Preening the Pegasus


                                            >"Was I better or worse that time? I can't tell." Dash asks as she hovers in mid-air.

                                            >She'd been practicing in the park all morning, so you'd come to watch.

                                            >She seemed to think you had nothing better to do anyways, and she would be right.

                                            >In reality, she just loved the attention.

                                            >Luckily for her, you loved giving it to her.

                                            "The wingroll at the end looked sharper, but your altitude control was a little off compared to the first few tries."

                                            >The honest critique was just what she needed and her jaw sets with determination.

                                            >"Alright, one more time!"

                                            >You take another bite of your sandwich as the blue creature gains altitude and commences her routine.

                                            >Even if you had no idea what you were looking at, it was amazing to watch her work.

                                            >She seemed at home in the sky.

                                            >Each flap of her wings was deliberate yet effortless.

                                            >The lithe mare had transcended the realm of skill entirely.

                                            >She was an artist with every color of the rainbow at her disposal to express herself against the cerulean backdrop.

                                            >Every stroke of her wings carried the weight of her masterful intent.

                                            >It was so breathtaking that you struggled to conjure a critique, and in reality, you hadn’t.

                                            >All you’d done was pay close attention and tell her what you were seeing. Her inner perfectionist would do the rest.

                                            >It was beautiful.

                                            >She was beautiful.

                                            >And you weren't the only one to notice.

                                            >Stallions and mares alike had congregated along the many trails in the park to watch the free show.

                                            >It doesn't take long for Rainbow to finish the move set and glide over for a soft landing just past your kicked-out feet.

                                            >Her heavy breath compliments the drop of sweat glistening on her brow.

                                            "That looked pretty good, I think you’re ready for your next meet!" You toss her a bottle of water which she catches and cracks with a sideways grin.

                                            >A few greedy gulps precede her reply, "Heh! Of course it was! I always end on a high note."

                                            >You raise a brow as she finishes half of the bottle and tosses it back to you.

                                            >The small crowd begins to disperse as it becomes apparent she's taking a break.

                                            "Except for last week when you crashed."

                                            >"I told you that was the wind in my eyes! That happens when the air gets too cold!"

                                            "If you say so."

                                            >She squints at you with the hint of a smile on her lips.

                                            >She takes a few steps towards you and you tense up, unsure of how she was going to handle your unconvincing response.

                                            >The breeze picks up and carries her spicy scent.

                                            >It was a familiar one, one that filled you with warmth.

                                            *chomp

                                            >Before you can react, she takes a bite out of your peanut butter sandwich.

                                            "Hey!"

                                            >"Hmmhmmhmm!" She snickers with her mouth full.

                                            >Taking a seat next to you, she finishes.

                                            >Without prompting, you offer up the water bottle once more to wash it down.

                                            >"That's pretty good, you gonna eat the rest of it?"

                                            >You can't tell if she's being serious.

                                            "I guess that depends."

                                            >"On what?"

                                            "On who's going to be reading Daring Do when we get back."

                                            >One of your favorite pastimes was reading Dash's choice of adventure novel.

                                            >You usually took turns reading the pages out loud, but the more you read, the more you would inevitably start to do all the reading.

                                            >As it turns out, the pegaus really enjoyed getting belly rubs while being serenaded by your average narrating skills.

                                            >It was actually a little awkward to think of in those terms.

                                            >But that's exactly what it was, even if she'd never admit it.

                                            >She grumbles, unwilling to forfeit the freedom to be lazy during storytime, "Nevermind..."

                                            >You steal a sideways glance.

                                            "Alright, suit yourself."

                                            >The moment you take another bite you feel her eyes on you.

                                            >Another glance over sends them darting away.

                                            >You make no mention of it, and just enjoy the atmosphere.

                                            >Somewhere in the distance some fillies laughed and played, the breeze cools you once again.

                                            >You hear Dash's feathers rustle next to you.

                                            >Still sweaty, the wind chill felt a little sharper to her.

                                            >You turn to stare at her nearest folded wing, just in time to watch her individual feathers relax back down to their folded position.

                                            >It was like each feather was its own miniature articulating wing.

                                            >That's so cool...

                                            >"What?"

                                            >She catches you staring.

                                            "Nothing."

                                            >"You done eating?"

                                            "No."

                                            >You take another bite and pull your eyes away from her wing.

                                            >As soon as you swallow and threaten another bite at the diminishing sandwich, she caves.

                                            >"Alright fine! I'll do the reading for a bit."

                                            "All of the reading. A full chapter."

                                            >She huffs and rolls her eyes, "Yeah whatever. It's not that much anyways..."

                                            >After a gentlemanly pause to allow her to flake if she wanted to, you hold out a fist.

                                            >She bumps it.

                                            >The bro-greement has been made.

                                            >Fair's fair.

                                            >You hand her what's left of the sandwich and watch her down it with a smile.

                                            >Giving her mane a light ruffle, you chuckle.

                                            "Just so you know, with those puppy-dog eyes I was about to give it to you anyways."

                                            >Her packed cheeks turn a little red as she snaps her head towards you.

                                            "I'm kidding!"

                                            >Rolling her eyes, she tries to brush it off and take another bite.

                                            >You lean in, hearing her much on your lunch.

                                            "Or am I?" You tickle her ear with a whisper.

                                            >She shies away.

                                            >"Cut it out, Anon!"

                                            “Hahahaha! Love ya Dash!”

                                            >You pull her into your shoulder where her indignant body language contradicts her flattered smirk.

                                            >She palates the affection quite well, but you don’t push your limits.

                                            >Soon enough, the sandwich had disappeared and you’re back on the road to your place.

                                            >Despite her earlier reservations, the pegasus was eager to hold up her end of the bargain.

                                            >It wasn’t that she disliked reading.

                                            >It’s just that she preferred you do it for her.

                                            >While rubbing her belly.

                                            >A careful observer might note that those two things aren’t mutually exclusive.

                                            >In this case, your pony friend was not privy to the realization.

                                            >Because of this, she stares at you wide-eyed when you sit down on the couch and pat your lap.

                                            “C’mon, lay down, I’ll take care of you.”

                                            >”Wh-whaddaya mean?”

                                            >The book sits limply in her forehooves as she stands at the opposite end of your well-worn couch.

                                            “Did you think I was going to be a jerk and let you leave with an un-rubbed belly tonight?”

                                            >Her ears fold.

                                            >”Uh…I mean, I know you’re not a jerk.”

                                            >She timidly steps over to you, her hooves making sharp divots in the cushion.

                                            >Despite you being completely alone in the apartment, and having done this many times before, she spares a glance around to make sure nopony else is privy to her moment of sappyness.

                                            >The mare reaches your outstretched arm and you guide her to lay her head down on your leg.

                                            >She props the book up comfortably between you and flips to the bookmark as your hand finds her belly.

                                            >Ears perk when you make contact with her hot fur, then quickly fold as you slip your hand around her barrel to her vulnerable underside.

                                            >What a cutie.

                                            “Are you gonna make this awkward, or are you going to start reading?”

                                            >Despite her visceral response, she doesn’t look at you due to her immediate blush.

                                            >”This isn’t…don’t make it weird we’re just…it’s not like it’s my b-back or something!”

                                            “Ok! I never said it was weird.”

                                            >She turns her head just enough for you to catch some of her warning glare.

                                            >She turns back to the book.

                                            “Just that it was going to be if all we do is sit here quietly while I rub you.”

                                            >”Anon! Do you want me to read the story or not!”

                                            “Ok I’m sorry! Read the story. I’ll stop.”

                                            >Her tail flicks in annoyance but you never stop circling the soft little tummy.

                                            >Despite the teasing, you were careful not to cross the line.

                                            >The touch connection, and somewhat intimate one at that, was hard-earned.

                                            >After every session you both felt rejuvenated and just a teensy bit closer.

                                            >You wouldn’t trade the moments for a million bits.

                                            >As she starts to recount the author’s tale, your eyes drift over her mane.

                                            >Her colors were mixed together a little bit more than usual.

                                            >You really wanted to sort them, to run your fingers through her prismatic mane.

                                            >But you resist and instead focus your attention elsewhere.

                                            >Her withers marked the start of an area that was a little different.

                                            >Pegasi had one (of several) secondary sex characteristics on their back.

                                            >Their wings.

                                            >The whole sociology of it was quite interesting.

                                            >They were more than comfortable displaying them in public, but the tone of interaction changed the moment looking turned into touching.

                                            >It was a strange grey area that didn’t have an exact analog in the human world.

                                            >Wings had a lot of nerve endings that ended in the well-developed flight muscles on their backs.

                                            >And apparently these muscles felt really good when they got massaged.

                                            >In the really good sort of way.

                                            >You’d also learned that a picture of a mare with outstretched wings was something between a lewd pinup with a bit of nipple slip and a suggestive one with half cleavage.

                                            >Just enough for a colt to want to hide it under his pillow, but not so bad that it couldn’t be sold on public street corners in the form of a magazine cover.

                                            >Enough to make you second guess the signed Spitfire poster you had hanging by the kitchen.

                                            >It was signed by her. You can’t just take it down.

                                            >You curl your fingers through the plush coat around her belly button.

                                            >Bellies though…

                                            >You give the naval a little tickle, making her snort before resuming reading.

                                            >Bellies were fair game so long as their owners didn’t get embarrassed about being seen.

                                            >Your eyes drift farther down her back until they stop at her loosely held wings.

                                            >A few loose feathers broke the otherwise perfect symmetry.

                                            >A thought strikes you.

                                            >More of a question.

                                            >What about the wings themselves?

                                            >As far as you knew there were no erogenous zones located in the actual flight appendages.

                                            >You find it hard to imagine how that would be possible, given that they are under quite a bit of stress from simple use.

                                            >Besides, you’ve seen Dash preen before.

                                            >Albeit you accidentally walked in on her.

                                            >Thinking back, the moment wasn’t the most awkward you’ve had, but it was notable.

                                            >Either way, you figure it’s worth the question.

                                            >You feel as if you’re close enough now that such a question would be reasonable.

                                            >Besides, it wasn’t like pegasi always preened themselves, right?

                                            “Hey, Dash?”

                                            >You interrupt her reading.

                                            >”Huh?” She turns to you, confused, “Do you want to read now?”

                                            “Hah! Nice try, no. I just had a question.”

                                            >”Shoot.”

                                            “Um…” You blush. You really hadn’t thought this through, “...d-do you want me to preen your wings?”

                                            >A nervous gulp compliments the understanding behind your eyes that this might make her uncomfortable.

                                            >Surprisingly, all you see is surprise on her face.

                                            >No blush to speak of.

                                            >That’s a good sign.

                                            >”Uh…like, fix my feathers and stuff?”

                                            “Yeah. I just noticed some were out of place from practice.”

                                            >She lifts a wing and examines it.

                                            >”Yeah, sure.”

                                            >Magenta eyes turn to you as she holds her wing out long enough for you to reach for it.

                                            >She places it in your grasp, observing how you handle it long enough to determine she can trust you.

                                            >It doesn’t take long.

                                            >”Do you know how?”

                                            >Crap, you don’t.

                                            “Uh…”

                                            >”Pfffft! You didn’t think that might be useful?”

                                            “Hey, I’m just trying to help!”

                                            >”Heh! No worries, I gotcha dude.”

                                            >She sets down the book and rolls onto her belly, showing you her back and turning towards your chest to get a better look.

                                            >”You’re basically gonna look for anything that’s out of line. If it’s dead or bent then you gotta pluck it, otherwise straighten it out and put it back in line with the others.”

                                            >You watch her instructions intently.

                                            “How will I know if it needs to be plucked?”

                                            >Fingers gently sift through a suspect feather on her cyan wing.

                                            >”That one’s fine, look at this little guy over here.” She points with a hoof.

                                            >Your eyes settle on a slightly pale and bent feather.

                                            >”See how it’s lost its color. That’s because there’s no blood flow. Gotta pluck it so a new one grows back!”

                                            >You gently grasp the feather in question after a pause. Looking at her, you silently ask for permission.

                                            >She nods.

                                            >You pluck it, wincing harder than she does. Surprisingly it comes out with ease. Instinctively, you rub the area and gauge her reaction.


                                            >”See, pretty easy huh?”

                                            >You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

                                            “Y-yeah!”

                                            >You sounded more excited than maybe you should be when it came to helping her with her personal upkeep.

                                            >”Just don’t go crazy on me, my wings are kinda uh…sensitive.”

                                            “Oh yeah! I mean, of course I won’t. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”

                                            >You hold her gaze long enough for it to get awkward, but it seems to convey your sincerity.

                                            >Her ears tuck as your hands rest on her feathery appendage, treating it with the care and respect that it deserved.

                                            >”I-I know…”

                                            >The hint of a blush colors her cheeks and she tears her eyes away.

                                            >Her shaky voice picks up where she left off on the chapter, allowing you to swallow the lump in your throat.

                                            >Despite her outward trepidation, her body language was nothing but accepting of your ministrations.

                                            >You readjust her wing farther up your lap, spreading it a bit in the process.

                                            >In her implicit trust, she cracks her lounged posture and spreads out against you, never once pausing in her narration.

                                            >The way she pushed her back up against your resting arm and casually spread her hindlegs just enough to glimpse her pink pepperoni at the tip of her top teat made you think she wasn’t fully aware of the silent conversation your bodies were sharing.

                                            >It didn’t matter either way, the thought of taking advantage of her trust never once crosses your mind.

                                            >You do, however, take advantage of her exposed geometry to give her taut belly a vigorous rub.

                                            >”As the cavern opened u-uuuurp!...up Daring shone her lantern into the darkness.”

                                            >You snicker at the comedically loud burp she lets out in stride, and make a mental note to take it easier next time.

                                            >Leaning back against the cushion with the warm pony on your lap and her wing pulled to your chest, you begin preening in earnest.

                                            >Deciding to work from base to tip, you pick a suspect feather near her root and spread the feathers around it to appraise the damage.

                                            >This one was bent too.

                                            >She pays you no mind as you lean in to inspect the area just to make sure. Spreading the feathers, you feel around and gently trace the quill all the way to her pink skin underneath.

                                            >Unlike the other feathers surrounding it, it started to get discolored towards the base.

                                            >Yep, another dead feather.

                                            >Carefully isolating it with two fingers, you pluck it and quickly put pressure over the exposed pore.

                                            >Dash’s wing twitches and stiffens, then relaxes as your rubbing finger soothes the burn.

                                            >You give her a second to chastise or critique your technique, but she never does.

                                            >Placing the feather to the side, you move on.

                                            >You take a more holistic approach this time.

                                            >Combing your fingers through her cyan sea, you conduct a thorough examination of her plumage.

                                            >Shorter, fluffy feathers turned to long, firm, glossy ones as you made it all the way to the trailing edge of her wing.

                                            >You could feel her bare skin end a good six to eight inches from her trailing edge—indicating just how long and developed her primaries were.

                                            >A bit of down fluff combs out so you repeat the process, scrubbing her quills for more loose dandruff.

                                            >After a minute you’ve gathered a wad of fluff the size of a golf ball just from the area around her root.

                                            >And you hadn’t even touched her underside yet.

                                            >You were beginning to realize just how much upkeep these things required.

                                            >No wonder she was cool with you helping her.

                                            >A mare like her could easily need a detailed preening session like this at least once a week.

                                            >At least, that’s what you’d like to imagine.

                                            “Heh…”

                                            >Dash turns her head at your snort, watching you place the fluff next to the other plucked feathers.

                                            >”Dang…that’s a lot of plume.”

                                            “That’s what this is called?” You ask, playing with it a bit just to examine its texture.

                                            >It felt like you were holding a cloud between your fingertips, a pale cyan puff that was impossibly light and soft.

                                            >”Yeah…that’s the fluffy stuff that’s at the base of the feathers. Sometimes it rubs off and gets trapped down there.”

                                            “Is it for insulation or something?”

                                            >Pegasus anatomy turned out to be far more interesting than fictional cave exploration.

                                            >”Yeah, but we got enough of that already. It kinda just builds up and itches.”

                                            >At hearing that, you immediately return to weave your fingertips past the field of plowed feathers and start scratching her bare wing skin.

                                            >She squints and bites her lip, “Aww yeah…just like that!”

                                            “Heheh! I didn’t realize you were such a high maintenance pony.”

                                            >”I’m not high maintenance-ngh! I mean…I don’t normally get all of it out like that…it’s just your-mmgh!...Your fingers…”

                                            >You watch her with a smug grin as she turns back to the book.

                                            “Pretty useful huh?”

                                            >You thoroughly satisfy her itch, forcing her to admit it.

                                            >”I never said they weren’t…”

                                            >Moving farther up her wing, you repeat the process. Sifting her feathers for loose plume.

                                            >As she goes back to reading you can tell she had absolutely zero reservations about you manhandling her most delicate appendage.

                                            >Even if you didn’t know what you were doing, you had careful curiosity and the drive to please, and that was enough to sell her completely.

                                            >As you encounter more out of place feathers, you take your time diagnosing each one and reseating it, or plucking it as appropriate.

                                            >It’s a painstaking process, but you were in no rush and there were only a dozen or so problem areas to begin with.

                                            >As you travel out to her wingtip, you dig up plume and leave a wake of loose, well massaged, and properly aligned cyan scales in your wake.

                                            >The static of her wing moving up and down your shirt as you worked caused some of her dug up down to stick to your chest and arms.

                                            >It carried with it the oddest scent of spicy pegasus sweat and ozone.

                                            >Not unlike her mane when she gives you a hug after a long flight—the two times she’s done that.

                                            >It’s actually kind of pleasant.

                                            >Like Dash and sky, your two favoritest things to watch.

                                            >As weird as it was, you briefly wonder if you could comb out enough to fill a pillow before dashing the odd thought.

                                            >The clock ticks on, the sun drifts lower, and the pages turn as you slowly renovate her wing.

                                            >With inches left to go, you stumble upon a new issue.

                                            >One of her primaries, the third one from the end, was twisted.

                                            >It must’ve been over eight inches long, and as you carefully felt your way down its quill, you could feel her heartbeat pumping blood into it with a gentle *tap tap tap against your fingertips.

                                            >It was a little unnerving, but you continue until you reach skin, then raise the alarm.

                                            ”Uh, Dash? What do I do with this one?”

                                            >The pony had progressed from perky and upright to lethargic and prostrate in the thirty minutes since you’d started working on her.

                                            >”Huh?” Her mumbling stops and she picks her head up from her hooves.

                                            >Her magenta eyes drift over to where your fingers were nestled in her plumage.

                                            >”Oh, is it a primary?”

                                            >She perks up a little, but not much. There wasn’t an ounce of worry on her face as she leaned in.

                                            >Pushing off your knee, she rises to a sitting position and pulls her wing towards your face.

                                            >”Here lemme see…”

                                            >You relinquish the valuable feather and she examines it—spreading her outermost feathers with a dexterity that resembles fingers.

                                            “Whoh, I didn’t know you could do that.”

                                            >”What, this?” She pauses to entertain you, spreading them further before closing them and even crossing her pinfeather and her second primary.

                                            “Heheh! That’s so cool!”

                                            >She beams at your admiration before focusing back on the problem.

                                            >”Yeah, that’s why I’m the best flier in Equestria dummy! Now look at this.”

                                            >Using just her delicate wing muscles, she spreads the other feathers away from the problematic primary.

                                            >”This one is twisted but it’s still healthy. That means you can usually twist it back, but you gotta be careful, especially on these bad boys.”

                                            “Otherwise?”

                                            >”Otherwise I’ll be sitting on the bench as watermare until it grows back.”

                                            “Geez, really? One feather can ground you like that?”

                                            >”Well, not really. I can still fly, but I’d definitely lose a lot of wingpower and precision.”

                                            “Wow…I had no idea.”

                                            >She puffs up a little, taking pride in the instruments of her profession.

                                            >“Oh yeah, like, if a tryout damages a pinfeather.” She wiggles the biggest tip feather in question, “Then they’re disqualified from tryouts for a whole year.”

                                            “They take that long to grow out?” You gingerly run the beautiful feather through your fingers.

                                            >The sheen of glossy cyan started off pale and tapered off to a darker blue at its tip.

                                            >She watches your harmless curiosity at work.

                                            >”Not really, only a few months or so depending on your diet and stuff. But the reason the disqualification lasts so long is because it takes a long time to learn how the new pinfeather flies and they don’t want inexperienced recruits hurting themselves on the course.”

                                            “Holy crap. I had no idea you pegasi were that in tune with your wings.”

                                            >She smirks, “Not every pegasus, only the best fliers push themselves hard enough to hit their limits like that.”

                                            >You admire her biggest, most valuable feathers in silence. Ginger touch expresses your reverence.

                                            >”So, uh…ready to fix it?”

                                            >You stare at her in shock. After all she’d just dropped on you, she still wanted you to fix it?

                                            “Dash I…I think you should do it. I don’t want to mess it up.”

                                            >”Pssssh…you’re not gonna mess it up! Look at the rest of this thing, this is the best preen I’ve had in like…ever!”

                                            >She runs a hoof down her perfectly aligned feathers to admire your work.

                                            “Still, I just—”

                                            >”—I’ll help you. It’ll be easy, watch.”

                                            >She holds out her wing for you to take hold.

                                            >Meeting her eyes, you could tell that she was begging you to accept her offering to share another vulnerable moment.

                                            >It was like crack.

                                            >You were both hooked on it. On each other.

                                            >But you’d never admit it.

                                            >With a gulp, you take her wingtip in both hands, gently spreading her feathers to once again expose the third primary.

                                            >”Alright, find the base like you did before.”

                                            >She leans over and watches your fingers work all the way down the warm quill to its base.

                                            >The moment you make skin to skin contact she can tell.

                                            >”Now what you’re gonna do is massage the pore a bit to loosen it up.”

                                            >You do as she suggests, pinching the thin skin and feeling the quill through it as you roll the little tube between the pads of your fingers.

                                            >”Mgh! Yeah…ahhh that’s good.”

                                            >You stop at once, fearing that was a pained expression.

                                            >A glance at her face tells you it was the opposite.

                                            >You turn a little red as your attention turns back to the problem.

                                            >”Now grab like, right here.” She leans in and nudges your fingers farther up the quill where her spines started.

                                            >”What you’re gonna do is pull out lightly, twist and ease it back in.”

                                            “How far out do I go?”

                                            >The anxiety in your voice was evident.

                                            >”Just a little.”

                                            “How much is a little?”

                                            >”Here, I’ll just guide you on this one.”

                                            >You feel a little bit of relief but not much.

                                            >To your surprise, she works her muzzle inbetween her feathers and her lips wrap halfway around your fingers and halfway around the base of her quill.

                                            >You let go but her muffled voices yells, “Stmmmp!”

                                            >Her eyes wiggle and point back at the feather so you hesitantly place your fingers back on it.

                                            >”Lwwwer.”

                                            “Lower, ok…”

                                            >Working your fingers lower, you stop.

                                            >She wiggles her brow impatiently, “Lwwwer!”

                                            “Ok!”

                                            >You slowly slide your fingers back to their original position, then a little further at the bestest of her rolling eyes.

                                            >Once they’re seated inbetween her lips, close enough that they’re touching her teeth, she focuses back on the feather.

                                            >”Mmmkay, rea-ey?”

                                            “Ready.”

                                            >Her dextrous lips nibble on the juncture a bit just to double check her calculation.

                                            >”Oouh…”

                                            >You pull out a little and you start to feel the feather unseat.

                                            >Her lips pinch you when you’ve gone far enough, halting your movement.

                                            >”Twih…”

                                            >You turn the growth until it aligns with its cyan cousins.

                                            >”An inh…”

                                            >With the help of her natural preening tools you reseat the feather and pull away, letting her examine the work.

                                            >She nibbles at it for a bit, then pulls back to test out her range of motion.

                                            >”Oh yeah much better! See that wasn’t so bad was it?”

                                            >She fixes you with a warm smile.

                                            “I got to admit I was a little nervous.”

                                            >She punches your shoulder.

                                            >”Nah! You’ve always been good at handling me…” Her smile fades, “...I-I mean, like, with you know…” Her cheeks flush a deep crimson and she breaks eye contact, “...nevermind.”

                                            ”Heh!” You ruffle her mane and give her a chance to simmer down, “I know what you mean.”

                                            >Out of nowhere, you lean forward and plant a kiss on the back of her turned ear.

                                            >It wasn’t unusual for you to share kisses like that. Ponies were affectionate creatures, even the tough little cookie in your lap was innately prone to the occasional outburst of affection.

                                            >It’s enough to snap her out of her hiding place and turn towards you.

                                            >Despite her embarrassment, her eyes expressed nothing but gratitude.

                                            >”Geez, don’t get all sappy on me just cuz we’re preening.”

                                            >You quirk your brow and stroke her wing lovingly.

                                            “Says the mare who likes belly rubs.”

                                            >”That’s not!...I told you it helps me sleep, that’s all!”

                                            >You throw up your hands in surrender.

                                            “Alright, no biggie. I take it back. Belly rubs aren’t sappy.”

                                            >She nods and snorts, but grows weary of your teasing smirk.

                                            “Now roll over so I can finish preening your other wing in a totally non-sappy manner that has nothing to do with us being best friends and you being my favoritest little pegasus buddy in the whole world that I wanna hug and snuggle and smooch.”

                                            >”Anon-hahaha! Stah-ahp!” She giggles as you tickle her underwing, pulling away briefly before sinking back into you just as exposed as before.

                                            >After another second of your teasing smirk she doesn’t hesitate to roll over and rest the back of her head on your legs, stretching her other wing out to you.

                                            “So is that a confession or…?”

                                            >”Just shutup and preen me!”

                                            >She picks up the book and holds it over her head, clumsily turning the page to where she left off.

                                            “Not until you admit it.”

                                            >”Admit what!?”

                                            “That you’re being sappy with me right now.”

                                            >”I’m not!”

                                            “Dash, you’re literally teaching me how to preen you.”

                                            >”Yeah but like…that’s cuz you’re cool.”

                                            >You sigh.

                                            “See, that’s a sappy thing to say.”

                                            >”What’re you…argh!” She drops the book to her chest and looks up at you, “Fine.”

                                            >You feel her abs clench as she strains to sit up, then loses her balance thanks to the book.

                                            “Dash, you don’t have to leave I was just teas—”

                                            —*muah

                                            >The words freeze in your throat as she pecks your lips with her own.

                                            >The slightly moist cushions cause your mouth to tingle and your whole body feels like it’s standing in front of an open oven.

                                            >”There, is that good enough?”

                                            >Her confident smirk hides behind her crimson blush.

                                            “Uh…alright. I guess that’ll do as a confession.”

                                            >You can’t help but tuck your lips and taste them.

                                            >Doing so draws her attention once more.

                                            >Your blush deepens and her smile grows.

                                            >What did you do to deserve that?

                                            >She picks up her reading once more, sticking out her un preened wing demandingly.

                                            “So…do the Wonderbolts have like a professional wing therapist or some—?”

                                            >”—Nope you want the job?”

                                            “Every Sunday?”

                                            >”Deal!”

                                            >She snickers and starts the next chapter.

                                            >You could get used to this.