes me a little by surprise and my efforts falter somewhat, but I quickly recover and pick up the pace and open my eyes to look down at him.

Philip was already looking at me, and when I meet his gaze, I see a fragile sense of devout determination in it, and I know what he’s trying to say: if we’re doing this, we’re doing this together. He won’t let the burden fall squarely on my shoulders.

Whatever convinced him to go back to being an active participant, I don’t care. I’m not complaining. Rather, I’m glad, and I smile because of it, and the lustful sting I feel when our nethers reconnect in a loud, moist, hefty smack, and I bow my head while long, throaty groan escapes me as it happens again and again.

He, on the other hoof, struggles to keep his weary, limited focus on me, jaw quivering as he pants heavily through an open mouth. “F-F-Fleet…”

My ears perk up. I know that tone of voice — what it means; there’s only one possibility.

And still, I keep pumping.

He gulps, anxious — eager and hesitant all at once, unsure which he should be.

I can’t blame him: I’m not sure of myself either.

“…Fleet, I—”

And then I dart forward and silence him with a kiss. No words are needed. Not here. Not now.

He lets out a muffled grunt of surprise, but his shock quickly fades, and his grip around my withers and flank strengthens, and he moans with every breath as he toys and plays and nibbles away at my lips with his own, and I do the same in turn.

But it doesn’t take long for his efforts to slow — for his attention to be drawn elsewhere. And soon, his moans grow higher and higher in pitch, until they’re nothing more than muffled whimpers, and his eyes squeeze shut, and the hand on my withers claps down and grabs my other flank, and he pushes into me with a few weak, desperate thrusts.

And then he breaks the kiss and gasps.

And deep within me… I feel him.

Warmth. Pouring, spilling, oozing forth, mixing with the dampness already there.

I come to a halt, embedding him, rubbing my crotch against his in firm, flowing, measured motions, riding it out. Panting with laboured breaths, timed with every shift in direction, I close my eyes and do my best to focus on how it feels, rather than what I know it is.

Thick, pasty, slick, gushing in rhythmic spurts, spreading everywhere, coating everything — every fold and crevice, massaged in as I continue to rock and sway, and he continues to gently hump against me, grunting quietly in absolute bliss. I can almost hear the small, weary smile in his hushed voice.

And that, in a strange way, gives me the strength to smile in turn. Faint and feeble, even shaky — barely wider than a covert smirk — but a smile nonetheless. And all the while, I gyrate and grind, but slower and slower, until I reach a complete standstill, and the only movement from me is my stuttered breathing, my quivering wings, my twitching flanks and tail, and of course, the winking of my entrance, all outside my total control.

And still he’s humping, and still he’s cumming, and my insides only seem to tighten around him, milking him for all he’s worth — for all he has to give. There isn’t as much spouting into me as there was initially, but it’s nearly impossible to keep track of how many strings he’s shot with so many sensations to feel all at once; pain, pleasure, awkwardness, fulfillment…

And then he, too, lets himself slow down, the last few strands to slithering up and leaking out like honey poured from a jar, or squeezed from a bottle.

His climax is over.

Some of it might be dribbling out.

But although it’s… nice… I never reached mine. And it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface, just waiting for something, anything to give it that one last kick to just… send me over the edge. And the longer I’m forced to wait, the heavier that kick needs to be. Else I’d just have to finish myself off the old fashioned way, with my hoof to my cooch and a furious amount of rubbing and stroking. And maybe, for the heck of it, I’d get him to suck on my teats again.

…Merciful Sisters, I think he has awoken something inside me, and not just a newfound appreciation for unorthodox positions with unconventional partners.

Despite myself, I chuckle. Breathlessly, of course, but it gives me the motivation to peer up at him from behind weary brows.

He stares back, eyelids heavy, lips parted as he huffs through an open mouth, essentially spent by the look of things — so flushed and sweaty that I can pick out individual beads across his forehead in the light. His hair is frazzled and the air around him drips with fatigue — it’s exhausting to even see him — but his gaze… seems out of place, considering his otherwise exhausted appearance.

Determination.

It’s weak, but it’s there. And it’s growing.

And before I have a mind to ask if something is wrong, my eyes go wide as I’m racked with surprise, and my entire body stiffens as I feel him grab my flanks and thrust into me again. Solid, too — enough to send a sudden, pleasant jolt up to my core and tease the simmering heat residing there. Even the thoughtless grunt that follows is delayed, like it can hardly believe that this is happening either.

He had his fun. He’s already finished. He shouldn’t be up and ready to go for a second round. Not so… so soon, at least. It’s just plain and simple biology.

But here he is, rocking his hips and pumping away.

And here I am, not doing anything to stop him, and finding it increasingly more difficult not to make a sound that isn’t a guttural, delighted groan, or to allow myself to rock with him, or to keep my eyes from fluttering closed.

Everything that comes out of me sounds choked and sputtered, like they’re all half-baked thoughts and I’m just babbling to fill the silence. And in a way, I guess that’s pretty accurate. But eventually, I decide that, yes, although this isn’t how these kinds of engagements are supposed to go — once again, from what little I’ve heard and cared to hear — it is, undoubtedly, gratifying. And if it ultimately leads to that final release I’ve been quietly pining for, then so much the better.

I shut my eyes and loosen up my joints, and I try to move in harmony with him, but the second I try raising my own hips, a sharp pang springs up from my thigh and I force myself to stifle a yelp; he doesn’t need to think he’s hurting me. I’m just cramping up — a sign that I might actually have overdone it, or we’ve been doing this for much longer than I thought we had. Either or, really, and in any case, I heave a low, aching growl and bow forward at an angle, pressing my forehead into the pillow beside him.

A hand on my flank returns to my withers and pulls me closer, chest to chest, pinning my forelegs underneath my barrel. And still, he dives in, again and again, building a steady pace as the sodden, squelching slap of our nethers fills the air.

Stars, he’s really giving it his all, and I find my muzzle scrunching up as I attempt to hold back a relieved moan, and fail. Fires rage in my cheeks and ears, and dance along my withers and down my spine, all the way to my croup, and hiking tail, and everything in that general area. And although I can’t offer the same level of involvement, I shift my weight to favour a side and hoist my rear up to grant him better access.

He doesn’t waste time, pausing for a moment to shimmy in place, bringing his feet in and sticking his knees up into the air, with the added benefit of suspending his hips. And then, after turning his head to kiss me on the cheek, and leaving it there for whenever he wants to give me a peck, he strengthens his grip and hammers into me, harder and faster, practically in a frenzy.

I whimper, burying my face in quilted fabric to dull the sound and squirming in his grasp, too restless to just sit tight and take it, even though it’s all I can do at this point. And the whimpering grows higher-pitched and more frantic the longer he continues, and my forelegs edge out from beneath my own weight and clutch at his shoulders, and my rear hooves grind into the blanket.

This is too much, and I feel the pressure inside me mounting like leaden weights — a tension that can only be settled one way and one way only; I need more of this — of him — and now isn’t the time to be shy about how badly, how desperately I want that release.

“Don’t stop,” I huskily whisper, panting into the pillow. “Don’t stop, please. I’m almost there. Just a bit more. Just… a bit… more.”

He kisses me again, this time on the muzzle, huffing through his nose.

I turn and kiss him back, good and proper, sharing his humid, pungent, laboured breath, tipped with a hint of vanilla. But my kiss is weaker. Distracted. Short-lived. Not done with all my heart, as much as I want it to be, because I’m teetering on a knife’s edge, and if one more thing happens that…

And then I feel it.

The hand on my withers meanders a little lower.

Its fingers travel between my wings.

And then…

…They dig in.

And swirl.

Piercing warmth, rolling over me like an ocean swell smashing against the rocks, like molten lava through the veins, spreading everywhere, radiating heat. It shoots up my wings, my neck, my legs, stiffening them all, down to my stomach and core, and especially my winking nethers and the passage inside, which feels engulfed in flames and quivers and twitches violently. And deeper within, a rumbling comes, weakening my haunches and making them wobble like jelly.

And then it all comes crashing down, and I bury my face into the pillow as I scream my heart out, a violent, penetrating spasm clutching at my insides with iron claws and holding fast. My hindlegs widen and lock, shaky, but strong. And then, from a shuddering, convulsing, boiling interior…

Fluid.

Hot, sticky, and lots of it. Trickling, streaming, gushing out in spurts, dribbling onto is groin, his stomach, glazing his length, lathered against my rump and entrance with the sopping wet and meaty smack of skin and flesh. And every time we connect, more juices flow, and a dull, painful, pleasurable twinge shoots up and into my core and withers, stealing my breath and forcing me to squeak out a grunt.

The world dissolves, all but for the places I touch — my snout and hooves in the fabric, his body against mine, the sensitive and satisfying ache as he drives into me even now; weakening, but he hasn’t stopped. And the sounds — oh, the sounds… To hear him pant into my ear, and the soft, sharp squelch, and my own stuttered, stammered breathing…

I’m in heaven.

I have to be.

Nothing worldly could possibly feels this good.

…But I know that’s a lie: there’s something even better.

Him.

Being there for him, spending time with him. Relishing every moment with him.

I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

The wonderful, blissful crash of ecstasy subsides, fizzling out in warm, fuzzy, tingling ripples. Fluid still spills out of me, and the passage within me still quivers, but they’ve lessened now — grown less intense. Less filling. Less distracting. And the trembling, undeniable ache in my flanks makes itself known.

My hindlegs collapse and I flop on top of him, hips colliding with an audible, weighty thwack that makes us gasp and grunt at once, before we both go limp and ride out the last few waves of utter and addictive delight. My wings flitter, lowering a little way, and my thighs twitch and spasm, and so does the passage in which he’s still embedded.

But he doesn’t thrust anymore. No, we’re both too tired for that.

So, we lie, and we wait, and we catch our collective breath.

And…

…I come to a realisation, and I smile.

He hadn’t been trying to push for a second round.

He was just trying to get me off.

And he succeeded.

We succeeded.

We…

…

…

…

…

…

…Oh my stars.

We did it.

Goodness gracious, we actually…

I mean, I can’t believe we…

Did we really just…?

…

…

…

…

…

Yes.

Yes, we did.

And… I’m happy.

No, I’m better than happy: I’m glad we did it. And it was fun. Fun and exciting and thrilling and exhilarating and good. Better than I ever imagined it could be. And now I’m starting to think that, maybe, it really is a shame that I can’t remember how we got into bed on his birthday, if these are the kinds of memories I’d have. An inappropriate thought, certainly, but… stars, I can’t help myself.

We did it. And I’m proud to admit that. For the time being, at least. I’m sure it’ll come back to bite me in the ass somewhere down the road, but my ass is too sore right now to care all that much, and a quiet, breathless chuckle flutters up from deep within me.

And slowly, he begins to chuckle as well.

It’s an odd feeling, having his torso bounce beneath mine, but it’s welcome — exactly the kind of awkwardness I need after coming down from a drunken high like that. And it’s good to know that he feels the same way, and we’re both finding some joy in all of this, because it is joyful. I enjoyed it, he enjoyed it; merciful Sisters, we enjoyed each other.

My chuckle becomes a giggle.

His becomes a laugh.

I don’t know what makes this situation so funny. Perhaps it’s disbelief, and we’re trying to cope with the shock of it all. Or maybe we’re letting off some extra steam, unwinding our nerves the only way we can think of. But whatever the case, I gradually find the strength through our mirth to bring a hoof to either of his shoulders and, strenuously, lift myself up.

Cool air sweeps in to fill the space, and I also realise how sweaty we are — what a humid environment we create with my fur against his skin. How long I’d been lying there, I can’t rightly say, but the change in elevation leaves me a little lightheaded. Nevertheless, I soldier on, tittering all the way as I ascend, sitting upright, then open my eyes to halfway as the laughter fades, peering down at him with a small, tiddly, open-mouthed grin.

He meets my gaze, and wears a similar expression.

And we stay there like that for a good, long while, watching each other, taking the other in as our breathing slowly returns to normal.

His hand reaches up, lax and gentle.

I bow my head slightly forward and press my cheek into it.

His grin widens.

So does mine.

And he keeps his eyes locked with mine as his hand begins to wander, tenderly stroking and exploring, treading paths it’s travelled a hundred times over; scratching behind my ear, caressing down my neck, kneading my shoulder and withers, and further and further still.

I purr at the attention, steadily rolling my head and upper body to give him all the help he needs; I like that, I say without saying anything, and I definitely wouldn’t mind more of it. Better still if he finds a muscle he could massage.

And then it comes to rest on my flank.

I linger on him, maintaining my smile, then slowly look down at it. And from there, it doesn’t take much for my gaze to drift idly for the point between my thighs.

And then I stop smiling, and my eyes faintly widen.

He’s still inside me. And I’m still winking.

Granted, he isn’t as… rigid as before, but…

I look up at him.

He looks up at me, having seen the same sight.

Together, we stare. And there’s stillness. And there’s silence.

And then, slowly, very slowly, and oh so tenderly…

…I rock my hips.

His breath hitches, and the other hand grabs my other flank.

My forehooves lower from his shoulders to his chest, gaining more support and I grind my hips again.

Within me, he twitches, and I feel him growing stiff again.

We aren’t done yet. We still have more of ourselves to share. And together, by the dim light of his bedroom lamp and whatever pours in from the living room beyond, breathing in the musk and sweat with heavy, heated breaths, holding each other’s awestruck gaze and for the second time tonight… we gently build our pace back up.

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