xxx by Anon

 

 

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Her impromptu delivery completed, the Princess turned to Mr Cake.

"Now, Master Baker, I had a happier reason for coming here today," she said, raising her voice slightly over the commotion as Mrs Cake dragged the twins through to the back rooms. "My sister has praised you highly to me, and I have a small celebration arranged that requires a few special items..."

The twins did not find out what these items were, the door being closed behind them with a firm thud.

Their grim faced mother turned back to them.

"How DARE you!" she cried. "I cannot believe the two of you would do such a thing to a Princess!"

Pound couldn't help himself.

"But momma, she's not a ..."

"SHE WILL ALWAYS BE A PRINCESS!"

Outside, Luna's ears twitched at the sudden outburst, cutting through her discussions with the unfortunate twins father. He smiled at her, an embarrassed, uneasy movement of his lips.

"A-apologies your highness, family life eh?"

"...yes," she responded. Truthfully, this WAS a little awkward. "Perhaps I should return tom-"

"No, no it's fine," Mr Cake replied, somewhat quickly. "Wouldn't want to make you make another journey!" he laughed, nervously.

"... Very well", Luna replied. Truthfully, she knew EXACTLY what she would hear soon - despite what the younger generations thought, she HAD been a foal herself once - and she wasn't particularly comfortable about it. On the other hoof, she was here now, and the catering did need to be arranged...

On the other side of the door, the arrangement of the twins' future was not shaping pleasantly.

"Dragged here! For the whole town to see! I have never, NEVER been so ashamed! What must everypony think?!?"

Two small pairs of ears folded backwards. Two tails drooped between their hind legs.

"Well, I know what one pony is going to think! She's going to think that you two are very, VERY sorry for what you did!"

Foalish eyes were getting wetter. Pumpkin made a futile bid for mercy.

"M-momma, we are, we're so sorry, we can go out there now and say..."

"Oh you will be," growled their mother, "you will indeed. I'm going to make extra sure of that."

"B-but P-Princess Luna will hear, momma!"

"She will. Oh, she's going to hear an awful lot, my children."

Mrs Cake stood by the couch, merciless eyes burning into the doomed pair.

Sentence was passed.

"Pumpkin. Seed. Cake. Come. Here. Now."

 

It is a little known fact that the world can suddenly shrink.

One moment it can consist of a rather worn and tired seat cushion barely a hoofwidth in front of a small quivering muzzle, and the next it contracts sharply to the size of the sudden explosion of pain in the muzzle-owner's hind quarters.

A sharp exhalation of breath, a whimper at the back of the throat.

The amazing global contraction repeats and repeats and repeats.

The whimpering, by contrast, grows and grows and grows.

 

Meanwhile, in the rest of the planet on the other side of a door:

"You can never go wrong with at least one sponge!" says a cheerful baker.

CRACK NAAAAAA

"Would it not be too basic?" asks a slightly startled Princess.

CRACK AAH AAH

"Oh no, your highness,"

CRACK MOOMMMMEEEE

"-fferent flav-"

CRACK PLEASE

"so there'll be no complaints!"

CRACK NO!NO!

CRACK AAAAHHHH

"I can agree master -"

CRACK IT HUUURRRTSS

"..."

CRACK WAAAAAAA

"..."

CRACK AAHAAHAA

"Princess, are you ok?"

"Y-yes, I think so," she replies. "Good sir, are you sure I am not interrupting your ... anything?"

"Oh no ma'am," Mr Cake responds, ignoring his daughter's ongoing, slightly off-key choral performance. "Occupational hazard, a-ha, well used to it by now!", he concludes with a slightly uncomfortable smile, one that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Put them at their ease, Luna, came an internal voice through forgotten centuries. When thou remain among the common herds, recollect well that thou art their guest, and should be gracious in accordance.

"... Very well, Master Cake. Shall we discuss the sideplates?"

She had forgotten the lesson once.

Her recollection had been strongly reinforced shortly after.

 

Mrs Cake's reinforcements for the battle of Pumpkin's Bottom, meanwhile, had won the day. The body of their well-beaten opponent still lay slumped across the field, face buried in the sofa cushion as the world slowly grew again, uncontrolled sobbing and heavy breathing now the only sound in the room.

It wasn't only hers. Pound had suffered the unique torture of having to watch his beloved sister be hurt and hurt and hurt while unable to do anything about it; worse, he would soon be taking his place on the front line.

 

Mrs Cake stood her blubbering foal up from her lap. Instinctively (a mother simply cannot stop herself, no matter the circumstance) she pushed Pumpkin's now very messy mane back from her face, and gave her daughter a quick kiss.

"There now," she said, slightly less stern than before. "I hope you've learned a lesson."

Pumpkin nodded. She tried to agree but it was caught in her throat, emerging only as sharp breaths, along with the snot.

"Good girl." She was kissed again on the forehead. "Now go and stand in the corner while I deal with your brother."

 

His legs betrayed him. Pound couldn't move. He could see his mother's gestures, hear her increasingly sharp instructions, but he couldn't move. A paranoid observer may have looked for the hidden basilisk, but calmer heads would have pointed out that those victims rarely had heavy, ragged breathing, nor the tears streaming down pale cheeks.

His mother's tone became harsher. She stood, took a step towards him.

The treason worsened; he bolted.

 

The natural prey instinct to flee danger is never far away even for modern ponies, ultimately being a soft, rather pudgy race in a world of spikes, claws and strange magics. Pegasus ponies, of course, have an additional and overwhelmingly preferred option; UP. Unfortunately in the modern environment, this sometimes only means 'upstairs', and a truly terrified pegasus, such as a young colt desperately avoiding the inevitable, will arrive at their 'nest' and not even consider such mythical creations as windows (and a surprisingly large number of police mugshots consist of concussed pegasi). Instead, other instincts, defensive instincts take over.

Defend the nest. Hold the gate. Bar the door.

Sometimes it worked, long ago, against the dragons.

It has never been recorded as working against maternal wrath.

 

A loud NNNOOOOOO is a guaranteed attention-grabber, especially when followed by the thunder of hooves booming up a staircase. Luna and Mr Cake's eyes both met, catching themselves looking, open-mouthed, at the ceiling.

"... Flans?"

"Flans."

 

The last few seconds had been chaotic ones for Pound. He had been leaning against the door - he knew it wouldn't work - but it was forced open and he stumbled back toward his bed. Momma was standing there, eyes hard, mouth tight. He couldn't - wouldn't, looking back - remember anything else. Just the face. He'd stepped back, bumping into the bed. Momma's mouth had opened, he couldn't remember the words. The basilisk had returned, but now it was creating that insensate statue. He was aware of nothing but the eyes.

 

He came to, abruptly. Suddenly everything seemed - sharper, more focussed. He could smell the lemon zest from the meringues his mother had made earlier, see every fibre in the bedroom carpet, he could feel his heart trying to escape his ribs. His wings... flared, buzzed a little but they were pinned, he couldn't escape, he was trapped by ... his mother's hoof, his mother's hoof was on his back, and one of her legs was lifting and his rump raising higher than it should ohnonono

 

To his ears, it was as if one of Auntie Pinkie's old firework sets had been rediscovered. Her big old "Summer Sun Special". The one that seemed to go on forever as the sun rose, no matter the weather, for that was part of Auntie Pinkie's magic. The rain could fall (it was, in streams from squinted eyes), the wind could howl (Pound was), but the bangs would continue and the son would get hotter, and hotter, and hotter.

 

"But before you leave, your highness, these two have something to say to you."

"We're sorry Princess Luna," sniffled the doleful chorus, though it was apparently directed towards the floor rather than herself.

"Your apology is accepted, children," the Princess replied, putting on a slight air of grandness, acknowledging the gravity of the moment. "May I ask you for one promise?"

A pair of reddened, damp eyes slowly lifted upwards. Sniffle. Gulp. The filly. The colt's attention was apparently absorbed with the rug.

"Wha-what is it, Mrs Luna?" A sharp cough. "Princess!"

"Simply... do have greater care in future. Consider your actions, and who is around you."

The filly sniffled. Looked. Nodded.

"We, we promise, Princess Luna."

The colt's head moved. Or perhaps it was merely his shoulders shaking. Best to not push the point.

"Thank you, little ponies," she smiled, speaking more plainly. "It will make things easier for you. And for those around you," she added, catching Mr Cake's eye. He returned a brief nod.

"But to business!" Luna declared. "I have now placed a substantial order, it seems. It will not be too much effort?"

"Of course not, Princess!" Mrs Cake pronounced. "Anything for the Pal... for you!"

"I have no doubt," the Princess smiled, popping a small lemon meringue in her mouth with a strangely smug look. "You have great skill in whipping."

The baker's head tilted sideways, a faintly puzzled expression on her face.

"Well, of course your highness, all part of our cutie marks after all! Haha, you'd be amazed what I can do with a whisk!" she winked, smiling proudly.

Luna's noblesse smiled back, providing the alibi for her other internal voices to commit murder most foul upon her sense of humour.

"Quite. Silly me. So two weeks?"

"Two weeks, ma'am. See you then!" said a cheerful Mr Cake.

 

Regardless of events, there was always a bedtime story. Pinkie wasn't around as much these days, and the Cakes would never claim to be able to do ALL the voices, but it was still important to follow the day's recipe properly.

Kiss. Kiss. A click as the light is turned out.

"Momma?"

"Yes, shortbread?"

"I'm sorry."

Mrs Cake paused. Moved back over to the bed.

"I know, Pumpkin. Goodnight." She softly repeated the kisses, and left.

 

"Pound? Pound, you sleeping?"

Sniff.

"You were right. Sorry."

Sniff.

The night continued.

"I shouldn't have..."

"It was a good throw," came a cracked whisper.

"Huh?"

"You magicked it really well, sis", continued a slightly strengthening voice. "Heh, her face ..."

A small giggle from the first bed.

"Yeah. Who'd have thought an old mare could move that fast though?"

The gentle giggle was returned.

"Snrt. You should try that again tomorrow."

There was a slight creak of bedsprings and a rustle of blankets. There was also a sharp intake of breath.

"Oooh... Though maybe you shouldn't try it in the market again, eh?"

"Promise!"

 

Extra:

 

The sparklers and candles blossomed behind his tightened eyelids. There were no more single blows; they'd all merged together into one long barrage, the bonfire at his rear burning and sparking into the night. He bucked and wriggled, but his mother's hoof firmly fixed this particular pinwheel in place, ignoring the shrieks and howls it emitted. Mrs Cake knew her job, and could well elicit all the "oohs" and "aahs" a display master could ask for.

 

There was a grand final flurry, immense shrieking as each rocket launched, and then it was over, though there would be few complaints from the foals this time. Pound simply lay there, legs and wings dangling, the only movement his heaving chest as the gulping sobs seemed to echo from the walls. Unseen, below him, Pumpkin's large blue eyes were fixed on the ceiling, the tears welling as much as they had shortly before. Her ears were folded back so far as to be almost part of her skull, her tail sagging to sweep the floor, her bottom lip bitten. It hadn't meant to be like this.

 

Is, famously, another day.