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2691 15.82 KB 161
2691 15.82 KB 161
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> Waking up to find a package left just outside the plane wasn’t entirely unusual.
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> Having a package meant for your pony, though…?
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> Can’t say you ever remember that before.
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> Then again, you’d not had her that long either, so there’s probably a first time for everything.
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“Hey Spiiiits!”
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> “Wha’izzit?” Her exhausted voice echoes from somewhere back in the plane.
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“Did you order something? A, uh-”
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> You twist and bend the package in your hands, trying to judge its contents.
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“-a catalog or something? A book?”
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> “Uh, no? I can’t order anything, remember?”
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“Hasn’t stopped you from stealing my credit card before!”
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> “That was once, and it was for a bottle of water from a machine. Shaddup!”
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> Chuckling, you tuck the package under an arm and crawl back inside.
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“You care if I open it? It’s labeled for you, ‘care of Anonymous’ - I don’t recognize the return address.”
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> Hooves on metal announce Spitfire’s approach - her mane somehow already groomed into its trademark swoop and wings preened up into smoothness.
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> How that pony could love mornings so much is a total mystery to you.
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> “Lemme see it.”
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> Expertly catching the lobbed package in her jaws, she pins it beneath one hoof and tears it open with a quick twist of her head.
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> Out slides what looks like some kind of soft cover book, but Spitfire’s interest falls on the loose sheet of paper that floats out with it.
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> “Eh, lemme see… ‘To, Spitfire, care of Anonymous; From, Harper Collins publishing. It has come to our attention that the enclosed work contains depictions of ‘Spitfire’... eh, someone’s trying to write about me or something.”
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“Oh yeah? What do ya bet it’s a steeeeamy romance novel, huh?”
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> “Hey, keep running your mouth and I’ll shed feathers in your oatmeal.” Spitfire bats a wing in your direction, and you raise your hands in mock-surrender.
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“So? Keep going, then.”
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> “Fine, fine. Lemme see, uh… ‘depictions of ‘Spitfire’, we are seeking your full and encompassing permission … to use the likeness of yourself in a published work… in full legal consultation, yadda yadda…”
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> She tilts her head curiously, one ear flicking as she continues to read.
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> “...refusal will result in no published content … will require legal authorization of Anonymous to utilize the likeness of his property…”
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> Ah, shit.
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> Spitfire snorts softly, but you’re already by her side - a hand descending to scratch between her ears.
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“It’s probably some asshole trying to get a ‘real and true’ memoir published by sneaking it in as fiction again. Remember the guy who tried to publish the “interviews” about how we were actually evil agents of the ‘new world order’ and tried to sneak it by as fiction?”
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> “Yeah, I do. Hey, I’m going to stretch my wings a bit. Burn off the last drowsiness with a little morning exercise. That okay?”
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> And burn off any leftover annoyance, you knew.
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> That was just how she handled it.
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“No worries, Spits. I’ll still be here when you get back.”
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> “Heh. Thanks.”
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“What do you want me to do with the… whatever this is?”
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> Spitfire pauses, craning her neck to glance back while already halfway out the nearest hatch.
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> “Eh, take a look if you want. But I’d say just throw it out. And say ‘no’.”
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“Got it. Have a good flight!”
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> “Thanks. Your oatmeal’s on the hot plate!”
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> So it was.
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> When you bring it back to the tiny desk that served as both your workspace, though, the package was still there.
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> Eh, may as well.
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> Not like a little bad reading was going to spoil your appetite.
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> Tearing open the inner package you find to your surprise that it is not a properly-printed book but a manuscript - informal type on standard-size paper sheets, bound in nothing more than standard metal rings.
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> Huh.
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> Turning it over, you find a simple title on the top:
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> ‘Princess Twilight and the Fiery Captain’?
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> The name ‘Twilight’ is vaguely familiar - some kind of Equestrian minor ruler? - but you didn’t recognize the author’s name at all.
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> You’d have to ask Spitfire who both of them are.
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> Another few pages are flipped and you start in on ‘Chapter 1: Embers Aglow’.
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> Spitfire had been right about one thing: This was definitely fiction.
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> Not some kind of hit-piece portraying you as drug runners, terrorists, or evil agents of world domination, though.
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> Just something about Spitfire meeting with this ‘Princess Twilight’, whoever she is.
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> In fact, the writing here is kind of… slow? Staid? Monotonous?
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> Whoever did this bit didn’t really have their heart in it.
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> You chuckle gently to yourself; did Spitfire actually have fan-writers?
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> She did say she was kind of well-known back in Equestria.
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> A few more pages are flipped ahead and several lines scanned.
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> Then you scan them again.
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> Pause.
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> Blink.
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> Read them a third time just to be sure.
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> You flip a few pages again, and find a little giggle bubbling up through your throat.
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> There was no way…
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> Oh my God, it was.
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> The tap-tap of Spitfire’s hooves touching down against the plane’s skin heralded her return - a fact she didn’t bother disguising much, if at all these days.
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> “Hey boss, I’m back!”
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“Cool, I’m in back.”
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> More hooftaps, and Spitfire’s head emerges through the bulkhead door.
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> “You’re just laying down still? C’mon, we don’t want to be too late! And what are you reading? Is that the thing we got?”
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“Yeah, it is. C’mon, take a listen to this -”
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> You clear your throat and gesture dramatically.
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“‘Please, Captain, are these cuffs truly necessary?’ Princess Twilight Sparkle cried, her eyes tracing the pegasus mare’s trim and muscled coat. ‘Absolutely! It is clear you know nothing of discipline,’ Captain Spitfire barked, ‘and I will not serve an undisciplined princess! It falls to me to instruct your sorry rump in it, and by Celestia I will!’ And Princess Twilight Sparkle’s rump was very sorry indeed, because she saw the thin but supple crop in Spitfire’s hooves and knew the fire it would kindle in her ample curves.”
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> “Oh, you are rutting kidding me. Please tell me you’re rutting kidding me!”
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> Squeezing down the giggle that threatens to spill from your lips, you just keep reading:
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“The cuffs clinked gently as Twilight Sparkle shivered, the severe bridle preventing her from turning her head to follow the captain’s progress around her. But she could hear the other mare circling, stalking, peeling her apart with her fiery gaze. And she could feel where Spitfire’s feathers brushed her flanks, over her croup, and down along her haunches. ‘A leader needs discipline, Princess! And so you will hold this whip in your sorry mouth until I am done. Every moan, I will add another stroke to your sorry hide! And if you drop it, the price will be a hundred times worse!”
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> “You got to be - someone wrote me torturing Princess Twilight Sparkle?!”
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“Torturing?”
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> You can barely hold your guffaws now, and all resistance against the incredibly wide grin plastered across your face:
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“Oh, yeah. You’re ‘torturing’ her alright!”
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> A few pages ahead, you resume reading:
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“Twilight stiffened as she felt the Captain’s dextrous tongue dance beneath her tail, wicking the dampness already spilling from her marehood. She strained against the straps binding her, unable to reject the pleasured whimper escaping her throat. ‘Failing already, Princess?’ Spitfire purred, “Then I guess we’re going to be having a lot of fun with that crop, and - OOOOOF!”
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>You’d barely noticed the twitch of her hindlegs before Spitfire tackled you, hooves scrabbling at the manuscript.
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> “Give me that thing!”
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“No way!”
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> “Give it! I can’t believe someone wrote me doing - doing THAT with Princess Twilight Sparkle!”
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“Whaaat, she not your type?”
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> Spitfire fixes you with the kind of skewering glare that is absolutely zero percent sexy, one hundred percent promised pain.
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> “Bite me, Anonymous. She was my Princess!”
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“And?”
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> “And?! We - We served them, not molested them!”
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“Ohohoho, if that’s what you’re worried about - don’t worry, Spits. ‘Chapter 23; Fighting Fire With Fire’-”
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> A fresh look of despair crosses Spitfire’s face.
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> “Don’t you dare tell me…”
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“-in which Princess Twilight Sparkle, recovered from her experiences, comes back having done a whole lot of research of her own into exactly how to properly restrain a pegasus-”
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> “Don’t you dare!”
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“And proceeds to return everything ‘you’ had done to her with interest. H-Hold on…”
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> Twisting around to whisk the manuscript away from the furious pegasus’ snapping jaws, you turn many pages further until you find approximately the right zone:
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“Okay, here we go. I swear, there’s so much in here about where it’s best to tie a pegasus’ wings-”
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> “She wrote about the wings?!”
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“-and listen to this: ‘She strutted about the trembling pegasus, horn blazing as cord deftly wove itself around taught muscle and straining limbs. When she was done, Spitfire found herself stretched even to the limits of her lithe and limber body, suspending in the air in a strained arch which left her utterly immobile, and utterly defenseless.’”
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> “I am going to rutting murder-”
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“Shhh, shh. It’s just getting good. ‘Now, Captain, I understand you have something of a reputation for stamina,’ Twilight smirked, “and fortunately, I happen to be a devoted fan of research. I hereby requisition your services for some quite specific exploration.’ ‘Mmmmmph!’, moaned Spitfire, orange eyes flicking frantically through the wide variety of toys Twilight had arranged before her. Her struggles only increased as she felt the warm tendrils of magic weaving, worming, and prickling through her feathers and along her toned flanks to’ - OW OW OW MY EAR!”
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> “Then give it!”
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“No, I want to finish it!”
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> “You finish it, I’ll finish you!”
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> Managing finally to get a firm grip with her teeth on the sheaf of paper, Spitfire pulls the entire thing from your grip and retreats back with a flap of her wings.
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> Another flap and a kick of her powerful hindlegs, and she is up in the old flight engineer’s compartment, above the cabin.
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> Out of your immediate reach, though not of a ladder if you cared to go get one.
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> Looking at the well-toned leg she had left hanging back down (perhaps as something of a warning), you come to the conclusion that trying to follow her up there would be a short and painful endeavor.
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> Instead you settle down into one of the bunks, returning to actual work and listening for the occasional moan (of despair, not the fun kind) from Spitfire’s redoubt.
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> From the sounds of it, she’s actually committing herself to reading the entire thing.
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> Certainly it takes long enough for her to come back, dropping back down to the floor with a harsh clang-clang as her hooves near-simultaneously touch down.
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> Face and cheeks still flushed deeply red, Spitfire drops the manuscript on her bunk with a piercing slap and stares at you.
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“...well?”
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> Spitfire snorted again, nostrils flaring wide. “You know, when you’re a Wonderbolt, you get used to the idea of stallions - and some mares - thinking about you that way. You’re young, fit, glamorous, and frankly the suits don’t leave a whole lot to the imagination.”
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> You pointedly keep any quips trapped well behind your teeth.
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> “So.” Sighing again, Spitfire growls and shakes her head - still flushing hard. “So, I can still say this is honestly the first time I’ve ever actually found a full-on fan-fiction novella of me doing - that. And it’s… thorough. Whoever wrote it had a lot of time and a… vibrant imagination.”
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“Oh, so that bit about tying the wings isn’t an to-”
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> “Bite me.”
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> Your smirky grin only grows wider.
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“Careful, I might.”
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> Spitfire once again fixes you with one of her trademark acidic captain’s glares, and you chuckle.
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“So. Any idea who’s responsible? I didn’t recognize the name.”
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> “I’d swear I’ve heard the name somewhere, but winds take me if I can remember from where. I’ll say this, though - whoever they are, they must’ve at least seen Twilight Sparkle. They’re, uh-”
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She blushed, deeply. “- frankly accurate about her - her build. She was not an athlete.”
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“You met her? This ‘Twilight’?”
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> “A few times, mostly just at formal state stuff. Knew one of her friends, though. Whoever this is, I think they were closer than me.”
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“So what you’re saying is, if it’s all that accurate there’s a fair chance Twilight Sparkle is a huge closet pervert as well?”
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> “It is not ‘accurate’!”
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“Oh, I don’t know. It seemed to get you pretty well.”
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> Sputtering, Spitfire snaps an evil eye at the innocent-looking sheaf of papers.
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> “The next time we’re out over the ocean, I am going to throw it out of the plane, then get out myself and make a thundercloud for no particular purpose except to strike it with lighting.”
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“You do that. But you still don’t know who wrote it?”
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> “Nah. Whoever this ‘Sweetie Belle’ is, I can’t particularly place her anywhere.”
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> Meanwhile, in a home somewhere very, very far away…
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> “So. Explain again, sister dear…”
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> Sweetie Belle winced.
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“So like, I heard about this thing where you could get, like, fan-fiction published, right?”
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> “Wait. Stop. Right there. Where did you hear this, exactly?”
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> Wincing at Twilight Sparkle’s sharply-barked interjection, Sweetie lashed her tail nervously.
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“Um. Like, there was this story, ‘Terminator: Animalia’? It’s a crossover between this kids’ book series and a post-apocalyptic story about - anyway, they made a bunch of printings. Like, actual books!”
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> Twilight, for her part, simply lay down on the floor again to allow her to re-bury her muzzle between her hooves.
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> Rarity steadied herself and took a very deep breath, relying on will alone to allow the headache to subside.
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> “And so you concluded that you could send your own… creations-” The word was spat with such vigor as to give the impression she had recently found an inset in her mouth. “-to be printed as well.”
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“Uh-huh!”
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> “Because they’re ‘fan-fiction’.”
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“Exactly. They’re fiction, about ponies I am fans of.”
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> Snorting and pinning her ears back, Sweetie Belle, pawed at the floor.
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“And I even used the money Anonymous set aside for me to do it! I didn’t have to sneak around him or anything!”
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> “I… am ruined,” Twilight Sparkle mournfully announced, “the second they receive that package they’ll look through it. They’ll read it. They’ll read all about me getting - getting - tied down and beaten and molested and who knows what else your filthy mind has thought up done to my plot, Sweetie Belle, and they’ll read about me liking it, and that’s the worst-”
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> Rarity interjected with a polite cough. “Actually, Twilight, your indignities are hardly the least of our concerns. You see, I am a mare of business, and I happen to know that unlike Equestria, printing is common enough here that the companies have… rules. Rules that are a problem for us.”
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Tail having fallen suddenly still, Sweetie replied with a trembling voice:
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“W-What?”
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> “You see, dear, mostly they refuse to publish any fiction that includes living persons. Or ponies. But if someone does submit something, they would reach out and ask said persons if their permission is given. For us ponies, Sweetie Belle, they ask our owners. That is how I found out. That is why I called both of you here. So let me ask you, Sweetie Belle:”
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> Rising to her hooves, Rarity marched - not approached, not even stalked, but marched - to her younger sister’s side, leaning in to touch her nose to Sweetie’s.
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> “Who exactly else did you include in this story?”
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“Um… oops?”
by Lurkernon
by Lurkernon
by Lurkernon
by Lurkernon
by Lurkernon